Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
In the spectacle of a great assemblage of people there are always the
bewilderment and fascination one feels while looking over a stretch of
sea in agitation, and never had this one been exceeded; yet Ben-Hur
gave it but a passing glance, for that which was going on in the space
described would permit no division of his interest.
Up on the knoll so high as to be above the living wall, and visible
over the heads of an attending company of notables, conspicuous because
of his mitre and vestments and his haughty air, stood the high priest.
Up the knoll still higher, up quite to the round summit, so as to be
seen far and near, was the Nazarene, stooped and suffering, but silent.
The wit among the guard had complemented the crown upon his head by
putting a reed in his hand for a sceptre. Clamors blew upon him like
blasts—laughter—execrations—sometimes both together indistinguishably.
A man—ONLY a man, O reader, would have charged the blasts with the
remainder of his love for the race, and let it go forever.
All the eyes then looking were fixed upon the Nazarene. It may have
been pity with which he was moved; whatever the cause, Ben-Hur was
conscious of a change in his feelings. A conception of something better
than the best of this life—something so much better that it could serve
a weak man with strength to endure agonies of spirit as well as of
body; something to make death welcome—perhaps another life purer than
this one—perhaps the spirit-life which Balthasar held to so fast, began
to dawn upon his mind clearer and clearer, bringing to him a certain
sense that, after all, the mission of the Nazarene was that of guide
across the boundary for such as loved him; across the boundary to where
his kingdom was set up and waiting for him. Then, as something borne
through the air out of the almost forgotten, he heard again, or seemed
to hear, the saying of the Nazarene,
“I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.”
And the words repeated themselves over and over, and took form, and the
dawn touched them with its light, and filled them with a new meaning.
And as men repeat a question to grasp and fix the meaning, he asked,
gazing at the figure on the hill fainting under its crown, Who the
Resurrection? and who the Life?
“I AM,”
the figure seemed to say—and say it for him; for instantly he was
sensible of a peace such as he had never known—the peace which is the
end of doubt and mystery, and the beginning of faith and love and clear
understanding.
From this dreamy state Ben-Hur was aroused by the sound of hammering.
On the summit of the knoll he observed then what had escaped him
before—some soldiers and workmen preparing the crosses. The holes for
planting the trees were ready, and now the transverse beams were being
fitted to their places.
“Bid the men make haste,” said the high-priest to the centurion.
“These”—and he pointed to the Nazarene—“must be dead by the going-down
of the sun, and buried that the land may not be defiled. Such is the
Law.”
With a better mind, a soldier went to the Nazarene and offered him
something to drink, but he refused the cup. Then another went to him
and took from his neck the board with the inscription upon it, which he
nailed to the tree of the cross—and the preparation was complete.
“The crosses are ready,” said the centurion to the pontiff, who
received the report with a wave of the hand and the reply,
“Let the blasphemer go first. The Son of God should be able to save
himself. We will see.”
The people to whom the preparation in its several stages was visible,
and who to this time had assailed the hill with incessant cries of
impatience, permitted a lull which directly became a universal hush.
The part of the infliction most shocking, at least to the thought, was
reached—the men were to be nailed to their crosses. When for that
purpose the soldiers laid their hands upon the Nazarene first, a
shudder passed through the great concourse; the most brutalized shrank
with dread. Afterwards there were those who said the air suddenly
chilled and made them shiver.
“How very still it is!” Esther said, as she put her arm about her
father’s neck.
And remembering the torture he himself had suffered, he drew her face
down upon his breast, and sat trembling.
“Avoid it, Esther, avoid it!” he said. “I know not but all who stand
and see it—the innocent as well as the guilty—may be cursed from this
hour.”
Balthasar sank upon his knees.
“Son of Hur,” said Simonides, with increasing excitement—“son of Hur,
if Jehovah stretch not forth his hand, and quickly, Israel is lost—and
we are lost.”
Ben-Hur answered, calmly, “I have been in a dream, Simonides, and heard
in it why all this should be, and why it should go on. It is the will
of the Nazarene—it is God’s will. Let us do as the Egyptian here—let us
hold our peace and pray.”
As he looked up on the knoll again, the words were wafted to him
through the awful stillness—
“I AM THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE.”
He bowed reverently as to a person speaking.
Up on the summit meantime the work went on. The guard took the
Nazarene’s clothes from him; so that he stood before the millions
naked. The stripes of the scourging he had received in the early
morning were still bloody upon his back; yet he was laid pitilessly
down, and stretched upon the cross—first, the arms upon the transverse
beam; the spikes were sharp—a few blows, and they were driven through
the tender palms; next, they drew his knees up until the soles of the
feet rested flat upon the tree; then they placed one foot upon the
other, and one spike fixed both of them fast. The dulled sound of the
hammering was heard outside the guarded space; and such as could not
hear, yet saw the hammer as it fell, shivered with fear. And withal not
a groan, or cry, or word of remonstrance from the sufferer: nothing at
which an enemy could laugh; nothing a lover could regret.
“Which way wilt thou have him faced?” asked a soldier, bluntly.
“Towards the Temple,” the pontiff replied. “In dying I would have him
see the holy house hath not suffered by him.”
The workmen put their hands to the cross, and carried it, burden and
all, to the place of planting. At a word, they dropped the tree into
the hole; and the body of the Nazarene also dropped heavily, and hung
by the bleeding hands. Still no cry of pain—only the exclamation
divinest of all recorded exclamations,
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
The cross, reared now above all other objects, and standing singly out
against the sky, was greeted with a burst of delight; and all who could
see and read the writing upon the board over the Nazarene’s head made
haste to decipher it. Soon as read, the legend was adopted by them and
communicated, and presently the whole mighty concourse was ringing the
salutation from side to side, and repeating it with laughter and
groans,
“King of the Jews! Hail, King of the Jews!”
The pontiff, with a clearer idea of the import of the inscription,
protested against it, but in vain; so the titled King, looking from the
knoll with dying eyes, must have had the city of his fathers at rest
below him—she who had so ignominiously cast him out.
The sun was rising rapidly to noon; the hills bared their brown breasts
lovingly to it; the more distant mountains rejoiced in the purple with
which it so regally dressed them. In the city, the temples, palaces,
towers, pinnacles, and all points of beauty and prominence seemed to
lift themselves into the unrivalled brilliance, as if they knew the
pride they were giving the many who from time to time turned to look at
them. Suddenly a dimness began to fill the sky and cover the earth—at
first no more than a scarce perceptible fading of the day; a twilight
out of time; an evening gliding in upon the splendors of noon. But it
deepened, and directly drew attention; whereat the noise of the
shouting and laughter fell off, and men, doubting their senses, gazed
at each other curiously: then they looked to the sun again; then at the
mountains, getting farther away; at the sky and the near landscape,
sinking in shadow; at the hill upon which the tragedy was enacting; and
from all these they gazed at each other again, and turned pale, and
held their peace.
“It is only a mist or passing cloud,” Simonides said soothingly to
Esther, who was alarmed. “It will brighten presently.”
Ben-Hur did not think so.
“It is not a mist or a cloud,” he said. “The spirits who live in the
air—the prophets and saints—are at work in mercy to themselves and
nature. I say to you, O Simonides, truly as God lives, he who hangs
yonder is the Son of God.”
And leaving Simonides lost in wonder at such a speech from him, he went
where Balthasar was kneeling near by, and laid his hand upon the good
man’s shoulder.
“O wise Egyptian, hearken! Thou alone wert right—the Nazarene is indeed
the Son of God.”
Balthasar drew him down to him, and replied, feebly, “I saw him a child
in the manger where he was first laid; it is not strange that I knew
him sooner than thou; but oh that I should live to see this day! Would
I had died with my brethren! Happy Melchior! Happy, happy Gaspar!”
“Comfort thee!” said Ben-Hur. “Doubtless they too are here.”
The dimness went on deepening into obscurity, and that into positive
darkness, but without deterring the bolder spirits upon the knoll. One
after the other the thieves were raised on their crosses, and the
crosses planted. The guard was then withdrawn, and the people set free
closed in upon the height, and surged up it, like a converging wave. A
man might take a look, when a new-comer would push him on, and take his
place, to be in turn pushed on—and there were laughter and ribaldry and
revilements, all for the Nazarene.
“Ha, ha! If thou be King of the Jews, save thyself,” a soldier shouted.
“Ay,” said a priest, “if he will come down to us now, we will believe
in him.”
Others wagged their heads wisely, saying, “He would destroy the Temple,
and rebuild it in three days, but cannot save himself.”
Others still: “He called himself the Son of God; let us see if God will
have him.”
What all there is in prejudice no one has ever said. The Nazarene had
never harmed the people; far the greater part of them had never seen
him except in this his hour of calamity; yet—singular contrariety!—they
loaded him with their curses, and gave their sympathy to the thieves.
The supernatural night, dropped thus from the heavens, affected Esther
as it began to affect thousands of others braver and stronger.
“Let us go home,” she prayed—twice, three times—saying, “It is the
frown of God, father. What other dreadful things may happen, who can
tell? I am afraid.”
Simonides was obstinate. He said little, but was plainly under great
excitement. Observing, about the end of the first hour, that the
violence of the crowding up on the knoll was somewhat abated, at his
suggestion the party advanced to take position nearer the crosses.
Ben-Hur gave his arm to Balthasar; yet the Egyptian made the ascent
with difficulty. From their new stand, the Nazarene was imperfectly
visible, appearing to them not more than a dark suspended figure. They
could hear him, however—hear his sighing, which showed an endurance or
exhaustion greater than that of his fellow-sufferers; for they filled
every lull in the noises with their groans and entreaties.
The second hour after the suspension passed like the first one. To the
Nazarene they were hours of insult, provocation, and slow dying. He
spoke but once in the time. Some women came and knelt at the foot of
his cross. Among them he recognized his mother with the beloved
disciple.
“Woman,” he said, raising his voice, “behold thy son!” And to the
disciple, “Behold thy mother!”