Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “They say thy Son blasphemed” — pursued Barabbas with increasing agitation, “Because He spoke familiarly of God and called Him ‘Father’. ’Twas a wild utterance, — for now a foolish rumour floats upon the people’s lips, — a rumour most incredible, — alleging that He was in very truth the only Son of God. Why didst not thou, Mary, disprove this idle tale? — for thou, of all the world, dost know the manner of His birth! Thou shouldst have warned Him of the danger of His words, and so might He have saved Himself from the penalty of the law. For were He the holiest man that ever breathed, still in this way of speech He was guilty of a vast presumption, — the great God, the terrible Almighty hath never vested His Divinity in human guise! Knowest thou not, Mary, that this false impression of Him still abides? — and that the whisper of it, passing from mouth to mouth, doth waken the strangest fears and doubts within the souls of men? — and even I, Barabbas, ignorant, guilty, and all unbelieving as I am, grow troubled and perplexed, seeking the truth and finding none! With thee this matter rests, — thou art the Mother of this ‘Nazarene,’— ’tis not too late to speak — thou canst unravel all the mystery, wherefore I do beseech thee answer me!”

  His entreating eyes studied her tranquil face eagerly, but not a sound escaped her lips, not even a faint responsive sigh.

  “Why wilt thou thus keep silence?” he exclaimed passionately—” Hast thou thought, Mary, what the result will be if thou dost suffer this mad and strange report to travel on uncontradicted? For if thy dead Son be dedeclared a God, of birth miraculous and Divine, then must a curse rest on the people of Judæa for having slain Him, and all the world will make a scorn of Israel for endless time! On us will fall the blame and punishment for our rejection of the God-Messiah, — and the nations of the earth will loathe us for our cruelty, our wickedness, perversity and unbelief. Mary, thou knowest! Speak! — wilt thou let the whole world worship a Legend and a Lie?”

  As he uttered the last word, a sudden cold shudder ran through him, — he grew dizzy and faint, but with an effort held his ground, gazing full at her to whom he made his bold and desperate appeal. She had not moved, — but there was an indefinable change in her that startled him. Some mystic light that was not of the sunset seemed cast upon her face, and in her steadfast eyes there shone a radiance more softly brilliant than the glittering of moonbeams on the sea. Half swooning with the force of his own emotions, Barabbas suddenly fell on his knees, grasping the edge of her white robe in one hand.

  “Mary of Nazareth!” he whispered hoarsely—” In pity to me a sinner, — in mercy to the world, — declare the truth! Who was the Father of thy Son?”

  Deep silence followed his daring question. Above the fragrant lilies, her radiant face grew warm with speechless eloquence, — and lifting her eyes she gazed upward — upward, — far into the vistas of ethereal blue; — transfigured by some inward glorious thought she seemed about to float away upon the air in answer to a voice calling her heavenward. The sun dropped below the horizon and disappeared, — the skies began to pale into that rapid Eastern twilight which paves the passage of the stars.

  “Not a word! — not a word!” cried Barabbas then, springing to his feet, and carried out of himself by mingled fervour and ferocity—” O Woman! — wilt thou deceive Man unto the bitter end? Shall our very God be of thy making? Shall our very creeds be of thy teaching? Must thou command our souls even to the very hope of heaven? If thou art human, if thou art holy, if thou desirest truth made manifest, speak, Mary, thou who didst bring into the world this ‘King’ to whom hath now been given a Cross for throne and thorns for Crown!

  Dost thou meditate eternal vengeance on us all? Hast thou sworn within thy soul that men shall worship what they once despised, and pray to Him they slew? If so, such monstrous compensation ne’er was dreamed of— ’tis a revenge more subtle than the fiercest tortures! Is it for wrath or love, Mary, that thou dost hold thy peace?”

  Her sweet mouth trembled a little, but she did not speak, — her eyes were still uplifted as in prayer.

  “How can silence in aught avail thee?” pursued Barabbas impetuously—” Lo, if the great God Invisible hath filled thee with His mystic Spirit, art thou not thereby made a creature marvellous? — a very queen of wonders? — and by thy very life dost thou not glorify thy sex and make it sacred and revered for evermore? Wherefore then hesitate to take full majesty and power upon thee? But if thou hast no miracle to tell, surely thou art a cruelty incarnate, for by thy dumb refusal to be true, thou mayest weave around the hapless world a web of error such as the ages never yet have seen. Think for a moment, — picture it! — shall wise men of the earth and conquerors and kings bow their proud heads before mere Woman and Child? The symbol of all Nature, in which there is no touch Divine but everything of common! — wilt thou make fools of tribes and nations, thou Mother of the so-called Christ, who art accredited with being Virgin still? No man hath touched thee, say the people, — yet thou hast a husband, and thou hadst a Son! — art thou thyself a Miracle? — or dost thou out of pleasure in an undeserved fame, suffer these wild things to be said of thee?”

  Still she answered nothing. But bringing her eyes down from their rapturous survey of heaven, she fixed them on him with a grave regard in which there was something of mild rebuke as well as compassion.

  “I would not wilfully offend, or seem to offer thee reproach,” — he went on, vaguely troubled by her look—” I know thou art a sorrowing Mother, at this present time, though to me thou hast an air of gladness rather than of grief. But I am only one of many who will clamour, ay, with tears and prayers, for an answer from thee, — I am a lonely, wretched sinner with a broken heart, — life is nothing to me, forms are nothing, the opinions of the world less than nothing, — I seek the truth, that I may rest thereon and find some comfort, — there are and will be thousands such as I. Could I believe, I would believe; but an’ thou wilt not speak, thou leavest me in ignorance. If thy Son be born of the Spirit of God, then will I worship Him and thee, — but if He be no more than Man, then will I think of Him with pity as one noble and heroic who was foully slain, and of thee as patient woman sore afflicted, and there an end. On thy word do I rely, — oh, thou must have a heart of steel or adamant, if still thou wilt never answer me!”

  This time she stirred slightly, but she did not speak. Bending her head a little forward over the lilies she held, she gazed at him with an earnest and tender thoughtfulness, — and then — Barabbas started back amazed and terror-stricken. For behind her and around her a sudden great light shone, — a fiery halo, radiating to right and left like two glittering wings between which her tranquil and majestic figure held its place in queenly and serene unconsciousness. The unearthly glory palpitated with a thousand hues of delicate and changeful colour, — and Barabbas, with a faint cry of wonderment, dropped again upon his knees.

  “God have mercy on me!” he muttered, staring with dazzled eyes at the pulsating splendour and the gentle figure that in the midst of those unearthly fires stood half framed in flowering lilies — God have mercy on me! Methought ’twas to a woman I spoke, — this is an Angel!”

  A soft surprise flitted over her face, — it was evident that she herself was unaware of the mystic light that circled her as with a ring. It vanished even while Barabbas spoke, and he, kneeling in the dust and gazing upward, fancied his sight had surely been deceived. But now she moved, — and coming quite close up to him, looked him full and steadfastly in the eyes. A whisper light as the flutter of a leaf fell on his ears, —

  “To-morrow!”

  And with noiseless footsteps she passed him by, seeming to float aerially, like a spirit, upward on her way towards the sepulchre between the hills. Barabbas, springing erect, ran recklessly a few steps after her, crying aloud, —

  “Mary! Mary of Nazareth! Woman or angel, whatever thou art, judge me not wrongfully! I have but sought the truth, even as the world will seek it! — the truth of Him who was thy Son!”

  She turned her hea
d gently back towards him with an air of queenly patience.

  “To-morrow!” she repeated, and her voice, sounding like a soft chime, seemed carried through the air, over the quiet landscape into every nook and corner of rock and field, bearing as a message to all creation the one word To-morrow!”

  Then, gliding on, she disappeared.

  Breathless and overcome with excitement, Barabbas flung himself down on the arid turf that edged the road, his senses all aswoon and trembling.

  “To-morrow!” he said— “Why — what shall to-morrow bring? Will her dead Son live again? Doth she also cherish this mad delusion? If He in truth doth rend the rocks asunder and arise, ‘twill be sufficient proof of God for all; but such a miracle can never be, ’tis out of very Nature, yet I cannot but believe that some strange mystery doth invest the world, — some thought of God is working in its depths. For long, long ages God hath well-nigh forgotten us, — doth He now remember at the very time when we forget? Hath He visited us in very truth, to be rejected? And if this should be so, what will be the purport of our doom? Ah me, we men are ever fools and blind, — and I, the wretchedest fool of all, for methought I saw a heavenly radiance round you woman of Nazareth, even as I deemed I saw the same in Pilate’s hall around the figure of her Son— ’twas but a dazzlement of sight and sense, — a weariness and faintness which quickly passed, and then the light had fled. How soon our fancies are deceived! — a sick man seeth visions, and fancies they are real, — and I, weak with long imprisonment and fasting, fretted with griefs, and poisoned with despairs, am made the dupe of mine own feebleness. How full was I of strength once! — and now, — why the very look of this Mary of Nazareth doth easily unman me. To-morrow! I would that it were here! ’Tis growing late and dark — I will return to Melchior and tell him whither I am bound to-night, — then will I come back hither and take up my secret vigil till the marvellously expected day shall dawn.”

  He started running down the road towards Jerusalem, and as he entered the city gates, he met a detachment of soldiers, headed by Galbus, marching out. They were going to relieve the watch at the sepulchre, and encamp themselves there for the night. He drew aside to let them pass, and as their burnished helmets and pikes went in a narrow glittering line up the road, the moon, large as a golden shield, suddenly lifted herself above the city, gazing, as it were, over the hills in open wonderment at the Divine Mystery hidden in the earth below.

  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  “THY command must be obeyed, — nevertheless, I Caiaphas, ’tis strange and unusual.”

  The speaker was an elderly scribe, — a man with a pale lean intellectual face, and a high forehead, which just now was puckered in a puzzled frown. He was seated in the private audience-room of the highpriest, and the high-priest himself was majestically throned in a gilded chair opposite to him. Lamps were kindled, — the table was strewn with slips of parchment, — through the open casement the gardens of the palace could be seen richly illumined by the moon, — it was the evening of the Sabbath-day.

  “Strange and unusual as it may be,” returned Caiaphas coldly, “it is my order. Thy business is not to question or dispute, but to perform the will of those that are set over thee. Wherefore shouldst thou and thy fellows chronicle the brief career and ignominious death of a mad blasphemer?”

  “There is no answer to thy ‘wherefore,’ save the one,” replied the scribe with a little smile, “ It is the custom, and hath been so for many ages, to faithfully set down all things within our records, — even to small items, whether concerning our evil men or good. The story of this fanatic of Nazareth is worthy to be written, if only to disprove all supernatural legends that are in rumour and connection with Him. Some things He taught were wise, and some were foolish because impracticable, — and possibly His best suggestions may be traced to Egypt, and He be proved the merest echo of some ancient perished creed. I do confess unto thee, Caiaphas, I see no reason for the absolute omission of His name in circumstantial history.”

  Caiaphas flushed a dark red, then grew pale, and grasped the projecting edges of his chair with both hands convulsively.

  “Thou art a narrow pedant!” he said angrily—” Thou canst not see what I see. Knowest thou not there is a change of feeling even now among the people? — that they bemoan their ‘ Prophet’s’ death, and weep, saying He wrought much good among them? Moreover that the end of Judas Iscariot hath moved them most profoundly, knowing that the unhappy youth did slay himself for pure remorse at having given the ‘Nazarene’ over to the law? All this will grow upon report, — we, the Sanhedrim, shall be branded, perchance, as murderers, and this crucified criminal be made a martyr. Wherefore I will not have him mentioned in our records, Shebna, — let His name perish and His teachings be forgotten! — lest in the future, men should ask— ‘Who was this Man of Nazareth, and wherefore was He slain?’”

  “They will ask that the more, maybe, if thou leave it unto rumour” — said Shebna drily, collecting his parchments together—” If thou wouldst make a man immortally renowned, let him be spoken of from mouth to mouth, and nothing of any written fact be found concerning him! Gossip hath whispered a man into a god ere now, when whole volumes of history would have failed to make him one. I tell thee I would rather be talked of than written of, ’tis the more lasting fame.

  If, in impassive language, I should coldly pen the story of this Jesus of Nazareth, and classify Him as a poor crazed creature who gave Himself out to be the Son of God, and was crucified for His blasphemy, no one, either in the present or the future, would trouble their heads further concerning Him.”

  “If thou write one thing thou must write all,” declared Caiaphas with irritation—” Thou must relate the terrors of the darkness and the earthquake; and what couldst thou make of the rending of the Temple veil?”

  Shebna looked meditative.

  “True, — these things were strange and terrifying” — he murmured—” But after all — the heat of these late days has been intense, — an earthquake and a storm are natural disturbances which might occur at any time, — and the Temple veil was probably rent by an oblique flash of lightning. Thou art moved from thy wonted calmness, Caiaphas, else thou wouldst see naught so particular in such events that they should not be written.”

  The high-priest rose, trembling with the interior force of an inexplicable fury.

  “Thou obstinate slave, thou shalt not write them!” he cried vehemently—”’Tis I who scan thy leaves, ’tis I who set my sign upon thy chronicle to warrant and approve its truth. Now, if thou darest so much as write the name of Jesus of Nazareth in these present annals, I will cut thy parchment into shreds before thy face and depose thee from thine office!”

  Shebna rose also, and stood staring at his irate superior in blank astonishment.

  “Anger not thyself thus needlessly, Caiaphas” — he said quietly—” I argue not against thy order, which shall be fulfilled, — I simply seek to show thee ’tis in a manner unnecessary, as no fear can now be had of this troublous ‘Nazarene,’ seeing He is dead. Nevertheless thou shalt have complete obedience; no word shall be inscribed upon our documents pertaining to this so-called ‘King of the Jews we will consign Him to oblivion.”

  “Ay — so best!” returned Caiaphas, recovering composure, and reseating himself — For what the pen does not write, the eye cannot read. Ye scribes are after all the only powers of a land, ye are more than kings, — for if ye chronicle not a victory, the world will never know ’twas gained, — and if ye speak not of a Man, who shall ever know that he existed? I believe not in the force of rumour as thou dost, — who dost credit mere garrulity?”

  “Why — every one!” responded Shebna satirically— “A man will doubt and seek to disprove the written facts of history, — but he will oft believe the first thing told him by his neighbour! And, touching this matter, Caiaphas, thou must not forget that there are others who have known the ‘Nazarene’ who may write some memorial of Him; His followers were many” —


  “Ignorant fools all and common folk” — retorted the high-priest— “none of whom know the use of letters. A good company, forsooth! — idle Galilean fishermen, hill-thieves, publicans, lepers, and street-outcasts; such as these shall never write a line that can be read hereafter. Moreover, even if they did, what would their report be worth, if we, who make the Jewish annals, are silent?”

  Shebna found no answer to this trenchant question, which indeed seemed to settle the matter. He had his own ideas upon the point, — every man has his own ideas upon every point, — but he was afraid to give them any further utterance. So he merely made a little deprecatory gesture of submission and assent, and after a few more general remarks on ordinary subjects, he gathered up his parchments and humbly bowed himself out of his sacerdotal ruler’s presence.

  Left alone, Caiaphas sat for some moments in his chair absorbed in thought. His face was careworn, — his eyelids heavy with want of sleep.

  “How is it I am thus unmanned?” he murmured wearily — Moved for the merest fancies! — troubled by the wandering humours of a tired brain! I cannot rid me of the memory of the Man of Nazareth, — there was a triumph in His dying eyes mingled with lightning-wrath that did appal my soul! But I have baffled Him! — there shall be no new creeds to conquer time; the one Jehovah shall suffice, — the one revengeful, blood-demanding, jealous God whose very name doth terrify the world! If God were Love then would man grow too proud; — shall a worm assume that the Divine hath care for it? An’ such folly were believed in, we could not hold our mastery upon the people, — each wretched unit would appeal from us to God, and deem himself our independent equals. Ah, what a Sabbath this hath been! — how desolate in every moment, from the anguish and amazement of the morning when old Iscariot did seek me out with furious upbraidings, and frenzied clamour for his lost daughter, as if I knew whither she hath strayed! Would that I did know! Who is it that hath mouthed a scandal round her name and mine, and turned Iscariot’s heart against me? The released Barabbas? Nay, he could guess nothing. I have been ever cautious, — and yet, — a whisper and a slander fly on swifter wings than light or wind, and who shall stay them? I must be on my guard, — and though I love Judith, I will not look upon her face for many days even when she is found, lest harm come of it.”