The Crushed Flower and Other Stories by Leonid Andreyev (page 3)

“but they will hang you, Haggart! You will dangle on a rope, Haggart!”

Khorre rudely pushes aside the young fisherman who comes over to him with a rope, and says to Desfoso in a low voice:

“It’s an important matter, old man. Go away for a minute–he oughtn’t to hear it,” he nods at Haggart.

“I don’t trust you.”

“You needn’t. That’s nothing. Noni, there is a little matter here. Come, come, and don’t be afraid. I have no knife.”

The people step aside and whisper. Haggart is silently waiting to be bound, but no one comes over to him. All shudder when Mariet suddenly commences to speak:

“Perhaps you think that all this is just, father? Why, then, don’t you ask me about it? I am his wife. Don’t you believe that I am his wife? Then I will bring little Noni here. Do you want me to bring little Noni? He is sleeping, but I will wake him up. Once in his life he may wake up at night in order to say that this man whom you want to hang in the city is his father.”

“Don’t!” says Haggart.

“Very well,” replies Mariet obediently. “He commands and I must obey–he is my husband. Let little Noni sleep. But I am not sleeping, I am here. Why, then, didn’t you ask me: ‘Mariet, how was it possible that your husband, Haggart, should kill Philipp’?”

Silence. Desfoso, who has returned and who is agitated, decides:

“Let her speak. She is his wife.”

“You will not believe, Desfoso,” says Mariet, turning to the old fisherman with a tender and mournful smile. “Desfoso, you will not believe what strange and peculiar creatures we women are!”

Turning to all the people with the same smile, she continues:

“You will not believe what queer desires, what cunning, malicious little thoughts we women have. It was I who persuaded my husband to kill Philipp. Yes, yes–he did not want to do it, but I urged him; I cried so much and threatened him, so he consented. Men always give in–isn’t that true, Desfoso?”

Haggart looks at his wife in a state of great perplexity, his eyebrows brought close to each other. Mariet continues, without looking at him, still smiling as before:

“You will ask me, why I wanted Philipp’s death? Yes, yes, you will ask this question, I know it. He never did me any harm, that poor Philipp, isn’t that true? Then I will tell you: He was my betrothed. I don’t know whether you will be able to understand me. You, old Desfoso–you would not kill the girl you kissed one day? Of course not. But we women are such strange creatures–you can’t even imagine what strange, suspicious, peculiar creatures we are. Philipp was my betrothed, and he kissed me–“

She wipes her mouth and continues, laughing:

“Here I am wiping my mouth even now. You have all seen how I wiped my mouth. I am wiping away Philipp’s kisses. You are laughing. But ask your wife, Desfoso–does she want the life of the man who kissed her before you? Ask all women who love–even the old women! We never grow old in love. We are born so, we women.”

Haggart almost believes her. Advancing a step forward, he asks:

“You urged me? Perhaps it is true, Mariet–I don’t remember.”

Mariet laughs.

“Do you hear? He has forgotten. Go on, Gart. You may say that it was your own idea? That’s the way you men are–you forget everything. Will you say perhaps that I–“

“Mariet!” Haggart interrupts her threateningly.

Mariet, turning pale, looking sorrowfully at his terrible eyes which are now steadfastly fixed upon her, continues, still smiling:

“Go on, Gart! Will you say perhaps that I–Will you say perhaps that I dissuaded you? That would be funny–“

HAGGART–No, I will not say that. You lie, Mariet! Even I, Haggart– just think of it, people–even I believed her, so cleverly does this woman lie.

MARIET–Go–on–Haggart.

HAGGART–You are laughing? Abbot, I don’t want to be the husband of your daughter–she lies.

ABBOT–You are worse than the devil, Gart! That’s what I say– You are worse than the devil, Gart!

HAGGART–You are all foolish people! I don’t understand you; I don’t know now what to do with you. Shall I laugh? Shall I be angry? Shall I cry? You want to let me go–why, then, don’t you let me go? You are sorry for Philipp. Well, then, kill me–I have told you that it was I who killed the boy. Am I disputing? But you are making grimaces like monkeys that have found bananas–or have you such a game in your land? Then I don’t want to play it. And you, abbot, you are like a juggler in the marketplace. In one hand you have truth and in the other hand you have truth, and you are forever performing tricks. And now she is lying–she lies so well that my heart contracts with belief. Oh, she is doing it well!

And he laughs bitterly.

MARIET–Forgive me, Gart.

HAGGART–When I wanted to kill him, she hung on my hand like a rock, and now she says that she killed him. She steals from me this murder; she does not know that one has to earn that, too! Oh, there are queer people in your land!

“I wanted to deceive them, not you, Gart. I wanted to save you,” says Mariet.

Haggart replies:

“My father taught me: ‘Eh, Noni, beware! There is one truth and one law for all–for the sun, for the wind, for the waves, for the beasts–and only for man there is another truth. Beware of this truth of man, Noni!’ so said my father. Perhaps this is your truth? Then I am not afraid of it, but I feel very sad and very embittered. Mariet, if you sharpened my knife and said: ‘Go and kill that man’– it may be that I would not have cared to kill him. ‘What is the use of cutting down a withered tree?’–I would have said. But now– farewell, Mariet! Well, bind me and take me to the city.”

He waits haughtily, but no one approaches him. Mariet has lowered her head upon her hands, her shoulders are twitching. The abbot is also absorbed in thought, his large head lowered. Desfoso is carrying on a heated conversation in whispers with the fishermen. Khorre steps forward and speaks, glancing at Haggart askance:

“I had a little talk with them, Noni–they are all right, they are good fellows, Noni. Only the priest–but he is a good man, too–am I right, Noni? Don’t look so crossly at me, or I’ll mix up the whole thing! You see, kind people, it’s this way: this man, Haggart, and I have saved up a little sum of money, a little barrel of gold. We don’t need it, Noni, do we? Perhaps you will take it for yourselves? What do you think? Shall we give them the gold, Noni? You see, here I’ve entangled myself already.”

He winks slyly at Mariet, who has now lifted her head.

“What are you prating there, you scarecrow?” asks the abbot.

Khorre continues:

“Here it goes, Noni; I am straightening it out little by little! But where have we buried it, the barrel? Do you remember, Noni? I have forgotten. They say it’s from the gin, kind people; they say that one’s memory fails from too much gin. I am a drunkard, that’s true.”

“If you are not inventing–then you had better choke yourself with your gold, you dog!” says the abbot.

HAGGART–Khorre!

KHORRE–Yes.

HAGGART–To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes. Abbot, order a hundred lashes for him!

ABBOT–With pleasure, my son. With pleasure.

The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but there is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at their pipes, in the light quiver of their tanned hands. Some of them arise and look out of the window with feigned indifference.

“The fog is rising!” says one, looking out of the window. “Do you hear what I said about the fog?”

“It’s time to go to sleep. I say, it’s time to go to sleep!”

Desfoso comes forward and speaks cautiously:

“That isn’t quite so, abbot. It seems you didn’t say exactly what you ought to say, abbot. They seem to think differently. I don’t say anything for myself–I am simply talking about them. What do you say, Thomas?”

THOMAS–We ought to go to sleep, I say. Isn’t it true that it is time to go to sleep?

MARIET (softly)–Sit down, Gart. You are tired to-night. You don’t answer?

An old fisherman says:

“There used to be a custom in our land, I heard, that a murderer was to pay a fine for the man he killed. Have you heard about it, Desfoso?”

Another voice is heard:

“Philipp is dead. Philipp is dead already, do you hear, neighbour? Who is going to support his mother?”

“I haven’t enough even for my own! And the fog is rising, neighbour.”

“Abbot, did you hear us say: ‘Gart is a bad man; Gart is a good-for-nothing, a city trickster?’ No, we said: ‘This thing has never happened here before,'” says Desfoso.

Then a determined voice remarks:

“Gart is a good man! Wild Gart is a good man!”

DESFOSO–If you looked around, abbot, you couldn’t find a single, strong boat here. I haven’t enough tar for mine. And the church–is that the way a good church ought to look? I am not saying it myself, but it comes out that way–it can’t be helped, abbot.

Haggart turns to Mariet and says:

“Do you hear, woman?”

“I do.”

“Why don’t you spit into their faces?”

“I can’t. I love you, Haggart. Are there only ten Commandments of God? No, there is still another: ‘I love you, Haggart.'”

“What sad dreams there are in your land.”

The abbot rises and walks over to the fishermen.

“Well, what did you say about the church, old man? You said something interesting about the church, or was I mistaken?”

He casts a swift glance at Mariet and Haggart.

“It isn’t the church alone, abbot. There are four of us old men: Legran, Stoffle, Puasar, Kornu, and seven old women. Do I say that we are not going to feed them? Of course, we will, but don’t be angry, father–it is hard! You know it yourself, abbot–old age is no fun.”

“I am an old man, too!” begins old Rikke, lisping, but suddenly he flings his hat angrily to the ground. “Yes, I am an old man. I don’t want any more, that’s all! I worked, and now I don’t want to work. That’s all! I don’t want to work.”

He goes out, swinging his hand. All look sympathetically at his stooping back, at his white tufts of hair. And then they look again at Desfoso, at his mouth, from which their words come out. A voice says:

“There, Rikke doesn’t want to work any more.”

All laugh softly and forcedly.

“Suppose we send Gart to the city–what then?” Desfoso goes on, without looking at Haggart. “Well, the city people will hang him– and then what? The result will be that a man will be gone, a fisherman will be gone–you will lose a son, and Mariet will lose her husband, and the little boy his father. Is there any joy in that?”

“That’s right, that’s right!” nods the abbot, approvingly. “But what a mind you have, Desfoso!”

“Do you pay attention to them, Abbot?” asked Haggart.

“Yes, I do, Haggart. And it wouldn’t do you any harm to pay attention to them. The devil is prouder than you, and yet he is only the devil, and nothing more.”

Desfoso affirms:

“What’s the use of pride? Pride isn’t necessary.”

He turns to Haggart, his eyes still lowered; then he lifts his eyes and asks:

“Gart! But you don’t need to kill anybody else. Excepting Philipp, you don’t feel like killing anybody else, do you?”

“No.”

“Only Philipp, and no more? Do you hear? Only Philipp, and no more. And another question–Gart, don’t you want to send away this man, Khorre? We would like you to do it. Who knows him? People say that all this trouble comes through him.”

Several voices are heard:

“Through him. Send him away, Gart! It will be better for him!”

The abbot upholds them.

“True!”

“You, too, priest!” says Khorre, gruffly. Haggart looks with a faint smile at his angry, bristled face, and says:

“I rather feel like sending him away. Let him go.”

“Well, then, Abbot,” says Desfoso, turning around, “we have decided, in accordance with our conscience–to take the money. Do I speak properly?”

One voice answers for all:

“Yes.”

DESFOSO–Well, sailor, where is the money?

KHORRE–Captain?

HAGGART–Give it to them.

KHORRE (rudely)–Then give me back my knife and my pipe first! Who is the eldest among you–you? Listen, then: Take crowbars and shovels and go to the castle. Do you know the tower, the accursed tower that fell? Go over there–“

He bends down and draws a map on the floor with his crooked finger. All bend down and look attentively; only the abbot gazes sternly out of the window, behind which the heavy fog is still grey. Haggart whispers in a fit of rage:

“Mariet, it would have been better if you had killed me as I killed Philipp. And now my father is calling me. Where will be the end of my sorrow, Mariet? Where the end of the world is. And where is the end of the world? Do you want to take my sorrow, Mariet?”

“I do, Haggart.”

“No, you are a woman.”

“Why do you torture me, Gart? What have I done that you should torture me so? I love you.”

“You lied.”

“My tongue lied. I love you.”

“A serpent has a double tongue, but ask the serpent what it wants– and it will tell you the truth. It is your heart that lied. Was it not you, girl, that I met that time on the road? And you said: ‘Good evening.’ How you have deceived me!”

Desfoso asks loudly:

“Well, abbot? You are coming along with us, aren’t you, father. Otherwise something wrong might come out of it. Do I speak properly?”

The abbot replies merrily:

“Of course, of course, children. I am going with you. Without me, you will think of the church. I have just been thinking of the church–of the kind of church you need. Oh, it’s hard to get along with you, people!”

The fishermen go out very slowly–they are purposely lingering.

“The sea is coming,” says one. “I can hear it.”

“Yes, yes, the sea is coming! Did you understand what he said?”

The few who remained are more hasty in their movements. Some of them politely bid Haggart farewell.

“Good-bye, Gart.”

“I am thinking, Haggart, what kind of a church we need. This one will not do, it seems. They prayed here a hundred years; now it is no good, they say. Well, then, it is necessary to have a new one, a better one. But what shall it be?”

“‘Pope’s a rogue, Pope’s a rogue.’ But, then, I am a rogue, too. Don’t you think, Gart, that I am also something of a rogue? One moment, children, I am with you.”

There is some crowding in the doorway. The abbot follows the last man with his eyes and roars angrily:

“Eh, you, Haggart, murderer! What are you smiling at? You have no right to despise them like that. They are my children. They have worked–have you seen their hands, their backs? If you haven’t noticed that, you are a fool! They are tired. They want to rest. Let them rest, even at the cost of the blood of the one you killed. I’ll give them each a little, and the rest I will throw out into the sea. Do you hear, Haggart?”

“I hear, priest.”

The abbot exclaims, raising his arms:

“O Lord! Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the murdered and the murderer! Gart, go home. Take him home, Mariet, and wash his hands!”

“To whom do you lie, priest?” asks Haggart, slowly. “To God or to the devil? To yourself or to the people? Or to everybody?”

He laughs bitterly.

“Eh, Gart! You are drunk with blood.”

“And with what are you drunk?”

They face each other. Mariet cries angrily, placing herself between them:

“May a thunder strike you down, both of you, that’s what I am praying to God. May a thunder strike you down! What are you doing with my heart? You are tearing it with your teeth like greedy dogs. You didn’t drink enough blood, Gart, drink mine, then! You will never have enough, Gart, isn’t that true?”

“Now, now,” says the abbot, calming them. “Take him home, Mariet. Go home, Gart, and sleep more.”

Mariet comes forward, goes to the door and pauses there.

“Gart! I am going to little Noni.”

“Go.”

“Are you coming along with me?”

“Yes–no–later.”

“I am going to little Noni. What shall I tell him about his father when he wakes up?”

Haggart is silent. Khorre comes back and stops irresolutely at the threshold. Mariet casts at him a glance full of contempt and then goes out. Silence.

“Khorre!”

“Yes.”

“Gin!”

“Here it is, Noni. Drink it, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once, Noni.”

Haggart drinks; he examines the room with a smile.

“Nobody. Did you see him, Khorre? He is there, behind the curtain. Just think of it, sailor–here we are again with him alone.”

“Go home, Noni!”

“Right away. Give me some gin.”

He drinks.

“And they? They have gone?”

“They ran, Noni. Go home, my boy! They ran off like goats. I was laughing so much, Noni.”

Both laugh.

“Take down that toy, Khorre. Yes, yes, a little ship. He made it, Khorre.”

They examine the toy.

“Look how skilfully the jib was made, Khorre. Good boy, Philipp! But the halyards are bad, look. No, Philipp! You never saw how real ships are fitted out–real ships which rove over the ocean, tearing its grey waves. Was it with this toy that you wanted to quench your little thirst–fool?”

He throws down the little ship and rises:

“Khorre! Boatswain!”

“Yes.”

“Call them! I assume command again, Khorre!”

The sailor turns pale and shouts enthusiastically:

“Noni! Captain! My knees are trembling. I will not be able to reach them and I will fall on the way.”

“You will reach them! We must also take our money away from these people–what do you think, Khorre? We have played a little, and now it is enough–what do you think, Khorre?”

He laughs. The sailor looks at him, his hands folded as in prayer, and he weeps.

CHAPTER VII

“These are your comrades, Haggart? I am so glad to see them. You said, Gart, yes–you said that their faces were entirely different from the faces of our people, and that is true. Oh, how true it is! Our people have handsome faces, too–don’t think our fishermen are ugly, but they haven’t these deep, terrible sears. I like them very much, I assure you, Gart. I suppose you are a friend of Haggart’s– you have such stern, fine eyes? But you are silent? Why are they silent, Haggart; did you forbid them to speak? And why are you silent yourself, Haggart? Haggart!”

Illuminated by the light of torches, Haggart stands and listens to the rapid, agitated speech. The metal of the guns and the uniforms vibrates and flashes; the light is also playing on the faces of those who have surrounded Haggart in a close circle–these are his nearest, his friends. And in the distance there is a different game–there a large ship is dancing silently, casting its light upon the black waves, and the black water plays with them, pleating them like a braid, extinguishing them and kindling them again.

A noisy conversation and the splashing of the waters–and the dreadful silence of kindred human lips that are sealed.

“I am listening to you, Mariet,” says Haggart at last. “What do you want, Mariet? It is impossible that some one should have offended you. I ordered them not to touch your house.”

“Oh, no, Haggart, no! No one has offended me!” exclaimed Mariet cheerfully. “But don’t you like me to hold little Noni in my arms? Then I will put him down here among the rocks. Here he will be warm and comfortable as in his cradle. That’s the way! Don’t be afraid of waking him, Gart; he sleeps soundly and will not hear anything. You may shout, sing, fire a pistol–the boy sleeps soundly.”

“What do you want, Mariet? I did not call you here, and I am not pleased that you have come.”

“Of course, you did not call me here, Haggart; of course, you didn’t. But when the fire was started, I thought: ‘Now it will light the way for me to walk. Now I will not stumble.’ And I went. Your friends will not be offended, Haggart, if I will ask them to step aside for awhile? I have something to tell you, Gart. Of course, I should have done that before, I understand, Gart; but I only just recalled it now. It was so light to walk!”

Haggart says sternly:

“Step aside, Flerio, and you all–step aside with him.”

They all step aside.

“What is it that you have recalled, Mariet? Speak! I am going away forever from your mournful land, where one dreams such painful dreams, where even the rocks dream of sorrow. And I have forgotten everything.”

Gently and submissively, seeking protection and kindness, the woman presses close to his hand.

“O, Haggart! O, my dear Haggart! They are not offended because I asked them so rudely to step aside, are they? O, my dear Haggart! The galloons of your uniform scratched my cheek, but it is so pleasant. Do you know, I never liked it when you wore the clothes of our fishermen –it was not becoming to you, Haggart. But I am talking nonsense, and you are getting angry, Gart. Forgive me!”

“Don’t kneel. Get up.”

“It was only for a moment. Here, I got up. You ask me what I want? This is what I want: Take me with you, Haggart! Me and little Noni, Haggart!”

Haggart retreats.

“You say that, Mariet? You say that I should take you along? Perhaps you are laughing, woman? Or am I dreaming again?”

“Yes, I say that: Take me with you. Is this your ship? How large and beautiful it is, and it has black sails, I know it. Take me on your ship, Haggart. I know, you will say: ‘We have no women on the ship,’ but I will be the woman: I will be your soul. Haggart, I will be your song, your thoughts, Haggart! And if it must be so, let Khorre give gin to little Noni–he is a strong boy.”

“Eh, Mariet?” says Haggart sternly. “Do you perhaps want me to believe you again? Eh, Mariet? Don’t talk of that which you do not know, woman. Are the rocks perhaps casting a spell over me and turning my head? Do you hear the noise, and something like voices? That is the sea, waiting for me. Don’t hold my soul. Let it go, Mariet.”

“Don’t speak, Haggart! I know everything. It was not as though I came along a fiery road, it was not as though I saw blood to-day. Be silent, Haggart! I have seen something more terrible, Haggart! Oh, if you could only understand me! I have seen cowardly people who ran without defending themselves. I have seen clutching, greedy fingers, crooked like those of birds, like those of birds, Haggart! And out of these fingers, which were forced open, gold was taken. And suddenly I saw a man sobbing. Think of it, Haggart! They were taking gold from him, and he was sobbing.”

She laughs bitterly. Haggart advances a step toward her and puts his heavy hand upon her shoulder:

“Yes, yes, Mariet. Speak on, girl, let the sea wait.”

Mariet removes his hand and continues:

“‘No,’ I thought. ‘These are not my brethren at all!’ I thought and laughed. And father shouted to the cowards: ‘Take shafts and strike them.’ But they were running. Father is such a splendid man.”

“Father is a splendid man,” Haggart affirms cheerfully.

“Such a splendid man! And then one sailor bent down close to Noni– perhaps he did not want to do any harm to him, but he bent down to him too closely, so, I fired at him from your pistol. Is it nothing that I fired at our sailor?”

Haggart laughs:

“He had a comical face! You killed him, Mariet.”

“No. I don’t know how to shoot. And it was he who told me where you were. O Haggart, O brother!”

She sobs, and then she speaks angrily with a shade of a serpentine hiss in her voice:

“I hate them! They were not tortured enough; I would have tortured them still more, still more. Oh, what cowardly rascals they are! Listen, Haggart, I was always afraid of your power–to me there was always something terrible and incomprehensible in your power. ‘Where is his God?’ I wondered, and I was terrified. Even this morning I was afraid, but now that this night came, this terror has fled, and I came running to you over the fiery road: I am going with you, Haggart. Take me, Haggart, I will be the soul of your ship!”

“I am the soul of my ship, Mariet. But you will be the song of my liberated soul, Mariet. You shall be the song of my ship, Mariet! Do you know where we are going? We are going to look for the end of the world, for unknown lands, for unknown monsters. And at night Father Ocean will sing to us, Mariet!”

“Embrace me, Haggart. Ah, Haggart, he is not a God who makes cowards of human beings. We shall go to look for a new God.”

Haggart whispers stormily:

“I lied when I said that I have forgotten everything–I learned this in your land. I love you, Mariet, as I love fire. Eh, Flerio, comrade!” He shouts cheerfully: “Eh, Flerio, comrade! Have you prepared a salute?”

“I have, Captain. The shores will tremble when our cannons speak.”

“Eh, Flerio, comrade! Don’t gnash your teeth, without biting–no one will believe you. Did you put in cannon balls–round, east-iron, good cannon balls? Give them wings, comrade–let them fly like blackbirds on land and sea.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Haggart laughs:

“I love to think how the cannon ball flies, Mariet. I love to watch its invisible flight. If some one comes in its way–let him! Fate itself strikes down like that. What is an aim? Only fools need an aim, while the devil, closing his eyes, throws stones–the wise game is merrier this way. But you are silent! What are you thinking of, Mariet?”

“I am thinking of them. I am forever thinking of them.”

“Are you sorry for them?” Haggart frowns.

“Yes, I am sorry for them. But my pity is my hatred, Haggart. I hate them, and I would kill them, more and more!”

“I feel like flying faster–my soul is so free. Let us jest, Mariet! Here is a riddle, guess it: For whom will the cannons roar soon? You think, for me? No. For you? no, no, not for you, Mariet! For little Noni, for him–for little Noni who is boarding the ship to-night. Let him wake up from this thunder. How our little Noni will be surprised! And now be quiet, quiet–don’t disturb his sleep– don’t spoil little Noni’s awakening.”

The sound of voices is heard–a crowd is approaching.

“Where is the captain?”

“Here. Halt, the captain is here!”

“It’s all done. They can be crammed into a basket like herrings.”

“Our boatswain is a brave fellow! A jolly man.”

Khorre, intoxicated and jolly, shouts:

“Not so loud, devils! Don’t you see that the captain is here? They scream like seagulls over a dead dolphin.”

Mariet steps aside a little distance, where little Noni is sleeping.

KHORRE–Here we are, Captain. No losses, Captain. And how we laughed, Noni.

HAGGART–You got drunk rather early. Come to the point.

KHORRE–Very well. The thing is done, Captain. We’ve picked up all our money–not worse than the imperial tax collectors. I could not tell which was ours, so I picked up all the money. But if they have buried some of the gold, forgive us, Captain–we are not peasants to plough the ground.

Laughter. Haggart also laughs.

“Let them sow, we shall reap.”

“Golden words, Noni. Eh, Tommy, listen to what the Captain is saying. And another thing: Whether you will be angry or not–I have broken the music. I have scattered it in small pieces. Show your pipe, Tetyu! Do you see, Noni, I didn’t do it at once, no. I told him to play a jig, and he said that he couldn’t do it. Then he lost his mind and ran away. They all lost their minds there, Captain. Eh, Tommy, show your beard. An old woman tore half of his beard out, Captain–now he is a disgrace to look upon. Eh, Tommy! He has hidden himself, he’s ashamed to show his face, Captain. And there’s another thing: The priest is coming here.”

Mariet exclaims:

“Father!”

Khorre, astonished, asks:

“Are you here? If she came to complain, I must report to you, Captain–the priest almost killed one of our sailors. And she, too. I ordered the men to bind the priest–“

“Silence.”

“I don’t understand your actions, Noni–“

Haggart, restraining his rage, exclaims:

“I shall have you put in irons! Silence!”

With ever-growing rage:

“You dare talk back to me, riff-raff! You–“

Mariet cautions him:

“Gart! They have brought father here.”

Several sailors bring in the abbot, bound. His clothes are in disorder, his face is agitated and pale. He looks at Mariet with some amazement, and lowers his eyes. Then he heaves a sigh.

“Untie him!” says Mariet. Haggart corrects her restrainedly:

“Only I command here, Mariet. Khorre, untie him.”

Khorre unfastens the knots. Silence.

ABBOT–Hello, Haggart.

“Hello, abbot.”

“You have arranged a fine night, Haggart!”

Haggart speaks with restraint:

“It is unpleasant for me to see you. Why did you come here? Go home, priest, no one will touch you. Keep on fishing–and what else were you doing? Oh, yes–make your own prayers. We are going out to the ocean; your daughter, you know, is also going with me. Do you see the ship? That is mine. It’s a pity that you don’t know about ships–you would have laughed for joy at the sight of such a beautiful ship! Why is he silent, Mariet? You had better tell him.”

ABBOT–Prayers? In what language? Have you, perhaps, discovered a new language in which prayers reach God? Oh, Haggart, Haggart!

He weeps, covering his face with his hands. Haggart, alarmed, asks:

“You are crying, abbot?”

“Look, Gart, he is crying. Father never cried. I am afraid, Gart.”

The abbot stops crying. Heaving a deep sigh, he says:

“I don’t know what they call you: Haggart or devil or something else– I have come to you with a request. Do you hear, robber, with a request? Tell your crew not to gnash their teeth like that–I don’t like it.”

Haggart replies morosely:

“Go home, priest! Mariet will stay with me.”

“Let her stay with you. I don’t need her, and if you need her, take her. Take her, Haggart. But–“

He kneels before him. A murmur of astonishment. Mariet, frightened, advances a step to her father.

“Father! You are kneeling?”

ABBOT–Robber! Give us back the money. You will rob more for yourself, but give this money to us. You are young yet, you will rob some more yet–

HAGGART–You are insane! There’s a man–he will drive the devil himself to despair! Listen, priest, I am shouting to you: You have simply lost your mind!

The abbot, still kneeling, continues:

“Perhaps, I have–by God, I don’t know. Robber, dearest, what is this to you? Give us this money. I feel sorry for them, for the scoundrels! They rejoiced so much, the scoundrels. They blossomed forth like an old blackthorn which has nothing but thorns and a ragged bark. They are sinners. But am I imploring God for their sake? I am imploring you. Robber, dearest–“

Mariet looks now at Haggart, now at the priest. Haggart is hesitating. The abbot keeps muttering:

“Robber, do you want me to call you son? Well, then–son–it makes no difference now–I will never see you again. It’s all the same! Like an old blackthorn, they bloomed–oh, Lord, those scoundrels, those old scoundrels!”

“No,” Haggart replied sternly.

“Then you are the devil, that’s who you are. You are the devil,” mutters the abbot, rising heavily from the ground. Haggart shows his teeth, enraged.

“Do you wish to sell your soul to the devil? Yes? Eh, abbot–don’t you know yet that the devil always pays with spurious money? Let me have a torch, sailor!”

He seizes a torch and lifts it high over his head–he covers his terrible face with fire and smoke.

“Look, here I am! Do you see? Now ask me, if you dare!”

He flings the torch away. What does the abbot dream in this land full of monstrous dreams? Terrified, his heavy frame trembling, helplessly pushing the people aside with his hands, he retreats. He turns around. Now he sees the glitter of the metal, the dark and terrible faces; he hears the angry splashing of the waters–and he covers his head with his hands and walks off quickly. Then Khorre jumps up and strikes him with a knife in his back.

“Why have you done it?”–the abbot clutches the hand that struck him down.

“Just so–for nothing!”

The abbot falls to the ground and dies.

“Why have you done it?” cries Mariet.

“Why have you done it?” roars Haggart.

And a strange voice, coming from some unknown depths, answers with Khorre’s lips:

“You commanded me to do it.”

Haggart looks around and sees the stern, dark faces, the quivering glitter of the metal, the motionless body; he hears the mysterious, merry dashing of the waves. And he clasps his head in a fit of terror.

“Who commanded? It was the roaring of the sea. I did not want to kill him–no, no!”

Sombre voices answer:

“You commanded. We heard it. You commanded.”

Haggart listens, his head thrown back. Suddenly he bursts into loud laughter:

“Oh, devils, devils! Do you think that I have two ears in order that you may lie in each one? Go down on your knees, rascal!”

He hurls Khorre to the ground.

“String him up with a rope! I would have crushed your venomous head myself–but let them do it. Oh, devils, devils! String him up with a rope.”

Khorre whines harshly:

“Me, Captain! I was your nurse, Noni.”

“Silence! Rascal!”

“I? Noni! Your nurse? You squealed like a little pig in the cook’s room. Have you forgotten it, Noni?” mutters the sailor plaintively.

“Eh,” shouts Haggart to the stern crowd. “Take him!”

Several men advance to him. Khorre rises.

“If you do it to me, to your own nurse–then you have recovered, Noni! Eh, obey the captain! Take me! I’ll make you cry enough, Tommy! You are always the mischief-maker!”

Grim laughter. Several sailors surround Khorre as Haggart watches them sternly. A dissatisfied voice says:

“There is no place where to hang him here. There isn’t a single tree around.”

“Let us wait till we get aboard ship! Let him die honestly on the mast.”

“I know of a tree around here, but I won’t tell you,” roars Khorre hoarsely. “Look for it yourself! Well, you have astonished me, Noni. How you shouted, ‘String him up with a rope!’ Exactly like your father–he almost hanged me, too. Good-bye, Noni, now I understand your actions. Eh, gin! and then–on the rope!”

Khorre goes off. No one dares approach Haggart; still enraged, he paces back and forth with long strides. He pauses, glances at the body and paces again. Then he calls:

“Flerio! Did you hear me give orders to kill this man?”

“No, Captain.”

“You may go.”

He paces back and forth again, and then calls:

“Flerio! Have you ever heard the sea lying?”

“No.”

“If they can’t find a tree, order them to choke him with their hands.”

He paces back and forth again. Mariet is laughing quietly.

“Who is laughing?” asks Haggart in fury.

“I,” answers Mariet. “I am thinking of how they are hanging him and I am laughing. O, Haggart, O, my noble Haggart! Your wrath is the wrath of God, do you know it? No. You are strange, you are dear, you are terrible, Haggart, but I am not afraid of you. Give me your hand, Haggart, press it firmly, firmly. Here is a powerful hand!”

“Flerio, my friend, did you hear what he said? He says the sea never lies.”

“You are powerful and you are just–I was insane when I feared your power, Gart. May I shout to the sea: ‘Haggart, the Just’?”

“That is not true. Be silent, Mariet, you are intoxicated with blood. I don’t know what justice is.”

“Who, then, knows it? You, you, Haggart! You are God’s justice, Haggart. Is it true that he was your nurse? Oh, I know what it means to be a nurse; a nurse feeds you, teaches you to walk–you love a nurse as your mother. Isn’t that true, Gart–you love a nurse as a mother? And yet–‘string him up with a rope, Khorre’!”

She laughs quietly.

A loud, ringing laughter resounds from the side where Khorre was led away. Haggart stops, perplexed.

“What is it?”

“The devil is meeting his soul there,” says Mariet.

“No. Let go of my hand! Eh, who’s there?”

A crowd is coming. They are laughing and grinning, showing their teeth. But noticing the captain, they become serious. The people are repeating one and the same name:

“Khorre! Khorre! Khorre!”

And then Khorre himself appears, dishevelled, crushed, but happy–the rope has broken. Knitting his brow, Haggart is waiting in silence.

“The rope broke, Noni,” mutters Khorre hoarsely, modestly, yet with dignity. “There are the ends! Eh, you there, keep quiet! There is nothing to laugh at–they started to hang me, and the rope broke, Noni.”

Haggart looks at his old, drunken, frightened, and happy face, and he laughs like a madman. And the sailors respond with roaring laughter. The reflected lights are dancing more merrily upon the waves–as if they are also laughing with the people.

“Just look at him, Mariet, what a face he has,” Haggart is almost choking with laughter. “Are you happy? Speak–are you happy? Look, Mariet, what a happy face he has! The rope broke–that’s very strong –it is stronger even than what I said: ‘String him up with a rope.’ Who said it? Don’t you know, Khorre? You are out of your wits, and you don’t know anything–well, never mind, you needn’t know. Eh, give him gin! I am glad, very glad that you are not altogether through with your gin. Drink, Khorre!”

Voices shout:

“Gin!”

“Eh, the boatswain wants a drink! Gin!”

Khorre drinks it with dignity, amid laughter and shouts of approval. Suddenly all the noise dies down and a sombre silence reigns–a woman’s strange voice drowns the noise–so strange and unfamiliar, as if it were not Mariet’s voice at all, but another voice speaking with her lips:

“Haggart! You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

Some of the people look at the body; those standing near it step aside. Haggart asks, surprised:

“Whose voice is that? Is that yours, Mariet? How strange! I did not recognise your voice.”

“You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

“You have heard–the rope broke–“

“Tell me, did you pardon the murderer? I want to hear your voice, Haggart.”

A threatening voice is heard from among the crowd:

“The rope broke. Who is talking there? The rope broke.”

“Silence!” exclaims Haggart, but there is no longer the same commanding tone in his voice. “Take them all away! Boatswain! Whistle for everybody to go aboard. The time is up! Flerio! Get the boats ready.”

“Yes, yes.”

Khorre whistles. The sailors disperse unwillingly, and the same threatening voice sounds somewhere from the darkness:

“I thought at first it was the dead man who started to speak. But I would have answered him too: ‘Lie there! The rope broke.'”

Another voice replies:

“Don’t grumble. Khorre has stronger defenders than you are.”

“What are you prating about, devils?” says Khorre. “Silence! Is that you, Tommy? I know you, you are always the mischief-maker–“

“Come on, Mariet!” says Haggart. “Give me little Noni, I want to carry him to the boat myself. Come on, Mariet.”

“Where, Haggart?”

“Eh, Mariet! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice, woman– when did you find time to change it? What a land of jugglers! I have never seen such a land before!”

“Eh, Haggart! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice, either–little Haggart! But it may be that I am still sleeping–then wake me. Haggart, swear that it was you who said it: ‘The rope broke.’ Swear that my eyes have not grown blind and that they see Khorre alive. Swear that this is your hand, Haggart!”

Silence. The voice of the sea is growing louder–there is the splash and the call and the promise of a stern caress.

“I swear.”

Silence. Khorre and Flerio come up to Haggart.

“All’s ready, Captain,” says Flerio.

“They are waiting, Noni. Go quicker! They want to feast to-night, Noni! But I must tell you, Noni, that they–“

HAGGART–Did you say something, Flerio? Yes, yes, everything is ready. I am coming. I think I am not quite through yet with land. This is such a remarkable land, Flerio; the dreams here drive their claws into a man like thorns, and they hold him. One has to tear his clothing, and perhaps his body as well. What did you say, Mariet?

MARIET–Don’t you want to kiss little Noni? You shall never kiss him again.

“No, I don’t want to.”

Silence.

“You will go alone.”

“Yes, I will go alone.”

“Did you ever cry, Haggart?”

“No.”

“Who is crying now? I hear some one crying bitterly.”

“That is not true–it is the roaring of the sea.”

“Oh, Haggart! Of what great sorrow does that voice speak?”

“Be silent, Mariet. It is the roaring of the sea.”

Silence.

“Is everything ended now, Haggart?”

“Everything is ended, Mariet.”

Mariet, imploring, says:

“Gart! Only one motion of the hand! Right here–against the heart– Gart!”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Only one motion of the hand! Here is your knife. Have pity on me, kill me with your hand. Only one motion of your hand, Gart!”

“Let go. Give me my knife.”

“Gart, I bless you! One motion of your hand, Gart!”

Haggart tears himself away, pushing the woman aside:

“No! Don’t you know that it is just as hard to make one motion of the hand as it is for the sun to come down from the sky? Good-bye, Mariet!”

“You are going away?”

“Yes, I am going away. I am going away, Mariet. That’s how it sounds.”

“I shall curse you, Haggart. Do you know! I shall curse you, Haggart. And little Noni will curse you, Haggart–Haggart!”

Haggart exclaims cheerfully and harshly:

“Eh, Khorre. You, Flerio, my old friend. Come here, give me your hand–Oh, what a powerful hand it is! Why do you pull me by the sleeve, Khorre? You have such a funny face. I can almost see how the rope snapped, and you came down like a sack. Flerio, old friend, I feel like saying something funny, but I have forgotten how to say it. How do they say it? Remind me, Flerio. What do you want, sailor?”

Khorre whispers to him hoarsely:

“Noni, be on your guard. The rope broke because they used a rotten rope intentionally. They are betraying you! Be on your guard, Noni. Strike them on the head, Noni.”

Haggart bursts out laughing.

“Now you have said something funny. And I? Listen, Flerio, old friend. This woman who stands and looks–No, that will not be funny!”

He advances a step.

“Khorre, do you remember how well this man prayed? Why was he killed? He prayed so well. But there is one prayer he did not know– this one–‘To you I bring my great eternal sorrow; I am going to you, Father Ocean!'”

And a distant voice, sad and grave, replies:

“Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”

But who knows–perhaps it was the roaring of the waves. Many sad and strange dreams come to man on earth.

“All aboard!” exclaims Haggart cheerily, and goes off without looking around. Below, a gay noise of voices and laughter resounds. The cobblestones are rattling under the firm footsteps–Haggart is going away.

“Haggart!”

He goes, without turning around.

“Haggart!”

He has gone away.

Loud shouting is heard–the sailors are greeting Haggart. They drink and go off into the darkness. On the shore, the torches which were cast aside are burning low, illumining the body, and a woman is rushing about. She runs swiftly from one spot to another, bending down over the steep rocks. Insane Dan comes crawling out.

“Is that you, Dan? Do you hear, they are singing, Dan? Haggart has gone away.”

“I was waiting for them to go. Here is another one. I am gathering the pipes of my organ. Here is another one.”

“Be accursed, Dan!”

“Oho? And you, too, Mariet, be accursed!”

Mariet clasps the child in her arms and lifts him high. Then she calls wildly:

“Haggart, turn around! Turn around, Haggart! Noni is calling you. He wants to curse you, Haggart. Turn around! Look, Noni, look–that is your father. Remember him, Noni. And when you grow up, go out on every sea and find him, Noni. And when you find him–hang your father high on a mast, my little one.”

The thundering salute drowns her cry. Haggart has boarded his ship. The night grows darker and the dashing of the waves fainter–the ocean is moving away with the tide. The great desert of the sky is mute and the night grows darker and the dashing of the waves ever fainter.

JUDAS ISCARIOT AND OTHERS

CHAPTER I

Jesus Christ had often been warned that Judas Iscariot was a man of very evil repute, and that He ought to beware of him. Some of the disciples, who had been in Judaea, knew him well, while others had heard much about him from various sources, and there was none who had a good word for him. If good people in speaking of him blamed him, as covetous, cunning, and inclined to hypocrisy and lying, the bad, when asked concerning him, inveighed against him in the severest terms.

“He is always making mischief among us,” they would say, and spit in contempt. “He always has some thought which he keeps to himself. He creeps into a house quietly, like a scorpion, but goes out again with an ostentatious noise. There are friends among thieves, and comrades among robbers, and even liars have wives, to whom they speak the truth; but Judas laughs at thieves and honest folk alike, although he is himself a clever thief. Moreover, he is in appearance the ugliest person in Judaea. No! he is no friend of ours, this foxy-haired Judas Iscariot,” the bad would say, thereby surprising the good people, in whose opinion there was not much difference between him and all other vicious people in Judaea. They would recount further that he had long ago deserted his wife, who was living in poverty and misery, striving to eke out a living from the unfruitful patch of land which constituted his estate. He had wandered for many years aimlessly among the people, and had even gone from one sea to the other,–no mean distance,–and everywhere he lied and grimaced, and would make some discovery with his thievish eye, and then suddenly disappear, leaving behind him animosity and strife. Yes, he was as inquisitive, artful and hateful as a one-eyed demon. Children he had none, and this was an additional proof that Judas was a wicked man, that God would not have from him any posterity.

None of the disciples had noticed when it was that this ugly, foxy-haired Jew first appeared in the company of Christ: but he had for a long time haunted their path, joined in their conversations, performed little acts of service, bowing and smiling and currying favour. Sometimes they became quite used to him, so that he escaped their weary eyes; then again he would suddenly obtrude himself on eye and ear, irritating them as something abnormally ugly, treacherous and disgusting. They would drive him away with harsh words, and for a short time he would disappear, only to reappear suddenly, officious, flattering and crafty as a one-eyed demon.

There was no doubt in the minds of some of the disciples that under his desire to draw near to Jesus was hidden some secret intention– some malign and cunning scheme.

But Jesus did not listen to their advice; their prophetic voice did not reach His ears. In that spirit of serene contradiction, which ever irresistibly inclined Him to the reprobate and unlovable, He deliberately accepted Judas, and included him in the circle of the chosen. The disciples were disturbed and murmured under their breath, but He would sit still, with His face towards the setting sun, and listen abstractedly, perhaps to them, perhaps to something else. For ten days there had been no wind, and the transparent atmosphere, wary and sensitive, continued ever the same, motionless and unchanged. It seemed as though it preserved in its transparent depths every cry and song made during those days by men and beasts and birds–tears, laments and cheerful song, prayers and curses–and that on account of these crystallised sounds the air was so heavy, threatening, and saturated with invisible life. Once more the sun was sinking. It rolled heavily downwards in a flaming ball, setting the sky on fire. Everything upon the earth which was turned towards it: the swarthy face of Jesus, the walls of the houses, and the leaves of the trees–everything obediently reflected that distant, fearfully pensive light. Now the white walls were no longer white, and the white city upon the white hill was turned to red.

And lo! Judas arrived. He arrived bowing low, bending his back, cautiously and timidly protruding his ugly, bumpy head–just exactly as his acquaintances had described. He was spare and of good height, almost the same as that of Jesus, who stooped a little through the habit of thinking as He walked, and so appeared shorter than He was. Judas was to all appearances fairly strong and well knit, though for some reason or other he pretended to be weak and somewhat sickly. He had an uncertain voice. Sometimes it was strong and manly, then again shrill as that of an old woman scolding her husband, provokingly thin, and disagreeable to the ear, so that ofttimes one felt inclined to tear out his words from the ear, like rough, decaying splinters. His short red locks failed to hide the curious form of his skull. It looked as if it had been split at the nape of the neck by a double sword-cut, and then joined together again, so that it was apparently divided into four parts, and inspired distrust, nay, even alarm: for behind such a cranium there could be no quiet or concord, but there must ever be heard the noise of sanguinary and merciless strife. The face of Judas was similarly doubled. One side of it, with a black, sharply watchful eye, was vivid and mobile, readily gathering into innumerable tortuous wrinkles. On the other side were no wrinkles. It was deadly flat, smooth, and set, and though of the same size as the other, it seemed enormous on account of its wide-open blind eye. Covered with a whitish film, closing neither night nor day, this eye met light and darkness with the same indifference, but perhaps on account of the proximity of its lively and crafty companion it never got full credit for blindness.

When in a paroxysm of joy or excitement, Judas would close his sound eye and shake his head. The other eye would always shake in unison and gaze in silence. Even people quite devoid of penetration could clearly perceive, when looking at Judas, that such a man could bring no good….

And yet Jesus brought him near to Himself, and once even made him sit next to Him. John, the beloved disciple, fastidiously moved away, and all the others who loved their Teacher cast down their eyes in disapprobation. But Judas sat on, and turning his head from side to side, began in a somewhat thin voice to complain of ill-health, and said that his chest gave him pain in the night, and that when ascending a hill he got out of breath, and when he stood still on the edge of a precipice he would be seized with a dizziness, and could scarcely restrain a foolish desire to throw himself down. And many other impious things he invented, as though not understanding that sicknesses do not come to a man by chance, but as a consequence of conduct not corresponding with the laws of the Eternal. Thus Judas Iscariot kept on rubbing his chest with his broad palm, and even pretended to cough, midst a general silence and downcast eyes.

John, without looking at the Teacher, whispered to his friend Simon Peter–

“Aren’t you tired of that lie? I can’t stand it any longer. I am going away.”

Peter glanced at Jesus, and meeting his eye, quickly arose.

“Wait a moment,” said he to his friend.

Once more he looked at Jesus; sharply as a stone torn from a mountain, he moved towards Judas, and said to him in a loud voice, with expansive, serene courtesy–

“You will come with us, Judas.”

He gave him a kindly slap on his bent back, and without looking at the Teacher, though he felt His eye upon him, resolutely added in his loud voice, which excluded all objection, just as water excludes air–

“It does not matter that you have such a nasty face. There fall into our nets even worse monstrosities, and they sometimes turn out very tasty food. It is not for us, our Lord’s fishermen, to throw away a catch, merely because the fish have spines, or only one eye. I saw once at Tyre an octopus, which had been caught by the local fishermen, and I was so frightened that I wanted to run away. But they laughed at me. A fisherman from Tiberias gave me some of it to eat, and I asked for more, it was so tasty. You remember, Master, that I told you the story, and you laughed, too. And you, Judas, are like an octopus–but only on one side.”

And he laughed loudly, content with his joke. When Peter spoke, his words resounded so forcibly, that it seemed as though he were driving them in with nails. When Peter moved, or did anything, he made a noise that could be heard afar, and which called forth a response from the deafest of things: the stone floor rumbled under his feet, the doors shook and rattled, and the very air was convulsed with fear, and roared. In the clefts of the mountains his voice awoke the inmost echo, and in the morning-time, when they were fishing on the lake, he would roll about on the sleepy, glittering water, and force the first shy sunbeams into smiles.

For this apparently he was loved: when on all other faces there still lay the shadow of night, his powerful head, and bare breast, and freely extended arms were already aglow with the light of dawn.

The words of Peter, evidently approved as they were by the Master, dispersed the oppressive atmosphere. But some of the disciples, who had been to the seaside and had seen an octopus, were disturbed by the monstrous image so lightly applied to the new disciple. They recalled the immense eyes, the dozens of greedy tentacles, the feigned repose–and how all at once: it embraced, clung, crushed and sucked, all without one wink of its monstrous eyes. What did it mean? But Jesus remained silent, He smiled with a frown of kindly raillery on Peter, who was still telling glowing tales about the octopus. Then one by one the disciples shame-facedly approached Judas, and began a friendly conversation, with him, but–beat a hasty and awkward retreat.

Only John, the son of Zebedee, maintained an obstinate silence; and Thomas had evidently not made up his mind to say anything, but was still weighing the matter. He kept his gaze attentively fixed on Christ and Judas as they sat together. And that strange proximity of divine beauty and monstrous ugliness, of a man with a benign look, and of an octopus with immense, motionless, dully greedy eyes, oppressed his mind like an insoluble enigma.

He tensely wrinkled his smooth, upright forehead, and screwed up his eyes, thinking that he would see better so, but only succeeded in imagining that Judas really had eight incessantly moving feet. But that was not true. Thomas understood that, and again gazed obstinately.

Judas gathered courage: he straightened out his arms, which had been bent at the elbows, relaxed the muscles which held his jaws in tension, and began cautiously to protrude his bumpy head into the light. It had been the whole time in view of all, but Judas imagined that it had been impenetrably hidden from sight by some invisible, but thick and cunning veil. But lo! now, as though creeping out from a ditch, he felt his strange skull, and then his eyes, in the light: he stopped and then deliberately exposed his whole face. Nothing happened; Peter had gone away somewhere or other. Jesus sat pensive, with His head leaning on His hand, and gently swayed His sunburnt foot. The disciples were conversing together, and only Thomas gazed at him attentively and seriously, like a conscientious tailor taking measurement. Judas smiled; Thomas did not reply to the smile; but evidently took it into account, as he did everything else, and continued to gaze. But something unpleasant alarmed the left side of Judas’ countenance as he looked round. John, handsome, pure, without a single fleck upon his snow-white conscience, was looking at him out of a dark corner, with cold but beautiful eyes. And though he walked as others walk, yet Judas felt as if he were dragging himself along the ground like a whipped cur, as he went up to John and said: “Why are you silent, John? Your words are like golden apples in vessels of silver filigree; bestow one of them on Judas, who is so poor.”

John looked steadfastly into his wide-open motionless eye, and said nothing. And he looked on, while Judas crept out, hesitated a moment, and then disappeared in the deep darkness of the open door.

Since the full moon was up, there were many people out walking. Jesus went out too, and from the low roof on which Judas had spread his couch he saw Him going out. In the light of the moon each white figure looked bright and deliberate in its movements; and seemed not so much to walk as to glide in front of its dark shadow. Then suddenly a man would be lost in something black, and his voice became audible. And when people reappeared in the moonlight, they seemed silent–like white walls, or black shadows–as everything did in the transparent mist of night. Almost every one was asleep when Judas heard the soft voice of Jesus returning. All in and around about the house was still. A cock crew; somewhere an ass, disturbed in his sleep, brayed aloud and insolently as in daytime, then reluctantly and gradually relapsed into silence. Judas did not sleep at all, but listened surreptitiously. The moon illumined one half of his face, and was reflected strangely in his enormous open eye, as on the frozen surface of a lake.

Suddenly he remembered something, and hastily coughed, rubbing his perfectly healthy chest with his hairy hand: maybe some one was not yet asleep, and was listening to what Judas was thinking!

CHAPTER II

They gradually became used to Judas, and ceased to notice his ugliness. Jesus entrusted the common purse to him, and with it there fell on him all household cares: he purchased the necessary food and clothing, distributed alms, and when they were on the road, it was his duty to choose the place where they were to stop, or to find a night’s lodging.

All this he did very cleverly, so that in a short time he had earned the goodwill of some of the disciples, who had noticed his efforts. Judas was an habitual liar, but they became used to this, when they found that his lies were not followed by any evil conduct; nay, they added a special piquancy to his conversation and tales, and made life seem like a comic, and sometimes a tragic, tale.

According to his stories, he seemed to know every one, and each person that he knew had some time in his life been guilty of evil conduct, or even crime. Those, according to him, were called good, who knew how to conceal their thoughts and acts; but if one only embraced, flattered, and questioned such a man sufficiently, there would ooze out from him every untruth, nastiness, and lie, like matter from a pricked wound. He freely confessed that he sometimes lied himself; but affirmed with an oath that others were still greater liars, and that if any one in this world was ever deceived, it was Judas.

Indeed, according to his own account, he had been deceived, time upon time, in one way or another. Thus, a certain guardian of the treasures of a rich grandee once confessed to him, that he had for ten years been continually on the point of stealing the property committed to him, but that he was debarred by fear of the grandee, and of his own conscience. And Judas believed him–and he suddenly committed the theft, and deceived Judas. But even then Judas still trusted him–and then he suddenly restored the stolen treasure to the grandee, and again deceived Judas. Yes, everything deceived him, even animals. Whenever he pets a dog it bites his fingers; but when he beats it with a stick it licks his feet, and looks into his eyes like a daughter. He killed one such dog, and buried it deep, laying a great stone on the top of it–but who knows? Perhaps just because he killed it, it has come to life again, and instead of lying in the trench, is running about cheerfully with other dogs.

All laughed merrily at Judas’ tale, and he smiled pleasantly himself, winking his one lively, mocking eye–and by that very smile confessed that he had lied somewhat; that he had not really killed the dog. But he meant to find it and kill it, because he did not wish to be deceived. And at these words of Judas they laughed all the more.

But sometimes in his tales he transgressed the bounds of probability, and ascribed to people such proclivities as even the beasts do not possess, accusing them of such crimes as are not, and never have been. And since he named in this connection the most honoured people, some were indignant at the calumny, while others jokingly asked:

“How about your own father and mother, Judas–were they not good people?”

Judas winked his eye, and smiled with a gesture of his hands. And the fixed, wide-open eye shook in unison with the shaking of his head, and looked out in silence.

“But who was my father? Perhaps it was the man who used to beat me with a rod, or may be–a devil, a goat or a cock…. How can Judas tell? How can Judas tell with whom his mother shared her couch. Judas had many fathers: to which of them do you refer?”

But at this they were all indignant, for they had a profound reverence for parents; and Matthew, who was very learned in the scriptures, said severely in the words of Solomon:

“‘Whoso slandereth his father and his mother, his lamp shall be extinguished in deep darkness.'”

But John the son of Zebedee haughtily jerked out: “And what of us? What evil have you to say of us, Judas Iscariot?”

But he waved his hands in simulated terror, whined, and bowed like a beggar, who has in vain asked an alms of a passer-by: “Ah! they are tempting poor Judas! They are laughing at him, they wish to take in the poor, trusting Judas!” And while one side of his face was crinkled up in buffooning grimaces, the other side wagged sternly and severely, and the never-closing eye looked out in a broad stare.

More and louder than any laughed Simon Peter at the jokes of Judas Iscariot. But once it happened that he suddenly frowned, and became silent and sad, and hastily dragging Judas aside by the sleeve, he bent down, and asked in a hoarse whisper–

“But Jesus? What do you think of Jesus? Speak seriously, I entreat you.”

Judas cast on him a malign glance.

“And what do you think?”

Peter whispered with awe and gladness–

“I think that He is the son of the living God.”

“Then why do you ask? What can Judas tell you, whose father was a goat?”

“But do you love Him? You do not seem to love any one, Judas.”

And with the same strange malignity, Iscariot blurted out abruptly and sharply: “I do.”

Some two days after this conversation, Peter openly dubbed Judas “my friend the octopus”; but Judas awkwardly, and ever with the same malignity, endeavoured to creep away from him into some dark corner, and would sit there morosely glaring with his white, never-closing eye.

Thomas alone took him quite seriously. He understood nothing of jokes, hypocrisy or lies, nor of the play upon words and thoughts, but investigated everything positively to the very bottom. He would often interrupt Judas’ stories about wicked people and their conduct with short practical remarks:

“You must prove that. Did you hear it yourself? Was there any one present besides yourself? What was his name?”

At this Judas would get angry, and shrilly cry out, that he had seen and heard everything himself; but the obstinate Thomas would go on cross-examining quietly and persistently, until Judas confessed that he had lied, or until he invented some new and more probable lie, which provided the others for some time with food for thought. But when Thomas discovered a discrepancy, he would immediately come and calmly expose the liar.

Usually Judas excited in him a strong curiosity, which brought about between them a sort of friendship, full of wrangling, jeering, and invective on the one side, and of quiet insistence on the other. Sometimes Judas felt an unbearable aversion to his strange friend, and, transfixing him with a sharp glance, would say irritably, and almost with entreaty–

“What more do you want? I have told you all.”

“I want you to prove how it is possible that a he-goat should be your father,” Thomas would reply with calm insistency, and wait for an answer.

It chanced once, that after such a question, Judas suddenly stopped speaking and gazed at him with surprise from head to foot. What he saw was a tall, upright figure, a grey face, honest eyes of transparent blue, two fat folds beginning at the nose and losing themselves in a stiff, evenly-trimmed beard. He said with conviction:

“What a stupid you are, Thomas! What do you dream about–a tree, a wall, or a donkey?”

Thomas was in some way strangely perturbed, and made no reply. But at night, when Judas was already closing his vivid, restless eye for sleep, he suddenly said aloud from where he lay–the two now slept together on the roof–

“You are wrong, Judas. I have very bad dreams. What think you? Are people responsible for their dreams?”

“Does, then, any one but the dreamer see a dream?” Judas replied.

Thomas sighed gently, and became thoughtful. But Judas smiled contemptuously, and firmly closed his roguish eye, and quickly gave himself up to his mutinous dreams, monstrous ravings, mad phantoms, which rent his bumpy skull to pieces.

When, during Jesus’ travels about Judaea, the disciples approached a village, Iscariot would speak evil of the inhabitants and foretell misfortune. But almost always it happened that the people, of whom he had spoken evil, met Christ and His friends with gladness, and surrounded them with attentions and love, and became believers, and Judas’ money-box became so full that it was difficult to carry. And when they laughed at his mistake, he would make a humble gesture with his hands, and say:

“Well, well! Judas thought that they were bad, and they turned out to be good. They quickly believed, and gave money. That only means that Judas has been deceived once more, the poor, confiding Judas Iscariot!”

But on one occasion, when they had already gone far from a village, which had welcomed them kindly, Thomas and Judas began a hot dispute, to settle which they turned back, and did not overtake Jesus and His disciples until the next day. Thomas wore a perturbed and sorrowful appearance, while Judas had such a proud look, that you would have thought that he expected them to offer him their congratulations and thanks upon the spot. Approaching the Master, Thomas declared with decision: “Judas was right, Lord. They were ill-disposed, stupid people. And the seeds of your words has fallen upon the rock.” And he related what had happened in the village.

After Jesus and His disciples left it, an old woman had begun to cry out that her little white kid had been stolen, and she laid the theft at the door of the visitors who had just departed. At first the people had disputed with her, but when she obstinately insisted that there was no one else who could have done it except Jesus, many agreed with her, and even were about to start in pursuit. And although they soon found the kid straying in the underwood, they still decided that Jesus was a deceiver, and possibly a thief.

“So that’s what they think of us, is it?” cried Peter, with a snort. “Lord, wilt Thou that I return to those fools, and–“

But Jesus, saying not a word, gazed severely at him, and Peter in silence retired behind the others. And no one ever referred to the incident again, as though it had never occurred, and as though Judas had been proved wrong. In vain did he show himself on all sides, endeavouring to give to his double, crafty, hooknosed face an expression of modesty. They would not look at him, and if by chance any one did glance at him, it was in a very unfriendly, not to say contemptuous, manner.

From that day on Jesus’ treatment of him underwent a strange change. Formerly, for some reason or other, Judas never used to speak directly with Jesus, who never addressed Himself directly to him, but nevertheless would often glance at him with kindly eyes, smile at his rallies, and if He had not seen him for some time, would inquire: “Where is Judas?”

But now He looked at him as if He did not see him, although as before, and indeed more determinedly than formerly, He sought him out with His eyes every time that He began to speak to the disciples or to the people; but He was either sitting with His back to him, so that He was obliged, as it were, to cast His words over His head so as to reach Judas, or else He made as though He did not notice him at all. And whatever He said, though it was one thing one day, and then next day quite another, although it might be the very thing that Judas was thinking, it always seemed as though He were speaking against him. To all He was the tender, beautiful flower, the sweet-smelling rose of Lebanon, but for Judas He left only sharp thorns, as though Judas had neither heart, nor sight, nor smell, and did not understand, even better than any, the beauty of tender, immaculate petals.

“Thomas! Do you like the yellow rose of Lebanon, which has a swarthy countenance and eyes like the roe?” he inquired once of his friend, who replied indifferently–

“Rose? Yes, I like the smell. But I have never heard of a rose with a swarthy countenance and eyes like a roe!”

“What? Do you not know that the polydactylous cactus, which tore your new garment yesterday, has only one beautiful flower, and only one eye?”

But Thomas did not know this, although only yesterday a cactus had actually caught in his garment and torn it into wretched rags. But then Thomas never did know anything, though he asked questions about everything, and looked so straight with his bright, transparent eyes, through which, as through a pane of Phoenician glass, was visible a wall, with a dismal ass tied to it.

Some time later another occurrence took place, in which Judas again proved to be in the right.

At a certain village in Judaea, of which Judas had so bad an opinion, that he had advised them to avoid it, the people received Christ with hostility, and after His sermon and exposition of hypocrites they burst into fury, and threatened to stone Jesus and His disciples. Enemies He had many, and most likely they would have carried out their sinister intention, but for Judas Iscariot. Seized with a mad fear for Jesus, as though he already saw the drops of ruby blood upon His white garment, Judas threw himself in blind fury upon the crowd, scolding, screeching, beseeching, and lying, and thus gave time and opportunity to Jesus and His disciples to escape.

Amazingly active, as though running upon a dozen feet, laughable and terrible in his fury and entreaties, he threw himself madly in front of the crowd and charmed it with a certain strange power. He shouted that the Nazarene was not possessed of a devil, that He was simply an impostor, a thief who loved money as did all His disciples, and even Judas himself: and he rattled the money-box, grimaced, and beseeched, throwing himself on the ground. And by degrees the anger of the crowd changed into laughter and disgust, and they let fall the stones which they had picked up to throw at them.

“They are not fit to die by the hands of an honest person,” said they, while others thoughtfully followed the rapidly disappearing Judas with their eyes.

Again Judas expected to receive congratulations, praise, and thanks, and made a show of his torn garments, and pretended that he had been beaten; but this time, too, he was greatly mistaken. The angry Jesus strode on in silence, and even Peter and John did not venture to approach Him: and all whose eyes fell on Judas in his torn garments, his face glowing with happiness, but still somewhat frightened, repelled him with curt, angry exclamations.

It was just as though he had not saved them all, just as though he had not saved their Teacher, whom they loved so dearly.

“Do you want to see some fools?” said he to Thomas, who was thoughtfully walking in the rear. “Look! There they go along the road in a crowd, like a flock of sheep, kicking up the dust. But you are wise, Thomas, you creep on behind, and I, the noble, magnificent Judas, creep on behind like a dirty slave, who has no place by the side of his masters.”

“Why do you call yourself magnificent?” asked Thomas in surprise.

“Because I am so,” Judas replied with conviction, and he went on talking, giving more details of how he had deceived the enemies of Jesus, and laughed at them and their stupid stones.

“But you told lies,” said Thomas.

“Of course I did,” quickly assented Iscariot. “I gave them what they asked for, and they gave me in return what I wanted. And what is a lie, my clever Thomas? Would not the death of Jesus be the greatest lie of all?”

“You did not act rightly. Now I believe that a devil is your father. It was he that taught you, Judas.”

The face of Judas grew pale, and something suddenly came over Thomas, and as if it were a white cloud, passed over and concealed the road and Jesus. With a gentle movement Judas just as suddenly drew Thomas to himself, pressed him closely with a paralysing movement, and whispered in his ear–

“You mean, then, that a devil has instructed me, don’t you, Thomas? Well, I saved Jesus. Therefore a devil loves Jesus and has need of Him, and of the truth. Is it not so, Thomas? But then my father was not a devil, but a he-goat. Can a he-goat want Jesus? Eh? And don’t you want Him yourselves, and the truth also?”

Angry and slightly frightened, Thomas freed himself with difficulty from the clinging embrace of Judas, and began to stride forward quickly. But he soon slackened his pace as he endeavoured to understand what had taken place.

But Judas crept on gently behind, and gradually came to a standstill. And lo! in the distance the pedestrians became blended into a parti-coloured mass, so that it was impossible any longer to distinguish which among those little figures was Jesus. And lo! the little Thomas, too, changed into a grey spot, and suddenly–all disappeared round a turn in the road.

Looking round, Judas went down from the road and with immense leaps descended into the depths of a rocky ravine. His clothes blew out with the speed and abruptness of his course, and his hands were extended upwards as though he would fly. Lo! now he crept along an abrupt declivity, and suddenly rolled down in a grey ball, rubbing off his skin against the stones; then he jumped up and angrily threatened the mountain with his fist–

“You too, damn you!”

Suddenly he changed his quick movements into a comfortable, concentrated dawdling, chose a place by a big stone, and sat down without hurry. He turned himself, as if seeking a comfortable position, laid his hands side by side on the grey stone, and heavily sank his head upon them. And so for an hour or two he sat on, as motionless and grey as the grey stone itself, so still that he deceived even the birds. The walls of the ravine rose before him, and behind, and on every side, cutting a sharp line all round on the blue sky; while everywhere immense grey stones obtruded from the ground, as though there had been at some time or other, a shower here, and as though its heavy drops had become petrified in endless split, upturned skull, and every stone in it was like a petrified thought; and there were many of them, and they all kept thinking heavily, boundlessly, stubbornly.

A scorpion, deceived by his quietness, hobbled past, on its tottering legs, close to Judas. He threw a glance at it, and, without lifting his head from the stone, again let both his eyes rest fixedly on something–both motionless, both veiled in a strange whitish turbidness, both as though blind and yet terribly alert. And lo! from out of the ground, the stones, and the clefts, the quiet darkness of night began to rise, enveloped the motionless Judas, and crept swiftly up towards the pallid light of the sky. Night was coming on with its thoughts and dreams.

That night Judas did not return to the halting-place. And the disciples, forgetting their thoughts, busied themselves with preparations for their meal, and grumbled at his negligence.

CHAPTER III

Once, about mid-day, Jesus and His disciples were walking along a stony and hilly road devoid of shade, and, since they had been more than five hours afoot, Jesus began to complain of weariness. The disciples stopped, and Peter and his friend John spread their cloaks and those of the other disciples, on the ground, and fastened them above between two high rocks, and so made a sort of tent for Jesus. He lay down in the tent, resting from the heat of the sun, while they amused Him with pleasant conversation and jokes. But seeing that even talking fatigued Him, and being themselves but little affected by weariness and the heat, they went some distance off and occupied themselves in various ways. One sought edible roots among the stones on the slope of the mountain, and when he had found them brought them to Jesus; another, climbing up higher and higher, searched musingly for the limits of the blue distance, and failing, climbed up higher on to new, sharp-pointed rocks. John found a beautiful little blue lizard among the stones, and smiling brought it quickly with tender hands to Jesus. The lizard looked with its protuberant, mysterious eyes into His, and then crawled quickly with its cold body over His warm hand, and soon swiftly disappeared with tender, quivering tail.

But Peter and Philip, not caring about such amusements, occupied themselves in tearing up great stones from the mountain, and hurling them down below, as a test of their strength. The others, attracted by their loud laughter, by degrees gathered round them, and joined in their sport. Exerting their strength, they would tear up from the ground an ancient rock all overgrown, and lifting it high with both hands, hurl it down the slope. Heavily it would strike with a dull thud, and hesitate for a moment; then resolutely it would make a first leap, and each time it touched the ground, gathering from it speed and strength, it would become light, furious, all-subversive. Now it no longer leapt, but flew with grinning teeth, and the whistling wind let its dull round mass pass by. Lo! it is on the edge–with a last, floating motion the stone would sweep high, and then quietly, with ponderous deliberation, fly downwards in a curve to the invisible bottom of the precipice.

“Now then, another!” cried Peter. His white teeth shone between his black beard and moustache, his mighty chest and arms were bare, and the sullen, ancient rocks, dully wondering at the strength which lifted them, obediently, one after another, precipitated themselves into the abyss. Even the frail John threw some moderate-sized stones, and Jesus smiled quietly as He looked at their sport.

“But what are you doing, Judas? Why do you not take part in the game? It seems amusing enough?” asked Thomas, when he found his strange friend motionless behind a great grey stone.

“I have a pain in my chest. Moreover, they have not invited me.”

“What need of invitation! At all events, I invite you; come! Look what stones Peter throws!”

Judas somehow or other happened to glance sideward at him, and Thomas became, for the first time, indistinctly aware that he had two faces. But before he could thoroughly grasp the fact, Judas said in his ordinary tone, at once fawning and mocking–

“There is surely none stronger than Peter? When he shouts, all the asses in Jerusalem think that their Messiah has arrived, and lift up their voices too. You have heard them before now, have you not, Thomas?”

Smiling politely; and modestly wrapping his garment round his chest, which was overgrown with red curly hairs, Judas stepped into the circle of players.

And since they were all in high good humour, they met him with mirth and loud jokes, and even John condescended to vouchsafe a smile, when Judas, pretending to groan with the exertion, laid hold of an immense stone. But lo! he lifted it with ease, and threw it, and his blind, wide-open eye gave a jerk, and then fixed itself immovably on Peter; while the other eye, cunning and merry, was overflowing with quiet laughter.

“No! you throw again!” said Peter in an offended tone.

And lo! one after the other they kept lifting and throwing gigantic stones, while the disciples looked on in amazement. Peter threw a great stone, and then Judas a still bigger one. Peter, frowning and concentrated, angrily wielded a fragment of rock, and struggling as he lifted it, hurled it down; then Judas, without ceasing to smile, searched for a still larger fragment, and digging his long fingers into it, grasped it, and swinging himself together with it, and paling, sent it into the gulf. When he had thrown his stone, Peter would recoil and so watch its fall; but Judas always bent himself forward, stretched out his long vibrant arms, as though he were going to fly after the stone. Eventually both of them, first Peter, then Judas, seized hold of an old grey stone, but neither one nor the other could move it. All red with his exertion, Peter resolutely approached Jesus, and said aloud–

“Lord! I do not wish to be beaten by Judas. Help me to throw this stone.”

Jesus made answer in a low voice, and Peter, shrugging his broad shoulders in dissatisfaction, but not daring to make any rejoinder, came back with the words–

“He says: ‘But who will help Iscariot?'”

Then glancing at Judas, who, panting with clenched teeth, was still embracing the stubborn stone, he laughed cheerfully–

“Look what an invalid he is! See what our poor sick Judas is doing!”

And even Judas laughed at being so unexpectedly exposed in his deception, and all the others laughed too, and even Thomas allowed his pointed, grey, overhanging moustache to relax into a smile.

And so in friendly chat and laughter, they all set out again on the way, and Peter, quite reconciled to his victor, kept from time to time digging him in the ribs, and loudly guffawed–

“There’s an invalid for you!”

All of them praised Judas, and acknowledged him victor, and all chatted with him in a friendly manner; but Jesus once again had no word of praise for Judas. He walked silently in front, nibbling the grasses, which He plucked. And gradually, one by one, the disciples craved laughing, and went over to Jesus. So that in a short time it came about, that they were all walking ahead in a compact body, while Judas–the victor, the strong man–crept on behind, choking with dust.

And lo! they stood still, and Jesus laid His hand on Peter’s shoulder, while with His other He pointed into the distance, where Jerusalem had just become visible in the smoke. And the broad, strong back of Peter gently accepted that slight sunburnt hand.

For the night they stayed in Bethany, at the house of Lazarus. And when all were gathered together for conversation, Judas thought that they would now recall his victory over Peter, and sat down nearer. But the disciples were silent and unusually pensive. Images of the road they had traversed, of the sun, the rocks and the grass, of Christ lying down under the shelter, quietly floated through their