the Serapeum, looked and muttered discontent. “It is too bad. Talk of
fairness and honor in connection with such a desperado as Draco! Depend
upon it there is some wickedness in the wind. When such a fellow comes to
the front the gods retire.”
And he _was_ a formidable figure to look at, as he presented himself in
the arena. A man of unusual stature and weight, with prodigious muscular
development about the arms and chest, but without obesity and with every
appearance of activity as well as of strength. His face was the worst
part of him—shaggy, coarse, hard, cruel, with protuberant blood-shot
eyes out of which looked all the passions save fear and pity—the whole
made more repulsive by a large swelling on one cheek which Aleph well
understood.
To this forbidding figure Aleph walked down (followed at a little
distance by Cornelius and Metellus) and stood before him with folded arms
and investigating eyes.
Draco proceeded to pass his hands across the shoulders and chest of the
young man; felt of his arms; took their length; inspected his hands;
stood off a little distance to observe the limbs and general build.
“Very well to begin upon. I think I could make something of you. Not
quite enough like Mars, however.” Then, taking the attitude of a boxer,
he said, “Now deliver some blows at me with your open hand.”
Aleph made certain strokes which were more remarkable for the freedom and
grace with which they were delivered than for anything else, and which
Draco found no difficulty in parrying. None of them were aimed at the
face; but once the low stroke was so struck up by Draco in the parrying
that the hand touched the swollen cheek. Draco’s eyes flashed.
In this preliminary bout it became evident to Aleph, from the force and
direction of the parrying, that Draco was aiming to disable as well as to
parry. His wards were strokes—his defense an attack.
“Now take your turn at parry,” said Draco with a subtle menace lurking in
both eye and voice.
Aleph saw that the time had come when he would need all his watchfulness.
He erected himself to a fuller stature. His feet and limbs set themselves
into new firmness. His eye took on new openness and intensity without
losing anything of its characteristic repose. He had hardly made this
instinctive preparation before the blows began to come—at first with some
show of tentativeness and moderation, but, as they were warded off, they
returned with ever increasing heat and force, and gradually came to be
aimed exclusively at the head. Now it was the mouth, now the eye, now
the temple. He seemed bent on at least marring the manly beauty before
him, and which contrasted so strangely with his own coarse and brutal
features. Gradually the open palm became the knotted fist. Gradually the
knotted fist came as fast and fiercely as the whole passionate force of
the man could wield it.
Through the whole of this impetuous hail storm, Aleph kept strictly on
the defensive. His whole work was parrying. Was not this in the bond?
Of course his hands were full of occupation—his feet also when Draco
began to shift positions and at length attacked him on whatever side and
from whatever direction he could. Aleph hardly had time to wonder at the
headlong ferocity of the storm that was discharging itself upon him.
“_Stop!_” cried Cornelius. “This is fighting, not examining. _Stop!_ I
say—this is intolerable.”
But Draco paid no attention. The glare of a tiger was in his eyes. His
face was that of a fiend.
“Shall I quit the defensive?” inquired Aleph in a low voice to Cornelius
and Metellus—as he gained a moment’s respite by a spring to one side.
“Do so!” they both exclaimed. “He means to kill you.”
Then was a sight worth seeing. Then the youth fairly awoke. Then his
whole frame began to work with the supreme grace and force of some
mighty machine. It was Apollo turned to Mars, or rather to Jupiter Tonans
himself—so wonderfully sovereign and commanding became his aspect. And
perhaps the most impressive thing about it was the mysterious repose and
utter self-possession that sat on thrones in every feature.
Compared with his movements now, all his former ones were mere pastime.
It was sublime to see such a face, such a figure, such a blending of all
the poetries of expression and motion. He still parried, but every parry
was followed by a blow delivered. Swifter and stronger flew that young
hand. He, too, could be swift and mighty—he, too, could press, now on
this side and now on that, and again, seemingly, on all sides at once.
And yet his breathing was unhurried—there seemed in him endless reserves
of strength and battle.
“Immortal gods! how he handles himself,” exclaimed young men as they
stood on their benches and watched breathlessly.
Almost as soon as the defensive became the aggressive, a severe
stroke on his swollen cheek warned Draco that he must begin to look
to self-preservation. He could no longer give his whole attention to
assault. He became vividly sensible of the great change that had taken
place in the aspect and bearing of his antagonist. He saw how cool and
collected he was—how perfectly master of himself. The sight angered him,
made him furious. He would have given his life for one fair demolishing
stroke on the young man on whom as yet he had not been able to fasten
a single bruise. But scant time had he now for even such flashes of
thinking. He had all he could do to ward off the blows that came so
mightily and swiftly, and yet with a certain deliberate terribleness
and ease that seemed to say that such could be delivered forever. Soon
another blow passed his ward and reached the cheek hitherto untouched.
But it was with the palm of the hand. Was Aleph affecting to be
forbearing and merciful to him who had never given mercy nor needed it?
Was he, like some perverse boy, being cuffed into good behavior? The
thought was intolerable. That a youngster of a score of summers should be
sparing him—conquering him with even something less than his utmost, was
agony. And yet that was what everybody could now see was bound to happen.
It was plain to see that Draco was waning and that Aleph was waxing.
The sweat was dropping freely from the face of the one; the brow of the
other was not perceptibly moist. Spectators could see that the young man
often voluntarily neglected advantages that the passion and precipitation
of his adversary gave him, and was seeking to close the contest with as
little damage and mortification to him as possible. After one of these
plain forbearances he said to Draco in a low voice:
“Need this go on? Say that you are satisfied with the examination and we
will stop just here. You have for some time been in my power.”
For answer the infuriated man leaped at him with the expression of a
fiend, and tried to throw his arms about him and bear him to the ground.
So sudden and violent was the movement that Aleph eluded it with some
difficulty; but he did it, and, in passing, dealt the ill-balanced man a
blow that felled him to the ground. He lay motionless.
“He is not injured—only stunned,” said Aleph to Cornelius and Metellus
as they came up. They looked at the speaker and wondered. Not a blow
appeared to have reached him. There was no visible disarrangement of
his dress even. The flowers at his girdle were still in place. And the
supremely cool and masterful look that had presided through the whole
contest was still sitting in full glory on its throne.
The issue had been anticipated by the students for some time; but their
breathless interest in watching the conflict had kept them from any
general vocal expression. But now there was _such_ an uproar—such a
waving of canes and caps, such stamping and clapping and lung-rending
huzzaing as a thousand frenzied young men could make, and such as the old
Serapeum had not known for many a day, if ever. Did Seti make any effort
to suppress or moderate? Not he. Some even go so far as to say that he
was seen unconsciously keeping time to the uproar with his foot. Others
say (and I am disposed to think they are right) that he sat as motionless
as the statue of Memnon, sat as if in a dream, till the tumult had
somewhat subsided. Then he held up his hand. Silence at once reigned.
“Young men of the Museum! I cannot think that any considerable number of
you have been knowingly concerned in this conspiracy. Were it otherwise
it would be to the eternal disgrace of the University, and especially
of your part of it. I prefer to think, and _do_ think, that you have
been victims. You could not have supposed that it was intended to assail
the very life of a young man under pretense of testing his athletic
accomplishments. You have been misled and deceived by somebody. I leave
you to find out who inspired and contrived this whole thing. It is
necessary for your good name. And I shall not wonder if you decline
henceforth to have anything to do with these two professional trainers
who have allowed themselves to be used for murderous purposes.
“Perhaps some, if not all, of you have thought it strange that I did not
interfere to break off this contest when its true character became plain.
I was on the point of doing so several times: but as I looked at the
young man I seemed to see in his whole bearing such abundant promise of
a successful issue that I felt it would be a wrong to all of you young
men to keep from you an inspiring example, and a wrong to him to keep him
from the honor to which he is so justly entitled.”
“The venerable Seti is right,” cried Metellus. “We of the Museum are no
better than we should be; but we are not sunk so low as to take part in a
plot against the life or limb of a stranger who has done us no harm—much
less against a member of our own University. We have been imposed upon.
We supposed that nothing but a reasonable and safe testing was intended:
we even supposed that less danger would attend it under our trainers than
would naturally belong to an emulative contest between students.
“It would be a farce for me,” he continued, “to ask the Museum to vote
as to whether the examination of the candidate has been satisfactory.
There is not one of us but would throw his cap to the moon in token of
approval. Of course we adopt the hero into the Museum by a thunder of
silent acclamation. We have seen something to-day to tell to the old
folks at home—something to tell to our children,” he added smiling. And
then with a graver face and a graver tone he went on, “And somehow
I feel as if I should go away from this place a truer and worthier
man for what we have seen to-day. I had heard of magnanimity before;
to-day I have seen it. And I like it. Heroism is good, but heroism with
righteousness is better. I see that it is possible to come down on a
great deed, which is even better than rising to meet it.
“But though the Museum does not need to vote approval of Aleph the
Chaldean (what a ridiculous thing it would be!), I think we owe it to
ourselves to act on the suggestion of the venerable Seti; to express
formally our condemnation of these villains (the one lying here where he
ought to lie, and the other standing yonder dangling a whip which ought
to make many a weal across his own back) and their prompters, whoever
they may be. Have we any further need of the services of trainers who are
themselves trained by the infernals? I think not. Those agreeing with me
will stretch out their hands.”
As far as Metellus could see, every right hand was lifted.
What congratulations were showered on Aleph, how cordial and admiring
both Serapeum and Museum seemed, how profuse the latter were in their
disclaimers and apologies and promises to unearth the whole plot, and how
modestly Aleph carried himself under it all, I will not attempt to set
down in detail.
“Come with me,” said Seti to our friends, as the students broke up, “and
I will show you your new quarters.” On the way they told him of their
arrangement to meet Malus at the khan in the evening, but promised to
return immediately after to the Serapeum. At the door of their apartments
a servant met them and said to the priest that his granddaughter was in
her sedan at the gate and wished to see him. Would he come at once? She
was looking very pale and ill. Seti at once threw open the door, bade
them enter and be at home, and hastened after the servant.
He did not appear again that day. Very likely he went home with Rachel.
And very likely Aleph would have followed in the course of the afternoon,
had not Cimon happened to mention that he overheard a student saying
that news had just come that the emperor had asked the daughter of the
Alabarch in marriage for his nephew and heir Germanicus, and that the
visit of the Alabarch to Rome had reference to this overture. “Perhaps,”
added Cimon, “this is what has disturbed her.”
“She would never marry a pagan,” said Aleph decidedly.
“Perhaps Germanicus is such a pagan as her grandfather,” returned Cimon.
“He is said to be a very promising young man, and the son of excellent
parents; and no doubt the Jewish elders will be greatly in favor of an
alliance that promises to secure and advance their interests so greatly.
They will remember Queen Esther.”
Aleph made no answer—unless the silent one of drawing out the knot of
flowers from his girdle and setting them carefully with water in a vase
which he had discovered in the room. But _was_ this an answer? If so,
it certainly was not a very clear one. Did it say _No_ to Cimon? Did it
say that his suggestions were not as weighty as they might be? Did it
merely say that the rare and lovely flowers were worth preserving for a
day or two on their own account—whether they came from a future empress
of Rome or not? Or did the _heart_ of the young man really speak in
the act without consulting his judgment—as hearts sometimes do? I am at
a loss. Such Delphic conduct is very embarrassing. Why will people put
interpreters to so much trouble? If I had been Aleph I would have—but no
matter what I would have done. What does the public care?
XI.
THE TREMBLING.
Κρεισσον δε νοσειν η θεραπευειν.
—EURIPIDES, _Hipp._ 177.
_Better to be sick than to act the part of a nurse._
1. How could you!
2. Lazarus, come forth!
3. Empress of the West?
4. Sympathetic advice.
XI.
THE TREMBLING.
Seti found Rachel sitting in her sedan and looking more like collapsed
alabaster than a human being—her eyes closed, every trace of color gone
from her cheek, and yet with an expression that told of a desperate
struggle for self-mastery.
She opened her eyes as she felt Seti’s hand on her arm.
“O grandfather, how _could_ you allow that dreadful combat to go on!”
“What, have you then been a witness of it all? I had forgotten that it
was possible. My poor child—it was indeed too much for any lady, save a
Roman accustomed to a Roman arena!”
“I had no idea of what was coming when I went over to the other side of
the gallery with the rest. And they pressed me to the best window for
seeing and hearing: once there I was under a spell. I could not tear
myself away. I felt obliged to see and hear though I died in the act.
Every sense was acute beyond anything I can remember. Oh how I suffered
at the earlier stages of that last conflict! It seemed as if I could
neither stay nor get away. It was awful. I was amazed that my companions
did not seem to mind the scene as I did. Why did you not interfere?”
“I hardly understand why, myself. But probably it was the confidence
which the whole bearing of the young man, and his superb physique, in
which he surpasses all I have ever known—probably it was the confidence
that these inspired that he would be more than equal to the occasion.
Still, now that it is all over, I wonder at myself somewhat.”
“But suppose that brute of a horse, or that greater brute of a man, had
killed him? I shudder to think of it. I had no idea that anything could
have shaken me so.” She closed her eyes and involuntarily trembled.
“But,” she added in a moment, “this is not all. I received this morning
from my mother a letter which moved me greatly and perhaps unfitted me
to bear the scene in the palæstra as well as did the other young ladies.
Between the two I feel too weak to go home alone: besides, I want your
counsel. Can you not go with me?”
Seti went with her.
The following is a copy of the letter—omitting the usual epistolary
preliminaries—which Seti read and pondered that afternoon:
“My dear Rachel, you know how little I thought of remaining in Jerusalem
till now. But our relative Nicodemus has been urgent, and such great
things have been happening here that I have felt more like sending for
you and your father to come to me than like returning home.
“My dear daughter, you doubtless have wondered that hitherto I have said
so little in my letters of Jesus of Nazareth (as he is called here),
though you have seemed so anxious to hear about him. The fact is that the
ideas of the Messiah to which I have been accustomed and which are held
by the chief people here, have made it hard for me to feel my way to a
definite and settled opinion; and I have been unwilling to write much on
a subject in regard to which my mind was in so confused and uncertain
a state. But I have at last—after much prayer, and much study of the
prophets, and much inquiry of credible witnesses, as well as some seeing
with my own eyes—come to see my way clearly. Yes, my dear daughter, I do
indeed feel sure at last that Jesus is our long-expected Messiah. If the
proofs of this which he furnishes are not sufficient it seems impossible
to prove anything. Even Moses himself did not more clearly establish his
Divine mission.
“Nicodemus has helped me not a little. He is a very cautious man—I think
somewhat too cautious and slow; as is not unnatural to one who has so
much to lose—but at home he makes no secret of his conviction that it
is impossible to account for the wonderful deeds of Jesus save on the
supposition that God is with him. I hope this influential man will soon
get courage to speak out.
“When I came here I found the reality of Jesus’s miracles admitted; and,
after I had learned the character of his life and teaching, I did not
see how they could be accounted for reasonably by the magical art and
evil spirits. But I have lately fallen in with some of his disciples,
and especially with some friends of his at Bethany, who have given me
a more clear and connected view of his doings and teachings than I had
before. At Bethany I met the mother of Jesus—a wonderful woman, whom
to see and hear is to believe. In answer to my inquiries, she told of
the strangest possible events preceding and following the birth of
Jesus—of an angelic annunciation, of a Divine conception, of the birth
at Bethlehem, of shepherds sent by a glory of angels to worship the
child, of a caravan of princes from the far east who came, star-guided,
to do him homage, of a flight to Egypt, of their return on the death of
Herod to live at Nazareth in Galilee till Jesus was thirty years old,
of how good and holy he was during all those years, so that she never
saw a fault in him, though much that was mysterious. She had sometimes
felt oppressed by the mystery which always hung about him like a silver
veil, but through which occasionally struggled gleams of a Divine majesty
and power. As time rolled on, and the child had long since become the
mature man, she wondered that so many years were allowed to pass before
his making any public movement. But she knew that it would come in due
time: God would be as good as His word; such preparations and heralding
would not be an idle flourish and make-believe. Then she went on to tell
me about his forerunner and baptism and first miracle near three years
ago; and of the many miracles she had seen since. While listening to his
teaching, she had been quite as much astonished at his wisdom as she had
been at his power. It was a very strange feeling the mother had when she
found herself looking up to her son as being immeasurably above her in
everything. Still she rejoiced in the fact with a sort of awful joy.
“As she told me all these things there was so much simplicity and
truthfulness, as well as intelligence, shining in her face and whole
manner, that I could not but accept her testimony. Then how I wanted to
see _him_! This I had never done until a few days ago. And it was in this
way:
“Have I said that the house in Bethany where I saw Mary the mother of
Jesus was the house of one Lazarus and his two sisters? One day when I
was there Lazarus complained of feeling unwell. The sisters, Mary and
Martha, did some trifling thing for him and thought no more of it. But,
instead of improving, he grew worse. A leech was called in. Still the
brother grew worse. Day by day the shadows deepened, until at last the
leech himself confessed that he could do no more. Then the sisters said,
‘Though the leeches cannot help Lazarus, there is one who can;’ and they
immediately sent off a messenger to Jesus, who was then in Galilee. Day
after day passed and still no Jesus came. Meanwhile the sick man pined
and wasted, and the home and hearts grew darker and darker, and at last
the leech said there was no hope. No, no hope in _him_, or such as he,
but still hope in Jesus that he would bring or send help. Can it be that
he will suffer his friend to die?—he who has cured all sorts of diseases
for all sorts of persons with whom he had no special tie?—I was there and
saw the struggle between hope and despair: saw despair finally triumph as
last words were spoken, as the breath came gaspingly, as the light faded
from the eye and the pulse from the wrist and—he was gone. Close his
eyes, O friends; straighten out the stiffening limbs; let the mourning
women come! Lazarus is dead—_dead_.
“The sisters gave themselves up to their grief. They refused to be
comforted. They could not understand that dreadful silence. Had the
seemingly inexhaustible fountains of power and helpfulness really given
out? At all events, all was now over. Nothing remained but to bury their
dead, and wait with streaming eyes and broken hearts for their own turns
to come. And the sooner they should come the better.
“So the dead was buried, the lament made, and the sisters sat down with
despair for companion in a home where midnight had come in place of
midday. Some of us sat with them as much as we could—holding their hands
in silent sympathy. What could words do in such a case! We answered their
groans with a pressure of the hand. We followed their tears with our own.
Every now and then, amid their tears and groans, they exclaimed, ‘If he
had been here our brother had not died—had not died.’
“So three days wore away—carrying with them what little was left of the
light in their eyes and the color in their cheeks. On the fourth day,
while I was sitting with them, some one came in and whispered to Martha.
She at once rose and hastened out. But Mary sat still—not even appearing
to notice the departure of her sister. So we continued sitting. But it
was not long before Martha returned with flurried haste, and with an
expression on her face that seemed like the first faint gray of dawn on
the edge of a black bank of clouds. Mary started up at a whisper from
her, and with something of the same expression on her face followed her
out. We followed, too; for we thought that our sympathetic presence at
the grave where we supposed they were going might still be helpful to the
stricken sisters.
“And now, my dear daughter, prepare to read something wonderful. My hand
trembles as I proceed to write it; and sometimes when I have thought of
it such an awe has come over me that I could not have then written at
all. But my nerves are now steadier. Behold what happened!