# I, Mary Magdalene

*Exported from [Holy-Writings.com](https://www.holy-writings.com/) on 2026-06-18 — 1 clipping.*

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> Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Juliet Thompson, I, Mary Magdalene, bahai-library.com.
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> 
> I, Mary Magdalene
> 
> Juliet Thompson
> 99 pages
> 
> New York: Delphic Studios, 1940
> 
> Foreword
> 
> In Juliet Thompson's vivid and
> subtle word painting — which transcends and unifies the diverse media of
> expression — poetry and the arts become one. The
> illustrations — visions discerned in an ethereal realm — strikingly
> portray ancient races and times.
> 
> As pilgrims we journeyed together
> to the Holy Land — first to Carmel, that Mountain of the Lord, to meet
> Shoghi Effendi; to the shrines of the Báb and `Abdu'l-Bahá; to 'Akká, the scene
> of the long imprisonment of Bahá'u'lláh and his son, and to Bahá'u'lláh's
> shrine and tomb at Bahjí.
> 
> So sensitive was the
> author-artist to the vibrations that emanate from the spots which have been
> frequented by the Holy Messengers and Martyrs, that she was irresistibly drawn
> to an obscure path that led to a small dome-shaped dwelling, and I recall
> poignantly her joy when she learned from a peasant that it was the traditional
> site of the home of Mary of Magdala.
> 
> Perusing this book one is carried
> back two thousand years, into the soul and consciousness of Mary, the
> Magdalen — into that flaming heart of the archetypal woman of all cycles,
> vessel created to receive in torrential measure the love of her Lord — a
> link between His heart and all aspiring humanity.
> 
> This is, in very truth, the
> age-long drama at its apogee of the evolving soul emerging from the prison of
> the lesser love, through the fiery crucible of agony, to the freedom and
> ecstasy of love divine.
> 
> — Marguerite
> "Daisy" Pumpelly Smyth
> 
> I
> 
> ON THE GREAT DAY, the piping of a
> shepherd woke me at dawn. I sprang up alarmed, for the shrill notes came from
> just below my casement and Novatus still lay beside me. Praise God, he was a
> sound sleeper!
> 
> Ah, I know who this is, I
> thought. How dare John seek me out here...and at such an hour! Is he playing a
> trick to anger Novatus with me? Or has he no sense at all?
> 
> I cast an anxious glance at my
> lover's face, so comely in its swarthiness that for a moment I lingered. That
> dear head on the pillow...the clustered hair curved to his temples, fitting their
> breadth in dark angles; the upturned crescent of the brow; that mouth...a
> quivering wound...the long oval cheeks flushed with sleep....
> 
> Again a high note fluted from the
> garden.
> 
> This piping must stop, I thought.
> And I slipped from the couch, snatched up a robe to cover my body and tip-toed
> stealthily to the casement.
> 
> "John! Novatus is here. Do you
> wish to bring trouble upon me? I would not anger or hurt Novatus if you could
> give me the whole world."
> 
> The shepherd lifted his eyes to
> me, liquid eyes, burning madly in their large orbits, and now there was a great
> flame in them...which vexed me!
> 
> "I can give you better than the
> world, Mary. I have a better gift for you this day."
> 
> I leaned through the casement. I
> stretched forth my hand.
> 
> "Give it to me quickly then."
> 
> "But it might take long for you
> to believe me."
> 
> This was too laggardly and I
> frowned as I leaned lower.
> 
> "If it is something to be told,
> tell it quickly."
> 
> "In a word then...Messiah has come!
> I have seen Him, Mary. I want you, too, to see that beauty."
> 
> Now John, these past six years,
> by one means or another, had sought to disturb my happy life, for he deemed it
> sinful. Wherefore I laughed, to tease him.
> 
> "Is He as beautiful as my
> beloved?"
> 
> John's smile glistened.
> 
> "Come and see!"
> 
> Over his shoulder as he turned to
> go he whispered his last message: "On the mount above the city. At sundown. You
> can trace him by the multitude
> that follows."
> 
> "Come and see." "Come and see."
> All day the words rang in my heart...a bell, waking the Hebrew woman in me, the child
> of my mother, calling up memories....
> 
> A little dome shaped house on the
> shore of Magdala. A woman, death written upon her, a young maid at her knee,
> and a shepherd lad of the Essenes, the beautiful John of Capernaum. The woman,
> my beloved mother, reading to us from a scroll. Again I could hear John say: "Truly,
> from all these signs and dates, Messiah is due." And then my mother: "Remember,
> John, He will come, not as a warrior, not, as the people think, to deliver
> Judea from Rome, but as Enoch's Messiah, the Lord of the Spirits, the
> Messenger, descended from a high realm to 'free the whole earth from fetters of
> darkness.' Yet...remember, too, the warning of Enoch, that 'Men will believe the
> Lord to be one with themselves and will see not the splendour wherewith God
> hath clothed Him'...till too late."
> 
> Novatus himself could not have
> kept me from the mount that night. Not that I yet believed John's words, but...if
> he spoke the truth...no woman of Israel could let Messiah's day pass her by.
> 
> I had never deceived Novatus,
> wherefore I told him frankly of the shepherd's message at dawn. This I had
> feared to do and it took a load from me when he laughed.
> 
> "A pastoral?" he mocked, with
> lifted brows and a flicker of fun on his lips. He could look so droll, my dear
> one! Then, as I urged him to go to the mount with me, emboldened to do this by
> his good mood: "Go yourself, my Mary. Sit with your prophet under your tree!
> His wisdom," he deigned to say, "I shall hear later from you. I prefer it from
> your sweet mouth."
> 
> Had I but left it at that! I know
> not what madness it was in me that day that robbed me of all my arts. To my
> beloved Gentile, general of the Roman legions in Judea, half-brother to Rome's
> philosopher, Seneca, I quoted our Scriptures to prove our Messiah. In the end, wearied,
> he broke forth:
> 
> "Oh, abandon such follies, Mary...prophets
> and prophecies, visions, miraculous persons. Why must the world always have its
> gods...crutches to lean upon! Strange how we pass unthinking, from one trivial
> phase to another, never coming out into anything clear."
> 
> At sundown I climbed the hill
> behind Tiberias, below me the roofs of houses, black steps to the sea; above,
> on its pine-clad crest...a rabble! Drawing nearer, I saw their rough beards,
> their coarse mantles. They were busily chattering...like magpies. I thought: "He
> is not yet here. And...is this John's
> multitude? This the following of the
> Messiah...of the Lord of Spirits?"
> 
> Then through the rabble strode
> John, and I saw he was searching the road, and also...because of the fire in his
> eyes and his gravity...that it was not for me he searched. But as I climbed among
> the rocks, my yellow tunic so bright in the sun that none could fail to see me,
> his look singled me out and he came to me. Silent, he took my hand and led me
> through the midst of those ill-smelling ones, who now turned hundreds of
> curious eyes upon me, to where, upon a stone, two women sat. And as I
> approached these women whose faces, framed in the length of dark veils, glowed
> with an unearthly light, I crossed the boundary of a new world.
> 
> John turned first to the taller
> of the two, the one with the strong and high-boned face, but with a mien so
> gentle it seemed to give forth fragrance.
> 
> "O holy mother," thus he
> addressed her, so that I knew her at once for the mother of Him I had come to see,
> "this is my friend from childhood, Mary of Magdala. And this" — now John
> spoke to me, but looked toward the other, younger woman, who was small, her
> features chiseled so fine that light seemed to filter through them, her lips
> moulded in a secret smile — "this is yet another Mary who has come hither
> from Bethany to be near the Lord."
> 
> They rose. Each took me in their
> arms and kissed me, and it was as if I had been kissed by angels. And when
> again they seated themselves, I, Mary of Magdala, known as a sinner, sank to
> the ground in my fine linen to sit upon clay and stubble at their feet.
> 
> And there I asked of the mother
> what name she had given her Son and she told me His name was Jesus.
> 
> He came not by the road, but, all
> unexpected, through the olive grove. Nor could I have seen his approach from where I sat, with my
> back to the grove and my eyes lifted to His mother's face.
> 
> Now this mother rose.
> 
> "See! The Lord," she said.
> 
> I turned. Coming forth from the
> olive grove, thrusting aside a branch that He might have free passageway,
> strode one so mighty that my heart cried out, King of Men! Lion of the tribe of Judah! I spoke in my heart, for
> no word could I have uttered.
> 
> And yet...was this "the Lord of
> Spirits,"...this strong man, this man of vigorous body, of hawk-like face? True,
> His head stood erect from His spine with a majesty greater than that of any
> king. True, in that hawk's face the brow was moulded to ineffable compassion,
> and above the hollows in His heart-shaped cheeks splendour flashed from his
> eyes. But He was flesh and bone and blood, clad in rough homespun, and His
> sandals were soiled from the dust of the road. Heated by the climb up the steep
> mount, He thrust back his head-cloth from His sweating forehead and, under its akal, twisted up His hair at the neck.
> And as I thought on these things, He stepped forward with the restless tread of
> a lion. and His glance fell on me...and pierced me like a sword. Then I knew that
> from such eyes nothing in the heart could be hid. Shamed, I looked away, but
> His steadfast gaze drew my eyes back to His. And my heart took fright at their
> holiness and the unearthly love that shone in them.
> 
> Ah! Who could this be but the
> Lord of Spirits? Who else could press upon the mortal heart such a weight of
> love as its frailty could not bear? Of a nature too high for the little heart
> of desire?
> 
> Once more I turned away,
> rejecting this love. Regally, He passed.
> 
> He moved to a clearing where
> stood a tall pine tree, beneath which He seated Himself. And there for a little
> He sat in silence, upright and still, while the hushed people gathered around
> Him. And when all were assembled He turned His face toward them and I saw it
> lit with an enchanted smile.
> 
> "Are you happy?"
> 
> And as He began to speak I heard
> a voice swinging like to music, with a sound even as the wind of unknown
> source. He was full of grace and winning, for the while He taught He gestured
> not as the rabbis, with pointed finger, but with hands outspread, palms upward,
> in sweet persuasion.
> 
> Of peace Jesus spoke, the peace
> of the Kingdom of God, which He told us was the true peace. But He said this
> peace could be established even in the kingdoms of our earthly world. For as
> bronze when brightly burnished reflects the radiant sun, so the heart of man if
> it be untarnished can flash to earth in one moment the Kingdom of God and all
> the glory thereof. And as I harkened to His words, wings in me spread for
> flight.
> 
> Now He rose to his feet and paced that circle of
> people, holding speech with them one by one. And I saw with what meekness each
> waited his turn, with hands crossed on the breast and bowed head, or with eyes
> full of tears lifted to his Lord's face.
> 
> To some He spoke jestingly. To a
> haggard woman who stood with a young maid beside her, He said: "Are you pleased
> with your daughter, O Leah? Pleased now? When next you have to complain of her,
> come and complain to me and I will do the chastising!" And He bent on the maid
> a tender, mirthful look.
> 
> Like to a boisterous wind He was
> in His laughter, and witty phrases fell from His lips. And again I said within
> myself: Can this be the Lord of Spirits? He is man. Such a man as I never beheld, but man.
> 
> Now He drew nigh to His mother
> and Mary of Bethany and me. And His mother and Mary fell on their knees in His
> path. But I...I stood struck to stone. Wherefore He passed me by with but a
> merciful smile. And my heart grieved for that He had passed and I yearned for a
> word from Him.
> 
> He turned to go down the hill,
> twelve men following Him. And I saw from the back His swaying gait, the strong
> tramping of His feet, the restless might of His body and the grace of His
> garments wrapping it as He strode. And I thought: Lion in the cage of flesh! Lower
> and lower He sank on the rocky levels, till a turn in the path far below
> snatched Him from my sight. And I was aware of a great loss and that the hill
> was stark without Him.
> 
> II
> 
> BACK TO THE VILLA I hastened,
> eager to tell Novatus, should he still be there, that in this man Jesus was a
> greatness worth his seeing. But having repented my folly of the morning when my
> zeal had wearied my dear Roman, I would leave it to him now to speak first.
> 
> I found him reclining in the
> portico waiting to sup with me and we went together to the triclinium — a
> pleasant place, cool and pillared and built of white marble. Black panels were
> frescoed on its walls and in each a Bacchante soared with a cup. Novatus
> himself had designed this dining-hall, wherefore it had beauty...which he loved.
> 
> Now, as we sat at the table, I
> waited from one course to another for my lover to ask me concerning Jesus.
> Then, since he asked not, I thought: It is because the slaves are here. Later
> he will surely question me, if for no reason save that he is curious...or,
> mayhap, a little jealous.
> 
> But out in the portico again he
> did but fondle me. Twining my hair through his fingers: "Your hair is spun
> amber, rollicking in curls. Your face..." he uptilted it... "a luscious fruit. Your
> eyes? They are Sybil's eyes. Can you read me the future, Mary? Nay, you need
> not, for I know it! Your lips....your lips...pomegranate wine...." And he played upon
> me as if I were a harp and he a deft musician.
> 
> Now when morning was come I found
> myself greatly torn in spirit. The mount overshadowing my villa seemed to have
> taken on life and to be brooding, conscious, above me, a centre for the
> diffusion of unearthly fragrance which reached me as a gentle breeze and drew...drew
> me. My heart burned to return to its summit, but for Novatus' sake I dare not.
> Last night when I had hastened him, eager to tell him of Jesus, he had
> disdained to hear, and in his silence I had caught a warning. For the first
> time I felt the bondage of his love and I chafed against it, for to seek Jesus
> again had become my utmost need.
> 
> This man Jesus...He was too much
> man to be Lord of Spirits...still...a chain had been forged betwixt His greatness
> and my nothingness, and through that chain ran a power that pulled me back to
> Him. Moreover, I knew not yet...and this I must know...if Jesus were indeed
> Messiah, or some false prophet to be forgot...put out from this heart that was
> now so troubled by him. Could I
> but see Him once more! Could I but ease this heart tonight...!
> 
> In the cool of the day Novatus
> was ever with me; wherefore to slip from the house in secret would be well-nigh
> impossible, even, had such been my wont. I saw but one course: to be frank with
> my dear lover and tell him I wished to go to the mount again and beg that he go
> with me.
> 
> In the cool of the day Novatus
> was ever with me; hence to slip from the house in secret would be well-nigh
> impossible, even, had such been my wont. I saw but one course, to be frank with
> my dear lover and tell him I wished to go to the mount again and beg that he go
> with me.
> 
> And so, as we rested in the
> colonnade after our mid-day meal, I led up to this artfully.
> 
> Concerning greatness, I asked:
> How was it that some were born to it, their natures so compounded of it that
> they shed a glamour about them and their very destiny seemed charmed, while
> others for all their striving could attain not to this heaven-born thing?
> 
> He looked on me in his
> world-weary way.
> 
> "Greatness is all outside of life
> and not in it, Mary."
> 
> "Ah, that cannot be, dear one. In
> all that befalls even if it be not good, I see a thread of beauty."
> 
> "No," he laughed, "life is a
> round of jests. Mary, we creatures are but thin soil, and something is ever
> occurring to prove this to us. Rock covered with thin soil."
> 
> "Novatus, I have thought that
> even as in the womb the babe forms eyes and ears and all that it needs for use
> when it comes forth, so we have hidden within us another sight and hearing and
> new virtues, the use of which we know not in this world."
> 
> "But I am speaking of this world."
> 
> "Can we not get above this world
> even while we are in it?"
> 
> "Mortals are not gods! Nay" — and
> he sighed — "we are shallow vessels...of clay. Nothing enters in very deep
> and nothing very wonderful happens. Even tragedy is but the result of something
> being ill-timed."
> 
> "But yesterday, my Novatus, when
> I saw Jesus I did see greatness. To me He was like to a mountain catching the
> sun's first rays. I would have you see this too, beloved. For my own part I
> long to make sure if He be verily Messiah. Will you not take me to Him tonight?"
> 
> "Nay, Mary, tonight I must be
> busy. But you...you go. You need me not," he laughed. "A prophet can do no harm."
> 
> Thus once more I came to Jesus on
> the rocky summit, in the midst of His multitude. Again He was seated beneath
> the pine tree. Again I saw that mighty head, those eyes like to jewels in deep-hollowed
> settings, that smile — a heady cup. Again I heard the chime of His voice: "Grace
> and welcome unto you. Are you happy?"
> 
> So wedged were the people
> together that I could find neither John nor those two women who had seemed like
> angels. I was swallowed up in the crowd and it stank around me and some men
> spat. I felt a little sick. Then tall men pushed to the front of me and Jesus
> Himself was shut from my view.
> 
> Now He began to speak. He told us
> the meek were blessed, for they should inherit the earth; the merciful were
> blessed for they should obtain mercy; the pure in heart were blessed...they
> should see God...and those whom men reviled for that they believed on Him, those
> were greatly blessed and their reward was in Heaven.
> 
> And walled up in that roughness
> and those stale odors, and wretched and faint with sickness, I said in my
> heart:
> 
> What is all this? Meek creatures
> never inherit anything! The merciful obtain not mercy. To my slaves I am too
> merciful so that they flout me. Novatus, when young, had great merciful
> thoughts towards the common people in Rome and for this he well-nigh lost his
> life. And who can see God? Has not a prophet said that were we to look on Him
> we would die? Moreover, the slandered, the persecuted...it is foolishness to call
> these blessed. Are they then never to have peace on earth and naught but a
> reward in heaven? What indeed has this Jesus to offer but trouble...to such as
> would follow Him? This teaching is a gloomy thing. His face must have cast a
> spell on me last night, for now that I cannot see it, I like not his words.
> 
> But words still harsher fell on
> my ears.
> 
> "Every man that looks on a woman
> to lust after her has already committed adultery with her in his heart...."
> 
> "If your right eye offends you,
> pluck it out and cast it from you."
> 
> I would hear no more! This Jesus
> was much too stern in His judgment for me. Pluck out my eye, indeed...or...pluck
> out my love for Novatus from my heart! Was this then adultery between him and
> me? Nay, I knew it was not. And my Novatus was kind in judgment. I remembered
> words of his of a gentle charity for which I had loved him the better as he
> spoke them: "All these poor creatures who come our way, come with their excuses
> hanging round their necks."
> 
> I edged through the crowd and
> climbed down the hill alone. Yet, as I slid from rock to rock, my heart was
> heavy and sore and I felt bereft, as one who has lost a great treasure.
> 
> III
> 
> TO THE MOUNT I went no more. And
> soon Novatus and I were on our way to Jerusalem, where oft his duties held him
> for the space of months, and where, on the Mount of Olives, I had a villa
> – given me by my beloved.
> 
> A sweet villa this, I called it
> my "House of the Sportive Loves," for the friezes along its walls on golden
> panels were of rows of playful cupids, tipping scales in a merchant's booth
> full of sealed packets, up to mischief with bows and darts, or marching with gifts — a
> looped garland of flowers, urns of clustered fruits.
> 
> The villa was old, built in the
> days when Rome first occupied Judea. On a stone at its entrance was inscribed "Salve"
> [Lit., Hail] — relic of a more hospitable owner, for Mary of Magdala had
> but one guest. The floor of the atrium, tiled in black and yellow, was worn
> from the passing of many feet, and at its center a pool gleamed, bordered by myrtle.
> My chamber was paneled in scarlet and painted with landscapes and birds, and
> masks tragic and comic, and its hangings were of Tyrian hue. It looked on an
> unkempt garden where cupids in marble stood out against cypresses and cedars,
> and a fountain like to a small silver tree blew in the midst. I loved my villa
> well.
> 
> And here now Novatus and I
> revelled in unclouded happiness...though times there were when Jesus strode into
> my thoughts, whereupon I quickly let down a curtain to shut Him out.
> 
> And then one night I dreamed.
> 
> In my dream I stood on the mount
> above Tiberias with an invisible one who whispered to me: "He is coming." Then
> I saw Jesus midst the olive trees. And now His garments were white and
> glistening and His face like unto a lamp. And the invisible one said: "This is
> a Beauty to die for."
> 
> Awaking, I marvelled at the
> dream, and again my heart was sore troubled by Jesus, and again I felt that
> chain and the power flowing through it.
> 
> Once more I dreamed. In this
> second dream I was a captive in fetters, walking behind Novatus' chariot, my
> feet bleeding on cobble-stones. Then this picture vanished and I saw another.
> Here, deep in a bottomless chasm, I was climbing the rough stones of its wall
> toward crags open to the sky, affrighted and weeping...when wings swooped down
> upon me and flew with me into a golden void. And I saw, standing upon the air,
> a great Being in shiny robes, having the face of Jesus. And while He looked
> steadfastly on me, with a love that glowed and swelled upon me even as light
> swells forth between bright clouds, He drew from the folds of His robe a white
> veil and laid it upon my head and wound it about my cheeks and throat, and His
> fingers stung me where they touched. And when I awoke from this dream, my head
> and throat still tingled.
> 
> Now I felt a madness to see
> Jesus. Yet to Novatus I dared not speak of this. A knowledge in my heart
> forbade me. And times there were when fear smote me. For should this man in
> Galilee who could draw my soul across miles to Him, who, while still in
> Galilee, had looked on me out of the sky...should He be verily Messiah, what
> choice had I but to follow Him? And should my beloved not follow with me...I
> dared look no further.
> 
> Now I dreamed these dreams, one
> upon another, on the eve of starting with our household for Tiberias. It was
> then late spring.
> 
> The camels were loaded and at dawn
> one day our caravan set forth, my dear lover and I in one litter, borne by the
> slaves.
> 
> A fair land is Palestine, all but
> shadowless in the morning light. The colours of its bosom are all pale...pale
> henna, pale grey, pale brown, pale green and the soft yellow of maize...the thick
> pebbling on its hillsides, white.
> 
> We jogged through Judea, peaceful
> beneath its vineyards, guarded by round watch-towers. We came to the hill
> country, where strange mountains rise, striped round the summits with ridges of
> chalky white — having the look of coiled serpents — and, where farther
> mountains, low-lying, tawny, like unto great crouched beasts, mark the boundary
> of Samaria. We went on past Shiloh and by nightfall reached old Shechem, wedged
> between two hoary mountains, the Mount of Blessing, the Mount of Cursing. There
> we rested at the caravansary, and, in the morning, set forth again.
> 
> The henna-coloured tents of the
> hills of Gilboa soared into view, then the round summit of Tabor, like to a
> rising purple moon above a low spiking of crags; and by starlight we looked
> from a height on the ruffled sea
> of Galilee.
> 
> Now I was in Tiberias, but where
> to find Jesus I knew not. None had told me where He dwelt. John's home was in
> Capernaum, but of him I could not ask, since I would go not in secret to him.
> There was naught to do but wait till by some happy chance news reached me.
> 
> Then one day as I stood at a booth
> in the bazaar I saw Mary of Bethany in the distance treading her delicate way
> among the pedlars, who shouted up and down the vaulted street, their baskets of
> wares on their heads. Touching my wrist with her fingers and looking on me with
> eyes full of light, she said: "This meeting is blessed." And at that touch and
> look my heart was strangely stirred.
> 
> "Does Jesus still speak on the
> mount?" I asked of her.
> 
> "Yes, He is here again, Mary."
> 
> Now when I went to my villa and
> joined Novatus in the peristyle I took my courage in my hands and spoke out
> boldly to him.
> 
> "My love," I said, "Jesus is here
> and I am going at sundown to the mount. Would you not...."
> 
> But he shook his head.
> 
> "The Proconsul expects me at
> sundown. I will return and wait here for you." Then he added with banter in his
> tone, but a stiff smile on his lips, "I thought your prophet displeased you
> that last time."
> 
> "I wish to assure myself,
> Novatus, for truly this is no light thing," I said. "You have heard many times
> of our Promised One. Think on this promise, I beg of you. For should you come
> to believe in its truth and find that Jesus fulfilled it, that great hope of
> your youth would also be fulfilled. More than fulfilled. Your hope was to see
> the true glory of Rome restored, the virtues of the great republic. Messiah is
> to restore a world!"
> 
> "Mary, this is but a built-up
> dream. As for my own early dream" — he spoke sadly — "I have long since
> come to see that man is a hopeless product of...we know not what, save nature,
> and the existence of the gods but a concoction of his own mind."
> 
> IV
> 
> SO AGAIN I CLIMBED alone to that
> summit. Now I chose another way, that I might avoid the multitude, and thus
> came out upon the hill-top with my face toward the people. Wherefore it was a
> simple thing to find the mother of Jesus and Mary of Bethany. As on that first
> day they were seated on a rock apart from the others, and again I sank to the
> ground at their feet.
> 
> Jesus had begun to speak. Today
> He sat not beneath the tree, but with that straight majesty, hands clasped at
> His back, He moved to and fro before the people, His speech flowing forth as a
> life-giving shower.
> 
> Love, He said, was the greatest
> law in this vast universe of God. It beat betwixt the realities of all things.
> It beat betwixt the stars. (He took up a pebble and held it out on His palm.)
> It beat betwixt the particles in this very stone and made of the stone a solid.
> In the inner world of spirit it was like to a waving sea and the cares of all
> men's hearts as drops of the sea. In the inner world it was the bond joining creator with creature. But, alas, the stranger...the
> little self...had usurped the hearts of most men and sealed them against this
> inflow of love. Whereas God, the Friend, had chosen the heart to be His own
> home. Earth and heaven were as His garden, but the heart of man His
> dwelling-place. Should His love reign in any heart, imperishable power would
> radiate therefrom. This was eternal life. And when such life quickened all men
> and the love of God linked hearts...even as it linked the stars throughout the
> firmament, the atoms in this little stone...then verily would God's kingdom appear in the mortal world. And
> the King Himself would be manifest in the midst like a resplendent sun.
> 
> And He ended thus, while my heart
> became drunken as from a goblet of strong wine: "A moth loves the light, though
> it burn his wings. Though he singes his wings he throws himself into the flame.
> He loves not the light for that it confers benefit upon him. He loves it for
> itself alone. Wherefore he hovers around the light, though he sacrifice his
> wings."
> 
> Now the while Jesus spoke I had
> observed a youth nearby, standing apart in a clearing, his eyes, gentle as a
> doe's, fixed upon that holy face. Oft had I seen this youth in Tiberias, and I
> knew him to be a prince of Israel. A strange figure he made against the dingy
> rabble. The fillet binding his head cloth was of gold, his tunic of a rich
> striped stuff and he wore gold bracelets on his upper arms. And no sooner had
> Jesus ceased than this youth came quickly toward Him and, standing with modest
> mien before Him, said: "Good Master, what shall I do to have this eternal life?"
> 
> Now Jesus had stretched forth His
> hands and seized the hand of the youth in a firm grip which He relaxed not the
> while He answered, and I saw that His eyes were full of great compassion as He
> looked down on the prince.
> 
> He said: "If you would enter into
> the life, keep the commandments."
> 
> "Which?" asked the youth.
> 
> "Thou shalt not kill," said
> Jesus, and His voice rang as in a chant. "Thou shalt not commit adultery. Thou
> shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Honour thy father and thy
> mother. And thou shalt love thy neighbour as thy self."
> 
> "But," said the youth, raising
> earnest eyes to Jesus, "all these things I do observe. What lack I yet?"
> 
> "Ah-h!" smiled Jesus, "if you
> would be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor, and you shall
> have treasure in heaven. Then come and follow me."
> 
> Will he do it...oh, will he do it?
> My dream came back to me, "This is a Beauty to die for." And I leaned forward
> in my eagerness and watched the young face closely. Which would he choose: — to
> keep his poor baubles...nay, (for the choice meant more than this) to keep
> friends and kin? Or would he dare cast all aside for this eternal love and life
> that now stood in human form before him? Which...which would he choose? It seemed
> I scarce could bear this silence.
> 
> The eyes of the prince fell
> before the steadfast look of Jesus, who smiled the while He waited. Then shame
> overspread the youthful face, as of one who knows not what to say. And sadly he
> turned about and went.
> 
> Now when he was gone, Jesus came
> first to those of us who stood near — twelve men and we three women — and
> in His eyes was so great a sorrow that it seemed I saw God sorrowing.
> 
> "It is hard for a rich man to
> enter the Kingdom of Heaven," He said. "Verily it is easier" ...and He smiled
> again, albeit faintly, "for a camel to pass through the Eye of the Needle."
> 
> "But who then can be saved?"
> asked one of the twelve men.
> 
> And another: "Did he not say he
> observed the commandments?"
> 
> Jesus looked upon these and
> gently answered: "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are
> possible."
> 
> Now a third man spoke up.
> 
> "We have left all and followed
> you. What shall we have?"
> 
> And this speech affronted me, for
> I thought: Who gives, gives and asks
> nothing.
> 
> But Jesus took up the words with
> mercy and a promise whereat I marvelled, having seen and heard such men:
> 
> "In the day of the Re-birth, when
> the Son of Man shall sit on the throne of His glory, ye also shall sit upon
> twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel. And everyone that has left
> for my sake homes or brethren or sisters or father or mother or land shall
> receive an hundredfold and shall inherit eternal life."
> 
> I whispered in His mother's ear: "Might
> I speak with Him in secret?"
> 
> Ah, He could have my life!
> Tonight I would fling it at His feet. One thing alone would I ask...that my lover
> might wake to the knowledge of God and belief in Him, the Messiah. Messiah...had
> I said the word? Well, now I knew...knew beyond doubt. Yet how had I passed to
> this certainty, that Jesus was Messiah?
> 
> I would pray then tonight at
> Messiah's feet that Novatus too might throw his life to the winds to serve the
> Promised One with me. Had not Jesus said that very day that with God all things
> are possible? And this was not wrong to ask. Nay, it was but the way of love
> that prayed not for self alone. Moreover, what a great servant would Jesus gain
> in Novatus...he who was called "the golden-tongued" and who wielded such power in
> Rome. And my Novatus was not as this other prince, for when he gave...he gave all. Free and fearless
> was Novatus, and by nature, as well as birth, noble.
> 
> The mother and I found Jesus
> resting in the house of a believer. In a white-walled chamber lit by a
> flickering taper He lay on a mat, His head pillowed on His arm. His eyes were
> closed and that high-boned face, framed by the black bands of His locks, was
> still as death. The mother led me softly in and we sat on the floor for a long
> time, while Jesus stirred not. But the air in the room was astir! It was as
> though incense burned there and an invisible life pulsed all about me. And I knew
> not whether Jesus slept...or prayed. And as I sat, my eyes fixed on His pure
> profile, I became aware that this dancing life was entering into me and that it
> was opening my heart. I felt my heart open like to a rose in sunlight. Then I
> felt a sunbeam stab it. My hand went to my heart and I sighed and closed my
> eyes. When I looked again...lo! Jesus had risen and was standing above me, gazing
> down. And now my opened heart burned as He gazed. He smiled and held out His
> hands to me.
> 
> "Welcome! Welcome!" He said. And
> His tones were so tender that my tears sprang.
> 
> I crept to His feet and knelt
> before Him, for now I knew that I was at the mercy-seat. And shameless of my
> tears, shameless of aught that was in me, I threw back my head and gazed up at
> His beauty. Wherefore my veil fell to my shoulders, leaving all my hair
> uncovered. Then Jesus, smiling, stooped and said: "I will cover your head
> myself, my daughter."
> 
> And with fingers that thrilled me
> where they touched, he wound my veil
> about my cheeks, my throat.
> 
> "O Rabboni," I cried, "this...this
> is not the first time...."
> 
> "Nay," He smiled, "verily this is
> not the first time...nor yet the last."
> 
> Now so awed was I before His
> mystery that I bowed my face on His feet. And again from above I heard the
> tender tones: "What would you ask of me, Mary? Speak to me."
> 
> A new desire burned within me,
> burst into flame in my heart...and I knew I should find no rest till I had died
> for Him.
> 
> "In another dream, O Lord, I saw
> your face and a voice said: 'This is a Beauty to die for.' "
> 
> Fire flashed from His eyes.
> 
> "That was a true vision and you
> shall see it again."
> 
> "Then I may die for you?"
> 
> I looked up to behold Him — His
> hands raised in blessing above my head, His face uplifted in prayer, His eyes
> closed, His lips apart. Then He held my head against His heart...and I, Mary
> Magdala, heard the heart of Jesus beat.
> 
> "For this," He said at last, and
> I knew He meant the offer of my life, "you are accepted in the Kingdom. Go now.
> I will send for you."
> 
> V
> 
> IT WAS LATE to be alone in the
> streets, dark and deserted at this hour. I sped through a labyrinth of narrow
> ways, flanked crookedly by black houses, and, timorous though I was, a song
> sang itself in my heart as I ran — "I will send for you. I will send for
> you."
> 
> Ah, when would He send for me? Must I wait to be summoned ere I taste
> again the new wine of His presence? Was not the mount free to all? Might I not
> follow with the multitude — unsummoned? I asked not to be seen or heeded by
> Jesus...only to see, to heed, only to breathe the air He breathed. Mayhap...when
> Novatus heard what I have to tell tonight, he too would go....
> 
> Novatus! I spoke the name aloud.
> I stood still in the street. Till this moment I had forgotten him! And...that
> prayer: that my dear beloved wake to the light of this new day and
> share the love of its Sun with me...my heart had been full of it when I sought
> Jesus. So much had hung on the granting of it...great issues...our very happiness...how
> could I have forgot that prayer? Why...Jesus Himself had minded me of it! Had He
> not said: "What would you ask of me, Mary?" He had given me leave then to ask
> what I would, and I could think of naught else, with His glory shining down
> upon me, but that I would die for such divinity. As I uttered those words: "Then
> I may die for you?" — my mind, my will spoke them not. Nay, they upwelled
> from depths unknown within me, called forth by that Mystery smiling on me
> through the lips and eyes of Jesus. And He had accepted my life, even unto
> death for His sake. Had I then taken a step...never to be re-traced...away from my
> beloved? Alone in this dark alley, free of the magic of Jesus' presence, my
> heart still burned to die for Him. But could love like to this part me from Novatus? No, ah no! Jesus was kind!
> 
> Before me at last stood our
> villa, its marble in the midst of palm trees pale blue in the night. And, as I
> approached the gate, I saw Novatus emerging from it.
> 
> "Mary! I have been hunting the
> whole mount for you. Gods, but it is good to have you back, unharmed."
> 
> His arm around me, we entered the
> atrium. In the light of the lamps he turned me about and with a keen look
> searched my face. And I saw that deep in his eyes were points of torment.
> 
> "Ah, Mary, the fear I had lost
> you made this clear to me," he said: "I would rather lose the whole world."
> 
> "Lose me, O beloved," I cried, smitten to the heart by his words and by
> that look. "Am I then separate from you to be lost? Nay, we are so
> interthreaded, you and I, fibre with fibre, that there is no such thing as you
> and I, but to me...only you."
> 
> We turned our steps toward the
> triclinium. Now surely, I thought, he will ask the reason of my delay and thus
> start me on my wondrous tale. But again he deigned not to question me; nay,
> when we were seated at our late supper, both reclining on the one couch, rather
> he increased his ardor, spent his full charm in witty cajoleries, smiling upon
> me...and when Novatus smiled it put me in mind of a great song. Yet though he
> jested, still in his eyes flickered those points of torment. And as ever I
> admired my lover for that he could mask his heart so well.
> 
> "There are three things that
> cannot be hid" — his tender gaze plumbed mine — "a man on a camel, a
> woman great with child, and...love!"
> 
> And when I cupped his face in my
> hands and kissed him: "Oh, Mary, you are love itself. To kiss your lips is to
> worship in a temple."
> 
> And though I knew well he
> worshipped in no temple, I also knew he spoke as a poet and his words were
> sweet to me.
> 
> From Novatus came in waves the
> strength and seduction of warm earth. With his winged black brows, those eyes
> of blue fire, that mouth like a crimson wound, the fine lips prone to quiver
> when a rush of feeling shook his firm control, he was, as none I ever knew,
> disturbing.
> 
> We went and reclined in the
> atrium, its columns rising high above us; on the frescoed walls, Trojan battles
> and Odyssean victories. And the spell of my lover and the spell of Rome stole
> like a sleeping-draught into my veins. That face above me...so hungry...in its
> dusky cap of circlet-bound curls, weighed down upon me, a focus like to a
> burning-glass of all human love and passion, blotting out (alas, how could it
> be?) — the holy majesty of Jesus.
> 
> "See what I have brought you,
> Mary," and Novatus pressed into my hand an alabaster tear-jar from which exuded
> a fragrance as of flowers at dawn. "Nard for you, beloved," he whispered, "nard
> for your sweet body tonight."
> 
> On the morrow Novatus sought me,
> bringing news. A matter of great urgency, he said, had recalled him to
> Jerusalem. Would I make haste to pack? We were to journey on camels as speed
> was imperative. Wherefore, when sundown came, I found myself far from that
> hallowed mount in Galilee. The sun set for me that day behind the bleak
> Samarian hills.
> 
> We broke our journey at Shechem
> to rest for the night in its old caravansary; and as I lay in a great vaulted
> chamber, pressed to my lover's heart, in the dark I heard him whisper;
> 
> "My whole life centers in you, O my
> Mary. Without you, I exist not."
> 
> Alone with him I loved above all
> earthly things, but bereft of that unearthly One who had opened to me the gates
> of another Kingdom...what was this new loneliness?
> 
> I no longer dared speak Jesus'
> name, for once when I did, Novatus had muttered an oath beneath his breath.
> Wherefore, for the first time, I had a life separate from my beloved, a sweet
> secret world wherein I would hide to worship my Lord. And Novatus sensed this
> and feared and hated it.
> 
> Oh the pity of that blind fear!
> Now I but loved him the more, with a quickened passion, tenacious as it had
> never been, and a deeper, more poignant tenderness. For now I understood those words
> of Jesus, "I will send for you." From Galilee to Jerusalem would He send — I
> knew not how soon. And when such a call should come, what could I do but obey
> it, though it tear me forever from my beloved?
> 
> Here, verily, was a cause of
> fear, had Novatus but known it. But this too I must keep hid from him, a guilty
> secret, gnawing at my heart, clutching it now and again with a grip so fierce
> that I thought at such times I was dying.
> 
> Could I but prove to my poor
> Novatus that my love for the holy Jesus had naught to do with human love, but
> was in a realm apart, like to the worship of God, the burning of incense in a
> temple! This foolish, impious jealousy was no more than an evil dream. Could I
> but wake my beloved...while there was yet time!
> 
> Opportunity slipped with the
> passing days. At last I dared wait no longer to speak out the truth though
> against the barriers of that stubborn will, I know not how I should reach him.
> 
> One night as we sat in the porch,
> looking out on a dusky wall of cedars and cypress trees, while my fountain
> tinkled in the starlight, Novatus being in a tender mood and sitting with an
> arm around me, I ventured upon my theme.
> 
> "Dear one," I whispered, "no word
> you have ever said to me is forgot. By your words my mind has grown. And once...we
> talked of tragedy. This, you said, was but the result of something being ill-timed.
> But what of the scars of tragedy on the heart?"
> 
> He stiffened, for he knew me as I
> knew him.
> 
> "They are never very deep. Take
> the emotions. Though the relation be the closest, the loved one is certain to
> be replaced by another if all things go not well."
> 
> So...he would threaten me!
> 
> "Should aught go wrong between
> us, Novatus, there would be none other for me. And naught could go wrong if you
> would but hear me. Jesus..." (at the name his lips curled; he withdrew his arm from
> my shoulder) "...Jesus to me is Messiah,
> whom one loves not with body but with the soul."
> 
> "You cannot, Mary, divide
> yourself up in this way! Mind and body are one whole. You deceive yourself, my
> child."
> 
> "Oh, listen, Novatus! Open your
> mind. Try, try to think with the Jew. One thing wherefore I have loved you is
> your gift of sympathy. Why withhold it...now...from me? Think of the faith I imbibed even with my mother's
> milk. Consider this: I have been schooled all my life in one great Expectation,
> the coming of the Messiah, and all my life this Expected One has been as a
> living Person to me and I have loved Him...as I loved God. Long ere I saw Him living
> in Jesus I loved Him. I look upon Jesus not as man, Novatus. To me He is Lord
> of men, the holy Messenger of God, sent down upon earth with great power to
> free this cruel, benighted age from its fetters of darkness."
> 
> He had heard me thus far with
> cold impatience; now he broke:
> 
> "Fetters of darkness! The Hebrew
> mind has a morbid twist, Mary. And I wonder that your Greek blood from your
> father, philosopher that he was, rises not up against this. We live, dear child,
> far removed from a dark age. Ours is the age of enlightenment, an age of clear
> thinking, science, art. The arts of the Muses, the sciences of construction,
> such as the past never knew, whether it be the construction of temple or
> circus, aqueduct or government. All this...and this, I maintain is light...the civilization of Rome is
> spreading throughout the world. Rome may be power-mad but she builds in
> untrodden places. You are vague, my Mary. Define 'darkness.' "
> 
> "I think conquest is darkness, O
> Novatus. I think war is darkness."
> 
> "But through conquest, I repeat,
> Rome is spreading enlightenment throughout the world. And war is essential to
> the strong nation. Without war the nation becomes, like the Greeks, effete."
> 
> "I cannot argue on such things
> beloved. But I will tell you another form of darkness. It has come to me that
> even love may weld fetters of darkness."
> 
> I know not why I spoke such words
> unless from the carelessness of despair. They struck fire from my poor Novatus.
> 
> "What is this fanatic strain in
> your race through which it falls easy prey to rebels whom you call prophets? And
> you of all others, Mary! What would you do midst a dirty mob, trailing a
> vagabond? What would you do without roof or bed, crawling into some cave by night
> to sleep on clay...this delicate raiment" — he pinched up a fold of my tunic — "shredding
> into rags? Nay, think you I would brook this while I lived? There are ways, my
> Mary, to guard you from yourself. Rome has small use for rebels."
> 
> I met his eyes unafraid, and at
> this the anger went out of him. Pleading stole into his voice.
> 
> "Mary, mistake not for lust that
> which is love. Love to me is that awe wherewith one regards the sacredness of
> another's person. And it is this I feel for you. Mary...till I met your loveliness
> I had never known anything but lust. But when I saw you, a flame in you burned
> through my hard fibre and — if you would know the truth — woke in me
> something I cannot name; you might name it spirit. That day I found you...darling...so
> young, scarce more than a child...alone in the door of an empty house, weeping
> for your dead mother...."
> 
> "Ah, yes, that day when you came
> down the path to water your horse in the sea."
> 
> "That day, my child. I knew that
> never till then had there been any reality in my life. Yes, what you call
> spirit, I call reality. And reality to me is what I can touch...feel."
> 
> His face yearned upon me. In pity
> and passion woven together in too strong a mesh, I yielded to his formidable
> love.
> 
> Now I knew the full cruelty of my
> fate; that my heart was caught in a strait betwixt two giant loves which were
> as enemies one to the other. My passion for this dear Roman I could not uproot.
> My love for Jesus was a quenchless flame. In the nearness of Novatus the human
> love overwhelmed the divine. The face of my so earthly lover blurred the memory
> of the immortal face. The touch of the human hand, the human lips, I would
> crave. And times there were when the echoes of that promise, "I will send for
> you," would drive me, defiant, to the broad breast of Novatus to seek
> protection there, in the bosom of this blinded creature, against a too jealous God.
> 
> Shamed was I in my soul. For one
> who would throw away life, was I not holding fast to mine?
> 
> VI
> 
> RECLINING ONE DAY in my peristyle
> alone (for Novatus was gone on an errand to Tiberias), I was meditating on a
> dream, my heart swallowed up in fear as I re-lived it, lest it be a prophecy.
> 
> In my dream I stood wrapped in a
> blue cloak beneath the great arch of the Fish Gate in Manasseh's Wall, looking
> out from its mouldy shade into the glitter of noon. With jewelled hand I clasped
> my veil. I faced Jerusalem. The rows of white houses enclosing the market-place,
> glaring in the sun, dazzled my eyes. Of a sudden Novatus appeared in a doorway;
> then crossed the square quickly toward me. He wore a red tunic banded with
> purple and the golden circlet on his head ringed it with fire. His hands were
> out-stretched; his face eager. I waited, my heart full in my throat.
> 
> The dream changed. Now my lover
> had entered the gate, but, alas...and I knew not what this meant...he was striding
> past me, seeing me not, robed for a journey in toga and white mantle, his profile
> set and cold as marble. Fear laying low my pride, I cast an anguished glance
> behind me, to see him in a green meadow, hand in hand with a woman. Her face I
> could not see, for she too was wrapped in a cloak...a crimson cloak, the colour
> of wine...or...blood. It seemed to me I died in my dream! I all but died now as a I
> brooded on it.
> 
> Then it was that Mary of Bethany
> came. At the sound of steps I turned. My little Greek slave stood at the door,
> and in the portico, Mary. Her presence brought with it a breath from another world.
> Her chastity seemed to rebuke me.
> 
> She came and sat at the foot of
> my reclining chair, silent while she fixed me with a long gaze. Tears of
> compassion shone in her eyes which, like to her mouth, had ever a secret look,
> as of one who knows and veils a mystery.
> 
> "Mary," she breathed at last, "the
> Master has sent for you."
> 
> My hand at my breast, I
> stammered:
> 
> "But Novatus is away."
> 
> "This is your opportunity."
> 
> I liked not the words, though it
> was she that spoke them.
> 
> "To run away would be cowardice,"
> I said.
> 
> "It is your only chance to
> escape."
> 
> "How poor a creature then you
> think me!"
> 
> "I know your too tender, yielding
> heart."
> 
> I turned from her. I rolled in
> anguish. I bit my pillow.
> 
> "O God," I whispered, "to be
> stronger, that what I must do I might do nobly."
> 
> "The Master knows all things,"
> she said, and now she moved closer and knelt beside me and laid a soft hand on
> my hand. "Today this word came from Galilee for you. And the moment of
> obedience is the moment when the Lord speaks."
> 
> I rose and unclasped my jewels,
> princely gifts from Novatus, and they dropped, a flashing heap, at my feet. I
> stooped then and gathered them and took them to my little scarlet chamber and
> laid them away in their casket. But even as I shut them from me, my eyes fell
> on my jar of nard. I snatched it to me heart. A breath of ineffable fragrance
> escaped its broken seal. With swooning senses I drank of its spice, remembering...remembering....
> Essence of our rapture bottled in a tear-shaped jar.... No, I could not, would
> not leave this! If I must be exiled from earth...dear earth!...I would take into heaven's
> aridity with me this memory-evoking nard. But I hid it from those secret eyes
> of Mary.
> 
> We started on our journey — oh,
> immeasurable journey, from him who was the whole substance of mortal love to
> me, unto the Lord-God-with-us.
> 
> Mary and I had joined a caravan
> whose destination, like ours, was Capernaum, where our Lord was sojourning. We
> had made the start from Mary's house in Bethany, a little white house, built of
> carved tiles, with a pomegranate tree at its door. Mary's sister, Martha — that
> dark, different sister — had met me with a grim face, and her brother,
> Lazarus alas, with sly advances.
> 
> By now it was midsummer. The
> countryside was parched and thirsty, the trees along the road powdered with
> dust. In the shade of a tree here and there a leper crouched, crying out
> raucously as he saw us, holding out a ghostly hand for alms, or a blind beggar sat
> patient, flies swarming on his closed eyelids.
> 
> We left Judea behind, entered the
> Samarian country, sighted the pointed peaks of Gilboa and the rising-moon of
> Tabor; and at last, from a grassy mount, looked down on the sea of Galilee.
> 
> On the way, as we rested at an inn,
> I made bold to confide in Mary, longing to bear my soul.
> 
> "Oh, Mary," thus I began, "I had
> such pride in the choice of my heart. To have loved such a man.... To have so loved such a man.... Now I must deny
> this love. And what will he do?"
> 
> But she broke in upon my words,
> and I knew from a sudden sternness in her that she was far from love and grief
> as is a star from earth.
> 
> "What is human love compared with
> the divine? Man's love is no more than a mirage, or as waves that roll in upon
> the shore, wave after wave, and break, and are lost."
> 
> "You have never loved!" I cried.
> 
> She raised her eyes heavenward.
> 
> "None but God," she whispered.
> 
> "How have you escaped...if you have
> a heart?"
> 
> The sharp words sprang from my
> lips ere I could think to withhold them, for all that was in me rebelled at
> that heavenward look, that lofty answer; and I felt sad and sore because the angel
> had no power to comfort me.
> 
> Softly she spoke.
> 
> "All my life, I believe, I have
> been waiting for the Lord Jesus and His sacred love. Mary, the heart is never
> content until it bestows itself on the highest. From my youth up I have guessed
> this. Marriage meant naught to me. Then when I saw our Lord I knew why."
> 
> "But had you married with love,"
> I said, "you would know that such love too is sacred, since it is veritable
> oneness. Oneness of spirit, oneness of flesh...."
> 
> "Flesh?" she darted me a cold
> glance.
> 
> Yes, flesh! Wherein spirit dwells
> on earth...the flesh of two beings that are as one soul...."
> 
> "Mary" — she bent low to
> me — "can you not drive out this stranger from your heart and truly admit
> your Lord?"
> 
> I turned away despairing.
> 
> "How can I make you to see that
> if there be any stranger I myself am interwoven with him. And now that we are
> rent asunder can you look for less than agony? Could you cut the hand from the arm
> without pain...and maiming? Could you cleave the heart in twain and still live?"
> 
> We came to Tiberias. Here I
> lowered my veil, torn between terror lest I encounter Novatus and a mad desire
> to turn back now, ere it be forever too late, and fly to him who was blood of
> my blood, soul of my soul.
> 
> We passed brown Magdala, then
> into level land, through the golden grain fields of Gennesaret. At last we
> entered Capernaum. And there we traced our Lord to the house of Simon the
> Pharisee, where He sat at the mid-day meal and awaited the many who came to hear
> Him speak.
> 
> Following the multitude we
> reached a great white mansion and, crossing its court, were borne with the
> crowd up a stair leading to the second story and into a dim hall. Light
> streamed through an archway — light and the strains of a chanting voice!
> 
> "Cause us to drink of the crystal
> river of Thine, O Divine One!
> 
> "Cause us to walk in the garden
> of Thy nearness, O Beloved!
> 
> "Cause us to attain the summit of
> Paradise. Shepherd of the World!
> 
> "Make us steadfast in Thy love, O
> Inspirer!"
> 
> God of my fathers...that voice! How
> it struck into my heart...pierced, wounded it. As I drank even deeper of its swinging
> cadences, in which a wrenched agony, as of the suffering of God, rose blended
> with strains of triumph, earth with its poor delights, its puny sorrows, faded
> away.
> 
> "Cause us to approach the throne
> of Thy might, O Cleaver of Dawn!
> 
> Make us steadfast in Thy love, O
> Inspirer!"
> 
> I could endure no more! Blind to
> the throng gathered in the outer hall, blind to all but One who sat at Simon's
> table, I ran through the arch to that One and cast myself down at His feet and wept...and
> dared rain kisses on those holy feet.
> 
> What could I do now to pledge
> myself forever to Him? Of what worth was my word? But one treasure remained to
> me. I drew it from its hiding-place in my breast. Should I empty my nard,
> should I shatter my jar at His feet, would He know this to be my mortal heart,
> broken into fragments for His sake, and all its love spilled for Him? I drained
> out the perfume to the last drop and dashed the jar upon the stones before Him.
> And then I looked up...and His eyes were a fathomless mystery. So that none could
> hear He bent low and whispered, "I
> know." Once more I cast myself down, and His feet...so wet with my tears and my
> nard...I wiped with the locks of my hair.
> 
> From afar...so it seemed to me...I
> heard murmurings.
> 
> "She is weeping for her sins"...in
> a woman's thin notes.
> 
> "Who is she?"
> 
> "The courtesan, Mary — famous
> in Jerusalem. Once a poor maid from this neighbourhood — Magdala."
> 
> "Oh...she."
> 
> And after this the whisper of a
> man.
> 
> "Why was this waste of ointment
> made? For it might have been sold for more than three-hundred pence and given
> to the poor."
> 
> I know not what it was that made
> me to raise my head at those words and fix my eyes on that man. His whisper had
> come from the seat next Jesus. Who was this that sat so near...and counted pence?
> I saw a face drugged with earth.
> 
> The whispers buzzed on — now
> whispers of men.
> 
> "It is polluted ointment.
> Ointment used for shameful purposes."
> 
> "With this ointment she anoints
> her body for her lovers...and she dares pour it on the Master's feet!"
> 
> Then the voice of Jesus Himself
> lifted with authority, while upon my head I felt a hand, light as a rose-leaf,
> firm as mail — and the centre of its palm burned me with its life.
> 
> "Let her alone. Why do you trouble
> her? You have the poor with you always and whenever you will you can do them
> good. But me you have not always. Verily, verily I tell you, that wheresoever throughout
> the world this gospel shall be taught, this that she has done shall be
> mentioned also as a memorial to her."
> 
> Silence, heavy with shame, hushed
> that chamber; I more shamed than all to be the object of so great a bounty.
> None but Jesus could break such silence. He called out now, as if to rouse one who
> slept.
> 
> "Simon! Simon! I have somewhat to
> say unto you."
> 
> His hands still comforted my head
> and from His palm flowed life so strong that His palm was as fountain and my
> body a vase to be filled from it. Wherefore, lost to all save this mystery, I heard
> naught He said to Simon till I became aware He spoke of me.
> 
> "You gave me no water for my
> feet, but she has washed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair.
> You gave me no kiss, but this woman since she came in has not ceased to kiss my
> feet. You brought no oil to anoint my head, but she has anointed my feet with
> her precious ointment. Wherefore all her sins are forgiven. For she loves much...."
> 
> I burst into sobs so wild that I
> could hear no more.
> 
> And now I must be alone. To a
> corner of Simon's garden I went and sat upon a stone bench, screened from the
> house by tall bushes.
> 
> All my sins forgiven for this sin of loving...of a reckless spending
> of my heart and counting not the cost? Did the virtues of the Kingdom then
> centre in but one — unbridled love for God and all that He had made?
> 
> At a sound in the bushes I looked
> up and saw a man plucking a rose. He turned. Why...this was he that had sat next
> Jesus! Now he came toward me holding out the rose, his great body sinuous in its
> gliding. At close hand I could observe his features. His nose hooked downward.
> His mouth was a ruby crescent in his beard, his brows like a scimitar curved
> across his forehead. The full ellipses of his amber-coloured eyes gloated upon
> me. He smiled...as a serpent bares its fangs.
> 
> "Will you have a red rose from
> me?"
> 
> "But it was you that questioned
> my humble gift to Jesus."
> 
> "Your face was hid when I made
> that speech! Beautiful Mary, I am Judas Iscariot, chief of the Lord's
> disciples." He flung the words at me, his head tossed back, his red lips
> curling.
> 
> "Chief of the Lord's disciples?
> And you offer lust where your Lord gives love."
> 
> Judas' eyes flinched, his face
> fell, and a look of strange despair engulfed his pride, as of one inured to
> defeat, so that for a little space I pitied him...till he lifted those eyes, narrowed
> with guile.
> 
> "I offer my heart, O cruel one."
> Seduction lurked in his voice. "The rose, the hundred-petaled rose, Mary, is a
> symbol of the heart and of the oneness of hearts."
> 
> "The nard was the symbol of my
> heart offered to the Lord," I said. "With Him alone I wish oneness."
> 
> "Do you think you can have it
> this way, when you scorn a fellow-creature?"
> 
> The thrust was sharp...and, alas,
> true. Judas dealt it as if in soft reproach, his voice wistful. But my eyes,
> piercing his mask, saw behind the secretive flesh a sinister self — like to
> a column of black basalt, immovable and cold — and I gave him thrust for
> thrust, though mine the worst by far.
> 
> "You, Judas, are a hypocrite. In
> the Master's very presence you gossiped of my paramours. I will not trouble to
> deny such slander. Yet you seek for yourself, from me, that same illicit love for which you dared judge me."
> 
> "It is you that judge me, Mary."
> I marvelled at the man's patience. So deaf was he to my bold affronts that now
> a dark laughter danced in his eyes. "And the Master has said, daring to jest
> with holy words, " 'judge not that you be not judged.' You will have a fall,"
> he chuckled in his throat. "Mark what I say, Mary of Magdala, you will have a
> fall!"
> 
> Then, leaving his rose to die in
> the dust of the path, he turned on his heel and went back into Simon's house...to
> companion Jesus.
> 
> And I stood and grieved for that
> I should hate him, when I had hoped at such a moment, fresh from the Lord's forgiveness,
> to love all that God had made.
> 
> VII
> 
> AT SUNDOWN, again athirst for
> solitude, I stole from our chamber at the inn, where Mary lay in a light sleep,
> and set forth for the synagogue. Now the synagogue stands on that street which ends
> in the highway, and when I had mounted the few steps to its court and turned to
> watch the beauty of the sunset — the sky being an inverted golden bowl and
> the sea a mirror to it — I saw in the distance a horseman galloping. His
> face was hid in the shadow of his mantle, but that form...that form...broad in the shoulders,
> lean, erect on his horse, well I knew!
> 
> Oh, to escape such a meeting! Yet
> could I flee from it...from Novatus?
> Nay, whatsoever the pain of it, this I would not do. I stood still, in full
> view upraised on those steps, the long avenue of the colonnade behind
> me — still as a statue — waiting.
> 
> Swiftly he drew nearer. Now I saw
> the beetling brows below the white mantle, the oval drop of the chin, the thin
> red mouth. And now I saw his eyes and the anger smouldering in them. He dismounted
> and strode to my side.
> 
> "Mary" — his voice shook — "why
> such a blow in the dark? You stabbed me, Mary, while I slept."
> 
> No answer had I, nor voice
> wherewith to answer. I cast down my eyes, mute in my shame.
> 
> "What folly, this flight...and to
> my very neighborhood. You have gone mad! The scene you made today in the house
> of that Jew...ah, you wonder that I know of it? A guest present from Tiberias
> quickly brought the news. Did it not shame you then to be held up a
> gazingstock, exposed to a room full of hypocrites as a repentant harlot, your 'sins'
> the apt subject of a parable? Nay, this has shamed both you and me. Come back
> to me, Mary...to your own home...to my love that changes not, though you lose your senses...turn
> coward...knife me in the back." I shrank from the hunger in his look. "Or" — seeing
> me shrink, his eyes blazed — "or, by all the gods, Rome shall make short
> work of this man Jesus, shall despatch Him before another sundown."
> 
> Now I found my voice. Terrified,
> driven to the wall, lost to all thought of myself or my shame, now I found my
> voice.
> 
> "Novatus, should you dare destroy
> this Holy One of God, and do so because of me, I swear to you I will kill
> myself."
> 
> He bowed his head and stood
> lingering...for I knew not what. And my heart broke over him and I longed to take
> him to my breast. But he had made the worst of threats and the life of the Lord
> Himself was now imperiled by him. And I knew not what he might do. Resources
> had he to carry out this threat, and also to defeat mine. Wherefore I spoke
> once more, and my words were false as they were cruel.
> 
> "Whatsoever you may attempt, you
> will find of no avail. Your hold upon me is loosed, O Novatus. And...you are too
> proud to seek revenge."
> 
> "Mary, why do you weep?"
> 
> On the temple steps Jesus found
> me in tears.
> 
> "Oh my Lord, I have driven my
> lover away...broken him...with a lie. And...this worthless life of mine...would I had
> never offered it to you! For now...it menaces your life. My Lord, Novatus would
> kill you."
> 
> A touch on my head, a burning
> current streaming from a light hand, and I lifted my face to His above me, and
> to the compassion in His eyes.
> 
> "Why do you weep?" He said once
> more, and now he was smiling. "When you have verily given up, your lover shall
> come after you."
> 
> VIII
> 
> THREE DAYS HAD PASSED. On the way
> to sup with our Lord in Peter's house, John and I strolled the highway. It was
> the twilight hour. Through alleys betwixt the black houses that edge the beach,
> women were coming up from the sea bearing jars on their shawled heads.
> 
> To John I could speak, as I could
> not to Mary — the Mary that had never loved — as I dared not yet to the
> holy mother, of the sorrow and dread in my heart.
> 
> "Dear John," I said, "you have
> been patient these three days and have taught me much. I see now that to fear
> Novatus was a great folly, since the Divine One cannot be slain by human hands.
> And my heart is truly comforted by my Lord's sweet promise, which I could never
> doubt, that some day my lover will come back. But...oh, in the meantime, I
> tremble for him! I know not to what I have goaded him. Yet I can guess. He will
> turn to some other woman, John. For without a woman's love Novatus cannot
> endure his disillusioned life."
> 
> "Is that all?" said John.
> 
> The scornful question was softened
> by his voice, which was melodious as a viol.
> 
> "But I once dreamed of another
> woman...a woman in a crimson mantle. And crimson is the colour of blood. This
> bodes ill to him."
> 
> "Mary, I swear you do doubt!
> Yield him up to the woman...should there be one! Why be troubled since the end is
> sure? The Lord has been merciful in giving you such assurance. He is all compassion
> to His children. He feels with us, aches with our sorrows. Still...has He not called
> us out from our private grief, our private happiness, to serve Him in His giant
> task? If we would share this task, how strong we must be! Messengers of God
> come not as physicians to babes, healing one of a fever, another of a heartache.
> When the house itself is rotting they come to raise a the new structure amid
> the ruin. To dare to serve so great a Builder should be enough for such humble
> ones as we."
> 
> By now we were close to the home
> of Peter, which stood on the narrow strip to our right between the highway and
> the sea...a simple dwelling of black brick, criss-crossed with lines of mortar.
> 
> His disciples alone were to sup
> with Jesus that night, the twelve men who were ever with Him and a few women;
> the holy mother, the wife of Peter, the mother of John, and Mary of Bethany.
> And to this meeting of near ones He had in His loving kindness bid me.
> 
> We entered a whited chamber lit
> by candles. Here our Lord sat upon a bench, kingly in full white robes that
> billowed from His wide-spread knees, casting a mighty shadow on the wall. His disciples,
> seated on the floor, formed a half circle at His feet.
> 
> As we crossed the threshold, John's
> mother looked up from that circle and I saw a small frown gather her forehead.
> Yet she was a soft and lovely creature, with child-like cheeks and a round cleft
> chin and, under two little arches for brows, great blue eyes that ever
> worshipped Jesus.
> 
> Vashti, the wife of Peter, came
> forward to greet me. Vashti had a fierce beauty. Her face was short and put me
> in mind of a young eagle, and dusky tresses framed it, flying out from her white
> veil. Her brows were like spread wings rising from low on the bridge of her
> nose. Her mouth when she smiled could be merry, though today, alas, I saw a
> tight-lipped smile. This woman bestowed her trust with caution and not yet was
> it given to Mary of Magdala.
> 
> Peter followed his wife to bid me
> welcome — a man of heavy build, but with the quick of his soul bared on his
> broad face. He grasped my hands and tears filled his eyes. For Peter wept and laughed
> readily. Love had he wherewith to weep; wisdom wherewith to laugh.
> 
> Behind Peter, Judas Iscariot
> slunk my way with a grin. Plainly, Judas had forgiven me!
> 
> "Mary, you like me not, but I am
> a good-fellow; try me! I will make you laugh, I will make you dance!" He whipped
> out a flute from the breastfold of his robe and tilted it to his lips. "You
> will dance to my piping!"
> 
> I swept past him, mute and
> indignant, for there was a Presence in that chamber, and to that Presence I straightaway
> went and took my place at His feet. The master smiled down on me and I thought:
> now I know that God in heaven smiles.
> 
> We gathered round the table, spread
> with a white cloth and strewn with jasmine and rose petals, The Master placed
> Peter (who wept and begged for a humbler seat) at the head of the table. He himself
> took the center, Vashti at His right hand. His mother sat at His left and we
> other Marys across from Him. And when He had chanted, blessing the food, He
> turned His face to me and said:
> 
> "You have journeyed far to be with
> me. Some souls come here and are resuscitated. They come dead, they return
> alive. They come sick, they return healed. They come in sorrow and return joyous.
> They come in want and return having partaken of a share. They come athirst,
> they return satisfied! Praise be to God, you are of these souls and you must
> rejoice exceedingly therefore."
> 
> Now the mother of John turned
> about to me that little frown gone from her face, and caught my hand and folded
> it in hers. And the Master, seeing this, glowed upon her.
> 
> "Wife of Zebedee," He said, "you
> have a tender heart." Then He looked on Mary of Bethany. "You have a kind
> heart. And what sort of a heart have you, O Mary of Magdala?" His smile was
> full upon me. "What sort of a heart have you?"
> 
> "Oh, what sort of a heart have I?
> You know Rabboni!"
> 
> "You have a boiling heart,
> Magdalene" — Laughing He rolled His lively hands one round the other. "You
> have a heart in tumult! Now, were these three hearts made one...the kind, the
> tender, the tumultuous...what a great heart that would be!"
> 
> Thus the meal went on, we happy
> and gay in the presence of this Holy One, who could be gayer than any. And then
> came a solemn change. The Master fell silent, His eyes uprolled, that luminous gaze
> as it were turned within Himself. It was even as though He had gone away,
> leaving only the shell of His body with us. Now,
> I thought, I can drink my fill of His beauty! But He moved, caught me staring,
> and smiled.
> 
> "Speak, Mary, speak," He said, "Your
> eyes are all speech."
> 
> "Your presence," I stammered, "makes
> of this meal a king's banquet."
> 
> "This is because of your great
> love. Once a poet said, 'Wounds dealt by Thee are my healing. Poison from Thy
> hand is honey.' "
> 
> "Wound me and give me poison that
> my human heart may die!"
> 
> "I will. When afflictions and
> bitter conditions taste sweet to man, this is a sign that he has found favour
> in the sight of God."
> 
> Now Peter murmured:
> 
> "The Master is feeding His sheep."
> 
> Jesus bowed His head and lowered His
> eyes and His hands lay open in His lap like cups.
> 
> "I myself am the food," He said.
> 
> In the silence I could all but
> hear my tears fall. Then the Master raised His head with an ineffable smile.
> 
> "Eat, Mary."
> 
> Fool that I was and blind to
> think He meant the food on my platter! To obey I ate of that food, though now
> it was like to rough, coarse grains and I scarce could swallow the changed substance.
> Or...was it my body that was changed and caught up into the Kingdom? Yes, the
> change was in this body, so light was it now, so filled with sparkling life, as
> if fashioned of air.
> 
> "I myself am the food," the Lord
> had said.
> 
> So, it was heavenly food of which
> He had bidden me partake. And verily I had
> partaken, for what could this be...this life effervescing within me...if it be not
> His life?
> 
> On the dark and deserted highway
> Mary and I walked alone to our inn, the blue night enveloping us. To our left
> the sea ran a liquid silver; to the right stood rows of black houses. The Synagogue
> lay ahead, its columns pallid in the moonlight, casting long black shadows. Its
> deep, colonnaded porch stood at the corner of the highway and the steep little street
> that led to our inn. Weary as we were, we dreaded this climb and, when we
> reached the Synagogue, we sat down on its steps to rest. Behind us stretched the
> long recess of the colonnade, its pavement — flanked by those many columns — striped
> with black shadows; the street at the side striped with black shadows. A white
> moon soared over the sea, while her double danced on its ripples, and Mary
> said:
> 
> "I never saw the moon so dazzling."
> 
> "But," I made answer, "when I
> think of the lustre on Jesus' face tonight, this whole scene looks opaque to
> me, even as a painting on a wall."
> 
> She pressed my hand and we both
> fell silent. In the stillness of the night, as I watched the rippling, flashing
> sea, I was again aware of that life like to wine within me and my heart opened
> to a fragrance blown from white gardens.
> 
> A scream pierced and rent the
> stillness. Mary had screamed! And at that instant the folds of a cloak flung
> over me from behind, muffled me in thick darkness. Hands wrapped it around me, muscular
> arms lifted me, and I knew that a man bore me down the steps and a little further
> on level ground, and set me down in a chair. Then to the tramp of feet I moved
> forward. At my side hoofs clattered on the stones. But soon all sound ceased as
> we came to a halt. Again hands fumbled about my body, loosing the cloak,
> freeing my face of it, and I saw (and this surprised me not) that I sat in my
> own litter — Felix, Novatus' most trusted slave, on his horse beside me.
> 
> "I ask pardon, my lady, for such
> rough treatment," he said, bending an anxious look upon me. "I could not have
> done this, you know, but by the express command of my Master."
> 
> A great light seemed to break
> upon me, and the while we jogged along the highway, through the little city of
> Bethesda, through silvered wheat fields, past the black slabs of Magdala's
> huts, Tiberias looming darkly ahead, a huddle of black and silver cubes descending
> the mountain, my thoughts were as a song of triumph.
> 
> How swift the fulfilment of the
> Lord's promise; that when I had verily given up my lover should come after me!
> How easy...this giving up! I had done no more than breathe a prayer, "Wound me and
> give me poison that my human heart may die." And my Lord, without death, had
> immortalized my heart and without death changed me. Poison and wounds had I
> asked, and instead He had fed me with His own life, refining my very flesh
> thereby. And here I was now on the road to Tiberias...on the way back to my
> beloved...a new Mary, ready to meet him, ready at last to win him to the Lord!
> But yesterday Jesus had said, as I knelt at His feet, "You must become so free
> and joyous; Mary, that you will be able to light in a cold heart a great fire."
> Now indeed was I free and joyous!
> 
> True, Novatus himself had come
> not after me. Lawless as Barabbas, chief of bandits, he had stolen me by the
> hands of slaves. But...could he steal me from the Lord save by the will of the
> Lord?
> 
> Late in the night we entered
> Tiberias and, passing through its crooked streets, soon reached the terrace
> where stood our villa, its white walls shining below the high feathers of the
> palms.
> 
> Within, the villa was silent and
> dark. I walked the length of the atrium, blue in a haze of moonlight, and,
> approaching the colonnade, saw a light like a yellow star glowing in my cubiculum.
> Lois, my little Greek slave, crossed the peristyle to meet me. She welcomed me
> with happy tears and led me back to my chamber where she had wine and cakes set
> out. There she tenderly served me, removing my rumpled tunic, preparing my
> bath, and when I had come forth fresh from it, kneading me with perfumed
> oils — with the oils of heady spices. Then, covering me with a broidered
> sheet of silk, she bade me good-night...and left the lamp burning.
> 
> Impatient, now I awaited my dear
> one, scarce able to wait, being at last so free to love him, to atone for my
> baseness toward him, scarce able to wait to 'light in this heart a great fire.'
> 
> A step. The curtains at the
> doorway parted and Novatus stood in the arch, in his eyes a look humbled and
> shamed.
> 
> "Forgive me, Mary. I did a brutal
> thing, but you left me no other way. I knew you had lied to me. I know in my very
> fibre your love for me. The only thing in the world of which I am sure is this...this...and my love for you."
> 
> His voice quivered. I saw his lips
> quiver. I held out welcoming arms.
> 
> "Yes...you can love...Novatus...."
> 
> With a cry he was on his knees
> beside my couch. And the rhythm of our oneness pulsed in that chamber — a
> great silent song.
> 
> IX
> 
> TWO WEARY MONTHS had passed. By
> now the summer was far advanced. Long since, in my villa on the Mount of Olives — that
> house of the little foolish loves — I had lost my joy, my freedom.
> 
> On a night of stifling heat
> Novatus and I were reclining in the atrium, by the air-refreshing pool. From
> the walls those cupids mocked us with their levity, their darts and balances
> and gay garlands. Talk had flickered and died. I sat brooding.
> 
> Why...why had all gone wrong? No
> means had I left untried to win my beloved to my Lord. He had grown but the
> more implacable in his jealousy, the more ravenous for the whole of me. Mind
> and soul I must yield as well as body, my every thought I must yield, ere I satisfy
> his devouring greed. What could I do to break this net of falsity in which I
> now found myself caught? Even my prayers had been in vain.
> 
> Novatus left his reclining chair,
> seated himself on mine and bent a flushed face to me. Into his half-closed eyes
> there came a crafty look and to his thin lips the hunger of a wolf. I shuddered
> away from him.
> 
> "Come not near me tonight!" I cried,
> "tonight, I tell you frankly, my mind is full of a better thing — that vision
> I saw in Galilee in the heart of a true man — in the hearts of a few audacious
> fishermen...."
> 
> "Mary!"
> 
> "You thought I had forgot? Never
> can I forget. Can I stay with you, Novatus, and you mine so closed to truth? I
> once thought you just. Were you verily so, you would seek out Jesus and see for
> yourself."
> 
> "Mary...I...I have done this."
> 
> "You have done it!" I sat up,
> amazed, and my anger dropped from me. "Oh, when?"
> 
> "That time I was in Tiberias...without
> you, before I found you in Capernaum."
> 
> "You will tell me what happened?"
> Not easy was it to curb my eagerness.
> 
> "He mocked me," Novatus muttered,
> black fury on his face. "He laughed at me."
> 
> "He laughed at you? Oh
> impossible. Tell me all He said. Tell me what you said. Why is it you have kept
> this hid?"
> 
> "I could not grieve you, Mary.
> But, since it is out, you may have the story. I went to Him privately...to the
> house of one of your fishermen, where he was quartered. I too shall be frank. I
> went for your sake, that I might...'see for myself' the true nature of His
> influence over you. But I approached Him with courtesy. In His first question
> was contempt. A subtle contempt. 'What was the news of Rome?' I answered
> Him — truthfully — that Rome at the moment was occupied with the
> Olympic games."
> 
> "And there was no contempt in
> that, Novatus?"
> 
> "I but stated the truth. He then
> said it was a pity men should be occupied with games. Still courteous, I
> explained that these games had a serious object. The bodies of our potential
> soldiers must be developed to the fullest strength to drive heavy swords through
> coats of mail and to support the weight of the armour. He replied with
> flippancy that man was too greatly concerned with this perfecting of the body,
> for no matter to what extent he developed his sinews he could never become as
> strong as the ox, as bold as the lion or as big as the elephant. And this
> barbarian had the effrontery thus to trifle with me!"
> 
> So dismayed was I that I could
> not laugh, even at Novatus' comic anger. Too great a riddle was this for me to
> guess! Why was it the tender Jesus — He who would not crush a bruised
> reed — had treated Novatus thus?
> 
> Sick to heart, I went to my
> chamber alone, and my lover sought me not that night. Strange that the dawn
> should have been so safeguarded!
> 
> A pebble flung against my
> casement woke me. I went to the casement and looked down on John.
> 
> "One word," I whispered. "Where
> may I meet you?"
> 
> John raised to my hand a small
> clay tablet.
> 
> "At Mary's house in Bethany."
> And, swift as a deer, he was gone.
> 
> Traced on the tablet in flowing
> script I beheld...an epistle from my Lord. And life tiding back and flooding me
> and a great joy lifting me up, I sank to my couch to read it.
> 
> "O tender lamb! How long will you
> wander bewildered while the Shepherd seeks you? Without hesitation turn to the
> flock, that led once again by the shepherd
> over hill and wady, in the light of the Sun of Truth, you may renew your
> spirit. Could you but know the love that awaits you, you would delay no longer
> your return to the fold."
> 
> "Bewildered"..."wandering"...the
> tablet dropped to my knees. Merciful Father, those words were addressed to a stray sheep!
> 
> So...I had failed. Failed my Lord.
> Failed Novatus. Had I then lost
> Novatus? Forfeited my Lord's promise? And...my hope...my great purpose to win to
> the Lord this dear beloved who was more than half of me, who was the very tree
> of my identity from which I grew as a branch.... If a hope so high be lost, if it
> be verily true that I must be cut from the tree, then let me die...quickly...O my God!
> I sank into a black abyss.
> 
> Ah, last night, last night...could
> I but relive it with the wisdom born of this agony. Or...have another night!
> Enough to abandon my beloved! Why leave him hopeless, bitter, believing I went
> in hate, shuddering from his touch, where...I so burned for that touch now, when...I
> so loved him? Nay, I would take this night. Such was my right and his. Yet...why
> wait for night?
> 
> I sprang from my couch to seek
> him, then paused to put my tablet in a chest. But even as I stooped to cover it
> my glance fell on that flowing script, and I saw words verily hidden from me before....
> "Without hesitation, turn to the
> flock." Why...here was a command wrapped in such tender phrasing that it had been
> hid from me till now. Another night was not mine to take. "The moment of obedience" — I
> heard again Mary's voice — "is the moment when the Lord speaks."
> 
> I had no choice but to go. In the
> Shepherd...in His forgiveness...lay my only hope.
> 
> I stood for I know not how long,
> there in that familiar chamber, in whose narrow length the wall, painted so
> bright in red, seemed to happily shelter me, from whose casement I could see the
> cedars, the white cupids on pedestals in the grass, the showering fountain. My
> gaze travelled round the little room, lingering on each dear object — my
> couch set upon gilded lion's feet, its cover the hide of a lion, the tripod at
> its foot capped by a winged Mercury, the chairs and the stools of old ivory cushioned
> with Tyrian purple, the dressing-table of citrus wood strewn with precious
> trifles...each one the gift of my lover, quick with his touch. At last I said
> aloud:
> 
> "Lot's wife looked back. I dare
> not."
> 
> I gathered up the few things
> needful and, in trembling haste lest my resolution weaken, made ready to go.
> One robe alone I took with me, a tunic of rich pomegranate stuff, broidered
> with threads of gold, for Novatus himself had chosen this for me and had ever been
> happy when I wore it. And in its soft fold I laid my tablet.
> 
> What could I say to my dear one
> when I should bid him farewell? How explain this sudden fight save as my threat
> of last night explained it? That the Lord had again summoned me — this he must
> never know. I prayed God for strength...for words. Then I went to his door,
> parted the curtains and peered within.
> 
> He lay so still that I knew he slept.
> I stole to his couch and knelt. Pale morning light shone through the casement
> and glinted across his face, illuminating it for me...and I saw that moving thing
> which had ever roused my tenderness, its innocence in sleep.
> 
> Long I knelt with eyes fixed, to
> imprint on my heart forever this face I might see no more...each loved feature of
> Novatus...my lover. And then he woke, looked at me there on my knees, and stretched
> forth his arms to me. Alas that, fearful of my heart, I drew back from those
> dear arms!
> 
> He raised himself on his elbows
> and a great pain dawned in his eyes.
> 
> "Mary...what is it?"
> 
> "Novatus...my dear...I must go."
> 
> "Go? What is all this?"
> 
> "Novatus...if I stay...we will kill
> our love."
> 
> "Kill...our love?"
> 
> "Oh my beloved, do you not know?
> Inwardly are we not parted now? In this outward union we do but wound each
> other. And too many wounds mean...death."
> 
> "Nay, Mary, not in reality
> parted."
> 
> "Ah yes, a shadow lies between us...naught
> but a shadow, could you but see...in time...."
> 
> He cut me off in sudden rage.
> 
> "Shadow? That is a good word,
> Mary. The shadow of your own fancies...from the accursed...."
> 
> "No! No! You must not say it!"
> 
> "May the gods grant that I see
> the day when He is strung on the cross...with other thieves!"
> 
> Horrified by his blasphemy I fled
> and he made not a move to hold me. Now I stood high on the mount. On its rocky
> crest above me, the house of the pure Mary rose like a pillar of snow against the
> blue sky. In the midst of vineyards below, my villa shone in the sun...as if no
> shadow had fallen.... Irresolute I stood.
> 
> So...I had ceased not to blunder
> till I had turned this dearly loved one into a vengeful foe to my Lord. Oh
> never had I been bold enough, free enough with Novatus! I had trod too softly,
> fearful of his jealousy, fearful...ever fearful...of my own heart, lest it be tempted
> to yield its all to him and thus be faithless to Jesus...and in the end I had struck
> him a mortal blow.
> 
> Could I but go back now — for no more than an hour — to my poor
> beloved, alone...so bereft...in that villa, and bare my whole heart at last, with
> all that was in it of anguished love for him, might he not for very pity forget
> his wrath? Pain like to this must move him to listen. Verily, such pain proved
> my love! And when he had heard me and knew...knew
> that naught in earth or heaven could uproot this passion and that to leave him
> was death to me, might he not lay down a little pride and go with me to Jesus?
> To one so generous this should be an easy thing to do...a simple way out of our
> sorrow. not yet was it too late!
> 
> I turned to run down the hill.
> But ere I had run ten paces I saw a commotion within my garden walls. Slaves
> appeared at the porch carrying a litter. Novatus came down the steps of the
> house and seated himself in the litter. The slaves bore him forth to the highway.
> Then I saw them swing about and set off briskly for the Golden Gate.
> 
> On what errand was Novatus bound
> at this early hour, and in such haste? Trembling now for the life of my Lord, I
> sped to that house on the summit.
> 
> Rounding a bend in the road, I
> saw John.
> 
> "John! John!" I cried. "Thank God
> you are here. When I left Novatus...he threatened. See, his litter...near the
> Golden Gate. Where is the Master, John?"
> 
> "In Bethany."
> 
> "So near! And Novatus mayhap on
> the way to Pilate."
> 
> "What power has he, or Pilate,
> over the Lord, when His hour is not yet come?" John's eyes flashed. "This I
> have heard Him say, Mary: — 'My hour is not yet come.' Look! Even now Novatus
> turns back."
> 
> The litter had stopped and faced
> about to my villa. What could have changed Novatus' purpose — there, at the
> very wall of the city? Had he remembered my words, "You are too proud to seek revenge"?
> Or was this but a last contemptuous gesture to dismiss me from his mind?
> 
> "John, why has the Master called
> me from Novatus? Is it that I have failed?"
> 
> "I think not, Mary."
> 
> "Was it not then His will that
> sent me back by means of that capture?"
> 
> "I think Novatus but captured you
> and the Master had naught to do with it."
> 
> "John, I beseech you help me to
> understand. In my soul I was never faithless to the Master. You know He
> promised me that when I had entirely given up, my lover would come after me. That
> night, at Peter's table, verily, verily, I gave up. John, even my flesh was
> changed. I believed from my soul the Master had wrought a miracle on me that I
> might quickly fulfil this great thing — the winning to Him of my gifted, my
> powerful Novatus."
> 
> "Oh, think clearly, Mary. How
> could a Gentile, a Roman, quickly see
> with the vision of the Jew? The Jews themselves, despite their prophets, their
> age-long belief in the coming of a Messiah, are not yet ready to welcome God's
> Messiah. The great and powerful ignore Him. As for these crowds that dog His
> footsteps and give Him no peace, do you think them fit for such a gospel as His?" John's strange eyes
> sought the distance. "Did they know the cost of following Him they would flee
> away."
> 
> "But...Novatus? Think you, John,
> there is any hope for him now?"
> 
> "Where is your faith? You are
> blown upon by every wind. Men break their promises. Not so the Master."
> 
> "Then...I have failed not...yet?"
> 
> "What could you do against a jealous
> lover? Learn, Mary, from this" — stooping he plucked a bud — "that God
> has a destined time for all flowering. Learn to bide God's time. Force not
> closed doors."
> 
> We walked up the road that winds
> beneath a rocky cliff.
> 
> "You are taking me to the Master,
> John? He is with Mary and Martha?"
> 
> "'Yes, but a few steps away now.
> The Master has planned a long journey," John spoke gently. "He would have you
> with Him on this journey. Wherefore He has come Himself for you."
> 
> By now we were near to the house of
> Mary. She stood in the arch of the door, behind the pomegranate tree, with the
> mother of Jesus. And seeing us, both came out upon the path and, tenderly smiling,
> embraced me, and the mother said:
> 
> "The Master is waiting for you,
> Mary." Then she led me to his own chamber.
> 
> He stood gazing through a grated
> window, sadly, toward Jerusalem, and I saw the kingly sweep of His profile. The
> chamber was redolent of His musk. As we entered He turned and approached us.
> Now His grandeur burned full upon me and, shame consumed in the fire of His
> love, I ran forward and threw myself at His feet. Unsmiling, He raised me up,
> and I felt the solemnity of His love. And while I stood awed before Him, He
> drew a step closer and plunged His gaze into mine.
> 
> "I look into your eyes, O Mary,"
> He said, "and I see your heart. Your pure heart is a magnet for the divine
> bestowals."
> 
> And now He began to pace the
> floor, hands clasped at His back, His eyes uplifted, their glory withdrawn from
> us and turned in upon Himself, as though He would read God's secrets from a
> tablet within His own being.
> 
> To and fro He paced between the
> window and that spot where I stood with his mother, and the while He strode the
> power of His tread shook me. Whensoever He wheeled about at the window and drew
> swiftly nigh unto me, flashing on me His lofty glance, a whirling current of
> life rolled from before His advancing feet. And caught in the onrush, my body
> grew ever more buoyant and free, its substance lighter and lighter, till it
> seemed to become light as air. At last I thought: I shall rise like a leaf in
> the wind and soon shall be blown away if this walk of the Lord cease not!
> 
> He stopped and once more stood
> close to me.
> 
> "I may tell you this," He said, "all
> your hopes and desires are destined to be fulfilled in the Kingdom of God." In
> the Kingdom of God, I thought, and not before? "Even as twins in the womb," the
> Lord went on, "embrace and know not why, so it is with two that love in this
> world. For man traverses as in a dream the life of the physical world but dimly
> aware of its meaning, knowing little of the immortal powers wrapped within his
> own being. But when he enters the world of the Kingdom he will become
> acquainted with all mysteries, and even as he loves here, so there in that
> heaven of light, that heaven of divine bounties, that heaven of the will of God, shall he love a
> thousandfold."
> 
> Ah then, I said within myself, in
> very truth I have lost Novatus and must wait till the life to come ere we meet.
> And my heart bled from this wound dealt so suddenly by the hand of the Lord and
> tears streamed down my cheeks the while I stood silent before Him, gazing
> upward at His great might from the depths of my sorrow.
> 
> He brushed my wet lashes with his
> fingertips.
> 
> "Weep not," He said, in tones so
> piercing-tender that my tears broke forth afresh. "Weep not, Mary. You must be
> happy because of this thing I have told you."
> 
> "Mary weeps from love," said the
> kind mother, laying her hand on mine.
> 
> "I am cast into flames, my lord...the Flames of your love, your
> presence...and in these I am melting away."
> 
> But His pitying eyes saw deeper.
> Slowly He shook His head, and the one word He spoke in answer came as a sigh:
> 
> "Nay."
> 
> And now was my mind thrown into
> confusion, for I knew not why this thing He had told me should make me happy
> when it snatched from me for the whole of my earthly life my love and hope. And
> I could scarce believe that "Nay". For, with the yielding of my hope to the
> irresistible will of the Lord, it had seemed to me I adored Him but the more
> for the very cruelty of His will, and that some of my tears had truly sprung
> from the pangs of a fierce new love wakened in my heart for Him.
> 
> Then...behold a wondrous thing! For
> while I still gazed through misted eyes on His glory, veils dropped from these
> eyes. I stood no longer in a walled chamber, in the Lord's bodily presence. NOW
> He loomed vast and blinding-bright, a form as it were built up of sunlight,
> vistas of a softer light opening behind Him....
> 
> He Himself brought me back from
> the vision. He led me to a plaque of polished bronze on the whited wall and with
> a gesture strong in majesty, placed a hand on my head and laid my face to His.
> So, standing before that mirror by the side of Jesus, I saw a young face
> moulded from clay...pale clay, red-lipped, tear-stained...cheek to cheek with a
> stern and immaculate Beauty, with eyes like to lamps in a watch-tower; I saw a
> young soul shielded by the Lord of souls from all loves less than the love of
> the Most High; I saw the Divine Shepherd enfolding His stray sheep.
> 
> Once only He spoke ere He
> dismissed me.
> 
> "I am your Father. I am your
> King. I...I am your Beloved."
> 
> The mother led me back to that
> larger chamber wherein we had left John and Mary. Here we now found Martha and
> a few of the twelve who always walked in the train of the Master. All were seated
> on benches against the wall, awaiting the arrival of their Lord, the men darkly
> mantled, their rough heads strong against the white wall.
> 
> Peter smiled on me, jovial and
> kind. The publican Matthew crossed over and took my hand in his. In spirit Mathew
> and I were kin. Philip and Thaddeus also came and spoke with me. James crossed not,
> but smiled from His bench. James was of shorter stature than John and his nose
> more hooked, and his eyes had less of depth than those strange eyes of his
> brother, though his too were large and bright.
> 
> All these men had serene brows.
> 
> But now a long shadow fell across
> the floor and I saw in the doorway...Judas, dark against the morning light. Curious,
> I stared at him. What had he to do with this circle? Could it be that God's Messenger
> traveled twinned with shadow, even as the sun? And was this man, Judas, such a
> thing?
> 
> He came and placed in my hand a
> lock of black hair.
> 
> "The Master's hair," he said. "When
> he trimmed it this morning, Mary,
> I saved this for you. I knew you would be here today."
> 
> My heart softened.
> 
> "Oh, Judas," I cried, "you have
> given me what the whole world could not give."
> 
> And now we heard a step...that step
> at whose strange commotion hearts suffocated with joy, rushing tears burned and
> blurred the eyes. And all rose, hands crossed on the breast...awaiting our Beloved's
> smile.
> 
> X
> 
> A YEAR PASSED; a year of far
> journeyings on foot, we — the twelve men and six women — following ever
> that "Cloud by day and Pillar of Fire by night."
> 
> Across Galilee we tramped, across
> the misty Plain of Esdraelon, flat and wide within a high border of mountains, like
> unto a striped cloth, with its long patches of sesame, maize and wheat and
> purple-rich earth. Up the elephant's back of Carmel, "Vineyard of God" — a
> gray-green heap beneath the white dust of its roads.
> 
> On Carmel the prophets of old
> have left their footprints and holy presences hang above it. Once as we sat with
> the Master on the terrace of a house built on its summit, of a sudden He lifted
> His face to the sky, His eyes flashed a glad recognition into empty air, then
> up went His hand in a high salute. So we saw the great Immortal greeting
> invisible immortals.
> 
> On to Phoenicia we tramped, along
> the white crescent of the beach to that ancient city Ptolemais, a crown of
> pearls on the distant tip of the crescent; on and on, to Tyre and Sidon. And withersoever
> we went the people were enthralled by our Beloved, though there were many that
> knew not why. They that were Jews clamorously hailed Him, but, alas, as no more
> than a leader who would deliver them from Rome. Howbeit, He patiently trudged on,
> scattering the seeds of God's message on rich and stony soil alike.
> 
> Tramping in the footsteps of my
> Lord, gladly had I accepted homelessness, for His footsteps were home enough
> for me. But one thing there was I could not yet accept — that which seemed
> God's blindfold bound upon my eyes to hide from me my poor Novatus' fate. It
> had been a year since I had heard his name.
> 
> On our way to Phoenicia we
> tarried awhile in a village at the base of Carmel, on that side where the
> mountain fronts the sea, and here at sundown one day the holy mother and I went
> walking with our Lord.
> 
> He led us along the highroad to
> an ancient olive grove, where he
> stood still and pointed out its trees, which were bent, gray and gnarled like to
> old men, and told us Elijah himself had been wont to rest beneath them.
> 
> "Let us also rest here, "He said.
> 
> So we sat on the grass under
> those hoary trees, while shepherds passed by on the road, singing, leading
> their flocks to the fold; while swift dusk fell and the jackals set up their howls
> on the mountain, and night came, studded with bright stars. I lifted my face to
> the stars.
> 
> "All the lamps of the night are
> lit, O Lord," I said, "but the holy mother and I sit in the light of the Sun."
> 
> "This is but the beginning, Mary.
> You shall be with me in all the worlds of God. And none can know here in this
> elemental world what it is to be with me in the eternal worlds."
> 
> "Ah," I murmured, "having such a
> promise, how could I ask for a smaller happiness?"
> 
> The Master tilted His head and
> the magic of His smile gleamed in the starlight.
> 
> "You will take your heart from this other and give it up wholly to God?"
> 
> "Oh, I will try."
> 
> "First you say you will and then
> you say you will try!"
> 
> I bowed my head, shamed.
> 
> "What can I do with my heart?"
> 
> And now Jesus laughed with a
> great delight.
> 
> "I am pleased with your answer,
> Mary, for you have spoken to me one word of pure truth."
> 
> We strolled homeward in the
> night, the holy mother and I dropping a pace behind Him. Often He turned to
> speak to us, with some pleasantry; again, with winged words that lifted our spirits
> skyward. And such sweetness streamed from Him the while that I said within
> myself:
> 
> "Should He deign me not a
> syllable or a glance, to see this sweetness shining before me I would follow
> upon my knees, crawling behind Him in the dust, forever"
> 
> XI
> 
> TO CAPERNAUM we returned to rest,
> though rest there was none for the Master, save when He fled us and sailed
> alone to the shore of the Gadarenes and hid Himself in the hills. For by now
> the news of His wondrous works had spread far abroad and ever greater multitudes
> followed Him. And so compassed about by people was He that I knew not how He
> bore it, till one day He told us the secret of this patience.
> 
> The young Salome had come to Him
> with a little grief, then begged His forgiveness lest she weary Him, and in
> tones ineffable He answered her:
> 
> "Were I to spend day and night on
> your troubles I should never tire...I love you all so well."
> 
> And again He said:
> 
> "I work by the power of the Holy
> Spirit. I work not by physical laws. If I did, I should get nothing done!"
> 
> Here He taught by the seaside,
> standing on the pebbled beach. But soon such a crowd came jostling down on Him
> that He must perforce find a boat, push out a little from the shore and sit on the
> sea while He spoke. And a beauteous sight was this. For at sundown He taught,
> in the cool of the day, and with fire above in the sky and below in the water,
> He was like unto a form of light.
> 
> Now in Capernaum are many Greeks.
> Greeks people the cities on both sides of the sea. And these flocked to Jesus,
> loving His gaiety. Romans too came unto Him. Among the centurions He had friends.
> And oft did He sit at the center of these Gentiles, the master-wit among them.
> For to such He spoke not of the Kingdom, they believing not. Yet He made them
> happy and, drawn by His love, they would let Him not alone.
> 
> In the synagogue too Jesus was welcomed. On many a Sabbath we followed
> Him across that colonnaded pavement to listen with rejoicing hearts as He spoke
> from the pulpit His words of life and spirit. Also at the house of Simon was He
> kept busy, for there the rich and great from among the Pharisees, importuned by
> the eager Simon, would oftimes gather to hear His discourse. Howbeit Jesus took
> these lightly.
> 
> Even He made sport of one, a
> strutting scribe whom Simon had tricked to His Presence. Ever shall I see this
> puffed up man as he stood before the Lord of men, his raised eyebrows seeming to
> pull him up on tip-toe, the while he delivered a speech such as he deemed
> suitable. In too great haste to be gone to await our Lord's answer, he bowed
> himself out, and the Master turned laughing to Simon:
> 
> "This is a dish you have cooked
> for me!"
> 
> "I trust," the anxious Simon answered,
> "that it is well prepared. Other dishes I have to set before you, also men of wealth
> and learning."
> 
> "Let us hope they are light,"
> smiled the Master, "and will rest easily on my digestion. Some of these dishes
> are so heavy!" And then He sighed.
> 
> "Great is the power of the
> intellect, but it is of no avail till it has become the servant of love."
> 
> While we tarried in Capernaum I
> made my abode with John's mother (now widowed) in her fine stone house on the
> beach. At first the Lord dwelt with Peter and Vashti, then in our household. And
> each place in turn, as He filled it with His abundant life, was thronged to the
> doors night and day with people .
> 
> Busy were the women serving, for
> many came daily to sit at meat with our Lord. Vashti, John's mother, and I,
> with the help of the men, prepared the food. Much time we lost over the ovens, away
> from the beloved Presence. But the poor mother of James and Joses — another
> Mary — that red-haired woman with the jocund face and fierily worshipping
> heart, stood from morn till night in the kitchen, washing with Salome's aid the
> mounting piles of pots and platters.
> 
> While the Master dwelt with John
> and his mother sometimes I served as His door-keeper. I would meet the people
> at the door and lead them to that upper chamber wherein He spoke with them privately.
> Hence, I saw many wondrous scenes, and others I scarce could bear!
> 
> There was the day when two great
> ladies of the court came, taking Him for a soothsayer. One wished to know if
> she should remarry, the other if it would advantage her to acquire a certain property.
> And then did I witness the sternness of the Lord! All the while those bedizened
> women trifled in that chamber He paced up and down like to a captive lion. And
> when at last they minced away, none too satisfied with His answers — though
> these had been more patient than His mien — He turned unto me with great
> majesty and said:
> 
> "The people of the world are
> sleeping. You must be awake. The people of the world are heedless...have you not
> seen how heedless? You must be aware. The people of the world are steeped in darkness.
> You must be immersed in a sea of light."
> 
> Vashti followed these women. She
> had by the hand her son David, then but a babe of two years. (He remembers now
> having played beneath the Lord's mantle when once, as he sat with a toy on the
> floor, that mantle swept round and hid him.) The Master's sternness fled.
> Smiles overspread His face. He held out His arms to the babe. Then, glancing on
> Judas at His side, from the bag this disciple ever carried He drew forth a coin
> of gold and bent with it to the little one.
> 
> "David, I give you gold," He
> said.
> 
> Behold, the infant scowled!
> 
> "No, no!" he cried, and went
> running.
> 
> "O Rabboni, Forgive him," — Vashti
> hung her head.
> 
> But the Master laughed on a joyous
> note.
> 
> "Gold will never buy that child!"
> 
> Beneath the rays of His power
> whatsoever was hidden in the heart appeared above ground, even as seeds in the
> earth sprout beneath the sun. He poured forth His love...and lo! evil sprang out into
> the open. In the soul that was drawn unto Him, all that was good leapt to the
> call of that love, while all that was mean crept away, shamed before such
> greatness.
> 
> At another time I sat in the
> sacred Presence with six others. One was a publican, Reuben by name, known to
> be a sly man and a rascal. But our Lord, once passing his booth, had entered
> into speech with him, and from that very hour Reuben was ever to be seen in the
> multitude that followed us. At last, on a day when all were gathered about our
> Lord, He beckoned to John and said: "Go, John, on my behalf unto Reuben and
> tell him I have great love for him for that he is truly honorable." Whereat Judas
> spoke up: "Why say you this of a man whose mind is so set upon money that he
> extorts and cheats?" Then answered our Beloved, "There is naught I can give this
> man but hope."
> 
> Thus it was that Reuben,
> emboldened by such mercy, came seeking the Master in John's household.
> 
> The second stranger in our midst
> that day was a Pharisee, a man of miserly heart, who, seated beside the
> publican, drew his cloak tightly about his knees that it be not contaminated by
> Reuben's cloak.
> 
> Now the five other sinners at the
> feet of the all-forgiving Lord were the faithful disciples, John and Peter, the
> mother of John, Vashti, and this woman of no repute, Mary of Magdala.
> 
> He of the miserly heart had come
> last to the Master's presence. Till he entered Jesus had kept silence. Sitting
> above us on a bench, He had been gazing on a rose He held and lifting it to His
> face to smell it. But as the Pharisee joined us He smiled and bade him be
> seated on the mat next Reuben.
> 
> Then He began to speak:
> 
> "I hope a great love may be
> established among you and that day by day love will increase. I have gathered
> you all together here that you may be gathered in the same way in the Kingdom
> of God, and that you may verily love one another. If you love one another as you
> should, it is even as though you had loved me as you should. I go away from
> this world, but love stays always."
> 
> Mary, the mother of John, raised
> worshipful eyes to the Master.
> 
> "Would I could be like that rose,"
> she said, "and give forth such a fragrance."
> 
> Gentle as a breeze, wistful as a
> sigh fell the Master's voice:
> 
> "One could be much more beautiful
> than this rose. For the rose perishes. Its fragrance is but for a time. There
> is no winter for the soul of man."
> 
> One day we went by sea with the
> Master to Tiberias. And as we followed Him up from the shore into the
> market-place I saw two Romans crossing the square. My heart leapt to my throat.
> One was Lucius Vitellius, the Proconsul...but...that other...that vigorous body, that
> head held high in its mantle, the beetling brows, the pinched, ironic nostrils,
> the fine-drawn mouth....
> 
> That he had seen me I had no means
> of proving. Well aware he must have been, there in that little market-place, of
> the tumult about the Lord Jesus. Yet he cast not a glance our way, but keeping his
> face steadfastly averted, turned up a side street with the Proconsul. And all
> day I could think of naught else, but went about sunk in pain. An old dream
> came back to torture me. Again I could see Novatus in the Fish Gate, wrapped,
> even as now, in white toga and mantle, passing me by...to join a woman.
> 
> But at a later hour Jesus Himself
> sought to comfort me, albeit with a stern comfort.
> 
> We sat encamped in a grove,
> eating our mid-day meal from baskets, He in the midst, upraised on a rock. His
> regal head, in the green light of the grove and lifted against its foliage, had
> the look of an alabaster statue. From my seat on the ground I saw Him in
> profile. Then of a sudden He turned, His eyes fell on my tear-stained face and
> He beamed on me with that smile wherewith He would oftimes watch our little
> behaviours — a smile spiced with wit and wisdom, sweet with tenderness,
> deep with a mingled joy and sorrow beyond our knowing. I flung back my head,
> brushed off the tears from my cheeks and flashed Him an answering smile. And at
> this He broke into laughter:
> 
> "Ah, the sun is out again! The
> sun is shining! I am well pleased. But" — ineffable tones gentled His voice — "if
> the cloud weep not, how shall the meadow laugh? The hurricane, the cyclone and
> the blast are but harbingers of spring."
> 
> Then He spoke of the tempests
> that sometimes rage over Galilee's lake.
> 
> "Strong ships are not conquered
> by the sea! They ride the waves like galloping steeds."
> 
> "Winds from every point, from the
> north, south, east and west have beaten against my Ark" — smiling, He swung
> both hands to depict a boat in a storm — "yet my Ark still floats. A single
> wave has submerged many a great ship...yet, my Ark still floats!"
> 
> And now He sat straight and
> triumphant.
> 
> "Though the waves should rise to
> the zenith of heaven, I shall preserve an invariable heart. For I know my goal...it
> is even as sighted land before me...and my eyes are fixed upon this and swerve not
> from it."
> 
> Once more His glance fell on me
> and he called:
> 
> "Come, Mary, sit beside me."
> 
> I rose and went over to Him and
> sank on the grass at His feet and laid my hand on His knee, and He covered it with
> His hand. And then, looking down on me with a great compassion, He said:
> 
> "Verily acceptance is the true
> path. When man surrenders His will unto God he is always happy. Your heart must
> become so tranquil, Mary, so invariable that neither trial nor woe will affect
> its peace. You must be wholly submissive. Then you shall have no will of your
> own and shall ask for naught but the Will of God. Whatsoever may happen, even
> in this nether world, is by the Will of God. And when man forgets his own will,
> his will is the Will of God, and all
> that he does is the Will of God.
> 
> "I can hide nothing from you,
> Lord," I murmured.
> 
> His hand rose high in the gesture
> of a king.
> 
> "Nothing!"
> 
> And then He smiled.
> 
> "Be happy, Mary! Unhappiness and
> the love of the Father cannot exist in the same heart, for the love of the
> Father is happiness."
> 
> "This is my wish for you" — His
> great eyes gazed beyond me — that you become the essence of purity; that
> you become as a glowing lamp, diffusing the light of the love of God t all men;
> that you become as a star and shine forever from the horizon of universal glory
> upon centuries and cycles."
> 
> Nevertheless, when at sundown I
> followed Him up the mount, the multitude also following, I went as before...sunk
> in pain. And when all were dispersed and we came down the hill in the twilight
> and the highway stretched before us, a wave of grief wholly submerged my small
> ship. For, stirring the dust of the highway into clouds, I had seen horses and
> a gilded chariot, and Novatus erect in the chariot holding the reins. And as I
> stopped by the side of the road...my heart choking me...expecting — knew not
> what — again he passed me by with averted face.
> 
> But there came a day when we who
> served in the household being alone with our Lord, sad thoughts were forgot in
> the abounding joy of His nearness.
> 
> Free of guests at the mid-day
> meal, all sat at table with our Beloved, and the ever-toiling Mary, mother of
> James and Joses — she who spent other days in the kitchen — was bidden
> by Him to the seat at His right hand. Then He made merry with her, for He
> greatly loved her laughing spirit.
> 
> That day so full was her heart
> for that she was sitting next the Lord, she scarce could touch her food.
> Smiling He heaped her plate.
> 
> "I perceive you are an angel,
> Mary. Angels eat not! Or, mayhap, you are going home to a luscious meal, and
> saving your appetite for that!"
> 
> Mary looked down, abashed.
> 
> "You are kind to me," she said.
> 
> "God knows the degree of it!" He
> answered with a deep sigh.
> 
> "I am not an angel, then," I laughed,
> "for I eat every morsel you set before me."
> 
> He held out to me on a platter three
> dried dates, black as though burnt to a crisp.
> 
> "Here, Mary, are Shadrach,
> Meshach and Abednego." And I knew not if He were jesting or in earnest, for the
> jests of the Master hid meanings — Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego had been
> cast into a fiery furnace — yet had come forth alive. When He spoke again it
> was with gravity.
> 
> "You are wise, Mary Magdalena, in
> that you eat all I give you, bitter or sweet."
> 
> Then He turned to the mother of
> James and Joses.
> 
> "Mary's heart is pure like unto
> the snow on Hermon. I am her witness that she is pure. She spoke one word of
> truth to me which I shall never forget."
> 
> "Will you not tell us?"
> 
> "Nay, I cannot tell you, for this
> was between Mary and me."
> 
> "Secret?" asked the other Mary.
> 
> "Oh, verily secret!"
> 
> "My Lord, I said, "if ever I told
> you an untruth, it was that I deceived myself."
> 
> "There are degrees of truth," He
> answered me, "but that one word of yours which has so pleased me was perfect
> truth."
> 
> And I knew the word He praised
> was this: What can I do with my heart?
> 
> "Rabboni," I cried, "You are the heart of God. You alone can drive out
> the stranger from these poor hearts. Oh, do this for mine!"
> 
> He turned and His gaze burned
> upon me and in it was a majesty of sorrow. Then He touched my eyes with His finger-tips,
> as though drying tears yet unshed.
> 
> On another day Vashti came,
> bringing Simon, her son of four years, and David, the babe. The house, as ever,
> was full of people, among them two other small boys brought by their mothers to
> be blest. And at early eventide all were assembled in the Master's chamber.
> This chamber is large and high and faces the sea and its walls are whited.
> 
> Our Lord sat majestic in the
> midst. The sun's rays, slanting through the windows, glistened upon Him. His
> robes, spread out in white folds on the floor, were like the great base of a
> statue. So upright He sat, so solemn, clothed with such might that I thought: Thus
> Moses must have looked when he thundered forth the Law.
> 
> Then, while the children played
> at His feet, He opened His lips to speak, and at this His austerity fell from
> Him like a dropped cloak and with the sorcery of His unearthly joy He taught us
> of happiness.
> 
> "Happiness is life. The happiness
> of the spirit is everlasting life. This is a light which is not followed by
> darkness. This is an honour which is not followed by shame. This is a life
> which is not followed by death. This great blessing is obtained by man through naught
> but the guidance of God."
> 
> "This happiness is the source
> wherefrom man is born and spheres are framed and the Kingdom of God appears
> like unto the sun at mid-day. This happiness is the love of God. This happiness
> is the eternal might, the rays of which shine forth unto the temples of unity.
> Were it not for this happiness the worlds would not have been created."
> 
> When the Master had ended and now
> sat silent, gazing toward the sea, we women went into the kitchen, to return
> with wine and cake for the guests and milk for the children.
> 
> Now our Lord turned to the
> children and drew them up to His knees and gathered them to His breast. And He
> caressed and played with them, while they, enfolded in his arms, raised
> wondering faces to His smiles. Then He set them upon the floor and, calling to Vashti
> to bring their bowls of milk and one for Himself also, He got upon the floor
> with them. And there, in the midst of these little ones, He said:
> 
> "I am hungry too. We will take
> our milk together."
> 
> Tenderness played on His immortal
> face. He sipped from His own bowl and fed each child with a spoon.
> 
> In that chamber stood an old man,
> hands crossed on his breast like lifted birds' wings, his eyes cast down, and
> upon his cheeks, below the withered eyelids, trickled unheeded tears.
> 
> Now when night was come and the
> people were leaving, one of the mothers passed by, her little son at her side,
> and I heard the lisp of the babe:
> 
> "Is the Lord that blessed me,
> mother, that same Lord who holds the moon and the stars in His hand and makes
> the sunshine?"
> 
> Ah, those days in Capernaum...small
> wonder that I dwell so long on their perfect joy. They came to a sudden end.
> 
> One night as we sat at meat with
> our Lord, none being present but the twelve, those of our household and the
> holy mother (lately arrived from Nazareth), He, turning to us with a solemn look,
> bade us make ready at once to go with Him to Jerusalem for the Passover.
> 
> "We will go up in secret to the
> Passover," He said.
> 
> And my heart gave a great leap.
> At last, I thought, I shall have news of Novatus. Perchance, even I may meet
> him! Then shall I know of a certainty if he has ceased to love me.
> 
> XII
> 
> NOW WE WERE on our way to
> Jerusalem, walking in the footsteps of the Lord, a sun-clothed eagle treading
> earth, who strode on before us, His garments swinging, the sleeves of His cloak
> like great pinions; while Judas with His money-bag followed...in His shadow.
> 
> We went by way of Jericho, which
> leads to that desert of salt shoring the Dead Sea. Unto this we drew nigh, down
> a white aisle of pillars and pyramids. Bleached bones these strange forms seem
> to be, standing about the sea called Dead, whose laughing waters hide the dead
> sins of Sodom and Gomorrah. Then slowly, through murderous heat, licked by
> breezes of fire, we mounted the lava wilderness that crags the sea and white
> desert.
> 
> In the midst of this peaked and petrified
> wilderness stands a small inn, into which we women crowded for the night, the
> men sleeping out in the court, for the inn was already over-full. Now the holy
> mother was with us and the mother of James and Joses, John's mother and the
> young Salome.
> 
> With the dawn we set out again
> upon our journey, and at last from a flowered plateau sighted Jerusalem. Its
> spired temple on Mount Moriah,
> uplifted above the great square of wall and with all of Jerusalem's domes
> behind it, appeared to my eyes like a high-crowned bride, leading the
> procession of the city forth.
> 
> All Bethany met these spent
> travellers . All Bethany gathered at the house of Mary, wherein we rested. And
> when the Lord made His entrance into Jerusalem, all Bethany companioned Him, a
> surging, rejoicing band, strewing branches broken from the palm trees on the path
> before Him, and He rode forward, mounted on a white ass.
> 
> From the day whereon we entered
> Jerusalem, lo! our Beloved changed. A force at white heat had His body in its
> grip, an inner commotion that all but burst His body and made it like to a mettlesome
> charger.
> 
> Now, in the faces of Pharisee and
> Sadducee, in the very Temple itself, He hurled anew audacities — claims
> heretofore never whispered save to a few believing hearts; divine and perilous teachings
> for the age-to-be; anathema on this brutish age; anathema on the Pharisees and
> money-changers in the Temple...while we listened in mingled wonder and terror,
> for among the multitude herded about Him, hanging upon His words, we saw
> baleful priests and heard their mutterings.
> 
> One night, returning from Bethany
> to Jerusalem, He gathered together Mary's household to depict a scene we had
> witnessed not, when that very morning certain Rabbis had pursued Him to the Temple
> cloisters.
> 
> Buoyantly He depicted this,
> laughing the while He turned into foolishness the accusations of the Pharisees.
> And yet...that laughter! What was this new sound in it that struck into my heart such
> dread?
> 
> "When I had ended my discourse,"
> smiled the Master, "a Rabbi answered me thus:
> 
> " 'As you well know we expect
> plain signs in the day of the advent of Messiah, and unless these signs be
> fulfilled, to believe He is come is manifestly impossible.
> 
> " 'It is written He shall appear
> from an unknown place. You are from Nazareth. We know you and your people.
> 
> " 'According to the clear text of
> the Scriptures, Messiah is to wield a sceptre, a sword, and to sit upon the
> throne of David. But you! You have not so much as a staff or a net.
> 
> " 'Messiah is to fulfil the Law
> of Moses, but you have broken it.
> 
> " 'In the day of Messiah the Jews
> are to conquer the earth, till all mankind becomes subject unto them. In the cycle
> of Messiah justice is to reign. Even among the beasts shall this prevail, so that
> wolf and lamb shall quaff water from the same fountain, eagle and quail dwell
> in the same nest, lion and deer pasture in the same meadow, cat and mouse be at
> peace in the same house! But behold the oppression and wrong rampant in your
> time. The Jews are captive to the Romans. Rome has uprooted our foundations,
> pillaging and slaying us. What manner of justice is this?'
> 
> "But I made answer: 'These texts
> have an inner meaning. Sovereignty I do possess, but it is of the eternal kind,
> resembling not earth's empires. And I conquer not by the sword. My conquests are
> through love. I have a sword but it is not of steel. My sword is my tongue,
> which divided truth from falsehood.' "
> 
> "Ah, what said the Rabbi to that?"
> I cried.
> 
> "He said naught to that," laughed
> the Master, "but later I heard Him addressing a multitude. 'The Nazarene is a
> liar. He is the false Messiah. Believe Him not. Beware lest ye listen. He will mislead
> you; will lure you from the religion of your fathers, will create turmoil among
> you.'
> 
> "And as I set forth for Bethany,"
> said Jesus after a silent moment (and now the while He spoke, we were all aware
> of a mystery and of a gathering darkness, and a fear clutched at our hearts...yet
> we believed it not), "as I set forth for Bethany the whispers of certain
> Sadducees, consulting together in Jerusalem, reached me...from afar. 'Let us hold
> a conclave and conceive a plan. This man is a deceiver. We must do something!
> What?' " — gaily the Master mimicked their confusion — " 'Let us expel
> Him from the Land. Let us imprison Him. Let us oppress Him. Ah-h! Let us refer
> the matter to Rome. Thus shall we be quit of Him.' "
> 
> Jesus rose to His feet. He went
> to the window and gazed into the night. On His lips was a strange exultant
> smile. His eyes gleamed like unto Jewels.
> 
> XIII
> 
> THERE CAME A DAY fateful for me...and
> for two others.
> 
> We, the eighteen were seated with
> our Beloved in one of the thin-columned cloisters of the Temple. People on
> their way to the shrines, glimpsing the Lord from across the spacious pavement,
> turned and came toward us, and soon a crowd compassed us about.
> 
> The master had but just begun to
> speak, when of a sudden the noise of scuffling feet and an ugly swarm of
> phylacteried men, like unto a flight of ravens, rushed upon Him. Two dragged
> between them a woman.
> 
> Why...I knew the face of this
> woman. This was Phyllis, one of the loveliest of Jerusalem's courtesans. What
> had these Rabbis to do with her that they should force her to the Lord?
> 
> And now one stepped from the
> midst, a man with a mouth flat and cruel, and tall eyebrows, and I heard him
> say unto Jesus:
> 
> "Rabboni, this woman was taken in
> adultery, in the very act. Moses commanded such to be stoned. What say you to
> this?"
> 
> The man was mad! Phyllis taken in
> adultery? She was no common harlot. Then all became clear to me. These priests
> had seized her in a helpless moment, to be used as bait for "the friend of sinners"
> that He be tempted to deny the law. And none would have dared to lay hands on
> her but that she had lost the favour of Pilate. Had not my Lord been present I
> would have fought them all for her.
> 
> The Lord seemed to hear not the
> crafty question. A white peace enwrapped Him and made Him to shine. He stirred
> Himself and bent low to the pavement to write thereon...to write with His finger on
> the temple's stones. Was He
> writing a new Law there — upon that foundation — a merciful new law? Who could doubt, as He crouched there,
> the Lion of Heaven, that He and He alone was Lawmaker now?
> 
> So still was He, save for that
> moving finger, that His very stillness (or was it His voiceless will?)
> commanded silence. I stole a swift glance at Phyllis. Poor woman, she stood
> cowering, white as the slim columns about her. My pity cried out to her. Yet I
> knew these evil priests had but brought her to her eternal refuge.
> 
> And now the Master raised Himself
> and His eyes flashed a terrible fire as God's answer to man's hypocrisy rang
> from His lips.
> 
> "He that is without sin among
> you, let him cast the first stone."
> 
> And again He stooped and lost
> Himself in His secret writing. And one by one the priests slunk out...an old man
> first.
> 
> Now none but Phyllis was left.
> She stood gazing upon the Lord, where He still bent low above that traceless
> script. Her lips were parted, as though in wonder. She laid a hand on her
> breast. The curls of her head were dishevelled, her tunic torn, but her plaintive
> disarray made her the lovelier.
> 
> And now Jesus lifted again that
> mighty head and in His eyes, as He fixed them on this woman, was the burning
> revelation of the love of God.
> 
> "Where are your accusers? Has no
> man condemned you?"
> 
> "No man, Lord," she whispered.
> 
> "Neither do I condemn you." Oh
> the music of the voice of Him who was more than man, who bore God's messages! "Neither
> do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more."
> 
> As the Master strode from the
> Temple courts, descending the white cascade of steps, Judas crept to my side.
> 
> Judas had never abandoned hope to
> win me, even though he knew...as who did not?...that my heart was torn between two deathless
> loves, and of late this hope had waxed in effrontery. Now he whispered:
> 
> "Go after the woman, Mary. Jesus
> bids you go after her."
> 
> "The Master said naught to me..." I
> began, doubtful.
> 
> "Go, or you will be too late. He
> wishes her brought back to Him."
> 
> "Go yourself, Judas."
> 
> "Stubborn one! I will come with you.
> Hurry now. See, she is swift."
> 
> We followed the affrighted woman
> through the Golden Gate and up the Bethany road. At last to a path so familiar...so
> familiar...running through a vineyard to a Roman villa. Ah, what was this? The
> woman was on her way to my villa! My gate opened and took her in.
> 
> "Judas," I gasped, "my house!"
> 
> "I heard it had been sold." His
> voice was shallow and hard as metal.
> 
> Sick to the heart that Novatus
> had sold my villa and Phyllis was here in my stead, I all but ran to the
> entrance — too shaken to heed, or care, that Judas followed me not. Once
> more I stood at my door, "Salve" inscribed on the stones of its vestibule...Salve!
> 
> A slave admitted me into the
> atrium and bade me be seated by the pool till she asked of her mistress if she
> would receive "one who came from Jesus."
> 
> By the pool again...the worn
> pavement beneath me feet, the columns standing about the myrtle-bordered basin,
> reflected in the clear water, the cupids at play on the walls...the old enclosure,
> wrapping me about with the old spell. I sat in my own reclining chair, Novatus'
> chair — vacant — beside me. Naught was changed. We might have been here
> but yesterday.
> 
> Twice had the Lord summoned me
> from this spot, through His messengers, Mary of Bethany, John. The Lord had
> been stern concerning this house of the little loves. Now I found myself led back...to
> a house empty for me, with Novatus gone from it. Worse than empty, aliens being
> here. I found myself led back...sent back by the Lord, using me now for a
> messenger, to summon another woman away from love. Oh strange....
> 
> The slave, re-appearing, bade me
> follow her. As in a dream I followed. We crossed the court to the rear wing in
> which were the cubicula. Beyond the looped curtains at the central exit,
> between the columns of the portico, I could see my blowing fountain, silver against
> the dark trees. And a sharp cry sprang from my heart for Novatus, my beloved,
> and for a vanished delight. Till now I had sat; I had walked with the spectre
> of my beloved. Now I demanded of God that I see him once more in the body.
> 
> The slave led the way unto my own
> bed-chamber, my scarlet chamber opening on the evergreens of the garden.
> 
> The woman lay on my couch...while
> the masks, tragic and comic, stared from the red panels above her, and as I
> stood in the arch, she looked up with beautiful eyes hardened against me.
> 
> "You come from that great man who
> saved me from those hypocrites? Devils! They lied, falsely accused me. They had
> not that proof they claimed. But...who is He, that could shame them? Jesus of
> Nazareth, I know. But in reality, who is He?"
> 
> I moved to her side and, sinking
> to a stool, gazed at her long and sadly, for all that was struggling within her
> I knew. Even in my own breast at this moment such a struggle was set up.
> 
> "You wish to know?" I said at
> last. "For to know is to lose what peace you have, to barter it for a peace you
> know not...yet."
> 
> "I guess what you would tell me.
> You believe Him to be Messiah. But I tell you,
> I will not believe! He said, 'Go, and sin no more.' I will not have a Messiah
> who calls love 'sin'. Indeed, we need Him not who know the perfect love of
> earth."
> 
> At the head of the couch, thrown
> upon a chair, lay a man's cloak. This she seized and devoured it with kisses.
> 
> "Love is not sin," she cried, "love
> is not sin! Love never divides the soul from God. Nay, hate alone does this."
> 
> Wordless I gazed, my grief
> deepening. How poor a messenger was I! What had I to say to this sister...I...with
> passion asurge in my own heart, desire for my own beloved aflame in me again?
> 
> A step. A heavy step. The
> curtains were drawn aside. And Novatus himself stood before me — Novatus in
> the flesh, even as-I had prayed to see him — glancing from Phyllis to me,
> from me to Phyllis with dazed and unbelieving eyes.
> 
> There were prayers then that God
> answered with a jest!
> 
> I drew my veil closer and moved
> to the door that led to my garden. Novatus took a step toward me and I glimpsed
> an outstretched hand. In the taut silence I could all but hear his misery
> crying for me through his mute lips. Yet I gave no sign. For, as I turned
> forever from him I had loved so long, though my knees were shaking and my body
> weak, my heart was cold within me.
> 
> "Love is not sin," Phyllis had
> said. "Only hate divides the soul from God." And my own soul had made obeisance
> to the great truth of her words, and, victim myself of a love too strong for the
> net of man's puny laws, I had had no answer for her. Then I must not, must not
> hate — nor so much as scorn. But...how could it be...my Novatus, from whom I
> had branched as from a deep root, as an artery from the heart, joined now with
> this other woman in "the perfect love" — become one flesh with a stranger?
> 
> I dragged myself through the
> garden, where those foolish marble cupids stood frozen beneath the dark boughs
> of the trees. I glanced neither to right nor left, though my fountain as I
> passed its basin sprayed my hand with a last caress. And when I had closed the
> gate behind me and found myself out in the vineyard — alone — for a
> little space I stood a lifeless thing, even as the wife of Lot...when she looked
> back.
> 
> XIV
> 
> MERCIFUL grief came...and melted
> me. Remembrance of my Lord stabbed through me, quickened my numbness to life,
> released a flood of tears and all my love for the Highest.
> 
> In that white house on the
> summit — the home of Mary and Martha — He with His loved ones dwelt for
> a time. I would haste to Him who alone shamed not the heart.
> 
> Enough my own shame...wakened to
> full awareness. Toiling up the steep ascent I lashed myself with my shame.
> Long, long had the Eternal Lover wooed my heart for God's love, and I...ingrate that
> I was!...for that my stiff-necked will was set upon a fellow-creature, had
> withheld from this True Lover the heart I had vowed to Him — nor known that
> I withheld it! Here I was now, on the way back to the Lord...the love I would
> yield not snatched from me by a ribald jest of fate — creeping back, beaten
> and broken.
> 
> Yet the filching of that love had
> left my heart empty at last of "the stranger," and as I climbed the weary road
> so great a love for the True One burned in this emptiness that, humbled and guilty
> though I might be, I must perforce seek His presence. Could so small a thing as
> shame deter me from the Forgiver? Now I knew the climax of all pain — the
> pain of the spirit's passion, a passion forever hopeless of attainment, even by
> winged spirit, its object being too pure, too high.
> 
> At the house in Bethany I found
> none but the women, Mary and Martha, the mother of John and the holy mother.
> Word had come from the Lord in Jerusalem that He would not be here till night,
> for He and the twelve were to keep the Feast of the Passover in the house of
> the mother of John Mark.
> 
> Ah, how could I wait? So parched
> was I now for His nearness, so eager my heart to tell Him that it was verily
> His at last to do with as He willed.
> 
> The sun sank in threatening
> clouds and dusk fell to night, billowed with clouds. Midnight passed and the
> first dark hours of the morning...and still the Master came not. Helpless to conceal
> our fears, we women crowded at a window, our eyes strained toward Jerusalem.
> 
> At last I could bear the suspense
> to longer. Driven by panic now, I made bold to seek my Lord. But that none
> might know my purpose, I slipped unseen from the chamber wherein we had gathered
> to watch the road and on tip-toe stole to the house door, then, myself out upon
> the road, hugged the cliff lest those watchers discover me.
> 
> Out upon the road...out in the
> night...alone...what was this I felt in the night that weighed so heavily on me,
> this pall that stifled me? The black air was stiff with a living
> 
> Had my Lord been slain in
> Jerusalem? Ah no, that could not be. We Jews well knew that no true prophet could be slain by human hands.
> But what had they done to him,
> then, tonight? Where could I find Him? Where?
> 
> I came to the gate of the Garden
> of Gethsemane. It stood ajar. Could He be here — safe — in Gethsemane?
> For often He stopped to rest here. But would He linger at such an hour? Still...I
> would search this first, the gate being open.
> 
> I groped my way to the grove of
> olive trees. Grey as ghosts they were in the night, their branches writhing to
> heaven. Rumbling sounds reached my ears and, affrighted, I paused, thinking animals
> might be here. Then under trees I saw forms huddled, and I knew these sounds
> were the snores of sleeping men.
> 
> I drew nearer. Ah yes, there was
> Peter, there James, and a little beyond them, John in quiet sleep. My Lord must
> not be far now. And then I saw a lone figure, prostrate on a rock.
> 
> I stood, my hands clasped on my
> breast, sighing for joy. I had found Him and all was well!
> 
> And now His voice quivered, into
> a chant — so low that I heard not the words — then rose in a great wail.
> And my heart stopped...for what was this He prayed?
> 
> "Abba! Father! Remove this cup
> from me. Howbeit, not my will but Thine be done."
> 
> "This cup"? "This cup"? What cup?
> 
> Terror seized upon and shook me.
> Thought blotted out, I knew but two things. I must stay. I must hide. I sank to
> the ground behind a flowering bush, where I still could see (myself unseen) that
> prostrate form on the rock...the arms outstretched...a white cross.
> 
> How was it I had rejoiced,
> believing that all was well? Why had these eyes perceived not, till fear tore
> the veils from them, the awful abandon of those outstretched arms...of that
> rolling head with face buried? The rock, gray and flat, upon which He lay became
> to me a stark island, lapped by waves of a sinister sea...and He on that island,
> encircled by the impassable sea, sweated blood — alone.
> 
> Who then could gain access to Him...who
> cross the boundary of this loneliness? God sorrowed here where men slept. God
> here communed with God. A pitiful woman, wide-eyed, sleepless — watching — even
> though her too bold heart yearned to soothe where none could soothe...might not
> profane by mortal touch the majesty of such sorrow, nor raise so much as a
> whisper to break the dread silence of such communion.
> 
> But oh...that cup...that cup...what
> could it be, too bitter for the Lord to drink?
> 
> He rose to His knees and slowly
> lifted His face. His head fell back till His eyes strained toward the zenith of
> the clouded heavens. And again His voice soared in a chant. And though abysmal agony
> wrenched its tones to a strange beat, I heard — in the few words that
> reached me — love singing high above agony. For — the cup forgotten — He
> prayed for us, for His poor disciples, who would have walked in His footprints,
> but, slothful, had walked lagging; for those that slept under the trees...so
> near.
> 
> "Father," He prayed, "I have
> manifested Thy Name unto them Thou gavest me out of the world. Thine they were
> and Thou gavest them to me...I pray for them."
> 
> The deep tones sank to a murmur;
> then rang forth strong.
> 
> "Neither pray I for those alone,
> but for them also which shall believe on me through their word. That they all
> be one, as Thou, Father, art one in me and I in Thee...that the love wherewith Thou
> hast loved me may be in them and I in them."
> 
> And when He had ceased to pray,
> He knelt for a long time motionless...a statue on that rock.
> 
> At last He staggered to His feet,
> and I saw Him turn from the rock and move to the tree under which lay Peter,
> nigh to my rose-bush. His robe was ghostly in the night. His arms hung down in the
> loose white sleeves. His head drooped...and never before had I seen that head
> bowed low. Enshrouded by His loneliness, He walked with faltering step. To me,
> He was like a great white eagle — wounded. He stooped and stood above Peter
> and called this disciple's name. And Peter stirred and half-rose; then sank to
> the ground and straightaway slept again. And I heard the Lord groan:
> 
> "Oh Peter, could you not watch
> with me one hour?"
> 
> And now...behold His coming, with
> that slow step, toward the rose-bush. Fright overtook me; shame consumed me,
> for here I was an unbidden guest...and a secret watcher.
> 
> Still...He came on. Beside the bush
> He paused; then turned His face to where I sat cowering.
> 
> "Mary! You!" He cried. In that
> cry was a note that rent the heart, a darkened joy — as a cry from one too
> heavy-laden who finds solace in a little thing.
> 
> One step...and He stood over me,
> and I cast down my eyes before His broken beauty, pale in its nimbus of sorrow.
> 
> "You, Mary, are awake."
> 
> I opened my eyes, I upturned
> them, and, because He stood so near, I could dimly see that He smiled on me,
> and that it was a wild smile gleaming through anguish.
> 
> "Forgive...Lord...forgive. Accept my
> heart...now...I implore."
> 
> From His height He spoke.
> 
> "My daughter...the heart should
> seek the Beloved of the World, for verily He is faithful. Henceforth forever...forever...be
> the lover of the Sun, aflame with the fire of the love of God. This...this is
> eternal."
> 
> And I fell on my face before Him.
> 
> My Lord still stood in the grass
> of Gethsemane. Ah, I know, for my face now rested on His feet, imprisoning them
> there, though I dared not...tonight...kiss their sacredness, nor had I the tears wherewith
> to bathe them. He still stood upon earth, but his
> words floated down as from a receding cloud.
> 
> The darkness had begun to lift
> and now a jagged rip of crimson wounded the east.
> 
> "See, the dawn," He breathed. "Go
> now, my daughter...Mary. I am with you always — in every world."
> 
> I looked up. He stood pointing to
> the dawn. And as I gazed...oh not at the heavens, but at Him...Him...mutely pleading,
> for had He not said, "Go"?...He flung back His head and His eyes blazed down with
> such almighty love that in that look...again I saw God.
> 
> "Forever?"
> 
> "Forever...oh Beloved!"
> 
> I knew that I must go — must
> leave Him to the awful secret of His "cup." I crept back from Him, facing His
> glory till I could see no more, for the distance and the tears that came at
> last.
> 
> Ah, where should I go? Could I
> but cling to the wall of Gethsemane, to wait His coming forth, that I might follow...follow...to
> I knew not what. But alas, He had dismissed me. And as I lingered hesitant,
> there by the wall, I saw emerging from the Golden Gate a multitude with swords
> and staves, a multitude of priests and elders and captains of the Temple, and leading
> them — Judas! My senses reeled. In a lightening flash I beheld the form of
> the cup. I turned to run back to Gethsemane — back to my Lord — to
> drain that cup of blood with Him. But now my body reeled. I swooned.
> 
> A hand bathing my brow, then
> holding a draught to my lips...and cruel life returned. Ah, I knew that hand and
> the signet it bore!
> 
> "You are better...dear? Thank the
> gods I have found you! Having watched you...yesterday...from...from your villa,
> climbing toward Bethany, I came this way, seeking you. Mary...beloved...you are in
> danger. The Nazarene...I grieve to tell you this...has been seized by Caiaphas. His
> followers too, are suspect."
> 
> "I am glad, Novatus, to be
> endangered. Have no fear for me."
> 
> "Mary, see...my litter...here on the
> road. Will you not come with me?"
> 
> "I want but to share His fate.
> Let me go."
> 
> "I cannot let you go, my dear, my
> own! Mary...for what you have seen matters not. Your love only is love to me."
> 
> "What I have seen matters not?
> Ah, indeed it matters not! Have they passed...from Gethsemane?"
> 
> "They have passed, Mary."
> 
> "They have taken my Lord to...."
> 
> "Caiaphas. Then Herod.
> Afterwards, Pilate." The words were reluctant and spoken with great pity. "You
> cannot reach Him...where He is now."
> 
> "Still, I shall go...wherever He is...."
> 
> "Come in my litter, Mary. "
> 
> "No...no. You detain me. Farewell."
> 
> And as I went, looking not back
> (for I knew that Novatus followed to see that I came to no hurt), Palestine's
> sudden sunrise, a great fan of fire, leapt above the mountains of Moab.
> 
> XV
> 
> I SOUGHT my Lord in the
> Praetorium.
> 
> In the square before the
> Praetorium already the mob was gathering. The great Roman house, upraised upon
> many steps, the tall pillars of its porch, loomed above me, forbidding. The guards
> at its doors threatened me from afar. As I passed through the mob, swift,
> resolute, fixed upon my goal, the Beloved, I heard hateful muttering.
> 
> My heart-broken look, I think,
> was my password at the doors. Unchallenged, I entered the vast hall. Within was
> commotion. Dark-brooding Jews, messengers from the high priests and Herod, were
> crossing and re-crossing the pavement, besieging Pilate's chambers.
> 
> As I drew near, a plan in my
> mind, a door opened and John came forth. Pale as death was he, his lips set,
> his eyes staring. He saw me not, till I spoke.
> 
> "You have talked with Pilate?"
> 
> "No, I could get no farther than
> his antechamber."
> 
> "John...I know Pilate...a little."
> 
> "Try then to see him, Mary. Let
> us do all we can. Though...after this morning...in the garden...Mary, He gave Himself
> up, not to the hirelings of Caiaphas, but as to God. Even those ruffians fell
> back before His high fortitude, ashamed to arrest Him. But He would have it so.
> He advanced to them. He accepted Judas' filthy kiss as if it were a lover's."
> 
> "Where is He now?"
> 
> "Mary...His feet are in the stocks."
> 
> "Oh great God! Oh, could I but go
> and throw myself at His feet — His feet in the stocks — and beseech Him
> to deliver Himself. For, John, He can. Pray that Pilate may see me. Pilate
> could refuse Caiaphas.
> 
> Alas that I too was driven from
> Pilate's door.
> 
> Desperate, I sought a guard. For
> a fever to act now burned in me...to move...move...nor rest till I had turned my last
> stone.
> 
> "Take me," I pleaded with the
> guard, "to the wife of Pilate."
> 
> The noble lady Claudia received
> me. I found her pacing the hall, her face distraught.
> 
> "O Claudia...you love Jesus?"
> 
> "Mary, why do I love Him? I have
> seen Him not, save in the distance. But all last night He troubled my dreams.
> In my dreams He appeared...more than man! This execution...it must not go on." She wrung
> her hands. "This must not be on Pilate's soul. Yet I cannot move him."
> 
> "You cannot move him? Oh try once more, once more."
> 
> "He is like unto rock. I cannot
> penetrate. This is some political thing. No woman — nor I — could reach
> him now."
> 
> "You are the one hope, Claudia.
> Beg at least this of Pilate — that Mary of Magdala be admitted to Jesus."
> 
> "For your sake I will try, even
> though it anger him."
> 
> I waited alone, forced to a
> tortured interval wherein I was helpless to do aught but wait. When at last she
> returned, her face bespoke her failure.
> 
> "Mary, at the door of Pilate's
> antechamber I met your friend Novatus hasting from it. His look was furious.
> Can it be that he has opposed this execution? What could you do with Novatus,
> Mary? The hope is slight, since it seems plain that he and Pilate have quarreled.
> Still, Novatus might find some means. What could you do?"
> 
> I faced her challenge, horrified.
> 
> "God knows. Even this, I will
> try."
> 
> And now I sought...Novatus.
> Claudia, the woman, having failed with her lord, perchance Mary of Magdala...the
> woman....
> 
> God forgive me if this were sin.
> Yet what mattered my small sinning, even should I forfeit heaven for it, if the
> life of the Lord be spared thereby, to finish that work wherefore He had come? His
> "cup"...had it not been this...that so soon His ministering to man must end...the
> message of God silenced on His lips? Oh not pain, not death, His cup.
> 
> But where...where to find Novatus?
> Of a surety not in that house where dwelt in my place, slept in my bed, that
> other woman! Nay, not now. In his
> house in the city, perchance...I recrossed the halls of the Praetorium. From a
> corner I heard the strong sobbing of a man. I could not pass a broken heart.
> There knelt Peter, his great body heaving, his face hid in tear-wet hands. I
> touched his shoulder.
> 
> "Peter."
> 
> He uncovered his face...and I pray
> that never again may I look on such despair.
> 
> "Mary, touch me not. I am
> accursed...with Judas. No such traitor as he. No such coward as I. A pretty pair
> we, to be travelling, arm and arm, through eternity. Mary, you know I love my Lord.
> I was no coward in the garden. With my sword I struck off the ear of the
> high-priest's servant himself. My Lord healed that wound...ah God!" Again sobs
> rent him. "Because I could not leave Him, Mary, I crept after Him...though at long
> distance...into the very court of the palace of Caiaphas! Then how could it be
> that fear got me...fear of what a maidservant could do? When the wench accused me
> saying: 'You also were with the Nazarene, you are one of them', 'I know not the
> man' I lied, and spat and swore...to carry it off. In all the worlds to come,
> Mary, I can lift not my face to my Lord's. And He warned me. He warned me even
> last night that I would do this very thing. And I said, 'I will never deny you,
> Lord. If I must die with you, I will not deny you.' "
> 
> "Poor Peter," I answered, "grieve
> not. The Master's love is so great...so great, I think even this is as naught to
> Him. He warned you? Then He knew you would do it. He has always known all that is
> in you, and He loved you more than any...save John . Grieve not. I must go." And
> I stooped and kissed the tears on his cheeks. "One word more. Whatever I do,
> you will judge me not, I know."
> 
> "I judge?"
> 
> Now I hastened to a stair leading
> to a back street whereby I might escape the crowds. When, as I approached the
> arch from which this stair turns, a clutch on my arm held me fast. Who was this
> impeding my flight to my so ignoble sacrifice? An iron hand wheeled me round
> and I stood confronted by...Judas, his face thrust close to mine — oh sickening
> close!
> 
> But was this Judas' face? For
> this was a stone mask of evil. Darkness suffused his eyeballs and from his body
> exuded a strange stench, as it were the stench of the dead. He stared at me gloating,
> daring to smile.
> 
> I wrenched myself from his
> murderous hand. Yet even then pity filled my heart for this creature, once
> human, made of flesh and blood as I; having eyes and lips and a head and a
> heart...all feeling members...and heart longings and some good deeds. Once he had
> brought me a lock of the Master's hair.
> 
> "Judas," I said with a great
> sadness, "your devil has eaten up your humanity. Judas, I hate you not."
> 
> "I will say you hate me not! I am
> left your one strong man. Novatus has taken another woman into your own bed.
> Jesus you behold a traitor to His trusting race, a hypocrite and coward; in actual
> fact subservient to Rome, yet slyly cozening us with dreams of a free
> hereafter, of a kingdom in the world to come," he sneered, baring his pointed
> teeth; "now brought low indeed...sold to Caiaphas by Judas for thirty pieces of silver!
> Soon will you see Judas mustering, as Jesus feared to muster, all Judea against
> Rome. And more than Judea. The malcontent throughout Rome's dominions will
> Judas unite under his banner. You will yet see Judas king of an empire. And if
> Judas be not Messiah Himself, from whose loins should Messiah spring but from
> mine and yours...."
> 
> I crimsoned his cheek with a
> stinging blow.
> 
> "Go, poor creature!" I cried, "Can
> you not see that you are but a burst bubble, and all you can ever hope for from
> men is contempt?"
> 
> He fell back. Sinking to a bench
> he raised his eyes to me. And those uprolled eyes, that stricken face, like
> unto a dumb beast on whom a quagmire has seized to slowly suck him down, I
> shall cease not to see while I live.
> 
> Turning my back upon him while he
> still sat motionless, I tottered down the steps to the door. Weary unto death,
> I dragged myself along Jerusalem's streets, down stepped streets, buttressed streets,
> vaulted streets, past latticed and balconied happy houses, now decked for the
> Passover, till I reached the abode of Novatus.
> 
> Felix, that slave who had ever
> been my friend, opened the gate to me. When he saw me his eyes filled with pity
> and grave concern, and I knew he dreaded to speak. Yet tidings like unto his
> must be told at once.
> 
> "My master," he said, "has been
> forced to speed to Rome, by the Governor himself. He went raging, my lady, for
> that he must leave your neighbourhood. He put you in my care and you know I will
> do my best. When you came, I was on the point of starting forth to trace you. I
> would have sought you earlier, but that some trouble with the slaves..."
> 
> "He cannot be overtaken, Felix?"
> 
> "I am sure he cannot, my lady. He
> left in a chariot drawn by his race horses, commanded to catch the galley which
> sails today from Joppa . Sent on some trumped-up errand to get him out of Jerusalem
> at this moment...when he would have interfered to save your Master. So I gathered
> from what I knew of his purpose, and from his last words spoken to me. 'Those
> who forced my going,' he said, 'would do well to look to my return.' He has
> already been gone upwards of an hour."
> 
> So...Novatus would have saved my
> Lord — of his own will would have saved my Lord — and now he was gone...gone....
> 
> After pressing on me a little
> bread and wine Felix provided me a litter to convey me back to the Praetorium,
> whither my heart panted to return, and himself came on foot to guard me.
> 
> But for his escort never could we
> have reached the Praetorium, for by now the square before it was filled with a
> churning mob and, as we clove away midst struggling bodies, I heard a cry go up
> from a thousand throats:
> 
> "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!"
> 
> Sick with horror I parted the
> curtains and looked out. All around me was a sea of faces that were not as the
> faces of men, but of wolves and hyenas and jackals. And creeping, coiling among
> these wild beasts, I saw men with the Law bound on their heads. I saw these
> pause to whisper, now here, now there, and knew they were whispering poison
> into the mob's mindlessness.
> 
> Ravening wolves in sheep's
> clothing...how could it be that such were triumphing, that darkness could defeat
> light? Ah see! In the sky, uprolling clouds...and daylight blanching.
> 
> "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!"
> 
> I dropped the curtains to shut
> out the sight of those crying mouths. But the cries...the cries...I could not shut out,
> even with hands pressed against my ears. Oh, passing strange that at such a
> moment hope should have flashed into my heart.
> 
> "Felix, " I called through the
> curtains, "are we near to the Praetorium?"
> 
> "Here now, my lady."
> 
> We came to a halt and I stepped
> from the litter. But alas for my poor hope, these doors were now shut, set with
> a double guard. I turned to Felix.
> 
> "Take me to the sentinels. Make
> them let me in."
> 
> "How can I, lady?"
> 
> "I have had a thought, Felix...nay,
> more than a thought. Pilate can refuse to execute. The Jews cannot do it. The
> law forbids. And something in my heart has told me that Pilate's will is
> wavering. Oh take me to the guards."
> 
> "I am but a slave and my master
> has been sent away."
> 
> "Felix! Felix! Why waste time? It
> is certain that Pilate has talked with Jesus. And something in my heart tells
> me...take me to those sentinels!"
> 
> But, confronting the sentinels, I
> importuned faces of stone. The threshold was impassable. Crazed, I beat upon
> the central door. Then a guard seized me by the arm and, despite Felix's fiery defense,
> dragged me down the steps and thrust me into the mob. I found myself face to
> face with John. In his misery he was stern with me.
> 
> "All this is useless — worse than
> useless! Come with me now. I am seeking the holy mother, my mother, and Mary."
> 
> We found them at last — God knows
> how — three mute women wedged in that sweaty pressure of bodies, cries for
> the blood of our Beloved in their very ears.
> 
> "Crucify Him! Crucify Him! Give
> us our king. Give us the king of the Jews!"
> 
> First I saw the face of John's
> mother. This...dear God...was pitiable enough. But it was when those others turned,
> the holy mother and Mary of Bethany, that my knees weakened and the beating of
> my heart failed. For in the eyes of the mother, widened with an awful sorrow, I
> saw mirrored the death of our Lord, while in Mary's eyes danced the gleam of
> the mad.
> 
> The central door of the palace
> opened. The churning of the crowd ceased and silence fell. A man strode
> through, wearing a toga bordered with purple. The sleekness of his face was
> broken into sagging flesh. His eyes stared, startled, uncertain. And I knew my heart
> had told me the truth and Pilate's will was indeed wavering. He came to the
> head of the steps.
> 
> "I find no fault in Jesus the
> Nazarene," he began. He cleared his throat. "You have a custom that I should
> release a prisoner at the time of the Passover. will you therefore that I release...the King of the Jews?"
> 
> A shout went up.
> 
> "Not this Jesus! Jesus Barabbas.
> Give us Jesus Barabbas!"
> 
> Now was my opportunity. Now would
> I cast myself at Pilate's feet and from the depths of my agony sway him to my
> Lord, who, in some way I know not, had already half-persuaded him to courage.
> 
> With the strength of the
> desperate I pushed my way through the mob and had all but reached the steps
> when two steel hands pinned me. A priest, his phylacteries dropped between his
> cruel brows, with a nose like the beak of a bird of prey, held me fast, dug the
> talons of one hand into my wrist, clapped the other to my mouth. More birds of
> prey closed me in. And ere I could move, Pilate turned on his heel and was
> gone. The great door clanged behind him.
> 
> Now the priests let me go.
> Towered about by those striking bodies, I struggled back to John and the women.
> Felix had been lost long since.
> 
> "My child, all is vain," said the
> mother, speaking at last, His hour is come."
> 
> "Yes," said John, "His hour is
> come. I told you." John's face was ashen; its youth dead.
> 
> "His hour is come! His hour is
> come!" babbled Mary of Bethany.
> 
> We waited...I know not how long. It
> may have been a little time.
> 
> Then again the door opened. And
> now two stood in the porch between the pillars — Pilate and with Him...Oh
> God!...the Master. The Master, haggard, death-pale. On His brow was a crown of thorns.
> From His shoulders hung a soldier's cloak...a scarlet cloak, soiled and tattered.
> His submissive hand held a reed.
> 
> Wickedly mocked..."King of the
> Jews!" Yet to that crown of thorns, to those red rags, He lent a terrible
> majesty. And in the calm of His eyes, gazing down so steadfastly on the fury of
> these "chosen ones"...in the very act of rejecting their Messiah, I saw naught
> but the pity of God.
> 
> "Behold the Man, " cried Pilate.
> 
> "Crucify Him! Crucify Him!,"
> roared the multitude.
> 
> Strong from the strength at his
> side, Pilate spoke roughly:
> 
> "Take Him yourselves and crucify
> Him, for I find no fault in Him."
> 
> And then from within that
> multitude crafty voices: "You know we cannot crucify Him. You know well our law that forbids the taking of life.
> But we have a law and by that law He ought to die for He has made Himself the
> Son of God."
> 
> "He has made Himself king, and he
> who makes himself king speaks against Caesar. If you release this man, you are
> not Caesar's friend."
> 
> Threatening voices — not of
> the common people, these. And Pilate flinched and turned, and my Lord tuned
> with him...and I saw that the back of my Lord's red cloak was darkly stained...as with
> blood.
> 
> "John," I groaned, "they have
> scourged Him."
> 
> John bent his head.
> 
> The door closed. Then once again
> it opened. And this time Pilate came forth alone, except that a servant
> followed, bearing an ewer, a basin and a napkin. As before, Pilate stood at the
> head of the steps, and his servant with him. He dipped his hands in the basin
> and washed and wrung and dried them. In silence he washed his thin, white
> hands. Then he turned to the throng in the square. Till now his eyes had been
> downcast. Now I could see into them. God in heaven...they were more at peace! He
> spoke.
> 
> "I am innocent of the blood of
> this just man. See ye to it."
> 
> Sunk in abysmal despair for which
> there are no words in any tongue, for no sorrow like to this, no loss like to
> this, has ever before overwhelmed the human heart, I waited...we five waited...while
> a lurid pallor, sickened the daylight.
> 
> To the right of the Praetorium
> stands a low wing of the building, having grated windows set into its stones
> and a door level to the pavement. At last the mother turned and with firm step walked
> to this door. And we turned and went after her. I knew...I knew then. He would
> come forth by this door.
> 
> The door clanked and swung open from
> within...and through it protruded the great beam of a cross.
> 
> With the beam, His thorn-crowned
> head emerged, and now His brow was dewed with blood from the thorns. Then His
> body staggered forth. And then His gaze fell on us, His loved ones, and He stopped
> and stood still before us . Oh fearful to see Him bowed beneath those heavy
> beams, that martyred head weighed down, His eyes upraised, His eyes upraised to
> us! Roughly the soldiers seized Him and swung Him round, and, ever submissive
> He stumbled on.
> 
> From the door emerged another
> cross, and behind it still another. Mean figures — culprits — bent
> beneath these crosses, following after the Lord...none but these now following in
> His footsteps. And thus we saw our beloved,
> crossing the court of that prison, staggering toward a multitude poised to
> leap.
> 
> Ah and how it leapt, this herd of
> hyenas, wolves and jackals! The soldiers themselves could not restrain them.
> Fleeing on ahead of John and the others, mad to be near my Lord while I could...while
> I could...even though that herd trample me to death, I could see at close hand
> the gambols of these animals, could see them spring to buffet the blood-flecked
> face, to spit on that holy face...to mingle their spittle with the Lord's blood...agile
> as monkeys, capering before Him; supple-jointed, bowing backward the while they
> mouthed their mockery.
> 
> "Hail, King of the Jews!"
> 
> But some women dared to weep.
> 
> The soldiers at last cleared the
> way, and, close to my Lord, I walked with Him to Golgotha. Ah, could I but have
> borne His cross!
> 
> XVI
> 
> THE WALK was short. The hill
> called Golgotha lies but a little beyond the Fish Gate. In shape it is like
> unto a skull, white as a skull, being stony, and round it spread gardens. On
> that spring day, flower-studded gardens, lilies and red anemones jewelling the grass,
> which would have been a fair sight, but in the lurid darkness of that day the
> very flowers had turned pale.
> 
> Golgotha rolls up, not high, but
> oh steep, steep! Oh, cruel to see our Beloved struggling beneath His long cross
> up that rocky hill.
> 
> Was it the agony on our faces
> that clove a path for us through the soldiers' midst? For now, with our Lord,
> with His guards, we stood alone on the summit...John, the holy mother, three Marys...while
> singly, under their crosses, the thieves appeared above its chalky ridge.
> 
> The executioners took the cross
> from the shoulders of our dear Lord and dropped it clattering to the stones. A
> soldier advanced and loosed the scarlet cloak so that it fell in a heap on the cross
> at the Lord's feet. And He stood robed only in the long white tunic His mother
> had woven for Him, compassed about by soldiers. Then the executioners turned to
> those others waiting, doubled beneath their crosses, and stripped them and laid
> them out upon the beams.
> 
> I hid my face in my hands. And
> there was a dreadful silence on that hill...and to me, with my fingers pressed
> upon my eyes, darkness. Shrieks split the silence, followed by hammering and more
> shrieks. Then the sound of scuffling feet, of stones being hauled and heaped...and
> two awful separate shrieks. And I knew that the crosses of the two culprits had
> been lifted with their wounded burdens, and sunken and steadied in the ground.
> 
> Now...now...it must be the turn of my
> Lord. Now I must look. For, if I would drain His cup with Him, could I do less
> than look? How else could I serve Him...now...save by faithful, following eyes that
> suffered with Him? I prayed God for strength and turned to Him.
> 
> The soldiers had stripped Him of
> His one garment, His body stood out majestic against a darkened sky, naked but
> for that crown of thorns, and in His uplifted eyes shone the glory of the Godhead.
> 
> So it was that I saw...at last...the
> Lord of Spirits "in the full glory wherewith God had clothed Him."
> 
> They stretched out His body on
> the cross, flat on the ground. Now worse was to come — the hammer...the nails....
> 
> Ah, those hands! Those palms,
> centres of a healing life; those fingers that had wiped away my tears!
> 
> I saw one of the executioners
> pass to another, who knelt on the ground behind that prostrate Might, a hammer
> and three long nails, one longest of all. Two nails, a long and a short, the kneeling
> man placed on the ground beside him; then with unmoved face, he fitted the one
> he still held into my Lord's relaxed palm, and with a single blow drove it into
> that palm, deep into the wood. I clapped my hand to mouth to shut in a scream,
> for this...this...was more than I could bear. But no sound came from my Beloved's
> lips. His eyes now were closed.
> 
> "Ah, it may be He feels it not...that
> now He is out of the body. God grant that He feel it not!" I prayed.
> 
> Clumsily the executioner rose
> from his knees and came over to the left side. And now, because of the breadth
> of this man's body, I saw not the second nail driven in. Only I heard the thud of
> the hammer.
> 
> Still no sound came from that
> cross. And when the executioner moved to impale the feet...those feet...those feet,
> which I had kissed and anointed and dried with my hair...again I saw the divine face,
> and I saw the same patience wreathing His lips, the same serenity on His brow,
> though now His face was white and sharp, even as the stones of Golgotha.
> 
> At this moment a soldier stepped
> forward, on his mouth a grin, in his hands the superscription of the
> accusation. And he stooped and nailed it on the upper cross-beam. Black letters
> stared from the parchment: "Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews."
> 
> And now one of the executioners,
> not he that had hammered in the nails, but the other who had held and passed
> them, came bearing a cruet and a cup. I knew what was in that cruet — the
> mixture of myrrh and wine whereby feeling is dulled. And I went forward to meet
> this man, for I would assuage, myself, my Beloved's suffering. If indeed He
> suffered.
> 
> The man glanced on me with
> pitying eyes and in silence placed the cruet and cup into my outstretched
> hands. And with body gone weak, I approached my Lord on His cross. His head
> drooped now, His skin was stretched taunt over the high bones of His face.
> There was the look of a slain lamb in that leonine head.
> 
> "My Lord," I breathed, "my
> beloved Lord...."
> 
> His eyes opened. And again
> upturned to me, I beheld the love of the Godhead triumphant on that peak of hell.
> But mingled with that bright glory in His eyes I saw an awful bodily anguish,
> and with heart stabbed through till it seemed to break into fiery halves of
> pain I held out the myrrh and wine...in a cup.
> 
> Feebly He moved His head in
> refusal. Ah, why should He not drink this? Why hold so fast unto torture? Now I
> saw His lips tremble open and, bending close, heard one word:
> 
> "Forever?"
> 
> "Forever..." I sobbed.
> 
> Then the soldiers came to take
> Him from me...to set up His cross. And as they lifted high His naked majesty, the
> accusing scroll unfurled above, from the garden I heard a thousand voices, "Hail,
> King of the Jews!" And shouts of laughter rang to that hill.
> 
> Till then, curtained close with
> my Lord on Golgotha, I had know not the garden was filled with staring faces.
> 
> The cross jarred into the earth,
> but still no cry, not even a moan, escaped the drawn lips of my beloved Lord. I
> went, and with me the holy mother and John and his mother and Mary of Bethany,
> now a child to be led, all walking as though in sleep, and together we sank to
> the foot of that central cross. And then climbing the hill came Mary, mother of
> James and Joses, and Salome, veils across their mouths to stifle their sobs.
> And they, too, sinking to the ground, we all raised our eyes to the face of our
> dying Lord. And He gazed on us, nor removed that gaze, but looked steadfastly
> down on us. His lips were half open, giving up His anguish, or, as if He would
> speak but for that anguish, His weary eyes shrouded in a mystery of pain. How
> could we read that face, so great in death? But we could feel the yearning of
> His love upon us.
> 
> With the settling of the cross of
> our Beloved a few of the chief priests and elders had mounted the hill and now
> stood clustered together, too near...too near that cross, whispering among
> themselves, their faces satisfied.
> 
> To the right of us, close to
> where one of the culprits writhed in pain, sat a group of soldiers at a game of
> dice, their helmets bent low as the little dice rattled under the thief's
> bloody feet.
> 
> Beyond stood four other soldiers,
> wrangling over our Lord's seamless garment, for this, divided, could be of no
> worth, but whole, it would be soft to lounge in! Dear robe, whose hem my lips so
> oft had kissed, which had tingled as though alive to my lips, shot through by
> the life of Him who wore it...at last the four threw dice for it. And when a
> youth by a lucky draw won it, he laughed and said, "The Fates choose well, for
> this will fit me!"
> 
> And now the priests sidled nearer
> to this central cross, so near that the bells on their skirts jingled in our
> ears. On their golden mitres was inscribed, "Holy to Jehova," and these mitres they
> wagged at Him who hung above us, clothed only in His own blood, the while they
> fell to mocking Him!
> 
> "If you are the Son of God, come
> down from the cross."
> 
> "You that are able to destroy the
> temple and build it again in three
> days, get yourself down from the cross."
> 
> "Ho, dealer in miracles, you that
> save others, how is it you cannot save yourself?"
> 
> "He trusts in God! Well then, let
> God deliver Him if He will have Him. Did not this blasphemer say, 'I am the Son
> of God?' "
> 
> "Come down from the cross, come
> down from the cross and we will believe on you."
> 
> And pressing closer to gnash
> their teeth on Him, they all but trampled us who wept.
> 
> At this, the soldiers nearby
> looked up from their game of dice and got to their feet and stood among the
> priests, and the youth with the seamless robe hung over his arm came also, and
> others with him. And these Romans, for sport, joined their mockery to the priests',
> taunting "the King of the Jews".
> 
> Our Lord closed His eyes. His
> parted lips moved. Words fainted upon them. I strained my ears and heard:
> 
> "Father, forgive them, for they
> know not what they do."
> 
> Yet scarce had these syllables
> died when from the cross on the left of our dear Beloved — from the beams
> of which a thief looked down like unto an evil bird on the mitred and helmeted
> heads — the last gibe fell:
> 
> "Are you not Messiah? If you are
> He, save yourself and us."
> 
> And then it was that the Lord of
> all mankind found one defender.
> 
> From the cross to the right a
> voice was raised, a dying voice and feeble, yet I doubt not its echo shall ring
> down the ages.
> 
> I looked up to see a suffering
> head craned forward to the farthest cross.
> 
> "Do you not even fear God, you
> who are in the same condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we receive but the
> due reward of our deeds, but this man has done nothing amiss."
> 
> And now this blessed thief turned
> to the Lord's cross, and as he gazed at that face drooping below the placard — livid
> and shrunk even as his own, lips blackened even as his own — wonder filled his
> eyes with a great humility.
> 
> "Lord," he prayed, "remember me
> when you come into your Kingdom."
> 
> Life tided back to our Lord. Once
> more in His eyes I beheld the burning revelation of the love of God.
> 
> "Verily, this day," He said and
> His voice rang strong, "shall you be with me in paradise."
> 
> My bosom swelled. My tears
> gushed. I thought: His first guest...a thief.
> 
> Had He waited...waited, prolonging
> His own torments, for the coming of this late guest? For now it was clear He
> was hastening away. Now His glance roved from one to another of these upturned faces
> at His feet, plumbing their sorrow with His, so that His sorrow sank into our
> depths; seeking to assuage our hearts with a last flicker of the fire of His
> unearthly love. And we knew — we who gazed through tears that blurred Him — that
> His dimming eyes were bidding us farewell.
> 
> His eyes swooned back to John,
> whose arms encircled the holy mother. Words struggled through those black lips:
> 
> "Behold your mother."
> 
> Then looking last upon her that
> had borne Him:
> 
> "Behold your son."
> 
> And then He said:
> 
> "It is finished."
> 
> His head moved, His chin fell to
> His breast, the long half-moons of His eyes beneath His fallen eyelids glazed.
> And we knew that He — our life — was dead.
> 
> Now a soldier came forward. The
> King of the Jews was dead. The death of the thieves must be hastened, for
> tomorrow was a festal day in Jerusalem and the hill should be cleared of these
> corpses before nightfall. Wherefore with smashing blows, which shook howls from
> the thieves, he broke their legs and disposed of them. Then he stepped to the
> cross of our dear Beloved and, raising his spear, plunged it into that body
> which, God be thanked, could no longer feel men's weapons, neither scourge, nor
> nails, nor cross, nor spear, nor...tongue.
> 
> One of the executioners, lifting
> a ladder against the cross, climbed it and drew forth the nails from the
> clotted palms, then scrambling to the ground, jerked the long one from the
> feet. We had risen to make way for him. John stood supporting the tottering mother,
> she who was now his own. But I...I cared not what he nor the others, not even the
> holy mother did. Too cold was I now to feel, even to mourn, at this bleak moment.
> Apart from all I stood, turned to stone.
> 
> And it was then there came to me
> that centurion by whose orders my Lord had been mangled and done to death. His
> eyes burned solemnly and as he reached my side, he spoke to me below his breath.
> 
> "Truly, this was a righteous
> man."
> 
> "A god," I answered him dully.
> 
> We took our beloved down from the cross. Now He was
> clammy and waxen.
> 
> That merciful executioner who had
> passed unto me the cup and the cruet permitted John to support the feet and
> himself held our Lord by the arm-pits; and the beautiful head of our Lord, with
> eyes forever closed, rested at peace on the executioner's shoulder. Then the
> two, John and this kindly man, laid down the body on the stones.
> 
> With the fading of our Lord's
> last breath the chief priests and elders had jingled down the hill; the
> multitude trampling the garden had begun to scatter. And now two came to Golgotha,
> Joseph of Aramathea and Nicodemus. Men of small courage, these. Disciples in
> secret of Jesus, they were also members of the Sanhedrin, which had met that
> very day to try for blasphemy the Son of God. These two had been present at the
> trial and had dared keep silence, defending not their Master. Now they joined
> us beneath His empty cross, where we still stood in our mute misery, huddled round
> the waxen form reclining mid the boulders of Golgotha.
> 
> Grief was in the faces of these
> Sanhedrists, but uppermost a sneaking shame. Each wore a smitten look. Yet had
> they come with their offerings. Joseph had his tomb to offer, one he had lately
> hewn for himself in a cliff in that garden below — his garden, a corner of
> the broad acres he owned beyond Jerusalem's wall. Nicodemus would bring us out
> of his wealth one hundred pounds of myrrh and aloes wherewith to serve the dead
> body of his Lord.
> 
> We left them on the hill with
> that loved body (for Joseph asked not our aid in that which must be done) to
> bury all that was left of Him who had come from above to exalt men and was now receiving
> His fellow-crucified before His throne in Paradise.
> 
> In those days when the Son of God
> walked earth and we, poor clods, companioned Him, if He withdrew from us but
> for an hour the sun of our spirits set. Now the sun had set forever. He was dead.
> Earth was dead. Alone we were left on its bare bones.
> 
> Life we had known. Now all was lifeless. Livid below that black
> sky, the fields spread to shadowy mountains. Livid, the domes of Jerusalem rose
> above the long ribbing of its wall. Livid, a company of wraiths, the satiated
> mob moved, soundless, toward the city gates. A band of shades ourselves, John
> and we six women, numbly our feet found the path dropping steep from Golgotha, numbly
> followed the chalk-white road...back to Jerusalem.
> 
> As we went, the poor crazed Mary
> groaned fearful words!
> 
> "The veil of His holy temple is
> rent, and with it the veil that covers all things...rent. And now I see...I see...into
> the darkness of all things. Those monsters that slew the life of God, that
> march with us to Jerusalem...can none of you see what I see? Rotting corpses
> marching with us. Corpses come out from the tombs to do this deed. The corpses
> of those who ever since the world began have risen from the tombs to suck the
> life of the prophet. The eternal dead."
> 
> Now, before us on the road we
> saw, spectral in the dark, a tree, and dangling from it a man. And John turned
> aside with the mother into a field and seized my elbow to drag me with them — but
> too late.
> 
> "What is that hanging on the
> tree, John?"
> 
> "You know."
> 
> "I know, Iscariot. That tree
> bears bitter fruit."
> 
> "Rotten fruit," said John, with
> hard-pressed lips.
> 
> XVII
> 
> IN THE first dark hours of the
> third day I stole forth again from the house in Bethany, now to seek my Lord at
> His tomb. To press my cheek on the stone sealing the door of that tomb — I could
> hope for no more than this. I asked no more.
> 
> I came to the gate of Joseph's
> garden. Beneath the dark sky, behind the blank pillars of the cypress trees,
> the sepulchre loomed ashen white, and where the stone had been...gaped a hole!
> 
> What was this? I ran. Yes, the
> stone was rolled away. Now I could enter, kneel close to my Beloved.
> 
> I plunged into the cave. Its chill
> smote me. Its darkness closed about me. I was in a narrow passage. I stretched
> forth my hands, feeling of the dank stones of the walls, groping my way to that
> inner vault wherein I knew they had laid my Lord.
> 
> But at last in the vault itself I
> could take not a step forward. For here I stood lost in pitch-black space with
> no walls to guide me, even as one gone suddenly blind. And what was this
> emptiness here? A musty breath, raw-cold — a void — this and naught
> else I sensed. Then my eyes cleared a little and, far in a corner, I saw a flat
> blur of white. An icy hand gripped my heart. I dragged my feet to that corner,
> fear slowing every step; then, shivering, stooped...and touched my Lord's grave
> clothes.
> 
> Where then was my Lord...where...where
> was He? Turning, I fled, I scarce knew how, back to the mouth of the cave.
> 
> The air was fresh with the dawn,
> the sky graying. I had but one thought — to find my Lord. But, alone I
> could do naught. John must be told; he would help me. At the moment he lodged
> in the city with Peter, in the square just behind the Fish Gate. I sped to Jerusalem.
> 
> The window of their room opened
> on the square. I peered through its grating. The two men lay on their mats,
> still asleep, but I saw John stir.
> 
> "John!" I called, "John!" — then
> when he woke — "They have stolen our Lord from the sepulchre. Come...oh come!"
> 
> He sprang up and we went
> together, running. But John outran me and was at the tomb when I was no farther
> than the first trees of the garden. I saw him stoop and enter the tomb, then
> come forth and stand still in the grove, with bowed head. As I neared him, he raised
> troubled eyes.
> 
> "Mary...these grave-clothes...discarded!
> This can mean but one thing — enemies have stolen Him."
> 
> "We must find Him...wrest Him from
> them."
> 
> "But in such a case, how could we
> even find Him?"
> 
> "John...love can find Him."
> 
> And now we saw Peter in the
> distance, running to the garden. When at last he caught up with us, breathless,
> staring amazed at the open tomb, and we told him our Lord had vanished from it,
> he wept and rent his garments.
> 
> "Will they not leave us even His
> body? What new sacrilege would they heap on it?"
> 
> "Find him, O Peter. Go...you and John...find Him."
> 
> "Who could find Him?" sobbed
> Peter, "The devils of Caiaphas have Him. They would defile His body."
> 
> "The guards were set here," said
> John, still in deep thought. "But it might be all were in the pay of Caiaphas."
> Then his eyes flashed; he spoke as if to himself. "Howbeit...what matters the body?"
> 
> I cried: "It is His body, John...His blessed and beloved
> body. Oh go...go...both of you...go!"
> 
> "I like not to leave you here,
> Mary."
> 
> "Here is where I wish to be."
> 
> And now they were gone and I was
> glad, for at last I was free to weep as I would. For this long time a crested
> wave of tears had been poised above me. The wave must break...and now! And such weeping
> should be done alone.
> 
> I bowed my head on the threshold
> of the tomb.
> 
> None could weep long as I wept.
> The fury of my sobbing spent itself, though my tears still flowed. I rose.
> 
> In the garden, his back to me, his
> face to the sun, where it showed a bright arc above a hill, stood one whom I
> took to be the gardener. Could it be he that had stolen the body of my Lord?
> 
> Not turning, but still with his
> face to the sun, he spoke.
> 
> "Why do you weep? Whom do you
> seek?"
> 
> How knew he that I stood there,
> that I wept? Why were this man's tones so melting-tender? But I thought not
> then on such things. Grief had me in too fierce a clutch that I should note the
> mystery of the gardener. So that I answered him brokenly:
> 
> "sir, if you have borne my Lord hence, tell me where you have laid
> him, that I might take Him away."
> 
> And now he wheeled upon me...this
> gardener. O merciful God! O kind God! Had I too died? Where was I? For here was
> my Lord...my Lord Himself...alive....
> 
> "Mary."
> 
> "Rabboni!"
> 
> Once again I was at His feet .
> The sun leapt above the mountains of Moab. My Lord smiled down into my lifted
> face.
> 
> Now I threw myself forward,
> frantic to kiss His feet, but He put out a hand to ward me away.
> 
> "Touch me not, for I am not yet
> ascended to my Father."
> 
> I heeded only "Touch me not" and
> fell back grieving. Yet...I could touch His beauty, with a look! I drank my fill
> of the adored face. How it glistened now! And His eyes beamed down like stars while
> He smiled upon me.
> 
> Once more He spoke.
> 
> "Go, Mary, to my disciples. Say
> unto them: 'I ascend to my Father and to your Father, to my God and to your
> God.' "
> 
> "Ascend, my Lord...ascend?" I murmured, "Will you then go away — again?
> Oh leave us not again!"
> 
> Tears brimmed so full on my
> lashes I could see naught for them, and when I had dashed them away, my Lord
> was no longer there. How could He have fled so quickly? Alone...alone I knelt between
> the tomb and Golgotha.
> 
> I staggered to my feet. I must
> seek John now, though where to seek him I knew not. I turned my steps toward Jerusalem.
> Then, on the further side of Golgotha, I saw him on his way back. As he neared
> me, I ran to meet him.
> 
> "John, I have found our Lord," I
> cried.
> 
> Gravely he spoke.
> 
> "Tell me how."
> 
> "I found Him living...not dead.
> John, how is it He lives, more vigourous even than before, more radiant than
> before, when the cross wounded Him so? There are no wounds on Him now."
> 
> "You have not yet told me how you
> found Him. What happened, Mary?"
> 
> "After you and Peter left me I
> went to the tomb and knelt there and mourned. And when I stood up, I saw a man
> in the garden, His back to me . How was it that I knew not that back! He asked,
> speaking with His face still hid, whom I sought and why I wept. Then, when I
> told Him, He turned about and, oh, John...I saw my Lord. I all but died of joy...after
> so much sorrow. John...His smile is the same."
> 
> "Yes, I know."
> 
> "You know? You too have seen Him?
> Then He passed your way?"
> 
> "No, Mary — that is, I saw
> Him not. But I heard His voice, His same voice. When we had left you, as we
> neared the Fish Gate, He spoke to me."
> 
> "Spoke to you, and you saw Him
> not? I know not what you mean, O John."
> 
> "Mary, what you have seen is not
> that body whose blood still spatters Golgotha, but one the cross could not kill.
> It was His heavenly body you saw."
> 
> "Ah, John...and it is the same...in
> every way like to His own...and substantial. Will I see it again? Will you see
> it?"
> 
> "Surely. From now on...always."
> 
> "John! I am alive again! But tell
> me, what happened with you? Did Peter too hear?"
> 
> "No, and I bade him go on ahead.
> Then I sat on that stone yonder, and our Lord spoke for a long time."
> 
> "Oh, what said He?"
> 
> "Some things you may know. He
> said His earth-life had been His little life, but that His greater life, in
> which we His loved ones share, had had no beginning and was endless, even as
> the night-depths. He said men questioned not by night the wealth and strength of
> the sun, nor by day the wealth and strength of the stars, for all these orbs
> had been visible in full glory to the eye, and the disappearance of the sun by
> night or the stars by day was but a manifestation of the will of the
> All-Powerful Godhead. He asked if we, His disciples, questioned His wealth and
> strength. Was it, He asked, that we had perceived not His full glory? His disappearance also was but a manifestation of
> the Will of the All-Powerful Godhead."
> 
> "John" — I covered my face
> with my hands, "He said this...that we share His greater life with Him? We, who
> have felt so desolate, so helpless — who thought that all was ended? This
> means a great thing, John."
> 
> "It means" — John spoke with
> bowed head — "that He has accepted even us to take up that work cut short
> by the cross."
> 
> "John, we must go at once to
> Peter and to all the others. Yes, to those nine who seem lost to us I must go,
> for our Lord has entrusted me with a message to them. Know you where to find
> them, John?"
> 
> "I can find them. They are
> scattered...hiding!"
> 
> "How they must suffer, poor souls...bereft
> of faith...bereft of everything. Let us find them quickly...tell them what we know."
> 
> "They will not listen, Mary...not
> now."
> 
> We found them and they listened
> not. Such things could not be, they said. Even poor Peter shook his head. But
> the women of Galilee believed, and also Mary, the mother of John Mark. And when
> I went to Mary of Bethany, where she lay in her chamber, melancholy-mad, and broke
> our glad-tidings to her, the darkness lifted from her mind as an evil dream
> lifts with the morning. As to the holy mother, she ever walked with God.
> 
> And now to each of these
> steadfast ones came our Lord in dream or vision. And to Peter mercifully He came
> and wiped away his tears.
> 
> There followed a day of great
> gladness, when all we, who had seen the Risen Glory, were bidden to the house
> of the mother of John Mark — a large house with a porch on Mount Zion — that
> we might pray in that chamber wherein our Lord had supped for the last time.
> 
> And behold the while we prayed,
> the air of the chamber stirred and throbbed and our Lord's very presence burned
> upon us, not manifest now to the eye and therefore most awful.
> 
> I whispered to John, who sat at
> my side:
> 
> "He is here."
> 
> John's face changed. Light
> trembled across it, moulding the features to a yet nobler beauty. He upraised
> his eyes and glory spilled from them.
> 
> "The Lord is speaking. Take down
> His words."
> 
> He put into my hand his stylus,
> while Mary, the mother of Mark, went quickly and fetched me tablets.
> 
> "O my dear ones," John heard, "I
> enfold you in my arms."
> 
> Our Lord spoke long with us that
> day, while His life filled the room from wall to wall and from roof to floor
> and we were immersed in a sea of love.
> 
> God's Messengers, He told us, all
> come attended by the power of the Great Ether, and this Power men cannot slay,
> nor confine below ground. From this Great Ether now would He pour out His love and
> guidance upon us His chosen ones, till we should be lifted up into such
> understanding of the divine mysteries as had never before been accorded to man
> while he lived in the body. Thus, filled with the might of the Holy Spirit,
> each one of us, single-handed, could enter and challenge a nation. And though
> that nation should shed our blood, our very blood would conquer it for God. Our
> weapons must be but two, Faith and His Love; our only battle-cry, His Name. So
> we would build a new Temple, a mighty Tower, its stones many nations made one
> in Him. And when in turn this Temple should crumble, the faith within it grown
> weak, then lo! the Lord of Hosts would come again.
> 
> Now, as never before, the thought
> of the faithless nine gave my heart no peace. Once more I went seeking them,
> and traced them at last to a squalid upper chamber, wherein all had come together
> in their fear and misery.
> 
> "Believe me that Jesus lives," I
> pleaded. "It is indeed true that no human hand can slay the Prophet of God. For
> the Prophet of God is a great spirit,
> as ye have seen, not a thing of clay like a jar in a potter's hand, to be
> broken and cast away. Did death end Moses, Elijah? Nay, it is said Elijah never
> died. Wherefore, then should our Lord have died? His risen spirit dwells in our
> very midst. Oh, believe that I have seen Him!"
> 
> And my words at last took effect
> in their hearts and they did believe. Then two of them, Andrew and Cleopas, saw
> for themselves, meeting the Lord on the way to Emmaus. And again He appeared
> unto all the men as they sat at meat in their upper chamber, being also in the
> upper chamber of their own souls, where doors open into the light.
> 
> Now at eventide on a day when
> John and I walked Olivet alone, our Lord came and spoke with us there. John
> heard the voices; I saw a majestic outline, a mist on shadows. And He bade me,
> Mary, spread a feast on Olivet and call to it all His disciples, for now, He said,
> great decisions lay before us.
> 
> On the morrow, therefore, at
> sundown, I spread my feast, beneath a sycamore tree. And the eleven came and
> six women. And as we ate, we talked of other days, when here on this very spot
> our Beloved had sat in our midst, or when we followed Him across Judea, or
> along the shore of Galilee, or to Carmel and Phoenicia, or dwelt with Him in
> Capernaum. And each had some happy thing to recall — of a saying not
> understood till now, or of some sweet event through which we had passed as in a
> dream, unaware of its import.
> 
> "I remember," said James, "one
> day, walking behind Him on Mount Carmel, fitting my sandals into His
> footprints, I trod upon an adder."
> 
> "And I," said John, "a day when,
> crossing Gennesaret with the Lord, walking alone with Him through the wheat, of
> a sudden He stopped and uplifted His face and pointed skyward. And I, also looking
> up, saw a hawk in pursuit of a little bird. And lo! While we stood and watched,
> that little bird fluttered down and flew to the breast of the Lord, and
> sheltered itself in His robe."
> 
> "I," said Peter, "recall a dark
> night in Capernaum when, as we started down a stair, I would have lighted His
> way with a lamp, but He laughed and picked me up as a man might swing a babe,
> and bore my heaviness down that stair and set my feet on firm ground."
> 
> "I remember," said Mary, "when He
> laid on my head a white veil."
> 
> And living again in those days,
> so that we breathed the very scent of them, again we seemed to be flocked at
> the knee of our Shepherd.
> 
> The sky turned opal, then dark.
> The stars hung above us, bright drops ready to fall. A great hush descended
> upon us.
> 
> And now behold One coming like to
> the moon in glory. Through the trees He came, advancing with His swaying gait,
> till He stood intolerably near. All saw Him and all fell prostrate at His feet.
> And then the divine voice spoke. We heard it as a rushing wind, resounding from
> every side:
> 
> "All power has been given unto me
> in heaven and on earth. Go, therefore, my disciples, and make disciples of all
> the nations, teaching them to observe whatsoever I have commanded you. And lo!
> I am with you always, even to the consummation of the world."
> 
> His shining form was gone, but He...He had left us not. While He spoke a
> swift elixir had distilled itself into our veins. And now in our breasts a new
> Heart beat, a light and fearless heart.
> And we knew that our many hearts had been made one in His.
> 
> For long we sat in silence under
> the sycamore tree, in the blackness beneath its canopy. Then words burned my
> lips and I knew that I must speak them.
> 
> "My brothers, my sisters, see
> what our Lord has done for us! First, He chose us out of all the world, then He
> trained and taught us. Now, so great is His love, He has even come back from
> across the grave to us. To prove that He is always with us, to prove that there
> is no death — and therefore, naught to fear — He has shown unto us His
> immortal body. He reveals to us now such things as we could not have borne
> before...till something in us too had died with Him. In our grief He has united
> us and brought us the greatest of all His gifts — His eternal Presence and
> His guidance. The greatest of all His gifts? Nay, there is one still greater — and
> this He has bestowed tonight, when He poured His own heart into ours — that
> we may know He lives within us, to love
> within us. So, having resuscitated us, having reformed each one to be as a Shepherd's
> pipe at the lips of the Shepherd, having deigned to enter into us till we are
> now as one soul, He lays upon us a new command: To go forth and make disciples
> of the nations. By these words our Lord has announced to us, O beloved
> brothers, beloved sisters, that the time is come when we too may offer a proof — that
> of our faithfulness, our loyalty; nay in very reality serve Him who has done all
> this for us."
> 
> From the circle of the
> shadow-forms under the tree, Matthew spoke first.
> 
> "Once I heard Him say, 'Freely
> have you received. Freely must you give. Were you to give life itself in the
> path of the kingdom, the Kingdom
> is so great that even thus you will have received it freely'. To make disciples
> of the nations clearly means that we should scatter. What shall we plan to do?
> For, as Mary has said, the time is upon us when we may prove our faithfulness,
> our loyalty."
> 
> Then fell the calm voice of John.
> 
> "It is plain that the first step
> is to free ourselves of all attachments. Fettered, how could we be loyal?"
> 
> "That is true," said one and
> another out of the night. And Peter broke forth:
> 
> "Free, verily, must we be if we
> would herald the Kingdom in the wilderness, free of every tie!"
> 
> James spoke:
> 
> "More than ties should be renounce.
> From the self must we be free."
> 
> "That is true." "True."
> 
> Then Philip:
> 
> "We must wholly sacrifice
> ourselves. To be at ease and also teach, these two will not coincide. From now
> we must forgo ease. We must accept every hardship. We must go forth, vagabond
> preachers.
> 
> Once more John lifted up His
> voice, that voice dulcet sweet and deep.
> 
> "This has another aspect. For the
> sake of the Lord we shall be beaten, we shall be cast into prison, we shall be
> exiled. Even, the oppressors may kill us. Let us read this lesson now. Let us
> know that we shall be beaten, bound with chains, spat upon, banished...killed.
> Let us accept all this. Verily, I will."
> 
> "We will." "Verily, we will,"
> echoed one and all.
> 
> Then, each having found his cross
> and shouldered it, in silence we went down the hill, to face the menace of the
> future and the glory of the Kingdom.
> 
> XVIII
> 
> WE DESCENDED Olivet. We went up into
> Galilee. There the men sold their nets and boats and bade farewell to their
> families. Then in perfect unity of heart they departed unto Jerusalem. In the
> city of Solomon's Temple where the Holy Word that had spoken in Moses, distorted
> by a blind priesthood, was now as sounding brass and tinkling symbols; where
> this same Word, speaking again through the lips of Jesus, had been silenced on
> the cross, they would make their first stand for His deathless Truth.
> 
> In Jerusalem a great new power
> lifted up the twelve. Preaching boldly in the streets, even in the cloisters of
> the Temple, they proclaimed the Kingdom with tongues of fire. This power
> streamed through their very hands. They touched a cripple; he leapt to his feet
> and walked. The sick they healed with a touch. Multitudes followed after them.
> Multitudes entered this living Faith. Then the priests rose up, even as Herod
> had risen to slay the babes of Bethlehem. The wrath of the Synagogues broke
> like unto a raging sea against a rock, and henceforth, the Lord's disciples
> endured great tribulation.
> 
> I, in the meantime, tarried in
> Galilee, where I dwelt in the house of the mother of John, the home also of the
> holy mother — that house alive with the memories of a vanished Paradise,
> with echoes of divine footsteps. And thus twelve years went by — weary years
> to me, for I chafed at the peace of our lives in Capernaum while in perilous
> Judea our brethren laboured and suffered and some died.
> 
> Moreover (to tell the truth),
> though the house still throbbed with the life of Him that had blessed it, what
> was this compared with the throb of
> His vigorous body aflame with His soul's effulgence! What was this compared
> with the wonder of those other days when we, the seventeen bereft ones, praying
> together, listening for a voice, would be caught up in spirit to our risen
> Lord, who, in His hidden ethereal world, consumed our hearts with divine fire!
> Not even John was left to us now. He had joined the apostles in Jerusalem. And moments
> there were in these heavy days when my thoughts would grope like the hands of
> the blind toward yet another who had vanished, whose parting words had been, "Those
> who forced my going would do well to look to my return"...yet...who returned not.
> 
> Once only had news of Novatus
> reached me, Paul the unwitting bearer. This intrepid convert who, in advance of
> us all, had gone forth to spread the faith
> in new regions, had returned from Achaia with a strange tale of the Governor of
> that province, one Junius Gallio.
> 
> Gallio was by birth, Paul told
> us, of the gens Annaea, brother to
> Seneca (my heart lost a beat at this) — Marcus Annaeas Novatus. He had
> taken an adopted name with a fortune bequeathed him by an old friend. With him
> Paul had had a curious encounter — he knew not, he said, what to make of
> it. When the Jews of Corinth had seized him and brought him before the judgment
> seat of Gallio, charged with the teaching of unlawful worship, this Roman had released
> Paul, rebuked the Jews, and suffered their leader, Sosthenes, to be beaten in
> his very presence. At the foot of the judgment seat the man was lashed at the
> express command of Gallio, he looking on meantime with a weary contempt. And so
> prompt had been his decision that he, Paul, had had not a chance to speak in his
> own defence, the which he had opened his lips to do!
> 
> What was it had led Novatus to protect
> a Christian (albeit with such disdain) if not some thought of me? Yet he came
> not back...he came not back...and, lost in this new name, a stranger indeed was he
> now.
> 
> Thus I crept through the years.
> For even by the sea of Galilee,
> in this blessed city of Capernaum, the chosen home of our Lord while He lived
> in the body, unto which He returned from each journey to rest in the dwellings
> of His loved ones; where multitudes pressing about Him had witnessed His
> wondrous works with awe...even here His dazzling image had faded from the minds
> of men. He had given up life itself in cruel agony, that men might know eternal
> life...yet...He had been slain by human hands, and for this, belief in Him was dead! Some still held Him in their hearts, Reuben,
> the outcast, being of the faithful. Alas, that so few flames were left — low-burning
> midst dying embers and gray ashes — on these shores where His glory had
> kindled great fires.
> 
> The holy mother, a spirit clothed
> in flesh, her eyes like mirrors of a brighter world, her lips sealed over its
> secrets, tirelessly ministered unto the sad and lonely with the soft touch of
> her love. All their little perplexities, their griefs, she took to the bosom of
> her tenderness. But she spoke scarce at all of the Lord's teachings, for to
> none would she offer an undesired cup, nor lay the burden of a great truth on
> any soul too weak for it. So by deeds she taught, her labours being in the
> field of human woe; Mary, the mother of John, cheerfully aiding her. And with
> such humble service her soul was content.
> 
> It was I — I alone — who
> chaffed at the emptiness of the days. And oft would I think in my heart: Is
> this, then, the cross I bore down Olivet — to sit with folded hands while
> others sacrifice life to seed the earth with the knowledge of the Kingdom?
> 
> And then, in the spring of the
> year just past, which is to say the thirteenth year since our Lord was
> crucified, all things changed.
> 
> One night as we sat in that
> chamber facing the sea where, on the eve of the bloodiest of Passovers, our
> Lord had taught us of happiness — we three women alone, Mary and I at the
> knees of the holy mother — the door swung open and we saw John, travel-stained,
> pale in the candle-light, distraught.
> 
> Oft before had he come with cruel
> news. We had heard of Christians flogged and put into bonds, of women dragged
> to the prison-house...the stabbing of James the Less and the stoning of our
> glorious Stephen. We had seen John anxious and sorrowful. But never till now
> had we seen in his face...fear. What then had befallen our brethren worse than
> such sufferings?
> 
> He greeted us each with a kiss,
> then sank heavily into a chair.
> 
> Fear sharp in our own hearts, yet
> questioning him not, his mother and I set food and wine before him and an ewer
> and basin that he might refresh himself. But he pushed all these aside and began
> his tale. His tones were calm, his words — at the first — too careful.
> 
> "I have made this long journey,"
> he said, "to consult with you three on a grave issue which, if we find not the
> way to meet it, will bring down much trouble on us all.
> 
> "But a short time since, while
> Peter and I stood on a street corner preaching, a multitude of men compassed us
> about, and when we had done, begged that we baptize them. I liked not the faces
> of these men, but to Peter all are the sheep of the Lord and, whether or no they
> be hungry, he must feed them. Later, they confessed to...the worst of crimes!
> They had been, they told us," — John's voice broke — "of that pack of
> beasts that howled for the blood of our Lord, and afterwards mocked Him...on the
> cross. Duped by their priests, used as tools, they swore. They appeared half
> mad with remorse.
> 
> "Now Peter has just uncovered a
> plot they have hatched. To avenge the wrongs at the hands of the priests, and
> also, they say, the death of their Messiah, they have planned to slay all who deceived
> them. And not alone these, but the rulers...elders. And should such a massacre
> take place (though Peter is striving with all his might to prevent it), should
> men believed to be Christians start a bloody conflict with the Jews...." He
> buried his face in his hands and groaned, then looked up with tortured eyes. "If
> the Jews retaliate and in turn massacre us...when have we ever feared death? But...this
> blot on our Faith...."
> 
> "Oh, let us go to our Lord," I
> cried. "Let us seek His guidance, for naught else can deliver us from this."
> 
> "He has promised to be with us
> always," murmured the mother of John, weeping.
> 
> Then spoke the holy mother.
> 
> "Be not so troubled, John. Have
> we not heard the Lord say that if for a single moment the heart become
> distrustful, at that moment the bounty of God would be cut off from it? Has He
> not also said that all power in heaven and earth is His? Would He deliver His cause into the hands of shame? Verily,
> it is clear, John. Our part is but to have faith, to seek, as Mary has said, His
> guidance, and then to act boldly upon it."
> 
> And now...how dare I write of that
> which befell me as we prayed, when
> the voice that answered laid a command on me...such a command as no mortal could
> obey unless divinely aided?
> 
> John heard the voice. We others
> felt in the air that mighty throbbing. The magnitude of an unseen Presence
> burned from above upon us, wrapped us about with its tingling life, pricked
> through our skin and invaded our hearts, and with a new unnamable sense, long
> ago opened in each of us, we touched the very Being of our Lord.
> 
> Now John began to speak, his face
> a center of light straining upward to catch the soundless words. And while he
> gave utterance to them I bowed my head low, amazed, weighed down by their
> import. For with his eyes on me, John said:
> 
> "This is for you, Mary. You must
> depart at once for Rome. The apostles must send you thither with a message from
> Peter to Caesar. Having gained access to Caesar, you are to give this message
> by word of mouth. You are to offer a plea in behalf of these endangered
> priests, beseeching for them the Imperial protection. Thus will the mercy
> taught from the cross by the King of kings be revealed before the earth's
> loftiest throne.
> 
> "Meantime," said John, "(and this
> is for all) there is naught to fear. Those others — verily crazed by
> remorse — who seek vengeance on the priests will be held in check by a hand
> stronger than Peter's, mightier than Caesar's. Why should your hearts be troubled
> by so small a test? Know ye not that all are but vassals of the Lord, standing
> by His command, serving His ultimate purpose? In this journey to Rome lies a
> consummate wisdom and in it momentous results are hid. Others will follow Mary's
> steps; for now, verily, has the hour struck when ye, the heralds of the
> Kingdom, must scatter to the nations."
> 
> And then in my heart I heard
> secret words.
> 
> "You first, my daughter, my
> beloved daughter, shall uplift the banner of my love in Rome."
> 
> XIX
> 
> BIDDING farewell to Galilee, I
> set sail within the week from Joppa, alone...yet not alone. For now, while our
> galley rolled in the waves of an endless sea, my Lord was ever with me. I felt
> Him within, through and around me, as an ocean surges in a drop. And night
> after night I saw Him in dreams, always in His human form...even as flesh and
> bone and blood, clad in rough homespun, lifting me up with His buoyancy and the
> resonant swing of His voice and intoxicating my heart. Once He appeared robed
> in white — effulgent, exultant, lavishing on me, with smiles and eager gestures,
> the bounty of a new promise. Feasting my eyes on His glory, I thought: Am I
> still then a child that He should offer me a gift? Why should He think I lack
> aught while I drink this strong wine of His nearness? And I listened not to His
> promise. Wherefore, when I awoke I knew not what it had been.
> 
> At last we anchored at Ostia and
> by nightfall I entered Rome.
> 
> I had with me a letter from Paul
> to a Jew named Malachi, a porter in the Hebrew quarter. This man gave me a
> kindly welcome and, his insula being
> full, lodged me in an attic room. And here at the window that night I sank to
> my knees and cried out to the heavens. For now as never before was I aware of
> my littleness. No longer was Rome a dream, a phantom city in the distance,
> dwarfed by my faith in this mission of the Lord's. Now it lay before my very eyes,
> solid and vast and dark beneath the stars, its building marching in masses up
> the hills for as far as the eye could see, five hills crowned with great
> columned piles. And I must somehow — I knew not how — seek out the
> ruler of all this...nay, of half the world besides...and impart unto him, Caesar,
> the mercy of the King of kings.
> 
> But when I fell asleep on my
> pallet, again my Lord came in a dream to me, and now I remembered His words — even
> as I awoke I heard their echoing — and verily, they shamed me!
> 
> "Your only hindrances are fear and
> doubt." Then: "Must I speak to you...to you
> of fear and doubt?"
> 
> There was one in Rome who could,
> if he would, gain me an audience with Caesar — the senator, Lucius
> Vitellius, once Proconsul in Syria. But I put no trust in this man. For a fanatical
> Christian he would have little use. Still, other than he, I knew not a soul in
> the city save the kindly porter, Malachi! Of these many thousand doors but one
> was open to me. Nor could I be sure if this were open. Howbeit, I had no
> choice. There was naught to do but knock at this door. If it should close in my
> face, God would provide me another.
> 
> Hence, on the morning of my first
> day in Rome, having enquired of Malachi and learned that Vitellius dwelt on the
> Palatine Hill, made ready to see him without delay.
> 
> I had but a single tunic beside
> the one I wore — a tunic of rich pomegranate stuff broidered with threads
> of gold. In those days, so long ago that they seemed as days of another life,
> when I fled from my poor Novatus to rejoin the Shepherd's fold, I had secretly
> carried it with me. I took it away and had ever kept it, for remembrance's
> sake, this being the robe in which I appeared most pleasing in my lover's
> sight. No need had I of such raiment in the humble fold of the Shepherd and I
> had worn it not till this day. But now, in hope to please Vitellius and win
> him, if might be, to my plan, I bedecked myself in its crimson folds. Then I
> covered my head with a blue veil and bound it with a golden tasseh. I scarce knew myself when I held
> up my mirror! And a trace of an earlier Mary, lingering within me still,
> exulted for that thus arrayed I need have no fear to meet Vitellius...nor the
> Emperor himself!
> 
> And so, in the gold-banded robe
> and with gold-ringed head I descended the many stairs from my attic and stepped
> forth into an alley, where the gutters ran with filth, and naked and dirty children
> romped in noisy play. I walked till I reached a wider street and there found a
> litter with idle bearers. This I hired forthwith, that I might in fitting mode
> approach Vitellius. And soon we came to the Tiber, which we crossed by one of a
> row of bridges spanning that muddy stream.
> 
> I had seen naught of Rome last
> night save the wretched alleys I had traversed to reach the Hebrew quarter, and
> that view of its mass from my casement. Now I peered eagerly into the narrow streets
> swarming with boisterous crowds. To the right and left I looked up high walls — pink,
> bluish white, some a dingy brown — broken by balconies and windows, with
> boxes dripping vines and flowers. In the lower story of these tall houses
> booths lined the pavement, their counters jutting across it, garlands looped
> along their cornices, plaques to the side, on which were painted the genii of each
> shop, a god or a yellow serpent. At cross-roads I saw little niches set into
> the walls for the gods of street-crossings, where passers-by laid their humble
> offerings.
> 
> My bearers swung round a corner
> and I caught my breath, unprepared for this sudden vision of splendour. For now
> we were in the via Nova, and,
> down a long vista of marble flagging, I beheld...the Forum.
> 
> On each side of me rose great
> buildings of white, green, blue and orange-hued marble. Through their
> colonnades moved a close-packed throng, in which nobles in the bordered toga
> and women with high-coifed hair, sleek as silk in tight-fitting tunic and
> draped palla, elbowed their way past beggars, shaggy blonds from the north wearing
> beasts' skins, blacks naked but for the loin-cloth, red-skirted soldiers with
> flashing helmets.
> 
> Jogging in my litter toward the
> Forum I saw its wide square aglitter in the sun with white, gold and strong
> colour — white temples, their columns surmounted by red, green and gilded pediments;
> heroic statues gaudily painted; basilicas niched with statues; even on roofs
> the statues perched, some winged, about to fly! Cascading fountains, like unto
> crystal willow trees, showered into great basins. Here and there the needle of
> a single column lifted to the sky a golden god. Two hills rose behind all this,
> temples climbing their terraces. On one stood the Capitol. On the other the
> Palatine itself reared its mighty bulk, in pillared porches, bronze domes and
> pinnacles.
> 
> The Palatine itself. I looked up awed at its grandeur. This then
> was my goal. Into this forbidding majesty I must force my way to its heart, the
> throne-room. But how?
> 
> My bearers mounted the hill and,
> running along in the shadow of the palace, at last reached the quarter of the
> senators and the knights. And ere I was ready in my mind to meet Vitellius, I
> was at the gate of his house. A slave opened to me. His master, he said, was at
> the senate. Would I wait? He was expected soon. I heaved a sigh of relief for
> this respite and waited.
> 
> The slave led me into a little
> oval room, through the door of which I could look into the atrium, could see a frescoed
> panel framed by two columns, a statue in the aisle, a glimpse of the lily-bordered
> pool. And the calm of this white stateliness invaded my whole being and filled
> me with peace, and I thought: An atrium. A pool. A Bacchante on the wall...soaring
> with a cup....
> 
> Now I heard a step. Vitellius had
> come, and as yet I had planned not what to say to him! And I sent up a prayer
> for help.
> 
> Then I saw one crossing my vista...a
> man in a scarlet tunic banded with purple. The light from above streamed on his
> gray hair and silvered it to shining white. And my heart leapt to my throat...as
> I had felt it would never do again.
> 
> He turned and came toward this
> oval room. And now I could see his dear face...and the changes there. How he has
> suffered, I thought. I rose, my heart pounding. He stood in the doorway.
> 
> "Mary."
> 
> That whisper was like to a cry,
> such pain was in it. A great pang stabbed me...and then...my old love awoke from
> its sleep of years.
> 
> And yet could this be the old love? For as I gazed once more on my
> Novatus, I knew that even should he hate me, or...care too little to hate, should
> I pass utterly from his mind, a forgotten play thing, valueless to him, I
> should ever rejoice in this living stream of love now gushing forth so free
> from an inexhaustible spring within me, asking not even to give. All I asked
> was to love...like this.
> 
> Ah, his face! How its suffering
> smote me now he stood so close, pale beneath the whitened hair (only the
> eyebrows dark, and those starved eyes), the once firm modelling broken into a
> hurt looseness; all its forms deeper, thinner, as if the fingers of some great
> sculptor had pressed into every hollow, flickered over every plane, and in
> places pinched away the clay.
> 
> Could it be he was blind to my
> tumult, my passion of tenderness? Not that it mattered...now...but why should he stiffen,
> close himself against me as in a coat of mail? I had made no answer for that I
> could not.
> 
> He spoke again, as he would to a
> stranger, his voice constrained.
> 
> "You...here? What can have brought
> you to Rome, O Mary?"
> 
> Now I must find words. I forced a
> light tone, but it trembled like to a stretched lyre-string.
> 
> "You shall hear! But first tell
> me of yourself...Novatus. I believed you to be in Corinth."
> 
> "I was recalled and came but
> yesterday."
> 
> Yesterday? I thought. Yesterday I
> came.
> 
> "I have answered your question.
> Will you not answer mine?" Still he held himself in that tight control. "Tell
> me, what brings you here?"
> 
> I will tell him, I thought, and in straight words, for then he will
> laugh and be simple with me.
> 
> "I am come on an errand to Caesar."
> 
> At this verily he unbent! His
> brows went up. The old satire darted into his eyes. The old humour played
> across his upper lip, as he mocked me in his way of long ago.
> 
> "And what may this matter of
> state be?"
> 
> Now my words flowed free and
> happily.
> 
> "I know not enough, Novatus, to
> meddle in matters of state! I am come" — I turned grave — "from the
> Christians to bear a request to Caesar, and today I ventured to seek Vitellius,
> hoping he would take me to the Palatine."
> 
> "Vitellius? Nay, Vitellius will
> not take you, Mary. Come, sit and tell me the nature of the Christians' appeal
> to Caesar."
> 
> He led me to a bench, and frankly
> I told him the whole story, touching on the great oppression we had suffered
> from the Jewish priests, yet making it clear that we must protect our foes, as well
> as safeguard our Faith. And he sat beside me, silent and grim, his eyes bent
> upon the floor, so that I could read them not, but I saw a muscle twitch in his
> cheek and knew that my words in some way stirred him. Howbeit, when at last he
> turned and looked full on me, the fire in his eyes amazed me.
> 
> "Fool that I was," he burst
> forth, "to have left you so long exposed to danger in that accursed place! That
> my letter went unanswered...."
> 
> "You wrote? No letter reached me...."
> 
> "And the bearer assured me he had
> delivered it into safe hands! I poured forth so much in that letter. Then, waiting...waiting
> for some message...I remembered bitterly your last words to me...that my love for
> you mattered not. Still...I should have come myself to you! Forgive me, Mary."
> 
> "Nay," I said, "it is I that
> should ask your forgiveness for all I have made you to suffer."
> 
> He flashed me a glance...quick...sharp,
> as if he could not believe. Then a great glow overspread his face and colour
> tided into it.
> 
> "Mary...you love me still?"
> 
> "Love never dies," I whispered.
> 
> He turned and seized me. I could
> not escape his arms, his kisses, nor stem the flood of his words.
> 
> "What you have been to me! And
> now...this meeting...proof that we cannot part. Life without you has not been...life. That happiness I thought lost...Never
> again will I let you go, my Mary! As in the old days..."
> 
> "Ah, no!" Swifter than thought
> the words came.
> 
> He loosed me and put me off from
> him, his eyes searching mine...and now they burned softly.
> 
> He knows, I thought, reads what I
> cannot say.
> 
> At last he spoke.
> 
> "Mary, there are no barriers."
> 
> How great is the wealth of God!
> We fling our lives at His feet, but can these
> enrich Him? He gives them back to us with a smile! He says: "Yield me your
> heart." And when the heart is verily yielded, all it has loved with the love
> that knows no swerving, is restored forever. And if even He say, through the
> lips of a sacrificed messenger, "Take
> up your cross and follow Me." He leads us...it may be through blood...into His
> deathless Kingdom, where we find our treasures immortal.
> 
> Long ago the Beloved of the World sought me where I sat on Temple
> steps, weeping tears of hopeless grief for that I had driven my lover away with
> a lie, and that lover had threatened the sacred life. And He, my Lord, had
> dried my tears with a touch and a word. The touch of His finger tips; the word...a
> prophecy: "When you have verily given up, your lover shall come after you."
> 
> Who but the Lord of the future
> could have foreseen so strange a seeking...finding, or a consummation fraught
> with such great portent? For now, joined outwardly in betrothal, within we two were
> aware of the fusion of our inmost being, fathoms below the stress of mortal
> life, in that region where run the deep waters of the eternal oneness. And ere
> on that day of days we bade each other a brief farewell, Novatus made me this
> promise:
> 
> "I will take you myself to
> Caesar, Mary...my wife."
> 
> XX
> 
> WITHIN TWO DAYS Novatus took me
> to Claudius Caesar.
> 
> We walked beneath a sweeping
> arch, on the top of which four white horses pranced to the sky, behind them,
> driving a marble chariot, Apollo and Diana. Thence, down the via Sacra, a long corridor of fluted
> columns that led to a mountain of white steps flanked by giant cypresses.
> 
> We climbed the steps and entered
> a colonnaded hall, very long and lofty. Its walls were a dusty red, like to the
> bloom on a pomegranate, frescoed with figures of heroic size in cool, bluish colours,
> and with trellises of fruit and vines, and partitioned at the far end by a
> massive purple curtain. Knights and senators thronged the colonnade, seeking
> audience with Caesar, but the guards led us quickly past them, down the long
> vista of the hall and into another extension of it, also closed in the distance
> by purple hangings . We passed through, and again looked down a vista of red frescoed
> walls and columns to another purple curtain, dropping to the pavement in
> austere folds.
> 
> Such an approach prepared me for
> an august presence. But when the guards looped the third set of curtains and at
> last we stood in the throne room, I saw — still in the distance — a
> simple man, who, though his curule chair was raised on a gilded dais and his
> head wreathed with its crown of oak leaves, seemed scarce to know that he was
> Caesar, or that his chair was a throne. Less haughty was he than any of his
> courtiers waiting without.
> 
> As we drew nigh to the dais I saw
> that his face wore a baffled look and twitched now and then in little spasms,
> that his kind eyes blinked, his mouth quirked at the corners, and above his
> long nose his eyebrows peaked, as if ever asking a question. When his eyes rested
> on me, they grew very kind.
> 
> I had warned my beloved to speak
> not of our betrothal, for I wished to approach the Emperor in all simplicity,
> as a humble follower of the Lord Christ. Wherefore, when I was presented, it was
> but as Mary of Magdala, who had come to bear a petition to the Imperial
> Presence from the Christians of Jerusalem. And then, to gain me a little time,
> Novatus talked on other matters with Claudius, while I stood intent on this man
> raised on his throne, thinking: Here then is the great ruler of Rome...and here
> am I! God help me to do His will...God help me!
> 
> But as I watched his twitching
> face pity filled my heart for this Caesar. For by now I had heard his whole
> story. I knew that all Rome had taken him for a fool, mocked or neglected him,
> and even his own mother, shamed by her son's deformities, despised him. I knew
> that the few he dared to love had been torn from him and foully murdered, and
> he owed his own hapless life to naught save its inconsequence. His very Empire
> he owed but to the whim of the soldiers who, on that horrible day of the murder
> of Caligula, when all in the palace were fleeing, had dragged poor Claudius out
> by the feet from under a bed and, first having made a butt of him, for a jest
> set him on the throne. And when the time was come for me to speak, I was aware
> that Love itself spoke through me, albeit my words were simple.
> 
> I began:
> 
> "O Augustus! Surely you know of
> Him we Christians follow, the Lord Jesus Christ?"
> 
> He bent upon me his mild look.
> 
> "I have heard but a rumour of
> Him. Of the Christian sect I know a little more. Was not this Jesus a young
> thaumaturgist who, in the reign of my uncle Tiberias, gathered about Himself a following
> and stirred up some trouble in Judea? I have forgot how the matter ended."
> 
> "The Christians believe, O
> Augustus, He was more than a thaumaturgist."
> 
> "More? How more?"
> 
> In few words I spoke of Israel's
> hope — that a holy One would come by the will of God to earth to set up an
> empire not of this world, wherein all peoples would be united in an age-long
> reign of peace and justice. "Even as Seneca has foreseen" I said.
> 
> "Seneca, yes," smiled Claudius. "Also
> this minds me of Plato and his ideal republic. I have ever thought it would
> take a god — or a succession of gods — to bring to pass such a dream in
> this our world. Know you that here in Rome there is talk of the coming of a god-man?
> "
> 
> "In Rome? You in Rome have this
> prophecy too? We Christians believe it to be fulfilled in one whose life was no
> dream, but a reality beyond all dreams."
> 
> "Where then is this one now? I
> take it He is that same you say is more than a thaumaturgist."
> 
> "Alas, He has been crucified."
> 
> "Crucified?" Plain it was that in
> Caesar's mind were two questions. He asked first:
> 
> "Can a god-man die?
> 
> "Nay, O Caesar...a god-man cannot
> die!"
> 
> "How was it that He was
> crucified? And by whom, O noble lady? What had Rome to do with this?"
> 
> I replied that Pontius Pilate had
> been the means, but our Jewish priests the cause; they fearing the power of
> Jesus, whose precepts must of necessity strip them of their privileges.
> 
> "Once in the Temple," I said, "I
> saw Him seize a whip and drive the money-changers from it's cloisters."
> 
> "Ah, He was a man of action."
> 
> "But this was His only act of
> violence. It was His sweet persuasion our priests and elders feared, and that
> He taught the people...love. For love, O Caesar, is an overturning power in an age
> of greed. Yet He was no rebel. Myself I have heard Him say, "Render unto Caesar
> the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."
> 
> "He sounds like a sensible man,"
> said Caesar, nodding his head. "Go on with your story, O Mary Magdalena. I
> would hear why Pilate yielded to such vermin."
> 
> And then he did a gracious thing.
> He bade me sit.
> 
> "I know not why I have kept you
> standing so long, except that you had me in a spell. And you too Gallio, sit. I
> will come down to you." And he raised himself from his throne, hobbled down the
> steps of the dais and seated himself in a great chair by the wall, and we sat
> beside him. "Now your story. What of Pilate?"
> 
> "He understood not the Jews, O
> Caesar, and our whole land was seething against him. I know not what threat the
> priests held over him, only that he feared to thwart them. But it was against
> his will he yielded. And no blame can be laid upon Rome."
> 
> "You are just, O Mary."
> 
> "I am but the pupil of a
> god-man."
> 
> "How is it," now Claudius turned
> to Novatus, "you did not yourself avert this? Were you not in Judea at the
> time, known to this lady?"
> 
> And my dear one answered:
> 
> "Pilate, who knew I was bent on
> averting it, by a subtle trick which I could not circumvent, rid himself of me,
> despatched me to Rome on some fictitious errand the very day of the execution. There
> was no time. The whole dastardly thing, the arrest of Jesus and His death, was
> precipitated within ten hours. I have thought it part of some bargain with the
> Tetrarch whereby Pilate saved his skin in Judea. For, as the lady Mary has
> hinted, the Jews detested him. He had outraged them and their religion by
> forcing upon them certain policies deifying Tiberias, and they wanted but
> little excuse to bring him low in the eyes of that very sovereign he would flatter."
> 
> "Ah, well," said Caesar, "Pilate
> is already running down hill. Too weak, too thick-headed is he to last long
> politically. Tell me, O Mary," he blinked at me, "is it your belief that the punishment
> of a man is but the offspring of his own acts?"
> 
> "Indeed I believe this, Caesar.
> An act, is it not like a seed with a whole tree in it?"
> 
> "And vengeance," mused Caesar, "is
> this not an interference which but confuses the issue?"
> 
> "strange you should speak of vengeance, O Augustus."
> 
> "Why strange? Revenge is in most
> men's thoughts."
> 
> "But it has to do with my
> petition."
> 
> "You seek vengeance? On the
> priests...?"
> 
> "Oh, no...no. I am come to ask your
> protection for them."
> 
> Claudius fixed his gaze upon me
> and his face was all but beauteous in its benignity.
> 
> "Present your petition, Mary
> Magdelena."
> 
> "It is not in written form. With
> your permission, I will tell it"
> 
> And I spoke fully of the plot
> hatched in Jerusalem to avenge the wrongs of the priests' dupes and the death
> of their Messiah.
> 
> "Unphilosophical, O Mary, but an
> impulse scarce surprising."
> 
> "Ah, yes, but we are Christians,
> Caesar, and these men have taken our name. And now we must safeguard our Faith,
> which teaches not such things. We would also save these Jews from crime and shield
> the lives of the priests."
> 
> "Shield the lives of the priests?"
> 
> "Surely, Augustus. Our Lord
> taught mercy. Even on the cross He taught it, praying with His last breath for
> those that had hung Him there and for all who mocked Him as He died. This was
> His prayer on the cross, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.'
> 
> Steadfastly gazing on the Emperor
> while I spoke, I saw tears start to his eyes.
> 
> "Wherefore," I went on, "we
> Christians implore you to issue an imperial edict to the Proconsul at Jerusalem
> (who has come to favour the Christians and has no liking for the Jews) that the
> priests have guards set over them by the Government. So will this plot to slay
> them, checked for the moment by our chief apostle, be brought to naught.
> Furthermore we hope, and our hope is in Caesar's clemency, not even the
> plotters need suffer death."
> 
> "Such is the message, O Augustus,
> which has been entrusted to me."
> 
> In-so-far as I can recall them,
> these are the words that passed that day between the Emperor and me. His last
> words are graven on my heart.
> 
> Leaning out from his chair, his
> bewildered face working, those tears that had sprung at the mention of the
> mocked Lord Jesus now coursing down the ridges in his cheeks, he stammered:
> 
> "In all my life I have never
> heard the like of this. Those priests who forced Pilate to execute Him ye
> worship, who are even now harassing you, who...should I save them...will cease not to
> hound you.... Well, if you wish it, have it! Noble lady, your request is granted.
> I will at once send despatches to Jerusalem. But I am tempted", now he smiled, "to
> command that you remain in Rome under the Imperial protection. Moreover" — again
> those peaked brows, those peering eyes put me in mind of an endless quest — "I
> would hear more of your God of mercy, O Mary of Magdala."
> 
> Novatus and I left the Palatine
> in silence. At last he spoke:
> 
> "Mary, you have touched the heart
> of Claudius."
> 
> "Claudius," I said, "may be
> Emperor, but he is a sad and lonely man."
> 
> "In Rome's high places, Mary, are
> many sad and lonely hearts. Our murderous Emperors have seen to this. There is
> scarce a patrician family that has not been decimated by the whims of the divine
> Caesars. I know these people. We will bring them a new hope."
> 
> "We...oh, Novatus!"
> 
> "Your Master once wounded my
> pride and it bled to death. I am grateful, Mary, my beloved, to have any memory of Him — even one for
> which I blush."
> 
> XXI
> 
> NOW WEDDED for the space of half
> a year, Novatus and I on an autumn evening strolled the white paths of our
> garden. Across a wide lawn of formal planting, of marble benches and herms, our
> villa stood, its old yellow brick gold in the afterglow.
> 
> The senator, Lucius Vitellius,
> had but just left us in the garden, where for long he had sat in a great stone
> chair, his paunch uplifting his toga, chatting on the news of Rome, and there had
> been that in his talk which had made me to shrink in horror from him, the
> thought of which still tormented me. For he had told us with relish of an
> abominable crime committed against ten slaves by Cassius Longinus, who,
> suspecting these of mutiny, had huddled them off in chains to the arena, and
> there, on that very day, forced some of them to combat with the gladiators and
> some with the wild beasts.
> 
> I screamed. Vitellius cast me a
> glance and laughed, and his belly shook.
> 
> "What would you have us to do?"
> he said. "These dogs outnumber us by the thousand. Should they come to realize
> their power and rise in rebellion against us — and among them are
> intelligent ones, men of rank in their own little nations — what would be
> left of our Rome? Anicetus ended the mutiny in his household by throwing a few,
> alive, to the fishes. There are, to be sure, the slave prisons...."
> 
> "Dens of torture and infamy!"
> flashed Novatus.
> 
> "But, I was about to say, a
> punishment too habitual to cow them. This, praise the gods, has been done
> today."
> 
> I turned in loathing from his
> sleek face, glossed over with the bland content of the well-fed, with its
> frosty eyes, its gross nostrils, its full, curling lips, the ball of a chin
> half-buried in shaven jowls and a roll of fat below it; and it seemed to me my heart
> collapsed as I felt within it the dying agonies of those helpless slaves,
> dragged to the beasts in the arena, trembling before great yawning, shaggy jaws.
> And Novatus — solicitous eyes on me — turned the talk to other things.
> 
> Now walking beside him, still
> shaken, I said:
> 
> "Novatus, fear rules this city."
> 
> "With good cause," he sighed.
> 
> "The nobles fear not alone their
> slaves, but men...yes, and women, too, of their own rank, for the moment above
> them in power. They are caught betwixt two mill-stones," I said. "As for the powerful,
> they fear one another. Even at the royal banquet...that sea of faces, Novatus,
> beneath the circlets, the garlands...how they struck a chill into my heart! Fear
> was behind their very grimaces. Some put me in mind of spoiled fruit and
> sickened me. Others were like unto masks. And the Empress...Messalina! When I looked
> on her in all her beauty, perfect and cold as a statue, but one thing alive in
> her face, her darting eyes, and poor Claudius tipsy beside her, his wreath
> awry, I myself felt fear."
> 
> "Messalina is a murderess," said
> Novatus, his jaw set grimly. "She has murdered many."
> 
> "It is true that through her
> intriguing Julia died?"
> 
> "She has destroyed two Julias,
> the niece of Tiberias and his grandchild."
> 
> "It is of her — the younger — I
> hear Pomponia speak. Novatus, I love Pomponia. She is valiant like unto a youth
> and in her is a stern strength. How she mourns her cousin, Julia. Ever she is haunted
> by her image, so white in death. White she was in life, Pomponia says, rare and
> pure."
> 
> "Julia was indeed pure compared
> with Rome's wicked women" — the face of my beloved darkened — "who
> concern themselves with naught but new forms of sensory pleasures...strange and terrible
> pleasures."
> 
> "Pomponia had turned unto me for
> comfort." I said. "This morning I sat long with her, speaking of eternal life
> and the deathless bonds of love. Even she let me take her into my arms while I
> tried to soothe her grief. I told her not of the Lord, but this I shall do in
> time, I know."
> 
> "Little by little," Novatus
> answered me, "by means of such tender friendship, we shall win many to the
> Dispeller of Sorrows."
> 
> I pressed his hand, my heart
> full, and we paced a few steps in silence. Then I spoke a thought which had
> been much in my mind of late.
> 
> "Seneca," I said, "is wise and
> noble. Oft when he visits us here he says wondrous things, worthy of an
> apostle. He too believes in one God and in justice and mercy toward our
> fellow-men and a reign of peace in the future. It is as though he had caught a
> ray from the risen sun of Jesus. His words have more beauty than Paul's and
> more lucidity. Yet, despite all these gifts — knowledge and wisdom and art,
> and rank with them — he has influenced not the life of Rome."
> 
> "His words are but words...empty
> shells, Mary. Seneca has not the courage to live his philosophy. Hence, it has
> little effect, save to charm the mind."
> 
> "Ah, yes, I once heard the Master
> say: 'Great is the power of the intellect, but it is of no avail till it has
> become the servant of love.' "
> 
> "And love," Novatus mused, "is
> the one force strong enough to generate the true courage. Mary, I have seen in
> battle what men call courage. Greed, fear and bloodlust lie at the bottom of this...in
> the motives of such as make war and the passions of many that serve it. I have
> seen the courage of helpless patricians at a word from a mad Emperor opening
> veins and dying in cynical calm. But sublime courage I never witnessed till I
> saw you, my beloved, standing so confident before Caesar...straight as a lance,
> with your kindled eyes and your incredible plea!
> 
> "Dear child," he looked down on
> me with a brave and tender compassion, "you have escaped those hounds in Judea
> loosed again on the Christians, alas, through your intervention, but in this degenerate
> city, governed by brutes that claim divinity, you will run a greater risk...even
> with me at your side. Treachery stalks Claudius. No Roman Emperor dies in his
> bed and this just Emperor's days are numbered. Who will reign in his stead,
> what lies before us...none can foresee. You, Mary, know not fear, and I shall uphold
> you in all you may do, and shall labour with you, and with John and Peter when
> they come. But to uplift the banner of the love of Christ in Rome will require
> the sublime courage."
> 
> "To my mind but belief, Novatus.
> And when John and Peter come...when they come," I cried, "we four shall be as a
> strong foundation, and then will the truth
> resound in Rome as those two herald it in the streets!"
> 
> "They will run into death," said Novatus,
> his face strangely lit.
> 
> "But out of the nothingness of
> death" — and a great joy swelled within me — "God shall breed life."
> 
> "Again we strolled for a little
> in silence. I, for one, deep in thought. At last I said:
> 
> "Beloved, you have raised me to a
> high estate, and together we mingle with the great in Rome and choose for our
> friends the afflicted among them...for our own sweet reasons. We have so won Caesar
> himself that he wishes to meet our chief apostle. And for all this I praise God...and
> you! Yet my thoughts turn back to the plight of the slaves and because of my
> pity upon them I would also reach out to these with mine own hands. I long to
> tell them with my own lips that they are free in God's Kingdom."
> 
> "God's Kingdom," said Novatus
> softly, and I saw, as I lifted my eyes to him, humility resting on him like a
> dove. "Is it not the true Republic, the fusion of the great and lowly in an
> Order which will protect its every member? Even I see" — his eyes grew wide — "the
> fusion of great and little peoples in a world-embracing State. And they who
> serve the one King...Him who was son of a carpenter...will know not if they be great
> or lowly. Assuredly we will gather in the slaves."
> 
> And my heart gave thanks for the
> mighty vision my Lord had vouchsafed to Novatus — such as none had seen
> till now — and I cried:
> 
> "Oh my dear one, my beloved, I
> burn to begin the work of this Kingdom. Must we wait for the coming of John and
> Peter? May not we two begin? For we have but a single heart between us and that
> heart open to the Lord."
> 
> "Not two are we then, but a host,
> Mary."
> 
> "How and where shall we begin?"
> 
> "Come," said my beloved, "come to
> the house and I will show you."
> 
> "Will you not tell me now?"
> 
> "Nay," he smiled, "for the answer
> is in the house."
> 
> And he turned with me into a path
> that led to the portico.
> 
> Felix opened the door to us, a
> little bent now and white-haired.
> 
> "We need light, Felix," Novatus
> spoke gently, "in the lararium."
> 
> We passed through to the atrium,
> fragrant with odours of sandalwood and of aromatic oils, dripping from lamps. A
> stately hall. The lamps glowed dimly in its great spaciousness reflecting on
> the sheen of old wood paneling and the polished mosaic floor, lighting up here
> and there some treasure from the past...a yellowed statue of Eros, a cylice, a
> black-figured amphora, limned by the hand of Clitias with horses and warriors.
> 
> Novatus lifted a lamp from its
> stand and led the way down a corridor.
> 
> "Now," he said, "I will answer
> your question as to how and where we may begin. One chamber there is which you
> have seen not yet, my Mary. Since the day I brought you here I have kept it locked
> against you. You will soon know why."
> 
> We reached the door and Novatus
> flung it wide.
> 
> "Our temple, wherein we shall
> worship, at the first, with our own free household."
> 
> I looked within and my heart
> leapt. Then I sobbed.
> 
> "Why, Mary!" smiled Novatus,
> slipping his arm through mine, "your eyes are two rivers of tears."
> 
> "I am thinking, my dear beloved,
> of the foolish tears of other days, and...that He once said to me, 'If the cloud weep not, how shall the meadow
> laugh?' "
> 
> There, in that old lararium,
> above a now empty altar, the lares all being gone, on a frescoed panel...lived my
> Lord. Yet not as in His earthly life. For this was the Ancient of Days, the Word,
> which through Jesus' lips had said:
> 
> "Before Abraham was, I AM."
> 
> A veiled head in profile, as it
> were descending through the ether, on the lips a wise and tender smile, and
> below this head a cross formed of two rays of light, descending from the divine
> One.
> 
> "Gaius, the Greek, did the
> painting, but I directed!" Novatus spoke lightly, to calm me. "What think you
> of that, my Mary?"
> 
> "How...you remember...."
> 
> "Ah, yes!" Then, as he pressed me
> closer: "The Messenger on His way to earth to free all its slaves from the 'fetters of darkness.' "
> 
> THE END
> 
> METADATA
> 
> Views41556 views since posted 1999; last edit 2025-03-09 13:49 UTC;
> 
> previous at archive.org.../thompson_mary_magdalen;
> URLs changed in 2010, see archive.org.../bahai-library.org
> Language
> English
> Permission
> fair use
> History
> Scanned 1990 by Duane Troxel; Formatted 2010-08 by Bobbi Lyons; Proofread 2010-08 by Bobbi Lyons.
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> 
> Shortlink: bahai-library.com/226
> Citation: ris/226
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> — *I, Mary Magdalene (Used by permission of the curator)*