A Williams Anthology Part 15

THE MERCHANT. Nor I. And here's my hand, good soldier. There.

[The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans in the great chimney.]

THE MERCHANT [crossing himself]. Hark to the wind. Meseemeth that it wails Like some lost soul.

THE SOLDIER. Some say it is the soul Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord When he was on his way to Calvary, And was condemned to wander ever more Until the Christ a second time should come.

[The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices are lowered.]

THE MONK. The Jew! Oft have men seen him bent and worn, When darkness fills the earth, still wandering, Still living out his curse.

THE PEASANT. List! Hear ye not?

THE SOLDIER. Again that mournful wailing of the wind.

THE PEASANT. How came he by the curse?

THE MONK. Know, when our Lord, Full weary, bore his cross to Calvary, He paused a moment, resting, but this Jew, Ahasuerus--cursed be the name-- Reviled the Saviour, and commanded him To move away. Whereon our blessed Lord: "Because thou grudgest me a moment's rest Unresting shalt thou wander o'er the earth Until I come."

THE SOLDIER. Ah, would I had been there-- The cursed Jew! An arrow through his heart Had stopped his babbling!

THE PEASANT. And had I been there, He would have felt the weight of my great fist Ere he had spoken twice.

[The Jew mutters indistinctly to himself in his corner.]

THE MERCHANT [in a low voice]. Dost hear the man?

Old gray-beard murmurs.

THE SOLDIER. How! Is he a Jew?

THE MERCHANT. See how he cowers when we look at him.

THE MONK. He is no Jew. On this thrice-blessed night No Jew would dare seek shelter in Christ's house.

THE PEASANT. Yet they are daring--and men tell strange tales Of b.l.o.o.d.y rites which they perform apart.

THE SOLDIER. May G.o.d's high curse rest on their scattered race!

[The Jew flashes a quick glance upon them, and then looks down again.

An unusually strong gust of wind sweeps through the hall, and strange moanings are heard in the chimney.]

THE PEASANT. Lost souls! Oh, Mother of Christ!

THE MERCHANT. They wail in pain.

THE MONK [making the sign of the cross]. 'Tis but the wind--or on this night mayhap We hear the noise of vast angelic hosts That sob to see our Saviour come to earth, A simple Babe, to suffer and to die-- So brother Anselm tells.

THE SOLDIER. And what knows he Of angels' doings?

THE MONK [terrified.] Still! Thou impious man!

Hast thou not heard the fame of Anselm's name?

A very saint on earth, his eyes behold Things hidden from mankind; his face doth glow All radiant from his visions.

THE SOLDIER. Wretch that I am!

Ah, woe is me to speak thus of G.o.d's saint.

[The deep-toned monastery bell rings.]

THE MONK. Come, follow me. Below us in the crypt The pious brethren this night have set forth The sacred mystery of Jesus' birth; Shalt see the very manger where he lay.

Make haste and come.

[The company arise and pa.s.s out, all save the Jew. The monk, last, stares at the gaunt figure a moment, opens his lips to speak, then shakes his head and departs.]

SCENE II. [AHASUERUS, alone. He looks around him, as if to see if any remain in the room, then slowly moves toward the fireplace and holds his trembling hands before the fire.]

AHASUERUS. Ah, G.o.d of Jacob! Hear the Christians talk.

"Dog Jew!" "Accursed Jew!" I hate you all!

Your Christ sits on his kingly throne this night-- But I am steadfast. How the very wind Doth buffet me and chill my aged bones!

Ringed all about with enemies, I stand Unharmed--for by Jehovah's dreadful curse I live--nor can I die--until He come.

How chill the wind sweeps through my withered frame While curses and revilings dog my steps-- My weary, ceaseless steps. Ah, G.o.d! To die!

Have I not expiated yet my sin?-- To bear life's heavy burden o'er the earth, To wander from Armenia's distant hills, Through desert places now, and now through vales That flow with plenty; now through sordid towns, Until at last I reach the western seas; Then, ever homeless, to repeat my steps?

Death were a blessing, yea, a gentle sleep-- To feel delicious numbness seize my limbs, Mine eyes grow heavy, and the weary flight Of immemorial time forever stayed In sleep, in dreamless sleep--would I might die!

I am so weary, weary of it all.

[He sinks down upon a bench, and is silent for a moment, in deep thought; a smile flits over his face, as at a pleasing memory, then the worn, hunted look returns.]

Faint shadows nicker 'round me, and at times Vague dreams of joy experienced long ago Beguile me for a moment, then I wake; Dim musings of that time when, yet a child, I prattled in the shade of Judah's hills And trod her leafy valleys aimlessly-- But that was long, long centuries ago.

Sometimes I dream, that when G.o.d bade my soul To leave its blest abode and come to earth In this vile guise, all-terrified it prayed This trial and affliction to be spared; But all in vain.

And now the curse of G.o.d Is on that soul. The darkness hideth not, Oh, Lord, from thee; night shineth as the day.

What weariness unspeakable is mine!

[He throws himself down on the bench in utter dejection. Suddenly he lifts his head--footsteps approach.]

SCENE III. [Enter ANSELM. At first, not aware of another's presence, he kneels before the Virgin's shrine, and mutters a short prayer in Latin. Then he arises and advances slowly, absorbed in meditation.]

ANSELM. This is the eve--the sacred eve of Christ.

The wind is wild, and stormy is the night, And yet methinks despite the elements A holy peace pervades the solemn world-- As when amid the hush of earthly strife The blessed Child was born.

[The Jew groans to himself, and the monk starts, then looks with half-seeing eyes.]

A stranger! Peace be unto you, my son, And may G.o.d's holy calm be yours amid The strife and turmoil of the outer world.

[AHASUERUS sits motionless. A bell sounds.]

The vespers ring. Come, join with me in prayer; Together let us reverence the G.o.d, The great all-Father, who sent unto us A little Child to lead us back to Him.