University of Virginia Library

Act V.

“The King of the Jews.”

Scene I.

—The hill of Calvary. Mary Magdalene and Judas standing near the Cross.
Mary.
Now all your work is done: the man is dead.

Judas.
Dead—dead at last, but you and I live on.

Mary.
You have gained your end—and yet the man was young!
His cold still face seems beautiful in death:
How white it is! save for the streaks of blood
That glitter—blood that trickled from the thorns.
Have you no pity in you?

Judas.
Not a jot!

Mary.
Well, all is over now. When shall we meet?

Judas.
To-night. A man's hot blood brooks no delay.

Mary.
To-night! with death—and such a death as this—
Pale at the entrance of our bridal room?

Judas.
Aye—death or no death, love's a priceless thing.
The death of Jesus has not dimmed your lips
It has not stolen from your eyes the fire—
Hope flashes through them still with living gleam.

Mary
(aside).
Hope!
(Aloud)
To-night then be it; best it should be soon.

Judas.
Where will you meet me?

Mary.
In Gethsemane.

(Exit Judas).
(Enter Ben-Aaron).
Ben-Aaron.
—What, gazing on the cross! How strange it is
That women's souls exult in tragic deeds—
That they, being full of sweetness like the flowers,
Should love the midnight, not the morning sun,
For here 'tis dark as midnight! What a gloom
Broods o'er the land—the uncultured heart would say
It was of evil omen.

Mary.
Death and gloom
Are not all evil; for the pure in heart
There is no darkness, but eternal light
Whose rays divide the gloom—for evil-doers
Darkness is fitting shroud.

Ben-Aaron.
Was this man then
An evil-doer, in that thus the gloom
For his sake shrouds the earth?

Mary.
Nay, darkness falls
Upon the earth that this, man's greatest crime,
May be concealed from angels' pitying gaze.
The dark deed brings the darkness.

Ben-Aaron.
I am glad
Of heart—thou knowest it—for I loved thee well.
Man's heart is gladdened when a rival dies;
Aye, for each pang the dying rival feels,
He feels a new swift throb of ecstacy.
But (drawing her apart)
listen—this way—I would speak with thee.

Mary
(aside).
More love, I doubt not! What are men indeed
But lovers—of a kind! They would rage on
With their mad lust, though round them stone by stone
The massy ramparts of this earth should crumble,
Letting wild darkness in.
(Aloud)
What is your wish?

Ben-Aaron.
The old desire—the sweet desire of youth
That through my veins runs tingling at the sight
Of your young beauty. Many and many a day
We have not met,—but I have not forgotten:
The young forget; the old, with fewer joys,
Never forget—nor could man, young or old,
Who once had touched the blossom of your lips
Forget their matchless sweetness. Mary, listen!
I am not all evil; though I hated him
(pointing to the figure on the Cross)
Thee I have loved far better than my soul,
Better than God or heaven—if these indeed
Be aught save men's wild fancies. Jesus there
Hangs pale—forget him—for he loved thee not:
Self was his ruler, self in royal robes
And crowned with lovely godship. 'Tis not so
With me; my heaven would be thy dwelling-place
Though no God's light illumined it, and my hell
The bright heaven where thou wert not.

Mary.
(Aside)
Still the same!
Man's heaven is ever in a woman's arms,
His rapture on her lips, till arms and lips
Grow old—then they seem hell-like.
(Aloud)
And your wish?

Ben-Aaron.
Once more to hold your glory in embrace
And feel myself renewed—as darkness feels,
When sunset's passive splendour slowly sinks
Deep in recipient night's dark tremulous arms.

Mary.
There'll be no sunset; all around is gloom.

Ben-Aaron.
No gloom where thou art—Meet me once again,
Just once, for I have loved thee.

Mary.
Only once?

Ben-Aaron.
But once, I swear it—and I'll give to thee—

Mary.
No gifts!—My life has had enough of gifts,
Enough of gifts and givers.

Ben-Aaron.
Then without—
For love's sake only. Shall it be to-night?

Mary.
To-night.

Ben-Aaron.
You'll meet me?

Mary.
In Gethsemane.

(Exeunt).

Scene II.

The Garden of Gethsemane. Evening of the same day (Friday).
(Enter Judas).
Judas.
At last I win her—triumph such as this
I think ne'er fell to lot of man before;
Triumph by day, and tenderer bliss by night.
First in the day to see one's foe fall dead
—King of the Jews!—a thorn-wreath for his crown—
Robbers on left and right—his royal guard
The Roman soldiers with their mocking jeers—
Derided—spat upon—a kingly King?—
First in the day to see one's enemy fall,
Then in the night when all the stars shine forth
A joy that might dismount them from their thrones
In airy space and bring them down to earth
With envious hearts that covet mortal bliss.
Now I shall know—as I have longed to know—
What sweet strange poison lurks in Mary's lips,
Poison that coursing through the enfevered veins
Of young Tibullus two short months ago
Drove him to madness, till he clean forgot
Duty and discipline and friends and country—
Wrote home to Rome that he had found a prize,
Venus in woman's shape—on that wild night
Forsook his post, when captain of the guard,
Reckless for Mary's sake—myself assisting
Encountered, challenged, slew, his friend Valerius,
And, being condemned to death, fell on his sword.
Now I shall know—as I have longed to know—
What sweet strange pleasure-giving touch she has,
That drew the very soul from out the body
Of strong Valerius—that o'erthrew Licinius—
That made impassioned Flaccus loathe his wife,
And—turning to our race—revived in old
Withered Ben-Aaron his lost taste for woman.
Now shall I know it all.

Enter Mary. She speaks to herself, gazing around her).
Mary.
The very spot—
The very spot where last night they betrayed him!
Upon those flowers I even now could deem
I see the blood of Malchus.
(Coming forward, and addressing Judas).
Friend, I'm here.

Judas
(aside).
At last—no soul is near—the garden's lonely—
Unless the bloodless ghost of Jesus watches!
(To Mary)
Welcome—the night grows sweeter.

Mary.
Sweeter? Here
The stars are shining somewhat over-brightly.
Draw back a little—follow me, friend—so:
I know a love-sweet corner; I'll confess—
You like confession—that I met—

Judas.
Valerius?

Mary.
Valerius there in pleasant days gone by.

Judas.
Lead thou the way.
(Aside)
In every pulse I tremble!
The hot blood courses through my veins like fire.
(aloud)
Is this the way?

Mary.
This way. Now stoop a little.
Wait, while I lift this branch—now enter—so.
'Tis light outside, but dark beneath the leaves.
That matters little, Judas, for our eyes
Can flash forth love-light underneath the branches?

Judas
(stooping to enter the bower).
Mary, I love you madly.

Mary.
And I hate you
Deeplier than woman ever hated man!
(She draws out a knife and stabs him. He falls, struggling).
Take this . . . and this . . . and this. . What, but half dead!
Nay, writhe there helpless—glare at me with eyes
In which thine holy passion of love is mixed
With dread of death, and deadlier dread of hell.

Judas.
Curse you! . . . the hot blood chokes my utterance back . . .

Mary.
Dost thou still love me? . . . Lo! I stab thee again
With this keen knife dipped in the blood of Jesus.
Now let me tell thee—sooner than have given
Myself to thee, I would have let Rome's lions
Divide me inch by inch; I would have kissed
Their ravenous jaws frothy with human blood
Far rather than thy lips. Yea, when I kissed thee,
Or kissed thee as thou thoughtest, I spat out
Thy kiss; the flowers it fell upon are dead.
Hear this before thou diest. Hear this too—
I so loved Jesus—with so fine an edge
Of superhuman and unuttered love—
That I cared nought at all, nor did he care,
For what this lying world calls love and passion.
I would have tarried spotless for his sake,
Loving the very ground he trod upon,
Demanding nought from him for love's return
Save only the sweet pure touch of his hands
Upon my brow, the blessing of his eyes,
The magic of his voice—I would have tarried
Thus for his sake, contented, peaceful, proud,
Till the last star within the darkling skies
Of this life faded, and the dawn of life
Eternal glittered on the mountain-tops.
Hear this—and die.
(He dies).
Here comes Ben-Aaron. Let me get my breath—
I'll greet him like a lover. Men can do
Great deeds, I doubt not, but a woman's deeds
When once the woman's desperate make man's deeds
Pale into nothingness.
(Enter Ben-Aaron).
Best greeting, Sir.
I here await your orders.
(She stands between Ben-Aaron and the corpse of Judas).
Let us move
A little this way, where the moon shines clear.

Ben-Aaron.
Queen art thou—radiant empress of the night,
Empress of man, being as thou surely art
In every sweet pulse woman. By the gods,
Not all the virtues of the angel-world
Of which that dreamer dreamed had half the sweetness,
Mary, of just one little sin of thine!
Knowledge is God, I said—nay, love is God;
But not the love of which the dead man spoke,
But love alive with passion.

Mary.
Wilt thou kiss me?
Nay, tell me first—thou hast all knowledge, thou—
Are there dark chambers in the vaults of hell
Where women who have sinned all mortal sins
May do immortal penance? Are there too
Mansions illumed by never-setting stars
For saints whom sinners worship? Tell me this.

Ben-Aaron.
Speak not thus strangely! Knowledge was my God,
But knowledge I dethrone—yes, for this night.
We'll tread together the fair flower-strewn floors
Of pleasure's passionate temple.

Mary.
Turn thy head.
Seest thou yon portent in the ghastly moon—
(Ben-Aaron turns. She stabs him).
The portent of thy death?

Ben-Aaron.
Thou lying traitress!
I gave thee love—

Mary.
And I have given thee back
Thy love,—in woman's fashion. Hound thou art;
(Stepping aside, that he may see the body of Judas).
Soon shall thy carrion-carcase stink beside
That other carrion there—fit vultures' food,
If vultures deign to touch it.

Ben-Aaron.
Mercy—help!

Mary.
Nay, cry out louder—there is none to hear
Save only God, and him thou dost deny.
Think not on death—nay, “death's a gloomy word:
I never use it—never think on death
Indeed—I think of love and maidens' lips,
But not of death and darkness”—Yes, I heard;
And now I give you back your pleasant words
But gently lest I hurt you, for I know
You “shiver” at “rough” speech.

Ben-Aaron.
Before I die
With all my soul I curse you, and I curse—

Mary.
Curses are holiest blessings when they come
From such as you; your blessing is your curse,
Your curse your blessing. But enough of this:
(She stabs him again. He dies).
Join thou thy comrade in the deep foul hell
Where such dogs' souls foregather. As for me,
(Dragging his body to the side of that of Judas).
My work is ended now these two lie slain;
Now have I avenged thee, Jesus,—thou didst soften
My heart—for one glad moment—but thy death
Has changed my heart to stone, my hands to steel,
And given me force to drive the dagger home.
Now must I follow thee—
My life has been a sad life; once I thought,
Full of the passion and the pride of youth,
That all men loved me—I believed their words—
Then came betrayal, insight into baseness,
And then revenge; the tempted ruined girl
Became the tempter,—with Delilah's look
Now in my eyes I sought the haunts of men,
Seduced and overthrew the Roman Samsons.
Once half I loved—Tibullus—but his death,
Mad, self-inflicted, left me lone again
With black despair before me; then came Jesus:
Old thoughts of Galilee and girlish days
With him revived,—the fancy of a girl
Changed, deepening, to the absorbing love of woman.
The strange divine sweet look within his eyes
(Grown sweeter in the long years since we parted)
Lured me as nought on earth had lured me yet:
I knew he saw God's face, and from God's face
His own face won its pure unearthly sweetness.
There could be but one Jesus in the world;
But one for me—for all the world but one!
Call ye him Son of God, or Son of man,
King of my heart, or King of all the Jews,
It matters little—King he is and Lord
In virtue of the ever-enduring might
Of kingly gentleness and perfect manhood.
All women loved him; woman ever loves
The nobleness in man, though man believes
She loves the half-tamed passionate brute in him.
We loved him—I the most, who most had sinned;
I, lifted by him from the lowest depth,
Mine heart made whole, my deadliest sins forgiven:
We loved him—and unnumbered women more
Through all the ages in the far-off lands,
Weary of man, shall love the Son of man,—
Shall bring their silent sorrows unto him,
And in the love of him find peace and rest.
So, surely, it shall be. But now I go
To join him—he'll forgive me for the crime,
If crime it be to hate myself so much
Here left without him, and to love so much
The land his spirit dwells in, that I choose
By violent death to pass the viewless gates.
Forbidden to die for him, I choose to die
With him at least; Jesus, receive my soul
And let me, ignorant of joy on earth,
Find joy triumphant, passing earthly speech,
With thee, my Lord and Master, where thou art—
For where thou art, it must be well for me
To tarry with thee, gazing as of old
Deep in thine eyes wherethrough the love of God
Shone verily. Master, I follow thee!

(She raises the dagger. Voices are heard in the distance. Mary pauses, listening, the dagger poised in her hand. Soon a party of disciples passes along the back of the stage, carrying the dead body of Jesus to burial, and singing this funeral dirge).
[Disciples.]

(The voices slowly die away in the distance.)
Mary.
They carry him to burial . . . Ah, to think
That such a life can end in such a doom!
That death should seize him—him in whom I saw
The very face of God, God visible!
Can the cold army of the countless worms
Invade the flesh of God, for God through him
With the full splendour of his presence shone?
Yes: death has conquered life—and conquered love;
Yet—. . .

(She hastens in the direction taken by the burial party).

Scene III.

The Sepulchre.
(Mary enters hastily).
Mary.
The stone! But what the unloving arms of man
Can do, a woman's loving eager arms
Can surely do.
(She stoops over the stone, struggling to move it).
It moves—another effort—now aside
The rocky barrier rolls—the moonlight falls
Full on the face of Jesus.
I'll enter! man fears death, but woman fears
Nought save the loss of love; when love is lost,
Then life and death to woman's heart are one.
(She enters the sepulchre, re-appearing a moment after at the entrance).
He lives!

(Exit Mary hastily).

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).

Scene V.

The road to the Sepulchre. Same morning.
(Enter Peter, Thomas, John, Mary the Mother of Jesus, and Mary Cleophas).
Peter.
Darkness complete and utter shrouds our hopes:
The Master's dead,—and with him dies the dream
That stirred a thousand hearts; the worst comes true.
We are defeated: back to Galilee
Our steps must travel.

John.
We shall see the sun
Shine on the lake, the summer flowers will bloom;
All will be as of old—save only this,
The Lord will not be there.

Thomas.
You see it now?
I spoke my warning word,—you would not heed
My warning: that descent the Master made
Upon Jerusalem was most untimely.
The priests and rulers there with coarse lewd strength
Know how to nip young bright thought in the bud:
What could we do?

Mary Cleophas.
You might at least have shown
Some fight, some true men's courage. Peter there,
Had but his sword been backed by swords of yours,
Would nobly have led the way.

Mary the Mother.
Too late! too late!

Mary Cleophas.
Too late it is: it had not been too late
If in the garden these men had but fought
Like men; some men are women after all,
Or rather are not women, for no woman
Would tamely have stood and seen the Master seized—
Aye, weaponless, I would have made them feel
A woman's anger.

John.
Peace, and say no more.
The Master taught us this, to love each other:
Shall we soon forget?

Mary the Mother.
My well-beloved,
Cold in the tomb! Ah, had he only listened
To me, to Joseph, all had then been well!
To beard the powers that be is never safe:
It is not wise nor seemly.

Peter.
Powers that be?
'Twas liar Ben-Aaron who convicted Jesus.
The crook-tongued dotard! One thing's left to do
Ere I start Northward—in his black foul heart
To sheathe my sword.

John.
That was not Jesus' mode.
When I besought him to invoke from heaven
The wild revenge of flame on those base villages,
Remember he rebuked me.

Mary the Mother.
He was ever
Most gentle, was my son.

Thomas.
He was too gentle.
Against the ravening herd of priests and scribes
The wiser method—and more righteous too—
Is to meet force by force, cunning by cunning.
But still the fatal error was to attack
With strengthless hands this city where the Law
Still holds its own.

Peter.
The Law will triumph now.
Mankind will wait through many a weary year:
No prophet sent of God will bid it rise
And burst the chains of ages. All is over—
Hope's at an end!

Thomas.
Hope's sweetness died with him.
You'll turn again to fishing?

Peter.
In hard toil
Will be my solace—solace of a sort;
Though nought can change the sadness of a dream
Rudely demolished thus.

Mary the Mother.
Let's hasten on.
Have you the myrrh, the spices?

Mary Cleophas.
All are here.
This one rite ended, we will seek the North,
Leaving the Master of our dreams to sleep,
Unroused, the dreamless slumber.

(Enter Mary Magdalene, coming from the direction of the Sepulchre).
Mary Magdalene.
Ye are dreaming!
Behold, the Master lives.

All in Unison.
The Master lives?

Mary Magdalene.
I to the tomb this morn with spices came,
Thinking to embalm the dead. What deem ye then
I saw? I saw two angels clothed in white
Where Jesus' body had lain—I turned away,
Stricken with sudden terror. But one said,
“Mary, be not afraid: thy Lord is risen,
And we are sent from God with tidings glad
To thee the first of mortals. Jesus now
Past starriest heights has risen to God's right hand,
And death bewails its death-wound. Could the grave
Retain the Son of God? Go, tell thou this
To his disciples; tell them that the Lord
Will go before them into Galilee—
There shall they see him.” Then the voice became
Silent; I looked again—the forms were gone,
Quite empty was the tomb.

Thomas.
I'll hasten on,
Enter the tomb, and if the tomb be empty—

(Exit Thomas).
Peter.
The Lord has risen.

John.
I now recall his words.

Mary the Mother.
Risen from the dead!

Mary Cleophas.
We might have guessed as much.

(Exeunt Peter, John, Mary the Mother, and Mary Cleophas).
Mary Magdalene
(coming to the front of the Stage).
Safe—and the world will never know the truth!