_THE BANQUET._
[Illustration: Initial]
I am too deeply impressed with the vanity of our worldly affairs in
comparison with the verities of the spiritual life, to employ my own time
or engage a reader’s attention with a biography, however pleasing or
romantic, unless there was a subtle connecting link, which I expect to
reveal, between the facts narrated and those eternal truths which
overshadow all others in importance.
I, alone of all mankind, have lived consciously in both worlds long enough
to discover their relations to each other. What my fellow-men have seen
only on the surface, I have examined interiorly. I have seen the secret
springs of human pride, ambition, passion and folly. I have seen the souls
of men as they appear in the sight of angels. And my instructions in that
world were all based upon my experiences in this.
It is now necessary to drop for a while my personal narrative, and to go
back and relate, from the evidence of others, what happened in Bethany
during my absence.
My sisters had been left with our atrocious uncle, like two lambs under
the guardianship of a wolf. One capable of assassinating his nephew, a
mere youth, would not hesitate at any wickedness against his beautiful
nieces. This man’s character was so cruel and wicked, that some
explanation is needed of the singular maturity of diabolism to which he
had attained.
Magistus had neither religion nor honor. Honor binds us in duty to our
neighbor, as religion binds us both to God and the neighbor. It is a moon
which shines brilliantly in the absence of the sun. The light of honor is
also but the reflected light of religion. When both shine together, honor
is absorbed and swallowed up in the more effulgent blaze of religion. The
soul without religion or honor, is like the earth without sun or
moon—cold, dark, desolate, hideous.
Such was the soul of Magistus.
Irreligion, like drunkenness, is sometimes inherited. The father of
Magistus was a scoffer and sensualist. Fatal incubus of moral deformity
descending from father to son! In this he was typical of the age. The
hereditary pressure toward hell was so great, that a few more centuries of
transmission would have brought the world into perfect sympathy with the
lower regions. The advent of the Lord arrested that for a while.
Without religion or honor man is very close to hell. The veriest barbarian
has some faint idea of natural religion, and some feeble impulse of
natural honor, which distinguish him from the beasts and unite him to his
kind. These are barriers against the influx of infernal life. He is
ignorant of the devils within him, and the devils within him are ignorant
of him. Wise and blessed provision! Were he brought into conscious rapport
with his own attendant evil spirits, he would soon be one with them. Their
life in hell and his life on earth would be animated by the same breath.
This had happened to Magistus.
Not that he was a barbarian. He was an educated, cultivated man,
accustomed to the luxuries and full of the suavities of civilized life.
Civilization and religion are not synonymous. Hell itself has a stupendous
civilization. Magistus was a Pharisee by profession: a ritualist, and a
strict observer of feast-days and ordinances and ceremonies. That,
however, was not the man, but only his outer garment—his cloak. Supposed
by the world to be virtuous and honest, this wealthy and reputable
Pharisee was spiritually a whited sepulchre, full of dead men’s bones and
all uncleanness.
He was a spiritualist, a sorcerer, a necromancer, a magician. He at first
sought and became familiar with these people, with their studies and arts,
from natural curiosity. It was very pleasant to call up his dead father
and various dead friends, and converse with them. It was agreeable to know
that they were all happy, and advancing in various degrees toward the
infinite divine perfection. They showed him wonderful things. They
performed miracles in his sight greater than those which the magicians of
Egypt performed before Pharaoh.
Then they told him that the Jewish Scriptures were not divinely inspired,
but a medley of fables, passable poetry and childish philosophy. He had
already suspected this; and he congratulated the spirits on possessing a
critical genius so similar to his own. He finally acquired, from these
supernatural instructors, a grand system of philosophy, revealing the
divinity of nature and the laws of progress.
Having become convinced that there are great and subtile powers emanating
from the spiritual world, unknown to most men, he determined to avail
himself of those powers for his own private ends. He became a secret pupil
and disciple of magicians and wizards. He communicated with spirits and
permitted them to take possession of him, soul and body, so that they
spoke through his mouth and wrote through his hand and came at his call.
He learned all the tricks and spells of legerdemain, the arts and formulas
and incantations of magic, and the rites and ceremonies of the black art
in its broadest sense. He obtained means of seeing objects at any
distance, of producing hallucinations or optical illusions, of personating
the dead, of finding hidden treasures, of reading men’s thoughts, of
sowing enmity between friends, of discovering secrets, and a thousand
other astounding and almost incredible things.
The soul is not destroyed in a moment: it is the work of years. The evil
spirits and demons with whom he was thus brought into contact, slowly
poisoned the fountain-head of character; extinguished his reverence, his
modesty, his respect for marriage; undermined his conscience; swept away
all religious and even social and civil scruples; and fired and sustained
all his evil propensities; so that, externally a faithful disciple of
Moses, he was interiorly a devil, governed only by the love of self and
the world.
This formidable hypocrite, the most of whose wealth had been obtained by
secret frauds, and was not unstained with blood, had his dwelling in the
centre of an immense area surrounded by lofty walls and concealed by a
dense grove of trees. He received no visitors but those who came to him at
night, and for no good purpose. He had the character of a recluse, devoted
to sacrifice and prayer. He thus indulged his secret vices and carried on
his diabolical incantations unsuspected. The dark shadows of his princely
mansion enveloped a degree of Assyrian luxury scarcely exceeded by the
Caprean court of the emperor Tiberius.
Caiaphas, the priest, was his best friend, who shared his private
pleasures and maintained by constant applause his public reputation for
sanctity and honor.
The influence of evil spirits who possess us is at first gentle and
subtile, coinciding with our own inclination. Thinking to lead, we are
led. When a man is chained so that he can no longer resist, they urge him
headlong to a crisis. They fire his evil passions; they blind his
perverted intellect; they inflate his pride and self-conceit; they make
him scornful and regardless of others, impatient of all barriers to his
self-gratification, and assure him of boundless immunity and protection.
In this state of horrible fantasy and inflamed passion, he is ready to
trample upon all laws human and divine.
To this fearful point in his spiritual life had Magistus arrived.
When my father was driven into the wilderness, Caiaphas and my uncle
plotted together how to get speedy and sole possession of his great
wealth. To get rid of or destroy his children was the first, and, indeed,
the only thing necessary. But they resolved to allow some months to
elapse—to let our misfortunes die out from the public memory, and even
ourselves be quite forgotten. Hence the seclusion, the solitude, the
systematic neglect to which we were subjected.
The plan was finally matured. The boy was to be decoyed into the
wilderness and murdered by Barabbas. It was to be given out that he was a
wild, incorrigible lad, who had run away from home and joined a band of
robbers. After a few months a letter was to be received from Barabbas,
whose fame as an outlaw was widespread, giving the particulars of his
death in an attack of the party upon some caravan. This was to settle the
matter for ever in the public mind.
It was more difficult to dispose of my sisters than of myself. A hundred
schemes were suggested by the inventive villains, but all rejected or
suspended. It was finally agreed to draw them out and test their
characters, to make experiments upon them, to see what could be done with
them. It was a delicate task; but Magistus had boldness and cruelty for
anything, and Caiaphas was to back him incessantly with his private
counsel and his public support. He had already begun his insidious work,
by lamenting to sundry influential persons, with sanctimonious regrets,
that the daughters of his old and dear friend exhibited so early a
singular perverseness of character and disregard of their social and
religious obligations. The result, he added, of that laxity of discipline
and passion for individual liberty, which characterized the unhappy leper.
The first and best instrument of evil is always a woman. Mary Magdalen,
left an orphan without relatives at a very early age, had fallen into the
hands of a strolling showman, who taught her to sing and dance,
accompanying herself on the timbrel. Her extraordinary beauty attracted
attention in the streets of Jerusalem, and she soon passed into the
possession of one of those connoisseurs who study the anatomy as well as
the philosophy of art. She quickly disappeared from sight; and it was
rumored that she had been sent to Ashkelon to serve in the gorgeous temple
of Ashtoreth, the Venus of Assyria. She had gone one dark night no further
than Bethany, and had buried her talents and her shame in the princely
mansion of Magistus.
On the morning of my departure this serpent was introduced into the
dove-cote. Magistus represented her as a distant relative whom he had
invited to spend several weeks with his nieces, hoping that her gayety of
spirits would lighten the constant gloom of his little charges. The
children, dazzled by her great beauty and won by her free and affectionate
manner, were delighted with their new companion. She entertained them with
curious stories of what she had seen and heard, refraining from any
allusion which might reveal her true life and character.
But the plot of the two arch-demons did not work as they had calculated.
Indeed, it worked in a way quite opposite to their expectations. They had
counted on the corrupting influence of a bold, fascinating woman on the
gentle and unsophisticated thoughts and feelings of innocent girls. They
had not counted, cunning and sagacious as they were, on the possible
influence of the girls upon Mary Magdalen.
That influence was astonishing. When she felt the pure and innocent sphere
which surrounded the lovely sisters, a change came over the subtle
emissary of Magistus. She forgot the instructions of her masters. The
memories of her old life seemed to die out, and the unseen angels of her
better nature to wake into strange activity. Young herself, more sinned
against than sinning, her pity was awakened for these young creatures
against whom such wicked ones were conspiring.
She made them tell her all about their poor father, and wept with them at
the story. She took them into the garden and played over the green knolls,
and ran in the graveled walks, and gathered flowers, and sang little
childish songs, as if she were a child again. She asked a thousand
questions about our mother and little Samuel, and about the babyish
sayings and doings of my little sisters and myself. She frequently
exclaimed “Oh, I am so happy! This is the happiest day of my life! Oh that
I could live for ever so!”
Pausing before the tomb of my mother, and looking at a little vase of
fresh flowers which stood before it, she suddenly fell upon her knees,
exclaiming wildly:
“O God! if I could have offered flowers, also, at the tomb of a mother, it
might have been different!”
She burst into a flood of tears; and the sisters endeavored to console
her—not knowing the true nature of her wound—by kissing her cheeks and
mingling their tears with hers.
They were interrupted in these sweet offices of mutual sympathy, by the
voice of a servant asking Mary Magdalen if she had forgotten that she had
to prepare herself and her companions for the grand supper at the house of
Magistus.
She arose from the ground, and slowly recovering her composure, led the
astonished children through the gate in the garden wall toward the house
of our uncle. On the way she told them that Magistus had prepared a
handsome entertainment for herself and them, and as a charming surprise to
their brother, who was expected to return with good news from the father
just about the hour of the feast. They need not be frightened, for
Caiaphas alone was to be present.
We had never entered any portion of our uncle’s great mansion except the
small wing which contained the reception-room and the long passage which
led to the private chamber of our invalid aunt. The three women now passed
up a flight of marble steps into a portico leading into a vast hall,
ornamented with statues and with vases filled with flowers. Hurrying
through this hall, Mary lead them up another flight of stairs which had a
gilded balustrade, into two exquisite bed-chambers which opened into each
other.
The bedsteads were of carved ivory, exceedingly beautiful; the canopies,
of blue silk fringed with gold; the coverlets, of fine linen and purple,
curiously embroidered. The divans, the couches, the chairs, the tables,
were all gems of graceful art. The floor was of polished cedar, with
gilded moulding around the wall. The ceiling was a splendid stucco-work on
which scenes were painted in brilliant colors; in one room, Actæon peeping
from behind the trees at Diana and her nymphs in their crystal bath; and
in the other, Venus beating her breast and tearing her hair at sight of
the blood-stained thigh of Adonis.
The whole atmosphere was freighted with the most delicious and
exhilarating perfumes. There were chests of drawers full of the richest
female clothing, the fruit of the rarest material and the finest
needlework. There were caskets lying open and revealing ear-rings and
necklaces and bracelets of the most dazzling beauty. The sisters were
overwhelmed with wonder and delight. They had never seen such things
before; for our father, rich as he was, was plain, frugal and
unostentatious in his tastes and habits.
“These are all ours,” said Mary Magdalen, “the gifts of our good uncle who
delights to make us happy. Come, let us dress for the supper.”
Domestics came at her call, and the ladies were attired in robes of the
greatest magnificence. Their hair was dressed in the most graceful manner,
sparkling with alternate flowers and gems. “All this is for Lazarus,” said
the sisters to each other, as they followed Mary Magdalen, blushing at
themselves, down into the supper-room in a deep basement almost under
ground.
The supper-room was as gorgeously furnished as the bed-chambers. The table
was placed on a raised platform at one end of the room, leaving a great
space for which our bewildered visitors could not imagine the use. The
ceiling had a splendid painting of Aurora driving the chariot of the sun,
attended by the Muses and the flying Hours. The walls were adorned with
solid upright mirrors of polished brass. In every niche and corner was
some exquisite marble, some nude figure from the Grecian mythology; the
most beautiful of which was Leda caressing the swan, concealing within its
white form the passionate soul of Jove.
Caiaphas and Magistus reclined upon silken couches at a table which was
loaded with savory viands and vessels of gold and silver containing
delicious wines, and ornamented with brilliant vases of fruits and
flowers. The scene was lighted by hundreds of wax candles of as many
colors as the rainbow.
As soon as the women were handed to their places at the table, Martha
exclaimed:
“And why could not poor aunt Ulema be brought down to enjoy this charming
feast?”
And Mary added:
“And Lazarus, where is he?”
Ulema and Lazarus were the last persons in the world whom the host would
have invited to his banquet. He paid no attention to Martha’s question. To
Mary’s he replied by drawing a parchment from his bosom.
“Listen!” said he; “a letter from Lazarus!”
The faces of the young girls grew anxious.
“DEAR UNCLE:
“Excuse me for spending the night with my father. He is better, happy and
well provided. But I have many things to say to him, and my visit has
given him so much pleasure. I know I must submit on my return to the law
of purification, which will separate me many days from my sweet sisters.
Take them to your own house and make them happy. I will return to-morrow.
“Your loving nephew,
“LAZARUS.”
Magistus looked up: the sisters were weeping.
“I was half angry at first,” he said, “at this strange disobedience. On
reflection, I am satisfied. It confers immense happiness on both father
and son; and their consultations may be of great service to you all. And,
besides, it gives me such a good opportunity to become better acquainted
with my charming nieces.”
He passed the manuscript to my sisters, who inspected it closely. It was
my handwriting without doubt. The reader need not be told that it was a
base forgery; for at that very moment my poor father was ill in the cave
of John the Baptist, and I was bound in expectation of death on the shore
of the Salt Sea.
My sisters appeared to resume their composure and the feast proceeded,
although they partook very lightly of its delicacies. Musicians came in,
and the harp, the timbrel, the flute, the cymbals, the drum, and the
silver bugle enlivened the entertainment. Caiaphas and Magistus grew warm
and witty and convivial over their wine, which they pressed in vain upon
the timid girls. Even Mary Magdalen merely sipped it in deference to both
parties.
What a delicate thermometer is the heart of a young girl! Without
thinking, how innocent! Without reasoning, how wise! A thoughtful shadow
crept over Martha’s face. Mary sank into a deep reverie, from which the
playful sallies of the rest could not arouse her. These young girls were
thinking, and their thoughts ran in the same channel.
The sudden change of Magistus from indifference to suavity; this gorgeous
and secluded feast; Lazarus and his father away off in the wilderness;
their poor aunt shut up in her sick chamber; this strange woman who wept
so bitterly in the garden: these pagan pictures and statues so revolting
to their chaste religious instincts: the lights; the music; the noisy
laughter of these usually sedate men; all these things overwhelmed them
with sudden apprehensions and vague terror. Each divined the feelings of
the other by some secret sympathy; and bursting into tears at the same
moment, they both rose from their seats.
“Stay!” exclaimed Magistus, nourishing his wine-cup and maddened by its
contents—“Stay! you lose the cream and essence of the feast. I will show
you now how the dancing-girls of Babylon intoxicate the king of Assyria.”
At these words they fled from the room.
“Follow them,” said Caiaphas to Mary Magdalen, “and quiet their
apprehensions.”
“Put your babies to bed,” roared Magistus, “and come back yourself.”
I will not describe the new parties who were introduced to the feast, nor
how it degenerated into a revel, and the revel into an orgy. Mary Magdalen
did not return to the supper-room; and long after midnight the drunken
master of the house was borne off to a sleep from which he ought never to
have awakened, and to dreams of conquests which he never achieved.
The shadow of other spheres more powerful than his own, was already
approaching to thwart his plans and change his destiny!
An hour after all was quiet, a strange sound was made at the back gate in
the wall nearest the lodging-rooms of the domestics of the establishment.
It was a double sound; the first part of it being a loud and peculiar
whistle, the last part a powerful and startling hiss or rattle. The first
sound seemed to summon some one to appear; the second, to threaten him if
he did not obey. The first was a call; the second a menace.
There was one person on the premises, and only one, who knew the full
meaning of that strange summons. He trembled on his couch when he heard
it. Great drops of sweat came out on his forehead as he listened. He
strove to rise as if to obey it, but fell back as if paralyzed with fear.
The call was twice repeated with a weird ferocity in its tone; and the
black eunuch, Ethopus, staggered from his chamber and groped his way into
the open air and to the gate. He opened it softly with a private key, and
stepped into the street. Do not men, like moths, fly sometimes stupidly
into the candle of danger?
A remarkable vehicle, drawn by two great black horses and driven by a
hideous black servant, stood in the street. It was showily gilded, and had
several little doors and windows in it. It resembled the chariots on which
mountebanks and jugglers perambulated the country, but was of larger size
and more tastefully constructed.
Ethopus paid no attention to this equipage. Right before him stood an
object capable of inspiring him with the deepest horror. It was a tall
figure with a huge yellow serpent coiled about his neck and body, and a
leopard standing quietly at his side. The leopard growled and the serpent
hissed as the black man approached their master.
“Be quiet, Moloch!” he said to the leopard. “Hush, Beelzebub,” he
whispered to the snake. “This is a friend and fellow-servant.”
The poor black prostrated himself in the dust before this mysterious
night-visitor and his bestial attendants. He signified his total
submission by raising the man’s foot and placing it on his head as he
groveled on the ground. When he released it, he kissed it with the most
abject servility. His abasement was extreme.
“That is right, Ethopus!” said his master, “that is right. I rejoice to
find you in such a becoming frame of mind. Conduct me promptly to the
secret chamber of magic. Then return to my servant and give him suitable
accommodations. Inform Magistus of my arrival early in the morning. I have
come on a grand errand to this village of Bethany.”
Ethopus obeyed these orders without noise. All was at length silent.
Perhaps all slept: the drunken proprietor, the wicked priest, the
remorseful Magdalen, the frightened eunuch, the strange guest, and Mary
and Martha locked in each other’s arms, their beautiful faces bathed in
tears, and their sweet souls dreaming that their angel-mother was watching
them from heaven.
[Illustration: Ornament]
[Illustration: Ornament]