Κρεισσον δε νοσειν η θεραπευειν.—Euripides,Hipp.177.Better to be sick than to act the part of a nurse.1. How could you!2. Lazarus, come forth!3. Empress of the West?4. Sympathetic advice.
Κρεισσον δε νοσειν η θεραπευειν.
—Euripides,Hipp.177.
Better to be sick than to act the part of a nurse.
Seti found Rachel sitting in her sedan and looking more like collapsed alabaster than a human being—her eyes closed, every trace of color gone from her cheek, and yet with an expression that told of a desperate struggle for self-mastery.
She opened her eyes as she felt Seti’s hand on her arm.
“O grandfather, howcouldyou allow that dreadful combat to go on!”
“What, have you then been a witness of it all? I had forgotten that it was possible. My poor child—it was indeed too much for any lady, save a Roman accustomed to a Roman arena!”
“I had no idea of what was coming when I went over to the other side of the gallery with the rest. And they pressed me to the best window for seeing and hearing: once there I was under a spell. I could not tear myself away. I felt obliged to see and hear though I died in the act. Every sense was acute beyond anything I can remember. Oh how I suffered at the earlier stages of that last conflict! It seemed as if I could neither stay nor get away. It was awful. I was amazed that my companions did not seem to mind the scene as I did. Why did you not interfere?”
“I hardly understand why, myself. But probably it was the confidence which the whole bearing of the young man, and his superb physique, in which he surpasses all I have ever known—probably it was the confidence that these inspired that he would be more than equal to the occasion. Still, now that it is all over, I wonder at myself somewhat.”
“But suppose that brute of a horse, or that greater brute of a man, had killed him? I shudder to think of it. I had no idea that anything could have shaken me so.” She closed her eyes and involuntarily trembled.
“But,” she added in a moment, “this is not all. I received this morning from my mother a letter which moved me greatly and perhaps unfitted me to bear the scene in the palæstra as well as did the other young ladies. Between the two I feel too weak to go home alone: besides, I want your counsel. Can you not go with me?”
Seti went with her.
The following is a copy of the letter—omitting the usual epistolary preliminaries—which Seti read and pondered that afternoon:
“My dear Rachel, you know how little I thought of remaining in Jerusalem till now. But our relative Nicodemus has been urgent, and such great things have been happening here that I have felt more like sending for you and your father to come to me than like returning home.
“My dear daughter, you doubtless have wondered that hitherto I have said so little in my letters of Jesus of Nazareth (as he is called here), though you have seemed so anxious to hear about him. The fact is that the ideas of the Messiah to which I have been accustomed and which are held by the chief people here, have made ithard for me to feel my way to a definite and settled opinion; and I have been unwilling to write much on a subject in regard to which my mind was in so confused and uncertain a state. But I have at last—after much prayer, and much study of the prophets, and much inquiry of credible witnesses, as well as some seeing with my own eyes—come to see my way clearly. Yes, my dear daughter, I do indeed feel sure at last that Jesus is our long-expected Messiah. If the proofs of this which he furnishes are not sufficient it seems impossible to prove anything. Even Moses himself did not more clearly establish his Divine mission.
“Nicodemus has helped me not a little. He is a very cautious man—I think somewhat too cautious and slow; as is not unnatural to one who has so much to lose—but at home he makes no secret of his conviction that it is impossible to account for the wonderful deeds of Jesus save on the supposition that God is with him. I hope this influential man will soon get courage to speak out.
“When I came here I found the reality of Jesus’s miracles admitted; and, after I had learned the character of his life and teaching, I did not see how they could be accounted for reasonably by the magical art and evil spirits. But I have lately fallen in with some of his disciples, and especially with some friends of his at Bethany, who have given me a more clear and connected view of his doings and teachings than I had before. At Bethany I met the mother of Jesus—a wonderful woman, whom to see and hear is to believe. In answer to my inquiries, she told of the strangest possible events preceding and following the birth of Jesus—of an angelic annunciation, of a Divine conception, of the birth at Bethlehem, of shepherdssent by a glory of angels to worship the child, of a caravan of princes from the far east who came, star-guided, to do him homage, of a flight to Egypt, of their return on the death of Herod to live at Nazareth in Galilee till Jesus was thirty years old, of how good and holy he was during all those years, so that she never saw a fault in him, though much that was mysterious. She had sometimes felt oppressed by the mystery which always hung about him like a silver veil, but through which occasionally struggled gleams of a Divine majesty and power. As time rolled on, and the child had long since become the mature man, she wondered that so many years were allowed to pass before his making any public movement. But she knew that it would come in due time: God would be as good as His word; such preparations and heralding would not be an idle flourish and make-believe. Then she went on to tell me about his forerunner and baptism and first miracle near three years ago; and of the many miracles she had seen since. While listening to his teaching, she had been quite as much astonished at his wisdom as she had been at his power. It was a very strange feeling the mother had when she found herself looking up to her son as being immeasurably above her in everything. Still she rejoiced in the fact with a sort of awful joy.
“As she told me all these things there was so much simplicity and truthfulness, as well as intelligence, shining in her face and whole manner, that I could not but accept her testimony. Then how I wanted to seehim! This I had never done until a few days ago. And it was in this way:
“Have I said that the house in Bethany where I saw Mary the mother of Jesus was the house of one Lazarusand his two sisters? One day when I was there Lazarus complained of feeling unwell. The sisters, Mary and Martha, did some trifling thing for him and thought no more of it. But, instead of improving, he grew worse. A leech was called in. Still the brother grew worse. Day by day the shadows deepened, until at last the leech himself confessed that he could do no more. Then the sisters said, ‘Though the leeches cannot help Lazarus, there is one who can;’ and they immediately sent off a messenger to Jesus, who was then in Galilee. Day after day passed and still no Jesus came. Meanwhile the sick man pined and wasted, and the home and hearts grew darker and darker, and at last the leech said there was no hope. No, no hope inhim, or such as he, but still hope in Jesus that he would bring or send help. Can it be that he will suffer his friend to die?—he who has cured all sorts of diseases for all sorts of persons with whom he had no special tie?—I was there and saw the struggle between hope and despair: saw despair finally triumph as last words were spoken, as the breath came gaspingly, as the light faded from the eye and the pulse from the wrist and—he was gone. Close his eyes, O friends; straighten out the stiffening limbs; let the mourning women come! Lazarus is dead—dead.
“The sisters gave themselves up to their grief. They refused to be comforted. They could not understand that dreadful silence. Had the seemingly inexhaustible fountains of power and helpfulness really given out? At all events, all was now over. Nothing remained but to bury their dead, and wait with streaming eyes and broken hearts for their own turns to come. And the sooner they should come the better.
“So the dead was buried, the lament made, and the sisters sat down with despair for companion in a home where midnight had come in place of midday. Some of us sat with them as much as we could—holding their hands in silent sympathy. What could words do in such a case! We answered their groans with a pressure of the hand. We followed their tears with our own. Every now and then, amid their tears and groans, they exclaimed, ‘If he had been here our brother had not died—had not died.’
“So three days wore away—carrying with them what little was left of the light in their eyes and the color in their cheeks. On the fourth day, while I was sitting with them, some one came in and whispered to Martha. She at once rose and hastened out. But Mary sat still—not even appearing to notice the departure of her sister. So we continued sitting. But it was not long before Martha returned with flurried haste, and with an expression on her face that seemed like the first faint gray of dawn on the edge of a black bank of clouds. Mary started up at a whisper from her, and with something of the same expression on her face followed her out. We followed, too; for we thought that our sympathetic presence at the grave where we supposed they were going might still be helpful to the stricken sisters.
“And now, my dear daughter, prepare to read something wonderful. My hand trembles as I proceed to write it; and sometimes when I have thought of it such an awe has come over me that I could not have then written at all. But my nerves are now steadier. Behold what happened!
“As we neared the cave where Lazarus had been laidaway, we saw a group of men. Mary darted forward and threw herself at the feet of one of them. Then I understood it all. Jesus and his disciples had at last come. I did not need to hear her say, ‘Lord, if thou hadst been here my brother had not died;’ for, as I looked with all my eyes of both body and mind, on the face that was looking down so compassionately on the weeping woman, I saw at once the original of the picture that his mother had made for me. I never had seen such a face. I do not expect ever to see another like it. I do not speak of its beauty, though beauty was not wanting; nor of its majesty, though majesty was not wanting; but of a mysterious something that seemed to lie back of and shine dimly through the comeliness and the kingliness—a power behind the throne greater than the throne itself; more beautiful than the beauty, more majestic than the majesty; a certain something so pure, so wise, so mighty, and yet so loving and pitiful, that Divinity himself seemed looking through the windows of flesh. This was how he seemed to me. It may be that he does not make the same impression on all; indeed, I know that he does not. And even to me, while I looked, there was a sensible coming and going of the Divine expression—like a rapid flowing and ebbing on the strand of a boundless sea of mingled fire and foam. Nay, while I was absorbed in watching him the Infinite seemed to sweep back and back, and at last disappeared altogether—leaving nothing but the purely human. But oh, what a human! The sands laid bare were pure gold. So gentle, so tender, so sympathetic as his tearful eyes rested on the tearful people—a frightened dove or hind would have taken refuge in his bosom. Mary evidently took refuge there.
“‘Where have you laid him?’ said the most sympathetic voice in the world.
“‘Come and see,’ said the sisters; and led the way to one of the tombs close by. The cave was wrought into the brow of a hill, and was closed by a door against which rested a large stone.
“‘Take away the stone,’ said Jesus; and as he spake I seemed to see the Infinite coming back into his face with a mighty rush and completely covering the merely human out of sight.
“We were breathless with expectation.
“He stood for a moment with eyes uplifted and lips that moved—as if communing with the sky. Then, in a voice that had in it such a commanding quality, such a tone of unquestioned and unquestionable supremacy as I had never before noticed in any voice, and which seemed able to speak a world out of nothing, he cried:
“‘Lazarus, come forth!’
“Would the dead hear? Iknewhe would hear. The voice itself predicted a resurrection; and I felt in every fibre of my being that almightiness was present and failure impossible. And yet how intently I gazed on the door of that tomb—how intently I listened for some sound from within! He scarcely had done speaking, when, sure enough, there was within the cave a stir, a rustle, astep. Another moment and the heavy door swung open, as of itself, and a man in grave-clothes appeared. The swathing bands were still about his hands and feet—the napkin was still about his face.
“‘Loose him and let him go!’ bade Jesus.
“The people obeyed, and lo, our friend Lazarus of old! Not the fever-stricken, delirium-haunted, emaciatedLazarus of a few days ago, who could not have stood on his feet without being wholly supported; but the Lazarus of his best days, able to go and come and do with the best. Also, looking as he did then, but with a difference. The mystery of the unseen was in his face. He seemed in possession of vast secrets. With this was a look, first of bewilderment and surprise, then of recognition—recognition of him whose potential word had brought him back to the world. He knelt at the feet of Jesus, and kissed his hand—as men do homage to their king.HisKing had come.
“Any doubt whether the death was real? Not to those who, like myself, had seen the sick man decline from day to day until the last feeble breath was drawn and the body grew cold and stiff. Not to those who prepared the body for burial and carried it forth to the tomb. Not to those who stood by the cave-mouth when the door swung back, four days after; nor to those who took off from the living man the cerements of the dead. The smell of death could not be mistaken. No, there is no doubt.
“Since then I have seen Jesus several times, and have talked with him. And Iknowthat he is our Messiah. Would that you and your grandfather and all the dear family could see and hear him too! I feel that you all would, and must, judge as I do. Both my eyes and my heart recognize him. I seem to know him by a new internal sense.
“Not so, however, our chief men. He does not impress them as he does me. They are getting exceedingly bitter against him. Every new wonder increases their exasperation. I am ashamed to say it—but I have no doubt that they would gladly take his life. It must be thatthey are judicially blinded; or, if not, that an evil mood of the heart and will wonderfully hinders perception in religious matters.
“I would like to say more; but I hope to see you soon, and to make you a joyful sharer of my faith by a fuller account of what I have seen and heard.
“But what is this that I hear? Hints come to me almost daily about you and the great alliance. And yet you said nothing about it in your last. Just before he left for Rome, your father wrote me that the emperor had made proposals for you in behalf of his nephew and heir; and that this was partly the occasion of his going to Rome. I hope that you will speak freely in your next. I can see what great advantage to our people, not to say to all peoples, might come from such an alliance; especially as I hear the best things said of the young Cæsar. He is said to be like his excellent father. Is it possible that a daughter of mine will become more than a second Esther?”
Such was the letter—omitting the usual formalities of beginning and ending. While Seti was reading it, Rachel kept her eyes fastened anxiously on his face—especially as he approached the end. When at last he looked up, she came and stood before him and put a hand on each shoulder and looked beseechingly into his eyes.
“Grandfather, had you known of this before?”
Seti slowly bowed his head.
“Why did not my father tell me?”
“Perhaps he did not want to agitate you unnecessarily—perhaps he wanted to see the young man and make inquiries about him, and learn more fully from the emperor himself all that was implied in the proposalsbefore allowing you to be troubled with the matter. You see it was possible that such inquiries might show it best to decline the offer without its coming before you at all.”
“Grandfather, let itnevercome before me. In advance, I put it away from me with both hands.” And then suddenly: “Do you think father would be willing to sacrifice me, I do not say to ambition, for I know him incapable of that, but to what he thinks to be the interests of his people?”
“I think,” said Seti slowly, “that he might be willing to sacrifice himself for such an object, but would feel that he has no right to sacrifice you. Sacrifices of this sort must be voluntary.”
“Then I am safe,” she exclaimed, “for my will is all another way, and it has passed beyond my control. If a victim is needed for our people, let father lay me on an altar of stone or earth, as did our father Abraham his son Isaac, and I will die by his hand gladly; but to die all my life long on such an altar as Tiberius—this is beyond my power, even for the good of Israel. It seems to me an awful wickedness. I abhor the very thought of it.”
“And so do I,” said Seti. “I do not believe in doing evil that good may come, pagan though I——” (she put her hand over his mouth). “But they say that Germanicus is not a Tiberius, but is like his father, who was among the very best of the Romans, both in character and accomplishments; and is it not just possible that if the young man should come here in person to plead his own cause you would——”
“I wouldnot, grandfather; if he should come to me with his head weighted with all the diadems that everwere worn, and with all the personal accomplishments that ever managed to flourish on a heathen, I would turn my back upon him. There, now! Bear witness, ye heavens!”
“I think I understand you,” replied Seti, after a moment. “I feel very much as you do about this matter, heathen though——” (she again hurried her hand to his mouth). “But do not speak in this way to others. I see that the matter is getting abroad, and you will be likely to get hints, inquiries, counsels, congratulations from many quarters. Take refuge in silence. By all means do not look like an empress, and an angry one, as you did just now. You shall not be crowded into the imperial throne for the sake of Israel, or for any other sake.”
She kissed him for answer; laid her head on his bosom; and, exhausted, went to sleep as he softly stroked her shapely head. So he sat and held her in his arms till the day was spent, and the old moon in the arms of the new looked in at the casement, and saw the new moon in the arms of the old. And those moons aloft that are never weary, and worried, and worn, shed tears over the sublunary ones whose lot is so different—tears which the very early risers in Alexandria, the next morning, mistook for dew. They were plain people; and, like most in University towns, were not much wiser for the University.