CHAPTER II
"A woman of Israel, entombed here with her daughter. Help us quickly,or we die."
Such was the reply Gesius, the keeper, had from the cell whichappears on his amended map as VI. The reader, when he observedthe answer, knew who the unfortunates were, and, doubtless,said to himself, "At last the mother of Ben-Hur, and Tirzah,his sister!"
And so it was.
The morning of their seizure, eight years before, they had beencarried to the Tower, where Gratus proposed to put them out of theway. He had chosen the Tower for the purpose as more immediately inhis own keeping, and cell VI. because, first, it could be better lostthan any other; and, secondly, it was infected with leprosy; for theseprisoners were not merely to be put in a safe place, but in a place todie. They were, accordingly, taken down by slaves in the night-time,when there were no witnesses of the deed; then, in completion ofthe savage task, the same slaves walled up the door, after whichthey were themselves separated, and sent away never to be heardof more. To save accusation, and, in the event of discovery,to leave himself such justification as might be allowed ina distinction between the infliction of a punishment and thecommission of a double murder, Gratus preferred sinking his victimswhere natural death was certain, though slow. That they might lingeralong, he selected a convict who had been made blind and tongueless,and sank him in the only connecting cell, there to serve them withfood and drink. Under no circumstances could the poor wretch tellthe tale or identify either the prisoners or their doomsman. So,with a cunning partly due to Messala, the Roman, under color ofpunishing a brood of assassins, smoothed a path to confiscationof the estate of the Hurs, of which no portion ever reached theimperial coffers.
As the last step in the scheme, Gratus summarily removed the oldkeeper of the prisons; not because he knew what had been done--forhe did not--but because, knowing the underground floors as he did,it would be next to impossible to keep the transaction from him.Then, with masterly ingenuity, the procurator had new maps drawnfor delivery to a new keeper, with the omission, as we have seen,of cell VI. The instructions given the latter, taken with theomission on the map, accomplished the design--the cell and itsunhappy tenants were all alike lost.
What may be thought of the life of the mother and daughterduring the eight years must have relation to their cultureand previous habits. Conditions are pleasant or grievous tous according to our sensibilities. It is not extreme to say,if there was a sudden exit of all men from the world, heaven,as prefigured in the Christian idea, would not be a heaven tothe majority; on the other hand, neither would all suffer equallyin the so-called Tophet. Cultivation has its balances. As the mindis made intelligent, the capacity of the soul for pure enjoymentis proportionally increased. Well, therefore, if it be saved! Iflost, however, alas that it ever had cultivation! its capacity forenjoyment in the one case is the measure of its capacity to sufferin the other. Wherefore repentance must be something more than mereremorse for sins; it comprehends a change of nature befitting heaven.
We repeat, to form an adequate idea of the suffering endured bythe mother of Ben-Hur, the reader must think of her spirit and itssensibilities as much as, if not more than, of the conditions ofthe immurement; the question being, not what the conditions were,but how she was affected by them. And now we may be permitted tosay it was in anticipation of this thought that the scene in thesummer-house on the roof of the family palace was given so fullyin the beginning of the Second Book of our story. So, too, to behelpful when the inquiry should come up, we ventured the elaboratedescription of the palace of the Hurs.
In other words, let the serene, happy, luxurious life in theprincely house be recalled and contrasted with this existencein the lower dungeon of the Tower of Antonia; then if the reader,in his effort to realize the misery of the woman, persists in merereference to conditions physical, he cannot go amiss; as he is alover of his kind, tender of heart, he will be melted with muchsympathy. But will he go further; will he more than sympathizewith her; will he share her agony of mind and spirit; will he atleast try to measure it--let him recall her as she discoursed toher son of God and nations and heroes; one moment a philosopher,the next a teacher, and all the time a mother.
Would you hurt a man keenest, strike at his self-love; would youhurt a woman worst, aim at her affections.
With quickened remembrance of these unfortunates--remembranceof them as they were--let us go down and see them as they are.
The cell VI. was in form as Gesius drew it on his map. Of itsdimensions but little idea can be had; enough that it wasa roomy, roughened interior, with ledged and broken wallsand floor.
In the beginning, the site of the Macedonian Castle was separatedfrom the site of the Temple by a narrow but deep cliff somewhatin shape of a wedge. The workmen, wishing to hew out a seriesof chambers, made their entry in the north face of the cleft,and worked in, leaving a ceiling of the natural stone; delving farther,they executed the cells V., IV., III., II., I., with no connection withnumber VI. except through number V. In like manner, they constructed thepassage and stairs to the floor above. The process of the work wasprecisely that resorted to in carving out the Tombs of the Kings,yet to be seen a short distance north of Jerusalem; only when thecutting was done, cell VI. was enclosed on its outer side by a wallof prodigious stones, in which, for ventilation, narrow apertureswere left bevelled like modern port-holes. Herod, when he tookhold of the Temple and Tower, put a facing yet more massive uponthis outer wall, and shut up all the apertures but one, which yetadmitted a little vitalizing air, and a ray of light not nearlystrong enough to redeem the room from darkness.
Such was cell VI.
Startle not now!
The description of the blind and tongueless wretch just liberatedfrom cell V. may be accepted to break the horror of what is coming.
The two women are grouped close by the aperture; one is seated,the other is half reclining against her; there is nothing betweenthem and the bare rock. The light, slanting upwards, strikes themwith ghastly effect, and we cannot avoid seeing they are withoutvesture or covering. At the same time we are helped to the knowledgethat love is there yet, for the two are in each other's arms.Riches take wings, comforts vanish, hope withers away, but lovestays with us. Love is God.
Where the two are thus grouped the stony floor is polished shiningsmooth. Who shall say how much of the eight years they have spentin that space there in front of the aperture, nursing their hopeof rescue by that timid yet friendly ray of light? When thebrightness came creeping in, they knew it was dawn; when itbegan to fade, they knew the world was hushing for the night,which could not be anywhere so long and utterly dark as with them.The world! Through that crevice, as if it were broad and high asa king's gate, they went to the world in thought, and passed theweary time going up and down as spirits go, looking and asking,the one for her son, the other for her brother. On the seas theysought him, and on the islands of the seas; to-day he was in thiscity, to-morrow in that other; and everywhere, and at all times,he was a flitting sojourner; for, as they lived waiting for him,he lived looking for them. How often their thoughts passed eachother in the endless search, his coming, theirs going! It was suchsweet flattery for them to say to each other, "While he lives,we shall not be forgotten; as long as he remembers us, there ishope!" The strength one can eke from little, who knows till hehas been subjected to the trial?
Our recollections of them in former days enjoin us to be respectful;their sorrows clothe them with sanctity. Without going too near,across the dungeon, we see they have undergone a change ofappearance not to be accounted for by time or long confinement.The mother was beautiful as a woman, the daughter beautiful as achild; not even love could say so much now. Their hair is long,unkempt, and strangely white; they make us shrink and shudderwith an indefinable repulsion, though the effect may be from anillusory glozing of the light glimmering dismally through theunhealthy murk; or they may be enduring the tortures of hungerand thirst, not having had to eat or drink since their servant,the convict,
was taken away--that is, since yesterday.
Tirzah, reclining against her mother in half embrace, moans piteously.
"Be quiet, Tirzah. They will come. God is good. We have been mindfulof him, and forgotten not to pray at every sounding of the trumpetsover in the Temple. The light, you see, is still bright; the sunis standing in the south sky yet, and it is hardly more than theseventh hour. Somebody will come to us. Let us have faith. God isgood."
Thus the mother. The words were simple and effective, although,eight years being now to be added to the thirteen she had attainedwhen last we saw her, Tirzah was no longer a child.
"I will try and be strong, mother," she said. "Your sufferingmust be as great as mine; and I do so want to live for you andmy brother! But my tongue burns, my lips scorch. I wonder wherehe is, and if he will ever, ever find us!"
There is something in the voices that strikes us singularly--anunexpected tone, sharp, dry, metallic, unnatural.
The mother draws the daughter closer to her breast, and says, "Idreamed about him last night, and saw him as plainly, Tirzah, as Isee you. We must believe in dreams, you know, because our fathersdid. The Lord spoke to them so often in that way. I thought we werein the Women's Court just before the Gate Beautiful; there weremany women with us; and he came and stood in the shade of theGate, and looked here and there, at this one and that. My heartbeat strong. I knew he was looking for us, and stretched my armsto him, and ran, calling him. He heard me and saw me, but he didnot know me. In a moment he was gone."
"Would it not be so, mother, if we were to meet him in fact? Weare so changed."
"It might be so; but--" The mother's head droops, and her faceknits as with a wrench of pain; recovering, however, she goeson--"but we could make ourselves known to him."
Tirzah tossed her arms, and moaned again.
"Water, mother, water, though but a drop."
The mother stares around in blank helplessness. She has named Godso often, and so often promised in his name, the repetition isbeginning to have a mocking effect upon herself. A shadow passesbefore her dimming the dim light, and she is brought down to thinkof death as very near, waiting to come in as her faith goes out.Hardly knowing what she does, speaking aimlessly, because speakshe must, she says again,
"Patience, Tirzah; they are coming--they are almost here."
She thought she heard a sound over by the little trap in thepartition-wall through which they held all their actual communicationwith the world. And she was not mistaken. A moment, and the cry ofthe convict rang through the cell. Tirzah heard it also; and theyboth arose, still keeping hold of each other.
"Praised be the Lord forever!" exclaimed the mother, with thefervor of restored faith and hope.
"Ho, there!" they heard next; and then, "Who are you?"
The voice was strange. What matter? Except from Tirzah, they werethe first and only words the mother had heard in eight years.The revulsion was mighty--from death to life--and so instantly!
"A woman of Israel, entombed here with her daughter. Help us quickly,or we die."
"Be of cheer. I will return."
The women sobbed aloud. They were found; help was coming. From wishto wish hope flew as the twittering swallows fly. They were found;they would be released. And restoration would follow--restorationto all they had lost--home, society, property, son and brother! Thescanty light glozed them with the glory of day, and, forgetful ofpain and thirst and hunger, and of the menace of death, they sankupon the floor and cried, keeping fast hold of each other the while.
And this time they had not long to wait. Gesius, the keeper,told his tale methodically, but finished it at last. The tribunewas prompt.
"Within there!" he shouted through the trap.
"Here!" said the mother, rising.
Directly she heard another sound in another place, as of blowson the wall--blows quick, ringing, and delivered with iron tools.She did not speak, nor did Tirzah, but they listened, well knowingthe meaning of it all--that a way to liberty was being made forthem. So men a long time buried in deep mines hear the coming ofrescuers, heralded by thrust of bar and beat of pick, and answergratefully with heart-throbs, their eyes fixed upon the spot whencethe sounds proceed; and they cannot look away, lest the work shouldcease, and they be returned to despair.
The arms outside were strong, the hands skillful, the will good.Each instant the blows sounded more plainly; now and then a piecefell with a crash; and liberty came nearer and nearer. Presentlythe workmen could be heard speaking. Then--O happiness!--througha crevice flashed a red ray of torches. Into the darkness it cutincisive as diamond brilliance, beautiful as if from a spear ofthe morning.
"It is he, mother, it is he! He has found us at last!" cried Tirzah,with the quickened fancy of youth.
But the mother answered meekly, "God is good!"
A block fell inside, and another--then a great mass, and the doorwas open. A man grimed with mortar and stone-dust stepped in,and stopped, holding a torch over his head. Two or three othersfollowed with torches, and stood aside for the tribune to enter.
Respect for women is not all a conventionality, for it is the bestproof of their proper nature. The tribune stopped, because they fledfrom him--not with fear, be it said, but shame; nor yet, O reader,from shame alone! From the obscurity of their partial hiding he heardthese words, the saddest, most dreadful, most utterly despairing ofthe human tongue:
"Come not near us--unclean, unclean!"
The men flared their torches while they stared at each other.
"Unclean, unclean!" came from the corner again, a slow tremulouswail exceedingly sorrowful. With such a cry we can imagine aspirit vanishing from the gates of Paradise, looking back thewhile.
So the widow and mother performed her duty, and in the momentrealized that the freedom she had prayed for and dreamed of,fruit of scarlet and gold seen afar, was but an apple of Sodomin the hand.
SHE AND TIRZAH WERE--LEPERS!
Possibly the reader does not know all the word means. Let him betold it with reference to the Law of that time, only a littlemodified in this.
"These four are accounted as dead--the blind, the leper, the poor,and the childless." Thus the Talmud.
That is, to be a leper was to be treated as dead--to be excludedfrom the city as a corpse; to be spoken to by the best belovedand most loving only at a distance; to dwell with none but lepers;to be utterly unprivileged; to be denied the rites of the Templeand the synagogue; to go about in rent garments and with coveredmouth, except when crying, "Unclean, unclean!" to find home in thewilderness or in abandoned tombs; to become a materialized specterof Hinnom and Gehenna; to be at all times less a living offence toothers than a breathing torment to self; afraid to die, yet withouthope except in death.
Once--she might not tell the day or the year, for down in thehaunted hell even time was lost--once the mother felt a dry scurfin the palm of her right hand, a trifle which she tried to washaway. It clung to the member pertinaciously; yet she thoughtbut little of the sign till Tirzah complained that she, too,was attacked in the same way. The supply of water was scant,and they denied themselves drink that they might use it as acurative. At length the whole hand was attacked; the skin crackedopen, the fingernails loosened from the flesh. There was not muchpain withal, chiefly a steadily increasing discomfort. Later theirlips began to parch and seam. One day the mother, who was cleanlyto godliness, and struggled against the impurities of the dungeonwith all ingenuity, thinking the enemy was taking hold on Tirzah'sface, led her to the light, and, looking with the inspiration of aterrible dread, lo! the young girl's eyebrows were white as snow.
Oh, the anguish of that assurance!
The mother sat awhile speechless, motionless, paralyzed of soul,and capable of but one thought--leprosy, leprosy!
When she began to think, mother-like, it was not of herself, but herchild, and, mother-like, her natural tenderness turned to courage,and she made ready for the last sacrifice of perfect heroism. Sheburied her knowledge in her
heart; hopeless herself, she redoubledher devotion to Tirzah, and with wonderful ingenuity--wonderfulchiefly in its very inexhaustibility--continued to keep thedaughter ignorant of what they were beset with, and even hopefulthat it was nothing. She repeated her little games, and retoldher stories, and invented new ones, and listened with ever somuch pleasure to the songs she would have from Tirzah, while onher own wasting lips the psalms of the singing king and their raceserved to bring soothing of forgetfulness, and keep alive in themboth the recollection of the God who would seem to have abandonedthem--the world not more lightly or utterly.
Slowly, steadily, with horrible certainty, the disease spread,after a while bleaching their heads white, eating holes in theirlips and eyelids, and covering their bodies with scales; then itfell to their throats shrilling their voices, and to their joints,hardening the tissues and cartilages--slowly, and, as the motherwell knew, past remedy, it was affecting their lungs and arteriesand bones, at each advance making the sufferers more and moreloathsome; and so it would continue till death, which might beyears before them.
Another day of dread at length came--the day the mother, underimpulsion of duty, at last told Tirzah the name of their ailment;and the two, in agony of despair, prayed that the end might comequickly.
Still, as is the force of habit, these so afflicted grew in timenot merely to speak composedly of their disease; they beheld thehideous transformation of their persons as of course, and in despiteclung to existence. One tie to earth remained to them; unmindful oftheir own loneliness, they kept up a certain spirit by talkingand dreaming of Ben-Hur. The mother promised reunion with him tothe sister, and she to the mother, not doubting, either of them,that he was equally faithful to them, and would be equally happy ofthe meeting. And with the spinning and respinning of this slenderthread they found pleasure, and excused their not dying. In suchmanner as we have seen, they were solacing themselves the momentGesius called them, at the end of twelve hours' fasting and thirst.
The torches flashed redly through the dungeon, and liberty was come."God is good," the widow cried--not for what had been, O reader,but for what was. In thankfulness for present mercy, nothing sobecomes us as losing sight of past ills.
The tribune came directly; then in the corner to which she hadfled, suddenly a sense of duty smote the elder of the women,and straightway the awful warning--
"Unclean, unclean!"
Ah, the pang the effort to acquit herself of that duty cost themother! Not all the selfishness of joy over the prospect couldkeep her blind to the consequences of release, now that it wasat hand. The old happy life could never be again. If she wentnear the house called home, it would be to stop at the gate andcry, "Unclean, unclean!" She must go about with the yearnings oflove alive in her breast strong as ever, and more sensitive even,because return in kind could not be. The boy of whom she had soconstantly thought, and with all sweet promises such as mothersfind their purest delight in, must, at meeting her, stand afaroff. If he held out his hands to her, and called "Mother, mother,"for very love of him she must answer, "Unclean, unclean!" And thisother child, before whom, in want of other covering, she was spreadingher long tangled locks, bleached unnaturally white--ah! that she wasshe must continue, sole partner of her blasted remainder of life. Yet,O reader, the brave woman accepted the lot, and took up the cry whichhad been its sign immemorially, and which thenceforward was to be hersalutation without change--"Unclean, unclean!"
The tribune heard it with a tremor, but kept his place.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Two women dying of hunger and thirst. Yet"--the mother did notfalter--"come not near us, nor touch the floor or the wall. Unclean,unclean!"
"Give me thy story, woman--thy name, and when thou wert put here,and by whom, and for what."
"There was once in this city of Jerusalem a Prince Ben-Hur, thefriend of all generous Romans, and who had Caesar for his friend.I am his widow, and this one with me is his child. How may I tellyou for what we were sunk here, when I do not know, unless it wasbecause we were rich? Valerius Gratus can tell you who our enemywas, and when our imprisonment began. I cannot. See to what wehave been reduced--oh, see, and have pity!"
The air was heavy with the pest and the smoke of the torches, yetthe Roman called one of the torch-bearers to his side, and wrotethe answer nearly word for word. It was terse, and comprehensive,containing at once a history, an accusation, and a prayer. No commonperson could have made it, and he could not but pity and believe.
"Thou shalt have relief, woman," he said, closing the tablets."I will send thee food and drink."
"And raiment, and purifying water, we pray you, O generous Roman!"
"As thou wilt," he replied.
"God is good," said the widow, sobbing. "May his peace abide withyou!"
"And, further," he added, "I cannot see thee again. Make preparation,and to-night I will have thee taken to the gate of the Tower, and setfree. Thou knowest the law. Farewell."
He spoke to the men, and went out the door.
Very shortly some slaves came to the cell with a large gurgletof water, a basin and napkins, a platter with bread and meat,and some garments of women's wear; and, setting them down withinreach of the prisoners, they ran away.
About the middle of the first watch, the two were conducted tothe gate, and turned into the street. So the Roman quit himselfof them, and in the city of their fathers they were once more free.
Up to the stars, twinkling merrily as of old, they looked; then theyasked themselves,
"What next? and where to?"