Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  Melchior said nothing, and Barabbas, after a minute or two, rose up to go out.

  “I must breathe the air” — he said abruptly— “The heat within the house doth choke me. I will ask where the ‘Nazarene’ is buried, and go thither.”

  “Why?” inquired Melchior — Since thou believest not in Him, what is He to thee?”

  “I cannot tell” — answered Barabbas slowly — Something there is that draws me to the thought of Him, but what it is I cannot yet discover. If I believe not in Him as a God, ’tis because what I hear of Him doth pass all human understanding. Even what thou hast briefly told me doth utterly confound all reason, — the miracle of His birth when His mother Mary was a virgin, — how can I credit this. ’Tis madness; and my soul rejects that which I cannot comprehend.”

  “Did I not tell thee what a type thou wert and art?” said Melchior— “A type of man unspiritualised, and therefore only half instructed. If thou rejectest what thou canst not comprehend, thou must reject the whole wide working of the universe!— ‘Where wast thou,’ God said unto His servant Job, ‘ when I laid the foundations of the earth f Declare if thou hast understanding?... Hast thou commanded the morning since thy days?’ Alas, most profound and reasonable Barabbas! — if thou dost wait till thou canst ‘comprehend’ the mysteries of the Divine Will, thou wilt need to grope through aeons upon aeons of eternal wonder, living a thinking life through all, and even then not reach the inner secret. Comprehendest thou how the light finds its sure way to the dry seed in the depths of earth and causes it to fructify? — or how, imprisoning itself within drops of water and grains of dust, it doth change these things of ordinary matter into diamonds which queens covet? Thou art not able to comprehend these simplest facts of simple nature, — and nature being but the outward reflex of God’s thought, how shouldst thou understand the workings of His interior Spirit which is Himself in all? Whether He create a world, or breathe the living Essence of His own Divinity into aerial atoms to be absorbed in flesh and blood, and born as Man of virginal Woman, He hath the power supreme to do such things, if such be His great pleasure. Talkest thou of miracles? — thou art thyself a miracle, — thou livest in a miracle, — the whole world is a miracle, and exists in spite of thee! Go thy ways, man; search out truth in thine own fashion; but if it should elude thee, blame not the truth which ever is, but thine own witlessness which cannot grasp it!”

  Barabbas stood silent, — strangely moved and startled by the broadness of his new friend’s theories.

  “I would I could believe in such a God as thou dost picture!” he said softly—” One who doth indeed love us and whom we could love!”

  He paused and sighed; — then on a sudden impulse, approached Melchior and taking his hand, kissed it.

  “I know not who thou art,” he said—” but thy words are brave and bold, and to me thou hast been more than generous. Thou must consider me thy servant, — for as I told thee I have no other means of paying back the debt I owe thee. Suffer me therefore to attend thee, — at least till I find ways of work, — shall this be so?”

  Melchior smiled.

  “Thou shalt do even as thou wilt, Barabbas, albeit I do not need attendance. Myself hath been my bodyguard for years, — and I have never found a more discreet and faithful confidant! Nevertheless, to satisfy thy sudden-tender conscience, I will accept thy service.”

  A look of relief that was almost happiness lighted Barabbas’s dark features, giving them a certain nobleness and beauty.

  “I thank thee!” he said simply—” Can I do aught now for thee within the city?”

  “Thou canst bring me news!” — returned Melchior, fixing his eyes upon him steadily—” There may be some of highest import. And mark me! — if thou dost visit the tomb of the ‘Nazarene,’ take heed, — thou wilt find it strongly guarded.: Quarrel not with those who watch, lest thou shouldst be accused of some conspiracy to steal the corpse, — the Jewish priests are yet in terror, for the ‘Nazarene’ did swear that on the ‘third day,’ that is, to-morrow, — remember, to-morrow! — He would rise again.”

  Barabbas stopped in the very act of leaving the room, and turning on the threshold exclaimed, —

  “Impossible! Thou dost echo the last night’s frenzy of Peter! Rise, living, from the grave?.. Impossible! He cannot!”

  Melchior looked full at him.

  “If Death be death, why truly He cannot,” — he responded, — But if Death be Life, why then He can!”

  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  WITH these last strange words ringing in his ears Barabbas went out, wandering almost unseeingly in the open street, and trying to concentrate his thoughts upon the things immediately around him. Somehow he found this difficult. His mind was in a dreamy whirl, and he could hardly realise the full extent of all that had occurred to him within the short space of a little more than twenty-four hours. Whole ages seemed to have passed since the early morning of the previous day when he had been released from prison and when the “Nazarene” had been condemned to die. He had come out of his dungeon, half delirious with joy at the prospect of freedom, believing in Judith Iscariot and loving her as a man only loves once in a lifetime. Now he knew her worthlessness, — the unrepenting vileness, treachery, and corruption of her life, — and though he loved her still, he was perfectly aware that it was only because he could not yet detach his soul from the clinging memory of her bewitching bodily beauty, and this was a love, or rather a passion, of which he was vaguely ashamed. Ashamed? — he, a thief, a murderer, ashamed of anything? Since when? Why, — only — since he had looked upon the “Nazarene.” It was strange! with all the force of his strong though untutored will, he tried to understand what singularly miraculous power this “Man of Nazareth” possessed, that even now, — now when He was crucified and dead, he, Barabbas, should yet be curiously conscious of His presence, and conscious too that this mystic nearness of Him made all sin appear inexpressibly hateful and humiliating. Sighing uneasily, and angry with himself for being unable to comprehend his own feelings, he rambled about the streets aimlessly at first, but afterwards, recollecting part of his intention, he visited the house of Iscariot. There for the first time he learned from the servants of the mysterious disappearance of Judith. Sick at heart, he listened while the man who had opened the gate told him that search had been made everywhere throughout the city in vain, — and that even now, Iscariot himself was with Pilate the governor, seeking for the help of the law to aid in the discovery of the missing girl. The servant added in awestricken tones that they had found the corpse of Judas uncovered, with a branch of roses laid across it, — and that the rope which had been round his throat was gone. “’Tis likely she hath taken it” — he concluded—” Much grief perchance hath driven her distraught. But wheresoever she hath wandered we can hear no tidings of her.”

  “I will find her” — said Barabbas—” Tell her father when he comes that I will never rest till I discover her. I will seek for her high and low, — living or dead I will bring her home.’’

  He shuddered a little as the word “dead” escaped his lips, — and the man who received his message was startled at the fierce expression of his haggard face, but nevertheless responded dismally that “these were sore times of trouble,” and also that the self-slain heir of the house, Judas, would be “buried to-morrow.”

  “To-morrow!” echoed Barabbas with a wild stare, scarcely knowing what he said—” Why, to-morrow they say the ‘Nazarene’ will rise again! Why bury Judas? If one dead man can come to life so can another!”

  The servant, really alarmed this time, shut to the gate without further parley, privately considering that everybody except himself was going mad, Barabbas in particular, — while Barabbas on his part, perfectly reckless as to his appearance or manner, stumbled blindly and giddily down the sunny street, seeing nothing but the face of Judith as she had looked last night, lifting up her burning eyes from the body of her dead brother, and smiling distractedly on the stern disciple Peter fro
m out the golden shower of her hair.

  “Gone — gone! — and whither?” he muttered as he went— “To Caiaphas? Would she have sought out Caiaphas?”

  He checked his pace abruptly. The high-priest’s palace was not far off, — he’ could see the lofty palms and thick-foliaged fig-trees of its private garden to which none had the entry save the high-priest himself, — but to obtain admittance even to the outer court of the house without the excuse of some business of high sacerdotal importance, would, he knew, be impossible. Moreover his very name, Barabbas, was sufficient to exclude him hopelessly. He sat down on a bench by the roadway and tried to think it out. There were no people passing, — the stillness of the Sabbath reigned throughout the city. Resting his head between his two hands he pondered all ways and means of obtaining access to Caiaphas, in vain, — no fortress was more impregnable than the high-priest’s abode, — no one more haughtily unapproachable in his private capacity than the high-priest in person.

  “Nevertheless, he knows!” said Barabbas aloud, “He is her lover, curse him! — and he knows where she hath fled. It may be she is with him even now.”

  As he spoke he lifted his head, and saw that a woman had paused near him and was looking at him wistfully. He recognised her instantly, — by her fair hair, her dreamy face, — her coarse grey linen gown knotted beneath her bosom by a hempen girdle; — it was Mary of Magdala. Instinctively he rose up, gazing at her as steadily as she gazed at him.

  “Thou art Barabbas?” she said in tremulous accents—” Thou art he who should have died yesterday instead of our Beloved!”

  Her voice moved him deeply. It was penetratingly sweet and pathetic, — there was a tremor in it that unnerved him. He tried to remind himself that she was an evil woman, — a thing polluted, — yet while he thought of this he grew in a manner amazed at the limpid purity and beauty of her eyes. They were of a singularly clear blue, — but their wonderful lustre seemed to be a brightness exhaled from inward tears.

  “Thou shouldst have died!” she repeated, and faintly smiled—” Sorrowful Barabbas!”

  He looked at her in vague wonderment.

  “Sorrowful I am in truth,” he said— “But what knowest thou of my sorrow? Surely I have good reason to be glad, seeing that I am free once more, — at liberty to live my life out to its end.”

  “And dost thou love thy life and liberty?” asked Mary softly—” Dost thou find the world so fair? Thou wert not overburdened with rejoicing yesterday, when, in the darkness of the death of love, thou didst kneel and weep with me!”

  He did not answer her at once, but stood regarding her with a stem intentness. Suddenly he gave a gesture of pain and pity.

  “O woman!” he exclaimed passionately—” Beautiful as thou art, why dost thou make of thy beauty degradation? I know thee! — who does not know thee! — accurst and outcast! — go thy ways — die even as Judas died, rather than live as thou dost live!”

  She smiled, — a strange sad smile, that like the pureness of her eyes seemed born of weeping.

  “Friend, I have died!” — she said— “At my Lord’s feet I laid down all my life. Men made me what I was; God makes me what I am.”

  “Thou art the Magdalen,” responded Barabbas harshly — And neither God nor man shall alter thee!”

  She crossed her small hands on her bosom and bent her head.

  I was the Magdalen!” and she raised her eyes, full of bright tears, to the quiet sky — Or, rather, of thy charity, say I was that poor affrighted thing, hunted by devils, whom men did torture into being Magdalen.”

  “Whom men did torture!” repeated Barabbas half angrily— “Woman, for all thy sins thou hast thyself to blame!”

  Her lips quivered.

  “Thou’rt man,” — she answered—” Therefore as man thou speakest. Lay all the burden upon woman, — the burden of sin, of misery, of shame, of tears; teach her to dream of perfect love, and then devour her by selfish lust, — slay her by slow tortures innumerable, — cast her away and trample on her even as a worm in the dust, and then, when she hath perished, stand on her grave and curse her, saying—’ Thou wert to blame! — thou fond, foolish, credulous trusting soul! — thou wert to blame! — not I!’”

  Something in her vibrating accents struck to the heart of Barabbas with a sense of reproach. He dropped his head ashamed, and was silent.

  “Hast thou a right to judge me?” she queried mildly; Art thou without sin? Nevertheless, let us not idly reproach one another, — I tell thee Magdalen, as Magdalen, is dead; I, Mary, live.”

  “What difference dost thou make in such wise ‘twixt dead and living?” murmured Barabbas with a troubled sigh.

  “What difference?” echoed Mary — What difference is there ‘twixt the darkness and the light? The Magdalen was wilder than all furies, — and with the fires of hell, — pursued of devils, bereft of hope, — and ignorant of God — poor soul, poor soul! — she died most piteously and painlessly, slain by a word of pardon from the All-Forgiving! Oh, I cannot choose but weep to think of it! And Mary lives, — Mary, who hath discovered heaven in a broken heart, — Mary, who builds up aerial hopes from tears of patience, — Mary, whose ears have listened to the music of the Master’s voice — such music! — sweeter than the sweetest song! ‘Go thy way,’ He said— ‘Sin no more!’ O high command!— ’Twas as a crown of glory set upon me! ‘ Sin no more!’ How could I sin, remembering Him! Who could look once upon Him, and return from that fair light to darkness? Lo, I am newly born, and trembling in the throes of life, — half weeping, half afraid but full of love! — love for my Master and my king who hath forgiven me and blessed me!”

  Her sweet voice had a rhythmic chime of mingled melancholy and triumph, and Barabbas listened, fascinated and wondering. Presently she came nearer to him.

  “Thou dost not hate me, Barabbas? Or fear me?”

  He looked at her fixedly.

  “What the ‘Nazarene’ hath blessed, that I can neither hate nor fear!”

  A lovely smile irradiated her face, and her watchful regard of him was like that of some meditative angel.

  “Thou callest Him the ‘ Nazarene’ as others do,” she said— “because He came from Nazareth. Nevertheless He was a God — He is a God! Knowest thou they say that He will rise again? — but I believe not this. Truly His spirit may arise; but we shall never see Him more as we have seen Him. And that is why last night I wept when they laid His fair body in the tomb — the body cannot rise, I said, and though as godlike Spirit He will pass to Heaven, as Man He will appear no more to us. This is the bitterness of death: — we never see our loved ones as we knew them, — in Heaven their faces will be strange!”

  She paused, — then went on, —

  “Tell me, Barabbas, of thy grief, — for grief thou hast most visibly. I know of Judas and his death, — is it for him thou sorrowest?”

  He met her earnest gaze for a moment in silence, — then moved by an impulse of confidence, told her of Judith’s sudden disappearance.

  Mary listened attentively.

  “I know her well by sight” — she said—” A fair, proud girl, beauteous and scornful; once she did gather up her robes in haste lest I should brush against them passing, her. Thou lovest her, Barabbas?”

  He flushed and turned his head aside.

  “I have loved her!” he answered.

  “Doubtless she is all that is most perfect in a woman murmured Mary, half questioningly, half sadly, “ Chaste, holy, innocent and true?”

  Her words stung him with keen agony.

  “Would that she were!” he exclaimed wildly—” But I will not lie to thee. She is — nothing! She hath been seized by devils, — such devils as did once move... Magdalen!”

  She started, turning very pale.

  “Alas, Barabbas!” she said—” Then is she most unhappy and in far worse plight than thou! I will aid thee in thy search, — it may be she hath wandered far beyond the city precincts. Hast thou been to Gethsemane, where her bro
ther died?”

  “Not yet” — he responded wearily—” I will go thither now. Where have they buried the ‘Nazarene’?”

  She pointed towards the west.

  “Yonder, near Calvary” — she said—” In the sepulchre of Joseph of Arimathea, between two barren hills. If thou goest, thou wilt find it guarded. Caiaphas hath set a watch.”

  Barabbas shuddered at the name.

  “Caiaphas!” — he muttered between his set teeth—” Always Caiaphas!” And yet he could not bring himself to speak of Judith in connection with the high-priest, and forbore to give expression to his fear that the lost girl might even now be with the haughty dignitary who was in secret her lover.

  “I will go to Gethsemane” — he repeated mechanically—” But the body of Judas was not found within the garden, but outside, — and his sister knoweth naught of the secret place of shadows where he perished. Nevertheless I will make search there, — and I will visit the burial-place of the ‘Nazarene’ ere sunset. If thou hearest any news, thou wilt bring it to me?”

  “Where shall I find thee?” asked Mary.

  He gave her the name of the inn where he at present stayed with his acquaintance, Melchior.

  “I shall remember” — she said — And if I see the strayed girl anywhere I will follow her, — and if I hear of her I will track the rumour to its source. Meantime fare-thee-well! If thou dost truly visit my Lord’s resting-place ere sunset, pray for me, — for the guard doth forbid me to approach — I may not now go thither until to-morrow.”

  “Until to-morrow!” echoed Barabbas, and looked at her strangely.

  “Even so, — to-morrow,” — she repeated — When the morning breaks, I shall take flowers and sweet fragrances to strew upon the dead, — they say the guard will be removed at dawn. Farewell! God comfort thee!”