Complete Works of Howard Pyle

by Howard Pyle

  “I don’t think I understand your position,” said Gilderman, striking in. “It seems to me that there is a right and a wrong, and that it is right to do right and wrong to do wrong. It does not seem to me to be right that the violent and the vicious should be allowed to work their wills upon the peaceful and the innocent.”

  “I am sorry that you can’t understand my position,” said the governor, who had turned to Gilderman when he began speaking. “It is very plain to me, Mr. Gilderman. Suppose I should act hastily in this matter and make a mistake. All the blame of that mistake would fall upon me and upon no one else. It does not require any courage for you and those other gentlemen and ladies who write to me, to urge that I should at once act, and act violently, in this matter. To so advise does not take any courage; but it does take a great deal of courage for me to do such a thing upon my own responsibility. Consider the blame that would fall upon me if I should err in such a matter as this. I don’t think I care over much for the opinion of other men, but even I do not care to take unnecessary blame.”

  “But surely no blame can attach to you for merely putting a stop to rioting.”

  “Perhaps no. Perhaps yes.”

  “But,” said the bishop, “even if blame is attached to you, you will have done your duty.”

  Again the governor smiled faintly. “That, my dear bishop,” he said, “is a higher plane of ethics than I am able to attain. I would rather be at ease in my mind than in my conscience.” Then he began fingering among his papers, and the bishop saw he wanted him to go. Nevertheless, Bishop Caiaphas would not give up entirely.

  “You have no objection to my taking the matter in my own hands?” he said.

  “None whatever,” said Pilate.

  “Then I shall go and consult my lawyer. I came to you, in the first instance, because it did not seem courteous to act without consulting you before taking any other steps. If I can have this man arrested upon my own responsibility I shall do so.”

  “My dear bishop,” said the governor, rising as the bishop arose, “if you will allow me to say so, the very best thing you can do is to go and consult with your lawyer. He will tell you just what to do. The law is open to you. If you choose to put it in operation against this Man, and if you can arrest Him and convict Him, I promise you I will not stretch out my hand to prevent His execution. Only, in doing what you do, you act upon your own responsibility.”

  Then the bishop and Gilderman took their leave and the governor sat down, took up his book, and resumed his reading almost with a grunt of satisfaction.

  As Bishop Caiaphas was driven rapidly away from the governor’s house he was very angry. He knew that it was very unbecoming in him, as a priest, to be so angry, but he did not care. Presently he burst out: “The idea of that man sitting there alone, debauching his own mind with a low and obscene novel, while this Man and His mob are allowed to overturn the religion of the world!” If Bishop Caiaphas had been a layman he would perhaps have added, “Damn him!”

  Gilderman did not say anything, but his heart went out in sympathy to his father-in-law.

  Presently the bishop burst out again, “I’ll go down and see Inkerman this evening!” (Mr. Judah Inkerman was his lawyer.)

  “I would, sir, if I were in your place,” said Gilderman. “I don’t doubt that he’ll tell you the very best thing to do. He’s got lots of influence with Police Commissioner Robinson, too. And look here, sir,” the young man added, “tell Inkerman not to spare any expense and to send his bill to me.” He wanted to do something to comfort the bishop, and this was all that occurred to him.

  “Thank you, Henry,” said Bishop Caiaphas, gratefully. “No man ever had a better son than you.”

  Gilderman slipped his hand under his father-in-law’s arm and pressed it.

  There was no further demonstration of the rioters against the Temple. The next day the mob gathered again, but this time it did not move towards that holy edifice, but drifted down-town towards the law-courts. As the morning wore along it began to be apprehended that an attack might be made upon the public buildings or the sub-treasury or some of the larger banking-houses, but no such attack was made.

  Gilderman had an appointment at the office that morning. He did not go down-town till about noon, and then he found the blockade of cars extended far up into the town. At last his coupé could go no farther. The footman came and opened the door and told Gilderman that it was impossible to go any farther, and that a policeman had said that the streets were packed full of people. As the footman stood speaking to Gilderman, Downingwood Lawton came up to the open door of the coupé. “Hello, Gildy!” he said, “is that you? What are you doing down here? Come down to see the row?”

  “Not exactly,” said Gilderman, laughing. And then he explained. “I promised to be down at the office this morning and sign some papers. There seems to be pretty poor show of getting there, according to what my man says.”

  “Well, I should rather say so, unless you choose to foot it; and even then it’s only a chance of getting through. By George! I never saw such a jam in my life.”

  “Were you down there, then?” said Gilderman.

  “Yes; Stirling and I went over to see Belle and Janette De Haven off.”

  “They went this morning, did they?”

  “Yes, and we went down to see them off–just for a lark, you know. While I was down-town I thought I’d go over to the office and strike the governor for a check, and so I got right into the thick of it all. I left Stirling down there somewhere.”

  “What did Stirling stay down there for?”

  “I don’t know. Wants to see the row out, I guess.”

  “What are they doing down there now?” asked Gilderman.

  “Nothing that I can see. The last I saw was the Man himself standing at the top of the court-house steps talking to a lot of lawyers. Where are you going now, Gildy?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Gilderman. “I don’t suppose it’s any use my trying to get down to the office.”

  “Not the least in the world. If you’re going back up-town, I’ll thank you for a lift. There isn’t a cab to be had anywhere, or if you do find one it can’t budge out of the block.”

  “Jump in, then,” said Gilderman, “and I’ll take you up with me.”

  Just at that time the Son of Man, weary, dusty, wayworn, was talking with the lawyers, giving utterance to those three great parables–the last of all He gave to the world. The first parable–the man who had two sons, the one of whom said, I will not go work in the vineyard, and yet went; the other of whom said, I will go, and went not. The second parable–the master of the vineyard who sent his servant to the husbandmen, who stoned him; then his son to the same husbandmen, who killed him outright. The third parable–that of how the king made a marriage feast for his son and yet had to send into the highways and byways for guests. Of how one guest came without a wedding garment, and, as a punishment, therefore, was cast into outer darkness where there was wailing and gnashing of teeth. The people listened and did not understand, and Gilderman drove away from Divine Truth in his coupé.

  “By George!” said Lawton, as the cab worked its way with difficulty out of the press of vehicles, “isn’t this a lovely state of affairs? I came down from the country yesterday afternoon. I never saw such a sight in my life. Half the trees in the park are stripped as bare as poles. We went by one place where they’d been spreading branches in the street, and everything all a-clutter. It’s a beastly shame, I say, that Pilate and Herod don’t do something to stop it all.”

  As the coupé drove past the armory they saw that the authorities were at last evidently taking some steps to prevent any fatal culmination of the disturbance. The great armory doors stood wide open, and a crowd of people were gathered about. A couple of soldiers stood on guard, erect, motionless, endeavoring to appear oblivious to the interest of the clustered group of faces looking at them.

  “I am glad to see that, anyhow,” said Gilderman, pointing with hi
s cigarette towards the armory.

  XV. JUDAS

  THE BURDEN OF prosecution having devolved upon the Ecclesiastical Court, a decision was not long in being reached. Again it was the universally voiced opinion that it was better that one man should die rather than that a whole nation should perish. It now remained only to arrest the creator of this divine disturbance of mundane peace.

  That same afternoon Mr. Inkerman, the lawyer, called on Bishop Caiaphas to say that a follower of the Man had been found who would be willing, he, Inkerman, believed, to betray his Master to the authorities. It would, he opined, be out of the question to attempt an arrest in the midst of the turbulent mob that surrounded Him; such an attempt would be almost certain to precipitate a riot. But if this fellow could be persuaded or bought to disclose where his Master slept at night, the arrest could be made without exciting any disturbance.

  “How did you find your man?” asked the bishop.

  “Oh, I didn’t find him myself,” said Mr. Inkerman. “Inspector Dolan found him. Dolan says he will bring him up here at five o’clock, if that will suit you.”

  “Very well,” said the bishop; “that will suit me exactly.”

  At the appointed time there were four or five of the more prominent ecclesiastics present in the bishop’s library–among the others, Dr. Dayton and Dr. Ives. A little after five Mr. Inkerman came quietly into the room accompanied by Gilderman.

  “The inspector hasn’t come yet?” he asked.

  “No,” said the bishop; “not yet.”

  “They’ve just called me up from the station-house, telling me that he was on the way,” said the lawyer.

  “How much do you suppose this man will want for his services?” asked the bishop, after a moment or two of pause.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the lawyer. “Thank you”–and he took a cigar from the box the man-servant offered him–”I would not give him very much, though. He’s only a poor devil, and a little money will go a great way with him. Offer him ten dollars.”

  “Ten dollars!” exclaimed Dr. Ives. “Rogues must be cheap in these times, sir!” and there was a ripple of amusement.

  “Some rogues are and some are not,” said Mr. Inkerman, when the laugh had subsided. “I dare say it would take a pot of money to buy a Herod, and still more to buy a Pilate,” and then again there was a ripple of laughter.

  At that moment the servant came in bringing a printed card upon the salver. The card had a semibusiness-like, semisocial look. He handed it to the bishop, who glanced at it. “Oh,” he said, “here he is. Show him up directly.”

  He handed the card to Dr. Dayton, who ran his eye over it. “It’s Inspector Dolan,” he said to the others.

  In a little while the servant returned, holding open the door and ushering in the two men. The light shone upon the inspector’s uniform, gleaming upon the badge on his breast. He came directly into the room followed by a rather small, rather thin man, with a lean face and reddish hair and beard, and a long, lean neck. The man seemed abashed and ill at ease in the presence of the clergymen. He stood in the farther part of the room, not far from the door. He held his hat in his hand, shifting it and turning it around and around. He was ill clad and rough looking, but his face was rather cunning than stupid. It was not altogether a bad face. His eyes wandered about the room, resting an instant upon each unusual object. There was a large photogravure in colors of Renault’s “Execution in Tangier.” That caught his eye, and his gaze lingered upon it for a moment–the severed head, the prone corpse lying upon the steps, the huge figure of the executioner looming above it, and the splashes of blood trickling over the white marble. He looked at the picture for an instant, and then he looked at the bishop; then he looked back at the picture again.

  Bishop Caiaphas was gazing steadily at him. “Well, my man,” he said, at last, “Inspector Dolan tells me that you are willing to help us arrest this Man.” The man’s gaze dropped from the picture to the bishop’s face. He did not reply, but he began again turning his hat around and around in his hands. “What do you know about Him?” the bishop continued.

  “Why,” said the man, “I know Him–that is, I’ve been with Him, off and on–that is, near for a year, I reckon.”

  “What makes you willing to betray Him?” asked the bishop, curiously. “Have you any cause of enmity against Him?”

  The man looked at him with a half-bewildered look, as though not exactly understanding the purport of the question. Then a secondary look of intelligence came into his face. “Oh,” he said, “do you mean have I anything agin Him? Why, no; so far as that goes I haven’t anything agin Him, nor He hasn’t done anything agin me. There was a lot of us together–a kind of company, you know–and I always carried the money for the rest. Sometimes we had a little money, and then sometimes we hadn’t. I was with Him ever since last April a year ago up to last fall, when my father was took sick; and there ain’t nothing in it. He won’t take money Hisself for curing folks, and He wouldn’t let any of us take money.”

  “And are you willing to show us where we may find Him?” asked the bishop.

  “Why, yes,” said the other; “so far as that goes, I’m willing to do that if I’m paid for it. I haven’t got nothing agin Him, but I don’t owe Him nothing, neither.”

  Bishop Caiaphas was looking at the man, trying to get into the workings of his mind. “Of course,” he said, “we are willing to pay you for your trouble. We don’t ask you to help us for nothing.”

  “No, sir,” said Iscariot, “I know that. I just mean to speak plain, sir, when I say I’ve got to be paid for doing it. You see, He don’t pay me nothing, and I ain’t beholden to Him for nothing, but, all the same, I ain’t got no spite agin Him.”

  “How much do you expect us to pay you?” said the bishop.

  “I don’t know,” said the man. “How much do you think it would be worth to you? You see, I’ve got to keep track of Him all the time, and then I’ve got to let you know where He’s going to be, and where you can come up with Him. It may be a matter of four or five days.”

  “This gentleman,” said the bishop, indicating Mr. Inkerman, “seems to think that ten dollars would be about right.”

  The man looked down into his hat and began again turning it around and around in his hands. “I don’t know that I care to do it for that,” he said. “I don’t know that I care to do it at all, but this gentleman here”–indicating Inspector Dolan–”he comes to me and he says he heard I know where He’s to be found, and that I wasn’t particular about keeping with Him any longer.”

  “And how much, then, do you think would be worth while?” said the bishop.

  “Oh, well,” said the man, “I don’t just know about that. I wouldn’t mind doing it if you gave me thirty dollars.”

  “Thirty dollars!” said Mr. Inkerman; but Bishop Caiaphas held up his hand and the lawyer was silent.

  “I’ll give you thirty dollars, my man,” he said, “the day that your Master is apprehended.”

  “Thankee, sir,” said the man. Still he stood for a while irresolutely.

  “Well,” said the bishop, “what is it?”

  “Why, sir,” said the man, “if you’ll excuse me so far as to say–that is, I mean I didn’t take what this here gentleman”–indicating Inspector Dolan again–”said just to mean that I was to help arrest Him. He asked me if I knew where He was at night. I told him yes. He says that if I’d show where He was there was money in it for me. I said I was willing to show him or any man where He was. But I didn’t look to have any hand in arresting Him, though.”

  “But, my good fellow,” said the bishop, “I can’t pay you the money unless you do your part. Just as soon as He is arrested, then you shall have your money. Isn’t that satisfactory to you?”

  “Oh yes; I suppose so,” said the other, doubtfully. But he still stood, turning his hat about in his hands.

  “Well,” said the bishop, “is there anything else?”

  “Only, if I might
make so bold, sir, who’s to pay me, sir?”

  “Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the bishop. “Well, I’ll put the money in the hands of Inspector Dolan here, and as soon as the arrest is made he’ll see that you are paid. Will that be satisfactory to you, inspector?” and the bishop turned to the police officer.

  “Oh yes; it’ll suit me well enough,” said the inspector.

  “Very well,” said the bishop, “we’ll arrange it that way. That is all we need of you now. You may go. Mr. Dolan will settle everything with you after the arrest is duly made.”

  After the clergymen had gone, Gilderman and the lawyer lingered for a while. “How do you suppose,” said Gilderman, “that that man could bring himself to do such a thing as that? How do you suppose he thinks and feels?”

  “Why, bless your soul, Mr. Gilderman,” said the lawyer, “we can’t possibly enter into the mind of a man like that to understand why he does a certain thing. Those people neither think nor feel as a man in our position thinks and feels. They don’t have the same sort of logical or moral ballast to keep them steady. Any puff of prejudice or self-interest is enough to swerve them aside from their course to some altogether different objective point.”

  “I think you are right, sir,” said the bishop, almost with a sigh–”I am afraid you are right. One of the most difficult things with which I have to deal is the inability a man like myself has to comprehend or to come within touch of the mental operation of those poor people. Only this morning, for instance, I had to do with a really deserving case of charity–a man who had had his arm amputated and who had a wife–an intelligent woman–and three or four small children. He is just back from the hospital and in real destitution, and I went to see him, filled with sympathy. But before I had talked with him five minutes I was perfectly convinced that his one and only aim was to get me to give him just as much money as he could squeeze from me. He asked me for twelve dollars a week, and when I told him I could not afford to give him but eight he was perfectly satisfied. A man in our position of life would express gratitude; he expressed little or none. He accepted what was done for him almost as a matter of course. It is terrible to think that you can’t reach these poor people with sympathy or brotherly love and hope to meet with a return of affection–to be conscious that their chief object, when you wish to help them, is to get just as much money out of you as they can. I am always conscious that they feel that I am rich and have got plenty of money to spare, and that it is their right to get all that they can from me.”