  A violent storm occurs and the vessel is wrecked. Krishna, having carefully noted the part that Paul takes in the rescue of the lives of all on board, and having noted besides the miracles performed by Paul on the island of Malta where they come safe to shore, brings himself to signify now his willingness to hear from Mary MagdalenÉ her story of Jesus Christ. A company assemble, including, with the Christians, Julius as well as Krishna, and Mary begins her narrative. This after a time is interrupted by a peremptory summons from Felix to Paul, to which Paul responds in person. SHIPWRECK. The south wind softly blew a favoring breeze As forth they put and stood for Italy: But that fair mother in her bosom bore Offspring of storm that hastened to the birth. For soon the fondling weather changed to fierce, And, blustering from the north, Euraquilo Beat down with all his wings upon the sea, Which under that rough brooding writhed in foam To whirlpool ready to engulf the ship. No momentary tempest swift as wild; But blast of winter wanting never breath Poured from all quarters of the sky at once And caught the vessel like a plaything up Hurling it hither and thither athwart the deep. The sails were rent and shredded from the masts; The boat, to be the hope forlorn of life, Was hardly come by, so the hungry wave Desired it as a morsel to its maw. The ship through all her timbers groaned and shrieked And all her joints seemed melting with the fray At their wits' end, those mariners distraught, Feeling the deck dissolve beneath their feet, With undergirding helped the anguished ship; While, worse than waters waiting to devour, A sea of quicksand seethed, they knew, full nigh. So the night fell but brought no stay to storm; Fresh fury rather every darkening hour. The dismal daylight dawned, and wind and wave, Gnashing white teeth of foam, all round the ship Howled like wild beasts defeated of their prey. Then, as to bait those monster ravening mouths, They portion of the lading overboard Fling, in the hope that lightened so the bark Springing more buoyant may outride the storm. But the storm thickened as the third day dawned, And not the crew alone but all on board Worked the ship's gear in the increasing gale. They thus bestead, the heavens above them lowered Day after day that neither sun nor stars One instant flickered in the firmament; Of day and night confounded in the gloom. Hope now went out, last light to leave the sky, Outburning sun and moon and star all quenched Before her in that drowning drench of dark— Hope too went out, touched by the hand of death. Then Paul stood forth, himself with fasting faint, Amid those famished faint despairing souls And upward reaching high his hand to heaven, There kindled once again the star of hope. Chiding them fairly that they did not heed His warning word betimes to shun that harm, He gave them cheer that they should yet escape, All should escape with life from this assay; Only the ship must suffer wreck and loss. "The angel of the Lord, that Lord," said Paul, "Whose with all joy I am and whom I serve, As ye have seen, with worship night and day, Stood by me in the night and said to me: 'Fear thou not, Paul; thou art to stand in Rome Before the bar of CÆsar; lo, thy God Hath to thee given all those that sail with thee.' Be of good cheer then, ye; for I believe Upon an island look to find us cast." Full fourteen days the ship went staggering on A helpless hulk amid the Adrian sea, When now the sailors, deeming that they neared Some coast-line, sounded in the midnight dark; Then farther drifting sounded once again To find themselves indeed upon the shoals. Here, fearing to be driven upon rocks, They anchored, and so waiting wished for day. And now a dastard thing those sailors schemed: Under pretext to cast one anchor more, As to that purpose they let down the boat, Minded therein to steal their own escape Leaving the rest to perish with the ship. But Paul perceived their fraud and subtlety And said to Julius with his soldiery; "Let those men go and ye cannot be saved;" Whereon the soldiers cut the lowering ropes, Sending the boat to surf and reef a prey. As broke the fourteenth morning yet forlorn, Paul, unconfessed the captain of the ship In the dim twilight of the struggling dawn Stood on the slippery deck amidst them all And stoutly cheered them to take heart of hope Break their long fast and brace themselves with food. "For not a hair shall fall from off the head Of any one of you," said he, and took Therewith himself, in act more eloquent Than spoken word, bread and gave thanks to God In presence of them all; then breaking it Forthwith began to eat; this heartened them That they likewise strengthened themselves with meat. Thus comforted, once more the laboring ship They lighten of her lading and the wheat Sow in the barren brine. The land descried They knew not, but there was no land unknown That were not better than that wallowing sea. So, cutting loose their anchors, they made sail And drove the vessel aground upon a beach, Where the keel plunged into the yielding sand Which closing heavy upon it held her fast; That soon atwain must break her in the midst. Hardness of habit and of discipline Partly, and partly a self-regarding fear Lest they be held to answer with their lives, If even amid the mortal panic pangs Of shipwreck they should let their charge escape, Made now those Roman soldiers, in the jaws Themselves yet of the common peril hung, Ready to put their prisoners to the sword; But Julius stayed them for the sake of Paul. "You that can swim," he shouted, "overboard!" Some thus, and some on spars buoyed up, and some On other floatage of the breaking wreck, They all got safe to shore, not one soul lost. The master of the rescue still was Paul; Calm, but alert, completely self-possessed— (Possessor of himself, yet not himself Considering, save to sacrifice himself Freely at need); his courage and his hope Inspiring hope and courage; self-command In him aweing the rest to self-command; His instinct instant and infallible Winds howling and sea heaving and strait room For nigh three hundred souls in face of death!— Each moment seeing ere the moment passed What the need was and what the measure meet To match it—that serene old man and high Was as an angel there descended who Could had he chosen at once have stayed the storm, But rather chose to wield it as he would. The captain of the vessel and the man Whose was the vessel, these, with Julius too, Roman centurion as he was in charge, Grouped themselves close by Paul and heard his word And had it heeded without stay by all. "I shall be last to leave the ship," Paul cried, "Do therefore ye the things that I advise. The women first. Lady Drusilla, thou Commit thyself to four picked sailors, these"— The master of the vessel chose them out— "Two soldiers with them—Julius, by thy leave And of thy choice—and on this ample spar And, Madam, thy little son shall go with thee." They lashed them to the timber, lowered it fair (With Felix desperately hugging it, The image of a sordid craven fear); The men detailed leapt overboard to it, And steering it as they could with feet and hands Let the sea wave on wave wash it ashore: She was indignant to be rescued so, But by abrupt necessity was tamed. "Let me, I pray thee, save thy sister, Paul," Said Sergius Paulus, who, assuming yea, Forthwith led Rachel—she with such a grace Of confidence in him as made him strong Following—to where a fragment of the deck Disjointed in the vessel's agony Lay loosened, which he clove and wrenched away; Then watching when the vessel listed right And the sea met it with a slope of wave, They, this beneath them, clinging to it, slid Down the steep floor into the frothing brine Stephen was by and helped them make the launch. Sergius, from the side opposite to her— Lest wanting balance it should overturn— Reaching across, kept Rachel's fingers clasped In hold upon the wavering wood, until, What with his oarage and the wash of waves, They found a melting foothold on the sand. Krishna stood wishing to be serviceable, And when to Aristarchus, stout and brave, Paul was commending Mary, at a look From the Indian that imported such desire, Leave was given him to undertake for Ruth. Each of the two life-savers rent a door From off its hinges and thereon secured The women awed in that extreme assay Yet girded to a constancy of calm, And, Stephen helping, lowered them to the deep. Krishna was let down after by a rope, No swimmer he, but Ruth too held the rope And drew him to the float whereon she tossed. Greek Aristarchus was a swimmer born And practised, and he plunged headforemost down, Soon to emerge with easy buoyancy And aim unerring true where Mary rode. Teaching the Indian how, and, with the rope Flung to his hand at his desire by Ruth And by him featly bound about his waist, Drawing the floatage forward, while his own He pushed with swimming—won their way to shore. Twice Aristarchus was, for stress of wave, Fain to release his hold upon his float, So fierce the tug, and sudden, at his waist; But he, by swimming and by seamanship Consummate joined to strength well-exercised, Strength by the exigence redoubled now, Both times regained it and thenceforward kept. Mary meanwhile, forsaken, faltered not; She felt the stay of other hands than his. All his advices and permissions Paul Put forth in such continuous sequence swift That well-nigh simultaneous all they seemed: The vessel swarmed with ordered movement mixed, And the sea lived with strugglers for the shore. Of all these only Simon had the cool Cupidity and temerity to risk In rescue from the wreck; he his loved gold, Ill-gotten gains of sorcery and of fraud, Secretly carried with him safe to land. Stephen did not lack helpers; Julius bade Varenus, of the soldiers, serve his wish; And Syrus, a young slave of Felix's, Sprang of his own free motion joyfully To help him pluck EunicÉ out of scath; For he had marked the youthful Hebrew pair With distant, upward-looking, loyal love Instinctive toward such virtue and such grace. But, "Nay," EunicÉ said, "not yet for me; See there those trembling creatures"—the hand-maids Of dame Drusilla—"rescue first for them!" On a good splinter of the tall curved stem— The sign of Ceres at the gilded beak— By the rude violence of the shock torn off When the ship grounded, they tied the two slave girls; But the shipmaster fair EunicÉ's act Of self-postponing nobleness admired, That beam life-laden soft into the sea Whither they, at the master's further word, Followed it, as with frolic leap to death, And brought it safely to the wave-washed shore. Then Stephen and EunicÉ, each to each As if in a symbolic bond of fate Linked, with a length of rope allowing play Between them for their wrestle with the surge, And having each in hold a wooden buoy Provided with what might be firmly grasped, Wieldy in size yet equal to support Them safe above the summits of the sea, Were lowered by eager volunteers who all Sped them to their endeavor for the land. They reached it and thanked God for life such prize. The soldiers that were bidden overboard To take their chance of swimming to the beach Bore with them lines which, stretched from ship to shore, Became the means of saving many souls; The most were thus, some buoyed on floats of wood, Landed at last—forlorn, but yet alive. Paul was not, as he had his will to be Announced, quite last to leave the breaking bark; Centurion Julius would not have it so. When all except the owner of the ship And the shipmaster and himself with Paul (And Luke, who would not quit the apostle's side) Were safe ashore, he intervened for Paul. Now so it was, the mast to which was tied The rescue-line beneath the strain gave way And fell with a great crash along the deck. On this those four made fast the brave old man Who with his counsel and his cheer had saved So many, counting not his own life dear But seen, the crisis of the need now past, Exhausted, tremulous, and nigh to sink. Then having with great strength—helped by a lurch That now the vessel seasonably gave— Pushed smoothly overboard the noble spar Entrusted with that treasure of a life, And having reached it, clung to it, and well Buoyed up upon its surging lift, were borne Themselves with Paul by urgent wind and wave Safe to the beach, where those arrived before Met them with outstretched arms and cheers and tears. The island of their refuge and escape Was Melita: the Melitans were kind, And though they spoke a tongue not understood By Hebrew, Greek, or Roman stranded there, And bore the name 'barbarian' from the Greek, Yet were they alien not; in deeds they used A universal language of the heart. Kindling a fire, most grateful—for the rain Fell drenching and the weather was windy cold— Those shipwrecked strangers all they entertained. Now so it happened that to Paul, he too Ranging to gather fuel where he could And fetching soon a fagot to the fire, Sudden there sprang a viper from the heat, Warmed from his winter dormancy to life, And angry fastened hanging on his hand. But here some murderer, saved in vain from death By shipwreck, now was suffering vengeance due. Paul lightly shook the deadly reptile off Into the flames and felt no harm. But they, The islanders, kept jealous watch to see The doomÉd victim of those fatal fangs Swell with the venom in his veins, or drop Haply at once a corpse upon the ground. After long disappointed watch, no sign Of hurt perceived in Paul, they changed their mind And said among themselves, "He is a god." The chief man of the island, Publius, Houses and lands possessing in those parts, Gave Paul and his companions welcoming cheer In three days' courteous hospitality— Not unrequited; for the father lay Wasting with fever and worse malady In the son's house; but Paul went in to him And prayed and laid his hands on him and he Was healed. Then others also of the sick Among the Melitans came and were healed. So Paul had honors from them thrust on him; To all, and when at last they left the isle They went thence laden with a plenteous store Bestowed of what they needed on their way. But all the winter long they tarried there, Waiting for spring to open up the sea; And many an hour was theirs for various talk, They fenced in sunny places from the wind Or grouped about their outdoor fires for cheer. The Indian Krishna, uncomplaining, bland, With that quick quiet eye which naught escaped And that deep-studying mind which rested never, Had slowly by degrees, considering all That Paul wrought or was wrought through Paul, been won— Against a passive incredulity Inert but stubborn and resistant still, The instinct and the habit of his mind— To judge that Jewish prisoner otherwise Than when he hearing Paul give his advice Unasked about the conduct of the voyage Had fixed on him the blame of meddlesome. He owned an awe of Paul's authority Of those that sailed with him; he shared the power Of hope and courage that went forth from Paul, His words, his deeds, and, more than either, himself. He did not quite escape some sense, inspired By Paul's thanksgiving when he broke the bread, Of other presence than Paul's own in Paul That lifted him to higher than himself. When he saw Paul from his uninjured hand Shake that fell viper off into the fire, He half-confusedly thought: 'That seems not strange; Our Indian serpent-charmers do as much.' But when those gifts of healing flowed from Paul, Not singly, but in troops of miracle Sufficing the whole island countryside, With only prayer and laying on of hands, Then at last Krishna said: 'I do not know, Is there some power in him greater than he? What power? Not Buddha, unconfessed, unknown, Yet willingly with that large tolerance his And bounty and sweet unconcern to claim Acknowledgement of his gifts, working in Paul Despite—nay, Buddha not, he long ago Though wisdom manifold. Yea, wisdom is, That know I, power; but not the converse holds, That power is wisdom; and pure power it is, Not wisdom, that in Paul these wonders works; No healing arts he uses, no medicine. Whence is the power? Or what? Is Christ the power?' In sequel of communings such as these Held with himself, Krishna recalled the thought Of the rejected proffer made him late By Paul, of Mary's story of the Christ. He now would hear it, if but still he might; And so one calm bright day when winter smiled As if in dream and vision of the spring, With proud repression of his natural pride He brought himself to say to Paul: "O Paul, If thy friend Mary MagdalenÉ yet Will deign so great a grace to me, who own My scant desert of it, I with all thanks Would hear her tell the story of her Lord," A group of those who, loving and honoring her, Loved from her lips again and yet again Of their belovÉd Lord, were gathered then, With Sergius Paulus welcomed of their band And Krishna and the kindly Julius too, In a recess sequestered of the shore Where the sun shining from the open south Made a sweet warmth at noon, and whence the sea, So capable of fierceness, now was seen With many-sparkling wavelets beautiful And gentle in demeanor as a lamb. Cast in no mould of outward loveliness To lure the eye, but of a native worth Such that her person noble seemed, and tall Her stature—all instinct with stately grace Her gesture and behavior—Mary sat That vernal winter noon amid her friends, Throneless and crownless, an unconscious queen: Yet over all in her that made her state Seem regal there presided the effect, Other and finer, of a lofty mind Arrived through sorrow to serenity, And in the heart of pathos finding peace. Such, Mary; who now thus took up her tale: Begins in shadow, shadow of shame for me; At least I feel it for a kind of shame To have been chosen of demons their abode; The recollection is a pang to me. I sometimes dare compare it in my mind With what Paul suffers"—and she glanced toward Paul A holy look of reverence understood— "'Thorn in the flesh,' he calls it, but my thorn, Within my spirit ra ther, rankles there, As messenger of Satan buffeting me Lest I should be exalted above measure— I, to whom Christ the Lord used first His voice Uttering that 'Mary!' when He from the dead Rose in His glory. Surely I well should heed How Mary, honored so, was the abode Once of seven demons. Why this should have been I cannot tell, unless to humble me. Sometimes my pride—or is it sense of worth, Sacred and not rebukable as pride?— Whispers me, 'Mary, thou wert therefore choice Of demons for their dwelling-place on earth, A refuge that should least resemble hell.' "Oh, how they rent me with their revelry, The hideous tumult of their joy in sin! And me they mixed up with their obscene mirth, Till half I doubted it was I myself Foaming my own shame out from helpless lips That blasphemed God, then laughed with ribald glee. I was not mistress of my mind or heart; Reason in me was a distracted realm, And will and conscience seemed like ships at sea Driven with fierce winds and tossed toward hopeless wreck. "I wonder at myself that I do not Fight against God who strangely suffered it. But, never, never! He suffers many things Strangely, but I, this is His grace in me, Bow down at all of them, saying, 'Amen!' The crown of all my reasons for believing That God is gracious, is that I believe. For why do I believe, except that He Makes me believe, against so many signs He is not good? O, ever-blessed God, Who let those demons seven take up in me Their lodgment, that they might be so dislodged! "On an accepted day for me the Lord Was passing through the city where I dwelt, And one that knew my miserable case Implored Him to have mercy upon me. He heard, He condescended, and He came. But how at His first footsteps of approach, How did those inmates evil within me rave! What riot, mixed of panic and despair And hatred! The whole land elect where Christ Upon this earth appeared, when He appeared Was rife with insurrection from the pit Mad in attempt against Him. So in souls Possessed by spirits from hell, if Christ drew nigh Outrageous spasms of futile fury raged. Those demons seven in me usurped me now With tenfold more abominable rape. They with my fingers clutched and tore my hair; Gnashed with my teeth, and flickered with my tongue; With foul grimace and execrable grin; In random jaculation hither and thither Flung my arms wildly like a windmill wrought To ruin in a whirlwind's vortices; Writhed all my bodily members, till I thought, With what of power to think was left to me, That surely nothing of corporeal mould Had strength enough of life to suffer more." While Mary MagdalenÉ told these things, Her noble face took on disfigurement Expressive of indignant horror and shame; And hardly had she been still beautiful But for a pathos fine of gratitude Tenderly crescent in it to the full, That all was of the past, no present pain, Naught but a memory! When her aspect cleared And she composedly went on again, It was as if the full moon late eclipsed With clouds rode from amid them forth serene In splendor, regent of the altered sky. "Those were the pangs of my deliverance, The throes of evil possession overcome. Rending me like a travail and a birth, They fled, and left me as one slain with wounds. But it was a delicious sense of death. I would be dead like that to be at peace! I hugged the death-like trance in which I lay, Until another word from the same voice Made it seem sweeter yet to live indeed. 'I say unto thee, Maid, arise!' I heard And I arose, obeying, I knew not how; It was as resurrection from the dead, Or first creation out of nothingness." The Indian bent on Mary telling all A fixed and eager heed that veiled itself, As wont was to this devotee of Buddh, Under a mask of face expressionless. He quenched in silence of quick second thought Impulses strong to speak and quit himself Of doubts and questions starting in his mind. He abode mute, and Mary, after pause Filled to each one with various thought, resumed "How glad was I, and grateful, when the Lord Permitted me, with other women too To follow, in the ways of Galilee, His footsteps as He went from place to place On His unending rounds of doing good! He had not where to lay His head, was poor Though making many rich; and it was joy Unspeakable to us to minister Out of our substance to His daily needs. 'Give to us day by day our daily bread,' The prayer was that He taught us. God through us Answered that prayer to Him and we were glad! "Not all those whom he cleansed of spirits foul Inhabiting and defiling them did He Permit to follow with Him as they wished. One man, perhaps as sorely vexed as I, Being healed, entreated leave to stay with Him. It may be there was some defect of faith, Whence fear in him lest he, not with the Lord, Might again be invaded by |
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