“I promised thee, Barabbas,” — she began hurriedly, “I promised thee that if I heard aught of Judith Iscariot I would tell thee, — lo now, I have found her! She is in the wooded grove of Gethsemane, — alone, strangely distraught and ill, — dying perchance! I pray thee tarry not, but come with me straightway, — thou mayst persuade her from thence. I cannot. She weeps and sings, — anon she clasps her hands, and prays, — then she flies from me as one in fear, ‘twill need much tenderness to move her, — but thou as one familiar to her sight may haply entice her homeward — prithee come!”
“Yea, go quickly now, Barabbas,” said Melchior gently— “In the sorrow of a broken heart, love must needs pardon sin, and make an end of bitterness.”
He turned away, and Barabbas, needing no second bidding, hastened out of the house with the Magdalen, in a tremor of excitement and apprehension. The way to Gethsemane seemed interminably long, and yet they lost no time, not even in converse, for both were full of thoughts that baffled words. At last they reached the gate of the garden, and as she lifted the latch, Mary held up one hand warningly.
“Listen!” she said.
Faint fragments of song came floating towards them, — broken scraps of melody, sweet and solemn and wild, — and presently Barabbas recognised the sonorous rhythm of the stanzas of Solomon the Poet-King.
“Whither is thy beloved gone, O| thou fairest among women?
Whither is thy beloved turned aside?
Tell us, that we may seek him with thee.
My beloved is gone down into his garden,
To the beds of spices and to gather lilies;
My beloved is mine and I am his!
Awake, O north wind, and come thou south!
Blow upon my garden and on the spices thereof,
Let my beloved come into his garden” —
Here the voice broke with a sharp discordant cry, —
“Judas! Judas! Judas!”
This name three times repeated, sent shuddering echoes of shrill despair through the solemn tranquillity of Gethsemane, and Barabbas trembled as he heard.
“Where is she?” he demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
Mary Magdalene made no reply, but took him by the hand and led him onward.
They followed a winding path, so overgrown with moss that their footsteps made no sound upon it, and presently came in view of a grassy knoll tufted with palms, and furthermore adorned by the broken shell of a disused fountain. Here a white figure sat droopingly, all alone; surrounded by a fantastic tangle of creepers and flowers that lay in straggling lengths upon the turf, apparently just gathered and thrown idly down to perish. Mary and Barabbas moved cautiously on, till they were within a few steps of that solitary woman shape, upon whose fiery-gold hair the sunlight shed a deeper flame.
“Pause here a while” — whispered Mary then— “She hath a singular suddenness of violence in her, — and if we come upon her unpreparedly, she will take instant flight. Best let me go before, and speak with her.”
But some instinctive sense of being watched already moved the distraught girl. Springing to her feet, she shaded her eyes with one hand and looked straight down upon them. Then lifting up her voice once more in that wailing cry, “Judas!” she came rushing forward. With flying hair and feverishly glittering eyes she confronted them, and as her wild gaze fell on Barabbas, she uttered an exclamation of joy.
“Judas!” and she ran to him, flinging her arms about him in delirious ecstasy—” Judas, thou art here at last! Why didst thou not come sooner? I have wandered all about the city seeking thee, — yea! I have even killed Caiaphas for thy sake! Didst thou not know of this, and art thou not glad? Of a truth he was a traitor; but alas, I learned his treachery too late to serve thee in the saving of thy friend the ‘ Nazarene.’ And willingly do I confess my share of blame, — not thou, poor Judas, wert in fault; ’twas all my doing, and Caiaphas persuaded me, — therefore grieve thou, no more for others’ crimes. And now I have done all I could to make amends, thou wilt forgive me? Is it not so? Thou wilt forgive thy little sister? Thou wilt love her still?”
While thus she moaned and murmured, with mingled sobs and smiles, pressing her soft face against his breast and lifting up her beautiful dark anguished eyes entreatingly, Barabbas felt as if his heart must break, — tears rose in his throat and choked his power of speech, — he pressed her convulsively in his arms but could say nothing, — and she whose madness was capable of endless fluctuations, from tenderness to ferocity, grew irritated at his silence. Tearing herself away from him she stood apart, eyeing him at first with wonder, — then with complete repugnance and scorn.
“Thou art not Judas after all!” she said— “How darest thou break in upon my solitude? Knowest thou not that this is my garden of dreams? I dwell here always, — and I will have none but Judas with me. I saw him last night, — he came to me and said that all was well with him, — that he would meet me here, — and for a moment I did fancy thou wert he. But no, thou art some insolent intruder! — get thee hence and trouble me not, — I have many flowers to gather yet, wherewith to strew my grave. For I am dead, and this is the borderland of vision, — Judas is dead also, — and we both wander yet apart, — but we shall meet, — I know not when or how, — but sure I am ‘twill not be long!”
She paused in her incoherent speech, and Mary Magdalene ventured to approach her.
“Judith! — poor Judith!” she murmured gently and took her hand. Judith looked at her dubiously and somewhat resentfully, — then smiled, a piteous wan smile.
“Thou art very kind!” she sighed, “ I do remember, — thou wert here before, not long since, and didst whisper words of comfort passing sweetly. Albeit I know thee not, — still, thou art woman, — thou canst understand my grief. I cannot go from hence, — for I have promised to abide here until Judas comes, therefore I pray thee do not vex me by entreaty. Moreover I must hide me for a while, for I have slain the high-priest Caiaphas, — do they know it yet in the city? — and will they search for me? I have sworn they shall not find me, — Judas will come at sunset and bear me hence with him, ’tis very lonely waiting, and if thou dost desire it thou canst stay with me a while, — but send away you stranger.”
And she pointed to Barabbas, who drew back sorrowfully, stricken to the heart by an anguish he could scarcely conceal. But Judith did not comprehend his torture, — apparently she had no memory or recognition of him, — her errant fancy was already drifting elsewhere.
“Take me away to the trees yonder” — she said to Mary supplicatingly—” And let us sit down and sing. Or thou shalt sing and I will sleep. I am tired, — the way is endless; one meets too many dreams. They rise one after the other, — some beautiful, some dreadful, and Judas is in them all, and there is a red streak round his throat just where the cord pressed it, — this cord” — and she touched a frayed rope hanging at her waist—” I cut the noose, — nevertheless he still seems to suffer, though he should not, and methinks at times he looks upon me wrathfully. ’Tis cruel of him, — he should remember the old days when we were children, — one should never forget the love of home. And though age has crept upon me now, I once was young, — and such beauty was mine as is seldom seen!— ‘The fairest woman in Judæa’ I was called, and this was true, — Judas should think of it, and not despise me now, because, through suffering, that fairness hath departed. Moreover of this ‘Nazarene’ he served, he hath not told me aught; save that He was wise and good, and poor and all unrecognised, — but this is the history of all wise good men, and is not strange. Some say He was a god, but there be many gods in Rome! Justitia, Pilate’s wife, thinks naught of gods. And I have even heard the daughter of Annas say that she did doubt and hate the great Jehovah, — and this, when she was wife of Caiaphas, Jehovah’s priest. Perchance she was unhappy, — and had good cause to doubt her husband’s faithfulness! — who knows! — but of a very truth she loved not God! Methinks ’tis difficult to love a Power Unseen. Such thoughts weary me; b
ut this doth comfort me” — and she drew from her bosom the same kind of roughly-made cross she had before possessed, formed of two twigs of olive, — Caiaphas did break one in his fury, — and for that, as well as other things, I slew him, — this is another I have made, and ’tis a magic symbol! for when I raise it — so!” and she lifted it above her head in a sort of rapture—” methinks I hear most wondrous music, and a sweet voice saying ‘Peace!’”
She nestled close to the Magdalen, who with pitying tears, placed one arm round her and strove to lead her away. But she quickly perceived that the direction taken was towards the exit from the garden, and she obstinately refused to move a step further on that path.
“No, no!” she said — We will go deeper in among the trees. There is a place of palms yonder, and many flowers, and shade and fragrance. Come! — sing me to sleep — be thou my friend, and stay with me till sunset, when Judas will be here.”
She began to gather up all her fallen garlands, and while she was thus occupied, the Magdalen whispered to Barabbas —
“Comfort thyself, friend, — I will stay with her a little. Thou canst follow and see the place where she will choose to rest — then go thou quickly to her father and tell him she is here. Prepare him well to use with her both force and gentleness, — be not thus sorrowful and amazed at her dislike of thee — she knows thee not at all, — a cloud is on her brain; — have patience!”
“Hath she slain Caiaphas?” muttered Barabbas unsteadily—” Or is the fancy born of her distraction?”
“I know not!” answered Mary—” Thou must inquire and learn. I have heard nothing — for to me the Master’s rising from the dead hath sufficed as news for all the world! Of men’s doings I know naught.”
As she spoke thus in hurried accents, Judith caught her impatiently by the arm and drew her away.
“Bid you stranger depart” — she said—” I like him not! He doth resemble one Barabbas! He was my lover and I did betray him, — he would slay me if he knew!”
And she quickened her pace. The Magdalen accompanied her, and Barabbas followed slowly at a little distance, striving to conceal himself as much in the background as possible. At last, after various erratic ups and downs, Judith arrived at what she called “a place of palms.” The feathery foliage towered high up against the deep blue sky, and smaller trees of thicker branch and leaf cast their green gloom on the smooth turf, while numberless climbing roses and passion-flowers had grown up arch-wise so as to form a complete bower of shade. Here the frenzied girl seemed to grow suddenly calm, — she sighed profoundly, and her troubled countenance cleared. She sat down under the natural canopy of flowers with Mary beside her. A smile parted her lips, — the old sweet witching smile that on that perfect mouth had been a resistless snare for the souls of men.
“Sing!” she said—” Some simple song of tenderness that will banish all the spectres flitting round me! I will not ask thee who thou art, — thou hast a look of love within thine eyes and thou art beautiful. Yea! thou hast long fair tresses full of sunshine, — but see!” and she held up a mass of her own luxuriant hair which was like gold and fire commingled—” This is a brighter colour methinks? — and ’tis even as silk unto the touch. Lo, when I die thou shalt sever it and make a rope thereof, — twine it around the throat of Judas, — and maybe it will heal his wound. Now sing!”
She leaned her head against Mary’s breast and half closed her eyes. Barabbas ventured nearer and stood in the shadow of the trees, listening while the voice of the Magdalen, honey-sweet yet shaken by tears, sounded plaintively on the silence. And the song that she sang ran thus: —
The earth hath many flowers; in all the fields and bowers
Their radiant blossoms open ‘neath the glory of the sun, —
But their leaves are scarce unfurl’d to the summer of the world,
When they perish in their beauty, every one.
Brief is their fair delight; ’tis ended ere the night.
Sad emblems are they all of the sadder lives of men!
Better be a rose, the wildest one that blows,
And safe in the shelter of the King’s garden!
The lofty laurels stand, at a conqueror’s right hand,
To deck the feasts of triumph and the revellings of mirth,
Lilies and bays are bound for the brows of heroes crowned,
As symbols of the evanescent earth, —
But beauty, pride, and power, are the blossoms of an hour,
Bringing sorrow more than safety to the weary souls of men;
Better be a rose, the wildest one that blows,
And safe in the shelter of the King’s garden!
The soft, quaint, almost solemn melody ceased, and Judith began to rock herself to and fro restlessly, wringing her hands as though she were in pain.
“The King’s garden!” she wailed—” Ay! — but where is the King? He was crowned with thorns and He is dead, — dead! they have crucified Him! I, Judith Iscariot, by subtilty, betrayed Him! — on me, on me, let the curse fall — not on Judas, not on Judas, merciful God! — but on me! On me let the thunders crash vengeance, — let the fires of earth consume me, — mine was the sin, — mine, I say! — Judas was innocent! In the King’s garden one should meet the King, — but He is dead; I would that He were living, for since He died I have been lost in darkness!”
And she broke into a passion of wild weeping. Mary drew her compassionately into her arms and glancing backward made a slight sign to Barabbas. He understood, and turning away, hastened out of Gethsemane, his heart aching and his eyes full of scalding blinding tears, while the strange refrain of the Magdalen’s song echoed itself over and over again in his ears —
Better be a rose, the wildest one that blows,
And safe in the shelter of the King’s garden!
Better, ay, far better! Best of all things in life, death and eternity it is, to be the humblest creature ever born, and “safe,” — safe in the shelter of that mystic “garden” where Christ is King!
CHAPTER XLIII.
MAKING his way with all possible speed towards the house of Iscariot to bear the ill news of Judith’s distraught condition to her already broken-hearted father, Barabbas found the whole city in strange confusion. The streets were blocked by disorderly crowds of people wandering to and fro, many of whom were weeping and wailing hysterically, while others were wildly crying out that “the graves were opened” and that the world was coming to an end. Elbowing a difficult passage through the throng, Barabbas inquired the cause of the seeming tumult, and learned that the rumour of the “Nazarene’s” miraculous resurrection had excited what some practical persons called “a fever of imagination” among the populace, and that numbers of men and women had been suddenly seized by frenzy and had run out of their houses in frantic terror, shrieking aloud that they had “seen the dead!” Long-perished friends, and loved ones who had slept entombed for years, now appeared again among the living, so these living swore; spirit-hands touched them, spirit-voices called them, — all the air was full of mystic sound. Possessed by superstitious fear, they could not be persuaded to return to their usual daily occupations, and were only pacified by crowding together in the open thoroughfares, and leaguing themselves, as it were, in a band of mutual support and protection against the overwhelming Supernatural that on that wondrous morning seemed to invest the land. Iscariot was not in the city, so Barabbas learned, — his unhappy son Judas had been buried in haste and privacy early in the morning, and he himself, after the dreary obsequies were over, had taken horse and ridden out towards Bethany in renewed search for his lost daughter. Nevertheless, in spite of this information, Barabbas pressed on in the vague hope of meeting him, till finally he could go no further, being completely hemmed in by an excited mob that was pouring itself towards the house of Caiaphas. In the midst of the howling, hooting, unreasonable rabble were the Roman soldiers who had been set to guard the sacred sepulchre; they had just undergone examination by Pontius Pilate,
and by him were now sent on to tell the story of their night’s adventure to the high-priest. They could scarcely keep the order of their march, so roughly were they hustled by the irritated and impatient crowd, and they had much ado to refrain from responding wrathfully to the repeated jeers of impudent half-grown lads, and beggars of both sexes who helped to swell the riotous cortège, shouting insults all the way.
“Lo, what, drunken varlets are these men of Rome! They could not guard even a dead Jew!”
“Where is the Prophet of Nazareth?”
“Who broke the seals of Sanhedrim?”
“What have ye done with the King of the Jews? Give Him back to us and we will crucify Him a second time more surely!”
Meanwhile as the noisy concourse came roaring and jostling onward, within the high-priest’s palace itself there was a great hush and shadow. All the servants and officers of the household knew that Caiaphas had been dangerously wounded on the previous night by some secret assassin, who had stabbed him and left him for dead. He had been found lying senseless and bleeding on the piece of grass immediately below his private balcony, and the attempted murder was, without any hesitation, judged to be the act of one of the disciples of the “Nazarene” who had, in all likelihood, considered it a rightful means of avenging his dead Master. A surgeon had been hastily summoned, who gave it as his opinion that the injury inflicted would not necessarily prove fatal, but that to ensure recovery the patient must have the greatest care and the utmost quiet. Accordingly, the gates of the palace were closed against all corners; the servants went about on tip-toe, — Rachel, “the pale daughter of Annas” as Judith had been wont to call her, sat somewhat apart from the couch of her priestly spouse, occasionally ministering to his wants with that dutiful yet frigid exactitude which might distinguish a paid nurse rather than a wife, — the curtains at the casement of the sick man’s chamber were closely drawn to exclude the dazzling sunlight, and every possible precaution had been taken to ensure absolute tranquillity. But all this care was of little avail, since Caiaphas himself was the despair of his physician. He groaned and swore, — tossing and tumbling among his pillows in a restless fury at his own enforced inactivity, — and he could scarcely respond to the soothing and bland inquiries of Annas, his colleague and father-inlaw, with any show of patience or civility.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 318