by Karel Čapek
What’s that? You ask what those reasons are? Benchanan, Benchanan, it seems to me that the new generation isn’t as conscious of patriotic considerations as it might be. Can’t you understand how damaging it is for us when someone attacks such recognized authorities of ours as the Scribes and Pharisees? If this were to continue, what would the Romans think of us? It amounts to an undermining of our national self-confidence! On the contrary: it is for patriotic reasons that we must uphold our authorities’ status and prestige, to prevent our people from being subjected to foreign influences! Anyone who diminishes the Hebrews’ faith in the Pharisees is playing into the hands of the Romans. And so we arranged for him to be disposed of by the Romans themselves: that, as the saying goes, is politics, Benchanan. And now we have muddleheaded people worrying about whether he was rightfully executed or not! Keep in mind, young man, the interests of our homeland take precedence over any law. No one knows better than I that our Pharisees have their shortcomings; just between us, they’re a lot of babbling rogues — but we simply cannot afford to have anyone undermine their authority! I know that you were one of his disciples, Benchanan; his teachings appealed to you enormously, how we must love our neighbors and our enemies and that sort of talk. But tell me yourself, how did this help us Jews?
And something else. He shouldn’t have said that he came to save the world, that he was the Messiah and the son of God or whatever. We all know that he came from Nazareth — what kind of savior is that, I ask you? There are still people who remember him as a carpenter’s boy — and this is the man who wanted to redeem the world? That’s a bit too much! I’m a good Jew, Benchanan, but no one can persuade me that any one of our people could save the world. We would be badly overestimating ourselves, young man. I wouldn’t argue if it had been a Roman or an Egyptian, but an ordinary Jew from Galilee — that’s ludicrous! Let him tell other people that he came to save the world, but not us, Benchanan. Not us. Not us.
June 3, 1934
The Crucifixion
And Pilate sent for Nahum, a learned man well versed in history, and said to him:
“Nahum, it troubles me greatly that your nation is determined to crucify that man. A plague on all of you — it’s rank injustice.”
“If there were no injustice, there would be no history,” said Nahum.
“I want nothing to do with this affair,” said Pilate. “Tell them to reconsider.”
“It’s too late,” replied Nahum. “I must confess that I keep up with events only through books, and so I did not go to the place of execution, but only a moment ago my serving girl came running back from there and reported that He has already been crucified and is hanging between two men, one on the right and one on the left.”
At this Pilate frowned and covered his face with his hands. After a moment he said: “Then let us not speak of this. But tell me, what offenses did they commit, the man on the right and the man on the left?”
“This I cannot tell you,” replied Nahum. “Some say they were criminals, and others that they were prophets of some sort. To the exent that I can judge from the study of history, they were probably involved in some kind of politics. But what baffles me is why the people crucified both of them at the same time.”
“I don’t understand you,” said Pilate.
“It’s like this,” said Nahum. “Sometimes the people crucify a man from the right and sometimes a man from the left; it’s been that way throughout history. Each age has its martyrs. There are times when someone who is fighting on behalf of his nation is imprisoned or crucified; and then it’s the turn of someone who says he is fighting on behalf of the poor and the slaves. The two alternate, and each has his own season.”
“Aha,” said Pilate. “So then, you crucify anyone who steps forward and accomplishes something decent.”
“Very nearly,” said Nahum. “But there’s a catch in each instance. Sometimes you might say that these people are acting more out of hatred of others than out of the decency they proclaim. People are always crucified for the sake of something grand and beautiful. The man who is on the cross is sacrificing his life for a great and worthy cause, but the man who drags him to the cross and nails him there, that man, Pilate, is evil and savage and loathsome to behold. Pilate, a nation is a great and beautiful thing.”
“Our Roman nation, at any rate,” said Pilate.
“Our nation, too,” said Nahum. “But justice for the poor is also a great and beautiful thing. Except that some people can choke themselves to death with their hatred and rage against these great and beautiful things; and the rest of them lean first to the one side and then to the other, and always end up helping to crucify the one whose turn it is. Either that, or they merely look on and say: Serves him right, he should have been on our side.”
“Then why,” asked Pilate, “do they crucify the one in the middle?”
“For this reason,” replied Nahum. “If the one on the left prevails, he crucifies the one on the right, but first he crucifies the one in the middle. If the one on the right prevails, he crucifies the one on the left, but first — the one in the middle. Of course there’s always the possibility of confusion, of fights breaking out; then the one on the right and the one on the left together will crucify the one in the middle because he didn’t decide which of the two to oppose. If you went up on the roof of your house, you would see the field of Haceldama: hatred on the left, hatred on the right and, in between, the One who sought to improve things by means of love and understanding, or so it’s said of Him. And in addition you would see a great mass of people who only came to watch while eating the lunches they’d brought for the occasion. But the sky seems to be growing darker; now they’ll all be rushing head over heels for home so their clothes won’t get soaked.”
And when it was the sixth hour, darkness fell over all the land until the ninth hour. And about the ninth hour the One in the center cried out in a great voice, saying: “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?” And lo, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom, and the earth did quake and the rocks split asunder.
April 17, 1927
Pilate’s Evening
That evening Pilate dined with his adjutant, the young lieutenant Suza, a native of Cyrenaica. Suza did not notice that the governor was oddly silent; he chattered on blithely and excitedly about how, for the first time in his life, he had experienced an earthquake.
“I must say it was great fun!” he exclaimed between mouthfuls. “When suddenly it grew dark after lunch, I hurried outside to see what was going on. Once I was out on the steps, it seemed to me as if my legs were wobbling or going out from under me or something, for no reason at all — well, it was too funny for words. I swear, Your Excellency, never in my life would it have occurred to me that this was actually an earthquake. And when I made it to the corner, these civilians came running toward me at full speed, their eyes popping out of their heads, yelling, ‘The graves are opening up and rocks are crashing down!’ My God, I asked myself, could this be an earthquake? What a stroke of luck! I mean, it’s a fairly rare phenomenon, isn’t it?”
Pilate nodded. “I was in an earthquake once,” he said. “It was in Cilicia; let’s see, it would have been seventeen years ago — something like that. That one was bigger.”
“But all in all, nothing much happened,” Suza remarked. “A chunk of rock in the Hakeldam Gate fell down — oh, and a few graves opened up at the cemetery. I’m surprised they bury people in such shallow graves here, hardly an ell deep. It must stink in the summer.”
“Custom,” Pilate muttered. “In Persia, for instance, they don’t bury people at all. They simply lay the corpses out in the sun, and that’s that.”
“That ought to be forbidden, sir,” Suza declared. “For reasons of hygiene and the like.”
“Forbidden,” Pilate grumbled. “Once you start that, you have to keep ordering and forbidding this or that from then on; that’s bad politics, Suza. Don’t get mixed up in people’s affairs — then at l
east you’ll have some peace and quiet. If they want to live like wild animals, then let them. Ah, Suza, I’ve seen a great many countries in this world.”
“But what I’d like to know,” said Suza, returning to his chief topic of interest, “is what causes an earthquake like that. Maybe there are these sorts of pockets underground that suddenly collapse for no reason at all. But why did the sky turn so dark just then? I can’t figure it out. After all, this morning looked just as clear as usual — ”
“Begging your pardon,” broke in old Papadokitis, a Greek from the Dodecanese who was serving their meal, “but it’s been expected since yesterday, sir. There was this red sunset yesterday, sir, and I said to the cook, ‘Myriam,’ I said, ‘there’ll be a thunderstorm or a cyclone for sure tomorrow.’ ‘I know that,’ says Myriam, ‘I’ve got a pain in the small of my back.’ Something was bound to happen, sir. If you’ll kindly pardon me.”
“Something was bound to happen,” Pilate repeated thoughtfully. “You know, Suza, I too had a feeling that something was going to happen today. Ever since this morning, when I handed that man from Nazareth over to them — I had to do it, because it’s a basic principle of Roman policy not to meddle in local affairs — remember that, Suza, the less people have to do with Roman authority, the better they’ll put up with it — by Jove, what was I talking about?”
“About the man from Nazareth,” Suza reminded him helpfully.
“The man from Nazareth. You see, Suza, I’ve taken somewhat of an interest in him. As a matter of fact he’s from Bethlehem originally — I really think the locals here were guilty of judicial murder in his case, but that’s their business; if I hadn’t handed him over to them, they’d undoubtedly have torn him limb from limb, and the Roman authorities would have gotten the blame. No, wait a minute, that’s not really the point. Annas told me that he was considered a dangerous man; they say that when he was born, the Bethlehem shepherds came and worshipped him as if he were a king. And the other day, the people here welcomed him as if he were some sort of conquering hero. It’s beyond me, Suza. Anyway, I’d have thought — ”
“Thought what?” Suza prompted him after a few moments.
“That maybe the people from his hometown would have come. That they wouldn’t have wanted to leave him in the clutches of these schemers here. That they’d have come to me and said, ‘Sir, he’s one of us, and he means something to us, so we’re here to tell you that we stand behind him and we’re not going to see him wronged.’ — Suza, I was almost looking forward to those mountain folk; I’m fed up with all the gossips and litigious cranks around here — And I’d have said to them, ‘Thank God. I was expecting you folks from Bethlehem. On his account — and also on your own account and on account of the land you came from. You can’t govern scruffy nobodies; you can only govern men, not scandalmongers. People like you can be made into soldiers who will stand fast; from people like you, nations and states can be made. They tell me one of your countrymen knows how to resurrect the dead. Tell me, what do you do with your dead? But you people of Bethlehem are here and alive, and I can see that this man knows how to resurrect the living, too, that he’s inspired in you something like fidelity and honor and — we Romans call it virtus; I don’t know what it’s called in your language, but it is in you. I think the man could accomplish still more. It would be a pity if his life were wasted.’”
Pilate fell silent and absent-mindedly brushed the crumbs from the table. “Well, they didn’t come,” he grumbled. “Ah, Suza, what a futile thing it is to govern!”
March 27, 1932
Pilate’s Creed
Jesus answered, To this end was I born, and for this cause I came into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth. Every one that is of the truth heareth my voice.
Pilate saith unto him, What is truth? And when he had said this, he went out again unto the Jews, and saith unto them, I find in him no fault at all.
John 18.37-38
Towards evening a certain man, Joseph of Arimathea by name, much respected in the city and also a disciple of Christ, came to Pilate and asked that the body of Jesus be delivered to him. Pilate consented and said, “He was executed wrongfully.”
“You yourself delivered him to his death,” protested Joseph.
“Yes, I delivered him,” replied Pilate, “and of course people think I did it for fear of those loudmouths shouting for their Barabbas. If I’d set five soldiers on them, it would have shut them up. But that’s not the point, Joseph of Arimathea.
“Not the point,” he continued after a pause. “When I was talking with him, I realized that before too long his disciples would crucify others: in the name of his name, in the name of his truth, they would crucify and martyr all the others, kill other truths and hoist other Barabbases on their shoulders. The man spoke of truth. What is truth?
“You are a strange people and you talk a great deal. You have all sorts of pharisees, prophets, saviors and other sectarians. Each of you makes his own truth and forbids all other truths. As if a carpenter who makes a new chair were to forbid people sitting on any other chair that someone else had made before him. As if the making of a new chair canceled out all the old chairs. It’s entirely possible that the new chair is better, more beautiful, and more comfortable than the others, but why in heaven’s name shouldn’t a tired man be able to sit on whatever wretched, worm-eaten, or rock-hard chair he likes? He’s tired and worn, he badly needs a rest, and here you drag him forcibly out of the seat into which he’s dropped and make him move over to yours. I don’t understand you, Joseph.”
“Truth,” objected Joseph of Arimathea, “is not like a chair or a moment of repose; rather, it is like a command which says: Go here and there, do this and that; destroy the enemy, conquer the city, punish treachery and so on. Whoever disobeys such a command is a traitor and an enemy. So it is with truth.”
“Ah, Joseph,” said Pilate, “you know very well that I am a soldier and have lived the greater part of my life among soldiers. I have always obeyed orders, but not because of their truth. The truth was that I was tired or thirsty, that I was homesick for my mother or longed for glory, that this soldier was thinking about his wife and the other about his fields or team of oxen. The truth was that if there had been no command, none of these soldiers would have gone on to kill other people as tired and unhappy as themselves. Then what is truth? I believe that we hold at least a little of the truth if we think of the soldiers and not of the command.”
“Truth is not the command of a general,” replied Joseph of Arimathea, “but the command of reason. You see that this pillar is white; if I were to insist that it is black, that would run counter to your reason and you would not allow me to say it.”
“Why not?” asked Pilate. “I would respond that perhaps you were terribly depressed and unhappy if a white pillar looked black to you; I would try to distract you; in fact, I would take more interest in you than before. And even if it were only a mistake, I would tell myself that there is as much of your soul in your mistake as there is in your truth.”
“It is not my truth,” said Joseph of Arimathea. “There is only one truth for all.”
“And which is that?”
“The one in which I believe.”
“There you have it,” Pilate said slowly. “It is only your truth after all. You people are like little children who believe that the whole world ends at their horizon and that nothing lies beyond it. The world is a large place, Joseph, and there is room in it for many things. I think that there is actually room for many truths. Look, I’m a foreigner in these parts, and my home is far beyond the horizon, yet I wouldn’t say that this country is wrong. Equally foreign to me are the teachings of this Jesus of yours; does it follow, then, that I should insist they are wrong? I think, Joseph, that all countries are right, but that the world has to be terribly wide for them all to fit in next to each other. If Arabia had to stand on the same spot as Pontus, of course that wouldn’t be right. And so it is with truths
. The world would have to be immensely vast, spacious, and free for each and every actual truth to fit into it. And I think it is, Joseph. When you climb to the top of a high mountain, you see that things somehow blend together and level out into a single plain. Even truths blend together from a certain height. Of course, man does not and cannot live on a mountaintop; it’s enough for him if he sees his home or his field close by, both of them filled with truths and such things. There is his true place and sphere of action. But now and then he can look at a mountain or the sky and say to himself that from there his truths and such things still exist and nothing has been stolen from him; rather, they have blended together with something far more free and unbounded that is no longer his property alone. To hold fast to this wider view while tilling his own small field — that, Joseph, is something almost like devotion. And I think that this man’s heavenly Father truly exists somewhere and that he gets on very well with Apollo and the other gods. To some extent they are merged with each other, and to some extent they exist side by side. Look, there’s no end of room in heaven. I’m glad the heavenly Father is there, too.”
“You are neither hot nor cold,” said Joseph of Arimathea, rising. “You are merely lukewarm.”
