_Salathiel’s Strange Quarters_
While, with my head bent on my knees, I hung in the misery of
self-abhorrence, I heard the name of Constantius sorrowfully pronounced
beside me. The state in which he must be left by my long absence flashed
upon my mind; I raised my eyes, and saw Salome. It was her voice that
sounded, and I then first observed the work of wo in her form and
features. She was almost a shadow; her eye was lusterless, and the hands
that she clasped in silent prayer were reduced to the bone. But before
I could speak, Miriam made a sign of silence to me, and led the mourner
away; then returning, said:
“I dreaded lest you might make any inquiries before Salome, for her
husband. Religion alone has kept her from the grave. On our arrival here,
we found our noble Constantius worn out by the fatigue of the time, but
he was our guardian spirit in the dreadful tumults of the city. When we
were burned out of one asylum, he led us to another. It is but a week
since he placed us in this melancholy spot, but yet the more secure and
unknown. He himself brought us provisions, supplied us with every comfort
that could be obtained by his impoverished means, and saved us from
famine. But now,”—the tears filled her eyes and she could not proceed.
“Yes—now,” said I, “he is a sight that would shock the eye; we must keep
Salome in ignorance as long as we can.”
[Sidenote: The Fate of Constantius]
“The unhappy girl knows his fate but too well. He left us a few days
since, to obtain some intelligence of the siege. We sat, during the
night, listening to the frightful sounds of battle. At daybreak, unable
any longer to bear the suspense or sit looking at Salome’s wretchedness,
I ventured to the fountain-gate, and there heard what I so bitterly
anticipated—our brave Constantius was slain!”
She wept aloud, and sobs and cries of irrepressible anguish answered her
from the chamber of my unhappy child.
[Sidenote: A False Report]
The danger of a too sudden discovery prevented me from drying those
tears, and I could proceed only by offering conjectures on the various
chances of battle, the possibility of his being made prisoner, and the
general difficulty of ascertaining the fates of men in the irregular
combats of a populace. But Salome sat fixed in cold incredulity. Esther
sorrowfully kissed my hand, for my disposition to give them a ray of
comfort; Miriam gazed on me with a sad and searching look, as if she
felt that I would not tamper with their distresses, yet she was deeply
perplexed for the issue. At last the delay grew painful to myself, and
taking Salome to my arms, and pressing a kiss of parental love on her
pale cheek, I whispered, “He lives!”
I was overwhelmed with transports and thanksgivings. Precaution was at
an end. If battle had been raging in the streets, I could not now have
restrained the generous impatience of friendship and love. We left the
mansion. There was not much to leave besides the walls; but such as it
was, the first fugitive was welcome to the possession. Night was still
within the building, which had belonged to some of the Roman officers of
state, and was massive and of great extent. But at the threshold the gray
dawn came quivering over the Mount of Olives.
We struggled through the long and winding streets, which even in the
light were nearly impassable. From the inhabitants we met with no
impediment; a few haggard and fierce-looking men stared at us from
the ruins,[47] but we, wrapped up in rude mantles and hurrying along,
wore too much the livery of despair to be disturbed by our fellows in
wretchedness. With a trembling heart I led the way to the chamber, where
lay one in whose life our general happiness was centered. Fearful of the
shock which our sudden appearance might give his enfeebled frame, and not
less of the misery with which he must be seen, I advanced alone to the
bedside. He gave no sign of recognition, tho he was evidently awake,
and I was about to close the curtains and keep, at least, Salome from
the hazardous sight of this living ruin, when I found her beside me. She
took his hand and sat down on the bed, with her eyes fixed on his hollow
features. She spoke not a word, but sat cherishing the wasted hand in her
own and kissing it with sad fondness. Her grief was too sacred for our
interference, and in sorrow scarcely less poignant than her own, I led
apart Miriam and Esther, who, like me, believed that the parting day was
come.
Such rude help as could be found in medicine—at a time when our men of
science had fled the city, and a few herbs were the only resource—had not
been neglected even in my distraction. But life seemed retiring hour by
hour, and if I dared to contemplate the death of this beloved being, it
was almost with a wish that it had happened before the arrival of those
to whom it must be a renewal of agony.
[Sidenote: Salathiel Faces Difficulties]
Still, the minor cares, which make so humble yet so necessary a page in
the history of life, were to occupy me. Food must be provided for the
increased number of my inmates, and where was that to be found in the
circle of a beleaguered city? Money was useless, even if I possessed
it; the friends who would once have shared their last meal with me were
exiled or slain, and it was in the midst of a fierce populace, themselves
dying of hunger, that I was to glean the daily subsistence of my wife
and children. The natural pride of the chieftain revolted at the idea of
supplicating for food, but this was one of the questions that show the
absurdity of pride, and I must beg if I would not see them die.
The dwelling had belonged to one of the noble families extinguished,
or driven away, in the first commotions of the war. The factions which
perpetually tore each other, and fought from house to house, had stripped
its lofty halls of everything that could be plundered in the hurry of
civil feud, and when I took refuge under its roof it looked the very
palace of desolation. But it was a shelter, undisturbed by the riots of
the crowd, too bare to invite the robber; and even in its vast and naked
chambers, its gloomy passages and frowning casements, congenial to the
mood of my mind. With Constantius insensible and dying before me, and
with my own spirit darkened by an eternal cloud, I loved loneliness and
darkness. When the echo of the winds came round me, as I sat during my
miserable midnights, watching the countenance of my son, and moistening
his feverish lip with the water that even then was becoming a commodity
of rare price in Jerusalem, I had communed with memories that I would not
have exchanged for the brightest enjoyments of life. I welcomed the sad
music, in which the beloved voices revisited my soul; what was earth now
to me but a tomb? Pomp—nay, comfort—would have been a mockery. I clung to
the solitude and obscurity that gave me the picture of the grave.
But the presence of my family made me feel the wretchedness of my abode.
When I cast my eyes round the squalid and chilling halls, and saw
wandering through them those gentle and delicate forms, and saw them
trying to disguise, by smiles and cheering words, the depression that
the whole scene must inspire, I felt a pang that might defy a firmer
philosophy than mine—the despair that finds its only relief in scorn.
[Sidenote: The Palace of the Winds]
“Here,” said I to Miriam, as I hastened to the door, “I leave you
mistress of a palace. The Asmonean blood once flourished within these
walls; and why not we? I have seen the nobles of the land crowded into
these chambers. They are not so full now, but we must make the most of
what we have. Those hangings, that I remember, the pride of the Sidonian
who sold them, are left to us still; if they are in fragments, they will
but show our handiwork the more. We must make our own music; and in
default of menials, serve with our own hands. The pile in that corner was
once a throne sent by a Persian king to the descendant of the Maccabee;
it will serve us at least for firing. The walls are thick; the roof may
hold out a few storms more; the casements, if they keep out nothing else,
keep out the daylight, an unwelcome guest, which would do anything but
reconcile us to the state of the mansion, and now, farewell for a few
hours.”
Miriam caught my arm, and said, in that sweet tone which always sank into
my heart:
[Sidenote: Miriam Chides Salathiel]
“Salathiel, you must not leave us in this temper. I would rather hear
your open complaints of fortune than this affectation of contempt for
your calamities. They are many and painful, I allow, tho I will not,
dare not, repine. They may even be such as are beyond human cure, but
who shall say that he has deserved better—or if he has, that suffering
may not be the determined means of exalting his nature? Is gold the only
thing that is to be tried in the fire?”
She waited my answer with a look of dejected love.
“Miriam, I need not say that I respect and honor your feelings, but no
resignation can combat the substantial evils of life. Will the finest
sentiments that ever came from human lips make this darkness light, turn
this bitter wind into warmth, or make these hideous chambers but the
dungeon?”
“My husband, I dread this language,” was the answer, with more than usual
solemnity; “it is—must I say it?—even unwise. Shall the creatures of the
Power by whom we are placed in life either defy His wrath or disregard
His mercy? Might we not be more severely tasked than we are? Are there
not thousands at this hour in the world who, with at least equal claims
to the divine benevolence (I tremble when I use the presumptuous phrase),
are undergoing calamities to which ours are happiness? Look from this
very threshold; are there not thousands within the walls of Jerusalem,
groaning in the pangs of unhealed wounds, mad, starving, stripped of
every succor of man, dying in hovels, the last survivors of their
wretched race? and yet we, still enjoying health, with a roof over our
heads, with our children round us safe, when the plague of the first-born
has fallen upon almost every house in Judea, can complain! Be comforted,
my love; I see but one actual calamity among us; and if Constantius
should survive, even that one would be at an end.”
I left my gentle despot, and hurried through the echoing halls of this
palace of the winds. As I approached the great avenues leading from the
gates to the Temple, unusual sounds struck my ears. Hitherto nothing
in the sadness of the besieged city was sadder than its silence. Death
was lord of Jerusalem, and the numberless ways in which life was
extinguished had left but the remnant of its once proud and flourishing
population.
[Sidenote: Gathering at Jerusalem]
But now shouts, and still more, the deep and perpetual murmur that
bespeaks the movements and gatherings of a crowded city, astonished me.
My first conception was that the enemy had advanced in force, and I was
turning toward the battlements to witness, or repel the general fate,
when I was involved in the multitude whose voices had perplexed me.
It was the season of the Passover. The Roman barrier had hitherto kept
back the tribes; but the victory that left it in embers opened the gates;
and from the most death-like solitude, we were once more to see the sons
of Judea filling the courts of the city of cities.