Twenty-five

Mary and Martha stood, trembling, looking out through the open door at the night, into which Lazarus and Judith had quickly disappeared. Finally, Martha went over to shut out the rain and the cold, and fetched a cloth to wipe the damp off the inside of the threshold. "He will return," she said as she bent down. "I know him. He has such fits of blindness upon occasion."

"I really think it would be better if he did not find me here when he comes back," said Mary, moving toward her room. Martha came up to her and, still holding the damp cloth, grasped her by the shoulders.

"Nonsense," she said. "Whether you are here or not, you are his sister, and all the world knows now that you are. He will have to learn to live with it, that is all. And I, for one, think that something like this may be the best thing that could have happened to him."

"The best thing?"

"Have you not seen? Even in this brief time? He would be perfectly willing to tolerate you as the world's greatest sinner, as long as no one knew of it. He is himself a good man; but he is so because he regards it as vulgar to do evil. Everything for him is appearance; he never concerns himself to find the reality behind it. For him, there is no reality behind it. He would reject the Master himself--the Prince foretold for centuries!--because he does not always wash his hands before he eats! No, because he has the reputation of not always washing his hands before he eats! I have tried to bring the Master here partly to see if I could make Lazarus realize that what people think matters nothing--and it has been a dismal failure. Up to now, he has simply looked upon him as if he were some kind of peculiar animal--a performing bear--at which one may laugh, but need not take seriously. Well, now he has found something he must take seriously."

Mary was silent.

Martha looked at her with love. "Now he must face the fact that his sister was a sinner, and an infamous sinner. A forgiven sinner. He will have to learn that appearances make no difference."

Mary's eyes flooded, and Martha became a blur. The hope that welled up in her overwhelmed her. "And you," she managed finally to say, "the fact that I was a sinner makes no difference to you? I did do the horrible things they said of me. I did worse, indeed. And the Master has told me that I have done even more evil than I myself realized." She hung her head as she thought of Jesus's prediction that one day she would see the bitter, bitter fruit of what she had done. Was this it?

"Do you remember the story you said Jesus told about the son who went away and spent all his money and then returned? I know now exactly how the father felt; I am so happy--so terribly happy--to have you back!" She embraced Mary, and the two of them burst into copious tears.

When they had returned to something approximating calm, Mary said, with a small touch of pride, "He told that story about me, you know. It was the morning after the night I joined the group. The night he forgave me. There were others--Chuza's Joanna among them--who were playing the part of the elder brother; Lazarus is not alone." She thought a moment. "It never occurred to me that the elder brother was meant literally in my case!" And she laughed through her tears.

"Did you really wash his feet with your tears?" asked Martha. "How did that happen? Tell me all about it."

"Oh yes. That is, I wept at his feet, and the tears drenched them; and when I saw that they had become wet and the dust on his feet had turned to mud, I dried them with the only thing I had--my hair--and poured a whole jar of oil of nard upon them! How absurd I must have looked!" She laughed and said, "I am sorry. It is anything but amusing, really, but I never thought before how it must have appeared," and went on to relate the whole episode from the first meeting with Jesus to the time she met Matthew, "What a kind, noble gentleman he is!" Martha interposed eager questions every now and then.

"How like him!" Martha said when she had heard it all. "But you were certainly right when you said you had a flair for the melodramatic. No wonder Lazarus was shocked if he heard all this!"

"I fear it might crush him. I really do."

"Do not concern yourself. I am sure the Master foresaw everything, and perhaps arranged it so that Lazarus could at last become the fine gentleman he is capable of being."

"I hope so. He told me that first morning when he mentioned you and your prayers for me--and thank you so much, Martha; I was lost so hopelessly, so . . . so irrevocably; I met him only because I was planning to use him to trick the demons in me into not attending as I threw myself off the cliff to my death; I had only just found out about them because--no, I cannot say it; I cannot even bear to think it! I cannot believe now that it was I who did it, but it was. But he said--how did he put it?--'Let us say it was arranged,' or some such expression."

"You see? And you doubt?"

"Oh, Martha, I so want to believe!"

"How can you not? You are here. You sound like that man Nathanael once told me about who wanted the Master to cure his son who was also possessed, 'if it was possible,' and he answered, 'Possible? Everything is possible to one who believes,' and he answered, 'Master, I believe! Help my unbelief!'"

"He as much as told me that also. I am to trust in him even for my belief."

"Well, then."

"I know not, perhaps it is because of the years and years of sin, but . . . but if he is to rescue me from my doubts, it will require something even greater than I have been through so far."

"I am certain that also can be arranged."

Lazarus did not, however, return the following day, as Martha had predicted, nor the day after that. Mary wanted to go looking for him, but Martha told her that she knew Lazarus, and seeking him would only make matters worse. But by the end of the second day, Mary could see that Martha also was becoming seriously concerned.

During that time in which they were alone together with only the servants, Mary could also see that Martha's brave statement that appearances made no difference and that she was nothing but happy to have Mary back was not quite so easy to put into practice as it was to affirm. Though she had realized before in a kind of abstract way that Mary's past had to have been unsavory, it nevertheless had come as a severe shock to find that her sister was a notorious sinner and corrupter of men.

It was manifest from her over-acceptance of Mary that she could not even begin to fathom how Mary could have done whatever she did; and because she could not understand it in the least, there was the half-conscious fear that perhaps Mary had not fully turned her back on her past--or perhaps that, like one who has succumbed too much to the allure of wine and recovered sobriety, some event or shock in the future might throw her back into her old life. She did not doubt Mary, exactly; but it was clear that she did not do so in much the way she believed in Jesus: because she would not doubt.

Mary loved her all the more for the heroic effort she was making, and would have given anything to be able to spare her any future pain. And if she left, for whatever reason, then she was certain that Martha would fear the worst, and spend her days and nights in anguished prayer for her soul. But even if she stayed, she could not be certain that her past would not overwhelm her once again. All that was necessary was for Judas to be willing. If he showed that he wanted her, anything could happen.

But whatever their relation with each other during those two days, the absence of Lazarus was the major thing on their minds. It became more and more intolerable not to know what was happening to him; and so that evening, Martha said that she thought she might go to the houses of some of his friends in case something untoward had happened to him while he was away. "Not that I fear anything," she temporized, "but one never does--"

At that moment, a frantic knock came, as if to make her words prophetic. With a start, she hastened to the door and flung it open, and there was a haggard Judith, catching her breath from running. Mary, close behind Martha, realized with a shock that she had not given a moment's thought to her.

As soon as Judith could breathe enough to speak, she shrieked, "You drive him out, and then cannot even take the trouble to find where he went in the cold and the rain! And he is dying, he is dying!, and neither of you have any concern about it at all!"

"What are you saying?" cried Mary, rushing to her and holding her by the shoulders. "Where is he?" Judith looked half mad.

"Take your filthy hands from me, you whore, you beast! He is dying and you killed him!" She struggled to free herself.

"Stop that!" shouted Mary, grasping her harder and shaking her with all her might. She began to weep uncontrollably. "My God!" she said. "She's in love with him!"

"What if I am?" she wailed. "He is too--"

"You fool!" she said, shaking her once again. "Do you not realize that he would never look at you? That he would never even notice that you existed?"

"Why should he? He is a great, good man, and I am--"

"Be quiet! You are twenty times as good as he! He is nothing but a snob!"

"You lie! You lie! And he is dying and you care not!"

"Listen to me! Listen! Where is he?"

"What do you care where he is? He--"

"Will you tell me where he is, or shall I shake your teeth out? Do not think I will not!" She was shaking her so violently now that it seemed as if her head would come off.

"Stop! Please!" she sobbed. Mary stopped. "He is in Zebediah's house! But he does not know I came to tell you. But he is so ill! But he would--"

"Be quiet!" And the girl collapsed weeping on the floor in front of Mary. Mary looked at Martha, who had been standing there by the open door, aghast, and said, "What shall we do? It may be nothing more than a cold; she is out of her mind with worry. But it could be serious."

"We must go to him."

"No!" cried Judith from the floor. "Zebediah will not let you in! He told him to keep you out!"

Mary felt an overwhelming urge to kick her. What business did she have entangling herself with such a poor excuse for humanity as Lazarus? And then Mary saw in a flash that it was all her fault; she and Martha had thrown the two of them together, never thinking that, though Lazarus was immune to her, she was in danger of falling in love with him.

She restrained herself, however, and, as Martha handed her her cloak, she said, "He will let me in!"

He almost did not. Mary, however, knew all about the kind of person Zebediah was, and when he tried to shut the door in her face, simply said in a voice full of authority and menace, "You will open to us or suffer consequences so dire that you can barely guess at them." She looked him full in the eye and added, "I do not make idle threats."

He blanched. "He is no longer conscious," and then half-cringing and half-indignant, "but he told me that he wanted absolutely nothing to do with either of you, and especially you; and I would not violate the wishes of an extremely sick ma--"

"Did he tell you what I had done," asked Mary, "or why he refused to see us?"

"No."

"Then perhaps you would like the world to know it? I can prove certain things."

Zebediah saw what she was implying, and nearly fainted. Then he said, "Well, of course, you are his closest relatives, and of course he is not conscious now, and actually he was hardly in his right mind when he came here . . ." The sentence trailed off into nothing.

"Then we are wasting time. Let us see him."

It was far worse than Mary had expected. His face was scarlet, and when she laid a hand on his brow, it was almost as if she had burned it. "Put him into cold water!" she said. "At once! Quickly!" She looked around. "Is there a stream by the house?"

"No!" cried Judith. "It will kill him! You are trying to kill him!" She grasped at Mary's arm to pull her away.

"Be still!" she said, shaking Judith off. "We must get his fever down, or he will be dead within the hour!"

Clumsily, with the help of Zebediah's slave, they took him out to the back of the house and laid him, clothes and all, in the small stream. Judith sat on the bank, wringing her hands and weeping.

Mary said to Martha, "Even if this makes the fever abate, it looks very serious. Two days ago, or even yesterday, I might have been able to do something. I know something of herbs. --It should have occurred to me that something like this might have happened! Is there a willow tree nearby?" Zebediah nodded. "Strip off some bark; we will boil it. It sometimes helps."

"I was a fool!" said Martha, as Zebediah sent the slave off with a knife. "I was so certain that he was simply trying to spite us that I did not want to give him the satisfaction of going to him! I knew he would--I thought Zebediah would be taking care of him."

"I was!" he wailed. "I tried to--everything in my power! But he would not dry himself! He ran about the room like a crazy man shouting mad things against you and against Jesus--against everyone! Finally, he exhausted himself and simply fell into bed with his wet clothes still on; and he would wake and scream and then fell back asleep, only to wake again, screaming! It was not my fault; I tried to send for you, but he made me swear that I would not go to you no matter what happened, that he would die fir--"

"What difference does it make whose fault it was?" cried Judith. "You are all to blame! All of you! And he is dying! What are you going to do? Save him!"

Mary was bending over, feeling his brow. "He is cooler," she said, when he began to shake violently. "Help me take him out and bring him back inside. This is harmful now. Let us hope the willow brew will do some good." As she and Zebediah, and the slave, who had returned with strips of bark, lifted him out, she breathed, "Oh, God, help us! Please!"

As they dried him off and laid him in the bed once again, Mary went to the fire, where fortunately some water had been boiling, and threw the bark into the kettle. "I know not if we can make him swallow it in the condition he is in," she said. "But I cannot think of anything else, except to keep him cool."

Martha looked at him, tossing in agony on the bed, and turned suddenly to Judith. "Find Jesus!" she said. "Tell him that the one he loves is sick, and that unless he comes to cure him, he will die! Run! I think I heard that he was over across the Jordan where John used to be; if so, it is half a day away, so hasten!" Judith ran off.

She turned to Mary, who had come in with a draught. "There is no need to worry," she said. "He has done so much for so many people. He will not let Lazarus die."

Mary only said, "Do you think he is conscious enough so that we can make him drink some of this?" The two women bent over him to prop him up and see if they could make him swallow, while Mary silently said within herself, "Master, if you are what you say you are--if you are God--then you can hear me now. This man, your friend, has become sick because of my sins. You forgave my sins; do not let him suffer for them. If you are God, come and cure my brother as you cured my sins. I will then know that you are the Son of God, and I will believe in you."

Whether because of the immersion in the stream, or because of the willow concoction, or simply because that was the way of this fever, Lazarus did not die that day, and his fever went down somewhat. He fell into a fitful sleep. Eventually, that evening, Judith came back, and said that she had found Jesus, and that he had thanked her for the message. She supposed he would arrive the next morning, and had run on ahead to tell them. If they could hold out till then, everything would be all right.

And the fever did not increase during the night, not even in the dying hour, when it was most dangerous. It did not go down farther, however, and Mary knew that it could flare up again. She prayed, still, to Jesus, but now with more confidence.

All three of the women stayed with him that night, and finally toward morning, after the dying hour had passed without incident, Mary ordered Judith to sleep, since it was obvious that she had been awake for days. She protested, but was in fact falling asleep sitting by the bed; and was persuaded when Mary told her kindly that she would wake her if Lazarus showed signs of regaining consciousness, so that she could be there alone with him before he had a chance to see that his sisters were there. All three feared a relapse if he became excited. Besides, she added, Jesus would soon arrive. Judith left.

But the moments went by, and Jesus did not come. The sky grew bright, and Jesus had not appeared. It seemed incredible that he would have postponed travel until the morning, but as the day wore on, that seemed the only possible explanation.

And as the morning advanced, Lazarus' breathing became more labored, and his cheeks again lit up with the fire of the fever. They could not wake him enough for him to swallow any of the willow concoction, and their attempts to revive him only made him worse. Judith awoke and came in to look at him with eyes wide with fear.

In the early afternoon, when Jesus certainly would have arrived, Mary turned to Judith and snapped, "Are you sure he said he would come?"

"He did not say so, Miss," she said with agony in her voice, "but of course I thought that . . . I told him that Lazarus was very sick, and that he would die unless he came."

"Are you sure he understood?"

"I told him, Miss! How could I not?"

"Where can he be?"

Lazarus groaned, and Martha felt his forehead once again. It is worse than yesterday!" she exclaimed. "We must take him to the stream again!"

They laid him in the water, but this time there was no abatement, and he shivered so violently in the cold of the stream that they agreed that they were merely torturing him to no purpose; so they brought him in again, breathing harder than ever. As they waited, helpless, Mary breathed her prayer to Jesus over and over again.

An hour later, Lazarus died.

Next