_MY FIRST DEATH._
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How beautiful was my old home, embowered in trees and perfumed with
flowers! How charming were my lovely sisters, twin-stars of the social
heaven, dropping sweet influence on all who received their tender light!
How peaceful and pure was the self-sacrificing old age of Beltrezzor, over
whose pagan heart, so full of simple love and wisdom, the most orthodox
angels kept kindly watch!
A great sadness rested upon our little household, on account of the recent
murder of John the Baptist by the cruel Herod, at the instigation of a
still more cruel woman. That pure and good man had been cast into prison
about the time that Christ began his ministry, and the morning star paled
on the approach of the blazing Sun. He had ever been remembered with
peculiar tenderness and gratitude; and heaven became dearer to us by
receiving into its fold the gentle hermit of the wilderness.
My sisters had grown lovelier. On Martha’s clear brow the sweet maturity
of thought was imprinted. Mingled with the light of love on Mary’s face
was a touching sadness, of which none but Martha and I suspected the
meaning. These women, so pure, so cultivated, so beautiful, were
abstracted from the entire world. Sought by many lovers, they had
discarded the very thought of love. They were wedded in heart to the
heavenly bridegroom.
They had heard but once from our old friend, the Son of the Desert. A
strange servant, no doubt a disguised robber, brought back the ring with a
note from the wanderer, saying that he was unworthy to wear it; that it
afflicted him with sorrowful dreams and burned into his soul like iron.
Martha herself fortunately met him at the gate, and would not permit him
to depart without an answer, as he was instructed to do. She sent back the
ring with her love and Mary’s to the savior of their brother, with the
solemn assurance that the ring had a great blessing for him concealed
within its curse.
I soon discovered that my sisters had but one idea, one study, one
passion. Their individuality was lost in their perpetual concentration of
soul upon one object. That object was Jesus Christ. They no longer spoke
of him as the prophet of Nazareth. Martha had at last discovered with her
eyes what Mary had seen with her heart. He was the Son of God: He was the
Messiah. With subdued voices and reverent gestures they called him the
Lord.
All this was very strange to me, fresh from beautiful and romantic Greece,
where altars were erected to a thousand gods: fresh from the schools of
philosophy, where the only deity taught was a spiritual essence, infinite,
inconceivable, unfathomable. I listened, however, with interest to the
recital of miracles which were certainly astounding; to parables which
were replete with spiritual wisdom; and to discourses—for my sisters
treasured all his words by heart and repeated them to me—which were
radiant with a certain divine light and beauty.
I was ready to concede that this man must be the greatest philosopher of
the age.
This was the opinion of our good uncle, who, however, took no trouble to
see or hear the worker of such great miracles. He said there was nothing
new under the sun; that all things repeated themselves over and over
again; that all wisdom had been spoken and every miracle performed ages
and ages ago. The Son of God was in his mind synonymous with a disciple of
the Sun.
Beltrezzor was sorry that I did not remain a year at Rome, for he said the
practical atmosphere of that city would have moderated and utilized the
ideality I had drawn from Athens. He was greatly pleased, however, with my
conduct at the supper of Hortensius.
“The man who sees any reason,” he would say, “why Hortensius should be
more wealthy, more powerful, more respected, more glorious than Anthony,
has not incorporated into his soul the first ray of the divine principle
of fire, and is altogether ignorant of the power and beauty of the sun.”
A few weeks after my return, Beltrezzor transferred the whole of my
father’s estate, improved and augmented, into my hands. No reasonings, no
entreaties could induce him to abandon or even to defer his
long-contemplated journey to the extreme East. A strange, sad
home-sickness had apparently seized him; and he waited with a childish
impatience for the arrival of the caravan from Egypt which was to escort
him to Assyria.
It came at length; and our adieus were long and bitter. We were bound to
him not only by a pious gratitude for his rich gifts and his unvarying
kindness, but by a genuine love of his sweet, sincere and noble nature. We
wept at the thought of the dear old man going away into that far-off,
marvelous Orient, without a wife or child to comfort his declining years.
My sisters also seemed overwhelmed with grief, that one so good and so
beloved had rejected to the last, with a quiet, polite incredulity, all
the evidences of the divine mission of Jesus.
The old man’s parting words to me, as he leaned from his camel, whispering
in my ear, were these:
“Beware, my son, of the spirit of fanaticism which has fallen upon your
good sisters. I bequeath you this verse from one of the sacred books in
Persia. It is my last and best gift to you. Do not forget it:—
“‘It is more truly pious to sow the ground with diligence, than to say ten
thousand prayers in idleness.’
“Adieu!”
A few days after my uncle’s departure, we were invited to dine at the
house of a worthy Pharisee, Simon by name, who was touched at heart with a
secret admiration of Jesus. Preoccupied as I was with thoughts of Helena,
and caring nothing about spiritual things, I would not have accompanied my
sisters but at their earnest solicitation. They had been assured that
Jesus would be present, and they were anxious for me to behold the object
of their love and worship.
He came, and saluted us all with a charming grace and sweetness of manner.
His face was handsome, thoughtful and benevolent, but did not strike you
as majestic or sublime. There was a winning sociality in his conversation,
which you did not expect from his serene and rather pensive countenance.
He was quiet and modest in his demeanor; and instead of leading the
thoughts of the company, he spoke less than any one present.
Reflecting, by the light of later and grander experiences, upon the first
impressions made on me by this mysterious man, I am convinced that not
only his face, his expressions, his words, but his whole life was
comparatively a sealed book to the people who saw him in the flesh. They
saw only the outside, the husk, the fleshly, not the heavenly part of him.
They were ignorant of the sublimities, the infinities concealed within.
Whoever sees only the physical and not at the same time the spiritual side
of anything, sees little. The flowers, the gems, the clouds, all beautiful
objects, on the spiritual side are full of sacred mysteries. Ignorant of
these little things, how could the men of that day comprehend the Christ?
What a different banquet from that of Hortensius! A plain room, opening
directly on the street; a plain table; a plain company. At Rome we had a
wild ambition, aspiring to universal empire, and imitating even in its
luxuries all the splendors of heaven and earth. Here were simple tastes,
frugal habits, civic industry, neighborly love. There the presiding genius
was the demon of pride; here it was the Divine Man.
The feast was nearly over, when a woman, closely concealing her face in a
black veil, glided softly into the room and stood behind Jesus. This would
not have attracted special attention, for people were coming in and going
out all the time; but I remembered Mary’s account of the mysterious woman
who always followed Jesus and his disciples at a distance. I therefore
watched the movements of this person with considerable interest.
She bent low over the feet of Jesus as he reclined on his couch, and I
observed that she was weeping. She seemed deeply agitated. Suddenly she
let down the great mass of dark brown hair from her head, and began wiping
the feet of the Lord. Washing his feet with her tears and wiping them with
the hair of her head! What touching humility! What contrition!
Then she anointed his feet with a precious ointment which she drew from
her bosom.
My thoughts were concentrated on that kneeling figure. I entered so deeply
into what I imagined to be her feelings and sorrows, I was so attracted by
what must have been a secret spiritual affinity with her own soul, that I
heard almost nothing of the conversation which ensued between Jesus and
Simon, and which is recorded by the apostle Luke who was himself present.
When the divine voice pronounced the verdict, “Thy sins are forgiven;” a
strange and bewildering sense of delight came over me, as if I myself had
been the sinner who sought and found the pardon of sin. I was
contemplating in amazement this reverberation, as it were, of the woman’s
sentiments in my own spirit, when Jesus said, “Thy faith hath saved thee:
go in peace;” and the woman turned slowly around and walked sobbing out of
the door.
Scarcely knowing what I did, I quietly withdrew from my place at the table
and followed her. Suddenly, in some ecstasy of religious feeling, she
threw her arms wildly toward the sky, the veil was lifted for a moment,
and I recognized the beautiful, sorrowing and purified features of Mary
Magdalen!
The spell which overpowered me was instantly withdrawn, and I returned to
my seat. No psychology I had ever been taught, threw any light on this
singular phenomenon; and it remained a mystery until solved by that
special light of the spiritual world which I alone of all men have
enjoyed.
After that the mysterious preacher and miracle-worker was a frequent
visitor at our house in Bethany. I came no nearer to him than at first: I
understood him no better. He was a good, wise, wonderful man; beyond that
I could not penetrate. I became intimate with all his disciples; and I
loved to dispute with them on theological subjects, and to puzzle their
uncultivated brains with my philosophical doubts and quibbles. But in the
presence of their master I had nothing to say. I stood abashed and
silenced by some secret power which I could not explain. I never thought,
however, of acknowledging him as the Messiah, or the Son of God.
The reason was, that my heart and mind were too closely riveted to nature
and the things of sense, to rise to the conception and love of spiritual
things.
While the faces of my sisters were growing more and more radiant and
serene from the spiritual life which was deepening in their souls, mine
became pale and haggard from the burden of concealed longings and the
vigils of a burning but unfed hope. I had written and rewritten to Helena,
but received no answer. I would have returned to Athens; but the fear of
leaving my tender and helpless sisters so near to such a subtle enemy as
Magistus, and Beltrezzor away off in Persia, detained me unwillingly at
Bethany.
Absence extinguishes a feeble love; but intensifies a great one. I brooded
in solitude. I took interest in nothing. Conversation was irksome.
Religion and philosophy were alike neglected. I experienced that apathy
which a great desolation of heart produces, and which men attribute to
moroseness or stupidity. I was feeding with the intense hunger of love
upon my treasured memories of Helena; devouring every word she had spoken,
every look, every tone, every changing form, every shifting light of her
miraculous beauty.
My love for Helena, for reasons which I did not then comprehend, was not
of a soothing, ennobling, purifying type. It was a disquieting,
paralyzing, corroding passion. The sphere of this woman, wholly incapable
of the heavenly duties of wife and mother, did not lead me, encouraged and
strengthened, into the sweet and useful activities of life. Like an evil
spirit rather, it drove me into the wilderness; tempted me with stones
which were not bread; and haunted me with wild dreams and insane
ambitions.
Thus many weeks passed away, and the fever of my soul had so worn and
wasted me that my sisters became seriously alarmed at my condition, not
knowing the cause; for I had never divulged my pagan goddess to these
pious little ones.
One day I was suddenly lifted out of the cavern of despair into the
serenest sunlight of hope. I received a message from Helena that she was
traveling with her father to the most noted places in Asia, and would
spend a few days in Jerusalem; that she was the guest of Alastor, a
wealthy Greek merchant of the city, and that her visit would be devoid of
genuine pleasure unless she could see once more her esteemed friend, who
had saved the life of her brother.
Now occurred a most curious mental phenomenon. The sudden reaction of joy
in the feeble and excited state of my nervous system, overpowered my
brain. I became the victim of an absurd, grotesque illusion. I leaped at
once from the abyss of self-abasement to the maddest height of
presumption. I transferred my entire experiences of heart and mind to
Helena. She, I imagined, was pining with unconquerable passion for me. She
was wasted and worn by unrevealed, unrequited love. She had suffered and
faded in silence until longer concealment was death. Her father had
brought her under cover of travel really to meet me again, to draw me once
more to her feet, to obtain my confessions, and to receive new hope and
life from my words. I was filled with an unspeakable tenderness, with a
generous compassion. I would fly to her; I would console her; I would make
her life and happiness secure by giving her my own.
Busied with these mad fancies, and muttering them to myself as I went
along, I hurried to the house of Alastor. Ushered into the presence of
Helena, I was surprised and abashed by the serene and smiling expression
of her countenance, and her splendid physique, upon which neither time nor
love had yet written the faintest trace of ravage. She received me without
the least embarrassment in the gay and sparkling manner of a cold and
polished queen of society. I saw in a moment that I was not loved, that
she had never thought of me, that my hopes were dreams, my passion a
madness. I read my doom in the charming suavity of my reception.
Disappointed, chilled, bewildered, heartsick, miserable, I maintained a
broken conversation for a little while, until Helena, perceiving with her
woman’s wit, something, and perhaps all of my secret, broke off the
interview.
“You are sick,” said she tenderly, “you are feverish, you are in pain. You
should not have come until to-morrow.”
“Go home now,” she continued, taking my hand kindly in hers, “go home and
be cared for. When you get better you must come again, and we will talk of
Athens and art, of poetry and love; and of all the beautiful things that
ravish the hearts of men and women.”
I do not remember what I said, or how I parted from her. On the portico I
met a man going in, whose presence sent a strange shudder through my
frame. My diseased nerves were very sensitive. He was a person of handsome
face, imposing appearance and gracious address. He began speaking to me,
but suddenly stopped and fixed his great, black, lustrous eyes fiercely on
me. My first impulse was to resent this conduct as an insult; but I
quickly perceived that my mind was becoming confused, bewildered,
fascinated by his gaze, and I averted my face with a great effort and
hurried down the steps.
I did not dare to look back. At the foot of the stairs I ran heedlessly
against our old relative and enemy, Magistus, whom I had not seen since my
return from Rome. Seizing him by the shoulders I gasped,
“Who is this man on the portico?”
“Simon Magus,” said he, with a coarse laugh,—“Simon Magus, the prince of
Egyptian magic, and he has evidently cast the evil eye upon you. Woe to
you!”
I fled precipitately through the streets. When I reached home I was in a
burning fever. At night I was in a raging delirium. It was a brain fever
of malignant type. My mad and grotesque illusion about Helena was really
the beginning of my illness. Days and nights of alternate excitement and
stupor passed away; days and nights of physical torture and mental
suffering. My sweet sisters watched and wept and prayed by my side.
Horrible fantasies besieged my fevered imagination. I thought that Mary
was under the magician’s knife, and that he would accept no substitute for
her bleeding heart but that of Helena. I opened my eyes and started with
horror; for Mary was seated by my side, with the heart, as I supposed,
torn out of her bosom. Then again, Hortensius was cutting up the beautiful
body of Helena for his fish-ponds, while the Egyptian held me fascinated
by his terrible eye, so that I could not stir for her help.
I grew worse and the end approached. I had not realized my condition: I
had neither fear nor hope: I had no thought of death or of Jesus. At last,
however, when I was dying, I heard my sisters calling frantically on his
name. The name must have touched some silver chord of memory. The sweet,
benevolent face appeared before me, Mary Magdalen in her dark robe
kneeling behind. The tender words, “Thy sins are forgiven,” echoed in my
ears. Mary and Martha seemed to me like two shining angels floating up
into heaven. A sudden halo blazed around the head of Jesus. I reached out
my arms to him with wonder and delight, fell back and expired with a smile
upon my lips.
Yes! I was dead: and, wonder of wonders! I live again, to describe my
sensations, and to inform my fellow-men what I saw and heard behind the
veil which separates the two worlds—that veil which is so thin and yet
seems so impenetrable.
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