heads, breathing a soft pensiveness, begetting confused but sweet reveries of an eternal movement under the sun. The wearied body reposed sweetly, and thought was merged in something mystically great and beautiful–and no one recalled Judas!
Judas went out, and then returned. Jesus was discoursing, and His disciples were listening to Him in silence.
Mary sat at His feet, motionless as a statue, and gazed into His face with upturned eyes. John had come quite close, and endeavoured to sit so that his hand touched the garment of the Master, but without disturbing Him. He touched Him and was still. Peter breathed loud and deeply, repeating under his breath the words of Jesus.
Iscariot had stopped short on the threshold, and contemptuously letting his gaze pass by the company, he concentrated all its fire on Jesus. And the more he looked the more everything around Him seemed to fade, and to become clothed with darkness and silence, while Jesus alone shone forth with uplifted hand. And then, lo! He was, as it were, raised up into the air, and melted away, as though He consisted of mist floating over a lake, and penetrated by the light of the setting moon, and His soft speech began to sound tenderly, somewhere far, far away. And gazing at the wavering phantom, and drinking in the tender melody of the distant dream-like words, Judas gathered his whole soul into his iron fingers, and in its vast darkness silently began building up some colossal scheme. Slowly, in the profound darkness, he kept lifting up masses, like mountains, and quite easily heaping them one on another: and again he would lift up and again heap them up; and something grew in the darkness, spread noiselessly and burst its bounds. His head felt like a dome, in the impenetrable darkness of which the colossal thing continued to grow, and some one, working on in silence, kept lifting up masses like mountains, and piling them one on another and again lifting up, and so on and on… whilst somewhere in the distance the phantom-like words tenderly sounded.
Thus he stood blocking the doorway, huge and black, while Jesus went on talking, and the strong, intermittent breathing of Peter repeated His words aloud. But on a sudden Jesus broke off an unfinished sentence, and Peter, as though waking from sleep, cried out exultingly–
“Lord! to Thee are known the words of eternal life!”
But Jesus held His peace, and kept gazing fixedly in one direction. And when they followed His gaze they perceived in the doorway the petrified Judas with gaping mouth and fixed eyes. And, not understanding what was the matter, they laughed. But Matthew, who was learned in the Scriptures, touched Judas on the shoulder, and said in the words of Solomon–
“‘He that looketh kindly shall be forgiven; but he that is met within the gates will impede others.'”
Judas was silent for a while, and then fretfully and everything about him, his eyes, hands and feet, seemed to start in different directions, as those of an animal which suddenly perceives the eye of man upon him. Jesus went straight to Judas, as though words trembled on His lips, but passed by him through the open, and now unoccupied, door.
In the middle of the night the restless Thomas came to Judas’ bed, and sitting down on his heels, asked–
“Are you weeping, Judas?”
“No! Go away, Thomas.”
“Why do you groan, and grind your teeth? Are you ill?”
Judas was silent for a while, and then fretfully there fell from his lips distressful words, fraught with grief and anger–
“Why does not He love me? Why does He love the others? Am I not handsomer, better and stronger than they? Did not I save His life while they ran away like cowardly dogs?”
“My poor friend, you are not quite right. You are not good-looking at all, and your tongue is as disagreeable as your face. You lie and slander continually; how then can you expect Jesus to love you?”
But Judas, stirring heavily in the darkness, continued as though he heard him not–
“Why is He not on the side of Judas, instead of on the side of those who do not love Him? John brought Him a lizard; I would bring him a poisonous snake. Peter threw stones; I would overthrow a mountain for His sake. But what is a poisonous snake? One has but to draw its fangs, and it will coil round one’s neck like a necklace. What is a mountain, which it is possible to dig down with the hands, and to trample with the feet? I would give to Him Judas, the bold, magnificent Judas. But now He will perish, and together with him will perish Judas.”
“You are speaking strangely, Judas!”
“A withered fig-tree, which must needs be cut down with the axe, such am I: He said it of me. Why then does He not do it? He dare not, Thomas! I know him. He fears Judas. He hides from the bold, strong, magnificent Judas. He loves fools, traitors, liars. You are a liar, Thomas; have you never been told so before?”
Thomas was much surprised, and wished to object, but he thought that Judas was simply railing, and so only shook his head in the darkness. And Judas lamented still more grievously, and groaned and ground his teeth, and his whole huge body could be heard heaving under the coverlet.
“What is the matter with Judas? Who has applied fire to his body? He will give his son to the dogs. He will give his daughter to be betrayed by robbers, his bride to harlotry. And yet has not Judas a tender heart? Go away, Thomas; go away, stupid! Leave the strong, bold, magnificent Judas alone!”
CHAPTER IV
Judas had concealed some denarii, and the deception was discovered, thanks to Thomas, who had seen by chance how much money had been given to them. It was only too probable that this was not the first time that Judas had committed a theft, and they all were enraged. The angry Peter seized Judas by his collar and almost dragged him to Jesus, and the terrified Judas paled but did not resist.
“Master, see! Here he is, the trickster! Here’s the thief. You trusted him, and he steals our money. Thief! Scoundrel! If Thou wilt permit, I’ll–“
But Jesus held His peace. And attentively regarding him, Peter suddenly turned red, and loosed the hand which held the collar, while Judas shyly rearranged his garment, casting a sidelong glance on Peter, and assuming the downcast look of a repentant criminal.
“So that’s how it’s to be,” angrily said Peter, as he went out, loudly slamming the door. They were all dissatisfied, and declared that on no account would they consort with Judas any longer; but John, after some consideration, passed through the door, behind which might be heard the quiet, almost caressing, voice of Jesus. And when in the course of time he returned, he was pale, and his downcast eyes were red as though with recent tears.
“The Master says that Judas may take as much money as he pleases.” Peter laughed angrily. John gave him a quick reproachful glance, and suddenly flushing, and mingling tears with anger, and delight with tears, loudly exclaimed:
“And no one must reckon how much money Judas receives. He is our brother, and all the money is as much his as ours: if he wants much let him take much, without telling any one, or taking counsel with any. Judas is our brother, and you have grievously insulted him–so says the Master. Shame on you, brother!”
In the doorway stood Judas, pale and with a distorted smile on his face. With a light movement John went up to him and kissed him three times. After him, glancing round at one another, James, Philip and the others came up shamefacedly; and after each kiss Judas wiped his mouth, but gave a loud smack as though the sound afforded him pleasure. Peter came up last.
“We were all stupid, all blind, Judas. He alone sees, He alone is wise. May I kiss you?”
“Why not? Kiss away!” said Judas as in consent.
Peter kissed him vigorously, and said aloud in his ear–
“But I almost choked you. The others kissed you in the usual way, but I kissed you on the throat. Did it hurt you?”
“A little.”
“I will go and tell Him all. I was angry even with Him,” said Peter sadly, trying noiselessly to open the door.
“And what are you going to do, Thomas?” asked John severely. He it was who looked after the conduct and the conversation of the disciples.
“I don’t know yet. I must consider.”
And Thomas thought long, almost the whole day. The disciples had dispersed to their occupations, and somewhere on the other side of the wall, Peter was shouting joyfully–but Thomas was still considering. He would have come to a decision more quickly had not Judas hindered him somewhat by continually following him about with a mocking glance, and now and again asking him in a serious tone–
“Well, Thomas, and how does the matter progress?”
Then Judas brought his money-box, and shaking the money and pretending not to look at Thomas, began to count it–
“Twenty-one, two, three…. Look, Thomas, a bad coin again. Oh! what rascals people are; they even give bad money as offerings. Twenty-four… and then they will say again that Judas has stolen it… twenty-five, twenty-six….”
Thomas approached him resolutely… for it was already towards evening, and said–
“He is right, Judas. Let me kiss you.”
“Will you? Twenty-nine, thirty. It’s no good. I shall steal again. Thirty-one….”
“But how can you steal, when it is neither yours nor another’s? You will simply take as much as you want, brother.”
“It has taken you a long time to repeat His words! Don’t you value time, you clever Thomas?”
“You seem to be laughing at me, brother.”
“And consider, are you doing well, my virtuous Thomas, in repeating His words? He said something of His own, but you do not. He really kissed me–you only defiled my mouth. I can still feel your moist lips upon mine. It was so disgusting, my good Thomas. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. Forty denarii. Thomas, won’t you check the sum?”
“Certainly He is our Master. Why then should we not repeat the words of our Master?”
“Is Judas’ collar torn away? Is there now nothing to seize him by? The Master will go out of the house, and Judas will unexpectedly steal three more denarii. Won’t you seize him by the collar?”
“We know now, Judas. We understand.”
“Have not all pupils a bad memory? Have not all masters been deceived by their pupils? But the master has only to lift the rod, and the pupils cry out, ‘We know, Master!’ But the master goes to bed, and the pupils say: ‘Did the Master teach us this?’ And so, in this case, this morning you called me a thief, this evening you call me brother. What will you call me to-morrow?”
Judas laughed, and lifting up the heavy rattling money-box with ease, went on:
“When a strong wind blows it raises the dust, and foolish people look at the dust and say: ‘Look at the wind!’ But it is only dust, my good Thomas, ass’s dung trodden underfoot. The dust meets a wall and lies down gently at its foot, but the wind flies farther and farther, my good Thomas.”
Judas obligingly pointed over the wall in illustration of his meaning, and laughed again.
“I am glad that you are merry,” said Thomas, “but it is a great pity that there is so much malice in your merriment.”
“Why should not a man be cheerful, who has been kissed so much, and who is so useful? If I had not stolen the three denarii would John have known the meaning of delight? Is it not pleasant to be a hook, on which John may hang his damp virtue out to dry, and Thomas his moth-eaten mind?”
“I think that I had better be going.”
“But I am only joking, my good Thomas. I merely wanted to know whether you really wished to kiss the old obnoxious Judas–the thief who stole the three denarii and gave them to a harlot.”
“To a harlot!” exclaimed Thomas in surprise. “And did you tell the Master of it?”
“Again you doubt, Thomas. Yes, to a harlot. But if you only knew, Thomas, what an unfortunate woman she was. For two days she had had nothing to eat.”
“Are you sure of that?” said Thomas in confusion.
“Yes! Of course I am. I myself spent two days with her, and saw that she ate and drank nothing except red wine. She tottered from exhaustion, and I was always falling down with her.”
Thereupon Thomas got up quickly, and, when he had gone a few steps away, he flung out at Judas:
“You seem to be possessed of Satan, Judas.”
And as he went away, he heard in the approaching twilight how dolefully the heavy money-box rattled in Judas’ hands. And Judas seemed to laugh.
But the very next day Thomas was obliged to acknowledge that he had misjudged Judas, so simple, so gentle, and at the same time so serious was Iscariot. He neither grimaced nor made ill-natured jokes; he was neither obsequious nor scurrilous, but quietly and unobtrusively went about his work of catering. He was as active as formerly, as though he did not have two feet like other people, but a whole dozen of them, and ran noiselessly without that squeaking, sobbing, and laughter of a hyena, with which he formerly accompanied his actions. And when Jesus began to speak, he would seat himself quickly in a corner, fold his hands and feet, and look so kindly with his great eyes, that many observed it. He ceased speaking evil of people, but rather remained silent, so that even the severe Matthew deemed it possible to praise him, saying in the words of Solomon:
“‘He that is devoid of wisdom despiseth his neighbour: but a man of understanding holdeth his peace.'”
And he lifted up his hand, hinting thereby at Judas’ former evil-speaking. In a short time all remarked this change in him, and rejoiced at it: only Jesus looked on him still with the same detached look, although he gave no direct indication of His dislike. And even John, for whom Judas now showed a profound reverence, as the beloved disciple of Jesus, and as his own champion in the matter of the three denarii, began to treat him somewhat more kindly, and even sometimes entered into conversation with him.
“What do you think, Judas,” said he one day in a condescending manner, “which of us, Peter or I, will be nearest to Christ in His heavenly kingdom?”
Judas meditated, and then answered–
“I suppose that you will.”
“But Peter thinks that he will,” laughed John.
“No! Peter would scatter all the angels with his shout; you have heard him shout. Of course, he will quarrel with you, and will endeavour to occupy the first place, as he insists that he, too, loves Jesus. But he is already advanced in years, and you are young; he is heavy on his feet, while you run swiftly; you will enter there first with Christ? Will you not?”
“Yes, I will not leave Jesus,” John agreed.
On the same day Simon Peter referred the very same question to Judas. But fearing that his loud voice would be heard by the others, he led Judas out to the farthest corner behind the house.
“Well then, what is your opinion about it?” he asked anxiously. “You are wise; even the Master praises you for your intellect. And you will speak the truth.”
“You, of course,” answered Iscariot without hesitation. And Peter exclaimed with indignation, “I told him so!”
“But, of course, he will try even there to oust you from the first place.”
“Certainly!”
“But what can he do, when you already occupy the place? Won’t you be the first to go there with Jesus? You will not leave Him alone? Has He not named you the ROCK?”
Peter put his hand on Judas’ shoulder, and said with warmth: “I tell you, Judas, you are the cleverest of us all. But why are you so sarcastic and malignant? The Master does not like it. Otherwise you might become the beloved disciple, equally with John. But to you neither,” and Peter lifted his hand threateningly, “will I yield my place next to Jesus, neither on earth, nor there! Do you hear?”
Thus Judas endeavoured to make himself agreeable to all, but, at the same time, he cherished hidden thoughts in his mind. And while he remained ever the same modest, restrained and unobtrusive person, he knew how to make some especially pleasing remark to each. Thus to Thomas he said:
“The fool believeth every word: but the prudent taketh heed to his paths.”
While to Matthew, who suffered somewhat from excess in eating and drinking, and was ashamed of his weakness, he quoted the words of Solomon, the sage whom Matthew held in high estimation:
“‘The righteous eateth to the satisfying of his soul: but the belly of the wicked shall want.'”
But his pleasant speeches were rare, which gave them the greater value. For the most part he was silent, listening attentively to what was said, and always meditating.
When reflecting, Judas had an unpleasant look, ridiculous and at the same time awe-inspiring. As long as his quick, crafty eye was in motion, he seemed simple and good-natured enough, but directly both eyes became fixed in an immovable stare, and the skin on his protruding forehead gathered into strange ridges and creases, a distressing surmise would force itself on one, that under that skull some very peculiar thoughts were working. So thoroughly apart, peculiar, and voiceless were the thoughts which enveloped Iscariot in the deep silence of secrecy, when he was in one of his reveries, that one would have preferred that he should begin to speak, to move, nay, even, to tell lies. For a lie, spoken by a human tongue, had been truth and light compared with that hopelessly deep and unresponsive silence.
“In the dumps again, Judas?” Peter would cry with his clear voice and bright smile, suddenly breaking in upon the sombre silence of Judas’ thoughts, and banishing them to some dark corner. “What are you thinking about?”
“Of many things,” Iscariot would reply with a quiet smile. And perceiving, apparently, what a bad impression his silence made upon the others, he began more frequently to shun the society of the disciples, and spent much time in solitary walks, or would betake himself to the flat roof and there sit still. And more than once he startled Thomas, who has unexpectedly stumbled in the darkness against a grey heap, out of which the hands and feet of Judas suddenly started, and his jeering voice was heard.
But one day, in a specially brusque and strange manner, Judas recalled his former character. This happened on the occasion of the quarrel for the first place in the kingdom of heaven. Peter and John were disputing together, hotly contending each for his own place nearest to Jesus. They reckoned up their services, they measured the degrees of their love for Jesus, they became heated and noisy, and even reviled one another without restraint. Peter roared, all red with anger. John was quiet and pale, with trembling hands and biting speech. Their quarrel had already passed the bounds of decency, and the Master had begun to frown, when Peter looked up by chance on Judas, and laughed self-complacently: John, too, looked at Judas, and also smiled. Each of them recalled what the cunning Judas had said to him. And foretasting the joy of approaching triumph, they, with silent consent, invited Judas to decide the matter.
Peter called out, “Come now, Judas the wise, tell us who will be first, nearest to Jesus, he or I?”
But Judas remained silent, breathing heavily, his eyes eagerly questioning the quiet, deep eyes of Jesus.
“Yes,” John condescendingly repeated, “tell us who will be first, nearest to Jesus.”
Without taking his eyes off Christ, Judas slowly rose, and answered quietly and gravely:
“I.”
Jesus let His gaze fall slowly. And quietly striking himself on the breast with a bony finger, Iscariot repeated solemnly and sternly: “I, I shall be nearest to Jesus!” And he went out. Struck by his insolent freak, the disciples remained silent; but Peter suddenly recalling something, whispered to Thomas in an unexpectedly gentle voice:
“So that is what he is always thinking about! See?”
CHAPTER V
Just at this time Judas Iscariot took the first definite step towards the Betrayal. He visited the chief priest Annas secretly. He was very roughly received, but that did not disturb him in the least, and he demanded a long private interview. When he found himself alone with the dry, harsh old man, who looked at him with contempt from beneath his heavy overhanging eyelids, he stated that he was an honourable man who had become one of the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth with the sole purpose of exposing the impostor, and handing Him over to the arm of the law.
“But who is this Nazarene?” asked Annas contemptuously, making as though he heard the name of Jesus for the first time.
Judas on his part pretended to believe in the extraordinary ignorance of the chief priest, and spoke in detail of the preaching of Jesus, of His miracles, of His hatred for the Pharisees and the Temple, of His perpetual infringement of the Law, and eventually of His wish to wrest the power out of the hands of the priesthood, and to set up His own personal kingdom. And so cleverly did he mingle truth with lies, that Annas looked at him more attentively, and lazily remarked: “There are plenty of impostors and madmen in Judah.”
“No! He is a dangerous person,” Judas hotly contradicted. “He breaks the law. And it were better that one man should perish, rather than the whole people.”
Annas, with an approving nod, said–
“But He, apparently, has many disciples.”
“Yes, many.”
“And they, it seems probable, have a great love for Him?”
“Yes, they say that they love Him, love Him much, more than themselves.”
“But if we try to take Him, will they not defend Him? Will they not raise a tumult?”
Judas laughed long and maliciously. “What, they? Those cowardly dogs, who run if a man but stoop down to pick up a stone. They indeed!”
“Are they really so bad?” asked Annas coldly.
“But surely it is not the bad who flee from the good; is it not rather the good who flee from the bad? Ha! ha! They are good, and therefore they flee. They are good, and therefore they hide themselves. They are good, and therefore they will appear only in time to bury Jesus. They will lay Him in the tomb themselves; you have only to execute Him.”
“But surely they love Him? You yourself said so.”
“People always love their teacher, but better dead than alive. While a teacher’s alive he may ask them questions which they will find difficult to answer. But, when a teacher dies, they become teachers themselves, and then others fare badly in turn. Ha! ha!”
Annas looked piercingly at the Traitor, and his lips puckered–which indicated that he was smiling.
“You have been insulted by them. I can see that.”
“Can one hide anything from the perspicacity of the astute Annas? You have pierced to the very heart of Judas. Yes, they insulted poor Judas. They said he had stolen from them three denarii–as though Judas were not the most honest man in Israel!”
They talked for some time longer about Jesus, and His disciples, and of His pernicious influence on the people of Israel, but on this occasion the crafty, cautious Annas gave no decisive answer. He had long had his eyes on Jesus, and in secret conclave with his own relatives and friends, with the authorities, and the Sadducees, had decided the fate of the Prophet of Galilee. But he did not trust Judas, who he had heard was a bad, untruthful man, and he had no confidence in his flippant faith in the cowardice of the disciples, and of the people. Annas believed in his own power, but he feared bloodshed, feared a serious riot, such as the insubordinate, irascible people of Jerusalem lent itself to so easily; he feared, in fact, the violent intervention of the Roman authorities. Fanned by opposition, fertilised by the red blood of the people, which vivifies everything on which it falls, the heresy would grow stronger, and stifle in its folds Annas, the government, and all his friends. So, when Iscariot knocked at his door a second time Annas was perturbed in spirit and would not admit him. But yet a third and a fourth time Iscariot came to him, persistent as the wind, which beats day and night against the closed door and blows in through its crevices.
“I see that the most astute Annas is afraid of something,” said Judas when at last he obtained admission to the high priest.
“I am strong enough not to fear anything,” Annas answered haughtily. And Iscariot stretched forth his hands and bowed abjectly.
“What do you want?”
“I wish to betray the Nazarene to you.”
“We do not want Him.”
Judas bowed and waited, humbly fixing his gaze on the high priest.
“Go away.”
“But I am bound to return. Am I not, revered Annas?”
“You will not be admitted. Go away!”
But yet again and again Judas called on the aged Annas, and at last was admitted.
Dry and malicious, worried with thought, and silent, he gazed on the Traitor, and, as it were, counted the hairs on his knotted head. Judas also said nothing, and seemed in his turn to be counting the somewhat sparse grey hairs in the beard of the high priest.
“What? you here again?” the irritated Annas haughtily jerked out, as though spitting upon his head.
“I wish to betray the Nazarene to you.”
Both held their peace, and continued to gaze attentively at each other. Iscariot’s look was calm; but a quiet malice, dry and cold, began slightly to prick Annas, like the early morning rime of winter.
“How much do you want for your Jesus?”
“How much will you give?”
Annas, with evident enjoyment, insultingly replied: “You are nothing but a band of scoundrels. Thirty pieces–that’s what we will give.”
And he quietly rejoiced to see how Judas began to squirm and run about–agile and swift as though he had a whole dozen feet, not two.
“Thirty pieces of silver for Jesus!” he cried in a voice of wild madness, most pleasing to Annas. “For Jesus of Nazareth! You wish to buy Jesus for thirty pieces of silver? And you think that Jesus can be betrayed to you for thirty pieces of silver?” Judas turned quickly to the wall, and laughed in its smooth, white fence, lifting up his long hands. “Do you hear? Thirty pieces of silver! For Jesus!”
With the same quiet pleasure, Annas remarked indifferently:
“If you will not deal, go away. We shall find some one whose work is cheaper.”
And like old-clothes men who throw useless rags from hand to hand in the dirty market-place, and shout, and swear and abuse each other, so they embarked on a rabid and fiery bargaining. Intoxicated with a strange rapture, running and turning about, and shouting, Judas ticked off on his fingers the merits of Him whom he was selling.
“And the fact that He is kind and heals the sick, is that worth nothing at all in your opinion? Ah, yes! Tell me, like an honest man!”
“If you–” began Annas, who was turning red, as he tried to get in a word, his cold malice quickly warming up under the burning words of Judas, who, however, interrupted him shamelessly:
“That He is young and handsome–like the Narcissus of Sharon, and the Lily of the Valley? What? Is that worth nothing? Perhaps you will say that He is old and useless, and that Judas is trying to dispose of an old bird? Eh?”
“If you–” Annas tried to exclaim; but Judas’ stormy speech bore away his senile croak, like down upon the wind.
“Thirty pieces of silver! That will hardly work out to one obolus for each drop of blood! Half an obolus will not go to a tear! A quarter to a groan. And cries, and convulsions! And for the ceasing of His heartbeats? And the closing of His eyes? Is all this to be thrown in gratis?” sobbed Iscariot, advancing toward the high priest and enveloping him with an insane movement of his hands and fingers, and with intervolved words.
“Includes everything,” said Annas in a choking voice.
“And how much will you make out of it yourself? Eh? You wish to rob Judas, to snatch the bit of bread from his children. No, I can’t do it. I will go on to the market-place, and shout out: ‘Annas has robbed poor Judas. Help!'”
Wearied, and grown quite dizzy, Annas wildly stamped about the floor in his soft slippers, gesticulating: “Be off, be off!”
But Judas on a sudden bowed down, stretching forth his hands submissively:
“But if you really…. But why be angry with poor Judas, who only desires his children’s good. You also have children, young and handsome.”
“We shall find some one else. Be gone!”
“But I–I did not say that I was unwilling to make a reduction. Did I ever say that I could not too yield? And do I not believe you, that possibly another may come and sell Jesus to you for fifteen oboli–nay, for two–for one?”
And bowing lower and lower, wriggling and flattering, Judas submissively consented to the sum offered to him. Annas shamefacedly, with dry, trembling hand, paid him the money, and silently looking round, as though scorched, lifted his head again and again towards the ceiling, and moving his lips rapidly, waited while Judas tested with his teeth all the silver pieces, one after another.
“There is now so much bad money about,” Judas quickly explained.
“This money was devoted to the Temple by the pious,” said Annas, glancing round quickly, and still more quickly turning the ruddy bald nape of his neck to Judas’ view.
“But can pious people distinguish between good and bad money! Only rascals can do that.”
Judas did not take the money home, but went beyond the city and hid it under a stone. Then he came back again quietly with heavy, dragging steps, as a wounded animal creeps slowly to its lair after a severe and deadly fight. Only Judas had no lair; but there was a house, and in the house he perceived Jesus. Weary and thin, exhausted with continual strife with the Pharisees, who surrounded Him every day in the Temple with a wall of white, shining, scholarly foreheads, He was sitting, leaning His cheek against the rough wall, apparently fast asleep. Through the open window drifted the restless noises of the city. On the other side of the wall Peter was hammering, as he put together a new table for the meal, humming the while a quiet Galilean song. But He heard nothing; he slept on peacefully and soundly. And this was He, whom they had bought for thirty pieces of silver.
Coming forward noiselessly, Judas, with the tender touch of a mother, who fears to wake her sick child–with the wonderment of a wild beast as it creeps from its lair suddenly, charmed by the sight of a white flowerlet–he gently touched His soft locks, and then quickly withdrew his hand. Once more he touched Him, and then silently crept out.
“Lord! Lord!” said he.
And going apart, he wept long, shrinking and wriggling and scratching his bosom with his nails and gnawing his shoulders. Then suddenly he ceased weeping and gnawing and gnashing his teeth, and fell into a sombre reverie, inclining his tear-stained face to one side in the attitude of one listening. And so he remained for a long time, doleful, determined, from every one apart, like fate itself.
. . . . . . . .
Judas surrounded the unhappy Jesus, during those last days of His short life, with quiet love and tender care and caresses. Bashful and timid like a maid in her first love, strangely sensitive and discerning, he divined the minutest unspoken wishes of Jesus, penetrating to the hidden depth of His feelings, His passing fits of sorrow, and distressing moments of weariness. And wherever Jesus stepped, His foot met something soft, and whenever He turned His gaze, it encountered something pleasing. Formerly Judas had not liked Mary Magdalene and the other women who were near Jesus. He had made rude jests at their expense, and done them little unkindnesses. But now he became their friend, their strange, awkward ally. With deep interest he would talk with them of the charming little idiosyncrasies of Jesus, and persistently asking the same questions, he would thrust money into their hands, their very palms–and they brought a box of very precious ointment, which Jesus liked so much, and anointed His feet. He himself bought for Jesus, after desperate bargaining, an expensive wine, and then was very angry when Peter drank nearly all of it up, with the indifference of a person who looks only to quantity; and in that rocky Jerusalem almost devoid of trees, flowers, and greenery he somehow managed to obtain young spring flowers and green grass, and through these same women to give them to Jesus.
For the first time in his life he would take up little children in his arms, finding them somewhere about the courts and streets, and unwillingly kiss them to prevent their crying; and often it would happen that some swarthy urchin with curly hair and dirty little nose, would climb up on the knees of the pensive Jesus, and imperiously demand to be petted. And while they enjoyed themselves together, Judas would walk up and down at one side like a severe jailor, who had himself, in springtime, let a butterfly in to a prisoner, and pretends to grumble at the breach of discipline.
On an evening, when together with the darkness, alarm took post as sentry by the window, Iscariot would cleverly turn the conversation to Galilee, strange to himself but dear to Jesus, with its still waters and green banks. And he would jog the heavy Peter till his dulled memory awoke, and in clear pictures in which everything was loud, distinct, full of colour, and solid, there arose before his eyes and ears the dear Galilean life. With eager attention, with half-open mouth in child-like fashion, and with eyes laughing in anticipation, Jesus would listen to his gusty, resonant, cheerful utterance, and sometimes laughed so at his jokes, that it was necessary to interrupt the story for some minutes. But John told tales even better than Peter. There was nothing ludicrous, nor startling, about his stories, but everything seemed so pensive, unusual, and beautiful, that tears would appear in Jesus’ eyes, and He would sigh softly, while Judas nudged Mary Magdalene and excitedly whispered to her–
“What a narrator he is! Do you hear?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“No, be more attentive. You women never make good listeners.”
Then they would all quietly disperse to bed, and Jesus would kiss His thanks to John, and stroke kindly the shoulder of the tall Peter.
And without envy, but with a condescending contempt, Judas would witness these caresses. Of what importance were these tales and kisses and sighs compared with what he, Judas Iscariot, the red-haired, misshapen Judas, begotten among the rocks, could tell them if he chose?
CHAPTER VI
With one hand betraying Jesus, Judas tried hard with the other to frustrate his own plans. He did not indeed endeavour to dissuade Jesus from the last dangerous journey to Jerusalem, as did the women; he even inclined rather to the side of the relatives of Jesus, and of those amongst His disciples who looked for a victory over Jerusalem as indispensable to the full triumph of His cause. But he kept continually and obstinately warning them of the danger, and in lively colours depicted the threatening hatred of the Pharisees for Jesus, and their readiness to commit any crime if, either secretly or openly, they might make an end of the Prophet of Galilee. Each day and every hour he kept talking of this, and there was not one of the believers before whom Judas had not stood with uplifted finger and uttered this serious warning:
“We must look after Jesus. We must defend for Jesus, when the hour comes.”
But whether it was the unlimited faith which the disciples had in the miracle-working power of their Master, or the consciousness of their own uprightness, or whether it was simply blindness, the alarming words of Judas were met with a smile, and his continual advice provoked only a grumble. When Judas procured, somewhere or other, two swords, and brought them, only Peter approved of them, and gave Judas his meed of praise, while the others complained:
“Are we soldiers that we should be made to gird on swords? Is Jesus a captain of the host, and not a prophet?”
“But if they attempt to kill Him?”
“They will not dare when they perceive how all the people follow Him.”
“But if they should dare! What then?”
John replied disdainfully–
“One would think, Judas, that you were the only one who loved Jesus!”
And eagerly seizing hold of these words, and not in the least offended, Judas began to question impatiently and hotly, with stern insistency:
“But you love Him, don’t you?”
And there was not one of the believers who came to Jesus whom he did not ask more than once: “Do you love Him? Dearly love Him?”
And all answered that they loved Him.
He used often to converse with Thomas, and holding up his dry, hooked forefinger, with its long, dirty nail, in warning, would mysteriously say:
“Look here, Thomas, the terrible hour is drawing near. Are you prepared for it? Why did you not take the sword I brought you?”
Thomas would reply with deliberation:
“We are men unaccustomed to the use of arms. If we were to take issue with the Roman soldiery, they would kill us all, one after the other. Besides, you brought only two swords, and what could we do with only two?”
“We could get more. We could take them from the Roman soldiers,” Judas impatiently objected, and even the serious Thomas smiled through his overhanging moustache.
“Ah! Judas! Judas! But where did you get these? They are like Roman swords.”
“I stole them. I could have stolen more, only some one gave the alarm, and I fled.”
Thomas considered a little, then said sorrowfully–
“Again you acted ill, Judas. Why do you steal?”
“There is no such thing as property.”
“No, but to-morrow they will ask the soldiers: ‘Where are your swords?’ And when they cannot find them they will be punished though innocent.”
The consequence was, that after the death of Jesus the disciples recalled these conversations of Judas, and determined that he had wished to destroy them, together with the Master, by inveigling them into an unequal and murderous conflict. And once again they cursed the hated name of Judas Iscariot the Traitor.
But the angry Judas, after each conversation, would go to the women and weep. They heard him gladly. The tender womanly element, that there was in his love for Jesus, drew him near to them, and made him simple, comprehensible, and even handsome in their eyes, although, as before, a certain amount of disdain was perceptible in his attitude towards them.
“Are they men?” he would bitterly complain of the disciples, fixing his blind, motionless eye confidingly on Mary Magdalene. “They are not men. They have not an oboles’ worth of blood in their veins!”
“But then you are always speaking ill of others,” Mary objected.
“Have I ever?” said Judas in surprise. “Oh, yes, I have indeed spoken ill of them; but is there not room for improvement in them? Ah! Mary, silly Mary, why are you not a man, to carry a sword?”
“It is so heavy, I could not lift it!” said Mary smilingly.
“But you will lift it, when men are too worthless. Did you give Jesus the lily that I found on the mountain? I got up early to find it, and this morning the sun was so beautiful, Mary! Was He pleased with it? Did He smile?”
“Yes, He was pleased. He said that its smell reminded Him of Galilee.”
“But surely, you did not tell Him that it was Judas–Judas Iscariot– who got it for Him?”
“Why, you asked me not to tell Him.”
“Yes, certainly, quite right,” said Judas, with a sigh. “You might have let it out, though, women are such chatterers. But you did not let it out; no, you were firm. You are a good woman, Mary. You know that I have a wife somewhere. Now I should be glad to see her again; perhaps she is not a bad woman either. I don’t know. She said, ‘Judas was a liar and malignant,’ so I left her. But she may be a good woman. Do you know?”
“How should I know, when I have never seen your wife?”
“True, true, Mary! But what think you, are thirty pieces of silver a large sum? Is it not rather a small one?”
“I should say a small one.”
“Certainly, certainly. How much did you get when you were a harlot, five pieces of silver or ten? You were an expensive one, were you not?”
Mary Magdalene blushed, and dropped her head till her luxuriant, golden hair completely covered her face, so that nothing but her round white chin was visible.
“How bad you are, Judas; I want to forget about that, and you remind me of it!”
“No, Mary, you must not forget that. Why should you? Let others forget that you were a harlot, but you must remember. It is the others who should forget as soon as possible, but you should not. Why should you?”
“But it was a sin!”
“He fears who never committed a sin, but he who has committed it, what has he to fear? Do the dead fear death; is it not rather the living? No, the dead laugh at the living and their fears.”
Thus by the hour would they sit and talk in friendly guise, he– already old, dried-up and misshapen, with his bulbous head and monstrous double-sided face; she–young, modest, tender, and charmed with life as with a story or a dream.
But time rolled by unconcernedly, while the thirty pieces of silver lay under the stone, and the terrible day of the Betrayal drew inevitably near. Already Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem on the ass’s back, and the people, strewing their garments in the way, had greeted Him with enthusiastic cries of “Hosanna! Hosanna! He that cometh in the name of the Lord!”
So great was the exultation, so unrestrainedly did their loving cries rend the skies, that Jesus wept, but His disciples proudly said:
“Is not this the Son of God with us?”
And they themselves cried out with enthusiasm: “Hosanna! Hosanna! He that cometh in the name of the Lord!”
That evening it was long before they went to bed, recalling the enthusiastic and joyful reception. Peter was like a madman, as though possessed by the demon of merriment and pride. He shouted, drowning all voices with his leonine roar; he laughed, hurling his laughter at their heads, like great round stones; he kept kissing John and James, and even gave a kiss to Judas. He noisily confessed that he had had great fears for Jesus, but that he feared nothing now, that he had seen the love of the people for Him.
Swiftly moving his vivid, watchful eye, Judas glanced in surprise from side to side. He meditated, and then again listened, and looked. Then he took Thomas aside, and pinning him, as it were, to the wall with his keen gaze, he asked in doubt and fear, but with a certain confused hopefulness:
“Thomas! But what if He is right? What if He be founded upon a rock, and we upon sand? What then?”
“Of whom are you speaking?”
“How, then, would it be with Judas Iscariot? Then I should be obliged to strangle Him in order to do right. Who is deceiving Judas? You or he himself? Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”
“I don’t understand you, Judas. You speak very unintelligently. ‘Who is deceiving Jesus?’ ‘Who is right?'”
And Judas nodded his head and repeated like an echo:
“Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”
And the next day, in the way in which Judas raised his hand with thumb bent back,[1] and by the way in which he looked at Thomas, the same strange question was implied:
“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”
[1] Does our author refer to the Roman sign of disapprobation, vertere, or convertere, pollicem?–Tr.
And still more surprised, and even alarmed, was Thomas, when suddenly in the night he heard the loud, apparently glad voice of Judas:
“Then Judas Iscariot will be no more. Then Jesus will be no more. Then there will be Thomas, the stupid Thomas! Did you ever wish to take the earth and lift it? And then, possibly hurl it away?”
“That’s impossible. What are you talking about, Judas?”
“It’s quite possible,” said Iscariot with conviction, “and we will lift it up some day when you are asleep, stupid Thomas. Go to sleep. I’m enjoying myself. When you sleep your nose plays the Galilean pipe. Sleep!”
But now the believers were already dispersed about Jerusalem, hiding in houses and behind walls, and the faces of those that met them looked mysterious. The exultation had died down. Confused reports of danger found their way in; Peter, with gloomy countenance, tested the sword given to him by Judas, and the face of the Master became even more melancholy and stern. So swiftly the time passed, and inevitably approached the terrible day of the Betrayal. Lo! the Last Supper was over, full of grief and confused dread, and already had the obscure words of Jesus sounded concerning some one who should betray Him.
“You know who will betray Him?” asked Thomas, looking at Judas with his straight-forward, clear, almost transparent eyes.
“Yes, I know,” Judas replied harshly and decidedly. “You, Thomas, will betray Him. But He Himself does not believe what He says! It is full time! Why does He not call to Him the strong, magnificent Judas?”
No longer by days, but by short, fleeting hours, was the inevitable time to be measured. It was evening; and evening stillness and long shadows lay upon the ground–the first sharp darts of the coming night of mighty contest–when a harsh, sorrowful voice was heard. It said:
“Dost Thou know whither I go, Lord? I go to betray Thee into the hands of Thine enemies.”
And there was a long silence, evening stillness, and swift black shadows.
“Thou art silent, Lord? Thou commandest me to go?”
And again silence.
“Allow me to remain. But perhaps Thou canst not? Or darest not? Or wilt not?”
And again silence, stupendous, like the eyes of eternity.
“But indeed Thou knowest that I love Thee. Thou knowest all things. Why lookest Thou thus at Judas? Great is the mystery of Thy beautiful eyes, but is mine less? Order me to remain! But Thou art silent. Thou art ever silent. Lord, Lord, is it for this that in grief and pains have I sought Thee all my life, sought and found! Free me! Remove the weight; it is heavier than even mountains of lead. Dost Thou hear how the bosom of Judas Iscariot is cracking under it?”
And the last silence was abysmal, like the last glance of eternity.
“I go.”
But the evening stillness woke not, neither uttered cry nor plaint, nor did its subtle air vibrate with the slightest tinkle–so soft was the fall of the retreating steps. They sounded for a time, and then were silent. And the evening stillness became pensive, stretched itself out in long shadows, and then grew dark;–and suddenly night, coming to meet it, all atremble with the rustle of sadly brushed-up leaves, heaved a last sigh and was still.
There was a bustle, a jostle, a rattle of other voices, as though some one had untied a bag of lively resonant voices, and they were falling out on the ground, by one and two, and whole heaps. It was the disciples talking. And drowning them all, reverberating from the trees and walls, and tripping up over itself, thundered the determined, powerful voice of Peter–he was swearing that never would he desert his Master.
“Lord,” said he, half in anger, half in grief: “Lord! I am ready to go with Thee to prison and to death.”
And quietly, like the soft echo of retiring footsteps, came the inexorable answer:
“I tell thee, Peter, the cock will not crow this day before thou dost deny Me thrice.”
CHAPTER VII
The moon had already risen when Jesus prepared to go to the Mount of Olives, where He had spent all His last nights. But He tarried, for some inexplicable reason, and the disciples, ready to start, were hurrying Him. Then He said suddenly:
“He that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip; and he that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy one. For I say unto you that this that is written must yet be accomplished in me: ‘And he was reckoned among the transgressors.'”
The disciples were surprised and looked at one another in confusion. Peter replied:
“Lord, we have two swords here.”
He looked searchingly into their kind faces, lowered His head, and said softly:
“It is enough.”
The steps of the disciples resounded loudly in the narrow streets, and they were frightened by the sounds of their own footsteps; on the white wall, illumined by the moon, their black shadows appeared–and they were frightened by their own shadows. Thus they passed in silence through Jerusalem, which was absorbed in sleep, and now they came out of the gates of the city, and in the valley, full of fantastic, motionless shadows, the stream of Kedron stretched before them. Now they were frightened by everything. The soft murmuring and splashing of the water on the stones sounded to them like voices of people approaching them stealthily; the monstrous shades of the rocks and the trees, obstructing the road, disturbed them, and their motionlessness seemed to them to stir. But as they were ascending the mountain and approaching the garden, where they had safely and quietly passed so many nights before, they were growing ever bolder. From time to time they looked back at Jerusalem, all white in the moonlight, and they spoke to one another about the fear that had passed; and those who walked in the rear heard, in fragments, the soft words of Jesus. He spoke about their forsaking Him.
In the garden they paused soon after they had entered it. The majority of them remained there, and, speaking softly, began to make ready for their sleep, outspreading their cloaks over the transparent embroidery of the shadows and the moonlight. Jesus, tormented with uneasiness, and four of His disciples went further into the depth of the garden. There they seated themselves on the ground, which had not yet cooled off from the heat of the day, and while Jesus was silent, Peter and John lazily exchanged words almost devoid of any meaning. Yawning from fatigue, they spoke about the coolness of the night; about the high price of meat in Jerusalem, and about the fact that no fish was to be had in the city. They tried to determine the exact number of pilgrims that had gathered in Jerusalem for the festival, and Peter, drawling his words and yawning loudly, said that they numbered 20,000, while John and his brother Jacob assured him just as lazily that they did not number more than 10,000. Suddenly Jesus rose quickly.
“My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here and watch with Me,” He said, and departed hastily to the grove and soon disappeared amid its motionless shades and light.
“Where did He go?” said John, lifting himself on his elbow. Peter turned his head in the direction of Jesus and answered fatiguedly:
“I do not know.”
And he yawned again loudly, then threw himself on his back and became silent. The others also became silent, and their motionless bodies were soon absorbed in the sound sleep of fatigue. Through his heavy slumber Peter vaguely saw something white bending over him, some one’s voice resounded and died away, leaving no trace in his dimmed consciousness.
“Simon, are you sleeping?”
And he slept again, and again some soft voice reached his ear and died away without leaving any trace.
“You could not watch with me even one hour?”
“Oh, Master! if you only knew how sleepy I am,” he thought in his slumber, but it seemed to him that he said it aloud. And he slept again. And a long time seemed to have passed, when suddenly the figure of Jesus appeared near him, and a loud, rousing voice instantly awakened him and the others:
“You are still sleeping and resting? It is ended, the hour has come– the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of the sinners.”
The disciples quickly sprang to their feet, confusedly seizing their cloaks and trembling from the cold of the sudden awakening. Through the thicket of the trees a multitude of warriors and temple servants was seen approaching noisily, illumining their way with torches. And from the other side the disciples came running, quivering from cold, their sleepy faces frightened; and not yet understanding what was going on, they asked hastily:
“What is it? Who are these people with torches?”
Thomas, pale faced, his moustaches in disorder, his teeth chattering from chilliness, said to Peter:
“They have evidently come after us.”
Now a multitude of warriors surrounded them, and the smoky, quivering light of the torches dispelled the soft light of the moon. In front of the warriors walked Judas Iscariot quickly, and sharply turning his quick eye, searched for Jesus. He found Him, rested his look for an instant upon His tall, slender figure, and quickly whispered to the priests:
“Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is He. Take Him and lead Him cautiously. Lead Him cautiously, do you hear?”
Then he moved quickly to Jesus, who waited for him in silence, and he directed his straight, sharp look, like a knife, into His calm, darkened eyes.
“Hail, Master!” he said loudly, charging his words of usual greeting with a strange and stern meaning.
But Jesus was silent, and the disciples looked at the traitor with horror, not understanding how the soul of a man could contain so much evil. Iscariot threw a rapid glance at their confused ranks, noticed their quiver, which was about to turn into a loud, trembling fear, noticed their pallor, their senseless smiles, the drowsy movements of their hands, which seemed as though fettered in iron at the shoulders –and a mortal sorrow began to burn in his heart, akin to the sorrow Christ had experienced before. Outstretching himself into a hundred ringing, sobbing strings, he rushed over to Jesus and kissed His cold cheek tenderly. He kissed it so softly, so tenderly, with such painful love and sorrow, that if Jesus had been a flower upon a thin stalk it would not have shaken from this kiss and would not have dropped the pearly dew from its pure petals.
“Judas,” said Jesus, and with the lightning of His look He illumined that monstrous heap of shadows which was Iscariot’s soul, but he could not penetrate into the bottomless depth. “Judas! Is it with a kiss you betray the Son of Man?”
And He saw how that monstrous chaos trembled and stirred. Speechless and stern, like death in its haughty majesty, stood Judas Iscariot, and within him a thousand impetuous and fiery voices groaned and roared:
“Yes! We betray Thee with the kiss of love! With the kiss of love we betray Thee to outrage, to torture, to death! With the voice of love we call together the hangmen from their dark holes, and we place a cross–and high over the top of the earth we lift love, crucified by love upon a cross.”
Thus stood Judas, silent and cold, like death, and the shouting and the noise about Jesus answered the cry of His soul. With the rude irresoluteness of armed force, with the awkwardness of a vaguely understood purpose, the soldiers seized Him and dragged Him off– mistaking their irresoluteness for resistance, their fear for derision and mockery. Like a flock of frightened lambs, the disciples stood huddled together, not interfering, yet disturbing everybody, even themselves. Only a few of them resolved to walk and act separately. Jostled from all sides, Peter drew out the sword from its sheath with difficulty, as though he had lost all his strength, and faintly lowered it upon the head of one of the priests– without causing him any harm. Jesus, observing this, ordered him to throw away the useless weapon, and it fell under foot with a dull thud, and so evidently had it lost its sharpness and destructive power that it did not occur to any one to pick it up. So it rolled about under foot, until several days afterwards it was found on the same spot by some children at play, who made a toy of it.
The soldiers kept dispersing the disciples, but they gathered together again and stupidly got under the soldiers’ feet, and this went on so long that at last a contemptuous rage mastered the soldiery. One of them with frowning brow went up to the shouting John; another rudely pushed from his shoulder the hand of Thomas, who was arguing with him about something or other, and shook a big fist right in front of his straightforward, transparent eyes. John fled, and Thomas and James fled, and all the disciples, as many as were present, forsook Jesus and fled. Losing their cloaks, knocking themselves against the trees, tripping up against stones and falling, they fled to the hills terror-driven, while in the stillness of the moonlight night the ground rumbled loudly beneath the tramp of many feet. Some one, whose name did not transpire, just risen from his bed (for he was covered only with a blanket), rushed excitedly into the crowd of soldiers and servants. When they tried to stop him, and seized hold of his blanket, he gave a cry of terror, and took to flight like the others, leaving his garment in the hands of the soldiers. And so he ran stark-naked, with desperate leaps, and his bare body glistened strangely in the moonlight.
When Jesus was led away, Peter, who had hidden himself behind the trees, came out and followed his Master at a distance. Noticing another man in front of him, who walked silently, he thought that it was John, and he called him softly:
“John, is that you?”
“And is that you, Peter?” answered the other, pausing, and by the voice Peter recognised the traitor. “Peter, why did you not run away together with the others?”
Peter stopped and said with contempt:
“Leave me, Satan!”
Judas began to laugh, and paying no further attention to Peter, he advanced where the torches were flashing dimly and where the clanking of the weapons mingled with the footsteps. Peter followed him cautiously, and thus they entered the court of the high priest almost simultaneously and mingled in the crowd of the priests who were warming themselves at the bonfires. Judas warmed his bony hands morosely at the bonfire and heard Peter saying loudly somewhere behind him:
“No, I do not know Him.”
But it was evident that they were insisting there that he was one of the disciples of Jesus, for Peter repeated still louder: “But I do not understand what you are saying.”
Without turning around, and smiling involuntarily, Judas shook his head affirmatively and muttered:
“That’s right, Peter! Do not give up the place near Jesus to any one.”
And he did not see the frightened Peter walk away from the courtyard. And from that night until the very death of Jesus, Judas did not see a single one of the disciples of Jesus near Him; and amid all that multitude there were only two, inseparable until death, strangely bound together by sufferings–He who had been betrayed to abuse and torture and he who had betrayed Him. Like brothers, they both, the Betrayed and the betrayer, drank out of the same cup of sufferings, and the fiery liquid burned equally the pure and the impure lips.
Gazing fixedly at the wood-fire, which imparted a feeling of warmth to his eyes, stretching out his long, shaking hands to the flame, his hands and feet forming a confused outline in the trembling light and shade, Iscariot kept mumbling in hoarse complaint:
“How cold! My God, how cold it is!”
So, when the fishermen go away at night leaving an expiring fire of drift-wood upon the shore, from the dark depth of the sea might something creep forth, crawl up towards the fire, look at it with wild intentness, and dragging all its limbs up to it, mutter in hoarse complaint:
“How cold! My God, how cold it is!”
Suddenly Judas heard behind him a burst of loud voices, the cries and laughter of the soldiers full of the usual sleepy, greedy malice; and lashes, short frequent strokes upon a living body. He turned round, a momentary anguish running through his whole frame–his very bones. They were scourging Jesus.
Has it come to that?
He had seen the soldiers lead Jesus away with them to their guardroom. The night was already nearly over, the fires had sunk down and were covered with ashes, but from the guardroom was still borne the sound of muffled cries, laughter, and invectives. They were scourging Jesus.
As one who has lost his way, Iscariot ran nimbly about the empty courtyard, stopped in his course, lifted his head and ran on again, and was surprised when he came into collision with heaps of embers, or with the walls.
Then he clung to the wall of the guardroom, stretched himself out to his full height, and glued himself to the window and the crevices of the door, eagerly examining what they were doing. He saw a confined stuffy room, dirty, like all guardrooms in the world, with bespitten floor, and walls as greasy and stained as though they had been trodden and rolled upon. And he saw the Man whom they were scourging. They struck Him on the face and head, and tossed Him about like a soft bundle from one end of the room to the other. And since He neither cried out nor resisted, after looking intently, it actually appeared at moments as though it was not a living human being, but a soft effigy without bones or blood. It bent itself strangely like a doll, and in falling, knocking its head against the stone floor it did not give the impression of a hard substance striking against a hard substance, but of something soft and devoid of feeling. And when one looked long, it became like some strange, endless game–and sometimes it became almost a complete illusion.
After one hard kick, the man or effigy fell slowly on its knees before a sitting soldier, he in turn flung it away, and turning over, it dropped down before the next, and so on and on. A loud guffaw arose, and Judas smiled too,–as though the strong hand of some one with iron fingers had torn his mouth asunder. It was the mouth of Judas that was deceived.
Night dragged on, and the fires were still smouldering. Judas threw himself from the wall, and crawled to one of the fires, poked up the ashes, rekindled it, and although he no longer felt the cold, he stretched his slightly trembling hands over the flames, and began to mutter dolefully:
“Ah! how painful, my Son, my Son! How painful!”
Then he went again to the window, which was gleaming yellow with a dull light between the thick grating, and once more began to watch them scourging Jesus. Once before the very eyes of Judas appeared His swarthy countenance, now marred out of human semblance, and covered with a forest of dishevelled hair. Then some one’s hand plunged into those locks, threw the Man down, and rhythmically turning His head from one side to the other, began to wipe the filthy floor with His face. Right under the window a soldier was sleeping, his open mouth revealing his glittering white teeth; and some one’s broad back, with naked, brawny neck, barred the window, so that nothing more could be seen. And suddenly the noise ceased.
“What’s that? Why are they silent? Have they suddenly divined the truth?”
Momentarily the whole head of Judas, in all its parts, was filled with the rumbling, shouting and roaring of a thousand maddened thoughts! Had they divined? They understood that this was the very best of men–it was so simple, so clear! Lo! He is coming out, and behind Him they are abjectly crawling. Yes, He is coming here, to Judas, coming out a victor, a hero, arbiter of the truth, a god….
“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”
But no. Once more noise and shouting. They are scourging Him again. They do not understand, they have not guessed, they are beating Him harder, more cruelly than ever. The fires burn out, covered with ashes, and the smoke above them is as transparently blue as the air, and the sky as bright as the moon. It is the day approaching.
“What is day?” asks Judas.
And lo! everything begins to glow, to scintillate, to grow young again, and the smoke above is no longer blue, but rose-coloured. It is the sun rising.
“What is the sun?” asks Judas.
CHAPTER VIII
They pointed the finger at Judas, and some in contempt, others with hatred and fear, said:
“Look, that is Judas the Traitor!”
This already began to be the opprobrious title, to which he had doomed himself throughout the ages. Thousands of years may pass, nation may supplant nation, and still the air will resound with the words, uttered with contempt and fear by good and bad alike:
“Judas the Traitor!”
But he listened imperturbably to what was said of him, dominated by a feeling of burning, all-subduing curiosity. Ever since the morning when they led forth Jesus from the guardroom, after scourging Him, Judas had followed Him, strangely enough feeling neither grief nor pain nor joy–only an unconquerable desire to see and hear everything. Though he had had no sleep the whole night, his body felt light; when he was crushed and prevented from advancing, he elbowed his way through the crowd and adroitly wormed himself into the front place; and not for a moment did his vivid quick eye remain at rest. At the examination of Jesus before Caiaphas, in order not to lose a word, he hollowed his hand round his ear, and nodded his head in affirmation, murmuring:
“Just so! Thou hearest, Jesus?”
But he was a prisoner, like a fly tied to a thread, which, buzzing, flies hither and thither, but cannot for one moment free itself from the tractable but unyielding thread.
Certain stony thoughts lay at the back of his head, and to these he was firmly bound; he knew not, as it were, what these thoughts were; he did not wish to stir them up, but he felt them continually. At times they would come to him all of a sudden, oppress him more and more, and begin to crush him with their unimaginable weight, as though the vault of a rocky cavern were slowly and terribly descending upon his head.
Then he would grip his heart with his hand, and strive to set his whole body in motion, as though he were perishing with cold, and hasten to shift his eyes to a fresh place, and again to another. When they led Jesus away from Caiaphas, he met His weary eyes quite close, and, somehow or other, unconsciously he gave Him several friendly nods.
“I am here, my Son, I am here,” he muttered hurriedly, and maliciously poked to some gaper in the back who stood in his way.
And now, in a huge shouting crowd, they all moved on to Pilate for the last examination and trial, and with the same insupportable curiosity Judas searched the faces of the ever swelling multitude. Many were quite unknown to him; Judas had never seen them before, but some were there who had cried, “Hosanna!” to Jesus, and at each step the number of them seemed to increase.
“Well, well!” thought Judas, and his head spun round as if he were drunk, “the worst is over. Directly they will be crying: ‘He is ours, He is Jesus! What are you about?’ and all will understand, and–“
But the believers walked in silence. Some hypocritically smiled, as if to say: “The affair is none of ours!” Others spoke with constraint, but their low voices were drowned in the rumbling of movement, and the loud delirious shouts of His enemies.
And Judas felt better again. Suddenly he noticed Thomas cautiously slipping through the crowd not far off, and struck by a sudden thought, he was about to go up to him. At the sight of the traitor, Thomas was frightened, and tried to hide himself. But in a little narrow street, between two walls, Judas overtook him.
“Thomas, wait a bit!”
Thomas stopped, and stretching both hands out in front of him solemnly pronounced the words:
“Avaunt, Satan!”
Iscariot made an impatient movement of the hands.
“What a fool you are, Thomas! I thought that you had more sense than the others. Satan indeed! That requires proof.”
Letting his hands fall, Thomas asked in surprise:
“But did not you betray the Master? I myself saw you bring the soldiers, and point Him out to them. If this is not treachery, I should like to know what is!”
“Never mind that,” hurriedly said Judas. “Listen, there are many of you here. You must all gather together, and loudly demand: ‘Give up Jesus. He is ours!’ They will not refuse you, they dare not. They themselves will understand.”
“What do you mean! What are you thinking of!” said Thomas, with a decisive wave of his hands. “Have you not seen what a number of armed soldiers and servants of the Temple there are here? Moreover, the trial has not yet taken place, and we must not interfere with the court. Surely he understands that Jesus is innocent, and will order His release without delay.”
“You, then, think so too,” said Judas thoughtfully. “Thomas, Thomas, what if it be the truth? What then? Who is right? Who has deceived Judas?”
“We were all talking last night, and came to the conclusion that the court cannot condemn the innocent. But if it does, why then–“
“What then!”
“Why, then it is no court. And it will be the worse for them when they have to give an account before the real Judge.”
“Before the real! Is there any ‘real’ left?” sneered Judas.
“And all of our party cursed you; but since you say that you were not the traitor, I think you ought to be tried.”
Judas did not want to hear him out; but turned right about, and hurried down the street in the wake of the retreating crowd. He soon, however, slackened his pace, mindful of the fact that a crowd always travels slowly, and that a single pedestrian will inevitably overtake it.
When Pilate led Jesus out from his palace, and set Him before the people, Judas, crushed against a column by the heavy backs of the soldiers, furiously turning his head about to see something between two shining helmets, suddenly felt clearly that the worst was over. He saw Jesus in the sunshine, high above the heads of the crowd, blood-stained, pale with a crown of thorns, the sharp spikes of which pressed into His forehead.
He stood on the edge of an elevation, visible from His head to His small, sunburnt feet, and waited so calmly, was so serene in His immaculate purity, that only a blind man, who perceived not the very sun, could fail to see, only a madman would not understand. And the people held their peace–it was so still, that Judas heard the breathing of the soldier in front of him, and how, at each breath, a strap creaked somewhere about his body.
“Yes, it will soon be over! They will understand immediately,” thought Judas, and suddenly something strange, like the dazzling joy of falling from a giddy height into a blue sparkling abyss, arrested his heart-beats.
Contemptuously drawing his lips down to his rounded well-shaven chin, Pilate flung to the crowd the dry, curt words–as one throws bones to a pack of hungry hounds–thinking to cheat their longing for fresh blood and living, palpitating flesh:
“You have brought this Man before me as a corrupter of the people, and behold I have examined Him before you, and I find this Man guiltless of that of which you accuse Him….”
Judas closed his eyes. He was waiting.
All the people began to shout, to sob, to howl with a thousand voices of wild beasts and men:
“Put Him to death! Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” And as though in self-mockery, as though wishing in one moment to plumb the very depths of all possible degradation, madness and shame, the crowd cries out, sobs, and demands with a thousand voices of wild beasts and men:
“Release unto us Barabbas! But crucify Him! Crucify Him!”
But the Roman had evidently not yet said his last word. Over his proud, shaven countenance there passed convulsions of disgust and anger. He understood! He has understood all along! He speaks quietly to his attendants, but his voice is not heard in the roar of the crowd. What does he say? Is he ordering them to bring swords, and to smite those maniacs?
“Bring water.”
“Water? What water? What for?”
Ah, lo! he washes his hands. Why does he wash his clean white hands all adorned with rings? He lifts them and cries angrily to the people, whom surprise holds in silence:
“I am innocent of the blood of this Just Person. See ye to it.”
While the water is still dripping from his fingers on to the marble pavement, something soft prostrates itself at his feet, and sharp, burning lips kiss his hand, which he is powerless to withdraw, glue themselves to it like tentacles, almost bite and draw blood. He looks down in disgust and fear, and sees a great squirming body, a strangely twofold face, and two immense eyes so queerly diverse from one another that, as it were, not one being but a number of them clung to his hands and feet. He heard a broken, burning whisper:
“O wise and noble… wise and noble.”
And with such a truly satanic joy did that wild face blaze, that, with a cry, Pilate kicked him away, and Judas fell backwards. And there he lay upon the stone flags like an overthrown demon, still stretching out his hand to the departing Pilate, and crying as one passionately enamoured:
“O wise, O wise and noble….”
Then he gathered himself up with agility, and ran away followed by the laughter of the soldiery. Evidently there was yet hope. When they come to see the cross, and the nails, then they will understand, and then…. What then? He catches sight of the panic-stricken Thomas in passing, and for some reason or other reassuringly nods to him; he overtakes Jesus being led to execution. The walking is difficult, small stones roll under the feet, and suddenly Judas feels that he is tired. He gives himself up wholly to the trouble of deciding where best to plant his feet, he looks dully around, and sees Mary Magdalene weeping, and a number of women weeping–hair dishevelled, eyes red, lips distorted–all the excessive grief of a tender woman’s soul when submitted to outrage. Suddenly he revives, and seizing the moment, runs up to Jesus:
“I go with Thee,” he hurriedly whispers.
The soldiers drive him away with blows of their whips, and squirming so as to avoid the blows, and showing his teeth at the soldiers, he explains hurriedly:
“I go with Thee. Thither. Thou understandest whither.”
He wipes the blood from his face, shakes his fist at one of the soldiers, who turns round and smiles, and points him out to the others. Then he looks for Thomas, but neither he nor any of the disciples are in the crowd that accompanies Jesus. Again he is conscious of fatigue, and drags one foot with difficulty after the other, as he attentively looks out for the sharp, white, scattered pebbles.
When the hammer was uplifted to nail Jesus’ left hand to the tree, Judas closed his eyes, and for a whole age neither breathed, nor saw, nor lived, but only listened.
But lo! with a grating sound, iron strikes against iron, time after time, dull, short blows, and then the sharp nail penetrating the soft wood and separating its particles is distinctly heard.
One hand. It is not yet too late!
The other hand. It is not yet too late!
A foot, the other foot! Is all lost?
He irresolutely opens his eyes, and sees how the cross is raised, and rocks, and is set fast in the trench. He sees how the hands of Jesus are convulsed by the tension, how painfully His arms stretch, how the wounds grow wider, and how the exhausted abdomen disappears under the ribs. The arms stretch more and more, grow thinner and whiter, and become dislocated from the shoulders, and the wounds of the nails redden and lengthen gradually–lo! in a moment they will be torn away. No. It stopped. All stopped. Only the ribs move up and down with the short, deep breathing.
On the very crown of the hill the cross is raised, and on it is the crucified Jesus. The horror and the dreams of Judas are realised, he gets up from his knees on which, for some reason, he has knelt, and gazes around coldly.
Thus does a stern conqueror look, when he has already determined in his heart to surrender everything to destruction and death, and for the last time throws a glance over a rich foreign city, still alive with sound, but already phantom-like under the cold hand of death. And suddenly, as clearly as his terrible victory, Iscariot saw its ominous precariousness. What if they should suddenly understand? It is not yet too late! Jesus still lives. There He gazes with entreating, sorrowing eyes.
What can prevent the thin film which covers the eyes of mankind, so thin that it hardly seems to exist at all, what can prevent it from rending? What if they should understand? What if suddenly, in all their threatening mass of men, women and children, they should advance, silently, without a cry, and wipe out the soldiery, plunging them up to their ears in their own blood, should tear from the ground the accursed cross, and by the hands of all who remain alive should lift up the liberated Jesus above the summit of the hill! Hosanna! Hosanna!
Hosanna? No! Better that Judas should lie on the ground. Better that he should lie upon the ground, and gnashing his teeth like a dog, should watch and wait until all these should rise up.
But what has come to Time? Now it almost stands still, so that one would wish to push it with the hands, to kick it, beat it with a whip like a lazy ass. Now it rushes madly down some mountain, and catches its breath, and stretches out its hand in vain to stop itself. There weeps the mother of Jesus. Let them weep. What avail her tears now? nay, the tears of all the mothers in the world?
“What are tears?” asks Judas, and madly pushes unyielding Time, beats it with his fists, curses it like a slave. It belongs to some one else, and therefore is unamenable to discipline. Oh! if only it belonged to Judas! But it belongs to all these people who are weeping, laughing, chattering as in the market. It belongs to the sun; it belongs to the cross; to the heart of Jesus, which is dying so slowly.
What an abject heart has Judas! He lays his hand upon it, but it cries out: “Hosanna,” so loud that all may hear. He presses it to the ground, but it cries, “Hosanna, Hosanna!” like a babbler who scatters holy mysteries broadcast through the street.
“Be still! Be still!”
Suddenly a loud broken lamentation, dull cries, the last hurried movements towards the cross. What is it? Have they understood at last?
No, Jesus is dying. But can this be? Yes, Jesus is dying. His pale hands are motionless, but short convulsions run over His face, and breast, and legs. But can this be? Yes, He is dying. His breathing becomes less frequent. It ceases. No, there is yet one sigh, Jesus is still upon the earth. But is there another? No, no, no. Jesus is dead.
It is finished. Hosanna! Hosanna!
His horror and his dreams are realised. Who will now snatch the victory from the hands of Iscariot?
It is finished. Let all people on earth stream to Golgotha, and shout with their million throats, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” And let a sea of blood and tears be poured out at its foot, and they will find only the shameful cross and a dead Jesus!
Calmly and coldly Iscariot surveys the dead, letting his gaze rest for a moment on that neck, which he had kissed only yesterday with a farewell kiss; and slowly goes away. Now all Time belongs to him, and he walks without hurry; now all the World belongs to him, and he steps firmly, like a ruler, like a king, like one who is infinitely and joyfully alone in the world. He observes the mother of Jesus, and says to her sternly:
“Thou weepest, mother? Weep, weep, and long will all the mothers upon earth weep with thee: until I come with Jesus and destroy death.”
What does he mean? Is he mad, or is he mocking–this Traitor? He is serious, and his face is stern, and his eyes no longer dart about in mad haste. Lo! he stands still, and with cold attention views a new, diminished earth.
It has become small, and he feels the whole of it under his feet. He looks at the little mountains, quietly reddening under the last rays of the sun, and he feels the mountains under his feet.
He looks at the sky opening wide its azure mouth; he looks at the small round disc of the sun, which vainly strives to singe and dazzle, and he feels the sky and the sun under his feet. Infinitely and joyfully alone, he proudly feels the impotence of all forces which operate in the world, and has cast them all into the abyss.
He walks farther on, with quiet, masterful steps. And Time goes neither forward nor back: obediently it marches in step with him in all its invisible immensity.
It is the end.
CHAPTER IX
As an old cheat, coughing, smiling fawningly, bowing incessantly, Judas Iscariot the Traitor appeared before the Sanhedrin. It was the day after the murder of Jesus, about mid-day. There they were all, His judges and murderers: the aged Annas with his sons, exact and disgusting likenesses of their father, and his son-in-law Caiaphas, devoured by ambition, and all the other members of the Sanhedrin, whose names have been snatched from the memory of mankind–rich and distinguished Sadducees, proud in their power and knowledge of the Law.
In silence they received the Traitor, their haughty faces remaining motionless, as though no one had entered. And even the very least, and most insignificant among them, to whom the others paid no attention, lifted up his bird-like face and looked as though no one had entered.
Judas bowed and bowed and bowed, and they looked on in silence: as though it were not a human being that had entered, but only an unclean insect that had crept in, and which they had not observed. But Judas Iscariot was not the man to be perturbed: they kept silence, and he kept on bowing, and thought that if it was necessary to go on bowing till evening, he could do so.
At length Caiaphas inquired impatiently:
“What do you want?”
Judas bowed once more, and said in a loud voice–
“It is I, Judas Iscariot, who betrayed to you Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Well, what of that? You have received your due. Go away!” ordered Annas; but Judas appeared unconscious of the command, and continued bowing. Glancing at him, Caiaphas asked Annas:
“How much did you give?”
“Thirty pieces of silver.”
Caiaphas laughed, and even the grey-bearded Annas laughed, too, and over all their proud faces there crept a smile of enjoyment; and even the one with the bird-like face laughed. Judas, perceptibly blanching, hastily interrupted with the words:
“That’s right! Certainly it was very little; but is Judas discontented, does Judas call out that he has been robbed? He is satisfied. Has he not contributed to a holy cause–yes, a holy? Do not the most sage people now listen to Judas, and think: He is one of us, this Judas Iscariot; he is our brother, our friend, this Judas Iscariot, the Traitor! Does not Annas want to kneel down and kiss the hand of Judas? Only Judas will not allow it; he is a coward, he is afraid they will bite him.”
Caiaphas said:
“Drive the dog out! What’s he barking about?”
“Get along with you. We have no time to listen to your babbling,” said Annas imperturbably.
Judas drew himself up and closed his eyes. The hypocrisy, which he had carried so lightly all his life, suddenly became an insupportable burden, and with one movement of his eyelashes he cast it from him. And when he looked at Annas again, his glance was simple, direct, and terrible in its naked truthfulness. But they paid no attention to this either.
“You want to be driven out with sticks!” cried Caiaphas.
Panting under the weight of the terrible words, which he was lifting higher and higher, in order to hurl them hence upon the heads of the judges, Judas hoarsely asked:
“But you know… you know… who He was… He, whom you condemned yesterday and crucified?”
“We know. Go away!”
With one word he would straightway rend that thin film which was spread over their eyes, and all the earth would stagger beneath the weight of the merciless truth! They had a soul, they should be deprived of it; they had a life, they should lose their life; they had light before their eyes, eternal darkness and horror should cover them. Hosanna! Hosanna!
And these words, these terrible words, were tearing his throat asunder–
“He was no deceiver. He was innocent and pure. Do you hear? Judas deceived you. He betrayed to you an innocent man.”
He waits. He hears the aged, unconcerned voice of Annas, saying:
“And is that all you want to say?”
“You do not seem to have understood me,” says Judas, with dignity, turning pale. “Judas deceived you. He was innocent. You have slain the innocent.”
He of the bird-like face smiles; but Annas is indifferent, Annas yawns. And Caiaphas yawns, too, and says wearily:
“What did they mean by talking to me about the intellect of Judas Iscariot? He is simply a fool, and a bore, too.”
“What?” cries Judas, all suffused with dark madness. “But who are you, the clever ones! Judas deceived you–hear! It was not He that he betrayed–but you–you wiseacres, you, the powerful, you he betrayed to a shameful death, which will not end, throughout the ages. Thirty pieces of silver! Well, well. But that is the price of YOUR blood–blood filthy as the dish-water which the women throw out of the gates of their houses. Oh! Annas, old, grey, stupid Annas, chock-full of the Law, why did you not give one silver piece, just one obolus more? At this price you will go down through the ages!”
“Be off!” cries Caiaphas, growing purple in the face. But Annas stops him with a motion of the hand, and asks Judas as unconcernedly as ever:
“Is that all?”
“Verily, if I were to go into the desert, and cry to the wild beasts: ‘Wild beasts, have ye heard the price at which men valued their Jesus?’–what would the wild beasts do? They would creep out of the lairs, they would howl with anger, they would forget their fear of mankind, and would all come here to devour you! If I were to say to the sea: ‘Sea, knowest thou the price at which men valued their Jesus?’ If I were to say to the mountains: ‘Mountains, know ye the price at which men valued their Jesus?’ Then the sea and the mountains would leave their places, assigned to them for ages, and would come here and fall upon your heads!”
“Does Judas wish to become a prophet? He speaks so loud!” mockingly remarks he of the bird-like face, with an ingratiating glance at Caiaphas.
“To-day I saw a pale sun. It was looking at the earth, and saying: ‘Where is the Man?’ To-day I saw a scorpion. It was sitting upon a stone and laughingly said: ‘Where is the Man?’ I went near and looked into its eyes. And it laughed and said: ‘Where is the Man? I do not see Him!’ Where is the Man? I ask you, I do not see Him– or is Judas become blind, poor Judas Iscariot!”
And Iscariot begins to weep aloud.
He was, during those moments, like a man out of his mind, and Caiaphas turned away, making a contemptuous gesture with his hand. But Annas considered for a time, and then said:
“I perceive, Judas, that you really have received but little, and that disturbs you. Here is some more money; take it and give it to your children.”
He threw something, which rang shrilly. The sound had not died away, before another, like it, strangely prolonged the clinking.
Judas had hastily flung the pieces of silver and the oboles into the faces of the high priest and of the judges, returning the price paid for Jesus. The pieces of money flew in a curved shower, falling on their faces, and on the table, and rolling about the floor.
Some of the judges closed their hands with the palms outwards; others leapt from their places, and shouted and scolded. Judas, trying to hit Annas, threw the last coin, after which his trembling hand had long been fumbling in his wallet, spat in anger, and went out.
“Well, well,” he mumbled, as he passed swiftly through the streets, scaring the children. “It seems that thou didst weep, Judas? Was Caiaphas really right when he said that Judas Iscariot was a fool? He who weeps in the day of his great revenge is not worthy of it– know’st thou that, Judas? Let not thine eyes deceive thee; let not thine heart lie to thee; flood not the fire with tears, Judas Iscariot!”
The disciples were sitting in mournful silence, listening to what was going on without. There was still danger that the vengeance of Jesus’ enemies might not confine itself to Him, and so they were all expecting a visit from the guard, and perhaps more executions. Near to John, to whom, as the beloved disciple, the death of Jesus was especially grievous, sat Mary Magdalene, and Matthew trying to comfort him in an undertone. Mary, whose face was swollen with weeping, softly stroked his luxurious curling hair with her hand, while Matthew said didactically, in the words of Solomon:
“‘The long suffering is better than a hero; and he that ruleth his own spirit than one who taketh a city.'”
At this moment Judas knocked loudly at the door, and entered. All started up in terror, and at first were not sure who it was; but when they recognised the hated countenance, the red-haired, bulbous head, they uttered a simultaneous cry.
Peter raised both hands and shouted:
“Get out of here, Traitor! Get out, or I will kill you.”
But the others looked more carefully at the face and eyes of the Traitor, and said nothing, merely whispering in terror:
“Leave him alone, leave him alone! He is possessed with a devil.”
Judas waited until they had quite done, and then cried out in a loud voice:
“Hail, ye eyes of Judas Iscariot! Ye have just seen the cold-blooded