Four

walking through the new moonlight toward the cliff overlooking the road, Mary began more and more to feel that throwing herself down to her death was out of the question, and a fool's dream. The very familiarity of the walk, and its destination--a new man--caused the anguish of the preceding day to fade away into the habit of the present. This was what she had always done, and what she would always do.

If, as some of the priests said, there was a life after death, she would spend eternity doing just this: ever walking hopefully toward what she knew was hopeless, anticipating a new adventure which she knew would be the same sordid torture, the same tedium, ever seeking something she knew not what and ever finding the same loathsome answer to her quest--ever knowing that even could it be different, she would choose to make it the same. The long shadows of the moonlit trees she passed confirmed her, somehow.

It was impossible to imagine how some received consolation from the thought that life did not end with death. What could it be but either more of the same life that had been chosen--and who ever chose anything but a life or more or less quiet despair?--or a life so totally different that one would not recognize oneself, and would only long to return to the life of despair which had, after all, been freely chosen as one's own.

Still, the thought of ending it was out of the question, when it came to the issue. It simply would not happen at the moment of crisis when the choice had to be made or lost forever, because habit and instinct were too strong to fight against. How well she knew this, both in herself and in everyone she met!

So she would see that prophet tonight--or she would not. If not, she would, she supposed, return home. If she did, she would perhaps intend to kill herself, but would postpone throwing herself off the cliff until she saw him and discovered whether he would look at her or not. If he did not, it would be too late, and she would, she supposed, return home. If he did, a meeting would be silently arranged, then and there--and it would be too late, and she would return home. And there she would wait either until he came, or until she could discover more about him from Simon, who would be due to arrive soon; it had been more than a week, and he was incapable of doing without seeing her much longer.

The picture of Simon entering the house filled her with such revulsion that she determined that nothing would prevent her from killing herself this night, come what may. Suppose that thing within her had been Simon's son--as well it might have been! It was not to be tolerated. Not to be thought. Everything must stop somehow tonight.

. . . How had she got herself into such a state, she wondered. Life once was full of anticipation, she could recall in an abstract way, though to summon it up again was impossible. It even seemed as if there once had been things that she rejoiced over.

Mary laughed aloud as she walked through the moonlight and the shadows, startling an owl into a panicky flight. Yes, there were things she rejoiced over once, and the main thing was her emerging maturity; and the anticipation was the anticipation of the very thing that she was now going to kill herself to put a stop to.

That first night--the night of the beginning of this hideous existence--was a night like this, it occurred to her, with the moon almost full (though it was waning then, not waxing as now), and there were the soft shadows from the fig-trees and cedars to hide her movements, without plunging her into the terror of total, inky darkness. Then she was going into the unknown--as she was now, if her intentions were to be fulfilled, though she felt recede from her once again the notion that she would actually bring herself to do it. Then, she was looking forward with fear and desire; now the fear had nothing of desire attached to it, and was closer to total dread: dread of success and dread of failure. There was joy then; joy and hope. How unthinkable!

And how much she thought she knew then, that evening, and what a fool she was! She had just discovered that when one swung one's hips as one walked, the men would stop and look at one, sometimes even turn quite around--and then one could make them blush with embarrassment by glaring indignantly back. Here was power, she felt, and she felt it to be good, and it pleased her to play the game often and often.

Her mother caught her at it once, and scolded her in a shocked voice, which made her inwardly laugh. What harm could come of such a pastime?

And even Zebediah the Pharisee and leader of the little community in Bethany, had looked at her once as she walked by; but he did not blush as she looked at him with scorn. He stared sternly at her, and she grew frightened, and knew now, as she did not from her mother, that she had done wrong--as she now saw she had always known, somehow.

He came up to speak to her.

"Something there is that you do not understand, child," he said; and she heard his words like the tassels at the bottom of his cloak. Yet he seemed as if he were only feigning anger, and wanted to tell her something. She began to listen. ". . . do not realize what you do to others. You are not aware of what might happen if the wrong man were to see you at this game of yours. Your parents have warned you, I am sure; but you are one who needs a clearer lesson than from one in the family.

"Meet me over there by the terebinth tonight after moonrise, and I will explain things to you." And he put his hand under her chin and the soft skin of his fingers sent a shock through her as he lifted up her face until she was looking him straight in the eyes. And the look there was not a look she had ever seen before, but it was a look that something in her recognized. It turned her into water; and she shyly nodded that she would meet him, and she knew with a greater clarity than the light at the center of the sun that the last thing she should do was to go to him under the terebinth that night--that he was the wrong person he was warning her against.

He saw what she was thinking, as her eyes dropped; but he held her chin until she looked back up at him. Then he smiled at her, but with the same eyes, and said, "Smile."

And instead of dropping her eyes again, she looked into his, smiling also, and felt the look from his eyes creep into her own. They stood silently, smiling at one another, understanding each other.

"You will be there?" he said at last.

She tried to answer, and no sound came, and finally said, "Yes," in a whisper. And he released her, and walked on as if nothing had happened.

She ran home and shut herself into her room all afternoon, to the consternation of little Martha, who wanted to play. She told her to stop banging on the door, that she was ill; and indeed she was, torn in sunder by fear and desire and guilt and hope and embarrassment and self-hatred and a sense of power and an exaltation beyond anything she had ever thought possible.

She could not picture what would happen, but she knew it would be as tremendous as death; but it would be life--a new life--a turning of life's direction so that nothing would be the same afterwards, ever again.

At dinner, she could hardly lie down at the table. Even her father remarked that she was fidgeting, as he passed by while the women were eating.

Her mother looked at her, her long thin face with the over-prominent nose making everything she did seem like a reproach. She remembered to have wondered how people's spirit translated itself so well to their faces--and now laughed as she recalled it. "In that case, I should be one of the holy ones of old," she said to herself.

But her mother's voice was kind, this once, as if understanding. "You seem feverish. Have you been eating figs again? You know what they do to your cheeks."

"I am not well," she had said with a touch of resentment. "I think I will go to bed after dinner." If her mother's neglect of her while she took care of the poor of Bethany was hard to bear, it was worse when she paid attention to her; because then all she ever received was advice, never sympathy.

"That is unfair!" cried Martha. "She was lying down all afternoon, and she had promised that when she got home, she would play Pipers and Dancers with me."

"Martha," said the mother in that tone of Reason speaking to wilful stupidity, "you cannot expect a person who is ill to be playing games. There are things you do not understand as yet; but you will know them in a year or two." She looked a question at Mary, to see if perhaps the problem was Mary's emerging maturity, not figs--which opened Mary's eyes to why her mother was being so gentle--and since any explanation of what she actually felt was out of the question, she nodded.

"What can I not understand?" asked Martha. "I am as smart as she!"

"I know, my dear, I know," said her mother. "Some day I will explain it all to you. But not now."

"Why not now?"

"Because it is not something that one discusses at dinner. Eat your lentils."

"But I want to--"

"May I go now?" asked Mary. "I can eat no more."

Her mother was so relieved that Mary had shut off Martha's protest that she did not even reprimand her for interrupting. "Is there something I can do?" she asked, expecting to be told that there was nothing, and receiving the expected reply as Mary rose and returned to her room to resume her glorious anguish as she waited for the darkness and the moonrise. What a joy to begin her new life, and free oneself of this eternal squabbling over nothing!

They never said anything that mattered. Martha was too young, and her mother too old; and her father, it seemed, never said anything at all, and merely went through the house looking half bewildered and half defeated. She had seen him once in Jerusalem in his banker's stall, and had scarcely recognized him, he was so different: confident, loquacious, and in control of things. At home, he said never a word, even when his mother tried to provoke him by retailing at great length the sufferings and inconveniences she had to put up with for his sake.

Mary would have liked to talk to her father and come to know what he was really like--and when he held her, she could tell that he would like to talk to her, except that he did not seem to know how. He would just hold her and look into her eyes with joy mingled with wonder and awe.

It was enough, most of the time. But sometimes she needed a person to talk to, as she did now. If she could talk to someone, she might be able to bring herself to do what she knew she ought to do. Her father would listen to her, even now, she was sure; and this was all she would need. But how could she bring up the subject of her most intimate temptations at this late date, she who had never said anything but the most superficial nonsense to him--while he had never, apparently at least, invited any confidence? She felt that he was wise and knew that he was kind, and was sure that he would be able to help her; but the door to him was as securely bolted as the door to her own room now was, and the bolt was on the other side--to be opened if she knocked, she felt; and she rose to go to him--and then in despair returned to her bed.

For an instant, the thought of going to her mother flitted through her mind, driven there by the realization that she must go to someone. But just as quickly it vanished as she pictured herself beginning to tell her, and receiving reproaches for provoking "that good man," and a crushing weight of advice on how to avoid such situations in the future. She knew very well how to do so; the question was not a matter of information, but of ability. Her mother knew the answers, but the answers, by and large, to life's serious problems were obvious. What she needed was--what? Someone to hold her and simply listen and let her talk until it was too late to meet Zebediah. Someone to console her with the thought that whatever it was that Zebediah was to show her would be shown in time without the evil she knew was to attend it this night.

Of course there was Lazarus. Dear older brother Lazarus! He would understand, of a certainty--and instead of holding her and listening to her, he would lock her in her room tonight, saying brave words as he did so about how he would discover and pummel the villain who dared to take advantage of her--being careful not to find out who it was. What a shock to him if he knew that Zebediah was the one!

Of course, the difficulty with this was that she did not really think she was going to mind being taken advantage of--and if Lazarus or anyone else were to presume to lock her in, this would only stimulate her to find a way out, if not tonight, then for some other meeting, which surely would be not difficult to arrange. It was not as if Zebediah were seizing her and dragging her off to the shadow of that tree; he had in fact merely responded to an invitation she had given him, when it came to that. And she would either go or not go tonight of her own free will.

As she reflected on this, she convinced herself that she had convinced herself that she would not go. But she saw the silver glow of the moon rising over the hill to the southeast, and as it grew and grew, there grew and grew within her the certainty that if she did not go, she would never afterwards be able to tell herself that she could not help it--because she would have helped it--which meant that the next time, she would have to refuse also, and all the other times, and would never know what Zebediah meant. Which might after all be perfectly good and even noble; he was the religious leader of Bethany, was he not? It was amazing how easy it was to stifle the absolute certitude that there was nothing good about this.

She slipped silently out of the window, which fortunately gave on the outside, not a courtyard as so many houses nowadays did, and just as luckily was shaded by a huge oak, which allowed her to gain the other side of the field without much danger of being seen.

Her heart was beating so loudly that she thought that even at this distance someone in the house might hear and pursue her; but though she could feel the pounding in the veins behind her ears as if she had been running all evening, she knew that the sound was all inside her, mingling with the amazing turmoil of her emotions; and she sped to the place where she had left Zebediah so many years ago that very afternoon.

The shadow of the trunk of the terebinth tree was too thick to be simply the trunk. She turned as was about to flee; but having come this far, she hesitated, half deciding to see it through. She approached a few steps, and the shadow moved slightly. She turned once again, and then looked back. Now it was two shadows; the trunk of the tree, and a man. He stood there, not moving at all.

Then, somehow, she was there in the shadow of the tree with him, all the while turning within herself in an attempt to go back, and finding herself taking another step forward. He held out his hand, and she almost escaped, and would have if he had lunged at her; but he moved slowly, and his voice was kind as he said, "Do not be afraid. I merely wish to show you what might happen if you are too forward in front of men. Are you afraid?"

She nodded.

He held her again under the chin again, and she felt his hand, and in the deep shadows, he looked into her eyes, and she could see his eyes. She could not see the smile, but she felt it. She tried to return it, but was too frightened.

"You see," he said. "You are terrified, even with me. For you know by instinct that you awaken desires in men. They want to put their arms around you." She felt his hand move across her back, "Thus." It was as if his hand were branding her--as, somehow, it was.

"They want to hold you close to them," he said, and pressed himself gently against her, and she felt for the first time a man's maleness against her, and as she recoiled from it, since it did not seem the least gentle, he said, "Do not be afraid." They stood so, in silence for a time.

"I am merely showing you," he said breathily, as he released her from his embrace, keeping his hands on her shoulders. "It is not what you thought, is it?" She shook her head as well as she could, since she did not seem to have control over her movements.

"I cannot show you more, unless you allow me to hold you again," he said, swallowing, which made her own throat close. She made the vaguest of gestures toward him, and he now wrapped both his arms around her, and now that the surprise had worn off, it was mysterious and wonderful, as she had suspected. Her mouth dropped open so that she could breathe, and he released one hand and drew it to his own mouth, and she let him, and she felt his mouth, and now was not able to breathe. And she felt his tongue, and recoiled again.

"Do you see?" he said, barely able to speak. "It is not pleasant, is it? But it is strong, it is strong. And they might do this to you suddenly, and even more strongly, and not gently, as I do; for I am merely showing you what might happen, so that you will know why you must avoid it."

And then she realized that it was indeed strong, strong as unmixed wine, and she wanted it again, and moved her face to indicate that she wanted it again, and he favored her, more strongly, and she wanted it ever more strongly and returned to him what he was doing to her; and they remained so for some time.

And then he led her to the thicket behind the tree, and they sat down on the grass in the shelter of the bushes, and he showed her some of what men do with their hands; and at first she minded, but then she wished he would continue.

And then he showed her his maleness, and she was terrified; but then he made her explore it with her hands; and she overcame her disgust and did as he told, while he made small animal noises, which stabbed her to the soul somehow, and the very disgust became a thing of desire, and something beautiful; and she lay back in exhaustion with the pleasure of disgust.

And then he showed her other things; and finally he made her reveal herself to him in all her femaleness, and his hands explored all of her femaleness; and he revealed his whole self to her, and guided her hands over his whole being; and they enjoyed each other thus for a long time.

And at last he showed her what the truth was--and it was not beautiful, it was not strong, it was violent, it hurt with a pain she could not have imagined from the heavenly prologue, and he became a raging beast, and the animal sounds became feral, and he began to tear her apart inside. And she screamed in pain, and tried to push his smothering body off her; and he thought that they were screams of pleasure and that she was responding to his needs, and he continued and continued, biting her as well--and finally with a prolonged cry of agony, released her and fell back panting.

She was sobbing uncontrollably.

"You see," she said when he had finally recovered his breath, and begun to put his clothes back on, "it is not something that one should seek lightly. If I had been another man, eaten up by desire, it would have been much more violent, and even unpleasant. Perhaps I should have made it so, to discourage you further from awakening such desires in men. But I would not be cruel to you; you did not realize what you were doing. There is even more, which I could have shown you--" She shuddered.

"--but not tonight. You now feel repulsion and disgust, which was what I intended, so that you will learn to stop enticing men. If you should feel tempted to do so again, however," and he looked down at her with a face that made it clear that he knew that it was only a matter of time until she did feel tempted again, "then to further restrain you I will be willing to meet with you once again to show you what else you will be bringing upon yourself by your evil ways."

With that, he smiled on her as a father smiles upon a wayward daughter who has been taught a lesson, and went away justified.

Mary saw through this at once, even before he began his sermon. She knew with perfect, absolute clarity what had happened, what he had done to her, and why he had done it; and she was just as pellucidly aware that he had spoken as much to convince himself as her, that he had in fact no care for her at all, but was telling himself--and believing it! And believing it! She could see that he believed it!--that she was the guilty one and that he had been performing an act of charity!

And she was powerless! Powerless! He had ruined her, and had shifted the blame to her, and there was nothing that she could do to forestall it, except be silent and bear the shame! And she even dimly saw that after the shame had worn off, she would return, for him to "show" her more, and he would do so once again, and go away righteous in his own eyes once again, leaving all the blame for her to bear, knowing that she would not dare to reveal what had happened!

She would have killed herself on the spot, if she could have done so in such a way as to implicate him in her murder. But he would still be alive in any case, and only if he could die horribly and slowly, only if he could suffer some agony like crucifixion and hang for days and days pleading for a swallow of water to choke him and end the torment, only then would she consider dying herself.

"He must suffer!" she said. "I will make him suffer as he has never suffered! I care nothing for what happens to me now, but let him suffer! God Almighty Lord, if I cannot kill him this night, I curse you as worse than this pig's dropping! You will let me kill him or I will tear your world apart!"

She ranted incoherently as she dressed, and, hardly able to see from her fury, she dashed off across the field in the dead of night, caring nothing for whether anyone saw her or not.

Without realizing where she was going, she saw after a few moments that she was running in the direction of his house, where he must have gone after leaving her--gone to the comfort of his Roman-style villa on the edge of Bethany, with its rooms built around a courtyard. Perhaps she could arrive as he went in the door and tear his eyes out, screaming to everyone what he had done to her. She would--She could not imagine a torment horrible enough. Perhaps she could find fire somewhere and burn his eyes out, and then set his house aflame and throw him into it, and listen to him shriek with pain.

She suddenly looked up through the red haze of her thoughts and saw that somehow she had already arrived at the house, and there was no sign of life. He must not yet have arrived. Then she would come out to greet him--and there must be a fire alive somewhere there inside.

Since she did not know how much time had elapsed, the thought then occurred to her that perhaps he had already come, and was sleeping peacefully within, content with his evening's work.

The thought drove her completely mad. There was a window on the side of the house facing her, evidently opening into the atrium; and it was not barred. There was no need to bar anything in Bethany in those days, even in the houses of the rich.

Without even thinking of being discovered, or indeed what she was doing at all, she climbed in to the opening and dashed silently through the hallway to the courtyard inside where, as she now could see, they kept the fire lit. It was as if she had planned it.

She took the unlit end of a burning stick and crept into the first room she saw. It was a reception-room of some sort, with cushions scattered about, and something like a tree of bronze in a corner--and curtains. Curtains, stirring faintly in the slightest of breezes in the moonlight.

They took fire in a flash, and she was just stooping to set one of the cushions ablaze when a sheet of flame leaped past her, making her jump out of the way. Terrified, she ran back into the courtyard, and then in a frenzy dashed into room after room and back, picking up other pieces of the fire and flinging them wherever she thought there was something that would burn.

Smoke began pouring into the courtyard from several directions; and all at once she was seized with panic, and dashed toward the atrium from which she had entered. For a brief moment she lost her orientation and thought she could not find it and would burn in the house she was destroying. She almost rushed into the reception room, but was driven back by a wall of heat that flew out to meet her. She found the right door and dashed through. There was the window! The fire began to pursue her.

She caught her robe on the sill, and tore half of it off clambering out. Screams now came from the servants inside, and she was terrified that they would catch her.

The only thing she could think of now was to get away; and she fled up a steep hill to a grove of trees, convinced from the shouts behind her that someone had seen and was following, but too afraid and too winded to look back.

Once inside the deep shadow of the grove, something made her stumble and she fell, half-expecting a hand on her shoulder, but unable to get up. She lay there, panting with gasps that were louder than the roar of the fire and the screams of the people. Those who followed would be bound to hear and find her, but there was no way she could stifle her breathing, which itself felt like needles of fire in her lungs. She scrambled to rise, but the torn part of her robe, which had tripped her up, was under her in such a way that the more she tried to free herself, the more she became entangled in it.

She pleaded and sobbed for it to let her go; and then stopped for fear of being heard--and realized that she would of a certainty have been heard and captured by now had anyone in fact been chasing her. She looked back. No one. They were all paying too much attention to the fire.

She sat up now, able to breathe more easily from the running, but still gasping from nerves, and looked in the direction of the house. It turned out that her vantage place was perfect: she could see the whole scene, but even if anyone were to suspect that the fire had been set and were to look up the hill--it was amazingly high, and she wondered that she could have scaled it so quickly--she was perfectly concealed, able to see if anyone started off in her direction; and it had an expanse of woody darkness behind her to disappear into before anyone could reach it.

Smoke was pouring out of the house already, through the window from which she had escaped, as well as a window she could not see on the opposite side, but mainly from the doorways and windows into the open courtyard within, which she could see partially down into. A part of the roof began to glow, and then burst into a daylight of flaming thatch. She began to feel the heat as the breeze shifted direction, even as far away as here, and she rejoiced in it.

The noise of the fire itself now drowned out the sounds of the frantic people inside the house--and she then realized the eerie silence in which she had started it, in spite of her frenetic dashing to and fro: a silence that was almost as frightening as this tremendous roar.

She could see that several people had come out and were frantically looking here and there for something to douse the fire with, while others merely ran out and down the road. Looking for help, perhaps, or merely to escape. Help would be useless; she had succeeded. The house was sure to burn to the ground.

There was a sudden human noise, and a rushing to the front of the house, which was partially concealed from Mary's view. Zebediah had arrived--and Mary's heart thrilled with delight as she saw his face lighted by the blaze, and heard, even so far as up here, his cry of anguish. He would show her, would he! He would teach her! She had a lesson or two for him! Let him learn what happens to those who dared to take advantage of her!

He was screaming some name. "Ruth! Ruth!" it sounded like. And he dashed into the house, which by now was an inferno.

She stood up, transfixed, wondering what he was doing. It was as if he were reading her mind, yielding to her every desire.

Suddenly, he emerged, coughing and choking, with the bottom of his cloak on fire, carrying a bundle of clothing, some of which also seemed to be smouldering. A servant rushed up and beat the fire on his robe and on the bundle, almost tripping him as he carried his burden beyond danger until another pair of servants came up and took it from him, laying it safely away from the fire, while he cursed them all in frenzied, insane tones.

Zebediah bent over the bundle, his body heaving with great sobs and wails, "Ruth! Ruth! Oh Ruth!"--and suddenly, all of the elation breathed out of Mary in one tremendous gasp.

That bundle of clothes was poor, crippled Ruth, kindly Ruth both of whose legs had been broken years and years ago in a fall from a horse, who used to give Mary sweetmeats and tell her stories when she was little. She remembered now that she was Zebediah's wife.

And the man loved her! He had gone out of his mind with grief, she could see him! The man who had so casually ripped out her virginity loved that cripple--that poor, defenseless, kind soul--and loved her to distraction. And she was the one Mary had killed!

She lost consciousness.

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