Nikos Kazantzakis - The Last Temptation of Christ

“I am Ruth,” the woman murmured, trembling.

“Ruth? What Ruth?”

“Martha.”

DAYS WENT BY, months, years. In the house of Master Lazarus the sons and daughters multiplied, and Martha and Mary competed to see who would give birth to the most. The man wrestled, sometimes in the workshop with pine, kermes oak and cypress, throwing them down and forcing them into tools for men; sometimes in the fields with winds, moles and nettles. In the evening he would return, exhausted, to sit in his yard, and his women would come and wash his feet and calves, light a fire, lay the table for him and open wide their arms. And then, just as he worked the wood, liberating the cradles which were within it, just as he worked the land, liberating the grapes and ears of grain which were within it, so too he worked the women and liberated from within them: God.

What happiness this is, Jesus reflected, what profound correspondence between body and soul, between earth and man!… And Martha and Mary held out their hands and touched the man they loved and the children which issued from their wombs and resembled him, touched them to see if they and all this joy and sweetness were real. So much happiness seemed much too much to them, and they trembled.

One night Mary had a horrible dream. She got up, went into the yard and saw Jesus, who had washed himself and was sitting contentedly on the ground, his palms pressed into the soil. She went near him and sat down at his side. “What are dreams, Rabbi?” she asked him softly. “What are they made of? Who sends them?”

“They are neither angels nor devils,” Jesus answered her. “When Lucifer started his revolt against God, dreams could not make up their minds which side to take. They remained between devils and angels, and God hurled them down into the inferno of sleep… Why do you ask? What did you dream, Mary?”

But Mary burst into tears and did not answer. Jesus stroked her hand. “As long as you keep it within you, Mary, it will eat away your insides. Bring it out into the light so that you can be rid of it.”

Mary wanted to begin but was so afraid she could hardly breathe. Jesus caressed her, gave her courage.

“The whole night the moon was so bright I could not sleep. But at dawn I must have fallen asleep, because I saw a bird… No, it wasn’t a bird: it had six fiery wings-it must have been one of the seraphim that surround God’s Throne. He came, fluttered silently around me and then suddenly rushed down and wrapped his wings about my head. He put his beak into my ear and spoke to me… Rabbi, I prostrate myself, I kiss your feet. Order me to be quiet!”

“Courage, Mary. I’m with you, aren’t I? Why are you afraid?… Well, he spoke to you. What did he say?”

“That all this, Rabbi, is…”

Once again she could not breathe. She grasped Jesus’ knees and squeezed them forcefully between her arms.

“That all this is… Is what, dearest Mary?”

“A dream.” She burst into tears.

Jesus shuddered. “A dream?”

“Yes, Rabbi. All this a dream.”

“What do you mean by all this?”

“You, me, Martha, our embraces at night, the children… All, all-all lies! Lies created by the Tempter to deceive us! He took sleep, death and air and fashioned them into… Rabbi, help me!”

She rolled to the ground, quivered convulsively for a moment and then suddenly became stiff. Martha ran out with some rose vinegar and chafed her- temples. Mary came to, opened her eyes and, seeing Jesus, clutched his feet.

“She moved her lips, Rabbi,” said Martha. “Bend down. She wants to say something to you.”

Jesus leaned over and raised her head. She moved her lips.

“What did you say, beloved Mary? I could not hear.”

Mary called up all her strength. “And that you, Rabbi…” she murmured.

“That I? Speak!”

“… were crucified!” She said this and then once more rolled to the ground in a swoon.

They laid her on her bed. Martha stayed with her. Jesus opened the door and went out to the fields. He was suffocating. He heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw the young Negro.

“What is it?” he shouted at him angrily. “I want to be alone.”

“I’m afraid to leave you alone, Jesus of Nazareth,” the Negro replied, his eyes glistening. “This is a difficult moment. Your mind might waver.”

“That’s just what I want. There are times when my confounded mind hinders my sight.”

The Negro laughed. “Are you a woman? Do you believe in dreams? Let the ladies cry. They’re females, they can’t endure great joy, so they cry. But we, we endure, don’t we?”

“Yes. Be quiet!”

They went along quickly and climbed up onto a green hill. Anemones and yellow daisies were scattered in the grass. The earth smelled of thyme. Jesus could see his house between the olive trees. Peaceful smoke rose from the roof, and Jesus’ soul felt relieved. The women have recovered their forces, he reflected. They have squatted before the hearth and lighted a fire… “Let’s go back without breathing a word,” he said to the Negro. “They’re women: have pity on them.”

Days went by. One evening a strange, half-drunk wayfarer appeared. It was the Sabbath and Jesus was not working. He sat on the doorstep holding his youngest son and youngest daughter on his knees, playing with them. It had rained in the morning, but the weather cleared in the afternoon and now thin, cherry-colored clouds floated toward the west. Between them the sky was solid green, like a meadow. Two cooing doves were on the roof. Mary sat at Jesus’ side, her breasts pendulant and full.

The wayfarer halted, glanced maliciously at Jesus and laughed. “Ho, Master Lazarus,” he said, stammering, “well, you’ve certainly had good luck! The years run past your door and depart while you sit like the patriarch Jacob with his two wives Leah and Rachel. You’ve got two wives yourself-Martha and Mary. The one, so I hear, is in charge of the house and the other is in charge of you; while you are in charge of everything: wood, land, wives-and God. But show yourself a little, stick your nose out of your door, shade your eyes against the sun and gaze out over the world to see what’s going on… Have you ever heard of Pilate, Pontius Pilate? May his bones roast in tar!”

Jesus recognized the half-drunk wayfarer and smiled. “Simon of Cyrene, man of God and wine, welcome! Take a stool and sit down. Martha, a cup of wine for my old friend.”

The wayfarer sat down on the stool and took the cup between his palms. “All the world knows me,” he said proudly. “Everyone has come to do worship in my tavern. You must have too, Master Lazarus-but don’t change the subject. I was asking you if you’d heard of Pilate, Pontius Pilate. Did you ever see him?”

The Negro appeared. He leaned against the door post and listened.

“A thin cloud passes across my mind,” said Jesus, struggling to remember. “Two cold eyes, ash gray like a hawk’s; a laugh full of mockery; a gold ring… I don’t remember anything else. Oh, yes-a silver basin he had brought to him so that he could wash his hands. Nothing else. It must have been a dream, the hoar frost of the mind. Up came the sun and it vanished… But now that you remind me of him, Cyrenian, I do remember: he tormented me greatly in my sleep.”

“Curse him! I’ve heard that in God’s eyes dreams weigh more heavily than the reality of the day. Well, God punished Pilate. He’s been crucified!”

Jesus uttered a cry: “Crucified!”

“Why get excited? Serves him right! They found him yesterday, at dawn-crucified. It seems his mind began to totter. He couldn’t sleep. He would get out of bed, find a basin and wash his hands all night long, shouting, ‘I wash and rinse my hands; I am innocent!’ But the blood remained on his hands, and he would get more water and wash them again. Then he would go out and roam Golgotha. He could find no rest. Every night he ordered his two faithful Negro slaves to beat him with his own whip. He gathered thorns, made them into a crown, pushed it onto his head, and the blood flowed.”