University of Virginia Library

Act I.

The Mother.

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?

Mary.

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

nearly blind, people; he visits and comforts the
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.

Miriam.

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

mean—the one you were singing the other day,
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).
(She pauses; then continues in a softer tone).

(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).

Scene II.

A room in Joseph's cottage at Nazareth. Mary the mother of Jesus, Joseph, the Rabbi Ben-Aaron, Mary Magdalene, engaged in conversation.
Mary the Mother
(to Ben-Aaron).
We need your help, for we have anxious hearts.

Joseph.
The youth's a noble youth, but there are now
Strange rumours in the air; the thoughts of men
Are all unsettled. Some predict the end:
The book of Daniel has convulsed the nation:
These Messianic dreams have reached the ears
Of Jesus, touched his youthful heart to flame;
We dread the future.

Ben-Aaron.
Can I be of service?

Mary the Mother.
Your wondrous learning and your gentle heart
May be of priceless service. We are folk
Unlearned, simple—Jesus hardly deigns
To listen to our protests. He will hear
Your words.

Mary Magdalene
(aside).
His words will be as idle waves
That beat against the blue lake's rocky shore,
Yet fret not even a pebble. I know Jesus.

Ben-Aaron.
I'll do my utmost to convince your son
That in the old-fashioned paths lie peace and safety
“Once young, I now am old,” as David says,
“Yet saw I never any righteous man
Who held to the old true faith, forlorn, forsaken.”
When Moses' Law with its far-seeing gaze
Ordained that any, be he poor or rich,
Who contravened its mandates should be stoned,
Stoned without trial, was its edict harsh?
Nay, nowise harsh—but simply, nobly, just;
Aye, more than this, our nation's best defence
Against false teachers.

Mary Magdalene
(aside).
Would they stone him then?
If a stone crushed that white pure brow of his,
Myself would stone the stoner. (Aloud)
Do you hold
That thinkers should be stoned?

Ben-Aaron.
Yes, when their thought
Wanders in reinless freedom far beyond
The bounds prescribed. Thought's mountains may be climbed
By cultured men and learned in the land,
Not by the unlearned folk of Galilee.

Joseph.
You speak true wisdom's words; with all my heart
I do assent to all that you have said.
He may need much convincing—he's surrounded,
I grieve to say it, by a crowd of men
Whose hearts are fed with wildest hopes, whose brains
Are none too sound—the least mad is Iscariot.
Andrew and Peter—they are honest fishers,
Their father was my friend—but James and John,
“The sons of thunder” as the people call them,
They are young fiery revolutionists,
They'll lead my son towards danger; John believes
That Daniel spoke the very, literal, truth
And that 'mid flame and blood and wildest woes
The Son of God will come to rule the earth.
Philip is John the Baptist's staunch disciple:
He will plant deep the Baptist's wild ideas
In Jesus' brain—he's ever urging him
To seek out John on Jordan's rocky banks
And to submit to be baptised of him.

Ben-Aaron.
Well, if he went, it might not all be ill.
(Aside)
The thing might serve my purpose. (Aloud)
If he went,
That hideous desert where John holds his own,
Being as it is the dreariest loneliest spot
In all the world, might rouse in Jesus' mind
Swift healthier yearning for the flower-filled vales
Of this our fair and fertile Galilee.

Mary Magdalene.
Are John the Baptist's followers men alone?
Do women seek the desert?

Ben-Aaron.
Some there are,
Mere worthless hussies who upon the sand
Writhe in convulsions at the prophet's feet.

Mary Magdalene.
Jesus loves flowers and sunshine and the clear
Blue cloudless skies, or better still the nights
Alive with stars, of this our Galilee.
That desert will not suit him— (aside)
nor me either.

Ben-Aaron
(to Mary Magdalene).
Now, if you'll lead the way—you know the haunts
Of Jesus—

Mary Magdalene.
He is resting in the grove—

Ben-Aaron.
I'll do my best to draw him gently round
To wiser happier views of men and things.

Joseph and Mary the Mother
(together).
Our heartiest thanks to you!

Ben-Aaron.
Nay, thank me not.
Such business is a pleasure— (aside)
as it is,
For it shall serve my pleasure.

Mary Magdalene.
Follow me.

(Exeunt Ben-Aaron and Mary Magdalene).
Joseph
(looking after them).
There goes a good old man, and with him goes
A right good maiden—good as she is fair.

Mary the Mother.
Good—yes—but somewhat flighty. As for him,
Ben-Aaron, I could trust him with my soul.
What a strange face and figure—slightly bent,
Stooping with grand superb proud dignity;
That reverend brow, so worn with lofty thought;
The mouth, so gentle and so passionless,
Round which a smile perpetual softly plays;
And then the eyes, so full of far-off dreams—
Eyes which see God, and understand the stars
And all the stars' dim secrets—what a man!
They say he's learned past all comprehension,
Nothing there is Ben-Aaron does not know,
So gossip has it—and I think indeed
That gossip in this for once is wholly right.
They say that curious mystic ruby ring
On his forefinger that he always wears
Was seen to flash its rays from Moses' hand
When he descended from Mount Sinai.

Joseph.
Ah—do they say so? 'Tis a wondrous ring:
I can believe the story.

Mary.
There they go!
Rounding that corner, 'mid the trees they'll find
Our son.

Joseph.
I trust Ben-Aaron will convince him.

Mary.
A curious couple—Mary, full of youth
And girlish sweetness, pacing by the side
Of wisdom here incarnate. She is safe
With him as with an angel.

Joseph.
Far more safe,
If some old tales be true! But let's be going.

(Exeunt Joseph and Mary the Mother).

Scene III.

In a wood near Joseph's house. Jesus and his Mother conversing.
Jesus.
You see the present, and the past still weighs
Heavy upon you, but before my eyes
Spreads wide and clear the future of our race.
Think'st thou that God alone to Abraham spoke,
To Moses and Elias—not to me?
Because thy pure blood courses through my veins
Think'st thou that God's eternal fatherhood
Will never claim its own, that through my eyes
Will never flash forth on the sons of men
My Father's undisputed majesty?
Woman, thou errest: by the laws o' the flesh
From thee I drew my life, this body of mine,
This human visible frame, to thee I owe,
But yet in other spheres my spirit breathed
Long ere my body quickened in thy womb.
Yea, from God's life my higher life I drew;
His royal blood flows tingling through my veins,
And when I see injustice, hate, or wrong,
I speak as I have heard my Father speak,
His holy anger lightens from my soul—
Just as his pity thrills me, when I see
The ceaseless silent suffering of the world.

Mary.
I search the scriptures patiently, my son.
What has been written by the hand of God
In those our priceless scriptures, I believe.
Upon the impregnable rock of holy writ
I stand—

Jesus.
I stand upon the impregnable rock
Of mine own soul.

Mary.
Beware of blasphemy.

Jesus.
No prophet ever yet spake to the world
Words fresh from God's lips but the world accused
That seer of blasphemy.

Mary.
The prophets spake
As God inspired them—thou dost speak not thus.
In thy presumption thou wouldst quite undo
The work of ages, set thyself above
Isaiah, Moses, Micah, thou a youth
Full of high thoughts, but inexperienced, weak
As yet in power to grasp the truth of things.

Jesus.
I am the truth.

Mary.
It wounds me to the heart
To hear thee speak thus.

Jesus.
And it wounds me, mother,
Far deeplier than thy soul can understand
To grieve thee—yes, in even the slightest point.
But, when the choice is set before me thus,
Mother or Father, things of earth or heaven,
Thy mandate or God's voice within my soul,
Which can I choose, which follow?

Mary.
It might be
Joseph might help thee—or Ben-Aaron might.
Hast ever stooped to ask advice of these?
Thy father understands the scriptures well:
So doth the Rabbi—he's a learned man
Who has spent his life in searching holy writ,
In searching and expounding—but thine heart
Is overmuch puffed-up with vanity.

Jesus.
Mother, enough—when sunlight no more shines,
When God no more lets fall upon the night
For man to see star-jewels from his crown,
When no more through the music of the waves
Of blue Gennesareth he speaks to me,
And through the snow-white lilies of the field,
And through the grass-blades and the waving corn,—
When I can see no God within the skies,
And hear no God within my own heart's depths
While watching lonely on the mountain-side,
When that shall be—if ever that shall be—
Then I will listen to thy Rabbi's speech
And follow in his steps.

Mary.
Wild utterance, son!

Jesus.
Nay, sober utterance, mother, for I speak
With reason's keen-edged sword within my hand,
The sword that cuts all ancient sophistries
And severs custom's maxims. But henceforth
Let us not speak upon these things. Go thou,
Mother, thy way in peace—let me go mine;
And when we meet before the throne of God
A thousand centuries hence, when all is done,
My gospel preached, the wide world won to me,
My labours finished—for my task extends
In scope beyond the extreme dim dusky point
Of heaven to which the farthest star could sail—
When all is o'er, and we, as spirits then
No more as mother and son, before God's throne
Meet, thou shalt own that though thou sawest the skirts
Of God's robe, I gazed straight within his eyes,
Caught up the words fresh-falling from his lips,
And felt the pressure of his hand in mine.
But for to-day farewell.

Mary.
Farewell, my son.

(Exeunt Jesus and Mary, at opposite sides of the stage).