Delphi collected works o.., p.300
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli, page 300
part #22 of Delphi Series Series
He listened, but caught no sound save that of sobbing.
Keeping his hands extended, he felt the dense air up and down.
“Who is it that weeps?” he asked, softening his voice to its gentlest tone — Speak to me, I beseech thee! — whether man or woman, speak! for behold I am a sinner and sorrowful as thou!
A long, low gasping sigh quivered through the gloom, — a sigh of patient pain; and Barabbas, knowing instinctively Who it was that thus expressed His human sense of torture, was seized by an agony he could not quell.
“Where art thou?” he implored again in indescribable anxiety—” I cannot feel thee, — I cannot find thee! Darkness covers the world and I am lost within it! Thy sufferings, Nazarene, exceed all speech, yet, evil man as I am, I swear my heart is ready to break with thine!”
As he thus spoke involuntarily and incoherently, he flung himself on his knees, and scalding tears rushed to his eyes. A trembling hand touched him, — a woman’s hand.
“Hush!” whispered a broken voice in the gloom — Thou poor, self-tormented sinner, calm thyself, and pray! Fear not; count not up thy transgressions, for were they more numerous than the grains of sand in the desert, thy tears and sorrows here should win thy pardon. Kneel with us if thou wilt, and watch; for the end approaches, — the shadows are passing, and light is near.”
“If this be so,” said Barabbas, gently detaining the small hand that touched him — Why dost thou still continue to weep? Who art thou that are so prodigal of tears?”
“Naught but woman,” — answered the sweet whispering voice — And as woman I weep, — for the great Love’s wrong!”
She withdrew her hand from his clasp, — and he remained where he was beside her, quietly kneeling. Conscious of the nearness of the Cross of the “Nazarene” and of those who were grouped about it he felt no longer alone, but the weight of the mysterious sorrow he carried within himself perceptibly increased. It oppressed his heart and bewildered his brain, — the darkness seemed to encircle him with an almost palpable density, — and he began to consider vaguely that it would be well for him, if he too might die on Calvary with that mystic “King” whose personality had exercised so great a fascination over him. What had he to live for? Nothing. He was outcast through his own wickedness, and as the memory of his sins clouded his mind he grew appalled at the evil in his own nature. His crimes of theft and murder were the result of his blind passion for Judith Iscariot, — and this blind passion now seemed to him the worst crime of all. For this his name and honour were gone, — for this he had become a monster of iniquity in his own sight. Yet, strange to say, only that very morning, he had not thought himself so vile. Between the hours of his being brought before Pilate, and now, — when he knelt in this supernatural darkness before the unseen dying “Man of Nazareth,” an age seemed to have passed, — a cycle of time burdened with histories, — histories of the soul and secret conscience, which are of more weight in God’s countings than the histories of empires. The people had released him, —— they had hailed him, the liberated thief and murderer, with acclamations, — true! — but what was all this popular clamour worth when in his own heart he knew himself to be guilty of the utmost worst that could be done to him? Oh, the horrible, horrible burden of recognised sin! — the dragging leaden weight that ties the immortal spirit down to grossness and materialism when it would fain wing its way to the highest attainment! — the crushing consciousness of being driven back into darkness out of light supernal! of being thrust away as it were, with loathing, out of the sight and knowledge of the Divine! This was a part of the anguish of Barabbas, — a mental anguish he had never felt till now, — and this was why he almost envied his former comrade Hanan for having been elected to die in the companionship of the “Nazarene.” All these thoughts of his were purely instinctive; he could not reason out his emotions, because they were unlike himself and new to him. Nevertheless, if he uttered a prayer at all while kneeling in that solemn gloom, it was for death, not life. —
And now, all suddenly through the heavy murk, a muffled clangour stirred the air, — the tolling of great bells and smaller chimes from the city. Swinging and jangling they made themselves heard distinctly for the first time since the darkness fell over the land, — a sign that the atmosphere was growing clearer. They were ringing out the hour of sunset, though no sun was visible. And, as they rang, Barabbas felt that some one near him moved softly among the shadows and stood upright. He strove to discern the outline of that risen shape, and presently, to his intense amazement, saw a pale light begin to radiate through the vapours and gradually weave a faintly luminous halo round the majestic form of a Woman, whose face, divinely beautiful, supremely sad, shone forth from the darkness like a star, and whose clasped hands were stretched towards the great invisible Cross in an attitude of yearning and prayer. And the bells rang and the light widened, and in two or three moments more a jagged rift of dusky red opened in the black sky. Broadening slowly, it spread a crimson circle in the heavens immediately behind the summit of the Cross of the “Nazarene” — first casting ruddy flashes on the inscribed letters “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews,” and then illumining with a flame-like glow the grand thorn-crowned head of the Crucified. Ah, what sublime, unspeakable, mystic agony was written now upon that face Divine! Horror of the world’s sin — pity for the world’s woe, — love for the world’s poor creatures, — and the passionate God’s yearning for the world’s pardon and better hope of heaven, — all these great selfless thoughts were seen in the indescribably beautiful expression of the pallid features, the upward straining eyes, — the quivering, tender lips, — and Barabbas, staring at the wondrous sight, felt as though his very soul and body must melt and be dissolved in tears for such a kingly Sorrow! The blood-red cleft in the sky lengthened, — and, presently shooting forth arrowy beams as of fire, showed a strange and solemn spectacle. For as far as eye could see in the lurid storm-light, the whole multitude of the people upon Calvary were discovered kneeling before the Cross of Christ! All faces were turned towards the dying Saviour; in trouble, in fear and desperation, every human creature there had fallen unknowingly before their only Rescue whose name was Love! — and, as the darkness broke up and parted in long wavy lines, the widening radiance of the heavens revealed what seemed to be a worshipping world!... But only for an instant, — for with the gathering, growing light came the rush of every-day life and movement, — the prostrate crowd leaped up with shouts of joy, glad exclamations of relief and laughter, — danger was over, — death no longer seemed imminent, — and as a natural result God was forgotten. The thunder still growled heavily, but its echoes were rolling off into the far distance. And while the people grew more and more animated, scattering themselves in every direction, finding and embracing their friends and narrating their past fears, Barabbas rose also from his knees, wondering, awed and afraid. Directly facing him was the Cross of the “Nazarene,” — but, beside him was — the Magdalen! With her he had knelt in the deep darkness, — it must have been her hand that had touched him, — it must have been her voice that had so gently soothed him. He trembled; she was a woman of many sins, — yet was she, — was she so much worse than, — than Judith? His soul sickened as this comparison crossed his mind; yet, loathe it as he might, it still forced itself upon his attention. Judith Iscariot, beautiful, imperious, and triumphant in the secrecy of undiscovered sin, — Mary Magdalene, beautiful also, but broken-hearted, humbled to the dust of contempt, openly shamed, — and — penitent. — Which of the twain deserved the greater condemnation?
A deep sigh broke from his lips, — a sigh that was almost a groan; an evil man himself, what right had he to judge of evil women! Just then the Magdalen raised her tear-wet eyes and looked at him, — her luxuriant hair fell about her like a golden veil, — her mouth quivered as though she were about to speak, — but as she met his sternly meditative gaze, she recoiled, and hiding her face in the folds of her mantle, dragged herself nearer to the foot of the Cross and crouched there, motionless. And the other woman, — she for whom, as Barabbas imagined, the welcome light had been kindled in the beginning, — what of her? She no longer stood erect as when the bells had rung, — she had fallen once more upon her knees, and her face, too, was hidden.
Suddenly a voice, pulsating with keenest anguish, yet sweet and resonant, pealed through the air:
“Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani!”
With one accord the moving populace all came to an abrupt halt, and every eye was turned towards the central Cross from whence these thrilling accents rang. Bars of gold were in the sky, — and now, the long-vanished sun, red as a world on fire, showed itself in round splendour above the summit of Calvary.
“Eli, Eli, lama sabacthani!” cried the rich agonised voice again, and the penetrating appeal, piercing aloft, was caught up in the breaking clouds and lost in answering thunder.
“He calleth for Elias!” exclaimed a man, one of those in the front rank of the crowd that was now pressing itself towards the Cross in morbid curiosity, “ Let us see whether Elias will come to take him down!”
And he laughed derisively.
Meanwhile Petronius, the centurion, looked up, — and saw that the last great agony of death was on the “Nazarene.” Death in the bloom of life, — death, when every strong human nerve and sinew and drop of blood most potently rebelled at such premature dissolution, — death in a torture more hideous than imagination can depict or speech describe, — this was the fate that now darkly descended upon divinest Purity, divinest Love! Terrible shudderings ran through the firm, heroically moulded Man’s frame, — the beautiful eyes were rolled up and fixed, — the lips were parted, and the struggling breath panted forth in short quick gasps. The fiery gold radiance of the heavens spread itself out in wider glory, — the sun was sinking rapidly. Moved by an impulse of compassion, Petronius whispered to a soldier standing by, who, obeying his officer’s suggestion, dipped a sponge in vinegar and, placing it on a tall reed, lifted it to the lips of the immortal Sufferer, with the intention of moistening the parched tongue and reviving the swooning senses. But there was no sign that He was conscious, — and while the soldier still endeavoured to pass the sponge gently over the bleeding brows to cool and comfort the torn and aching flesh, the sleek priest Annas stepped forward from amongst the people and interfered.
“Let be, — let be!” said he suavely and with a meek smile, — Let us see whether Elias will come to save him!”
The crowd murmured approval, — the soldier dropped the reed, and glancing at Petronius, drew back and stood apart. Petronius frowned heavily, and surveyed the portly priest with all a martial Roman’s anger and disdain; then he raised his eyes again, sorrowfully and remorsefully, to the tortured figure of the Crucified. Harder and faster came the panting breath; and, by some inexplicable instinct all the soldiers and as many of the multitude as could get near, gathered together in solemn silence, and stared up as though fascinated by some mystic spell at the last fierce struggle between that pure Body and divine Spirit. The sun was disappearing, — and from its falling disc, huge beams rose up on every side, driving all the black and thunderous clouds in the direction of Jerusalem, where they hung darkening over the city and Solomon’s Temple. Suddenly the difficult breathing of the “Nazarene” ceased; a marvellous luminance fell on the upturned face, — the lips that had been parted in gasping agony closed in a dreamy smile of perfect peace, — and a flaming golden glory, wingshaped and splendid, woven as it seemed out of all the varying hues of both storm and sunset, spread itself on either side of the Cross. Upward, to the topmost visible height of heaven, these giant cloud-pinions towered plume-wise, and between them, and behind the dying Christ, the sun, now sunk to a half-circle, glittered like an enormous jewelled monstrance for the Host in some cathedral of air. In the midst of this ethereal radiance the pale face of the world’s Redeemer shone forth, rapt and transfigured by mysterious ecstasy, — and His voice, faint, solemn but melodious as music itself, thrilled softly through the light and silence:
“Father! Into thy hands... I commend — my Spirit!” As the words were uttered, Petronius and the soldier who had proffered the vinegar, exchanged a glance — a rapid glance of mutual suggestion and understanding. With assumed roughness and impatience, the soldier raised his spear and deliberately thrust it deep into the side of the dying “Nazarene.” A stream of blood gushed out, mingled with water; and the man whose merciful desire to put an end to torture had thus impelled him to pierce the delicate flesh, sprang back, vaguely affrighted at what he had done. For, with the sharp shock of the blow, the thorn-crowned Head drooped suddenly, — the eyes that had been turned to heaven now looked down,... down, for the last time to earth,... and rested upon the watching crowd with such an unspeakable passion of pity, love, and yearning, that all the people were silent, stricken with something like shame as well as awe. Never again in all the centuries to come would such a Love look down upon Humanity! — never again would the erring world receive such a sublime Forgiveness! — such a tender parting Benediction! The wondrous smile still lingered on the pale lips, — a light more glorious than all the sunshine that ever fell on earth, illumined the divinely beautiful features. One last, lingering, compassionate gaze, — the clear, searching, consciously supernal gaze of an immortal God bidding farewell for ever to mortality, and then,... with an exulting sweetness and solemnity, the final words were uttered:
“It is finished!”
The fair head fell forward heavily on the chest, — the tortured limbs quivered once... twice... and then were still. Death had apparently claimed its own, and no sign was given to show, that Death itself was mastered. All was over; — God’s message had been given, and God’s Messenger slain. The law was satisfied with its own justice! A god could not have died, — but He who had been called the “Son of God” was dead! It was “finished;” — the winged glory in the skies folded itself up and fled away, and like a torch inverted, the red sun dropped into the night.
CHAPTER XXI.
A BRIEF pause ensued. The solemn hush that even in a callous crowd invariably attends the actual presence of death reigned unbroken for a while, — then one man moved, another spoke, the spell of silence gave way to noise and general activity, and the people began to disperse hastily, eager to get back safely to their homes before the deepening night entirely closed in. Some compassion was expressed for the women who were crouched at the foot of the “ Nazarene’s” Cross, — but no one went near them, or endeavoured to rouse them from their forlorn attitudes. Barabbas had, unconsciously to himself, recoiled from the horror of beholding the Divine death agony, and now stood apart, his eyes fixed on the ground and his tired body quivering in every limb. The populace appeared to have forgotten him, — they drifted past him in shoals, talking, laughing, and seemingly no longer seriously oppressed by the recollection of the terrifying events of the afternoon. The three crosses stood out black against the darkening sky; — the executioners were beginning to take down the body of Hanan, in which a few wretched gasps of life still lingered. Looking from right to left, Barabbas could see no face familiar to him, — the high-priest Caiaphas and Annas had disappeared, — there was no sign of Judith Iscariot anywhere, and he could not even perceive the striking and quaintly garbed figure of his mysterious acquaintance Melchior. The only person he recognised was Petronius the centurion, who was still at his post by the central Cross, and who by his passive attitude and downcast eyes appeared to be absorbed in melancholy meditation. Barabbas approached him, and saw that his rough bearded face was wet with tears.
“Truly,” he muttered beneath his breath as he thrust his sword of office back into its scabbard—” Truly this Man was the Son of God!”
Barabbas caught the words, and stared at him in questioning terror.
“Thinkest thou so?” he faltered— “Then... what shall be done to those who have slain Him?”
“I know not,” — answered Petronius, “ I am an ignorant fool. But perchance no more ignorant than they who did prefer thy life, Barabbas, to the life of the ‘Nazarene.’ Nay, look not so heavily! — thou art not to blame, ’twas not thy choosing. ’Twas not even the people’s choosing— ’twas the priests will! A curse on priests, say I! — they have worked all the evil in the world from the beginning, blaspheming the names of the Divine to serve their ends. This Crucified Man was against priestcraft, — hence His doom. But I tell thee this same ‘King of the Jews’ as they called Him, was diviner than any of the gods I wot of, — and mark me! — we have not seen or heard the last of Him!”
He turned away with a kind of fierce impatience and shame of his own emotion, and resumed his duty, that of superintending the taking down of the three crucified bodies from their respective trees of torture. Barabbas sighed, and stood looking on, pained and irresolute. The shadows of night darkened swiftly, — and the figure of the dead Christ above him seemed strange and spectral, — pathetic in its helplessness, — yet... after all, — a beautiful lifeless body, — and... nothing more! A sense of bitter disappointment stole over him. He now realised that throughout the whole of the terrible tragedy, he had, unconsciously to himself, believed it impossible for the wondrous “Man of Nazareth” to die. The impression had been firmly fixed in his mind, he knew not how, that at the last moment some miracle would be enacted in the presence of the whole multitude; — that either the Cross itself would refuse to hold its burden, — or that some divinely potent messenger from heaven, whose heralds had been the storm and earthquake, would suddenly descend in glory and proclaim the suffering “Prophet” as the true Messiah. Surely if He had been indeed the “Son of God” as Petronius said, His power would have been thus declared! To Barabbas the present end of things seemed inadequate. Death was the ordinary fate of men; he would have had the kingly “Nazarene” escape the common lot. And while he pondered the bewildering problem, half in vexation, half in sorrow, a voice said softly in his ear —
