Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “Have thou nothing to do with that just man, for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.”

  With an abrupt sign of dismissal to the page, who at once retired by the way he had come, Pilate crushed the missive in his hand and sat lost in thought. Round the Tribunal the sunshine spread in a sea of gold, — a bell striking the hour, slowly chimed on the deep stillness, — the white-robed figure of the Accused stood waiting as immovably as a sculptured god in the midst of the dazzling beams of the morning, — and through Pilate’s brain the warning words of the woman he loved more than all the world sent jarring hammer-strokes of repetition, —

  “Have thou nothing to do with that just man!”

  CHAPTER VI.

  IF he could have prolonged his deliberations thus for ever it would have seemed to him well. He was not actually conscious of time. Something vast, indefinite, and eternal appeared to surround and make of him but a poor, helpless, stupid block of perishable humanity, unfit to judge, unfit to rule. He felt as though he had aged suddenly, — as though a score of years had passed in withering haste over his head since the “Nazarene” had confronted him as a prisoner waiting to be condemned. And with this mysterious sense of inward age and incapacity freezing his very blood, he had the goading consciousness that all the members of the Sanhedrim council were watching him, wondering at his indecision and impatiently expecting judgment on what to them was a matter of perfectly plain common-sense and social justice, but which to him had assumed almost gigantic proportions of complexity and trouble. At last, with an effort, he arose, and gathering his robes about him, again prepared to descend from the Tribunal. With a half-appealing, half-authoritative gesture he beckoned the Accused to follow him. He was instantly obeyed, and the Man of Nazareth walked patiently yet proudly after His judge whose trailing garment served to sweep the ground for the passing of His footsteps. In the rear of the twain came all the priests and elders, whispering together and shaking their heads over the Roman governor’s incomprehensible conduct, and after them in turn the crooked-limbed and evil-visaged usurer, Zacharias, shuffled along, supporting himself on a stick of which the knob was heavily encrusted with gold and jewels, this one piece of gorgeousness being in curious contrast to the rest of his otherwise beggarly attire. And as the whole vari-coloured group moved forward, a murmur of satisfaction and interest hummed through the expectant multitude, — at last the long-deferred sentence was to be finally pronounced.

  Arrived within a few feet of the barrier which divided the judicial precincts from the common hall, Pilate paused. Lifting up his voice so that it might be heard on the very outskirts of the throng, he addressed himself to the people, at the same time pointing to the regal Figure standing a little way behind him.

  “Behold your King!”

  Yells of derisive laughter answered him, intermingled with hooting and hisses. Caiaphas smiled disdainfully, and Annas appeared to be convulsed with a paroxysm of silent mirth. Pilate’s glance swept over them both with a supreme and measureless scorn. He loathed the Jewish priests, their ritual and their doctrine, and made no secret of his abhorrence. Holding up one hand to enjoin silence he again appealed to the irritated and impatient mob.

  “I have examined this man before you,” he said, in deliberate far-reaching accents, “and I find in him no fault worthy of death.”

  Here he paused, and a sudden hush of stupefaction and surprise fell on the listening crowd. The governor resumed, —

  “But ye have a custom that I should release unto you one at the Passover; will ye therefore that I release unto you the ‘ King of the Jews’?”

  A roar of furious denial interrupted and drowned his voice.

  “Not this man!”

  “Not this man, but Barabbas!”

  “Barabbas!”

  “Barabbas!”

  The name was caught and taken up by the people as though it were a shout of triumph, and echoed from mouth to mouth till it died away of itself in the outer air. Pilate stepped back, disappointed and irate, — he realised the position. The populace had evidently been intimidated by the priests, and had come prepared to stand by their monstrous demand, — the life of a notorious criminal in place of that of an innocent man. And they had a certain right to enforce their wishes at the season of Passover. With a short vexed sigh, Pilate flashed a searching glance over the now closely serried ranks of the people.

  “Where is Barabbas?” he demanded impatiently— “Bring him forth!”

  There was a moment’s delay, and then Barabbas, wild-eyed, uncouth, half starved, and almost naked, yet not without a certain defiant beauty in his fierce aspect, was thrust to the front between two armed soldiers of the Roman guard. Pilate eyed him with strong disfavour, — Barabbas returned him scornful glance for glance. Conscious that the attention of the mob was now centred upon him, the whole soul of the long-imprisoned and suffering man rose up in revolt against the “Roman tyrant,” as Pilate was not unfrequently called by the disaffected Jews, and the old pride, rebellion, and lawlessness of his disposition began to make new riot in his blood. If it had not been for the wondrous, almost luminous Figure that maintained such an attitude of regal calm close at hand, Barabbas felt that he would have willingly struck his judge on the mouth with the very gives that bound his wrists together. As it was, he remained motionless, his eyes blazing forth anger, — his bare brown chest heaving quickly with the irregular fluctuations of his passionate breath, — and in that attitude he might have stood as a representative type of strong, barbaric, untaught, untamed Humanity. Facing him was the sublime contrast, Divinity, — the grand Ideal, — the living symbol of perfect and spiritualised Manhood, whose nature was the nearest akin to God, and who for this very God-likeness was deemed only worthy of a criminal’s death. Some glimmering idea of the monstrous incongruity between himself and the silent Accused, struck Barabbas forcibly even while he confronted Pilate with all that strange effrontery which is sometimes born of conscious guilt; and the thought crossed his brain that, if in agreement to the public voice he was indeed released, the first use he would make of his liberty would be to persuade the people to mercy on behalf of this kingly-looking Man, whose noble aspect exerted on his dark and tortured soul a secret, yet potent spell. And while this idea was in his mind, Pilate, steadily regarding him, spoke out with harsh brevity, —

  “So! Thou didst slay Gabrias the Pharisee?” Barabbas smiled disdainfully.

  “Yea! And so would I slay another such an one, could there be found in all the city so great a liar!”

  Pilate turned to the high-priests and elders.

  “Hear ye him? Yet this is the man ye would set at liberty? Impenitent and obstinate, he hath no sense of sorrow for his crime, — how then doth he merit pardon?” Caiaphas, vaguely embarrassed by the question, lowered his eyes for a second, then raised them, conveying into his long thin face an admirably affected expression of serious pity and forbearance.

  “Good Pilate,” he replied blandly and in a low tone, “Thou knowest not the whole truth of this affair. Barabbas hath indeed been guilty of much sin, but look you, his evil passions were not roused without a cause. We, of the Holy Temple, are prepared to instruct him how best his crime may be expiated in the sight of the Most High Jehovah, and his offering shall not be rejected, but received at the altar. For the ill-fated Gabrias, though eminent in learning and of good renown, had a hasty and false tongue, and it is commonly reported that he did most vilely slander a virtuous maiden of this city whom Barabbas loved.”

  Pilate lifted his eyebrows superciliously.

  “These are but base pandering matters,” he said, “wherewith thou, Caiaphas, shouldst have naught to do. And Gabrias surely was not the only possessor of a false tongue! Thy words savour of a woman’s tale-bearing and are of idle purport. Murder is murder, — theft is theft, — excuses cannot alter crimes. And this Barabbas is likewise a robber.”

  And again confronting the multitude, he reiterated his previous dema
nd in a more directly concise form.

  “Which will ye that I release unto you? Barabbas or Jesus which is called Christ?” —

  With one accord the populace responded tumultuously, “Barabbas!”— “Barabbas!”

  Pilate gave a gesture which might have meant despair or indignation or both, and turned a wistful look over his shoulder at the “Nazarene,” who at the moment seemed absorbed in grave and tranquil meditation, of which the tenor must have been pleasing, for He smiled.

  Once more Pilate addressed the crowd.

  “What will ye then that I do unto Him whom ye call the King of the Jews f.”

  “Crucify him!”— “Crucify him!”

  The answer came in yells and shrieks of rage, but above all the frantic din there rose that one silver flutelike woman’s voice that had been heard before, —

  “Crucify him!”

  Barabbas started at the sound as a race-horse starts at the prick of a spur. Wildly he looked about him, — with an almost ravenous glitter in his eyes he scanned the shouting throng, but could discover no glimpse of the face he longed yet feared to see. And, yielding to a nameless attraction, he brought his wandering glances back, — back to the spot where the sunlight seemed to gather in a fiery halo round the form of Him who as Pilate had said was “called Christ.” What was the meaning of the yearning love and vast pity that were suddenly reflected in that fair Countenance? What delicate unspoken word hovered on the sensitive lips, arched like a bow and tremulous with feeling? Barabbas knew not, — but it suddenly seemed to him that his whole life, with all its secrets good and evil, lay bare to the gaze of those soft yet penetrating eyes that met his own with such solemn warning and tender pathos.

  “No, no!” he cried loudly on a swift inexplicable impulse—” She did not speak! She could not thus have spoken! Women are pitiful, not cruel, — she seeks no man’s torture! O people of Jerusalem!” he continued, his deep voice gathering a certain sonorous music of its own, as, turning himself about, he faced the crowd—” Why do ye clamour for this prophet’s death? Surely he hath not slain a man among ye, — neither hath he stolen your goods nor broken into your dwellings. Rumour saith he hath healed ye in your sickness, comforted ye in your sorrows, and performed among ye many wondrous miracles, so ye yourselves report, — wherefore then for these things should he die? Are ye not just? — have ye not the gift of reason? Lo, it is I who merit punishment! I, who slew Gabrias and rejoice in mine iniquity! — and look you, I, blood-stained, guilty, and impenitent, deserve my death, whereas this man is innocent!”

  Shouts of derisive laughter and applause and renewed cries of “Barabbas! Barabbas! Release unto us Barabbas!” were the only result of his rough eloquence.

  “Stop his mouth!” exclaimed Annas angrily—” He must be mad to prate thus!”

  “Mad or no, ye have yourselves elected him for freedom” — observed Pilate composedly— “Mayhap ye will now retract, seeing he hath shown a certain generosity towards you defenceless Nazarene!”

  While he spoke, there was a threatening movement of the mob towards the barrier, — the line of Roman soldiery swayed as though it were likely to be broken through by superior force, — and a multitude of hands were tossed aloft in air and pointed at the unmoved patient figure of the Christ.

  “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

  Pilate advanced swiftly, close to the ranks of the turbulent populace, and demanded sternly, —

  “Shall I crucify your King?”

  Amid a chorus of groans and hisses, more than a hundred voices gave reply, —

  “We have no king but Cæsar?”

  “Verily, by thy hesitancy, Pilate, thou wilt have the whole city in tumult!” said Caiaphas reproachfully. “Seest thou not the mob are losing patience?”

  At that moment a tall man, whose grizzled head was adorned with a showy scarlet turban, detached himself from the rest of the throng and stood boldly forward, exclaiming in loud excited tones, —

  “We have a law, and by that law he ought to die, because he made himself the Son of God!”’

  As he heard these words, Pilate retreated some few steps away from the barrier, with the strange stunned sense of having been struck a sharp blow from an invisible hand! The Son of God! Such an assertion was assuredly blasphemous, if indeed the Accused had asserted it. But this was just what Pilate doubted. When Caiaphas had previously spoken of it, he had received the report with contempt, because he knew the high-priest would stop at no falsehood, provided his own immediate ends were thereby attained. But now that one of the populace had come forward with the same accusation, Pilate was forced to look at it in a different light. After all, he was set in his place to administer justice to the Jews, and in the Jewish law blasphemy was regarded as a crime almost worse than murder. He, Pilate himself, as a citizen of Rome, took a different and much lighter view of the offence. For the Roman deities were all so mixed, and so much worse than human in their vengeances and illicit loves, that it was not always easy to perceive anything more lofty in the character of a god than in that of a man. Any warrior who had won renown for fierce brute courage and muscular prowess, might report himself in Rome as the son of a god without affronting popular feeling, and in time, many-mouthed Tradition would turn his lie into a seeming truth. And in that mysterious land through which the Nile made its languid way, did not travellers speak with awe and wonderment of the worship of Osiris, the incarnate god in human semblance? The idea was a popular one, — it arose from an instinctive desire to symbolise the divine in humanity, and was a fable common to all religions, wherefore there seemed to be little actual harm in the fact of this dreamy-looking poetic young philosopher of Nazareth seeking to associate himself with the favourite myths of the people, if, indeed, he did so associate himself. And Pilate, his thoughts still busy with the romances told of the gods in Egypt, beckoned the Accused towards him. His signal was complied with, and the “Nazarene” moved quietly up to within reach of His judge’s hand. Pilate surveyed Him with renewed interest and curiosity, then in a low tone of friendly and earnest appeal, asked, —

  “From whence art thou?”

  No verbal answer was vouchsafed to him, — only a look; and in the invincible authority and grandeur of that look there was something of darkness and light intermingled, — something of the drear solemnity of the thunder-cloud before the lightning leaps forth, sword-like, to destroy. A great anguish and foreboding seized Pilate’s soul, — with all the force of his being he longed to cry out, — to give voice to his secret trouble, and to openly express before priests and people his abhorrence and rejection of the judicial task he was set to do. But all words seemed strangled in his throat, — and a desperate sense of hopelessness and helplessness paralysed his will.

  “Speakest thou not unto me?” he continued, in accents that were hoarse and tremulous with excess of feeling; “Knowest thou not that I have power to crucify thee, and power to release thee?”

  Still steadily the large lustrous eyes regarded him, with something of compassion now in their glance, — and after a moment’s pause, the rich full voice once more cast music on the air.

  “Thou couldest have no power at all against me, except it were given thee from above!” Then, with a slight sigh of pity and pardon: “Therefore, he that delivered me unto thee hath the greater sin.”

  And the penetrating look flashed upward from Pilate to the tall rigid form of Caiaphas, who shrank from it as though suddenly scorched by a flying flame. Pilate, more than ever impressed by the air of command, power, and entire fearlessness expressed in the whole demeanour of the Prisoner, once again began to puzzle his brain with the recollection of the various stories that were current concerning Egypt, — stories of exiled monarchs, who, banished from their realms by an untoward series of events or for some self-imposed religious intention, went wandering about in all the countries of the world, teaching the mystic wisdom of the East, and performing miracles of healing. Was it not probable that this young Preacher, so
unlike the Jewish race in the fair openness”, and dignity of His countenance, the clear yet deep dark blue of His eyes, and the wonderfully majestic yet aerial poise of His figure, might, notwithstanding the popular report of His plebeian origin, after all be one of these discrowned nomads? This idea gained on Pilate’s fancy, and impelled by its influence he asked for the second time, —

  “Art thou a King?” —

  And by marked accentuation of the question he sought to imply that if such were the original distinction of the Captive, release might yet be obtained. But the “Nazarene” only gave a slight sigh of somewhat wearied patience as He replied, —

  “THOU sayest that I am a King!” Then, apparently moved by commiseration for the vacillating perplexity of His judge, he continued gently, “ To this end was I horn and for this end came I into the world, — That I should bear witness unto the Truth! Every one that is of the Truth knoweth my voice.”

  While He thus spoke, Pilate gazed upon Him in solemn astonishment. Here was no traitor or criminal, but simply one of the world’s noblest madmen! More convincing than all the other accusations brought against Him by priests and people was His own unqualified admission of folly. For whosoever sought to “bear witness unto the Truth” in a world kept up by lies could not be otherwise than mad! Had it not always been thus? And would it not always be thus? Had not the Athenian Socrates met his death nearly five hundred years agone for merely uttering the Truth? Pilate, more instructed than the majority in Greek and Roman philosophy, knew that no fault was so reprehensible in all classes of society as simple plain-speaking; it was almost safer to murder a man than tell the truth of him! Thus thinking he gave a hopeless gesture of final abandonment to destiny; and with an ironical bitterness he was scarcely conscious of, uttered the never-to-be-forgotten, never-to-be-answered query, —