Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  And with a gentle inclination of her head, she wrapped her mantle round her and glided softly and rapidly away.

  Barabbas stood looking after her for a moment, lost in thought; and his lips unconsciously murmured over and over again the word, —

  “To-morrow!”

  Then, drawing his linen hood well over his brows that he might not be recognised and detained by any of his former acquaintances, he passed through the Sabbath-quieted streets of the city, and out on the road that led towards Gethsemane.

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  COOL shadows greeted him as he approached the quaint secluded garden which was now destined to be evermore renowned in the world’s history. A faint wind swung the heavy foliage of the fig-trees with a solemn sound, and the clear brook that ran between two low banks of moss and turf from which some ancient olives grew, made subdued and soothing music. Down here last night, — here where the shelving ground dipped towards the water, — here where the fig-trees were dark with their darkest bunches of thick leaves, Judas had been found dead; and it was with a dreary sense of ominous foreboding that Barabbas came to the same place now, in gloomy expectation of some new disaster. Uneasily he lifted the overhanging branches and peered among the flickering tints of dense and luminous green, — not a living creature was visible. He moved to and fro softly, looking about him everywhere in vague search for Judith, — yet doubting all the while the possibility of finding her in such a spot. Up and down he gazed wistfully, — now towards the winding path ascending to the Mount of Olives, — anon, backward to the shadowy depths of the Valley of Kedron, — and having reconnoitred all the visible landscape immediately outside Gethsemane, he resolved to enter the garden itself. He lifted the latch of the small wooden gate that separated it from the road, and went in among the towering palm-trees and climbing roses that there were made particular objects of cultivation and grew in rich profusion in every available corner. As he wandered slowly along one of the moss-grown paths, he paused to listen. Never, surely, was there such a silence anywhere as here! The murmur of the brook was lost, — the wind failed to stir so much as a small flutter among the leaves, — and the impressive stillness of the place was such that it seemed as if the voice of God had spoken, saying: “Here, where My Beloved cried to Me in His agony, let there no more be any earthly sound!”

  Barabbas hesitated. Seized with a solemn fear, his presence in the garden appeared to himself a strange intrusion, and after a moment or two he turned back, finding it impossible to proceed. He looked dreamily at the flowers around him; roses, red and pale, turned their faces upon him in apparent wonderment, — a glowing cactus-tree confronted him, all in a seeming angry blaze of bloom, — the nodding ferns trembled as with interior agitation, and every separate leaf and blade of grass, he fancied, questioned him silently upon the nature of his errand in that sacred haunt, made wonderful by a God’s unselfish sorrow. Word by word, all that the disciple Peter had related concerning the last night spent by the “Nazarene” within this same Gethsemane returned to his mind.

  “Will He possess all things?” he murmured half aloud—” A Man of Nazareth, crucified and dead? — shall we not even wander in this garden without His memory haunting us?”

  And he hastened his steps, anxious to leave the spot, although he knew not why. A little way beyond where he stood, — beyond the roses and the sentinel cactus-flowers, the dewy turf still reverently bore the impress of a Form Divine that there had fallen prone and wept for all the world, — wept with such tears as never yet had rained from mortal eyes, — there too had lighted for a little space, a great consoling Angel, — and there no human step had passed since the fair King of perfect Love had gone forth patiently to die.

  “Judith would not be here” — Barabbas muttered, as he left the garden, closing the gate noiselessly after him, “’Twas never a resort of hers, — she would not think of coming hither.”

  He paused, his heart beating with an undefinable anxiety.

  “No — no, — she would not dream of it” — he repeated—” If sorrow hath distracted her, she might more likely have gone towards Calvary, the scene of yesterday. I will visit the tomb of the ‘Nazarene’ and inquire of the guard whether she hath passed them by.”

  Thus resolved he walked on his way slowly, full of the most bewildering thoughts. The question that reigned uppermost in his mind was, strange to say, not what had become of Judith Iscariot, but what and who was the “Nazarene”? Why did His presence seem to permeate the very air? How was He different from others, that one should not be able to forget Him? He was a Teacher of new doctrine, — well, there had been other teachers of new doctrine and would be many more. He was brave and beautiful; there were others brave and beautiful likewise. He was not a hero as the world accepts heroes, — He had fought no battles, made no conquests, and owned neither throne nor province. He was simply, or appeared to be, a very poor Man, who had been kind and sympathetic to the sorrowful; He had healed a few sick persons, and given the comforting hope of Heaven to those who had no consolation upon earth. Where was the particular marvel of these things? A life so simple, so common, — where was its Divinity? Barabbas pondered the problem vainly, — he was not wise enough to comprehend that perhaps the greatest miracle of the world is this same sort of “simple” and “common” life, which is after all neither simple nor common, but most truly complex and phenomenal. For nothing upon earth is so singular as kindness, — nothing so rare as sympathy, — nothing so absolutely unique, wonderful and purely Divine as ungrudging, unboastful, devoted, changeless Love that seeks nothing for itself, but freely gives everything. What men call love is often selfishness; what God accepts as love is the entire and voluntary resignation of self for love’s own sake. “In losing thyself” — He says— “thou shalt find Me, — and in finding Me, — thou wilt find all!”

  But Barabbas had not the eyes to discern the spiritual side of nature. He could only see what appeared on the surface of life, — of interior meanings he knew nothing. It puzzled him to consider that the mysterious man Melchior, whether he were Egyptian, Greek, or any other nationality, actually accepted this Jesus of Nazareth as a God, — without question. Why? Because if a God, how would it have been possible for Him to die?

  “I must know everything concerning Him” — sighed Barabbas perplexedly—” I must not accept mere rumour. When Judith is found, and when all these present troubles are past, I will go down to Nazareth, and obtain a true report. It shall be my business; for if He were Messiah, then are our people cursed for ever with the curse of God that passeth not away. I will not take mere hearsay, — I will prove things. As for His rising from the dead, that cannot be” —

  Here, interrupting his meditations, he lifted his eyes to look at the low hills in front of him. At the distance he now was, he could plainly see the ring of white tents that circled the tomb of the “Nazarene.”

  “Truly the watch is set” — he murmured, “And ’tis an ample guard. There can be no feigning in this fear, — the terror of the priests is real. Cowards and sceptics as they are, they surely deem this Man will rise again!”

  The sight of all those soldiers’ tents amazed him, — he had thought to find one or two sentinels perhaps on guard, — but that a regular military “watch” should be encamped round the burial place of one who after all, according to the law’s estimate, was no more than a crucified criminal, seemed to him positively astounding. The hours of the afternoon were wearing on rapidly and he hurried his pace, anxious to reach and examine the tomb itself, but as he came within a few yards of it, a guard confronted him, and with a gruff word forbade him to proceed further. Barabbas answered the man gently, explaining the errand on which he was bound, and asking whether any one resembling the beautiful Judith had been seen wandering about in the neighbourhood. The soldier looked at him scrutinizingly, — then began to laugh.

  “Why, as I live!” he said— “Thou art Barabbas! I am one of those who came to fetch thee out of prison the
other morn, — thou wert drunk with the air and light, as with new wine, and little didst thou deem that thou wert going to thy freedom! Thou lookest altogether a different man, thus cleansed and fitly clothed; dost find the world altered since thy former days?”

  “Nay, ’tis much the same,” — responded Barabbas somewhat bitterly—” Evil succeeds, and good perishes; am I not myself a living witness of this, seeing ’tis I who should have been crucified instead of the ‘Nazarene’?”

  “I warrant thou dost not regret His end or thine own escape!” returned the soldier with a grim smile—” Thou hast not yet been two whole days out of prison, and already thou art searching for a woman. ’Tis ever the way with fierce rascals such as thou, nevertheless, however much I may sympathise with thee, I cannot let thee pass me, — the orders that we have are stringent.”

  “I well believe it!” said Barabbas looking wistfully at the sealed-up door of the rocky sepulchre, “ And I do not urge thee unto disobedience. And concerning the woman I have spoken of, I seek her not for mine own sake, ’tis the daughter of Iscariot that hath strayed from home, — the same Iscariot whose son Judas hung himself for shame that he betrayed the Man of Nazareth. ’Tis thought she is distracted at her brother’s death, and that she roams wildly, unknowing whither.”

  “By my faith, ’tis a sad history!” said the Roman, not without a touch of sympathy, “ This old Iscariot is truly in a piteous case. But no woman, fair or foul, hath been near these precincts all the day so far as I can tell thee. Nevertheless when the watch doth change at moonrise, and Galbus the centurion takes chief command, I will inform him what thou sayest, — he hath two children of his own, young maidens both, — and should he chance on this strayed lamb he may be trusted to persuade her home. But for thyself, I do advise thee not to linger, for here all idlers are suspected thieves, — and if I do mistake not thou hast some past reputation for skilled robbery! Perchance thou wouldst not steal a corpse, — for truly ’tis not valuable, — yet all things counted, thou’rt safer at a distance from this place. Frown not! I mean thee well.”

  “I thank thee!” said Barabbas briefly, and then stood for a moment, lost in thought and uncertain what to do. It was growing late, — the sun was verging towards its setting. Flecks of crimson, like floating rose-leaves, drifted in the sky immediately above the hill of Calvary, and below these delicate flushes spread a watery band of green, a translucent sky-lagoon into which, ere long, the glorious orb of day would plunge and sink like a ship on fire. The landscape, though nearly barren of verdure, had a wild beauty of its own seen thus in the afternoon glow of the warm Eastern light, — and so Barabbas thought as his tired eyes roved from point to point unrestfully and with a strained expression of regret and sorrow. The centre of all visible things seemed to be that sealed and guarded sepulchre; and presently, bringing back his gaze to the bold and martial form of the Roman soldier who still watched him half suspiciously, half curiously, he waved his hand with an expressive gesture towards the tents that were clustered round the mystic tomb.

  “Surely all this is needless waste of trouble and of time?” he said with forced lightness — Who that is sane would fear that a dead man can rise?”

  “Thou mistakest the nature of the fear,” — returned the soldier, — No one, not even Caiaphas, is such a fool as to believe in a resurrection of the dead. No, no! — we guard against the living; — this ‘ Nazarene’s’ disciples are all within the neighbourhood, and they would steal the body of their former Master willingly, if by this deed they could assume his prophecies were true. But now are they baffled; they cannot break our ring or pass our ground; and if the dead man comes to life again He must Himself find force to rend the rocks asunder, for no human hand will aid the miracle!”

  “‘T would be a miracle indeed!” murmured Barabbas dreamily.

  “Ay! — and ‘twill not happen,” — laughed the Roman—” We all know that. And to-morrow, praise be to the gods, the test will have been made and the watch ended, for ’tis the third day, — and if He rise not in keeping with His own saying, ’tis a finished matter, and we shall no more be teased with follies. To-morrow thou canst wander here at will unmolested — to-day I bid thee get hence and home.”

  “And I obey thee” — rejoined Barabbas turning away—” Thou wilt speak to thy centurion of Iscariot’s daughter?”

  “Most faithfully.”

  “Again I thank thee. Farewell!”

  “Farewell!”

  The soldier resumed his slow pacing to and fro, and Barabbas, with a last lingering look at the sepulchre, went on his reluctant way back towards the city. He noticed, as he passed the farther one of the little hills between which the tomb was situated, that there was a deep hollow in the ground such as might have been burrowed out by some wild animal for its sleeping-place. It was large enough to hold a man unseen in its sandy depths, — and as he measured it with a glance, the bold idea struck him that he would come there that very night and hide, as it were, in ambush to watch the sepulchre also.

  “For if aught should chance that is in any wise miraculous, then I shall witness it” — he soliloquised—” Or if the disciples of the ‘Nazarene’ should strive to steal. His corpse, why then I shall behold the fight ‘twixt them and the Roman guard. Most surely I will return hither, — for whatsoever happens it will not be a night for sleep, but vigilance. I can watch, — I too as well as any other man, — moreover if marvellous things are to be seen, ‘twere well that I should see them. If the dead Man rise again then shall I know He is not man but God; but unless I see Him living with my own eyes I never will believe. Wherefore to prove this thing I will return hither this night, and nothing shall prevent me. The judgment and the heart may be deceived, — the reason and the sight, never. ‘Twill please me well to play the secret sentinel! — and, as I live, no force shall move me from my post till dawn!”

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  AS he resolved on this plan, he stopped to take a careful survey of the exact situation of the sheltering hollow in which he meant to pass the night. The dust of the road was grey and thick about his feet, — above him the heavens were reddening into sunset-glory. The landscape had no touch of human life about it, save his own solitary figure, — Jerusalem lay before him, a dream of white roofs rather than a reality, and not a sound stirred the heated air. Therefore, in the great hush that prevailed, he was unaccountably startled to see the form of a woman walking, or rather gliding, slowly towards him; she was coming up from the city carrying a sheaf of large white lilies. She was herself, like the blossoms she bore, clad in white, and as she approached with perfectly noiseless footsteps, Barabbas, moved by a sudden instinct, placed himself directly in her path, fully confronting her and staring at her with burning, eager, wistful eyes. Her face, pale and marvellously beautiful, was the same he had seen so strangely illumined on Calvary when the bells had begun to ring, and the darkness had slowly dispersed, — a face expressing neither youth nor age, nor any mark of earthly time, but reflecting on its pure and perfect features both maidenhood and motherhood in one, combined with such angelic sweetness, wisdom, sorrow, purity and love as never had before adorned the fairness of any woman born. Barabbas held his breath for very wonderment at sight of her, — something supreme and queenly in her aspect disposed him to fall upon his knees before her in reverence, — yet he refrained from this and stood erect, trembling greatly, but resolved to keep the position he had taken up in the centre of the narrow road, so that she might not pass him without at least a look, a word or a gesture.

  “’Tis the Mother of the Crucified!” he murmured—” I will speak to her, and ask of her the truth concerning all the marvellous history of her Son, — surely she will answer! — surely she must answer, seeing it may become a matter of life and death, not only with me, but with the world.”

  He waited, and she came on, holding her lilies with both hands against her breast. Within two or three yards of him, however, she paused, and stood still. So still indeed was
she that she might have been a figure of ivory or marble; not a fold of her garments stirred, — not a petal of the lilies she carried quivered, — her calm eyes, clear as heaven, regarded him steadily, — one tress of her fair hair escaping from the white linen headcovering she wore, glittered against her throat, — and on her lips rested the tender shadow of a smile. Behind her flamed the sunset, — round her the very air grew dense and brilliant, as though powdered through with the fine dust of finest amber, — and at her feet one fallen lily-bud opened its satin petals to the light, disclosing its interior heart of gold. Vaguely awed by her very quiescence, Barabbas gazed upon her enthralled and for the moment stricken speechless, a wondering, doubting and bewildered sinner, face to face with the Angel-Virgin of the world! The red light of the sinking sun playing on the whiteness of her garments dazzled him, — she seemed to grow in stature and in majesty even while he looked, and with a sigh of mingled pain, dread and desire, he extended his hands appealingly.

  “Mary of Nazareth!”

  The shadow of the smile upon her lips deepened and softened with an infinite compassion. But she neither answered nor moved.

  “Mary, Mother of the ‘Nazarene’!” he faltered, trembling more and more, for there was something supernatural in her beauty, something almost terrifying in the mingled meekness and majesty of her regard— “Hear me, I beseech thee! Thou knowest who I am, — Barabbas, — an evil man of many sins, — and, had the people’s voice been just, ’tis I who should have perished yesterday instead of thy beloved Son. I swear I would have died most willingly, — not at the first — no! — for I did long for liberty and all the joys of free existence; but after I had seen His face, my life seemed to mine own self worthless, and I would have given it gladly to save His!”

  Still not a word from her! — only that same mild tenderness of look and smile.