you!" the woman said to him softly. "Let me anoint the
scars! Show me, and let me anoint them!"
He forgot his nakedness in this re–evoked old pain. He sat on the edge of
the couch, and she poured a little ointment into the palm of his hand.
And as she chafed his hand, it all came back, the nails, the holes, the
cruelty, the unjust cruelty against him who had offered only kindness.
The agony of injustice and cruelty came over him again, as in his
death–hour. But she chafed the palm, murmuring: "What was torn becomes a
new flesh, what was a wound is full of fresh life; this scar is the eye
of the violet."
And he could not help smiling at her, in her naïve priestess's
absorption. This was her dream, and he was only a dream–object to her.
She would never know or understand what he was. Especially she would
never know the death that was gone before in him. But what did it matter?
She was different. She was woman: her life and her death were different
from him. Only she was good to him.
When she chafed his feet with oil and tender, tender healing, he could
not refrain from saying to her:
"Once a woman washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with her hair,
and poured on precious ointment."
The woman of Isis looked up at him from her earnest work, interrupted
again.
"Were they hurt then?" she said. "Your feet?"
"No, no! It was while they were whole."
"And did you love her?"
"Love had passed in her. She only warned to serve," he replied. "She had
been a prostitute."
"And did you let her serve you?" she asked.
"Yea."
"Did you let her serve you with the corpse of her love?"
"Ay!"
Suddenly it dawned on him: I asked them all to serve me with the corpse
of their love. And in the end I offered them only the corpse of my love.
This is my body—take and eat—my corpse—
A vivid shame went through him. 'After all,' he thought, 'I wanted them
to love with dead bodies. If I had kissed Judas with live love, perhaps
he would never have kissed me with death. Perhaps he loved me in the
flesh, and I willed that he should love me bodilessly, with the corpse of
love—'
There dawned on him the reality of the soft, warm love which is in touch,
and which is full of delight. "And I told them, blessed are they that
mourn," he said to himself. "Alas, if I mourned even this woman here, now
I am in death, I should have to remain dead, and I want so much to live.
Life has brought me to this woman with warm hands. And her touch is more
to me now than all my words. For I want to live—"
"Go then to the goddess!" she said softly, gently pushing him towards
Isis. And as he stood there dazed and naked as an unborn thing, he heard
the woman murmuring to the goddess, murmuring, murmuring with a plaintive
appeal. She was stooping now, looking at the scar in the soft flesh of
the socket of his side, a scar deep and like an eye sore with endless
weeping, just in the soft socket above the hip. It was here that his
blood had left him, and his essential seed. The woman was trembling
softly and murmuring in Greek. And he in the recurring dismay of having
died, and in the anguished perplexity of having tried to force life,
felt his wounds crying aloud, and the deep places of the body howling
again: "I have been murdered, and I lent myself to murder. They murdered
me, but I lent myself to murder—"
The woman, silent now, but quivering, laid oil in her hand and put her
palm over the wound in his right side. He winced, and the wound absorbed
his life again, as thousands of times before. And in the dark, wild pain
and panic of his consciousness rang only one cry: "Oh, how can she take
this death out of me? She can never know! She can never understand! She
can never equal it!…"
In silence, she softly rhythmically chafed the scar with oil. Absorbed
now in her priestess's task, softly, softly gathering power, while the
vitals of the man howled in panic. But as she gradually gathered power,
and passed in a girdle round him to the opposite scar,
scars! Show me, and let me anoint them!"
He forgot his nakedness in this re–evoked old pain. He sat on the edge of
the couch, and she poured a little ointment into the palm of his hand.
And as she chafed his hand, it all came back, the nails, the holes, the
cruelty, the unjust cruelty against him who had offered only kindness.
The agony of injustice and cruelty came over him again, as in his
death–hour. But she chafed the palm, murmuring: "What was torn becomes a
new flesh, what was a wound is full of fresh life; this scar is the eye
of the violet."
And he could not help smiling at her, in her naïve priestess's
absorption. This was her dream, and he was only a dream–object to her.
She would never know or understand what he was. Especially she would
never know the death that was gone before in him. But what did it matter?
She was different. She was woman: her life and her death were different
from him. Only she was good to him.
When she chafed his feet with oil and tender, tender healing, he could
not refrain from saying to her:
"Once a woman washed my feet with tears, and wiped them with her hair,
and poured on precious ointment."
The woman of Isis looked up at him from her earnest work, interrupted
again.
"Were they hurt then?" she said. "Your feet?"
"No, no! It was while they were whole."
"And did you love her?"
"Love had passed in her. She only warned to serve," he replied. "She had
been a prostitute."
"And did you let her serve you?" she asked.
"Yea."
"Did you let her serve you with the corpse of her love?"
"Ay!"
Suddenly it dawned on him: I asked them all to serve me with the corpse
of their love. And in the end I offered them only the corpse of my love.
This is my body—take and eat—my corpse—
A vivid shame went through him. 'After all,' he thought, 'I wanted them
to love with dead bodies. If I had kissed Judas with live love, perhaps
he would never have kissed me with death. Perhaps he loved me in the
flesh, and I willed that he should love me bodilessly, with the corpse of
love—'
There dawned on him the reality of the soft, warm love which is in touch,
and which is full of delight. "And I told them, blessed are they that
mourn," he said to himself. "Alas, if I mourned even this woman here, now
I am in death, I should have to remain dead, and I want so much to live.
Life has brought me to this woman with warm hands. And her touch is more
to me now than all my words. For I want to live—"
"Go then to the goddess!" she said softly, gently pushing him towards
Isis. And as he stood there dazed and naked as an unborn thing, he heard
the woman murmuring to the goddess, murmuring, murmuring with a plaintive
appeal. She was stooping now, looking at the scar in the soft flesh of
the socket of his side, a scar deep and like an eye sore with endless
weeping, just in the soft socket above the hip. It was here that his
blood had left him, and his essential seed. The woman was trembling
softly and murmuring in Greek. And he in the recurring dismay of having
died, and in the anguished perplexity of having tried to force life,
felt his wounds crying aloud, and the deep places of the body howling
again: "I have been murdered, and I lent myself to murder. They murdered
me, but I lent myself to murder—"
The woman, silent now, but quivering, laid oil in her hand and put her
palm over the wound in his right side. He winced, and the wound absorbed
his life again, as thousands of times before. And in the dark, wild pain
and panic of his consciousness rang only one cry: "Oh, how can she take
this death out of me? She can never know! She can never understand! She
can never equal it!…"
In silence, she softly rhythmically chafed the scar with oil. Absorbed
now in her priestess's task, softly, softly gathering power, while the
vitals of the man howled in panic. But as she gradually gathered power,
and passed in a girdle round him to the opposite scar,
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