University of Virginia Library

Act II.

The Tempter.

Scene I.

The Twelve at supper in a house at Capernaum. Jesus has not yet arrived. Eleven are seated.
(Enter John).
John.

I have just left the Master. He bade me
tell you not to wait for him; the sick folk he is
visiting may take up all his time to-night.

Matthew.

They take up too much of his time.
After all, healing the sick is not the only task of the
Messiah. “The Lord spake unto Ahaz, saying—”

John.

Isaiah, as usual! For my part, I hold that
Daniel is a far clearer and more reliable writer.
What can be clearer than this? “And at that time
shall Michael stand up, the great prince which
standeth for the children of thy people: and there
shall be a time of trouble, such as never was since
there was a nation even to that same time: and at
that time thy people shall be delivered, every one
that shall be found written in the book.”

Judas.

Pass the figs.

James the Elder.

Cannot you ask for them in
decent Galilean? That Southern accent of yours is
most unpleasant.

Judas.

You Northern folk are the most perfectly
conceited beings I ever met—and the most ignorant.
Not one of you has yet seen Jerusalem—not even the
Master himself—and yet you all talk as if the Temple
was built upon the borders of your lake, and as if
you were the builders of it! To choose Mount
Gerizim for the rival edifice was evidently a mistake:
the secessionists should have looked further North.

Nathanael.

Peace, peace. The Master bids us
love one another, yet we are always quarrelling.

Thomas.

Naturally. There are so many of us.
Twelve men are bound to quarrel. The only companions
who never quarrel are a man and a woman.

Jude.

Ask Peter about that. He has a wife—and
a mother-in-law—and they both live with him.

Peter.

A truce to this foolish nonsense. Do you
know what happened last night? We left the Master
at sunset, you will remember, going into the
mountain alone, according to his habit. Then we—
Andrew, James and myself—launched the boat and
made for Capernaum, meaning to take the Master
aboard at that rocky point where he generally meets
us. But it came on to blow hard, and a big sea got
up; there was more swell than I have seen for many a
night. “We can't take him on board,” I said; “we
shall split the old boat on the rocks.” But Andrew
was all for holding on; so on we went, though the
water was tumbling in—great white sheets of it—
over the gunwale. When we got near the coast we
saw the Master—quite calm and cool—standing on

the rocks, just as if it was a summer day and he
waiting for us in the bright sunshine. “We can
never get him on board,” said I; but Andrew said,
“Hold on, never fear, he will find a way”—and
what do you think happened? We were making
straight for the rocks and I thought every moment
we should founder, when suddenly the sail shook,
the boat righted herself, and we passed into smooth
water. It was shallow just there; Jesus walked
through the shoal water and stepped aboard—and I
can tell you I was thankful. When we started again,
the wind had fallen; the Master had stilled the
storm. We had to lower the sail and row all the rest
of the way: there wasn't enough wind to shake a
single thread of canvas. He is more than man—not
a doubt of that—I believe he could walk on the
water if he chose.

Andrew.

He knows everything too. You remember
the first time he spoke to us? When he told us
to cast the net on the right side of the boat, and we
made that wonderful haul.

Matthew.

Did you count the exact number of the
fish? That is a very important point.

Andrew.

No: but there were some famous carp,
with the richest steel-blue markings I ever saw, and
nine or ten magnificent perch.

Matthew
(thoughtfully).

Ten? Of course! “The
height of the one cherub was ten cubits”—also there

were ten golden candlesticks, ten brass tables, and
ten brass lavers, in Solomon's Temple.

Nathanael.

I took a note of the total at the time,
but I have unfortunately mislaid it.

John
(turning towards them).

I remember the
number—I remember it distinctly. There were an
hundred and fifty and three fishes—and that is very
curious, for when I was a boy I was told by old
Rabbi Jekuthiel that there are exactly that number of
different species of fish. There is a meaning in
this: when the Master told us that he would make
us “fishers of men,” he meant—evidently—that our
preaching was to reach the whole world without
exception; our net is to enclose converts of every
possible kind.

James the Less.

A still more wonderful thing
happened the other day. Have you not heard of it?
The collector came round for the Temple tax; the
Master told Peter to fling a line into the lake—the
very first fish he caught (a roach it was) had in his
mouth the exact coin required to pay the tax.

Judas.

The obliging roach! Pass the grapes.

Thomas.

I don't believe that story of the fish. It
seems to me a childish fairy legend, too like those
heathen tales we have all heard of. What I believe
took place was this: Jesus sent Peter to fish—he
caught a fish, sold it, and paid the tax with the
money he received. That is an instance of the way

in which a story grows as it passes on from mouth to
mouth; especially when there are women at hand to
magnify and exaggerate it.

Simon Zelotes.

You are always for doubting everything,
Thomas. Philip's sister told me she saw the
fish, with the stater—a bright new one—glittering
in its mouth.

Thomas.

It was the hook that glittered in its
mouth—not the stater.

Philip.

No: I believe my sister was right. For
that matter, John the Baptist has himself performed
very wonderful miracles; why should not our Master
do the same?

John
(to Matthew).

You devote too much time
and thought to those endless genealogies of yours.
The Master tells us to love God and man, to visit
the sick, to help the poor, to deliver the oppressed,
to comfort the friendless, but you pass your whole
time in counting the generations between Abraham
and Jesus—and, for all your counting, they never
come out right.

Matthew.

There are certain difficulties, I confess.
The prophet said, “Behold a virgin shall conceive,
and bear a son.”

Thomas.

Joseph would have a word to say to that,
I should fancy.

John.

Then again: according to your idea the
Master should have been born at Bethlehem, “the
city of David”—but he wasn't. On the contrary, he
was born at Nazareth.

Matthew.

I admit that that is a pity, I admit it
freely. In fact, it worries me a good deal. However,
there are ways—

Peter.

He saved me and my old boat, that is all
I know. That is enough for me.

Andrew.

And for me too!

John.

And for me!

Judas.

Pass the wine.

James the Elder
(to Simon Zelotes).

That man
thinks of nothing but wine. Since the marriage at
Cana he seems to suppose that the Master's store is
unlimited.

Simon Zelotes
(to James).

I hardly know why, but
I distrust him greatly.

(Enter Jesus suddenly).
Jesus.
Peace be with you!

(All rising).
Hail, Master!

Scene II.

A wooded valley near Nazareth. Ben-Aaron and Mary Magdalene engaged in conversation.
Ben-Aaron.
You love me not? It matters little, that,
For you will learn to love me. Though our world
Be dark and sad, there is this good thing in it,
The fact that, once the crowning gift is won,
Passion must surely follow.

Mary.
Your wise brain
Deludes itself. I cannot love you.

Ben-Aaron.
Nay,
I said not that; I said that you would learn
After due time to love me. Mary, listen:
The love of man, unlike the love of woman,
Increases in its value with the years;
A youth loves not the maid—he loves to prove
With amplest force to his conceited self
His kingly strength by conquest after conquest;
When once the woman's won, the youth must turn
To other lips, if but again to prove
By a new conquest that the first was sweet.

Mary.
Was that your manner, Sir, when you were young?
Nay, doubtless you've forgotten. Pardon me.

Ben-Aaron.
I was about to say no woman knows
What woman is to age; each year of life
Makes woman far more precious unto man.
The sun, the stars, the flowers, these things are fair,
But fairer than all these the gift divine
That woman's youth bestows on man's old age.
The ancient legend erred; 'tis Eve who brings
Creation unto man—through her he sees,
Unchanged, again the golden light that shone
Down the green dells and vales of Paradise.
Moreover, as man older, wearier grows
He learns not love for all things, but contempt
For all things—proud contempt for those who preach
Of heaven and God the while they know they lie,
Contempt for rites that brainless fools ordain,
Strong-browed contempt for all things saving one,
The wild delight that woman's passion brings.

Mary.
But, Sir, your reverend life has been devoted
To holiest ends, to labour and to works
Whereof all tongues bear witness, while they praise.
What can a girl do for you?

Ben-Aaron.
Much indeed,
And in the sphere of labour. History speaks
Through woman, he who loves her apprehends
The past—aye, every woman's touch reveals
Some phase of history; one with amorous rays
Of old Assyrian moonlight floods the room
Wherein to-day her soft arms clasp her lover,
Another's kiss within her lover's brain
Renews the vision of strange sunlight poured
Across ancestral deserts.

Mary.
Great indeed
Must be the gifts of woman What could I
Reveal, I wonder?

Ben-Aaron
(drawing nearer to her).
Through her sovereign kiss
Comes woman's revelation unto man.

Mary
(drawing back slightly).
But if I love a younger—

Ben-Aaron.
Still there's place
For me. Gaze deep within a young girl's eyes;
You'll see two powers at once there manifest—
The power of loving youth, the power besides
That (at the same time) seeks and sways the old.
The youngest girl is older by an age
Than her fair youthful lover, and her eyes
Reveal it, for their amorous depths contain
The very looks, even as her heart inherits
The very modes, whereby in ancient days
Old hearts were lured and won to wildest worship.
Will you not kiss me—once?

Mary.
I kiss you? No.
And now pray let us part. There are bright girls
In Galilee—aye, many and many a one—
Who will be glad, for your gold's sake, to love you;
But I care nought for gold.

Ben-Aaron.
If you will love me,
I'll powder that superb black hair of yours
With diamonds, as God powders all the night
With stars. Some girls care not a jot for gold
Whom diamonds madden.

Mary.
Diamonds, rubies, gold,
Are good, but love is better. I love you not.

Ben-Aaron.
Come without love—what matters love to me?
Indeed I'd rather win you half reluctant;
That adds the charm to love, the joyous zest,
For when the woman half reluctant gives
Kisses that one by one grow less reluctant
Then man becomes a god.

Mary.
Choice godship, this!
What would good Joseph who believes in you
Think, if he heard you speak?

Ben-Aaron.
Joseph is nought,
Aye less than nought, but you are everything.
Life, youth, the sense of sweetness in the air
Of summer, all the glory of the stars,
The faith in some vast Power behind the stars,
All these things, Mary, these and more than these,
Thou canst restore, for I have come to know
(Long years have taught me this) that age and grief
And pain and death are conquerable alone
By painless griefless deathless youth like thine.
Thou canst on me the aging man bestow
Not life eternal, something nobler far,
Eternal rapture in a moment's space.
Mary, I love thee.

Mary.
Never till the stars
Drop out from heaven, and leave mankind aghast
At their black eyeless sockets in the sky,
Never till then—nay, never, even then—
Shalt thou lay hand upon me.

(Exit Mary).
Ben-Aaron
(gazing after her).
Is it so?
I cannot wrench the stars from out the sky
To please you—I'll do better—I will wrench
Your heart from its red socket, then will hurl
The quivering live thing bleeding at your feet.

(Exit Ben-Aaron).

Scene III.

The banks of the River Jordan. Ben-Aaron and Jesus conversing.
Ben-Aaron.
I've sought thee here—for many a year I've known
Thee and thy mother well—her anxious heart
Hath lately found its solace in outpouring
Her griefs, her haunting sorrows, in mine ears.
Thou art her grief, her sorrow,—thou hast mixed
Thy name, thy work, with such a rabble crew!
Thy mother heard that here on Jordan's banks
Along with John the harebrained mad fanatic
Her son was preaching to a motley crowd
Of listeners,—outcasts, malcontents, gay women,
Beggars and fools and revolutionists!
Meet for a mother's hearing—tales like these!
I, on the spur of the moment, started off,
For I have ever taken—as thou knowest—
Sincere pure interest in thy welfare, son.
What news shall I return with? Shall I tell
Mary that thou, acceding to advice,
Wilt henceforth spend thy time in nobler deeds,
Thinking high thoughts in fairer company?

Jesus.
There are two voices calling unto man
Through life, and both are sweet—the voice of friends,
Of father, mother, home and family;
This voice in many accents murmurs, “Tread
With us the trodden old familiar ways
That lead along the valleys, where the flowers,
Smiling, each summer morning greet the sun:”
But yet another voice, most strangely sweet,
Calls from the mountains, from the starlit dome
Of night, from clouds and sunlit heights of air,
Saying, “Follow to the end the lonely path
That leads along the rugged mountain-side;
Then shalt thou, when thy feet have climbed the heights,
Behold God's glory and be one with him.
A thousand prophets' souls have yearned to see,
Yet never seen, the things thou shalt behold,
For God, desired from all eternity
By seer on seer, for thee is virgin still;
Untouched for thee within the glittering walls
Of his fair starlit palace, lo! God waits”—

Ben-Aaron.
Death rather! Dreams like these have ever death,
And bitterest death, for sequel—

Jesus.
Death itself
Is but the palace-gate. Beyond the gate
Towers high the palace, and within God waits
Superb for man's possessing; he who holds
In his embrace the God of all the stars
What needs he more of light of any star,
Seeing that the Maker of all stars is his,
His own, and his for ever?

Ben-Aaron.
Just one word;
I grant thee this, that even a mortal may
By one sure road—one only—past all heights
That ever mortals dream of travel on
Till face to face with the eternal God
He stands forth wholly godlike, but the way
Is not for thee to tread—the way alone
Is open unto him whose brain hath power
To store all knowledge, knowledge of all times,
All lands, all cities,—secrets of the stars,
Secrets of far-off history, dangerous lore
Long buried, but for him resuscitate;
Who, most of all, hath learnt from woman's heart
Secrets God cannot teach, or, if he can,
Jealous, holds back from mortals. Not for thee
This high pursuit of knowledge—it needs learning,
Research and labour far beyond thy power.
Yet thou mayest quit this desert, change thy ways:
What message shall I bear to Nazareth?
Thy mother hath sought thee sorrowing.

Jesus.
Tell my mother
No more to seek me. Wherefore did she seek?
Following my Father's voice, I left my home
And sought the desert; God is with me here:
I, seeming thus alone, am not alone,
Never alone, because the Father is with me.

Ben-Aaron.
Foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests,
Thou only hast not where to lay thy head.
Justice there is in that—thou art unwise:
Thou dost deserve no better of the Lord.
Yes, gaze around. Is this stern rocky spot
A fitting palace for the Son of Man?
Leave unto John his locusts and wild honey,
His frantic preaching, and his proselytes:
If I mistake thee not, thy soul is dowered
With nobler gifts for nobler ends than these.
John's fate is certain; Antipas will soon
Wake from his trance, and in some hideous prison
John's mad career will find its fitting close.
But thou—thou art not, with those blue soft eyes
That all the women love, those auburn locks
So all un-Jewish in their golden sheen,
Thou, made by God thus fair to look upon,
Art made for pleasure, not for blood-stained ends.
Men call thee Son of Man: be Son of Man
In all man's fulness—drain the cup of life;
Thy Father puts that glad cup in thine hand!

Jesus.
Nay, life is this—to do the Father's will;
To save the race by loving to the end
All saddest strays and outcasts of the race.
I come to preach the deathless law of love,—
The law whose nobler force shall abrogate
The bitter code our teachers call the “Law.”
That “Law” shall perish: ever clearlier shines
The vision of my task before my gaze;
What centuries have wrought I will undo,
For one bold heart can utterly undo
The heaped-up folly of ages.

Ben Aaron.
Vainest hope!
The passionate dreamer is no match for man.
Man is far stronger—far more stupid too
And therefore stronger, for in this our world
Folly is strength; the gathered race of man
Can overpower with its collective might
And choke to silence with its brutal grip
A single prophet, be he e'er so bold.

Jesus.
Not so! for even that prophet's blood-drops speak;
The stones with which they stoned him win loud tongues
And cry through all the future's ringing days,
“This prophet was of God; from God he came,
But you, ye viper-brood, sprang forth from hell!”

Ben-Aaron.
And little shall that prophet gain thereby!

Jesus.
Blind that thou art—thou seest the green fair earth,
The blue fair sky, the stars, the kingly sun,
The mountains, fields,—thou thinkest these are all,
And that no kingdom by man's eyes unseen
Waits fair within the heavens.

Ben-Aaron.
Nay, give to me
The starlit kingdom of a woman's heart;
Give me the sunshine in a maiden's eyes;
These are real things and priceless.

Jesus.
Love to thee
Is just the moment's joy, but love means more
To God and those who trust him—yea, it means
A joy that deepens through eternity.

Ben-Aaron.
Thou art but young, thy thoughts are crude as yet:
What hast thou seen—thou filled with heavenly dreams—
What hast thou seen of earth? The holy city
Thou, Son of Man, hast never gazed upon.
When thou art weary of John's wild preaching here,
Visit Jerusalem: thy mind will open;
New thoughts will thrill thee, and thine heart will turn
Ardent towards nobler issues—thou art still
Rustic in manners, rustic in thy speech;
Thou art, as yet, uncultured, Galilean
In all thy views, and 'mid uncultured folk
Thy life has half been wasted.

Jesus.
Friend Ben-Aaron,
The rough uncultured folk are those who see
The face of God most clearly. Oftentimes
Upon Gennesareth's waves my heart hath felt
God's pure strange sweetness thrill it: fishermen
Are nearer unto God than men in towns;
In every sunset they behold God's splendour
And in the clouds they trace the heavenly city.
It does not need a scholarship profound
To spell God's name correctly.

Ben-Aaron.
Then again,
Another thing—thou art fair and full of life,
Keen-witted, bright, pure-blooded, but as yet
What know'st thou of the strange sweet world of women!
“God's sweetness” said'st thou? Sweet to eyes and taste
The Lord may be, but sweeter lips than his
Wait in Jerusalem, and hearts most eager,
Doubtless, to hear the Galilean's teaching!
I don't deny it, Galilean girls
Are fair—indeed I've known some very fair
And one—but let that pass—there are far fairer
Within the city's walls; as yet, my friend,
Thy knowledge is defective.

Jesus.
If I go
Up to Jerusalem—and I may go—
It will be there to face the Pharisees,
The Scribes, the Priests, the expounders of the Law;
Aye, in the solemn Temple's very courts
I'll speak the message of a God who reigns
Among the mountains, on the wind-kissed shores,
Whose kingdom's keyless gates are open wide,
Whose precincts harlots enter.

Ben-Aaron.
If thou dost
Thou'lt have against thee all the gathered force
Of all good women, and thy work will end
In most conspicuous failure. Woman hates
Nought with such venomous hate as fallen woman!

Jesus.
And let the Temple's marble pillars rise
August to heaven—their ornate shafts shall fall
Prone on the pavement! Yea, I will destroy
Their Temple made with hands, and in three days
Raise up another.

Ben-Aaron.
Wise and modest words
And worth remembering. (Aside)
I will note them down;
They may be useful. (Aloud)
But enough of this:
Visit Jerusalem—take my advice—
Life comes but once, but once to all of us,
And life is worth the living; live it out,
And live it grandly. Now, my friend, farewell.

(Exit Ben-Aaron).
Jesus.
I'll to Jerusalem—as far as this
He argues not inaptly. Well I know
That in sequestered Galilee my sphere
Of work is over-narrow. I must face
There at Jerusalem the learned folk:
“No prophet comes from Galilee;” a prophet
Shall come from Galilee before whose might
Their strength shall be as weakness. Death may lurk
Awaiting me within the city's walls;
But death—and, it may well be, death alone—
Can nobly crown my mission.
(Exit Jesus).

Scene IV.

Near Nazareth. Ben-Aaron and Mary Magdalene.
Ben-Aaron.
News from your sweetheart! for I've just returned
From Jordan's rugged banks, where I beheld
What seemed to me a monstrous piece of folly.
Jesus submitted himself to be baptised
Of John—though why I know not—heaven and earth
Never beheld two prophets more unlike.
John has the desert's sternness in his bearing;
Your Jesus—ah! you smile—you know his mien—
Seems to exhale the fragrance of the flowers
Of his own native well-loved Galilee.
—Well, I was saying, Jesus then stepped down
Into the river's bed to be baptised.
When he emerged, a mighty clamour rose:
Some said they saw God's Spirit like a dove
Descending on him, others said they heard
A voice from heaven which cried with thunderous sound,
“This is my well-belovèd—hear ye him!”
I saw no “dove,” I heard no “voice”—I saw
The sand, the rocks, the river, and I heard
The clamorous voices of a crowd of fools.

Mary.
They are not worthy of him; that is true.

Ben-Aaron.
Worthy! Was ever yet the low base crowd
For whom a prophet spent his life, or died,
Worthy the prophet's glance?

Mary.
But will he stay
There preaching in the desert?

Ben-Aaron.
Hardly that:
I've urged him—and I think to purpose good—
To quit the desert, and without delay
To seek the holy city; there he'll find
Fit hearers; there his genius will expand,
His heart will win the sympathy of hearts
Of nobler moulding than that desert crew.
Besides, his life in Galilee is wasted.

Mary.
Wasted?

Ben-Aaron.
Yes, wasted. Listen, good my girl;
Your heart despised Ben-Aaron, nor does he
Complain with weak fool's plaining—why should he
Complain? Revenge is ready to his hand.
The old are not attractive—men or women;
There is not much in me to lure a girl
From tender talk to kisses, and from these
To—don't look modest, would a modest girl
Study the stars with Jesus of a night?
There is not much in me—I say it out—
But there is much in Jesus, very much.
Rely upon me, at Jerusalem
Women will find that out; he'll never lack
Kind feminine pure attendance. Were I you
I'd to Jerusalem, and keep an eye—

Mary.
Think you, Ben-Aaron, that I cannot see
The spiteful fierce revengeful devil in you?
I loathe and scorn you.

Ben-Aaron.
Loathe and scorn me, dear,
That matters very little, not at all
Indeed—the point that matters is just this—
If you are jealous, now's the time for that.
But then you are not jealous—never yet
Was woman truly jealous—they can trust
Their charms to bind in chains their far-off lovers;
And after all (bowing to her)
Jerusalem may hold
No woman like yourself.

Mary.
First lie, then flatter;
Your baseness stands divulged.

Ben-Aaron.
Divulged, or not,
Your danger stands divulged.

Mary.
I'm in no danger.
'Tis love breeds danger: I am not in love.

Ben-Aaron.
Ah! you're so young, your charms are wasted too—
To that my speech was coming—wasted here
In Galilee, poor soft unseen white bud;
Why should you not in proud Jerusalem
Burst into queenly blossom?

Mary.
Why, indeed!
Because I love this quiet Galilee,
And love not wild excitement. Am I fit,
I, with my country ways, to mix with those
Whose pride would scorn me?

Ben-Aaron.
There you quite mistake—
'Tis men feel awkward when they change their lot
And mix with those above them. Never yet
Did woman dowered like you with peerless beauty
Rank lower than queen in any company.
Beauty gives woman right to enter where
The very gods assemble.

Mary.
Heathen gods
Have no attraction for me.

(Exit Mary).
Ben-Aaron
(rubbing his hands).
All is well.
When woman's tongue says “No,” and when her eyes
Say “Yes,” the tongue's the liar. She will go.

(Exit Ben-Aaron).

Scene V.

On the borders of the Lake of Gennesareth. Jesus pacing to and fro, soliloquising.
Jesus.
Yet—am I not in error after all
Perchance? The ancient worship hath its charm,
Its beauty: if I disregard the past,
How many loving hearts I shall estrange!
Am I mistaken? Are my thoughts my own,
My own thoughts only—not, as I have deemed,
God's thought imprinted deeply on my brain,
That I in truth might carry out God's thought
And make it known unto the sons of men?
Shall I, instead of peace, send forth a sword
On earth,—a sword most keen-edged to divide
Mother from son, and faithful friend from friend?
Yea, in the future—for my soul can see
The future in prophetic moments spread
Vivid before me—men shall take my words,
Twist them and wrest them to their own base ends,
Shall torture prophets God-sent like myself,
Hale them to death—as me perchance they'll hale.
The fires of future torment may leap high,
All in the name of Jesus; for the heart
Of man is cunning to pervert God's gifts
And turn his choicest boons to bitterest curses.
Others shall rise—great prophets, poet-souls,
Reformers, thinkers—for whom God prepares
Doubtless vast tracts of deep abysmal darkness
That their souls starlike may possess the dark
And change it into light unutterable.
As my soul shall shine starlike through the gloom
Of centuries, so for other centuries these
Shall shine like stars and slowly lead man on
From faiths ignoble unto nobler creeds.
Yet all of these the hands of man shall slay,
The heart of man dishonour, in my name
And as for my sake—calling me a God,
Jehovah-Jesus, me whose throne was first
A manger, next my workman's common bench,
And whose last throne shall be an outcast's grave.
O noble spirits whom in my name man's hands
Shall basely use, whom in my name man's mind
Shall baselier misinterpret, pardon me
That I unknowing, powerless, sealed your doom!
Stars wear ye, doubtless, lordlier in your crowns
Than the pale stars that gem my diadem!
But from Judæa with full heart to-day
I hail and greet ye: virgin are the lips
Of God, though I have kissed them, for your lips,
O prophets of the far-off years, to touch!
The fulness of the Godhead unimpaired,
Untampered with, awaits you: never man
Plunged deep in the abysses of God's heart
But starrier heights, profounder depths, beyond
Shone, and shine on for ever. Doubt has passed:
The Father's will shall to the end be done.
(Exit Jesus).

(Enter Ben-Aaron, on the opposite side of the stage).
Ben-Aaron.
There's Peter?—vehement, eager, over-bold—
Of little use to me—and Andrew too;
Better the twain at casting of a net
For fish than carrying out a great man's purpose:
Matthew? Messiah-ridden, dreamy, weak—
His one desire's to prove the prophecies
Fulfilled to the minutest point in Jesus:
Simon Zelotes? Not of much account;
A mere fanatic, trained too in the school
Of fierce-tongued Judas the mad Gaulonite:
Then James and John, the sons of Zebedee;
James might be got at—not so easy though;
The younger, John, with that girl-face of his,
As beautiful as Jesus, though the strength
That crowns the grace in Jesus is not there,
His case is hopeless—see him lean his head
On Jesus' breast—you'd think the man no man,
But woman—hardly of the purer sort:
Next Jude and James, the cousins of our friend;
Something in them of Mary Cleophas
Their mother, somewhat fool-fanatical,
Unfits them for my purpose; they have clung
To Jesus closelier than his brothers have;
Some think they are his brothers—fools all round:
What of Bartholomew? he, with learned look,
Takes notes of Jesus' sayings—he might be
Of use, could I but gain him—he might make
An excellent strong witness at the close:
Then Philip of Bethsaida—far too fond
Of watching dead folks rise, uncanny task!
Thomas? A better man; I like to hear
His soft tongue puzzle Jesus with his questions—
“Lord, what's the date of this? the hour of that?
The name of him or her? where did she dwell?
When did her illness leave her? was her face
Unspotted still with fever?”—and so forth;
He's just the only one of all the set
Possessed of anything approaching culture.
Stay—there's another, and with far more “back”
As our rough peasants say—Iscariot:
He's from the South—the only stranger here;
The others hate him, and he hates the others;
They jeer, they taunt him with his Southern speech,
He taunts them (rightly!) for their Northern crassness.
Yes, he's my man: there's something in his eyes
I like—a certain sudden flash at times;
He'll do great deeds, if only I can make
Great deeds well worth his while—he holds the bag;
He can be coarse at moments in his speech—
Though coarseness shocks me, coarse men none the less
Are useful tools—one ought not to complain
When handling useful weapons at their roughness;
The rougher handle gives the closer grip.
Besides if what I hear—one hears so much,
So little of it's true, but this is true
I think—if only what I hear is true,
The man's in love with Mary, and in him
Love means—well, several things—but most of all
Mad boundless fierce unreasoning jealousy;
And jealousy is just the fittest string
For me to harp upon—of all great deeds
Man ever did, I think the greatest deeds
Were done through jealousy,—that little word
Bodied in acts has changed all history's course
And ground high towers to dust. Here comes the man:
I'll test him straightway.
(Enter Judas.)
Prithee, tell me, Sir
(You know me, doubtless, though we have not met
Of late)—what think you, Judas, in your heart
Of Jesus and his followers? Tell me truly.

Judas.
With doubting Thomas I've some sympathy:
As for the others, they're a crack-brained crew;
They gape and wonder—gape again and worship—
Their gape's so large that it can swallow down
Without an effort even the most immense
Unprecedented strange miraculous tale;
Water to wine, or olives into figs,
Palm-leaves to golden crowns—all's one to them!
In fact I pity Jesus—for he's forced
To follow along the road these madcaps take,
Though for his own part—yes, I'll do him justice—
The man whose faith in his own miracles
Is least and feeblest, is—the man himself.
If he put forward not one single deed
Of wonder, claimed no preternatural power,
His ardent followers—be you sure of that—
Would still enswathe in thaumaturgic fog
Their Master, choking in the dense damp mist
Of their obscene creation; yes indeed,
They would perform—though with less dexterous hand—
Unending miracles, if he would not—
Flood Galilee with marvel, and proclaim
Their great Messiah-conjuror come at last!

Ben-Aaron
(aside).
What could be better?—sound and vigorous thought—
Clear-headed fearless insight. (Aloud)
Listen, Judas;
I wish to know if at some future date
I can rely upon you? It may be
That I shall need your service.

Judas.
In good sooth
You may rely upon me—I can guess
Your motive too—in fact, it hardly needs
Much probing.

Ben-Aaron.
I admit it, I was sweet
Upon the girl myself—as you are sweet
To-day upon her. I'll confess as well
She quite disdained me.

Judas.
Did you think that strange?

Ben-Aaron.
Uncivil, Sir—but I can bear with you,
And I can bear with her—but not with one
Who has robbed me of her.

Judas.
No: revenge is sweet.

Ben-Aaron.
Most sweet! and I will have it. 'Tis to you
I look to aid me.

Judas.
I will aid you Master.

Ben-Aaron.
I thought as much; and, when two plot revenge,
Revenge is half accomplished. 'Twas for that
I sounded you, to know your inmost thoughts
As to this man's disciples. As to him
What think you? He can dupe the world, it seems,
But can he dupe himself?

Judas.
I cannot doubt it.

Ben-Aaron.
Does he love Mary?

Judas.
That I hardly know.
With his strange far-fetched dreams of heavenly love
What you and I call love is quite remote
From his strained upward vision.

Ben-Aaron.
Does she love him?

Judas.
I'll answer that to better purpose soon.
I think she loves him—but I think she knows
Not yet how much she loves him.

Ben-Aaron.
Do you think
She loves him yet enough to stand the siege
Of the young Roman gallants?

Judas.
Roman gallants?

Ben-Aaron.
I've been persuading her to take a step

Judas.
What step?

Ben-Aaron.
To launch herself with all her beauty
Full on Jerusalem; I think that there
She may forget this Jesus, and—perhaps—
For you and me her heart may grow more tender.

Judas.
It may be so; she knows not her own mind
As yet.

Ben-Aaron.
But she will quickly learn to know
Her own mind—trust me—at Jerusalem.
Thither all prophets go, and thither go
Fair women loved by prophets; Jesus soon,
I doubt it not, will seek the holy city:
She'll seek it too—and you and I will seek it.
The rest will follow—the eleven apostles
(I don't degrade you, friend, by counting you,
Clear-headed you, among the unsapient number!)
And all the applauding crowd, both male and female:
He'll drag half Galilee along with him.
Well—well and good—within the holy city
The play we've started shall with grand success
Achieve itself, for am I not Ben-Aaron?
Jesus has written the first act of the drama
And—here in Galilee—with touch idyllic
Depicted therein many a bright glad scene.
Mary's the heroine: lake and sky and hills
Form fitting scenery, fair Nature's background;
The eleven apostles are superb scene-shifters;
You, Judas, are the villain of the piece,
While I'm—a Satan, posing for the nonce
As ever-resourceful acting manager.
You take your cue—you see? But now the acts
That follow shall in quite a different sphere
Be played, and with fresh actors: Rome shall send
A company to join the Galileans,
And at Jerusalem the holy city
With priests to act and Pharisees and Scribes
The drama shall be brought to a fitting close.
I'll write the finish, even I Ben-Aaron,
And write it not with finicking soft touch
Like Jesus—he was well content to write
In ink—I'll write in blood.

Judas.
You really are
Superb at times; I love to listen to you!

Ben-Aaron.
Listen, and act with me—you'll surely see
I shall succeed. I never yet have failed,
When matched 'gainst man or woman.

Judas.
I believe you!
You are the devil—so you must succeed.

Ben-Aaron.
There is no devil—that is superstition.
The devil is dead, and when the devil died
I bought his commonplace-books.

Judas.
Money spent
Right well.

Ben-Aaron.
Let's lose no time.

Judas.
I'm at your service.

(Exeunt Ben-Aaron and Judas).