BOOK VI.
THE CALVARIES.
At last methought I paused, and deathly pale,
My raiment rent, my body bruised with blows,
Turn'd to my rescuer with questioning eyes
And would have spoken, but the other cried,
‘Hush for a space, lest thou be overheard!’
And not until our feet had flown full far,
Down empty byways and down darken'd lanes,
Nor till the populous walks were far behind
And we were deep in flowers and meadow-grass
Of quiet uplands, did we pause again.
And now the star of evening had arisen
Set like a sapphire in the shadowy west,
And slow crows waver'd homeward silently
With sleepy waft of wing, and all was still,
Only the far-off murmur of the City
Came like the distant thunder of a sea.
Then pausing, I upon my gentle guide
Gazed closely, and beheld a face benign,
Sweeten'd with many sorrows, sweetest eyes
Weary and weak with their own gentleness,
And lips sweet too, yet close together set
With sad resolve. Tall was the stranger's height,
His gestures noble, but his shoulders stoop'd
With some dark burthen not beheld of eyes;
And ever in his breast did creep his hand,
As if to still the tumult of his heart.
Yet, gazing on his garb, I shrank away
Sick and afraid, for lo! upon his breast
Glimmer'd the crimson Cross of those fierce Priests,
And clad he was like many in the City
In a white robe that swept unto his feet.
Darkly I cried, ‘Avaunt! I know thee not!
I deem'd thee good, but thou art even as those
Who stoned me, thronging at my throat like wolves,
And sought my life;’ when with a smile as bright
As had the vesper star above his head,
‘Friend, be at peace!’ the gentle stranger cried,
‘Nor fear mine office, by the Cross I wear!’
THE PILGRIM.
That Cross affrights my vision—pluck it off,
And I shall know thou art a man indeed.
STRANGER.
I cannot, since I am God's Priest elect;
Nay, rather in the Name of Him who bare
A cross like this I bid thee love the sign.
THE PILGRIM.
Carry thy firebrand back into the City,
I loathe it! Evil is the sign, and still
Evil its wearers wheresoe'er they walk!
Art thou a Priest? My curse upon thy head!
Avoid me!—to thy brethren—get thee gone!
STRANGER.
Until thy heart is calm'd I cannot go;
Nor will I leave thee till thou hearest me.
THE PILGRIM.
Thou heardst me—I proclaim'd it in the City—
False are your fables, false your boasted creeds,
Falsest of all your spirits and your lives.
There is no truth in any land at all
Ye darken, sitting by the side of Kings.
STRANGER.
False Priests are false, and these thine eyes have seen.
THE PILGRIM.
All Priests are false, for falsehood is their creed,
STRANGER.
Phrase me my creed; if thou canst prove it false
I promise thee I will abandon it.
THE PILGRIM.
How shall I name it? Which of many names
Shall fit it now? Guile, Fraud, Hypocrisy,
Blood-thirst and Blood-shed, Persecution, Pride,
Mammon—in one word sum it, Vanity.
STRANGER.
Friend, thou hast miss'd the mark. Our creed is Love.
THE PILGRIM.
I know that jargon. Spare it; for I know it.
The wolf wears wool, and calls himself a lamb.
STRANGER.
Heed not our garb, or what we call ourselves—
Yea, judge not what we seem, but what we are.
THE PILGRIM.
That have I done; so is my judgment proved;
For they who flaunt your banners in Love's name
Pursued me, stoned me on from street to street,
And would have slain me with their bloody hands.
STRANGER.
In sooth they would, had help not intervened.
I know them well; my friend, they have stoned me!
THE PILGRIM.
They do not spare each other, I believe;
But even as wolves, when no poor sheep is near,
They fall upon each other and devour.
STRANGER.
Bitter thou art, o'er bitter, yet thy words,
Though harsh as wormwood, are in measure just,
For many Priests are false, and follow ill
The Scripture they propound to foolish flocks.
Yet mark me well; though many sought by force
To win the soul they could not win by words,
'Twas for thy soul they wrought, to save thy soul,
And insomuch, though blind, they wrought in love.
THE PILGRIM.
Smiling and slaying! hungry for my life!
O Sophist! now I know thee Priest indeed.
STRANGER.
Pause yet. I love their deeds no more than thou,
Yet rather would believe them doubly blind
(For blindness may be crime, but is not sin)
Than wholly base and hypocritical.
Grant that they sought thy death—through death they sought
To win thy spirit to eternal life!
Thou laughest, and mad mockery in thine eyes
Burneth with bloodshot beams. Resolve me now—
Dost thou deny that these same Priests are blind?
THE PILGRIM.
To good, I grant thee, but for this world's goods
Who have a sense so keen? and wheresoe'er
Hath crawl'd this glittering serpent of a Church
All men may know it by these tokens twain—
Blood-marks, and next, its slimy trail of gold.
Blind are ye to the sun and moon and stars,
To good, and to the beggar at your gates;
But unto usury ye are not blind;
And into murderous eyes of Queens and Kings
Your eyes can look approval, while your mouths
Intone fond hymns to tyranny and war;
And unto raiment rich, and glittering coins,
And houses hung with crimson and with gold,
And harlots beckoning in their golden hair,
Methinks all mortals know ye are not blind!
Thus spake I in the tempest of my heart,
Now pacing up and down with fever'd steps
The twilight-shadow'd lanes beyond the City;
And now the eyes of heaven were opening,
And in dark woods hard by the nightingales
Sang softly up the slow and lingering moon.
And, hurrying my footsteps, soon I came
To where four roads did meet to make a cross,
And in the centre of the way I saw,
Dim, livid, silhouetted on the sky,
A Calvary, and thereupon a Christ
Most rudely sculptured out of crimson stone.
Thereon, methought, I halted shuddering,
Gazed, then shrank back, and covered up mine eyes,
When once again I noted at my side
That white-robed stranger and upon mine ear
Again the melancholy accents fell.
STRANGER.
Why shrinkest thou? Kneel down and ease thy heart.
THE PILGRIM.
Peace, peace! I will not worship wood or stone.
Who set that image here to block the way?
Nay, spare thine answer; they who wrought this thing
Are those who stoned me from Christopolis—
Thy brethren! Not the honeysuckled lanes,
The twilight-shadow'd meadows sweet with flowers,
The violet-sprinkled ways and underwoods,
Not Nature's self, not the still solitude,
Are free from this pollution dark as death,
This common horror of idolatry.
STRANGER.
Knowest thou whose shape is carven on that cross?
THE PILGRIM.
The Man Divine whom Priests of Judah slew.
STRANGER.
The Man Divine who still is hourly slain
Wherever sin is thought or wrong is done.
O brother, keep me by thy side a space,
And, looking on that symbol, hark to me.
Him did they stone, like thee and me; and yet—
Mark this, He loved them, dying for their sake.
Blame them, if they are worthy of thy blame,
Lament them, in so far as they have fallen
From the divine ideal they propound;
But still remember this, amidst thy blame—
They rear'd that Cross and set that symbol there!
THE PILGRIM.
To what avail? To darken earth's sweet ways?
STRANGER.
To hold forth hope to every living man,
To be a protestation and a power
Against their own defilement if defiled.
'Tis something to uprear a mighty truth,
Though from its eminence the weak will falls;
'Tis much to plant a beacon on the sea,
Though they who plant it lose their hold and drown.
Were each priest evil in an evil world,
This would not prove that fair ideal false
Which for the common gaze they find and prove.
Brother, hadst thou but watch'd this place with me
By night-time, in the silence of the night!
For out of yonder City, as if ashamed,
Sad human creatures creep with hooded heads
And falling at the feet of Calvary,
Scarce conscious of each other's presence, weep
Such tears as yonder Christ deems worth a world.
And moonlight falling on their haggard faces
Hath shown the lineaments of cruel Kings
Set side by side with beggars in their rags,
And pale Queens, naked, crownless, grovelling close
To harlots with dishevell'd locks of gold,
And conscience-stricken Priests that beat their breasts
With bitterest ululations of despair.
Then did I smile, and cry, ‘I doubt thee not!
What then? Next dawn thy Kings were on their thrones,
Thy Queens were crown'd, thy harlots plied their trade,
Thy beggars craved for bread and gnaw'd a stone,
Thy Priests were glorious in their gold and gems,
And all the City busy as before.
Such conscience is an owl that flies by night,
No sweet white dove that moves abroad by day;
And he who in the sunlight brazens best
Is the worst coward in night's creeping time.’
I added this, moreover, ‘Since so far
Thy feet have follow'd, and since, furthermore,
I owe thee something for my weary life,
I will accost thee in a gentler mood,
Seeking thy soul's conversion even as thou
Hast sought for mine; but first I fain would know
Thy name, thine office, and thy quality.’
Whereon the other smiling, better pleased,
‘My name is Merciful, the Priest of Christ,
And yonder in Christopolis I dwell
Half hated by my brethren and half fear'd,
Because I help the Pilgrims passing by
And lead them hither unto Calvary.’
THE PILGRIM.
Art thou not shamed to wear the garb they wear,
Seeing their deeds profane it terribly?
MERCIFUL.
Not so. If they fulfil their office ill,
That doth not prove the office evil too:
And wearing this white dress of sanctity
I work as one that hath authority,
And better help poor Pilgrims passing by.
THE PILGRIM.
Thus far, thou workest good. Now, answer me—
Dost thou believe the fables of the Book?
MERCIFUL.
Not in the letter, but essentially.
THE PILGRIM.
Dost thou believe that still by one man's fall
We mortal men are lost and overthrown;
But yet, since God did make Himself a Man,
Attesting this by many miracles,
Through God's own Death the world may still be saved?
MERCIFUL.
I do believe these things symbolically,
As I believe the symbol of that Cross.
THE PILGRIM.
Did Jesus live and die in Galilee?
Did he work miracles and raise the dead?
Was Jesus God, and could God Jesus die?
MERCIFUL.
I will not fall into that trap of words,
Which, grimly smiling, thou hast laid for me,
But I will answer thee as best I may,
Clearly, and with no touch of sophistry.
‘Did Jesus live?’ I know a sweet Word lives,
Coming like benediction on the sense
Where'er Love walks uplooking heavenward,
And since no Word is spoken without lips,
Hearing that Word I know He lived and breathed.
‘Did Jesus die?’ On every wayside cross,
In every market-place and solitude,
I see a symbol of a wondrous death;
And, since each symbol doth its substance prove,
How should I not believe that Jesus died?
‘Did he work miracles and raise the dead?’
‘Was Jesus God?’—Here is my timid sense
Lost in a silence and a mystery—
And yet I know, by every breath I breathe,
The Mighty and the Merciful are one:
The morning dew that scarcely bends the flowers
Inhaled to heaven becomes the lightning flash
That lights all heaven ere noon. ‘Could Jesus die?’
If Death be Life, and Life Eternity,
If Death be but the image of a change,
Perchance even God might take the image on,
And in the splendour of His pity, die.
So spake the gentle Priest, his mild blue eye
Dewy with love for all men and for God,
But I did answer with a hollow laugh
Deep as a raven's croak, that echoed on
Through all the architraves of that blue vault
Above us bent. ‘God help thee, man!’ I cried;
‘For thou art pleased as any yearling babe
With playthings that thou canst not understand.
Fables and symbols dazzle thy twain eyes,
And phantasies of loving sentiment
Puzzle thy reason and perplex thy will.
Wiser are they who on the tripod sit,
Intoning oracles and studying
The dry dull letter of theology,
Than they who, like to thee and such as thou,
Are drunken with its gentle images.’
‘Kneel!’ answer'd Merciful; ‘perchance in prayer
Thine eyes may be unveil'd.’
But I replied,
Pointing at that pale Calvary which loom'd
Dim and gigantic in the starry light,
‘I will not kneel to yonder shape of stone,
If by the name of God thou callest it;
But if thou call'st it Man, Man crucified,
Man martyr'd, I will kneel, not worshipping,
But clinging to an Elder Brother's feet,
And calling on the sweetest saddest soul
That ever walk'd with bleeding limbs of clay
The solitary shades beneath the stars.
He found it not, the City that I seek,
He came and went upon His quest in vain,
And crucified upon His path by Priests
Became a portent and a piteous sign
On the great high way of man's pilgrimage;
And though the memory of His love is sweet,
The shadow of Him is cruel and full fraught
With tearfullest despairs; and wheresoe'er
We wander, we are haunted out of hope
By this pale Martyr with His heavenly eyes,
Born brightest and loved least of all the sons
Of God the Father! Could I 'scape the sight
Methinks that I could fare along in peace!’
‘Never,’ cried Merciful, ‘where'er thou fliest,
Wilt thou escape it! Search where'er thou wilt,
Follow what path thou choosest, soon or late
With that red Cross thou wilt come face to face
When least thou dreamest. On the desert sands,
On the sad shores of the sea, upon the scroll
Of the star-printed heavens, on every flower
That blossoms, on each thing that flies or creeps
'Tis made—the sign is made, the Cross is made—
That cipher which whoever reads can read
The riddle of the worlds.’
So saying, he fell
Low kneeling at the foot of Calvary,
And praying aloud; and overhead indeed
The awful sacrificial lineaments
Seem'd soften'd in the moonlight, looking down
As if they smiled. Darkly I turn'd away
Heartsick, first wafting to that sculptured form
One look of love and pity.
Silently,
In meditation deep as my despair,
I follow'd the dark road I knew not whither,
As desolate as Io wandering;
And like another Argus following,
Blue heaven with all its myriad eyes on mine
Brooded; and wayside scents of honeysuckle
Came to my nostrils from the darken'd fields,
And glowworms glimmer'd through the dewy grass,
And all was sweet and still; but evermore,
At intervals, on either side I saw
New Calvaries upon the lonely road
And sculptured Christs outstretching stony arms.
