The Other Wise
Man
Also Known as: The
4th Wise Man &
A Tale of the 4th Magi
by Henry van Dyke ? 1896
You know the story of the Three
Wise Men of the East, and how they travelled from far away to offer
their gifts at the manger-cradle in Bethlehem. But have you ever
heard the story of the Other Wise Man, who also saw the star in its
rising, and set out to follow it, yet did not arrive with his
brethren in the presence of the young child Jesus? Of the great
desire of this fourth pilgrim, and how it was denied, yet
accomplished in the denial; of his many wanderings and the
probations of his soul; of the long way of his seeking and the
strange way of his finding the One whom he sought--I would tell the
tale as I have heard fragments of it in the Hall of Dreams, in the
palace of the Heart of Man.
I
In the days when Augustus Caesar was master
of many kings and Herod reigned in Jerusalem, there lived in the
city of Ecbatana, among the mountains of Persia, a certain man named
Artaban. His house stood close to the outermost of the walls which
encircled the royal treasury. From his roof he could look over the
seven-fold battlements of black and white and crimson and blue and
red and silver and gold, to the hill where the summer palace of the
Parthian emperors glittered like a jewel in a crown.
Around the dwelling of Artaban spread a fair garden, a tangle of
flowers and fruit-trees, watered by a score of streams descending
from the slopes of Mount Orontes, and made musical by innumerable
birds. But all colour was lost in the soft and odorous darkness of
the late September night, and all sounds were hushed in the deep
charm of its silence, save the plashing of the water, like a voice
half-sobbing and half-laughing under the shadows. High above the
trees a dim glow of light shone through the curtained arches of the
upper chamber, where the master of the house was holding council
with his friends.
He stood by the doorway to greet his guests--a tall, dark man of
about forty years, with brilliant eyes set near together under his
broad brow, and firm lines graven around his fine, thin lips; the
brow of a dreamer and the mouth of a soldier, a man of sensitive
feeling but inflexible will--one of those who, in whatever age they
may live, are born for inward conflict and a life of quest.
His robe was of pure white wool, thrown over a tunic of silk; and a
white, pointed cap, with long lapels at the sides, rested on his
flowing black hair. It was the dress of the ancient priesthood of
the Magi, called the fire-worshippers.
"Welcome!" he said, in his low, pleasant voice, as one after another
entered the room--"welcome, Abdus; peace be with you, Rhodaspes and
Tigranes, and with you my father, Abgarus. You are all welcome. This
house grows bright with the joy of your presence."
There were nine of the men, differing widely in age, but alike in
the richness of their dress of many-coloured silks, and in the
massive golden collars around their necks, marking them as Parthian
nobles, and in the winged circles of gold resting upon their
breasts, the sign of the followers of Zoroaster.
They took their places around a small black altar at the end of the
room, where a tiny flame was burning. Artaban, standing beside it,
and waving a barsom of thin tamarisk branches above the fire, fed it
with dry sticks of pine and fragrant oils. Then he began the ancient
chant of the Yasna, and the voices of his companions joined in the
hymn to Ahura-Mazda:
We worship the Spirit
Divine,
all wisdom and goodness possessing,
Surrounded by Holy Immortals,
the givers of bounty and blessing;
We joy in the work of His hands,
His truth and His power confessing.
We praise all the things that are pure,
for these are His only Creation
The thoughts that are true, and the words
and the deeds that have won approbation;
These are supported by Him,
and for these we make adoration.
Hear us, O Mazda! Thou livest
in truth and in heavenly gladness;
Cleanse us from falsehood, and keep us
from evil and bondage to badness,
Pour out the light and the joy of Thy life
on our darkness and sadness.
Shine on our gardens and fields,
shine on our working and waving;
Shine on the whole race of man,
believing and unbelieving;
Shine on us now through the night,
Shine on us now in Thy might,
The flame of our holy love
and the song of our worship receiving.
The fire rose with the chant, throbbing as
if the flame responded to the music, until it cast a bright
illumination through the whole apartment, revealing its simplicity
and splendour.
The floor was laid with tiles of dark blue veined with white;
pilasters of twisted silver stood out against the blue walls; the
clear-story of round-arched windows above them was hung with azure
silk; the vaulted ceiling was a pavement of blue stones, like the
body of heaven in its clearness, sown with silver stars. From the
four corners of the roof hung four golden magic-wheels, called the
tongues of the gods. At the eastern end, behind the altar, there
were two dark-red pillars of porphyry; above them a lintel of the
same stone, on which was carved the figure of a winged archer, with
his arrow set to the string and his bow drawn.
The doorway between the pillars, which opened upon the terrace of
the roof, was covered with a heavy curtain of the colour of a ripe
pomegranate, embroidered with innumerable golden rays shooting
upward from the floor. In effect the room was like a quiet, starry
night, all azure and silver, flushed in the cast with rosy promise
of the dawn. It was, as the house of a man should be, an expression
of the character and spirit of the master.
He turned to his friends when the song was ended, and invited them
to be seated on the divan at the western end of the room.
"You have come to-night," said he, looking around the circle, "at my
call, as the faithful scholars of Zoroaster, to renew your worship
and rekindle your faith in the God of Purity, even as this fire has
been rekindled on the altar. We worship not the fire, but Him of
whom it is the chosen symbol, because it is the purest of all
created things. It speaks to us of one who is Light and Truth. Is it
not so, my father?"
"It is well said, my son," answered the venerable Abgarus. "The
enlightened are never idolaters. They lift the veil of form and go
in to the shrine of reality, and new light and truth are coming to
them continually through the old symbols." "Hear me, then, my father
and my friends," said Artaban, "while I tell you of the new light
and truth that have come to me through the most ancient of all
signs. We have searched the secrets of Nature together, and studied
the healing virtues of water and fire and the plants. We have read
also the books of prophecy in which the future is dimly foretold in
words that are hard to understand. But the highest of all learning
is the knowledge of the stars. To trace their course is to untangle
the threads of the mystery of life from the beginning to the end. If
we could follow them perfectly, nothing would be hidden from us. But
is not our knowledge of them still incomplete? Are there not many
stars still beyond our horizon--lights that are known only to the
dwellers in the far south-land, among the spice-trees of Punt and
the gold mines of Ophir?"
There was a murmur of assent among the listeners.
"The stars," said Tigranes, "are the thoughts of the Eternal. They
are numberless. But the thoughts of man can be counted, like the
years of his life. The wisdom of the Magi is the greatest of all
wisdoms on earth, because it knows its own ignorance. And that is
the secret of power. We keep men always looking and waiting for a
new sunrise. But we ourselves understand that the darkness is equal
to the light, and that the conflict between them will never be
ended."
"That does not satisfy me," answered Artaban, "for, if the waiting
must be endless, if there could be no fulfilment of it, then it
would not be wisdom to look and wait. We should become like those
new teachers of the Greeks, who say that there is no truth, and that
the only wise men are those who spend their lives in discovering and
exposing the lies that have been believed in the world. But the new
sunrise will certainly appear in the appointed time. Do not our own
books tell us that this will come to pass, and that men will see the
brightness of a great light?"
"That is true," said the voice of Abgarus; "every faithful disciple
of Zoroaster knows the prophecy of the Avesta, and carries the word
in his heart. `In that day Sosiosh the Victorious shall arise out of
the number of the prophets in the east country. Around him shall
shine a mighty brightness, and he shall make life everlasting,
incorruptible, and immortal, and the dead shall rise again.'"
"This is a dark saying," said Tigranes, "and it may be that we shall
never understand it. It is better to consider the things that are
near at hand, and to increase the influence of the Magi in their own
country, rather than to look for one who may be a stranger, and to
whom we must resign our power."
The others seemed to approve these words. There was a silent feeling
of agreement manifest among them; their looks responded with that
indefinable expression which always follows when a speaker has
uttered the thought that has been slumbering in the hearts of his
listeners. But Artaban turned to Abgarus with a glow on his face,
and said:
"My father, I have kept this prophecy in the secret place of my
soul. Religion without a great hope would be like an altar without a
living fire. And now the flame has burned more brightly, and by the
light of it I have read other words which also have come from the
fountain of Truth, and speak yet more clearly of the rising of the
Victorious One in his brightness."
He drew from the breast of his tunic two small rolls of fine
parchment, with writing upon them, and unfolded them carefully upon
his knee.
"In the years that are lost in the past, long before our fathers
came into the land of Babylon, there were wise men in Chaldea, from
whom the first of the Magi learned the secret of the heavens. And of
these Balaam the son of Beor was one of the mightiest. Hear the
words of his prophecy: 'There shall come a star out of Jacob, and a
sceptre shall arise out of Israel.'"
The lips of Tigranes drew downward with contempt, as he said:
"Judah was a captive by the waters of Babylon, and the sons of Jacob
were in bondage to our kings. The tribes of Israel are scattered
through the mountains like lost sheep, and from the remnant that
dwells in Judea under the yoke of Rome neither star nor sceptre
shall arise."
"And yet," answered Artaban, "it was the Hebrew Daniel, the mighty
searcher of dreams, the counsellor of kings, the wise Belteshazzar,
who was most honoured and beloved of our great King Cyrus. A prophet
of sure things and a reader of the thoughts of the Eternal, Daniel
proved himself to our people. And these are the words that he
wrote." (Artaban read from the second roll:) " 'Know, therefore, and
understand that from the going forth of the commandment to restore
Jerusalem, unto the Anointed One, the Prince, the time shall be
seven and threescore and two weeks."'
"But, my son," said Abgarus, doubtfully, "these are mystical
numbers. Who can interpret them, or who can find the key that shall
unlock their meaning?"
Artaban answered: "It has been shown to me and to my three
companions among the Magi--Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar. We have
searched the ancient tablets of Chaldea and computed the time. It
falls in this year. We have studied the sky, and in the spring of
the year we saw two of the greatest planets draw near together in
the sign of the Fish, which is the house of the Hebrews. We also saw
a new star there, which shone for one night and then vanished. Now
again the two great planets are meeting. This night is their
conjunction. My three brothers are watching by the ancient Temple of
the Seven Spheres, at Borsippa, in Babylonia, and I am watching
here. If the star shines again, they will wait ten days for me at
the temple, and then we will set out together for Jerusalem, to see
and worship the promised one who shall be born King of Israel. I
believe the sign will come. I have made ready for the journey. I
have sold my possessions, and bought these three jewels--a sapphire,
a ruby, and a pearl--to carry them as tribute to the King. And I ask
you to go with me on the pilgrimage, that we may have joy together
in finding the Prince who is worthy to be served."
While he was speaking he thrust his hand into the inmost fold of
his, girdle and drew out three great gems--one blue as a fragment of
the night sky, one redder than a ray of sunrise, and one as pure as
the peak of a snow-mountain at twilight--and laid them on the
outspread scrolls before him.
But his friends looked on with strange and alien eyes. A veil of
doubt and mistrust came over their faces, like a fog creeping up
from the marshes to hide the hills. They glanced at each other with
looks of wonder and pity, as those who have listened to incredible
sayings, the story of a wild vision, or the proposal of an
impossible enterprise.
At last Tigranes said: "Artaban, this is a vain dream. It comes from
too much looking upon the stars and the cherishing of lofty
thoughts. It would be wiser to spend the time in gathering money for
the new fire-temple at Chala. No king will ever rise from the broken
race of Israel, and no end will ever come to the eternal strife of
light and darkness. He who looks for it is a chaser of shadows.
Farewell."
And another said: "Artaban, I have no knowledge of these things, and
my office as guardian of the royal treasure binds me here. The quest
is not for me. But if thou must follow it, fare thee well."
And another said: "In my house there sleeps a new bride, and I
cannot leave her nor take her with me on this strange journey. This
quest is not for me. But may thy steps be prospered wherever thou
goest. So, farewell."
And another said: "I am ill and unfit for hardship, but there is a
man among my servants whom I will send with thee when thou goest, to
bring me word how thou farest."
So, one by one, they left the house of Artaban. But Abgarus, the
oldest and the one who loved him the best, lingered after the others
had gone, and said, gravely: "My son, it may be that the light of
truth is in this sign that has appeared in the skies, and then it
will surely lead to the Prince and the mighty brightness. Or it may
be that it is only a shadow of the light, as Tigranes has said, and
then he who follows it will have a long pilgrimage and a fruitless
search. But it is better to follow even the shadow of the best than
to remain content with the worst. And those who would see wonderful
things must often be ready to travel alone. I am too old for this
journey, but my heart shall be a companion of thy pilgrimage day and
night, and I shall know the end of thy quest. Go in peace."
Then Abgarus went out of the azure chamber with its silver stars,
and Artaban was left in solitude.
He gathered up the jewels and replaced them in his girdle. For a
long time he stood and watched the flame that flickered and sank
upon the altar. Then he crossed the hall, lifted the heavy curtain,
and passed out between the pillars of porphyry to the terrace on the
roof.
The shiver that runs through the earth ere she rouses from her
night-sleep had already begun, and the cool wind that heralds the
daybreak was drawing downward from the lofty snow-traced ravines of
Mount Orontes. Birds, half-awakened, crept and chirped among the
rustling leaves, and the smell of ripened grapes came in brief wafts
from the arbours.
Far over the eastern plain a white mist stretched like a lake. But
where the distant peaks of Zagros serrated the western horizon the
sky was clear. Jupiter and Saturn rolled together like drops of
lambent flame about to blend in one.
As Artaban watched them, a steel-blue spark was born out of the
darkness beneath, rounding itself with purple splendours to a
crimson sphere, and spiring upward through rays of saffron and
orange into a point of white radiance. Tiny and infinitely remote,
yet perfect in every part, it pulsated in the enormous vault as if
the three jewels in the Magian's girdle had mingled and been
transformed into a living heart of light.
He bowed his head. He covered his brow with his hands.
"It is the sign," he said. "The King is coming, and I will go to
meet him."
II
All night long, Vasda, the swiftest of
Artaban's horses, had been waiting, saddled and bridled, in her
stall, pawing the ground impatiently, and shaking her bit as if she
shared the eagerness of her master's purpose, though she knew not
its meaning.
Before the birds had fully roused to their
strong, high, joyful chant of morning song, before the white mist
had begun to lift lazily from the plain, the Other Wise Man was in
the saddle, riding swiftly along the high-road, which skirted the
base of Mount Orontes, westward.
How close, how intimate is the comradeship
between a man and his favourite horse on a long journey. It is a
silent, comprehensive friendship, an intercourse beyond the need of
words.
They drink at the same way-side springs, and
sleep under the same guardian stars. They are conscious together of
the subduing spell of nightfall and the quickening joy of daybreak.
The master shares his evening meal with his hungry companion, and
feels the soft, moist lips caressing the palm of his hand as they
close over the morsel of bread. In the gray dawn he is roused from
his bivouac by the gentle stir of a warm, sweet breath over his
sleeping face, and looks up into the eyes of his faithful fellow-traveller,
ready and waiting for the toil of the day. Surely, unless he is a
pagan and an unbeliever, by whatever name he calls upon his God, he
will thank Him for this voiceless sympathy, this dumb affection, and
his morning prayer will embrace a double blessing--God bless us
both, the horse and the rider, and keep our feet from falling and
our souls from death!
Then, through the keen morning air, the
swift hoofs beat their tattoo along the road, keeping time to the
pulsing of two hearts that are moved with the same eager desire--to
conquer space, to devour the distance, to attain the goal of the
journey.
Artaban must indeed ride wisely and well if
he would keep the appointed hour with the other Magi; for the route
was a hundred and fifty parasangs, and fifteen was the utmost that
he could travel in a day. But he knew Vasda's strength, and pushed
forward without anxiety, making the fixed distance every day, though
he must travel late into the night, and in the morning long before
sunrise.
He passed along the brown slopes of Mount
Orontes, furrowed by the rocky courses of a hundred torrents.
He crossed the level plains of the Nisaeans,
where the famous herds of horses, feeding in the wide pastures,
tossed their heads at Vasda's approach, and galloped away with a
thunder of many hoofs, and flocks of wild birds rose suddenly from
the swampy meadows, wheeling in great circles with a shining flutter
of innumerable wings and shrill cries of surprise.
He traversed the fertile fields of Concabar,
where the dust from the threshing-floors filled the air with a
golden mist, half hiding the huge temple of Astarte with its four
hundred pillars.
At Baghistan, among the rich gardens watered
by fountains from the rock, he looked up at the mountain thrusting
its immense rugged brow out over the road, and saw the figure of
King Darius trampling upon his fallen foes, and the proud list of
his wars and conquests graven high upon the face of the eternal
cliff.
Over many a cold and desolate pass, crawling
painfully across the wind-swept shoulders of the hills; down many a
black mountain-gorge, where the river roared and raced before him
like a savage guide; across many a smiling vale, with terraces of
yellow limestone full of vines and fruit-trees; through the
oak-groves of Carine and the dark Gates of Zagros, walled in by
precipices; into the ancient city of Chala, where the people of
Samaria had been kept in captivity long ago; and out again by the
mighty portal, riven through the encircling hills, where he saw the
image of the High Priest of the Magi sculptured on the wall of rock,
with hand uplifted as if to bless the centuries of pilgrims; past
the entrance of the narrow defile, filled from end to end with
orchards of peaches and figs, through which the river Gyndes foamed
down to meet him; over the broad rice-fields, where the autumnal
vapours spread their deathly mists; following along the course of
the river, under tremulous shadows of poplar and tamarind, among the
lower hills; and out upon the flat plain, where the road ran
straight as an arrow through the stubble-fields and parched meadows;
past the city of Ctesiphon, where the Parthian emperors reigned, and
the vast metropolis of Seleucia which Alexander built; across the
swirling floods of Tigris and the many channels of Euphrates,
flowing yellow through the corn-lands--Artaban pressed onward until
he arrived, at nightfall on the tenth day, beneath the shattered
walls of populous Babylon.
Vasda was almost spent, and Artaban would
gladly have turned into the city to find rest and refreshment for
himself and for her. But he knew that it was three hours' journey
yet to the Temple of the Seven Spheres, and he must reach the place
by midnight if he would find his comrades waiting. So he did not
halt, but rode steadily across the stubble-fields.
A grove of date-palms made an island of
gloom in the pale yellow sea. As she passed into the shadow Vasda
slackened her pace, and began to pick her way more carefully.
Near the farther end of the darkness an
access of caution seemed to fall upon her. She scented some danger
or difficulty; it was not in her heart to fly from it--only to be
prepared for it, and to meet it wisely, as a good horse should do.
The grove was close and silent as the tomb; not a leaf rustled, not
a bird sang.
She felt her steps before her delicately,
carrying her head low, and sighing now and then with apprehension.
At last she gave a quick breath of anxiety and dismay, and stood
stock-still, quivering in every muscle, before a dark object in the
shadow of the last palm-tree.
Artaban dismounted. The dim starlight
revealed the form of a man lying across the road. His humble dress
and the outline of his haggard face showed that he was probably one
of the Hebrews who still dwelt in great numbers around the city. His
pallid skin, dry and yellow as parchment, bore the mark of the
deadly fever which ravaged the marsh-lands in autumn. The chill of
death was in his lean hand, and, as Artaban released it, the arm
fell back inertly upon the motionless breast.
He turned away with a thought of pity,
leaving the body to that strange burial which the Magians deemed
most fitting--the funeral of the desert, from which the kites and
vultures rise on dark wings, and the beasts of prey slink furtively
away. When they are gone there is only a heap of white bones on the
sand.
But, as he turned, a long, faint, ghostly
sigh came from the man's lips. The bony fingers gripped the hem of
the Magian's robe and held him fast.
Artaban's heart leaped to his throat, not
with fear, but with a dumb resentment at the importunity of this
blind delay.
How could he stay here in the darkness to
minister to a dying stranger? What claim had this unknown fragment
of human life upon his compassion or his service? If he lingered but
for an hour he could hardly reach Borsippa at the appointed time.
His companions would think he had given up the journey. They would
go without him. He would lose his quest.
But if he went on now, the man would surely
die. If Artaban stayed, life might be restored. His spirit throbbed
and fluttered with the urgency of the crisis. Should he risk the
great reward of his faith for the sake of a single deed of charity?
Should he turn aside, if only for a moment, from the following of
the star, to give a cup of cold water to a poor, perishing Hebrew?
"God of truth and purity," he prayed, "direct me in the holy path,
the way of wisdom which Thou only knowest."
Then he turned back to the sick man. Loosening the grasp of his
hand, he carried him to a little mound at the foot of the palm-tree.
He unbound the thick folds of the turban and
opened the garment above the sunken breast. He brought water from
one of the small canals near by, and moistened the sufferer's brow
and mouth. He mingled a draught of one of those simple but potent
remedies which he carried always in his girdle--for the Magians were
physicians as well as astrologers--and poured it slowly between the
colourless lips. Hour after hour he laboured as only a skilful
healer of disease can do. At last the man's strength returned; he
sat up and looked about him.
"Who art thou?" he said, in the rude dialect
of the country, "and why hast thou sought me here to bring back my
life?"
"I am Artaban the Magian, of the city of Ecbatana, and I am going to
Jerusalem in search of one who is to be born King of the Jews, a
great Prince and Deliverer of all men. I dare not delay any longer
upon my journey, for the caravan that has waited for me may depart
without me. But see, here is all that I have left of bread and wine,
and here is a potion of healing herbs. When thy strength is restored
thou canst find the dwellings of the Hebrews among the houses of
Babylon."
The Jew raised his trembling hand solemnly to heaven.
"Now may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob bless and prosper
the journey of the merciful, and bring him in peace to his desired
haven. Stay! I have nothing to give thee in return--only this: that
I can tell thee where the Messiah must be sought. For our prophets
have said that he should be born not in Jerusalem, but in Bethlehem
of Judah. May the Lord bring thee in safety to that place, because
thou hast had pity upon the sick."
It was already long past midnight. Artaban rode in haste, and Vasda,
restored by the brief rest, ran eagerly through the silent plain and
swam the channels of the river. She put forth the remnant of her
strength, and fled over the ground like a gazelle.
But the first beam of the rising sun sent a long shadow before her
as she entered upon the final stadium of the journey, and the eyes
of Artaban, anxiously scanning the great mound of Nimrod and the
Temple of the Seven Spheres, could discern no trace of his friends.
The many-coloured terraces of black and
orange and red and yellow and green and blue and white, shattered by
the convulsions of nature, and crumbling under the repeated blows of
human violence, still glittered like a ruined rainbow in the morning
light.
Artaban rode swiftly around the hill. He
dismounted and climbed to the highest terrace, looking out toward
the west.
The huge desolation of the marshes stretched
away to the horizon and the border of the desert. Bitterns stood by
the stagnant pools and jackals skulked through the low bushes; but
there was no sign of the caravan of the Wise Men, far or near.
At the edge of the terrace he saw a little
cairn of broken bricks, and under them a piece of papyrus. He caught
it up and read: "We have waited past the midnight, and can delay no
longer. We go to find the King. Follow us across the desert."
Artaban sat down upon the ground and covered his head in despair.
"How can I cross the desert," said he, "with
no food and with a spent horse? I must return to Babylon, sell my
sapphire, and buy a train of camels, and provision for the journey.
I may never overtake my friends. Only God the merciful knows whether
I shall not lose the sight of the King because I tarried to show
mercy."
III
There was a silence in the Hall of Dreams,
where I was listening to the story of the Other Wise Man. Through
this silence I saw, but very dimly, his figure passing over the
dreary undulations of the desert, high upon the back of his camel,
rocking steadily onward like a ship over the waves.
The land of death spread its cruel net
around him. The stony waste bore no fruit but briers and thorns. The
dark ledges of rock thrust themselves above the surface here and
there, like the bones of perished monsters. Arid and inhospitable
mountain-ranges rose before him, furrowed with dry channels of
ancient torrents, white and ghastly as scars on the face of nature.
Shifting hills of treacherous sand were heaped like tombs along the
horizon. By day, the fierce heat pressed its intolerable burden on
the quivering air. No living creature moved on the dumb, swooning
earth, but tiny jerboas scuttling through the parched bushes, or
lizards vanishing in the clefts of the rock. By night the jackals
prowled and barked in the distance, and the lion made the black
ravines echo with his hollow roaring, while a bitter, blighting
chill followed the fever of the day. Through heat and cold, the
Magian moved steadily onward.
Then I saw the gardens and orchards of
Damascus, watered by the streams of Abana and Pharpar, with their
sloping swards inlaid with bloom, and their thickets of myrrh and
roses. I saw the long, snowy ridge of Hermon, and the dark groves of
cedars, and the valley of the Jordan, and the blue waters of the
Lake of Galilee, and the fertile plain of Esdraelon, and the hills
of Ephraim, and the highlands of Judah. Through all these I followed
the figure of Artaban moving steadily onward, until he arrived at
Bethlehem. And it was the third day after the three Wise Men had
come to that place and had found Mary and Joseph, with the young
child, Jesus, and had laid their gifts of gold and frankincense and
myrrh at his feet.
Then the Other Wise Man drew near, weary,
but full of hope, bearing his ruby and his pearl to offer to the
King. "For now at last," he said, "I shall surely find him, though I
be alone, and later than my brethren. This is the place of which the
Hebrew exile told me that the prophets had spoken, and here I shall
behold the rising of the great light. But I must inquire about the
visit of my brethren, and to what house the star directed them, and
to whom they presented their tribute."
The streets of the village seemed to be deserted, and Artaban
wondered whether the men had all gone up to the hill-pastures to
bring down their sheep. From the open door of a cottage he heard the
sound of a woman's voice singing softly. He entered and found a
young mother hushing her baby to rest. She told him of the strangers
from the far East who had appeared in the village three days ago,
and how they said that a star had guided them to the place where
Joseph of Nazareth was lodging with his wife and her new-born child,
and how they had paid reverence to the child and given him many rich
gifts.
"But the travellers disappeared again," she
continued, "as suddenly as they had come. We were afraid at the
strangeness of their visit. We could not understand it. The man of
Nazareth took the child and his mother, and fled away that same
night secretly, and it was whispered that they were going to Egypt.
Ever since, there has been a spell upon the village; something evil
hangs over it. They say that the Roman soldiers are coming from
Jerusalem to force a new tax from us, and the men have driven the
flocks and herds far back among the hills, and hidden themselves to
escape it."
Artaban listened to her gentle, timid speech, and the child in her
arms looked up in his face and smiled, stretching out its rosy hands
to grasp at the winged circle of gold on his breast. His heart
warmed to the touch. It seemed like a greeting of love and trust to
one who had journeyed long in loneliness and perplexity, fighting
with his own doubts and fears, and following a light that was veiled
in clouds.
"Why might not this child have been the
promised Prince?" he asked within himself, as he touched its soft
cheek. "Kings have been born ere now in lowlier houses than this,
and the favourite of the stars may rise even from a cottage. But it
has not seemed good to the God of wisdom to reward my search so soon
and so easily. The one whom I seek has gone before me; and now I
must follow the King to Egypt."
The young mother laid the baby in its cradle, and rose to minister
to the wants of the strange guest that fate had brought into her
house. She set food before him, the plain fare of peasants, but
willingly offered, and therefore full of refreshment for the soul as
well as for the body.
Artaban accepted it gratefully; and, as he
ate, the child fell into a happy slumber, and murmured sweetly in
its dreams, and a great peace filled the room.
But suddenly there came the noise of a wild confusion in the streets
of the village, a shrieking and wailing of women's voices, a
clangour of brazen trumpets and a clashing of swords, and a
desperate cry: "The soldiers! the soldiers of Herod! They are
killing our children."
The young mother's face grew white with terror. She clasped her
child to her bosom, and crouched motionless in the darkest corner of
the room, covering him with the folds of her robe, lest he should
wake and cry.
But Artaban went quickly and stood in the doorway of the house. His
broad shoulders filled the portal from side to side, and the peak of
his white cap all but touched the lintel.
The soldiers came hurrying down the street with bloody hands and
dripping swords. At the sight of the stranger in his imposing dress
they hesitated with surprise. The captain of the band approached the
threshold to thrust him aside. But Artaban did not stir. His face
was as calm as though he were watching the stars, and in his eyes
there burned that steady radiance before which even the half-tamed
hunting leopard shrinks, and the bloodhound pauses in his leap. He
held the soldier silently for an instant, and then said in a low
voice:
"I am all alone in this place, and I am waiting to give this jewel
to the prudent captain who will leave me in peace."
He showed the ruby, glistening in the hollow of his hand like a
great drop of blood.
The captain was amazed at the splendour of the gem. The pupils of
his eyes expanded with desire, and the hard lines of greed wrinkled
around his lips. He stretched out his hand and took the ruby.
"March on!" he cried to his men, "there is
no child here. The house is empty."
The clamor and the clang of arms passed down the street as the
headlong fury of the chase sweeps by the secret covert where the
trembling deer is hidden. Artaban re-entered the cottage. He turned
his face to the east and prayed:
"God of truth, forgive my sin! I have said
the thing that is not, to save the life of a child. And two of my
gifts are gone. I have spent for man that which was meant for God.
Shall I ever be worthy to see the face of the King?"
But the voice of the woman, weeping for joy in the shadow behind
him, said very gently:
"Because thou hast saved the life of my
little one, may the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make His
face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up
His countenance upon thee and give thee peace."
IV
Again there was a silence in the Hall of
Dreams, deeper and more mysterious than the first interval, and I
understood that the years of Artaban were flowing very swiftly under
the stillness, and I caught only a glimpse, here and there, of the
river of his life shining through the mist that concealed its
course.
I saw him moving among the throngs of men
in populous Egypt, seeking everywhere for traces of the household
that had come down from Bethlehem, and finding them under the
spreading sycamore-trees of Heliopolis, and beneath the walls of the
Roman fortress of New Babylon beside the Nile--traces so faint and
dim that they vanished before him continually, as footprints on the
wet river-sand glisten for a moment with moisture and then
disappear.
I saw him again at the foot of the pyramids,
which lifted their sharp points into the intense saffron glow of the
sunset sky, changeless monuments of the perishable glory and the
imperishable hope of man. He looked up into the face of the
crouching Sphinx and vainly tried to read the meaning of the calm
eyes and smiling mouth. Was it, indeed, the mockery of all effort
and all aspiration, as Tigranes had said--the cruel jest of a riddle
that has no answer, a search that never can succeed? Or was there a
touch of pity and encouragement in that inscrutable smile--a promise
that even the defeated should attain a victory, and the disappointed
should discover a prize, and the ignorant should be made wise, and
the blind should see, and the wandering should come into the haven
at last?
I saw him again in an obscure house of Alexandria, taking counsel
with a Hebrew rabbi. The venerable man, bending over the rolls of
parchment on which the prophecies of Israel were written, read aloud
the pathetic words which foretold the sufferings of the promised
Messiah--the despised and rejected of men, the man of sorrows and
acquainted with grief.
"And remember, my son," said he, fixing his
eyes upon the face of Artaban, "the King whom thou seekest is not to
be found in a palace, nor among the rich and powerful. If the light
of the world and the glory of Israel had been appointed to come with
the greatness of earthly splendour, it must have appeared long ago.
For no son of Abraham will ever again rival the power which Joseph
had in the palaces of Egypt, or the magnificence of Solomon throned
between the lions in Jerusalem. But the light for which the world is
waiting is a new light, the glory that shall rise out of patient and
triumphant suffering. And the kingdom which is to be established
forever is a new kingdom, the royalty of unconquerable love.
"I do not know how this shall come to pass,
nor how the turbulent kings and peoples of earth shall be brought to
acknowledge the Messiah and pay homage to him. But this I know.
Those who seek him will do well to look among the poor and the
lowly, the sorrowful and the oppressed."
So I saw the Other Wise Man again and again,
travelling from place to place, and searching among the people of
the dispersion, with whom the little family from Bethlehem might,
perhaps, have found a refuge. He passed through countries where
famine lay heavy upon the land, and the poor were crying for bread.
He made his dwelling in plague-stricken cities where the sick were
languishing in the bitter companionship of helpless misery. He
visited the oppressed and the afflicted in the gloom of subterranean
prisons, and the crowded wretchedness of slave-markets, and the
weary toil of galley-ships. In all this populous and intricate world
of anguish, though he found none to worship, he found many to help.
He fed the hungry, and clothed the naked, and healed the sick, and
comforted the captive; and his years passed more swiftly than the
weaver's shuttle that flashes back and forth through the loom while
the web grows and the pattern is completed.
It seemed almost as if he had forgotten his
quest. But once I saw him for a moment as he stood alone at sunrise,
waiting at the gate of a Roman prison. He had taken from a secret
resting-place in his bosom the pearl, the last of his jewels. As he
looked at it, a mellower lustre, a soft and iridescent light, full
of shifting gleams of azure and rose, trembled upon its surface. It
seemed to have absorbed some reflection of the lost sapphire and
ruby. So the secret purpose of a noble life draws into itself the
memories of past joy and past sorrow. All that has helped it, all
that has hindered it, is transfused by a subtle magic into its very
essence. It becomes more luminous and precious the longer it is
carried close to the warmth of the beating heart.
Then, at last, while I was thinking of this
pearl, and of its meaning, I heard the end of the story of the Other
Wise Man.
V
Three-and-thirty years of the life of
Artaban had passed away, and he was still a pilgrim and a seeker
after light. His hair, once darker than the cliffs of Zagros, was
now white as the wintry snow that covered them. His eyes, that once
flashed like flames of fire, were dull as embers smouldering among
the ashes.
Worn and weary and ready to die, but still
looking for the King, he had come for the last time to Jerusalem. He
had often visited the holy city before, and had searched all its
lanes and crowded bevels and black prisons without finding any trace
of the family of Nazarenes who had fled from Bethlehem long ago. But
now it seemed as if he must make one more effort, and something
whispered in his heart that, at last, he might succeed.
It was the season of the Passover. The city
was thronged with strangers. The children of Israel, scattered in
far lands, had returned to the Temple for the great feast, and there
had been a confusion of tongues in the narrow streets for many days.
But on this day a singular agitation was
visible in the multitude. The sky was veiled with a portentous
gloom. Currents of excitement seemed to flash through the crowd. A
secret tide was sweeping them all one way. The clatter of sandals
and the soft, thick sound of thousands of bare feet shuffling over
the stones, flowed unceasingly along the street that leads to the
Damascus gate.
Artaban joined a group of people from his
own country, Parthian Jews who had come up to keep the Passover, and
inquired of them the cause of the tumult, and where they were going.
"We are going," they answered, "to the place
called Golgotha, outside the city walls, where there is to be an
execution. Have you not heard what has happened? Two famous robbers
are to be crucified, and with them another, called Jesus of
Nazareth, a man who has done many wonderful works among the people,
so that they love him greatly. But the priests and elders have said
that he must die, because he gave himself out to be the Son of God.
And Pilate has sent him to the cross because he said that he was the
`King of the Jews.'
How strangely these familiar words fell upon
the tired heart of Artaban! They had led him for a lifetime over
land and sea. And now they came to him mysteriously, like a message
of despair. The King had arisen, but he had been denied and cast
out. He was about to perish. Perhaps he was already dying. Could it
be the same who had been born in Bethlehem thirty-three years ago,
at whose birth the star had appeared in heaven, and of whose coming
the prophets had spoken?
Artaban's heart beat unsteadily with that
troubled, doubtful apprehension which is the excitement of old age.
But he said within himself: "The ways of God are stranger than the
thoughts of men, and it may be that I shall find the King, at last,
in the hands of his enemies, and shall come in time to offer my
pearl for his ransom before he dies."
So the old man followed the multitude with
slow and painful steps toward the Damascus gate of the city. Just
beyond the entrance of the guardhouse a troop of Macedonian soldiers
came down the street, dragging a young girl with torn dress and
dishevelled hair. As the Magian paused to look at her with
compassion, she broke suddenly from the hands of her tormentors, and
threw herself at his feet, clasping him around the knees. She had
seen his white cap and the winged circle on his breast.
"Have pity on me," she cried, "and save me,
for the sake of the God of Purity! I also am a daughter of the true
religion which is taught by the Magi. My father was a merchant of
Parthia, but he is dead, and I am seized for his debts to be sold as
a slave. Save me from worse than death!"
Artaban trembled.
It was the old conflict in his soul, which had come to him in the
palm-grove of Babylon and in the cottage at Bethlehem--the conflict
between the expectation of faith and the impulse of love. Twice the
gift which he had consecrated to the worship of religion had been
drawn to the service of humanity. This was the third trial, the
ultimate probation, the final and irrevocable choice.
Was it his great opportunity, or his last
temptation? He could not tell. One thing only was clear in the
darkness of his mind--it was inevitable. And does not the inevitable
come from God?
One thing only was sure to his divided heart--to rescue this
helpless girl would be a true deed of love. And is not love the
light of the soul?
He took the pearl from his bosom. Never had it seemed so luminous,
so radiant, so full of tender, living lustre. He laid it in the hand
of the slave.
"This is thy ransom, daughter! It is the last of my treasures which
I kept for the King."
While he spoke, the darkness of the sky
deepened, and shuddering tremors ran through the earth heaving
convulsively like the breast of one who struggles with mighty grief.
The walls of the houses rocked to and fro.
Stones were loosened and crashed into the street. Dust clouds filled
the air. The soldiers fled in terror, reeling like drunken men. But
Artaban and the girl whom he had ransomed crouched helpless beneath
the wall of the Praetorium.
What had he to fear? What had he to hope? He
had given away the last remnant of his tribute for the King. He had
parted with the last hope of finding him. The quest was over, and it
had failed. But, even in that thought, accepted and embraced, there
was peace. It was not resignation. It was not submission. It was
something more profound and searching. He knew that all was well,
because he had done the best that he could from day to day. He had
been true to the light that had been given to him. He had looked for
more. And if he had not found it, if a failure was all that came out
of his life, doubtless that was the best that was possible. He had
not seen the revelation of "life everlasting, incorruptible and
immortal." But he knew that even if he could live his earthly life
over again, it could not be otherwise than it had been.
One more lingering pulsation of the
earthquake quivered through the ground. A heavy tile, shaken from
the roof, fell and struck the old man on the temple. He lay
breathless and pale, with his gray head resting on the young girl's
shoulder, and the blood trickling from the wound. As she bent over
him, fearing that he was dead, there came a voice through the
twilight, very small and still, like music sounding from a distance,
in which the notes are clear but the words are lost. The girl turned
to see if some one had spoken from the window above them, but she
saw no one.
Then the old man's lips began to move, as if
in answer, and she heard him say in the Parthian tongue:
"Not so, my Lord! For when saw I thee an
hungered and fed thee? Or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw I
thee a stranger, and took thee in? Or naked, and clothed thee? When
saw I thee sick or in prison, and came unto thee? Three-and-- thirty
years have I looked for thee; but I have never seen thy face, nor
ministered to thee, my King."
He ceased, and the sweet voice came again. And again the maid heard
it, very faint and far away. But now it seemed as though she
understood the words:
"Verily I say unto thee, Inasmuch as thou
hast done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, thou hast
done it unto me."
A calm radiance of wonder and joy lighted the pale face of Artaban
like the first ray of dawn, on a snowy mountain-peak. A long breath
of relief exhaled gently from his lips.
His journey was ended. His treasures were
accepted. The Other Wise Man had found the King.
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