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?”
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?
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?”