CHAPTER I

Produced by Jarrod Newton

THE CRUSHED FLOWER AND OTHER STORIES

By Leonid Andreyev

Translated by Herman Bernstein

CONTENTS

The Crushed Flower

A Story Which Will Never Be Finished

On the Day of the Crucifixion

The Serpent’s Story

Love, Faith and Hope

The Ocean

Judas Iscariot and Others

“The Man Who Found the Truth”

THE CRUSHED FLOWER

CHAPTER I

His name was Yura.

He was six years old, and the world was to him enormous, alive and

bewitchingly mysterious. He knew the sky quite well. He knew its deep

azure by day, and the white-breasted, half silvery, half golden clouds

slowly floating by. He often watched them as he lay on his back upon the

grass or upon the roof. But he did not know the stars so well, for he

went to bed early. He knew well and remembered only one star--the green,

bright and very attentive star that rises in the pale sky just before

you go to bed, and that seemed to be the only star so large in the whole

sky.

But best of all, he knew the earth in the yard, in the street and in the

garden, with all its inexhaustible wealth of stones, of velvety grass,

of hot sand and of that wonderfully varied, mysterious and delightful

dust which grown people did not notice at all from the height of their

enormous size. And in falling asleep, as the last bright image of the

passing day, he took along to his dreams a bit of hot, rubbed off stone

bathed in sunshine or a thick layer of tenderly tickling, burning dust.

When he went with his mother to the centre of the city along the large

streets, he remembered best of all, upon his return, the wide, flat

stones upon which his steps and his feet seemed terribly small, like

two little boats. And even the multitude of revolving wheels and horses’

heads did not impress themselves so clearly upon his memory as this new

and unusually interesting appearance of the ground.

Everything was enormous to him--the fences, the dogs and the people--but

that did not at all surprise or frighten him; that only made everything

particularly interesting; that transformed life into an uninterrupted

miracle. According to his measures, various objects seemed to him as

follows:

His father--ten yards tall.

His mother--three yards.

The neighbour’s angry dog--thirty yards.

Their own dog--ten yards, like papa.

Their house of one story was very, very tall--a mile.

The distance between one side of the street and the other--two miles.

Their garden and the trees in their garden seemed immense, infinitely

tall.

The city--a million--just how much he did not know.

And everything else appeared to him in the same way. He knew many

people, large and small, but he knew and appreciated better the little

ones with whom he could speak of everything. The grown people behaved

so foolishly and asked such absurd, dull questions about things that

everybody knew, that it was necessary for him also to make believe that

he was foolish. He had to lisp and give nonsensical answers; and, of

course, he felt like running away from them as soon as possible.

But there were over him and around him and within him two entirely

extraordinary persons, at once big and small, wise and foolish, at once

his own and strangers--his father and mother.

They must have been very good people, otherwise they could not have been

his father and mother; at any rate, they were charming and unlike other

people. He could say with certainty that his father was very great,

terribly wise, that he possessed immense power, which made him a person

to be feared somewhat, and it was interesting to talk with him about

unusual things, placing his hand in father’s large, strong, warm hand

for safety’s sake.

Mamma was not so large, and sometimes she was even very small; she was

very kind hearted, she kissed tenderly; she understood very well how he

felt when he had a pain in his little stomach, and only with her could

he relieve his heart when he grew tired of life, of his games or when he

was the victim of some cruel injustice. And if it was unpleasant to cry

in father’s presence, and even dangerous to be capricious, his tears

had an unusually pleasant taste in mother’s presence and filled his soul

with a peculiar serene sadness, which he could find neither in his games

nor in laughter, nor even in the reading of the most terrible fairy

tales.

It should be added that mamma was a beautiful woman and that everybody

was in love with her. That was good, for he felt proud of it, but that

was also bad--for he feared that she might be taken away. And every time

one of the men, one of those enormous, invariably inimical men who were

busy with themselves, looked at mamma fixedly for a long time, Yura felt

bored and uneasy. He felt like stationing himself between him and mamma,

and no matter where he went to attend to his own affairs, something was

drawing him back.

Sometimes mamma would utter a bad, terrifying phrase:

“Why are you forever staying around here? Go and play in your own room.”

There was nothing left for him to do but to go away. He would take a

book along or he would sit down to draw, but that did not always help

him. Sometimes mamma would praise him for reading but sometimes she

would say again:

“You had better go to your own room, Yurochka. You see, you’ve spilt

water on the tablecloth again; you always do some mischief with your

drawing.”

And then she would reproach him for being perverse. But he felt worst of

all when a dangerous and suspicious guest would come when Yura had to

go to bed. But when he lay down in his bed a sense of easiness came

over him and he felt as though all was ended; the lights went out, life

stopped; everything slept.

In all such cases with suspicious men Yura felt vaguely but very

strongly that he was replacing father in some way. And that made him

somewhat like a grown man--he was in a bad frame of mind, like a grown

person, but, therefore, he was unusually calculating, wise and serious.

Of course, he said nothing about this to any one, for no one would

understand him; but, by the manner in which he caressed father when he

arrived and sat down on his knees patronisingly, one could see in the

boy a man who fulfilled his duty to the end. At times father could not

understand him and would simply send him away to play or to sleep--Yura

never felt offended and went away with a feeling of great satisfaction.

He did not feel the need of being understood; he even feared it. At

times he would not tell under any circumstances why he was crying; at

times he would make believe that he was absent minded, that he heard

nothing, that he was occupied with his own affairs, but he heard and

understood.

And he had a terrible secret. He had noticed that these extraordinary

and charming people, father and mother, were sometimes unhappy and

were hiding this from everybody. Therefore he was also concealing his

discovery, and gave everybody the impression that all was well. Many

times he found mamma crying somewhere in a corner in the drawing room,

or in the bedroom--his own room was next to her bedroom--and one night,

very late, almost at dawn, he heard the terribly loud and angry voice of

father and the weeping voice of mother. He lay a long time, holding his

breath, but then he was so terrified by that unusual conversation in the

middle of the night that he could not restrain himself and he asked his

nurse in a soft voice:

“What are they saying?”

And the nurse answered quickly in a whisper:

“Sleep, sleep. They are not saying anything.”

“I am coming over to your bed.”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? Such a big boy!”

“I am coming over to your bed.”

Thus, terribly afraid lest they should be heard, they spoke in whispers

and argued in the dark; and the end was that Yura moved over to nurse’s

bed, upon her rough, but cosy and warm blanket.

In the morning papa and mamma were very cheerful and Yura pretended that

he believed them and it seemed that he really did believe them. But that

same evening, and perhaps it was another evening, he noticed his father

crying. It happened in the following way: He was passing his father’s

study, and the door was half open; he heard a noise and he looked in

quietly--father lay face downward upon his couch and cried aloud. There

was no one else in the room. Yura went away, turned about in his room

and came back--the door was still half open, no one but father was in

the room, and he was still sobbing. If he cried quietly, Yura could

understand it, but he sobbed loudly, he moaned in a heavy voice and his

teeth were gnashing terribly. He lay there, covering the entire couch,

hiding his head under his broad shoulders, sniffing heavily--and that

was beyond his understanding. And on the table, on the large table

covered with pencils, papers and a wealth of other things, stood the

lamp burning with a red flame, and smoking--a flat, greyish black strip

of smoke was coming out and bending in all directions.

Suddenly father heaved a loud sigh and stirred. Yura walked away

quietly. And then all was the same as ever. No one would have learned of

this; but the image of the enormous, mysterious and charming man who

was his father and who was crying remained in Yura’s memory as something

dreadful and extremely serious. And, if there were things of which he

did not feel like speaking, it was absolutely necessary to say nothing

of this, as though it were something sacred and terrible, and in that

silence he must love father all the more. But he must love so that

father should not notice it, and he must give the impression that it is

very jolly to live on earth.

And Yura succeeded in accomplishing all this. Father did not notice that

he loved him in a special manner; and it was really jolly to live on

earth, so there was no need for him to make believe. The threads of his

soul stretched themselves to all--to the sun, to the knife and the cane

he was peeling; to the beautiful and enigmatic distance which he saw

from the top of the iron roof; and it was hard for him to separate

himself from all that was not himself. When the grass had a strong and

fragrant odour it seemed to him that it was he who had such a fragrant

odour, and when he lay down in his bed, however strange it may seem,

together with him in his little bed lay down the enormous yard, the

street, the slant threads of the rain and the muddy pools and the whole,

enormous, live, fascinating, mysterious world. Thus all fell asleep

with him and thus all awakened with him, and together with him they

all opened their eyes. And there was one striking fact, worthy of the

profoundest reflection--if he placed a stick somewhere in the garden

in the evening it was there also in the morning; and the knuckle-bones

which he hid in a box in the barn remained there, although it was dark

and he went to his room for the night. Because of this he felt a natural

need for hiding under his pillow all that was most valuable to him.

Since things stood or lay there alone, they might also disappear of

their accord, he reasoned. And in general it was so wonderful and

pleasant that the nurse and the house and the sun existed not only

yesterday, but every day; he felt like laughing and singing aloud when

he awoke.

When people asked him what his name was he answered promptly:

“Yura.”

But some people were not satisfied with this alone, and they wanted to

know his full name--and then he replied with a certain effort:

“Yura Mikhailovich.”

And after a moment’s thought he added:

“Yura Mikhailovich Pushkarev.”

CHAPTER II

An unusual day arrived. It was mother’s birthday. Guests were expected

in the evening; military music was to play, and in the garden and upon

the terrace parti-coloured lanterns were to burn, and Yura need not go

to bed at 9 o’clock but could stay up as late as he liked.

Yura got up when all were still sleeping. He dressed himself and jumped

out quickly with the expectation of miracles. But he was unpleasantly

surprised--the rooms were in the same disorder as usual in the morning;

the cook and the chambermaid were still sleeping and the door was closed

with a hook--it was hard to believe that the people would stir and

commence to run about, and that the rooms would assume a holiday

appearance, and he feared for the fate of the festival. It was still

worse in the garden. The paths were not swept and there was not a single

lantern there. He grew very uneasy. Fortunately, Yevmen, the coachman,

was washing the carriage behind the barn in the back yard and though he

had done this frequently before, and though there was nothing unusual

about his appearance, Yura clearly felt something of the holiday in the

decisive way in which the coachman splashed the water from the bucket

with his sinewy arms, on which the sleeves of his red blouse were rolled

up to his elbows. Yevmen only glanced askance at Yura, and suddenly Yura

seemed to have noticed for the first time his broad, black, wavy beard

and thought respectfully that Yevmen was a very worthy man. He said:

“Good morning, Yevmen.”

Then all moved very rapidly. Suddenly the janitor appeared and started

to sweep the paths, suddenly the window in the kitchen was thrown open

and women’s voices were heard chattering; suddenly the chambermaid

rushed out with a little rug and started to beat it with a stick, as

though it were a dog. All commenced to stir; and the events, starting

simultaneously in different places, rushed with such mad swiftness that

it was impossible to catch up with them. While the nurse was giving Yura

his tea, people were beginning to hang up the wires for the lanterns in

the garden, and while the wires were being stretched in the garden, the

furniture was rearranged completely in the drawing room, and while the

furniture was rearranged in the drawing room, Yevmen, the coachman,

harnessed the horse and drove out of the yard with a certain special,

mysterious mission.

Yura succeeded in concentrating himself for some time with the greatest

difficulty. Together with father he was hanging up the lanterns. And

father was charming; he laughed, jested, put Yura on the ladder; he

himself climbed the thin, creaking rungs of the ladder, and finally both

fell down together with the ladder upon the grass, but they were not

hurt. Yura jumped up, while father remained lying on the grass, hands

thrown back under his head, looking with half-closed eyes at the

shining, infinite azure of the sky. Thus lying on the grass, with a

serious expression on his face, apparently not in the mood for play,

father looked very much like Gulliver longing for his land of giants.

Yura recalled something unpleasant; but to cheer his father up he sat

down astride upon his knees and said:

“Do you remember, father, when I was a little boy I used to sit down on

your knees and you used to shake me like a horse?”

But before he had time to finish he lay with his nose on the grass; he

was lifted in the air and thrown down with force--father had thrown him

high up with his knees, according to his old habit. Yura felt offended;

but father, entirely ignoring his anger, began to tickle him under his

armpits, so that Yura had to laugh against his will; and then father

picked him up like a little pig by the legs and carried him to the

terrace. And mamma was frightened.

“What are you doing? The blood will rush to his head!”

After which Yura found himself standing on his legs, red faced,

dishevelled, feeling very miserable and terribly happy at the same time.

The day was rushing fast, like a cat that is chased by a dog. Like

forerunners of the coming great festival, certain messengers appeared

with notes, wonderfully tasty cakes were brought, the dressmaker came

and locked herself in with mamma in the bedroom; then two gentlemen

arrived, then another gentleman, then a lady--evidently the entire city

was in a state of agitation. Yura examined the messengers as though they

were strange people from another world, and walked before them with

an air of importance as the son of the lady whose birthday was to be

celebrated; he met the gentlemen, he escorted the cakes, and toward

midday he was so exhausted that he suddenly started to despise life. He

quarrelled with the nurse and lay down in his bed face downward in order

to have his revenge on her; but he fell asleep immediately. He awoke

with the same feeling of hatred for life and a desire for revenge, but

after having looked at things with his eyes, which he washed with cold

water, he felt that both the world and life were so fascinating that

they were even funny.

When they dressed Yura in a red silk rustling blouse, and he thus

clearly became part of the festival, and he found on the terrace a long,

snow white table glittering with glass dishes, he again commenced to

spin about in the whirlpool of the onrushing events.

“The musicians have arrived! The musicians have arrived!” he cried,

looking for father or mother, or for any one who would treat the arrival

of the musicians with proper seriousness. Father and mother were sitting

in the garden--in the arbour which was thickly surrounded with wild

grapes--maintaining silence; the beautiful head of mother lay on

father’s shoulder; although father embraced her, he seemed very serious,

and he showed no enthusiasm when he was told of the arrival of the

musicians. Both treated their arrival with inexplicable indifference,

which called forth a feeling of sadness in Yura. But mamma stirred and

said:

“Let me go. I must go.”

“Remember,” said father, referring to something Yura did not understand

but which resounded in his heart with a light, gnawing alarm.

“Stop. Aren’t you ashamed?” mother laughed, and this laughter made

Yura feel still more alarmed, especially since father did not laugh but

maintained the same serious and mournful appearance of Gulliver pining

for his native land....

But soon all this was forgotten, for the wonderful festival had begun in

all its glory, mystery and grandeur. The guests came fast, and there was

no longer any place at the white table, which had been deserted but a

while before. Voices resounded, and laughter and merry jests, and the

music began to play. And on the deserted paths of the garden where but

a while ago Yura had wandered alone, imagining himself a prince in quest

of the sleeping princess, now appeared people with cigarettes and with

loud free speech. Yura met the first guests at the front entrance; he

looked at each one carefully, and he made the acquaintance and even the

friendship of some of them on the way from the corridor to the table.

Thus he managed to become friendly with the officer, whose name was

Mitenka--a grown man whose name was Mitenka--he said so himself. Mitenka

had a heavy leather sword, which was as cold as a snake, which could

not be taken out--but Mitenka lied; the sword was only fastened at the

handle with a silver cord, but it could be taken out very nicely; and

Yura felt vexed because the stupid Mitenka instead of carrying his

sword, as he always did, placed it in a corner in the hallway as a cane.

But even in the corner the sword stood out alone--one could see at once

that it was a sword. Another thing that displeased Yura was that another

officer came with Mitenka, an officer whom Yura knew and whose name was

also Yura Mikhailovich. Yura thought that the officer must have been

named so for fun. That wrong Yura Mikhailovich had visited them several

times; he even came once on horseback; but most of the time he came just

before little Yura had to go to bed. And little Yura went to bed, while

the unreal Yura Mikhailovich remained with mamma, and that caused him

to feel alarmed and sad; he was afraid that mamma might be deceived. He

paid no attention to the real Yura Mikhailovich: and now, walking

beside Mitenka, he did not seem to realise his guilt; he adjusted his

moustaches and maintained silence. He kissed mamma’s hand, and that

seemed repulsive to little Yura; but the stupid Mitenka also kissed

mamma’s hand, and thereby set everything aright.

But soon the guests arrived in such numbers, and there was such a

variety of them, as if they had fallen straight from the sky. And some

of them seemed to have fallen near the table, while others seemed

to have fallen into the garden. Suddenly several students and ladies

appeared in the path. The ladies were ordinary, but the students had

holes cut at the left side of their white coats--for their swords.

But they did not bring their swords along, no doubt because of their

pride--they were all very proud. And the ladies rushed over to Yura and

began to kiss him. Then the most beautiful of the ladies, whose name was

Ninochka, took Yura to the swing and swung him until she threw him down.

He hurt his left leg near the knee very painfully and even stained

his little white pants in that spot, but of course he did not cry, and

somehow his pain had quickly disappeared somewhere. At this time father

was leading an important-looking bald-headed old man in the garden, and

he asked Yurochka,

“Did you get hurt?”

But as the old man also smiled and also spoke, Yurochka did not kiss

father and did not even answer him; but suddenly he seemed to have lost

his mind--he commenced to squeal for joy and to run around. If he had a

bell as large as the whole city he would have rung that bell; but as

he had no such bell he climbed the linden tree, which stood near the

terrace, and began to show off. The guests below were laughing and mamma

was shouting, and suddenly the music began to play, and Yura soon stood

in front of the orchestra, spreading his legs apart and, according to

his old but long forgotten habit, put his finger into his mouth. The

sounds seemed to strike at him all at once; they roared and thundered;

they made his legs tingle, and they shook his jaw. They played so loudly

that there was nothing but the orchestra on the whole earth--everything

else had vanished. The brass ends of some of the trumpets even spread

apart and opened wide from the great roaring; Yura thought that it would

be interesting to make a military helmet out of such a trumpet.

Suddenly Yura grew sad. The music was still roaring, but now it was

somewhere far away, while within him all became quiet, and it was

growing ever more and more quiet. Heaving a deep sigh, Yura looked at

the sky--it was so high--and with slow footsteps he started out to make

the rounds of the holiday, of all its confused boundaries, possibilities

and distances. And everywhere he turned out to be too late; he wanted

to see how the tables for card playing would be arranged, but the tables

were ready and people had been playing cards for a long time when he

came up. He touched the chalk and the brush near his father and his

father immediately chased him away. What of that, what difference did

that make to him? He wanted to see how they would start to dance and

he was sure that they would dance in the parlour, but they had already

commenced to dance, not in the parlour, but under the linden trees. He

wanted to see how they would light the lanterns, but the lanterns had

all been lit already, every one of them, to the very last of the last.

They lit up of themselves like stars.

Mamma danced best of all.

CHAPTER III

Night arrived in the form of red, green and yellow lanterns. While there

were no lanterns, there was no night. And now it lay everywhere. It

crawled into the bushes; it covered the entire garden with darkness, as

with water, and it covered the sky. Everything looked as beautiful as

the very best fairy tale with coloured pictures. At one place the house

had disappeared entirely; only the square window made of red light

remained. And the chimney of the house was visible and there a certain

spark glistened, looked down and seemed to think of its own affairs.

What affairs do chimneys have? Various affairs.

Of the people in the garden only their voices remained. As long as some

one walked near the lanterns he could be seen; but as soon as he walked

away all seemed to melt, melt, melt, and the voice above the ground

laughed, talked, floating fearlessly in the darkness. But the officers

and the students could be seen even in the dark--a white spot, and above

it a small light of a cigarette and a big voice.

And now the most joyous thing commenced for Yura--the fairy tale. The

people and the festival and the lanterns remained on earth, while he

soared away, transformed into air, melting in the night like a grain of

dust. The great mystery of the night became his mystery, and his little

heart yearned for still more mystery; in its solitude his heart yearned

for the fusion of life and death. That was Yura’s second madness that

evening--he became invisible. Although he could enter the kitchen as

others did, he climbed with difficulty upon the roof of the cellar over

which the kitchen window was flooded with light and he looked in; there

people were roasting something, busying themselves, and did not know

that he was looking at them--and yet he saw everything! Then he went

away and looked at papa’s and mamma’s bedroom; the room was empty; but

the beds had already been made for the night and a little image lamp was

burning--he saw that. Then he looked into his own room; his own bed was

also ready, waiting for him. He passed the room where they were playing

cards, also as an invisible being, holding his breath and stepping so

lightly, as though he were soaring in the air. Only when he reached the

garden, in the dark, he drew a proper breath. Then he resumed his quest.

He came over to people who were talking so near him that he could touch

them with his hand, and yet they did not know that he was there, and

they continued to speak undisturbed. He watched Ninochka for a long

time until he learned all her life--he was almost trapped. Ninochka even

exclaimed:

“Yurochka, is that you?”

He lay down behind a bush and held his breath. Thus Ninochka was

deceived. And she had almost caught him! To make things more mysterious,

he started to crawl instead of walk--now the alleys seemed full of

danger. Thus a long time went by--according to his own calculations

at the time, ten years went by, and he was still hiding and going ever

farther away from the people. And thus he went so far that he was seized

with dread--between him and the past, when he was walking like everybody

else, an abyss was formed over which it seemed to him impossible to

cross. Now he would have come out into the light but he was afraid--it

was impossible; all was lost. And the music was still playing, and

everybody had forgotten him, even mamma. He was alone. There was a

breath of cold from the dewy grass; the gooseberry bush scratched him,

the darkness could not be pierced with his eyes, and there was no end to

it. O Lord!

Without any definite plan, in a state of utter despair, Yura now crawled

toward a mysterious, faintly blinking light. Fortunately it turned out

to be the same arbour which was covered with wild grapes and in which

father and mother had sat that day. He did not recognise it at first!

Yes, it was the same arbour. The lights of the lanterns everywhere had

gone out, and only two were still burning; a yellow little lantern was

still burning brightly, and the other, a yellow one, too, was already

beginning to blink. And though there was no wind, that lantern quivered

from its own blinking, and everything seemed to quiver slightly. Yura

was about to get up to go into the arbour and there begin life anew,

with an imperceptible transition from the old, when suddenly he heard

voices in the arbour. His mother and the wrong Yura Mikhailovich, the

officer, were talking. The right Yura grew petrified in his place; his

heart stood still; and his breathing ceased.

Mamma said:

“Stop. You have lost your mind! Somebody may come in here.”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“And you?”

Mamma said:

“I am twenty-six years old to-day. I am old!”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“He does not know anything. Is it possible that he does not know

anything? He does not even suspect? Listen, does he shake everybody’s

hand so firmly?”

Mamma said:

“What a question! Of course he does! That is--no, not everybody.”

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“I feel sorry for him.”

Mamma said:

“For him?”

And she laughed strangely. Yurochka understood that they were talking

of him, of Yurochka--but what did it all mean, O Lord? And why did she

laugh?

Yura Mikhailovich said:

“Where are you going? I will not let you go.”

Mamma said:

“You offend me. Let me go! No, you have no right to kiss me. Let me go!”

They became silent. Now Yurochka looked through the leaves and saw that

the officer embraced and kissed mamma. Then they spoke of something, but

he understood nothing; he heard nothing; he suddenly forgot the meaning

of words. And he even forgot the words which he knew and used before.

He remembered but one word, “Mamma,” and he whispered it uninterruptedly

with his dry lips, but that word sounded so terrible, more terrible than

anything. And in order not to exclaim it against his will, Yura covered

his mouth with both hands, one upon the other, and thus remained until

the officer and mamma went out of the arbour.

When Yura came into the room where the people were playing cards, the

serious, bald-headed man was scolding papa for something, brandishing

the chalk, talking, shouting, saying that father did not act as he

should have acted, that what he had done was impossible, that only bad

people did such things, that the old man would never again play with

father, and so on. And father was smiling, waving his hands, attempting

to say something, but the old man would not let him, and he commenced to

shout more loudly. And the old man was a little fellow, while father

was big, handsome and tall, and his smile was sad, like that of Gulliver

pining for his native land of tall and handsome people.

Of course, he must conceal from him--of course, he must conceal from

him that which happened in the arbour, and he must love him, and he felt

that he loved him so much. And with a wild cry Yura rushed over to the

bald-headed old man and began to beat him with his fists with all his

strength.

“Don’t you dare insult him! Don’t you dare insult him!”

O Lord, what has happened! Some one laughed; some one shouted. Father

caught Yura in his arms, pressed him closely, causing him pain, and

cried:

“Where is mother? Call mother.”

Then Yura was seized with a whirlwind of frantic tears, of desperate

sobs and mortal anguish. But through his frantic tears he looked at

his father to see whether he had guessed it, and when mother came in he

started to shout louder in order to divert any suspicion. But he did not

go to her arms; he clung more closely to father, so that father had to

carry him into his room. But it seemed that he himself did not want

to part with Yura. As soon as he carried him out of the room where the

guests were he began to kiss him, and he repeated:

“Oh, my dearest! Oh, my dearest!”

And he said to mamma, who walked behind him:

“Just think of the boy!”

Mamma said:

“That is all due to your whist. You were scolding each other so, that

the child was frightened.”

Father began to laugh, and answered:

“Yes, he does scold harshly. But Yura, oh, what a dear boy!”

In his room Yura demanded that father himself undress him. “Now, you

are getting cranky,” said father. “I don’t know how to do it; let mamma

undress you.”

“But you stay here.”

Mamma had deft fingers and she undressed him quickly, and while she was

removing his clothes Yura held father by the hand. He ordered the nurse

out of the room; but as father was beginning to grow angry, and he might

guess what had happened in the arbour, decided to let him go. But while

kissing him he said cunningly:

“He will not scold you any more, will he?”

Papa smiled. Then he laughed, kissed Yura once more and said:

“No, no. And if he does I will throw him across the fence.”

“Please, do,” said Yura. “You can do it. You are so strong.”

“Yes, I am pretty strong. But you had better sleep! Mamma will stay here

with you a while.”

Mamma said:

“I will send the nurse in. I must attend to the supper.”

Father shouted:

“There is plenty of time for that! You can stay a while with the child.”

But mamma insisted:

“We have guests! We can’t leave them that way.”

But father looked at her steadfastly, and shrugged his shoulders. Mamma

decided to stay.

“Very well, then, I’ll stay here. But see that Maria does not mix up the

wines.”

Usually it was thus: when mamma sat near Yura as he was falling asleep

she held his hand until the last moment--that is what she usually did.

But now she sat as though she were all alone, as though Yura, her son,

who was falling asleep, was not there at all--she folded her hands in

her lap and looked into the distance. To attract her attention Yura

stirred, but mamma said briefly:

“Sleep.”

And she continued to look. But when Yura’s eyes had grown heavy and he

was falling asleep with all his sorrow and his tears, mamma suddenly

went down on her knees before the little bed and kissed Yura firmly

many, many times. But her kisses were wet--hot and wet.

“Why are your kisses wet? Are you crying?” muttered Yura.

“Yes, I am crying.”

“You must not cry.”

“Very well, I won’t,” answered mother submissively.

And again she kissed him firmly, firmly, frequently, frequently. Yura

lifted both hands with a heavy movement, clasped his mother around the

neck and pressed his burning cheek firmly to her wet and cold cheek.

She was his mother, after all; there was nothing to be done. But how

painful; how bitterly painful!

A STORY WHICH WILL NEVER BE FINISHED

Exhausted with the painful uncertainty of the day, I fell asleep,

dressed, on my bed. Suddenly my wife aroused me. In her hand a candle

was flickering, which appeared to me in the middle of the night as

bright as the sun. And behind the candle her chin, too, was trembling,

and enormous, unfamiliar dark eyes stared motionlessly.

“Do you know,” she said, “do you know they are building barricades on

our street?”

It was quiet. We looked straight into each other’s eyes, and I felt my

face turning pale. Life vanished somewhere and then returned again with

a loud throbbing of the heart. It was quiet and the flame of the candle

was quivering, and it was small, dull, but sharp-pointed, like a crooked

sword.

“Are you afraid?” I asked.

The pale chin trembled, but her eyes remained motionless and looked

at me, without blinking, and only now I noticed what unfamiliar, what

terrible eyes they were. For ten years I had looked into them and had

known them better than my own eyes, and now there was something new in

them which I am unable to define. I would have called it pride, but there

was something different in them, something new, entirely new. I took her

hand; it was cold. She grasped my hand firmly and there was something

new, something I had not known before, in her handclasp.

She had never before clasped my hand as she did this time.

“How long?” I asked.

“About an hour already. Your brother has gone away. He was apparently

afraid that you would not let him go, so he went away quietly. But I saw

it.”

It was true then; the time had arrived. I rose, and, for some reason,

spent a long time washing myself, as was my wont in the morning before

going to work, and my wife held the light. Then we put out the light and

walked over to the window overlooking the street. It was spring; it was

May, and the air that came in from the open window was such as we

had never before felt in that old, large city. For several days the

factories and the roads had been idle; and the air, free from smoke,

was filled with the fragrance of the fields and the flowering gardens,

perhaps with that of the dew. I do not know what it is that smells so

wonderfully on spring nights when I go out far beyond the outskirts of

the city. Not a lantern, not a carriage, not a single sound of the city

over the unconcerned stony surface; if you had closed your eyes you

would really have thought that you were in a village. There a dog was

barking. I had never before heard a dog barking in the city, and I

laughed for happiness.

“Listen, a dog is barking.”

My wife embraced me, and said:

“It is there, on the corner.”

We bent over the window-sill, and there, in the transparent, dark depth,

we saw some movement--not people, but movement. Something was moving

about like a shadow. Suddenly the blows of a hatchet or a hammer

resounded. They sounded so cheerful, so resonant, as in a forest, as

on a river when you are mending a boat or building a dam. And in the

presentiment of cheerful, harmonious work, I firmly embraced my wife,

while she looked above the houses, above the roofs, looked at the young

crescent of the moon, which was already setting. The moon was so young,

so strange, even as a young girl who is dreaming and is afraid to tell

her dreams; and it was shining only for itself.

“When will we have a full moon?...”

“You must not! You must not!” my wife interrupted. “You must not speak

of that which will be. What for? IT is afraid of words. Come here.”

It was dark in the room, and we were silent for a long time, without

seeing each other, yet thinking of the same thing. And when I started

to speak, it seemed to me that some one else was speaking; I was not

afraid, yet the voice of the other one was hoarse, as though suffocating

for thirst.

“What shall it be?”

“And--they?”

“You will be with them. It will be enough for them to have a mother. I

cannot remain.”

“And I? Can I?”

I know that she did not stir from her place, but I felt distinctly that

she was going away, that she was far--far away. I began to feel so cold,

I stretched out my hands--but she pushed them aside.

“People have such a holiday once in a hundred years, and you want to

deprive me of it. Why?” she said.

“But they may kill you there. And our children will perish.”

“Life will be merciful to me. But even if they should perish--”

And this was said by her, my wife--a woman with whom I had lived for ten

years. But yesterday she had known nothing except our children, and had

been filled with fear for them; but yesterday she had caught with terror

the stern symptoms of the future. What had come over her? Yesterday--but

I, too, forgot everything that was yesterday.

“Do you want to go with me?”

“Do not be angry”--she thought that I was afraid, angry--“Don’t be

angry. To-night, when they began to knock here, and you were still

sleeping, I suddenly understood that my husband, my children--all these

were simply temporary... I love you, very much”--she found my hand and

shook it with the same new, unfamiliar grasp--“but do you hear how

they are knocking there? They are knocking, and something seems to be

falling, some kind of walls seem to be falling--and it is so spacious,

so wide, so free. It is night now, and yet it seems to me that the sun

is shining. I am thirty years of age, and I am old already, and yet it

seems to me that I am only seventeen, and that I love some one with my

first love--a great, boundless love.”

“What a night!” I said. “It is as if the city were no more. You are

right, I have also forgotten how old I am.”

“They are knocking, and it sounds to me like music, like singing of

which I have always dreamed--all my life. And I did not know whom it was

that I loved with such a boundless love, which made me feel like crying

and laughing and singing. There is freedom--do not take my happiness

away, let me die with those who are working there, who are calling the

future so bravely, and who are rousing the dead past from its grave.”

“There is no such thing as time.”

“What do you say?”

“There is no such thing as time. Who are you? I did not know you. Are

you a human being?”

She burst into such ringing laughter as though she were really only

seventeen years old.

“I did not know you, either. Are you, too, a human being? How strange

and how beautiful it is--a human being!”

That which I am writing happened long ago, and those who are sleeping

now in the sleep of grey life and who die without awakening--those will

not believe me: in those days there was no such thing as time. The sun

was rising and setting, and the hand was moving around the dial--but

time did not exist. And many other great and wonderful things happened

in those days.... And those who are sleeping now the sleep of this grey

life and who die without awakening, will not believe me.

“I must go,” said I.

“Wait, I will give you something to eat. You haven’t eaten anything

to-day. See how sensible I am: I shall go to-morrow. I shall give the

children away and find you.”

“Comrade,” said I.

“Yes, comrade.”

Through the open windows came the breath of the fields, and silence,

and from time to time, the cheerful strokes of the axe, and I sat by the

table and looked and listened, and everything was so mysteriously new

that I felt like laughing. I looked at the walls and they seemed to me

to be transparent. As if embracing all eternity with one glance, I saw

how all these walls had been built, I saw how they were being destroyed,

and I alone always was and always will be. Everything will pass, but

I shall remain. And everything seemed to me strange and queer--so

unnatural--the table and the food upon it, and everything outside of me.

It all seemed to me transparent and light, existing only temporarily.

“Why don’t you eat?” asked my wife.

I smiled:

“Bread--it is so strange.”

She glanced at the bread, at the stale, dry crust of bread, and for some

reason her face became sad. Still continuing to look at it, she silently

adjusted her apron with her hands and her head turned slightly, very

slightly, in the direction where the children were sleeping.

“Do you feel sorry for them?” I asked.

She shook her head without removing her eyes from the bread.

“No, but I was thinking of what happened in our life before.”

How incomprehensible! As one who awakens from a long sleep, she surveyed

the room with her eyes and all seemed to her so incomprehensible. Was

this the place where we had lived?

“You were my wife.”

“And there are our children.”

“Here, beyond the wall, your father died.”

“Yes. He died. He died without awakening.”

The smallest child, frightened at something in her sleep, began to cry.

And this simple childish cry, apparently demanding something, sounded

so strange amid these phantom walls, while there, below, people were

building barricades.

She cried and demanded--caresses, certain queer words and promises to

soothe her. And she soon was soothed.

“Well, go!” said my wife in a whisper.

“I should like to kiss them.”

“I am afraid you will wake them up.”

“No, I will not.”

It turned out that the oldest child was awake--he had heard and

understood everything. He was but nine years old, but he understood

everything--he met me with a deep, stern look.

“Will you take your gun?” he asked thoughtfully and earnestly.

“I will.”

“It is behind the stove.”

“How do you know? Well, kiss me. Will you remember me?”

He jumped up in his bed, in his short little shirt, hot from sleep, and

firmly clasped my neck. His arms were burning--they were so soft and

delicate. I lifted his hair on the back of his head and kissed his

little neck.

“Will they kill you?” he whispered right into my ear.

“No, I will come back.”

But why did he not cry? He had cried sometimes when I had simply left

the house for a while: Is it possible that IT had reached him, too? Who

knows? So many strange things happened during the great days.

I looked at the walls, at the bread, at the candle, at the flame which

had kept flickering, and took my wife by the hand.

“Well--‘till we meet again!”

“Yes--‘till we meet again!”

That was all. I went out. It was dark on the stairway and there was

the odour of old filth. Surrounded on all sides by the stones and the

darkness, groping down the stairs, I was seized with a tremendous,

powerful and all-absorbing feeling of the new, unknown and joyous

something to which I was going.

ON THE DAY OF THE CRUCIFIXION

On that terrible day, when the universal injustice was committed and

Jesus Christ was crucified in Golgotha among robbers--on that day, from

early morning, Ben-Tovit, a tradesman of Jerusalem, suffered from an

unendurable toothache. His toothache had commenced on the day before,

toward evening; at first his right jaw started to pain him, and one

tooth, the one right next the wisdom tooth, seemed to have risen

somewhat, and when his tongue touched the tooth, he felt a slightly

painful sensation. After supper, however, his toothache had passed, and

Ben-Tovit had forgotten all about it--he had made a profitable deal on

that day, had bartered an old donkey for a young, strong one, so he was

very cheerful and paid no heed to any ominous signs.

And he slept very soundly. But just before daybreak something began to

disturb him, as if some one were calling him on a very important matter,

and when Ben-Tovit awoke angrily, his teeth were aching, aching openly

and maliciously, causing him an acute, drilling pain. And he could no

longer understand whether it was only the same tooth that had ached on

the previous day, or whether others had joined that tooth; Ben-Tovit’s

entire mouth and his head were filled with terrible sensations of pain,

as though he had been forced to chew thousands of sharp, red-hot nails,

he took some water into his mouth from an earthen jug--for a minute the

acuteness of the pain subsided, his teeth twitched and swayed like a

wave, and this sensation was even pleasant as compared with the other.

Ben-Tovit lay down again, recalled his new donkey, and thought how

happy he would have been if not for his toothache, and he wanted to fall

asleep. But the water was warm, and five minutes later his toothache

began to rage more severely than ever; Ben-Tovit sat up in his bed and

swayed back and forth like a pendulum. His face became wrinkled and

seemed to have shrunk, and a drop of cold perspiration was hanging on

his nose, which had turned pale from his sufferings. Thus, swaying back

and forth and groaning for pain, he met the first rays of the sun, which

was destined to see Golgotha and the three crosses, and grow dim from

horror and sorrow.

Ben-Tovit was a good and kind man, who hated any injustice, but when his

wife awoke he said many unpleasant things to her, opening his mouth with

difficulty, and he complained that he was left alone, like a jackal,

to groan and writhe for pain. His wife met the undeserved reproaches

patiently, for she knew that they came not from an angry heart--and she

brought him numerous good remedies: rats’ litter to be applied to his

cheek, some strong liquid in which a scorpion was preserved, and a real

chip of the tablets that Moses had broken. He began to feel a little

better from the rats’ litter, but not for long, also from the liquid and

the stone, but the pain returned each time with renewed intensity.

During the moments of rest Ben-Tovit consoled himself with the thought

of the little donkey, and he dreamed of him, and when he felt worse he

moaned, scolded his wife, and threatened to dash his head against a rock

if the pain should not subside. He kept pacing back and forth on the

flat roof of his house from one corner to the other, feeling ashamed to

come close to the side facing the street, for his head was tied around

with a kerchief like that of a woman. Several times children came

running to him and told him hastily about Jesus of Nazareth. Ben-Tovit

paused, listened to them for a while, his face wrinkled, but then he

stamped his foot angrily and chased them away. He was a kind man and

he loved children, but now he was angry at them for bothering him with

trifles.

It was disagreeable to him that a large crowd had gathered in the street

and on the neighbouring roofs, doing nothing and looking curiously at

Ben-Tovit, who had his head tied around with a kerchief like a woman. He

was about to go down, when his wife said to him:

“Look, they are leading robbers there. Perhaps that will divert you.”

“Let me alone. Don’t you see how I am suffering?” Ben-Tovit answered

angrily.

But there was a vague promise in his wife’s words that there might be a

relief for his toothache, so he walked over to the parapet unwillingly.

Bending his head on one side, closing one eye, and supporting his cheek

with his hand, his face assumed a squeamish, weeping expression, and he

looked down to the street.

On the narrow street, going uphill, an enormous crowd was moving forward

in disorder, covered with dust and shouting uninterruptedly. In the

middle of the crowd walked the criminals, bending down under the weight

of their crosses, and over them the scourges of the Roman soldiers were

wriggling about like black snakes. One of the men, he of the long light

hair, in a torn blood-stained cloak, stumbled over a stone which was

thrown under his feet, and he fell. The shouting grew louder, and the

crowd, like coloured sea water, closed in about the man on the ground.

Ben-Tovit suddenly shuddered for pain; he felt as though some one had

pierced a red-hot needle into his tooth and turned it there; he groaned

and walked away from the parapet, angry and squeamishly indifferent.

“How they are shouting!” he said enviously, picturing to himself their

wide-open mouths with strong, healthy teeth, and how he himself would

have shouted if he had been well. This intensified his toothache, and he

shook his muffled head frequently, and roared: “Moo-Moo....”

“They say that He restored sight to the blind,” said his wife,

who remained standing at the parapet, and she threw down a little

cobblestone near the place where Jesus, lifted by the whips, was moving

slowly.

“Of course, of course! He should have cured my toothache,” replied

Ben-Tovit ironically, and he added bitterly with irritation: “What dust

they have kicked up! Like a herd of cattle! They should all be driven

away with a stick! Take me down, Sarah!”

The wife proved to be right. The spectacle had diverted Ben-Tovit

slightly--perhaps it was the rats’ litter that had helped after all--he

succeeded in falling asleep. When he awoke, his toothache had passed

almost entirely, and only a little inflammation had formed over his

right jaw. His wife told him that it was not noticeable at all, but

Ben-Tovit smiled cunningly--he knew how kind-hearted his wife was and

how fond she was of telling him pleasant things.

Samuel, the tanner, a neighbour of Ben-Tovit’s, came in, and Ben-Tovit

led him to see the new little donkey and listened proudly to the warm

praises for himself and his animal.

Then, at the request of the curious Sarah, the three went to Golgotha to

see the people who had been crucified. On the way Ben-Tovit told Samuel

in detail how he had felt a pain in his right jaw on the day before,

and how he awoke at night with a terrible toothache. To illustrate it

he made a martyr’s face, closing his eyes, shook his head, and groaned

while the grey-bearded Samuel nodded his head compassionately and said:

“Oh, how painful it must have been!”

Ben-Tovit was pleased with Samuel’s attitude, and he repeated the story

to him, then went back to the past, when his first tooth was spoiled

on the left side. Thus, absorbed in a lively conversation, they reached

Golgotha. The sun, which was destined to shine upon the world on that

terrible day, had already set beyond the distant hills, and in the

west a narrow, purple-red strip was burning, like a stain of blood. The

crosses stood out darkly but vaguely against this background, and at the

foot of the middle cross white kneeling figures were seen indistinctly.

The crowd had long dispersed; it was growing chilly, and after a glance

at the crucified men, Ben-Tovit took Samuel by the arm and carefully

turned him in the direction toward his house. He felt that he was

particularly eloquent just then, and he was eager to finish the story

of his toothache. Thus they walked, and Ben-Tovit made a martyr’s

face, shook his head and groaned skilfully, while Samuel nodded

compassionately and uttered exclamations from time to time, and from the

deep, narrow defiles, out of the distant, burning plains, rose the black

night. It seemed as though it wished to hide from the view of heaven the

great crime of the earth.

THE SERPENT’S STORY

Hush! Hush! Hush! Come closer to me. Look into my eyes!

I always was a fascinating creature, tender, sensitive, and grateful.

I was wise and I was noble. And I am so flexible in the writhing of my

graceful body that it will afford you joy to watch my easy dance. Now

I shall coil up into a ring, flash my scales dimly, wind myself around

tenderly and clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. One in

many! One in many!

Hush! Hush! Look into my eyes!

You do not like my writhing and my straight, open look? Oh, my head

is heavy--therefore I sway about so quietly. Oh, my head is

heavy--therefore I look so straight ahead, as I sway about. Come closer

to me. Give me a little warmth; stroke my wise forehead with your

fingers; in its fine outlines you will find the form of a cup into which

flows wisdom, the dew of the evening-flowers. When I draw the air by my

writhing, a trace is left in it--the design of the finest of webs,

the web of dream-charms, the enchantment of noiseless movements, the

inaudible hiss of gliding lines. I am silent and I sway myself. I look

ahead and I sway myself. What strange burden am I carrying on my neck?

I love you.

I always was a fascinating creature, and loved tenderly those I loved.

Come closer to me. Do you see my white, sharp, enchanting little teeth?

Kissing, I used to bite. Not painfully, no--just a trifle. Caressing

tenderly, I used to bite a little, until the first bright little drops

appeared, until a cry came forth which sounded like the laugh produced

by tickling. That was very pleasant--think not it was unpleasant;

otherwise they whom I kissed would not come back for more kisses. It

is now that I can kiss only once--how sad--only once! One kiss for

each--how little for a loving heart, for a sensitive soul, striving for

a great union! But it is only I, the sad one, who kiss but once, and

must seek love again--he knows no other love any more: to him my one,

tender, nuptial kiss is inviolable and eternal. I am speaking to you

frankly; and when my story is ended--I will kiss you.

I love you.

Look into my eyes. Is it not true that mine is a magnificent, a powerful

look? A firm look and a straight look? And it is steadfast, like steel

forced against your heart. I look ahead and sway myself, I look and I

enchant; in my green eyes I gather your fear, your loving, fatigued,

submissive longing. Come closer to me. Now I am a queen and you dare not

fail to see my beauty; but there was a strange time--Ah, what a

strange time! Ah, what a strange time! At the mere recollection I am

agitated--Ah, what a strange time! No one loved me. No one respected

me. I was persecuted with cruel ferocity, trampled in the mud and

jeered--Ah, what a strange time it was! One in many! One in many!

I say to you: Come closer to me.

Why did they not love me? At that time I was also a fascinating

creature, but without malice; I was gentle and I danced wonderfully.

But they tortured me. They burnt me with fire. Heavy and coarse beasts

trampled upon me with the dull steps of terribly heavy feet; cold tusks

of bloody mouths tore my tender body--and in my powerless sorrow I bit

the sand, I swallowed the dust of the ground--I was dying of despair.

Crushed, I was dying every day. Every day I was dying of despair.

Oh, what a terrible time that was! The stupid forest has forgotten

everything--it does not remember that time, but you have pity on me.

Come closer to me. Have pity on me, on the offended, on the sad one, on

the loving one, on the one who dances so beautifully.

I love you.

How could I defend myself? I had only my white, wonderful, sharp little

teeth--they were good only for kisses. How could I defend myself? It is

only now that I carry on my neck this terrible burden of a head, and my

look is commanding and straight, but then my head was light and my eyes

gazed meekly. Then I had no poison yet. Oh, my head is so heavy and it

is hard for me to hold it up! Oh, I have grown tired of my look--two

stones are in my forehead, and these are my eyes. Perhaps the glittering

stones are precious--but it is hard to carry them instead of gentle

eyes--they oppress my brain. It is so hard for my head! I look ahead and

sway myself; I see you in a green mist--you are so far away. Come closer

to me.

You see, even in sorrow I am beautiful, and my look is languid because

of my love. Look into my pupil; I will narrow and widen it, and give it

a peculiar glitter--the twinkling of a star at night, the playfulness of

all precious stones--of diamonds, of green emeralds, of yellowish

topaz, of blood-red rubies. Look into my eyes: It is I, the queen--I am

crowning myself, and that which is glittering, burning and glowing--that

robs you of your reason, your freedom and your life--it is poison. It is

a drop of my poison.

How has it happened? I do not know. I did not bear ill-will to the

living.

I lived and suffered. I was silent. I languished. I hid myself hurriedly

when I could hide myself; I crawled away hastily. But they have never

seen me weep--I cannot weep; and my easy dance grew ever faster and ever

more beautiful. Alone in the stillness, alone in the thicket, I danced

with sorrow in my heart--they despised my swift dance and would have

been glad to kill me as I danced. Suddenly my head began to grow

heavy--How strange it is!--My head grew heavy. Just as small and

beautiful, just as wise and beautiful, it had suddenly grown terribly

heavy; it bent my neck to the ground, and caused me pain. Now I am

somewhat used to it, but at first it was dreadfully awkward and painful.

I thought I was sick.

And suddenly... Come closer to me. Look into my eyes. Hush! Hush! Hush!

And suddenly my look became heavy--it became fixed and strange--I was

even frightened! I want to glance and turn away--but cannot. I always

look straight ahead, I pierce with my eyes ever more deeply, I am as

though petrified. Look into my eyes. It is as though I am petrified, as

though everything I look upon is petrified. Look into my eyes.

I love you. Do not laugh at my frank story, or I shall be angry. Every

hour I open my sensitive heart, for all my efforts are in vain--I am

alone. My one and last kiss is full of ringing sorrow--and the one I

love is not here, and I seek love again, and I tell my tale in vain--my

heart cannot bare itself, and the poison torments me and my head grows

heavier. Am I not beautiful in my despair? Come closer to me.

I love you.

Once I was bathing in a stagnant swamp in the forest--I love to be

clean--it is a sign of noble birth, and I bathe frequently. While

bathing, dancing in the water, I saw my reflection, and as always, fell

in love with myself. I am so fond of the beautiful and the wise! And

suddenly I saw--on my forehead, among my other inborn adornments, a new,

strange sign--Was it not this sign that has brought the heaviness, the

petrified look, and the sweet taste in my mouth? Here a cross is darkly

outlined on my forehead--right here--look. Come closer to me. Is this

not strange? But I did not understand it at that time, and I liked

it. Let there be no more adornment. And on the same day, on that same

terrible day, when the cross appeared, my first kiss became also my

last--my kiss became fatal. One in many! One in many!

Oh!

You love precious stones, but think, my beloved, how far more precious

is a little drop of my poison. It is such a little drop.--Have you ever

seen it? Never, never. But you shall find it out. Consider, my beloved,

how much suffering, painful humiliation, powerless rage devoured me:

I had to experience in order to bring forth this little drop. I am a

queen! I am a queen! In one drop, brought forth by myself, I carry

death unto the living, and my kingdom is limitless, even as grief

is limitless, even as death is limitless. I am queen! My look is

inexorable. My dance is terrible! I am beautiful! One in many! One in

many!

Oh!

Do not fall. My story is not yet ended. Come closer to me.

And then I crawled into the stupid forest, into my green dominion.

Now it is a new way, a terrible way! I was kind like a queen; and like

a queen I bowed graciously to the right and to the left. And they--they

ran away! Like a queen I bowed benevolently to the right and to the

left--and they, queer people--they ran away. What do you think? Why did

they run away? What do you think? Look into my eyes. Do you see in them

a certain glimmer and a flash? The rays of my crown blind your eyes, you

are petrified, you are lost. I shall soon dance my last dance---do not

fall. I shall coil into rings, I shall flash my scales dimly, and I

shall clasp my steel body in my gentle, cold embraces. Here I am!

Accept my only kiss, my nuptial kiss--in it is the deadly grief of all

oppressed lives. One in many! One in many!

Bend down to me. I love you.

Die!

LOVE, FAITH AND HOPE

He loved.

According to his passport, he was called Max Z. But as it was stated

in the same passport that he had no special peculiarities about his

features, I prefer to call him Mr. N+1. He represented a long line of

young men who possess wavy, dishevelled locks, straight, bold, and

open looks, well-formed and strong bodies, and very large and powerful

hearts.

All these youths have loved and perpetuated their love. Some of them

have succeeded in engraving it on the tablets of history, like Henry

IV; others, like Petrarch, have made literary preserves of it; some

have availed themselves for that purpose of the newspapers, wherein the

happenings of the day are recorded, and where they figured among those

who had strangled themselves, shot themselves, or who had been shot by

others; still others, the happiest and most modest of all, perpetuated

their love by entering it in the birth records--by creating posterity.

The love of N+1 was as strong as death, as a certain writer put it; as

strong as life, he thought.

Max was firmly convinced that he was the first to have discovered the

method of loving so intensely, so unrestrainedly, so passionately, and

he regarded with contempt all who had loved before him. Still more, he

was convinced that even after him no one would love as he did, and he

felt sorry that with his death the secret of true love would be lost

to mankind. But, being a modest young man, he attributed part of his

achievement to her--to his beloved. Not that she was perfection itself,

but she came very close to it, as close as an ideal can come to reality.

There were prettier women than she, there were wiser women, but was

there ever a better woman? Did there ever exist a woman on whose face

was so clearly and distinctly written that she alone was worthy of

love--of infinite, pure, and devoted love? Max knew that there never

were, and that there never would be such women. In this respect, he had

no special peculiarities, just as Adam did not have them, just as you,

my reader, do not have them. Beginning with Grandmother Eve and ending

with the woman upon whom your eyes were directed--before you read these

lines--the same inscription is to be clearly and distinctly read on the

face of every woman at a certain time. The difference is only in the

quality of the ink.

A very nasty day set in--it was Monday or Tuesday--when Max noticed with

a feeling of great terror that the inscription upon the dear face was

fading. Max rubbed his eyes, looked first from a distance, then from all

sides; but the fact was undeniable--the inscription was fading. Soon

the last letter also disappeared--the face was white like the recently

whitewashed wall of a new house. But he was convinced that the

inscription had disappeared not of itself, but that some one had wiped

it off. Who?

Max went to his friend, John N. He knew and he felt sure that such a

true, disinterested, and honest friend there never was and never

would be. And in this respect, too, as you see, Max had no special

peculiarities. He went to his friend for the purpose of taking his

advice concerning the mysterious disappearance of the inscription,

and found John N. exactly at the moment when he was wiping away that

inscription by his kisses. It was then that the records of the local

occurrences were enriched by another unfortunate incident, entitled “An

Attempt at Suicide.”

. . . . . . . .

It is said that death always comes in due time. Evidently, that time had

not yet arrived for Max, for he remained alive--that is, he ate, drank,

walked, borrowed money and did not return it, and altogether he showed

by a series of psycho-physiological acts that he was a living being,

possessing a stomach, a will, and a mind--but his soul was dead, or, to

be more exact, it was absorbed in lethargic sleep. The sound of human

speech reached his ears, his eyes saw tears and laughter, but all that

did not stir a single echo, a single emotion in his soul. I do not know

what space of time had elapsed. It may have been one year, and it

may have been ten years, for the length of such intermissions in life

depends on how quickly the actor succeeds in changing his costume.

One beautiful day--it was Wednesday or Thursday--Max awakened

completely. A careful and guarded liquidation of his spiritual property

made it clear that a fair piece of Max’s soul, the part which

contained his love for woman and for his friends, was dead, like a

paralysis-stricken hand or foot. But what remained was, nevertheless,

enough for life. That was love for and faith in mankind. Then Max,

having renounced personal happiness, started to work for the happiness

of others.

That was a new phase--he believed.

All the evil that is tormenting the world seemed to him to be

concentrated in a “red flower,” in one red flower. It was but necessary

to tear it down, and the incessant, heart-rending cries and moans which

rise to the indifferent sky from all points of the earth, like its

natural breathing, would be silenced. The evil of the world, he

believed, lay in the evil will and in the madness of the people. They

themselves were to blame for being unhappy, and they could be happy if

they wished. This seemed so clear and simple that Max was dumfounded

in his amazement at human stupidity. Humanity reminded him of a crowd

huddled together in a spacious temple and panic-stricken at the cry of

“Fire!”

Instead of passing calmly through the wide doors and saving themselves,

the maddened people, with the cruelty of frenzied beasts, cry and

roar, crush one another and perish--not from the fire (for it is only

imaginary), but from their own madness. It is enough sometimes when one

sensible, firm word is uttered to this crowd--the crowd calms down and

imminent death is thus averted. Let, then, a hundred calm, rational

voices be raised to mankind, showing them where to escape and where

the danger lies--and heaven will be established on earth, if not

immediately, then at least within a very brief time.

Max began to utter his word of wisdom. How he uttered it you will learn

later. The name of Max was mentioned in the newspapers, shouted in the

market places, blessed and cursed; whole books were written on what Max

N+1 had done, what he was doing, and what he intended to do. He appeared

here and there and everywhere. He was seen standing at the head of the

crowd, commanding it; he was seen in chains and under the knife of the

guillotine. In this respect Max did not have any special peculiarities,

either. A preacher of humility and peace, a stern bearer of fire and

sword, he was the same Max--Max the believer. But while he was doing all

this, time kept passing on. His nerves were shattered; his wavy locks

became thin and his head began to look like that of Elijah the Prophet;

here and there he felt a piercing pain....

The earth continued to turn light-mindedly around the sun, now coming

nearer to it, now retreating coquettishly, and giving the impression

that it fixed all its attention upon its household friend, the moon;

the days were replaced by other days, and the dark nights by other dark

nights, with such pedantic German punctuality and correctness that all

the artistic natures were compelled to move over to the far north by

degrees, where the devil himself would break his head endeavouring to

distinguish between day and night--when suddenly something happened to

Max.

Somehow it happened that Max became misunderstood. He had calmed the

crowd by his words of wisdom many a time before and had saved them from

mutual destruction but now he was not understood. They thought that it

was he who had shouted “Fire!” With all the eloquence of which he was

capable he assured them that he was exerting all his efforts for their

sake alone; that he himself needed absolutely nothing, for he was alone,

childless; that he was ready to forget the sad misunderstanding and

serve them again with faith and truth--but all in vain. They would

not trust him. And in this respect Max did not have any special

peculiarities, either. The sad incident ended for Max in a new

intermission.

. . . . . . . .

Max was alive, as was positively established by medical experts, who had

made a series of simple tests. Thus, when they pricked a needle into his

foot, he shook his foot and tried to remove the needle. When they put

food before him, he ate it, but he did not walk and did not ask for any

loans, which clearly testified to the complete decline of his energy.

His soul was dead--as much as the soul can be dead while the body

is alive. To Max all that he had loved and believed in was dead.

Impenetrable gloom wrapped his soul. There were neither feelings in it,

nor desires, nor thoughts. And there was not a more unhappy man in the

world than Max, if he was a man at all.

But he was a man.

According to the calendar, it was Friday or Saturday, when Max awakened

as from a prolonged sleep. With the pleasant sensation of an owner to

whom his property has been restored which had wrongly been taken from

him, Max realised that he was once more in possession of all his five

senses.

His sight reported to him that he was all alone, in a place which might

in justice be called either a room or a chimney. Each wall of the room

was about a metre and a half wide and about ten metres high. The walls

were straight, white, smooth, with no openings, except one through which

food was brought to Max. An electric lamp was burning brightly on the

ceiling. It was burning all the time, so that Max did not know now what

darkness was. There was no furniture in the room, and Max had to lie on

the stone floor. He lay curled together, as the narrowness of the room

did not permit him to stretch himself.

His sense of hearing reported to him that until the day of his death

he would not leave this room.... Having reported this, his hearing sank

into inactivity, for not the slightest sound came from without, except

the sounds which Max himself produced, tossing about, or shouting until

he was hoarse, until he lost his voice.

Max looked into himself. In contrast to the outward light which never

went out he saw within himself impenetrable, heavy, and motionless

darkness. In that darkness his love and faith were buried.

Max did not know whether time was moving or whether it stood motionless.

The same even, white light poured down on him--the same silence and

quiet. Only by the beating of his heart Max could judge that Chronos had

not left his chariot. His body was aching ever more from the unnatural

position in which it lay, and the constant light and silence were

growing ever more tormenting. How happy are they for whom night exists,

near whom people are shouting, making noise, beating drums; who may

sit on a chair, with their feet hanging down, or lie with their feet

outstretched, placing the head in a corner and covering it with the

hands in order to create the illusion of darkness.

Max made an effort to recall and to picture to himself what there is

in life; human faces, voices, the stars.... He knew that his eyes would

never in life see that again. He knew it, and yet he lived. He could

have destroyed himself, for there is no position in which a man can

not do that, but instead Max worried about his health, trying to eat,

although he had no appetite, solving mathematical problems to occupy his

mind so as not to lose his reason. He struggled against death as if it

were not his deliverer, but his enemy; and as if life were to him not

the worst of infernal tortures--but love, faith, and happiness. Gloom

in the Past, the grave in the Future, and infernal tortures in the

Present--and yet he lived. Tell me, John N., where did he get the

strength for that?

He hoped.

THE OCEAN

CHAPTER I

A misty February twilight is descending over the ocean. The newly fallen

snow has melted and the warm air is heavy and damp. The northwestern

wind from the sea is driving it silently toward the mainland, bringing

in its wake a sharply fragrant mixture of brine, of boundless space, of

undisturbed, free and mysterious distances.

In the sky, where the sun is setting, a noiseless destruction of

an unknown city, of an unknown land, is taking place; structures,

magnificent palaces with towers, are crumbling; mountains are silently

splitting asunder and, bending slowly, are tumbling down. But no cry,

no moan, no crash of the fall reaches the earth--the monstrous play

of shadows is noiseless; and the great surface of the ocean, as though

ready for something, as though waiting for something, reflecting it

faintly, listens to it in silence.

Silence reigns also in the fishermen’s settlement. The fishermen have

gone fishing; the children are sleeping and only the restless women,

gathered in front of the houses, are talking softly, lingering before

going to sleep, beyond which there is always the unknown.

The light of the sea and the sky behind the houses, and the houses and

their bark roofs are black and sharp, and there is no perspective: the

houses that are far and those that are near seem to stand side by side

as if attached to one another, the roofs and the walls embracing one

another, pressing close to one another, seized with the same uneasiness

before the eternal unknown.

Right here there is also a little church, its side wall formed crudely

of rough granite, with a deep window which seems to be concealing

itself.

A cautious sound of women’s voices is heard, softened by uneasiness and

by the approaching night.

“We can sleep peacefully to-night. The sea is calm and the rollers are

breaking like the clock in the steeple of old Dan.”

“They will come back with the morning tide. My husband told me that they

will come back with the morning tide.”

“Perhaps they will come back with the evening tide. It is better for us

to think they will come back in the evening, so that our waiting will

not be in vain.

“But I must build a fire in the stove.”

“When the men are away from home, one does not feel like starting a

fire. I never build a fire, even when I am awake; it seems to me that

fire brings a storm. It is better to be quiet and silent.”

“And listen to the wind? No, that is terrible.”

“I love the fire. I should like to sleep near the fire, but my husband

does not allow it.”

“Why doesn’t old Dan come here? It is time to strike the hour.”

“Old Dan will play in the church to-night; he cannot bear such

silence as this. When the sea is roaring, old Dan hides himself and is

silent--he is afraid of the sea. But, as soon as the waves calm down,

Dan crawls out quietly and sits down to play his organ.”

The women laugh softly.

“He reproaches the sea.”

“He is complaining to God against it. He knows how to complain well.

One feels like crying when he tells God about those who have perished at

sea. Mariet, have you seen Dan to-day? Why are you silent, Mariet?”

Mariet is the adopted daughter of the abbot, in whose house old Dan, the

organist, lives. Absorbed in thought, she does not hear the question.

“Mariet, do you hear? Anna is asking you whether you have seen Dan

to-day.”

“Yes, I think I have. I don’t remember. He is in his room. He does not

like to leave his room when father goes fishing.”

“Dan is fond of the city priests. He cannot get used to the idea of a

priest who goes fishing, like an ordinary fisherman, and who goes to sea

with our husbands.”

“He is simply afraid of the sea.”

“You may say what you like, but I believe we have the very best priest

in the world.”

“That’s true. I fear him, but I love him as a father.”

“May God forgive me, but I would have been proud and always happy, if I

were his adopted daughter. Do you hear, Mariet?”

The women laugh softly and tenderly.

“Do you hear, Mariet?”

“I do. But aren’t you tired of always laughing at the same thing? Yes,

I am his daughter--Is it so funny that you will laugh all your life at

it?”

The women commence to justify themselves confusedly.

“But he laughs at it himself.”

“The abbot is fond of jesting. He says so comically: ‘My adopted

daughter,’ and then he strikes himself with his fist and shouts: ‘She’s

my real daughter, not my adopted daughter. She’s my real daughter.’”

“I have never known my mother, but this laughter would have been

unpleasant to her. I feel it,” says Mariet.

The women grow silent. The breakers strike against the shore dully with

the regularity of a great pendulum. The unknown city, wrapped with fire

and smoke, is still being destroyed in the sky; yet it does not fall

down completely; and the sea is waiting. Mariet lifts her lowered head.

“What were you going to say, Mariet?”

“Didn’t he pass here?” asks Mariet in a low voice.

Another woman answers timidly:

“Hush! Why do you speak of him? I fear him. No, he did not pass this

way.”

“He did. I saw from the window that he passed by.”

“You are mistaken; it was some one else.”

“Who else could that be? Is it possible to make a mistake, if you have

once seen him walk? No one walks as he does.”

“Naval officers, Englishmen, walk like that.”

“No. Haven’t I seen naval officers in the city? They walk firmly, but

openly; even a girl could trust them.”

“Oh, look out!”

Frightened and cautious laughter.

“No, don’t laugh. He walks without looking at the ground; he puts his

feet down as if the ground itself must take them cautiously and place

them.”

“But if there’s a stone on the road? We have many stones here.”

“He does not bend down, nor does he hide his head when a strong wind

blows.”

“Of course not. Of course not. He does not hide his head.”

“Is it true that he is handsome? Who has seen him at close range?”

“I,” says Mariet.

“No, no, don’t speak of him; I shall not be able to sleep all night.

Since they settled on that hill, in that accursed castle, I know no

rest; I am dying of fear. You are also afraid. Confess it.”

“Well, not all of us are afraid.”

“What have they come here for? There are two of them. What is there for

them to do here in our poor land, where we have nothing but stones and

the sea?”

“They drink gin. The sailor comes every morning for gin.”

“They are simply drunkards who don’t want anybody to disturb their

drinking. When the sailor passes along the street he leaves behind him

an odour as of an open bottle of rum.”

“But is that their business--drinking gin? I fear them. Where is the

ship that brought them here? They came from the sea.”

“I saw the ship,” says Mariet.

The women begin to question her in amazement.

“You? Why, then, didn’t you say anything about it? Tell us what you

know.”

Mariet maintains silence. Suddenly one of the women exclaims:

“Ah, look! They have lit a lamp. There is a light in the castle!”

On the left, about half a mile away from the village, a faint light

flares up, a red little coal in the dark blue of the twilight and the

distance. There upon a high rock, overhanging the sea, stands an

ancient castle, a grim heritage of grey and mysterious antiquity.

Long destroyed, long ruined, it blends with the rocks, continuing and

delusively ending them by the broken, dented line of its batteries, its

shattered roofs, its half-crumbled towers. Now the rocks and the castle

are covered with a smoky shroud of twilight. They seem airy, devoid

of any weight, and almost as fantastic as those monstrous heaps of

structures which are piled up and which are falling so noiselessly in

the sky. But while the others are falling this one stands, and a live

light reddens against the deep blue--and it is just as strange a sight

as if a human hand were to kindle a light in the clouds.

Turning their heads in that direction, the women look on with frightened

eyes.

“Do you see,” says one of them. “It is even worse than a light on a

cemetery. Who needs a light among the tombstones?”

“It is getting cold toward night and the sailor must have thrown some

branches into the fireplace, that’s all. At least, I think so,” says

Mariet.

“And I think that the abbot should have gone there with holy water long

ago.”

“Or with the gendarmes! If that isn’t the devil himself, it is surely

one of his assistants.”

“It is impossible to live peacefully with such neighbours close by.”

“I am afraid for the children.”

“And for your soul?”

Two elderly women rise silently and go away. Then a third, an old woman,

also rises.

“We must ask the abbot whether it isn’t a sin to look at such a light.”

She goes off. The smoke in the sky is ever increasing and the fire is

subsiding, and the unknown city is already near its dark end. The sea

odour is growing ever sharper and stronger. Night is coming from the

shore.

Their heads turned, the women watch the departing old woman. Then they

turn again toward the light.

Mariet, as though defending some one, says softly:

“There can’t be anything bad in light. For there is light in the candles

on God’s altar.”

“But there is also fire for Satan in hell,” says another old woman,

heavily and angrily, and then goes off. Now four remain, all young

girls.

“I am afraid,” says one, pressing close to her companion.

The noiseless and cold conflagration in the sky is ended; the city is

destroyed; the unknown land is in ruins. There are no longer any walls

or falling towers; a heap of pale blue gigantic shapes have fallen

silently into the abyss of the ocean and the night. A young little star

glances at the earth with frightened eyes; it feels like coming out of

the clouds near the castle, and because of its inmost neighbourship the

heavy castle grows darker, and the light in its window seems redder and

darker.

“Good night, Mariet,” says the girl who sat alone, and then she goes

off.

“Let us also go; it is getting cold,” say the other two, rising. “Good

night, Mariet.”

“Good night.”

“Why are you alone, Mariet? Why are you alone, Mariet, in the daytime

and at night, on week days and on merry holidays? Do you love to think

of your betrothed?”

“Yes, I do. I love to think of Philipp.”

The girl laughs.

“But you don’t want to see him. When he goes out to sea, you look at

the sea for hours; when he comes back--you are not there. Where are you

hiding yourself?”

“I love to think of Philipp.”

“Like a blind man he gropes among the houses, forever calling: ‘Mariet!

Mariet! Have you not seen Mariet?’”

They go off laughing and repeating:

“Good night, Mariet. ‘Have you not seen Mariet! Mariet!’”

The girl is left alone. She looks at the light in the castle. She hears

soft, irresolute footsteps.

Old Dan, of small stature, slim, a coughing old man with a clean-shaven

face, comes out from behind the church. Because of his irresoluteness,

or because of the weakness of his eyes, he steps uncertainly, touching

the ground cautiously and with a certain degree of fear.

“Oho! Oho!”

“Is that you, Dan?”

“The sea is calm, Dan. Are you going to play to-night?”

“Oho! I shall ring the bell seven times. Seven times I shall ring it and

send to God seven of His holy hours.”

He takes the rope of the bell and strikes the hour--seven ringing and

slow strokes. The wind plays with them, it drops them to the ground, but

before they touch it, it catches them tenderly, sways them softly and

with a light accompaniment of whistling carries them off to the dark

coast.

“Oh, no!” mutters Dan. “Bad hours, they fall to the ground. They are

not His holy hours and He will send them back. Oh, a storm is coming! O

Lord, have mercy on those who are perishing at sea!”

He mutters and coughs.

“Dan, I have seen the ship again to-day. Do you hear, Dan?”

“Many ships are going out to sea.”

“But this one had black sails. It was again going toward the sun.”

“Many ships are going out to sea. Listen, Mariet, there was once a wise

king--Oh, how wise he was!--and he commanded that the sea be lashed with

chains. Oho!”

“I know, Dan. You told me about it.”

“Oho, with chains! But it did not occur to him to christen the sea. Why

did it not occur to him to do that, Mariet? Ah, why did he not think of

it? We have no such kings now.”

“What would have happened, Dan?”

“Oho!”

He whispers softly:

“All the rivers and the streams have already been christened, and the

cross of the Lord has touched even many stagnant swamps; only the sea

remained--that nasty, salty, deep pool.”

“Why do you scold it? It does not like to be scolded,” Mariet reproaches

him.

“Oho! Let the sea not like it--I am not afraid of it. The sea thinks

it is also an organ and music for God. It is a nasty, hissing, furious

pool. A salty spit of satan. Fie! Fie! Fie!”

He goes to the doors at the entrance of the church muttering angrily,

threatening, as though celebrating some victory:

“Oho! Oho!”

“Dan!”

“Go home.”

“Dan! Why don’t you light candles when you play? Dan, I don’t love my

betrothed. Do you hear, Dan?”

Dan turns his head unwillingly.

“I have heard it long ago, Mariet. Tell it to your father.”

“Where is my mother, Dan?”

“Oho! You are mad again, Mariet? You are gazing too much at the

sea--yes. I am going to tell--I am going to tell your father, yes.”

He enters the church. Soon the sounds of the organ are heard. Faint

in the first, long-drawn, deeply pensive chords, they rapidly gain

strength. And with a passionate sadness, their human melodies now

wrestle with the dull and gloomy plaintiveness of the tireless surf.

Like seagulls in a storm, the sounds soar amidst the high waves, unable

to rise higher on their overburdened wings. The stern ocean holds them

captive by its wild and eternal charms. But when they have risen, the

lowered ocean roars more dully; now they rise still higher--and the

heavy, almost voiceless pile of water is shaking helplessly. Varied

voices resound through the expanse of the resplendent distances. Day has

one sorrow, night has another sorrow, and the proud, ever rebellious,

black ocean suddenly seems to become an eternal slave.

Her cheek pressed against the cold stone of the wall, Mariet is

listening, all alone. She is growing reconciled to something; she is

grieving ever more quietly.

Suddenly, firm footsteps are heard on the road; the cobblestones are

creaking under the vigorous steps--and a man appears from behind the

church. He walks slowly and sternly, like those who do not roam in vain,

and who know the earth from end to end. He carries his hat in his hands;

he is thinking of something, looking ahead. On his broad shoulders is

set a round, strong head, with short hair; his dark profile is stern

and commandingly haughty, and, although the man is dressed in a partly

military uniform, he does not subject his body to the discipline of his

clothes, but masters it as a free man. The folds of his clothes fall

submissively.

Mariet greets him:

“Good evening.”

He walks on quite a distance, then stops and turns his head slowly. He

waits silently, as though regretting to part with his silence.

“Did you say ‘Good evening’ to me?” he asks at last.

“Yes, to you. Good evening.”

He looks at her silently.

“Well, good evening. This is the first time I have been greeted in this

land, and I was surprised when I heard your voice. Come nearer to me.

Why don’t you sleep when all are sleeping? Who are you?”

“I am the daughter of the abbot of this place.”

He laughs:

“Have priests children? Or are there special priests in your land?”

“Yes, the priests are different here.”

“Now, I recall, Khorre told me something about the priest of this

place.”

“Who is Khorre?”

“My sailor. The one who buys gin in your settlement.”

He suddenly laughs again and continues:

“Yes, he told me something. Was it your father who cursed the Pope and

declared his own church independent?”

“Yes.”

“And he makes his own prayers? And goes to sea with the fishermen? And

punishes with his own hands those who disobey him?”

“Yes. I am his daughter. My name is Mariet. And what is your name?”

“I have many names. Which one shall I tell you?”

“The one by which you were christened.”

“What makes you think that I was christened?”

“Then tell me the name by which your mother called you.”

“What makes you think that I had a mother? I do not know my mother.”

Mariet says softly:

“Neither do I know my mother.”

Both are silent. They look at each other kindly.

“Is that so?” he says. “You, too, don’t know your mother? Well, then,

call me Haggart.”

“Haggart?”

“Yes. Do you like the name? I have invented it myself--Haggart. It’s a

pity that you have been named already. I would have invented a fine name

for you.”

Suddenly he frowned.

“Tell me, Mariet, why is your land so mournful? I walk along your paths

and only the cobblestones creak under my feet. And on both sides are

huge rocks.”

“That is on the road to the castle--none of us ever go there. Is it true

that these stones stop the passersby with the question: ‘Where are you

going?’”

“No, they are mute. Why is your land so mournful? It is almost a week

since I’ve seen my shadow. It is impossible! I don’t see my shadow.”

“Our land is very cheerful and full of joy. It is still winter now, but

soon spring will come, and sunshine will come back with it. You shall

see it, Haggart.”

He speaks with contempt:

“And you are sitting and waiting calmly for its return? You must be a

fine set of people! Ah, if I only had a ship!”

“What would you have done?”

He looks at her morosely and shakes his head suspiciously.

“You are too inquisitive, little girl. Has any one sent you over to me?”

“No. What do you need a ship for?”

Haggart laughs good-naturedly and ironically:

“She asks what a man needs a ship for. You must be a fine set of people.

You don’t know what a man needs a ship for! And you speak seriously? If

I had a ship I would have rushed toward the sun. And it would not matter

how it sets its golden sails, I would overtake it with my black sails.

And I would force it to outline my shadow on the deck of my ship. And I

would put my foot upon it this way!”

He stamps his foot firmly. Then Mariet asks, cautiously:

“Did you say with black sails?”

“That’s what I said. Why do you always ask questions? I have no ship,

you know. Good-bye.”

He puts on his hat, but does not move. Mariet maintains silence. Then he

says, very angrily:

“Perhaps you, too, like the music of your old Dan, that old fool?”

“You know his name?”

“Khorre told me it. I don’t like his music, no, no. Bring me a good,

honest dog, or beast, and he will howl. You will say that he knows no

music--he does, but he can’t bear falsehood. Here is music. Listen!”

He takes Mariet by the hand and turns her roughly, her face toward the

ocean.

“Do you hear? This is music. Your Dan has robbed the sea and the wind.

No, he is worse than a thief, he is a deceiver! He should be hanged on a

sailyard--your Dan! Good-bye!”

He goes, but after taking two steps he turns around.

“I said good-bye to you. Go home. Let this fool play alone. Well, go.”

Mariet is silent, motionless. Haggart laughs:

“Are you afraid perhaps that I have forgotten your name? I remember it.

Your name is Mariet. Go, Mariet.”

She says softly:

“I have seen your ship.”

Haggart advances to her quickly and bends down. His face is terrible.

“It is not true. When?”

“Last evening.”

“It is not true! Which way was it going?”

“Toward the sun.”

“Last evening I was drunk and I slept. But this is not true. I have

never seen it. You are testing me. Beware!”

“Shall I tell you if I see it again?”

“How can you tell me?”

“I shall come up your hill.”

Haggart looks at her attentively.

“If you are only telling me the truth. What sort of people are there in

your land--false or not? In the lands I know, all the people are false.

Has any one else seen that ship?”

“I don’t know. I was alone on the shore. Now I see that it was not your

ship. You are not glad to hear of it.”

Haggart is silent, as though he has forgotten her presence.

“You have a pretty uniform. You are silent? I shall come up to you.”

Haggart is silent. His dark profile is stern and wildly gloomy; every

motion of his powerful body, every fold of his clothes, is full of the

dull silence of the taciturnity of long hours, or days, or perhaps of a

lifetime.

“Your sailor will not kill me? You are silent. I have a betrothed. His

name is Philipp, but I don’t love him. You are now like that rock which

lies on the road leading to the castle.”

Haggart turns around silently and starts.

“I also remember your name. Your name is Haggart.”

He goes away.

“Haggart!” calls Mariet, but he has already disappeared behind the

house. Only the creaking of the scattered cobblestones is heard, dying

away in the misty air. Dan, who has taken a rest, is playing again; he

is telling God about those who have perished at sea.

The night is growing darker. Neither the rock nor the castle is visible

now; only the light in the window is redder and brighter.

The dull thuds of the tireless breakers are telling the story of

different lives.

CHAPTER II

A strong wind is tossing the fragment of a sail which is hanging over

the large, open window. The sail is too small to cover the entire

window, and, through the gaping hole, the dark night is breathing

inclement weather. There is no rain, but the warm wind, saturated with

the sea, is heavy and damp.

Here in the tower live Haggart and his sailor, Khorre. Both are sleeping

now a heavy, drunken sleep. On the table and in the corners of the room

there are empty bottles, and the remains of food; the only taburet is

overturned, lying on one side. Toward evening the sailor got up, lit a

large illumination lamp, and was about to do more, but he was overcome

by intoxication again and fell asleep upon his thin mattress of straw

and seagrass. Tossed by the wind, the flame of the illumination-lamp is

quivering in yellow, restless spots over the uneven, mutilated walls,

losing itself in the dark opening of the door, which leads to the other

rooms of the castle.

Haggart lies on his back, and the same quivering yellow shades run

noiselessly over his strong forehead, approach his closed eyes, his

straight, sharply outlined nose, and, tossing about in confusion, rush

back to the wall. The breathing of the sleeping man is deep and uneven;

from time to time his heavy, strange hand lifts itself, makes several

weak, unfinished movements, and falls down on his breast helplessly.

Outside the window the breakers are roaring and raging, beating against

the rocks--this is the second day a storm is raging in the ocean. The

ancient tower is quivering from the violent blows of the waves. It

responds to the storm with the rustling of the falling plaster, with

the rattling of the little cobblestones as they are torn down, with the

whisper and moans of the wind which has lost its way in the passages. It

whispers and mutters like an old woman.

The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind

spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under

himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary

clothes, but is unable to wake up--his intoxication produced by a two

days’ spree is heavy and severe. But now the wind whines more powerfully

than before; something heaves a deep groan. Perhaps a part of a

destroyed wall has sunk into the sea. The quivering yellow spots

commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and

Khorre awakes.

He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand

anything.

The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling

the night with disquieting phantoms. It seems as if the sea were full of

sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling

with death. Voices are heard. Somewhere near by people are shouting,

scolding each other, laughing and singing, like madmen, or talking

sensibly and rapidly--it seems that soon one will see a strange human

face distorted by horror or laughter, or fingers bent convulsively. But

there is a strong smell of the sea, and that, together with the cold,

brings Khorre to his senses.

“Noni!” he calls hoarsely, but Haggart does not hear him. After a

moment’s thought, he calls once more:

“Captain. Noni! Get up.”

But Haggart does not answer and the sailor mutters:

“Noni is drunk and he sleeps. Let him sleep. Oh, what a cold night it

is. There isn’t enough warmth in it even to warm your nose. I am cold.

I feel cold and lonesome, Noni. I can’t drink like that, although

everybody knows I am a drunkard. But it is one thing to drink, and

another to drown in gin--that’s an entirely different matter. Noni--you

are like a drowned man, simply like a corpse. I feel ashamed for your

sake, Noni. I shall drink now and--”

He rises, and staggering, finds an unopened bottle and drinks.

“A fine wind. They call this a storm--do you hear, Noni? They call this

a storm. What will they call a real storm?”

He drinks again.

“A fine wind!”

He goes over to the window and, pushing aside the corner of the sail,

looks out.

“Not a single light on the sea, or in the village. They have hidden

themselves and are sleeping--they are waiting for the storm to pass.

B-r-r, how cold! I would have driven them all out to sea; it is mean to

go to sea only when the weather is calm. That is cheating the sea. I am

a pirate, that’s true; my name is Khorre, and I should have been hanged

long ago on a yard, that’s true, too--but I shall never allow myself

such meanness as to cheat the sea. Why did you bring me to this hole,

Noni?”

He picks up some brushwood, and throws it into the fireplace.

“I love you, Noni. I am now going to start a fire to warm your feet. I

used to be your nurse, Noni; but you have lost your reason--that’s true.

I am a wise man, but I don’t understand your conduct at all. Why did you

drop your ship? You will be hanged, Noni, you will be hanged, and I will

dangle by your side. You have lost your reason, that’s true!”

He starts a fire, then prepares food and drink.

“What will you say when you wake up? ‘Fire.’ And I will answer, ‘Here it

is.’ Then you will say, ‘Something to drink.’ And I will answer, ‘Here

it is.’ And then you will drink your fill again, and I will drink with

you, and you will prate nonsense. How long is this going to last? We

have lived this way two months now, or perhaps two years, or twenty

years--I am drowning in gin--I don’t understand your conduct at all,

Noni.”

He drinks.

“Either I have lost my mind from this gin, or a ship is being wrecked

near by. How they are crying!”

He looks out of the window.

“No, no one is here. It is the wind. The wind feels weary, and it plays

all by itself. It has seen many shipwrecks, and now it is inventing. The

wind itself is crying; the wind itself is scolding and sobbing; and the

wind itself is laughing--the rogue! But if you think that this rag

with which I have covered the window is a sail, and that this ruin of

a castle is a three-masted brig, you are a fool! We are not going

anywhere! We are standing securely at our moorings, do you hear?”

He pushes the sleeping man cautiously.

“Get up, Noni. I feel lonesome. If we must drink, let’s drink

together--I feel lonesome. Noni!”

Haggart awakens, stretches himself and says, without opening his eyes:

“Fire.”

“Here it is.”

“Something to drink.”

“Here it is! A fine wind, Noni. I looked out of the window, and the sea

splashed into my eyes. It is high tide now and the water-dust flies up

to the tower. I feel lonesome, Noni. I want to speak to you. Don’t be

angry!”

“It’s cold.”

“Soon the fire will burn better. I don’t understand your actions. Don’t

be angry, Noni, but I don’t understand your actions! I am afraid that

you have lost your mind.”

“Did you drink again?”

“I did.”

“Give me some.”

He drinks from the mouth of the bottle lying on the floor, his eyes

wandering over the crooked mutilated walls, whose every projection and

crack is now lighted by the bright flame in the fireplace. He is not

quite sure yet whether he is awake, or whether it is all a dream. With

each strong gust of wind the flame is hurled from the fireplace, and

then the entire tower seems to dance--the last shadows melt and rush off

into the open door.

“Don’t drink it all at once, Noni! Not all at once!” says the sailor and

gently takes the bottle away from him. Haggart seats himself and clasps

his head with both hands.

“I have a headache. What is that cry? Was there a shipwreck?”

“No, Noni. It is the wind playing roguishly.”

“Khorre!”

“Captain.”

“Give me the bottle.”

He drinks a little more and sets the bottle on the table. Then he paces

the room, straightening his shoulders and his chest, and looks out of

the window. Khorre looks over his shoulder and whispers:

“Not a single light. It is dark and deserted. Those who had to die have

died already, and the cautious cowards are sitting on the solid earth.”

Haggart turns around and says, wiping his face:

“When I am intoxicated, I hear voices and singing. Does that happen to

you, too, Khorre? Who is that singing now?”

“The wind is singing, Noni--only the wind.”

“No, but who else? It seems to me a human being is singing, a woman is

singing, and others are laughing and shouting something. Is that all

nothing but the wind?”

“Only the wind.”

“Why does the wind deceive me?” says Haggart haughtily.

“It feels lonesome, Noni, just as I do, and it laughs at the human

beings. Have you heard the wind lying like this and mocking in the open

sea? There it tells the truth, but here--it frightens the people on

shore and mocks them. The wind does not like cowards. You know it.”

Haggart says morosely:

“I heard their organist playing not long ago in church. He lies.”

“They are all liars.”

“No!” exclaims Haggart angrily. “Not all. There are some who tell the

truth there, too. I shall cut your ears off if you will slander honest

people. Do you hear?”

“Yes.”

They are silent; they listen to the wild music of the sea. The wind

has evidently grown mad. Having taken into its embrace a multitude

of instruments with which human beings produce their music--harps,

reed-pipes, priceless violins, heavy drums and brass trumpets--it breaks

them all, together with a wave, against the sharp rocks. It dashes them

and bursts into laughter--only thus does the wind understand music--each

time in the death of an instrument, each time in the breaking of

strings, in the snapping of the clanging brass. Thus does the mad

musician understand music. Haggart heaves a deep sigh and with some

amazement, like a man just awakened from sleep, looks around on all

sides. Then he commands shortly:

“Give me my pipe.”

“Here it is.”

Both commence to smoke.

“Don’t be angry, Noni,” says the sailor. “You have become so angry that

one can’t come near you at all. May I chat with you?”

“There are some who do tell the truth there, too,” says Haggart sternly,

emitting rings of smoke.

“How shall I say it you, Noni?” answers the sailor cautiously but

stubbornly. “There are no truthful people there. It has been so ever

since the deluge. At that time all the honest people went out to sea,

and only the cowards and liars remained upon the solid earth.”

Haggart is silent for a minute; then he takes the pipe from his mouth

and laughs gaily.

“Have you invented it yourself?”

“I think so,” says Khorre modestly.

“Clever! And it was worth teaching you sacred history for that! Were you

taught by a priest?”

“Yes. In prison. At that time I was as innocent as a dove. That’s also

from sacred scriptures, Noni. That’s what they always say there.”

“He was a fool! It was not necessary to teach you, but to hang you,”

says Haggart, adding morosely: “Don’t talk nonsense, sailor. Hand me a

bottle.”

They drink. Khorre stamps his foot against the stone floor and asks:

“Do you like this motionless floor?”

“I should have liked to have the deck of a ship dancing under my feet.”

“Noni!” exclaims the sailor enthusiastically. “Noni! Now I hear real

words! Let us go away from here. I cannot live like this. I am drowning

in gin. I don’t understand your actions at all, Noni! You have lost your

mind. Reveal yourself to me, my boy. I was your nurse. I nursed you,

Noni, when your father brought you on board ship. I remember how the

city was burning then and we were putting out to sea, and I didn’t know

what to do with you; you whined like a little pig in the cook’s room. I

even wanted to throw you overboard--you annoyed me so much. Ah, Noni, it

is all so touching that I can’t bear to recall it. I must have a drink.

Take a drink, too, my boy, but not all at once, not all at once!”

They drink. Haggart paces the room heavily and slowly, like a man who is

imprisoned in a dungeon but does not want to escape.

“I feel sad,” he says, without looking at Khorre. Khorre, as though

understanding, shakes his head in assent.

“Sad? I understand. Since then?”

“Ever since then.”

“Ever since we drowned those people? They cried so loudly.”

“I did not hear their cry. But this I heard--something snapped in my

heart, Khorre. Always sadness, everywhere sadness! Let me drink!”

He drinks.

“He who cried--am I perhaps afraid of him, Khorre? That would be fine!

Tears were trickling from his eyes; he wept like one who is unfortunate.

Why did he do that? Perhaps he came from a land where the people had

never heard of death--what do you think, sailor?”

“I don’t remember him, Noni. You speak so much about him, while I don’t

remember him.”

“He was a fool,” says Haggart. “He spoilt his death for himself, and

spoilt me my life. I curse him, Khorre. May he be cursed. But that

doesn’t matter, Khorre--no!”

Silence.

“They have good gin on this coast,” says Khorre. “He’ll pass easily,

Noni. If you have cursed him there will be no delay; he’ll slip into

hell like an oyster.”

Haggart shakes his head:

“No, Khorre, no! I am sad. Ah, sailor, why have I stopped here, where I

hear the sea? I should go away, far away on land, where the people don’t

know the sea at all, where the people have never heard about the sea--a

thousand miles away, five thousand miles away!”

“There is no such land.”

“There is, Khorre. Let us drink and laugh, Khorre. That organist lies.

Sing something for me, Khorre--you sing well. In your hoarse voice I

hear the creaking of ropes. Your refrain is like a sail that is torn by

the storm. Sing, sailor!”

Khorre nods his head gloomily.

“No, I will not sing.”

“Then I shall force you to pray as they prayed!”

“You will not force me to pray, either. You are the Captain, and you

may kill me, and here is your revolver. It is loaded, Noni. And now I am

going to speak the truth, Captain! Khorre, the boatswain, speaks to you

in the name of the entire crew.”

Haggart says:

“Drop this performance, Khorre. There is no crew here. You’d better

drink something.”

He drinks.

“But the crew is waiting for you, you know it. Captain, is it your

intention to return to the ship and assume command again?”

“No.”

“Captain, is it perhaps your intention to go to the people on the coast

and live with them?”

“No.”

“I can’t understand your actions, Noni. What do you intend to do,

Captain?”

Haggart drinks silently.

“Not all at once, Noni, not at once. Captain, do you intend to stay in

this hole and wait until the police dogs come from the city? Then they

will hang us, and not upon a mast, but simply on one of their foolish

trees.”

“Yes. The wind is getting stronger. Do you hear, Khorre? The wind is

getting stronger!”

“And the gold which we have buried here?” He points below, with his

finger.

“The gold? Take it and go with it wherever you like.”

The sailor says angrily:

“You are a bad man, Noni. You have only set foot on earth a little while

ago, and you already have the thoughts of a traitor. That’s what the

earth is doing!”

“Be silent, Khorre. I am listening. Our sailors are singing. Do you

hear? No, that’s the wine rushing to my head. I’ll be drunk soon. Give

me another bottle.”

“Perhaps you will go to the priest? He would absolve your sins.”

“Silence!” roars Haggart, clutching at his revolver.

Silence. The storm is increasing. Haggart paces the room in agitation,

striking against the walls. He mutters something abruptly. Suddenly he

seizes the sail and tears it down furiously, admitting the salty wind.

The illumination lamp is extinguished and the flame in the fireplace

tosses about wildly--like Haggart.

“Why did you lock out the wind? It’s better now. Come here.”

“You were the terror of the seas!” says the sailor.

“Yes, I was the terror of the seas.”

“You were the terror of the coasts! Your famous name resounded like the

surf over all the coasts, wherever people live. They saw you in their

dreams. When they thought of the ocean, they thought of you. When they

heard the storm, they heard you, Noni!”

“I burnt their cities. The deck of my ship is shaking under my feet,

Khorre. The deck is shaking under me!”

He laughs wildly, as if losing his senses.

“You sank their ships. You sent to the bottom the Englishman who was

chasing you.”

“He had ten guns more than I.”

“And you burnt and drowned him. Do you remember, Noni, how the wind

laughed then? The night was as black as this night, but you made day of

it, Noni. We were rocked by a sea of fire.”

Haggart stands pale-faced, his eyes closed. Suddenly he shouts

commandingly:

“Boatswain!”

“Yes,” Khorre jumps up.

“Whistle for everybody to go up on deck.”

“Yes.”

The boatswain’s shrill whistle pierces sharply into the open body of the

storm. Everything comes to life, and it looks as though they were

upon the deck of a ship. The waves are crying with human voices. In

semi-oblivion, Haggart is commanding passionately and angrily:

“To the shrouds!--The studding sails! Be ready, forepart! Aim at the

ropes; I don’t want to sink them all at once. Starboard the helm, sail

by the wind. Be ready now. Ah, fire! Ah, you are already burning! Board

it now! Get the hooks ready.”

And Khorre tosses about violently, performing the mad instructions.

“Yes, yes.”

“Be braver, boys. Don’t be afraid of tears! Eh, who is crying there?

Don’t dare cry when you are dying. I’ll dry your mean eyes upon the

fire. Fire! Fire everywhere! Khorre--sailor! I am dying. They have

poured molten tar into my chest. Oh, how it burns!”

“Don’t give way, Noni. Don’t give way. Recall your father. Strike them

on the head, Noni!”

“I can’t, Khorre. My strength is failing. Where is my power?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“Take a knife, Khorre, and cut out my heart. There is no ship,

Khorre--there is nothing. Cut out my heart, comrade--throw out the

traitor from my breast.”

“I want to play some more, Noni. Strike them on the head!”

“There is no ship, Khorre, there is nothing--it is all a lie. I want to

drink.”

He takes a bottle and laughs:

“Look, sailor--here the wind and the storm and you and I are locked. It

is all a deception, Khorre!”

“I want to play.”

“Here my sorrow is locked. Look! In the green glass it seems like water,

but it isn’t water. Let us drink, Khorre--there on the bottom I see

my laughter and your song. There is no ship--there is nothing! Who is

coming?”

He seizes his revolver. The fire in the fire-place is burning faintly;

the shadows are tossing about--but two of these shadows are darker than

the others and they are walking. Khorre shouts:

“Halt!”

A man’s voice, heavy and deep, answers:

“Hush! Put down your weapons. I am the abbot of this place.”

“Fire, Noni, fire! They have come for you.”

“I have come to help you. Put down your knife, fool, or I will break

every bone in your body without a knife. Coward, are you frightened by a

woman and a priest?”

Haggart puts down his revolver and says ironically:

“A woman and a priest! Is there anything still more terrible? Pardon my

sailor, Mr. abbot, he is drunk, and when he is drunk he is very reckless

and he may kill you. Khorre, don’t turn your knife.”

“He has come after you, Noni.”

“I have come to warn you; the tower may fall. Go away from here!” says

the abbot.

“Why are you hiding yourself, girl? I remember your name; your name is

Mariet,” says Haggart.

“I am not hiding. I also remember your name--it is Haggart,” replies

Mariet.

“Was it you who brought him here?”

“I.”

“I have told you that they are all traitors, Noni,” says Khorre.

“Silence!”

“It is very cold here. I will throw some wood into the fireplace. May I

do it?” asks Mariet.

“Do it,” answers Haggart.

“The tower will fall down before long,” says the abbot. “Part of the

wall has caved in already; it is all hollow underneath. Do you hear?”

He stamps his foot on the stone floor.

“Where will the tower fall?”

“Into the sea, I suppose! The castle is splitting the rocks.”

Haggart laughs:

“Do you hear, Khorre? This place is not as motionless as it seemed to

you--while it cannot move, it can fall. How many people have you brought

along with you, priest, and where have you hidden them?”

“Only two of us came, my father and I,” says Mariet.

“You are rude to a priest. I don’t like that,” says the abbot.

“You have come here uninvited. I don’t like that either,” says Haggart.

“Why did you lead me here, Mariet? Come,” says the abbot.

Haggart speaks ironically:

“And you leave us here to die? That is unChristian, Christian.”

“Although I am a priest, I am a poor Christian, and the Lord knows it,”

says the abbot angrily. “I have no desire to save such a rude scamp. Let

us go, Mariet.”

“Captain?” asks Khorre.

“Be silent, Khorre,” says Haggart. “So that’s the way you speak, abbot;

so you are not a liar?”

“Come with me and you shall see.”

“Where shall I go with you?”

“To my house.”

“To your house? Do you hear, Khorre? To the priest! But do you know whom

you are calling to your house?”

“No, I don’t know. But I see that you are young and strong. I see that

although your face is gloomy, it is handsome, and I think that you could

be as good a workman as others.”

“A workman? Khorre, do you hear what the priest says?”

Both laugh. The abbot says angrily:

“You are both drunk.”

“Yes, a little! But if I were sober I would have laughed still more,”

answers Haggart.

“Don’t laugh, Haggart,” says Mariet.

Haggart replies angrily:

“I don’t like the tongues of false priests, Mariet--they are coated with

truth on top, like a lure for flies. Take him away, and you, girl, go

away, too! I have forgotten your name!”

He sits down and stares ahead sternly. His eyebrows move close together,

and his hand is pressed down heavily by his lowered head, by his strong

chin.

“He does not know you, father! Tell him about yourself. You speak so

well. If you wish it, he will believe you, father. Haggart!”

Haggart maintains silence.

“Noni! Captain!”

Silence. Khorre whispers mysteriously:

“He feels sad. Girl, tell the priest that he feels sad.”

“Khorre,” begins Mariet. Haggart looks around quickly.

“What about Khorre? Why don’t you like him, Mariet? We are so much like

each other.”

“He is like you?” says the woman with contempt. “No, Haggart! But here

is what he did: He gave gin to little Noni again to-day. He moistened

his finger and gave it to him. He will kill him, father.”

Haggart laughs:

“Is that so bad? He did the same to me.”

“And he dipped him in cold water. The boy is very weak,” says Mariet

morosely.

“I don’t like to hear you speak of weakness. Our boy must be strong.

Khorre! Three days without gin.”

He shows him three fingers.

“Who should be without gin? The boy or I?” asks Khorre gloomily.

“You!” replies Haggart furiously. “Begone!”

The sailor sullenly gathers his belongings--the pouch, the pipe, and the

flask--and wabbling, goes off. But he does not go far--he sits down upon

a neighbouring rock. Haggart and his wife look at him.

CHAPTER III

The work is ended. Having lost its gloss, the last neglected fish lies

on the ground; even the children are too lazy to pick it up; and an

indifferent, satiated foot treads it into the mud. A quiet, fatigued

conversation goes on, mingled with gay and peaceful laughter.

“What kind of a prayer is our abbot going to say to-day? It is already

time for him to come.”

“And do you think it is so easy to compose a good prayer? He is

thinking.”

“Selly’s basket broke and the fish were falling out. We laughed so much!

It seems so funny to me even now!”

Laughter. Two fishermen look at the sail in the distance.

“All my life I have seen large ships sailing past us. Where are they

going? They disappear beyond the horizon, and I go off to sleep; and I

sleep, while they are forever going, going. Where are they going? Do you

know?”

“To America.”

“I should like to go with them. When they speak of America my heart

begins to ring. Did you say America on purpose, or is that the truth?”

Several old women are whispering:

“Wild Gart is angry again at his sailor. Have you noticed it?”

“The sailor is displeased. Look, how wan his face is.”

“Yes, he looks like the evil one when he is compelled to listen to a

psalm. But I don’t like Wild Gart, either. No. Where did he come from?”

They resume their whispers. Haggart complains softly:

“Why have you the same name, Mariet, for everybody? It should not be so

in a truthful land.”

Mariet speaks with restrained force, pressing both hands to her breast:

“I love you so dearly, Gart; when you go out to sea, I set my teeth

together and do not open them until you come back. When you are away, I

eat nothing and drink nothing; when you are away, I am silent, and the

women laugh: ‘Mute Mariet!’ But I would be insane if I spoke when I am

alone.”

HAGGART--Here you are again compelling me to smile. You must not,

Mariet--I am forever smiling.

MARIET--I love you so dearly, Gart. Every hour of the day and the night

I am thinking only of what I could still give to you, Gart. Have I not

given you everything? But that is so little--everything! There is but

one thing I want to do--to keep on giving to you, giving! When the sun

sets, I present you the sunset; when the sun rises, I present you the

sunrise--take it, Gart! And are not all the storms yours? Ah, Haggart,

how I love you!

HAGGART--I am going to toss little Noni so high to-day that I will toss

him up to the clouds. Do you want me to do it? Let us laugh, dear little

sister Mariet. You are exactly like myself. When you stand that way,

it seems to me that I am standing there--I have to rub my eyes. Let us

laugh! Some day I may suddenly mix things up--I may wake up and say to

you: “Good morning, Haggart!”

MARIET--Good morning, Mariet.

HAGGART--I will call you Haggart. Isn’t that a good idea?

MARIET--And I will call you Mariet.

HAGGART--Yes--no. You had better call me Haggart, too.

“You don’t want me to call you Mariet?” asks Mariet sadly.

The abbot and old Dan appear. The abbot says in a loud, deep voice:

“Here I am. Here I am bringing you a prayer, children. I have just

composed it; it has even made me feel hot. Dan, why doesn’t the boy ring

the bell? Oh, yes, he is ringing. The fool--he isn’t swinging the

right rope, but that doesn’t matter; that’s good enough, too. Isn’t it,

Mariet?”

Two thin but merry bells are ringing.

Mariet is silent and Haggart answers for her:

“That’s good enough. But what are the bells saying, abbot?”

The fishermen who have gathered about them are already prepared to

laugh--the same undying jest is always repeated.

“Will you tell no one about it?” says the abbot, in a deep voice, slily

winking his eye. “Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!”

The fishermen laugh merrily.

“This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Haggart, “is my favourite man!

He has given me a grandson, and I wrote the Pope about it in Latin. But

that wasn’t so hard; isn’t that true, Mariet? But he knows how to look

at the water. He foretells a storm as if he himself caused it. Gart, do

you produce the storm yourself? Where does the wind come from? You are

the wind yourself.”

All laugh approval. An old fisherman says:

“That’s true, father. Ever since he has been here, we have never been

caught in a storm.”

“Of course it is true, if I say it. ‘Pope’s a rogue! Pope’s a rogue!’”

Old Dan walks over to Khorre and says something to him. Khorre nods his

head negatively. The abbot, singing “Pope’s a rogue,” goes around the

crowd, throws out brief remarks, and claps some people on the shoulder

in a friendly manner.

“Hello, Katerina, you are getting stout. Oho! Are you all ready? And

Thomas is missing again--this is the second time he has stayed away

from prayer. Anna, you are rather sad--that isn’t good. One must live

merrily, one must live merrily! I think that it is jolly even in hell,

but in a different way. It is two years since you have stopped growing,

Philipp. That isn’t good.”

Philipp answers gruffly:

“Grass also stops growing if a stone falls upon it.”

“What is still worse than that--worms begin to breed under the rock.”

Mariet says softly, sadly and entreatingly:

“Don’t you want me to call you Mariet?”

Haggart answers obstinately and sternly:

“I don’t. If my name will be Mariet, I shall never kill that man. He

disturbs my life. Make me a present of his life, Mariet. He kissed you.”

“How can I present you that which is not mine? His life belongs to God

and to himself.”

“That is not true. He kissed you; do I not see the burns upon your lips?

Let me kill him, and you will feel as joyful and care-free as a seagull.

Say ‘yes,’ Mariet.”

“No; you shouldn’t do it, Gart. It will be painful to you.”

Haggart looks at her and speaks with deep irony.

“Is that it? Well, then, it is not true that you give me anything. You

don’t know how to give, woman.”

“I am your wife.”

“No! A man has no wife when another man, and not his wife, grinds his

knife. My knife is dull, Mariet!”

Mariet looks at him with horror and sorrow.

“What did you say, Haggart? Wake up; it is a terrible dream, Haggart! It

is I--look at me. Open your eyes wider, wider, until you see me well. Do

you see me, Gart?”

Haggart slowly rubs his brow.

“I don’t know. It is true I love you, Mariet. But how incomprehensible

your land is--in your land a man sees dreams even when he is not asleep.

Perhaps I am smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

The abbot stops in front of Khorre.

“Ah, old friend, how do you do? You are smiling already. Look, Mariet.”

“I don’t want to work,” ejaculates the sailor sternly.

“You want your own way? This man,” roars the abbot, pointing at Khorre,

“thinks that he is an atheist. But he is simply a fool; he does not

understand that he is also praying to God--but he is doing it the wrong

way, like a crab. Even a fish prays to God, my children; I have seen it

myself. When you will be in hell, old man, give my regards to the Pope.

Well, children, come closer, and don’t gnash your teeth. I am going to

start at once. Eh, you, Mathias--you needn’t put out the fire in your

pipe; isn’t it the same to God what smoke it is, incense or tobacco, if

it is only well meant. Why do you shake your head, woman?”

WOMAN--His tobacco is contraband.

YOUNG FISHERMAN--God wouldn’t bother with such trifles. The abbot thinks

a while:

“No; hold on. I think contraband tobacco is not quite so good. That’s an

inferior grade. Look here; you better drop your pipe meanwhile, Mathias;

I’ll think the matter over later. Now, silence, perfect silence. Let God

take a look at us first.”

All stand silent and serious. Only a few have lowered their heads. Most

of the people are looking ahead with wide-open, motionless eyes, as

though they really saw God in the blue of the sky, in the boundless,

radiant, distant surface of the sea. The sea is approaching with a

caressing murmur; high tide has set in.

“My God and the God of all these people! Don’t judge us for praying, not

in Latin but in our own language, which our mothers have taught us.

Our God! Save us from all kinds of terrors, from unknown sea monsters;

protect us against storms and hurricanes, against tempests and gales.

Give us calm weather and a kind wind, a clear sun and peaceful waves.

And another thing, O Lord! we ask You; don’t allow the devil, to

come close to our bedside when we are asleep. In our sleep we are

defenceless, O Lord! and the devil terrifies us, tortures us to

convulsions, torments us to the very blood of our heart. And there

is another thing, O Lord! Old Rikke, whom You know, is beginning to

extinguish Your light in his eyes and he can make nets no longer--”

Rikke frequently shakes his head in assent.

“I can’t, I can’t!”

“Prolong, then, O Lord! Your bright day and bid the night wait. Am I

right, Rikke?”

“Yes.”

“And here is still another, the last request, O Lord. I shall not ask

any more: The tears do not dry up in the eyes of our old women crying

for those who have perished. Take their memory away, O Lord, and give

them strong forgetfulness. There are still other trifles, O Lord, but

let the others pray whose turn has come before You. Amen.”

Silence. Old Dan tugs the abbot by the sleeve, and whispers something in

his ear.

ABBOT--Dan is asking me to pray for those who perished at sea.

The women exclaim in plaintive chorus:

“For those who perished at sea! For those who died at sea!”

Some of them kneel. The abbot looks tenderly at their bowed heads,

exhausted with waiting and fear, and says:

“No priest should pray for those who died at sea--these women should

pray. Make it so, O Lord, that they should not weep so much!”

Silence. The incoming tide roars more loudly--the ocean is carrying to

the earth its noise, its secrets, its bitter, briny taste of unexplored

depths.

Soft voices say:

“The sea is coming.”

“High tide has started.”

“The sea is coming.”

Mariet kisses her father’s hand.

“Woman!” says the priest tenderly. “Listen, Gart, isn’t it strange that

this--a woman”--he strokes his daughter tenderly with his finger on her

pure forehead--“should be born of me, a man?”

Haggart smiles.

“And is it not strange that this should have become a wife to me, a

man?” He embraces Mariet, bending her frail shoulders.

“Let us go to eat, Gart, my son. Whoever she may be, I know one thing

well. She has prepared for you and me an excellent dinner.”

The people disperse quickly. Mariet says confusedly and cheerfully:

“I’ll run first.”

“Run, run,” answers the abbot. “Gart, my son, call the atheist

to dinner. I’ll hit him with a spoon on the forehead; an atheist

understands a sermon best of all if you hit him with a spoon.”

He waits and mutters:

“The boy has commenced to ring the bells again. He does it for himself,

the rogue. If we did not lock the steeple, they would pray there from

morning until night.”

Haggart goes over to Khorre, near whom Dan is sitting.

“Khorre! Let us go to eat--the priest called you.”

“I don’t want to go, Noni.”

“So? What are you going to do here on shore?”

“I will think, Noni, think. I have so much to think to be able to

understand at least something.”

Haggart turns around silently. The abbot calls from the distance:

“He is not coming? Well, then, let him stay there. And Dan--never call

Dan, my son”--says the priest in his deep whisper, “he eats at night

like a rat. Mariet purposely puts something away for him in the closet

for the night; when she looks for it in the morning, it is gone. Just

think of it, no one ever hears when he takes it. Does he fly?”

Both go off. Only the two old men, seated in a friendly manner on

two neighbouring rocks, remain on the deserted shore. And the old men

resemble each other so closely, and whatever they may say to each other,

the whiteness of their hair, the deep lines of their wrinkles, make them

kin.

The tide is coming.

“They have all gone away,” mutters Khorre. “Thus will they cook hot soup

on the wrecks of our ship, too. Eh, Dan! Do you know he ordered me

to drink no gin for three days. Let the old dog croak! Isn’t that so,

Noni?”

“Of those who died at sea... Those who died at sea,” mutters Dan. “A son

taken from his father, a son from his father. The father said go, and

the son perished in the sea. Oi, oi, oi!”

“What are you prating there, old man? I say, he ordered me to drink no

gin. Soon he will order, like that King of yours, that the sea be lashed

with chains.”

“Oho! With chains.”

“Your king was a fool. Was he married, your king?”

“The sea is coming, coming!” mutters Dan. “It brings along its noise,

its secret, its deception. Oh, how the sea deceives man. Those who died

at sea--yes, yes, yes. Those who died at sea.”

“Yes, the sea is coming. And you don’t like it?” asks Khorre, rejoicing

maliciously. “Well, don’t you like it? I don’t like your music. Do you

hear, Dan? I hate your music!”

“Oho! And why do you come to hear it? I know that you and Gart stood by

the wall and listened.”

Khorre says sternly:

“It was he who got me out of bed.”

“He will get you out of bed again.”

“No!” roars Khorre furiously. “I will get up myself at night. Do you

hear, Dan? I will get up at night and break your music.”

“And I will spit into your sea.”

“Try,” says the sailor distrustfully. “How will you spit?”

“This way,” and Dan, exasperated, spits in the direction of the sea. The

frightened Khorre, in confusion, says hoarsely:

“Oh, what sort of man are you? You spat! Eh, Dan, look out; it will be

bad for you--you yourself are talking about those who died at sea.”

Dan shouts, frightened:

“Who speaks of those that perished at sea? You, you dog!”

He goes away, grumbling and coughing, swinging his hand and stooping.

Khorre is left alone before the entire vastness of the sea and the sky.

“He is gone. Then I am going to look at you, O sea, until my eyes will

burst of thirst!”

The ocean, approaching, is roaring.

CHAPTER IV

At the very edge of the water, upon a narrow landing on the rocky shore,

stands a man--a small, dark, motionless dot. Behind him is the cold,

almost vertical slope of granite, and before his eyes the ocean is

rocking heavily and dully in the impenetrable darkness. Its mighty

approach is felt in the open voice of the waves which are rising from

the depths. Even sniffing sounds are heard--it is as though a drove of

monsters, playing, were splashing, snorting, lying down on their backs,

and panting contentedly, deriving their monstrous pleasures.

The ocean smells of the strong odour of the depths, of decaying

seaweeds, of its grass. The sea is calm to-day and, as always, alone.

And there is but one little light in the black space of water and

night--the distant lighthouse of the Holy Cross.

The rattle of cobblestones is heard from under a cautious step: Haggart

is coming down to the sea along a steep path. He pauses, silent with

restraint, breathing deeply after the strain of passing the dangerous

slope, and goes forward. He is now at the edge--he straightens himself

and looks for a long time at him who had long before taken his strange

but customary place at the very edge of the deep. He makes a few steps

forward and greets him irresolutely and gently--Haggart greets him even

timidly:

“Good evening, stranger. Have you been here long?”

A sad, soft, and grave voice answers:

“Good evening, Haggart. Yes, I have been here long.”

“You are watching?”

“I am watching and listening.”

“Will you allow me to stand near you and look in the same direction

you are looking? I am afraid that I am disturbing you by my uninvited

presence--for when I came you were already here--but I am so fond of

this spot. This place is isolated, and the sea is near, and the earth

behind is silent; and here my eyes open. Like a night-owl, I see better

in the dark; the light of day dazzles me. You know, I have grown up on

the sea, sir.”

“No, you are not disturbing me, Haggart. But am I not disturbing you?

Then I shall go away.”

“You are so polite, sir,” mutters Haggart.

“But I also love this spot,” continues the sad, grave voice. “I, too,

like to feel that the cold and peaceful granite is behind me. You have

grown up on the sea, Haggart--tell me, what is that faint light on the

right?”

“That is the lighthouse of the Holy Cross.”

“Aha! The lighthouse of the Holy Cross. I didn’t know that. But can such

a faint light help in time of a storm? I look and it always seems to me

that the light is going out. I suppose it isn’t so.”

Haggart, agitated but restrained, says:

“You frighten me, sir. Why do you ask me what you know better than I do?

You want to tempt me--you know everything.”

There is not a trace of a smile in the mournful voice--nothing but

sadness.

“No, I know little. I know even less than you do, for I know more.

Pardon my rather complicated phrase, Haggart, but the tongue responds

with so much difficulty not only to our feeling, but also to our

thought.”

“You are polite,” mutters Haggart agitated. “You are polite and always

calm. You are always sad and you have a thin hand with rings upon it,

and you speak like a very important personage. Who are you, sir?”

“I am he whom you called--the one who is always sad.”

“When I come, you are already here; when I go away, you remain. Why do

you never want to go with me, sir?”

“There is one way for you, Haggart, and another for me.”

“I see you only at night. I know all the people around this settlement,

and there is no one who looks like you. Sometimes I think that you are

the owner of that old castle where I lived. If that is so I must tell

you the castle was destroyed by the storm.”

“I don’t know of whom you speak.”

“I don’t understand how you know my name, Haggart. But I don’t want to

deceive you. Although my wife Mariet calls me so, I invented that name

myself. I have another name--my real name--of which no one has ever

heard here.”

“I know your other name also, Haggart. I know your third name, too,

which even you do not know. But it is hardly worth speaking of this. You

had better look into this dark sea and tell me about your life. Is it

true that it is so joyous? They say that you are forever smiling. They

say that you are the bravest and most handsome fisherman on the coast.

And they also say that you love your wife Mariet very dearly.”

“O sir!” exclaims Haggart with restraint, “my life is so sad that you

could not find an image like it in this dark deep. O sir! my sufferings

are so deep that you could not find a more terrible place in this dark

abyss.”

“What is the cause of your sorrow and your sufferings, Haggart?”

“Life, sir. Here your noble and sad eyes look in the same direction my

eyes look--into this terrible, dark distance. Tell me, then, what is

stirring there? What is resting and waiting there, what is silent there,

what is screaming and singing and complaining there in its own voices?

What are the voices that agitate me and fill my soul with phantoms of

sorrow, and yet say nothing? And whence comes this night? And whence

comes my sorrow? Are you sighing, sir, or is it the sigh of the ocean

blending with your voice? My hearing is beginning to fail me, my master,

my dear master.”

The sad voice replies:

“It is my sigh, Haggart. My great sorrow is responding to your sorrow.

You see at night like an owl, Haggart; then look at my thin hands and at

my rings. Are they not pale? And look at my face--is it not pale? Is it

not pale--is it not pale? Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”

They grieve silently. The heavy ocean is splashing, tossing about,

spitting and snorting and sniffing peacefully. The sea is calm to-night

and alone, as always.

“Tell Haggart--” says the sad voice.

“Very well. I will tell Haggart.”

“Tell Haggart that I love him.”

Silence--and then a faint, plaintive reproach resounds softly:

“If your voice were not so grave, sir, I would have thought that you

were laughing at me. Am I not Haggart that I should tell something to

Haggart? But no--I sense a different meaning in your words, and you

frighten me again. And when Haggart is afraid, it is real terror. Very

well, I will tell Haggart everything you have said.”

“Adjust my cloak; my shoulder is cold. But it always seems to me that

the light over there is going out. You called it the lighthouse of the

Holy Cross, if I am not mistaken?”

“Yes, it is called so here.”

“Aha! It is called so here.”

Silence.

“Must I go now?” asks Haggart.

“Yes, go.”

“And you will remain here?”

“I will remain here.”

Haggart retreats several steps.

“Good-bye, sir.”

“Good-bye, Haggart.”

Again the cobblestones rattle under his cautious steps; without looking

back, Haggart climbs the steep rocks.

Of what great sorrow speaks this night?

CHAPTER V

“Your hands are in blood, Haggart. Whom have you killed, Haggart?”

“Silence, Khorre, I killed that man. Be silent and listen--he will

commence to play soon. I stood here and listened, but suddenly my heart

sank, and I cannot stay here alone.”

“Don’t confuse my mind, Noni; don’t tempt me. I will run away from here.

At night, when I am already fast asleep, you swoop down on me like a

demon, grab me by the neck, and drag me over here--I can’t understand

anything. Tell me, my boy, is it necessary to hide the body?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Why didn’t you throw it into the sea?”

“Silence! What are you prating about? I have nothing to throw into the

sea.”

“But your hands are in blood.”

“Silence, Khorre! He will commence soon. Be silent and listen--I say to

you--Are you a friend to me or not, Khorre?”

He drags him closer to the dark window of the church. Khorre mutters:

“How dark it is. If you raised me out of bed for this accursed music--”

“Yes, yes; for this accursed music.”

“Then you have disturbed my honest sleep in vain; I want no music,

Noni.”

“So! Was I perhaps to run through the street, knock at the windows and

shout: ‘Eh, who is there; where’s a living soul? Come and help Haggart,

stand up with him against the cannons.’”

“You are confusing things, Noni. Drink some gin, my boy. What cannons?”

“Silence, sailor.”

He drags him away from the window.

“Oh, you shake me like a squall!”

“Silence! I think he looked at us from the window; something white

flashed behind the window pane. You may laugh. Khorre--if he came out

now I would scream like a woman.”

He laughs softly.

“Are you speaking of Dan? I don’t understand anything, Noni.”

“But is that Dan? Of course it is not Dan--it is some one else. Give me

your hand, sailor.”

“I think that you simply drank too much, like that time--remember,

in the castle? And your hand is quivering. But then the game was

different--”

“Tss!”

Khorre lowers his voice:

“But your hand is really in blood. Oh, you are breaking my fingers!”

Haggart threatens:

“If you don’t keep still, dog, I’ll break every bone of your body! I’ll

pull every vein out of your body, if you don’t keep still, you dog!”

Silence. The distant breakers are softly groaning, as if

complaining--the sea has gone far away from the black earth. And the

night is silent. It came no one knows whence and spread over the earth;

it spread over the earth and is silent; it is silent, waiting for

something. And ferocious mists have swung themselves to meet it--the sea

breathed phantoms, driving to the earth a herd of headless submissive

giants. A heavy fog is coming.

“Why doesn’t he light a lamp?” asks Khorre sternly but submissively.

“He needs no light.”

“Perhaps there is no one there any longer.”

“Yes, he’s there.”

“A fog is coming. How quiet it is! There’s something wrong in the

air--what do you think, Noni?”

“Tss!”

The first soft sounds of the organ resound. Some one is sitting alone

in the dark and is speaking to God in an incomprehensible language about

the most important things. And however faint the sounds--suddenly the

silence vanishes, the night trembles and stares into the dark church

with all its myriads of phantom eyes. An agitated voice whispers:

“Listen! He always begins that way. He gets a hold of your soul at once!

Where does he get the power? He gets a hold of your heart!”

“I don’t like it.”

“Listen! Now he makes believe he is Haggart, Khorre! Little Haggart in

his mother’s lap. Look, all hands are filled with golden rays; little

Haggart is playing with golden rays. Look!”

“I don’t see it, Noni. Leave my hand alone, it hurts.”

“Now he makes believe he is Haggart! Listen!”

The oppressive chords resound faintly. Haggart moans softly.

“What is it, Noni? Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes. Do you understand of what he speaks?”

“No.”

“He speaks of the most important--of the most vital, Khorre--if we could

only understand it--I want to understand it. Listen, Khorre, listen! Why

does he make believe that he is Haggart? It is not my soul. My soul does

not know this.”

“What, Noni?”

“I don’t know. What terrible dreams there are in this land! Listen.

There! Now he will cry and he will say: ‘It is Haggart crying.’ He will

call God and will say: ‘Haggart is calling.’ He lies--Haggart did not

call, Haggart does not know God.”

He moans again, trying to restrain himself.

“Do you feel any pain?”

“Yes--Be silent.”

Haggart exclaims in a muffled voice:

“Oh, Khorre!”

“What is it, Noni?”

“Why don’t you tell him that it isn’t Haggart? It is a lie!” whispers

Haggart rapidly. “He thinks that he knows, but he does not know

anything. He is a small, wretched old man with red eyes, like those of

a rabbit, and to-morrow death will mow him down. Ha! He is dealing in

diamonds, he throws them from one hand to the other like an old miser,

and he himself is dying of hunger. It is a fraud, Khorre, a fraud. Let

us shout loudly, Khorre, we are alone here.”

He shouts, turning to the thundering organ:

“Eh, musician! Even a fly cannot rise on your wings, even the smallest

fly cannot rise on your wings. Eh, musician! Let me have your torn hat

and I will throw a penny into it; your lie is worth no more. What are

you prating there about God, you rabbit’s eyes? Be silent, I am shamed

to listen to you. I swear, I am ashamed to listen to you! Don’t you

believe me? You are still calling? Whither?”

“Strike them on the head, Noni.”

“Be silent, you dog! But what a terrible land! What are they doing here

with the human heart? What terrible dreams there are in this land?”

He stops speaking. The organ sings solemnly.

“Why did you stop speaking, Noni?” asks the sailor with alarm.

“I am listening. It is good music, Khorre. Have I said anything?”

“You even shouted, Noni, and you forced me to shout with you.”

“That is not true. I have been silent all the time. Do you know, I

haven’t even opened my mouth once! You must have been dreaming, Khorre.

Perhaps you are thinking that you are near the church? You are simply

sleeping in your bed, sailor. It is a dream.”

Khorre is terrified.

“Drink some gin, Noni.”

“I don’t need it. I drank something else already.”

“Your hands?”

“Be silent, Khorre. Don’t you see that everything is silent and is

listening, and you alone are talking? The musician may feel offended!”

He laughs quietly. Brass trumpets are roaring harmoniously about the

triumphant conciliation between man and God. The fog is growing thicker.

A loud stamping of feet--some one runs through the deserted street in

agitation.

“Noni!” whispers the sailor. “Who ran by?”

“I hear.”

“Noni! Another one is running. Something is wrong.”

Frightened people are running about in the middle of the night--the

echo of the night doubles the sound of their footsteps, increasing their

terror tenfold, and it seems as if the entire village, terror-stricken,

is running away somewhere. Rocking, dancing silently, as upon waves, a

lantern floats by.

“They have found him, Khorre. They have found the man I killed, sailor!

I did not throw him into the sea; I brought him and set his head up

against the door of his house. They have found him.”

Another lantern floats by, swinging from side to side. As if hearing

the alarm, the organ breaks off at a high chord. An instant of silence,

emptiness of dread waiting, and then a woman’s sob of despair fills it

up to the brim.

The mist is growing thicker.

CHAPTER VI

The flame in the oil-lamp is dying out, having a smell of burning. It is

near sunrise. A large, clean, fisherman’s hut. A skilfully made

little ship is fastened to the ceiling, and even the sails are set.

Involuntarily this little ship has somehow become the centre of

attraction and all those who speak, who are silent and who listen, look

at it, study each familiar sail. Behind the dark curtain lies the body

of Philipp--this hut belonged to him.

The people are waiting for Haggart--some have gone out to search for

him. On the benches along the walls, the old fishermen have seated

themselves, their hands folded on their knees; some of them seem to be

slumbering; others are smoking their pipes. They speak meditatively and

cautiously, as though eager to utter no unnecessary words. Whenever

a belated fisherman comes in, he looks first at the curtain, then he

silently squeezes himself into the crowd, and those who have no place on

the bench apparently feel embarrassed.

The abbot paces the room heavily, his hands folded on his back, his head

lowered; when any one is in his way, he quietly pushes him aside with

his hand. He is silent and knits his brows convulsively. Occasionally he

glances at the door or at the window and listens.

The only woman present there is Mariet. She is sitting by the table

and constantly watching her father with her burning eyes. She shudders

slightly at each loud word, at the sound of the door as it opens, at the

noise of distant footsteps.

At night a fog came from the sea and covered the earth. And such

perfect quiet reigns now that long-drawn tolling is heard in the distant

lighthouse of the Holy Cross. Warning is thus given to the ships that

have lost their way in the fog.

Some one in the corner says:

“Judging from the blow, it was not one of our people that killed him.

Our people can’t strike like that. He stuck the knife here, then slashed

over there, and almost cut his head off.”

“You can’t do that with a dull knife!”

“No. You can’t do it with a weak hand. I saw a murdered sailor on the

wharf one day--he was cut up just like this.”

Silence.

“And where is his mother?” asks some one, nodding at the curtain.

“Selly is taking care of her. Selly took her to her house.”

An old fisherman quietly asks his neighbour:

“Who told you?”

“Francina woke me. Who told you, Marle?”

“Some one knocked on my window.”

“Who knocked on your window?”

“I don’t know.”

Silence.

“How is it you don’t know? Who was the first to see?”

“Some one passed by and noticed him.”

“None of us passed by. There was nobody among us who passed by.”

A fisherman seated at the other end, says:

“There was nobody among us who passed by. Tell us, Thomas.”

Thomas takes out his pipe:

“I am a neighbour of Philipp’s, of that man there--” he points at the

curtain. “Yes, yes, you all know that I am his neighbour. And if anybody

does not know it--I’ll say it again, as in a court of justice: I am his

neighbour--I live right next to him--” he turns to the window.

An elderly fisherman enters and forces himself silently into the line.

“Well, Tibo?” asks the abbot, stopping.

“Nothing.”

“Haven’t you found Haggart?”

“No. It is so foggy that they are afraid of losing themselves. They walk

and call each other; some of them hold each other by the hand. Even a

lantern can’t be seen ten feet away.”

The abbot lowers his head and resumes his pacing. The old fisherman

speaks, without addressing any one in particular.

“There are many ships now staring helplessly in the sea.”

“I walked like a blind man,” says Tibo. “I heard the Holy Cross ringing.

But it seems as if it changed its place. The sound comes from the left

side.”

“The fog is deceitful.”

Old Desfoso says:

“This never happened here. Since Dugamel broke Jack’s head with a shaft.

That was thirty--forty years ago.”

“What did you say, Desfoso?” the abbot stops.

“I say, since Dugamel broke Jack’s head--”

“Yes, yes!” says the abbot, and resumes pacing the room.

“Then Dugamel threw himself into the sea from a rock and was dashed to

death--that’s how it happened. He threw himself down.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with hatred. Silence.

“What did you say, Thomas?”

Thomas takes his pipe out of his mouth.

“Nothing. I only said that some one knocked at my window.”

“You don’t know who?”

“No. And you will never know. I came out, I looked--and there Philipp

was sitting at his door. I wasn’t surprised--Philipp often roamed about

at night ever since--”

He stops irresolutely. Mariet asks harshly:

“Since when? You said ‘since.’”

Silence. Desfoso replies frankly and heavily:

“Since your Haggart came. Go ahead, Thomas, tell us about it.”

“So I said to him: ‘Why did you knock, Philipp? Do you want anything?’

But he was silent.”

“And he was silent?”

“He was silent. ‘If you don’t want anything, you had better go to sleep,

my friend,’ said I. But he was silent. Then I looked at him--his throat

was cut open.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the speaker with aversion. Silence. Another

fisherman enters, looks at the curtain and silently forces his way into

the crowd. Women’s voices are heard behind the door; the abbot stops.

“Eh, Lebon! Chase the women away,” he says. “Tell them, there is nothing

for them to do here.”

Lebon goes out.

“Wait,” the abbot stops. “Ask how the mother is feeling; Selly is taking

care of her.”

Desfoso says:

“You say, chase away the women, abbot? And your daughter? She is here.”

The abbot looks at Mariet. She says:

“I am not going away from here.”

Silence. The abbot paces the room again; he looks at the little ship

fastened to the ceiling and asks:

“Who made it?”

All look at the little ship.

“He,” answers Desfoso. “He made it when he wanted to go to America as a

sailor. He was always asking me how a three-masted brig is fitted out.”

They look at the ship again, at its perfect little sails--at the little

rags. Lebon returns.

“I don’t know how to tell you about it, abbot. The women say that

Haggart and his sailor are being led over here. The women are afraid.”

Mariet shudders and looks at the door; the abbot pauses.

“Oho, it is daybreak already, the fog is turning blue!” says one

fisherman to another, but his voice breaks off.

“Yes. Low tide has started,” replies the other dully.

Silence. Then uneven footsteps resound. Several young fishermen with

excited faces bring in Haggart, who is bound, and push Khorre in after

him, also bound. Haggart is calm; as soon as the sailor was bound,

something wildly free appeared in his movements, in his manners, in the

sharpness of his swift glances.

One of the men who brought Haggart says to the abbot in a low voice:

“He was near the church. Ten times we passed by and saw no one, until he

called: ‘Aren’t you looking for me?’ It is so foggy, father.”

The abbot shakes his head silently and sits down. Mariet smiles to her

husband with her pale lips, but he does not look at her. Like all the

others, he has fixed his eyes in amazement on the toy ship.

“Hello, Haggart,” says the abbot.

“Hello, father.”

“You call me father?”

“Yes, you.”

“You are mistaken, Haggart. I am not your father.”

The fishermen exchanged glances contentedly.

“Well, then. Hello, abbot,” says Haggart with indifference, and resumes

examining the little ship. Khorre mutters:

“That’s the way, be firm, Noni.”

“Who made this toy?” asks Haggart, but no one replies.

“Hello, Gart!” says Mariet, smiling. “It is I, your wife, Mariet. Let me

untie your hands.”

With a smile, pretending that she does not notice the stains of blood,

she unfastens the ropes. All look at her in silence. Haggart also looks

at her bent, alarmed head.

“Thank you,” he says, straightening his hands.

“It would be a good thing to untie my hands, too,” said Khorre, but

there is no answer.

ABBOT--Haggart, did you kill Philipp?

HAGGART--I.

ABBOT--Do you mean to say--eh, you, Haggart--that you yourself killed

him with your own hands? Perhaps you said to the sailor: “Sailor, go and

kill Philipp,” and he did it, for he loves you and respects you as his

superior? Perhaps it happened that way! Tell me, Haggart. I called you

my son, Haggart.

HAGGART--No, I did not order the sailor to do it. I killed Philipp with

my own hand.

Silence.

KHORRE--Noni! Tell them to unfasten my hands and give me back my pipe.

“Don’t be in a hurry,” roars the priest. “Be bound awhile, drunkard! You

had better be afraid of an untied rope--it may be formed into a noose.”

But obeying a certain swift movement or glance of Haggart, Mariet walks

over to the sailor and opens the knots of the rope. And again all look

in silence upon her bent, alarmed head. Then they turn their eyes upon

Haggart. Just as they looked at the little ship before, so they now look

at him. And he, too, has forgotten about the toy. As if aroused from

sleep, he surveys the fishermen, and stares long at the dark curtain.

ABBOT--Haggart, I am asking you. Who carried Philipp’s body?

HAGGART--I. I brought it and put it near the door, his head against the

door, his face against the sea. It was hard to set him that way, he was

always falling down. But I did it.

ABBOT--Why did you do it?

HAGGART--I don’t know exactly. I heard that Philipp has a mother, an

old woman, and I thought this might please them better--both him and his

mother.

ABBOT--(With restraint.) You are laughing at us?

HAGGART--No. What makes you think I am laughing? I am just as serious as

you are. Did he--did Philipp make this little ship?

No one answers. Mariet, rising and bending over to Haggart across the

table, says:

“Didn’t you say this, Haggart: ‘My poor boy, I killed you because I

had to kill you, and now I am going to take you to your mother, my dear

boy’?”

“These are very sad words. Who told them to you, Mariet?” asks Haggart,

surprised.

“I heard them. And didn’t you say further: ‘Mother, I have brought you

your son, and put him down at your door--take your boy, mother’?”

Haggart maintains silence.

“I don’t know,” roars the abbot bitterly. “I don’t know; people don’t

kill here, and we don’t know how it is done. Perhaps that is as it

should be--to kill and then bring the murdered man to his mother’s

threshold. What are you gaping at, you scarecrow?”

Khorre replies rudely:

“According to my opinion, he should have thrown him into the sea. Your

Haggart is out of his mind; I have said it long ago.”

Suddenly old Desfoso shouts amid the loud approval of the others:

“Hold your tongue! We will send him to the city, but we will hang you

like a cat ourselves, even if you did not kill him.”

“Silence, old man, silence!” the abbot stops him, while Khorre looks

over their heads with silent contempt. “Haggart, I am asking you, why

did you take Philipp’s life? He needed his life just as you need yours.”

“He was Mariet’s betrothed--and--”

“Well?”

“And--I don’t want to speak. Why didn’t you ask me before, when he was

alive? Now I have killed him.”

“But”--says the abbot, and there is a note of entreaty in his heavy

voice. “But it may be that you are already repenting, Haggart? You are a

splendid man, Gart. I know you; when you are sober you cannot hurt even

a fly. Perhaps you were intoxicated--that happens with young people--and

Philipp may have said something to you, and you--”

“No.”

“No? Well, then, let it be no. Am I not right, children? But perhaps

something strange came over you--it happens with people--suddenly a red

mist will get into a man’s head, the beast will begin to howl in his

breast, and--In such cases one word is enough--”

“No, Philipp did not say anything to me. He passed along the road, when

I jumped out from behind a large rock and stuck a knife into his throat.

He had no time even to be scared. But if you like--” Haggart surveys the

fishermen with his eyes irresolutely--“I feel a little sorry for him.

That is, just a little. Did he make this toy?”

The abbot lowers his head sternly. And Desfoso shouts again, amidst sobs

of approval from the others:

“No! Abbot, you better ask him what he was doing at the church. Dan saw

them from the window. Wouldn’t you tell us what you and your accursed

sailor were doing at the church? What were you doing there? Speak.”

Haggart looks at the speaker steadfastly and says slowly:

“I talked with the devil.”

A muffled rumbling follows. The abbot jumps from his place and roars

furiously:

“Then let him sit on your neck! Eh, Pierre, Jules, tie him down as fast

as you can until morning. And the other one, too. And in the morning--in

the morning, take him away to the city, to the Judges. I don’t know

their accursed city laws”--cries the abbot in despair--“but they will

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

Khorre rudely pushes aside the young fisherman who comes over to him

with a rope, and says to Desfoso in a low voice:

“It’s an important matter, old man. Go away for a minute--he oughtn’t to

hear it,” he nods at Haggart.

“I don’t trust you.”

“You needn’t. That’s nothing. Noni, there is a little matter here. Come,

come, and don’t be afraid. I have no knife.”

The people step aside and whisper. Haggart is silently waiting to be

bound, but no one comes over to him. All shudder when Mariet suddenly

commences to speak:

“Perhaps you think that all this is just, father? Why, then, don’t you

ask me about it? I am his wife. Don’t you believe that I am his wife?

Then I will bring little Noni here. Do you want me to bring little Noni?

He is sleeping, but I will wake him up. Once in his life he may wake up

at night in order to say that this man whom you want to hang in the city

is his father.”

“Don’t!” says Haggart.

“Very well,” replies Mariet obediently. “He commands and I must obey--he

is my husband. Let little Noni sleep. But I am not sleeping, I am here.

Why, then, didn’t you ask me: ‘Mariet, how was it possible that your

husband, Haggart, should kill Philipp’?”

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

“Let her speak. She is his wife.”

“You will not believe, Desfoso,” says Mariet, turning to the old

fisherman with a tender and mournful smile. “Desfoso, you will not

believe what strange and peculiar creatures we women are!”

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

“You will not believe what queer desires, what cunning, malicious

little thoughts we women have. It was I who persuaded my husband to kill

Philipp. Yes, yes--he did not want to do it, but I urged him; I cried so

much and threatened him, so he consented. Men always give in--isn’t that

true, Desfoso?”

Haggart looks at his wife in a state of great perplexity, his eyebrows

brought close to each other. Mariet continues, without looking at him,

still smiling as before:

“You will ask me, why I wanted Philipp’s death? Yes, yes, you will ask

this question, I know it. He never did me any harm, that poor Philipp,

isn’t that true? Then I will tell you: He was my betrothed. I don’t know

whether you will be able to understand me. You, old Desfoso--you would

not kill the girl you kissed one day? Of course not. But we women are

such strange creatures--you can’t even imagine what strange, suspicious,

peculiar creatures we are. Philipp was my betrothed, and he kissed me--”

She wipes her mouth and continues, laughing:

“Here I am wiping my mouth even now. You have all seen how I wiped my

mouth. I am wiping away Philipp’s kisses. You are laughing. But ask your

wife, Desfoso--does she want the life of the man who kissed her before

you? Ask all women who love--even the old women! We never grow old in

love. We are born so, we women.”

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

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

Mariet laughs.

“Do you hear? He has forgotten. Go on, Gart. You may say that it was

your own idea? That’s the way you men are--you forget everything. Will

you say perhaps that I--”

“Mariet!” Haggart interrupts her threateningly.

Mariet, turning pale, looking sorrowfully at his terrible eyes which are

now steadfastly fixed upon her, continues, still smiling:

“Go on, Gart! Will you say perhaps that I--Will you say perhaps that I

dissuaded you? That would be funny--”

HAGGART--No, I will not say that. You lie, Mariet! Even I, Haggart--just

think of it, people--even I believed her, so cleverly does this woman

lie.

MARIET--Go--on--Haggart.

HAGGART--You are laughing? Abbot, I don’t want to be the husband of your

daughter--she lies.

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

worse than the devil, Gart!

HAGGART--You are all foolish people! I don’t understand you; I don’t

know now what to do with you. Shall I laugh? Shall I be angry? Shall

I cry? You want to let me go--why, then, don’t you let me go? You are

sorry for Philipp. Well, then, kill me--I have told you that it was I

who killed the boy. Am I disputing? But you are making grimaces like

monkeys that have found bananas--or have you such a game in your land?

Then I don’t want to play it. And you, abbot, you are like a juggler in

the marketplace. In one hand you have truth and in the other hand

you have truth, and you are forever performing tricks. And now she is

lying--she lies so well that my heart contracts with belief. Oh, she is

doing it well!

And he laughs bitterly.

MARIET--Forgive me, Gart.

HAGGART--When I wanted to kill him, she hung on my hand like a rock, and

now she says that she killed him. She steals from me this murder; she

does not know that one has to earn that, too! Oh, there are queer people

in your land!

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

Mariet.

Haggart replies:

“My father taught me: ‘Eh, Noni, beware! There is one truth and one law

for all--for the sun, for the wind, for the waves, for the beasts--and

only for man there is another truth. Beware of this truth of man, Noni!’

so said my father. Perhaps this is your truth? Then I am not afraid of

it, but I feel very sad and very embittered. Mariet, if you sharpened my

knife and said: ‘Go and kill that man’--it may be that I would not have

cared to kill him. ‘What is the use of cutting down a withered tree?’--I

would have said. But now--farewell, Mariet! Well, bind me and take me to

the city.”

He waits haughtily, but no one approaches him. Mariet has lowered her

head upon her hands, her shoulders are twitching. The abbot is also

absorbed in thought, his large head lowered. Desfoso is carrying on a

heated conversation in whispers with the fishermen. Khorre steps forward

and speaks, glancing at Haggart askance:

“I had a little talk with them, Noni--they are all right, they are good

fellows, Noni. Only the priest--but he is a good man, too--am I right,

Noni? Don’t look so crossly at me, or I’ll mix up the whole thing! You

see, kind people, it’s this way: this man, Haggart, and I have saved up

a little sum of money, a little barrel of gold. We don’t need it, Noni,

do we? Perhaps you will take it for yourselves? What do you think?

Shall we give them the gold, Noni? You see, here I’ve entangled myself

already.”

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

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

Khorre continues:

“Here it goes, Noni; I am straightening it out little by little! But

where have we buried it, the barrel? Do you remember, Noni? I have

forgotten. They say it’s from the gin, kind people; they say that one’s

memory fails from too much gin. I am a drunkard, that’s true.”

“If you are not inventing--then you had better choke yourself with your

gold, you dog!” says the abbot.

HAGGART--Khorre!

KHORRE--Yes.

HAGGART--To-morrow you will get a hundred lashes. Abbot, order a hundred

lashes for him!

ABBOT--With pleasure, my son. With pleasure.

The movements of the fishermen are just as slow and languid, but there

is something new in their increased puffing and pulling at their pipes,

in the light quiver of their tanned hands. Some of them arise and look

out of the window with feigned indifference.

“The fog is rising!” says one, looking out of the window. “Do you hear

what I said about the fog?”

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

Desfoso comes forward and speaks cautiously:

“That isn’t quite so, abbot. It seems you didn’t say exactly what

you ought to say, abbot. They seem to think differently. I don’t say

anything for myself--I am simply talking about them. What do you say,

Thomas?”

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

go to sleep?

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

answer?

An old fisherman says:

“There used to be a custom in our land, I heard, that a murderer was to

pay a fine for the man he killed. Have you heard about it, Desfoso?”

Another voice is heard:

“Philipp is dead. Philipp is dead already, do you hear, neighbour? Who

is going to support his mother?”

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

“Abbot, did you hear us say: ‘Gart is a bad man; Gart is a

good-for-nothing, a city trickster?’ No, we said: ‘This thing has never

happened here before,’” says Desfoso.

Then a determined voice remarks:

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

DESFOSO--If you looked around, abbot, you couldn’t find a single, strong

boat here. I haven’t enough tar for mine. And the church--is that the

way a good church ought to look? I am not saying it myself, but it comes

out that way--it can’t be helped, abbot.

Haggart turns to Mariet and says:

“Do you hear, woman?”

“I do.”

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

“I can’t. I love you, Haggart. Are there only ten Commandments of God?

No, there is still another: ‘I love you, Haggart.’”

“What sad dreams there are in your land.”

The abbot rises and walks over to the fishermen.

“Well, what did you say about the church, old man? You said something

interesting about the church, or was I mistaken?”

He casts a swift glance at Mariet and Haggart.

“It isn’t the church alone, abbot. There are four of us old men: Legran,

Stoffle, Puasar, Kornu, and seven old women. Do I say that we are not

going to feed them? Of course, we will, but don’t be angry, father--it

is hard! You know it yourself, abbot--old age is no fun.”

“I am an old man, too!” begins old Rikke, lisping, but suddenly he

flings his hat angrily to the ground. “Yes, I am an old man. I don’t

want any more, that’s all! I worked, and now I don’t want to work.

That’s all! I don’t want to work.”

He goes out, swinging his hand. All look sympathetically at his stooping

back, at his white tufts of hair. And then they look again at Desfoso,

at his mouth, from which their words come out. A voice says:

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

All laugh softly and forcedly.

“Suppose we send Gart to the city--what then?” Desfoso goes on, without

looking at Haggart. “Well, the city people will hang him--and then

what? The result will be that a man will be gone, a fisherman will be

gone--you will lose a son, and Mariet will lose her husband, and the

little boy his father. Is there any joy in that?”

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

mind you have, Desfoso!”

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

“Yes, I do, Haggart. And it wouldn’t do you any harm to pay attention to

them. The devil is prouder than you, and yet he is only the devil, and

nothing more.”

Desfoso affirms:

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

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

asks:

“Gart! But you don’t need to kill anybody else. Excepting Philipp, you

don’t feel like killing anybody else, do you?”

“No.”

“Only Philipp, and no more? Do you hear? Only Philipp, and no more. And

another question--Gart, don’t you want to send away this man, Khorre? We

would like you to do it. Who knows him? People say that all this trouble

comes through him.”

Several voices are heard:

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

The abbot upholds them.

“True!”

“You, too, priest!” says Khorre, gruffly. Haggart looks with a faint

smile at his angry, bristled face, and says:

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

“Well, then, Abbot,” says Desfoso, turning around, “we have decided, in

accordance with our conscience--to take the money. Do I speak properly?”

One voice answers for all:

“Yes.”

DESFOSO--Well, sailor, where is the money?

KHORRE--Captain?

HAGGART--Give it to them.

KHORRE (rudely)--“Then give me back my knife and my pipe first! Who is

the eldest among you--you? Listen, then: Take crowbars and shovels and

go to the castle. Do you know the tower, the accursed tower that fell?

Go over there--”

He bends down and draws a map on the floor with his crooked finger. All

bend down and look attentively; only the abbot gazes sternly out of the

window, behind which the heavy fog is still grey. Haggart whispers in a

fit of rage:

“Mariet, it would have been better if you had killed me as I killed

Philipp. And now my father is calling me. Where will be the end of my

sorrow, Mariet? Where the end of the world is. And where is the end of

the world? Do you want to take my sorrow, Mariet?”

“I do, Haggart.”

“No, you are a woman.”

“Why do you torture me, Gart? What have I done that you should torture

me so? I love you.”

“You lied.”

“My tongue lied. I love you.”

“A serpent has a double tongue, but ask the serpent what it wants--and

it will tell you the truth. It is your heart that lied. Was it not you,

girl, that I met that time on the road? And you said: ‘Good evening.’

How you have deceived me!”

Desfoso asks loudly:

“Well, abbot? You are coming along with us, aren’t you, father.

Otherwise something wrong might come out of it. Do I speak properly?”

The abbot replies merrily:

“Of course, of course, children. I am going with you. Without me, you

will think of the church. I have just been thinking of the church--of

the kind of church you need. Oh, it’s hard to get along with you,

people!”

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

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

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

The few who remained are more hasty in their movements. Some of them

politely bid Haggart farewell.

“Good-bye, Gart.”

“I am thinking, Haggart, what kind of a church we need. This one will

not do, it seems. They prayed here a hundred years; now it is no good,

they say. Well, then, it is necessary to have a new one, a better one.

But what shall it be?”

“‘Pope’s a rogue, Pope’s a rogue.’ But, then, I am a rogue, too. Don’t

you think, Gart, that I am also something of a rogue? One moment,

children, I am with you.”

There is some crowding in the doorway. The abbot follows the last man

with his eyes and roars angrily:

“Eh, you, Haggart, murderer! What are you smiling at? You have no right

to despise them like that. They are my children. They have worked--have

you seen their hands, their backs? If you haven’t noticed that, you are

a fool! They are tired. They want to rest. Let them rest, even at the

cost of the blood of the one you killed. I’ll give them each a little,

and the rest I will throw out into the sea. Do you hear, Haggart?”

“I hear, priest.”

The abbot exclaims, raising his arms:

“O Lord! Why have you made a heart that can have pity on both the

murdered and the murderer! Gart, go home. Take him home, Mariet, and

wash his hands!”

“To whom do you lie, priest?” asks Haggart, slowly. “To God or to the

devil? To yourself or to the people? Or to everybody?”

He laughs bitterly.

“Eh, Gart! You are drunk with blood.”

“And with what are you drunk?”

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

them:

“May a thunder strike you down, both of you, that’s what I am praying

to God. May a thunder strike you down! What are you doing with my heart?

You are tearing it with your teeth like greedy dogs. You didn’t drink

enough blood, Gart, drink mine, then! You will never have enough, Gart,

isn’t that true?”

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

home, Gart, and sleep more.”

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

“Gart! I am going to little Noni.”

“Go.”

“Are you coming along with me?”

“Yes--no--later.”

“I am going to little Noni. What shall I tell him about his father when

he wakes up?”

Haggart is silent. Khorre comes back and stops irresolutely at the

threshold. Mariet casts at him a glance full of contempt and then goes

out. Silence.

“Khorre!”

“Yes.”

“Gin!”

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

once, Noni.”

Haggart drinks; he examines the room with a smile.

“Nobody. Did you see him, Khorre? He is there, behind the curtain. Just

think of it, sailor--here we are again with him alone.”

“Go home, Noni!”

“Right away. Give me some gin.”

He drinks.

“And they? They have gone?”

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

laughing so much, Noni.”

Both laugh.

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

Khorre.”

They examine the toy.

“Look how skilfully the jib was made, Khorre. Good boy, Philipp! But the

halyards are bad, look. No, Philipp! You never saw how real ships are

fitted out--real ships which rove over the ocean, tearing its grey

waves. Was it with this toy that you wanted to quench your little

thirst--fool?”

He throws down the little ship and rises:

“Khorre! Boatswain!”

“Yes.”

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

The sailor turns pale and shouts enthusiastically:

“Noni! Captain! My knees are trembling. I will not be able to reach them

and I will fall on the way.”

“You will reach them! We must also take our money away from these

people--what do you think, Khorre? We have played a little, and now it

is enough--what do you think, Khorre?”

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

he weeps.

CHAPTER VII

“These are your comrades, Haggart? I am so glad to see them. You said,

Gart, yes--you said that their faces were entirely different from the

faces of our people, and that is true. Oh, how true it is! Our people

have handsome faces, too--don’t think our fishermen are ugly, but they

haven’t these deep, terrible scars. I like them very much, I assure you,

Gart. I suppose you are a friend of Haggart’s--you have such stern, fine

eyes? But you are silent? Why are they silent, Haggart; did you forbid

them to speak? And why are you silent yourself, Haggart? Haggart!”

Illuminated by the light of torches, Haggart stands and listens to the

rapid, agitated speech. The metal of the guns and the uniforms vibrates

and flashes; the light is also playing on the faces of those who

have surrounded Haggart in a close circle--these are his nearest, his

friends. And in the distance there is a different game--there a large

ship is dancing silently, casting its light upon the black waves,

and the black water plays with them, pleating them like a braid,

extinguishing them and kindling them again.

A noisy conversation and the splashing of the waters--and the dreadful

silence of kindred human lips that are sealed.

“I am listening to you, Mariet,” says Haggart at last. “What do you

want, Mariet? It is impossible that some one should have offended you. I

ordered them not to touch your house.”

“Oh, no, Haggart, no! No one has offended me!” exclaimed Mariet

cheerfully. “But don’t you like me to hold little Noni in my arms?

Then I will put him down here among the rocks. Here he will be warm and

comfortable as in his cradle. That’s the way! Don’t be afraid of waking

him, Gart; he sleeps soundly and will not hear anything. You may shout,

sing, fire a pistol--the boy sleeps soundly.”

“What do you want, Mariet? I did not call you here, and I am not pleased

that you have come.”

“Of course, you did not call me here, Haggart; of course, you didn’t.

But when the fire was started, I thought: ‘Now it will light the way for

me to walk. Now I will not stumble.’ And I went. Your friends will not

be offended, Haggart, if I will ask them to step aside for awhile? I

have something to tell you, Gart. Of course, I should have done that

before, I understand, Gart; but I only just recalled it now. It was so

light to walk!”

Haggart says sternly:

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

They all step aside.

“What is it that you have recalled, Mariet? Speak! I am going away

forever from your mournful land, where one dreams such painful dreams,

where even the rocks dream of sorrow. And I have forgotten everything.”

Gently and submissively, seeking protection and kindness, the woman

presses close to his hand.

“O, Haggart! O, my dear Haggart! They are not offended because I asked

them so rudely to step aside, are they? O, my dear Haggart! The galloons

of your uniform scratched my cheek, but it is so pleasant. Do you know,

I never liked it when you wore the clothes of our fishermen--it was not

becoming to you, Haggart. But I am talking nonsense, and you are getting

angry, Gart. Forgive me!”

“Don’t kneel. Get up.”

“It was only for a moment. Here, I got up. You ask me what I want? This

is what I want: Take me with you, Haggart! Me and little Noni, Haggart!”

Haggart retreats.

“You say that, Mariet? You say that I should take you along? Perhaps you

are laughing, woman? Or am I dreaming again?”

“Yes, I say that: Take me with you. Is this your ship? How large and

beautiful it is, and it has black sails, I know it. Take me on your

ship, Haggart. I know, you will say: ‘We have no women on the ship,’ but

I will be the woman: I will be your soul. Haggart, I will be your song,

your thoughts, Haggart! And if it must be so, let Khorre give gin to

little Noni--he is a strong boy.”

“Eh, Mariet?” says Haggart sternly. “Do you perhaps want me to believe

you again? Eh, Mariet? Don’t talk of that which you do not know, woman.

Are the rocks perhaps casting a spell over me and turning my head? Do

you hear the noise, and something like voices? That is the sea, waiting

for me. Don’t hold my soul. Let it go, Mariet.”

“Don’t speak, Haggart! I know everything. It was not as though I came

along a fiery road, it was not as though I saw blood to-day. Be silent,

Haggart! I have seen something more terrible, Haggart! Oh, if you

could only understand me! I have seen cowardly people who ran without

defending themselves. I have seen clutching, greedy fingers, crooked

like those of birds, like those of birds, Haggart! And out of these

fingers, which were forced open, gold was taken. And suddenly I saw a

man sobbing. Think of it, Haggart! They were taking gold from him, and

he was sobbing.”

She laughs bitterly. Haggart advances a step toward her and puts his

heavy hand upon her shoulder:

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

Mariet removes his hand and continues:

“‘No,’ I thought. ‘These are not my brethren at all!’ I thought and

laughed. And father shouted to the cowards: ‘Take shafts and strike

them.’ But they were running. Father is such a splendid man.”

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

“Such a splendid man! And then one sailor bent down close to

Noni--perhaps he did not want to do any harm to him, but he bent down to

him too closely, so, I fired at him from your pistol. Is it nothing that

I fired at our sailor?”

Haggart laughs:

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

“No. I don’t know how to shoot. And it was he who told me where you

were. O Haggart, O brother!”

She sobs, and then she speaks angrily with a shade of a serpentine hiss

in her voice:

“I hate them! They were not tortured enough; I would have tortured them

still more, still more. Oh, what cowardly rascals they are! Listen,

Haggart, I was always afraid of your power--to me there was always

something terrible and incomprehensible in your power. ‘Where is his

God?’ I wondered, and I was terrified. Even this morning I was afraid,

but now that this night came, this terror has fled, and I came running

to you over the fiery road: I am going with you, Haggart. Take me,

Haggart, I will be the soul of your ship!”

“I am the soul of my ship, Mariet. But you will be the song of my

liberated soul, Mariet. You shall be the song of my ship, Mariet! Do you

know where we are going? We are going to look for the end of the world,

for unknown lands, for unknown monsters. And at night Father Ocean will

sing to us, Mariet!”

“Embrace me, Haggart. Ah, Haggart, he is not a God who makes cowards of

human beings. We shall go to look for a new God.”

Haggart whispers stormily:

“I lied when I said that I have forgotten everything--I learned this in

your land. I love you, Mariet, as I love fire. Eh, Flerio, comrade!” He

shouts cheerfully: “Eh, Flerio, comrade! Have you prepared a salute?”

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

“Eh, Flerio, comrade! Don’t gnash your teeth, without biting--no one

will believe you. Did you put in cannon balls--round, cast-iron, good

cannon balls? Give them wings, comrade--let them fly like blackbirds on

land and sea.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Haggart laughs:

“I love to think how the cannon ball flies, Mariet. I love to watch its

invisible flight. If some one comes in its way--let him! Fate itself

strikes down like that. What is an aim? Only fools need an aim, while

the devil, closing his eyes, throws stones--the wise game is merrier

this way. But you are silent! What are you thinking of, Mariet?”

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

“Are you sorry for them?” Haggart frowns.

“Yes, I am sorry for them. But my pity is my hatred, Haggart. I hate

them, and I would kill them, more and more!”

“I feel like flying faster--my soul is so free. Let us jest, Mariet!

Here is a riddle, guess it: For whom will the cannons roar soon? You

think, for me? No. For you? no, no, not for you, Mariet! For little

Noni, for him--for little Noni who is boarding the ship to-night. Let

him wake up from this thunder. How our little Noni will be surprised!

And now be quiet, quiet--don’t disturb his sleep--don’t spoil little

Noni’s awakening.”

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

“Where is the captain?”

“Here. Halt, the captain is here!”

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

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

Khorre, intoxicated and jolly, shouts:

“Not so loud, devils! Don’t you see that the captain is here? They

scream like seagulls over a dead dolphin.”

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

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

Noni.

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

KHORRE--Very well. The thing is done, Captain. We’ve picked up all our

money--not worse than the imperial tax collectors. I could not tell

which was ours, so I picked up all the money. But if they have buried

some of the gold, forgive us, Captain--we are not peasants to plough the

ground.

Laughter. Haggart also laughs.

“Let them sow, we shall reap.”

“Golden words, Noni. Eh, Tommy, listen to what the Captain is saying.

And another thing: Whether you will be angry or not--I have broken the

music. I have scattered it in small pieces. Show your pipe, Tetyu! Do

you see, Noni, I didn’t do it at once, no. I told him to play a jig, and

he said that he couldn’t do it. Then he lost his mind and ran away. They

all lost their minds there, Captain. Eh, Tommy, show your beard. An old

woman tore half of his beard out, Captain--now he is a disgrace to look

upon. Eh, Tommy! He has hidden himself, he’s ashamed to show his face,

Captain. And there’s another thing: The priest is coming here.”

Mariet exclaims:

“Father!”

Khorre, astonished, asks:

“Are you here? If she came to complain, I must report to you,

Captain--the priest almost killed one of our sailors. And she, too. I

ordered the men to bind the priest--”

“Silence.”

“I don’t understand your actions, Noni--”

Haggart, restraining his rage, exclaims:

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

With ever-growing rage:

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

Mariet cautions him:

“Gart! They have brought father here.”

Several sailors bring in the abbot, bound. His clothes are in disorder,

his face is agitated and pale. He looks at Mariet with some amazement,

and lowers his eyes. Then he heaves a sigh.

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

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

Khorre unfastens the knots. Silence.

ABBOT--Hello, Haggart.

“Hello, abbot.”

“You have arranged a fine night, Haggart!”

Haggart speaks with restraint:

“It is unpleasant for me to see you. Why did you come here? Go home,

priest, no one will touch you. Keep on fishing--and what else were you

doing? Oh, yes--make your own prayers. We are going out to the ocean;

your daughter, you know, is also going with me. Do you see the ship?

That is mine. It’s a pity that you don’t know about ships--you would

have laughed for joy at the sight of such a beautiful ship! Why is he

silent, Mariet? You had better tell him.”

ABBOT--Prayers? In what language? Have you, perhaps, discovered a new

language in which prayers reach God? Oh, Haggart, Haggart!

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

“You are crying, abbot?”

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

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

“I don’t know what they call you: Haggart or devil or something else--I

have come to you with a request. Do you hear, robber, with a request?

Tell your crew not to gnash their teeth like that--I don’t like it.”

Haggart replies morosely:

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

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

Take her, Haggart. But--”

He kneels before him. A murmur of astonishment. Mariet, frightened,

advances a step to her father.

“Father! You are kneeling?”

ABBOT--Robber! Give us back the money. You will rob more for yourself,

but give this money to us. You are young yet, you will rob some more

yet--

HAGGART--You are insane! There’s a man--he will drive the devil himself

to despair! Listen, priest, I am shouting to you: You have simply lost

your mind!

The abbot, still kneeling, continues:

“Perhaps, I have--by God, I don’t know. Robber, dearest, what is this to

you? Give us this money. I feel sorry for them, for the scoundrels!

They rejoiced so much, the scoundrels. They blossomed forth like an

old blackthorn which has nothing but thorns and a ragged bark. They

are sinners. But am I imploring God for their sake? I am imploring you.

Robber, dearest--”

Mariet looks now at Haggart, now at the priest. Haggart is hesitating.

The abbot keeps muttering:

“Robber, do you want me to call you son? Well, then--son--it makes no

difference now--I will never see you again. It’s all the same! Like

an old blackthorn, they bloomed--oh, Lord, those scoundrels, those old

scoundrels!”

“No,” Haggart replied sternly.

“Then you are the devil, that’s who you are. You are the devil,” mutters

the abbot, rising heavily from the ground. Haggart shows his teeth,

enraged.

“Do you wish to sell your soul to the devil? Yes? Eh, abbot--don’t you

know yet that the devil always pays with spurious money? Let me have a

torch, sailor!”

He seizes a torch and lifts it high over his head--he covers his

terrible face with fire and smoke.

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

He flings the torch away. What does the abbot dream in this land full

of monstrous dreams? Terrified, his heavy frame trembling, helplessly

pushing the people aside with his hands, he retreats. He turns around.

Now he sees the glitter of the metal, the dark and terrible faces; he

hears the angry splashing of the waters--and he covers his head with his

hands and walks off quickly. Then Khorre jumps up and strikes him with a

knife in his back.

“Why have you done it?”--the abbot clutches the hand that struck him

down.

“Just so--for nothing!”

The abbot falls to the ground and dies.

“Why have you done it?” cries Mariet.

“Why have you done it?” roars Haggart.

And a strange voice, coming from some unknown depths, answers with

Khorre’s lips:

“You commanded me to do it.”

Haggart looks around and sees the stern, dark faces, the quivering

glitter of the metal, the motionless body; he hears the mysterious,

merry dashing of the waves. And he clasps his head in a fit of terror.

“Who commanded? It was the roaring of the sea. I did not want to kill

him--no, no!”

Sombre voices answer:

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

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

laughter:

“Oh, devils, devils! Do you think that I have two ears in order that you

may lie in each one? Go down on your knees, rascal!”

He hurls Khorre to the ground.

“String him up with a rope! I would have crushed your venomous head

myself--but let them do it. Oh, devils, devils! String him up with a

rope.”

Khorre whines harshly:

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

“Silence! Rascal!”

“I? Noni! Your nurse? You squealed like a little pig in the cook’s room.

Have you forgotten it, Noni?” mutters the sailor plaintively.

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

Several men advance to him. Khorre rises.

“If you do it to me, to your own nurse--then you have recovered, Noni!

Eh, obey the captain! Take me! I’ll make you cry enough, Tommy! You are

always the mischief-maker!”

Grim laughter. Several sailors surround Khorre as Haggart watches them

sternly. A dissatisfied voice says:

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

around.”

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

“I know of a tree around here, but I won’t tell you,” roars Khorre

hoarsely. “Look for it yourself! Well, you have astonished me, Noni. How

you shouted, ‘String him up with a rope!’ Exactly like your father--he

almost hanged me, too. Good-bye, Noni, now I understand your actions.

Eh, gin! and then--on the rope!”

Khorre goes off. No one dares approach Haggart; still enraged, he paces

back and forth with long strides. He pauses, glances at the body and

paces again. Then he calls:

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

“No, Captain.”

“You may go.”

He paces back and forth again, and then calls:

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

“No.”

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

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

“Who is laughing?” asks Haggart in fury.

“I,” answers Mariet. “I am thinking of how they are hanging him and I

am laughing. O, Haggart, O, my noble Haggart! Your wrath is the wrath

of God, do you know it? No. You are strange, you are dear, you are

terrible, Haggart, but I am not afraid of you. Give me your hand,

Haggart, press it firmly, firmly. Here is a powerful hand!”

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

lies.”

“You are powerful and you are just--I was insane when I feared your

power, Gart. May I shout to the sea: ‘Haggart, the Just’?”

“That is not true. Be silent, Mariet, you are intoxicated with blood. I

don’t know what justice is.”

“Who, then, knows it? You, you, Haggart! You are God’s justice, Haggart.

Is it true that he was your nurse? Oh, I know what it means to be a

nurse; a nurse feeds you, teaches you to walk--you love a nurse as

your mother. Isn’t that true, Gart--you love a nurse as a mother? And

yet--‘string him up with a rope, Khorre’!”

She laughs quietly.

A loud, ringing laughter resounds from the side where Khorre was led

away. Haggart stops, perplexed.

“What is it?”

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

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

A crowd is coming. They are laughing and grinning, showing their teeth.

But noticing the captain, they become serious. The people are repeating

one and the same name:

“Khorre! Khorre! Khorre!”

And then Khorre himself appears, dishevelled, crushed, but happy--the

rope has broken. Knitting his brow, Haggart is waiting in silence.

“The rope broke, Noni,” mutters Khorre hoarsely, modestly, yet with

dignity. “There are the ends! Eh, you there, keep quiet! There is

nothing to laugh at--they started to hang me, and the rope broke, Noni.”

Haggart looks at his old, drunken, frightened, and happy face, and he

laughs like a madman. And the sailors respond with roaring laughter. The

reflected lights are dancing more merrily upon the waves--as if they are

also laughing with the people.

“Just look at him, Mariet, what a face he has,” Haggart is almost

choking with laughter. “Are you happy? Speak--are you happy? Look,

Mariet, what a happy face he has! The rope broke--that’s very strong--it

is stronger even than what I said: ‘String him up with a rope.’ Who said

it? Don’t you know, Khorre? You are out of your wits, and you don’t know

anything--well, never mind, you needn’t know. Eh, give him gin! I am

glad, very glad that you are not altogether through with your gin.

Drink, Khorre!”

Voices shout:

“Gin!”

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

Khorre drinks it with dignity, amid laughter and shouts of approval.

Suddenly all the noise dies down and a sombre silence reigns--a woman’s

strange voice drowns the noise--so strange and unfamiliar, as if it were

not Mariet’s voice at all, but another voice speaking with her lips:

“Haggart! You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

Some of the people look at the body; those standing near it step aside.

Haggart asks, surprised:

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

recognise your voice.”

“You have pardoned him, Haggart?”

“You have heard--the rope broke--”

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

Haggart.”

A threatening voice is heard from among the crowd:

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

“Silence!” exclaims Haggart, but there is no longer the same commanding

tone in his voice. “Take them all away! Boatswain! Whistle for everybody

to go aboard. The time is up! Flerio! Get the boats ready.”

“Yes, yes.”

Khorre whistles. The sailors disperse unwillingly, and the same

threatening voice sounds somewhere from the darkness:

“I thought at first it was the dead man who started to speak. But I

would have answered him too: ‘Lie there! The rope broke.’”

Another voice replies:

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

“What are you prating about, devils?” says Khorre. “Silence! Is that

you, Tommy? I know you, you are always the mischief-maker--”

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

him to the boat myself. Come on, Mariet.”

“Where, Haggart?”

“Eh, Mariet! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice, woman--when

did you find time to change it? What a land of jugglers! I have never

seen such a land before!”

“Eh, Haggart! The dreams are ended. I don’t like your voice,

either--little Haggart! But it may be that I am still sleeping--then

wake me. Haggart, swear that it was you who said it: ‘The rope broke.’

Swear that my eyes have not grown blind and that they see Khorre alive.

Swear that this is your hand, Haggart!”

Silence. The voice of the sea is growing louder--there is the splash and

the call and the promise of a stern caress.

“I swear.”

Silence. Khorre and Flerio come up to Haggart.

“All’s ready, Captain,” says Flerio.

“They are waiting, Noni. Go quicker! They want to feast to-night, Noni!

But I must tell you, Noni, that they--”

HAGGART--Did you say something, Flerio? Yes, yes, everything is ready. I

am coming. I think I am not quite through yet with land. This is such

a remarkable land, Flerio; the dreams here drive their claws into a

man like thorns, and they hold him. One has to tear his clothing, and

perhaps his body as well. What did you say, Mariet?

MARIET--Don’t you want to kiss little Noni? You shall never kiss him

again.

“No, I don’t want to.”

Silence.

“You will go alone.”

“Yes, I will go alone.”

“Did you ever cry, Haggart?”

“No.”

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

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

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

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

Silence.

“Is everything ended now, Haggart?”

“Everything is ended, Mariet.”

Mariet, imploring, says:

“Gart! Only one motion of the hand! Right here--against the

heart--Gart!”

“No. Leave me alone.”

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

me with your hand. Only one motion of your hand, Gart!”

“Let go. Give me my knife.”

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

Haggart tears himself away, pushing the woman aside:

“No! Don’t you know that it is just as hard to make one motion of the

hand as it is for the sun to come down from the sky? Good-bye, Mariet!”

“You are going away?”

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

“I shall curse you, Haggart. Do you know! I shall curse you, Haggart.

And little Noni will curse you, Haggart--Haggart!”

Haggart exclaims cheerfully and harshly:

“Eh, Khorre. You, Flerio, my old friend. Come here, give me your

hand--Oh, what a powerful hand it is! Why do you pull me by the sleeve,

Khorre? You have such a funny face. I can almost see how the rope

snapped, and you came down like a sack. Flerio, old friend, I feel like

saying something funny, but I have forgotten how to say it. How do they

say it? Remind me, Flerio. What do you want, sailor?”

Khorre whispers to him hoarsely:

“Noni, be on your guard. The rope broke because they used a rotten rope

intentionally. They are betraying you! Be on your guard, Noni. Strike

them on the head, Noni.”

Haggart bursts out laughing.

“Now you have said something funny. And I? Listen, Flerio, old friend.

This woman who stands and looks--No, that will not be funny!”

He advances a step.

“Khorre, do you remember how well this man prayed? Why was he killed? He

prayed so well. But there is one prayer he did not know--this one--‘To

you I bring my great eternal sorrow; I am going to you, Father Ocean!’”

And a distant voice, sad and grave, replies:

“Oh, Haggart, my dear Haggart.”

But who knows--perhaps it was the roaring of the waves. Many sad and

strange dreams come to man on earth.

“All aboard!” exclaims Haggart cheerily, and goes off without looking

around. Below, a gay noise of voices and laughter resounds. The

cobblestones are rattling under the firm footsteps--Haggart is going

away.

“Haggart!”

He goes, without turning around.

“Haggart!”

He has gone away.

Loud shouting is heard--the sailors are greeting Haggart. They drink

and go off into the darkness. On the shore, the torches which were

cast aside are burning low, illumining the body, and a woman is rushing

about. She runs swiftly from one spot to another, bending down over the

steep rocks. Insane Dan comes crawling out.

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

away.”

“I was waiting for them to go. Here is another one. I am gathering the

pipes of my organ. Here is another one.”

“Be accursed, Dan!”

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

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

wildly:

“Haggart, turn around! Turn around, Haggart! Noni is calling you. He

wants to curse you, Haggart. Turn around! Look, Noni, look--that is your

father. Remember him, Noni. And when you grow up, go out on every sea

and find him, Noni. And when you find him--hang your father high on a

mast, my little one.”

The thundering salute drowns her cry. Haggart has boarded his ship. The

night grows darker and the dashing of the waves fainter--the ocean is

moving away with the tide. The great desert of the sky is mute and the

night grows darker and the dashing of the waves ever fainter.

JUDAS ISCARIOT AND OTHERS

CHAPTER I

Jesus Christ had often been warned that Judas Iscariot was a man of very

evil repute, and that He ought to beware of him. Some of the disciples,

who had been in Judaea, knew him well, while others had heard much about

him from various sources, and there was none who had a good word for

him. If good people in speaking of him blamed him, as covetous, cunning,

and inclined to hypocrisy and lying, the bad, when asked concerning him,

inveighed against him in the severest terms.

“He is always making mischief among us,” they would say, and spit in

contempt. “He always has some thought which he keeps to himself. He

creeps into a house quietly, like a scorpion, but goes out again with an

ostentatious noise. There are friends among thieves, and comrades among

robbers, and even liars have wives, to whom they speak the truth; but

Judas laughs at thieves and honest folk alike, although he is himself

a clever thief. Moreover, he is in appearance the ugliest person in

Judaea. No! he is no friend of ours, this foxy-haired Judas Iscariot,”

the bad would say, thereby surprising the good people, in whose opinion

there was not much difference between him and all other vicious people

in Judaea. They would recount further that he had long ago deserted his

wife, who was living in poverty and misery, striving to eke out a living

from the unfruitful patch of land which constituted his estate. He had

wandered for many years aimlessly among the people, and had even gone

from one sea to the other,--no mean distance,--and everywhere he lied

and grimaced, and would make some discovery with his thievish eye, and

then suddenly disappear, leaving behind him animosity and strife. Yes,

he was as inquisitive, artful and hateful as a one-eyed demon. Children

he had none, and this was an additional proof that Judas was a wicked

man, that God would not have from him any posterity.

None of the disciples had noticed when it was that this ugly,

foxy-haired Jew first appeared in the company of Christ: but he had for

a long time haunted their path, joined in their conversations, performed

little acts of service, bowing and smiling and currying favour.

Sometimes they became quite used to him, so that he escaped their weary

eyes; then again he would suddenly obtrude himself on eye and

ear, irritating them as something abnormally ugly, treacherous and

disgusting. They would drive him away with harsh words, and for a

short time he would disappear, only to reappear suddenly, officious,

flattering and crafty as a one-eyed demon.

There was no doubt in the minds of some of the disciples that under

his desire to draw near to Jesus was hidden some secret intention--some

malign and cunning scheme.

But Jesus did not listen to their advice; their prophetic voice did

not reach His ears. In that spirit of serene contradiction, which

ever irresistibly inclined Him to the reprobate and unlovable, He

deliberately accepted Judas, and included him in the circle of the

chosen. The disciples were disturbed and murmured under their breath,

but He would sit still, with His face towards the setting sun, and

listen abstractedly, perhaps to them, perhaps to something else. For ten

days there had been no wind, and the transparent atmosphere, wary and

sensitive, continued ever the same, motionless and unchanged. It seemed

as though it preserved in its transparent depths every cry and song

made during those days by men and beasts and birds--tears, laments

and cheerful song, prayers and curses--and that on account of these

crystallised sounds the air was so heavy, threatening, and saturated

with invisible life. Once more the sun was sinking. It rolled heavily

downwards in a flaming ball, setting the sky on fire. Everything upon

the earth which was turned towards it: the swarthy face of Jesus, the

walls of the houses, and the leaves of the trees--everything obediently

reflected that distant, fearfully pensive light. Now the white walls

were no longer white, and the white city upon the white hill was turned

to red.

And lo! Judas arrived. He arrived bowing low, bending his back,

cautiously and timidly protruding his ugly, bumpy head--just exactly as

his acquaintances had described. He was spare and of good height, almost

the same as that of Jesus, who stooped a little through the habit of

thinking as He walked, and so appeared shorter than He was. Judas was to

all appearances fairly strong and well knit, though for some reason or

other he pretended to be weak and somewhat sickly. He had an uncertain

voice. Sometimes it was strong and manly, then again shrill as that of

an old woman scolding her husband, provokingly thin, and disagreeable to

the ear, so that ofttimes one felt inclined to tear out his words from

the ear, like rough, decaying splinters. His short red locks failed to

hide the curious form of his skull. It looked as if it had been split

at the nape of the neck by a double sword-cut, and then joined together

again, so that it was apparently divided into four parts, and inspired

distrust, nay, even alarm: for behind such a cranium there could be no

quiet or concord, but there must ever be heard the noise of sanguinary

and merciless strife. The face of Judas was similarly doubled. One side

of it, with a black, sharply watchful eye, was vivid and mobile, readily

gathering into innumerable tortuous wrinkles. On the other side were no

wrinkles. It was deadly flat, smooth, and set, and though of the same

size as the other, it seemed enormous on account of its wide-open blind

eye. Covered with a whitish film, closing neither night nor day, this

eye met light and darkness with the same indifference, but perhaps on

account of the proximity of its lively and crafty companion it never got

full credit for blindness.

When in a paroxysm of joy or excitement, Judas would close his sound eye

and shake his head. The other eye would always shake in unison and

gaze in silence. Even people quite devoid of penetration could clearly

perceive, when looking at Judas, that such a man could bring no good....

And yet Jesus brought him near to Himself, and once even made him sit

next to Him. John, the beloved disciple, fastidiously moved away,

and all the others who loved their Teacher cast down their eyes in

disapprobation. But Judas sat on, and turning his head from side to

side, began in a somewhat thin voice to complain of ill-health, and said

that his chest gave him pain in the night, and that when ascending a

hill he got out of breath, and when he stood still on the edge of

a precipice he would be seized with a dizziness, and could scarcely

restrain a foolish desire to throw himself down. And many other impious

things he invented, as though not understanding that sicknesses do

not come to a man by chance, but as a consequence of conduct not

corresponding with the laws of the Eternal. Thus Judas Iscariot kept

on rubbing his chest with his broad palm, and even pretended to cough,

midst a general silence and downcast eyes.

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

Peter--

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

away.”

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

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

Once more he looked at Jesus; sharply as a stone torn from a mountain,

he moved towards Judas, and said to him in a loud voice, with expansive,

serene courtesy--

“You will come with us, Judas.”

He gave him a kindly slap on his bent back, and without looking at the

Teacher, though he felt His eye upon him, resolutely added in his loud

voice, which excluded all objection, just as water excludes air--

“It does not matter that you have such a nasty face. There fall into our

nets even worse monstrosities, and they sometimes turn out very tasty

food. It is not for us, our Lord’s fishermen, to throw away a catch,

merely because the fish have spines, or only one eye. I saw once at Tyre

an octopus, which had been caught by the local fishermen, and I was

so frightened that I wanted to run away. But they laughed at me. A

fisherman from Tiberias gave me some of it to eat, and I asked for more,

it was so tasty. You remember, Master, that I told you the story, and

you laughed, too. And you, Judas, are like an octopus--but only on one

side.”

And he laughed loudly, content with his joke. When Peter spoke, his

words resounded so forcibly, that it seemed as though he were driving

them in with nails. When Peter moved, or did anything, he made a noise

that could be heard afar, and which called forth a response from the

deafest of things: the stone floor rumbled under his feet, the doors

shook and rattled, and the very air was convulsed with fear, and roared.

In the clefts of the mountains his voice awoke the inmost echo, and

in the morning-time, when they were fishing on the lake, he would roll

about on the sleepy, glittering water, and force the first shy sunbeams

into smiles.

For this apparently he was loved: when on all other faces there still

lay the shadow of night, his powerful head, and bare breast, and freely

extended arms were already aglow with the light of dawn.

The words of Peter, evidently approved as they were by the Master,

dispersed the oppressive atmosphere. But some of the disciples, who

had been to the seaside and had seen an octopus, were disturbed by the

monstrous image so lightly applied to the new disciple. They recalled

the immense eyes, the dozens of greedy tentacles, the feigned

repose--and how all at once: it embraced, clung, crushed and sucked,

all without one wink of its monstrous eyes. What did it mean? But Jesus

remained silent, He smiled with a frown of kindly raillery on Peter, who

was still telling glowing tales about the octopus. Then one by one

the disciples shame-facedly approached Judas, and began a friendly

conversation, with him, but--beat a hasty and awkward retreat.

Only John, the son of Zebedee, maintained an obstinate silence; and

Thomas had evidently not made up his mind to say anything, but was still

weighing the matter. He kept his gaze attentively fixed on Christ and

Judas as they sat together. And that strange proximity of divine beauty

and monstrous ugliness, of a man with a benign look, and of an octopus

with immense, motionless, dully greedy eyes, oppressed his mind like an

insoluble enigma.

He tensely wrinkled his smooth, upright forehead, and screwed up his

eyes, thinking that he would see better so, but only succeeded in

imagining that Judas really had eight incessantly moving feet. But that

was not true. Thomas understood that, and again gazed obstinately.

Judas gathered courage: he straightened out his arms, which had been

bent at the elbows, relaxed the muscles which held his jaws in tension,

and began cautiously to protrude his bumpy head into the light. It had

been the whole time in view of all, but Judas imagined that it had been

impenetrably hidden from sight by some invisible, but thick and cunning

veil. But lo! now, as though creeping out from a ditch, he felt his

strange skull, and then his eyes, in the light: he stopped and then

deliberately exposed his whole face. Nothing happened; Peter had gone

away somewhere or other. Jesus sat pensive, with His head leaning on His

hand, and gently swayed His sunburnt foot. The disciples were conversing

together, and only Thomas gazed at him attentively and seriously, like

a conscientious tailor taking measurement. Judas smiled; Thomas did

not reply to the smile; but evidently took it into account, as he did

everything else, and continued to gaze. But something unpleasant alarmed

the left side of Judas’ countenance as he looked round. John, handsome,

pure, without a single fleck upon his snow-white conscience, was looking

at him out of a dark corner, with cold but beautiful eyes. And though

he walked as others walk, yet Judas felt as if he were dragging himself

along the ground like a whipped cur, as he went up to John and said:

“Why are you silent, John? Your words are like golden apples in vessels

of silver filigree; bestow one of them on Judas, who is so poor.”

John looked steadfastly into his wide-open motionless eye, and said

nothing. And he looked on, while Judas crept out, hesitated a moment,

and then disappeared in the deep darkness of the open door.

Since the full moon was up, there were many people out walking. Jesus

went out too, and from the low roof on which Judas had spread his couch

he saw Him going out. In the light of the moon each white figure looked

bright and deliberate in its movements; and seemed not so much to walk

as to glide in front of its dark shadow. Then suddenly a man would be

lost in something black, and his voice became audible. And when people

reappeared in the moonlight, they seemed silent--like white walls,

or black shadows--as everything did in the transparent mist of night.

Almost every one was asleep when Judas heard the soft voice of Jesus

returning. All in and around about the house was still. A cock crew;

somewhere an ass, disturbed in his sleep, brayed aloud and insolently as

in daytime, then reluctantly and gradually relapsed into silence. Judas

did not sleep at all, but listened surreptitiously. The moon illumined

one half of his face, and was reflected strangely in his enormous open

eye, as on the frozen surface of a lake.

Suddenly he remembered something, and hastily coughed, rubbing his

perfectly healthy chest with his hairy hand: maybe some one was not yet

asleep, and was listening to what Judas was thinking!

CHAPTER II

They gradually became used to Judas, and ceased to notice his ugliness.

Jesus entrusted the common purse to him, and with it there fell on

him all household cares: he purchased the necessary food and clothing,

distributed alms, and when they were on the road, it was his duty to

choose the place where they were to stop, or to find a night’s lodging.

All this he did very cleverly, so that in a short time he had earned the

goodwill of some of the disciples, who had noticed his efforts. Judas

was an habitual liar, but they became used to this, when they found

that his lies were not followed by any evil conduct; nay, they added a

special piquancy to his conversation and tales, and made life seem like

a comic, and sometimes a tragic, tale.

According to his stories, he seemed to know every one, and each person

that he knew had some time in his life been guilty of evil conduct, or

even crime. Those, according to him, were called good, who knew how to

conceal their thoughts and acts; but if one only embraced, flattered,

and questioned such a man sufficiently, there would ooze out from him

every untruth, nastiness, and lie, like matter from a pricked wound. He

freely confessed that he sometimes lied himself; but affirmed with an

oath that others were still greater liars, and that if any one in this

world was ever deceived, it was Judas.

Indeed, according to his own account, he had been deceived, time upon

time, in one way or another. Thus, a certain guardian of the treasures

of a rich grandee once confessed to him, that he had for ten years been

continually on the point of stealing the property committed to him, but

that he was debarred by fear of the grandee, and of his own conscience.

And Judas believed him--and he suddenly committed the theft, and

deceived Judas. But even then Judas still trusted him--and then he

suddenly restored the stolen treasure to the grandee, and again deceived

Judas. Yes, everything deceived him, even animals. Whenever he pets a

dog it bites his fingers; but when he beats it with a stick it licks his

feet, and looks into his eyes like a daughter. He killed one such dog,

and buried it deep, laying a great stone on the top of it--but who

knows? Perhaps just because he killed it, it has come to life again, and

instead of lying in the trench, is running about cheerfully with other

dogs.

All laughed merrily at Judas’ tale, and he smiled pleasantly himself,

winking his one lively, mocking eye--and by that very smile confessed

that he had lied somewhat; that he had not really killed the dog. But

he meant to find it and kill it, because he did not wish to be deceived.

And at these words of Judas they laughed all the more.

But sometimes in his tales he transgressed the bounds of probability,

and ascribed to people such proclivities as even the beasts do not

possess, accusing them of such crimes as are not, and never have been.

And since he named in this connection the most honoured people, some

were indignant at the calumny, while others jokingly asked:

“How about your own father and mother, Judas--were they not good

people?”

Judas winked his eye, and smiled with a gesture of his hands. And the

fixed, wide-open eye shook in unison with the shaking of his head, and

looked out in silence.

“But who was my father? Perhaps it was the man who used to beat me with

a rod, or may be--a devil, a goat or a cock.... How can Judas tell? How

can Judas tell with whom his mother shared her couch. Judas had many

fathers: to which of them do you refer?”

But at this they were all indignant, for they had a profound reverence

for parents; and Matthew, who was very learned in the scriptures, said

severely in the words of Solomon:

“‘Whoso slandereth his father and his mother, his lamp shall be

extinguished in deep darkness.’”

But John the son of Zebedee haughtily jerked out: “And what of us? What

evil have you to say of us, Judas Iscariot?”

But he waved his hands in simulated terror, whined, and bowed like a

beggar, who has in vain asked an alms of a passer-by: “Ah! they are

tempting poor Judas! They are laughing at him, they wish to take in the

poor, trusting Judas!” And while one side of his face was crinkled up in

buffooning grimaces, the other side wagged sternly and severely, and the

never-closing eye looked out in a broad stare.

More and louder than any laughed Simon Peter at the jokes of Judas

Iscariot. But once it happened that he suddenly frowned, and became

silent and sad, and hastily dragging Judas aside by the sleeve, he bent

down, and asked in a hoarse whisper--

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

Judas cast on him a malign glance.

“And what do you think?”

Peter whispered with awe and gladness--

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

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

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

And with the same strange malignity, Iscariot blurted out abruptly and

sharply: “I do.”

Some two days after this conversation, Peter openly dubbed Judas

“my friend the octopus”; but Judas awkwardly, and ever with the same

malignity, endeavoured to creep away from him into some dark corner, and

would sit there morosely glaring with his white, never-closing eye.

Thomas alone took him quite seriously. He understood nothing of

jokes, hypocrisy or lies, nor of the play upon words and thoughts, but

investigated everything positively to the very bottom. He would often

interrupt Judas’ stories about wicked people and their conduct with

short practical remarks:

“You must prove that. Did you hear it yourself? Was there any one

present besides yourself? What was his name?”

At this Judas would get angry, and shrilly cry out, that he had seen

and heard everything himself; but the obstinate Thomas would go on

cross-examining quietly and persistently, until Judas confessed that

he had lied, or until he invented some new and more probable lie, which

provided the others for some time with food for thought. But when Thomas

discovered a discrepancy, he would immediately come and calmly expose

the liar.

Usually Judas excited in him a strong curiosity, which brought about

between them a sort of friendship, full of wrangling, jeering, and

invective on the one side, and of quiet insistence on the other.

Sometimes Judas felt an unbearable aversion to his strange friend, and,

transfixing him with a sharp glance, would say irritably, and almost

with entreaty--

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

“I want you to prove how it is possible that a he-goat should be your

father,” Thomas would reply with calm insistency, and wait for an

answer.

It chanced once, that after such a question, Judas suddenly stopped

speaking and gazed at him with surprise from head to foot. What he saw

was a tall, upright figure, a grey face, honest eyes of transparent

blue, two fat folds beginning at the nose and losing themselves in a

stiff, evenly-trimmed beard. He said with conviction:

“What a stupid you are, Thomas! What do you dream about--a tree, a wall,

or a donkey?”

Thomas was in some way strangely perturbed, and made no reply. But at

night, when Judas was already closing his vivid, restless eye for sleep,

he suddenly said aloud from where he lay--the two now slept together on

the roof--

“You are wrong, Judas. I have very bad dreams. What think you? Are

people responsible for their dreams?”

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

Thomas sighed gently, and became thoughtful. But Judas smiled

contemptuously, and firmly closed his roguish eye, and quickly gave

himself up to his mutinous dreams, monstrous ravings, mad phantoms,

which rent his bumpy skull to pieces.

When, during Jesus’ travels about Judaea, the disciples approached

a village, Iscariot would speak evil of the inhabitants and foretell

misfortune. But almost always it happened that the people, of whom

he had spoken evil, met Christ and His friends with gladness, and

surrounded them with attentions and love, and became believers, and

Judas’ money-box became so full that it was difficult to carry. And when

they laughed at his mistake, he would make a humble gesture with his

hands, and say:

“Well, well! Judas thought that they were bad, and they turned out to be

good. They quickly believed, and gave money. That only means that Judas

has been deceived once more, the poor, confiding Judas Iscariot!”

But on one occasion, when they had already gone far from a village,

which had welcomed them kindly, Thomas and Judas began a hot dispute,

to settle which they turned back, and did not overtake Jesus and His

disciples until the next day. Thomas wore a perturbed and sorrowful

appearance, while Judas had such a proud look, that you would have

thought that he expected them to offer him their congratulations and

thanks upon the spot. Approaching the Master, Thomas declared with

decision: “Judas was right, Lord. They were ill-disposed, stupid people.

And the seeds of your words has fallen upon the rock.” And he related

what had happened in the village.

After Jesus and His disciples left it, an old woman had begun to cry out

that her little white kid had been stolen, and she laid the theft at

the door of the visitors who had just departed. At first the people had

disputed with her, but when she obstinately insisted that there was no

one else who could have done it except Jesus, many agreed with her, and

even were about to start in pursuit. And although they soon found the

kid straying in the underwood, they still decided that Jesus was a

deceiver, and possibly a thief.

“So that’s what they think of us, is it?” cried Peter, with a snort.

“Lord, wilt Thou that I return to those fools, and--”

But Jesus, saying not a word, gazed severely at him, and Peter in

silence retired behind the others. And no one ever referred to the

incident again, as though it had never occurred, and as though Judas

had been proved wrong. In vain did he show himself on all sides,

endeavouring to give to his double, crafty, hooknosed face an expression

of modesty. They would not look at him, and if by chance any one did

glance at him, it was in a very unfriendly, not to say contemptuous,

manner.

From that day on Jesus’ treatment of him underwent a strange change.

Formerly, for some reason or other, Judas never used to speak

directly with Jesus, who never addressed Himself directly to him, but

nevertheless would often glance at him with kindly eyes, smile at his

rallies, and if He had not seen him for some time, would inquire: “Where

is Judas?”

But now He looked at him as if He did not see him, although as before,

and indeed more determinedly than formerly, He sought him out with

His eyes every time that He began to speak to the disciples or to the

people; but He was either sitting with His back to him, so that He was

obliged, as it were, to cast His words over His head so as to reach

Judas, or else He made as though He did not notice him at all. And

whatever He said, though it was one thing one day, and then next day

quite another, although it might be the very thing that Judas was

thinking, it always seemed as though He were speaking against him. To

all He was the tender, beautiful flower, the sweet-smelling rose of

Lebanon, but for Judas He left only sharp thorns, as though Judas had

neither heart, nor sight, nor smell, and did not understand, even better

than any, the beauty of tender, immaculate petals.

“Thomas! Do you like the yellow rose of Lebanon, which has a swarthy

countenance and eyes like the roe?” he inquired once of his friend, who

replied indifferently--

“Rose? Yes, I like the smell. But I have never heard of a rose with a

swarthy countenance and eyes like a roe!”

“What? Do you not know that the polydactylous cactus, which tore your

new garment yesterday, has only one beautiful flower, and only one eye?”

But Thomas did not know this, although only yesterday a cactus had

actually caught in his garment and torn it into wretched rags. But

then Thomas never did know anything, though he asked questions about

everything, and looked so straight with his bright, transparent eyes,

through which, as through a pane of Phoenician glass, was visible a

wall, with a dismal ass tied to it.

Some time later another occurrence took place, in which Judas again

proved to be in the right.

At a certain village in Judaea, of which Judas had so bad an opinion,

that he had advised them to avoid it, the people received Christ with

hostility, and after His sermon and exposition of hypocrites they burst

into fury, and threatened to stone Jesus and His disciples. Enemies He

had many, and most likely they would have carried out their sinister

intention, but for Judas Iscariot. Seized with a mad fear for Jesus, as

though he already saw the drops of ruby blood upon His white garment,

Judas threw himself in blind fury upon the crowd, scolding, screeching,

beseeching, and lying, and thus gave time and opportunity to Jesus and

His disciples to escape.

Amazingly active, as though running upon a dozen feet, laughable and

terrible in his fury and entreaties, he threw himself madly in front of

the crowd and charmed it with a certain strange power. He shouted

that the Nazarene was not possessed of a devil, that He was simply an

impostor, a thief who loved money as did all His disciples, and even

Judas himself: and he rattled the money-box, grimaced, and beseeched,

throwing himself on the ground. And by degrees the anger of the crowd

changed into laughter and disgust, and they let fall the stones which

they had picked up to throw at them.

“They are not fit to die by the hands of an honest person,” said they,

while others thoughtfully followed the rapidly disappearing Judas with

their eyes.

Again Judas expected to receive congratulations, praise, and thanks, and

made a show of his torn garments, and pretended that he had been beaten;

but this time, too, he was greatly mistaken. The angry Jesus strode on

in silence, and even Peter and John did not venture to approach Him: and

all whose eyes fell on Judas in his torn garments, his face glowing with

happiness, but still somewhat frightened, repelled him with curt, angry

exclamations.

It was just as though he had not saved them all, just as though he had

not saved their Teacher, whom they loved so dearly.

“Do you want to see some fools?” said he to Thomas, who was thoughtfully

walking in the rear. “Look! There they go along the road in a crowd,

like a flock of sheep, kicking up the dust. But you are wise, Thomas,

you creep on behind, and I, the noble, magnificent Judas, creep on

behind like a dirty slave, who has no place by the side of his masters.”

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

“Because I am so,” Judas replied with conviction, and he went on

talking, giving more details of how he had deceived the enemies of

Jesus, and laughed at them and their stupid stones.

“But you told lies,” said Thomas.

“Of course I did,” quickly assented Iscariot. “I gave them what they

asked for, and they gave me in return what I wanted. And what is a lie,

my clever Thomas? Would not the death of Jesus be the greatest lie of

all?”

“You did not act rightly. Now I believe that a devil is your father. It

was he that taught you, Judas.”

The face of Judas grew pale, and something suddenly came over Thomas,

and as if it were a white cloud, passed over and concealed the road

and Jesus. With a gentle movement Judas just as suddenly drew Thomas to

himself, pressed him closely with a paralysing movement, and whispered

in his ear--

“You mean, then, that a devil has instructed me, don’t you, Thomas?

Well, I saved Jesus. Therefore a devil loves Jesus and has need of Him,

and of the truth. Is it not so, Thomas? But then my father was not a

devil, but a he-goat. Can a he-goat want Jesus? Eh? And don’t you want

Him yourselves, and the truth also?”

Angry and slightly frightened, Thomas freed himself with difficulty from

the clinging embrace of Judas, and began to stride forward quickly.

But he soon slackened his pace as he endeavoured to understand what had

taken place.

But Judas crept on gently behind, and gradually came to a standstill.

And lo! in the distance the pedestrians became blended into a

parti-coloured mass, so that it was impossible any longer to distinguish

which among those little figures was Jesus. And lo! the little Thomas,

too, changed into a grey spot, and suddenly--all disappeared round a

turn in the road.

Looking round, Judas went down from the road and with immense leaps

descended into the depths of a rocky ravine. His clothes blew out with

the speed and abruptness of his course, and his hands were extended

upwards as though he would fly. Lo! now he crept along an abrupt

declivity, and suddenly rolled down in a grey ball, rubbing off his

skin against the stones; then he jumped up and angrily threatened the

mountain with his fist--

“You too, damn you!”

Suddenly he changed his quick movements into a comfortable, concentrated

dawdling, chose a place by a big stone, and sat down without hurry. He

turned himself, as if seeking a comfortable position, laid his hands

side by side on the grey stone, and heavily sank his head upon them.

And so for an hour or two he sat on, as motionless and grey as the grey

stone itself, so still that he deceived even the birds. The walls of the

ravine rose before him, and behind, and on every side, cutting a sharp

line all round on the blue sky; while everywhere immense grey stones

obtruded from the ground, as though there had been at some time or

other, a shower here, and as though its heavy drops had become petrified

in endless split, upturned skull, and every stone in it was like a

petrified thought; and there were many of them, and they all kept

thinking heavily, boundlessly, stubbornly.

A scorpion, deceived by his quietness, hobbled past, on its tottering

legs, close to Judas. He threw a glance at it, and, without lifting

his head from the stone, again let both his eyes rest fixedly on

something--both motionless, both veiled in a strange whitish turbidness,

both as though blind and yet terribly alert. And lo! from out of the

ground, the stones, and the clefts, the quiet darkness of night began to

rise, enveloped the motionless Judas, and crept swiftly up towards

the pallid light of the sky. Night was coming on with its thoughts and

dreams.

That night Judas did not return to the halting-place. And the disciples,

forgetting their thoughts, busied themselves with preparations for their

meal, and grumbled at his negligence.

CHAPTER III

Once, about mid-day, Jesus and His disciples were walking along a stony

and hilly road devoid of shade, and, since they had been more than

five hours afoot, Jesus began to complain of weariness. The disciples

stopped, and Peter and his friend John spread their cloaks and those of

the other disciples, on the ground, and fastened them above between two

high rocks, and so made a sort of tent for Jesus. He lay down in the

tent, resting from the heat of the sun, while they amused Him with

pleasant conversation and jokes. But seeing that even talking fatigued

Him, and being themselves but little affected by weariness and the heat,

they went some distance off and occupied themselves in various ways. One

sought edible roots among the stones on the slope of the mountain,

and when he had found them brought them to Jesus; another, climbing

up higher and higher, searched musingly for the limits of the blue

distance, and failing, climbed up higher on to new, sharp-pointed rocks.

John found a beautiful little blue lizard among the stones, and smiling

brought it quickly with tender hands to Jesus. The lizard looked with

its protuberant, mysterious eyes into His, and then crawled quickly

with its cold body over His warm hand, and soon swiftly disappeared with

tender, quivering tail.

But Peter and Philip, not caring about such amusements, occupied

themselves in tearing up great stones from the mountain, and hurling

them down below, as a test of their strength. The others, attracted by

their loud laughter, by degrees gathered round them, and joined in their

sport. Exerting their strength, they would tear up from the ground an

ancient rock all overgrown, and lifting it high with both hands, hurl it

down the slope. Heavily it would strike with a dull thud, and hesitate

for a moment; then resolutely it would make a first leap, and each time

it touched the ground, gathering from it speed and strength, it would

become light, furious, all-subversive. Now it no longer leapt, but flew

with grinning teeth, and the whistling wind let its dull round mass pass

by. Lo! it is on the edge--with a last, floating motion the stone would

sweep high, and then quietly, with ponderous deliberation, fly downwards

in a curve to the invisible bottom of the precipice.

“Now then, another!” cried Peter. His white teeth shone between his

black beard and moustache, his mighty chest and arms were bare, and

the sullen, ancient rocks, dully wondering at the strength which lifted

them, obediently, one after another, precipitated themselves into the

abyss. Even the frail John threw some moderate-sized stones, and Jesus

smiled quietly as He looked at their sport.

“But what are you doing, Judas? Why do you not take part in the game?

It seems amusing enough?” asked Thomas, when he found his strange friend

motionless behind a great grey stone.

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

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

stones Peter throws!”

Judas somehow or other happened to glance sideward at him, and Thomas

became, for the first time, indistinctly aware that he had two faces.

But before he could thoroughly grasp the fact, Judas said in his

ordinary tone, at once fawning and mocking--

“There is surely none stronger than Peter? When he shouts, all the asses

in Jerusalem think that their Messiah has arrived, and lift up their

voices too. You have heard them before now, have you not, Thomas?”

Smiling politely; and modestly wrapping his garment round his chest,

which was overgrown with red curly hairs, Judas stepped into the circle

of players.

And since they were all in high good humour, they met him with mirth and

loud jokes, and even John condescended to vouchsafe a smile, when Judas,

pretending to groan with the exertion, laid hold of an immense stone.

But lo! he lifted it with ease, and threw it, and his blind, wide-open

eye gave a jerk, and then fixed itself immovably on Peter; while the

other eye, cunning and merry, was overflowing with quiet laughter.

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

And lo! one after the other they kept lifting and throwing gigantic

stones, while the disciples looked on in amazement. Peter threw a

great stone, and then Judas a still bigger one. Peter, frowning and

concentrated, angrily wielded a fragment of rock, and struggling as

he lifted it, hurled it down; then Judas, without ceasing to smile,

searched for a still larger fragment, and digging his long fingers into

it, grasped it, and swinging himself together with it, and paling, sent

it into the gulf. When he had thrown his stone, Peter would recoil and

so watch its fall; but Judas always bent himself forward, stretched out

his long vibrant arms, as though he were going to fly after the stone.

Eventually both of them, first Peter, then Judas, seized hold of an old

grey stone, but neither one nor the other could move it. All red with

his exertion, Peter resolutely approached Jesus, and said aloud--

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

stone.”

Jesus made answer in a low voice, and Peter, shrugging his broad

shoulders in dissatisfaction, but not daring to make any rejoinder, came

back with the words--

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

Then glancing at Judas, who, panting with clenched teeth, was still

embracing the stubborn stone, he laughed cheerfully--

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

And even Judas laughed at being so unexpectedly exposed in his

deception, and all the others laughed too, and even Thomas allowed his

pointed, grey, overhanging moustache to relax into a smile.

And so in friendly chat and laughter, they all set out again on the

way, and Peter, quite reconciled to his victor, kept from time to time

digging him in the ribs, and loudly guffawed--

“There’s an invalid for you!”

All of them praised Judas, and acknowledged him victor, and all chatted

with him in a friendly manner; but Jesus once again had no word of

praise for Judas. He walked silently in front, nibbling the grasses,

which He plucked. And gradually, one by one, the disciples craved

laughing, and went over to Jesus. So that in a short time it came about,

that they were all walking ahead in a compact body, while Judas--the

victor, the strong man--crept on behind, choking with dust.

And lo! they stood still, and Jesus laid His hand on Peter’s shoulder,

while with His other He pointed into the distance, where Jerusalem had

just become visible in the smoke. And the broad, strong back of Peter

gently accepted that slight sunburnt hand.

For the night they stayed in Bethany, at the house of Lazarus. And when

all were gathered together for conversation, Judas thought that they

would now recall his victory over Peter, and sat down nearer. But the

disciples were silent and unusually pensive. Images of the road they

had traversed, of the sun, the rocks and the grass, of Christ lying down

under the shelter, quietly floated through their heads, breathing a

soft pensiveness, begetting confused but sweet reveries of an eternal

movement under the sun. The wearied body reposed sweetly, and thought

was merged in something mystically great and beautiful--and no one

recalled Judas!

Judas went out, and then returned. Jesus was discoursing, and His

disciples were listening to Him in silence.

Mary sat at His feet, motionless as a statue, and gazed into His face

with upturned eyes. John had come quite close, and endeavoured to sit so

that his hand touched the garment of the Master, but without disturbing

Him. He touched Him and was still. Peter breathed loud and deeply,

repeating under his breath the words of Jesus.

Iscariot had stopped short on the threshold, and contemptuously letting

his gaze pass by the company, he concentrated all its fire on Jesus. And

the more he looked the more everything around Him seemed to fade, and to

become clothed with darkness and silence, while Jesus alone shone forth

with uplifted hand. And then, lo! He was, as it were, raised up into

the air, and melted away, as though He consisted of mist floating over

a lake, and penetrated by the light of the setting moon, and His soft

speech began to sound tenderly, somewhere far, far away. And gazing at

the wavering phantom, and drinking in the tender melody of the distant

dream-like words, Judas gathered his whole soul into his iron fingers,

and in its vast darkness silently began building up some colossal

scheme. Slowly, in the profound darkness, he kept lifting up masses,

like mountains, and quite easily heaping them one on another: and again

he would lift up and again heap them up; and something grew in the

darkness, spread noiselessly and burst its bounds. His head felt like a

dome, in the impenetrable darkness of which the colossal thing continued

to grow, and some one, working on in silence, kept lifting up masses

like mountains, and piling them one on another and again lifting up, and

so on and on... whilst somewhere in the distance the phantom-like words

tenderly sounded.

Thus he stood blocking the doorway, huge and black, while Jesus went on

talking, and the strong, intermittent breathing of Peter repeated His

words aloud. But on a sudden Jesus broke off an unfinished sentence, and

Peter, as though waking from sleep, cried out exultingly--

“Lord! to Thee are known the words of eternal life!”

But Jesus held His peace, and kept gazing fixedly in one direction. And

when they followed His gaze they perceived in the doorway the petrified

Judas with gaping mouth and fixed eyes. And, not understanding what

was the matter, they laughed. But Matthew, who was learned in the

Scriptures, touched Judas on the shoulder, and said in the words of

Solomon--

“‘He that looketh kindly shall be forgiven; but he that is met within

the gates will impede others.’”

Judas was silent for a while, and then fretfully and everything about

him, his eyes, hands and feet, seemed to start in different directions,

as those of an animal which suddenly perceives the eye of man upon him.

Jesus went straight to Judas, as though words trembled on His lips, but

passed by him through the open, and now unoccupied, door.

In the middle of the night the restless Thomas came to Judas’ bed, and

sitting down on his heels, asked--

“Are you weeping, Judas?”

“No! Go away, Thomas.”

“Why do you groan, and grind your teeth? Are you ill?”

Judas was silent for a while, and then fretfully there fell from his

lips distressful words, fraught with grief and anger--

“Why does not He love me? Why does He love the others? Am I not

handsomer, better and stronger than they? Did not I save His life while

they ran away like cowardly dogs?”

“My poor friend, you are not quite right. You are not good-looking

at all, and your tongue is as disagreeable as your face. You lie and

slander continually; how then can you expect Jesus to love you?”

But Judas, stirring heavily in the darkness, continued as though he

heard him not--

“Why is He not on the side of Judas, instead of on the side of those

who do not love Him? John brought Him a lizard; I would bring him a

poisonous snake. Peter threw stones; I would overthrow a mountain for

His sake. But what is a poisonous snake? One has but to draw its fangs,

and it will coil round one’s neck like a necklace. What is a mountain,

which it is possible to dig down with the hands, and to trample with the

feet? I would give to Him Judas, the bold, magnificent Judas. But now He

will perish, and together with him will perish Judas.”

“You are speaking strangely, Judas!”

“A withered fig-tree, which must needs be cut down with the axe, such am

I: He said it of me. Why then does He not do it? He dare not, Thomas!

I know him. He fears Judas. He hides from the bold, strong, magnificent

Judas. He loves fools, traitors, liars. You are a liar, Thomas; have you

never been told so before?”

Thomas was much surprised, and wished to object, but he thought that

Judas was simply railing, and so only shook his head in the darkness.

And Judas lamented still more grievously, and groaned and ground

his teeth, and his whole huge body could be heard heaving under the

coverlet.

“What is the matter with Judas? Who has applied fire to his body? He

will give his son to the dogs. He will give his daughter to be betrayed

by robbers, his bride to harlotry. And yet has not Judas a tender heart?

Go away, Thomas; go away, stupid! Leave the strong, bold, magnificent

Judas alone!”

CHAPTER IV

Judas had concealed some denarii, and the deception was discovered,

thanks to Thomas, who had seen by chance how much money had been given

to them. It was only too probable that this was not the first time that

Judas had committed a theft, and they all were enraged. The angry Peter

seized Judas by his collar and almost dragged him to Jesus, and the

terrified Judas paled but did not resist.

“Master, see! Here he is, the trickster! Here’s the thief. You trusted

him, and he steals our money. Thief! Scoundrel! If Thou wilt permit,

I’ll--”

But Jesus held His peace. And attentively regarding him, Peter suddenly

turned red, and loosed the hand which held the collar, while Judas shyly

rearranged his garment, casting a sidelong glance on Peter, and assuming

the downcast look of a repentant criminal.

“So that’s how it’s to be,” angrily said Peter, as he went out, loudly

slamming the door. They were all dissatisfied, and declared that on no

account would they consort with Judas any longer; but John, after some

consideration, passed through the door, behind which might be heard the

quiet, almost caressing, voice of Jesus. And when in the course of time

he returned, he was pale, and his downcast eyes were red as though with

recent tears.

“The Master says that Judas may take as much money as he pleases.” Peter

laughed angrily. John gave him a quick reproachful glance, and suddenly

flushing, and mingling tears with anger, and delight with tears, loudly

exclaimed:

“And no one must reckon how much money Judas receives. He is our

brother, and all the money is as much his as ours: if he wants much

let him take much, without telling any one, or taking counsel with any.

Judas is our brother, and you have grievously insulted him--so says the

Master. Shame on you, brother!”

In the doorway stood Judas, pale and with a distorted smile on his face.

With a light movement John went up to him and kissed him three times.

After him, glancing round at one another, James, Philip and the others

came up shamefacedly; and after each kiss Judas wiped his mouth, but

gave a loud smack as though the sound afforded him pleasure. Peter came

up last.

“We were all stupid, all blind, Judas. He alone sees, He alone is wise.

May I kiss you?”

“Why not? Kiss away!” said Judas as in consent.

Peter kissed him vigorously, and said aloud in his ear--

“But I almost choked you. The others kissed you in the usual way, but I

kissed you on the throat. Did it hurt you?”

“A little.”

“I will go and tell Him all. I was angry even with Him,” said Peter

sadly, trying noiselessly to open the door.

“And what are you going to do, Thomas?” asked John severely. He it was

who looked after the conduct and the conversation of the disciples.

“I don’t know yet. I must consider.”

And Thomas thought long, almost the whole day. The disciples had

dispersed to their occupations, and somewhere on the other side of the

wall, Peter was shouting joyfully--but Thomas was still considering. He

would have come to a decision more quickly had not Judas hindered him

somewhat by continually following him about with a mocking glance, and

now and again asking him in a serious tone--

“Well, Thomas, and how does the matter progress?”

Then Judas brought his money-box, and shaking the money and pretending

not to look at Thomas, began to count it--

“Twenty-one, two, three.... Look, Thomas, a bad coin again. Oh!

what rascals people are; they even give bad money as offerings.

Twenty-four... and then they will say again that Judas has stolen it...

twenty-five, twenty-six....”

Thomas approached him resolutely... for it was already towards evening,

and said--

“He is right, Judas. Let me kiss you.”

“Will you? Twenty-nine, thirty. It’s no good. I shall steal again.

Thirty-one....”

“But how can you steal, when it is neither yours nor another’s? You will

simply take as much as you want, brother.”

“It has taken you a long time to repeat His words! Don’t you value time,

you clever Thomas?”

“You seem to be laughing at me, brother.”

“And consider, are you doing well, my virtuous Thomas, in repeating His

words? He said something of His own, but you do not. He really kissed

me--you only defiled my mouth. I can still feel your moist lips upon

mine. It was so disgusting, my good Thomas. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine,

forty. Forty denarii. Thomas, won’t you check the sum?”

“Certainly He is our Master. Why then should we not repeat the words of

our Master?”

“Is Judas’ collar torn away? Is there now nothing to seize him by? The

Master will go out of the house, and Judas will unexpectedly steal three

more denarii. Won’t you seize him by the collar?”

“We know now, Judas. We understand.”

“Have not all pupils a bad memory? Have not all masters been deceived

by their pupils? But the master has only to lift the rod, and the pupils

cry out, ‘We know, Master!’ But the master goes to bed, and the pupils

say: ‘Did the Master teach us this?’ And so, in this case, this morning

you called me a thief, this evening you call me brother. What will you

call me to-morrow?”

Judas laughed, and lifting up the heavy rattling money-box with ease,

went on:

“When a strong wind blows it raises the dust, and foolish people look

at the dust and say: ‘Look at the wind!’ But it is only dust, my good

Thomas, ass’s dung trodden underfoot. The dust meets a wall and lies

down gently at its foot, but the wind flies farther and farther, my good

Thomas.”

Judas obligingly pointed over the wall in illustration of his meaning,

and laughed again.

“I am glad that you are merry,” said Thomas, “but it is a great pity

that there is so much malice in your merriment.”

“Why should not a man be cheerful, who has been kissed so much, and

who is so useful? If I had not stolen the three denarii would John have

known the meaning of delight? Is it not pleasant to be a hook, on which

John may hang his damp virtue out to dry, and Thomas his moth-eaten

mind?”

“I think that I had better be going.”

“But I am only joking, my good Thomas. I merely wanted to know whether

you really wished to kiss the old obnoxious Judas--the thief who stole

the three denarii and gave them to a harlot.”

“To a harlot!” exclaimed Thomas in surprise. “And did you tell the

Master of it?”

“Again you doubt, Thomas. Yes, to a harlot. But if you only knew,

Thomas, what an unfortunate woman she was. For two days she had had

nothing to eat.”

“Are you sure of that?” said Thomas in confusion.

“Yes! Of course I am. I myself spent two days with her, and saw that she

ate and drank nothing except red wine. She tottered from exhaustion, and

I was always falling down with her.”

Thereupon Thomas got up quickly, and, when he had gone a few steps away,

he flung out at Judas:

“You seem to be possessed of Satan, Judas.”

And as he went away, he heard in the approaching twilight how dolefully

the heavy money-box rattled in Judas’ hands. And Judas seemed to laugh.

But the very next day Thomas was obliged to acknowledge that he had

misjudged Judas, so simple, so gentle, and at the same time so serious

was Iscariot. He neither grimaced nor made ill-natured jokes; he was

neither obsequious nor scurrilous, but quietly and unobtrusively went

about his work of catering. He was as active as formerly, as though he

did not have two feet like other people, but a whole dozen of them,

and ran noiselessly without that squeaking, sobbing, and laughter of a

hyena, with which he formerly accompanied his actions. And when Jesus

began to speak, he would seat himself quickly in a corner, fold his

hands and feet, and look so kindly with his great eyes, that many

observed it. He ceased speaking evil of people, but rather remained

silent, so that even the severe Matthew deemed it possible to praise

him, saying in the words of Solomon:

“‘He that is devoid of wisdom despiseth his neighbour: but a man of

understanding holdeth his peace.’”

And he lifted up his hand, hinting thereby at Judas’ former

evil-speaking. In a short time all remarked this change in him, and

rejoiced at it: only Jesus looked on him still with the same detached

look, although he gave no direct indication of His dislike. And even

John, for whom Judas now showed a profound reverence, as the beloved

disciple of Jesus, and as his own champion in the matter of the three

denarii, began to treat him somewhat more kindly, and even sometimes

entered into conversation with him.

“What do you think, Judas,” said he one day in a condescending manner,

“which of us, Peter or I, will be nearest to Christ in His heavenly

kingdom?”

Judas meditated, and then answered--

“I suppose that you will.”

“But Peter thinks that he will,” laughed John.

“No! Peter would scatter all the angels with his shout; you have heard

him shout. Of course, he will quarrel with you, and will endeavour to

occupy the first place, as he insists that he, too, loves Jesus. But

he is already advanced in years, and you are young; he is heavy on his

feet, while you run swiftly; you will enter there first with Christ?

Will you not?”

“Yes, I will not leave Jesus,” John agreed.

On the same day Simon Peter referred the very same question to Judas.

But fearing that his loud voice would be heard by the others, he led

Judas out to the farthest corner behind the house.

“Well then, what is your opinion about it?” he asked anxiously. “You are

wise; even the Master praises you for your intellect. And you will speak

the truth.”

“You, of course,” answered Iscariot without hesitation. And Peter

exclaimed with indignation, “I told him so!”

“But, of course, he will try even there to oust you from the first

place.”

“Certainly!”

“But what can he do, when you already occupy the place? Won’t you be the

first to go there with Jesus? You will not leave Him alone? Has He not

named you the ROCK?”

Peter put his hand on Judas’ shoulder, and said with warmth: “I

tell you, Judas, you are the cleverest of us all. But why are you so

sarcastic and malignant? The Master does not like it. Otherwise you

might become the beloved disciple, equally with John. But to you

neither,” and Peter lifted his hand threateningly, “will I yield my

place next to Jesus, neither on earth, nor there! Do you hear?”

Thus Judas endeavoured to make himself agreeable to all, but, at the

same time, he cherished hidden thoughts in his mind. And while he

remained ever the same modest, restrained and unobtrusive person, he

knew how to make some especially pleasing remark to each. Thus to Thomas

he said:

“The fool believeth every word: but the prudent taketh heed to his

paths.”

While to Matthew, who suffered somewhat from excess in eating and

drinking, and was ashamed of his weakness, he quoted the words of

Solomon, the sage whom Matthew held in high estimation:

“‘The righteous eateth to the satisfying of his soul: but the belly of

the wicked shall want.’”

But his pleasant speeches were rare, which gave them the greater value.

For the most part he was silent, listening attentively to what was said,

and always meditating.

When reflecting, Judas had an unpleasant look, ridiculous and at the

same time awe-inspiring. As long as his quick, crafty eye was in motion,

he seemed simple and good-natured enough, but directly both eyes became

fixed in an immovable stare, and the skin on his protruding forehead

gathered into strange ridges and creases, a distressing surmise would

force itself on one, that under that skull some very peculiar thoughts

were working. So thoroughly apart, peculiar, and voiceless were the

thoughts which enveloped Iscariot in the deep silence of secrecy, when

he was in one of his reveries, that one would have preferred that he

should begin to speak, to move, nay, even, to tell lies. For a lie,

spoken by a human tongue, had been truth and light compared with that

hopelessly deep and unresponsive silence.

“In the dumps again, Judas?” Peter would cry with his clear voice and

bright smile, suddenly breaking in upon the sombre silence of Judas’

thoughts, and banishing them to some dark corner. “What are you thinking

about?”

“Of many things,” Iscariot would reply with a quiet smile. And

perceiving, apparently, what a bad impression his silence made upon the

others, he began more frequently to shun the society of the disciples,

and spent much time in solitary walks, or would betake himself to the

flat roof and there sit still. And more than once he startled Thomas,

who has unexpectedly stumbled in the darkness against a grey heap, out

of which the hands and feet of Judas suddenly started, and his jeering

voice was heard.

But one day, in a specially brusque and strange manner, Judas recalled

his former character. This happened on the occasion of the quarrel for

the first place in the kingdom of heaven. Peter and John were disputing

together, hotly contending each for his own place nearest to Jesus. They

reckoned up their services, they measured the degrees of their love

for Jesus, they became heated and noisy, and even reviled one another

without restraint. Peter roared, all red with anger. John was quiet and

pale, with trembling hands and biting speech. Their quarrel had already

passed the bounds of decency, and the Master had begun to frown, when

Peter looked up by chance on Judas, and laughed self-complacently: John,

too, looked at Judas, and also smiled. Each of them recalled what the

cunning Judas had said to him. And foretasting the joy of approaching

triumph, they, with silent consent, invited Judas to decide the matter.

Peter called out, “Come now, Judas the wise, tell us who will be first,

nearest to Jesus, he or I?”

But Judas remained silent, breathing heavily, his eyes eagerly

questioning the quiet, deep eyes of Jesus.

“Yes,” John condescendingly repeated, “tell us who will be first,

nearest to Jesus.”

Without taking his eyes off Christ, Judas slowly rose, and answered

quietly and gravely:

“I.”

Jesus let His gaze fall slowly. And quietly striking himself on the

breast with a bony finger, Iscariot repeated solemnly and sternly: “I,

I shall be nearest to Jesus!” And he went out. Struck by his insolent

freak, the disciples remained silent; but Peter suddenly recalling

something, whispered to Thomas in an unexpectedly gentle voice:

“So that is what he is always thinking about! See?”

CHAPTER V

Just at this time Judas Iscariot took the first definite step towards

the Betrayal. He visited the chief priest Annas secretly. He was very

roughly received, but that did not disturb him in the least, and he

demanded a long private interview. When he found himself alone with the

dry, harsh old man, who looked at him with contempt from beneath his

heavy overhanging eyelids, he stated that he was an honourable man

who had become one of the disciples of Jesus of Nazareth with the sole

purpose of exposing the impostor, and handing Him over to the arm of the

law.

“But who is this Nazarene?” asked Annas contemptuously, making as though

he heard the name of Jesus for the first time.

Judas on his part pretended to believe in the extraordinary ignorance of

the chief priest, and spoke in detail of the preaching of Jesus, of

His miracles, of His hatred for the Pharisees and the Temple, of His

perpetual infringement of the Law, and eventually of His wish to wrest

the power out of the hands of the priesthood, and to set up His own

personal kingdom. And so cleverly did he mingle truth with lies, that

Annas looked at him more attentively, and lazily remarked: “There are

plenty of impostors and madmen in Judah.”

“No! He is a dangerous person,” Judas hotly contradicted. “He breaks

the law. And it were better that one man should perish, rather than the

whole people.”

Annas, with an approving nod, said--

“But He, apparently, has many disciples.”

“Yes, many.”

“And they, it seems probable, have a great love for Him?”

“Yes, they say that they love Him, love Him much, more than themselves.”

“But if we try to take Him, will they not defend Him? Will they not

raise a tumult?”

Judas laughed long and maliciously. “What, they? Those cowardly dogs,

who run if a man but stoop down to pick up a stone. They indeed!”

“Are they really so bad?” asked Annas coldly.

“But surely it is not the bad who flee from the good; is it not rather

the good who flee from the bad? Ha! ha! They are good, and therefore

they flee. They are good, and therefore they hide themselves. They are

good, and therefore they will appear only in time to bury Jesus. They

will lay Him in the tomb themselves; you have only to execute Him.”

“But surely they love Him? You yourself said so.”

“People always love their teacher, but better dead than alive. While a

teacher’s alive he may ask them questions which they will find difficult

to answer. But, when a teacher dies, they become teachers themselves,

and then others fare badly in turn. Ha! ha!”

Annas looked piercingly at the Traitor, and his lips puckered--which

indicated that he was smiling.

“You have been insulted by them. I can see that.”

“Can one hide anything from the perspicacity of the astute Annas? You

have pierced to the very heart of Judas. Yes, they insulted poor Judas.

They said he had stolen from them three denarii--as though Judas were

not the most honest man in Israel!”

They talked for some time longer about Jesus, and His disciples, and of

His pernicious influence on the people of Israel, but on this occasion

the crafty, cautious Annas gave no decisive answer. He had long had

his eyes on Jesus, and in secret conclave with his own relatives and

friends, with the authorities, and the Sadducees, had decided the fate

of the Prophet of Galilee. But he did not trust Judas, who he had heard

was a bad, untruthful man, and he had no confidence in his flippant

faith in the cowardice of the disciples, and of the people. Annas

believed in his own power, but he feared bloodshed, feared a serious

riot, such as the insubordinate, irascible people of Jerusalem lent

itself to so easily; he feared, in fact, the violent intervention of the

Roman authorities. Fanned by opposition, fertilised by the red blood

of the people, which vivifies everything on which it falls, the heresy

would grow stronger, and stifle in its folds Annas, the government, and

all his friends. So, when Iscariot knocked at his door a second time

Annas was perturbed in spirit and would not admit him. But yet a third

and a fourth time Iscariot came to him, persistent as the wind, which

beats day and night against the closed door and blows in through its

crevices.

“I see that the most astute Annas is afraid of something,” said Judas

when at last he obtained admission to the high priest.

“I am strong enough not to fear anything,” Annas answered haughtily. And

Iscariot stretched forth his hands and bowed abjectly.

“What do you want?”

“I wish to betray the Nazarene to you.”

“We do not want Him.”

Judas bowed and waited, humbly fixing his gaze on the high priest.

“Go away.”

“But I am bound to return. Am I not, revered Annas?”

“You will not be admitted. Go away!”

But yet again and again Judas called on the aged Annas, and at last was

admitted.

Dry and malicious, worried with thought, and silent, he gazed on the

Traitor, and, as it were, counted the hairs on his knotted head. Judas

also said nothing, and seemed in his turn to be counting the somewhat

sparse grey hairs in the beard of the high priest.

“What? you here again?” the irritated Annas haughtily jerked out, as

though spitting upon his head.

“I wish to betray the Nazarene to you.”

Both held their peace, and continued to gaze attentively at each other.

Iscariot’s look was calm; but a quiet malice, dry and cold, began

slightly to prick Annas, like the early morning rime of winter.

“How much do you want for your Jesus?”

“How much will you give?”

Annas, with evident enjoyment, insultingly replied: “You are nothing but

a band of scoundrels. Thirty pieces--that’s what we will give.”

And he quietly rejoiced to see how Judas began to squirm and run

about--agile and swift as though he had a whole dozen feet, not two.

“Thirty pieces of silver for Jesus!” he cried in a voice of wild

madness, most pleasing to Annas. “For Jesus of Nazareth! You wish to

buy Jesus for thirty pieces of silver? And you think that Jesus can be

betrayed to you for thirty pieces of silver?” Judas turned quickly to

the wall, and laughed in its smooth, white fence, lifting up his long

hands. “Do you hear? Thirty pieces of silver! For Jesus!”

With the same quiet pleasure, Annas remarked indifferently:

“If you will not deal, go away. We shall find some one whose work is

cheaper.”

And like old-clothes men who throw useless rags from hand to hand in the

dirty market-place, and shout, and swear and abuse each other, so they

embarked on a rabid and fiery bargaining. Intoxicated with a strange

rapture, running and turning about, and shouting, Judas ticked off on

his fingers the merits of Him whom he was selling.

“And the fact that He is kind and heals the sick, is that worth nothing

at all in your opinion? Ah, yes! Tell me, like an honest man!”

“If you--” began Annas, who was turning red, as he tried to get in a

word, his cold malice quickly warming up under the burning words of

Judas, who, however, interrupted him shamelessly:

“That He is young and handsome--like the Narcissus of Sharon, and the

Lily of the Valley? What? Is that worth nothing? Perhaps you will say

that He is old and useless, and that Judas is trying to dispose of an

old bird? Eh?”

“If you--” Annas tried to exclaim; but Judas’ stormy speech bore away

his senile croak, like down upon the wind.

“Thirty pieces of silver! That will hardly work out to one obolus for

each drop of blood! Half an obolus will not go to a tear! A quarter to

a groan. And cries, and convulsions! And for the ceasing of His

heartbeats? And the closing of His eyes? Is all this to be thrown

in gratis?” sobbed Iscariot, advancing toward the high priest and

enveloping him with an insane movement of his hands and fingers, and

with intervolved words.

“Includes everything,” said Annas in a choking voice.

“And how much will you make out of it yourself? Eh? You wish to rob

Judas, to snatch the bit of bread from his children. No, I can’t do it.

I will go on to the market-place, and shout out: ‘Annas has robbed poor

Judas. Help!’”

Wearied, and grown quite dizzy, Annas wildly stamped about the floor in

his soft slippers, gesticulating: “Be off, be off!”

But Judas on a sudden bowed down, stretching forth his hands

submissively:

“But if you really.... But why be angry with poor Judas, who only

desires his children’s good. You also have children, young and

handsome.”

“We shall find some one else. Be gone!”

“But I--I did not say that I was unwilling to make a reduction. Did

I ever say that I could not too yield? And do I not believe you, that

possibly another may come and sell Jesus to you for fifteen oboli--nay,

for two--for one?”

And bowing lower and lower, wriggling and flattering, Judas submissively

consented to the sum offered to him. Annas shamefacedly, with dry,

trembling hand, paid him the money, and silently looking round, as

though scorched, lifted his head again and again towards the ceiling,

and moving his lips rapidly, waited while Judas tested with his teeth

all the silver pieces, one after another.

“There is now so much bad money about,” Judas quickly explained.

“This money was devoted to the Temple by the pious,” said Annas,

glancing round quickly, and still more quickly turning the ruddy bald

nape of his neck to Judas’ view.

“But can pious people distinguish between good and bad money! Only

rascals can do that.”

Judas did not take the money home, but went beyond the city and hid

it under a stone. Then he came back again quietly with heavy, dragging

steps, as a wounded animal creeps slowly to its lair after a severe and

deadly fight. Only Judas had no lair; but there was a house, and in

the house he perceived Jesus. Weary and thin, exhausted with continual

strife with the Pharisees, who surrounded Him every day in the Temple

with a wall of white, shining, scholarly foreheads, He was sitting,

leaning His cheek against the rough wall, apparently fast asleep.

Through the open window drifted the restless noises of the city. On the

other side of the wall Peter was hammering, as he put together a new

table for the meal, humming the while a quiet Galilean song. But He

heard nothing; he slept on peacefully and soundly. And this was He, whom

they had bought for thirty pieces of silver.

Coming forward noiselessly, Judas, with the tender touch of a mother,

who fears to wake her sick child--with the wonderment of a wild beast

as it creeps from its lair suddenly, charmed by the sight of a white

flowerlet--he gently touched His soft locks, and then quickly withdrew

his hand. Once more he touched Him, and then silently crept out.

“Lord! Lord!” said he.

And going apart, he wept long, shrinking and wriggling and scratching

his bosom with his nails and gnawing his shoulders. Then suddenly he

ceased weeping and gnawing and gnashing his teeth, and fell into a

sombre reverie, inclining his tear-stained face to one side in the

attitude of one listening. And so he remained for a long time, doleful,

determined, from every one apart, like fate itself.

. . . . . . . .

Judas surrounded the unhappy Jesus, during those last days of His short

life, with quiet love and tender care and caresses. Bashful and timid

like a maid in her first love, strangely sensitive and discerning, he

divined the minutest unspoken wishes of Jesus, penetrating to the hidden

depth of His feelings, His passing fits of sorrow, and distressing

moments of weariness. And wherever Jesus stepped, His foot met something

soft, and whenever He turned His gaze, it encountered something

pleasing. Formerly Judas had not liked Mary Magdalene and the other

women who were near Jesus. He had made rude jests at their expense, and

done them little unkindnesses. But now he became their friend, their

strange, awkward ally. With deep interest he would talk with them of

the charming little idiosyncrasies of Jesus, and persistently asking

the same questions, he would thrust money into their hands, their very

palms--and they brought a box of very precious ointment, which Jesus

liked so much, and anointed His feet. He himself bought for Jesus, after

desperate bargaining, an expensive wine, and then was very angry when

Peter drank nearly all of it up, with the indifference of a person who

looks only to quantity; and in that rocky Jerusalem almost devoid of

trees, flowers, and greenery he somehow managed to obtain young spring

flowers and green grass, and through these same women to give them to

Jesus.

For the first time in his life he would take up little children in

his arms, finding them somewhere about the courts and streets, and

unwillingly kiss them to prevent their crying; and often it would happen

that some swarthy urchin with curly hair and dirty little nose, would

climb up on the knees of the pensive Jesus, and imperiously demand to be

petted. And while they enjoyed themselves together, Judas would walk

up and down at one side like a severe jailor, who had himself, in

springtime, let a butterfly in to a prisoner, and pretends to grumble at

the breach of discipline.

On an evening, when together with the darkness, alarm took post as

sentry by the window, Iscariot would cleverly turn the conversation to

Galilee, strange to himself but dear to Jesus, with its still waters

and green banks. And he would jog the heavy Peter till his dulled memory

awoke, and in clear pictures in which everything was loud, distinct,

full of colour, and solid, there arose before his eyes and ears the dear

Galilean life. With eager attention, with half-open mouth in child-like

fashion, and with eyes laughing in anticipation, Jesus would listen to

his gusty, resonant, cheerful utterance, and sometimes laughed so at his

jokes, that it was necessary to interrupt the story for some minutes.

But John told tales even better than Peter. There was nothing ludicrous,

nor startling, about his stories, but everything seemed so pensive,

unusual, and beautiful, that tears would appear in Jesus’ eyes, and

He would sigh softly, while Judas nudged Mary Magdalene and excitedly

whispered to her--

“What a narrator he is! Do you hear?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“No, be more attentive. You women never make good listeners.”

Then they would all quietly disperse to bed, and Jesus would kiss His

thanks to John, and stroke kindly the shoulder of the tall Peter.

And without envy, but with a condescending contempt, Judas would witness

these caresses. Of what importance were these tales and kisses and sighs

compared with what he, Judas Iscariot, the red-haired, misshapen Judas,

begotten among the rocks, could tell them if he chose?

CHAPTER VI

With one hand betraying Jesus, Judas tried hard with the other to

frustrate his own plans. He did not indeed endeavour to dissuade Jesus

from the last dangerous journey to Jerusalem, as did the women; he even

inclined rather to the side of the relatives of Jesus, and of those

amongst His disciples who looked for a victory over Jerusalem as

indispensable to the full triumph of His cause. But he kept continually

and obstinately warning them of the danger, and in lively colours

depicted the threatening hatred of the Pharisees for Jesus, and their

readiness to commit any crime if, either secretly or openly, they might

make an end of the Prophet of Galilee. Each day and every hour he kept

talking of this, and there was not one of the believers before whom

Judas had not stood with uplifted finger and uttered this serious

warning:

“We must look after Jesus. We must defend for Jesus, when the hour

comes.”

But whether it was the unlimited faith which the disciples had in the

miracle-working power of their Master, or the consciousness of their own

uprightness, or whether it was simply blindness, the alarming words of

Judas were met with a smile, and his continual advice provoked only

a grumble. When Judas procured, somewhere or other, two swords, and

brought them, only Peter approved of them, and gave Judas his meed of

praise, while the others complained:

“Are we soldiers that we should be made to gird on swords? Is Jesus a

captain of the host, and not a prophet?”

“But if they attempt to kill Him?”

“They will not dare when they perceive how all the people follow Him.”

“But if they should dare! What then?”

John replied disdainfully--

“One would think, Judas, that you were the only one who loved Jesus!”

And eagerly seizing hold of these words, and not in the least offended,

Judas began to question impatiently and hotly, with stern insistency:

“But you love Him, don’t you?”

And there was not one of the believers who came to Jesus whom he did not

ask more than once: “Do you love Him? Dearly love Him?”

And all answered that they loved Him.

He used often to converse with Thomas, and holding up his dry, hooked

forefinger, with its long, dirty nail, in warning, would mysteriously

say:

“Look here, Thomas, the terrible hour is drawing near. Are you prepared

for it? Why did you not take the sword I brought you?”

Thomas would reply with deliberation:

“We are men unaccustomed to the use of arms. If we were to take issue

with the Roman soldiery, they would kill us all, one after the other.

Besides, you brought only two swords, and what could we do with only

two?”

“We could get more. We could take them from the Roman soldiers,” Judas

impatiently objected, and even the serious Thomas smiled through his

overhanging moustache.

“Ah! Judas! Judas! But where did you get these? They are like Roman

swords.”

“I stole them. I could have stolen more, only some one gave the alarm,

and I fled.”

Thomas considered a little, then said sorrowfully--

“Again you acted ill, Judas. Why do you steal?”

“There is no such thing as property.”

“No, but to-morrow they will ask the soldiers: ‘Where are your swords?’

And when they cannot find them they will be punished though innocent.”

The consequence was, that after the death of Jesus the disciples

recalled these conversations of Judas, and determined that he had wished

to destroy them, together with the Master, by inveigling them into an

unequal and murderous conflict. And once again they cursed the hated

name of Judas Iscariot the Traitor.

But the angry Judas, after each conversation, would go to the women and

weep. They heard him gladly. The tender womanly element, that there

was in his love for Jesus, drew him near to them, and made him simple,

comprehensible, and even handsome in their eyes, although, as before, a

certain amount of disdain was perceptible in his attitude towards them.

“Are they men?” he would bitterly complain of the disciples, fixing his

blind, motionless eye confidingly on Mary Magdalene. “They are not men.

They have not an oboles’ worth of blood in their veins!”

“But then you are always speaking ill of others,” Mary objected.

“Have I ever?” said Judas in surprise. “Oh, yes, I have indeed spoken

ill of them; but is there not room for improvement in them? Ah! Mary,

silly Mary, why are you not a man, to carry a sword?”

“It is so heavy, I could not lift it!” said Mary smilingly.

“But you will lift it, when men are too worthless. Did you give Jesus

the lily that I found on the mountain? I got up early to find it, and

this morning the sun was so beautiful, Mary! Was He pleased with it? Did

He smile?”

“Yes, He was pleased. He said that its smell reminded Him of Galilee.”

“But surely, you did not tell Him that it was Judas--Judas Iscariot--who

got it for Him?”

“Why, you asked me not to tell Him.”

“Yes, certainly, quite right,” said Judas, with a sigh. “You might have

let it out, though, women are such chatterers. But you did not let it

out; no, you were firm. You are a good woman, Mary. You know that I have

a wife somewhere. Now I should be glad to see her again; perhaps she is

not a bad woman either. I don’t know. She said, ‘Judas was a liar and

malignant,’ so I left her. But she may be a good woman. Do you know?”

“How should I know, when I have never seen your wife?”

“True, true, Mary! But what think you, are thirty pieces of silver a

large sum? Is it not rather a small one?”

“I should say a small one.”

“Certainly, certainly. How much did you get when you were a harlot, five

pieces of silver or ten? You were an expensive one, were you not?”

Mary Magdalene blushed, and dropped her head till her luxuriant, golden

hair completely covered her face, so that nothing but her round white

chin was visible.

“How bad you are, Judas; I want to forget about that, and you remind me

of it!”

“No, Mary, you must not forget that. Why should you? Let others forget

that you were a harlot, but you must remember. It is the others who

should forget as soon as possible, but you should not. Why should you?”

“But it was a sin!”

“He fears who never committed a sin, but he who has committed it, what

has he to fear? Do the dead fear death; is it not rather the living? No,

the dead laugh at the living and their fears.”

Thus by the hour would they sit and talk in friendly guise, he--already

old, dried-up and misshapen, with his bulbous head and monstrous

double-sided face; she--young, modest, tender, and charmed with life as

with a story or a dream.

But time rolled by unconcernedly, while the thirty pieces of silver lay

under the stone, and the terrible day of the Betrayal drew inevitably

near. Already Jesus had ridden into Jerusalem on the ass’s back, and

the people, strewing their garments in the way, had greeted Him with

enthusiastic cries of “Hosanna! Hosanna! He that cometh in the name of

the Lord!”

So great was the exultation, so unrestrainedly did their loving cries

rend the skies, that Jesus wept, but His disciples proudly said:

“Is not this the Son of God with us?”

And they themselves cried out with enthusiasm: “Hosanna! Hosanna! He

that cometh in the name of the Lord!”

That evening it was long before they went to bed, recalling the

enthusiastic and joyful reception. Peter was like a madman, as though

possessed by the demon of merriment and pride. He shouted, drowning all

voices with his leonine roar; he laughed, hurling his laughter at their

heads, like great round stones; he kept kissing John and James, and even

gave a kiss to Judas. He noisily confessed that he had had great fears

for Jesus, but that he feared nothing now, that he had seen the love of

the people for Him.

Swiftly moving his vivid, watchful eye, Judas glanced in surprise from

side to side. He meditated, and then again listened, and looked. Then

he took Thomas aside, and pinning him, as it were, to the wall with

his keen gaze, he asked in doubt and fear, but with a certain confused

hopefulness:

“Thomas! But what if He is right? What if He be founded upon a rock, and

we upon sand? What then?”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“How, then, would it be with Judas Iscariot? Then I should be obliged

to strangle Him in order to do right. Who is deceiving Judas? You or he

himself? Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”

“I don’t understand you, Judas. You speak very unintelligently. ‘Who is

deceiving Jesus?’ ‘Who is right?’”

And Judas nodded his head and repeated like an echo:

“Who is deceiving Judas? Who?”

And the next day, in the way in which Judas raised his hand with thumb

bent back,[1] and by the way in which he looked at Thomas, the same

strange question was implied:

“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”

[1] Does our author refer to the Roman sign of disapprobation, vertere,

or convertere, pollicem?--Tr.

And still more surprised, and even alarmed, was Thomas, when suddenly in

the night he heard the loud, apparently glad voice of Judas:

“Then Judas Iscariot will be no more. Then Jesus will be no more. Then

there will be Thomas, the stupid Thomas! Did you ever wish to take the

earth and lift it? And then, possibly hurl it away?”

“That’s impossible. What are you talking about, Judas?”

“It’s quite possible,” said Iscariot with conviction, “and we will lift

it up some day when you are asleep, stupid Thomas. Go to sleep. I’m

enjoying myself. When you sleep your nose plays the Galilean pipe.

Sleep!”

But now the believers were already dispersed about Jerusalem, hiding

in houses and behind walls, and the faces of those that met them looked

mysterious. The exultation had died down. Confused reports of danger

found their way in; Peter, with gloomy countenance, tested the sword

given to him by Judas, and the face of the Master became even more

melancholy and stern. So swiftly the time passed, and inevitably

approached the terrible day of the Betrayal. Lo! the Last Supper was

over, full of grief and confused dread, and already had the obscure

words of Jesus sounded concerning some one who should betray Him.

“You know who will betray Him?” asked Thomas, looking at Judas with his

straight-forward, clear, almost transparent eyes.

“Yes, I know,” Judas replied harshly and decidedly. “You, Thomas, will

betray Him. But He Himself does not believe what He says! It is full

time! Why does He not call to Him the strong, magnificent Judas?”

No longer by days, but by short, fleeting hours, was the inevitable time

to be measured. It was evening; and evening stillness and long shadows

lay upon the ground--the first sharp darts of the coming night of mighty

contest--when a harsh, sorrowful voice was heard. It said:

“Dost Thou know whither I go, Lord? I go to betray Thee into the hands

of Thine enemies.”

And there was a long silence, evening stillness, and swift black

shadows.

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

And again silence.

“Allow me to remain. But perhaps Thou canst not? Or darest not? Or wilt

not?”

And again silence, stupendous, like the eyes of eternity.

“But indeed Thou knowest that I love Thee. Thou knowest all things. Why

lookest Thou thus at Judas? Great is the mystery of Thy beautiful eyes,

but is mine less? Order me to remain! But Thou art silent. Thou art ever

silent. Lord, Lord, is it for this that in grief and pains have I sought

Thee all my life, sought and found! Free me! Remove the weight; it is

heavier than even mountains of lead. Dost Thou hear how the bosom of

Judas Iscariot is cracking under it?”

And the last silence was abysmal, like the last glance of eternity.

“I go.”

But the evening stillness woke not, neither uttered cry nor plaint, nor

did its subtle air vibrate with the slightest tinkle--so soft was the

fall of the retreating steps. They sounded for a time, and then were

silent. And the evening stillness became pensive, stretched itself out

in long shadows, and then grew dark;--and suddenly night, coming to meet

it, all atremble with the rustle of sadly brushed-up leaves, heaved a

last sigh and was still.

There was a bustle, a jostle, a rattle of other voices, as though some

one had untied a bag of lively resonant voices, and they were falling

out on the ground, by one and two, and whole heaps. It was the disciples

talking. And drowning them all, reverberating from the trees and walls,

and tripping up over itself, thundered the determined, powerful voice of

Peter--he was swearing that never would he desert his Master.

“Lord,” said he, half in anger, half in grief: “Lord! I am ready to go

with Thee to prison and to death.”

And quietly, like the soft echo of retiring footsteps, came the

inexorable answer:

“I tell thee, Peter, the cock will not crow this day before thou dost

deny Me thrice.”

CHAPTER VII

The moon had already risen when Jesus prepared to go to the Mount of

Olives, where He had spent all His last nights. But He tarried, for some

inexplicable reason, and the disciples, ready to start, were hurrying

Him. Then He said suddenly:

“He that hath a purse, let him take it, and likewise his scrip; and he

that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy one. For I say unto

you that this that is written must yet be accomplished in me: ‘And he

was reckoned among the transgressors.’”

The disciples were surprised and looked at one another in confusion.

Peter replied:

“Lord, we have two swords here.”

He looked searchingly into their kind faces, lowered His head, and said

softly:

“It is enough.”

The steps of the disciples resounded loudly in the narrow streets, and

they were frightened by the sounds of their own footsteps; on the white

wall, illumined by the moon, their black shadows appeared--and they were

frightened by their own shadows. Thus they passed in silence through

Jerusalem, which was absorbed in sleep, and now they came out of the

gates of the city, and in the valley, full of fantastic, motionless

shadows, the stream of Kedron stretched before them. Now they were

frightened by everything. The soft murmuring and splashing of the water

on the stones sounded to them like voices of people approaching them

stealthily; the monstrous shades of the rocks and the trees, obstructing

the road, disturbed them, and their motionlessness seemed to them

to stir. But as they were ascending the mountain and approaching the

garden, where they had safely and quietly passed so many nights before,

they were growing ever bolder. From time to time they looked back at

Jerusalem, all white in the moonlight, and they spoke to one another

about the fear that had passed; and those who walked in the rear heard,

in fragments, the soft words of Jesus. He spoke about their forsaking

Him.

In the garden they paused soon after they had entered it. The majority

of them remained there, and, speaking softly, began to make ready for

their sleep, outspreading their cloaks over the transparent embroidery

of the shadows and the moonlight. Jesus, tormented with uneasiness, and

four of His disciples went further into the depth of the garden. There

they seated themselves on the ground, which had not yet cooled off from

the heat of the day, and while Jesus was silent, Peter and John lazily

exchanged words almost devoid of any meaning. Yawning from fatigue, they

spoke about the coolness of the night; about the high price of meat in

Jerusalem, and about the fact that no fish was to be had in the city.

They tried to determine the exact number of pilgrims that had gathered

in Jerusalem for the festival, and Peter, drawling his words and yawning

loudly, said that they numbered 20,000, while John and his brother Jacob

assured him just as lazily that they did not number more than 10,000.

Suddenly Jesus rose quickly.

“My soul is exceedingly sorrowful, even unto death; tarry ye here and

watch with Me,” He said, and departed hastily to the grove and soon

disappeared amid its motionless shades and light.

“Where did He go?” said John, lifting himself on his elbow. Peter turned

his head in the direction of Jesus and answered fatiguedly:

“I do not know.”

And he yawned again loudly, then threw himself on his back and became

silent. The others also became silent, and their motionless bodies were

soon absorbed in the sound sleep of fatigue. Through his heavy slumber

Peter vaguely saw something white bending over him, some one’s voice

resounded and died away, leaving no trace in his dimmed consciousness.

“Simon, are you sleeping?”

And he slept again, and again some soft voice reached his ear and died

away without leaving any trace.

“You could not watch with me even one hour?”

“Oh, Master! if you only knew how sleepy I am,” he thought in his

slumber, but it seemed to him that he said it aloud. And he slept again.

And a long time seemed to have passed, when suddenly the figure of Jesus

appeared near him, and a loud, rousing voice instantly awakened him and

the others:

“You are still sleeping and resting? It is ended, the hour has come--the

Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of the sinners.”

The disciples quickly sprang to their feet, confusedly seizing their

cloaks and trembling from the cold of the sudden awakening. Through the

thicket of the trees a multitude of warriors and temple servants was

seen approaching noisily, illumining their way with torches. And from

the other side the disciples came running, quivering from cold, their

sleepy faces frightened; and not yet understanding what was going on,

they asked hastily:

“What is it? Who are these people with torches?”

Thomas, pale faced, his moustaches in disorder, his teeth chattering

from chilliness, said to Peter:

“They have evidently come after us.”

Now a multitude of warriors surrounded them, and the smoky, quivering

light of the torches dispelled the soft light of the moon. In front

of the warriors walked Judas Iscariot quickly, and sharply turning his

quick eye, searched for Jesus. He found Him, rested his look for an

instant upon His tall, slender figure, and quickly whispered to the

priests:

“Whomsoever I shall kiss, that same is He. Take Him and lead Him

cautiously. Lead Him cautiously, do you hear?”

Then he moved quickly to Jesus, who waited for him in silence, and he

directed his straight, sharp look, like a knife, into His calm, darkened

eyes.

“Hail, Master!” he said loudly, charging his words of usual greeting

with a strange and stern meaning.

But Jesus was silent, and the disciples looked at the traitor with

horror, not understanding how the soul of a man could contain so much

evil. Iscariot threw a rapid glance at their confused ranks, noticed

their quiver, which was about to turn into a loud, trembling fear,

noticed their pallor, their senseless smiles, the drowsy movements

of their hands, which seemed as though fettered in iron at the

shoulders--and a mortal sorrow began to burn in his heart, akin to

the sorrow Christ had experienced before. Outstretching himself into a

hundred ringing, sobbing strings, he rushed over to Jesus and kissed

His cold cheek tenderly. He kissed it so softly, so tenderly, with such

painful love and sorrow, that if Jesus had been a flower upon a thin

stalk it would not have shaken from this kiss and would not have dropped

the pearly dew from its pure petals.

“Judas,” said Jesus, and with the lightning of His look He illumined

that monstrous heap of shadows which was Iscariot’s soul, but he could

not penetrate into the bottomless depth. “Judas! Is it with a kiss you

betray the Son of Man?”

And He saw how that monstrous chaos trembled and stirred. Speechless

and stern, like death in its haughty majesty, stood Judas Iscariot, and

within him a thousand impetuous and fiery voices groaned and roared:

“Yes! We betray Thee with the kiss of love! With the kiss of love we

betray Thee to outrage, to torture, to death! With the voice of love

we call together the hangmen from their dark holes, and we place a

cross--and high over the top of the earth we lift love, crucified by

love upon a cross.”

Thus stood Judas, silent and cold, like death, and the shouting and

the noise about Jesus answered the cry of His soul. With the rude

irresoluteness of armed force, with the awkwardness of a vaguely

understood purpose, the soldiers seized Him and dragged Him

off--mistaking their irresoluteness for resistance, their fear for

derision and mockery. Like a flock of frightened lambs, the disciples

stood huddled together, not interfering, yet disturbing everybody, even

themselves. Only a few of them resolved to walk and act separately.

Jostled from all sides, Peter drew out the sword from its sheath with

difficulty, as though he had lost all his strength, and faintly lowered

it upon the head of one of the priests--without causing him any harm.

Jesus, observing this, ordered him to throw away the useless weapon, and

it fell under foot with a dull thud, and so evidently had it lost its

sharpness and destructive power that it did not occur to any one to pick

it up. So it rolled about under foot, until several days afterwards it

was found on the same spot by some children at play, who made a toy of

it.

The soldiers kept dispersing the disciples, but they gathered together

again and stupidly got under the soldiers’ feet, and this went on so

long that at last a contemptuous rage mastered the soldiery. One of them

with frowning brow went up to the shouting John; another rudely pushed

from his shoulder the hand of Thomas, who was arguing with him

about something or other, and shook a big fist right in front of his

straightforward, transparent eyes. John fled, and Thomas and James fled,

and all the disciples, as many as were present, forsook Jesus and fled.

Losing their cloaks, knocking themselves against the trees, tripping up

against stones and falling, they fled to the hills terror-driven,

while in the stillness of the moonlight night the ground rumbled loudly

beneath the tramp of many feet. Some one, whose name did not transpire,

just risen from his bed (for he was covered only with a blanket), rushed

excitedly into the crowd of soldiers and servants. When they tried to

stop him, and seized hold of his blanket, he gave a cry of terror, and

took to flight like the others, leaving his garment in the hands of the

soldiers. And so he ran stark-naked, with desperate leaps, and his bare

body glistened strangely in the moonlight.

When Jesus was led away, Peter, who had hidden himself behind the trees,

came out and followed his Master at a distance. Noticing another man in

front of him, who walked silently, he thought that it was John, and he

called him softly:

“John, is that you?”

“And is that you, Peter?” answered the other, pausing, and by the voice

Peter recognised the traitor. “Peter, why did you not run away together

with the others?”

Peter stopped and said with contempt:

“Leave me, Satan!”

Judas began to laugh, and paying no further attention to Peter, he

advanced where the torches were flashing dimly and where the clanking of

the weapons mingled with the footsteps. Peter followed him cautiously,

and thus they entered the court of the high priest almost simultaneously

and mingled in the crowd of the priests who were warming themselves at

the bonfires. Judas warmed his bony hands morosely at the bonfire and

heard Peter saying loudly somewhere behind him:

“No, I do not know Him.”

But it was evident that they were insisting there that he was one of

the disciples of Jesus, for Peter repeated still louder: “But I do not

understand what you are saying.”

Without turning around, and smiling involuntarily, Judas shook his head

affirmatively and muttered:

“That’s right, Peter! Do not give up the place near Jesus to any one.”

And he did not see the frightened Peter walk away from the courtyard.

And from that night until the very death of Jesus, Judas did not see

a single one of the disciples of Jesus near Him; and amid all that

multitude there were only two, inseparable until death, strangely bound

together by sufferings--He who had been betrayed to abuse and torture

and he who had betrayed Him. Like brothers, they both, the Betrayed and

the betrayer, drank out of the same cup of sufferings, and the fiery

liquid burned equally the pure and the impure lips.

Gazing fixedly at the wood-fire, which imparted a feeling of warmth to

his eyes, stretching out his long, shaking hands to the flame, his hands

and feet forming a confused outline in the trembling light and shade,

Iscariot kept mumbling in hoarse complaint:

“How cold! My God, how cold it is!”

So, when the fishermen go away at night leaving an expiring fire

of drift-wood upon the shore, from the dark depth of the sea might

something creep forth, crawl up towards the fire, look at it with

wild intentness, and dragging all its limbs up to it, mutter in hoarse

complaint:

“How cold! My God, how cold it is!”

Suddenly Judas heard behind him a burst of loud voices, the cries and

laughter of the soldiers full of the usual sleepy, greedy malice; and

lashes, short frequent strokes upon a living body. He turned round, a

momentary anguish running through his whole frame--his very bones. They

were scourging Jesus.

Has it come to that?

He had seen the soldiers lead Jesus away with them to their guardroom.

The night was already nearly over, the fires had sunk down and were

covered with ashes, but from the guardroom was still borne the sound of

muffled cries, laughter, and invectives. They were scourging Jesus.

As one who has lost his way, Iscariot ran nimbly about the empty

courtyard, stopped in his course, lifted his head and ran on again, and

was surprised when he came into collision with heaps of embers, or with

the walls.

Then he clung to the wall of the guardroom, stretched himself out to

his full height, and glued himself to the window and the crevices of the

door, eagerly examining what they were doing. He saw a confined stuffy

room, dirty, like all guardrooms in the world, with bespitten floor, and

walls as greasy and stained as though they had been trodden and rolled

upon. And he saw the Man whom they were scourging. They struck Him on

the face and head, and tossed Him about like a soft bundle from one end

of the room to the other. And since He neither cried out nor resisted,

after looking intently, it actually appeared at moments as though it was

not a living human being, but a soft effigy without bones or blood. It

bent itself strangely like a doll, and in falling, knocking its head

against the stone floor it did not give the impression of a hard

substance striking against a hard substance, but of something soft

and devoid of feeling. And when one looked long, it became like some

strange, endless game--and sometimes it became almost a complete

illusion.

After one hard kick, the man or effigy fell slowly on its knees before a

sitting soldier, he in turn flung it away, and turning over, it dropped

down before the next, and so on and on. A loud guffaw arose, and Judas

smiled too,--as though the strong hand of some one with iron fingers had

torn his mouth asunder. It was the mouth of Judas that was deceived.

Night dragged on, and the fires were still smouldering. Judas threw

himself from the wall, and crawled to one of the fires, poked up

the ashes, rekindled it, and although he no longer felt the cold, he

stretched his slightly trembling hands over the flames, and began to

mutter dolefully:

“Ah! how painful, my Son, my Son! How painful!”

Then he went again to the window, which was gleaming yellow with a

dull light between the thick grating, and once more began to watch them

scourging Jesus. Once before the very eyes of Judas appeared His swarthy

countenance, now marred out of human semblance, and covered with a

forest of dishevelled hair. Then some one’s hand plunged into those

locks, threw the Man down, and rhythmically turning His head from one

side to the other, began to wipe the filthy floor with His face. Right

under the window a soldier was sleeping, his open mouth revealing his

glittering white teeth; and some one’s broad back, with naked, brawny

neck, barred the window, so that nothing more could be seen. And

suddenly the noise ceased.

“What’s that? Why are they silent? Have they suddenly divined the

truth?”

Momentarily the whole head of Judas, in all its parts, was filled with

the rumbling, shouting and roaring of a thousand maddened thoughts! Had

they divined? They understood that this was the very best of men--it

was so simple, so clear! Lo! He is coming out, and behind Him they

are abjectly crawling. Yes, He is coming here, to Judas, coming out a

victor, a hero, arbiter of the truth, a god....

“Who is deceiving Judas? Who is right?”

But no. Once more noise and shouting. They are scourging Him again. They

do not understand, they have not guessed, they are beating Him harder,

more cruelly than ever. The fires burn out, covered with ashes, and the

smoke above them is as transparently blue as the air, and the sky as

bright as the moon. It is the day approaching.

“What is day?” asks Judas.

And lo! everything begins to glow, to scintillate, to grow young again,

and the smoke above is no longer blue, but rose-coloured. It is the sun

rising.

“What is the sun?” asks Judas.

CHAPTER VIII

They pointed the finger at Judas, and some in contempt, others with

hatred and fear, said:

“Look, that is Judas the Traitor!”

This already began to be the opprobrious title, to which he had doomed

himself throughout the ages. Thousands of years may pass, nation may

supplant nation, and still the air will resound with the words, uttered

with contempt and fear by good and bad alike:

“Judas the Traitor!”

But he listened imperturbably to what was said of him, dominated by a

feeling of burning, all-subduing curiosity. Ever since the morning when

they led forth Jesus from the guardroom, after scourging Him, Judas

had followed Him, strangely enough feeling neither grief nor pain nor

joy--only an unconquerable desire to see and hear everything. Though

he had had no sleep the whole night, his body felt light; when he was

crushed and prevented from advancing, he elbowed his way through the

crowd and adroitly wormed himself into the front place; and not for a

moment did his vivid quick eye remain at rest. At the examination of

Jesus before Caiaphas, in order not to lose a word, he hollowed his hand

round his ear, and nodded his head in affirmation, murmuring:

“Just so! Thou hearest, Jesus?”

But he was a prisoner, like a fly tied to a thread, which, buzzing,

flies hither and thither, but cannot for one moment free itself from the

tractable but unyielding thread.

Certain stony thoughts lay at the back of his head, and to these he was

firmly bound; he knew not, as it were, what these thoughts were; he did

not wish to stir them up, but he felt them continually. At times they

would come to him all of a sudden, oppress him more and more, and begin

to crush him with their unimaginable weight, as though the vault of a

rocky cavern were slowly and terribly descending upon his head.

Then he would grip his heart with his hand, and strive to set his whole

body in motion, as though he were perishing with cold, and hasten to

shift his eyes to a fresh place, and again to another. When they led

Jesus away from Caiaphas, he met His weary eyes quite close, and,

somehow or other, unconsciously he gave Him several friendly nods.

“I am here, my Son, I am here,” he muttered hurriedly, and maliciously

poked to some gaper in the back who stood in his way.

And now, in a huge shouting crowd, they all moved on to Pilate for the

last examination and trial, and with the same insupportable curiosity

Judas searched the faces of the ever swelling multitude. Many were quite

unknown to him; Judas had never seen them before, but some were there

who had cried, “Hosanna!” to Jesus, and at each step the number of them

seemed to increase.

“Well, well!” thought Judas, and his head spun round as if he were

drunk, “the worst is over. Directly they will be crying: ‘He is ours, He

is Jesus! What are you about?’ and all will understand, and--”

But the believers walked in silence. Some hypocritically smiled, as if

to say: “The affair is none of ours!” Others spoke with constraint, but

their low voices were drowned in the rumbling of movement, and the loud

delirious shouts of His enemies.

And Judas felt better again. Suddenly he noticed Thomas cautiously

slipping through the crowd not far off, and struck by a sudden thought,

he was about to go up to him. At the sight of the traitor, Thomas was

frightened, and tried to hide himself. But in a little narrow street,

between two walls, Judas overtook him.

“Thomas, wait a bit!”

Thomas stopped, and stretching both hands out in front of him solemnly

pronounced the words:

“Avaunt, Satan!”

Iscariot made an impatient movement of the hands.

“What a fool you are, Thomas! I thought that you had more sense than the

others. Satan indeed! That requires proof.”

Letting his hands fall, Thomas asked in surprise:

“But did not you betray the Master? I myself saw you bring the soldiers,

and point Him out to them. If this is not treachery, I should like to

know what is!”

“Never mind that,” hurriedly said Judas. “Listen, there are many of you

here. You must all gather together, and loudly demand: ‘Give up Jesus.

He is ours!’ They will not refuse you, they dare not. They themselves

will understand.”

“What do you mean! What are you thinking of!” said Thomas, with a

decisive wave of his hands. “Have you not seen what a number of armed

soldiers and servants of the Temple there are here? Moreover, the trial

has not yet taken place, and we must not interfere with the court.

Surely he understands that Jesus is innocent, and will order His release

without delay.”

“You, then, think so too,” said Judas thoughtfully. “Thomas, Thomas,

what if it be the truth? What then? Who is right? Who has deceived

Judas?”

“We were all talking last night, and came to the conclusion that the

court cannot condemn the innocent. But if it does, why then--”

“What then!”

“Why, then it is no court. And it will be the worse for them when they

have to give an account before the real Judge.”

“Before the real! Is there any ‘real’ left?” sneered Judas.

“And all of our party cursed you; but since you say that you were not

the traitor, I think you ought to be tried.”

Judas did not want to hear him out; but turned right about, and hurried

down the street in the wake of the retreating crowd. He soon, however,

slackened his pace, mindful of the fact that a crowd always travels

slowly, and that a single pedestrian will inevitably overtake it.

When Pilate led Jesus out from his palace, and set Him before the

people, Judas, crushed against a column by the heavy backs of the

soldiers, furiously turning his head about to see something between two

shining helmets, suddenly felt clearly that the worst was over. He saw

Jesus in the sunshine, high above the heads of the crowd, blood-stained,

pale with a crown of thorns, the sharp spikes of which pressed into His

forehead.

He stood on the edge of an elevation, visible from His head to His

small, sunburnt feet, and waited so calmly, was so serene in His

immaculate purity, that only a blind man, who perceived not the very

sun, could fail to see, only a madman would not understand. And the

people held their peace--it was so still, that Judas heard the breathing

of the soldier in front of him, and how, at each breath, a strap creaked

somewhere about his body.

“Yes, it will soon be over! They will understand immediately,” thought

Judas, and suddenly something strange, like the dazzling joy of

falling from a giddy height into a blue sparkling abyss, arrested his

heart-beats.

Contemptuously drawing his lips down to his rounded well-shaven chin,

Pilate flung to the crowd the dry, curt words--as one throws bones to a

pack of hungry hounds--thinking to cheat their longing for fresh blood

and living, palpitating flesh:

“You have brought this Man before me as a corrupter of the people, and

behold I have examined Him before you, and I find this Man guiltless of

that of which you accuse Him....”

Judas closed his eyes. He was waiting.

All the people began to shout, to sob, to howl with a thousand voices of

wild beasts and men:

“Put Him to death! Crucify Him! Crucify Him!” And as though in

self-mockery, as though wishing in one moment to plumb the very depths

of all possible degradation, madness and shame, the crowd cries out,

sobs, and demands with a thousand voices of wild beasts and men:

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

But the Roman had evidently not yet said his last word. Over his proud,

shaven countenance there passed convulsions of disgust and anger.

He understood! He has understood all along! He speaks quietly to his

attendants, but his voice is not heard in the roar of the crowd. What

does he say? Is he ordering them to bring swords, and to smite those

maniacs?

“Bring water.”

“Water? What water? What for?”

Ah, lo! he washes his hands. Why does he wash his clean white hands all

adorned with rings? He lifts them and cries angrily to the people, whom

surprise holds in silence:

“I am innocent of the blood of this Just Person. See ye to it.”

While the water is still dripping from his fingers on to the marble

pavement, something soft prostrates itself at his feet, and sharp,

burning lips kiss his hand, which he is powerless to withdraw, glue

themselves to it like tentacles, almost bite and draw blood. He looks

down in disgust and fear, and sees a great squirming body, a strangely

twofold face, and two immense eyes so queerly diverse from one another

that, as it were, not one being but a number of them clung to his hands

and feet. He heard a broken, burning whisper:

“O wise and noble... wise and noble.”

And with such a truly satanic joy did that wild face blaze, that, with a

cry, Pilate kicked him away, and Judas fell backwards. And there he lay

upon the stone flags like an overthrown demon, still stretching out his

hand to the departing Pilate, and crying as one passionately enamoured:

“O wise, O wise and noble....”

Then he gathered himself up with agility, and ran away followed by the

laughter of the soldiery. Evidently there was yet hope. When they come

to see the cross, and the nails, then they will understand, and then....

What then? He catches sight of the panic-stricken Thomas in passing, and

for some reason or other reassuringly nods to him; he overtakes Jesus

being led to execution. The walking is difficult, small stones roll

under the feet, and suddenly Judas feels that he is tired. He gives

himself up wholly to the trouble of deciding where best to plant his

feet, he looks dully around, and sees Mary Magdalene weeping, and a

number of women weeping--hair dishevelled, eyes red, lips distorted--all

the excessive grief of a tender woman’s soul when submitted to outrage.

Suddenly he revives, and seizing the moment, runs up to Jesus:

“I go with Thee,” he hurriedly whispers.

The soldiers drive him away with blows of their whips, and squirming

so as to avoid the blows, and showing his teeth at the soldiers, he

explains hurriedly:

“I go with Thee. Thither. Thou understandest whither.”

He wipes the blood from his face, shakes his fist at one of the

soldiers, who turns round and smiles, and points him out to the others.

Then he looks for Thomas, but neither he nor any of the disciples are in

the crowd that accompanies Jesus. Again he is conscious of fatigue, and

drags one foot with difficulty after the other, as he attentively looks

out for the sharp, white, scattered pebbles.

When the hammer was uplifted to nail Jesus’ left hand to the tree, Judas

closed his eyes, and for a whole age neither breathed, nor saw, nor

lived, but only listened.

But lo! with a grating sound, iron strikes against iron, time after

time, dull, short blows, and then the sharp nail penetrating the soft

wood and separating its particles is distinctly heard.

One hand. It is not yet too late!

The other hand. It is not yet too late!

A foot, the other foot! Is all lost?

He irresolutely opens his eyes, and sees how the cross is raised, and

rocks, and is set fast in the trench. He sees how the hands of Jesus are

convulsed by the tension, how painfully His arms stretch, how the wounds

grow wider, and how the exhausted abdomen disappears under the ribs.

The arms stretch more and more, grow thinner and whiter, and become

dislocated from the shoulders, and the wounds of the nails redden and

lengthen gradually--lo! in a moment they will be torn away. No. It

stopped. All stopped. Only the ribs move up and down with the short,

deep breathing.

On the very crown of the hill the cross is raised, and on it is the

crucified Jesus. The horror and the dreams of Judas are realised, he

gets up from his knees on which, for some reason, he has knelt, and

gazes around coldly.

Thus does a stern conqueror look, when he has already determined in his

heart to surrender everything to destruction and death, and for the last

time throws a glance over a rich foreign city, still alive with sound,

but already phantom-like under the cold hand of death. And suddenly,

as clearly as his terrible victory, Iscariot saw its ominous

precariousness. What if they should suddenly understand? It is not yet

too late! Jesus still lives. There He gazes with entreating, sorrowing

eyes.

What can prevent the thin film which covers the eyes of mankind, so thin

that it hardly seems to exist at all, what can prevent it from

rending? What if they should understand? What if suddenly, in all

their threatening mass of men, women and children, they should advance,

silently, without a cry, and wipe out the soldiery, plunging them up to

their ears in their own blood, should tear from the ground the accursed

cross, and by the hands of all who remain alive should lift up the

liberated Jesus above the summit of the hill! Hosanna! Hosanna!

Hosanna? No! Better that Judas should lie on the ground. Better that he

should lie upon the ground, and gnashing his teeth like a dog, should

watch and wait until all these should rise up.

But what has come to Time? Now it almost stands still, so that one would

wish to push it with the hands, to kick it, beat it with a whip like

a lazy ass. Now it rushes madly down some mountain, and catches its

breath, and stretches out its hand in vain to stop itself. There weeps

the mother of Jesus. Let them weep. What avail her tears now? nay, the

tears of all the mothers in the world?

“What are tears?” asks Judas, and madly pushes unyielding Time, beats it

with his fists, curses it like a slave. It belongs to some one else, and

therefore is unamenable to discipline. Oh! if only it belonged to Judas!

But it belongs to all these people who are weeping, laughing, chattering

as in the market. It belongs to the sun; it belongs to the cross; to the

heart of Jesus, which is dying so slowly.

What an abject heart has Judas! He lays his hand upon it, but it cries

out: “Hosanna,” so loud that all may hear. He presses it to the ground,

but it cries, “Hosanna, Hosanna!” like a babbler who scatters holy

mysteries broadcast through the street.

“Be still! Be still!”

Suddenly a loud broken lamentation, dull cries, the last hurried

movements towards the cross. What is it? Have they understood at last?

No, Jesus is dying. But can this be? Yes, Jesus is dying. His pale hands

are motionless, but short convulsions run over His face, and breast,

and legs. But can this be? Yes, He is dying. His breathing becomes less

frequent. It ceases. No, there is yet one sigh, Jesus is still upon the

earth. But is there another? No, no, no. Jesus is dead.

It is finished. Hosanna! Hosanna!

His horror and his dreams are realised. Who will now snatch the victory

from the hands of Iscariot?

It is finished. Let all people on earth stream to Golgotha, and shout

with their million throats, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” And let a sea of

blood and tears be poured out at its foot, and they will find only the

shameful cross and a dead Jesus!

Calmly and coldly Iscariot surveys the dead, letting his gaze rest for a

moment on that neck, which he had kissed only yesterday with a farewell

kiss; and slowly goes away. Now all Time belongs to him, and he walks

without hurry; now all the World belongs to him, and he steps firmly,

like a ruler, like a king, like one who is infinitely and joyfully alone

in the world. He observes the mother of Jesus, and says to her sternly:

“Thou weepest, mother? Weep, weep, and long will all the mothers upon

earth weep with thee: until I come with Jesus and destroy death.”

What does he mean? Is he mad, or is he mocking--this Traitor? He is

serious, and his face is stern, and his eyes no longer dart about in

mad haste. Lo! he stands still, and with cold attention views a new,

diminished earth.

It has become small, and he feels the whole of it under his feet. He

looks at the little mountains, quietly reddening under the last rays of

the sun, and he feels the mountains under his feet.

He looks at the sky opening wide its azure mouth; he looks at the small

round disc of the sun, which vainly strives to singe and dazzle, and he

feels the sky and the sun under his feet. Infinitely and joyfully alone,

he proudly feels the impotence of all forces which operate in the world,

and has cast them all into the abyss.

He walks farther on, with quiet, masterful steps. And Time goes neither

forward nor back: obediently it marches in step with him in all its

invisible immensity.

It is the end.

CHAPTER IX

As an old cheat, coughing, smiling fawningly, bowing incessantly, Judas

Iscariot the Traitor appeared before the Sanhedrin. It was the day after

the murder of Jesus, about mid-day. There they were all, His judges and

murderers: the aged Annas with his sons, exact and disgusting likenesses

of their father, and his son-in-law Caiaphas, devoured by ambition, and

all the other members of the Sanhedrin, whose names have been snatched

from the memory of mankind--rich and distinguished Sadducees, proud in

their power and knowledge of the Law.

In silence they received the Traitor, their haughty faces remaining

motionless, as though no one had entered. And even the very least, and

most insignificant among them, to whom the others paid no attention,

lifted up his bird-like face and looked as though no one had entered.

Judas bowed and bowed and bowed, and they looked on in silence: as

though it were not a human being that had entered, but only an unclean

insect that had crept in, and which they had not observed. But Judas

Iscariot was not the man to be perturbed: they kept silence, and he kept

on bowing, and thought that if it was necessary to go on bowing till

evening, he could do so.

At length Caiaphas inquired impatiently:

“What do you want?”

Judas bowed once more, and said in a loud voice--

“It is I, Judas Iscariot, who betrayed to you Jesus of Nazareth.”

“Well, what of that? You have received your due. Go away!” ordered

Annas; but Judas appeared unconscious of the command, and continued

bowing. Glancing at him, Caiaphas asked Annas:

“How much did you give?”

“Thirty pieces of silver.”

Caiaphas laughed, and even the grey-bearded Annas laughed, too, and over

all their proud faces there crept a smile of enjoyment; and even the one

with the bird-like face laughed. Judas, perceptibly blanching, hastily

interrupted with the words:

“That’s right! Certainly it was very little; but is Judas discontented,

does Judas call out that he has been robbed? He is satisfied. Has he not

contributed to a holy cause--yes, a holy? Do not the most sage people

now listen to Judas, and think: He is one of us, this Judas Iscariot; he

is our brother, our friend, this Judas Iscariot, the Traitor! Does not

Annas want to kneel down and kiss the hand of Judas? Only Judas will not

allow it; he is a coward, he is afraid they will bite him.”

Caiaphas said:

“Drive the dog out! What’s he barking about?”

“Get along with you. We have no time to listen to your babbling,” said

Annas imperturbably.

Judas drew himself up and closed his eyes. The hypocrisy, which he

had carried so lightly all his life, suddenly became an insupportable

burden, and with one movement of his eyelashes he cast it from him.

And when he looked at Annas again, his glance was simple, direct, and

terrible in its naked truthfulness. But they paid no attention to this

either.

“You want to be driven out with sticks!” cried Caiaphas.

Panting under the weight of the terrible words, which he was lifting

higher and higher, in order to hurl them hence upon the heads of the

judges, Judas hoarsely asked:

“But you know... you know... who He was... He, whom you condemned

yesterday and crucified?”

“We know. Go away!”

With one word he would straightway rend that thin film which was spread

over their eyes, and all the earth would stagger beneath the weight of

the merciless truth! They had a soul, they should be deprived of it;

they had a life, they should lose their life; they had light before

their eyes, eternal darkness and horror should cover them. Hosanna!

Hosanna!

And these words, these terrible words, were tearing his throat asunder--

“He was no deceiver. He was innocent and pure. Do you hear? Judas

deceived you. He betrayed to you an innocent man.”

He waits. He hears the aged, unconcerned voice of Annas, saying:

“And is that all you want to say?”

“You do not seem to have understood me,” says Judas, with dignity,

turning pale. “Judas deceived you. He was innocent. You have slain the

innocent.”

He of the bird-like face smiles; but Annas is indifferent, Annas yawns.

And Caiaphas yawns, too, and says wearily:

“What did they mean by talking to me about the intellect of Judas

Iscariot? He is simply a fool, and a bore, too.”

“What?” cries Judas, all suffused with dark madness. “But who are

you, the clever ones! Judas deceived you--hear! It was not He that he

betrayed--but you--you wiseacres, you, the powerful, you he betrayed to

a shameful death, which will not end, throughout the ages. Thirty pieces

of silver! Well, well. But that is the price of YOUR blood--blood

filthy as the dish-water which the women throw out of the gates of their

houses. Oh! Annas, old, grey, stupid Annas, chock-full of the Law, why

did you not give one silver piece, just one obolus more? At this price

you will go down through the ages!”

“Be off!” cries Caiaphas, growing purple in the face. But Annas stops

him with a motion of the hand, and asks Judas as unconcernedly as ever:

“Is that all?”

“Verily, if I were to go into the desert, and cry to the wild beasts:

‘Wild beasts, have ye heard the price at which men valued their

Jesus?’--what would the wild beasts do? They would creep out of the

lairs, they would howl with anger, they would forget their fear of

mankind, and would all come here to devour you! If I were to say to the

sea: ‘Sea, knowest thou the price at which men valued their Jesus?’ If I

were to say to the mountains: ‘Mountains, know ye the price at which men

valued their Jesus?’ Then the sea and the mountains would leave their

places, assigned to them for ages, and would come here and fall upon

your heads!”

“Does Judas wish to become a prophet? He speaks so loud!” mockingly

remarks he of the bird-like face, with an ingratiating glance at

Caiaphas.

“To-day I saw a pale sun. It was looking at the earth, and saying:

‘Where is the Man?’ To-day I saw a scorpion. It was sitting upon a stone

and laughingly said: ‘Where is the Man?’ I went near and looked into

its eyes. And it laughed and said: ‘Where is the Man? I do not see Him!’

Where is the Man? I ask you, I do not see Him--or is Judas become blind,

poor Judas Iscariot!”

And Iscariot begins to weep aloud.

He was, during those moments, like a man out of his mind, and Caiaphas

turned away, making a contemptuous gesture with his hand. But Annas

considered for a time, and then said:

“I perceive, Judas, that you really have received but little, and that

disturbs you. Here is some more money; take it and give it to your

children.”

He threw something, which rang shrilly. The sound had not died away,

before another, like it, strangely prolonged the clinking.

Judas had hastily flung the pieces of silver and the oboles into the

faces of the high priest and of the judges, returning the price paid

for Jesus. The pieces of money flew in a curved shower, falling on their

faces, and on the table, and rolling about the floor.

Some of the judges closed their hands with the palms outwards; others

leapt from their places, and shouted and scolded. Judas, trying to hit

Annas, threw the last coin, after which his trembling hand had long been

fumbling in his wallet, spat in anger, and went out.

“Well, well,” he mumbled, as he passed swiftly through the streets,

scaring the children. “It seems that thou didst weep, Judas? Was

Caiaphas really right when he said that Judas Iscariot was a fool? He

who weeps in the day of his great revenge is not worthy of it--know’st

thou that, Judas? Let not thine eyes deceive thee; let not thine heart

lie to thee; flood not the fire with tears, Judas Iscariot!”

The disciples were sitting in mournful silence, listening to what was

going on without. There was still danger that the vengeance of Jesus’

enemies might not confine itself to Him, and so they were all expecting

a visit from the guard, and perhaps more executions. Near to John,

to whom, as the beloved disciple, the death of Jesus was especially

grievous, sat Mary Magdalene, and Matthew trying to comfort him in an

undertone. Mary, whose face was swollen with weeping, softly stroked his

luxurious curling hair with her hand, while Matthew said didactically,

in the words of Solomon:

“‘The long suffering is better than a hero; and he that ruleth his own

spirit than one who taketh a city.’”

At this moment Judas knocked loudly at the door, and entered. All

started up in terror, and at first were not sure who it was; but when

they recognised the hated countenance, the red-haired, bulbous head,

they uttered a simultaneous cry.

Peter raised both hands and shouted:

“Get out of here, Traitor! Get out, or I will kill you.”

But the others looked more carefully at the face and eyes of the

Traitor, and said nothing, merely whispering in terror:

“Leave him alone, leave him alone! He is possessed with a devil.”

Judas waited until they had quite done, and then cried out in a loud

voice:

“Hail, ye eyes of Judas Iscariot! Ye have just seen the cold-blooded

murderers. Lo! Where is Jesus? I ask you, where is Jesus?”

There was something compelling in the hoarse voice of Judas, and Thomas

replied obediently--

“You know yourself, Judas, that our Master was crucified yesterday.”

“But how came you to permit it? Where was your love? Thou, Beloved

Disciple, and thou, Rock, where were you all when they were crucifying

your Friend on the tree?”

“What could we do, judge thou?” said Thomas, with a gesture of protest.

“Thou asketh that, Thomas? Very well!” and Judas threw his head back,

and fell upon him angrily. “He who loves does not ask what can be

done--he goes and does it--he weeps, he bites, he throttles the enemy,

and breaks his bones! He, that is, who loves! If your son were drowning

would you go into the city and inquire of the passers by: ‘What must I

do? My son is drowning!’ No, you would rather throw yourself into the

water and drown with him. One who loved would!”

Peter replied grimly to the violent speech of Judas:

“I drew a sword, but He Himself forbade.”

“Forbade? And you obeyed!” jeered Judas. “Peter, Peter, how could you

listen to Him? Does He know anything of men, and of fighting?”

“He who does not submit to Him goes to hell fire.”

“Then why did you not go, Peter? Hell fire! What’s that? Now, supposing

you had gone--what good’s your soul to you, if you dare not throw it

into the fire, if you want to?”

“Silence!” cried John, rising. “He Himself willed this sacrifice. His

sacrifice is beautiful!”

“Is a sacrifice ever beautiful, Beloved Disciple? Wherever there is

a sacrifice, then there is an executioner, and there traitors!

Sacrifice--that is suffering for one and disgrace for all the others!

Traitors, traitors, what have ye done with the world? Now they look at

it from above and below, and laugh and cry: ‘Look at that world, upon it

they crucified Jesus!’ And they spit on it--as I do!”

Judas angrily spat on the ground.

“He took upon Him the sin of all mankind. His sacrifice is beautiful,”

John insisted.

“No! you have taken all sin upon yourselves. You, Beloved Disciple, will

not a race of traitors take their beginning from you, a pusillanimous

and lying breed? O blind men, what have ye done with the earth? You have

done your best to destroy it, ye will soon be kissing the cross on which

ye crucified Jesus! Yes, yes, Judas gives ye his word that ye will kiss

the cross!”

“Judas, don’t revile!” roared Peter, pushing. “How could we slay all His

enemies? They are so many!”

“And thou, Peter!” exclaimed John in anger, “dost thou not perceive that

he is possessed of Satan? Leave us, Tempter! Thou’rt full of lies. The

Teacher forbade us to kill.”

“But did He forbid you to die? Why are you alive, when He is dead? Why

do your feet walk, why does your tongue talk trash, why do your eyes

blink, when He is dead, motionless, speechless? How do your cheeks dare

to be red, John, when His are pale? How can you dare to shout, Peter,

when He is silent? What could you do? You ask Judas? And Judas answers

you, the magnificent, bold Judas Iscariot replies: ‘Die!’ You ought to

have fallen on the road, to have seized the soldiers by the sword, by

the hands, and drowned them in a sea of your own blood--yes, die, die!

Better had it been, that His Father should have cause to cry out with

horror, when you all enter there!”

Judas ceased with raised head. Suddenly he noticed the remains of a

meal upon the table. With strange surprise, curiously, as though for

the first time in his life he looked on food, he examined it, and slowly

asked:

“What is this? You have been eating? Perhaps you have also been

sleeping?”

Peter, who had begun to feel Judas to be some one, who could command

obedience, drooping his head, tersely replied: “I slept, I slept and

ate!”

Thomas said, resolutely and firmly:

“This is all untrue, Judas. Just consider: if we had all died, who would

have told the story of Jesus? Who would have conveyed His teaching to

mankind if we had all died, Peter and John and I?”

“But what is the truth itself in the mouths of traitors? Does it not

become a lie? Thomas, Thomas, dost thou not understand, that thou art

now only a sentinel at the grave of dead Truth? The sentinel falls

asleep, and the thief cometh and carries away the truth; say, where is

the truth? Cursed be thou, Thomas! Fruitless, and a beggar shalt thou be

throughout the ages, and all you with him, accursed ones!”

“Accursed be thou thyself, Satan!” cried John, and James and Matthew and

all the other disciples repeated his cry; only Peter held his peace.

“I am going to Him,” said Judas, stretching his powerful hand on high.

“Who will follow Iscariot to Jesus?”

“I--I also go with thee,” cried Peter, rising.

But John and the others stopped him in horror, saying:

“Madman! Thou hast forgotten, that he betrayed the Master into the hands

of His enemies.”

Peter began to lament bitterly, striking his breast with his fist:

“Whither, then, shall I go? O Lord! whither shall I go?”

. . . . .. . .

Judas had long ago, during his solitary walks, marked the place where he

intended to make an end of himself after the death of Jesus.

It was upon a hill high above Jerusalem. There stood but one tree, bent

and twisted by the wind, which had torn it on all sides, half withered.

One of its broken, crooked branches stretched out towards Jerusalem, as

though in blessing or in threat, and this one Judas had chosen on which

to hang a noose.

But the walk to the tree was long and tedious, and Judas Iscariot was

very weary. The small, sharp stones, scattered under his feet, seemed

continually to drag him backwards, and the hill was high, stern, and

malign, exposed to the wind. Judas was obliged to sit down several times

to rest, and panted heavily, while behind him, through the clefts of the

rock, the mountain breathed cold upon his back.

“Thou too art against me, accursed one!” said Judas contemptuously, as

he breathed with difficulty, and swayed his heavy head, in which all the

thoughts were now petrifying.

Then he raised it suddenly, and opening wide his now fixed eyes, angrily

muttered:

“No, they were too bad for Judas. Thou hearest Jesus? Wilt Thou trust me

now? I am coming to Thee. Meet me kindly, I am weary--very weary. Then

Thou and I, embracing like brothers, shall return to earth. Shall we

not?”

Again he swayed his petrifying head, and again he opened his eyes,

mumbling:

“But maybe Thou wilt be angry with Judas when he arrives? And Thou wilt

not trust him? And wilt send him to hell? Well! What then! I will go to

hell. And in Thy hell fire I will weld iron, and weld iron, and demolish

Thy heaven. Dost approve? Then Thou wilt believe in me. Then Thou wilt

come back with me to earth, wilt Thou not, Jesus?”

Eventually Judas reached the summit and the crooked tree, and there the

wind began to torment him. And when Judas rebuked it, it began to blow

soft and low, and took leave and flew away.

“Right! But as for them, they are curs!” said Judas, making a slip-knot.

And since the rope might fail him and break, he hung it over a

precipice, so that if it broke, he would be sure to meet his death upon

the stones. And before he shoved himself off the brink with his foot,

and hanged himself, Judas Iscariot once more anxiously prepared Jesus

for his coming:

“Yes, meet me kindly, Jesus. I am very weary.”

He leapt. The rope strained, but held. His neck stretched, but his hands

and feet were crossed, and hung down as though damp.

He died. Thus, in the course of two days, one after another, Jesus of

Nazareth and Judas Iscariot, the Traitor, left the world.

All the night through, like some monstrous fruit, Judas swayed over

Jerusalem, and the wind kept turning his face now to the city, and now

to the desert--as though it wished to exhibit Judas to both city and

desert. But in whichever direction his face, distorted by death, was

turned, his red eyes suffused with blood, and now as like one another

as two brothers, incessantly looked towards the sky. In the morning some

sharp-sighted person perceived Judas hanging above the city, and cried

out in horror.

People came and took him down, and knowing who he was, threw him into a

deep ravine, into which they were in the habit of throwing dead horses

and cats and other carrion.

The same evening all the believers knew of the terrible death of the

Traitor, and the next day it was known to all Jerusalem. Stony Judaea

knew of it and green Galilee; and from one sea to the other, distant as

it was, the news flew of the death of the Traitor.

Neither faster nor slower, but with equal pace with Time itself, it

went, and as there is no end to Time so will there be no end to the

stories about the Traitor Judas and his terrible death.

And all--both good and bad--will equally anathematise his shameful

memory; and among all peoples, past and present, will he remain alone in

his cruel destiny--Judas Iscariot, the Traitor.

“THE MAN WHO FOUND THE TRUTH”

CHAPTER I

I was twenty-seven years old and had just maintained my thesis for

the degree of Doctor of Mathematics with unusual success, when I was

suddenly seized in the middle of the night and thrown into this prison.

I shall not narrate to you the details of the monstrous crime of which

I was accused--there are events which people should neither remember

nor even know, that they may not acquire a feeling of aversion for

themselves; but no doubt there are many people among the living who

remember that terrible case and “the human brute,” as the newspapers

called me at that time. They probably remember how the entire civilised

society of the land unanimously demanded that the criminal be put to

death, and it is due only to the inexplicable kindness of the man at

the head of the Government at the time that I am alive, and I now write

these lines for the edification of the weak and the wavering.

I shall say briefly: My father, my elder brother, and my sister were

murdered brutally, and I was supposed to have committed the crime for

the purpose of securing a really enormous inheritance.

I am an old man now; I shall die soon, and you have not the slightest

ground for doubting when I say that I was entirely innocent of the

monstrous and horrible crime, for which twelve honest and conscientious

judges unanimously sentenced me to death. The death sentence was finally

commuted to imprisonment for life in solitary confinement.

It was merely a fatal linking of circumstances, of grave and

insignificant events, of vague silence and indefinite words, which gave

me the appearance and likeness of the criminal, innocent though I was.

But he who would suspect me of being ill-disposed toward my strict

judges would be profoundly mistaken. They were perfectly right,

perfectly right. As people who can judge things and events only by their

appearance, and who are deprived of the ability to penetrate their own

mysterious being, they could not act differently, nor should they have

acted differently.

It so happened that in the game of circumstances, the truth concerning

my actions, which I alone knew, assumed all the features of an insolent

and shameless lie; and however strange it may seem to my kind and

serious reader, I could establish the truth of my innocence only by

falsehood, and not by the truth.

Later on, when I was already in prison, in going over in detail the

story of the crime and the trial, and picturing myself in the place of

one of my judges, I came to the inevitable conclusion each time that

I was guilty. Then I produced a very interesting and instructive work;

having set aside entirely the question of truth and falsehood on

general principles, I subjected the facts and the words to numerous

combinations, erecting structures, even as small children build various

structures with their wooden blocks; and after persistent efforts I

finally succeeded in finding a certain combination of facts which,

though strong in principle, seemed so plausible that my actual innocence

became perfectly clear, exactly and positively established.

To this day I remember the great feeling of astonishment, mingled with

fear, which I experienced at my strange and unexpected discovery; by

telling the truth I lead people into error and thus deceive them, while

by maintaining falsehood I lead them, on the contrary, to the truth and

to knowledge.

I did not yet understand at that time that, like Newton and his famous

apple, I discovered unexpectedly the great law upon which the entire

history of human thought rests, which seeks not the truth, but

verisimilitude, the appearance of truth--that is, the harmony between

that which is seen and that which is conceived, based on the strict

laws of logical reasoning. And instead of rejoicing, I exclaimed in an

outburst of naive, juvenile despair: “Where, then, is the truth? Where

is the truth in this world of phantoms and falsehood?” (See my “Diary of

a Prisoner” of June 29, 18--.)

I know that at the present time, when I have but five or six more years

to live, I could easily secure my pardon if I but asked for it. But

aside from my being accustomed to the prison and for several other

important reasons, of which I shall speak later, I simply have no right

to ask for pardon, and thus break the force and natural course of the

lawful and entirely justified verdict. Nor would I want to hear people

apply to me the words, “a victim of judicial error,” as some of my

gentle visitors expressed themselves, to my sorrow. I repeat, there was

no error, nor could there be any error in a case in which a combination

of definite circumstances inevitably lead a normally constructed and

developed mind to the one and only conclusion.

I was convicted justly, although I did not commit the crime--such is the

simple and clear truth, and I live joyously and peacefully my last few

years on earth with a sense of respect for this truth.

The only purpose by which I was guided in writing these modest notes is

to show to my indulgent reader that under the most painful conditions,

where it would seem that there remains no room for hope or life--a human

being, a being of the highest order, possessing a mind and a will,

finds both hope and life. I want to show how a human being, condemned to

death, looked with free eyes upon the world, through the grated window

of his prison, and discovered the great purpose, harmony, and beauty of

the universe--to the disgrace of those fools who, being free, living a

life of plenty and happiness, slander life disgustingly.

Some of my visitors reproach me for being “haughty”; they ask me where I

secured the right to teach and to preach; cruel in their reasoning, they

would like to drive away even the smile from the face of the man who has

been imprisoned for life as a murderer.

No. Just as the kind and bright smile will not leave my lips, as an

evidence of a clear and unstained conscience, so my soul will never be

darkened, my soul, which has passed firmly through the defiles of life,

which has been carried by a mighty will power across these terrible

abysses and bottomless pits, where so many daring people have found

their heroic, but, alas! fruitless, death.

And if the tone of my confessions may sometimes seem too positive to my

indulgent reader, it is not at all due to the absence of modesty in me,

but it is due to the fact that I firmly believe that I am right, and

also to my firm desire to be useful to my neighbour as far as my faint

powers permit.

Here I must apologise for my frequent references to my “Diary of a

Prisoner,” which is unknown to the reader; but the fact is that I

consider the complete publication of my “Diary” too premature and

perhaps even dangerous. Begun during the remote period of cruel

disillusions, of the shipwreck of all my beliefs and hopes, breathing

boundless despair, my note book bears evidence in places that its author

was, if not in a state of complete insanity, on the brink of insanity.

And if we recall how contagious that illness is, my caution in the use

of my “Diary” will become entirely clear.

O, blooming youth! With an involuntary tear in my eye I recall your

magnificent dreams, your daring visions and outbursts, your impetuous,

seething power--but I should not want your return, blooming youth!

Only with the greyness of the hair comes clear wisdom, and that

great aptitude for unprejudiced reflection which makes of all old men

philosophers and often even sages.