The Epic of Saul

by William Cleaver Wilkinson

"'Brother'! Thou shalt not 'brother' me. Thou hast
No brother more, no sister I. Once, yea—
But that is long ago, and she is dead,
My sister, and in her name will I hear
No woman speak henceforth. Thou hast missed thy mark
In that appeal. Better hadst thou bode dumb.
Go, woman! Thither! Sit thee with thine own!"

Saul, with his finger pointing to her seat,
Just left, in added scorn, spurned her from him.
Then Lazarus spoke: "With me do what thou wilt;
But these are women, let me stand for them."
"Stand for thyself," said Saul, "and answer me.
Thou art called Lazarus, I trow?" "Thou hast said,"
Lazarus replied. "Well, friend, with thee," said Saul,
"I have to speak. Disciple art thou, then,
Of Jesus Nazarene, late crucified?"
"Of Jesus," full confessing, Lazarus said,
"Of Jesus, whom, not knowing what they did,
Men crucified, but whom God glorified,
Raising Him from the dead and seating Him
At the right hand of glory in the heavens—
Of Him I am disciple. Bless His name!"

"Thou art young to utter blasphemy," said Saul;
"Sure unadvisedly thou hast spoken this.
Unsay it instantly, and swear it false,
Or, by the warrant of the Sanhedrim,
Thou goest with me to prison, perhaps to death,
The way of Stephen and all heretics!"

"Thou speakest idly," Lazarus said to Saul;
"Prison and death no terrors have for me.
The Lord I serve is Lord of life and death."

"Yea, I have heard," said Saul to Lazarus,
"Thou boastest to have been from death itself
Called back to life by whom thou namest Christ.
Let him, once more, call thee from out the tomb
To which I shall consign thee—if he can.
Saul then perhaps will his disciple be!
Poor fool, fanatic, what shall I call thee?
Persist not in this folly. Be a Jew,
A Jew indeed, nor fling thy life away.
Anathema be Jesus!' say but that,
Thou, Lazarus, and all the rest, with thee,
And I go hence taking the sword away,
The sword of just authority, undrawn,
Asleep within its scabbard, ye all safe,
All Jews indeed, and I given back again
A sister, Rachel mine, won from the dead!
'Anathema be Jesus!' say those words."

Saul ceased, awaiting what those five would do.
They did not look at one another; all,
As with one will to all—their eyes upraised,
And their hands clasped in ecstasy of awe—
Together "Alleluia Jesus!" said.
On Saul a power like lightning fallen from heaven
Fell, at that adoration from their lips.
A moment he stood stupefied, and then,
With a great wrench of scornful will, he freed
Himself and summoned his retainers in.

These entered rudely, but abashed they hung,
And wondering saw their master half abashed,
Before that little company clothed on
With virtue like a dreadful panoply.
Half with the air of one subdued, or one
Feeling he acts by sufferance not by power,
Saul bids bind all—save Rachel—and forthwith
Lead them to prison.
"Also me, bind me,"
So Rachel to the men said eagerly,
And offered her fair wrists. They looked at Saul,
But Saul vouchsafed to them nor word nor sign.
Still, 'No,' they gathered from that cold aspect
In him which seemed to say, 'That which I bid,
Do, further, naught.' Rachel to Saul himself
Beseechingly then turned and said: "O Saul,
Full well I know thou doest this, constrained
By conscience. Then by conscience be constrained
To let thy men bind also me, who am
As guilty as these are and with them should share
One lot."
"I did not come here to be taught
My duty," Saul said, "least of all by thee.
And least of all from thee will I abide
To be adjured as by my conscience. Once
I had a sister, she was conscience to me,
But, as I told thee, that was long ago,
And she is dead, my sister!"
Sadness mixed,
Unmeant, resisted, irresistible,
With Saul's enforced hardheartedness, which broke
His tone to pathos, and, despite himself
With those last words he burst in tears. He shook
In shudders of strong agony, while all
Wondered, but Rachel did not wonder, she
Knew far too well her brother, far too well
Knew their joint past, the two pasts they had had
Together, long and happy one, and one
So brief, so bitter,—and she pitied Saul.
She pitied him, but strongly did not weep—
Though afterward, alone, remembering,
She wept as if her eyes were fountains of tears—
With him now Rachel would not weep, for she
Knew far too well her brother, that he scorned
Himself for weeping those hot tears, and would
Be vexed to see tears wept in sympathy
As if with will he let his mood relent.
So Rachel held her pity hard shut up
Within her heart, which ached the more denied
Its wished-for vent in tears, and Saul soon curbed
His passion and in other passion veiled.
"Haste, there!" he said, sharp turning on his men,
"The night flies, while ye loiter."
Now the men
Already had bound Lazarus. He, ere yet
The shameful needless bonds upon the wrists
Of those four gentle women were made fast,
Said: "Saul, what evil have these women done
That they deserve roughness like this? I go
Willingly with thee, albeit innocent,
For I a man am and can well endure
Bonds, stripes, dungeon, or death, having such hope
Within me as makes all afflictions light,
Whatever they may be, compared with that
Eternal weight of glory nigh at hand.
Like hope have also these, and they will bear,
Doubtless, supported, whatsoever ill
Unmerited thou choosest to inflict.
But wilt thou choose to inflict indignity
And pain on such as these?"
"I do not choose,"
Said Saul; "I without choosing do, not what
I would, but what I must. I too wear chains,
Am bond of conscience, heavier chains wear I
Than these light manacles that bind the hands
But leave the heart free and one's will one's own.
Chained am I and driven. Conscience drives me on,
Both will and heart in me under the lash
Cower, and I here as but a galley-slave
Do what my conscience bids, joyless, and fierce
From lack of joy, more miserable far,
Binding, than ye are bound, with your fool's joy
Of windy hope! For me, I only know
That, in whatever way, this thing accursed,
This craze to think that man the Christ, must be
Curbed, checked, stopped, crushed, brought to an utter end,
Forever. All the future of our race
Hangs on it. Woman, tempted, fell, she first,
In Eden, whence is all our woe, and now
Women it seems are the peculiar prey
Of this new trick of devilish subtlety;
And, as of old, woman deceived becomes
Deceiver, and through her the mischief spreads
Ungovernably. So women, too—the cause
In part of the disease—must in part pay
The price of cure. For remedy this is,
Not punishment. Ye for the general health
Suffer—for your own health not less, if ye
Yield wisely, and not foolishly resist.
Yield wisely now, and let me hence depart
Cheered to have healed a little here the hurt
With which the daughter of God's people bleeds!"

How little prospered this his new appeal,
Saul learned, when Ruth, as not having heard even, said:
"At least let me, if I indeed must leave
My children double orphans so, let me
Now go and see them in their helpless sleep,
And take a farewell of them with my eyes.
But who will care for them when I am gone?
I cannot, will not, go away from them.
Nay, ye may bind me, ye may slay me, drag
Me hence may ye, alive or dead, but make
Me go with my own feet away from them,
My children, in their innocent infancy,
And leave them to pine motherless, forlorn,
And perish in their innocent infancy—
That is beyond your strength—I will not go—
A mother may defy the Sanhedrim!"

Ruth spoke dry-eyed, with holy mother's wrath,
Sublime in her indignant eloquence.
Saul, not unmoved, although inexorable,
Said: "Woman, as thy wish is, thou shalt go
Freely to see thy children. May the sight
Dispose thee to a better mind! Come back
Ready to say, 'For their sake, I renounce
My folly, I will be true Jewish mother
To them, so let me stay,'—and thou shalt stay.

Ruth going, Rachel thought, 'Shall I too go
With her, that I may help her bear to part
From her dear babes?' Quickly resolved behind
To tarry, she, Ruth gone, went up to Saul,
And said: "I pray thee, Saul, let Rachel go
Instead of Ruth to prison. Let Ruth bide
To nurse her children. I will take her place
Gladly in her captivity, and be
A surety for her. Young and strong am I,
And I will be a firm good surety, Saul,
Not fleeing and not complaining, always there,—
And if, hereafter ever, it should seem
Needful to have Ruth come herself to prison,
Why, she will still be here, under thy hand,
As now, so then, to be hence thither led.
Be kind, and have me bound straightway, before
Ruth comes again, that she be left no choice
But to let Rachel have her wilful way,
Perceiving that I have my bonds on me
To go to prison with her, if not without,
While much I wish to go without her—wish,
And, by thy kind permission, have the power.
Dost thou not think, Saul"—wherewith Rachel smiled
On Saul a starlight smile, which made him feel
How high she was above him in her sphere
Unconsciously—"Dost thou not think that I
Will make as good a prisoner as Ruth?"