CHAPTER VI
The next morning I awoke with the busy sounds of life all round me. Through the open window penetrated the sound of eager voices, and of people hurrying to and fro. Already the sun was shining. A group of school boys was passing, carrying books, laughing and talking incessantly as they went. There went a soldier in bright, dazzling armour, here a civilian, simply clad, yet no athlete ever walked with a freer, easier step than he.
There went Philemon, his head bent in deep thought, his hands clasped behind him holding a pocket-book.
From another direction came a group of maidens. No need to say that they were lovely, nothing lived here unless it was so, yet it must have been the beauty of goodness, as apart from this something which transfigured them they were by no means built up from any regularity of mould.
A little later a band of musicians appeared below the windows and began to play. Their music was as bright as the morning sun, and I saw Sunbeam and Moonbeam on the terrace dancing gaily to it.
Thus to be left out of everything suited me no more than it would most people. Heaven is a place that makes one feel sociable, so I made what haste I could to get downstairs.
There I found our mother very busy preparing breakfast; but she was never busy long, she had the knack of preparing things quickly. Virginius was helping her with what little help she needed, and when all was in readiness he went to the window and called the children.
“Genius,” said he at breakfast, “I am going to pay a few calls this morning. Will you come with me?”
“Most willingly.”
“If I take you to see Jesus of Nazareth, you will not be too grieved if you find Him in simple dress and minus a throne.”
“No,” I rejoined. “The grandeur of a throne has long ceased to interest me. If I may be allowed to see Him in the simplicity which marked Him when on earth I shall count myself honoured indeed.”
“Are we to go too?” asked Sunbeam.
“No. We will go later in the day,” replied our mother.
“We are going for afternoon tea,” said Moonbeam. “That’s better than going in the morning when all the work is being done.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Sunbeam, wisely. “I don’t like paying morning calls, except to the butterflies and birds. It looks as if you’ve mistaken the time.”
When breakfast was over Virginius and I went through the city. Occasionally we met someone with whom my companion was well acquainted, and with these we stayed some little time. But not for long, for the general air of the place was work and business, such as left little time for anything beside.
At last we came to a street somewhat quieter than those down which we had been walking, and into this Virginius turned. It was cool and shaded, and on the ground shadows and golden light played from the trees and sun. A low, long house built in white stone lay in a brilliant, flowery garden. Behind rose the hills clothed with dark trees, and stretching away into the distance till their white peaks seemed to shine and touch the sun rays that glinted down to them. Opposite the house, divided from it by the road down which we passed, was another. It was built like some old chateau, but it had wide-open windows. In front stretched a lake on which birds were swimming, and the croak of an occasional frog was heard.
“You keep those animals here?” I queried.
Virginius smiled.
“Yes,” he answered. “We keep everything that has a mind to come to us. Most of those have been under the vivisectionist’s knife. We are more merciful than he, and we count the suffering and death as a sacrifice for humanity.
“I don’t think anyone would grudge them their happiness, and they are very grateful for this new home.”
“Heaven is a wonderful place,” I said.
“Yes, it is about as wonderful as Hell.”
Several pages here omitted
[Editor’s Note.—Genius is supposed to visit the abode of Jesus, whom he finds on a bed of sickness, lying wounded after a recent conflict with the Powers of Darkness. He is being tended by Philemon, the Heavenly Physician. Mary, whom the author depicts as the spiritual wife of Jesus, is also giving loving care to her Husband. It should be here noted that the author, in a letter to her publisher, states that the wife of Jesus is symbolical of the Church. To quote her own words, “They say the Bride of Jesus is the Church.” But Miss Allonby preferred to use the word “wife” instead of “bride,” for the wife “has gone through all the trials of true love, and wives should be loyal helpers.”]
[Editor’s Note.—Genius is supposed to visit the abode of Jesus, whom he finds on a bed of sickness, lying wounded after a recent conflict with the Powers of Darkness. He is being tended by Philemon, the Heavenly Physician. Mary, whom the author depicts as the spiritual wife of Jesus, is also giving loving care to her Husband. It should be here noted that the author, in a letter to her publisher, states that the wife of Jesus is symbolical of the Church. To quote her own words, “They say the Bride of Jesus is the Church.” But Miss Allonby preferred to use the word “wife” instead of “bride,” for the wife “has gone through all the trials of true love, and wives should be loyal helpers.”]
The day was spent in sweet simplicity and pleasure, with the merriest, gayest party one might wish to have.
Philemon, who at first had subjected me to great scrutiny and guarded conversation, became more friendly as the day advanced. It was impossible not to like and yet admire him. The peculiarity of his face and manner were as attractive as beauty and grace would have been. It is one of the grand perfections of Heaven that mere beauty of symmetry is accounted nothing; such sameness would breed nothing but dulness, a thing unknown either to intellect or feeling.
Our hostess remained with us till lunch was over, and then she left us to be with her husband when he woke.
Virginius, with Sunbeam and Moonbeam, wandered off, and later I saw them climbing up the zig-zag path that led from the garden behind toward the forest. That forest was a marvellous place, for since then I have been in it. It contains the pictures of marvellous adventures and mysterious scenes painted from the world’s pale fairyland. Glistening jewels shine upon its grass blades and rich fruits hang from its shading boughs. They say that as one penetrates further into it the scenes of earth all vanish, and there appear those of other spheres, and sounds from outer space. To this depth I have never pierced; one must be led by a master spirit, and it comes in the course of the higher education. It is explored shortly before the Long Journey begins, and till then would be nothing but useless and inquisitive sightseeing.
Saint Ursula (I know not why I call her Saint, but that it be that someone on the earth be led to misconstrue my meaning, and fail to understand the silent, pure respect that lives when titles all are turned to dust and ashes in the heart) went with Philemon to examine the properties of a curious element he had detected in the atmosphere of a far-distant sphere of hell.
I, left alone, sat down in the porch of that lovely home, thinking of the past events of Hell and Heaven, comparing them and finding them alike in everything but their effects upon myself. From this I fell to thinking of those in whose house I now was sitting. Upstairs lay One whom the world persisted in placing on a throne with an imperial crown: With a feeling of discomfort, which at another time would have amused me by its intensity, I began to wonder if the world would again reject Him if it saw Him lying here, one among many, and having that greatest of all weaknesses, a wife. I determined that this was a secret which should never cross my lips, were I ever free to repeat it, and then I laughed; deception and smuggling up of truth were alike here impossible. From that my mind passed on to this pure spirit woman, whose glorious crown of hair and tender eyes, lit up at times with mirth and overflowing spirits, set my mind wondering as to her past.
There was such unaffected good-will in her that skipped at times beyond restraint and left tears in her eyes and laughter on her lips, that one tried to fathom the soul beneath the spirit and was stopped by the pure thin robe of simplicity that covered all.
So for long I sat and thought, with no interruption, but amid a golden silence prevailing, and then a soft rustle stirred behind me, and a hand was placed on either shoulder.
“You have done just as I wished; I wanted you to stay behind. No, do not rise, I will sit here.”
So saying she came forward and sat on the side seat of the porch, with the flowers twining in soft clusters from above. She clasped her knees with her hands.
“My husband is up,” she said. “He has some business to attend to, and then will join us.”
“Has He been ill long?”
“Yes. But He had only been home very shortly. No matter how great the suffering may be, there is no home-coming till the final blow has been struck.”
She was silent, till at last, plucking a rosebud from the bower, she added,—
“He has suffered defeat, you know.”
Now were we both silent; I could find no answer. Yet my mind went back to Him as I had first seen Him in strongest admiration. At last I said, half to myself,—
“Yet we on earth esteem defeat despicable and chafe under its hard restrictions.”
“Earth is not Heaven,” she murmured softly. “And He has had the pleasure of hearing of Virginius’s victory. It has beguiled the hours of weariness, for I will not attempt to hide from you that in enduring most we suffer most.”
“And the victory of another has eased His failure,” I concluded.
“Why, yes,” she answered, laughing. “We are all in the same brotherhood in battle. All working to the same end, all striving to attain the same result.”
“May I ask your name?” I said at last.
She touched her lips with the rose.
“My name is Mary,” she answered simply.
“There are so many of the name,” I urged, sitting up. “Tell me which you are.”
Behind the flower her lips had parted in a smile half tremulous, half sad.
“Memory is sweet to me,” she said. “Yet some would call it bitter. Here in heaven I am beloved, respected and esteemed, happy and free. On earth they still remember me as the sinful woman turned to Christ, and whilst extolling His boundless mercy in receiving such as I they ignore me altogether.”
A half-malicious merriment shone into her eyes.
“I died of a broken heart. I could not live without Him. It was very wrong, I know, and showed what poor stuff I was made of, but wherever I went after that early morning in the garden I saw Him calling me—always calling. I wasn’t the one that could preach or teach, I could only feel things, and often in the middle of the night I would wake and go through all the agony of those dumb dark hours upon the Cross. It didn’t make much difference to my outward life—no one quite understood me. They pitied me and wondered at me, just as the people do to-day; they thought Jesus very wonderful and merciful because He had made a friend of such as I, and for the most part they were all stern men and pure women, who loved me simply because they had been taught by Him. There was no one to lavish things upon, nothing to look forward to when grey dawn swept the night away, nothing to look back to but shame and contempt and pain and tragedy of cross and scourging, which was laughed at and mocked even by those who understood it best. And I had looked forward so to a glorious earthly kingdom. I had dreamt each night of the crown and purple robes He was to wear, regardless of His own sad, warning words. And on that gay entry into Jerusalem the week before His death my heart had leapt with joy. It seemed as if the prophecies were coming true. I went home to my own dark room and laughed and danced for happiness, and on the way I bought some stones—some imitation jewels—for what I had had gone long since. And there in my own little room I put them on, and a fine robe which, out of weakness, I had never parted with, and then I stood and saw the dim reflection of myself.
“‘When the people crown Him king I shall be there,’ I whispered. ‘I shall wear my hair loose and decked with jewels, and all will say how beautiful I am though I have sinned.’ For in that moment of delirious joy I had forgotten that such as I are better absent. Nay—for the world gained deeper hold—I saw myself raised to a higher level than the women who looked down on me—no more stared at and laughed at by men—respecting and respected, loving and loved in turn. In happiness I felt a queen, yet He my king was so far removed above me that to call Him lord were title too small.
“I dreamt—the delirious dream—the burning ball, the shining will-o’-the-wisp, and it lasted with me—not quite through the week.
“Then the light went out, and it never properly lit again.
“It was a strange week, with a great shadow hanging on the air which no one noticed. The gay scenes and the excitement of the city attracted me, a wild longing to mingle once more with the crowd and laugh with it. I listened to the sermons in the Temple, and then went away alone and walked through the teeming streets. I heard some speaking in open admiration of Him, some in more whispered tones; others stood in dark groups, with scowling faces hidden by sinister smiles. I passed by these unheeding, for who ever yet with mind pre-occupied noticed word or look of utter strangers? At night I wandered away to the village to see our Master. When supper was over it was His custom to go forth alone. I think the hard life and the strain were beginning to tell on Him, though His face was more quiet and peaceful even than it used to be. And then something prompted me to tell Him all that was going on in the city. I was gay and light-hearted, trying to crush down something which I could not understand. He listened and was interested, and some instinct within me made me laugh and talk more gaily than ever before.
“So each night of that last week we walked and talked together, and the terrible blindness that hung on all was hanging over me. I knew that He was silent, but I put it down to the silence of fatigue, not gathering Death. And then on the Thursday I came again, and the time was short, but only at our parting did I recognize anything about to come. For then, as if by a sudden impulse, He took my hands and looked at me. Such a face I had never seen. It seemed as if in one swift lightning flash it was transformed from peace to agony. I had never seen such eyes, such look of utter ruin on a face, such haggard, drooping lines. Every feature was pinched with fearful pain—a child’s face—a man’s soul—the spirit of a God. They strove together in horrible working contrast, and that childish weakness which I had never seen before seemed to me most terrible of all. It seemed as if I saw through the strength to the utter weakness.
“And then every spark of feeling within me was drawn out to Him. I don’t know whether as a mother or a woman, since surely both are one. I felt as if I had it within me to take His weary, racking pain upon my shoulders, to ease Him of this hellish chain that never kills. And so, in what to some may seem a terrible presumption, I stretched out my arms to draw Him to me, for I was young and strong, with a power born of love. And then, with a cry in which weakness and pain, and tenderness, and love, were all intermingled, He spoke my name, ‘Mary,’ and came forward with arms outstretched to meet my own. And suddenly the weakness died from His face, and left only a purity and strength so deep that I felt that I had been unconsciously a tempter. And with a voice so kind and grave and clear that it seemed to convey a hidden meaning which I could not understand, He said, ‘Touch me not. I have not yet ascended to my Father.’
“Then I went home, but not to sleep. The veil was torn aside. I felt that something terrible was going to happen, and far on to midnight I tossed or walked about. They said afterwards that this had been the hour of His agony, that cruel fight of God with God, in which human soul is pierced and spirit torn in pain that may well bring sweat drops to the brow. They had not watched, heavy with sleep, whilst I within the city sat with eyes like burning coal staring at darkness. Then in the morning I heard that He was taken, that Judas had betrayed Him. I don’t think I ever understood the danger, except for one chill fear that came and went. He was so strong, so sure, so loved of all the people; but a week ago they had gone out to welcome Him, now they would rescue Him, their friend and teacher whom they loved. I felt somehow that this was going to be the climax, the great crisis that would begin and end the struggle that was to make Him king. And so with a beating heart and flying step I made to where the crowd was gathered outside the high priest’s house. There was a silence which I could not understand, one of those fatal, ominous silences that a spark can send crashing like a thunder-storm.
“When, later, He came out to go to Pilate I expected to hear the cheers and cry that still were ringing in my ears. But no sound came save the dull murmur of disappointment—at nothing, perhaps. I strained my eyes to catch a sight of His beloved face. It was the same with a difference—and with the sight of it my empty dream of kingdoms vanished like air. The agony of the garden made the difference; this was a dying animal brought to bay—a broken heart holding itself together with the firmness of heaven to stand the last sad onslaught.
“I saw the proud Pharisees and priests pass by in the procession.
“How I hated them!
“With a hate so black it poisoned all my blood.
“I longed to cry out and raise the crowd against them, that crowd which, though it laughed, loved me in its own coarse way and hated them. An iron hand with fingers strong as death clenched at my throat and strangled every sound. That cry would have altered the day. The crowd longed for excitement and it found none. It grew sulky, ready to follow the first leader who came forward on either side, for good or bad.
“I followed with the stream to Pilate’s house, and after that I remember nothing but one long, unnatural dream. I couldn’t understand a thing that happened; the crowd, which I thought would weep and fight for Him, was suddenly one great howling mass of laughter, ready for any jest or foolery that might present itself. And a crowd that laughs when a man is on trial for death is a fearful thing—it can be roused to any cruelty. Poor things! They were disappointed in Him. And those who hated Him, and wished to see Him dead, worked on this disappointment by laughter and derision.
Passage here omitted
“But I never saw His face in life after that first strained glance. I could not have raised my eyes to look upon His weakness and humiliation. I followed on to Calvary without seeing or hearing anything, and I kept out of sight as best I could. But when, in the darkest hour of desolation, He gave that terrible broken-hearted cry I struggled to my feet from my place behind the Cross and stretched out my arms toward it. Oh, God! Only those who have been utterly powerless know its sinking misery. I only fell back again, I was of no use. And after that what matter? Wherever I went, whatever I did, I saw that haggard face and heard those words, ‘Mary!’ It rang through the city in the deadest night, through my veins the whole day long, and then in accents grave and full of strongest meaning, ‘Touch me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ In the garden, on the morning that they call the Resurrection, it came to me again. The sepulchre was empty. The dead body was stolen by the Jews; but from that world invisible I heard the song of angels wafting the words again to me, ‘Mary! Touch me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ It is only a simple story this of mine, and it is short enough.
“One, too, that has been often told, so perhaps I may have wearied you with telling it again.”
“And afterwards?”
“Well, afterwards the days grew into one another like one continuous night. I think I was a coward, because I had no wish to live. When at last the sun of life was set and the dawn of Heaven broke I left earth with a happy and contented sigh to enter on the spiritual childhood. I had lived just long enough to learn to stand alone—for before His death I had always leant on Him. After that I was as happy as happy could be, and have been ever since.”
Then for some time there was silence, till at last I said,—
“When I was in Hell I noticed some of the finest workmanship portrayed the Crucifixion and Agony of Christ. Since coming here I have seen none of that. It surprised me greatly to see it there.”
She looked at me with a mixture of sadness and wonder.
“Ah!” she explained, “that is one of their jests. The finest comedy I ever witnessed in Hell was one based upon that human tragedy. I laughed and cried at the same time, especially when I saw myself there, hoping against hope, yet most strongly and most innocently, that at the last minute He would come down from the Cross and stop all the jeering and the mockery, and drive away the darkness and the cloud.”
“But surely when you saw the Figure hanging there you restrained your mirth?”
She only laughed.
“You couldn’t see anybody hanging there. Vestasian, who wrote the play, has too nice perceptions for that. There was a cross there certainly, a monstrous one, but against it was leaning a brother of his, to signify that the atom of humanity was hidden by the Godhead. But because it was very dark the people could not see him, and it was excusable, because their eyes were not made that way. He was writing notes and taking what on earth corresponds to snap-shots. He was so silent that no one understood his presence, though they felt it. When they laughed they were laughing at him, and he laughed with them all the time, luring, tempting, spreading his terrible shadow over them and on the sufferer. In fact, throughout the whole great drama one never saw the central human figure because of him. It was he who stood on trial at the sham judgment before Annas and Caiaphas and Pilate and Herod. And upon these occasions, as a little aside appreciated only by those of the same understanding as himself, he appeared with crown and sceptre and robes and jewels of such kingly splendour that the whole court was more blinded than when under the cross’s shadow. And when Pilate, tempted by the little mouthing demon on his shoulder, turned with a half-irritable sneer to ask, ‘What is truth?’ he only shook his head and smiled so whimsically that one was compelled to laugh, the farce had reached to such a pitch.”
After a pause I continued:—
“Moreover, I notice you have no churches. I have heard no prayers, seen neither pulpit nor altar; all these were very evident in the vaults of Hell.”
She rose and came over to me.
“You try to show a wonder that you do not feel,” she said. “We need none of these, they are a part of Hell’s bondage and its slavery. To have the kingdom of Heaven within one is to need no more. It builds its own temple in sacred silence, and sends the life blood beating into every vein. It is only on earth, where the real thing is so rarely found, that the outward show is needed.”
A great silence followed, till at last she drew away the folds of her white robe and showed me to the inner depths of her pure spirit. There in the centre of the heart, composed of light and love, I saw the Figure and the Cross. I could ask no further, and in silence she drew the soft folds back again.
“It is the link that joins the earth to us, us to the earth,” she observed at last. “It is born in our children, none yet have come to us without it. If you care to examine into the structure of your own spirit you will find it too.”
“Oh, yes. I was fully aware of what was in myself. But I thought I was somewhat unique.”
She burst out laughing.
“There now, that’s another touch of Nature that makes the whole world kin. It’s surprising the amount of people who think they are ‘the only ones.’”
She was still laughing when Jesus joined us. She ran to meet Him, happy, light-hearted, and beautiful as summer sunlight. Together they truly made a most wonderful picture of beauty and perfection, though she was slightly the taller of the two.
He took the seat I offered Him and she arranged it most comfortably with cushions, still laughing at what she termed my “very common conceit.”
A page of MS. here omitted
Tea being over, we prepared to go; but before going our hostess conducted all of us upstairs to a room leading from her own. It was filled with pink and white roses, and a carpet made of silken rose petals covered the floor. The windows were closed, but inside the room pure lights of many lovely colours interwoven were playing from wall to wall, from ceiling to floor. These made sweet music as they touched and intermingled like harp-strings played by a passing breeze, and around the bed, made from one giant hollowed pearl, such as the world ne’er saw nor dreamt of, garlands of roses fell, and lily petals formed the counterpane. In the centre of all this pure loveliness lay the infant spirit, with a beauty words cannot paint. The smile of death is frozen and cold, but here was its facsimile in life and warmth. One hand lay resting on the counterpane and one upon the pillow, resting the sleepy head. The soft glow of health flushed either cheek, and dyed the parting lips; yet over all there was a nameless majesty and rest, a sleeping spirit begotten of the hard seeds of earth.
Suddenly Saint Ursula moved to where Jesus stood beside the bed and put her arm through His.
“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven,” she said softly.
“Was this a little child?” I asked at length.
“Oh, no,” replied the mother, kneeling down and pressing the soft arm to her lips. “This was a full-grown man, whose life had been spent in one long battle with sin and self. This is not a little human child, but a spirit child born from the fruit seeds of a lifetime. Soon the happy childhood of the spirit will begin, for on earth there is no such thing. It is for the most part nothing but striving there to get together the essential seeds to form a spirit.”
“You do not devote much time to these young children,” I observed as we came out together later.
She smiled.
“Not outwardly,” she corrected. “But after they are born they need a long, long rest, and occasionally at fixed intervals such spiritual nourishment as we give them from ourselves. And spiritual food is very delicious,” she added, laughing. “It has nothing to do with the Ten Commandments nor any of those kinds of things, though they form part of the soil in which it is grown. But then one doesn’t eat the soil, though one enjoys the fruit; yet some people on the earth are very stupid and can’t understand the difference between the two. But the soil needs a deal of work before it is fit for cultivation, and the toiler does not reap the food till he is dead.”
So saying, she left me to think, and all the way home I heard indistinctly Sunbeam’s and Moonbeam’s accents of joy over this new addition to their friends’ family.
A chapter here omitted