Publius, the governor of the island, who in gratitude to Paul for the healing of his father has opened his house to the Christians for their meetings, now expresses, through Sergius Paulus, his guest, a wish to hear himself the story that Mary Magdalené is relating. The company accordingly assemble in his house, and Publius is in courtesy asked to act as a kind of master of the feast. He accepts the part, and discharges it with much urbane demonstrativeness. Interrupting Mary at one point of her story with exclamations of surprise and pleasure, he proposes to Krishna that he offset what has just been told with something parallel from the life of his master Buddha. Krishna reluctantly complies, when, after some comment following from Paul, Mary resumes her narrative.
INTERLUDE OF KRISHNA.
For many following days in MelitaThere was no season of hospitalityTo man from Nature under open sky,Genial for ease and comfort out of doors.But the fair spacious halls of PubliusStood smiling ever ready to entertainResort of Paul or any dear to PaulWhether for social worship in prayer and psalm,With hearing of Paul discourse of things divine,Or for communion sweet of friend and friend.Here presently were gathered yet againThe company that had with one accordAlready twice assembled to give earTo Mary Magdalené while she toldHer story still unfinished of the Lord.Publius, as Roman to his Roman peer—And Roman peer so versed in all the artsAnd all the accomplishments urbane that makeAmenity in companionship—had saidTo Sergius Paulus (likewise, for his sake,To Krishna), "Pray thee, honor thou my house,And be content, abide with me a guest."Now Sergius had to Publius rehearsedThe things that Mary those two afternoonsRecounted, and the Roman lord would fainHear from her lips the rest. So he was there—Guest in a sort, while host, at his own hearth—And Sergius Paulus said:"O Publius, thou—Most welcome, as thou makest us welcome here—Shalt, so it please thee, us all it will please,Be the feast-master in the present feastOf story and of audience. Krishna here"—And courteous toward the Indian Sergius bowed—"Has also a story to tell us of his lord.Whether with alternation and reliefBetween our two historians, or in course,Till one have finished, be the order best,Judge thou for all, and all will grateful be.""Let Mary Magdalené then go on,"Said Publius, "if she will, from where she ceasedAt the last audience;" and he turned to herWith, "Sergius has most kindly made me knowSo far thy story, madam, with the restOf this good company. But, with thy peace,And with the peace of Krishna and of all,I will upon occasion interrupt—For haply the occasion may arise—To ask what contrast or what parallelTo this or that of Jesus, Buddha yields."So Mary, with some heightened flush like shameTo speak in this new place and presence, yetSedately like herself and with a charmAlready round her ambient from the pure,The perfect, the accomplished womanhoodThat hers was, purged of self, charm by all feltAt once ere her beginning, thus began:"I think that I was saying, as my wordsI stayed at our last gathering on the shore,How little like a tragedy so nighIt looked to us, when we beheld the throngsStrewing Christ's way before him with their robesFlung down, and with green branches of the palm,And shouting their hosannas to His name.But Jesus was not blinded as were we!He, on the brink of the descent arrivedSteep from the Mount of Olives leading down,Beheld the holy city with its sheenOf splendor from the temple roofs and walls,And, far removed from glorying at the sightAs king might welcomed to his capital,Wept over it, with much-amazing tears,And cried: 'Hadst thou but known, but known, even thou,Yea, even in this thy day but known the thingsThat to thy peace belong! But they are hidNow from thine eyes. For days will come on thee—'And then such dreadful days he told us of—Days which our holy apostles think are nigh,Whence their 'Maranatha!' so often heard,Reminder watchword of the Lord at hand,They solemnly adjuring by the daysReserved for our Jerusalem, a wrathTo come upon her to the uttermostThen when He, with the angels of His power,And as the lightning shineth suddenlyAblaze from one end to the other of heaven,Shall back return in clouds to executeHis judgment on the city that slew Him!""But wherefore," the centurion asked once more,And Mary with a loyal look toward himOf honor for his kindly courtesyThat day and ever bountiful to them—Look too betokening welcome of his returnTo share the audience of her tale againLate interrupted by that message broughtSeeming to be of sinister import—Mary, with such a meaning so conveyed,Paused, while the friendly Roman plied his quest:"But wherefore did Jerusalem desireTo slay one innocent of crime like him?Some reason of state I dared to guess there was,But what the reason of state, thou didst not tell,"Turning to Paul he said, and Paul replied:"The Jewish rulers of the people said:'This Jesus, if we let him thus alone,Will draw all men to follow after him;The Romans then will come and take awayAlike this city which belongs to us,Yea, and the nation over which we rule.'The rescued remnant of authorityWielded by the chief priests and PhariseesOver our nation under Roman sway,This still was dear to them and this they fearedTo forfeit if the fame of Jesus grew.""And grow it did surpassing even their fears,"Mary resumed, at silent sign from Paul;"For but a little while before, and nighJerusalem, a height of miracleJesus had wrought. One four days dead, nay, oneAlready four days in his sepulcher,Our Lord, with only 'Lazarus, come forth!'—Commanded in loud voice before the tomb—Summoned to life again. The dead came forthBound hand and foot with grave-clothes, and his headBound with a napkin round about—no pause,Not of an instant, in obeying that word,Prevention none felt from impediment.Abrupt descent then from such miracleTo the plain level of sobering commonplace.For he whom Jesus from the dead could callTo leave his tomb, to stand upright, to walk,Unconscious of obstruction, swathed aboutWith grave-clothes though he was, must be releasedBy others from his bonds; the Master saidTo those near by, 'Loose him and let him go.'"While Mary told these things, a sense diffusedOf something felt by all the Christians there,Felt, but acknowledged not in word or sign,Signalled itself despite to all the rest;And through a kind of dumb intelligenceIt came that Publius, Julius, and that deepDiscerning Indian, Krishna, with one mindTo all, unspoken, fixed inquiring gazeOn Rachel and on Stephen, who their handsMeantime had silently, unconsciously,With simultaneous mutual movement clasped,As if in token of some memoryWhich they that moment felt between them rise,Some sacred memory, some undying love.Then Mary, with the happy instinct hersOf what was fitting to be said, and when,And what more fitting to be left unsaid,And how to say all, or how silent be,Assuming, with a look of deferenceFirst toward the twain, their present leave to speak—Granted to her as so much trusted inFor wisdom, and for love in wisdom poised—Said, with a certain courtesy impliedFor Publius as the master of the feast,And for the others needing to be told:"That Lazarus, raised by Jesus from the dead,Is to the Christians of this companyA name the dearer that to two of usHe is the dearest memory of their lives.For after he had risen from the deadAt Jesus' call he lived his human lifeAs he before had done, till in due timeA husband and a father he became.But Rachel lives in honored widowhood,As, with her, half in orphanhood lives Stephen,Because he after fell asleep in ChristTo be waked only when Christ comes again."A tender pause succeeded, which all filledWith solemn, some with wondering, thought; and then,Tempered, beyond his will or consciousness,To a contagious mood of sympathy,Publius most gently as feast-master spoke:"The height of miracle well calledst thouSuch summoning of the dead to life again;For greater wonder were not possible.To see it, as thou sawest it, was a giftIndeed from the supernal powers; next is,To have it in report of one who saw it;And then, for attestation of thy word,Where attestation surely need was noneYet serving for attestation, to beholdHere those who knew the dead man raised to lifeAs husband and as father—all makes seemThe story like reality itself."And now," to Krishna turning, Publius said:"O Krishna, pray from thee a parallel.What comparable wonder wilt thou showThat thou hast seen thy master Buddha work?"The countenance fell to Krishna hearing this,But quickly himself recovering he replied"I am not able out of all I knowConcerning Buddha aught this day to tellAs one that saw and heard; I never saw,I never heard, lord Buddha act or speak.""Then from report that some eye-witness gaveThee, speak and tell us what thou wilt, and weWill be therewith content"—so Publius, dashedA little from his lively hope, but fainTo ease the discomposure of his guest.But Krishna, in no wise more cheerful, said:"Nor from eye-witness have I aught receivedThat my lord Buddha either said or did:He lived and passed five hundred years ago.""But doubtless some memorials," Publius said,"Were written by eye-witnesses of him,While he still lived, or close upon his death,To keep so dear a memory aliveAnd certify it to all aftertime.So, out of such memorials known to thee,Fresh still, though old five hundred years, becauseThen written when the images were fresh,Imprinted on the writer's mind of thingsHe either saw or heard himself from Buddha—Strange virtue has eye-witness testimonyIn simultaneous records of the timeTo stay, though old, perennially young—I say, then, out of such memorials storedAnd treasured up in mind to thee speak thou,And it shall be to us as if thou hadst seen."Publius, with all sincerity of aimTo hearten Krishna and make most the worthOf that which he, although eye-witness not,Nor yet reporter from eye-witness known,Should proffer to that hospitalityOf audience touching his dear master Buddh,Had unawares confused him more and more.For the first time the Indian felt give wayA little, melting underneath his feet,His standing-ground of settled certitude:'Was it all quicksand? Nothing there of rock?'But he made answer: "O my courteous host,All is uncertain, for tradition all,Concerning times, and order of events.Indeed, we Indians care not for these things,But trust full easily, or, not trusting, yetRest as if trusting, in much unconcernWhether that which we learn be wholly true,Or partly not; and yet I have heard it saidThat, close upon the passing of the Buddh,A council of five hundred faithful metWho said together in accord complete—No sentence varying, nay, no syllable—The mighty mass of all the Exalted One'sInstructions; but no writing then was made,Nor again afterward an hundred years,When such rehearsal came a second time.So, truth to say, where all is doubt—for me,I fear there was, for half five hundred yearsAfter he died, no record in writing madeOf what our master Buddha wrought and taught.Save for those synods of rehearsal met,That precious memory lived precariously,As himself lived, the master, vagabondAnd mendicant from loyal mouth to mouth.But such tradition was too vital to die;Compact of only vocal breath, it stillPersisted and would still for aye persistThough never at all in written record sheathed."But the fourth part of a millenniumAfter lord Buddha died, a synod satOf his discreet disciples, who decreedThat then at least a record should be framedIn writing of the master's deeds and words.""Most fit," said Publius, who to complaisance,His impulse and his habit, now adjoinedA certain willingness not unamiableTo magnify the twofold part he playedAs host and as symposiarch, and make cheerAll that he could for Krishna; "aye, most fit;And doubtless they were men, that synod, famedFor wisdom and for virtue; name them thou,Or at least some, the chief, that we may hereHonor them for their worth."But Krishna said(For, by some sense of disadvantage stung,He took reprisals of his gentle sort):"What if I could not name them? What if they,Concerned less to survive themselves in fame,Mere empty wraiths of sound to mortal earsIn futile issues of dissolving breath,Repeated echoes of unmeaning names—What if, I say, concerned less so to beVainly themselves remembered for a dayThan to keep living for the use of menThe saving truths their master Buddha taught,Those saints and sages of the elder timeLet themselves perish quite from human thought?"But Publius interposed, insisting, fainTo show some ground of reason in his mind,Beyond mere curiosity for words,Why he desired to know those ancient names."Yet were it some support," he said, "to faithIn those same saving truths as truly savedThemselves for men, after so long a termOf vagabondage (to take up thy word),Of vagabondage and of mendicancy—The fourth part of a thousand years consumedIn flying forward hither from mouth to mouth—"So far, uncertain of his way, he groped;Bethinking then himself of one more chance,That might be, of the proof he sought, he said:"And still, O Krishna, if those nameless ones,Deserving well to be not nameless, nay,Of far-renownéd name; nor less, but more,Deserving that they waived their own desert;If these—nobly not mindful whether theyRemembered or forgotten were of men,Yet heedful not to let the coming timeFail of the truth that they themselves had foundSo dear, or dwell in any needless doubtOf its just phrase—committed at the lastThe task of fixing it in written formTo some illustrious man who would consentTo forego for himself his choice of beingObscure, unknown to aftertime, and lendThe great weight of his name to the result,For satisfaction to inquiring souls—Why, that were much, indeed perhaps enough,And I before required beyond my right."Demand upon demand sincerely soUrged by the genial host upon his guestAs if urbane concessions granted him,Involved the patient Indian more and more.Pressed beyond even his measure now at length,He brooked no longer to allow the toilsTo multiply about him which he feltWere fast entangling him to helplessness.He boldly spoke to disengage himself:"We of the East, O Publius, are not suchAs you are of the West. We do not countThe years as you do, fixing fast our dates.We live content a kind of timeless lifeThat moves continuous on from age to ageUnreckoned. Countless generations comeAnd go, and come and go, like forest leavesFrom year to year, and no one takes accountOf those more than of these. Why should we? Those,As these, are ever to each other like,Harvest and harvest endlessly the same.What profit were there in a history,What history indeed were possible,Of either leaves or men? Let leaves and menTogether to oblivion go; be sureThere will not fail to follow leaves and menTo fill the places never vacant left."But then we Easterns are yet otherwiseDifferent from you; for we remember more.Because we do not write our records down,We all the better keep them safe in mind.Doubtless we mix them much with fantasy:We are not nice to draw a certain lineBetween what we remember and what dream.All is as dream to us, for we ourselvesAre dream, and oft imagination wakesWhere memory sleeps; but, so the form be full,Somehow, somewhence, it matters naught to usWhether from fact it be, remembered right,Or half from fancy fitted to the fact.Our Buddha is the fair ideal man,Exemplar of the human possible.We cannot dream him fairer than he is,Or was—for he perhaps is not—and soWe fling the rein down on our fancy's neckAnd let her freely take her own wise way."I will not warrant you the truth of it,That is, the insignificant truth of fact,Mere fact, but if the deeper truth of fitAnd fair will answer you, I can relateThe story of one miracle of Buddh,The sole one of the Sutta Pitaka,That chiefest treasure of our sacred texts.This, though to raising of the dead no match,Yet, to my mind, is meet and memorable,For that therewith a lovely word is joinedOf tuneful teaching from the master's lips.""Let us have both, the wonder and the word,"Said Publius, and the Indian thus complied:"'The Blesséd to the sacred Ganges cameAnd found the stream an overflowing flood.The others looked for boats and rafts to cross,Or else wove wicker into basket floats;But he, as quickly as a strong man forthWould stretch his arm, or his arm being stretchedWould bring it back, so quickly at his wish,Had changed the hither for the thither side.There standing, he the wicker-weavers saw,And thus broke forth in parable and song:They who traverse the ocean of desire,Building themselves a causeway firm and goodAcross the quaking quagmires, quicksands, pools,Of ignorance, of delusion, and of lust,Whilst the vain world its wicker baskets weaves—These are the wise, and these the saved indeed.'"A pang of suffering love and loving ruth,For Buddha himself, long quit of earthly strife,But more for Buddha's disciple present there,Shot through the heart of Paul hearing these things.He sighed in spirit heavily, but said,When Publius seemed to seek a word from him:"If I have taken the Buddha's sense aright,He means that they the happy are and wiseWho find a means of ceasing from desireAnd entering into passionless repose,A state from death itself scarce different.Contrariwise taught Jesus: 'Blesséd theyThat hunger and that thirst;' that fan desireTo all-consuming flame of appetite—But it must be for righteousness they pant.Not from desire, but from impure desire,To cease—that is salvation; and we bestCease from impure desire when we to flameThe whitest fan desire for all things true,For all things honorable, and all things just,For all things pure, and all things lovely, allOf good report, and worthy human praise.Passion for these things, being pure passion, burnsThe impure passion out: but passion suchIs kindled only at the altar fireOf the eternal God's white holiness."No God find I in all the Buddha's thought—A ghastly gap of void and nothingness,O Krishna, to the orphaned human heartThat aches with longing and with loneliness,A weanling infant left forlorn of God,And, 'O, that I might find Him!' ceaseless criesIn yearnings that will not be pacified,Fatherless in a dreadful universe!I would thy Buddha had felt after God,And haply found Him, or been found of Him!I wonder if, not knowing it, he did!Sadly I wonder when of this I think,That he who comes to God must needs believeGod is, and a rewarder is of suchAs diligently seek Him—such alone.But may one seek God unawares? With hopeI wonder, when I think again of Him,The Light that lighteth every soul of manThat anywhere is born into the world.O Christ, Thou Brightness of the Father's glory,Immanuel, God with us, the Son of Man,The Son of God, God Himself manifestOn earth to us, Redeemer, Brother, Lord!"The strain of such ascription bursting forthUnbidden, and unboundedly intenseIn tone, from the great heart of Paul surchargedWith passion of devotion to his LordAnd with vicarious travailing desireTo save men, wrought in all who heard an aweOf immanent God. But Krishna to the quickWas touched with tenderness toward Paul to hearPaul's tenderness toward Buddha, far removedAlthough it were from reverence like his own.To Publius there seemed no fitting thingFor modulation to the mood from Paul,Save to let Mary now resume the word.She said: "After the raising from the deadOf Lazarus, we disciples of the LordOught not to have been astonished or dismayedAt anything that in His wisdom He,His wisdom and His power, might either doOr suffer to be done. But we were blind,And it did seem to us so violent,So opposite to all that should have been,When He, that Lord of life and glory, letThe soldiers take him prisoner. At firstIndeed, when He stood forth and said to them,'Whom seek ye?' and they, ignorant, said to Him,'Jesus of Nazareth,' and thereuponHe answered, 'I am he,' they, at that wordFrom Him, majestically spoken moreThan they could bear to hear and stand upright,Went backward and fell prostrate on the ground.This, as I think, was not so muchagainstThose who thus suffered asforus who saw—To reassure our faith that naught then doneWas done without His sovereign sufferance, whoSuch things could, then even, and so easily, work."But I have told now what I did not see,For it was midnight when this came to pass—Deep in the garden of Gethsemane,A little paradise of olive treesWhere oft the Master loved to be retired;A few disciples only were with Him there,His chosen apostles; and not all of these,For one of them a little while beforeHad gone out from among them—well foreknownBy Jesus wherefore, it was to betrayHis Lord and Master to His enemies!Judas, the name of this one was, and heHad given it for a sign to those that soughtTo lay hands on our Master, 'WhomsoeverI kiss, that same is He; make sure of Him.'So Judas, as in all sweet loyalty,Came up to Jesus with his proffered kissOf salutation; but the Lord would notReceive it, till He had first made known to allHis understanding of its treachery:'Judas,' He said, 'betrayest thou with a kissThe Son of Man?' When Judas had his signGiven, he fell back among the band he had brought.Then was it that the Lord asked them, not yetEnough assured or haply stunned with fear,'Whom seek ye?' and declared Himself to them.So Judas was of those who prostrate fellRecoiled before the glory of the LordFlashing in sudden glimpse from out the shameLike lightning disimprisoned from a cloud—Foretasted retribution of his crime!Thus much not as eye-witness I relate,But having heard it from eye-witnessesSo many and so close upon the timeThat half it seems as if myself had seen it."I saw when, with the breaking of the dawn,After a night to Jesus of such strainAnd pain in agony and bloody sweat,And sorrow of heart for human traitorhood,And disappointment in his hopes from friends,And dreadful bodings of the doom so nigh,And being rudely hustled to and froBetween one jurisdiction and another,Everywhere treated with all contumelyBoth of accusing and reviling wordAnd of gross act in blasphemous affrontTo the image of God in man—were He but man!—But He being God, conceive the blasphemyOf spitting in that heavenly human faceDivine, and smiting Him in mockery,Blindfolded not to see whence came the blow,Then bidden prophesy, 'Who struck thee, Christ?'(The very slaves there smote Him with their hands)—I say that after such a night to HimWho condescended to be human, GodAlthough He was, and felt all human woe,I saw when, morning having broken, theyLed Jesus last to Pilate in his hall.There He stood lamblike, so patheticalIn His meek majesty I could have weptFor heart-break in sheer pity of His state,But that the fountain was dried up in meOf blesséd tears, and I consumed myselfIn anguish that fed on my soul like fire."The anguish whereof Mary spoke that fedSo like an inward fire upon her soul,Seemed to surge back on her in memory;And it was after strong recoil subduedThat she resumed to say: "Ye will not askThat I tell all again, how shame on shameWas wreaked upon my Lord, until no moreWas possible from men. Pilate himself(Now Pilate was the Roman governor)Pilate himself, I think, was moved to pity,Though, paltering, he with cruel weakness badeScourge that sweet human flesh and temple of God!Perhaps he thought, 'This will content his foes.'So having done, he, issuing from his hall,Brought Jesus forth before the multitudeWearing upon His brow a crown of thornsThe soldiers had in mockery plaited Him,And over his bruised form the purple robe.'Behold the man!' said Pilate to the Jews;I think he must have had his hope to meetRelenting on the part of that wild mobWhen they saw Jesus in His piteous plight.Bloodthirsty as they were, perhaps they would,With the blood streaming from His wounded brows,They knowing besides how underneath the robeMock-kingly that he wore the blood coursed downThe trenches opened by the cutting lash—Withso much blood they might be satisfied.Nay, so much blood but maddened them for more."'Behold the man!' said Pilate, and I looked.I knew that He was more than man, and neverDid He the human measure more surpass,Yet man He was, and so divinely man!The God in Him, apparent like the sunTo me, made Him not less, more rather, man.I worshipped Him, and yet I pitied Him!I never pitied other half so much."He was so exquisitely human! OurLittle capacity of suffering pain,Whether of spirit or of flesh, in HimSeemed to be carried to unmeasured heights.What form of anguish ours did He not feel?Yea, sorrow for sin not His; 'Which one of you,'He asked once, and no hearer made reply,'Which one of you convinceth Me of sin?'Sinless He was, nor ever felt remorse,That worm which dieth not prey on His soul.Yet somehow He became so one with usHe felt our sin as if it were His own,His own to bear in undeservéd woeSuffered on our behalf, worse than remorse.All this I blindly felt seeing Him there.He did not mail Him proof with hero prideTo suffer as if He suffered not, and soWrest their vain triumph from His enemies.They saw Him suffer more than any man,Not quailing indeed, yet hardening not Himself.'Never man spake like this man,' some one said;I say, suffered man never so as He.How my heart bled for Him when Pilate spokeThose words, 'Behold the man!' And Pilate too,I pitied him. Pity, with worship blentInto one overmastering passion, pouredOut of my heart toward Jesus; but toward him,Pilate, that weak, that wicked, went insteadPity with horror, doubtful which was more.Forgive me that I mix myself with this.Indeed I could not tell you all in allMy story, not another's, of the Lord,Unless, besides the things I saw or heard,I told you also how they seemed to me,What thoughts, what feelings started in my breast."The purged high passion with which Mary spoke,Calm though she kept with costly self-command,Betrayed itself to Paul observing her.He knew the tension of remembered pain,Imagined with such vividness of recallThat well-nigh Mary suffered it all afresh,Had touched already the extremest boundOf what that spirit, in its shaken shrineOf frail flesh quivering so, could safely bear.He spoke and said: "O Publius, there is muchRemaining still for Mary to reciteOf the last things to Jesus here on earth,Both His obedience faithful unto death,And His victorious rising from the grave.So thou, feast-master of the hour, consent,Let us—thine own urbane feast-mastershipResumed then—meet, if God will, yet once moreTo hear this solemn history to the end."Such word from Paul was mastership transferredTo him; and Publius promptly, without senseOf yielding, yielded and broke up the feast.
For many following days in MelitaThere was no season of hospitalityTo man from Nature under open sky,Genial for ease and comfort out of doors.But the fair spacious halls of PubliusStood smiling ever ready to entertainResort of Paul or any dear to PaulWhether for social worship in prayer and psalm,With hearing of Paul discourse of things divine,Or for communion sweet of friend and friend.Here presently were gathered yet againThe company that had with one accordAlready twice assembled to give earTo Mary Magdalené while she toldHer story still unfinished of the Lord.
Publius, as Roman to his Roman peer—And Roman peer so versed in all the artsAnd all the accomplishments urbane that makeAmenity in companionship—had saidTo Sergius Paulus (likewise, for his sake,To Krishna), "Pray thee, honor thou my house,And be content, abide with me a guest."Now Sergius had to Publius rehearsedThe things that Mary those two afternoonsRecounted, and the Roman lord would fainHear from her lips the rest. So he was there—Guest in a sort, while host, at his own hearth—And Sergius Paulus said:"O Publius, thou—Most welcome, as thou makest us welcome here—Shalt, so it please thee, us all it will please,Be the feast-master in the present feastOf story and of audience. Krishna here"—And courteous toward the Indian Sergius bowed—"Has also a story to tell us of his lord.Whether with alternation and reliefBetween our two historians, or in course,Till one have finished, be the order best,Judge thou for all, and all will grateful be.""Let Mary Magdalené then go on,"Said Publius, "if she will, from where she ceasedAt the last audience;" and he turned to herWith, "Sergius has most kindly made me knowSo far thy story, madam, with the restOf this good company. But, with thy peace,And with the peace of Krishna and of all,I will upon occasion interrupt—For haply the occasion may arise—To ask what contrast or what parallelTo this or that of Jesus, Buddha yields."
So Mary, with some heightened flush like shameTo speak in this new place and presence, yetSedately like herself and with a charmAlready round her ambient from the pure,The perfect, the accomplished womanhoodThat hers was, purged of self, charm by all feltAt once ere her beginning, thus began:"I think that I was saying, as my wordsI stayed at our last gathering on the shore,How little like a tragedy so nighIt looked to us, when we beheld the throngsStrewing Christ's way before him with their robesFlung down, and with green branches of the palm,And shouting their hosannas to His name.But Jesus was not blinded as were we!He, on the brink of the descent arrivedSteep from the Mount of Olives leading down,Beheld the holy city with its sheenOf splendor from the temple roofs and walls,And, far removed from glorying at the sightAs king might welcomed to his capital,Wept over it, with much-amazing tears,And cried: 'Hadst thou but known, but known, even thou,Yea, even in this thy day but known the thingsThat to thy peace belong! But they are hidNow from thine eyes. For days will come on thee—'And then such dreadful days he told us of—Days which our holy apostles think are nigh,Whence their 'Maranatha!' so often heard,Reminder watchword of the Lord at hand,They solemnly adjuring by the daysReserved for our Jerusalem, a wrathTo come upon her to the uttermostThen when He, with the angels of His power,And as the lightning shineth suddenlyAblaze from one end to the other of heaven,Shall back return in clouds to executeHis judgment on the city that slew Him!""But wherefore," the centurion asked once more,And Mary with a loyal look toward himOf honor for his kindly courtesyThat day and ever bountiful to them—Look too betokening welcome of his returnTo share the audience of her tale againLate interrupted by that message broughtSeeming to be of sinister import—Mary, with such a meaning so conveyed,Paused, while the friendly Roman plied his quest:"But wherefore did Jerusalem desireTo slay one innocent of crime like him?Some reason of state I dared to guess there was,But what the reason of state, thou didst not tell,"Turning to Paul he said, and Paul replied:"The Jewish rulers of the people said:'This Jesus, if we let him thus alone,Will draw all men to follow after him;The Romans then will come and take awayAlike this city which belongs to us,Yea, and the nation over which we rule.'The rescued remnant of authorityWielded by the chief priests and PhariseesOver our nation under Roman sway,This still was dear to them and this they fearedTo forfeit if the fame of Jesus grew."
"And grow it did surpassing even their fears,"Mary resumed, at silent sign from Paul;"For but a little while before, and nighJerusalem, a height of miracleJesus had wrought. One four days dead, nay, oneAlready four days in his sepulcher,Our Lord, with only 'Lazarus, come forth!'—Commanded in loud voice before the tomb—Summoned to life again. The dead came forthBound hand and foot with grave-clothes, and his headBound with a napkin round about—no pause,Not of an instant, in obeying that word,Prevention none felt from impediment.Abrupt descent then from such miracleTo the plain level of sobering commonplace.For he whom Jesus from the dead could callTo leave his tomb, to stand upright, to walk,Unconscious of obstruction, swathed aboutWith grave-clothes though he was, must be releasedBy others from his bonds; the Master saidTo those near by, 'Loose him and let him go.'"
While Mary told these things, a sense diffusedOf something felt by all the Christians there,Felt, but acknowledged not in word or sign,Signalled itself despite to all the rest;And through a kind of dumb intelligenceIt came that Publius, Julius, and that deepDiscerning Indian, Krishna, with one mindTo all, unspoken, fixed inquiring gazeOn Rachel and on Stephen, who their handsMeantime had silently, unconsciously,With simultaneous mutual movement clasped,As if in token of some memoryWhich they that moment felt between them rise,Some sacred memory, some undying love.Then Mary, with the happy instinct hersOf what was fitting to be said, and when,And what more fitting to be left unsaid,And how to say all, or how silent be,Assuming, with a look of deferenceFirst toward the twain, their present leave to speak—Granted to her as so much trusted inFor wisdom, and for love in wisdom poised—Said, with a certain courtesy impliedFor Publius as the master of the feast,And for the others needing to be told:"That Lazarus, raised by Jesus from the dead,Is to the Christians of this companyA name the dearer that to two of usHe is the dearest memory of their lives.For after he had risen from the deadAt Jesus' call he lived his human lifeAs he before had done, till in due timeA husband and a father he became.But Rachel lives in honored widowhood,As, with her, half in orphanhood lives Stephen,Because he after fell asleep in ChristTo be waked only when Christ comes again."
A tender pause succeeded, which all filledWith solemn, some with wondering, thought; and then,Tempered, beyond his will or consciousness,To a contagious mood of sympathy,Publius most gently as feast-master spoke:"The height of miracle well calledst thouSuch summoning of the dead to life again;For greater wonder were not possible.To see it, as thou sawest it, was a giftIndeed from the supernal powers; next is,To have it in report of one who saw it;And then, for attestation of thy word,Where attestation surely need was noneYet serving for attestation, to beholdHere those who knew the dead man raised to lifeAs husband and as father—all makes seemThe story like reality itself.
"And now," to Krishna turning, Publius said:"O Krishna, pray from thee a parallel.What comparable wonder wilt thou showThat thou hast seen thy master Buddha work?"
The countenance fell to Krishna hearing this,But quickly himself recovering he replied"I am not able out of all I knowConcerning Buddha aught this day to tellAs one that saw and heard; I never saw,I never heard, lord Buddha act or speak.""Then from report that some eye-witness gaveThee, speak and tell us what thou wilt, and weWill be therewith content"—so Publius, dashedA little from his lively hope, but fainTo ease the discomposure of his guest.But Krishna, in no wise more cheerful, said:"Nor from eye-witness have I aught receivedThat my lord Buddha either said or did:He lived and passed five hundred years ago."
"But doubtless some memorials," Publius said,"Were written by eye-witnesses of him,While he still lived, or close upon his death,To keep so dear a memory aliveAnd certify it to all aftertime.So, out of such memorials known to thee,Fresh still, though old five hundred years, becauseThen written when the images were fresh,Imprinted on the writer's mind of thingsHe either saw or heard himself from Buddha—Strange virtue has eye-witness testimonyIn simultaneous records of the timeTo stay, though old, perennially young—I say, then, out of such memorials storedAnd treasured up in mind to thee speak thou,And it shall be to us as if thou hadst seen."
Publius, with all sincerity of aimTo hearten Krishna and make most the worthOf that which he, although eye-witness not,Nor yet reporter from eye-witness known,Should proffer to that hospitalityOf audience touching his dear master Buddh,Had unawares confused him more and more.For the first time the Indian felt give wayA little, melting underneath his feet,His standing-ground of settled certitude:'Was it all quicksand? Nothing there of rock?'But he made answer: "O my courteous host,All is uncertain, for tradition all,Concerning times, and order of events.Indeed, we Indians care not for these things,But trust full easily, or, not trusting, yetRest as if trusting, in much unconcernWhether that which we learn be wholly true,Or partly not; and yet I have heard it saidThat, close upon the passing of the Buddh,A council of five hundred faithful metWho said together in accord complete—No sentence varying, nay, no syllable—The mighty mass of all the Exalted One'sInstructions; but no writing then was made,Nor again afterward an hundred years,When such rehearsal came a second time.So, truth to say, where all is doubt—for me,I fear there was, for half five hundred yearsAfter he died, no record in writing madeOf what our master Buddha wrought and taught.Save for those synods of rehearsal met,That precious memory lived precariously,As himself lived, the master, vagabondAnd mendicant from loyal mouth to mouth.But such tradition was too vital to die;Compact of only vocal breath, it stillPersisted and would still for aye persistThough never at all in written record sheathed.
"But the fourth part of a millenniumAfter lord Buddha died, a synod satOf his discreet disciples, who decreedThat then at least a record should be framedIn writing of the master's deeds and words."
"Most fit," said Publius, who to complaisance,His impulse and his habit, now adjoinedA certain willingness not unamiableTo magnify the twofold part he playedAs host and as symposiarch, and make cheerAll that he could for Krishna; "aye, most fit;And doubtless they were men, that synod, famedFor wisdom and for virtue; name them thou,Or at least some, the chief, that we may hereHonor them for their worth."
But Krishna said(For, by some sense of disadvantage stung,He took reprisals of his gentle sort):"What if I could not name them? What if they,Concerned less to survive themselves in fame,Mere empty wraiths of sound to mortal earsIn futile issues of dissolving breath,Repeated echoes of unmeaning names—What if, I say, concerned less so to beVainly themselves remembered for a dayThan to keep living for the use of menThe saving truths their master Buddha taught,Those saints and sages of the elder timeLet themselves perish quite from human thought?"
But Publius interposed, insisting, fainTo show some ground of reason in his mind,Beyond mere curiosity for words,Why he desired to know those ancient names."Yet were it some support," he said, "to faithIn those same saving truths as truly savedThemselves for men, after so long a termOf vagabondage (to take up thy word),Of vagabondage and of mendicancy—The fourth part of a thousand years consumedIn flying forward hither from mouth to mouth—"So far, uncertain of his way, he groped;Bethinking then himself of one more chance,That might be, of the proof he sought, he said:"And still, O Krishna, if those nameless ones,Deserving well to be not nameless, nay,Of far-renownéd name; nor less, but more,Deserving that they waived their own desert;If these—nobly not mindful whether theyRemembered or forgotten were of men,Yet heedful not to let the coming timeFail of the truth that they themselves had foundSo dear, or dwell in any needless doubtOf its just phrase—committed at the lastThe task of fixing it in written formTo some illustrious man who would consentTo forego for himself his choice of beingObscure, unknown to aftertime, and lendThe great weight of his name to the result,For satisfaction to inquiring souls—Why, that were much, indeed perhaps enough,And I before required beyond my right."
Demand upon demand sincerely soUrged by the genial host upon his guestAs if urbane concessions granted him,Involved the patient Indian more and more.Pressed beyond even his measure now at length,He brooked no longer to allow the toilsTo multiply about him which he feltWere fast entangling him to helplessness.He boldly spoke to disengage himself:"We of the East, O Publius, are not suchAs you are of the West. We do not countThe years as you do, fixing fast our dates.We live content a kind of timeless lifeThat moves continuous on from age to ageUnreckoned. Countless generations comeAnd go, and come and go, like forest leavesFrom year to year, and no one takes accountOf those more than of these. Why should we? Those,As these, are ever to each other like,Harvest and harvest endlessly the same.What profit were there in a history,What history indeed were possible,Of either leaves or men? Let leaves and menTogether to oblivion go; be sureThere will not fail to follow leaves and menTo fill the places never vacant left.
"But then we Easterns are yet otherwiseDifferent from you; for we remember more.Because we do not write our records down,We all the better keep them safe in mind.Doubtless we mix them much with fantasy:We are not nice to draw a certain lineBetween what we remember and what dream.All is as dream to us, for we ourselvesAre dream, and oft imagination wakesWhere memory sleeps; but, so the form be full,Somehow, somewhence, it matters naught to usWhether from fact it be, remembered right,Or half from fancy fitted to the fact.Our Buddha is the fair ideal man,Exemplar of the human possible.We cannot dream him fairer than he is,Or was—for he perhaps is not—and soWe fling the rein down on our fancy's neckAnd let her freely take her own wise way.
"I will not warrant you the truth of it,That is, the insignificant truth of fact,Mere fact, but if the deeper truth of fitAnd fair will answer you, I can relateThe story of one miracle of Buddh,The sole one of the Sutta Pitaka,That chiefest treasure of our sacred texts.This, though to raising of the dead no match,Yet, to my mind, is meet and memorable,For that therewith a lovely word is joinedOf tuneful teaching from the master's lips."
"Let us have both, the wonder and the word,"Said Publius, and the Indian thus complied:"'The Blesséd to the sacred Ganges cameAnd found the stream an overflowing flood.The others looked for boats and rafts to cross,Or else wove wicker into basket floats;But he, as quickly as a strong man forthWould stretch his arm, or his arm being stretchedWould bring it back, so quickly at his wish,Had changed the hither for the thither side.There standing, he the wicker-weavers saw,And thus broke forth in parable and song:They who traverse the ocean of desire,Building themselves a causeway firm and goodAcross the quaking quagmires, quicksands, pools,Of ignorance, of delusion, and of lust,Whilst the vain world its wicker baskets weaves—These are the wise, and these the saved indeed.'"
A pang of suffering love and loving ruth,For Buddha himself, long quit of earthly strife,But more for Buddha's disciple present there,Shot through the heart of Paul hearing these things.He sighed in spirit heavily, but said,When Publius seemed to seek a word from him:"If I have taken the Buddha's sense aright,He means that they the happy are and wiseWho find a means of ceasing from desireAnd entering into passionless repose,A state from death itself scarce different.Contrariwise taught Jesus: 'Blesséd theyThat hunger and that thirst;' that fan desireTo all-consuming flame of appetite—But it must be for righteousness they pant.Not from desire, but from impure desire,To cease—that is salvation; and we bestCease from impure desire when we to flameThe whitest fan desire for all things true,For all things honorable, and all things just,For all things pure, and all things lovely, allOf good report, and worthy human praise.Passion for these things, being pure passion, burnsThe impure passion out: but passion suchIs kindled only at the altar fireOf the eternal God's white holiness.
"No God find I in all the Buddha's thought—A ghastly gap of void and nothingness,O Krishna, to the orphaned human heartThat aches with longing and with loneliness,A weanling infant left forlorn of God,And, 'O, that I might find Him!' ceaseless criesIn yearnings that will not be pacified,Fatherless in a dreadful universe!I would thy Buddha had felt after God,And haply found Him, or been found of Him!I wonder if, not knowing it, he did!Sadly I wonder when of this I think,That he who comes to God must needs believeGod is, and a rewarder is of suchAs diligently seek Him—such alone.But may one seek God unawares? With hopeI wonder, when I think again of Him,The Light that lighteth every soul of manThat anywhere is born into the world.O Christ, Thou Brightness of the Father's glory,Immanuel, God with us, the Son of Man,The Son of God, God Himself manifestOn earth to us, Redeemer, Brother, Lord!"
The strain of such ascription bursting forthUnbidden, and unboundedly intenseIn tone, from the great heart of Paul surchargedWith passion of devotion to his LordAnd with vicarious travailing desireTo save men, wrought in all who heard an aweOf immanent God. But Krishna to the quickWas touched with tenderness toward Paul to hearPaul's tenderness toward Buddha, far removedAlthough it were from reverence like his own.
To Publius there seemed no fitting thingFor modulation to the mood from Paul,Save to let Mary now resume the word.She said: "After the raising from the deadOf Lazarus, we disciples of the LordOught not to have been astonished or dismayedAt anything that in His wisdom He,His wisdom and His power, might either doOr suffer to be done. But we were blind,And it did seem to us so violent,So opposite to all that should have been,When He, that Lord of life and glory, letThe soldiers take him prisoner. At firstIndeed, when He stood forth and said to them,'Whom seek ye?' and they, ignorant, said to Him,'Jesus of Nazareth,' and thereuponHe answered, 'I am he,' they, at that wordFrom Him, majestically spoken moreThan they could bear to hear and stand upright,Went backward and fell prostrate on the ground.This, as I think, was not so muchagainstThose who thus suffered asforus who saw—To reassure our faith that naught then doneWas done without His sovereign sufferance, whoSuch things could, then even, and so easily, work.
"But I have told now what I did not see,For it was midnight when this came to pass—Deep in the garden of Gethsemane,A little paradise of olive treesWhere oft the Master loved to be retired;A few disciples only were with Him there,His chosen apostles; and not all of these,For one of them a little while beforeHad gone out from among them—well foreknownBy Jesus wherefore, it was to betrayHis Lord and Master to His enemies!Judas, the name of this one was, and heHad given it for a sign to those that soughtTo lay hands on our Master, 'WhomsoeverI kiss, that same is He; make sure of Him.'So Judas, as in all sweet loyalty,Came up to Jesus with his proffered kissOf salutation; but the Lord would notReceive it, till He had first made known to allHis understanding of its treachery:'Judas,' He said, 'betrayest thou with a kissThe Son of Man?' When Judas had his signGiven, he fell back among the band he had brought.Then was it that the Lord asked them, not yetEnough assured or haply stunned with fear,'Whom seek ye?' and declared Himself to them.So Judas was of those who prostrate fellRecoiled before the glory of the LordFlashing in sudden glimpse from out the shameLike lightning disimprisoned from a cloud—Foretasted retribution of his crime!Thus much not as eye-witness I relate,But having heard it from eye-witnessesSo many and so close upon the timeThat half it seems as if myself had seen it.
"I saw when, with the breaking of the dawn,After a night to Jesus of such strainAnd pain in agony and bloody sweat,And sorrow of heart for human traitorhood,And disappointment in his hopes from friends,And dreadful bodings of the doom so nigh,And being rudely hustled to and froBetween one jurisdiction and another,Everywhere treated with all contumelyBoth of accusing and reviling wordAnd of gross act in blasphemous affrontTo the image of God in man—were He but man!—But He being God, conceive the blasphemyOf spitting in that heavenly human faceDivine, and smiting Him in mockery,Blindfolded not to see whence came the blow,Then bidden prophesy, 'Who struck thee, Christ?'(The very slaves there smote Him with their hands)—I say that after such a night to HimWho condescended to be human, GodAlthough He was, and felt all human woe,I saw when, morning having broken, theyLed Jesus last to Pilate in his hall.There He stood lamblike, so patheticalIn His meek majesty I could have weptFor heart-break in sheer pity of His state,But that the fountain was dried up in meOf blesséd tears, and I consumed myselfIn anguish that fed on my soul like fire."
The anguish whereof Mary spoke that fedSo like an inward fire upon her soul,Seemed to surge back on her in memory;And it was after strong recoil subduedThat she resumed to say: "Ye will not askThat I tell all again, how shame on shameWas wreaked upon my Lord, until no moreWas possible from men. Pilate himself(Now Pilate was the Roman governor)Pilate himself, I think, was moved to pity,Though, paltering, he with cruel weakness badeScourge that sweet human flesh and temple of God!Perhaps he thought, 'This will content his foes.'So having done, he, issuing from his hall,Brought Jesus forth before the multitudeWearing upon His brow a crown of thornsThe soldiers had in mockery plaited Him,And over his bruised form the purple robe.'Behold the man!' said Pilate to the Jews;I think he must have had his hope to meetRelenting on the part of that wild mobWhen they saw Jesus in His piteous plight.Bloodthirsty as they were, perhaps they would,With the blood streaming from His wounded brows,They knowing besides how underneath the robeMock-kingly that he wore the blood coursed downThe trenches opened by the cutting lash—Withso much blood they might be satisfied.Nay, so much blood but maddened them for more.
"'Behold the man!' said Pilate, and I looked.I knew that He was more than man, and neverDid He the human measure more surpass,Yet man He was, and so divinely man!The God in Him, apparent like the sunTo me, made Him not less, more rather, man.I worshipped Him, and yet I pitied Him!I never pitied other half so much.
"He was so exquisitely human! OurLittle capacity of suffering pain,Whether of spirit or of flesh, in HimSeemed to be carried to unmeasured heights.What form of anguish ours did He not feel?Yea, sorrow for sin not His; 'Which one of you,'He asked once, and no hearer made reply,'Which one of you convinceth Me of sin?'Sinless He was, nor ever felt remorse,That worm which dieth not prey on His soul.Yet somehow He became so one with usHe felt our sin as if it were His own,His own to bear in undeservéd woeSuffered on our behalf, worse than remorse.All this I blindly felt seeing Him there.He did not mail Him proof with hero prideTo suffer as if He suffered not, and soWrest their vain triumph from His enemies.They saw Him suffer more than any man,Not quailing indeed, yet hardening not Himself.'Never man spake like this man,' some one said;I say, suffered man never so as He.How my heart bled for Him when Pilate spokeThose words, 'Behold the man!' And Pilate too,I pitied him. Pity, with worship blentInto one overmastering passion, pouredOut of my heart toward Jesus; but toward him,Pilate, that weak, that wicked, went insteadPity with horror, doubtful which was more.Forgive me that I mix myself with this.Indeed I could not tell you all in allMy story, not another's, of the Lord,Unless, besides the things I saw or heard,I told you also how they seemed to me,What thoughts, what feelings started in my breast."
The purged high passion with which Mary spoke,Calm though she kept with costly self-command,Betrayed itself to Paul observing her.He knew the tension of remembered pain,Imagined with such vividness of recallThat well-nigh Mary suffered it all afresh,Had touched already the extremest boundOf what that spirit, in its shaken shrineOf frail flesh quivering so, could safely bear.He spoke and said: "O Publius, there is muchRemaining still for Mary to reciteOf the last things to Jesus here on earth,Both His obedience faithful unto death,And His victorious rising from the grave.So thou, feast-master of the hour, consent,Let us—thine own urbane feast-mastershipResumed then—meet, if God will, yet once moreTo hear this solemn history to the end."
Such word from Paul was mastership transferredTo him; and Publius promptly, without senseOf yielding, yielded and broke up the feast.
When the company next assemble, Publius greets them with a feast spread in his house. This gives occasion for his explaining the customs of his nation in the matter of recognizing various divinities at feasts. Paul replies, setting forth the Christian doctrine on this point. Mary, in due time about to begin her narrative, is seized with a sudden faintness, which however soon yielding to restoratives supplied by Ruth, she goes on and relates the incidents of the crucifixion of Jesus.
THE STORY OF THE CROSS.