 | Jesus of Nazareth |  |
Scene I.
By the fountain in the market-place of Nazareth. Four girls, Rebecca, Miriam, Michal, Leah, are conversing and filling their pitchers at the fountain.Michal.
Have you seen Mary lately?
Leah.
No: she is entirely taken up with her own
thoughts now. She seems far too proud to condescend
to our company.
Michal.
Indeed! And I remember her such an
ugly little thing!
Miriam.
You remember her as a baby? You
must be old then!
Michal.
You know I didn't mean that. You are
too ready with your tongue, Miriam.
Rebecca.
I think I see her in the distance, coming
through that corn-field
Miriam.
When she comes, we will tease her
finely!
Leah.
Yes: ask her what a poet is. Lately she
talks of nothing but poets and poetry.
(Enter Mary).
Rebecca.
Mary, we want to know what a poet is?
Jesus is a poet. I love poets!
Michal.
But what are poets? What can they do?
Mary.
Everything.
Miriam.
Can they give girls beautiful dresses?
Mary.
No: but they can bring the stars to the
earth, and fill the wintriest day with sunshine
Jesus' thoughts are oftener in the stars than on the
earth, I fancy.
Leah.
Well, I shouldn't like a man of that sort
for a husband.
Mary.
Poets don't make good husbands. They
are far nicer as lovers.
All four girls
together.
Mary, we are shocked at
you!
Michal.
Poets write verses, don't they?
Miriam.
Oh, does Jesus write poetry? My Zeno
can do that! He wrote the loveliest poem you ever
saw the other day—all about my eyes.
Rebecca.
Well, if I had been Zeno, I would have
found something better than that to write about.
Mary.
Than that!—you talk as if poor Miriam
had only one eye. But no—Jesus does not write
poetry. He does better; he lives it.
Leah.
How do you mean?
Mary.
I mean this—that instead of thinking only
of himself and his own feelings, he is always thinking
of others.
Leah.
Oh.
Mary.
Yes: he lives a beautiful life. That is
the best sort of poem. He reads to old blind, or
suffering; he heals the sick.
Miriam.
Oh, I have heard all about that. He
performs miracles, does he not?—just as old
Benjamin who lived in that lonely cottage used
to do, only old Father Benjamin's miracles were
much more amusing. I have seen him change a
walking-stick into a puppy dog.
Rebecca.
Old Manasseh Levi, who lives by the
mud-pond at Bethsaida, can do more wonderful
things still. Did you hear of his changing the
fish into a dragon?
Miriam.
Father Benjamin has a magic ring, and
he can draw devils out of people's noses.
Rebecca.
Old Manasseh drove a devil out of a
young girl, and in passing out it upset a statue.
Michal.
Jesus fed five thousand people the other
day with five loaves and two fishes, and there were
twelve baskets full of fragments left.
Miriam.
Silly! You have got it all wrong.
There were seven loaves and a few little fishes,
and there were four thousand people. My brother
Isaac was there, and he told me all about it. He
counted the baskets of bits—there were seven of them.
Rebecca.
The wine at Cana was the most wonderful.
How many gallons did Jesus make?
Leah.
A hundred and fifty-six.
Enough, in all conscience.
Rebecca.
Not too much. Remember your Zeno
was there.
Miriam.
Be quiet.
Mary.
I think we are all talking rather foolishly.
Let us fill our pitchers and move on.
Michal
(thoughtfully).
If Jesus were here, he
could change this fountain into wine!
Mary.
He would not do that. He does not do
useless or foolish things.
Miriam.
Oh, never mind Jesus! I like bright-eyed
Zeno much better.
Rebecca.
You are wrong. Jesus is very beautiful;
so beautiful that he sometimes looks almost like a
woman. He has the purest, most transparent skin I
ever saw in a man—fair, not like a Jew's. All the
men about here have dark eyes and hair—how sick I
am of seeing it—what is the use of a man, if he is
just like oneself? Jesus has eyes like the blue sky
and hair as golden as the sunlight. His voice is full
of sweetness, and his eyes are full of dreams.
Miriam.
Zeno's eyes are full of fun.
Rebecca.
Zeno's coat is full of holes.
Mary
(stooping down to fill her pitcher).
Don't
let us quarrel—least of all, about Jesus.
Michal
(aside to the others).
She loves him!
(They fill their pitchers, and begin moving away from the spot).
Rebecca.
Mary, before we go, will you not sing
us that new song of yours? You know the one I
when I met you coming to the fountain.
The other three girls.
Yes, Mary, sing. The sun
is scorching; let us rest here in the shade a little
longer.
(Mary sings).
The sunshine soft and fair—
I love the rustle of bright birds' wings,
The breath of the summer air:
I love the morning mist on the lake,
The flowers on hill and plain;
God made gold flowers for a girl to take,
While man seeks gold for gain—
God made gold flowers for a girl to take,
While man seeks gold for gain, for gain,
While man seeks gold for gain!
The light in young men's eyes,
Their voices sweeter than songs of birds,
Love's laughter, and love's sighs.
'Tis well while life is young, is young,
To let all sad things be,
To leave no golden songs unsung
For golden days must flee—
To leave no golden songs unsung
For the golden days must flee, must flee,
For the golden days must flee!
When passionate longings cease,
The light that shall outlive the sun,
The love that bringeth peace.
Oh, gaily I'll love gay generous hearts,
Then fling those hearts aside,
And, having played a hundred parts,
I'll play the part of bride—
Yes, having broken a hundred hearts,
I'll be in the end a bride, a bride,
A pure and loving bride!
(When she has finished, the girls all clap their hands).
Rebecca.
When I hear that voice of yours, Mary,
I forget everything. The men will find out the
charm of it some day—if indeed they have not
already done so.
Leah.
She sings beautifully. How I wish I
could sing like that!
Michal.
Oh, you can only croak.
Miriam.
Did Jesus write that song?
Mary.
No. It is getting late—let us be going.
(Exeunt Mary and the girls, Mary somewhat silent, the GIRLS laughing and chattering).
| Jesus of Nazareth | |