Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  ‘As you demand it, Barabbas shall be released to you.’

  And Pilate re-entered his house to the acclamation of the crowd, whilst Caiphus, Doctor Baruch, Jonas the banker, and the other pharisees, triumphantly raised their fists in Jesus’ face.

  The officer who had commanded the escort of militia charged to arrest Mary’s son in the garden of Olives, approaching Caiphus, said to him: ‘Seigneur, to conduct the Nazarene to Golgotha, the place of execution for criminals, we shall have to traverse the populous quarter of the Judicial gate; the calmness of the partizans of this rebel may be only apparent, and once arrived in the quarter of this vile populace, they may rise to release Jesus. I can answer for the courage of my brave soldiers; they have, already, this morning, after a deadly combat, put to flight an immense troop of determined vagabonds, commanded by a bandit named Banaias, who would have forced us to deliver up Jesus. Not one of those wretches escaped, despite their furious resistance.’

  ‘The base liar!’ said Genevieve to herself on hearing this bragging officer of militia, who continued:

  ‘Still, Seigneur Caiphus, despite the proved courage of our militia, it would be prudent, perhaps, to confide the escort of the Nazarene to the place of execution, to the Roman guard.’

  ‘I am of your opinion,’ replied the high priest: ‘I will go and ask one of the officers of Pilate to keep the Nazarene a prisoner in the guard room of the Roman cohorts until the hour of execution.’

  Genevieve then saw, whilst the high priest went to converse with Pilate’s officer, the chief of the militia approach Jesus; presently she heard this officer, replying probably to some words of the young man, say to him in a cruel and jesting tone: ‘You are in a great hurry to stretch yourself on the cross. They must first make it, and it is not made in the twinkling of an eye. You ought to know this better than any one, in your quality of a former journeyman carpenter.’

  One of the officers of Pontius Pilate, to whom the high priest had spoken, then came to Jesus and said to him: ‘I am come to conduct you to the guard-room of our soldiers: when the cross is ready, they will bring it, and under our escort you shall start for Calvary! follow us!’

  And Jesus, still bound, was conducted to a short distance off, by the militia, to the court where the Roman soldiers lodged; the door, before which paced a sentinel, being open, several persons who had, like Genevieve, followed the Nazarene remained outside to see what was about to happen.

  When the young man was brought to the court of the guard-house (or prætorium), the Roman soldiers were scattered in different groups: some were cleaning their arms; others were playing at different games; some were practising with the lance under the inspection of an officer; others, extended on benches in the sun, were singing or conversing amongst themselves. She recognized, from their faces bronzed by the sun, from their martial and ferocious air, and the military order of their arms and clothes, those courageous, warlike, and merciless soldiers who had conquered the world, leaving behind them, as in Gaul, massacre, spoliation and slavery. The moment the soldiers heard the name of Jesus of Nazareth, and saw him brought in by one of their officers, they all left their occupations and hastened round him. Genevieve anticipated, on remarking the coarse and brutal manner of these soldiers, that Mary’s son was about to suffer fresh outrages.

  The slave remembered having read in the narratives left by the ancestors of her husband, Fergan, of the horrors committed by Cæsar’s soldiers, the scourge of the Gauls, she did not doubt that these by whom the young man was surrounded, were equally as cruel as those of the past times. There was, in the middle of the court of the prætorium, a stone bench, on which the soldiers made Jesus sit down, still bound; then approaching him, they commenced insulting and railing at him.

  ‘This, then, is the famous prophet!’ said one.

  ‘This, then, is he who announced that the time will come when the sword will be exchanged for a reaping hook, and when there will be no more war! no more battles!’

  ‘No more wars! By the valiant gold god Mars! no more war!’ exclaimed other soldiers with indignation.

  ‘Ah! these are your prophecies, thou prophet of evil!’

  ‘No more war! That is, no more clarions, no more floating standards, no more brilliant cuirasses, no more plumed helmets, which attract the eyes of the women!’

  ‘No more war! that is, no more conquests.’

  ‘What! no more try our iron boots on the heads of the conquered people!’

  ‘No longer drink their wine while courting their daughters, as here, as in Gaul, as in the whole world, in fact!’

  ‘No more war! By Hercules! And what then will become of the strong and the valiant, cursed Nazarene? According to you, they will, from daybreak till night, labor in the field or weave cloths like base slaves, instead of dividing their time between battle, idleness, the tavern, and the passion of love!’

  ‘You, who call yourself the son of God,’ said one of these Romans, raising his fist against the young man; ‘you are, then, the son of the God Fear, coward that you are!’

  ‘You, who call yourself the King of the Jews, would be acknowledged, then, as king of all the poltroons of the universe!’

  ‘Comrades!’ exclaimed one of the soldiers, bursting into a laugh, ‘since he is king of the poltroons, let us crown him!’

  This proposition was received with insulting joy; several voices immediately cried out:

  ‘Yes, since he is king, we must invest him with the imperial purple.’

  ‘We must put a sceptre in his hand; we will then proclaim him, and honor him like our august Emperor Tiberius.’

  And whilst their companions continued to surround and insult the young Nazarene, indifferent to these outrages, several of the soldiers went out. — One took the red cloak of a horse soldier; another the cane of a centurion; a third remembering a heap of fagots intended to be burnt, lying in a corner, chose a few sprigs of a thorny plant, and began weaving a crown. Several voices then exclaimed:

  ‘We must now proceed to crown the King of the Jews.’

  ‘Yes, let us crown the king of the cowards!’

  ‘The son of God!’

  ‘The son of the god Fear!’

  ‘Companions, this coronation must be performed with pomp, as if it concerned a real Cæsar.’

  ‘As for me, I am crown bearer.’

  ‘And I, sceptre-bearer.’

  ‘And I, bearer of the imperial mantle.’

  And amidst shouts and obscene jests, these Romans formed a sort of mock procession. The crown-bearer advanced the first, holding the crown of thorns with a solemn air; and followed by a certain number of soldiers; next came the sceptre-bearer, then other soldiers; lastly, the one who carried the mantle; and all sang in chorus:

  ‘Hail to the King of the Jews!

  ‘Hail to the Messiah!

  ‘Hail to the Son of God!

  ‘Hail to the Cæsar of poltroons, hail!’

  Jesus, seated on his bench, regarded the preparations for this insulting ceremony with unalterable placidity. The crown-bearer having approached first, raised the thorny emblem above the head of the young man, and said to him: ‘I crown thee, O king!’

  And the Roman placed the crown so brutally on the head of Jesus, that the thorns pierced the flesh; large drops of blood ran, like tears of blood, down the pale face of the victim; but, except the first involuntary shudder caused by the agony, the features of the meek and lowly sufferer maintained their usual placidity, and betrayed neither resentment nor rage.

  ‘And I invest you with the imperial mantle, O king!’ added another Roman, whilst one of his companions drew off the tunic that had been thrown over the shoulders of Jesus. No doubt the wool of this garment had already adhered to the living flesh, for at the moment it was violently snatched from the shoulders of Jesus, he uttered a loud exclamation of pain, but this was all: he allowed himself to be patiently invested with the red cloak.

  ‘Now, take thy sceptre, O great king!’ added a
nother soldier, kneeling before the young man, and placing in his hand the centurion’s walking-stick; then all, with loud bursts of laughter, repeated, ‘Hail to the King of the Jews, hail!’

  A great many of them kneeled before him out of mockery, repeating:

  ‘Hail, O great King!’

  Jesus retained in his hand this mock sceptre, but pronounced not a word; this unalterable resignation, this angelic sweetness, so struck his tormentors, that, at first they were stupified; then, their rage increasing in proportion to the patience of the young Nazarene, they emulated each other in irritation, exclaiming: ‘This is not a man, it is a statue!’

  ‘All the blood he had in his veins has left him with the rods of the executioner. The coward, he does not even complain!’

  ‘Coward!’ said a veteran in a thoughtful air, after having long contemplated Jesus, although at first he had been one of his most cruel tormentors: ‘No, he is no coward! no, to endure patiently all that we have made him suffer, requires more courage than to throw oneself sword in hand on the enemy. No!’ he repeated, drawing aside, ‘no, this man is no coward!’

  And Genevieve fancied she saw a tear drop on the grey moustache of the old soldier.

  The other soldiers laughed at the compassion of their companion, and exclaimed:

  ‘He does not see that the Nazarene feigns resignation that we may pity him.’

  ‘It’s true! within he is all rage and hatred, tho’ outside he is so serene and compassionating.’

  ‘He is a bashful tiger invested with a lamb’s skin.’

  At these insulting words Jesus contented himself with smiling mournfully and shaking his head; this movement made the blood fall in a spray around him, for the wounds made on his forehead by the thorns still bled.

  At sight of this blood, Genevieve could not help murmuring to herself the chorus of the children of the mistletoe, mentioned in the recitals of her husband’s ancestors:

  ‘Flow, flow, blood of the captive! Fall, fall, incarnate dew! Germinate and grow, avenging harvest!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Genevieve to herself, ‘the blood of this innocent, of this martyr, so basely abandoned by his friends, by this people, poor and oppressed, whom he cherished, this blood will return on them and their children. But may it also fertilize the bloody harvest of vengeance.’

  The Romans, exasperated by the heavenly patience of Jesus, knew not what to think of to conquer him. Neither insults nor threats could move him, so one of the soldiers snatched from his hand the stick he continued to hold mechanically and broke it on his head, exclaiming,

  ‘You will, perhaps, give some signs of life, statue of flesh and bones!’ but Jesus, having at first bowed his head beneath the blow, raised it, casting a look of pardon on the one who had struck him. No doubt this ineffable sweetness intimidated or embarrassed the barbarians, for one of them, detaching his scarf, bandaged the eyes of the young man of Nazareth, saying to him:

  ‘O great king! thy respectful subjects are not worthy to support thy glance!’

  When Jesus had his eyes thus bandaged, the idea of a ferocious baseness struck the mind of the Romans; one of them approached the victim, gave him a slap in the face and said to him, bursting into a laugh:

  ‘O great prophet! guess the name of him who has struck you.’

  Then a horrible sport commenced. These robust and armed men, each struck in turn the fettered victim, broken by so many tortures, saying to him every time they struck him on the face:

  ‘Can you guess this time who struck you?’

  Jesus (and these were the only words that Genevieve heard him pronounce during the whole martyrdom), Jesus said in a voice of compassion, lifting to heaven his eyes still covered with the bandage:

  ‘May God forgive them, they know not what they do.’

  Such was the only plaint uttered, by the sufferer, and it was not even a plaint; it was a prayer he addressed to God, imploring pardon for his tormentors. The Romans, far from being appeased by this divine forbearance, redoubled their violences and outrages. Some wretches were base enough to spit in Jesus’ face. Genevieve could no longer have supported the spectacle of these enormities, even if the gods had not put an end to it; she heard in the street a great tumult, and saw arrive Doctor Baruch, Jonas the banker, and Caiphus the high priest. Two men in their suite carried a heavy wooden cross, a little longer than the height of a man. At sight of this instrument of torture, the persons waiting outside the gate of the guard-house, and amongst whom was Genevieve, cried in a triumphant voice:

  ‘Here’s the cross at last! here’s the cross!’

  ‘A cross quite new and worthy of a king!’

  ‘And as a king, the Nazarene will not say he is treated as a beggar!’

  When the Romans heard it announced that the cross was brought, they seemed very vexed that their victim was about to escape them. Jesus, however, at the words ‘Here’s the cross! here’s the cross!’ rose up with a sort of relief, hoping, no doubt, soon to bid adieu to this world. The soldiers uncovered his eyes, drew off the red cloak, only leaving the crown of thorns upon his head, so that he remained half naked; he was thus conducted to the door of the guard-room, where he was met by the men who were carrying the cross. Doctor Baruch, Jonas the banker, and Caiphus, in their still unsatisfied hatred, exchanged triumphant looks — pointing to the young man of Nazareth, pale, bleeding, and whose strength seemed exhausted. — These merciless pharisees could not resist the cruel pleasure of once more outraging the victim. The banker Jonas said to him:

  ‘You see, audacious insolent! the consequences of insulting the rich; you do not now rail at them? You no longer compare them to camels incapable of passing through the eye of a needle! It is a great pity that your inclination for jesting is now passed.’

  ‘Are you satisfied now,’ added Doctor Baruch, ‘with having treated the doctors of law as swindlers and hypocrites, seeking to obtain the best places at feasts? At any rate they will not dispute with you your place on the cross.’

  ‘And the priests,’ added Caiphus, ‘they were also swindlers and leeches who devoured the widow’s mite, under the pretence of long prayers, hard-hearted men, less merciful than heathen Samaritans; dolts with minds just narrow enough to observe the Sabbath piously, but so proud that they had the trumpets sounded to announce their charities! You thought yourself strong, you played the audacious, at the head of your band of beggars, vagabonds, and prostitutes, which you picked up in taverns, where you passed your days and nights! Where are your partizans now? Call them, then, let them come and deliver you!’

  The hatred of the crowd was not so patient as that of the pharisees, who delighted in slowly torturing their victim; and furious cries were soon heard of:

  ‘Death to the Nazarene, death!’

  ‘Let us make haste!’

  ‘Do they mean to pardon him by thus retarding his execution?’

  ‘He will not expire in a moment; they will have plenty of time to converse with him when he is nailed to the cross.’

  ‘Yes, let us hasten; his band of wretches, frightened for a moment, might attempt to carry him off!’

  ‘And besides, where is the use of speaking to him? You can see plainly he will not reply.’

  ‘To death! to death!’

  ‘And he must himself carry his cross to his place of punishment.’

  The proposition of this fresh barbarity was received with applause by all. They led Jesus out of the guard-room, and placed the cross on one of his bleeding shoulders. The pain was so dreadful, the weight of the cross so heavy, that the wretched son of Mary felt his knees tremble, and he nearly fell to the ground; but finding fresh strength in his courage and resignation, he seemed to bear up against suffering; and, bending beneath his burthen, he slowly commenced his march. The crowd and escort of soldiers cried, in following him:

  ‘Room, room, for the triumph of the King of the Jews!’

  The mournful cortege put itself in motion for the place of execution, situated beyond the Ju
dicial Gate; quitted the rich quarter of the temple, and pursued its way through a part of the town much less rich and very populous; thus, as by degrees the escort penetrated the quarter of the poor, Jesus received at least some marks of interest on their part. Genevieve saw a great many women, standing at their doors lamenting the fate of the young man of Nazareth; they remembered that he was the friend of poor mothers and their children; many of those innocents therefore sent, with their tears, kisses to the good Jesus, whose simple and touching parables they knew by heart. But, alas! almost at every step, vanquished by pain, crushed under the weight he carried, Mary’s son stumbled; at length his strength entirely failed him; he fell on his knees, then on his hands, and his forehead struck the ground.

  Genevieve thought him dead or expiring; she could not restrain a cry of grief and alarm; but he was not dead. His martyrdom and agony was still to endure. The Roman soldiers who followed him, as well as the pharisees, cried out:

  ‘Up, up, lazy one! you pretend to fall that you may not carry your cross to the end?’

  ‘You, who reproached the high priests for binding on the backs of men burthens insupportable, but which the priests would not touch with a finger,’ said Doctor Baruch, ‘you are now doing precisely as they do in refusing to bear your cross!’

  Jesus, still on his knees, and his face bent toward the ground, helped himself to rise with his two hands, which he did with great difficulty; then, still scarcely able to stand, he waited for them to place the cross on his shoulders; but scarcely was he again loaded with his burthen, when, despite his courage and goodwill, he tottered and fell a second time, crushed beneath the weight.

  ‘Come,’ said one of the emissaries, who, like the pharisees, had not quitted his victim, ‘see you that man in the brown mantle, who passes so quickly, turning away his head as if he desired not to be recognized? I have often seen him at the sermons of the Nazarene; suppose we force him to carry the cross?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Baruch, ‘call him.’

  ‘Here! Simon!’ cried the emissary; ‘here! Simon the Cyrenean! you who took part in the predictions of the Nazarene, come now, and take part in the burthen he carries.’