THE SACRIFICE ACCEPTED.
Through the whole of that day the patient seemed occupied with deep, but
most pleasing thoughts. Fabiola, who never left her, except for moments
to give necessary directions, watched her countenance with a mixture of
awe and delight. It appeared as if her servant’s mind were removed from
surrounding objects, and conversing in a totally different sphere. Now a
smile passed like a sunbeam across her features, now a tear trembled in
her eye, or flowed down her cheeks; sometimes her pupils were raised and
kept fixed on heaven for a considerable time, while a blissful look of
perfect and calm enjoyment sat unvarying upon her; and then she would
turn round with an expression of infinite tenderness towards her
mistress, and hold out her hand to be clasped in hers. And Fabiola could
sit thus for hours in silence, which was as yet prescribed; feeling it
an honor, and thinking it did her good, to be in contact with such a
rare type of virtue.
At length, in the course of the day, after giving her patient some
nourishment, she said to her, smiling: “I think you are much better,
Miriam, already. Your physician must have given you some wonderful
medicine.”
“Indeed he has, my dearest mistress.”
Fabiola was evidently pained; and leaning over her, said softly: “Oh, do
not, I entreat you, call me by such a title. If it has to be used, it
should be by me towards you. But, in fact, it is no longer true; for
what I long intended has now been done; and the instrument of your
liberation has been ordered to be made out, not as a freedwoman, but as
an _ingenua_;[217] for such I know you are.”
Miriam looked her thanks, for fear of further hurting Fabiola’s
feelings; and they continued to be happy together in silence.
Towards evening Dionysius returned, and found so great an improvement,
that, ordering more nourishing food, he permitted a little quiet
conversation.
“I must now,” said Fabiola, so soon as they were alone, “fulfill the
first duty, which my heart has been burning to discharge, that of
thanking you,--I wish I knew a stronger word,--not for the life which
you have saved me, but for the magnanimous sacrifice which you made for
it--and, let me add, the unequalled example of heroic virtue, which
alone inspired it.”
“After all, what have I done, but simple duty? You had a right to my
life, for a much less cause than to save yours,” answered Miriam.
“No doubt,” responded Fabiola, “it appears so to you, who have been
trained to the doctrine which overpowered me, that the most heroic acts
ought to be considered by men as performances of ordinary duties.”
“And thereby,” rejoined Miriam, “they cease to be what you have called
them.”
“No, no,” exclaimed Fabiola, with enthusiasm; “do not try to make me
mean and vile to my own heart, by teaching me to undervalue what I
cannot but prize as an unrivalled act of virtue. I have been reflecting
on it, night and day, since I witnessed it; and my heart has been
yearning to speak to you of it, and even yet I dare not, or I should
oppress your weakness with my overcharged feelings. It was noble, it was
grand, it was beyond all reach of praise; though I know you do not want
it. I cannot see any way in which the sublimeness of the act could have
been enhanced, or human virtue rise one step higher.”
Miriam, who was now raised to a reclining position, took Fabiola’s hand
between both hers; and turning round towards her, in a soft and mild,
but most earnest tone, thus addressed her:
“Good and gentle lady, for one moment listen to me. Not to depreciate
what you are good enough to value, since it pains you to hear it, but to
teach you how far we still are from what might have been done, let me
trace for you a parallel scene, but where all shall be reversed. Let it
be a slave--pardon me, dear Fabiola, for another pang--I see it in your
face, but it shall be the last--yes, a slave brutish, ungrateful,
rebellious to the most benign and generous of masters. And let the
stroke, not of an assassin, but of the minister of justice, impend over
his head. What would you call the act, how would you characterize the
virtue, of that master, if out of pure love, and that he might reclaim
that wretched man, he should rush beneath the axe’s blow, ay, and its
preceding ignominious stripes, and leave written in his will, that he
made that slave heir to his titles and his wealth, and desired him to be
considered as his brother?”
“O Miriam, Miriam, you have drawn a picture too sublime to be believed
of man. You have not eclipsed your own deed, for I spoke of _human_
virtue. To act as you have now described would require, if possible,
that of a God!”
Miriam pressed the folded hand to her bosom, fixed on Fabiola’s
wondering eyes a look of heavenly inspiration, as she sweetly and
solemnly replied: “AND JESUS CHRIST, WHO DID ALL THIS FOR MAN, WAS TRULY
GOD.”
Fabiola covered her face with both her hands, and for a long time was
silent. Miriam prayed earnestly in her own tranquil heart.
“Miriam, I thank you from my soul,” at length Fabiola said; “you have
fulfilled your promise of guiding me. For some time I have only been
fearing that you might not be a Christian; but it could not be.
“Now tell me, are those awful, but sweet words, which you just now
uttered, which have sunk into my heart as deeply, as silently, and as
irrevocably as a piece of gold dropped upon the surface of the still
ocean goes down into its depths,--are those words a mere part of the
Christian system, or are they its essential principle?”
“From a simple allegory, dear lady, your powerful mind has, in one
bound, reached and grasped the master-key of our whole teaching: the
alembic of your fine understanding has extracted, and condensed into one
thought, the most vital and prominent doctrines of Christianity. You
have distilled them into their very essence.
“That man, God’s creature and bondsman, rebelled against his Lord; that
justice irresistible had doomed and pursued him; that this very Lord
‘took the form of a servant, and in habit was found like a man;’[218]
that in this form he suffered stripes, buffets, mockery, and shameful
death, became the ‘Crucified One,’ as men here call Him, and thereby
rescued man from his fate, and gave him part in His own riches and
kingdom: all this is comprised in the words that I have spoken.
“And you had reached the right conclusion. Only God could have
performed so godlike an action, or have offered so sublime an
expiation.”
Fabiola was again wrapped up in silent thought, till she timidly asked:
“And was it to this that you referred in Campania, when you spoke of God
alone being a victim worthy of God?”
“Yes; but I further alluded to the continuation of that sacrifice, even
in our own days, by a marvellous dispensation of an all-powerful love.
However, on this I must not yet speak.”
Fabiola resumed: “I every moment see how all that you have ever spoken
to me coheres and fits together, like the parts of one plant; all
springing one from another. I thought it bore only the lovely flowers of
an elegant theory; you have shown me in your conduct how these can ripen
into sweet and solid fruit. In the doctrine which you have just
explained, I seem to myself to find the noble stem from which all the
others branch forth--even to that very fruit. For who would refuse to do
for another, what is much less than God has done for him? But, Miriam,
there is a deep and unseen root whence springs all this, possibly dark
beyond contemplation, deep beyond reach, complex beyond man’s power to
unravel; yet perhaps simple to a confiding mind. If, in my present
ignorance, I can venture to speak, it should be vast enough to occupy
all nature, rich enough to fill creation with all that is good and
perfect in it, strong enough to bear the growth of your noble tree, till
its summit reach above the stars, and its branches to the ends of earth.
“I mean, your idea of that God, whom you made me fear, when you spoke to
me as a philosopher of Him, and taught me to know as the ever-present
watchman and judge; but whom I am sure you will make me love when, as a
Christian, you exhibit Him to me as the root and origin of such
boundless tenderness and mercy.
“Without some deep mystery in His nature, as yet unknown to me, I cannot
fully apprehend that wonderful doctrine of man’s purchase.”
“Fabiola,” responded Miriam, “more learned teachers than I should
undertake the instruction of one so gifted and so acute. But will you
believe me if I attempt to give you some explanation?”
“Miriam,” replied Fabiola, with strong emphasis, “ONE WHO IS READY TO
DIE FOR ANOTHER, WILL CERTAINLY NOT DECEIVE HIM.”
“And now,” rejoined the patient, smiling, “you have again seized a great
principle--that of FAITH. I will, therefore, be only the simple narrator
of what Jesus Christ, who truly died for us, has taught us. You will
believe my word only as that of a faithful witness; you will accept His,
as that of an unerring God.”
Fabiola bowed her head, and listened with reverential mind to her, in
whom she had long honored a teacher of marvellous wisdom, which she drew
from some unknown school; but whom now she almost worshipped as an
angel, who could open to her the flood-gates of the eternal ocean, whose
waters are the unfathomable Wisdom, overflowing on earth.
Miriam expounded, in the simple terms of Catholic teaching, the sublime
doctrine of the Trinity; then after relating the fall of man, unfolded
the mystery of the Incarnation, giving, in the very words of St. John,
the history of the Eternal Word, till He was made flesh, and dwelt among
men. Often was she interrupted by the expressions of admiration or
assent which her pupil uttered; never by cavil or doubt. Philosophy had
given place to religion, captiousness to docility, incredulity to faith.
But now a sadness seemed to have come over Fabiola’s heart: Miriam read
it in her looks, and asked her its cause.
“I hardly dare tell you,” she replied. “But all that you have related to
me is so beautiful, so divine, that it seems to me necessarily to end
here.
“The Word (what a noble name!), that is, the expression of God’s love,
the externation of His wisdom, the evidence of His power, the very
breath of His life-giving life, which is Himself, becometh flesh. Who
shall furnish it to Him? Shall He take up the cast-off slough of a
tainted humanity, or shall a new manhood be created expressly for _Him_?
Shall He take His place in a double genealogy, receiving thus into
Himself a twofold tide of corruption; and shall there be any one on
earth daring and high enough to call himself His father?”
“No,” softly whispered Miriam; “but there shall be one holy enough, and
humble enough, to be worthy to call herself His mother!
“Almost 800 years before the Son of God came into the world, a prophet
spoke, and recorded his words, and deposited the record of them in the
hands of the Jews, Christ’s inveterate enemies; and his words were
these: ‘Behold, a Virgin shall conceive and bear a Son, and His name
shall be called Emanuel,’[219] which in the Hebrew language signifies
‘God with us,’ that is with men.
“This prophecy was of course fulfilled in the conception and birth of
God’s Son on earth.”
“And who was _she_?” asked Fabiola, with great reverence.
“One whose very name is blessed by every one that truly loves her Son.
Mary is the name by which you will know her: Miriam, its original in her
own tongue, is the one by which I honor her. Well, you may suppose, was
she prepared for such high destiny by holiness and virtue; not as
cleansed, but as ever clean; not as purified, but as always pure; not
freed, but exempted, from sin. The tide of which you spoke, found before
her the dam of an eternal decree, which could not brook that the
holiness of God should mingle with what it could only redeem, by keeping
extraneous to itself. Bright as the blood of Adam, when the breath of
God sent it sparkling through his veins, pure as the flesh of Eve, while
standing yet in the mould of the Almighty hands, as they drew it from
the side of the slumbering man, were the blood and the flesh, which the
Spirit of God formed into the glorious humanity, that Mary gave to
Jesus.
“And after this glorious privilege granted to our sex, are you surprised
that many, like your sweet Agnes, should have chosen this peerless
Virgin as the pattern of their lives; should find in her, whom God so
elected, the model of every virtue; and should, in preference to
allowing themselves to be yoked, even by the tenderest of ties, to the
chariot-wheels of this world, seek to fly upwards on wings of undivided
love like hers?”
After a pause and some reflection, Miriam proceeded briefly to detail
the history of our Saviour’s birth, His laborious youth, His active but
suffering public life, and then His ignominious Passion. Often was the
narrative interrupted by the tears and sobs of the willing listener and
ready learner. At last the time for rest had come, when Fabiola humbly
asked:
“Are you too fatigued to answer one question more?”
“No,” was the cheerful reply.
“What hope,” said Fabiola, “can there be for one who cannot say she was
ignorant, for she pretended to know every thing; nor that she neglected
to learn, for she affected eagerness after every sort of knowledge; but
can only confess that she scorned the true wisdom, and blasphemed its
Giver;--for one who has scoffed at the very torments which proved the
love, and sneered at the death which was the ransoming, of Him whom she
has mocked at, as the ‘Crucified?’”
A flood of tears stopped her speech.
Miriam waited till their relieving flow had subsided into that gentler
dew which softens the heart; then in soothing tones addressed her as
follows:
“In the days of our Lord there lived a woman who bore the same name as
His spotless Mother; but she had sinned publicly, degradingly, as you,
Fabiola, would abhor to sin. She became acquainted, we know not how,
with her Redeemer; in the secrecy of her own heart, she contemplated
earnestly, till she came to love intensely, His gracious and
condescending familiarity with sinners, and His singular indulgence and
forgivingness to the fallen. She loved and loved still more; and,
forgetting herself, she only thought how she might manifest her love, so
that it might bring honor, however slight, to Him, and shame, however
great, on herself.
“She went into the house of a rich man, where the usual courtesies of
hospitality had been withheld from its Divine guest, into the house of a
haughty man who spurned, in the presumption of his heart, the public
sinner; she supplied the attentions which had been neglected to Him whom
she loved; and she was scorned, as she expected, for her obtrusive
sorrow.”
“How did she do this, Miriam?”
“She knelt at His feet as He sat at table; she poured out upon them a
flood of tears; she wiped them with her luxurious hair, she kissed them
fervently, and she anointed them with rich perfume.”
“And what was the result?”
“She was defended by Jesus against the carping gibes of His host; she
was told that she was forgiven on account of her love, and was dismissed
with kindest comfort.”
“And what became of her?”
“When on Calvary He was crucified, two women were privileged to stand
close to Him; Mary the sinless, and Mary the penitent: to show how
unsullied and repentant love may walk hand in hand, beside Him who said
that He had ‘come to call not the just, but sinners to repentance.’”
No more was said that night. Miriam, fatigued with her exertion, sank
into a placid slumber. Fabiola sat by her side, filled to her heart’s
brim with this tale of love. She pondered over it again and again; and
she still saw more and more how every part of this wonderful system was
consistent. For if Miriam had been ready to die for her, in imitation of
her Saviour’s love, so had she been as ready to forgive her, when she
had thoughtlessly injured her. Every Christian, she now felt, ought to
be a copy, a representative of his Master; but the one that slumbered so
tranquilly beside her was surely true to her model, and might well
represent Him to her.
When, after some time, Miriam awoke, she found her mistress (for her
patent of freedom was not yet completed) lying at her feet, over which
she had sobbed herself to sleep. She understood at once the full meaning
and merit of this self-humiliation; she did not stir, but thanked God
with a full heart that her sacrifice had been accepted.
Fabiola, on awaking, crept back to her own couch, as she thought,
unobserved. A secret, sharp pang it had cost her to perform this act of
self-abasement; but she had thoroughly humbled the pride of her heart.
She felt for the first time that her heart was Christian.