Barabbas shrank back trembling. Every instinct in him told him it was the truth he heard, yet he could not bear to have it thus pitilessly thrust upon him. Meanwhile the unhappy Simon Peter wrung his hands together in desperation.
“Nay, who could guess so deep and dastardly a plot!” he cried—” And if thou knewest it, thou fateful stranger, and wert in Jerusalem, why not have given us warning?”
“Of what profit would have been my words?” demanded Melchior with sudden scorn— “Ye would not believe the sayings of your Master, — how then should ye believe me? Ye were and are, the very emblems of mankind, self-seeking, doubting and timorous, — and gloze it over as ye will, ye were all unfaithful and afraid! As for me, ’tis not my creed to strive and turn the course of destiny. I say the priests have killed the Christ, and the great murder is not yet finished. For they will kill him spiritually a million times again ere earth shall fully comprehend the glory of His message! Ay! — through the vista of a thousand coming years and more I see His silent patient Figure stretched upon the Cross, and ever the priests surround Him, driving in the nails!” He paused, and his dark eyes flashed with a strange fierce passion, — then he continued quietly—”’Tis so ordained. Lo, yonder are the shadows of Gethsemane — if thou hast aught of import more to say of Judas, — it were well to speak it here — and now — ere we go further.”
Instinctively he lowered his voice, — and with equal instinctiveness, all three men drew closer together, the moonlight casting lengthened reflections of their draped figures on a smooth piece of sun-dried turf which sloped in undulating lines down towards a thicket of olive-trees glimmering silver-gray in the near distance. Peter trembled as with icy cold and looked timorously backward over his shoulder with the manner of one who expects to see some awful presence close behind him.
“Yea, — out of justice to the dead, — out of pure justice” — he muttered faintly—” ye should know all of Judas that my faltering tongue can tell. For of a truth his end is horrible. ’Twas a brave youth, comely and bold, and warm and passionate, — and to die thus alone — down there in the darkness!”... Clenching his fists hard, he tried to control his nervous shuddering, and went on, speaking in low troubled tones, “ I said he went to Caiaphas. This was two nights before our last supper with the Lord. He told me all. Caiaphas feigned both anger and indifference. ‘We have no fear of thy mad fanatic out of Galilee’ — he said—’ but if thy conscience do reproach thee, Judas, as well it may, for thy desertion of the law and the faith of thine own people, we will not discourage or reject thy service. Yet think not that thou canst arrogantly place the Sanhedrim under any personal obligation for thine offered aid, — the priests elect may take no favours from one who hath perversely deserted the holy rites of God, and hath forsaken the following of his fathers. Understand well, we cannot owe thee gratitude, for thou hast severed thyself wilfully from us and hast despised our high authority. Wherefore if now thou art prepared to render up the Man of Galilee, name thine own payment.’ Now Judas had no thought of this, and being sorely grieved, refused, and went away, stricken at heart. And to his sister he declared all, and said—’ I will not sell the Lord into His glory for base coin.’ But she made light of the matter and mocked at his scruples. ‘ Thou silly soul, thou dost not sell thy Lord!’ she said— ‘Thou dost merely enter into a legal form of contract, which concerns thee little. ’Tis the Pharisaical rule of honour not to accept unpaid service from one who doth openly reject the faith. Take what they offer thee, canst thou not use it for the sick and poor? Remember thou art serving thy Master, — thou dost not ‘sell’ or otherwise betray Him. Thy work prepares Him to avow His glory! — think what a marvel thou wilt thus reveal to all the world! Hesitate not therefore for a mere scribe’s formula.’ Then Judas, thus persuaded, went again to Caiaphas saying ‘Truly ye have your laws with which I have naught in common, yet if it must be so, what will ye give me if I betray Him unto you?’ And straightway they counted from the treasury thirty pieces of silver, which Judas took unwillingly. Alas, alas! If he had only known! Surly this very money was as a blind for Caiaphas, — a seeming legal proof that he was innocent of treachery, — but that in custom of the law, he paid the voluntary, self-convicted traitor. Who could excuse Caiaphas of cruelty? — of malice? — of intent to murder? Caiaphas was not paid! All things conspired to fix the blame on Judas, — to make him bear alone that awful weight of crime, which heavier than all burdens of despair hath sunk him now within the depths of hell.”
He pressed his hands upon his forehead for a moment and was silent. Barabbas watched him gloomily, absorbed, in his every gesture, his every word, — Melchior’s eyes were cast down, and a stern expression shadowed his features, notwithstanding that every incident of the story seemed known to him.
“The end came quickly” — proceeded the disciple, after a sorrowful pause — All the misery and fury and despair fell upon us in one blow. The haste and anger of the law swept down upon us like a storm which we had neither force nor valour to resist. At the entrance to the garden of Gethsemane, Judas waited, with glare of torches and armed men, — and as the Lord came forth from out of the shadows of the trees, he went to meet Him. Pale with expected triumph, love and fear, he cried ‘Hail, Master!’ and kissed Him. And such a silence fell upon us all, that methought the very earth had stopped its course, and that all the stars were listening. Now, thought I, will the glory of the God expand! — and even as we saw Him transfigured on the mountain, so will He shine in splendour, mighty and terrible, and overwhelm His enemies as with fire! But He, the Master, changed not in aught nor spoke; in stillness and in patience He fixed His eyes on Judas for a while — then in low tones He said— ‘Friend, wherefore art thou come? Betrayest thou the Son of Man with a kiss?’ And Judas, with a cry of anguish, fell back from Him affrighted, and clutched at my garments, whispering— ‘Surely I have sinned! — or else He hath deceived us!’ Meanwhile the armed guards stood mute as slaves, not offering to touch the Lord, till He addressing them, said— ‘Whom seek ye?’ Then they, abashed, did answer— ‘Jesus of Nazareth.’ Whereupon the Master looked upon them straightly, saying ‘I am He.’ Then, as though smitten by thunder at these words, they went backward and fell, to the ground. And I, foolishly, thought the hour, we waited for had come, — for never did such splendour, such dignity and power appear in mortal frame as at that moment glorified our Lord! Again He spoke unto the guards saying ‘Whom seek ye?’ And again they answered trembling ‘ Jesus of Nazareth’ Then said He tranquilly— ‘I have told ye that I am He. If therefore ye seek Me, let these go their way’ And turning upon us slowly He waved His hand in parting, — a kingly sign of proud and calm dismissal. Staring upon Him, as though He were a vision, we retreated from His path, while He did royally advance and render Himself up to those who sought Him. And these, in part recovered from their fear, laid hold on Him and led Him away. We, — we, His disciples gazed after Him a while, then gazing on each other, raved and wept. ‘Deceived! Deceived!’ we cried— ‘He is not God, but man!’ And then we fled, each on our separate ways, — and only I, moved by desire to see the end, followed the Master, afar off, even unto the very house of Caiaphas.”
Here Peter stopped, overcome by agitation. Tears sprung to his eyes and choked his voice, but presently mastering himself with an effort he said hoarsely, and in ashamed accents, —
“There I did deny him! I confess it, — I denied Him. When the chattering slaves and servants of the highpriest declared I was His disciple, I swore, and said ‘I know not the man!’ And after all ’twas true, ’twas true! I knew not the ‘ man,’ — for I had known, or thought that I had known, the God!”
Melchior raised his piercing dark eyes and studied him closely.
“Thus dost thou play the sophist!” he said with chill disdain— “Thus wilt thou bandy reasons and excuses for thine own sins and follies! Weak, cowardly, and moved by the desire of temporal shows, thou wilt invent pardon for thine own blindness thus for
ever! Thou art the perfect emblem of thy future fame! If thou hadst truly known the God, thou couldst not have denied Him, — but if thou wilt speak truth, Petrus, thou never hast believed in Him, save as a possible earthly King, who might in time possess Jerusalem. To that hope thou didst cling, — and of things heavenly thou hadst no comprehension. To possess the earth has ever been thy dream, — maybe thou wilt possess it, thou and thy followers after thee, — but Heaven is far distant from thy ken!”
Peter’s face flushed, and his eyes glittered with something like anger.
“Thou dost judge me harshly, stranger” — he said. “Nevertheless perchance thou hast some justice in thy words. Yet surely ’tis not unnatural to look for glory from what is glorious? If God be God, why should He not declare Himself? — if He be ruler of the earth why should not His way be absolute and visible?”
“He doth declare Himself — His way is absolute and visible!” said Melchior, “ But thou art not His medium, Petrus! — nor doth He stoop from highest Heaven to learn earth’s laws from thee.”
Peter was silent. Barabbas now looked at him with renewed curiosity, — he was beginning to find out the singular and complex character of the man. Cowardice and dignity, terror and anger, remorse and pride all struggled together in his nature, and even the untutored Barabbas could see that from this timorous disciple anything in the way of shiftiness or subterfuge might be expected, since he was capable of accusing and excusing himself of sin at one and the same time.
“Say what thou wilt,” he resumed, with a touch of defiance in his manner—” ’twas the chagrin and the bitter disappointment of my soul that caused me to deny the ‘Man.’ I was aflame with eagerness to hail the God!— ’twould have been easy for Him to declare His majesty, and yet, before the minions of the law He held His peace! His silence and His patience maddened me! — and when He passed out with the guard and looked at me, I wept, — not only for my own baseness, but for sheer wretchedness at His refusal to reveal Himself to men. Meanwhile, as He was led away to Pontius Pilate, Judas, furious with despair, rushed into the presence of Caiaphas, and there before him and other of the priests and elders cried aloud—’ I have sinned, in that I have betrayed the innocent blood!’ And they, jeering at him, laughed among themselves, and answered him saying, ‘What is that to us? See thou to that!’ Whereat he flung down all the silver they had given him on the floor before them and departed, — and as he ran from out the palace like a man distraught, I met and stopped him. ‘Judas, Judas, whither goest thou?’ I cried. He beat me off. ‘Home! Home!’ he shrieked at me— ‘Home — to her! — to the one sister whom I loved, who did persuade my soul to this night’s treachery! Let me pass! — for I must curse her ere I die! — her spirit needs must follow mine to yonder beckoning Doom!’ And with a frightful force he tore himself from out my grasp, and like a drifting phantom on the wind, was gone!”
Here Peter raised his hands with an eloquent gesture as though he again saw the vanishing form of the despairing man.
“All through last night,” he continued in hushed accents—” I sought for him in vain. Round and about Iscariot’s house I wandered aimlessly, — I saw none of whom I dared ask news of him, — the fatal garden where together we had speech with Judith, was silent and deserted. Through many streets of the city, and along the road to Bethany I paced wearily, until at last some fateful spirit turned my steps towards Gethsemane. And there, — there at last — I found him!”
He paused, — then suddenly began to walk rapidly.
“Come!” he said looking backward at Melchior and Barabbas—” Come! The night advances, — and he hath passed already many lonely hours! And not long since the Master said—’ Greater love hath no man than this, — that a man lay down his life for his friends.’ Verily Judas hath laid down his life — and look you, to die thus in the full prime of youth, strangled even as a dog that hath run wild, is horrible! — will’t not suffice. ‘Twere hard that Judas should be evermore accursed, seeing that for his folly he hath paid the utmost penalty, and is, by his own hand, dead!”
“And thou livest!” said Melchior with a cold smile— “Thou sayest well, Petrus; ‘twere hard that Judas should be evermore accursed and thou adjudged a true apostle! Yet such things happen — for the world loves contraries and falsifications of history, — and while perchance it takes a month to spread a lie, it takes a hundred centuries to prove a truth!”
Peter answered not — he was pressing on with increasing speed and agitation. All at once he halted, — the road made an abrupt slope towards a mass of dense foliage faintly grey in the light of the moon.
“Hush! — hush!” he whispered—” He is dead, — but there is a strange expression in his eyes, — he looks as if he heard. One cannot tell, — the dead may hear for all we know! Tread gently, — yonder is the garden of Gethsemane, but he is not within it. He stays outside, — almost upon the very spot where he did give the Master up to death, meaning to give Him glory! Come! — we will persuade him to depart with us, — betwixt us three he shall be gently carried home, — perchance his sister Judith marvels at his absence, and waits for his return! How she will smile upon him when she sees the manner of his coming!”
And he began to walk forward on tiptoe. Barabbas grew deadly pale and caught Melchior by the arm. The rugged figure of the disciple went on before them like a dark fluttering shadow, and presently turned aside from the road towards a turfy hollow where a group of ancient olive-trees stretched out their gaunt black branches like spectral arms uplifted to warn intruders back. Pausing at this gloomily frondaged portal, Peter beckoned his companions with a solemn gesture, — then, stooping under the boughs he passed and disappeared. Hushing their footsteps and rendered silent by the sense of awe, Melchior and Barabbas followed. The hanging foliage drooped over them heavily, and seemed to draw them in and close them out of sight, — and although there was scarcely any wind to move the air, the thick leaves rustled mysteriously like ghostly voices whispering of some awful secret known to them alone — the secret of a tortured soul’s remorse, — the indescribable horror of a sinner’s death, self-sought in the deeper silence of their sylvan shadows.
CHAPTER XXIV.
MEANWHILE, the city of Jerusalem was pleasantly astir. Lights twinkled from the windows of every house, and from many an open door and flower-filled garden came the sounds of music and dancing. Those who had been well-nigh dead with fear at the earthquake and the unnatural darkness of the day, were now rejoicing at the safety of themselves and their relations. No more cause for apprehension remained; the night was cloudlessly beautiful, and brilliant with the tranquil glory of the nearly full moon, — and joyous parties of friends assembled together without ceremony to join in merriment and mutual congratulation. The scene on Calvary was the one chief topic of conversation, — every tongue discoursed eloquently upon the heroic death of the “Nazarene.” All agreed that never was so beautiful a Being seen in mortal mould, or one more brave, or royal of aspect, — nevertheless it was also the general opinion that it was well He was dead. There was no doubt but that He would have been dangerous, — He advanced Himself as a reformer, and His teachings were decidedly set against both the realm’s priestcraft and policy. Moreover it was evident that He possessed some strange interior power, — He had genius too, that strong and rare quality which draws after it all the lesser and weaker spirits of men, — it was well and wise that He was crucified! People who had travelled as far as Greece and Rome shook their heads and spoke profoundly of “troublesome philosophers,” they who insisted on truth as a leading principle of life, and objected to shams.
“This Galilean was one of their kind” — said a meditative old scribe, standing at his house-door to chat with a passing acquaintance, “Save that He spoke of a future life and an eternal world, He could say no better and no more than they. Surely there are stories enough of Socrates to fill one’s mouth, — he was a man for truth also, and was forever thus upsetting laws, wherefore they killed him.
But he was old, and the ‘Nazarene’ was young, — and death in youth is somewhat piteous. All the same ’tis better so, — for look you, He ran wild with prophecy on life eternal. Heaven defend us all, say I, from any other world save this one! — this is enough for any man — and were there yet another to inherit, ’tis certain we are not fitted for it; we die, and there’s an end, — no man ever rose from the dead.”
“Hast thou heard it said” — suggested his friend hesitatingly, “that this same ‘Nazarene’ declared that He would rise again?”
The old scribe smiled contemptuously.
“I have heard many things” — he answered, “ but because I hear, I am not compelled to believe. And of all the follies ever spoken this is the greatest. No doubt the Galilean’s followers would steal His body if they could, and swear He had arisen from the dead, — but the highpriest Caiaphas has had a warning, and he will guard against deception. Trouble not thyself with such rumours, — a dead man, even a prophet of God, is dead for ever.”
And he went in and shut his door, leaving his acquaintance to go his way homeward, which that personage did somewhat slowly, and thoughtfully.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 303