They pointed him out with their fingers, and some contemptuously, while
others with hatred and terror added:
“See, this is Judas, the Traitor.”
This was the beginning of his shameful infamy to which he condemned
himself for all ages. Thousands of years will pass, nation will succeed
nation, and still the words will be heard in the air, uttered with
contempt and dread by the good and the evil:
“Judas, the Traitor! Judas, the Traitor!”
But he listened with indifference to the words spoken concerning him,
absorbed in a feeling of a supreme curiosity. From the very morn that
Jesus was led out of the guard-house after His chastisement Judas
followed Him, his heart strangely free from longing, pain or joy. It
was only filled with the unconquerable craving to see and to hear all.
Though he had not slept all night he felt as though walking on air;
where the people would not let him pass he elbowed his way forward and
with agility gained a point of vantage. During the examination of Jesus
by Kaiaphas he held his hand to his ear so as not to lose a word and
nodded his head approvingly, whispering:
“That’s so. That’s so. Hearest Thou this, Jesus?”
But he was not free—he was like a fly tied to a thread: buzzing it
flies hither and thither but not for an instant the pliant and
obstinate thread releases it. Thoughts that seemed hewed out of stone
weighed down his head and he could not shake them off. He knew not what
thoughts these were, he feared to stir them up, but he felt their
presence constantly. And at times they threatened to overwhelm him,
almost crushing him with their incredible weight as though the roof of
some rocky vault slowly and terribly subsided over his head. Then he
held his hand to his heart and shook himself as though shivering with
the cold, and his glance straying to another and still another spot as
Jesus was led out from the presence of Kaiaphas, he met His wearied
glance at quite close quarters, and without rendering account to
himself of his action, he nodded his head a few times with a show of
friendliness and murmured:
“I am here, sonny, I am here.” Then he wrathfully shoved aside some
gaping countryman who stood in his way. Now they were moving, an
immense and noisy throng, on to Pilate, for the last examination and
trial, and with the same insupportable curiosity Judas eagerly and
swiftly scanned the faces of the people. Many were entirely unknown to
him; Judas had never seen them before; but some there were who had
shouted “Hosannah!” to Jesus, and with every step the number of such
seemed to increase.
“Just so!” flashed through the mind of Judas. He reeled like a drunken
man. “It is all finished. Now they will shout: He is ours! He is our
Jesus! What are ye doing? And everyone will see it....”
But the believers walked in silence, with forced smiles on their faces,
pretending that all this did not concern them in the least. Others
discussed something in subdued tones, but in the tumult and commotion,
in the uproar of frenzied shouts of Christ’s enemies, their timid
voices were drowned without leaving a trace. And again he felt
relieved. Suddenly Judas noticed Thomas, who was cautiously proceeding
not afar off, and with a sudden resolve he rushed forward intending to
speak to him. Seeing the Traitor, Thomas was frightened and sought to
escape, but in a narrow and dirty lane, between two walls, Judas caught
up with him:
“Thomas! Wait!”
Thomas stopped and solemnly holding up both hands exclaimed:
“Depart from me, Satan.”
With a gesture of impatience the Iscariot replied:
“How stupid thou art, Thomas! I thought that thou hadst more sense than
the others. Satan! Satan! This must be proved.”
Dropping his hands, Thomas inquired in surprise:
“But didst thou not betray the Teacher? I saw with my own eyes that
thou broughtest the soldiers. Didst thou not point out Jesus unto them?
If this is not betrayal, what is a betrayal?”
“Something else, something else,” hastily interposed Judas. “Listen.
There are many of you here. It behooves you to meet and to demand
loudly: ‘Give unto us Jesus. He is ours.’ They will not refuse you,
they will not dare. They will understand themselves....”
“What art thou saying!” replied Thomas shaking his head. “Didst thou
not see the number of armed soldiers and servants of the temple? And,
besides, a court has not been held yet, and we must not interfere with
the court. Will not the court understand that Jesus is innocent and
will not the judges immediately order Him released?”
“Dost thou think so too?” musingly inquired Judas. “Thomas, Thomas, but
if this be the truth? What then? Who is right? Who deceived Judas?”
“We argued all night and we decided that the judges simply could not
condemn the Innocent one. But if they should....”
“Well?” urged the Iscariot.
“... then they are not true judges. And they will fare ill some day
when they give account to the real Judge....”
“The real Judge! Is there a real one?” laughed Judas.
“And the brethren have all cursed thee, but as thou sayest that thou
art not a Traitor, I think thou oughtest to be judged....”
Without waiting to hear the end Judas abruptly turned on his heels and
rushed off in pursuit if the departing multitude. But he slowed down
and walked deliberately, realizing that a crowd never proceeds very
fast and that by walking apart one can always catch up with it.
When Pilate led Jesus out of his palace and placed Him in full view of
the people, Judas, pinned to a column by the heavy backs of some
soldiers, frenziedly twisted his head in order to see something between
two shining helmets. He suddenly realized that now all was over indeed.
The sun shone high over the heads of the multitude and under its very
rays stood Jesus, bloodstained, pale, with a crown of thorns the sharp
points of which had pierced His brow. He stood at the very edge of the
elevation, visible from His head to His small sunbrowned feet, and so
calmly expectant He was, so radiant in His sinlessness and purity that
only a blind man unable to see the very sun could fail to see it, only
a madman could fail to realize it. And the people were silent, so
silent that Judas heard the breathing of the soldier in front of him,
and the scraping of his belt as he took each breath.
“That’s it. It is all over. They will now understand,” thought Judas;
and suddenly some strange sensation not unlike the blinding joy of
falling from an infinite altitude into the gaping abyss of blue stopped
his heart.
Contemptuously stretching his lip down to his clean-shaven, rotund
chin, Pilate flings at the people dry curt words as one might cast
bones at a horde of hungry hounds to cheat their thirst for fresh blood
and living quivering flesh.
“Ye have brought unto me this Man as a corrupter of the people. I have
examined Him before you and have found the Man guilty of nothing
whereof ye accuse Him..”
Judas closed his eyes. He was waiting.
And the whole people began to shout, scream and howl with a thousand
bestial and human voices:
“Death unto Him! Crucify Him! Crucify Him!”
And now, as if deriding their own souls, as if craving to taste to the
dregs in one moment all the infinity of fall, frenzy and shame, these
very people screaming and howling demand:
“Release unto us Barabbas. But Him crucify! Crucify!”
But the Roman has not yet spoken his final word. His haughty
clean-shaven face is twitching with loathing and wrath. He
understands.. He has comprehended. There He is speaking softly to the
servants of the temple, but his voice is drowned in the uproar of the
multitude. What is he saying? Does he command them to take up their
swords and to fall upon the madmen?
“Bring me water!”
Water? What kind of water? What for?
There he is washing his hands ... why is he washing his white, clean
ringcovered hands? And now he cries out angrily raising his hands in
the face of the amazed people:
“I am innocent of the blood of this righteous man. See ye to it.”
The water is still dripping from these white fingers down on the marble
slabs of the floor, but some white mass is already limply groveling at
the feet of Pilate, someone’s burning and sharp lips are kissing his
weakly resisting hand, clinging to it like a leech, sucking at it,
drawing the blood to the surface and almost biting it. With loathing
and dread he looks down and sees a gigantic and writhing body, a wild
face that looks as though it had been split in twain, two eyes so
strangely unlike one another, as though not one creature but a
multitude lay clutching at his feet and hands. And he hears a fervent
and broken whisper:
“Thou art wise! Thou art noble! Thou art wise!”
And this savage face seems to glow with such truly satanic joy that
Pilate cannot repress a cry as he repels him with his foot, and Judas
falls down to the ground. And lying on the flagstones, like an
overturned devil, he still stretches out his hand towards Pilate and
shouts as one infatuated:
“Thou art wise! Thou art noble! Thou art wise!”
Then he swiftly leaps to his feet and flees accompanied by the laughter
of the soldiers. All is not yet over. When they see the cross, when
they see the nails, they may comprehend then.... What then? Passingly
he notices Thomas, breathless and pale, and for some reason nods to him
assuringly. Then he catches up with Jesus on the way to the execution.
The path is hard; the little stones roll from under one’s feet; Judas
suddenly realizes that he is tired. He concentrates his mind on finding
a good foothold, and as he looks about he sees Mary Magdalene weeping,
he sees a multitude of weeping women, with dishevelled hair, red eyes,
distorted lips, all the infinite grief of the feminine soul given over
unto despair. Suddenly he revives and taking advantage of an opportune
moment, he rushes forward to Jesus:
“I am with Thee,” he whispers hurriedly.
The soldiers drive him away with stinging blows of their whips, and
writhing to escape the leash, gnashing his teeth at the soldiers, he
hurriedly explains:
“I am with Thee. Thither. Understandest Thou? Thither!”
Wiping the blood from his face he shakes his fist at the soldier who
turns around and points him out to his comrades. He looks about for
some reason in search of Thomas, but finds neither him nor any of the
other disciples in the accompanying crowd. Again he feels weary and
heavily shuffles his feet, carefully scanning the sharp little
crumbling stones underfoot.
. . . . When the hammer was raised to nail the left hand of Jesus to
the tree Judas shut his eyes and for an eternity neither breathed, nor
saw, nor lived, only listened. But now iron struck iron with a gnashing
sound, and blow after blow followed blunt, brief, low. One could hear
the sharp nail entering the soft wood distending its particles.
One hand. It is not yet too late.
Another hand. It is not yet too late.
One foot, another. Is really all over? Irresolutely he opens his eyes
and sees the cross rise unsteadily and take root in the ditch. He sees
how the hands of Jesus convulse under the strain, extend agonizingly,
how the wounds spread and suddenly the collapsing abdomen sinks below
the ribs. The arms stretch and stretch and grow thin and white, they
twist at the shoulders, the wounds under the nails redden and expand;
they threaten to tear in an instant.. But, they stop. All motion has
stopped. Only the ribs move lightly, raised by His deep quick
breathing.
On the very brow of the Earth rises the cross and on it hangs Jesus
crucified. The terror and the dreams of Judas are accomplished—he rises
from his knees (he had been kneeling for some reason) and looks around
coldly. Thus may look some stern conqueror having purposed in his heart
to visit ruin and death upon all as he takes one last look on the
wealthy vanquished city, still living and noisy, but already spectral
beneath the cold hand of death. And suddenly as clearly as his terrible
triumph the Iscariot sees its ominous frailty. What if they realize? It
is not yet too late. Jesus is still living. There He gazes with his
beckoning, yearning eyes....
What can keep from tearing the thin veil that covers the eyes of the
people, so thin that it almost is not? What if they suddenly
comprehend? What if they move in one immense throng of men, women and
children, silent, without shouting, and overwhelm the soldiers,
drowning them in their own blood, root out the accursed cross and the
hands of the survivors raise aloft upon the brow of the Earth the
released Jesus? Hosannah! Hosannah!
Hosannah? No. Let Judas lie down on the ground, let him lie down and
bare his teeth like a dog and watch and wait until they all rise. But
what has happened to time? Now it stops and one longs to kick it
onward, to lash it like a lazy ass, now it rushes on madly downhill,
cutting off one’s breath, and one vainly seeks to steady oneself. There
Mary Magdalene is weeping. There weeps the mother of Jesus. Let them
weep. As if her tears meant anything, for that matter the tears of all
the mothers, all the women in the universe!
“What are tears?” asks Judas and frenziedly pushes onward the
disobliging time, pummels it with his fists, curses it like a slave. It
is someone else’s, that is why it does not obey. If it were Judas! but
it belongs to all these who are weeping, laughing, gossiping as if they
were in the marketplace. It belongs to the sun, it belongs to the cross
and to the heart of Jesus who is dying so slowly.
What a miserable heart is that of Judas. He is holding it with his
hands but it shouts Hosannah! so loudly that all will soon hear it. He
presses it tightly to the ground, and it shouts Hosannah! Hosannah!
like a poltroon scattering sacred mysteries in the street.
Suddenly a loud broken cry.. Dull shouts, a hurried commotion around
the cross. What is it? Have they comprehended?
No, Jesus is dying. And can this be? Yes, Jesus is dying. The pale arms
are limp, but the face, the breast and the legs are quivering with
short convulsions. And can this be? Yes, He is dying. The breath comes
less frequently. Now it has stopped. No, another sigh, Jesus is still
upon earth. And still another? No ... No ... No ... Jesus is dead.
It is finished. Hosannah! Hosannah!
The terror and the dreams are accomplished. Who will snatch the victory
from the Iscariot’s hands? It is finished. Let all nations, as many as
there be, flock to Golgotha and cry out with their millions of throats:
Hosannah! Hosannah! let them pour out seas of blood and tears at its
foot,—they will only find a shameful cross and a dead Jesus.
Calmly and coldly Judas scrutinizes the figure of the Dead, resting his
glance an instant upon the cheek on which but the night before he had
impressed his farewell kiss, and then deliberately walks away. Now the
whole earth belongs to him, and he walks firmly like a commander, like
a king, like He who in this universe is so infinitely and serenely
alone. He notes the mother of Jesus and addresses her sternly:
“Weepest thou, mother? Weep, weep, and a long time will weep with thee
all the mothers of earth. Until we shall return together with Jesus and
destroy death.”
What is he saying? Is he mad or merely mocking? But he seems serious
and his face is solemn, and his eyes no longer scurry about with insane
haste. There he stops and with a cold scrutiny views the earth, so
changed and small. How little it now is, and he feels the whole of the
orb beneath his feet. He looks at the little hills gently blushing
under the last rays of the sun, and he feels the mountains beneath his
feet. He gazes on the sky gaping wide with its azure mouth, he gazes on
the round little sun futilely striving to burn and to blind, and he
feels the sky and the sun beneath his heel. Infinitely and serenely
alone he has proudly sensed the impotence of all the powers that are at
work in the world and has cast them all down into the abyss.
And he walks on with calm and masterful steps. And the time moves
neither ahead of him nor in the rear: obediently with its invisible
mass it keeps pace with him.
It is finished.