Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli

by Marie Corelli

  “It is finished!”

  He started, and turned to behold his friend, the mystic Melchior, whose dark features were ghastly with a great pallor, but who nevertheless forced a grave and kindly smile as he repeated, —

  “It is finished! Didst thou not also, with all the rest of the world, receive that marvellous assurance? Henceforth there will be no true man alive who fears to die! Come; we have no more to do here; — our presence is somewhat of a sacrilege. Leave the dead Christ to the tears and lamentations of the women who loved Him. We men have done our part; we have murdered Him!”

  He drew Barabbas away despite his expressed reluctance.

  “I tell thee,” he said—” thou shalt see this Wonder of the Ages again at an hour thou dreamest not of. Meantime, come with me, and hesitate no more to follow out thy destiny.”

  “My destiny!” echoed Barabbas—” Stranger, thou dost mock me! If thou hast any mystic power, read my soul and measure its misery. I have no destiny save despair.”

  “Despair is a blank prospect,” — said his companion tranquilly, “Nevertheless because a woman is false and thy soul is weak thou needest not at once make bosom friends with desperation. Didst thou discover thy Judith in the darkness?”

  The sombre eyes of Barabbas flashed with mingled wrath and anguish as he answered, —

  “Ay, — I found her, — and, — I lost her!”

  “Never was a loss so fraught with gain!” — said Melchior—” I saw her, when the light began to pierce the storm-clouds, hurrying swiftly down the hill citywards.”

  “Then she is safe!” exclaimed Barabbas, unable to conceal the joy he felt at this news.

  “Truly she is, — or she should be,” responded Melchior; “She had most excellent saintly protection. The high-priest Caiaphas was with her.”

  Barabbas uttered a fierce oath and clenched his fist. Melchior observed him attentively.

  “Methinks thou art still in her toils,” he said —— —” Untutored savage as thou art, thou canst not master thy ruffian passions. Nevertheless I will yet have patience with thee.”

  “Thou wilt have patience with me!” muttered Barabbas with irritation, — Thou wilt! Nay, but who art thou, and what hast thou to do with me, now or at any future time?”

  “What have I to do with thee?” repeated Melchior — Why — nothing! Only this. That being studiously inclined, I make thee an object of my study. Thou art an emblem of thy race in days to come, Barabbas; — as I before told thee, thou art as much the symbol of the Israelites as yonder crucified ‘Nazarene’ is the symbol of a new faith and civilisation. Did I not say to thee a while ago that thou, and not He, must be from henceforth ‘ King of the Jews’?”

  “I understand thee not,” said Barabbas wearily — Thou wilt ever speak in parables!”

  ’Tis the custom of the East” — answered Melchior composedly, — And I will read thee the parable of thyself at some more fitting time. At present the night is close upon us, and there is yet much to be done for the world’s wonderment,... stay! — whom have we here?”

  He stopped abruptly, holding Barabbas back by the arm. They had nearly stumbled over the prostrate form of a man who was stretched out on the turf face downward, giving no other sign of life save a convulsive clutching movement of his hands. Melchior bent over him and tried to raise him, but his limbs were so rigidly extended that he appeared to be positively nailed to the ground.

  “He is in some fit, or hath the falling-sickness” — said Barabbas, — Or he hath been smitten thus with terror of the earthquake.”

  All at once, as they still made efforts to lift him, the fallen man turned up a ghastly face and stared at them as though he saw some hideous and appalling vision. Tearing up handfuls of the grass and earth in his restless fingers, he struggled into a kneeling posture, and still surveyed them with so much wildness and ferocity that they involuntarily drew back, amazed.

  “What will ye do to me?” he muttered hoarsely, “What death will ye contrive? Stretch me on a rack of burning iron, — tear my bones one by one from out my flesh, — let the poisoned false blood ooze out drop by drop from my veins, — do all this and ye shall not punish me as I deserve! There are no ways of torture left for such an one as I am!” And with a frightful cry he suddenly leaped erect. “Coward, coward, coward!” he shrieked, tossing his arms wildly in the air. “Coward! Brand it on the face of heaven! — the only name left to me — coward! False, treacherous coward! Write it on stone, — post it up in every city, — shout it in the streets — tell all the world of me, — me, the wretched and accursed man, — the follower of the Christ, — the faithless servant who denied his Master!”

  With another terrible cry, he again flung himself on the ground and throwing his arms over his head, wept aloud in all the fierce abandonment of a strong man’s utter misery.

  Melchior and Barabbas stood beside him, silent. At last Melchior spoke.

  “If thou art Peter” — he began.

  “Oh, that I were not!” cried the unhappy man—” Oh, that I were anything in the world, — a dog, a stone, a clod of earth, — anything but myself! Look you, what is a man worth, who, in the hour of trial, deserts his friend! And, such a Friend! — a King — a God!” Tears choked his voice for a moment’s space; then raising his forlorn head, he looked piteously at his interlocutors. “Ye are strangers to me” — he said—” Why do ye stand there pitying? Ye know naught of what has chanced concerning the Man of Nazareth.”

  “We know all,” — replied Melchior with grave gentleness—” And for the ‘ Nazarene,’ grieve not, inasmuch as His sorrows are over, — He is dead.”

  “Ye know naught — naught of the truth!” cried Peter despairingly—” That He is dead is manifest, for the world is dark as hell without Him! Yea, He is dead; — but ye know not how His death was wrought! I watched Him die; — afar off I stood, — always afar off! — afraid to approach Him, — afraid to seek His pardon, — afraid of His Goodness, — afraid of my wickedness. Last night He looked at me, — looked at me straightly when I spoke a lie. Three times did I falsely swear I never knew Him, — and He, — He said no word, but only looked and gently smiled. Why, oh, why” — moaned the miserable man, breaking into tears again, “why, when I denied His friendship, did He not slay me? — why did not the earth then open and swallow me in fire! Nay, there was no quick vengeance taken, — only that one look of His, — that look of pity and of love! — O God O God! I feel those heavenly eyes upon me now searching the secrets of my soul!”

  Weeping, he hid his face, — his wretchedness was so complete and crushing that the hardest and most unpitying heart in the world would have been moved to compassion for such bitter and remorseful agony. Barabbas, inclined to despise him at first for the confession of his base cowardice, relented somewhat at the sight of so much desperation, and there was a certain touch of tenderness in the austerity of Melchior’s manner, as with a few earnest words he persuaded the sorrowing disciple to rise and lean upon his arm.

  “What is past is past,” — he said gravely— “Thou canst never undo, Peter, what thou hast done, — and this falsehood of thine must needs be chronicled for all time as a token to prove a truth, — the awful truth that often by one act, one word, man makes his destiny. Alas for thee, Peter, that thou too must serve as symbol! A symbol of error, — for on thy one lie, self-serving men will build a fabric of lies in which the Master whom thou hast denied will have no part. I know thy remorse is great as thy sin, — yet not even remorse can change the law, — for every deed, good or evil, that is done in this world, works out its own inexorable result. Nevertheless thou hast not erred so wickedly as thy fellow, Judas.”

  “Nay, but he could die!” cried Peter, turning his wild white face to the dark heavens—” Judas could die! — but I, coward as I am, live on!”

  Barabbas started violently.

  “Die?” he exclaimed, “What sayest thou? Judas? Judas Iscariot? — He is not dead?”

  Peter thr
ew up his arms with a frenzied gesture of despair.

  “Not dead? — not dead?” — he echoed shrilly—” If ye do not believe me, come and see! Come! Down by Gethsemane ye will find him, — outside the garden, in a dark hollow sloping downward like a grave, — under the thickest shadows of the olive-trees and close to the spot where he betrayed the Master. There ye shall behold him!” and his agonised voice sank to a shuddering whisper; “His body hangs from a gnarled leafless branch like some untimely fruit of hell, — some monstrous birth of devils! — the very air seems poisoned by his livid corpse! Horrible!... horrible!... ye know not how he looks,... dead,... and swinging from the leafless bough! He slew himself thus last night rather than face this day, — would to God I had done likewise! — so should I have been even as he, cold, stiff and free from torturing memory these many hours!”

  Overwhelmed by this new and unexpected horror, Barabbas felt as though the earth were giving way beneath him, — he staggered and would have fallen had not Melchior caught him by the arm.

  “Judith!” he gasped hoarsely—” Judith! — her brother — dead — and self-slain! How will she bear it! Oh, my God, my God! who will tell her!”

  Peter heard the muttered words and gave vent to a bitter cry of misery and fury.

  “Who will tell her!” he shrieked—” I will! I will confront the fiend in woman’s shape, — the mocking, smiling, sweet-voiced, damned devil who lured us on to treachery! Judith, sayest thou? Bring me to her, — confront me with her, and I will blazon forth the truth! I will rend heaven asunder with mine accusation!”

  He shook his clenched hands aloft, and for the moment, his grief-stricken face took upon itself a grandeur and sublimity of wrath that was almost superhuman.

  “Who will tell her?” he repeated— “Not only I but the slain Judas himself will tell her! — his fixed and glassy eyes will brand their curse upon her! — his stark dead body will lay its weight upon her life, — his dumb mouth will utter speechless oracles of vengeance! Accursed be her name forever! — she knew, — she knew — how weak men are, — how blind, how mad, how fooled and frenzied by a woman’s beauty, — she traded on her brother’s tenderness, and with the witchery of her tongue she did beguile even me. Do I excuse mine own great wickedness? Nay, for my fault was not of her persuasion, and I am in my own sight viler than any sinner that breathes, — but I say she knew, as evil women all do know, the miserable weakness of mankind, and knowing it she had no mercy. ’Tis she hath brought her brother to his death, — for ’twas her subtle seeming-true persuasion that did work upon his mind and lead him to betray the Master! Yea, ’twas even thus! — and I will tell her so! — I will not shrink! — God grant that every word I speak may be as a dagger in her false false heart to stab and torture her for ever!”

  His features were transfigured by strange fervour, — a solemn passion, austere and menacing, glowed in his anguished eyes, and Barabbas, with a wild gesture of entreaty, cried aloud.

  “Man, undo thy curse! She is but a woman — and — I loved her!”

  Peter looked at him with a distracted, dreary smile.

  “Loved her! Who art thou that speakest of love in these days of death? Lo you, there is no love left in all the world, ’tis crucified! Loved her, thou sayest? Then come and see her work, — come!— ’tis a brave testimony of true love! — come!”

  He beckoned them mysteriously, and began to run before them.... Melchior stopped him.

  “Where dost thou hasten, Peter?” he said gently, “Thou art distraught with sorrow, — whither wouldst thou have us follow thee?”

  “To Gethsemane!” replied Peter with a terrible look—” To Gethsemane, — but not inside the garden! No — no! — for there He, the Elect of God, the Messenger of Heaven, last night prayed alone, — and we, we His disciples, did we pray also? Nay — we slept!” and he broke into a discordant peal of delirious laughter—” We, being men, could find naught better to do than sleep! More senseless than the clods of earth on which we lay, we slumbered heavily inert, dead to our Master’s presence, deaf to His voice! ‘Could ye not watch,’ said He, with soft patience to us, ‘with Me one hour?’ No, not one hour! — it was not in us to forget ourselves in His grief, even for that space of time. We craved for sleep, and took it, — we could not sacrifice an hour’s comfort for His sake! Why, all heaven was wakeful! — the very leaves and blades of grass must have found eyes to watch with Him, — we, — we men only, His friends and followers — slept! Oh, ’twas brave of us!— ’twas passing tender! Mark ye thus the value of earth’s love! we swore we loved Him, — nevertheless we left Him. When the guards came suddenly upon us, we all forsook Him and fled, — I only followed Him, but afar off, — always afar off! This is what man calls faithfulness!” He paused, trembling violently, then resumed in impatience and agitation—” Come! not inside Gethsemane, for methinks there are angels there, — but outside, where Judas waits! He is patient enough now, — he will not move from thence till he is carried, — will ye bear him home? Home to his father’s house! — lay him down at his sister’s feet while his dead eyes stare beyond all life and time out to interminable doom! — Carry him home and lay him down! — down before her who did wickedly and wantonly work his ruin, — and let her weep — weep till tears drown every vestige of her beauty, and yet she shall never blot from her accursed life the memory of the evil she hath done!”

  “Oh, thou unpitying soul!” cried Barabbas desperately—” What proof hast thou, thou self-convicted false disciple, of Judith’s wrong-doing? — How hath she merited thy malediction? Thou dost rave! — thy words are wild and without reason! — as coward thou didst deny thy Master, — as coward still thou wilt shift blame upon a woman! How canst thou judge of her, being thyself admittedly so vile?”

  Peter looked at him in haggard misery.

  “Vile truly am!” — he said—” And coward I have proclaimed myself. But who art thou? If I mistake not, thou art the people’s chosen rescued prisoner, — Barabbas is thy name. Wert thou not thief and murderer? Art thou not vile? Art thou not coward? I reproach thee not for thy sins! Nevertheless I know who roused the baser part of me, for every man hath a baser part, — and who did change the faithful Judas to a traitor. ’Twas subtly done, — — ’twas even wise in seeming, — so cunningly contrived as to appear most truly for the best. Would ye know how? Then follow me as I bid — and I will tell all while, my heart is full; for if God be merciful to me I shall not live long; and I must speak the truth before I die.”

  He was calmer now and his words were more coherent; Melchior exchanged a meaning look with Barabbas, and they both silently prepared to follow him. As they began to walk forward slowly, a man, tall, and of singularly stately bearing, brushed past them in the darkness, and with a murmured word of apology and salutation pressed on in evident haste. Peter stopped abruptly, looking after him.

  “Yonder goes Joseph of Arimathea” — he murmured, straining his eyes through the evening shadows to watch the swiftly receding figure— “A good man and a just. In secret he also was one of the Master’s followers. Whither, I wonder, doth he bend his steps so late?” —

  He seemed troubled and perplexed; — Melchior touched his arm to recall his wandering thoughts. He started as from a dream and looked round with a vague smile. At that moment the moon rose, and lifting up a silver rim above Calvary, illumined with sudden ghostly radiance the three crosses on the summit of the hill. They were empty. With haggard face and piteous eyes, Peter gazed upward and realised that the body of his Lord was taken down from the Cross and no longer visible, — and covering his face in a fold of his mantle, he turned away and walked on slowly, while his companions following him in pitying silence heard the sound of smothered bitter weeping.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  AT the foot of the hill they stopped.

  To the left a tuft of palm-trees towered, and under their spreading fan-like leaves was a well of clear water, with a rough stone bench beside it. The stars were beginning to
sparkle thickly in the sky, and the climbing moon already lit the landscape with almost the clearness of day.

  Peter uncovered his pallid face and looked awfully around him.

  “Here,” he said in trembling accents, “here the Master sat three days agone. Here did He discourse of marvels, — of the end of this world and of the glory of the world to come, and flashing upon us His eyes full of strange light and fire He said ‘Heaven and earth shall pass away, but My words shall not pass away P Here, — only three days agone!”

  He sighed heavily, and moving feebly to the stone bench, sank down upon it, shuddering.

  “Bear with me, sirs, a while” — he murmured faintly, “There is a mist before my sight, and I must rest ere I can walk further. Would ye not think me stricken old? — yet I am young — younger by two years than He who died to-day. Yea, we were all in the prime of youth and strength, we who followed Him — and we should by very ardour of our blood have had some courage, — yet were we as weak and cowardly as though we had been dotards in the depth of age!”

  His two companions said nothing. Barabbas, pre-occupied with thoughts too wretched for utterance, sat down wearily on the projecting edge of the well, and stared darkly into the still water where a few stars were glitteringly reflected; Melchior stood, leaning slightly against one of the tall slim palm-tree stems, his picturesque saffron-hued garments appearing white in the early brilliance of the moon, and his dark features sternly composed and attentive. To him Peter turned his restless weary eyes.

  “Thou art of Egypt surely?” he said—” Thou hast the manner born of the land where men do chronicle the histories of life and time?”

  Melchior met his questioning gaze tranquilly.

  “Trouble not thy mind concerning me, thou forlorn disciple of the God!” he answered—” Whence I come or whither I go is of no more purport than the tossing hither and thither of a grain of dust or sand. Henceforward let no man set value on himself, since the Divine hath condescended to be humiliated even unto death.” Peter scrutinised him yet more closely.