Barabbas

by Pär Lagerkvist

He stood there completely dazed. Where were they? Where was he to find them? Were they not here then?

  And where was he himself? Oh yes, he knew how he had got here; he could always find his way back to the entrance. And he decided to return as he had come.

  But as he was making his way back along the gallery which he knew he had followed the whole time and where he recognized every step up, he suddenly caught sight of the gleam of light again. A strong, unmistakable glow, but in a side-passage which he had evidently not noticed previously, and not in the same direction as before. It must be the same glow, however, and he hurried towards it. That’s where it must be! The glow became brighter and brighter.…

  Until all at once it went out. Just wasn’t there.…

  He put his hand to his head. To his eyes. Whatever kind of light was it he had seen? Wasn’t it a light? Was it only imagination, or something funny with his eyes, like that time long, long ago …? He rubbed them and looked about him.…

  No, there was no light here at all. Not anywhere, in any direction! Only an endless, icy darkness surrounding him, in which he was quite alone—for they were not here at all; there wasn’t a soul here, a single human being other than himself, only the dead!

  The dead! He was surrounded by the dead. Everywhere, in every direction, in every passage and gallery, whichever way he turned. Where was he to go? He had no idea which way he was to go in order to get out again, to get away from here, out of the realm of the dead.…

  The realm of the dead … He was in the realm of the dead! He was shut up inside the realm of the dead!

  He was filled with terror. A suffocating terror. And suddenly he rushed away, senselessly, panic-stricken, in any direction at all, stumbling over unseen steps, into one passage after the other, trying to find the way out, the way out of the realm of the dead.… He strayed about down there like a man crazed, panting and gasping for breath.… At last he simply swayed along the passages, bumping against the walls where all the dead lay walled up, against the walls of death, outside which he could never come.…

  At last he felt a warm current of air from up on the earth, from another world.… Half insensibly, he dragged himself up the slope and came out among the grape-vines.

  There he lay resting on the ground and looking up at the dark void of heaven.

  It was dark now everywhere. In heaven as well as on earth. Everywhere …

  As Barabbas made his way back to the city along the nocturnal Via Appia he felt very much alone. Not because no one walked beside him on the road and no one passed him, but because he was alone in the endless night that rested over the whole earth, alone in heaven and on earth and among the living and the dead. This he had always been, but it wasn’t until now that he realized it. He walked there in the darkness, as though buried in it, walked there with the scar in his lonely old face, the scar from the blow his father had dealt him. And among the grey hairs on his wrinkled chest hung his slave’s disk with God’s crossed-out name. Yes, he was alone in heaven and on earth.

  And he was immured in himself, in his own realm of death. How could he break out of it?

  Once and once only had he been united to another, but that was only with an iron chain. Never with anything else but an iron chain.

  He heard his own footsteps against the stone surface of the road. Otherwise the silence was complete, as though there were not another living soul in all the world.

  On all sides he was surrounded by the darkness. Not a light. Not a light anywhere. There were no stars in the heavens and all was desolate and void.

  He breathed heavily, for the air was sultry and hot. It felt feverish—or was it he who was feverish, who was ill, who had got death into him down there? Death! He always had that inside him, he had had that inside him as long as he had lived. It hunted him inside himself, in the dark mole’s passages of his mind, and filled him with its terror. Although he was so old now, although he had no wish to live any longer, it still filled him with its terror just the same. Although he wanted so much—just wanted …

  No, no, not to die! Not to die!…

  But they gathered down there in the realm of the dead to pray to their God, to be united with him and with each other. They were not afraid of death; they had vanquished it. Gathered for their fraternal meetings, their love feasts … Love one another … Love one another …

  But when he came they were not there, not a single one of them was there. He simply wandered around alone in the dark, in the passages, in his own mole’s passages.…

  Where were they? Where were they who made out that they loved one another?

  Where were they this night, this sultry night …? Now that he had entered the city it felt even more oppressive—this night that was brooding over the whole world—this night of fever in which he could scarcely breathe—which was stifling him.…

  As he turned a street-corner he felt the smell of smoke strike against him. It was coming from the cellar of a house not far away; the smoke was billowing out of the basement and from one or two ventholes tongues of flame came licking out.… He hurried towards it.

  As he ran he heard cries all around him from other running people:

  —Fire! Fire!

  At a street-crossing he found that it was also burning in a side-street, burning even more fiercely there. He grew bewildered, couldn’t understand … Then suddenly he heard shouts some distance away:

  —It’s the Christians! It’s the Christians!

  And from one side after the other:

  —It’s the Christians! It’s the Christians!

  At first he stood there dumbfounded, as if unable to take in what they said, what they meant. The Christians …? Then he understood, then he got it.

  Yes! It’s the Christians! It’s the Christians who are setting fire to Rome! Who are setting fire to the whole world!

  Now he knew why they had not been out there. They were here to set this odious Rome, to set the whole of this odious world on fire! Their hour had come! Their Saviour had come!

  The crucified man had returned, he of Golgotha had returned. To save mankind, to destroy this world, as he had promised. To annihilate it, let it go up in flames, as he had promised! Now he was really showing his might. And he, Barabbas, was to help him! Barabbas the reprobate, his reprobate brother from Golgotha, would not fail. Not now. Not this time. Not now! He had already rushed up to the nearest blaze, snatched up a brand and run and flung it down into the window of a cellar in another house. He fetched one brand after the other and ran and flung them down in new places, in new cellars. He did not fail! Barabbas did not fail! He set light well and truly. No half measures! The flames leapt out of one house after the other, scorching all the walls; everything was burning. And Barabbas rushed on, to spread the fire still more, rushed around panting with God’s crossed-out name on his chest. He did not fail. He did not fail his Lord when he really needed him, when the hour was come, the great hour when everything was to perish. It was spreading, spreading! Everything was one vast sea of fire. The whole world, the whole world was ablaze!

  Behold, his kingdom is here! Behold, his kingdom is here!

  In the prison underneath the Capitol all the Christians who had been accused of the fire were collected, and among them Barabbas as well. He had been caught red-handed and, after interrogation, had been taken there and thrown together with them. He was one of them.

  The prison was hewn out of the actual rock and the walls dripped with moisture. In the prevailing half-light they could not see each other very distinctly and Barabbas was glad of it. He sat by himself in the rotting straw rather to one side, and the whole time with his face averted.

  They had spoken a lot about the fire and the fate that awaited them. Their having been accused of starting the fire must have been merely a pretext to arrest and sentence them. Their judge knew perfectly well that they had not done it. Not a single one of them had been there; they had not gone outside their doors after they had had warning that there was to be a persec
ution and that their meeting-place in the catacombs had been betrayed. They were innocent. But what did that matter? Everyone wanted to believe them guilty. Everyone wanted to believe what had been shouted out in the streets by the hired mob: “It’s the Christians! It’s the Christians!”

  —Who hired them? said a voice from out of the darkness. But the others took no notice.

  How could the Master’s followers be guilty of such a thing as arson, of setting Rome on fire? How could anyone believe such a thing? Their Master set human souls on fire, not their cities. He was the Lord and God of the world, not a malefactor.

  And they began speaking of him who was Love and the Light and of his kingdom which they were awaiting, according to his promise. Then they sang hymns with strange and lovely words which Barabbas had never heard before. He sat with bowed head listening to them.

  The iron-studded bar outside the door was drawn aside, there was a squeaking of hinges and a jailer came in. He left the door open to admit more light during the prisoners’ feeding, of which he had charge. He himself had clearly just had his dinner and regaled himself liberally with wine, for he was red-faced and talkative. Uttering coarse words of abuse, he tossed them the food they were to have; it was almost uneatable. He didn’t mean any harm with his swearing, however; he was merely speaking the language of his trade, the one that all jailers used. He sounded almost good-natured, as a matter of fact. On catching sight of Barabbas, who happened to be sitting full in the light from the doorway, he gave a bellow of laughter.

  —There’s that crazy loon! he shouted. The one who ran around setting fire to Rome! You half-wit! And then you all say it wasn’t you who set light to everything! You’re a pack of liars! He was caught in the act of hurling a brand down into Caius Servius’ oil-store.

  Barabbas kept his eyes lowered. His face was rigid and expressed nothing, but the scar under his eye was burning red.

  The other prisoners turned to him, amazed. None of them knew him. They had thought he was a criminal, one who didn’t belong to them; he had not even been interrogated or put into prison at the same time as they had.

  —It’s not possible, they whispered among themselves.

  —What isn’t possible? asked the jailer.

  —He can’t be a Christian, they said. Not if he has done what you say.

  —Can’t he? But he has said so himself. Those who caught him told me so, they told me everything. And he even confessed it at the interrogation.

  —We do not know him, they mumbled, uneasy. And if he belonged to us, then surely we ought to know him. He’s an utter stranger to us.

  —You’re all a nice lot of humbugs! Wait a minute, you’ll soon see!

  And going up to Barabbas he turned over his slave’s disk.

  —Take a look at this—isn’t that your god’s name all right? I can’t make out this scrawl, but isn’t it, eh? Read for yourselves!

  They crowded around him and Barabbas, gaping in astonishment at the inscription on the back of the disk. The majority of them couldn’t decipher it either, but one or two whispered in a subdued and anxious tone:

  —Christos Iesus … Christos Iesus …

  The jailer flung the disk back against Barabbas’s chest and looked around triumphantly.

  —Now what do you say, eh? Not a Christian, eh? He showed it to the judge himself and said that he didn’t belong to the emperor but to that god you pray to, the one who was hanged. And now he’ll be hanged too, that I can swear to. And all the rest of you, for that matter! Though you were all much more cunning about it than he was. It’s a pity that one of you was stupid enough to go running straight into our arms saying he was a Christian!

  And grinning broadly at their bewildered faces, he went out, slamming the door behind him.

  They crowded again around Barabbas and began plying him furiously with questions. Who was he? Was he really a Christian? Which brotherhood did he belong to? Was it really true that he had started the fire?

  Barabbas made no answer. His face was ashen grey and the old eyes had crept in as far as possible so as not to be seen.

  —Christian! Didn’t you see that the inscription was crossed out?

  —Was it crossed out? Was the Lord’s name crossed out?

  —Of course it was! Didn’t you see?

  One or two had seen it but hadn’t given it a second thought. What did it mean anyway?

  One of them snatched at the slave’s disk and peered at it once more; even though the light was worse now, they could still see that the inscription was scratched out with a clear, rough cross apparently made with a knife by some powerful hand.

  —Why is the Lord’s name crossed out? they asked, one after the other. What does it mean? Don’t you hear? What does it mean!

  But Barabbas didn’t answer even now. He sat with his shoulders hunched and avoided looking at any of them, let them do what they liked with him, with his slave’s disk, but made no answer. They grew more and more agitated and amazed at him, at this strange man who professed to be a Christian but who couldn’t possibly be. His curious behaviour was beyond them. At last some of them went over to an old man who was sitting in the dark further inside the dungeon and who had not taken any part in what had been going on among them. After they had spoken to him for a while the old man got up and walked over with them to Barabbas.

  He was a big man with a broad back who, despite a slight stoop, was still unusually tall. The powerful head had long but thinning hair, quite white, like his beard, which came right down over his chest. He had an imposing but very gentle expression; the blue eyes were almost childishly wide and clear though full of the wisdom of age.

  He stood first looking for a long time at Barabbas, at his ravaged old face. Then he seemed to recollect something and nodded in confirmation.

  —It’s so long ago, he said apologetically, sitting down in the straw in front of him.

  The others, who had gathered around, were very surprised. Did their greatly revered father know this man?

  He evidently did, as they could see when he began talking to him. He asked him how he had got on during his life. And Barabbas told him what had happened to him. Not all, far from it, but enough for the other man to be able to understand or divine most of it. When he understood something Barabbas was unwilling to say, he merely nodded in silence. They had a good talk together, although it was so foreign to Barabbas to confide in anyone and though he didn’t really do so now. But he answered the other’s questions in a low, tired voice and even looked up now and again into the wise, childish eyes and at the furrowed old face, which was ravaged like his own but in quite a different way. The furrows were engraved deep into it, but it was all so different, and it radiated such peace. The skin in which they were engraved seemed almost white and the cheeks were hollow, probably because he had but few teeth left. But actually he had altered very little. And he still spoke his confident and ingenuous dialect.

  The venerable old man gradually got to know both why the Lord’s name was crossed out and why Barabbas had helped to set fire to Rome—that he had wanted to help them and their Saviour to set this world on fire. The old man shook his white head in distress when he heard this. He asked Barabbas how he could have thought it was they who had started the fire. It was Caesar himself who had had it done, the wild beast himself, and it was him Barabbas had helped.

  —It was this worldly ruler you helped, he said, him to whom your slave’s disk says you belong, not the Lord whose name is crossed out on it. Without knowing it, you served your rightful lord.

  —Our Lord is Love, he added gently. And taking the disk that hung on Barabbas’s chest amongst the grey hairs, he looked sorrowfully at his Lord and Master’s crossed-out name.

  He let it drop from his old fingers and sighed heavily. For he realized that this was Barabbas’s disk, the one he had to bear, and that there was nothing at all he could do to help him. And he realized that the other knew this too, saw it from his timid and solitary eyes.

&nbs
p; —Who is he? Who is he? they all shouted when the old man got to his feet again. At first he didn’t want to answer them, tried to get out of it. But they kept on at him until at last he was forced to do so.

  —He is Barabbas, he who was acquitted in the Master’s stead, he said.

  They stared at the stranger, dumbfounded. Nothing could have astounded or upset them more than this.

  —Barabbas! they whispered. Barabbas the acquitted! Barabbas the acquitted!

  They didn’t seem able to grasp it. And their eyes gleamed fierce and threatening in the semi-darkness.

  But the old man quietened them.

  —This is an unhappy man, he said, and we have no right to condemn him. We ourselves are full of faults and shortcomings, and it is no credit to us that the Lord has taken pity on us notwithstanding. We have no right to condemn a person because he has no god.

  They stood with downcast eyes, and it was as though they didn’t dare to look at Barabbas after this, after these last terrible words. They moved away from him in silence to where they had been sitting before. The old man sighed and followed them with heavy steps.

  Barabbas sat there again alone.

  He sat there alone day after day in the prison, on one side, apart from them. He heard them sing their songs of faith and speak confidently of their death and the eternal life that awaited them. Especially after sentence had been pronounced did they speak of it a great deal. They were full of trust, there was not the slightest doubt amongst them.

  Barabbas listened, deep in his own thoughts. He too thought of what was in store for him. He remembered the man on the Mount of Olives, the one who had shared his bread and salt with him and who was now long since dead again and lay grinning with his skull in the everlasting darkness.

  Eternal life …

  Was there any meaning in the life he had led? Not even that did he believe in. But this was something he knew nothing about. It was not for him to judge.

  Over there sat the white-bearded old man among his own people, listening to them and talking to them in his unmistakable Galilean dialect. But occasionally he would lean his head in his big hand and sit there for a moment in silence. Perhaps he was thinking of the shore of Genesaret and that he would have liked to die there. But it was not to be. He had met his Master on the road and he had said: “Follow me.” And this he had had to do. He looked ahead of him with his childlike eyes, and his furrowed face with the hollow cheeks radiated a great peace.