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When the King Loses His Head, and Other Stories

by Leonid Andreyev · English · Gutenberg #49595 · 493,861 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: When the King Loses His Head, and Other Stories

Author: Leonid Andreyev

Translator: Archibald J. Wolfe


        
Release date: August 4, 2015 [eBook #49595]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHEN THE KING LOSES HIS HEAD, AND OTHER STORIES ***
When the King Loses his Head

AND OTHER STORIES

by Leonid Andreyev

TRANSLATED BY
ARCHIBALD J. WOLFE

NEW YORK

INTERNATIONAL BOOK PUBLISHING COMPANY

1920




cover 

Contents

 Preface
 When the King Loses his Head
 Judas Iscariot
 Lazarus
 Life of Father Vassily
 Ben-Tobith
 The Marseillaise
 Dies Irae




Preface.

Leonid Andreyev was born in Orel, the capital of the Russian province
of the same name, on August 21, 1871. He was ten years younger than his
future patron and friend Maxim Gorki. He died on September 12, 1919, in
Finland, an exile from his beloved chaos-ridden fatherland.

His father, a Russian of pure blood, by profession a surveyor, was a
man of extraordinary physical vigor. He died at the early age of 42 as
the result of a brain-stroke. His mother, a woman of much refinement
and culture, was of Polish ancestry.

The earliest years of Andreyev’s life were spent in close affiliation
with the stage, through the personal acquaintance of his parents with
the leading stage folks of the province.

He was a poor scholar and loved to play “hookey,” preferring the great
outdoors to the crowded class-room. His marks were very poor as the
result. But he was a voracious reader of literature. His latter years
in high school (gymnasium) were influenced by Tolstoy’s works on
non-resistance, by Schopenhauer, and by the first works of Maxim Gorki.
The death of his father and the seeds of the pessimistic philosophy
gave the inner life of the budding novelist a morose and pessimistic
direction. In his teens Leonid Andreyev made three unsuccessful
attempts at suicide.

It has been the fate of Leonid Andreyev to live through four distinct
phases of Russian history, each of which has contributed to the shaping
of his art.

In the latter eighties and the early nineties he had passed through one
of the most disheartening periods in the life of the Russian people,
when under the crushing heel of the despotic Tsar Alexander III all
initiative and all aspirations of the mind were ruthlessly stifled. It
was the period of shameful and soulless years, with miserable people,
relentless persecutors, obedient slaves and a few hunted rebels.

The horror of this era of nightmare weighed heavily on the sensitive
soul of young Andreyev and he attempted suicide in 1894 by shooting
himself near the heart. The attempt was unsuccessful, but left behind
an affliction of the heart, of which he died twenty-five years later.

In his student years (Andreyev took up the study of law in the
University of Moscow) he fell under the influence of Tchekhov and of
Gorki. Andreyev did not in his earlier years dream of becoming a
writer. His interest in art led him to painting and his pictures were
exhibited in the independent salons and much praised. His early stories
were printed in the newspapers of Moscow under the nom-de-plume of
James Lynch.

Andreyev’s first story printed under that nom-de-plume in 1898 aroused
the interest of Maxim Gorki, who sought out the future novelist and
aided him greatly with advice and suggestions.

But between the two—between the singer of the people, the singer of
humanity—Gorki, on the one hand, and the artist of individuality, the
painter of thought, Andreyev, there is a vast difference and
divergence. One is the captive of the realities of life, in which he
loses himself, the other is the captive of fancies, of ever new
problems of the soul, which he endeavors to illustrate by abstract
schematism, but which he ultimately fails to solve.

In this phase of Russian history falls the series of Andreyev’s stories
in which he chastises the Russian intelligent hypochondriac and the
follower of Tchekhov. Maxim Gorki is to him the personification of the
joy of life and of the will to battle, which permeates the earlier
writings of Andreyev.

The stormy period of the political convulsion which shook Russia in the
wake of the Japanese war, evoked a number of beautiful stories and
essays from Andreyev’s pen, thrilled and aflame with the love of
budding freedom. But even here the pessimism of Andreyev breaks
through. In his charming story of the French Revolution, with which we
begin this present volume, “When the King Loses His Head,” when liberty
is in danger, when the Twentieth, the symbol of monarchy, is in the
toils of the people, here and there the crowd cries “Long Live the
Twenty-First,” ready to resume the badge of servitude.

In the “Abyss” Andreyev portrays the shameful fall of the young
idealist, but in “The Marseillaise,” the prose-poem with which we
conclude the present volume, written in 1905, Andreyev pictures the
apotheosis of a hero hidden behind the absurd exterior of a physical
weakling. “The Marseillaise” is an overture to the stirring drama of
the brief but glorious epoch of the popular risings after the Japanese
war.

But the monarchic power crushed the spirit of the people. A period of
unparalleled persecutions, executions and repressions followed. “The
Story of the Seven that were Hanged” is characteristic of this terrible
period which preceded the World War. This story is dedicated to
Tolstoy, and its motto might well be “Fear not them that kill the body,
but cannot kill the soul.” Some of the passages of this story are so
stirring that it is impossible to read them without shedding a tear.

After the fall of the Romanovs, a brief period of intoxicating sense of
freedom overwhelmed Russia. It was not the time for literature. It was
the time for action. But all too soon chaos ensued, and the artist
dropped his art to defend outraged humanity. It was away from his
country, with the whole world arrayed against Russia, and with Russia
arrayed against herself, that Leonid Andreyev fell the victim of heart
failure, induced, as the brief despatches from Finland state, by the
shock of a bomb exploding in his vicinity.


The heroes of Andreyev’s stories are “people who stand apart,”
solitary, lonely characters, walking among men like planets among
planets, and a baneful atmosphere surrounds them. The idea of most of
these stories and of most of his dramas is the conflict of the
personality with fate and with the falsehood which man introduces into
his fate.

He has a symbolic story named “The Wall”: it is the barrier which men
cannot pass. The Wall is all bloodstained; at its base crawl lepers;
centuries, nations strive to climb upon it. But the wall is immobile,
while ever new heaps of corpses are piled up alongside.

There are walls between the closest relatives in the stories and dramas
of Andreyev. Frequently the characters depicted by him are insane.
Freedom becomes an illusion, a tragic mockery of mankind.

In the story of “Father Vassili” we are told of an ill-fated parish
priest. Misfortunes fall upon his head with an ominous purposeful
frequency. Finally his only son is drowned. The mother takes to drink
to drown her sorrow. In her insane frenzy she conceives again and bears
an idiot. The new child, a little monster, brings an atmosphere of
horror into the home and dominates the whole household. The drunken
mother accidentally sets the home on fire and dies a victim of the
conflagration. All through these misfortunes Father Vassili believes in
his Maker with the depth and passion of despair. But little by little
this faith and this despair pass into insanity. During a requiem mass
over the body of a villager Father Vassili commands the corpse to
arise. He calls upon God to sustain him and to work a miracle. He is
left alone with the corpse, the worshippers having fled in terror. He
inclines over the body and sees in the coffin the mocking features of
his idiot child. A crash of thunder rends the sky. It seems to Father
Vassili that heaven and earth are crashing into nothingness, he flees
precipitately into the highway and falls dead. The utter solitude of
the man, the monstrous domination of elementary powers arrayed against
him, a moment of consciousness of oneness with the divine and insanity,
these are the constant horrible and tragic features of Andreyev’s art.

In his stories dealing with biblical characters, Judas Iscariot and
Lazarus, we have horror and dreams again. Judas Iscariot and the
Saviour are pictured as twins nailed to the same cross and wearing the
same crown of thorns. The traitor in Andreyev’s story loves Jesus the
Man. There is a dread secret in the terrible eyes of Judas, as there is
a wondrous secret in the beautiful eyes of Jesus. This horrible
proximity of divine beauty and of monstrous hideousness presents a
problem which the artist tries to solve. He makes of Judas a fanatical
revolutionist, the slave of an idea who has resolved to materialize
“horror and dreams” and to bring about the truth. There is in Judas
that same duality which characterizes so many of Andreyev’s heroes. He
has two faces. He lies and dissembles. Throughout the whole story the
dual personality of the Traitor is brought out with wonderful skill. In
“Judas Iscariot” Andreyev contrasts Judas with Jesus. In “Lazarus” he
contrasts the morose Jew, whom Jesus brought back from death into life
after three days and three nights in the darkness of the tomb, with the
life-loving Augustus. If in “Judas Iscariot” Judas, wise, cunning and
evil, overcomes Jesus, naive, meek and trustful, in “Lazarus” it is the
Roman Emperor who causes the eyes of the Jew to be pierced, but is in
the end overcome himself.

“Anathema”—a play of Andreyev which in grandeur of conception equals
Goethe’s Faust, has for its humble hero, David Leiser, trustful,
stupid, guileless, ever obedient to his heart, who reaches immortality
and lives the life of immortality and light. His enemy, Anathema, who
follows the cold dictates of reason, is foiled.

From Andreyev’s pen we have a series of dramatic pictures, “Black
Masks,” “King Hunger,” “Savva,” “To the Stars,” and others, and a
number of stories, some of them in places streaked with a realism that
is almost too revolting for the Anglo-Saxon ideas of propriety. Thus in
“My Memoirs,” he tells of an insane doctor of mathematics, who confined
for life in a prison for a horrible crime sets down his experiences in
a series of hypocritical diary notes, and who expatiates upon the
beauties of nameless vice. In “The Darkness,” the bomb throwing
idealist, who hiding from the police on the eve of his deed, enters a
house of ill-fame and becomes so abashed at the sight of the life of an
inmate that he exclaims “It is a disgrace to be good,” and kisses her
hand, only to have his face slapped because the fallen woman resents
his parading of goodness at her expense.

Andreyev, because of the cumulative portrayals of the weird and the
horrible, has been called the Russian Edgar Allan Poe. But between Poe
and Andreyev there lies a century of time and a world of space.

Poe’s hero, in “The Fall of the House of Usher,” is the last remnant of
a feudal epoch dying in a crumbling castle, every stone of which speaks
of a series of generations and of external and internal dissolution.
The heroes of Andreyev are solitary men, hiding in their professorial
studies, in the basements of tenement houses, in the caves of Judea.
Death with Poe is mysteriously beautiful, with Andreyev it is a
blighting, baneful curse. The solitude of Poe’s heroes is the tragic
solitude of a superman on a lonely height, the solitude of Andreyev’s
heroes is the solitude of little men, worn out with the futile
vicissitudes of life. But the horror of life and of death makes these
two great artists kin. Of the Russian authors Dostoyevsky is nearest to
Andreyev. The solitude of the curse-stricken man, of the man on the
brink of ruin, the morbid acuteness of his perceptions, the dominion of
intellect over life, the eternal longing to overstep the boundary, the
endless striving with God, the city with its garrets and
basements—these are the favorite themes both of Dostoyevsky and of
Andreyev.

As to style, Leonid Andreyev is a wonderful word painter, but his brush
knows only somber colors. The basic background of his stories and of
his dramas is a dark-grey, sometimes streaked with fiery-red. His
pessimism leads him to look upon the world through dark spectacles.
Duke Lorenzo is held captive by “Black Masks.” He sails in a ship with
“black sails.” At the prow of the vessel is a “young woman in black.”

The stories included in this first volume of Andreyev’s works in the
“Russian Authors’ Library” series are: “When the King Loses his Head,”
“Judas Iscariot,” “Lazarus,” “Life of Father Vassili,” “Ben-Tobith” and
“Dies Irae.”

ARCHIBALD J. WOLFE.



When the King Loses his Head.

PART I.

There stood once in a public place a black tower with massive
fortress-like walls and a few grim bastioned windows. It had been built
by robber barons, but time swept them into the beyond, and the tower
became partly a prison for dangerous criminals and grave offenders, and
partly a residence. In the course of centuries new structures were
added to it, and were buttressed against the massive walls of the tower
and against one another; little by little it assumed the dimensions of
a fair sized town set on a rock, with a broken skyline of chimneys,
turrets and pointed roofs. When the sky gleamed green in the west there
appeared, here and there, lights in the various parts of the tower. The
gloomy pile assumed quaint and fanciful contours, and it somehow seemed
that at its foot there stretched not an ordinary pavement, but the
waves of the sea, the salty and shoreless ocean. And the picture
brought to one’s mind the shapes of the past, long since dead and
forgotten.

An immense ancient clock, which could be seen from afar, was set in the
tower. Its complicated mechanism occupied an entire story of the
structure, and it was under the care of a one-eyed man who could use a
magnifying glass with expert skill. This was the reason why he had
become a clockmaker and had tinkered for years with small timepieces
before he was given charge of the large clock. Here he felt at home and
happy. Often, at odd hours, without apparent need he would enter the
room where the wheels, the gears and the levers moved deliberately, and
where the immense pendulum cleft the air with wide and even sweep.
Having reached the limit of its travel the pendulum said:

“’Twas ever thus.”

Then it sank and rose again to a new elevation and added:

“’Twill ever be, ’twas ever thus, ’twill ever be, ’twas ever thus,
’twill ever be.”

These were the words with which the one-eyed clockmaker was wont to
interpret the monotonous and mysterious language of the pendulum: the
close contact with the large clock had made him a philosopher, as they
used to say in those days.

Over the ancient city where the tower stood, and over the entire land
there ruled one man, the mystic lord of the city and of the land, and
his mysterious sway, the rule of one man over the millions was as
ancient as the city itself. He was called the King and dubbed the
“Twentieth,” according to the number of his predecessors of the same
name, but this fact explained nothing. Just as no one knew of the early
beginnings of the city, no one knew the origin of this strange
dominion, and no matter how far back human memory reached the records
of the hoary past presented the same mysterious picture of one man who
lorded over millions. There was a silent antiquity over which the
memory of man had no power, but it, too, at rare intervals, opened its
lips; it dropped from its jaws a stone, a little slab marked with some
characters, the fragment of a column, a brick from a wall that had
crumbled into ruin—and again the mysterious characters revealed the
same tale of one who had been lord over millions. Titles, names and
soubriquets changed, but the image remained unchanged, as if it were
immortal. The King was born and died like all men, and judging from
appearance, which was that common to all men, he was a man; but when
one took into account the unlimited extent of his power and might, it
was easier to imagine that he was God. Especially as God had been
always imagined to be like a man, and yet suffered no loss of his
peculiar and incomprehensible essence. The Twentieth was the King. This
meant that he had power to make a man happy or unhappy; that he could
take away his fortune, his health, his liberty and his very life; at
his command tens of thousands of men went forth to war, to kill and to
die; in his name were wrought acts just and unjust, cruel and merciful.
And his laws were no less stringent than those of God; this too
enhanced his greatness in that God’s laws are immutable, but he could
change his at will. Distant or near, he always was higher than life; at
his birth man found along with nature, cities and books—his King;
dying—he left with nature, cities and books—the King.

The history of the land, oral and written, showed examples of
magnanimous, just and good Kings, and though there lived people better
than they, still one could understand why they might have ruled. But
more frequently it happened that the King was the worst man on earth,
bare of all virtues, cruel, unjust, even a madman—yet even then he
remained the mysterious one who ruled over millions, and his power
increased with his misdeeds. All the world hated and cursed him, but
he, the one, ruled over those who hated and cursed, and this savage
dominion became an enigma, and the dread of man before man was
increased by the mystic terror of the unfathomable. And because of this
wisdom, virtue and kindness served to weaken Kingcraft and made it a
subject of strife, while tyranny, madness and malice strengthened it.
And because of this the practice of beneficence and goodness was beyond
the ability of even the most powerful of these mysterious lords though
even the weakest of them in destructiveness and evil deeds could
surpass the devil and the fiends of hell. He could not give life, but
he imposed death, that mysterious Anointed one of madness, death and
evil; and his throne rose to greater heights, the more bones had been
laid down for its foundations.

In other neighboring lands there sat also lords upon their thrones, and
the origin of their dominion was lost in hoary antiquity. There were
years and centuries when the mysterious lord disappeared from one of
the Kingdoms, though there never was a time when the whole earth was
wholly without them. Centuries passed and again, no one knows whence,
there appeared in that land a throne, and again there sat thereon some
mysterious one, incomprehensibly combining in himself frailty and
undying power. And this mystery fascinated the people; at all times
there had been among them such as loved him more than themselves, more
than their wives and children, and humbly, as if from the hand of God,
without murmur or pity, they received from him and in his name, death
in most cruel and shameful form.

The Twentieth and his predecessors rarely showed themselves to the
people, and only a few ever saw them; but they loved to scatter abroad
their image, leaving it on coins, hewing it out of stone, impressing it
on myriads of canvases, and adorning and perfecting it through the
skill of artists. One could not take a step without seeing the face,
the same simple and mysterious face, forcing itself on the mind by
sheer ubiquity, conquering the imagination, and acquiring a seeming
omnipresence, just as it had attained immortality. And therefore people
who but faintly remembered the face of their grandfathers and could not
have recognized the features of their great grandfathers, knew well the
faces of their lords of a hundred, two hundred or a thousand years
back. And therefore, too, no matter how plain the face of the one man
who was master of millions may have been, it bore always the imprint of
enigmatic and awe-inspiring mystery. So the face of the dead always
seems mysterious and significant, for through the familiar and well
known features one gazes upon death, the mysterious and powerful.

Thus high above life stood the King. People died, and whole generations
passed from the face of the earth, but he only changed his soubriquet
like a serpent shedding his skin: The Eleventh was followed by the
twelfth, the fifteenth, then again came the first, the fifth, the
second, and in these cold figures sounded an inevitableness like that
of a swinging pendulum which marks the passing of time:

“’Twas ever thus, ’twill ever be.”

PART II.

And it happened that in that great country, the lord of which was the
Twentieth, there occurred a revolution, a rising of the millions, as
mysterious as had been the rule of the one. Something strange happened
to the strong ties which had bound together the King and the people,
and they began to decay noiselessly, unnoticeably, mysteriously, like a
body out of which the life had departed, and in which new forces that
had been in hiding somewhere commenced their work. There was the same
throne, the same palace, and the same Twentieth—but his power had
unaccountably passed away; and no one had noticed the hour of its
passage, and all thought that it merely was ailing. The people simply
lost the habit of obeying and that was all, and all at once, from out
the multitude of separate trifling, unnoticed resistances, there grew
up a stupendous, unconquerable movement. And as soon as the people
ceased to obey, all their ancient sores were opened, and wrathfully
they became conscious of hunger, injustice and oppression. And they
made an uproar. And they demanded justice. And they reared a gigantic
beast bristling with wrath, taking vengeance on its tamer for years of
humiliation and tortures. Just as they had not held counsels to agree
to obedience, they did not confer about rebelling; and straightway,
from all sides there gathered a rising and made its way to the palace.

Wondering at themselves and their deeds, oblivious of the path behind
them, they advanced closer and closer to the throne, fingering already
its gilt carving, peeping into the royal bed-chamber and attempting to
sit upon royal chairs. The King bowed and the Queen smiled, and many of
the people wept with joy as they beheld the Twentieth at close range;
the women stroked with cautious finger the velvet of the royal coat and
the silk of the royal gown, while the men with good-natured severity
amused the royal infant.

The King bowed and the pale Queen smiled, and from under the door of a
neighboring apartment there crept in the black current of the blood of
a nobleman, who had stabbed himself to death; he could not survive the
spectacle of somebody’s dirty fingers touching the royal coat, and
committed suicide. And as they dispersed they shouted:

“Long live the Twentieth.”

Here and there were some who frowned; but it was all so humorous that
they too forgot their annoyance and gaily laughing as if at a carnival
when some motley clown is crowned, they also shouted, “Long live the
Twentieth.” And they laughed. But towards evening there was gloom in
their faces and suspicion in their glances; how could they have faith
in him who for a thousand years with diabolical cunning had been
deceiving his good and confiding people! The palace is dark; its
immense windows gleam insincerely and peer sulkily into the darkness:
some scheme is being concocted there. They are conjuring the powers of
darkness and calling on them for vengeance upon the people. There they
loathingly cleanse the lips from traitorous kisses and bathe the royal
infant who has been defiled by the touch of the people. Perhaps there
is no one there. Perhaps in the immense darkened salons there is only
the suicide nobleman and space—they may have disappeared. One must
shout, one must call for him, if a living being still be there. “Long
live the Twentieth.”

A pale-grey, perplexing sky looks down upon pallid, upturned faces; the
frightened clouds are scurrying over the heavens, and the immense
windows gleam with a mysterious lifeless light. “Long live the
Twentieth!”

The overwhelmed sentinel seems to sway in the surging crowd. He has
lost his gun and is smiling; the lock upon the iron portals clatters
spasmodically and feverishly; clinging to the lofty iron rods of the
gate, like black and misshapen fruit are crouching bodies and
outstretched hands, that look pale on top and dark below. A shaggy mass
of clouds sweeps the sky and gazes down upon the scenes. Shouts.
Someone has lighted a torch, and the palace windows blushed as if
crimson with blood and drew nearer to the crowd. Something seemed to be
creeping upon the walls and disappeared upon the roof. The lock rattled
no longer. The glare of the torch revealed the railing crowded with
people, and now it became again invisible. The people were moving
onward.

“Long live the Twentieth!” A number of dim lights now seem to be
flittering past the windows. Somebody’s ugly features press closely to
the pane and disappear. It is growing lighter. The torches increase in
number, multiply and move up and down, like some curious dance or
procession. Now the torches crowd together and incline as if saluting;
the king and queen appear on the balcony. There is a blaze of light
behind them, but their faces are dark, and the crowd is not sure it is
really they, in person.

“Give us Light! Twentieth! Give us Light! We can not see thee!”
Suddenly several torches flash to the right and to the left of them,
and from a smoky cavern two flushed and trembling countenances come
into view. The people in the back are yelling: “It is not they! The
king has fled!” But those nearest now shout with the joy of relieved
anxiety: “Long live the Twentieth!” The crimson faces are now seen
moving slowly up and down, now bright in the lurid glare, now vanishing
in the shadow; they are bowing to the people. It is the Nineteenth, the
Fourth, the Second who are bowing; bowing in the crimson mist are those
mysterious creatures who had held so much enigmatic, almost divine
power, and behind them are vanishing in the crimson mist of the past,
murders, executions, majesty and dread. Now he must speak; the human
voice is needed; when he is silent and bows with his flaming face he is
terrible to look upon, like a devil conjured up from hell.

“Speak, Twentieth, speak!” A curious motion of the hand, calling for
silence, a strange commanding gesture, as ancient as kingcraft itself,
and a gentle unknown voice is heard dropping those ancient and curious
words: “I am glad to see my good people.” Is that all? And is it not
enough? He is glad! The Twentieth is glad! Be not angry with us
Twentieth. We love thee, Twentieth, love us, too. If you will not love
us we shall come again to see you in your study where you work, in your
dining-room where you eat, in your bed chamber where you sleep, and we
shall compel you to love us.

“Long live the Twentieth! Long live the king! Long live our master!”

Slaves!

Who said slaves? The torches are expiring. They are departing. The dim
lights are moving back into the palace, the windows are dark again, but
they flush with a crimson reflection. Someone is being sought in the
crowd. The crowds are hurrying, casting frightened glances behind. Had
he been here or had it been a mere fancy? They ought to have touched
him, fingered his garments or his face; he ought to have been made to
cry out with terror or pain. They disperse in silence; the shouts of
individuals are drowned in the discordant tramp of many feet; they are
filled with obscure memories, presentiments and terrors. And horrible
visions hover all night long over the city.

PART III.

He had already attempted to flee. He had bewitched some and lulled
others to sleep and had almost gained his diabolical liberty, when a
faithful son of the fatherland recognized him in the disguise of a
shabby domestic. Not trusting to his memory he looked on a coin which
bore his image—and the bells rang out in alarm, the houses belched
forth masses of pale and frightened people; it was he! Now he is in the
tower, in the immense black tower with the massive walls and the small
bastioned windows; and faithful sons of the people are watching him,
impervious to bribery, enchantment and flattery. To drive away fear the
guards drink and laugh and blow clouds of smoke right into his face,
when he essays to take a walk in the prison with his devilish progeny.
To prevent him from enchanting the passersby they had boarded up the
lower portions of the windows and the tower gallery where he was wont
to promenade, and only the wandering clouds in passing look into his
face. But he is strong. He transforms the laughter of a freeman into
servile tears; he sows seeds of disloyalty and treason from behind the
massive walls and they penetrate into the hearts of the people like
black flowers, staining the golden raiment of liberty into the likeness
of a wild beast’s skin. Traitors and enemies abound on all hands.
Descended from their thrones other powerful and mysterious lords gather
at the frontier with hordes of savage and bewitched people, matricides
ready to put to death freedom, their mother. In the houses, on the
streets, in the mysterious wilderness of forests and distant villages,
in the proud mansions of the popular assembly, there hisses the sound
of treason and glides the shadow of treachery. Woe unto the people!
They are betrayed by those who had been the first to raise the banner
of revolt and the traitors’ wretched remains are already cast out of
the dishonored sepulchres and their black blood drenches the earth. Woe
unto the people! They are betrayed by those to whom they had given
their hearts; betrayed by their own elect; whose faces are honest,
whose tongues are uncompromisingly stern and whose pockets are full of
somebody’s gold.

Now the city is to be searched. It was ordered that all should be in
their dwellings at mid-day; and when at the appointed hour the bells
were rung, their ominous sound rolled echoing over the deserted and
silent streets. Since the city’s birth there had never reigned such
stillness; not a soul near the fountains; the stores are closed; on the
streets, from one end to the other, not a pedestrian, not a carriage to
be seen. The alarmed and astonished cats wander in the shadow of the
silent walls; they can not tell whether it be day or night; and so
profound is the silence that it seems as if their velvety footfall were
plainly audible. The measured tones of the bells pass over the streets
like invisible brooms sweeping the city clean. Now the cats, too,
frightened at something, have disappeared. Silence and desolation.

Suddenly on every street there appear simultaneously little bands of
armed people. They converse loudly and freely and stamp their feet, and
although they are not many they seem to cause more noisy commotion than
the whole city when it is crowded with a hundred thousand pedestrians
and vehicles. Each house seems to swallow them up in succession and to
belch them forth again. And as they emerge another or two more are
belched forth with them, pale with malice or red with wrath. And they
walked with their hands in their pockets, for in those curious days no
one feared death, not even the traitors; and they entered into the dark
jaws of the prison houses. Ten thousand traitors were found that day by
the faithful servants of the people; they found ten thousand traitors
and cast them into prison. Now the prisons were pleasant and awful to
look upon; so full they were from top to bottom with disloyalty and
shameful treachery. One wondered that the walls could bear the load
without crumbling into dust.

That night there was a general rejoicing in the city. The houses were
emptied once more and the streets were filled; endless black throngs
engaged in a stupefying dance, a combination of quick and unexpected
gyrations. Dancing was in progress from one end of the city to the
other. Around the lamp-posts like the foaming surf that beats against
the rocks, knots of merrymakers had gathered, clasping hands, their
faces aglow with laughter, and wide-eyed, whirling around, now
vanishing from view and ever changing in expression. From the lamp-post
dangled the corpse of some executed traitor who had not succeeded in
reaching the shelter of his prison. His extended legs seeking the
ground, almost touched the heads of the dancers, and the corpse itself
seemed to dance, yes, it seemed to be the very master of ceremonies and
the ring-leader of the merriment, directing the dance.

Then they walked over to the black tower and craning their necks,
shouted: “Death to the Twentieth! Death!” Cheerful lights gleamed now
in the tower windows; the faithful sons of the people were watching the
tyrant. Calmed and assured that he could not escape, they shouted more
in a jest than seriously: “Death to the Twentieth!” And they departed,
making room for other shouters. But at night horrible dreams again
hovered over the city, and like poison which one has swallowed and
failed to spit out, the black towers and prisons reeking with traitors
and treachery, gnawed at the city’s vitals.

Now they were putting the traitors to death. They had sharpened their
sabres, axes and scythes; they had gathered blocks of wood and heavy
stones and for forty-eight hours they worked in the prisons until they
collapsed from fatigue. They slept anywhere near their bloody work,
they ate and drank there. The earth refused to absorb the streams of
sluggish blood; they had to cover it with heaps of straw, but that
covering too was drenched and transformed into brownish refuse. Seven
thousand traitors were put to death that day. Seven thousand traitors
had bitten the dust in order to cleanse the city and furnish life to
the newborn freedom. They marched again to see the Twentieth and held
up to his view the chopped off heads and the torn out hearts of the
traitors. And he saw them. Then confusion and consternation reigned in
the popular assembly. They sought him who had given the order to slay
and could not detect him. But someone must have given the order to
slay. Was it you? Or you? Or you? But who had dared to give orders
where the popular assembly alone had the right to command? Some are
smiling—they seem to know something.

“Murderers!”

“No! But we have compassion with our native land, while you express
pity with traitors!”

Still peace is afar off, and treachery is growing apace and
multiplying; insidiously it finds its way into the very hearts of the
people. Oh! the sufferings, and Oh! the bloodshed—and all in vain!
Through the massive walls that mysterious sovereign still sows the
seeds of treachery and enchantment. Alas for freedom! From the West
comes the news of terrible dissensions, of battles, of a crazed portion
of the people who had seceded and risen in arms against their mother,
the Freedom. Threats are heard from the south, and from the east and
the north other mysterious lords who had descended from their thrones
are closing in upon the land with their savage hordes. No matter whence
they come the clouds are imbued with the breath of foes and of
traitors. No matter whence they blow from the north and the south, from
the west and the east, the winds waft mutterings of threats and of
wrath, and strike joyfully on the ear of him who is imprisoned in the
tower, while they sound a funeral knell in the ears of citizens. Alas
for the people! Alas for liberty! At night the moon is bright and
radiant as if shining above ruins, but the sun even is lost in the mist
and the black concourse of clouds, deformed, monstrous and ugly, which
seem to strangle it. They attack it and strangle it and a mingled
shagginess of crimson, they crash into the abyss of the west. Once for
an instant the sun broke through the clouds—and how sad, awesome and
frightened was that ray of light. Hurriedly tender it seemed to caress
the tops of the trees, the roofs of the houses, the spires of the
churches.

But in the tower the one-eyed clockmaker, who could so conveniently use
the magnifying glass, walking amid his wheels and gears, his levers and
ropes, and bending his head to one side watches the swinging of the
mighty pendulum. “’Twas ever thus—’twill ever be. ’Twas ever
thus—’twill ever be!”

Once when he was very young the clock got out of order and stopped for
the space of two days. And it was such a terrifying experience, as if
all time had slipped into an abyss. But after the clock had been
repaired, all was well again, and now time seems to flow between one’s
fingers, to ooze drop by drop, to split into little pieces, falling an
inch at a time. The immense brazen disc of the pendulum lights up
faintly as it moves and seems to swing like a ball of gold if one looks
at it with half-closed eyes. A pigeon is heard cooing softly among the
rafters. “’Twas ever thus—’twill ever be!” “’Twas ever thus—’twill ever
be!”

PART IV.

The thousand-year-old monarchy was at last overthrown. There was no
need of the plebiscite; every man in the popular assembly had risen to
his feet, and from top to bottom it became filled with standing men.
Even that sick deputy who had been brought in an armchair rose to his
feet; supported by his friends he straightened his limbs, crushed with
paralysis, and stood erect like a tall withered stump supported by two
young and slender trees.

“The republic is accepted unanimously,” someone announced with a
sonorous voice, vainly attempting to conceal its triumphant tone.

But they all remained standing. A minute passed, then another; already
upon the public square, which was thronged with expectant people, there
had burst forth a thunderous manifestation of joy, but in the hall
there reigned a solemn stillness as in a cathedral, and stern,
majestically serious people, grown rigid in the attitude of proud
homage. Before whom are they standing? They no longer own a King, even
God, that tyrant and king of heaven, had long since been overthrown
from His celestial seat. They are paying homage to Liberty. The aged
deputy whose head had been shaking for years with senile palsy now
holds it up erect and proud. There, with an easy gesture of his hand,
he has pushed aside his friends; he is standing alone; liberty has
accomplished a miracle. These men who had long since forgotten the art
of weeping, living amid tempests, riots and bloodshed, are weeping now.
The cruel eyes of eagles which gazed calm and unmoved on the
blood-reeking sun of the Revolution can not withstand the gentle
radiance of Liberty, and they shed tears.

Silence reigns in the hall; but a tumultuous uproar is heard outside;
growing in volume and intensity it loses its sharpness; it is uniform
and mighty and brings to mind the roar of the limitless ocean. They are
all freemen now. Free are the dying, free are those coming into the
world, free are the living. The mysterious dominion of One which had
held the millions in its clutches is overthrown, the black vaults of
prisons have crumbled into dust—and overhead shines the cloudless and
radiant sky.

“Liberty”—someone whispers softly and tenderly like the name of a
sweetheart. “Liberty!” exclaims another, breathless with unutterable
joy, his face aglow with intense eagerness and lofty inspiration.
“Liberty!” is heard in the clanging of the iron. “Liberty!” sing the
stringed instruments. “Liberty!” roars the many-voiced ocean. He is
dead, the old deputy. His heart could not contain the infinite joy and
it stopped, its last beat being—Liberty! The most blessed of mortals;
into the mysterious shadow of the grave he will carry away an endless
vision of Newborn Freedom.

They had been awaiting frenzied excesses in the city, but none took
place. The breath of liberty ennobled the people, and they grew gentle
and tender and chaste in their demonstrations of joy. They only gazed
at one another, they caressed one another with a cautious touch of the
hand; it is so sweet to caress a free creature and to look into his
eyes. And no one was hanged. There was found a madman who shouted in
the crowd: “Long live the Twentieth!” twirled his mustache and prepared
himself for the brief struggle and the lengthy agony in the clutches of
a maddened throng. And some frowned, while others, the large majority,
merely wonderingly and curiously regarding the hair-brained fellow, as
a crowd of sightseers might gape at some curious simian from Brazil.
And they let him go.

It was late at night when they remembered the Twentieth. A crowd of
citizens who refused to part with the great day decided to roam around
until daybreak. By chance they bethought themselves of the Twentieth
and wended their way to the tower. That black structure merged into the
darkness of the sky and at the moment when the citizens approached
seemed to be in the act of swallowing a little star. Some stray bright
little star came close to it, flashed for a moment and disappeared in
the darkness. Very close to the ground, in a lower tier of the tower,
two lighted windows shone out into the darkness. There the faithful
custodians kept their unceasing vigil. The clock struck the hour of
two.

“Does he or does he not know?” inquired one of the visitors vainly
attempting to make out with his glance the contours of the pile, as if
endeavoring to solve its secrets. A dark silhouette now detached itself
from the wall, and a dull, weary voice responded:

“He is asleep, citizen.”

“Who are you, citizen? You startled me. You walk as softly as a cat!”

Other dark silhouettes now approached from various quarters and mutely
confronted the newcomers.

“Why don’t you answer? If you are a specter, please vanish without
delay; the assembly has abolished specters.”

But the stranger wearily replied: “We watch the tyrant.”

“Did the commune appoint you?”

“No. We appointed ourselves. There are thirty-six of us. There had been
thirty-seven, but one died; we watch the tyrant. We have lived near
this wall for two months or longer. We are very weary.”

“The nation thanks you. Do you know what happened to-day?”

“Yes, we heard something. We watch the tyrant.”

“Have you heard that we are a republic now? That we have liberty?”

“Yes, but we watch the tyrant and we are weary.”

“Let us embrace, brothers!”

Cold lips wearily touch the burning lips of the visitors.

“We are weary. He is so cunning and dangerous. Day and night we watch
the doors and the windows. I watch that window; you could hardly
distinguish it. So you say we have liberty? Very good. But we must go
back to our posts. Be calm, citizens. He is asleep. We receive reports
every half hour. He is sleeping now.”

The silhouettes moved, separated themselves and vanished as if they had
gone right through the walls. The gloomy old tower seemed to have grown
taller, and from one of the battlements there stretched over the city a
dark and shapeless cloud. It seemed as if the tower had grown out of
all proportion and was stretching its hand over the city. A light
flashed from the dense blackness of the wall and suddenly vanished,
like a signal. The cloud now covered the whole city and reflected with
a yellowish gleam the lurid glare of many fires. A drizzling rain
suddenly commenced to descend. All was silent and all was restless.

Was he really sleeping?

PART V.

A few more days passed in the new and delicious sensations of freedom,
and again new threads of distrust and fear appeared like dark veins
running through white marble. The tyrant received the news of his
overthrow with suspicious calmness. How can a man be calm when deprived
of a kingdom, unless he be planning something terrible? And how can the
people be calm, when in their midst there lives a mysterious one having
the gift of pernicious enchantment? Overthrown, he continues to be
terrible; imprisoned he demonstrates at will his diabolical power which
grows with distance. Thus the earth, black at close range, appears like
a shining star when seen from the depths of azure space. And in his
immediate surroundings his sufferings move to tears. A woman was seen
to kiss the hand of the queen. A guard was observed drying his tears.
An orator was heard appealing for mercy. As if even now he were not
happier than thousands of people who had never seen the light? Who
could warrant that on the morrow the land would not return to its
ancient madness, crawling in the dust before him, begging his pardon
and rearing anew his throne which it cost so much labor and pain to
overthrow!

Bristling with frenzy and terror the millions are listening to the
speeches in the popular assembly. Curious speeches. Terrifying words.
They speak of his inviolability; they say he is sacro-sanct, that he
may not be judged like others are judged, that he may not be punished
like others are punished, that he may not be put to death, for he is
the King. Consequently Kings still exist! And these words are spoken by
those who have sworn to love the people and liberty; the words are
uttered by men of tried honesty, by sworn foes of tyranny, by the sons
of the people who came forth from the loins of those that were scarred
by the merciless and sacrilegious rule of the Kings. Ominous blindness!

Already the majority is inclining in favor of the overthrown one; as if
a dense yellow fog issuing forth from that tower had forced its way
into the holy mansions of the people’s mind, blinding their bright eyes
strangling their newly gained freedom; thus a bride adorned with white
blossoms might meet death in the hour of her bridal triumph. Dull
despair creeps into the heart, and many hands convulsively stroke the
trusted blade; it is better to die with Brutus than to live with
Octavianus.

Final remonstrances full of deadly indignation.

“Do you wish to have one man in the land and thirty-five million
animals?”

Yes, they wish it. They stand silent with downcast eyes. They are weary
of fighting, weary of exercising their will, and in their lassitude, in
their yawning and stretching, in their colorless cold words which,
however, have a magic effect, one almost fancies the contour of a
throne. Scattered exclamations, dull speeches, and the blind silence of
unanimous treachery. Liberty is perishing, the luckless bride adorned
with white blossoms, who has met her doom in the hour of her bridal
triumph.

But hark! The sound of marching. They are coming; like the sound of
dozens of gigantic drums beating a wild tattoo. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp!
They come from the suburbs. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! They march in defense
of liberty. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Woe unto traitors! Tramp! Tramp!
Tramp! Traitors, beware!

“The People ask permission to march past the assembly.”

But who could stop an avalanche? Who would dare tell an earthquake, “So
far and no further shalt thou go!”

The doors are thrown open. There they come from the suburbs. Their
faces are the color of the earth. Their breasts are bared. An endless
kaleidoscope of motley rags that serve for raiment. A triumph of
impulsive, uncontrolled movements. An ominous harmony of disorder. A
marching chaos. Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! Eyes flashing fire! Prongs,
scythes, tridents, fenceposts. Men, women and children. Tramp! Tramp!
Tramp!

“Long live the representatives of the people! Long live liberty! Death
to traitors!”

The deputies smile, frown, bow amiably. They grow dizzy watching the
motley procession that seems to have no end. It looks like a torrential
stream rushing through a cavern. All faces begin to look alike. All
shouts merge into one uniform and solid roar. The tramp of the feet
resembles the patter of raindrops upon the roof, a sporific,
will-subduing sound which dominates consciousness. A gigantic roof,
gigantic raindrops.

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! One hour passes, then two, then three, and still
they are filing past. The torches burn with a crimson glare and emit
smoke. Both openings, the one through which the people enter and the
one through which they file out are like yawning jaws; and it is as if
some black ribbon, gleaming with copper and iron, stretched from one
door and through the other. Fanciful pictures now present themselves to
the weary eye. Now it is an endless belt, now a titanic, swollen and
hairy worm. Those sitting above the doors imagine themselves standing
on a bridge and feel like floating away. Now and then the clear and
unusually vivid realization comes to one’s mind: it is the people. And
pride, and consciousness of the power and the thirst for great freedom
such as has never been known before. A free people, what happiness!

Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! They have been marching for eight hours and still
the end is not yet. From both sides, where the people enter and where
they file out, rode the thunderous notes of the song of the revolution.
The words can be hardly heard. Only the time, the cadences and the
notes are plainly distinguished. Momentary stillness and threating
shouts. “To arms, citizens! Gather into battalions! Let us go! Let us
go!”

They go.

No need of a vote. Liberty is safe once more.

PART VI.

Then came the fateful day of the royal judgment. The mysterious power,
ancient as the world, was called upon to answer for its misdeeds to the
very people it had so long held in bondage. It was called upon to
answer to the world which it dishonored by the triumph of its
absurdity. Stripped of its cap and bells, deprived of its gaudy throne,
of its high-sounding titles and of all those queer symbols of dominion,
naked it will stand before the people and will tell by whose right and
authority it had exercised its rule over millions, vesting in the
person of one being the power to do wrong with impunity, to rob men of
their freedom, to inflict punishment and death. But the Twentieth has
been judged already by the conscience of the people. No mercy will be
shown him. Yet, ere he goes to his doom, let him unbosom himself, let
him acquaint the people, not with his deeds, they are sufficiently well
known to them, but with the thoughts, the motives and the feelings of a
king. That mythical dragon who devours children and virgins, who has
held the world in thrall, is now securely fettered and bound with heavy
chains. He will be taken to the public square and soon the people will
see his scaly trunk, his venomous fangs and the cruel jaws that exhale
fierce flames.

Some plot was feared. All night long troops had marched through the
tranquil streets, filling the squares and passages, fencing in the
route of the royal procession with rows of gleaming bayonets,
surrounding it with a wall of somber and sternly solemn faces. Above
the black silhouettes of buildings and churches, that loomed sharp,
square-shaped and strangely indistinct in the twilight of the early
dawn, there appeared the first faint gleam of the yellow and cloudy
sky, the cold sky of the city, looking as aged as the houses and, like
them, covered with soot and rust. It resembled some painting hanging in
a dark hall of an ancient baronial castle.

The city slept in anxious anticipation of the great and portentous day,
while on the streets the citizen-soldiers moved quietly in well-formed
ranks, striving to muffle the sounds of their heavy footsteps. The
low-browed cannon, almost grazing the ground with their chins, rattled
insolently over the roadways with the ruddy glare of a fuse on each
piece of ordnance.

Orders were given in a subdued tone, almost in a whisper, as if the
commanders feared to waken some light and suspicious sleeper. Whether
they feared for the king and his safety, or whether they feared the
king himself, no one knew. But everybody knew that there was need of
preparation, need of summoning the entire strength of the people.

The morning would dawn, but slowly; massive yellow clouds, bushy and
grimy as if they had been rubbed with a filthy cloth, hung over the
church spires, and only as the king emerged from the tower the sun
burst into radiance through a rift in the clouds. Happy augury for the
people, ominous warning for the tyrant!

And thus was he taken from prison; through a narrow lane formed by two
solid lines of troops there moved companies of armed soldiers—one, two,
ten, you could not have counted their number. Then came the guns,
rattling, rattling, rattling. Then gripped in the vice-like embrace of
rifles, sabers and bayonets came the carriage, scarcely able to
proceed. And again fresh guns and companies of soldiers. And all
through that journey of many miles silence preceded the carriage, and
was behind it and all around it. At one point in the public square
there were heard a few tentative shouts, “Death to the Twentieth!” But
finding no support in the crowd, the shouts subsided. Thus in the chase
of a wild boar only the inexperienced dogs are heard barking, but those
who will maim and be maimed are silent, gathering wrath and strength.

In the assembly there reigns an excitedly subdued hubbub of
conversation. They have been expecting for some hours the coming of the
tyrant, who approaches with snail-like pace; the deputies walk about
the corridors in agitation, every moment changing their positions,
laughing without apparent cause and animatedly gossiping about any
trivial thing. But many are sitting motionless, like statues of stone,
and their expression is also stone-like. Their faces are young, but the
furrows thereon are deep and old, as if hewn by an ax, and their hair
is rough; their eyes either ominously hidden in the cavernous depths of
the skull or intently drawn forward, wide and comprehensive, as if not
shaded by eyebrows, like torches burning in the gloomy recesses of a
prison. There is no terror on earth which these eyes could not gaze on
without a tremor. There is no cruelty, no sorrow, no spectral horror
before which this glance would flinch, hardened as they had been in the
furnace of the revolution. Those who were the first to launch the great
movement have long since died and their ashes have been scattered
abroad; they are forgotten, forgotten are their ideas, aspirations and
yearnings. The onetime thunder of their speeches is like the rattle in
the hands of a babe; the great freedom of which they dreamt now seems
like the crib of a child with a canopy to protect it from flies and the
glare of daylight. But these have grown up amid the storms and live in
the tempest; they are the darling children of tumultuous days, of
blood-reeking heads borne aloft on lances like pumpkins, of massive and
mighty hearts made to give forth blood; of titanic orations, where a
word is sharper than the dagger and an idea more pitiless than
gunpowder. Obedient only to the will of the people they have summoned
the specter of imperious power, and now, cold and passionless, like
surgeons dissecting a corpse, like judges, like executioners, they will
analyze its ghostly bluish effulgence which so awes the ignorant and
the superstitious, they will dissect its spectral members, they will
discover the black venom of tyranny, and they will let it pass to its
doom.

Now the hubbub outside grows faint, and stillness profound and black as
the heavens at night ensues; now the rattle of approaching cannon.
This, too, subsides. A slight commotion near the entrance. Everybody is
seated; they must be sitting when the tyrant enters. They strive to
look unconcerned. Heavy tramping of troops placed in various stations
about the building and a subdued clanging of arms. The last of the
cannon outside conclude their noisy peregrination. Like a ring of steel
they surround the buildings, their jaws pointing outward, facing the
whole world—the west and the east, the north and the south. Something
looking quite insignificant entered the hall. Seen from the more
distant benches higher up it appeared to be a fat, undersized manikin
with swift uncertain movements. Observed at close range it was seen to
be a stout man of medium height, with a prominent nose that was crimson
with the cold, baggy cheeks and dull little eyes, an expressive mixture
of good nature, insignificance and stupidity. He turns his head, not
knowing whether to bow or not, and then nods lightly; he stands in
indecision, with feet spread apart, not knowing whether he may sit down
or not. Not a word is heard, but there is a chair behind him, evidently
intended for him, and he sits down, first unobtrusively, then more
firmly, and finally assumes a majestic posture. He has evidently a
severe cold, for he draws from his pocket a handkerchief and uses it
with apparent enjoyment, emitting a loud and trumpet-like sound. Then
he pulls himself together, pockets his handkerchief and grows
majestically rigid. He is ready. Such is the Twentieth.

PART VII.

They had been expecting a King, but there appeared before them a clown.
They had been expecting a dragon, but there came a big-nosed bourgeois
with a handkerchief and a bad cold. It was funny, and curious and a
little uncanny. Had not someone substituted a pretender in his place?
“It is I, the King,” says the Twentieth.

Yes, it is he, indeed. How funny he is! Think of him for a King! The
people smiled, shrugged their shoulders and could hardly refrain from
laughter. They exchanged mocking smiles and salutes and seemed to
inquire in the language of signs: “Well, what do you think of Him?” The
deputies were very serious and pale. Undoubtedly the feeling of
responsibility oppressed them. But the people were merry in a quiet
way. How had they managed to make their way into the assembly hall? How
does water trickle through a hole? They had penetrated through some
broken windows, they had almost slipped through the keyholes. Hundreds
of ragged and phantastically attired but extremely courteous and
affable strangers. Crowding a deputy they solicitously inquired: “Hope
I am not in your way, citizen?” They were very polite. Like quaint
birds, they clung in dark rows to the window sills, obstructing the
light and seemed to be signalling something to the people in the square
outside. It was apparently something funny.

But the deputies are serious, very serious and even pale. They fix
their eager eyes like magnifying lenses upon the Twentieth, gazing upon
him long and intently, and turn away frowning. Some have closed their
eyes altogether. They loathe the sight of the tyrant. “Citizen deputy,”
exclaims with delighted awe one of the courteous strangers; “see how
the tyrant’s eyes are glowing.” Without raising his drooping eyelids
the deputy replies, “Yes!”

“How well nourished he looks.”

“Yes.”

“But you are not very talkative, citizen!”

Silence again. There below the Twentieth is already mumbling his
speech. He can not understand of what he could be accused. He had
always loved the people and the people loved him; and he still loved
the people in spite of all insults. If the people think a Republic
would suit them better, let them have a republic. He has nothing
against it.

“But why then did you summon other tyrants?”

“I did not summon them; they came of their own accord.”

This answer is false. Documents had been found in a secret drawer
establishing the fact of the negotiations. But he insists, clumsily and
stupidly, like any ordinary rascal caught cheating. He even looks
offended. As a matter of fact he has always had the best interests of
the people at heart. No, he has not been cruel; he always pardoned
whomever he could pardon. No, he has not ruined the land by his
extravagance, he only used for himself as much as an ordinary plain
citizen might. He had never been a profligate or a wastrel. He is a
lover of Greek and Latin classical literature and of cabinet making.
All the furniture in his study is the work of his hands. So much is
correct. To look at him, he certainly had the appearance of a plain
citizen; there are multitudes of stout fellows like him with noses that
emit trumpet-like sounds; they may be met a-plenty on the riverside of
a holiday, fishing. Insignificant funny men with big noses. But he had
been a King! What could it mean? Then anybody could be a King!

A gorilla might become an absolute ruler over men! And a golden throne
might be reared for it to sit on! And divine honor might be paid to it,
and it might lay dawn the laws of life for the people. A hoary gorilla,
a pitiful survival of the forest!

The brief autumn day is drawing to a close, and the people begin to
express impatience. Why bother so long with the tyrant? What, is there
some new treachery being hatched? In the twilight of an ante-chamber
two deputies meet. They scrutinize one another and exchange a glance of
mutual recognition. Then they walk together, for some reason avoiding
contact with their bodies.

“But where is the tyrant?” suddenly exclaims one of them and grasps the
shoulder of his companion, “Tell me, where is the tyrant?”

“I don’t know. I feel too ashamed to enter the hall.”

“Horrible thought! Is insignificance the secret of tyranny? Are
nonentities our real tyrants?”

“I don’t know, but I am ashamed.”

The little ante-chamber was quiet, but from all sides, from the
assembly hall and from the public square outside, there was heard a
dull roaring. Each individual perhaps spoke in low tones, but
altogether the result was an elemental turmoil like the roaring of the
distant ocean. A ruddy glare seemed to be flitting over the walls,
evidently men outside were lighting their torches. Then not afar off
was heard the measured tramping of feet and the subdued rattle of arms.
They were relieving the watches. Whom are they watching? What is the
use?

“Drive him out of the country!” “No. The people will not permit it. He
must be killed.” “But that would be another wrong.”

The ruddy spots seem now climbing up and down along the walls, and
spectral shadows make their appearance, now creeping, now leaping; as
if the bloody days of the past and of the present were passing in
review in an endless procession through the visions of a dreamer. The
turmoil outside grows more boisterous; one can almost discern
individual shouts. “For the first time in my life, to-day a feeling of
dread has seized my heart.”

“Likewise of despair, and of shame.”

“Yes, and of despair! Let me have your hand, brother. How cold it is.
Here in the face of unknown perils and in the hour of a great
humiliation, let us swear that we will not betray freedom. We shall
perish. I felt it to-day. But perishing let us shout, “Liberty,
liberty, brothers!” Let us shout it so loud that a world of slaves
shall quake with fear. Clasp my hand tighter, brother.”

It was still now; here and there crimson spots flared up along the
walls, while the misty shadows moved with swiftness, but the abyss
below roared and thundered with increasing fury, as if a dreadful and
mighty hurricane had come sweeping onward from the north and the south,
from the west and the east, and had stirred the multitude with its
terror. Fragments of songs and howls and one word as if sketched in
stupendous jagged black outlines in the chaos of sounds:

“Death! Death to the Tyrant!”

The two deputies were standing lost in a reverie. Time passed on, but
still they stood there, unmoved in the maddened chase of shadow shapes
and smoke, and it seemed as if they had been standing there for ages.
Thousands of spectral years surrounded them with the mighty and
majestic silence of eternity, while the shadows whirled on frenziedly,
and the shouts rose and fell beating against the window like windswept
breakers. At times the weird and mysterious rhythm of the surf could be
discerned in the turmoil and the thunderous roar of the breaking waves.
“Death! Death to the tyrant!” At last they stirred from the spot.

“Well let us go in there!” “Let us go in! Fool that I was! I had
thought that this day would end the fight with tyranny.” “The fight is
just commencing. Let us go in!”

They passed through dark corridors and dawn marble stairways, through
chilly and silent halls that are as damp as cellars. Suddenly a gleam
of light, a wave of heated air like the breath of a furnace, a hubbub
of voices like a hundred caged parrots talking against time. Then
another doorway and at their feet there opens an immense chasm,
littered with heads, semi-dark and filled with smoke. Reddish tongues
of candles stifling for want of fresh air. Someone is speaking
somewhere. Thunderous applause. The speech is apparently ended. At the
very bottom of the abyss, between two flickering lights is the small
figure of the Twentieth. He is wiping the perspiration from his
forehead with a handkerchief, bends low over the table and reads
something with an indistinct mumbling voice. He is reading his speech
of defense. How hot he feels! Ho, Twentieth! Remember that you are
king. Raise your voice ennoble the ax and the executioner! No! He
mumbles on, tragically serious in his stupidity.

PART VIII.

Many watched the execution of the king from the roofs, but even the
roofs were not sufficient to accommodate the sight-seers and many did
not succeed after all in seeing how kings are executed. But the high
and narrow houses, with the queer coiffure of mobile creatures instead
of roofs seemed to have become endowed with life, and their opened
windows resembled black, winking eyes. Behind the houses rose church
spires and towers, some pointed and others blunt, and at first glance
they looked the same as usual, but on closer observation they appeared
to be dotted with dark transverse lines which seemed to be swaying to
and fro; they, too, were crowded with people. Nothing could be seen
from so great a height, but they looked on just the same. Seen from the
roofs of houses the scaffold seemed as small as a child’s plaything,
something like a toy barrow with broken handles. The few persons who
stood apart from the sight-seers and in the immediate neighborhood of
the scaffold, the only few persons who stood by themselves (the rest of
the people having been merged into a dense mass of black), those few
persons standing by themselves oddly resembled tiny black ants walking
erect. Everything seemed to be on a level, and yet they laboriously and
slowly ascended invisible steps. And it seemed strange that right
beside one, upon the neighboring roofs, there stood people with large
heads, mouths and noses. The drums beat loudly. A little black coach
drove up to the scaffold. For quite a little while nothing could be
discerned. Then a little group separated itself from the mass and very
slowly ascended some invisible steps. Then the group dispersed, leaving
in the center a tiny looking individual. The drums beat again and one’s
heart stood still. Suddenly the tattoo came to an end hoarsely and
brokenly. All was still. The tiny lone figure raised its hand, dropped
it and raised it again. It is evidently speaking, but not a word is
heard. What is it saying? What is it saying? Suddenly the drums broke
into a tattoo, scattering abroad their martial beats, and rending the
air into myriads of particles which hindered one from seeing. Commotion
on the scaffold. The little figure has vanished. He is being executed.
The drums beat again and all of a sudden, hoarsely and brokenly, cease
from their tumult. On the spot where the Twentieth had stood just a
moment before there is a new little figure with extended hand. And in
that hand there is seen something tiny, that is light on one side and
dark on the other, like a pin head dyed in two colors. It is the head
of the King. At last! The coffin, with the body and the head of the
King, was rushed off somewhere, and the conveyance that bore it away
drove off at a breakneck speed, crushing the people in its path. It was
feared that the frenzied populace would not spare even the remains of
the tyrant. But the people were terrible indeed. Imbued with the
ancient slavish fear they could not bring themselves to believe that it
had really taken place, that the inviolable sacrosanct and potent
sovereign had placed his head under the ax of the executioner:
desperately and blindly they besieged the scaffold; eyes very often
play tricks on one and the ears deceive. They must touch the scaffold
with their hands, they must breathe in the odor of royal blood, steep
their arms in it up to the elbows. They fought, scrambled, fell and
screamed. There something soft, like a bundle of rags, rolls under the
feet of the crowd. It is the body of one crushed to death. Then another
and another. Having fought their way to the heap of ruins which
remained of the scaffold, with feverish hands they broke off fragments
of it, scraping them off with their nails; they demolished the scaffold
greedily, blindly grabbing heavy beams, and after a step or two fell
under the burden. And the crowd closed in over the heads of the fallen
while the beams rose to the surface, floated along as if borne on some
current, and diving again it showed for a moment its jagged edge and
then disappeared. Some found a little pool of blood that the thirsting
ground had not yet drained and that had not yet been trampled under
foot, and they dipped into it their handkerchiefs and their raiment.
Many smeared the blood on their lips and imprinted some mysterious
signs on their foreheads, anointing themselves with the blood of the
King to the new reign of freedom. They were intoxicated with savage
delight. Unaccompanied by song or speech they whirled in a breathless
dance; ran about raising aloft their bloodstained rags, and scattered
over the city, shouting, roaring and laughing incontinently and
strangely. Some attempted to sing, but songs were too slow, too
harmonious and rhythmical, and they again resumed their wild laughing
and shouting. They started toward the national assembly intending to
thank the deputies for ridding the land of the tyrant, but on the way
they were deflected from their goal by the pursuit of a traitor who
shouted: “The King is dead, long live the King! Long live the
Twenty-first!” And then they dispersed—after having hanged someone.

Many of those who secretly continued to be loyal to the King could not
bear the thought of his execution and lost their minds; many others,
though they were cowards, committed suicide. Until the very last moment
they waited for something, hoped for something, and had faith in the
efficacy of their prayers. But when the execution had taken place they
were seized with despair. Some grimly and sullenly, others in
sacrilegious frenzy pierced their hearts with daggers. And there were
some who ran out into the street with a savage thirst for martyrdom,
and facing the avalanche of the people shouted madly, “Long live the
Twenty-first!” and they perished.

The day was drawing to a close and the night was breaking upon the
city, the stern and truthful night which has no eyes for that which is
visible. The city was yet bright with the glare of street lights, but
the river under the bridge was as black as liquid soot, and only in the
distance, where it curved, and where the last pale cold gleams of
sunset were dying away, it shone dimly like the cold reflection of
polished metal. Two men stood on the bridge, leaning against its
masonry, and peered into the dark and mysterious depth of the river.

“Do you believe that freedom really came to-day?” asked one of the
twain in a low tone of voice, for the city was yet bright with many
lights, while the river below stretched away, wrapped in blackness.

“Look, a corpse is floating there,” exclaimed the other, and he spoke
in a low tone of voice, for the corpse was very near and its broad blue
face was turned upward.

“There are many of them floating in the river these days. They are
floating down to the sea.”

“I have not much faith in their liberty. They are too happy over the
death of the Insignificant One.”

From the city where the lights were yet burning the breeze wafted
sounds of voices, of laughter and of songs. Merrymaking was still in
progress.

“Dominion must be destroyed yet,” said the first.

“The slaves must be destroyed. There is no such thing as dominion;
slavery alone exists. There goes another corpse. And still another. How
many there are of them. Where do they come from? They appear so
suddenly from under the bridge!”

“But the people love liberty.”

“No. They merely fear the whip. When they shall learn to love liberty
they will become free.”

“Let us go hence. The sight of these corpses nauseates me.”

And as they turned to depart, while the lights were yet shining in the
city and the river was as black as liquid soot, they beheld something
massive and somber, that seemed begotten of darkness and light. From
the east, where the river lost itself in the maze of gloom-enveloped
meadows, and where the darkness was a stir like a thing of life, there
rose something immense, shapeless and blind. It rose and stopped
motionless, and though it had no eyes it looked, and though it had no
hands, it extended them over the city, and though it was a dead thing,
it lived and breathed. The sight was awe inspiring.

“That is the fog rising over the river,” said the first.

“No, that is a cloud,” said the second.

It was both a fog and a cloud.

“It seems to be looking.” It was.

“It seems to be listening.” It was.

“It is coming toward us.” No, it remained motionless. It remained
motionless, immense, shapeless and blind; upon its weird excrescences
shone with a ruddy glow the reflected gleaming of the city’s lights,
and below, at its foot, the black river lost itself in the embrace of
gloom enveloped meadows, and the darkness was a stir like a thing of
life. Swaying sullenly upon the waves corpses floated into the darkness
and lost themselves in the gloom, and new corpses took their places,
swaying dumbly and sullenly and disappeared—countless corpses, silent,
thinking their own thoughts, black and cold as the water that was
carrying them hence. And in that lofty tower from where early that
morning the King had been taken to his doom, the one-eyed clockmaker
was fast asleep right under the great pendulum. That day he had been
very pleased with the stillness that reigned in his tower. He even had
burst into song, that one-eyed clockmaker. Yes, he had been singing;
and he walked about affectionately among his wheels and levers until
dark. He felt the guy ropes, sat on the rungs of his ladders, swinging
his feet and purring, and would not look at the pendulum, pretending
that he was cross. But then he looked at it sideways and laughed out
loudly, and the pendulum answered him with joyous peals. It kept on
swinging, smiling all over its brazen face and roaring; “’Twas ever
thus! ’Twill ever be! ’Twas ever thus! ’Twill ever be!”

“Come now! Come now!” urged the one-eyed clockmaker, splitting his
sides with laughter. “’Twas ever thus! ’Twill ever be!” And when it had
grown quite dark the one-eyed hermit sought rest beneath the swinging
pendulum and was soon asleep. But the pendulum did not sleep, and kept
on swinging all night long above his head, wafting strange dreams to
the sleeper.

(The End.)



Judas Iscariot.

CHAPTER I.

Jesus Christ had been frequently warned that Judas of Kerioth was a man
of ill repute, a man against whom one should be on guard. Some of the
disciples of Jesus who had been to Judea knew him well personally,
others had heard a great deal of him, and there was none to say a good
word concerning him. And if the good condemned him saying that Judas
was covetous, treacherous, given to hypocrisy and falsehood, evil men
also, when questioned about him, denounced him in the most opprobrious
terms. “He always sows dissensions among us” they would say spitting
contemptuously at the mere mention of his name; “he has thoughts of his
own, and creeps into a house softly like a scorpion, but goes out with
noise.” Even thieves have friends, robbers have comrades, and liars
have wives to whom they speak the truth, but Judas mocks alike the
thieves and the honest, though he is a skillful thief himself, and in
appearance he is the most ill-favored among the inhabitants of Judea.
“No, he is not of us this Judas of Kerioth”, the evil would say to the
surprise of those good people who saw but little difference between
them and other vicious men in Judea.

It was rumored also that Judas had years back forsaken his wife, and
that the poor woman, hungry and wretched, was vainly striving to eke
out her sustenance from the three rocks that formed the patrimony of
Judas, while he wandered aimlessly for many years among the nations,
reaching in his travels the sea, and even another sea that was further
still, lying, cutting apish grimaces and keenly searching for something
with his thievish eye, only to depart suddenly, leaving in his wake
unpleasantness and dissension,—curious, cunning and wicked like a
one-eyed demon. He had no children, and this again showed that Judas
was an evil man, and that God desired no progeny from him.

None of the disciples had noticed the occasion on which this red-haired
and repulsive Judean first came near the Christ. But he had been going
their way for some time already, unabashed, mingling in their
conversations, rendering them small services, bowing, smiling,
ingratiating himself. There were moments when he seemed to fit into the
general scheme, deceiving the wearied scrutiny, but often he obtruded
himself on the eye and the ear, offending both as something incredibly
repulsive, false and loathsome. Then they would drive him away with
stern rebuke, and for a time he would be lost somewhere on the road,
merely to reappear unobserved, servile, flattering and cunning like a
one-eyed demon. And there was no doubt to some of His disciples that in
his desire to come near Jesus there was hidden some mysterious object,
some evil and calculating design.

But Jesus did not heed their counsel; their voice of warning did not
touch His ear. With that spirit of radiant contradiction which
irrepressibly drew Him to the rejected and the unloved, He resolutely
received Judas and included him even in the circle of His chosen ones.
The disciples were agitated and murmured among themselves, but He sat
still, His face turned to the setting sun, and listened
pensively,—perhaps to them and perhaps to something entirely different.
For ten days not a breath of wind had stirred the atmosphere, and the
same diaphanous air, stationary, immobile, keen of scent and perception
hung over the earth. And it seemed as though it had preserved in its
diaphanous depth all that had been shouted and sung during these days
by man, beast or bird,—the tears, the sobs and the merry songs, the
prayers and the curses; and these glassy transfixed sounds seemed to
burden and satiate it with invisible life. And once more the sun was
setting. Its flaming orb was heavily rolling down the firmament,
setting it ablaze with its dying radiance, and all on earth that was
turned toward it: the swarthy face of Jesus, the walls of houses and
the foliage of trees reflected obediently that distant and weirdly
pensive light. The white wall was no longer white now, nor did the
crimson city on the crimson hill appear white to the eye.


And now came Judas.

He came humbly bowing, bending his back, cautiously and anxiously
stretching out his misshapen large head, and looking just like those
who knew had pictured him. He was gaunt, well built, in stature almost
as tall as Jesus, who was slightly bent from the habit of thinking
while He walked. And he seemed to be sufficiently vigorous, though for
some reason he pretended to be ailing and frail, and his voice was
changeable: now manly and strong, now shrill like the voice of an old
woman scolding her husband, thin and grating on the ear. And often the
listener wished to draw the words of Judas out of his ears like some
vile insect. His stubbly red hair failed to conceal the strange and
unusual form of his skull: it seemed cleft from the back by a double
blow of the sword and patched together. It was plainly divided into
four parts, and its appearance inspired mistrust and even awe. Such a
skull does not bode peace and concord; such a skull leaves in its wake
the noise of bloody and cruel conflicts. The face of Judas, too, was
double: one side, with its black, keen, observing eye was living,
mobile, ready to gather into a multitude of irregular wrinkles. The
other side was free from wrinkles, deathly smooth, flat and rigid; and
though in size it was equal to the other, it seemed immense because of
the wide-open, sightless eye. Covered with an opaque film it never
closed night or day, facing alike the light and the darkness; but its
vigilant and cunning mate was so close that one was loth to credit its
entire blindness. When in fear or excitement Judas happened to close
his seeing eye and shake his head, it rolled with the motion of the
head and gazed silently and intently. Even altogether unobserving
persons realized when they looked on the Iscariot that such a man could
bring no good; but Jesus took him up and even seated him at His side,
at His very side!

John, the beloved disciple, moved away loathingly, while the others,
loving their Teacher, looked on the ground with disapproval. But Judas
sat down, and, moving his head to the left and to the right,
immediately commenced to complain with a thin voice of various
ailments, how his breast pained at night, how he was apt to lose breath
when walking uphill or grow dizzy at the edge of the precipice, hardly
restraining a stupid desire to cast himself into the abyss. And many
other things he invented impiously, evidently failing to grasp that
sickness comes to man not by chance but is born from a failure to shape
his acts in accord with the commands of the Eternal. He rubbed his
chest with his palm and coughed hypocritically, this Judas of Kerioth,
amid general silence and downcast glances.

John, avoiding the Teacher’s glance, whispered to Simon Peter:—“Art
thou not tired of this falsehood? I cannot bear it longer and I shall
go hence.”

Peter looked at Jesus, and meeting His glance, swiftly rose to his
feet. “Wait!” he said to his friend.

Once more he glanced at Jesus and then, impetuously, like a rock
dislodged from the mountain side, he gained the side of Judas Iscariot
and loudly greeted him with a wide and unmistakable cordiality:—“Now
you are with us, Judas!” Then he amiably slapped the newcomer’s curved
back, and not seeing the Teacher, though feeling His glance, he added
with that loud voice of his which dispelled all objections as water
displaces air:

“Your bad looks do not matter. We get uglier creatures into our nets
and they turn out the best to eat. And it is not for us, fishers for
the Lord, to throw away our haul because the fish is ugly and one-eyed.
I saw once in Tyre an octopus caught by the fishermen there and was
scared enough to run. They laughed at me, who am a fisherman from
Tiberias, and gave me a taste of it. And I asked for another helping,
it was so fine. Dost Thou remember, Teacher, I told Thee of it and Thou
didst laugh? And thou, too, Judas, resemblest an octopus, at least one
half of thee does.”

And he laughed loudly, pleased with his jest. When Peter spoke, his
words sounded firm and solid as though he were nailing them down with a
hammer. When Peter moved or did anything he made a noise that was heard
afar off and evoked a response from the dullest objects: the stone
floor groaned under his feet, the doors trembled and banged, and the
very air was thrilled. In the mountain fastnesses his voice woke an
angry echo, and in the morning, while they fished, it rolled sonorously
over the somnolently glistening waters and beguiled the first timid
rays of the sun into a responsive smile. And perhaps that was why they
loved Peter so: while upon the faces of others there rested yet the
shadows of the night, his massive head and bare bosom and freely
swinging arms glowed already in the radiance of the rising sun.

The words of Peter, approved by the Teacher, dispelled the
embarrassment of the disciples. But some of them, who had been to the
seashore and had seen the octopus, were disquieted by the simile which
Peter had so frivolously applied to the new disciple. They remembered
the monster’s immense eyes, the multitude of its greedy tentacles, its
pretended calm at the very moment it was ready to embrace and to crush
the victim and to suck out its life, without a single wink of its great
big eyes.

What was that? Jesus was silent, Jesus smiled; He was watching them
with a kindly smile while Peter spoke of the octopus,—and one after the
other the confused disciples approached Judas, addressing him
cordially, but they walked away quickly and in embarrassment.

And only John, the Son of Zebedee, remained obstinately silent; and
Thomas too was ruminating over the incident and apparently could not
make up his mind to say anything. He intently watched Christ and Judas
who were seated together, and this strange proximity of divine beauty
and monstrous hideousness, of the Man with the gentle glance and the
Octopus with the immense, immobile lack-lustre, greedy eyes—oppressed
his mind like an unfathomable mystery. He strained and wrinkled his
straight and smooth forehead, half closing his eyes in an effort to see
better, but his exertion had only the effect of making it appear that
Judas had really eight restlessly shuffling tentacles. But that was an
error. Thomas realized this and gazed again with obstinate effort.

But Judas little by little grew bolder: he stretched out his arms,
which he had held cramped at the elbows, relaxed the muscles that had
kept his jaws in a state of rigidity and cautiously proceeded to
exhibit his redhaired skull. It was in the plain view of all, but it
seemed to Judas that it had been deeply and impenetrably hidden from
sight by some invisible, opaque and cunningly devised film. And as one
emerging from the grave, he first felt the rays of light touching his
strangely shaped skull and then his sight met the eyes of the
onlookers. He paused and suddenly revealed his entire face. But nothing
happened. Peter had gone somewhere on an errand. Jesus sat musing and
leaned His head upon His arm, softly swinging His sunburnt foot. The
disciples were conversing quietly and only Thomas was attentively and
seriously scrutinizing him like a conscientious tailor taking his
customer’s measure. Judas smiled, but Thomas did not respond, though he
apparently took the smile into account, like everything else, and
continued his scrutiny. But a disquieting sensation annoyed the left
side of Judas’ face and he turned around: from a dark corner John was
looking upon him with his cold and beautiful eyes, handsome, pure,
without a spot on his snowwhite conscience. Walking apparently like
other people, but with the inward feeling of slinking away like a
chastised dog, Judas approached him and said:

“Why art thou silent, John? Thy words are like golden fruit in
transparent silver vessels. Give some of it unto Judas who is so poor.”

John gazed at the immobile and wide-open eye and did not utter a word.
And he saw Judas creep away, linger an instant irresolutely and
disappear in the darkness of the open doorway.

It was the time of the full moon and many took the opportunity for a
walk. Jesus, too, went forth with the others, and Judas watched the
departing figures from the low roof on which he had spread his bed. In
the moonlight each figure had on airy and deliberate aspect and seemed
to float, with its black shadow in the rear. Suddenly the man would
vanish in the gloom and then his voice would be heard. But when the
people emerged again into the moonlight, they seemed silent like the
white walls, like the black shadows, like that transparently hazy and
moonlit night.

Most people were sleeping already when Judas heard the gentle voice of
the homecoming Christ. And all had grown still in the house and about
him. The cock crew; somewhere an ass, disturbed in his slumber, brayed
in a loud and injured tone, and ungraciously stopped again after a few
protests. But Judas slept not; he was listening intently from his
hiding place. The moon illumined one half of his face and its radiance
cast a queer reflection in the large and open eye, as if mirroring
itself on a lake of ice.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, he coughed several times in
quick succession, and rubbed with his palm his hairy and vigorous
breast: someone might be awake and listening to the thoughts of Judas.

CHAPTER II.

Little by little the disciples became accustomed to Judas and ceased to
notice his ugliness. Jesus turned over to him the treasure chest, and
with it the household cares: his task was now to purchase the necessary
food and raiment, to distribute alms, and to prepare a lodging place
during their wanderings. All this he accomplished skillfully and in a
very short time he succeeded in gaining the goodwill of some of the
disciples who observed the pains he was taking. Judas, indeed, lied
incessantly, but they had become used to this also, for they failed to
find any evil deed in the wake of his lying, and it added a peculiar
piquancy to his tales making life appear like some absurd, and at times
terrible legend.

From Judas’ tales it seemed as though he knew all men, and each man
whom he knew had at one time or another in his life committed an evil
deed, perhaps a crime. Good people in his opinion were those who knew
well how to hide their actions and thoughts; but if one were to embrace
them, to set them at ease with caresses and, to closely question them,
he felt sure evil and falsehood would ooze from them like poison from a
suppurating wound. He readily agreed that he too was wont to lie now
and then, but affirmed with an oath that others lied even more, and
that if there was one person in the world foully imposed upon and
ill-used that person was Judas. Many people had deceived him, and more
than once and in divers ways. Thus a certain steward who had charge of
a nobleman’s treasure had confessed to Judas that for ten years he had
coveted the possession of the treasure entrusted to him, but feared his
master and his conscience. And Judas believed him, but lo! suddenly he
stole the treasure and deceived Judas. And again Judas believed him,
but he as unexpectedly returned the stolen goods to his master—and
again deceived Judas. And everybody was deceiving him—even the animals.
If he petted a dog, it would snap at his fingers; if he beat it with a
rod it licked his hand and looked into his eyes with a filial
expression. He killed such a dog once, buried the animal deep in the
ground and lay a heavy stone on the burial spot, but who knows? perhaps
because he had killed it, it became endowed with a more abundant life
and was no longer resting in its grave but merrily running about with
other dogs.

Every one laughed at Judas’ tales, and he himself smiled pleasantly,
winking his live and mocking eye, and smilingly confessed again that he
had lied a little: that he had never killed such a dog, but promised to
find it and surely kill it, for he hated to be deceived. And they
laughed still more at such words.

But sometimes in his tales he exceeded the limits of probability and
verisimilitude and ascribed to people tendencies such as are foreign
even to beasts and accused them of simply incredible crimes. And as he
mentioned in such connection names of the most respected people, some
were indignant at the slander, while others jestingly inquired:

“But thy father and mother, Judas, were they not good people?”

Judas winked his eye, smiled and shrugged his shoulders. And as he
shook his head his congealed wide open eye shook in its orbit and gazed
dumbly:

“And who was my father? Perhaps the man who chastised me when I was a
child, perhaps the devil, or a goat or a rooster. Can Judas know with
whom his mother shared her couch? Judas has many fathers. Of whom speak
you?”

But at this the ire of all was aroused, for they greatly honored their
parents, and Matthew, thoroughly versed in the Scriptures, sternly
repeated the words of Solomon:

“He who speaks ill of his father and his mother, his lamp will be
extinguished in utter darkness.”

And John of Zebedee inquired contemptuously: “And how about us? What
evil wilt thou say about us, Judas of Kerioth?”

But he, with pretended fear, threw up his hands, cringing and whining
like a beggar vainly praying alms from a passer-by:

“Ah! Wouldst thou tempt poor Judas? Mock poor Judas, deceive poor
guileless Judas?”

While one side of his face was distorted in apish grimaces, the other
seemed serious and stern and the never-closed eye peered mutely and
vaguely into space. Above all others, and most loudly, Simon Peter was
wont to laugh at his jests. But once it happened that with a sudden
frown he paused and hastily took Judas aside, almost dragging him by
his sleeve:

“And Jesus? What thinkest thou of Jesus?” he inquired in a loud whisper
bending over him. “But no jesting now, I pray thee.”

Judas looked up with hatred:

“And what thinkest thou?”

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

“Then why askest thou? What could Judas say whose father is a goat?”

“But dost thou love Him? It seems that thou lovest no one.”

And with the same odd malice-reeking manner the Iscariot snapped out:

“I do.”

After this conversation Peter for a day or two loudly referred to Judas
as his friend the octopus, while the other clumsily and wrathfully
sought to escape from him into some obscure nook where he would sit and
sulk, while his white never-closed eye gleamed ominously in the dark.

Thomas alone regarded Judas’ tales with seriousness. He was incapable
of understanding jests, pretensions and lies, plays of words and of
thoughts, and in everything sought the substantial and positive. All
stories of Judas concerning evil people and their deeds he interrupted
with brief business-like questions:

“Can you prove it? Who heard this? And who else was present? What was
his name?”

Judas shrilly protested that he himself had heard and seen it all, but
the obstinate Thomas persisted in questioning him calmly and
methodically until Judas confessed that he had lied or until he
invented a more plausible falsehood over which Thomas would pore for
some time. Then discovering the deception he immediately returned and
quietly exposed the liar. Judas on the whole aroused in him an intense
curiosity, which brought about a queer sort of a friendship between
them, noisy, full of laughter and vituperation on the one hand, and
characterized by calm and insistent inquisitiveness on the other. At
times Judas felt an irresistible contempt for his unimaginative friend
and piercing him with a poignant glance he would inquire with
irritation and almost pleadingly:

“What else dost thou want? I have told thee all, all.”

“I want thee to explain to me how a goat could be thy father,” insisted
Thomas phlegmatically and waited for an answer. Once after listening to
such a query Judas relapsed into silence and scanned the inquirer from
head to foot in amazement. He saw a man of erect and lanky stature, of
grey countenance, transparently clear straightforward eyes, two massive
folds starting at the nose and losing themselves in the evenly trimmed
rough beard, and observed with conviction:

“How stupid thou art Thomas! What seest thou in thy dreams? A tree, a
wall, an ass?”

And Thomas blushed in confusion, finding no answer. But just as Judas’
living and unsteady eye was about to close in sleep, he suddenly
exclaimed (they both now slept on the roof):

“Thou art wrong, Judas. I do see evil dreams sometimes. How sayest
thou, is a man responsible for his dreams?”

“And who else sees them but the man himself?”

Thomas softly sighed and lapsed into musing. Judas smiled
contemptuously, tightly shutting his thievish eyes and calmly yielded
himself up to his rebellious dreams, monstrous visions, and mad
imaginings which rent to pieces his illshaped skull.


When in the wanderings of Jesus through Judea the pilgrims approached a
village, the Iscariot was in the habit of relating evil things
concerning the inhabitants thereof and predicting calamities. But it
generally happened that the people whom he denounced met Christ and His
friends joyously, surrounded them with attentions, and the treasure
chest of Judas grew so heavy that he could hardly carry it.

And when he was twitted with his mistake he shrugged his shoulders in
resignation and said:

“Yes, yes. Judas thought they were wicked and they are good. They
believed quickly and gave us money. And again they deceived Judas, poor
trusting Judas of Kerioth.”

But once having departed from a village where they had been cordially
received Thomas and Judas had a violent dispute, and in order to settle
it they chanced to turn back. A day later they caught up with Jesus and
the disciples. Thomas looked confused and saddened, but Judas bore
himself triumphantly, as if waiting for the others to come and
congratulate him. Coming near the Teacher, Thomas announced:

“Judas was right, Lord. Those were stupid and wicked people. Thy seed
fell upon rocky ground.”

And then he related what had happened. Soon after Jesus and His
disciples had gone an old woman discovered the loss of a kid and
accused the strangers of the theft. The villagers argued with her, but
she obstinately insisted that nobody else could have stolen it but
Jesus. Many believed her and talked of pursuing the strangers. But soon
the kid was found (it had become entangled in the bushes). The
villagers, however, decided that Jesus was after all a deceiver and
perhaps a thief.

“Indeed?” said Peter, distending his nostrils. “Lord, say the word and
I shall return to those fools.”

But Jesus, who had kept silence all this time, glanced at him sternly,
and Peter stopped and hid himself behind the backs of others. And no
one else spoke of the incident, as if nothing had happened, as if he,
Judas, had proved to be in the wrong. Vainly he strove to show himself
from every point of view, laboring to impart to his twofold predatory,
birdlike beaked face an appearance of modesty. No one looked on him,
except to cast a casual, very unfriendly and even contemptuous glance.

And from that day the attitude of Jesus towards him strangely changed.
Until then it had somehow seemed as though Judas never spoke directly
to Jesus, and as though Jesus never addressed him directly, but still
the Teacher had frequently looked at him with a kindly glance, smiling
at some of his conceits, and if he missed him for any length of time he
was wont to inquire: “And where is Judas?” But now he looked on Judas
without noticing him, though as heretofore His glance sought him out,
and even more persistently than formerly, whenever He began to speak to
His disciples or to the people—but He either turned His back to Judas
as He sat down or cast His words at him over His shoulder or else
appeared not to notice him at all. And whatever He said, though it may
have been one thing to-day or another the next, though it were the same
thing that Judas himself had in his mind, it seemed as though He always
spoke against Judas. And unto all He was a tender and beautiful flower,
the fragrant Rose of Lebanon, but for Judas He had only sharp thorns—as
though Judas had no heart, as though he had no eyes or nostrils, as
though he were not better able than all others to appreciate the beauty
of tender and thornless rose leaves.

“Thomas, lovest thou the yellow Rose of Lebanon that has a swarthy face
and eyes like a hind?” he once asked of his friend and Thomas
indifferently replied:

“The Rose? Yes, its odor is agreeable to me, but I have never heard
that roses had swarthy faces or eyes like hinds!”

“How? Dost thou not even know that the many-armed cactus which
yesterday rent thy garment has only one red flower and only one eye?”

But Thomas was ignorant of this also, though the day before a cactus
had actually gripped a portion of his garment and rent it into shreds.
He knew nothing this Thomas, though he inquired about everything and
gazed so straightforwardly with his clear and transparent eyes through
which one could see as through a Phoenician glass the wall behind him
and the plodding ass hitched to it.

Before long another incident occurred when Judas again proved to have
been correct. In a certain Judean village which he had severely
criticised and sought to have left out of the itinerary, Christ was
received with much hostility and after He had preached and denounced
the hypocrites, the populace was aroused to a wild remonstrance and
thought of stoning Him and His disciples.

The opponents were numerous and they would have surely succeeded in
carrying out their design if it had not been for Judas of Kerioth.
Seized with a mad fear for Jesus, as though perceiving already the
drops of crimson on His white robe, Judas blindly and frenziedly cast
himself against the mob, menacing, screaming, pleading, and lying, and
thus gave Jesus and His disciples an opportunity to escape. Amazingly
agile, as though scurrying on dozens of feet, ludicrous and terrible in
his frenzied pleading, he rushed madly before the crowd and fascinated
it with some strange spell. He screamed that the Nazarene was not at
all possessed of the devil, that He was a mere deceiver, a thief, a
lover of money, like all of His disciples, like he, Judas, himself,—he
shook the money chest in their faces, distorted his features and
pleaded with them casting himself to the ground. And gradually the
wrath of the mob turned into laughter and disgust and the arms that had
held the stones sank to their sides.

“Unworthy, unworthy they are to die of an honest man’s hand,” exclaimed
some, while others musingly gazed after the speedily vanished Judas.

And again Judas expected congratulations, praises, and thanks, and made
a show of his rent garments and falsely claimed that he had been
beaten, but again he was inconceivably deceived. Filled with wrath
Jesus walked ahead taking large steps and silent, and even John and
Peter dared not approach him, while the others coming across Judas,
with his rent garments, his face aglow with excitement and triumph
though still a little pale with recent fright, drove him away with curt
and angry remarks. As if he had not saved them, as if he had not saved
their teacher whom they loved so much.

“Dost thou wish to see a pack of fools?” he remarked to Thomas who
musingly plodded by his side. “Look how they walk along the roadway,
like a herd of sheep, raising the dust. And thou, clever Thomas, art
dragging along behind; and I, noble and beautiful Judas, am also
trudging in the rear like a filthy slave not fit to walk by the side of
his master.”

“Why callest thou thyself beautiful?” inquired the surprised Thomas.

“Because I am handsome,” replied Judas with conviction and began to
relate to him, with many additions, how he had deceived the enemies of
Jesus and laughed at them and their stones.

“But thou didst lie!” remarked Thomas.

“Of course I lied,” agreed the Iscariot in a matter-of-fact tone. “I
gave them what they asked and they returned to me what I needed. And
what is a lie, my clever Thomas? Would not the death of Jesus have been
the greater lie?”

“Thou didst wrong. Now I know that thy father was the devil. He taught
thee this, Judas.”

The Iscariots cheek blanched and seemed to overshadow Thomas, as though
a white cloud had descended and hidden the roadway and Jesus. With a
lithe movement Judas suddenly seized Thomas and pressed him to himself
with a grip so tight that he could not move and whispered into his ear:

“Good. The devil taught me? Good, Thomas, good. And I saved Jesus,
didn’t I? Then the devil loves Jesus, then the devil needs Jesus and
Truth? Good, good Thomas. But my father was not the devil, he was a
goat. Mayhap the goat needs Jesus? Hey? And you, do you not want Him?
Do you not want the Truth?”

Angered and slightly frightened Thomas with an effort released himself
from Judas’ slimy embrace and walked ahead swiftly, but soon slowed
down in order to ponder over what had just happened.

But Judas plodded on quietly in the rear, falling back little by
little. The wanderers had merged into one motley group in the distance
and it was impossible to tell accurately which of the little figures
was Jesus. Now even the tiny figure of Thomas changed into a grey dot,
and suddenly they were all lost to sight behind a turn in the road;
glancing around Judas turned aside from the roadway and with mighty
leaps descended into the depths of a rocky ravine. His robe inflated
from his swift and impetuous flight and his arms stretched upward as
though he soared on wings. There on a steep decline he slipped and
rapidly rolled down in a grey heap, his flesh torn by the shaggy rock,
and leaped again to his feet angrily shaking his fist at the mountain.

“You too, curse you!”

And suddenly forsaking his swiftness of movement for a sullen and
concentrated deliberateness he chose a spot near a large rock and
slowly seated himself. He turned around as if in search of a
comfortable position, pressed the palms of his hands close together
against the grey rock and heavily leaned his head upon them. Thus he
sat for an hour or two without stirring, deceiving the birds,
motionless and grey like the rock itself. Before him, behind him and
around him rose the steep sides of the ravine cutting with their sharp
outline into the azure sky; and everywhere rose immense stones, rooted
into the ground, as if there had passed over the place a shower of
rocks and its heavy drops had grown transfixed in neverending thought.
The wild and deserted ravine resembled an overturned decapitated skull
and each rock therein seemed a congealed thought, and there were many
of them, and they all were brooding heavy, limitless, stubborn
thoughts.

There a deceived scorpion hobbled amicably past Judas on his rickety
legs; Judas glanced at him without lifting his head from the stone, and
again his eyes stopped rigidly fixed on some object, both motionless,
both covered with an odd and whitish film, both seemingly blind and
dreadfully seeing. Then from the ground, from the rocks, from the
crevices began to rise the calm gloom of night; it enshrouded the
motionless Judas and swiftly crept upwards to the luminously pallid
sky. The night was advancing with its thoughts and dreams.

That night Judas failed to return to the lodging, and the disciples
torn from their thoughts by cares for food and drink murmured at his
negligence.

CHAPTER III.

Once about noon time, Jesus and his disciples were ascending a rocky
and mountainous path barren of shade, and as they had been over five
hours on the road Jesus commenced to complain of weariness. The
disciples stopped and Peter with his friend John spread their mantles
and those of other disciples on the ground and fastened them overhead
on two protruding rocks and thus prepared a sort of a tent for Jesus.
And he reclined in that tent, resting from the heat of the sun, while
they sought to divert Him with merry talk and jests. But seeing that
speech wearied Him they withdrew a short distance and engaged in
various occupations, being themselves but little sensitive to heat and
fatigue. Some searched the mountainside for edible roots among the
rocks, and brought them to Jesus, others ascended higher and higher.
John had found a pretty blue lizard among the stones and bore it
tenderly to Jesus, with a gentle smile; the lizard gazed with its
protruding mysterious eyes into His eyes and then swiftly glided with
its cold little body over His warm hand and rapidly bore away somewhere
its tender and trembling tail.

Peter, caring little for such diversions, amused himself in company
with Philip by detaching large stones from the mountainside and rolling
them down in a contest of strength. Attracted by their loud laughter,
little by little the others gathered around them and took part in the
game. Straining every muscle each tore from the glen a hoary
moss-covered stone, lifted it high overhead with both arms and dropped
it down the incline. It struck heavily with a short, blunt contact and
seemed to stop for an instant, as if in thought, then irresolutely it
took the first leap, and each time it touched the earth it gathered
from it speed and strength, grew light, ferocious, all-crushing. Then
it leaped no longer, but flew with flashing teeth, and the air with a
whizzing noise made way for the compact rotund missile. Now it reached
the edge of the ravine; with a smooth final movement the stone flew up
a little distance into the air, and rolled below, clumsy, heavy and
circular, towards the bottom of the invisible abyss.

“Now then one more!” cried Peter. His white teeth glistened through his
black beard and mustache, his powerful breast and arms were bared and
the old angry stones, dully wondering at the strength that cast them,
one after the other submissively passed into the abyss. Even frail John
threw little pebbles, and Jesus smiling gently watched their game.
“Well, Judas, why dost thou not take part in the game, it is apparently
so diverting?” asked Thomas having found his queer friend motionless
behind a large grey rock.

“My breast pains and they have not called me.”

“Is there any need to call thee? Well, I call thee. Come. Look how
large are the stones that Peter is casting down.”

Judas glanced sideways at him and for the first time Thomas dimly
realized that Judas of Kerioth had two faces. But hardly had he grasped
the idea when Judas remarked in his wonted tone, ingratiating and at
the same time sneering:

“Is there any one stronger than Peter? When he shouts all the asses in
Jerusalem think their Messias has come and respond. Hast thou ever
heard their braying?”

Smiling amicably and bashfully covering his breast that was covered
with curly red hair Judas entered the circle of the players. And as
they all felt merry they received him with glad shouts and hilarious
jests and even John indulgently smiled when Judas, groaning and
simulating great strain detached an immense stone. But now he easily
raised it and cast it down. His blind wide-open eye shifted and fixed
itself rigidly on Peter, while the other, cunning and happy twinkled
with suppressed merriment.

“Well, you throw another one,” broke in Peter in an offended tone.

And then one after another they raised and dropped gigantic stones, and
in surprise the disciples watched them. Peter would throw a large
stone, but Judas a still larger one. Peter, with a frown, wrathfully
turned a fragment of the rock and reeling raised it and dropped it into
the depths. Judas, still smiling, searched with a glance for a still
larger fragment, caressingly dug into it with his lean long fingers,
clung to it, swayed with it and with blanching cheek sent it down into
the abyss. Having dropped his stone, Peter fell back and thus watched
its flight, while Judas bent forward, leaned over the abyss and spread
out his long and creepy arms as though he meant to fly after the stone.
Finally both of them, first Peter and then Judas, seized a grey stone
and were unable to raise it, neither one nor the other. Flushed with
his effort Peter resolutely approached Jesus and loudly exclaimed:

“Lord, I do not want Judas to be stronger than I. Help me to raise that
stone and cast it down.”

And Jesus softly made some reply. Peter dissatisfied shrugged his broad
shoulders, but dared no rejoinder and returned with the following
words:

“He said: ‘And who shall help the Iscariot?’”

But glancing at Judas, who with bated breath and tightly clenched teeth
still clung to the stubborn stone, Peter burst out in a laugh:

“Look at the sick man! Look at our poor ailing Judas.”

And Judas himself laughed, being so unexpectedly exposed in a lie, and
the others laughed also; even Thomas suffered a smile to slip past his
straight, shaggy mustache.

With merry and friendly speech they started again on their way, and
Peter, having made full peace with the victor, now and again nudged his
ribs with his fists and laughed loudly.

“The sick man!”

Everyone praised Judas, everyone acknowledged him victor, everyone
conversed with him cordially, but Jesus—Jesus even this time failed to
praise Judas. Silently He walked on ahead, gnawing at a blade of grass,
and little by little the disciples ceased their laughter and joined
Jesus. Soon it happened that they walked all in one group ahead, but
Judas, the victor Judas, the strong Judas, trudged along in the rear
swallowing dust.

They paused, and Jesus laying one hand on Peter’s shoulder pointed with
the other into the distance, where already in the mist had appeared
Jerusalem; and the big broad back of Peter carefully couched His fine
sunburnt hand.

For the night’s lodging they stopped in Bethany, in the house of
Lazarus. And when they all gathered to converse, Judas thought it a
good time to recall his victory over Peter. The disciples, however, had
little to say and were unusually silent. The images of the journey just
completed, the sun, the rocks, the grass, Christ reposing in the tent,
floated softly through their minds, exhaling a gentle pensiveness,
generating dimly sweet dreams of some eternal motion under the sun. The
wearied body rested sweetly, musing of something mysteriously beautiful
and great—and not one remembered Judas.

Judas went out. Then he returned. Jesus was speaking and his disciples
listened in silence. Motionless as a statue, Mary sat at His feet and
with head thrown back gazed into His face. John had come close to the
Teacher and strove to touch the hem of His garment with his hand, but
so as not to disturb him. And having touched it he sat breathlessly
still. And Peter breathed hard and loud, echoing the words of Jesus
with his breath.

The Iscariot stopped at the threshold and contemptuously passed his
glance over those assembled, concentrating its flames upon Jesus. And
as he gazed, all around him grew dim and was lost in gloom and silence;
Jesus only, with uplifted hand, was radiant. But now He too seemed to
rise in the air, seemed to melt and His substance seemed to change into
luminous mist such as hangs over the lake when the moon goes down; and
His soft-spoken words sounded somewhere afar off and gentle. And gazing
deeper into this wavering vision, drinking in with his ears the tender
melody of those distant and spectral words, Judas gripped his whole
soul with claws of iron and silently in its unfathomable gloom
commenced to rear something stupendous. Slowly in the dense darkness,
he raised immense mountainous masses, piling them up one upon another,
and raised others and piled them up again; and something was growing in
the darkness, expanding voicelessly, spreading its outlines. Now he
felt his head transformed into a vast dome, and in its impenetrable
gloom there grew and grew something stupendous, and someone wrought
therein, raising mountainlike masses, piling them up one upon another
and raising up new ones ... And gently there sounded somewhere distant
and spectral words.

Thus he stood, blocking the doorway, towering tall and dark, while
Jesus spoke, and Peter’s loud breathing same in unison with His words.
But suddenly Jesus ceased—with an abruptly incomplete sound, and Peter,
like one awakened out of a trance, triumphantly exclaimed:

“Lord, Thou knowest the words of Eternal Life!”

But Jesus was gazing somewhere in silence. And when they followed his
glance they saw Judas in the doorway rigid, open-mouthed and with
staring eyes. And not knowing what it was about, they laughed. But
Matthew, learned in the Scriptures, touched Judas’ shoulder and
remarked in Solomon’s words:

“He who has a gentle look will be shown mercy, but he who is met in the
gate will oppress others.”

Judas shuddered and even uttered a faint hoarse cry of fear, and all of
his body—eyes, arms and legs seemed to flee in different directions. So
a beast might look when suddenly facing the eyes of man. Jesus walked
straight against Judas, seemingly bearing some word on His lips, and he
walked past Judas through the door which was now open and free.


Long after midnight Thomas, becoming worried, approached Judas’
sleeping place and bending over him inquired:

“Thou weepest, Judas?”

“No, go away, Thomas.”

“Then why groanest thou and gnashest thy teeth? Art thou ill?”

Judas was silent for a space of time, and then from his lips poured
forth one after another heavy words, throbbing with yearning and wrath.

“Why does He not love me? Why does He love them? Am I not more
beautiful, am I not better, am I not stronger than they? Did I not save
His life while the others were running away cringing like cowardly
curs?”

“My poor friend, thou art not entirely in the right. Thou are not at
all beautiful and thy tongue is as disagreeable as thy face. Thou art
forever lying and speaking ill of others. How dost thou expect that
Jesus should love thee?”

But Judas heard him not and continued: “Why is He with those who do not
love Him, instead of with Judas? John brought Him a lizard, I would
have brought Him a venomous snake. Peter cast stones, I would have
turned the mountain around for Him. But what is a snake? Draw its tooth
and it will cling about thy neck like a necklace. What is a mountain
which one can dig with his hands and trample under foot? I would have
given Him Judas, daring, beautiful Judas. But now He will perish and
Judas will perish with Him.”

“Thou sayest strange things, Judas.”

“The withered fig tree which is to be hewn down! Why, that is I, He
said it of me! Why does He not hew? He dare not, Thomas. I know Him. He
fears Judas! He hides before the daring, the beautiful Judas! He loves
the fools, the traitors, the liars! Thou art a liar, Thomas, hast thou
heard me?”

Thomas was greatly surprised, and thought of protesting, but he decided
that Judas was merely brawling, and contented himself by shaking his
head. But Judas’ agony increased: he moaned, gnashed his teeth, and one
could hear his huge body shifting restlessly under the blanket.

“What is it that pains Judas so? Who has set fire to his body? He gives
his son unto the dogs, he yields his daughter into the hands of robbers
for defilement. But is not the heart of Judas tender? Go away, Thomas,
go away, thou fool. Leave Judas alone, strong, daring, beautiful
Judas.”

CHAPTER IV.

Judas purloined a few pieces of silver and the theft was discovered by
Thomas who had chanced to note the exact sum of money given him. It was
thought likely that he had stolen on previous occasions, and the
indignation of the disciples knew no bounds. Bristling with wrath Peter
seized Judas by the neck and half dragged him to Jesus. The pale and
frightened culprit offered no resistance.

“Teacher, look. Our jester! Just look at him, the thief. Thou trustest
him, but he steals our money. The rogue! If thou wilt but say the word,
I shall....”

But Jesus was silent. Peter looked up curiously scanning the Teacher’s
expression, and with flushed face relaxed his hold on Judas. The latter
smoothed his garments with a sheepish mien and assumed the downcast
appearance of a penitent sinner.

“What do you think of that!” growled Peter, and walked out of the room
banging the door. Everybody was annoyed, and the disciples declared
that on no account would they remain together with Judas. John,
however, with a sudden inspiration quietly slipped into the room whence
through the open doorway was now heard the gentle and apparently
cordial voice of Jesus.

When John returned, his face was pale and his eyes were red with recent
tears.

“The Teacher says ... The Teacher says that Judas may take all the
money he likes.”

Peter laughed angrily. Swiftly and reproachfully John glanced at the
impetuous disciple, and suddenly, all aglow, his tears mingling with
his wrath, his joy mingling with his tears, he exclaimed with a ringing
voice:

“And none shall keep count of the money which Judas receives. He is our
brother and all the money is his as well as ours, and if he needs much
let him take much, telling no one nor taking counsel with any. Judas is
our brother and you have deeply offended against him,” thus sayeth our
Teacher. “Shame on us, brethren!”

In the doorway stood Judas, pale and with a sickly smile. John with a
quick movement approached him and kissed him thrice on the cheek. And
after him, exchanging glances and awkwardly, came the others, James,
Philip, and the rest. After each kiss Judas wiped his mouth, though he
received the kiss with a resounding smack as if the sound afforded him
much pleasure. The last to kiss him was Peter.

“We are all fools, Judas. We are all blind. One alone is seeing, One
alone is wise. May I kiss thee?”

“Why not? Kiss,” assented Judas.

Peter cordially kissed him and whispered into his ear:

“And I almost choked thee. The others were gentler, but I seized thee
by the throat. Did it pain thee?”

“A little.”

“I shall go to Him and tell Him. I was even angry with Him,” gloomily
remarked Peter striving to open the door without noise.

“And how about thee, Thomas?” sternly inquired John who was watching
the actions of the disciples.

“I don’t know yet. I must think.”

And Thomas thought long, almost the whole day.

The disciples had gone about their business, and somewhere behind the
wall Peter shouted loudly and merrily, but Thomas was still thinking.
Pie would have finished sooner, but Judas, whose mocking glance
persistently pursued his movement, disturbed him. Now and then the
Iscariot inquired with a mock curiosity:

“Well, how is it Thomas? How art thou progressing?”

Then Judas brought his treasure chest and loudly jingling his coins he
commenced to count them, pretending to ignore the presence of Thomas.

“Twenty one, twenty two, twenty three. Look, Thomas, another false
coin. What great rogues people are, they even offer false money unto
God. Twenty four. And then they will say Judas had stolen it. Twenty
five. Twenty six....”

Thomas resolutely advanced to him, (it was already towards evening) and
said:

“He was right, Judas. Let me kiss thee.”

“Indeed? Twenty nine. Thirty. But it is all in vain. I shall steal
again. Thirty one....”

“How canst thou steal if there is no more thine or anybody else’s? Thou
wilt take what thou needest, brother.”

“And didst thou require all this time merely to repeat His words? Thou
doest not value time, Thomas?”

“I fear thou mockest me, brother.”

“And think, dost thou act correctly in repeating His words? It was He
who had spoken, and they were His words, not thine. It was He who had
kissed me, but you defiled my mouth. I can still feel your moist lips
creeping over my face. How disgusting that was, Thomas! Thirty eight.
Thirty nine. Forty pieces of silver. Dost thou want to count it over?”

“But He is our Teacher. How should we not repeat His words?”

“Has Judas no longer a neck to drag him by? Is he now naked so that ye
cannot seize him? The Teacher will leave the house, Judas may
accidentally steal three coins, and will ye not again seize him by the
neck?”

“We know now, Judas. We understand.”

“But have not all disciples a poor memory? And do not the disciples
deceive their teachers? The Teacher lifts the rod, the disciples cry:
‘We know the lesson!’ The teacher lies down to sleep and the disciples
inquire: ‘Is not this what our teacher taught us?’ And here this
morning thou didst call me thief, but now callest thou me brother. What
wilt thou call me on the morrow?”

Judas laughed, and picking up with one arm the heavy and jingling money
chest he continued:

“When the wind blows strongly it raises the dust and the stupid people
see the dust and say: ‘Behold, the wind bloweth.’ But it is only dust,
my good Thomas, the refuse of asses, trodden under foot. There it
strikes a wall and is now humbly lying at its foot, but the wind is
flying further, the wind is flying further, my good Thomas.”

Judas pointed in illustration over the wall and laughed again:

“I am glad that thou art merry, Judas,” replied Thomas. “Pity it is
that in thy merriment there is so much malice.”

“How should not a man be merry who has been kissed so much and who is
so useful? If I had not stolen three pieces of silver, how should John
have known the exaltation of joy? Is it not pleasurable to be a hook
whereupon John hangs his mouldy virtue to dry and thou thy moth-eaten
wisdom?”

“I think it is best for me to go.”

“But I am merely joking. I am jesting, Thomas. I merely wished to know
if thou didst really long to kiss the old and repulsive Judas who had
stolen three pieces of silver and given the money to a sinful woman.”

“A sinful woman?” echoed Thomas in surprise. “And didst thou tell our
Teacher this also?”

“There, doubting again, Thomas! Yes, to a sinful woman. But if thou
only knew what a miserable woman she was. She must have gone without
food two days.”

“Knowest that this circumstance for a certainty?” inquired Thomas in
confusion.

“Of course. I had been with her two days myself and saw that she had
eaten nothing, for she merely drank wine, red wine. And she reeled with
exhaustion and I fell with her.”

Thomas leaped to his feet and walking a short distance away, turned and
remarked to Judas.

“Apparently Satan has entered thy body.”

And as he departed he heard the heavy money chest jingle mournfully
through the gloom in the hands of Judas ... And it seemed as though
Judas were laughing.

But the very next day Thomas had to admit that he had been mistaken in
Judas: so gentle, simple and at the same time serious had become the
Iscariot. He cut no more grimaces, refrained from malicious jesting, no
longer cringed before people or insulted them, but attended to his
household tasks quietly and unobtrusively. He was as agile as ever: as
though he had not two legs like the rest of the people, but dozens of
them. Now, however, he scurried about noiselessly, without squealing
and screaming or the hyena laugh that had characterized his previous
activity. And when Jesus now commenced to speak he sat down in a corner
with folded hands and his large eyes assumed such a gentle expression
that everybody noticed it. And he ceased to speak evil of people,
keeping silence in preference, so that even the stern Matthew found it
proper to praise him, which he did in the words of Solomon: “The fool
speaketh scornfully of his neighbor, but the wise man is silent,” and
he raised his finger as if recalling the former proneness of Judas to
speak evil. And the others also noted this change in Judas and rejoiced
over it. Only Jesus still viewed him with the same look of estrangement
although He in no manner expressed His disfavor. And John himself,
towards whom, as the beloved disciple of Jesus and his protector, Judas
now manifested a most deferential demeanor, even John’s attitude
towards him was softened and he occasionally held converse with him.

“How thinkest thou, Judas,” said he once condescendingly, “which of us
twain, Peter or I, will be nearest to Christ in His heavenly kingdom?”

Judas thought for a moment and replied:

“I think thou wilt.”

“And Peter thinks he will,” smiled John.

“No. Peter’s shouting would scatter the angels. Hearest thou him? Of
course, he will dispute with thee and will strive to come first and
occupy the place, for he claims that he too loves Jesus. But he is
growing old, while thou art young. He is slow, while thou art
fleetfooted and thou wilt be the first to enter with Christ. Am I not
right?”

“Yes. I shall never leave Jesus’ side,” assented John.

That same day Simon Peter addressed the very same question to Judas.
But fearing that his loud voice would be heard by others he led Judas
to the furthest corner of the house.

“Well how thinkest thou?” he inquired anxiously. “Thou art wise. Even
the Teacher praises thy wisdom. Thou wilt tell me the truth.”

“Thou, of course,” the Iscariot replied without hesitation. And Peter
indignantly exclaimed:

“I told him so.”

“But, of course, even there he will try to dispute the first place with
thee.”

“Of course he will.”

“But what can he do if he find the place already occupied by thee? Thou
wilt not leave Him alone. Did he not call thee a Rock?”

Peter laid his hand on Judas’ shoulder and fervently exclaimed:

“I tell thee, Judas, thou art the wisest among us. Pity thou art so
malevolent and sneering. The Teacher does not like it. And thou couldst
be a beloved disciple no less than John. But even unto thee I shall not
yield my place by the side of Jesus, neither here on earth nor over
there. Hearest thou me?” And he raised his hand with a threatening
gesture.

Thus Judas sought to please both, the while he was harboring thoughts
of his own. And remaining the same modest, quiet and unobtrusive Judas,
he strove to say something agreeable to all.

Thus he said to Thomas: “The fool believeth every word, but the man of
wisdom takes heed of his ways.” But to Matthew who loved to eat and
drink and was ashamed of this weakness he cited the words of Solomon.

“The righteous shall eat his fill, but the seed of the lawless is in
want.”

But such pleasant words he spoke rarely, which lent to them a special
value. Now he remained silent for long periods and listened attentively
to others, though he kept thinking thoughts of his own. Judas in his
musing mood had a disagreeable and ludicrous, and at the same time a
disconcerting appearance. While his cunning live eye was mobile he
appeared to be genuine and gentle, but when both of his eyes assumed
that fixed and rigid look, and the skin on his forehead gathered into
queer wrinkles and folds, one received the disquieting impression that
within that skull there swarmed very peculiar thoughts, utterly
strange, quite peculiar thoughts that had no language of their own and
they enveloped the cogitating Iscariot with a shroud of mystery so
disturbing that the beholder longed to have him break the silence
quickly, to stir a little or even to lie. For even a lie uttered by a
human tongue seemed truth and light in the face of this hopelessly mute
and unresponsive silence.

“Lost in thought again, Judas?” rang out the sonorous voice of Peter,
suddenly breaking through the dull silence of the Iscariot’s musing.
“What art thou thinking of?”

“Of many things,” replied the Iscariot with a quiet smile. And
observing the unpleasant effect of his silence upon the others, he
began more and more frequently to separate himself from the disciples,
taking lonely walks or spending hours alone on the flat roof of the
house. More than once Thomas collided on the roof with a grey bundle
out of which suddenly disentangled themselves the ungainly limbs of
Judas and was startled by the well known mocking accents of the
Iscariot’s voice.

Only once again the man of Kerioth oddly and abruptly recalled to the
memory of the disciples the Judas of former days, and this occurred
during the dispute concerning the first place in the Kingdom of heaven.
In the presence of the Teacher, Peter and John hotly and with mutual
recriminations defended their claims to the place nearest to Jesus.
They enumerated their merits, compared the degree of their love of
Jesus, shouted angrily and even abused one another
incontinently,—Peter, all flushed with wrath and thundering, John pale
and still, with trembling hands and stinging words. Their dispute was
fast becoming unseemly and the Teacher was commencing to frown, when
Peter chanced to look up at Judas and laughed out exultingly. John also
glanced at Judas and smiled contentedly. Each remembered what the wise
Iscariot had told him. With the foretaste of certain triumph they both
summoned Judas to be their judge, and Peter cried out: “Hey, thou wise
Judas. Tell us who will be first and nearest to Jesus, he or I?”

But Judas was silent. He breathed heavily and fixed his gaze longingly,
questioningly, on the deep and calm eyes of Jesus.

“Yes,” condescendingly agreed John, “tell him who will be the first and
nearest to Jesus.”

With his glance still fixed on Christ, Judas rose slowly to his feet
and replied calmly and gravely:

“I.”

Jesus slowly dropped his eyes, while the Iscariot, beating his breast
with a bony finger sternly and solemnly repeated:

“I! I shall be near Jesus.”

And with these words he went out leaving the disciples dumbfounded by
this insolent outbreak. Only Peter, as if suddenly recollecting
something, whispered to Thomas in an unexpectedly quiet tone:

“This is then what he is thinking about. Didst thou hear him?”

CHAPTER V.

It was just about this time that Judas Iscariot took his first decisive
step towards betrayal: he paid a secret visit to the high priest Annas.
He was received very sternly, but this did not disconcert him and he
demanded a prolonged private interview. Left alone with the stern
ascetic old man who eyed him contemptuously from under his bushy
eyebrows, he told him that he, Judas, was a pious man who had become a
disciple of Jesus of Nazareth with the sole aim of exposing the
deceiver and of betraying him into the hands of the law.

“And who is He, this Nazarene?” slightingly inquired Annas, as if he
had heard the name of Jesus for the first time.

Judas for his part pretended to take this strange ignorance of the high
priest at its face value and reported to him at length concerning the
sermons of Jesus, His wonders, His hatred of the Pharisees and the
Temple, the violations of the Law by Him, and His desire to snatch the
power from the hands of the ecclesiastics and to establish His own
kingdom. And so skillfully did he mingle truth with falsehood that
Annas glanced at him more attentively, while he indolently observed:

“Are there so few deceivers and madmen in Judea?”

“No. But He is a dangerous man,” hotly replied Judas. “He violates the
Law. And it is better for one man to perish than for the whole people.”

Annas nodded approvingly.

“But He has, methinks, many disciples.”

“Yes, many.”

“And they probably love Him devotedly?”

“They say that they love Him; that they love Him more than themselves.”

“But if we should want to seize Him, would they not take His part? Will
there be no uprising?”

Judas laughed long and bitterly.

“They? They are cowardly curs who run as soon as a man stoops to pick
up a stone. They!”

“Are they so bad?” coldly inquired Annas.

“And do the bad flee from the good? Do not rather! the good flee before
the bad? Ha! They are good and therefore they will run. They are good
and therefore they will hide themselves. They are good and therefore
they will only appear when Jesus is ready for burial. And they will
bury Him themselves, do thou but put Him to death.”

“But do they not love Him? Thou saidst so.”

“Their Teacher they love always, but more in death than living. As long
as the Teacher lives He is apt to examine the pupils, and woe then unto
the latter. But when the Teacher is dead, they become teachers in their
turn, and woe then unto others! Ha!”

Annas looked searchingly at the traitor, and his shriveled lips
wrinkled slightly: it was a sign that Annas was smiling.

“They have injured thee. I see it.”

“Can anything remain a secret to thy insight, O wise Annas? Thou hast
penetrated the very heart of Judas. Yes, they injured poor Judas. They
said that I had stolen three pieces of silver, as if Judas were not the
most honest man in Israel.”

And for a long time they spoke of Jesus, of His disciples, and of His
pernicious influence on the people of Israel. But the cautious and
cunning high priest Annas did not give his final answer on this
occasion. He had been watching Jesus for a long time and had long since
sealed the fate of the prophet of Galilee in the secret councils of his
relatives and friends, the chiefs and the Sadducees. But he distrusted
Judas who had been reported to him as an evil and double-dealing man.
He did not attach much faith to his frivolous remarks on the cowardice
of the disciples and the people. Annas had entire confidence in his own
might, but he feared bloodshed, he feared to stir up a tumultuous
uprising into which the stiff-necked and volatile people of Jerusalem
could be so easily harangued; he feared finally the sternly repressive
interference of Roman authorities. Fanned by resistance, fructified by
the crimson blood of the people which endows with life all whereon it
falls, the heresy might spread all the more rapidly and engulf Annas
himself, his rule and his friends. And when the Iscariot sought
admission for the second time, Annas was perturbed and refused to
receive him. But a third and a fourth time the Iscariot called,
insistent as the wind that knocks day and night against the closed door
and breathes through the fissures.

“I see that wise Annas has some apprehensions,” said Judas when finally
admitted to the High Priest.

“I am strong enough to fear nothing,” haughtily replied Annas, and the
Iscariot made a servile obeisance. “What wouldst thou?”

“I want to betray unto you the Nazarene.”

“We do not want Him.”

Judas bowed low and lingered humbly, fixing his eye upon the high
priest.

“Go.”

“But I must come again. Is it not so, venerable Annas?”

“Thou wilt not be admitted. Go.”

But again and again Judas of Kerioth knocked at the high priest’s
portal and was once more admitted into the presence of the aged Annas.
Shriveled and angry, oppressed with thought, he regarded the betrayer
in silence and seemed to be counting the hairs on his illshaped head.
Judas also was silent, as if, for his part, counting the hairs in the
silvery thin beard of the high priest.

“Well, thou art here again?” haughtily ejaculated the irritated high
priest, as though spuing the words on his visitor’s head.

“I want to betray unto you the Nazarene.”

They both lapsed into silence, scanning intently one another’s
features, the Iscariot gazing calmly, but a feeling of subdued
malevolence, dry and cold like the morning frost in the winter time,
was beginning to gnaw at the heart of Annas.

“And what askest thou for thy Jesus?”

“And what will ye give?”

With a feeling of quiet elation Annas insultingly retorted:

“You are a band of rascals, all of you. Thirty pieces of silver, that
is all we will give for Him.”

And his heart was filled with delighted gratification as he observed
how Judas’ whole body was set agog by this announcement. The Iscariot
turned and scurried about, agile and swift, as if he had not two but a
dozen legs.

“For Jesus? Thirty pieces of silver?” cried Judas in a tone of wild
amazement that rejoiced the heart of Annas. “For Jesus of Nazareth? You
would buy Jesus for thirty pieces of silver? And you think that Jesus
can be sold unto you for thirty pieces of silver?”

Judas swiftly turned to the wall and laughed into its smooth and whited
face, waving wildly arms.

“Hearest thou? Thirty pieces of silver! For Jesus!”

With quiet enjoyment Annas indifferently replied: “If thou wilt not
have it, go. We shall find some man who will sell more cheaply.”

And like sellers of old raiment who shout and swear and scold, fighting
over the price of some worthless garment, they commenced their
monstrous and frenzied haggling.

Thrilled with a strange ecstasy Judas ran about twisting his limbs and
shouting, and enumerating on the fingers of his hand the merits of Him
whom he was betraying.

“And that He is good and heals the sick, is that nothing? Is that worth
nothing in your estimation? Hey? No? Tell me like an honest man?”

“If thou,” interposed the high priest whose cold disfavor was rapidly
fanned into violent wrath by the taunting words of Judas,—but the later
interrupted him unabashed.

“And that He is youthful and beautiful like the narcissus of Sharon,
like the lily of the valley? Hey? Is that nothing? Perhaps you will say
that He is aged and worthless?”

“If thou,” still strove to cry Annas, but his senile voice was drowned
in the storm of Judas’ protests.

“Thirty pieces of silver! That makes hardly an obolus for a drop of
blood. Less than half an obolus for a tear. Quarter an obolus for a
groan. And the cries of pain! and convulsions! What is the stopping of
His heart? And the closing of His eyes? Is that all for naught?”
screamed the Iscariot towering over the high priest, encircling him
with the frenzied whirlwind of his gestures and words.

“For all! For all!” replied the breathless high priest.

“And how much will you earn on the deal? Hey? Would you rob poor Judas?
Tear the piece of bread out of his children’s mouths? I shall go out
into the market place and shout: ‘Annas has robbed poor Judas. Help!’”

Wearied and dizzy, Annas in futile frenzy stamped the floor with his
soft slipper and waved him away: “Begone! Begone!”

But Judas suddenly made a humble obeisance and spread out his arms:
“And if so, why art thou angry with poor Judas who is seeking the good
of his children? Thou too hast children, fine, handsome young men.”

“We shall get another.... We shall get another.... Begone!”

“And did I say that I would not give in? Do I not believe thee that
another may come and give up Jesus unto you for fifteen oboli? For two
oboli? For one obolus?”

Then with another low obeisance, and with ingratiating words, Judas
submissively agreed to accept the money offered him. With a trembling
and wrinkled hand Annas, now silent and flushed with excitement, gave
him the money. He sat with averted face and in silence, biting his lips
and waited until Judas had tested every silver coin between his teeth.
Now and then Annas looked around and then, as quickly turned his glance
to the ceiling and again bit his lips.

“There are so many false coins about now,” calmly explained Judas.
“This is money offered up by pious people for the Temple,” remarked
Annas looking around hastily and still more quickly turning to Judas
the back of his bald head which was now crimson with anger.

“But can pious people distinguish false coins from the genuine? Only
rogues can do this.”

Judas did not take home the money received from the high priest, but
going beyond the city he buried it beneath a stone. And he returned
with slow, heavy and cautious steps, like a wounded animal creeping to
its lair after a cruel and mortal combat. But Judas had no lair of his
own to which he might creep, though there was a house and in that house
he saw Jesus. Tired, emaciated, worn out with his incessant war against
the Pharisees who daily surrounded Him in the Temple like a wall of
white, shining, learned foreheads, He was seated, leaning against the
wall and was apparently fast asleep. Through the open window entered
the restless echoes of the city, behind the wall was heard the knocking
of Peter who was making a new table for the common meal and sang a
Galilean ditty as he worked. He heard nothing and slept soundly and
firmly, and this was He who had been bought for thirty pieces of
silver.

Advancing noiselessly, Judas with the gentle care of a mother fearing
to awaken her ailing babe, with the amazement of a dumb brute that has
crept from its lair and lingers in fascination before some pretty white
flower, Judas touched His soft hair and precipitately withdrew his
hand. He touched it again and as noiselessly crept out.

“Lord!” he exclaimed. “Lord!”

And going to a deserted spot he wept there a long time, writhing,
twisting his limbs, scratching his breast with his nails and biting his
shoulders. Suddenly he ceased to weep, to moan and to gnash his teeth
and lapsed into deep thought, turning his moist face to one side in the
attitude of listening. And thus he stood for a long time, immobile,
determined and a stranger to all like his very fate.


With a calm love and tender solicitude Judas surrounded the doomed
Jesus during these last days of His brief life. Coy and timorous like a
maiden in her first love, strangely intuitive and keen of perception,
he divined the slightest unexpressed wish of Jesus, penetrated into the
hidden depths of His feelings, His fleeting instants of yearning, His
heavy moments of weariness. And no matter where the foot of Jesus
stepped it rested on something soft, no matter where He turned His
glance it met something pleasant. Formerly Judas had held in disfavor
Mary Magdalene and the other women who were near Jesus, playing rude
jokes at their expense and causing them much annoyance. Now he became
their friend, their ludicrous and awkward confederate. With a profound
interest he discussed with them the little intimate and beloved traits
of Jesus, quizzing them insistently for a long time concerning one and
the same thing. With a great show of secrecy he thrust coins into their
hands, and they bought ointments, the precious and fragrant myrrh so
beloved of Jesus, and anointed His feet. Haggling desperately he bought
expensive wine for Jesus and then growled when Peter drank it all with
the indifference of a man to whom only quantity matters. In that rocky
country surrounding Jerusalem and almost bare of trees and flowers, he
managed to obtain fresh spring flowers and green herbs, and offered
them to Jesus through the mediation of these same women. For the first
time in his life he fetched in his arms little children, finding them
somewhere in the neighboring homesteads or in the highways, and
forcedly caressed them to keep them from weeping. And it frequently
happened that there crawled on the knees of Jesus, while he sat in deep
thought, a tiny, curly haired little fellow with a soiled little nose,
and insistently sought His caress. And while the two rejoiced in one
another, Judas sternly walked a short distance off with the air of a
jailer who has admitted a butterfly into the cell of his prisoner and
then with a show of asperity grumbles about the disorder.

In the evenings, when darkness and fear stood guard at the door, the
Iscariot artfully contrived to bring into the conversation Galilee, a
land unknown to him but dear to Jesus, with its peaceful lakes and
green shores. And he worried the clumsy Peter until stifled memories
awoke in his heart and before his eyes and ears appeared vivid pictures
and sounds of the beautiful life of Galilee. Avidly attentive and with
mouth half-opened like a child’s, with the twinkling of anticipated
laughter in His eyes, Jesus listened to Peter’s impetuous, ringing and
merry speech, and at times He so loudly laughed at his conceits that
the disciple had to stop his recital for minutes at a time. But better
even than Peter’s was the speech of John. There was nothing ludicrous,
nothing unexpectedly grotesque in his words, but his descriptions were
so thoughtful, unusual and beautiful that tears appeared in the eyes of
Jesus, and Judas nudged Mary Magdalene, whispering triumphantly into
her ears: “How he speaks! Listen!”

“I am listening.”

“But listen still better. You women never listen well.”

And when they all dispersed to seek their bedsides, Jesus kissed John
with a tender gratitude and cordially patted the shoulder of Peter.

Without envy, with a contemptuous indulgence, Judas witnessed these
caresses. What signified all these tales, these kisses, these sighs,
compared with that knowledge which he had, he, Judas of Kerioth,
redhaired, repulsive Judas, born amid the rocks.

CHAPTER VI.

Betraying Jesus with one hand, Judas took great pains to destroy his
own plans with the other. He did not attempt to dissuade Jesus from
embarking on that last perilous journey to Jerusalem, as did the women,
he even inclined to side with the relatives of Jesus and with those of
his disciples who considered the victory over Jerusalem indispensable
to the complete triumph of the cause. But he stubbornly and insistently
warned them of its dangers and depicted in vivid colors the formidable
hostility of the Pharisees, their readiness to commit any crime and
their unflinching determination either openly or privily to slay the
prophet of Galilee.

Daily and hourly he spoke of it and there was not a believer whom Judas
failed to admonish shaking his uplifted finger impressively and
severely:

“Jesus must be guarded! Jesus must be guarded! Jesus must be protected
when the time comes.”

Whether it was the boundless faith of the disciples in the marvelous
power of their Teacher, or the consciousness of the righteousness of
their cause or sheer blindness, Judas’ anxious words were met with a
smile, and his endless warnings elicited even murmurs of remonstrance.

Judas managed to obtain somewhere a couple of swords, but only Peter
was pleased with his foresight, and only Peter praised Jesus and the
swords, while the others remarked disapprovingly:

“Are the warriors to gird ourselves with swords. And is Jesus a general
and not a prophet?”

“But if they will want to slay Him?”

“They will not dare when they see that the whole people is following
Him.”

“But if they should dare after all? What then?”

And John scornfully retorted:

“One might think, Judas, that thou alone lovest the Teacher.”

And, greedily clinging to these words, taking no offence, Judas began
to question them eagerly, fervently, with a solemn impressiveness:

“But do ye love Him? Truly?”

And each believer who came to see Jesus he repeatedly questioned:

“And dost thou love Him? Dost thou love Him truly?”

And all answered saying that they truly loved Him. He frequently drew
Thomas into conversation and warningly raising his bony forefinger
crowned with a long and untidy finger nail he significantly admonished
him:

“Look to it, Thomas. A terrible time is approaching. Are ye prepared?
Why didst thou not take the sword which I brought?”

And Thomas sententiously replied:

“We are men unaccustomed to the use of arms. And if we take up the
struggle with the Roman soldiers we shall all be slain. Besides didst
thou not bring only two swords? What can be done with two swords?”

“We can get others. And we might take them away from the soldiers,”
said Judas with a show of impatience, and even Thomas, the serious,
smiled through his shaggy beard.

“Judas, Judas! What thoughts be these? And where didst thou procure
these swords? For they resemble the swords of the Roman soldiers.”

“I stole them. I might have stolen more, but I heard voices and fled.”

Thomas answered reproachfully and sadly:

“There again thou didst wrong. Why stealest thou, Judas?”

“But nothing is another’s property.”

“Good, but the warriors may be questioned to-morrow ‘Where are your
swords?’ and not finding them they may suffer punishment innocently.”

And later, after the death of Jesus, the disciples remembered these
words of Judas and concluded that he had purposed to destroy them
together with their Teacher by luring them into an unequal and fatal
combat. And once more they cursed the hateful name of Judas of Kerioth,
the Traitor.

And Judas, after such conversation, sought out the women in his anger
and complained to them tearfully. And the women heard him eagerly.
There was in his love to Jesus something feminine and tender and it
brought him nearer to the women, making him simple, intelligible and
even good-looking in their eyes, though there still remained a certain
air of superiority in his attitude towards them.

“Be these men?” he bitterly denounced the disciples, turning
confidingly his blind and immobile eye towards Mary, “No they are not
men. They have not an obolus’ worth of blood in their veins.”

“Thou art forever speaking evil of people,” replied Mary.

“Am I ever speaking evil of people?” exclaimed Judas in surprise.
“Well, I may sometimes say something evil of them, but could they not
be just a trifle better? Ah Mary, stupid Mary, why art thou not a man
to carry a sword?”

“I fear I could not lift it, it is so heavy,” smiled Mary.

“Thou wilt wield it, if men prove too evil to draw a sword. Didst thou
give unto Jesus the lily which I found this morn in the hills? I rose
at dawn to seek it and the sun was so red to-day, Mary. Was He glad?
Did He smile?”

“Yes, He was very glad. He said that it was fragrant with the odors of
Galilee.”

“Of course, thou didst not tell Him Judas had gotten it, Judas of
Kerioth?”

“Thou badest me not to tell.”

“Truly, truly”, sighed Judas. “But thou mightest have mentioned it
inadvertently, women are so prone to talk. Then thou didst not tell it
Him by any chance? Thou wast so firm? Yes, yes, Mary, thou art a good
woman. Thou knowest I have a wife somewhere. I should like to see her
now: perhaps she was not a bad woman. I do not know. She used to say:
‘Judas is a liar. Judas, son of Simon, is wicked!’ And I left her. But
it may be that she is a good woman. What thinkest thou?”

“How can I know, who have never seen her?”

“Truly, truly, Mary. And what thinkest thou, thirty pieces of silver
... is it a large sum of money?”

“I think it is not so much.”

“Truly, truly. And what didst thou earn when thou wast a sinner? Five
pieces of silver or ten? Wast thou high in price?”

Mary Magdalene blushed and dropped her head till her luxuriant golden
hair hid her entire face leaving merely the rounded white chin visible:

“How mean art thou, Judas. I seek to forget it, but thou remindest me.”

“No, Mary, thou shouldest not forget it. Why? Let others forget that
thou wast a sinner, but thou forget not. It is meet that others forget
it, but why shouldest thou?”

“I lived in sin.”

“Let him fear who has committed no sin. But he who has committed sin,
why should he fear? Do the dead fear death and not the living? No, the
dead mock the living and their fear of death.”

Thus cordially talking they sat together for hours, he, well on in
years, gaunt hideous to behold, with illshaped head and weirdly
disproportioned face, she youthful, coy, gentle, fascinated with life
as though with some legend or strange dream.

But the time passed heedlessly and the thirty pieces of silver were
reposing under the stone, and the terrible day of betrayal was
approaching inexorably. Already Jesus had entered Jerusalem riding on
the foal of an ass, and the people had acclaimed Him, spreading their
garments in His path, with cries of triumphant welcome:

“Hosannah, Hosannah! Blessed be He that cometh in the name of the
Lord.”

And so great was the jubilation, and so irrepressible was the love that
strove heavenward in these welcoming shouts that Jesus wept and His
disciples proudly exclaimed:

“Is this not the Son of God who is with us?”

And they also cried out in triumph:

“Hosannah! Hosannah! Blessed be He that cometh in the name of the
Lord.”

And that night for a long time they remained awake thinking over the
solemn and triumphant entry, and Peter was like unto a madman; he was
as one possessed by the demon of merriment and pride. He shouted
loudly, drowning the speech of others with his leonine roar, he laughed
uproariously, flinging his laughter at the heads of others like large
rolling boulders, he embraced John, and James and even kissed Judas.
And he boisterously admitted that he had harbored fears concerning
Jesus, but now feared no longer, for he saw the love the people bore
for Him. The Iscariot’s unsteady eye strayed from face to face in
amazement. He mused for a while, listened and looked around again, and
then led Thomas aside. Then, as if impaling him against the wall with
his piercing glance he questioned him with wonderment and fear not
unmixed with some dim hopefulness:

“Thomas, and if He is right? If it be He that has the rock beneath His
feet, and I merely shifting sand? What then?”

“Of whom art thou speaking?” inquired Thomas.

“What will Judas of Kerioth do then? Then I shall have to strangle Him
myself to bring out the Truth. Who is playing Judas false, ye or Judas
himself? Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”

“I cannot understand thee, Judas. Thou speakest in riddles. Who is
deceiving Judas? Who is right?”

And shaking his head Judas repeated like an echo:

“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”

And still more surprised was Thomas, and he felt even worried when
during the night there rang out the loud and almost joyous voice of
Judas:

“Then there will be no Judas of Kerioth. Then there will be no Jesus.
There will be only.... Thomas, stupid Thomas! Didst thou ever wish to
seize this earth of ours and raise it in thy hands? And then perhaps to
drop it?”

“That were impossible, what sayest thou Judas?”

“That is possible,” replied the Iscariot with conviction. “And we shall
seize it some day and lift it up in our hands while thou art asleep,
stupid Thomas. Sleep. I am merry, Thomas. When thou sleepest, the
flutes of Galilee play in thy nostrils, Thomas. Sleep.”

But already the believers had scattered throughout Jerusalem and
disappeared within their houses, behind walls, and the faces of the
people who still walked abroad were now inscrutable. The rejoicing had
ceased Already dim rumors of peril crept out of some crevices. Peter
was gloomily trying the edge of the sword given him by Judas, and ever
sadder and sterner grew the face of the Teacher. Time was swiftly
passing and inexorably approached the dread day of the Betrayal. Now
also the Last Supper was over, pregnant with sadness and dim fears, and
the vague words of Jesus of someone who would betray Him had been
spoken.

“Knowest thou who will betray Him?” inquired Thomas gazing at Judas
with his straight and limpid, almost transparent eyes.

“Yes, I know,” replied Judas, sternly and resolutely. “Thou, Thomas,
wilt betray Him. But He does not believe Himself what He is saying. It
is time. It is time. Why does He not call to His side Judas, the strong
and the beautiful?”

And time, the inexorable, was now measured no longer by days but by
fast fleeting hours. And it was even, and the stillness of even, and
lengthy shadows gathered over the earth, the first piercing arrows of
the impending night of great conflict, when a sad and solemn voice
sounded through the darkness. It was Judas who spoke:

“Thou knowest where I am going, Lord? I am going to betray Thee into
the hands of Thine enemies.”

And there was a long silence, and the stillness of even and piercing
black shadows.

“Thou art silent, Lord? Thou commandest me to go?”

And silence again.

“Bid me stay. But Thou canst not? Or darest not? Or wilt not?”

And again silence, immense as the eyes of Eternity.

“But Thou knowest that I love Thee. Thou knowest all. Why lookest Thou
thus upon Judas? Great is the secret of Thy beautiful eyes, but is mine
the less? Bid me stay.... But Thou art silent. Thou art ever silent?
Lord, Lord, why in anguish and with yearning have I sought Thee always,
sought Thee all my life and found Thee? Make Thou me free. Lift from me
the burden; it is greater than mountains of lead. Hearest Thou not the
bosom of Judas of Kerioth groaning beneath it?”

And final silence, unfathomable as the last glance of Eternity.

“I go.”

And the stillness of even was not broken, it cried not out nor wept,
nor faintly echoed the fine and glassy air—so still was the sound of
his departing steps. They sounded and were lost. And the stillness of
even relapsed into musing, it stretched its lengthening shadows, and
blushed darkly, then suddenly sighed with the yearning rustle of
stirring foliage; it sighed and was still, lost in the embrace of
Night.

Other sounds now invaded the air, rapping, tapping, knocking: as if
someone had opened a cornucopia of vivid sonorous noises and they were
dropping upon the earth, not singly or in twos, but in heaps. And
drowning them all, echoing against the trees, the shadows and the wall,
enveloping the speaker himself roared the resolute and lordly voice of
Peter: he swore that he would never leave his Teacher.

“Lord!” he cried, longingly, wrathfully. “Lord! With Thee I am ready to
go to prison and even unto death.”

And softly, like the faint echo of someone’s departed steps, the
merciless answer sounded:

“I say unto thee, Peter, that ere the cock crow thrice to-day thou wilt
have denied me thrice.”

CHAPTER VII.

The moon had already risen when Jesus started towards Mount Olivet
where he was wont of late to pass his nights. But He lagged strangely,
and His disciples, who were ready to proceed, urged Him on. Then He
suddenly spoke:

“He who has a sack let him take it, likewise a staff. And He who has
none, let him sell his raiment and buy a sword. For I say unto you that
this day it shall happen unto me as even was written: he was counted
among the transgressors!”

The disciples were amazed and exchanged confused glances.

But Peter replied:

“Lord! Here are two swords.”

He glanced searchingly into their kindly faces, dropped His head and
gently replied:

“It is enough.”

Loudly echoed the steps of the wanderers through the narrow streets and
the disciples were terrified at the sounds of their own steps. Their
black shadows lengthened upon the white moon-illuminated walls and they
were terrified at the sight of their own shadows. Thus silently they
passed through the sleeping city. Now they passed out of the gates of
Jerusalem and in a deep cleft among the hills that were filled with
mysterious and immobile shadows the brook of Kedron met their gaze. Now
everything terrified them. The soft gurgling and the splashing of the
water against the stones sounded to them like voices of people lying in
ambush. The shapeless fanciful shadows of rocks and trees obstructing
their way worried them, and the motionless stillness of the night
appeared to them endowed with life and movement. But as they ascended
and neared the garden of Gethsemane where they had spent so many nights
in security and peace they gradually gained courage. Now and then they
cast a backward glance at the sleeping city now reposing white in the
light of the moon and discussed their recent fright; and those who
walked in the rear heard an occasional fragment of the Teacher’s words.
He was telling them that they would all forsake Him.

They stopped in the very outskirts of the garden. Most of the disciples
regained right there and with subdued voices commenced to make
preparations for sleep, spreading their mantles in the transparent
lacework of shadows and moonlight. But Jesus, torn with disquietude,
with four of His nearest disciples plunged further into the depths of
the garden. There they sat down on the ground that had not yet grown
cold from the heat of the day, and while Jesus observed silence, Peter
and John lazily exchanged meaningless remarks. Yawning with weariness
they spoke of the chilly night and remarked how dear the meat was in
Jerusalem, while fish was not to be had at all. They were guessing at
the number of worshippers that would gather in Jerusalem during the
holidays, and Peter, stretching his words into a prolonged yawn,
affirmed that they would amount to twenty thousand, while John, and his
brother Tames indolently claimed that the number would not exceed ten
thousand. Suddenly Jesus quickly rose to His feet.

“My soul is sorrowful even unto death. Tarry ye here and watch a
while,” He said and with swift steps He retired into the grove where He
was lost in the impenetrable maze of light and shadows.

“Where did He go?” wondered John raising himself on his elbow. Peter
turned his head in the direction of the departed Teacher and wearily
answered:

“I don’t know.” And once more loudly yawning he reclined on his back
and lay still. The others too had quieted down by this time and the
vigorous sleep of healthy fatigue chained their stolid figures. Through
his heavy sleep Peter dimly saw something white bending over him and
seemed to hear some voice that sounded afar off and died leaving no
trace in his dulled consciousness:

“Simon Peter, sleepest thou?”

And once more he was fast asleep, and again some still voice reached
his ear and died away leaving no trace:

“Could ye not watch with me one brief hour?”

“Lord, if Thou knewest how sleepy I am,” he thought in half slumber,
but it seemed to him as if he had said it aloud. And again he slept and
a long time passed when suddenly there stood beside him the form of
Jesus and a sonorous waking voice roused him and the others:

“Are ye still sleeping and resting? It is finished. The hour has come
for the Son of Man to be betrayed into the hands of sinners.”

The disciples leaped to their feet, picking up their mantles in
confusion and shivering with the chill of sudden awaking. Through the
maze of trees, illuminating them with the lurid light of their torches,
with heavy tramping of feet and loud noise, and the crack of breaking
twigs, a crowd of warriors and temple attendants was seen approaching.
And from the other side the rest of the disciples came running,
trembling with the cold, with terrified, sleepy faces, failing to
realize what had occurred and anxiously inquiring:

“What is this? Who are these with torches?”

Thomas, pale, with his beard awry, with chatting teeth, remarked to
Peter:

“Apparently these men are after us.”

Now the crowd of warriors surrounded them and the smoking unsteady
glare of the torches had chased the quiet and serene radiance of the
moon somewhere into the heights over the treetops. At the head of the
warriors was Judas of Kerioth; scurrying hither and thither and keenly
rolling his seeing eye he searched for Jesus. At last he found Him, and
resting for a moment his glance on the tall and slender form for the
Master he hurriedly whispered to the attendants: “He whom I shall kiss
the same is the man. Take Him and lead Him carefully. But be careful,
do you hear me?”

Then hurriedly moving toward Jesus, who awaited him in silence, he
plunged like a dagger a steady and piercing glance into His calm, dark
eyes.

“Rejoice, Rabbi,” he exclaimed loudly, imbuing the words of common
salutation with a strange and terrible significance.

But Jesus was silent, and the disciples gazed awestricken upon the
Traitor, unable to fathom how the soul of Man could contain so much
wickedness. With a hasty look the Iscariot measured their confused
ranks, noted the tremor that threatened to change into the abject palsy
of terror, noted their pallor, the meaningless smiles, the nerveless
movements of arms that seemed to be gripped with iron clamps at the
shoulder; and his heart was set aflame with bitter anguish not unlike
the agony which had oppressed Jesus a short time since. His soul
transformed into a hundred ringing and sobbing chords, he rushed
forward to Jesus and tenderly kissed His windchilled cheek, so softly,
so tenderly, with such agony of love and yearning that were Jesus a
flower upheld by a slender stem, that kiss would not have shaken from
it one pearl of dew or dislodged one tender leaf.

“Judas,” said Jesus, and the lightning of His glance bared the
monstrous mass of forbidding shadows that were the soul of the
Iscariot, but did not reveal its boundless depths. “Judas! With a kiss
betrayest thou the Son of Man?”

And He saw that hideous chaos quivering, stirring and agog through and
through. Speechless and stern as Death in his haughty majesty stood
Judas of Kerioth and all of his being within him groaned, thundered and
wailed with a myriad of stormy and fiery voices: “Yes! With a kiss of
love we betray Thee. With a kiss of love we betray Thee unto mockery,
torture and death. With a voice of love we summon torturers from their
dark lairs, and rear a cross. And high above the gloom of the earth
upon the cross we raise up love crucified by love!”

Thus stood Judas, wordless and cold as death, and the cry of his soul
was met by the cries and the tumult that encircled Jesus. With the rude
indecision of armed force, with the awkwardness of a dimly grasped
purpose the soldiers had already seized Him by the hand and were
dragging Him somewhere, mistaking their own aimlessness for resistance,
their own terror for their victim’s mockery and scorn. Like a herd of
frightened lambs the disciples had huddled together, offering no
resistance, though impeding everybody including themselves; and only a
few had any thought of going or acting for themselves, apart from the
rest. Surrounded on every side, Peter, son of Simon, with an effort, as
if having lost all strength, drew the sword from its sheath and weakly
dropped it with a glancing blow upon the head of one of the
servants,—but failed to harm him in the least. And observing this Jesus
commanded him to drop the useless weapon. With a faint rattle the sword
fell to the ground, a piece of metal so manifestly bereft of its power
to pierce and to injure that none troubled to pick it up. Thus it lay
in the mud and many days later some children found it in the same spot
and made it their plaything.

The soldiers were dispersing the disciples and the latter again huddled
together stupidly getting into the soldiers’ way, and this continued
until the soldiers were seized with a contemptuous wrath. There one of
them with a frown walked up to the shouting John, while another roughly
brushed aside the arm of Thomas who had placed it upon his shoulder in
an endeavor to argue with him, and in his turn shook threateningly a
powerful balled fist before a pair of very straight-looking and
transparent eyes. And John ran, as also did Thomas and James; and all
the disciples, as many as were there, forsaking Jesus, ran
helter-skelter to save themselves. Losing their mantles, running into
the trees, stumbling against stones and falling they fled into the
mountains, driven by terror and in the stillness of the moonlit night
the ground resounded under their fugitive feet. Some unknown, who had
evidently just risen from sleep, for he was covered with only a
blanket, excitedly scurried to and fro in the crowd of warriors and
servitors. But as they tried to seize him he cried out in fear and
started to run, like the others, leaving his raiment in the hands of
the soldiers. Thus perfectly nude, he ran with desperate leaps and his
naked body gleamed oddly in the moonlight.

When Jesus was led away Peter emerged from his hiding place behind the
trees and from a distance followed his Teacher. And seeing ahead of him
another man who walked in silence, he thought it was John and softly
called to him:

“John, is it thou?”

“Ah, thou Peter?” replied the other stopping, and Peter recognized the
Betrayer’s voice. “Why then Peter didst thou not flee with the others?”

Peter stopped and loathingly replied:

“Get thee behind me, Satan.”

Judas laughed and paying no more attention to Peter walked on towards
the place where gleamed the smoking torches and the rattle of arms
mingled with the tramp of feet. Peter followed him cautiously and thus
almost together they entered the court of the high priest’s house and
joined a crowd of servants warming themselves at the fire. Judas was
sullenly warming his bony hands over the logs when he heard somewhere
in the rear the loud voice of Peter:

“No, I don’t know Him.”

But someone evidently insisted that he was a disciple of Jesus, for
even more loudly Peter repeated:

“But no and no, I don’t know whereof ye are speaking.”

Without looking around and smiling involuntarily Judas nodded his head
affirmingly and murmured:

“Just so, Peter. Yield to none thy place at the side of Jesus.”

And he did not see how the terror-stricken Peter departed from the
court in order not to be caught again. And from that evening until the
very death of Jesus Judas never saw near Him any of His disciples: and
in that multitude there were only these two, inseparable unto death,
strangely bound together by fellow-suffering,—He who was betrayed unto
mockery and torture and he who had betrayed Him. From one chalice of
suffering they drank like brothers, the Betrayed and the the Traitor,
and the fiery liquid seared alike the pure and the impure lips.

Gazing fixedly at the fire which beguiled the eye into a sensation of
heat, holding over it his lanky and shivering hands, all tangled into a
maze of arms and legs, trembling shadows and fitful light, the Iscariot
groaned pitifully and hoarsely:

“How cold! My God, how cold!”

Thus in the night time, when the fisher folk have set out in their
boats leaving ashore a smouldering campfire some strange denizen of the
deep may come forth from the bowels of the sea and creeping to the fire
gaze on it fixedly and wildly, stretching its limbs towards the flames
and groan pitifully and hoarsely:

“How cold! Oh, my God, how cold!”

Suddenly behind his back the Iscariot heard a tumult of loud voices,
cries, the sound of rude laughter, full of the familiar,
sleepily-greedy malice, and the thud of sharp, quick, blows raining on
a living body. He turned around, pierced through and through with
agonized pain, aching in every limb and in every bone—they were beating
Jesus.

It has come then.

He saw the soldiers lead Jesus into the guard-house. The night was
passing, the fires were going out, ashes began to cover them, and from
the guard-house there came still the noise of hoarse shouts, laughter
and oaths. They were beating Jesus. As one who has lost his way the
Iscariot scurried about the empty court, stopping himself suddenly on a
run, raising his head and starting off again, stumbling in surprise
against the campfires and the walls. Then he glued his face to the
walls of the guard-house, to the cracks in the door, to the windows and
greedily watched what was going in within. He saw a stuffy, crowded,
dirty little room, like all the guard-houses in the world, with a floor
that had been diligently spat on and with walls that were greasy and
stained as if hundreds of filthy people had walked or slept upon them.
And he saw the Man who was being beaten. They smote Him on the face and
on the head, they flung Him from one to another across the room like a
sack. And because He did not cry out or resist after minutes of
strained observation it actually appeared as though it were not a
living being but some limp manikin without bones or blood that was
thrown about. And the figure bent over oddly, just like a manikin, and
when in falling it struck the floor with its head the impression of the
contact was not like that of some hard object striking another, but as
of some thing soft and incapable of pain. And after watching it long it
seemed like some weird and interminable game, something that almost
amounted to an illusion. After one vigorous blow the man or the manikin
smoothly dropped on the knees of a soldier. He pushed it away and it
turned and fell on the next man’s knees, and so on. Shouts of wild
laughter greeted this game and Judas also smiled—as if some powerful
hand with fingers of steel had torn open his mouth. The lips of Judas
had played him false this time.

The night seemed to drag and the campfires still smouldered. Judas fell
back from the wall and slowly trudged over to one of the fires, stirred
up the coals, revived the flames, and though now he did not feel cold,
he held over it his slightly trembling hands. And longingly he
murmured:

“Ah, it hurts, little son, it hurts, child, child, child. It pains,
very, very much.”

Then he walked over to the window that gleamed yellow from the dim
lantern within the bars and once more he commenced to watch the
chastisement of Jesus. Once before the very eyes of Judas flitted the
vision of His dark face, now disfigured and encircled in a maze of
tangled hair. There someone’s hand seized this hair, felled the Man and
methodically turning the head from side to side began to wipe with His
face the filthy floor. Under the very window a soldier slept opening
his wide-open mouth wherein two rows of teeth gleamed white and shiny.
Now somebody’s broad back with a fat bare neck shut out the view from
the window and nothing more could be seen. And suddenly all grew still.

“What is it? Why are they silent? What if they have comprehended?”

Instantly the head of Judas was filled with the roaring, shouting and
tumult of a thousand frenzied thoughts. What if they have realized?
What if they have comprehended that this was—the very best among men.
This is so plain, so simple. What is going on there now? Are they
kneeling before Him, weeping softly, kissing His feet? There He will
emerge in an instant, and behind Him will come forth in abject
submission the others; how He will come forth and draw near to Judas,
the conqueror, the Son of Man, the Lord of Truth, God....

Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?

But no. Shouts and uproar again. They are beating Him again. They have
not comprehended. They have not realized and they are beating Him with
greater violence, more cruelly. And the fires are burning low, being
covered with ashes, and the smoke over them is as transparently blue as
the air, and the sky is as light as the moon. It is the dawn of day.

“What is day?” asked Judas.

Now everything is ablaze, everything glows, everything has grown young,
and the smoke above is no longer blue but pink. The sun is rising.

“What is the sun?” asketh Judas.

CHAPTER VIII.

They pointed him out with their fingers, and some contemptuously, while
others with hatred and terror added:

“See, this is Judas, the Traitor.”

This was the beginning of his shameful infamy to which he condemned
himself for all ages. Thousands of years will pass, nation will succeed
nation, and still the words will be heard in the air, uttered with
contempt and dread by the good and the evil:

“Judas, the Traitor! Judas, the Traitor!”

But he listened with indifference to the words spoken concerning him,
absorbed in a feeling of a supreme curiosity. From the very morn that
Jesus was led out of the guard-house after His chastisement Judas
followed Him, his heart strangely free from longing, pain or joy. It
was only filled with the unconquerable craving to see and to hear all.
Though he had not slept all night he felt as though walking on air;
where the people would not let him pass he elbowed his way forward and
with agility gained a point of vantage. During the examination of Jesus
by Kaiaphas he held his hand to his ear so as not to lose a word and
nodded his head approvingly, whispering:

“That’s so. That’s so. Hearest Thou this, Jesus?”

But he was not free—he was like a fly tied to a thread: buzzing it
flies hither and thither but not for an instant the pliant and
obstinate thread releases it. Thoughts that seemed hewed out of stone
weighed down his head and he could not shake them off. He knew not what
thoughts these were, he feared to stir them up, but he felt their
presence constantly. And at times they threatened to overwhelm him,
almost crushing him with their incredible weight as though the roof of
some rocky vault slowly and terribly subsided over his head. Then he
held his hand to his heart and shook himself as though shivering with
the cold, and his glance straying to another and still another spot as
Jesus was led out from the presence of Kaiaphas, he met His wearied
glance at quite close quarters, and without rendering account to
himself of his action, he nodded his head a few times with a show of
friendliness and murmured:

“I am here, sonny, I am here.” Then he wrathfully shoved aside some
gaping countryman who stood in his way. Now they were moving, an
immense and noisy throng, on to Pilate, for the last examination and
trial, and with the same insupportable curiosity Judas eagerly and
swiftly scanned the faces of the people. Many were entirely unknown to
him; Judas had never seen them before; but some there were who had
shouted “Hosannah!” to Jesus, and with every step the number of such
seemed to increase.

“Just so!” flashed through the mind of Judas. He reeled like a drunken
man. “It is all finished. Now they will shout: He is ours! He is our
Jesus! What are ye doing? And everyone will see it....”

But the believers walked in silence, with forced smiles on their faces,
pretending that all this did not concern them in the least. Others
discussed something in subdued tones, but in the tumult and commotion,
in the uproar of frenzied shouts of Christ’s enemies, their timid
voices were drowned without leaving a trace. And again he felt
relieved. Suddenly Judas noticed Thomas, who was cautiously proceeding
not afar off, and with a sudden resolve he rushed forward intending to
speak to him. Seeing the Traitor, Thomas was frightened and sought to
escape, but in a narrow and dirty lane, between two walls, Judas caught
up with him:

“Thomas! Wait!”

Thomas stopped and solemnly holding up both hands exclaimed:

“Depart from me, Satan.”

With a gesture of impatience the Iscariot replied:

“How stupid thou art, Thomas! I thought that thou hadst more sense than
the others. Satan! Satan! This must be proved.”

Dropping his hands, Thomas inquired in surprise:

“But didst thou not betray the Teacher? I saw with my own eyes that
thou broughtest the soldiers. Didst thou not point out Jesus unto them?
If this is not betrayal, what is a betrayal?”

“Something else, something else,” hastily interposed Judas. “Listen.
There are many of you here. It behooves you to meet and to demand
loudly: ‘Give unto us Jesus. He is ours.’ They will not refuse you,
they will not dare. They will understand themselves....”

“What art thou saying!” replied Thomas shaking his head. “Didst thou
not see the number of armed soldiers and servants of the temple? And,
besides, a court has not been held yet, and we must not interfere with
the court. Will not the court understand that Jesus is innocent and
will not the judges immediately order Him released?”

“Dost thou think so too?” musingly inquired Judas. “Thomas, Thomas, but
if this be the truth? What then? Who is right? Who deceived Judas?”

“We argued all night and we decided that the judges simply could not
condemn the Innocent one. But if they should....”

“Well?” urged the Iscariot.

“... then they are not true judges. And they will fare ill some day
when they give account to the real Judge....”

“The real Judge! Is there a real one?” laughed Judas.

“And the brethren have all cursed thee, but as thou sayest that thou
art not a Traitor, I think thou oughtest to be judged....”

Without waiting to hear the end Judas abruptly turned on his heels and
rushed off in pursuit if the departing multitude. But he slowed down
and walked deliberately, realizing that a crowd never proceeds very
fast and that by walking apart one can always catch up with it.

When Pilate led Jesus out of his palace and placed Him in full view of
the people, Judas, pinned to a column by the heavy backs of some
soldiers, frenziedly twisted his head in order to see something between
two shining helmets. He suddenly realized that now all was over indeed.
The sun shone high over the heads of the multitude and under its very
rays stood Jesus, bloodstained, pale, with a crown of thorns the sharp
points of which had pierced His brow. He stood at the very edge of the
elevation, visible from His head to His small sunbrowned feet, and so
calmly expectant He was, so radiant in His sinlessness and purity that
only a blind man unable to see the very sun could fail to see it, only
a madman could fail to realize it. And the people were silent, so
silent that Judas heard the breathing of the soldier in front of him,
and the scraping of his belt as he took each breath.

“That’s it. It is all over. They will now understand,” thought Judas;
and suddenly some strange sensation not unlike the blinding joy of
falling from an infinite altitude into the gaping abyss of blue stopped
his heart.

Contemptuously stretching his lip down to his clean-shaven, rotund
chin, Pilate flings at the people dry curt words as one might cast
bones at a horde of hungry hounds to cheat their thirst for fresh blood
and living quivering flesh.

“Ye have brought unto me this Man as a corrupter of the people. I have
examined Him before you and have found the Man guilty of nothing
whereof ye accuse Him..”

Judas closed his eyes. He was waiting.

And the whole people began to shout, scream and howl with a thousand
bestial and human voices:

“Death unto Him! Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”

And now, as if deriding their own souls, as if craving to taste to the
dregs in one moment all the infinity of fall, frenzy and shame, these
very people screaming and howling demand:

“Release unto us Barabbas. But Him crucify! Crucify!”

But the Roman has not yet spoken his final word. His haughty
clean-shaven face is twitching with loathing and wrath. He
understands.. He has comprehended. There He is speaking softly to the
servants of the temple, but his voice is drowned in the uproar of the
multitude. What is he saying? Does he command them to take up their
swords and to fall upon the madmen?

“Bring me water!”

Water? What kind of water? What for?

There he is washing his hands ... why is he washing his white, clean
ringcovered hands? And now he cries out angrily raising his hands in
the face of the amazed people:

“I am innocent of the blood of this righteous man. See ye to it.”

The water is still dripping from these white fingers down on the marble
slabs of the floor, but some white mass is already limply groveling at
the feet of Pilate, someone’s burning and sharp lips are kissing his
weakly resisting hand, clinging to it like a leech, sucking at it,
drawing the blood to the surface and almost biting it. With loathing
and dread he looks down and sees a gigantic and writhing body, a wild
face that looks as though it had been split in twain, two eyes so
strangely unlike one another, as though not one creature but a
multitude lay clutching at his feet and hands. And he hears a fervent
and broken whisper:

“Thou art wise! Thou art noble! Thou art wise!”

And this savage face seems to glow with such truly satanic joy that
Pilate cannot repress a cry as he repels him with his foot, and Judas
falls down to the ground. And lying on the flagstones, like an
overturned devil, he still stretches out his hand towards Pilate and
shouts as one infatuated:

“Thou art wise! Thou art noble! Thou art wise!”

Then he swiftly leaps to his feet and flees accompanied by the laughter
of the soldiers. All is not yet over. When they see the cross, when
they see the nails, they may comprehend then.... What then? Passingly
he notices Thomas, breathless and pale, and for some reason nods to him
assuringly. Then he catches up with Jesus on the way to the execution.
The path is hard; the little stones roll from under one’s feet; Judas
suddenly realizes that he is tired. He concentrates his mind on finding
a good foothold, and as he looks about he sees Mary Magdalene weeping,
he sees a multitude of weeping women, with dishevelled hair, red eyes,
distorted lips, all the infinite grief of the feminine soul given over
unto despair. Suddenly he revives and taking advantage of an opportune
moment, he rushes forward to Jesus:

“I am with Thee,” he whispers hurriedly.

The soldiers drive him away with stinging blows of their whips, and
writhing to escape the leash, gnashing his teeth at the soldiers, he
hurriedly explains:

“I am with Thee. Thither. Understandest Thou? Thither!”

Wiping the blood from his face he shakes his fist at the soldier who
turns around and points him out to his comrades. He looks about for
some reason in search of Thomas, but finds neither him nor any of the
other disciples in the accompanying crowd. Again he feels weary and
heavily shuffles his feet, carefully scanning the sharp little
crumbling stones underfoot.

. . . . When the hammer was raised to nail the left hand of Jesus to
the tree Judas shut his eyes and for an eternity neither breathed, nor
saw, nor lived, only listened. But now iron struck iron with a gnashing
sound, and blow after blow followed blunt, brief, low. One could hear
the sharp nail entering the soft wood distending its particles.

One hand. It is not yet too late.

Another hand. It is not yet too late.

One foot, another. Is really all over? Irresolutely he opens his eyes
and sees the cross rise unsteadily and take root in the ditch. He sees
how the hands of Jesus convulse under the strain, extend agonizingly,
how the wounds spread and suddenly the collapsing abdomen sinks below
the ribs. The arms stretch and stretch and grow thin and white, they
twist at the shoulders, the wounds under the nails redden and expand;
they threaten to tear in an instant.. But, they stop. All motion has
stopped. Only the ribs move lightly, raised by His deep quick
breathing.

On the very brow of the Earth rises the cross and on it hangs Jesus
crucified. The terror and the dreams of Judas are accomplished—he rises
from his knees (he had been kneeling for some reason) and looks around
coldly. Thus may look some stern conqueror having purposed in his heart
to visit ruin and death upon all as he takes one last look on the
wealthy vanquished city, still living and noisy, but already spectral
beneath the cold hand of death. And suddenly as clearly as his terrible
triumph the Iscariot sees its ominous frailty. What if they realize? It
is not yet too late. Jesus is still living. There He gazes with his
beckoning, yearning eyes....

What can keep from tearing the thin veil that covers the eyes of the
people, so thin that it almost is not? What if they suddenly
comprehend? What if they move in one immense throng of men, women and
children, silent, without shouting, and overwhelm the soldiers,
drowning them in their own blood, root out the accursed cross and the
hands of the survivors raise aloft upon the brow of the Earth the
released Jesus? Hosannah! Hosannah!

Hosannah? No. Let Judas lie down on the ground, let him lie down and
bare his teeth like a dog and watch and wait until they all rise. But
what has happened to time? Now it stops and one longs to kick it
onward, to lash it like a lazy ass, now it rushes on madly downhill,
cutting off one’s breath, and one vainly seeks to steady oneself. There
Mary Magdalene is weeping. There weeps the mother of Jesus. Let them
weep. As if her tears meant anything, for that matter the tears of all
the mothers, all the women in the universe!

“What are tears?” asks Judas and frenziedly pushes onward the
disobliging time, pummels it with his fists, curses it like a slave. It
is someone else’s, that is why it does not obey. If it were Judas! but
it belongs to all these who are weeping, laughing, gossiping as if they
were in the marketplace. It belongs to the sun, it belongs to the cross
and to the heart of Jesus who is dying so slowly.

What a miserable heart is that of Judas. He is holding it with his
hands but it shouts Hosannah! so loudly that all will soon hear it. He
presses it tightly to the ground, and it shouts Hosannah! Hosannah!
like a poltroon scattering sacred mysteries in the street.

Suddenly a loud broken cry.. Dull shouts, a hurried commotion around
the cross. What is it? Have they comprehended?

No, Jesus is dying. And can this be? Yes, Jesus is dying. The pale arms
are limp, but the face, the breast and the legs are quivering with
short convulsions. And can this be? Yes, He is dying. The breath comes
less frequently. Now it has stopped. No, another sigh, Jesus is still
upon earth. And still another? No ... No ... No ... Jesus is dead.

It is finished. Hosannah! Hosannah!


The terror and the dreams are accomplished. Who will snatch the victory
from the Iscariot’s hands? It is finished. Let all nations, as many as
there be, flock to Golgotha and cry out with their millions of throats:
Hosannah! Hosannah! let them pour out seas of blood and tears at its
foot,—they will only find a shameful cross and a dead Jesus.

Calmly and coldly Judas scrutinizes the figure of the Dead, resting his
glance an instant upon the cheek on which but the night before he had
impressed his farewell kiss, and then deliberately walks away. Now the
whole earth belongs to him, and he walks firmly like a commander, like
a king, like He who in this universe is so infinitely and serenely
alone. He notes the mother of Jesus and addresses her sternly:

“Weepest thou, mother? Weep, weep, and a long time will weep with thee
all the mothers of earth. Until we shall return together with Jesus and
destroy death.”

What is he saying? Is he mad or merely mocking? But he seems serious
and his face is solemn, and his eyes no longer scurry about with insane
haste. There he stops and with a cold scrutiny views the earth, so
changed and small. How little it now is, and he feels the whole of the
orb beneath his feet. He looks at the little hills gently blushing
under the last rays of the sun, and he feels the mountains beneath his
feet. He gazes on the sky gaping wide with its azure mouth, he gazes on
the round little sun futilely striving to burn and to blind, and he
feels the sky and the sun beneath his heel. Infinitely and serenely
alone he has proudly sensed the impotence of all the powers that are at
work in the world and has cast them all down into the abyss.

And he walks on with calm and masterful steps. And the time moves
neither ahead of him nor in the rear: obediently with its invisible
mass it keeps pace with him.

It is finished.

CHAPTER IX.

Like an old hypocrite, coughing, smiling ingratiatingly, bowing
profusely, Judas of Kerioth, the Traitor, appeared before the
Sanhedrim. It was on the day following the murder of Jesus, towards
noon. They were all there, His judges and murderers, the aged Annas
with his sons, those accurate and repulsive copies of their father, and
Kaiaphas, his son-in-law, wormeaten with ambition, and other members of
the Sanhedrim, who had stolen their names from the memory of the
people, wealthy and renowned Sadducees, proud of their power and their
knowledge of the law. They received the Traitor in silence and their
haughty faces remained unmoved as if nothing had entered the room. And
even the very least among them, a nonentity utterly ignored by the
others, raised to the ceiling his birdlike features and looked as if
nothing had entered. Judas bowed, bowed and bowed, but they maintained
their silence: as if not a human being had entered, but some unclean
and unnoticeable insect had crept into their midst. But Judas of
Kerioth was not a man to feel embarrassed: they were silent, but he
kept on bowing and thought that if he had to keep on bowing until night
he would do so.

At last the impatient Kaiaphas inquired:

“What dost thou want?”

Judas bowed once more and modestly replied:

“It is I, Judas of Kerioth, who betrayed unto you Jesus of Nazareth.”

“Well, what now? Thou hast received thy reward. Go,” commanded Annas,
but Judas kept on bowing as if he had not heard the command. And
glancing at him Kaiaphas inquired of Annas:

“How much was he given?”

“Thirty pieces of silver.”

Kaiaphas smiled and even the senile Annas smiled also. A merry smile
flitted over all the haughty faces: and he of the birdlike countenance
even laughed. Paling perceptibly Judas broke in:

“Quite so. Quite so. Of course, a very small sum, but is Judas
dissatisfied? Does Judas cry out that he was robbed? He is content. Did
he not aid a sacred cause? A sacred cause, to be sure. Do not the
wisest of men listen now to Judas of Kerioth and think: ‘He is one of
us, Judas of Kerioth, he is our brother, our friend, Judas of Kerioth,
the Traitor.’ Does not Annas long to kneel before Judas and kiss his
hand? Only Judas will not suffer it, for he is a coward, he fears that
Annas might bite.”

Kaiaphas commanded:

“Drive this dog away. Why is he barking here?”

“Go hence. We have no time to listen to thy babbling,” indifferently
remarked Annas.

Judas straightened up and shut his eyes. That hypocrisy which he had so
lightly borne all his life he felt now as an insupportable burden, and
with one movement of his eyelids he cast it off. And when he looked up
again at Annas his glance was frank and straight and dreadful in its
naked truthfulness. But they paid no attention even to this.

“Wouldst thou be driven out with rods?” shouted Kaiaphas.

Suffocating with the burden of terrible words which he sought to lift
higher and higher as if to cast them down upon the heads of the judges
Judas hoarsely inquired:

“And do ye know who He was, He whom ye yesterday condemned and
crucified?”

“We know. Go.”

With one word he will now tear that thin veil that clouds their eyes,
and the whole earth will shake with the impact of the merciless truth.
They had souls—and they will lose them. They had life—and they will be
deprived of it. Light had been before their eyes—and eternal gloom and
terror will engulf them.

And these are the words that rend the speaker’s throat:

“He was not a deceiver. He was innocent and pure. Hear ye? Judas
cheated you. Judas betrayed unto you an Innocent One.”

He waited and heard the indifferent senile quaver of Annas: “And is
that all thou wouldst tell us?”

“Perhaps ye have not comprehended me?” Judas replied with dignity, all
color fading from his cheeks. “Judas deceived you. You have killed an
Innocent One.”

One of the judges, a man with a birdlike face, smiled, but Annas was
unmoved. Annas was bored, Annas yawned. And Kaiaphas joined him in a
yawn and wearily remarked: “I was told of the great mind of Judas of
Kerioth. But he is a fool, and a great bore as well as a fool.”

“What?” cried Judas shaken through and through with a desperate rage.
“And are ye wise? Judas has deceived you, do you hear me? Not Him did
he betray, but you, ye wise ones, you, ye strong ones, he betrayed unto
shameful death which shall not end in eternity. Thirty pieces of
silver! Yes. Yes. That is the price of your own blood, blood that is
filthy as the swill which the women cast out from the gates of their
houses. Oh Annas, Annas, aged, grey-bearded, stupid Annas, choking with
law, why didst thou not give another piece of silver, another obolus?
For at that price thou wilt be rated forever!”

“Begone!” shouted Kaiaphas trembling with wrath. But Annas stopped him
with a gesture and as stolidly asked Judas:

“Is this all now?”

“If I shall go into the desert and cry out to the wild beasts: ‘Beasts
of the desert, have ye heard the price they have put on their Jesus?’
What will the wild beasts do? They will creep out of their lairs, they
will howl with wrath; they will forget the fear of man and they will
rush here to devour you. If I tell unto the sea: ‘O sea, knowest thou
the price they have put upon their Jesus?’ If I shall tell unto the
mountains: ‘Ye mountains, know ye the price they have placed upon their
Jesus?’ The sea and the mountains will leave their places appointed
unto them since eternity and rush towards you and fall upon your
heads.”

“Would not Judas like to become a prophet? He speaks so loudly,”
remarked he of the birdlike face mockingly and ingratiatingly peering
into the eyes of Kaiaphas.

“To-day I saw a pallid sun. It looked down in terror upon this earth
inquiring: ‘Where, O where is man?’ I saw to-day a scorpion. He sat
upon a rock and laughing inquired: ‘Where, O where is man?’ I drew
nearer and glanced into his eyes. And he laughed and repeated: ‘Where,
O where is man?’ Where, oh, where is man? Tell me, I do not see. Has
Judas become blind, poor Judas of Kerioth?”

And the Iscariot wept loudly. And in that moment he resembled a madman.
Kaiaphas turned away contemptuously, but Annas thought awhile and
remarked: “I see, Judas, that thou didst really receive but a small
reward, and this evidently agitates thee. Here is more money, take it
and give unto thy children.”

He threw some

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