Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 64, No. 398, December 1848
Certainly there appears at present no probability of any accomplishment of this part of the prediction. And, whatever vague faith we may place in our innermost hearts upon the authenticity of these prophecies, we should be very glad to find ourselves, and avow ourselves, and even proclaim ourselves, utter dupes, rather than witness the slightest approach to a fulfilment of the last paragraph of the Jesuit priest's oracular revolutions. He has given us, however, a fair chance of learning the truth of his prediction, or of giving him the lie in his coffin, by an answer, which the tradition preserved by the excellent supérieure of the convent of the Sacré Cœur at Lyons reports that he made, when asked as to the period of the fulfilment of his prophecies – for he had not, like the Solitary of Orval, been at all precise in his arithmetical calculations of moons, or other methods of bestowing dates, as we have seen. His answer is said to have been, that those who saw the first French Revolution, and who lived through this crisis, would bless God for having preserved them to be witnesses of the great triumph of His Church. Consequently, the events foretold ought to receive their fulfilment in a period of time within the probable life of a man born before the epoch of 1789; and thus, reckoning the "threescore years and ten" as the utmost limit of man's natural life, before the year 1859. We ourselves, and all our readers, it is to be hoped, have thus the probabilities before us of testing the powers of prophecy of the good old gentleman of Poitiers. And yet, if they are to be verified to the letter as concerns "Old England," we cannot add "May we be there to see."
Beyond these two prophecies, there are others which at the present time abound in France; but as we are unable to offer any evidence whatever as to their authenticity of antiquity, we shall not enter into their details, much less into any disquisition as to their credibility. Most of them predict the utter destruction of Paris by fire, during a convulsion occasioned by insurrection and civil war. The best known are those of Bug de Thilas, a prophet of the Pyrenees in the sixteenth century – a Breton traditionary prediction, which enters into very minute and graphic details relative to the great fire of Paris, and fixes the epoch for this disaster in the nineteenth century; and the far better known and somewhat famous Prophétie Lorraine, in verse, in which the same event is foretold. This latter prophecy enters into very minute poetical descriptions of the great catastrophe, and warns the Parisian that he will perish entirely by his own fault. It is more especially curious, inasmuch as a calculation has been made by a good, hearty, and sound believer in such predictions, in which it is shown that, by taking the most striking and important words of the prediction, and reckoning each letter as a number, according to its standing in the alphabet – "a" as 1, "b" as 2, "c" as 3, &c. – the sum total of all the letters, thus reckoned, will amount to eighteen hundred and forty-nine. Of course, also, the prediction made by Lady Hester Stanhope to Lamartine, as recorded by that author in his Voyage en Orient, and founded by herself on cabalistic and astronomical calculations, found enthusiastic commentators in France, when the poet at last reached the object of his ambition, and became a statesman, by being placed at the summit of power in the revolutionary government.
The other prediction, or rather prophetic deduction from analytical interpretations of the Book of Revelations, to which allusion has been made, is too singular not to take its place also among these supposed "foreshadowings of coming events." At the same time, we do not attempt to rank it in any way in the same category with those strange and doubtful revelations already given. It is based upon a system of reasoning and calculation: a key is given as the real and true one, for the opening of the door of mysteries of acknowledged divine origin. How far this key may be the right one or the wrong, or how far it may be permitted to use it, are, once more, subjects for disquisition into which it is not for us to enter. The contrast between the nature of the revelations of the Roman Catholic ascetics, and of those of the Protestant clergyman, is striking enough to preclude any analogy between them. On the one hand, we have confident predictions; on the other, the cool, calm, searching, calculations of a system of minute reasoning; – on the one, the supposed bestowal of the flash of light; on the other, the careful groping in the mystical darkness of sacred writings, in order with true conscience to find the right way; – on the one, the pictorial, graphic, highly-coloured language of the presumed "divine afflatus;" on the other, the deductions of speculative reasoning; – on the one, the supposed flame coming from above; on the other, the cautious steps planted on the earth; – in short, on the one, supposed inspiration; on the other, evident and acknowledged reason. We do not pretend to class them together; but as they all refer to the same periods of history, they find mention together in this notice.
The Rev. Robert Fleming was the Protestant minister of the Scotch churches at Rotterdam and Leyden, and afterwards of the Presbyterian church of Lothbury, during the reign of William III.; he was renowned for his piety as well as his learning, and was even much favoured by the reigning monarch. His Discourse concerning the Rise and Fall of Papacy, in which the prophetic deductions have been formed, was published in the year 1701. The species of mystical history of the Romish church, which forms the main subject of his work, is sought for entirely, by the author, in the prophetic enunciations of the Book of Revelations; and in order to attach a great interest to his interpretations, and the deductions thence drawn, it is necessary to accept à priori, as a matter of faith, those postulata, which the author considers certain at his very outset, and which he sets down as incontrovertible, – namely, that "the Revelations contain the series of all the remarkable events and changes of the state of the Christian church to the end of the world;" that "The mystical Babylon doth typify Rome in an anti-Christian church state;" that "The seven heads of the beast are indubitably the seven forms of government that obtained successively among the Romans;" and that, consequently, "The grand apocalyptical question answers the great antichrist," which is thus assumed to be Papal Rome. Once more, it is not our present purpose to enter into any theological discussions: we do no more than place before our readers the curious and interesting deduction of a divine, celebrated for his piety, his learning, and his sacred research. The key with which Fleming proceeds to open the mysteries of what he calls "the dark apocalyptical times and periods," is certainly of singularly ingenious construction. He commences by entering into a proof that the different periods mentioned, of 1260 days, of forty-two months, and of "a time, times, and a half," are absolutely synchronical, and refer exactly to the same period of time, being meant to describe the duration of the anti-Christian kingdom; and that each day must be taken to mean prophetically a year, or Julian year of that age. By a similarly ingenious calculation, relative to the dates and times of days, he ascribes the period, as regards the church, to the so-called rotations of the all-enlightening sun; and as refers to the Beast, to the rotations of the unstable moon. Upon these calculations he goes on, with singularly marvellous ability, and an infinite patience of minute reckoning, to comment upon the apocalyptic prophecies. He traces thus the regular series of the prophecy, in the opening of the seven seals, which, in his application of historical events, he refers to the condition of the Christian church during the Roman empire; – of the seven trumpets, as bearing relation to the gradual growth and increase of the anti-Christian enemies of the church; – and, lastly, of the seven vials, as plagues and judgments poured out upon that Babylon, which he assumes to be "Rome Papal;" and the vials, more especially, he argues upon as types of the struggles between the Roman and the Reformed parties, each vial typifying an event, or conclusion of some new periodical attack of the former upon the latter. It is not necessary to follow the ingenious and indefatigable commentator through all his explanations of the other vials; we only refer to his deductions as bearing upon "Prophecies for the Present." Our business lies chiefly with his interpretation of the fifth vial, inasmuch as, by his system of calculation, he predicts the fulfilment of this vial for a period, which, by a singular coincidence at least, he fixes between the two dates of 1794 and 1848. It is the express mention of this latter year which naturally attracts the attention as an extraordinary coincidence, at a moment when, in that year, so many convulsions, and so many events important in the history of the world, have taken place. There is no precise prophetic deductions, however, attached by the interpreter to this latter datum, except that he fixes it as the period of the fall, or at least of the tottering and probable decline, of the Papal power; and, in the present wavering condition of the temporal power of the sovereign pontiff, the deduction has, at least, a singular bearing upon the events of the latter year specified. It was at the period of the former year, however, that the interpretations of Fleming, made at a time when France was in the zenith of her power, and there seemed no probability whatever of their justice, excited at first a great sensation; probably at the time of their delivery they were looked upon merely as matters of interesting and patient analysis. In commenting upon the fourth vial of the Revelations, which he mentions as likely to expire about the year 1794, he says – "the pouring out of this vial on the sun must denote the humiliation of some eminent potentates, whose influence and countenance cherish and support the Papal cause. And these, therefore, may be principally understood of the houses of Austria and Bourbon." In continuing to give his opinion concerning the events connected with this vial, and much posterior to the time in which he lived, we have the following striking expressions also, which, even in their serious importance, are not without their quaint humour: – "Perhaps the French monarchy may begin to be considerably humbled about that time; for whereas the French king takes the sun for his emblem, and this for his motto – 'Nec plurìbus impar,' he may at length, or rather his successors, and the monarchy itself, (at least before the year 1794,) be forced to acknowledge that (in respect to neighbouring potentates) he is even singulis impar." The extraordinary coincidence between these intimations and the date fixed by the interpreter, when the first French Revolution took place, could not fail to strike the minds of those who were acquainted with his work. Accordingly, the Discourse was republished in 1792, and was read and commented upon with avidity; and now that, in the year he named as 1848, another of his prophetic intimations came to be more or less exemplified, and another coincidence was destined to strike the minds of men, after the sagacious and learned interpreter had been dead nearly a century and a half, the whole discourse has been again republished in a variety of forms, and very widely circulated.
It has been "in fear and trembling" that we have ventured to approach any subject of so sacred a character, inasmuch as it refers to undeniable divine revelations, and bears upon one of the books of the Holy Scriptures: the matter, however, was so intimately connected with our present subject, that it could not be well avoided. Upon the absolute acceptance of Fleming's interpretations, and upon his assumption, à priori, that the "scarlet woman of Babylon" and the anti-Christ do verily typify the Papal power, we must needs be still more cautious of entering into any argument: it is not for us to reason upon the "how, when, and where" of the anti-Christian "denying spirit."
As connected with "Prophecies for the Present," the writer may yet add one other, which was known to him in Germany many years ago. The latter part of it runs as follows: – "I would not be a king in 1848. I would not be a soldier in 1849. I would not be a gravedigger in 1850." There was an awful solemnity in these last words, that always struck fearfully upon the imagination. "I would be any thing you will in 1851." Again, also, there is a vague ambiguous sense in this latter expression, that gives a shudder to the whole frame. "What you will!" Does the term refer to future hope in better days, or is it the recklessness of despair? There were, attached to this prophecy, other remarks respecting the preceding years: they referred to the corn-blade and the vine-plant; but they have now passed too much out of the writer's memory to be exactly recorded.
Before we quit the subject of the "Prophecies for the Present," it may be as well to allude to a comparison of the coincidences between the events of the revolution of July and that of the present year, which has been ingeniously compiled by a certain M. Langlois. The analogy between the circumstances of these different epochs forms a curious page in modern history, and is not without its peculiar interest; and also, as far as the events of the earlier epoch were singularly prophetic of those of the latter, these striking coincidences may almost be said to belong to the predictions of the day.
In the elder branch of the Bourbons, the Duke de Berri, the son of Charles X., espoused a foreign princess, and had by her a son, who was regarded as the heir to the throne: in the younger, the Duke of Orleans, the son of Louis Philippe I., likewise espoused a foreign princess, and had by her a son, likewise regarded as the eventual heir of the dynasty. The father of the Duke de Bordeaux was assassinated on the 13th of February 1820; the father of the Count of Paris died by an accident on the 13th of July 1842. In both the years preceding the fall of either monarch, the price of provisions was at an excessive height, the want was great, and the cold such that the Seine was frozen over – a circumstance which did not occur between the winters of 1829 and 1847. In both instances, the anti-liberal tendencies of the heads of the state, after most inviting promises, called forth from their best friends remonstrances upon the course they were pursuing, and warnings of an approaching crisis, which in both instances were rejected. In both instances, the last speech of the crown to the parliament assembled, contained words concerning the "culpable manœuvres," or "blind inimical passions," of the Opposition which created the discontent, and called forth the protest of several deputies, and the resolution to hold the famous banquet. The capture of the Dey of Algiers, and that of Abd-el-Kader, which immediately preceded each catastrophe, were both in vain considered as triumphs by the ministry of the day. The ordinances of July suspended the liberty of the press; an ordinance in February prohibited the banquet. In both cases these ordinances caused a commotion in the capital, and a species of presentiment of revolution on the Monday evening; on the following day the revolt broke out, and lasted during three days, commencing on the Tuesday, and terminating on the Thursday; and the power fell into the hands of the insurgents. The gendarmerie in the one case, the municipal guard – another name for the same corps – in the other, offered the chief defence of royalty, were overcome, and finally disbanded. Charles X. fell from his throne at the age of seventy-four, Louis Philippe at the same age; the one in July, the month in which the Duke of Orleans died – the other in February, the month in which the Duke de Berri was assassinated. Each monarch abdicated in favour of his grandson; each was met by the fatal cry, "Il est trop tard." In each case a provisional government was established, and the royal family was obliged to quit the French territory; both the monarchs sought a refuge in England. Here, however, the "coincidences" offer a striking dissimilitude. The one monarch was accompanied, in his departure, by his guards and numbers of faithful servitors – the other fled poor, wretched, and in disguise, abandoned by those who had called themselves his friends: the one shed tears on landing in the country of exile – the other hailed it with joy. In both cases, the ministers of the fallen king were impeached. In even smaller circumstances, other coincidences have been recorded. During the combats of both revolutions, the temperature was excessively warm for the season of the year – a circumstance not wholly without its weight, if the well-known barometric nature of the Parisian temperament be considered; and a few days after, in both years, an extraordinarily terrific tempest burst over the capital, obscured it for many hours in darkness, and swept down the new flag placed aloft upon the column of the Place Vendôme.
Coincidences, predictions, revelations – all may, perhaps, be looked upon, by the sceptically reasoning mind of plain matter-of-fact, with scorn. To such, then, they are here only given as curious matters of historical interest. At the same time, in the uncertainty as to the issue of the convulsions under the throes of which Europe is at present writhing, the troubled mind may surely attach itself to the obscure revelations of such strange announcements, and endeavour clearly to see its way through their dimness, without too much deserving the stigma usually attached to superstitious credulity.
SIGISMUND FATELLO
CHAP. I. – THE OPERA
It was a November night of the year 184-. For a week past, the play-bills upon the convenient but unsightly posts that disfigure the boulevards, had announced for that evening, in conspicuous capitals, the first performance of a new opera by a popular composer. Although the season of winter gaieties had scarcely begun, and country-houses and bathing-places retained a portion of the fashionable population of Paris, yet a string of elegant carriages, more or less coroneted, extended down the Rue Lepelletier, and deposited a distinguished audience at the door of the Académie de Musique. The curtain fell upon the first act; and a triple round of applause, of which a little was attributable to the merits of the opera, and a good deal to the parchment palms of a well-drilled claque, proclaimed the composer's triumph and the opera's success, when two men, entering the house at opposite sides, met near its centre, exchanged a familiar greeting, and seated themselves in contiguous stalls. Both belonged to the class which the lower orders of Parisians figuratively designate as gants jaunes; the said lower orders conscientiously believing primrose gloves to be a covering as inseparable from a dandy's fingers as the natural epidermis. The younger of these two men, the Viscount Arthur de Mellay, was a most unexceptionable specimen of those lions dorés who, in modern French society, have replaced the merveilleux, the roués, and raffinés of former days. Sleek of face and red of lip, with confident eye and trim mustache, his "getting up" was evidently the result of deep reflection on the part of the most tasteful of tailors and scrupulous of valets. From his varnished boot-heel to the topmost wave of his glossy and luxuriant chevelure, the severest critic of the mode would in vain have sought an imperfection. Born, bred, and polished in the genial atmosphere of the noble faubourg, he was a credit to his club, the admiration of the vulgar, the pet of a circle of exclusive and aristocratic dames, whose approving verdict is fashionable fame. His neighbour in the stalls, some years older than himself, was scarcely less correct in externals, although bearing his leonine honours much more carelessly. Like Arthur, he was a very handsome man, but his pale face and fair mustache contrasted with the florid cheek and dark hair of his companion. The Austrian baron Ernest von Steinfeld had acquired, by long and frequent residences in Paris, rights to Parisian naturalisation. He had first visited the French capital in a diplomatic capacity, and, after abandoning that career, had spent a part of every year there as regularly as any native habitué of the club Grammont, the Chantilly race-course, and the Bois de Boulogne. Although a German and a baron, he was neither coarse, nor stupid, nor smoky. He did not carry a tobacco-pipe in his pocket, or get muddled at dinner, or spit upon the floor, or participate in any other of the nastinesses common to the majority of his tribe. A nobleman in Austria, he would have been accounted a gentleman, and a highly bred one, in any country in the world. He was of old family, had been much about courts, held a military rank, possessed a castle and fine estate in the Tyrol, mortgaged to the very last zwanziger of their value, was somewhat blasé and troubled with the spleen, and considerably in debt, both in Vienna and Paris. He had arrived in the latter capital but a fortnight previously, after nearly a year's absence, had established himself in a small but elegant house in a fashionable quarter, and as he still rode fine horses, dressed and dined well, played high and paid punctually, nobody suspected how near he was to the end of his cash and credit; and that he had sacrificed the last remnant of his disposable property to provide ammunition for another campaign in Paris – a campaign likely to be final, unless a wealthy heiress, a prize in the lottery, or an unexpected legacy, came in the nick of time to repair his shattered fortunes.
The second act of the opera was over. The applause, again renewed, had again subsided, and the hum of conversation replaced the crash of the noisy orchestra, the warbling of Duprez, and the passionate declamation of Madame Stolz. The house was very full; the boxes were crowded with elegantly dressed women, a few of them really pretty, a good many appearing so by the grace of gas, rouge, and costume. The curtain was no sooner down than de Mellay, compelled by the despotism of the pit to silence during the performance, dashed off at a colloquial canter, scattering, for his companion's benefit, a shower of criticisms, witticisms, and scandal, for which he found abundant subjects amongst his acquaintances in the theatre, and to which the baron listened with the curled lip and faint smile of one for whose palled palate caviar no longer has flavour, scarcely vouchsafing an occasional monosyllable or brief sentence when Arthur's gossip seemed to require reply. His eyes wandered round the house, their vision aided by the double glasses of one of those tremendous opera-telescopes by whose magnifying powers, it is said, the incipient wrinkle and the borrowed tint are infallibly detected, and the very tricot of Taglioni is converted into a cobweb. Presently he touched the arm of Arthur, who had just commenced an animated ocular flirtation with a blue-eyed belle in a stage-box. The baron called his attention to a box on the opposite side of the theatre.
"There is a curious group," he said.
"Oh, yes," replied de Mellay carelessly, levelling his glass for a moment in the direction pointed out. "The Fatellos." And he resumed his mute correspondence with the dame of the azure eyes.
Steinfeld remained for a short space silent, with the thoughtful puzzled air of a man who suspects he has forgotten something he ought to remember; but his efforts of memory were all in vain, and he again interrupted Arthur's agreeable occupation.
"Whom did you say?" he inquired; indicating, by a glance rather than by a movement, the group that had riveted his attention.
"The Fatellos," replied de Mellay, with a sort of surprise. "But, pshaw! I forget. You were at Venice last carnival, and they have not been twelve months at Paris. You have still to learn the affecting romance of Sigismund and Catalina: how the red knight from Franconie did carry off the Paynim's daughter, – his weapons adapted to the century – bank-notes and bright doubloons, in lieu of couched lance and trenchant blade. Why, when they arrived, all Paris talked of them for three days, and might have talked longer, had not Admiral Joinville brought over from Barbary two uncommonly large baboons, which diverted the public attention. They call them beauty and the beast – the Fatellos, I mean, not the baboons."
The persons who had attracted Steinfeld's notice, and elicited this uncomplimentary tirade from the volatile viscount, occupied one of the best boxes in the theatre. In front were two ladies, likely to be the more remarked from the contrast their appearance offered with the Parisian style of beauty. Their jet-black hair, large almond-shaped eyes, and complexion of a rich glowing olive, betrayed their southern origin. Behind them sat a man of five-and-thirty or forty; a tall, high-shouldered, ungainly figure, with a profusion of reddish hair, and a set of Calmuck features of repulsive ugliness. His face was of an unhealthy paleness, excepting about the nose and cheekbones, which were blotched and heated; and the harsh and obstinate expression of his physiognomy was ill redeemed by the remarkably quick and penetrating glance of his small keen gray eyes.
"Do you mean to say yonder ungainly boor is the husband of one of those two beautiful women, who look as if they had stepped out of a legend of the Alhambra, or of a vintage-piece by Leopold Robert?"
"Certainly – husband of one, brother-in-law of the other. But I will tell you the whole story. Sigismund Fatello is one of those men born with a peculiar genius for money-getting, who, if deposited at the antipodes without a shoe to their foot, or a sou in their pocket, would end by becoming millionnaires. Although little heard of in good society till a year ago, he has long been well known on the Bourse, and in foreign capitals, as a bold financier and successful speculator. Two years ago he had occasion to go to the south of Spain, to visit mines offered by the Spanish government as security for the loan of two or three of his millions. Amongst other places he visited Seville, and was there introduced to Don Geronimo Gomez Garcia Gonfalon, (and a dozen other names besides,) a queer old hidalgo, descended from Boabdil of the Bloody Crescent, or some such Moorish potentate. The don dwelt in the shadow of the Giralda, and possessed two daughters reputed fair; – you see them there – judge for yourself. With one of these Fatello fell desperately in love, and asked her in marriage. The lady, who had no wish to abandon her native land for the society of so ugly and unpleasant a helpmate, demurred. But the suitor was urgent and the papa peremptory. Old Boabdil had an immense opinion of Fatello, was dazzled by his wealth and financial reputation, and insisted on his daughter's marrying him, vowing that he himself was poor as a poet, and that if she refused she should go to a nunnery. After the usual amount of tears, threats, and promises, the marriage took place. The descendant of the Saracen made an excellent bargain for his child. Fatello, infatuated by his passion, would have agreed to any conditions, and made immense settlements on the beautiful Catalina. His father-in-law, like an old semi-African hunks as he was, pleaded poverty, hard times, forced contributions, and so forth, as excuses for giving his daughter no other portion than a few rather remarkable diamonds, and some antiquated plate dating from the kings of Granada, and better suited for a Moorish museum than a Christian sideboard. Fatello, whose dealings with the Spanish government had given him no very exalted idea of the opulence of Spanish subjects, cared not for the old boy's maravedis, and credited his plea of poverty. A few weeks afterwards, Fatello and his wife being still in Seville, Boabdil retired for his usual siesta, but not reappearing at the usual hour, a servant went to awaken him, and found him purple with apoplexy. The unfortunate Saracen never spoke again. The next day he was buried, (they lose no time in those warm latitudes); and behold, when the will was opened, he had left upwards of three millions of reals to his disconsolate daughters – about four hundred thousand francs to each of them. When the decencies had been observed in the way of mourning, and Fatello had finished his affairs, he brought his wife and her sister to Paris, took a magnificent hotel in the Faubourg St Honoré, and gave Lucullian dinners, and entertainments such as are read of in the Arabian Nights, but rarely seen in the nineteenth century."
"And were his fêtes well attended?"
"Not quite immediately. At first everybody asked who this Mr Fatello was, and nobody could tell. All sorts of queer stories were got up about him. Some said he was a Polish Jew, formerly well known in Prague, and who had commenced his fortune by attending horse-fairs. Others, – misled by his name, which has an odd Italian sound – swore he was a Lombard, continuing the financial and speculative traditions of his race. He himself claims to be of a good Alsatian family; and I believe the truth is, that his father was a small proprietor in a northern department, who sent his son to Paris, as a boy, to seek his fortune, which, by virtue of industry and arithmetic, he has been lucky enough to find. But people got tired of asking who, and changed the interrogation to what. This was much more easily answered – 'The signature of Sigismund Fatello is worth millions upon every Exchange in Europe,' was the prompt reply. You know our good Parisians, or rather, you know the world in general. If John Law, or Dr Faustus, returned upon earth, with wealth proceeding from the devil or a swindle, and gave banquets and balls, their rooms would not long be empty. No more were those of Fatello, against whom, however, nothing improper was ever substantiated, except a want of ancestors, – a venial offence, in these days, to be charged against a millionnaire! With a citizen king, and Jews in the chamber, or upon argent is the truest blazonry, my word for it."