You know the story of the Three Wise Men of the East, and how
they travelled from far away to offer their gifts at the
manger-cradle in Bethlehem. But have you ever heard the story
of the Other Wise Man, who also saw the star in its rising,
and set out to follow it, yet did not arrive with his brethren
in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great desire
of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet
accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the probation of his soul; of the long way of his seeking and the
strange way of his finding the One whom he sought--I actually read this story in the book
'Evidence Not Seen', I had never heard the story before but it was a really neat story. So I thought I'd share it with you.
I
In the days when Augustus Caesar was master of many kings and
Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the city of
Ecbatana, among the mountains of Persia, a certain man named
Artaban. His house stood close to the outermost of the walls
which encircled the royal treasury. From his roof he could look
over the seven-fold battlements of black and white and crimson
and blue and red and silver and gold, to the hill where the
summer palace of the Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel in
a crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a
tangle of flowers and fruit-trees, watered by a score of
streams descending from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made
musical by innumerable birds. But all colour was lost in the
soft and odorous darkness of the late September night, and all
sounds were hushed in the deep charm of its silence, save the
plashing of the water, like a voice half-sobbing and
half-laughing under the shadows. High above the trees a dim
glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the upper
chamber, where the master of the house was holding council
with his friends.
He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark
man of about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together
under his broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin
lips; the brow of a dreamer and the mouth of a soldier, a man of
sensitive feeling but inflexible will--one of those who, in
whatever age they may live, are born for inward conflict and a
life of quest.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of
silk; and a white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides,
rested on his flowing black hair. It was the dress of the
ancient priesthood of the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.
"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one
after another entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with
you, Rhodaspes and Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus.
You are all welcome. This house grows bright with the joy of
your presence."
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but
alike in the richness of their dress of many-coloured silks,
and in the massive golden collars around their necks, marking
them as Parthian nobles, and in the winged circles of gold
resting upon their breasts, the sign of the followers of
Zoroaster.
They took their places around a small black altar at the
end of the room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban,
standing beside it, and waving a barsom of thin tamarisk
branches above the fire, fed it with dry sticks of pine and
fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient chant of the Yasna,
and the voices of his companions joined in the hymn to
Ahura-Mazda:
We worship the Spirit Divine,
all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
the givers of bounty and blessing;
We joy in the work of His hands,
His truth and His power confessing.
We praise all the things that are pure,
for these are His only Creation
The thoughts that are true, and the words
and the deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him,
and for these we make adoration.
Hear us, O Mazda! Thou livest
in truth and in heavenly gladness;
Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us
from evil and bondage to badness,
Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life
on our darkness and sadness.
Shine on our gardens and fields,
shine on our working and waving;
Shine on the whole race of man,
believing and unbelieving;
Shine on us now through the night,
Shine on us now in Thy might,
The flame of our holy love
and the song of our worship receiving.
The fire rose with the chant, throbbing as if the flame
responded to the music, until it cast a bright illumination
through the whole apartment, revealing its simplicity and
splendour.
The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with
white; pilasters of twisted silver stood out against the blue
walls; the clear-story of round-arched windows above them was
hung with azure silk; the vaulted ceiling was a pavement of
blue stones, like the body of heaven in its clearness, sown with
silver stars. From the four corners of the roof hung four
golden magic-wheels, called the tongues of the gods. At the
eastern end, behind the altar, there were two dark-red pillars
of porphyry; above them a lintel of the same stone, on which
was carved the figure of a winged archer, with his arrow set
to the string and his bow drawn.
The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the
terrace of the roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the
colour of a ripe pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable
golden rays shooting upward from the floor. In effect the
room was like a quiet, starry night, all azure and silver,
flushed in the cast with rosy promise of the dawn. It was, as
the house of a man should be, an expression of the character
and spirit of the master.
He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and
invited them to be seated on the divan at the western end of
the room.
"You have come to-night," said he, looking around the
circle, "at my call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to
renew your worship and rekindle your faith in the God of Purity,
even as this fire has been rekindled on the altar. We worship
not the fire, but Him of whom it is the chosen symbol, because it
is the purest of all created things. It speaks to us of one who
is Light and Truth. Is it not so, my father?"
"It is well said, my son," answered the venerable Abgarus.
"The enlightened are never idolaters. They lift the veil of
form and go in to the shrine of reality, and new light and
truth are coming to them continually through the old symbols."
"Hear me, then, my father and my friends," said Artaban,
"while I tell you of the new light and truth that have come to
me through the most ancient of all signs. We have searched
the secrets of Nature together, and studied the healing virtues
of water and fire and the plants. We have read also the
books of prophecy in which the future is dimly foretold in
words that are hard to understand. But the highest of all
learning is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their course
is to untangle the threads of the mystery of life from the
beginning to the end. If we could follow them perfectly, nothing
would be hidden from us. But is not our knowledge of them still
incomplete? Are there not many stars still beyond our
horizon--lights that are known only to the dwellers in the far
south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and the gold mines of
Ophir?"
There was a murmur of assent among the listeners.
"The stars," said Tigranes, "are the thoughts of the
Eternal. They are numberless. But the thoughts of man can be
counted, like the years of his life. The wisdom of the Magi
is the greatest of all wisdoms on earth, because it knows its
own ignorance. And that is the secret of power. We keep men
always looking and waiting for a new sunrise. But we
ourselves understand that the darkness is equal to the light,
and that the conflict between them will never be ended."
"That does not satisfy me," answered Artaban, "for, if the
waiting must be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of
it, then it would not be wisdom to look and wait. We should
become like those new teachers of the Greeks, who say that
there is no truth, and that the only wise men are those who
spend their lives in discovering and exposing the lies that
have been believed in the world. But the new sunrise will
certainly appear in the appointed time. Do not our own books
tell us that this will come to pass, and that men will see the
brightness of a great light?"
"That is true," said the voice of Abgarus; "every faithful
disciple of Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta, and
carries the word in his heart. `In that day Sosiosh the
Victorious shall arise out of the number of the prophets in
the east country. Around him shall shine a mighty brightness,
and he shall make life everlasting, incorruptible, and
immortal, and the dead shall rise again.'"
"This is a dark saying," said Tigranes, "and it may be
that we shall never understand it. It is better to consider
the things that are near at hand, and to increase the
influence of the Magi in their own country, rather than to
look for one who may be a stranger, and to whom we must resign
our power."
The others seemed to approve these words. There was a
silent feeling of agreement manifest among them; their looks
responded with that indefinable expression which always
follows when a speaker has uttered the thought that has been
slumbering in the hearts of his listeners. But Artaban turned
to Abgarus with a glow on his face, and said:
"My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place
of my soul. Religion without a great hope would be like an
altar without a living fire. And now the flame has burned
more brightly, and by the light of it I have read other words
which also have come from the fountain of Truth, and speak yet
more clearly of the rising of the Victorious One in his
brightness."
He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of
fine parchment, with writing upon them, and unfolded them
carefully upon his knee.
"In the years that are lost in the past, long before our
fathers came into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in
Chaldea, from whom the first of the Magi learned the secret of
the heavens. And of these Balaam the son of Beor was one of the
mightiest. Hear the words of his prophecy: 'There shall come a
star out of Jacob, and a sceptre shall arise out of Israel.'"
The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he
said:
"Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the
sons of Jacob were in bondage to our kings. The tribes of
Israel are scattered through the mountains like lost sheep,
and from the remnant that dwells in Judea under the yoke of
Rome neither star nor sceptre shall arise."
"And yet," answered Artaban, "it was the Hebrew Daniel,
the mighty searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the
wise Belteshazzar, who was most honoured and beloved of our
great King Cyrus. A prophet of sure things and a reader of
the thoughts of the Eternal, Daniel proved himself to our
people. And these are the words that he wrote." (Artaban
read from the second roll:) " 'Know, therefore, and understand
that from the going forth of the commandment to restore
Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be
seven and threescore and two weeks."'
"But, my son," said Abgarus, doubtfully, "these are
mystical numbers. Who can interpret them, or who can find the
key that shall unlock their meaning?"
Artaban answered: "It has been shown to me and to my
three companions among the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and
Balthazar. We have searched the ancient tablets of Chaldea
and computed the time. It falls in this year. We have
studied the sky, and in the spring of the year we saw two of
the greatest planets draw near together in the sign of the
Fish, which is the house of the Hebrews. We also saw a new
star there, which shone for one night and then vanished. Now
again the two great planets are meeting. This night is their
conjunction. My three brothers are watching by the ancient
Temple of the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I
am watching here. If the star shines again, they will wait
ten days for me at the temple, and then we will set out
together for Jerusalem, to see and worship the promised one who
shall be born King of Israel. I believe the sign will come. I
have made ready for the journey. I have sold my possessions, and
bought these three jewels--a sapphire, a ruby, and a pearl--to
carry them as tribute to the King. And I ask you to go with me
on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together in finding the
Prince who is worthy to be served."
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost
fold of his, girdle and drew out three great gems--one blue as
a fragment of the night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise,
and one as pure as the peak of a snow-mountain at
twilight--and laid them on the outspread scrolls before him.
But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A
veil of doubt and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog
creeping up from the marshes to hide the hills. They glanced
at each other with looks of wonder and pity, as those who have
listened to incredible sayings, the story of a wild vision, or
the proposal of an impossible enterprise.
At last Tigranes said: "Artaban, this is a vain dream.
It comes from too much looking upon the stars and the
cherishing of lofty thoughts. It would be wiser to spend the
time in gathering money for the new fire-temple at Chala. No
king will ever rise from the broken race of Israel, and no end
will ever come to the eternal strife of light and darkness.
He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows. Farewell."
And another said: "Artaban, I have no knowledge of these
things, and my office as guardian of the royal treasure binds
me here. The quest is not for me. But if thou must follow
it, fare thee well."
And another said: "In my house there sleeps a new bride,
and I cannot leave her nor take her with me on this strange
journey. This quest is not for me. But may thy steps be
prospered wherever thou goest. So, farewell."
And another said: "I am ill and unfit for hardship, but
there is a man among my servants whom I will send with thee
when thou goest, to bring me word how thou farest."
So, one by one, they left the house of Artaban. But
Abgarus, the oldest and the one who loved him the best,
lingered after the others had gone, and said, gravely: "My
son, it may be that the light of truth is in this sign that
has appeared in the skies, and then it will surely lead to the
Prince and the mighty brightness. Or it may be that it is
only a shadow of the light, as Tigranes has said, and then he
who follows it will have a long pilgrimage and a fruitless
search. But it is better to follow even the shadow of the
best than to remain content with the worst. And those who
would see wonderful things must often be ready to travel
alone. I am too old for this journey, but my heart shall be
a companion of thy pilgrimage day and night, and I shall know
the end of thy quest. Go in peace."
Then Abgarus went out of the azure chamber with its silver
stars, and Artaban was left in solitude.
He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle.
For a long time he stood and watched the flame that flickered
and sank upon the altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the
heavy curtain, and passed out between the pillars of porphyry to
the terrace on the roof.
The shiver that runs through the earth ere she rouses from
her night-sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that
heralds the daybreak was drawing downward from the lofty
snow-traced ravines of Mount Orontes. Birds, half-awakened,
crept and chirped among the rustling leaves, and the smell of
ripened grapes came in brief wafts from the arbours.
Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a
lake. But where the distant peaks of Zagros serrated the
western horizon the sky was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled
together like drops of lambent flame about to blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, a steel-blue spark was born out
of the darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple
splendours to a crimson sphere, and spiring upward through
rays of saffron and orange into a point of white radiance.
Tiny and infinitely remote, yet perfect in every part, it
pulsated in the enormous vault as if the three jewels in the
Magian's girdle had mingled and been transformed into a living
heart of light.
He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.
"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I
will go to meet him."
II
All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of Artaban's horses, had
been waiting, saddled and bridled, in her stall, pawing the
ground impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she shared the
eagerness of her master's purpose, though she knew not its
meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their strong, high,
joyful chant of morning song, before the white mist had begun
to lift lazily from the plain, the Other Wise Man was in the
saddle, riding swiftly along the high-road, which skirted the
base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship between a man
and his favourite horse on a long journey. It is a silent,
comprehensive friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of
words.
They drink at the same way-side springs, and sleep under
the same guardian stars. They are conscious together of the
subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening joy of
daybreak. The master shares his evening meal with his hungry
companion, and feels the soft, moist lips caressing the palm
of his hand as they close over the morsel of bread. In the
gray dawn he is roused from his bivouac by the gentle stir of
a warm, sweet breath over his sleeping face, and looks up into
the eyes of his faithful fellow-traveller, ready and waiting
for the toil of the day. Surely, unless he is a pagan and an
unbeliever, by whatever name he calls upon his God, he will
thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb affection,
and his morning prayer will embrace a double blessing--God
bless us both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feet from
falling and our souls from death!
Then, through the keen morning air, the swift hoofs beat
their tattoo along the road, keeping time to the pulsing of
two hearts that are moved with the same eager desire--to
conquer space, to devour the distance, to attain the goal of
the journey.
Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if he would keep
the appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route was a
hundred and fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that
he could travel in a day. But he knew Vasda's strength, and
pushed forward without anxiety, making the fixed distance
every day, though he must travel late into the night, and in
the morning long before sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount Orontes,
furrowed by the rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans, where the
famous herds of horses, feeding in the wide pastures, tossed
their heads at Vasda's approach, and galloped away with a
thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of wild birds rose suddenly
from the swampy meadows, wheeling in great circles with a
shining flutter of innumerable wings and shrill cries of
surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar, where the
dust from the threshing-floors filled the air with a golden
mist, half hiding the huge temple of Astarte with its four
hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered by fountains
from the rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting its
immense rugged brow out over the road, and saw the figure of
King Darius trampling upon his fallen foes, and the proud list
of his wars and conquests graven high upon the face of the
eternal cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling painfully
across the wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a
black mountain-gorge, where the river roared and raced before
him like a savage guide; across many a smiling vale, with
terraces of yellow limestone full of vines and fruit-trees;
through the oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates of Zagros,
walled in by precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where
the people of Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and
out again by the mighty portal, riven through the encircling
hills, where he saw the image of the High Priest of the Magi
sculptured on the wall of rock, with hand uplifted as if to bless
the centuries of pilgrims; past the entrance of the narrow
defile, filled from end to end with orchards of peaches and figs,
through which the river Gyndes foamed down to meet him; over
the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal vapours spread their
deathly mists; following along the course of the river, under
tremulous shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the lower
hills; and out upon the flat plain, where the road ran
straight as an arrow through the stubble-fields and parched
meadows; past the city of Ctesiphon, where the Parthian
emperors reigned, and the vast metropolis of Seleucia which
Alexander built; across the swirling floods of Tigris and the
many channels of Euphrates, flowing yellow through the
corn-lands--Artaban pressed onward until he arrived, at
nightfall on the tenth day, beneath the shattered walls of
populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would gladly have
turned into the city to find rest and refreshment for himself
and for her. But he knew that it was three hours' journey yet
to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and he must reach the
place by midnight if he would find his comrades waiting. So
he did not halt, but rode steadily across the stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of gloom in the pale
yellow sea. As she passed into the shadow Vasda slackened her
pace, and began to pick her way more carefully.
Near the farther end of the darkness an access of caution
seemed to fall upon her. She scented some danger or
difficulty; it was not in her heart to fly from it--only to be
prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a good horse should
do. The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a leaf
rustled, not a bird sang.
She felt her steps before her delicately, carrying her
head low, and sighing now and then with apprehension. At last
she gave a quick breath of anxiety and dismay, and stood
stock-still, quivering in every muscle, before a dark object in
the shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight revealed the form
of a man lying across the road. His humble dress and the
outline of his haggard face showed that he was probably one of
the Hebrews who still dwelt in great numbers around the city.
His pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, bore the mark of
the deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in autumn. The
chill of death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban released
it, the arm fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.
He turned away with a thought of pity, leaving the body to
that strange burial which the Magians deemed most fitting--the
funeral of the desert, from which the kites and vultures rise
on dark wings, and the beasts of prey slink furtively away.
When they are gone there is only a heap of white bones on the
sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly sigh came from
the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped the hem of the
Magian's robe and held him fast.
Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not with fear, but
with a dumb resentment at the importunity of this blind delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to minister to a
dying stranger? What claim had this unknown fragment of human
life upon his compassion or his service? If he lingered but
for an hour he could hardly reach Borsippa at the appointed
time. His companions would think he had given up the journey.
They would go without him. He would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely die. If
Artaban stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed
and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk
the great reward of his faith for the sake of a single deed of
charity? Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from the
following of the star, to give a cup of cold water to a poor,
perishing Hebrew?
"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the
holy path, the way of wisdom which Thou only knowest."
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening
the grasp of his hand, he carried him to a little mound at the
foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and opened the
garment above the sunken breast. He brought water from one of
the small canals near by, and moistened the sufferer's brow
and mouth. He mingled a draught of one of those simple but
potent remedies which he carried always in his girdle--for the
Magians were physicians as well as astrologers--and poured it
slowly between the colourless lips. Hour after hour he
laboured as only a skilful healer of disease can do. At last
the man's strength returned; he sat up and looked about him.
"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect of the
country, "and why hast thou sought me here to bring back my
life?"
"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I
am going to Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King
of the Jews, a great Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare
not delay any longer upon my journey, for the caravan that has
waited for me may depart without me. But see, here is all that I
have left of bread and wine, and here is a potion of healing
herbs. When thy strength is restored thou canst find the
dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of Babylon."
The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.
"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and
prosper the journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to
his desired haven. Stay! I have nothing to give thee in
return--only this: that I can tell thee where the Messiah must
be sought. For our prophets have said that he should be born
not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem of Judah. May the Lord
bring thee in safety to that place, because thou hast had pity
upon the sick."
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste,
and Vasda, restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the
silent plain and swam the channels of the river. She put
forth the remnant of her strength, and fled over the ground
like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before
her as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the
eyes of Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and
the Temple of the Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his
friends.
The many-coloured terraces of black and orange and red and
yellow and green and blue and white, shattered by the
convulsions of nature, and crumbling under the repeated blows
of human violence, still glittered like a ruined rainbow in
the morning light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He dismounted and
climbed to the highest terrace, looking out toward the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched away to the
horizon and the border of the desert. Bitterns stood by the
stagnant pools and jackals skulked through the low bushes; but
there was no sign of the caravan of the Wise Men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little cairn of broken
bricks, and under them a piece of papyrus. He caught it up
and read: "We have waited past the midnight, and can delay no
longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert."
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in
despair.
"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with no food and
with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my
sapphire, and buy a train of camels, and provision for the
journey. I may never overtake my friends. Only God the
merciful knows whether I shall not lose the sight of the King
because I tarried to show mercy."
III
There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, where I was
listening to the story of the Other Wise Man. Through this
silence I saw, but very dimly, his figure passing over the
dreary undulations of the desert, high upon the back of his
camel, rocking steadily onward like a ship over the waves.
The land of death spread its cruel net around him. The
stony waste bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The dark
ledges of rock thrust themselves above the surface here and
there, like the bones of perished monsters. Arid and
inhospitable mountain-ranges rose before him, furrowed with dry
channels of ancient torrents, white and ghastly as scars on the
face of nature. Shifting hills of treacherous sand were heaped
like tombs along the horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed
its intolerable burden on the quivering air. No living creature
moved on the dumb, swooning earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling
through the parched bushes, or lizards vanishing in the clefts of
the rock. By night the jackals prowled and barked in the
distance, and the lion made the black ravines echo with his
hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting chill followed the
fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the Magian moved
steadily onward.
Then I saw the gardens and orchards of Damascus, watered
by the streams of Abana and Pharpar, with their sloping swards
inlaid with bloom, and their thickets of myrrh and roses. I
saw the long, snowy ridge of Hermon, and the dark groves of
cedars, and the valley of the Jordan, and the blue waters of
the Lake of Galilee, and the fertile plain of Esdraelon, and the
hills of Ephraim, and the highlands of Judah. Through all these
I followed the figure of Artaban moving steadily onward, until he
arrived at Bethlehem. And it was the third day after the three
Wise Men had come to that place and had found Mary and Joseph,
with the young child, Jesus, and had laid their gifts of gold and
frankincense and myrrh at his feet.
Then the Other Wise Man drew near, weary, but full of
hope, bearing his ruby and his pearl to offer to the King.
"For now at last," he said, "I shall surely find him, though
I be alone, and later than my brethren. This is the place of
which the Hebrew exile told me that the prophets had spoken,
and here I shall behold the rising of the great light. But I
must inquire about the visit of my brethren, and to what house
the star directed them, and to whom they presented their
tribute."
The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and
Artaban wondered whether the men had all gone up to the
hill-pastures to bring down their sheep. From the open door of a
cottage he heard the sound of a woman's voice singing softly. He
entered and found a young mother hushing her baby to rest. She
told him of the strangers from the far East who had appeared in
the village three days ago, and how they said that a star had
guided them to the place where Joseph of Nazareth was lodging
with his wife and her new-born child, and how they had paid
reverence to the child and given him many rich gifts.
"But the travellers disappeared again," she continued, "as
suddenly as they had come. We were afraid at the strangeness
of their visit. We could not understand it. The man of
Nazareth took the child and his mother, and fled away that
same night secretly, and it was whispered that they were going
to Egypt. Ever since, there has been a spell upon the
village; something evil hangs over it. They say that the
Roman soldiers are coming from Jerusalem to force a new tax
from us, and the men have driven the flocks and herds far back
among the hills, and hidden themselves to escape it."
Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the
child in her arms looked up in his face and smiled, stretching
out its rosy hands to grasp at the winged circle of gold on
his breast. His heart warmed to the touch. It seemed like a
greeting of love and trust to one who had journeyed long in
loneliness and perplexity, fighting with his own doubts and
fears, and following a light that was veiled in clouds.
"Why might not this child have been the promised Prince?"
he asked within himself, as he touched its soft cheek. "Kings
have been born ere now in lowlier houses than this, and the
favourite of the stars may rise even from a cottage. But it
has not seemed good to the God of wisdom to reward my search
so soon and so easily. The one whom I seek has gone before
me; and now I must follow the King to Egypt."
The young mother laid the baby in its cradle, and rose to
minister to the wants of the strange guest that fate had
brought into her house. She set food before him, the plain
fare of peasants, but willingly offered, and therefore full of
refreshment for the soul as well as for the body. Artaban
accepted it gratefully; and, as he ate, the child fell into a
happy slumber, and murmured sweetly in its dreams, and a great
peace filled the room.
But suddenly there came the noise of a wild confusion in
the streets of the village, a shrieking and wailing of women's
voices, a clangour of brazen trumpets and a clashing of
swords, and a desperate cry: "The soldiers! the soldiers of
Herod! They are killing our children."
The young mother's face grew white with terror. She
clasped her child to her bosom, and crouched motionless in the
darkest corner of the room, covering him with the folds of her
robe, lest he should wake and cry.
But Artaban went quickly and stood in the doorway of the
house. His broad shoulders filled the portal from side to
side, and the peak of his white cap all but touched the
lintel.
The soldiers came hurrying down the street with bloody
hands and dripping swords. At the sight of the stranger in
his imposing dress they hesitated with surprise. The captain
of the band approached the threshold to thrust him aside. But
Artaban did not stir. His face was as calm as though he were
watching the stars, and in his eyes there burned that steady
radiance before which even the half-tamed hunting leopard
shrinks, and the bloodhound pauses in his leap. He held the
soldier silently for an instant, and then said in a low voice:
"I am all alone in this place, and I am waiting to give
this jewel to the prudent captain who will leave me in peace."
He showed the ruby, glistening in the hollow of his hand
like a great drop of blood.
The captain was amazed at the splendour of the gem. The
pupils of his eyes expanded with desire, and the hard lines of
greed wrinkled around his lips. He stretched out his hand and
took the ruby.
"March on!" he cried to his men, "there is no child here.
The house is empty."
The clamor and the clang of arms passed down the street
as the headlong fury of the chase sweeps by the secret covert
where the trembling deer is hidden. Artaban re-entered the
cottage. He turned his face to the east and prayed:
"God of truth, forgive my sin! I have said the thing that
is not, to save the life of a child. And two of my gifts are
gone. I have spent for man that which was meant for God.
Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?"
But the voice of the woman, weeping for joy in the shadow
behind him, said very gently:
"Because thou hast saved the life of my little one, may
the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His face to
shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up
His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."
IV
Again there was a silence in the Hall of Dreams, deeper and
more mysterious than the first interval, and I understood that
the years of Artaban were flowing very swiftly under the
stillness, and I caught only a glimpse, here and there, of the
river of his life shining through the mist that concealed its
course.
I saw him moving among the throngs of men in populous
Egypt, seeking everywhere for traces of the household that had
come down from Bethlehem, and finding them under the spreading
sycamore-trees of Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the
Roman fortress of New Babylon beside the Nile--traces so faint
and dim that they vanished before him continually, as
footprints on the wet river-sand glisten for a moment with
moisture and then disappear.
I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids, which lifted
their sharp points into the intense saffron glow of the sunset
sky, changeless monuments of the perishable glory and the
imperishable hope of man. He looked up into the face of the
crouching Sphinx and vainly tried to read the meaning of the
calm eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, the mockery of
all effort and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said--the cruel
jest of a riddle that has no answer, a search that never can
succeed? Or was there a touch of pity and encouragement in
that inscrutable smile--a promise that even the defeated
should attain a victory, and the disappointed should discover a
prize, and the ignorant should be made wise, and the blind should
see, and the wandering should come into the haven at last?
I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking
counsel with a Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over
the rolls of parchment on which the prophecies of Israel were
written, read aloud the pathetic words which foretold the
sufferings of the promised Messiah--the despised and rejected
of men, the man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.
"And remember, my son," said he, fixing his eyes upon the
face of Artaban, "the King whom thou seekest is not to be
found in a palace, nor among the rich and powerful. If the
light of the world and the glory of Israel had been appointed
to come with the greatness of earthly splendour, it must have
appeared long ago. For no son of Abraham will ever again
rival the power which Joseph had in the palaces of Egypt, or
the magnificence of Solomon throned between the lions in
Jerusalem. But the light for which the world is waiting is a new
light, the glory that shall rise out of patient and triumphant
suffering. And the kingdom which is to be established forever is
a new kingdom, the royalty of unconquerable love.
"I do not know how this shall come to pass, nor how the
turbulent kings and peoples of earth shall be brought to
acknowledge the Messiah and pay homage to him. But this I
know. Those who seek him will do well to look among the poor
and the lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed."
So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again, travelling
from place to place, and searching among the people of the
dispersion, with whom the little family from Bethlehem might,
perhaps, have found a refuge. He passed through countries
where famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying
for bread. He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities
where the sick were languishing in the bitter companionship of
helpless misery. He visited the oppressed and the afflicted
in the gloom of subterranean prisons, and the crowded
wretchedness of slave-markets, and the weary toil of
galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate world of
anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to help.
He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick,
and comforted the captive; and his years passed more swiftly than
the weaver's shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom
while the web grows and the pattern is completed.
It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his quest. But
once I saw him for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise,
waiting at the gate of a Roman prison. He had taken from a
secret resting-place in his bosom the pearl, the last of his
jewels. As he looked at it, a mellower lustre, a soft and
iridescent light, full of shifting gleams of azure and rose,
trembled upon its surface. It seemed to have absorbed some
reflection of the lost sapphire and ruby. So the secret
purpose of a noble life draws into itself the memories of past
joy and past sorrow. All that has helped it, all that has
hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic into its very
essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer it
is carried close to the warmth of the beating heart.
Then, at last, while I was thinking of this pearl, and of
its meaning, I heard the end of the story of the Other Wise
Man.
V
Three-and-thirty years of the life of Artaban had passed away,
and he was still a pilgrim and a seeker after light. His
hair, once darker than the cliffs of Zagros, was now white as
the wintry snow that covered them. His eyes, that once
flashed like flames of fire, were dull as embers smouldering
among the ashes.
Worn and weary and ready to die, but still looking for the
King, he had come for the last time to Jerusalem. He had
often visited the holy city before, and had searched all its
lanes and crowded bevels and black prisons without finding any
trace of the family of Nazarenes who had fled from Bethlehem
long ago. But now it seemed as if he must make one more
effort, and something whispered in his heart that, at last, he
might succeed.
It was the season of the Passover. The city was thronged
with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in far lands,
had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there had
been a confusion of tongues in the narrow streets for many days.
But on this day a singular agitation was visible in the
multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous gloom.
Currents of excitement seemed to flash through the crowd. A
secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of
sandals and the soft, thick sound of thousands of bare feet
shuffling over the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street
that leads to the Damascus gate.
Artaban joined a group of people from his own country,
Parthian Jews who had come up to keep the Passover, and
inquired of them the cause of the tumult, and where they were
going.
"We are going," they answered, "to the place called
Golgotha, outside the city walls, where there is to be an
execution. Have you not heard what has happened? Two famous
robbers are to be crucified, and with them another, called
Jesus of Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works
among the people, so that they love him greatly. But the priests
and elders have said that he must die, because he gave himself
out to be the Son of God. And Pilate has sent him to the cross
because he said that he was the `King of the Jews.'
How strangely these familiar words fell upon the tired
heart of Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over land
and sea. And now they came to him mysteriously, like a
message of despair. The King had arisen, but he had been
denied and cast out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he was
already dying. Could it be the same who had been born in
Bethlehem thirty-three years ago, at whose birth the star had
appeared in heaven, and of whose coming the prophets had
spoken?
Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that troubled,
doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age. But
he said within himself: "The ways of God are stranger than
the thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall find the King,
at last, in the hands of his enemies, and shall come in time
to offer my pearl for his ransom before he dies."
So the old man followed the multitude with slow and
painful steps toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just
beyond the entrance of the guardhouse a troop of Macedonian
soldiers came down the street, dragging a young girl with torn
dress and dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at
her with compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of her
tormentors, and threw herself at his feet, clasping him around
the knees. She had seen his white cap and the winged circle
on his breast.
"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me, for the sake
of the God of Purity! I also am a daughter of the true
religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a
merchant of Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for his
debts to be sold as a slave. Save me from worse than death!"
Artaban trembled.
It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him
in the palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at
Bethlehem--the conflict between the expectation of faith and
the impulse of love. Twice the gift which he had consecrated
to the worship of religion had been drawn to the service of
humanity. This was the third trial, the ultimate probation, the
final and irrevocable choice.
Was it his great opportunity, or his last temptation? He
could not tell. One thing only was clear in the darkness of
his mind--it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable come
from God?
One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue
this helpless girl would be a true deed of love. And is not
love the light of the soul?
He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so
luminous, so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He
laid it in the hand of the slave.
"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my
treasures which I kept for the King."
While he spoke, the darkness of the sky deepened, and
shuddering tremors ran through the earth heaving convulsively
like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.
The walls of the houses rocked to and fro. Stones were
loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled the air.
The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But
Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless
beneath the wall of the Praetorium.
What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He had given
away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had
parted with the last hope of finding him. The quest was over,
and it had failed. But, even in that thought, accepted and
embraced, there was peace. It was not resignation. It was
not submission. It was something more profound and searching.
He knew that all was well, because he had done the best that
he could from day to day. He had been true to the light that
had been given to him. He had looked for more. And if he had
not found it, if a failure was all that came out of his life,
doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had not
seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and
immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his earthly
life over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.
One more lingering pulsation of the earthquake quivered
through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from the roof, fell and
struck the old man on the temple. He lay breathless and pale,
with his gray head resting on the young girl's shoulder, and the
blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over him, fearing
that he was dead, there came a voice through the twilight, very
small and still, like music sounding from a distance, in which
the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned to
see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she
saw no one.
Then the old man's lips began to move, as if in answer,
and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:
"Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an hungered and fed
thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I thee a
stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When
saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Three-and--
thirty years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy
face, nor ministered to thee, my King."
He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And
again the maid heard it, very faint and far away. But now it
seemed as though she understood the words:
"Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou hast done it
unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast done it
unto me."
A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of
Artaban like the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak.
A long breath of relief exhaled gently from his lips.
His journey was ended. His treasures were accepted. The
Other Wise Man had found the King.
Sorry this was such a long post, hope you enjoyed the story!!
