Short Fiction Selma Lagerlöf (best book club books of all time .txt) 📖

dreamed I had tried in vain to find some explanation of this. I looked around for the man who had let me in. He had vanished and I could not find him. But, on the other hand, I saw him all the plainer in memory⁠—the tall and slightly bent figure, the beautiful locks, the mild visage, the parted beard. It was Christ, soothsayer, Christ once again.

“Tell me now, you who can look into the hidden, what mean my dreams? What, more than all, can be the meaning of my having really and truly passed through the Golden Gate? Even at this moment I do not know how it happened, but I have done so. Tell me, now, what these three things can mean!”

The interpreter translated this for Mesullam, but the soothsayer was all the while in the same suspicious and crabbed mood. “I am certain that this stranger wants to poke fun at me,” he thought. “Perchance he would provoke me to anger with all this talk about Christ?”

He would have concluded not to answer at all; but when the interpreter insisted, he muttered a few words.

“What does he say?” asked the traveller eagerly.

“He says he has nothing to say to you but that dreams are dreams.”

“Then tell him from me,” retorted the stranger, somewhat exasperated, “that this is not always true. It depends entirely upon who dreams them.”

Before these words had been interpreted to Mesullam, the European had arisen and with quick and elastic step had walked toward the long passageway.

But Mesullam sat still and mused over his answer for five minutes. Then he fell upon his face, utterly undone. “Allah, Allah! Twice on the same day Fortune has passed by me without my having captured her. What hath thy servant done to displease thee?”

Why the Pope Lived to Be So Old

It happened at Rome in the early nineties. Leo XIII was just then at the height of his fame and greatness. All true Catholics rejoiced at his successes and triumphs, which in truth were sublime. And, even for those who could not grasp the great political events, it was plain that the power of the Church was again coming to the front. Anyone at all could see that new cloisters were going up everywhere and that throngs of pilgrims were beginning to pour into Italy, as in olden times. In many, many places one saw the old, dilapidated churches in process of restoration, damaged mosaics being put in order, and the treasure-vaults of the churches being filled with golden relic-boxes and jewelled exhibits.

Right in the midst of this progressive period the Roman people were alarmed by the news that the Pope had been taken ill. He was said to be in a very precarious condition; it was even rumored that he was dying.

His condition was, too, in a great degree serious. The Pope’s physicians issued bulletins which inspired but little hope. It was maintained that the Pope’s great age⁠—he was then eighty years old⁠—made it seem almost incredible that he could survive this attack.

Naturally, the Pope’s illness caused great unrest. In all the churches in Rome prayers were said for his recovery. The newspapers were filled with communications regarding the progress of the illness. The Cardinals were beginning to take steps and measures for the new Papal election.

Everywhere they bemoaned the approaching demise of the brilliant leader. They feared that the good fortune which had followed the Church’s standard under Leo XIII might not be faithful to it under the leadership of his successor. There were many who had hoped that this Pope would succeed in winning back Rome and the Ecclesiastical States. Others, again, had dreamed that he would bring back into the bosom of the Church some of the large Protestant countries.

For each second that was passing, fear and anxiety grew apace. As night came on, in many homes the inmates would not retire. The churches were kept open until long past midnight, that the anxious ones might have an opportunity to go in and pray.

Among these throngs of devotees there was certainly more than one poor soul who cried out: “Dear Lord, take my life instead of his! Let him, who has done so much for Thy glory, live, and extinguish instead my life-flame, which burns to no one’s use!”

But if the Angel of Death had taken one of these devotees at his word and had suddenly stepped up to him, with sword raised, to exact the fulfilment of his promise, one might wonder somewhat as to how he would have behaved. No doubt he would have recalled instantly such a rash proffer and begged for the grace of being allowed to live out all the years of his allotted time.

At this time there lived an old woman in one of the dingy ramshackle houses along the Tiber. She was one of those who have the kind of spirit that thanks God every day for life. Every morning she used to sit at the marketplace and sell garden truck. And this was an occupation that was very congenial to her. She thought nothing could be livelier than a market of a morning. All tongues were wagging⁠—all were harking their commodities, and buyers crowded in front of the stalls, selected and bargained, and many a good sally passed between buyer and seller. Sometimes the old woman was successful in making a good deal and in selling out her entire stock; but even if she couldn’t sell so much as a radish, she loved to be standing amongst flowers and green things in the fresh morning air.

In the evening she had another and an even greater pleasure. Then her son came home and visited with her. He was a priest, but he had been assigned to a little church in one of the humble quarters. The poor priests who served there had not much to live upon, and the mother feared that her son was starving. But from this, also,