Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “What is Truth?”

  Then, glancing from the Accused to the accusers, from the priests to the people, from the people in turn to Barabbas, who waited before him sullenly expectant, he sighed impatiently, and with the desperately resolved air of one compelled to perform the very act his soul most abhorred, he beckoned to a clerk in attendance and gave him a whispered order. The man retired, but returned almost immediately bearing a large silver bowl filled with pure water. Flinging back his rich robe of office and allowing it to trail in voluminous folds behind him, Pilate, closely followed by the attendant carrying the silver vessel, stepped forward again to confront the populace who were becoming more contentious and noisy with every moment’s delay. On perceiving the governor’s advance, however, they ceased their turbulent murmurings and angry disputations, and concentrated all their attention upon him, the more particularly as his movements were somewhat strange and unexpected. Rolling up his gold-embroidered sleeves well above his wrists, he raised his bare hands aloft and showed them, palms outward, to the multitude, the great jewels on his fingers flashing like stars in the morning sun. He held them so uplifted for a minute’s space, while the people, wondering, looked on in silence — then, slowly lowering them, he dipped them deep in the shining bowl, rinsing them over and over again in the clear cold element which sparkled in its polished receptacle like an opal against fire. And as he shook the bright drops away from him, he cried in a loud penetrating voice, —

  “I am innocent of the blood of this just person! See ye to it!”

  The multitude shouted and yelled. They understood and accepted the position. Their Roman judge publicly declined all responsibility in the matter, — even so let it be! — but they, they the elect of God, the children of Judaea, eagerly embraced, and not for the first time in their annals, the righteous opportunity of slaying the innocent. And with one mighty roar they responded, men and women alike, —

  “His blood be upon us and on our children!”

  The hideous, withering, irrevocable Curse rose shudderingly up to Heaven, — there to be inscribed by the Recording Angel in letters of flame as the self-invoked Doom of a people.

  CHAPTER VII.

  AFTER this nothing more could be said. An ignorant and callous mob has neither justice, reason, nor pity, yet the popular verdict had to be accepted as final. No appeal could be made against such a grimly resolved and unanimous decision. Pilate saw that had he still ventured to plead the cause of the Divine Accused, the impatience of the crowd, strained to its last limit, would probably break out in riot and bloodshed. He therefore, like a man driven along by a resistless whirlwind, sacrificed his own will to the desire of the people, and Caiaphas, seeing that he had at last yielded to the force of necessity, heaved a sigh of relief. Hesitation was at an end, — the Man of Nazareth was to die the death. And the great high-priest murmured his satisfaction in the ear of his friend Annas, who listened servilely, rubbing his fat hands together and every now and then rolling up his small treacherous eyes in pious thanksgiving, — thanksgiving that the Holy City of Jerusalem was to be finally freed from the troublous and alarming presence of the “Nazarene.”

  “Once dead,” whispered Caiaphas, with a contemptuous side-glance at the fair-faced enemy of his craft, the silent “Witness unto the Truth”— “and, moreover, slain with dishonour in the public sight, he will soon sink out of remembrance. His few disciples will be despised, — his fanatical foolish doctrine will be sneered down, and we, — we will take heed that no chronicle of his birth or death or teaching remains to be included in our annals. A stray street preacher to the common folk! — how should his name endure?”

  “Nay, it shall not endure,” returned Annas with an unctuous air of perfect assurance—” Thou, most holy and exalted Caiaphas, hast ever dwelt too ardently upon this fellow’s boasting. Many there are, such as he, who thus idly vaunt themselves, and swear that though unknown and all unhonoured by their own generation, they shall be acclaimed great and wonderful hereafter. Arrogant philosophers prate thus, — mad poets who string rhymes as children string beads, and call such fool’s work valuable, — heretical thinkers too of all degrees, — yet lo, their vaunting comes to naught! Verily, if History make no mention of this man, who will believe he ever lived!”

  Caiaphas smiled coldly.

  “Little word will there be of him in History,” said he. “For his crazed followers are ignorant of letters, and our scribes must write only what we shall bid them!”

  Part of this low-toned conversation was overheard by Zacharias, the old usurer, and he nodded emphatic approval, laughing silently the while. The condemnatory sentence passed on the immortal Captive by the Jewish populace was balm to his mean and miserable soul, — he rejoiced in it as in some excellent and satisfying jest, and he struck his jewelled stick now and then on the pavement, with an ecstatic thump, by way of giving outward expression to his inwardly gratified feeling. Pilate, meantime, having, by the washing of his hands before the people, openly signified his repugnance and refusal to personally participate in the crime (for so he truly considered it) about to be committed, proceeded with the rest of his enforced duty in feverish haste and something of horror. Nothing could now be done quickly enough to please him, — he grew nervous and excited, — a shamed flush at times burned in his cheeks, and anon he grew ghastly pale again, every line of his features becoming drawn and livid as the features of the dead, — and in all his hurried movements he carefully avoided turning his eyes towards the Man Condemned. At his abrupt signal some twenty soldiers with drawn weapons surrounded the grand white Figure that stood, divinely silent, in the glory of the morning sun, — coarse-visaged, squat-bodied men who laughed and swore among themselves as they eyed their Prisoner up and down and made mocking comments on His stately and unmoved bearing. — He — Himself — appeared to be almost un conscious of their proximity, — some happy fancy seemed to hover, spirit-like, across His mind, for judging by His radiant aspect, He might have been a crowned Apollo dreaming of realms wherein His smile alone created light and sound and life. And in the same moment that the military cohort thus fenced Him in with their bristling spears, the two soldiers who had guarded Barabbas until now retired to the rear, leaving their man to receive his formal release at the hands of the governor. Alone, — facing Pilate, — Barabbas waited, — the iron manacles still weightily dragging down his arms and showing where their long and corroding pressure had bruised and cut the flesh beneath. He was giddy with fatigue and excitement, but his black eyes were brilliant, and every nerve and muscle in his body thrilled to the rapturous thought of liberty. His suspense did not last long, for Pilate was now in no humour for delays. Snatching from an attendant officer the implement used for such purposes, he struck at the heavy links of the rescued criminars chains with such irate violence that they were soon parted asunder and fell, clanging harshly on the marble pavement. The noise made by their fall was sufficient to excite the populace to a burst of triumphant shouting.

  “Barabbas!”

  “Freedom for Barabbas!”

  “Hail, Barabbas!”

  Barabbas meanwhile stared at the cast-off fetters with a stupefied air as though they had all at once become curious and unfamiliar objects. He had worn them day and night for eighteen months, yet now it seemed he knew them not. He lifted his arms and swung them to and fro with a sense of bodily ease and lightness, — but where was the buoyancy of spirit that had but a moment before elated him? It was gone, and gone quite suddenly, he knew not how. He had hoped and longed and prayed for freedom, — his hope was fulfilled, — and now, with fufilment, hope was dead. A heavy despondency overcame him, and he stood dully inert, while he heard Caiaphas say, —

  “Wilt thou not fasten you bracelets upon the Nazarene, good Pilate? Who knoweth but that in going to his death he may prove rebellious?”

  Pilate frowned.

  “What now! Hath he fought with the guard? Hath he moved? Hath he murmured? Hath he spoken aught of violenc
e? He disputeth not judgment, — he doth most mutely accept the fate ye give him. Therefore why bind that which maketh no resistance? Let Jews be what they will, ye shall not make a coward of a Roman!”

  And with this he turned abruptly to Barabbas. “ Why dost thou wait there, fellow? Get thee hence!” and the suppressed irritation he felt quivered in his usually calm voice—” Impenitent murderer and thief as thou art, the laws of thy nation set thee free to slay and steal again at thy pleasure!”

  Barabbas winced, and his dark face flushed. The scathing words cut him deeply, but he found nothing to say in reply. His head dropped somewhat wearily on his chest, — he fully understood he was at liberty, — yet liberty did not now bring with it the complete sense of joy he had thought to find in its possession. Beyond the barrier the people outside waited to receive him with triumphant acclamations, — but his limbs seemed to be fastened to the spot where he stood, and for the life of him he could not help gazing wistfully and remorsefully at the One condemned in his stead.

  “It would have been better,” he said within himself, “to have died for yonder Man, than live on, free.”

  As this thought crossed his mind, it seemed to him that a sudden soft light shone round the uplifted head of the “Nazarene,” — a ring of pale and misty radiance that gradually deepened into a warm glow of golden flame. He gazed at this phenomenon affrighted, — surely others saw the glory as well as himself? Judge, priests, soldiers and people, could it be possible they were blind to what was so distinctly visible? He tried to speak and tell them, — but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he could only stare like one distraught, striving to utter words that refused to become audible. Caiaphas, impatient at his apparent stupidity and unwillingness to move, stepped up to him.

  “Didst thou not hear the governor’s command, thou fool? Get thee hence quickly! Take heed to thy ways, and see thou venture not near the house of Iscariot!”

  This injunction, pronounced in an angry whisper, roused Barabbas from his amazed contemplation of the Christ to a sudden silent access of personal fury. The glory-light vanished from the brows of the prophet of Nazareth, — there was no more wonder, no more mystic terror; material life and its demands rose paramount in his mind. With a look of indignant scorn and rebellion flashed full in the face of the great high-priest, he straightened himself proudly to his full height, and turning his back on the Hall of Judgment strode swiftly towards the barrier dividing him from the populace, the Roman soldiers making way for him to pass. A moment more, and he had sprung into the midst of the crowd where he was received with frenzied yells of delight and prolonged cheering. An exultant mob gathered round him, shouting his name, — men embraced him, — women caught his grimy hands and kissed them, — little children danced about him whooping and shrieking with joy, not knowing why they did so, but simply infected by the excitement of their elders, — one man in the height of enthusiasm tore off a rich upper mantle from his own shoulders and flung it around the half-naked, half-starved form of the newly-released criminal, shedding tears of emotion the while. Not a trace was left of the previous aversion shown towards him when first he had been marched into the Tribunal, a prisoner under armed escort, — the public, more fickle than the wind, were full of rejoicing over the fact that their word and their will had obtained his release, — and, to judge by their jubilant cries, the once notorious murderer might have been a king returning to throne and country after long exile. A large section of the crowd forgot for the moment that Other, who was left to His fate and condemned to die, — they were content to press round their own rescued man with joyous greeting and laughter, praying him to partake of food and wine with them at the nearest inn, or urging him to accompany them in turn to their several homes. Breathless and bewildered and incongruously clad in the silk and gold-threaded garment his philanthropic admirer had wound about him, Barabbas looked from right to left, wondering how best he might elude the enthusiastic attentions which threatened to overwhelm his small stock of patience. For he himself was not elated with his triumph; he knew, better than most men, the true value of “friends” as this world goes; and he felt more weariness and impatience than anything else as his eyes roved anxiously over the surging sea of heads in search of one face that he fancied was sure to be there, — a face that for him was all he realised of heaven. But he failed to discover what he sought, and, chilled by his disappointment, he scarcely heard the various items of news and gossip some of his former acquaintances were pouring into his ears. All at once a murmur ran from lip to lip, —

  “Look you, they scourge him!”

  Like an ocean wave rolling inshore, the crowd, moved by one instinct, turned, swaying impetuously back towards the Hall of Judgment. Standing on tip-toe they craned their necks over each other’s shoulders to see what was going on, — men lifted tiny children in their arms, — some few, principally women, uttered smothered exclamations of pity, — but on the whole a mercilessly pleased air of expectation pervaded the throng. Barabbas, carried along by the force of the mob, found himself facing the Tribunal once more, and being a tall man he was able to command a better view than most of those immediately around him.

  “Brutes!” he muttered as he saw—” Dogs! Devils! To strike a man defenceless! — O coward bravery!”

  And with strained eyes and heavily beating heart he watched the scene. The Tribunal seemed now to be well-nigh possessed by the Roman guards, for several extra soldiers had been summoned to aid in the pitiless deed about to be done. In the centre of a ring of bristling spears and drawn battle-axes stood the “Nazarene,” offering no resistance to the rude buffetings of the men who violently stripped Him of His upper garments, leaving His bare shoulders and breast exposed to view. An officer meantime handed the scourge to Pilate, — a deadly-looking instrument made of several lengths of knotted whip-cord, fringed with small nail-like points of sharpened iron. It was part of the procurator’s formal duty to personally chastise a condemned criminal, — but the unhappy man upon whom in this dreadful instance the allotted task now fell, shuddered in every limb, and, pushing away the barbarous thong, made a faint mute gesture of denial. The officer waited, his dull, heavy face exhibiting as much surprise as discipline would allow. The soldiers waited, staring inquisitively. And in equable sweetness and silence the Man of Nazareth also waited, the sunlight giving a polished luminance to His bared shoulders and arms, dazzling in their whiteness, statuesque in their symmetry, — the while He lifted His deep pensive eyes, and regarded His miserable judge with a profound and most tender pity. Caiaphas and his father-in-law exchanged vexed glances.

  “Dost thou yet delay justice, Pilate?” questioned the high-priest haughtily— “Time presses. Do what thy duty bids thee, — strike!”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  BUT Pilate still hesitated, gazing blankly out into nothingness. His face was pallid, — his lips were set hard, — his erect figure, clothed in rich attire, looked curiously stiff and lifeless like that of a frozen man. Would that the sick qualm at his heart might overcome him altogether, he thought, so that, falling in a senseless swoon, he might escape the shame and horror of striking that kingly Gentleness, that embodied Patience! But life and consciousness throbbed through him, albeit painfully and confusedly; the people whom he was set to govern, demanded of him the full performance of his work. Mechanically he at last stretched forth his hand and grasped the scourge, — then, with a faltering step and downcast eyes approached the Condemned. The soldiers, anticipating the scourging, had notwithstanding Pilate’s objection to bind “that which maketh no resistance” tied their passive Captive’s hands with rope, lest He should attempt to defend Himself from the falling blows. On these needless and unmerited bonds, Pilate first of all fixed his glance, a great wrath and sorrow contending within him. But he was powerless to alter or soften the conditions of the law, — he was the wretched tool of destiny, — and with a bitter loathing of himself and the shameful thing he was compelled to do, he turned away his eyes
and... lifted the lash. It dropped heavily with a stinging hiss on the tender flesh, — again and again it rose,... again and again it fell,... till the bright blood sprang from beneath its iron points and splashed in red drops on the marble pavement.... But no sound passed the lips of the Divine Sufferer, — not so much as a sigh of pain, — and no prophetic voice uplifted itself to proclaim the truth, “ He was wounded for our transgressions, and by His stripes are we healed!”

  Meanwhile, a strange and unaccountable silence possessed the people watching outside, — pressing close against one another, they peered with eager curious eyes at the progress of the punishment, — till at last, when the scourge caught in its cruel prongs a strand of the Captive’s gold-glistening hair, and, tearing it out, cast it, wet with blood, on the ground, a girl in the crowd broke out into hysterical sobbing. The sound of woman’s weeping scared Pilate in his dreadful task, — he looked up, flushed and fevered, with wild eyes and a wilder smile and paused. Zacharias, the usurer, hobbled forward excitedly, waving his jewelled staff in the air.

  “To it again, and harder, most noble governor!” he yelled in his cracked and tremulous voice, “To it again, with better will! Such blows as thine would scarcely hurt a child! He scourged others, — let him taste of the thong himself! Look you, he hath not winced nor cried out, — he hath not yet felt the lash. To it again in justice, excellent Pilate! in simple justice! He hath scourged me, an aged man and honest, — verily it is right and fitting he should receive the sting in his own flesh, else shall he die impenitent. Again, and yet again, most worthy governor, — but let the stripes be heavier!”

  As he spoke, gesticulating violently, his stick suddenly slipped from his shaking hand and dropped on the marble floor, and a great pearl, loosened from its setting in the jewelled handle, flew out, rolled away like a bead and disappeared. With a shriek of anguish, the miserable man fell on his knees and began to grope along the pavement with his yellow claw-like fingers, shedding maudlin tears, while he entreated the impassive soldiers standing by to aid him in looking for the precious lost gem. A grim smile went the round of the band, but not a man moved. Moaning and whimpering, the wretched usurer crept slowly on all fours over the floor of the Tribunal, keeping his eyes close to the ground, and presenting the appearance of some loathly animal rather than a man, the while he every now and again paused and prodded with his filthy hands into every nook and corner in hope to find the missing jewel. The loss was to him irreparable, and in his grief and rage he had even forgotten his desire of vengeance on the “Nazarene.” Pilate, watching him as he crawled about weeping childishly, was moved by such a sense of pleasure at his discomfiture as to feel almost light-hearted for the moment, — and, breaking into a loud laugh of unnatural hilarity, he flung away the blood-stained scourge with the relieved air of one whose disagreeable task was now finished. But Caiaphas was by no means satisfied.