The Crushed Flower & Other Stories

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?