University of Virginia Library

Scene IV.

Room in Mary's house. Time—Sunday morning. Jesus, pale and exhausted, lying on a couch. Mary sitting near him.
Jesus.
Thou art an angel! In the moon's bright rays
Thee seeing I thought that surely now at last
My Father's heaven was entered.

Mary.
Woman's love
Can change a hell to heaven, and from the depth
Of darkness draw forth light.

Jesus.
What didst thou do?

Mary.
Entering the sepulchre where thou wast laid
I saw the solemn moonlight on thy face
So strangely, sweetly, falling, and I thought,
“Even so must shine the brows of saints in heaven.”
Then, as I closelier looked, I saw a blade
Of quivering grass that in the rockwork grew—
Why did the grass-blade quiver?
The night was windless, and that stifling cave
Had even in storm been windless, but the grass
Moved, moved most gently. Then again I looked,
Quite close, with woman's eyes—oh! they are keen
When sweet love through them flashes—and I saw
The blade of grass was lifted by thy breath.

Jesus.
Mary, I love thee!

Mary
(aside).
Woman's triumph now;
Not man's, but woman's. (Aloud)
Let me speak for thee:
Thou must be silent,—lungs and throat must rest
For there is toil before us.—When I saw
The grass-blade quiver thus, I knew that hope
Was not yet all departed. Then I ran,
Conferring not with any soul but only
With mine own heart—I brought thee wine and food
And strong restoratives, and bathed thy lips
And sponged thy wounds, and so by slow degrees
While night waxed onward the sweet life returned,
Till lastly thine eyes opened and thou sawest
Not God, but—Mary.

Jesus.
Tell me—tell me more.

Mary.
Then with true-hearted Joseph, thy disciple
(To him and him alone, whose loving care
Had placed thee in his new-wrought rocky tomb,
To him alone I dared to tell the truth)
—With his strong aid I brought thee to my home.
The Sabbath day was dawning, but the darkness
Still wrapped us round with its soft friendly veil:—
Here thou wast safe, and through the Sabbath day
I tended thee, as woman only knows
The art of tendance; then through many a phase
Of dim strange doubtful strife thy body passed.
But on the Sabbath evening—yesternight—
I knew that all was well, and that my love
Had saved my Lord and Master.

Jesus.
Tell me more.
Thy words are very sweet, and life is sweet,
Even as dark death was hideous.

Mary.
Nay, no more.
Much rest is needed. Trust me. All shall be
Right well, I promise. Thou hast acted—now
Let me the woman act; I'll act for thee,
And for the world besides. Take now thy rest;
Banish all anxious thoughts—I'll think for thee.
When thou canst travel, thou shalt journey with me
Back to our Galilee, far, far away
From this fierce city and this rocky land:
We'll see once more the blue waves of the lake,
And see the sweet bright sunshine, thou and I,
And countless hearts shall love thee; this one thing
I, Mary, dare to ask thee, now that death
Has (surely it has?) been passed by both of us
And light immortal gilds the heights beyond—
In life I called thee Master, never dared
To think of thee save only as my Lord,
But now . . .
Wilt thou for love's sake kiss me?

Jesus.
Stoop thine head.

Mary.
Now sleep. I love thee, and thy Father loves thee:
Woman and God may win, where man has failed.
(Jesus sleeps tranquilly).
—He sleeps,—now all the road to safety shines
Before me, clear as if by lightning-flash:
Mary the harlot!—yet a harlot's hands
May save the whole world's saviour, though the hands
Of no pure woman warded off his doom.
In hurrying stream swift course along my brain
A thousand thoughts—the Master must be brought
With eagle's haste yet with most snakelike caution
From this accursed city to the North:
The North is faithful; there are true men there
And fewer priests—which means the self-same thing.
Once in the North, he's safe: the glad bright sun,
The breeze across the lake, the fairy flowers,
The sight of mountains—this will soon restore
Health to the body, vigour to the mind.
The future lies before us—that we leave
To God—it is sufficient that I save
God's Son from cruellest death at basest hands.
Not all the priests of proud Jerusalem,
Not all this wicked city's hosts arrayed
Against me—scribes and Pharisees and elders—
Have matched one woman's wit, one woman's love!
But now to action; some few must be told,
Fewer the better—need one man be told?
Men are such babblers; men, with best intent,
Will let the secret out,—their garrulous tongues
Will slay the Lord again: I'll keep the secret
For Jesus' sake and for the sake of man.
Joseph of Arimathæa—he is staunch,
But not a single soul besides shall know
That Jesus lives; a man once dead is safe
From man's pursuit, and risen spirits are safe—
Silence! I see it all.

(Exit).