Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22)

by Marie Corelli

  Quivering to its deepest underground fibres, the earth supported the glowing forms of God’s ethereal envoys; — together they stood, the fire of their white transparent wings quenching the silver reflex of the sinking moon, — their radiant faces turned towards the closed sepulchre wherein their Master slept. Again the great wind rushed in resonant harp-like chords through heaven, — again the ground rocked and trembled, and again the thunder sounded its deep trump of wakening eloquence. And all the mystic voices of the air seemed whispering the great Truths about to be made manifest; “Death is dead; Life is Eternal! God is Love!”

  Like kindled flames upon the sombre soil, the Angels of the Message waited side by side, their heavenly eyes luminous with Divine rapture, and the light upon their brows flinging glorious reflections far up in twinkling points of radiance to the vanishing stars. The dawn was near, — the strong suspense of Nature was at its keenest pitch, — it seemed as if what we know of Creation could endure the strain no more, — as if the world, the sun, the moon, the visible planets, must melt away like drops of dew in the burning fervour of so vast an ecstasy of expectation. The dawn was near! — that Dawn which would be like no other dawn that ever heralded a day, — the dawn of all the hope, the joy, the faith, the love that waits upon the promised certainty of life immortal; that priceless promise given to those who are willing to accept it without question or mistrust, and who, loving their fellow-men better than themselves, in God and for God, touch heavenly ecstasy while yet on earth.

  And now a deep silence reigned. All the soldiers of the watch lay stretched on the ground unconscious, as though struck dead by lightning, — the previous mysterious singing of the birds had ceased; and only the lambent quivering of the wing-like glory surrounding the angelic Messengers, seemed to make an expressed though unheard sound as of music. Then,... in the midst of the solemn hush,... the great stone that closed the tomb of the Crucified trembled,... and was suddenly thrust back like a door flung open in haste for the exit of a King,... and lo!... a Third great Angel joined the other two!... Sublimely beautiful He stood, — the Risen from the Dead!... gazing with loving eyes on all the swooning sleeping world of men; the same grand Countenance that had made a glory of the Cross of Death, now, with a smile of victory, gave poor Humanity the gift of everlasting Life! The grateful skies brightened above Him, — earth exhaled its choicest odours through every little pulsing leaf and scented herb and tree; Nature exulted in the touch of things eternal, — and the dim pearly light of the gradually breaking morn fell on all things with a greater purity, a brighter blessedness than ever had invested it before. The Man Crucified and Risen, now manifested in Himself the mystic mingling of God in Humanity, and taught that for the powers of the Soul set free from sin there is no limit, no vanquishment, no end. No more eternal partings for those who on the earth should learn to love each other, — no more the withering hopelessness of despair, — the only “death” now possible to redeemed mortality being “the bondage of sin” voluntarily entered into and preferred by the unbelieving. And from this self-wrought, self-chosen doom not even a God can save.

  Reverently bent were the radiant heads of the angelic Beings that had descended in full flight from Heaven; but He who stood erect between them, tall and majestically fair, looked upward once, then straight across the silent landscape and, stretching forth His hands, seemed by the tenderness of the gesture to place His benediction on the world. A light grey mist was rising incense-like from the eastern edge of the horizon, the crimson glory lately flaming there had paled into the faint pink of a blush rose-petal, and a soothing shadow stole imperceptibly over the scene, toning down-into silver lines the departing rays of that supernatural splendour which had been like the beginning of a new creation. Slowly, very slowly, the transcendent brightness round the form of the Risen Redeemer faded into air, — His Human Shape became more and more clearly defined, till almost He looked with the same aspect He had worn in the hall of Pilate, when man’s law had condemned Him to suffer man’s death. Only there rested a sublimer glory on His countenance; the expression of a power omnipotent; a beauty terrific; a knowledge supernal that made Him wonderful even in the sight of His serving-angels of Heaven. To them presently His high command was silently expressed, for one bright Being vanished like a melting cloud within the opened sepulchre, — and the other, moving to the great stone of burial that had been rolled away, rested upon it, a shining Wonder clothed in white wings.

  Meanwhile He who had proved Death to be but another name for Life, began to pace pensively to and fro among the tangled shrubs and vines that in their careless and untrained luxuriance gave to the otherwise dreary burial-spot, something of a wild beauty. He moved as though He loved the world, even to the very blades of grass His feet passed gently over; the leaves upon their branches bent towards Him as taking health and joy from His fair Presence, and fearlessly seeking His blessing. And ever as He moved, His aspect grew more human; out of the secret depths of space He seemed to clothe Himself anew with the fleeting semblance of mortality. Now and again He paused, and gazed at the senseless forms around Him of all those who had been set to guard His resting-place, and then the mystic watchfulness and deep compassion of His eyes reflected the vast, impersonal and changeless love which emanates from the Divine alone. Passing slowly among them with noiseless tread, the while they lay inert, unconscious of His nearness (even as we, at this time, in our blind and selfish torpor are unconscious or indifferent when He comes), He presently approached the spot where the sinner who should, in justice, have suffered instead of Him had fallen as one dead, — Barabbas. Stretched flat upon the turf, with arms extended on either side of him as though the earth were a cross and he the criminal nailed to it, his dark countenance and closed eyes fronting the sky, the erring, passion-haunted man was ready for some punishment, some instant withering doom.

  Stained with the crime of murder, branded as a thief, and full of a thousand follies and germinating sins, what had he done that he should merit all the pity and the pardon that flashed upon him like a glory from the tender glance of the risen Christ! What had he done? — why, nothing in truth, — he could, he would do nothing worthy. Only a thought of love had been in his dark soul for the sorrows of the Man Crucified, — and he had shed tears for the sufferings of the holiest Innocence that ever was maligned by human malice; he had longed to understand, to know, to serve this splendid Ideal of the Ages, — and this was all. Yet this sufficed to bring the glorious Master to his side; though as that Master looked upon him, a shade of sorrow darkened the beautiful Divine brows, — the shadow and presentiment of what was yet to be. There, made visible in Barabbas, was the symbol of the animal man, blindly conscious of the creative Soul of the Universe, yet doubting all manifestations of that Soul, and thrusting his own narrow fears and scepticisms forward to obstruct and bar out the very presence of the Eternal. And beside him, in strange contrast, stood the pure and stately embodiment of the Spirit of God made human, — the example of a perfect manhood; the emblem of life and the symbol of Genius, which, slandered and tortured, and slain and buried, rises eternally triumphant over evil and death.

  A faint sigh stirred the air, — the sigh of One who knew that by the pitiless will of Man, He should be wronged and spiritually re-crucified for ages; and then the risen Light of the World turned away and glided among the little trembling trees, His figure gradually becoming a mere misty outline, vague and undefinable as though it were the floating shadow of a dream. Two hours had yet to pass ere the sun would rise, — meanwhile a fragrant freshness sweetened the breaking dawn, and all Nature remained absorbed in a sacred silence of enraptured worship, conscious that the Master and Lord of Life was now, as once before in oldest time, “walking in His garden in the cool of the day.”

  CHAPTER XL.

  SHUDDERING in every limb with pain and chilly fear, Barabbas presently awoke from his long swoon. Something had happened, — but what? He rubbed his aching eyes and lifted himself into a halfsitti
ng posture, looking uneasily about him. Dully he considered his position; he was in his old place on the hill behind the sepulchre; the place where he had watched until — until, as it seemed, a strange thing had chanced to him which now he could not quite remember. A dream had dazzled him, he thought, and scared his senses from him. He imagined he had seen two supernatural Shapes, formed as it were out of floating pyramidal fire, descending near the tomb of the “Nazarene,” — but ere he had had time to look upon them straightly, a dizziness had seized him, and he saw no more.

  “Take heed, lest when the Master cometh, He find you sleeping.” These words, spoken to him by the man Melchior, ere he had started to take up his self-imposed vigil, recurred to him unpleasantly now and troubled him; had he slept after all? And had the “Master” come?

  Rising slowly to his feet, he gazed from left to right of him; all things seemed the same. The tents of the soldiers on guard gleamed whitely in the pallid grey of dawn; the men had evidently not yet left their posts, though the night was fully past and the sense of sunrise was in the air. There was something peculiarly beautiful in the clear freshness of that wondrous morning.

  The world appeared new; as though it were conscious of the victory of the Soul over Death, and Barabbas, pained and puzzled though he was, felt the comfort of the deep tranquillity and restfulness around him. Dismissing his forebodings, he began to think he would boldly go to the sepulchre, and seek out Galbus to ask him how he had fared during the night, — then, on further reflection he hesitated, for if, after all, anything unusual should have occurred, he, Barabbas, might be suspected of having had some share in it. While he stood thus irresolute, soft approaching steps startled him, and he quickly crouched down again behind a bend of the hill where he could see without being seen. Three women were coming up the road from the city, — the foremost one of the group was Mary Magdalene. Her head was bent sorrowfully; she moved listlessly and with an air of deep melancholy, — in her hands she carried flowers and sweet herbs, and delicate odours seemed to be exhaled from her garments as she moved. She and her companions exchanged no words; they all seemed stricken by the silence of an absolute despair. As they passed by the spot where Barabbas lay concealed, he lifted himself cautiously up to look after them and wondered whether it would be safe or prudent to follow in their track. They appeared like misty phantoms floating along in the pearly hues of dawn; but he could see the golden glint of the Magdalen’s hair flash like a sunbeam as she turned round by the shelving rocks of the sepulchre and disappeared. Poor, wistful, woebegone women, he thought! — they went to visit the dead, — the dead “Man of Nazareth” whose wondrous smile of love and pardon would never lighten their lonely lives again! Alas, for them, that in their clinging faithfulness, they should of sad and morbid choice renew their useless anguish by gazing once more upon the cruelly unflinching stillness and rigidity of the frozen monster Death which never yields its once-gained prey for all the clamour of tender women’s tears! So Barabbas mused compassionately, though his mind was swayed between doubt and fear whenever the recollection of his last night’s “dream” occurred to him, — that dream of angels which had blinded him with its excess of light.

  Suddenly a piercing cry echoed through the silence, and two of the women came rushing back along the road in a panic of haste and fear. Throwing personal precaution to the winds, Barabbas sprang out from his hiding-place and confronted them.

  “What now?” he demanded excitedly— “Speak — speak! What news?”

  “He is risen! He is risen!” they cried, their eager voices struggling together for quickest utterance—” The seals of the tomb are broken, — the stone is rolled away, and an Angel of the Lord is there! He is risen!”

  Trembling with agitation, Barabbas thrust himself in their path as they strove to run past him.

  “Ye are mad! — surely ye are mad!” he exclaimed—” Whither go ye?”

  Impatiently they pointed towards the city.

  “Yonder! — to summon His disciples. Go! see the place where the Lord lay! None shall hinder thee; the keepers are as dead men. He is risen! — He is risen!”

  And they pursued their swift course down the road as though impelled along by invisible wings.

  Barabbas waited no longer, but ran impetuously at a headlong pace towards the sepulchre, every pulse in his body beating with feverish excitement. As he approached it, however, he involuntarily slackened his speed, stricken with wonder and affright at the strange scene. It was true! — the “keepers” were as “dead men — Galbus and his band of soldiers were all prone upon the ground like corpses flung there after a battle, — and what had seemed the impossible had been effected, in that the tomb was open, and the huge stone rolled away. And the Angel of whom the women spoke? Barabbas could see no Angel, — though he fancied that on the displaced stone there glittered a singular bright light that made it shine like a block of polished gold. He rubbed his eyes dubiously: such marvels made him distrust the evidence of his own senses, — yet, there at the entrance of the opened tomb, lay something human, — something in distress, — the fallen form of the Magdalen who seemed to have swooned. Barabbas would have approached her, — but an invisible force held him to the spot where he stood, smitten with strong awe and fear, and he dared not advance a step. And while he yet looked, he saw her move, and presently she rose up feebly, and with tottering steps stooped towards the sepulchre as though to enter it. Then all suddenly a calm Voice sounded on the deep silence, — a Voice of pure unearthly music sweeter than all we know of sweetest sound.

  “Woman, why weepest thou?”

  Thrilled with amazement and dread, Barabbas saw her sink upon her knees and raise her hands in passionate supplication.

  “Because”... and her trembling accents were broken by low weeping—” they have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid Him.”

  A deep silence followed. The golden glory vanished from the stone that had been rolled away, — and another light began to shine, — the first heraldic blazon of the rising sun. Unanswered and uncomforted, the Magdalen hid her face in her clasped hands, — she had seen a vision of angels; one at the head and one at the foot of the sepulchred niche where her Master had reposed in temporary death, — but what are all the angels in paradise worth to Love, if the Beloved be missing? And stricken to the heart by despair and loneliness, she wept on, crouched at the entrance of the vacant tomb, her slight frame shaken by the tempest of her grief for the loss of the dead outward Semblance of Him whose pardon had reclaimed her life. But while she thus gave way to the abandonment of sorrow, the enchained spectator of the scene, Barabbas, suddenly became conscious of a majesty and a terror filling the air; some great Splendour suggested itself vaguely like the thunderous thrill of the atmosphere preceding a storm. Faint and trembling he felt rather than saw that a Figure was advancing from the sheltering shadow of the few trees that surrounded the sepulchre,... and slowly, slowly, in a mortal anguish of dread and expectation he turned, — and, beheld in very truth, in very life,... the “Nazarene”! He, the Crucified, the Slain and Buried, stood there living, looking even as He looked before He had been nailed upon the Cross to die, — the same, the same in every feature, as human-seeming as Humanity itself, save that His vesture appeared woven out of glittering mist and fire! Breathless, giddy, and unable to articulate the feeblest cry, Barabbas stared upon Him, fully recognising the fair beauty of His countenance, the lustrous love and wisdom of His eyes, yet afraid to believe this Miracle a] Truth. In aerial stateliness He passed by without sound, and glided, a Kingly Spirit in mortal aspect, to where the Magdalen wept alone. There, pausing, He spoke, His dulcet accents charming the stillness to responsive pulsations of harmony.

  “Woman, why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?” Moving restlessly she half turned round and gazed vaguely up through the obscuring cloud of her tears and falling hair, only seeing that some one, she knew not who, stood beside her, questioning her as to her cause of grief. And with a shudd
ering sigh she drooped her head again and answered wearily, —

  “Sir, if thou hast borne Him hence, tell me where thou hast laid Him, and I will take Him away.

  “Mary!”

  The sweet name, set among holy things for ever, fell softly on the silence like a song.

  She started, — sprang up to her full height, — gazed wildly,... wonderingly,... incredulously,... then, — with a shriek of joy that seemed to echo to the very skies, she fell on her knees.

  “Master! Master!” she cried, and stretched forth her hands towards that Risen Saviour whose living Presence was the sign of rescue for the world.

  But now a light celestial environed Him, — the earth trembled where He stood, — and with a warning yet gentle gesture He motioned her away.

  “Touch Me not, for I am but newly risen!”

  And as He said these words a splendour flashed about His form like fire, — He lifted His eyes to the brightening heavens and all the radiant hues of morning seemed to float around Him and melt above Him in rings upon rings of ever-widening lustre, while the arrowy beams of the sun, shooting upwards through the clear ether, formed as it were upon the edge of the horizon a great Crown of the Universe for the glory of Him alone. Divinity invested Him with an unspeakable grandeur and majesty, and when His voice again sounded through space, it rang with the clarion note of supreme command and resistless power.

  “Go!” — and extending His arms He appeared to indicate by one royal, all-comprehensive gesture His sovereignty over things visible and invisible—” Go, tell My brethren that I ascend unto My Father and your Father, unto My God and your God!”