“A deep silence reigned. All the soldiers of the watch lay stretched on the ground unconscious, as though struck by lightning; the previous mysterious singing of the birds had ceased; and only the lambent quivering of the wing-like glory surrounding the two angelic Messengers, seemed to make an expressed though unheard sound as of music. Then, ... in the midst of the solemn hush, ... the great stone that closed the tomb of the Crucified trembled, ... and was suddenly thrust back like a door flung open in haste for the exit of a King, ... and lo!... a Third great Angel joined the other two! Sublimely beautiful He stood,—the Risen from the Dead! gazing with loving eyes on all the swooning, sleeping world of men; the same grand Countenance that had made a glory of the Cross of Death, now, with a smile of victory, gave poor Humanity the gift of everlasting Life! The grateful skies brightened above Him,—earth exhaled its choicest odors through every little pulsing leaf and scented herb and tree; Nature exulted in the touch of things eternal,—and the dim pearly light of the gradually breaking morn fell on all things with a greater purity, a brighter blessedness than ever had invested it before. The man Crucified and Risen, now manifested in Himself the mystic mingling of God in humanity; and taught that for the powers of the Soul set free from sin, there is no limit, no vanquishment, no end! No more eternal partings for those who on the earth should learn to love each other,—no more the withering hopelessness of despair,—the only “death” now possible to redeemed mortality being “the bondage of sin” voluntarily entered into and preferred by the unbelieving. And from this self-wrought, self-chosen doom not even a God can save!”
This appeals fully to the poetic imagination, and it seems to quicken a kind of personal interest as to the marvelous mystery of that stupendous occasion.
Marie Corelli’s Christ embodies much of the human—the human that is divinely magnetic, almost, if not quite, undefinable, yet not exclusive, not idolatrous, but simply and gently human. The creation of the character of Jesus of Nazareth possesses no atom of bigotry. It teaches love and does not seek to embitter hate. The aura of the master character permeates each living character throughout the work. It preaches Love, Charity, and Brotherhood; it ignores the Church (i.e., sectarian misnomer), so it should have, as it has through so many tongues, its mission.
There is no new creed, no new passion, no new deed under the sun to-day. There is only the same recapitulation in a fresh garb. Our Saints still live to-day. It sounds drastic enough, but Miss Corelli feels this and knows that midst the fair field of fairness there is also the thorn and the poisonous flower any one may cull, or the simple field lily that lifts its face to Heaven, and sees only Heaven in its purity.
Kingsley said, “The history of England is the literature of England.” Possibly so. The strong advance of women writers ever since that excellent man’s passing has proved much of this. It is to the honor of women to-day. It is proved in the fine grasp of subjects, the faculty of dealing poetically with a theme, so widely known yet always fresh, under new lens, and without which this world to many would be a finite and a joyless place. There is just another quotation from “Barabbas,” quite at the conclusion of this remarkable book, which weighs in with this and also with the author’s idea,—just an exoneration of the Great Tragedy, a simplification of the whole story. It is the finale and in itself not only teaches powerfully, but is an invitation, as it were, from a potent mind to those to whom it sends its own message:
“‘It is God’s symbolic teaching,’ he said, ‘which few of us may understand. A language unlettered and vast as eternity itself! Upon that hill of Calvary to which thou, Simon, turnest thy parting looks of tenderness, has been mystically enacted the world’s one Tragedy—the tragedy of Love and Genius slain to satisfy the malice of mankind. But Love and Genius are immortal; and immortality must evermore arise: wherefore in the dark days that are coming let us not lose our courage or our hope. There will be many forms of faith,—and many human creeds in which there is no touch of the Divine. Keep we to the faithful following of Christ, and in the midst of many bewilderments we shall not wander far astray. The hour grows late,—come, thou first hermit of the Christian world!—let us go on together!’
“They descended the hill. Across the plains they passed slowly, taking the way that led towards the mystic land of Egypt, where the Pyramids lift their summits to the stars, and the Nile murmurs of the false gods forgotten. They walked in a path of roseate radiance left by a reflection of the vanished sun; and went onward steadily, never once looking back till their figures gradually diminished and disappeared. Swiftly the night gathered, and spread itself darkly over Jerusalem like a threatening shadow of storm and swift destruction; thunder was in the air, and only one pale star peeped dimly forth in the dusk, shining placidly over the Place of Tombs, where, in his quiet burial-cave, Barabbas slept beside the withering palm.”
CHAPTER IX
“THE SORROWS OF SATAN,”—AS A BOOK AND AS A PLAY,—THE STORY OF THE DRAMATIZATION
The publication of “The Sorrows of Satan,” in 1895, caused a greater sensation than had followed the appearance of any other work by Miss Corelli. Many presumably competent judges of literature indulged in an absolute orgie of denunciation. In the Review of Reviews, Mr. W. T. Stead printed a column or so of sneers, though admitting that the conception was magnificent, and that the author had an immense command of language. Anxious, apparently, not to miss what would greatly interest the public, a good twelve pages of his periodical were devoted to extracts from the book. He knew, as all the critics knew, that all the world would soon be reading it, and forming its own judgment. The public must, in very truth, form an unflattering opinion of the fairness of some of those who attempt to force their own opinions of a book upon men and women who are not only fully capable of thinking for themselves, but who, sometimes,—as in the case of Marie Corelli’s publications,—insist upon doing so.