ALEKSEI REMIZOV

Aleksei Remizov (1877-1957), prose writer, dramatist, artist and calligrapher, came from a background of book-loving Moscow merchants and factory owners. In 1897 his presence at a Moscow student demonstration led to a prolonged period of exile in the provinces under police surveillance, bringing his formal education to an abrupt end. In 1905 Remizov was granted permission to take up residence in St. Petersburg, and his literary career began in earnest soon after, his first stories appearing in Symbolist journals in 1906. Although he greeted the October Revolution with a “Lament for the Ruin of the Russian Land” (a title that awakens echoes of the Tatar yoke), Remizov remained for some years in Petrograd, working in the repertory section of the state Theatrical Department. After their departure from the Soviet Union in 1921, Remizov and his wife lived first in Berlin and then, from 1923, in Paris. Throughout the years of emigration, Remizov continued to write and publish prolifically.

There is hardly a more eccentric figure than Remizov to be found in the annals of Russian literature. To visitors in his later years he seemed half medieval bookman, half gnome, tirelessly reworking ancient legends and holy tales, dashing off Thurber-like drawings and curious watercolors, devising elaborate practical jokes and spinning fantastic stories from a private mythology based on Russian folklore. Those who won his particular approval might hope to be presented with a charter, written in exquisite seventeenth century cursive script, of the Grand Free Assembly of Monkeys—an order invented by himself.

Never popular in Russia, and all but impenetrable to the translator by reason of his intensely national quality, Remizov has remained a “writers’ writer,” and as such has had immense influences—together with Bely, he is the progenitor of the so-called “ornamental” prose of the twenties, with its lyricism and playfulness, its tendency to skaz (a distinct personal narrative voice), its abrupt shifts of tone and penchant for the grotesque, its attention to facture (“writing is made not with thoughts, but with words,” said Remizov, echoing Mallarmé). Claiming to take his beginning from Gogol, Leskov and Dostoevsky, Remizov was at the same time a devoted antiquarian of the word, a kind of linguistic Slavophile who wished to restore Russian to an ideal pre-Petrine purity and vigor; he was a passionate collector of vivid, out-of-the-way words—dialectisms, archaisms, even neologisms if they suited his purpose. Paradoxically, this “anti-literary” language is itself an intensely bookish creation to which the author himself sometimes feels the need to supply a glossary (as with the work translated here).

Mirsky has remarked that in the drama “more than anywhere is Remizov a contemporary of the symbolists”; Remizov’s plays were written during, and are undoubtedly part of, the brief flowering of the Symbolist theatre in Russia. Moreover, he was at this time very close to Meyerhold and had some influence (perhaps more than has generally been acknowledged) on the evolution of the director’s thinking. Remizov’s friendship with Meyerhold apparently dates back to 1896, when both were students at Moscow University. In a letter of that year, Meyerhold pays fervent tribute to his young mentor: “Yes, through him I have been reborn.” A shared enthusiasm for Hauptmann led to them collaborating on a translation of A. Rode’s Hauptmann and Nietzsche (published 1902). Later, when Remizov was exiled to Penza, Meyerhold’s native town, the two studied Marx together and Meyerhold, by his own account, suffered some unpleasantness from the local police for association with an active dissident. During the years 1902 to 1905, when Meyerhold was touring the provinces with his Fellowship of the New Drama—the years when he was arriving at a new, anti-Stanislavskian aesthetic—Remizov was, in the words of Meyerhold’s biographer Konstantin Rudnitsky, his “ally, comrade in arms and to some extent his theoretician.” In his role of, effectively, “head of the literary section,” Remizov encouraged the inclusion of work by such exponents of the “new drama” as Hauptmann, Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Schnitzler and Przbyszewski in the troupe’s repertoire, himself translating Przbyszewski’s Snow and Strindberg’s Miss Julie for the Fellowship. Other plays translated by Remizov—Gide’s Philoctète, the German naturalist Johannes Schlaf’s Weigand and the satirical comedy Scherz, Satire, Ironie und tiefere Bedeutung by the German romantic dramatist Christian Grabbe—bear witness to his wide theatrical interests.

An article entitled “The New Drama” (1903) gives a good idea of Remizov’s view of the theatre during these years with Meyerhold. Calling for “a search for new forms to express eternal mysteries,” Remizov advocates a theatre of ecstasy and mystic communion in which “actor and spectator, as one, transfigured, will lose themselves in a single action, a single emotion,” and where “the voices of the soul, which are to be heard only in fateful moments, will flame in tongues of fire.” The siren voice of Nietzsche sounds as clearly here as it does in Viacheslav Ivanov and Sologub: “The theatre is not amusement and distraction, the theatre is not a copy of human wretchedness; the theatre is worship…”

Remizov wrote three original plays: The Devil’s Comedy (1907), The Tragedy of Judas, Prince of Iscariot (1908) and The Comedy of George the Brave (1910); in addition, he reworked the traditional folk drama Tsar Maximilian (1918) and wrote three pieces for musical setting to which he gave the generic name “rusalia” (written about 1914, they were published in Berlin in 1923). The concept of the rusalia was an important one for the writer (he later attached the name to his three early plays as well); in its origin, he explained, the rusalia was a pagan rite, which after the Christianization of Russia had been transformed into a popular open-air show with buffoons and tumblers. Proclaiming that “the theatre is theatre,” needing no justification outside itself, Remizov now called for a theatre of grotesque exaggeration with “hempen beards, dunce’s caps, noses stuck on awry, harsh voices, loping strides, masks as terrifying and comic as can be” in which everything should be “strange, enchanted, excessive, as in a dream.”

In his dramas Remizov attempted to revive the medieval mystery and morality play, in which biblical or allegorical scenes alternated with interludes of bawdy farce—a form which satisfied his antiquarian bent and also enabled him to convey a duality of vision entirely characteristic of the Symbolist aesthetic. The Devil’s Comedy was based on the popular morality subject known in its English version as The Pride of Life—a struggle between Life and Death. First performed at Komissarzhevskaya’s theatre in December, 1907 (with sets by Dobuzhinsky and music by Kuzmin), it caused a scandal comparable to the first night of Blok’s Puppet Show a year before, and for much the same reason: the audience was bewildered and outraged by the deliberately unresolved dissonance between grotesque and serious elements.

Remizov’s second play, The Tragedy of Judas, Prince of Iscariot, is based on an apocryphal tale that bears an obvious relation to the Oedipus myth. It is curious that the previous year had seen the publication of Andreyev’s story “Judas Iscariot and Others,” which, though it deals with the biblical rather than the apocryphal Judas, is also, in its way, an apologia for the betrayer of Christ. The play was accepted for performance by Komissarzhevskaya’s theatre, designs were made by Nikolai Roerich and a “March of the Monkeys” composed by Kuzmin, but for reasons “outside the control of the theatre management” the project had to be abandoned. Possibly the presentation on stage of a biblical personage caused offence to the powerful church authorities who brought about the banning of Wilde’s Salome in 1908 and the closing down of Andreyev’s Anathema in the following year.

Like much of Remizov’s work, Judas is permeated with Russian folklore; in writing it, by his own admission, he drew on “folksongs, incantations, Christmas songs (koliadki) and laments.” There is an interesting connection (illustrative of the interpenetration so characteristic of the arts at this period) between Judas and the Stravinsky-Fokine ballet The Firebird. In his The Birth of the Ballets-Russes Prince Peter Lieven recounts how in 1909 Diaghilev decided to produce a genuinely Russian ballet to present at the Paris grand opera, and how in putting together a libretto “they sought information from the fashionable expert in this line, Remizov.” The “Kingdom of the Unclean” presided over by the evil Kashchei in Firebird is a typically Remizovian fancy, and the magical golden apples of Judas appear once more in the ballet.

The monkey king Asyka and his kingdom were an invention to which Remizov was particularly attached, and one which appears elsewhere in his work. Though their creator compared his monkeys to Swift’s Houyhnhnms, one suspects that he really meant the Irish writer’s Yahoos—an obscene lampoon against mankind. The comic scenes in Judas have a wild, anarchic humor, verging on the surrealistic, that brings to mind the work of Alfred Jarry. Remizov, with his lively interest in the contemporary French stage, could hardly have been unaware of Ubu Roi, the opening night of which in 1896 had been the occasion of a great theatrical scandal. The two writers share a taste for elaborate mystifications that serve to thumb a nose at all the solemn nonsense of the world: Jarry’s Science of Pataphysics (the “science of imaginary solutions”) is close kin to the Grand Free Assembly of Monkeys.

ALEKSEI REMIZOV THE TRAGEDY OF JUDAS, PRINCE OF ISCARIOT⁴²

In three acts

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

JUDAS, Prince of Iscariot

STRATIM, Prince of Iscariot

UNKRADA, Niece of the King of Iscariot

PILATE, Hegumen of Jerusalem

SIBORIA, Wife of Simon, the owner of the orchard where the golden apples grow

KADIZHA, Siboria’s womanservant

ZIF, Retainer of Judas

ORIF

MONKEY KING

MESSENGER

PLACE—The first act is set on the island of Iscariot; the second and third in Jerusalem.

TIME—In the days of King Herod.

ACT ONE

A secret door in the palace wall, leading to the sea.

SCENE ONE

Orif and Zif

ORIF. He is sitting on a rock close by the secret door. He wears a half-mask. He croons. “Dawn had not reddened, the sun had not risen, when a dark man came—his hair unkempt and bast shoes on his feet. And by the lily-white hand he took her, and to the green forest he led her. And there she saw a fine new palace with sunlit chambers. And he seated her at a table covered with a white cloth and loaded her with silver and gold.

— Oh for silver and gold I care not, for mother and father, for brothers and sisters care I only.

— Oh be silent, fair lady, do not weep—ten servants shall you have, troubles ten…”

A silence. Zif appears in the doorway; he too wears a half-mask.

ORIF. Startled. Who goes there?

ZIF. Fee-faw-fum.

ORIF. Oh! It’s you. Angrily. You fidget-ass cat-catcher you!

ZIF. Looking him up and down and laughing. You sit under a bush and eat leaves!

ORIF. You would have to turn up. Did Unkrada send you?

ZIF. It’s her business I’m on.

ORIF. You going to bump Stratim off?

ZIF. We’re going to bump him off.

ORIF. We’ll have to stew in this hellhole till the marrow runs out of our bones ’twixt flesh and hide …

ZIF. Looks like we will. Bursts out laughing.

ORIF. And what’s so funny about it?

ZIF. Well, I’ve got a little fish, and anyone who looks at it will die laughing.

ORIF. To hell with you and your little fish! I’d like to lay a cudgel across your back—crawling out like a goblin from a stove.

ZIF. What an honor: the murderer of Prince Stratim! Judas won’t forget us, you can bet on that. He’ll reward us royally for such a service—bags of gold he’ll shower on us. And Unkrada won’t be stingy either—the undertaking’s hers!

ORIF. Don’t shout! You can shout your fill when the noose is round your neck. Don’t think someone isn’t keeping an eye on us too, you blockhead!

ZIF. The merchants from Jerusalem gave a fine feast: forty barrels of Ethiopian vodka alone!

The whole bank was spread with carpets, woven and embroidered, and on top of the carpets there sparkled precious stones. Pipers, balalaika players, roistering, music. A fine bonfire they made—the sparks showered like pearls in a red ringdance: hey boys, stamp it out!

Yes, they know how to live, those folks: free and easy—live it up and don’t fret about anything. A friend of mine—a fellow who’s been around—was telling me of the wonders to be seen in that Jerusalem. The ears of corn there spring straight out of the earth, the bees are the size of your fist, the men are fine strapping fellows, the beasts speak with a human tongue, the granaries are crammed with wheat and still there’s some left over, and the River Jordan there, with its quiet creeks, rolls between steep red banks. They say the court of the Hegumen Pilate is more splendid than that of the Monkey King himself, the palaces are roofed with green Kozarian copper, more precious than fine gold! They’re rolling in money, and they down their liquor at a gulp—and there’s such an abundance of everything that you can drink it, sink in it, or douse yourself with it.

ORIF. Will the merchants stay long?

ZIF. They’ll be on their way this very night.

ORIF. To Jerusalem?

ZIF. Straight there, by the sea route.

ORIF. That’ll suit us fine. Pilate will receive us. Did you come to an agreement with the mariners? We won’t get caught?

ZIF. What a coward you are!

ORIF. And you’re a drunken oaf! A bow-legged loon! Do you want to go rushing straight into the lion’s maw, devil take you! . . No, that won’t do. We can’t afford to take risks. They might seize us any moment, clamp us in irons and skin us three times over—it’ll be too late for thinking then. What we should do is settle our little business and then creep aboard, quiet as mice.

ZIF. Heh-heh—you’ve really got carried away! So I’m a fool then, in your opinion?

ORIF. Prince Stratim is on his guard. Doesn’t move a step by himself. Just now, as I was making my way to this deathtrap, I ran into a whole band of his creatures. I recognized them by their owl feathers.

ZIF. Stratim’s on board ship. I had a chat with him—oh just a word or two. He’s got wind of something. He keeps himself apart. He’s proud—it’s not for nothing he’s called top dog around here. He’s strong, mighty in battle, with a voice like thunder, and drunken as the earth … ha ha! . . I’ve been at the palace.

ORIF. Are you joking? Talk sense.

ZIF. I saw the king himself.

ORIF. Did the king summon you?

ZIF. With all the marks of honor: thirty-three dwarfs, two and seventy buffoons—a fine din and clatter they made. The king and I were alone together. We talked of this and that. The king declared that ever since the brothers’ duel his disfavor had fallen on us too, as the chief retainers of Prince Judas. The king wants to make his peace with us. He recalled our campaign in Beormas. That loosened his tongue. The king loves to recall that cold, rich land: we spent not a few happy days on the white banks of those raging rivers—they saw our battles and our victories.

Ha!—the arrows stretched the taut bow-string—they flew like snow and rattled like thunder. Sharp lances, not the plough, turned the earth of the spring fields, the swift legs of our steeds furrowed them; not with rye were they sown, but with heads too rash, watered not with the rains of autumn, but with tears …

The king asked, had I remained loyal? I swore it. The year of our campaign was the year of Judas’ birth. The king gradually moved the talk round to our prince: what places does he frequent, is he in good health, does he see his brother? Yes, and he asked about Unkrada too. I answered truthfully: as before, Judas doesn’t miss a single meeting of the Council, sits over his books, goes down to the sea in the evening, he’s sober and keeps to himself, and—what matters most—there’s Unkrada … He’s fallen so madly in love with her that he’s as frisky as a regular stallion—and she’s not unwilling either. To this the king said: as long as the crown remained on his head and its cusps unbroken, as long as heaven and earth stood firm, this should not come to pass, just as much else would not come to pass that could very easily do so. He appointed an hour for me tomorrow: the lot has fallen to the two of us—an important undertaking is in store for us both. I agreed. Do you get his drift?

ORIF. Surely the king can’t have decided to do away with our dear disgraced Judas? It’s beyond me. I don’t understand. I remember that I came to you as a messenger in Beormas.⁴³ The king, hearing from my lips that a son had been born to him, wept for joy, and never since that time has the dread Yumala⁴⁴ devoured so rich a sacrifice as he received from the king that night, nor has anyone hung anything more beautiful than the king’s necklet about the idol’s neck.

ZIF. Unkrada would not lie. It was she who first revealed the danger to us. Her word is stronger than granite; it is impossible not to believe her. I know the king well: he is capable of anything. You see that door—no one has passed through it alive. Much sorrow has been sown, many tears have fallen, the bones alone would fill a grave; dew will not settle here, nor hoarfrost; there is blood in every stone, and only the winds howl—so many winds. Afterwards not a word is said. The king’s hints are clear.

ORIF. Surely the brothers’ quarrel over Unkrada cannot be the cause of such anger! Can the old man have fallen in love with his niece in his dotage?

ZIF. Nonsense! He hasn’t bothered with that for a long time.

ORIF. Dreamily. When she passes over the fields, she is like a dark stormcloud, when she enters the hall she is the sun, and when she takes her place at table she is the fairest of the fair. She has brought us spring and dawn and joy and merriment … A man might well lose his mind over her.

ZIF. You’re talking out of the back of your head! The brothers’ quarrel is just an excuse. There’s a foolish tale the king can’t get out of his head: you remember how the wisewomen foretold that Judas would kill the king his father, marry the queen his mother and become king himself? That foolish tale gives the king no peace.

ORIF. The king believed it? A son slay his own father, a son marry his own mother! A harebrained prophecy. A delusion of the prince himself. And where’s the proof?

ZIF. The sea confirmed it.

ORIF. Who put the question?

ZIF. The king.

ORIF. The king. So that’s how it is! Then the prophecy must be fulfilled, but if even the smallest part of it is open to doubt … Judge for yourself, is such a thing conceivable? The queen is so old. Have you spoken with the prince?

ZIF. Where should I find him? I passed it on to Unkrada.

ORIF. Suddenly uneasy. Look, isn’t that someone’s shadow?

ZIF. Where?

ORIF. Over there by the old well; do you see it?

ZIF. Could it be our prince? Wait a moment, I’ll take a look. Goes over to the well.

ORIF. Anxiously. Go on then—quick. By the old well …

ZIF. Offstage. Halt, not a step further! You won’t get away.

ORIF. Whew, that gave me a turn!

ZIF. Returning. No one there. But it seemed to me that someone struck me on the shoulder—a warm hand it was too.

Zif walks back and forth. Orif squats down. A brief silence.

ORIF. To himself. There’s no getting away from fate. It must be true then. Yes, you just have to believe it … There have been ill omens everywhere, as if some great misfortune were hanging over us. Strange birds have appeared at sea that wail like wild beasts, fire has been seen over graves—it appears, flickers and vanishes—a candle burns in the forest, tables creak, an eagle owl has taken to perching on the palace dome, swallows fly into houses, the cock crows with its head down, dogs howl, pigs carry straw out of the yard …

ZIF. That’s all nonsense! Dogs and pigs have nothing to do with it; if the arm be strong, the blow will tell.

SCENE TWO

Orif, Zif, Unkrada

UNKRADA. Appearing from the direction of the palace. Are you ready?

ZIF. Baring his sword. Right to the heart—and never misses.

ORIF. Flashing his knife. This will not tremble.

UNKRADA. And I … As if suddenly bursting into bloom. I will help with all my heart. The lights are out on board ship. The moon is going down. Night grows murky. The sails are spread. Stratim and his band are at the palace. Dead drunk. They were brawling. Now they’re snoring. Stratim will come here alone. You’ll have to guess the right time to strike. Then into the sea with the body. A wave will come rolling. And then there’ll be nothing; no foam, no bubbles.

ORIF. The water is deep.

ZIF. With an air of wisdom. Seven years ago an axe was dropped into the sea and it still hasn’t reached the bottom.

UNKRADA. Stratim is unprepared. He won’t give you any trouble. Make no noise. As the grass cannot stand against the scythe, so will he not be able to stand against you. He must not leave here alive.

ORIF. Does Prince Judas know?

UNKRADA. No. I alone am answerable. Hands them a purse. Take this for the time being—it contains Arabian gold.

ORIF. We thank you. We shall leave nothing undone.

ZIF. Stratim’s soul shall take leave of his body before the cock crows. But where are we to wait?

UNKRADA. Stand over here. That’s right. No one can see you here.

Zif and Orif conceal themselves.

SCENE THREE

Unkrada and Judas

UNKRADA. Pensively. “Birch tree, my birch tree! Who has brought such sadness upon you, birch tree of mine? Was it the cold north wind? Or the cruel frost? Who numbed your leaves? Was it the angry flood that washed away the bulwark of your roots, the earth? It was not the frost that froze you, it was not water that overwhelmed you. No, they came …” Suddenly throwing aside restraint. If it be so, if the prophecy is to be fulfilled … Well, we shall see—I’ll pull the heavens down about me! Shall we see who is the stronger then? Shall we find out who is the more powerful? Becoming thoughtful. “They came, they overwhelmed you, they bent your branches, birch tree of mine. They trampled the green grass, pulling it up by the roots. Sad is the fair sun’s rising …” And you, wind, blow—waft my heart and soul to the land of my birth, with light wings tenderly enfold her, bring warmth to her white breast. Help me. O wind! Come to my aid, O wind! I shall return. I shall come to the white shores so dear to me. I shall bring with me a king—my king and yours—Judas.

JUDAS. Appearing from the sea. What kind of trap is this? You can hardly hear your own voice here. The sea wind carries half the words away. Looking about him. Memory does not play me false: here on this snaky path I met those terrible, all-seeing wise women. That accursed tower was the favored gathering place of witches. Unkrada!

UNKRADA. Prince.

JUDAS. You bring bad news?

UNKRADA. Sit here.

JUDAS. Sadly. Today my mother would not receive me. I no longer see my father.

UNKRADA. Malignant heavens! A pit is being dug between us. Your fate is being decided.

JUDAS. Sharply. By whom?

UNKRADA. Today, after having given audience to the merchants from Jerusalem, the king paid the queen a visit. I was in the adjoining chamber. At first I meant to leave. Your name was mentioned. I pricked up my ears. The king said that his patience was at an end and painted you in the most villainous colors to the queen … According to him, there is nothing you are not capable of: you have already attempted your father’s life, and you will destroy your mother and your brother. And to protect himself against you, the king decided to name Stratim his heir and to condemn you to exile. Later, your retainer Zif told me that he had talked with the king and clearly understood from hints he had let fall that your life is in danger.

JUDAS. Flaring up. Deprive me of the throne? I—kill my father? Condemn me to death?

UNKRADA. Here, this is a letter from Stratim. I received it this afternoon.

JUDAS. Rapidly casting an eye over the letter. He knows of my father’s decision! He begs you for a meeting. Have you replied?

UNKRADA. I consented.

JUDAS. Unkrada, will Stratim come here?! You should not have done that. He will think himself alone with you. No, this may not be.

UNKRADA. Stratim will come here—to the old well. It must be so, you must understand that. Your fate hangs in the balance. I shall be tender, affectionate with him. He will trust me. He will go anywhere I wish. I shall lure him here, to this door. You will see him. The two of you will be face to face. You will not need to raise your hand, to shed blood. Others will do that: their sword is sharp, their arrows swift. Such men are to be found. Then into the sea with the body. The sea holds many bones! Tomorrow they will say: the Jerusalem merchants killed him.

JUDAS. The Jerusalem merchants … Now I see it all!

UNKRADA. Your father is old. He will not wear the crown long. It will pass to you. It is yours by right. The island shall be yours and the sea also. We will subdue the west as far as the Ocean, the east as far as the Caucasus. We shall sail the sea from one end to the other. We shall press northward to the white land of my birth. By dawnglow, by moonlight, by starshine, I myself will lead you over the mountain ridges until we reach the mighty rivers with their still, deep pools, until we reach the many-branched willow trees. You will be greeted there as king …

As if weaving an incantation. Long and dark are the winters there. White the snow. When the savage north winds blow, winter will clamp iron fetters on the clouds and will set forth with his nails, chaining earth and water, throwing bridges of ice over lakes and rivers, rivetting them with nails. Windows then will bloom with flowers of frost, feathers of snow will whirl along the road, and bright hoarfrost will fly through the air, threading branches with smooth and perfect pearls. Then spring will come, the black north wind will fall asleep, and from the south a white wind will come floating, and soft will be its breath. The beasts will rouse themselves from sleep. The sun will let down his golden swing into the yard, standing day-long, night-long in the sky, spreading his crimson tapestries over the meadow, spilling gold. And along the river banks the guelder rose will dapple with white the dark thickets. Before you know it, summer has ripened. The night is filled with the glow of thornwood fires. Song echoes joyously. And the ringdance twists and turns like the tendrils of the hop. And so it goes from dusk to dawn. Then suddenly a storm gathers, ripping the sky apart and lashing us with rain; and after the downpour the rainbow comes. And the meadows sing and ripple. The bear goes foraging. The great wheel of the sun has dipped, the spider’s web is spun and floats across the fields. The curly rowan wears red worsted, and icy is the dew at dawn. Autumn has come. All is melancholy, quiet, transparent. Clouds glide like swans about the sky. And the forest will be shaken, and in the groaning and the soughing nothing will be heard, save a solitary human voice—and that voice will be mine, singing you a lullaby … Further I shall lead you, to lands encircled with mists and forests. We shall sweep through the forests, pressing on past plains and bristling swamps—by mousehole and snake track we shall make our way—past sinuous shores, past mountains of iron, until we reach the land of sorcerers. The whole world we shall conquer, the whole earth shall be ours.

JUDAS. But the prophecy?

UNKRADA. There is no other choice.

JUDAS. Father, mother, brother—all are against me.

UNKRADA. I am with you. Do you love me?

JUDAS. I renounce the father who gave me life. I kiss the dust of your feet.

UNKRADA. I give you a kingdom. Do you love me?

JUDAS. I renounce the mother who gave birth to me in torment. I lay my hand upon your heart.

UNKRADA. I lead you into paradise. Do you love me?

JUDAS. I renounce the brother with whom I grew to manhood and learned to love sun, sea and earth. I embrace your soul.

A clock strikes from the palace tower.

UNKRADA. With a start. It is time. Wait for me. You will find friends here. They will help you.

SCENE FOUR

Judas, Zif, Orif

ZIF. Coming forward. Prince Judas.

ORIF. Coming forward. Prince Judas.

JUDAS. You were here? You heard? You know? You are for me?

ZIF. Prince, it was I who taught you to master a horse, it was I who forged for you your martial sword.

ORIF. It was I who sang songs over your cradle—songs that are sung in the white land of Unkrada’s birth. To my songs you dreamed your first dream.

JUDAS. I trust you. But why are you dressed like this? Take off those masks. Why conceal yourselves? You are for me—right is on your side.

ZIF. Yes, but … the masks don’t bother us. In our life it’s the nose that counts.

ORIF. We can see better like this.

JUDAS. I can defend myself alone. You are prepared to die for me, I know. How rare in this age of wolves! Disloyalty and treachery should stand as laws among our laws. The spirit falters. There are no values, only prices. Words are worn out. It has become terrible to speak. Everywhere there is blood. And from blood the earth will take fire, and not a tree, not a stone will be left in the world—and the wind will blow away the dust … How am I guilty?

ZIF. Prince, someone is coming.

ORIF. It is he, your brother Stratim.

JUDAS. So be it—so be it then … my brother … Stratim.

He paces back and forth. Lost in thought, to himself.

The Bogeyman is on his way—
Fill the horses’ bags with hay.
Lulla, lulla, lullaby—
Daddy’s bringing fish to fry.

Opening the door slightly. Come down to me, O star! As if trying to solve a riddle. The shore is white with foam. Waves are breaking. The sea is dark. The horizon is gray. A star has fallen. If only I did not have to think! Suddenly steps back, then tries to close the door—but cannot. In a whisper, to someone on the other side of the door visible to him alone. I hear, I hear. Again you have come. You told me once—why repeat it? My memory is good, I have not forgotten, I remember your prophetic voice! The door closes of its own accord, with a creaking sound. Slowly and distinctly. “You will kill your father, you will marry your mother, and you will be king.” He stands for a moment in silence. No, that shall not be. To Zif and Orif, who have withdrawn to a safe distance. Go to the ship. It has not yet sailed. I shall follow at once.

ZIF. Prince, to leave you here alone … Then you must make haste.

JUDAS. Insistently. I shall follow at once.

ORIF. It is against our orders. We have a duty. We swore to perform it.

JUDAS. Impatiently. Go! The ship has not yet sailed. I shall follow at once.

Zif and Orif go out in the direction of the sea.

SCENE FIVE

Judas and Unkrada

UNKRADA. Appearing suddenly from behind some ruins. Have no fear. It is I. I am alone. I left Stratim at the running spring. He is wandering about in the dark there. I wanted one more glimpse … Why are you staring like that?

JUDAS. Pointing to the door; in a whisper. They came again.

UNKRADA. What are you saying? Who came?

JUDAS. The three wise women.

UNKRADA. Calm yourself; all living things have long since abandoned this dead tower.

JUDAS. No, I recognized them. They repeated the prophecy to me word for word.

UNKRADA. It was the blood speaking in you. You mustn’t think. Leave these thoughts. I am with you—now and forever.

JUDAS. I sent Zif and Orif away. They are on board the ship.

UNKRADA. Why did you do that? You will ruin everything.

JUDAS. I can’t go through with it.

UNKRADA. You can’t?

JUDAS. I’m afraid.

UNKRADA. Afraid! But tomorrow they’ll kill you like the lowest criminal.

STRATIM. Offstage. Unkrada! Unkrada! Where are you?

UNKRADA. They’ll tie you to a horse’s tail and drag you through the fields. Birds will swoop down to peck at your body. The winds will arise and scatter your bones, and no trace or memory of you will remain. What of your empty prophecy then?

STRATIM. Offstage. Unkrada! Where are you, I say?

UNKRADA. I shall bring Stratim here. Steel yourself. For my sake. For the sake of our love. For the sake of our kingdom. You gave me your oath. She goes out.

SCENE SIX

Judas, Unkrada, Stratim

JUDAS. Alone, meditatively.

The Bogeyman is on his way—
Fill the horses’ bags with hay.
Lulla, lulla, lullaby—
Daddy’s bringing fish to fry.

STRATIM. Appearing with Unkrada from the direction of the palace, addressing Unkrada. What a godforsaken place! I’ve never been here before. I can’t see my hand before my face. It’s cold and damp. What’s that, a beacon?

UNKRADA. Step out boldly! Through here you can reach the sea.

STRATIM. Through this cranny? I shall order this wall to be destroyed.

UNKRADA. We shall destroy it together.

JUDAS. Without moving. Ah, my brother. What a good thing you have come. See, I am still alive.

STRATIM. Looking him up and down. You bear the title of prince, but you hide yourself like a thief.

UNKRADA. Kings don’t behave in that way, do they?

JUDAS. Coldly. Don’t imagine you can insult me!

STRATIM. So you wanted to sneak up on me! I suppose you’ve got your informers hidden in the ambush with you? We know who they are. Unkrada, this rogue has been stewing like a toad in his hole, watching our every move … And a grave has been dug ready for me … He’s in a hurry.

UNKRADA. Flirtatiously, caressing Stratim. Prince, you shouldn’t say such things.

STRATIM. Enigmatically. No doubt.

JUDAS. Flaring up. Prince Stratim, the future ruler, the future king, ha! . . day and night from one tavern to another—riot and drunkenness. With that hot head of yours you’ll bring the kingdom down, with you will come discord, hatred and malice, devastation, blood, ashes … the wild beasts will eat their fill of human flesh, the birds will drink their fill of human blood. You will dig a grave for all the people.

STRATIM. And what are the people to you? You have attempted your father’s life.

JUDAS. A lie. Who bears witness to it?

STRATIM. Had it not been for me, the king would have perished. Regicide!

UNKRADA. Who is in the right? Resolve it!

STRATIM. To Unkrada. Look, he’s foaming at the mouth. He would raise his hand even against you … There’s nothing he isn’t capable of. Teasing Judas. Your wings are clipped, your tail feathers are plucked.

UNKRADA. Do you hear him, Judas?

JUDAS. Overcome with fury. Be silent! It is you who are going to your death.

STRATIM. What are you doing here? Leave us. Use force, would you? A scoundrel, a beggarly wretch …

UNKRADA. To Stratim. Let’s go, or he’ll kill us …

JUDAS. Reaching for his sword. I’m ready.

STRATIM. Who are you? My dignity does not permit me …

JUDAS. Unsheathing his sword. Have at you then.

STRATIM. Retreating. I shall defend myself as I would against brigands on the highway.

JUDAS. What? . . Trembling, are you? . . One blow and that will be the end of you. You are in my power. Silence. Handing Stratim his sword, regally. Of my own free will, as a king, I yield to you my sword, my right, my island. Farewell. He moves seaward. In the doorway. The sea stretches to the clouds. I am free: never again shall I see my father, never again shall I see my mother, and my kingdom I have given over to my brother. To Unkrada. I shall be beyond the reach of fate—the wind bore it hither and the wind shall bear it hence.

STRATIM. Throwing down the sword. Unhappy man! For you there can be no salvation. You have taken leave of your senses.

UNKRADA. After him, as if in her sleep. Hour follows upon hour. Go. Seek out whom you will. Love whomsoever shall find favor in your eyes. I know what I must do. I shall wrap myself about with clouds; I shall gird myself with the dawn; the moon shall be my shield, the stars my spears, the sun shall light my way. No door or gate or path or road shall see me pass; in the sea’s depths I shall find a key; I shall unlock the door; I shall raise the iron slab no man has raised, from under it I shall take all the grief and all the longing of the world, and I shall bear them in my hands, never letting them fall; for if I let them fall upon the earth, the earth would take fire, and if I let them fall upon the waters, the waters would take fire. All the grief and all the longing of the world shall pass from me into your feet, into your hands, into your heart, into your brows, into your eyes—you won’t dance it out with dancing, you won’t roister it out with roistering. And you, O moon—O moon of mine—you have deceived me! And you, O stars—O stars of mine—you have deceived me! But you, my trusty darksome night, you will not deceive me. You will cover him with darkness—he shall rend his garments, he shall suck his own blood. I will bide my time—and I will find you.

Curtain

ACT TWO

Outside Pilate’s palace. A fenced-in orchard can be seen. In the orchard is an apple tree with golden apples.

SCENE ONE

Kadizha, Siboria, Orif

KADIZHA. From behind the fence, to Orif. Pray tell me, sir, what’s the news from the palace? Is the Hegumen in good health?

ORIF. Drawing himself up. As before: no better, no worse—the same. What swarms of wasps there are here—my neck is covered with bites.

KADIZHA. Are you from the court?

ORIF. I serve the grand vizier—my person is inviolable.

KADIZHA. My mistress is called Siboria, and my name is Kadizha. I’ve seen quite different faces around here many a long year. What became of old Carpius who used to be vizier?

ORIF. Well, you are out of touch, and no mistake.

KADIZHA. We’ve only just returned to Jerusalem. We were staying with my mistress’s grandmother at Sokolinaya Hill—you know, not far from Sorochinskoye Field.⁴⁵ We helped her with making jam and fruit jelly. We arrived back home last night. Our lord, Simon, was keeping watch over the orchard and only had time to tell us that great changes had taken place at court and that when I saw things for myself I’d just gasp with amazement.

ORIF. The prince of Iscariot—he who fled the island of Iscariot with your merchants—has been appointed grand vizier.

KADIZHA. A prince! Well I never! It’s news to me. A real prince, you say.

ORIF. Gazing with satisfaction at Siboria, who is walking in the garden. As real as you please. Only he doesn’t have a princess.

KADIZHA. On the eve of our departure from Sokolinaya Hill I dreamed I was sitting alone in a dark room, and suddenly a peasant came in carrying a lantern; he lifts up the lantern and starts coming after me—black-haired he is, and shaggy too. I take to my heels, and he’s right after me. Round and round we go: from window to bench, from bench to floor, from floor to door; then it’s over the threshold into the lobby, through the lobby to the porch, through the porch into the yard, through the yard to the gate—on and on—then, bang, he grabs me by the arm and I’m caught. Grandmother says that Friday’s dream will come true on Sunday …

ORIF. Crossly. I don’t believe in dreams. Old folk grumble and believe in dreams because they have nothing better to do.

KADIZHA. Laughing. But why did the prince run away?

ORIF. Well, if he hadn’t, they’d have done him in.

KADIZHA. The poor thing. How did all this come about?

ORIF. It’s a dark tale. The king his father was very frightened by a certain prophecy. On our island we have these wise women who wander about; some call them Those Who Judge, others just witches. Simple folk talk all kinds of nonsense about them—they can do this and that, they can read the stars and know what’s going to happen in the world for a thousand years to come; they are surrounded by snakes great and small, by vixens and owls, and they have webbed feet like geese—that I’ve seen myself. Well then, these witches somehow came across our prince and meted him out his fate—such a heap of nonsense they piled up, your ears would shrivel listening to it. And then the prince goes and blurts it all out to the king. And the king begins turning it over in his mind. And then there were all sorts of other things: there are two princes, you see—brothers—and they both fell in love with the same woman; had them both under her spell, she did, twisted them round her little finger. Then the old Adam began to rear its head. Once they nearly packed each other off to kingdom come.

KADIZHA. Sin always lies in wait! But who is this woman?

ORIF. Unkrada is her name. She’s the Iscariot king’s niece. Her father was a real king—our one’s brother, but her mother, though of royal lineage, was a captive: from the north, she was, from the dense forests, from the distant land of the white sea. When they died, the king brought Unkrada to his island. And that’s when it all began. Even a stupid woman will cause trouble, but this one—she’s light and fire and beauty. Her eyebrows are long and thick, and so black you’d think two crows were perched there over her eyes. When the color rises to her face, it’s slow to go away. And her voice is so rich and free—you’d think a swan was singing. When she sings, old men begin to dance, the stony-hearted weep, and the dashing young bloods are all afire.

KADIZHA. What about the new vizier—is the prince very terrible?

ORIF. You’ll soon see: after lunch the prince will come here with the Hegumen to sit on the porch for a bit. How shall I put it? He’s a favorite of fortune, he can turn his hand to anything, only he’s terribly hotheaded: in the palace he’s turned everything upside down—cleaned things up in fine style—even we got hauled over the coals. Well, at twenty that’s understandable—the lad’s got spunk in him. When he gets a bit older, he’ll calm down.

KADIZHA. What’s his name?

ORIF. Prince Judas.

SIBORIA. Who has shown no interest in the conversation up to this point, is surprised, even thunderstruck. Judas?

ORIF. Prince Judas. On our island such a name is given only to kings, but here in your Jerusalem it’s as common as you please.

SIBORIA. Who gave him that name—Judas?

ORIF. Who gave it to him? His mother and the sea. He was the firstborn. The queen was advanced in years and childless. Days and nights together she used to spend on the seashore, always praying. Well, and her prayers were answered—she didn’t have to eat elderberries any more. The king was away on campaign when his son was born.

Judas in our language means something like “sea king” or “water god.”

SIBORIA. With curiosity. But wasn’t the king suspicious?

ORIF. Why should he have been? The queen never showed her face anywhere, she lived like a nun—the only time she ever went out was to go down to the sea. And exactly a year later she gave birth to another son, Stratim.⁴⁶ He was called that after the great sea bird, the one that holds all the world under its right wing. A wise man gives a wonderful description of it.

In the blue sea it lives,
In the blue sea it multiplies,
At sea its eggs it lays,
Out of the sea its young it leads.

SIBORIA. Lifts her veil. Agitatedly, through tears. My servingwoman told me that a terrible old giant of a man was walking about in front of the palace, and when you began to tell your story, it suddenly came to me that he was the new vizier … the prince …

ORIF. A terrible old man … There are only two of those here: Zif and me. It couldn’t be anyone else. With certainty. That was Zif.

KADIZHA. And who is this Zif?

ORIF. His person is inviolable. He’s a bold one. Nothing will hold him back, be it bad weather, blizzard or autumn rains. And where in the world have the two of us not journeyed together!

We’ve visited the land of Mazaika—there is in the world such a land inhabited only by women; every year they take Ethiops as husbands; the boy children they send away to the Ethiops, and the girls they keep for themselves. We lived there for a month—as Ethiops, you might say; there was a goose girl there called Vasilisa … Well, and we also visited those strange folk who live under quenchless fire in Alyber land: they don’t drink, they don’t eat, and the wind carries them wherever it blows, like cobwebs; they never die, and there’s no laying your hands on them. They’re peaceable, god-fearing folk: you’ll never hear a single swearword from them … Somehow or other we managed to make the time crawl by—lopped off a dozen or so heads by way of diversion—and then we set off for the Petrified land. There’s nothing there worth speaking of, except that they burn nuts in their stoves; the place is at the back of beyond, and you can’t get white bread there for love nor money. We promised to bring them some pea pie and got the hell out. At one time we landed up in Polivania⁴⁷—a funny sort of land, I can tell you, where everything’s like nothing you’ve ever set eyes on: the people there aren’t people—they’re half man, half beast, with one eye and one leg, and as for a head—not a trace; instead they’ve got something like a mouse’s tail sticking up. We barely managed to escape. A hard time we had of it. Without taking his eyes off Siboria. Zif—he keeps his brains in his belly. Sleeps with one eye open. And here he is himself.

Kadizha rushes out with a cry of terror.

SCENE TWO

Siboria, Orif, Zif

ZIF. Appearing from the palace gates. Aha! My dear friend—so these are the local affairs you busy yourself with. Trust you to pick out the choicest morsel. Who is this?

ORIF. Siboria, the wife of our neighbor Simon.

ZIF. That snuffling old wreck with the spidery beard? What a surprise! Bows to Siboria. I am the prince’s councillor, Zif, and this venerable elder is my comrade in arms, Orif.

ORIF. Taking offense. You can hardly limp along yourself with that gammy right leg of yours. Lame devil!

SIBORIA. You know my husband?

ZIF. To Orif. That baldheaded old coot! To Siboria. A fine, a remarkable man. Noticing the apple tree with the golden apples; in amazement. What beautiful apples! We don’t have anything like that on the island of Iscariot. I would never have believed that such things grew on this earth. Golden apples—and very tasty they must be too. Lifts a leg to climb over the fence.

SIBORIA. In alarm. No, you mustn’t do that. Those apples are sacred. We offer them up only as a sacrifice. In memory of our son. My husband trembles over every apple. He doesn’t trust anyone. He doesn’t sleep at night.

ORIF. Drawing himself up. We’ll see how well he guards them …

ZIF. Well, I wouldn’t mind, and that’s the truth … Never in my life did I taste anything like those: as rosy as your lips and as golden as your hair. Attempts to fondle Siboria.

SIBORIA. Retreating. Shame on you! At your age! . .

ZIF. Jigging about. I may be old, but I’ve still got potential—there are some things I’ve still got plenty of.

ORIF. Snorting. Not as much as I have.

Zif and Orif begin fooling around. They slap and nudge each other, giving little shouts, sly winks, knowing “h’ms.” They speak in a rapid patter full of double-entendres aimed at Siboria. Dumb show.

ZIF. With a sly wink to Orif. A certain old man had ten sons, and all ten of them mounted the same nag to go a-ploughing.

ORIF. Smart fellows! And what did these ten lads get up to?

ZIF. Clever folk will always find something to get up to.

ORIF. H’m, and so will a hairy-legged nag.

ZIF. A-ploughing they went—oh how they sank that plough in!

ORIF. Ha-ha-ha! Get what we’re driving at?

ZIF. You’ll soon get it all right.

ORIF. I’ll say.

ZIF. This way and that way.

ORIF. And the other way too!

SIBORIA. Goodnaturedly. Goodness me, you’d take them for devils, except that they don’t have tails.

ZIF. You’re wrong there: we do—and fine ones too! Orif, show her yours!

ORIF. Coyly. It’s hard to get out.

ZIF. He’s lying: it hasn’t grown to full size yet.

SIBORIA. You should be ashamed of yourselves! I’ll tell your prince. Withdraws.

SCENE THREE

Zif and Orif

As soon as Siboria disappears, Zif and Orif rush over to the fence without a second’s hesitation. They search for a cranny. Having found one, they peer into the garden.

ZIF. Breathlessly. A toothsome morsel.

ORIF. I can’t see a thing.

ZIF. The look she gave me … Did you notice?

ORIF. You’re standing on my foot!

ZIF. Where do you think you’re going then!

ORIF. I bet you I can pull it off. Squeaking. She’s risen to the bait!

ZIF. Wheezing. The fish is hooked!

ORIF. Shine down on us, fair sun!

ZIF. Gleam away, little apple!

ORIF. Fair sun! Little apple!

ZIF. Tenderly. Siboria, ah why are you so beautiful? Siboria!

ORIF. In a childish voice, carrying on a conversation with himself. I am here. Do you hear?—No.—And where are you?

ZIF. I shall go out of my mind. Let me in!

ORIF. Just show me your little finger! Just let me touch your dear little finger!

ZIF. Lay off, she doesn’t want to … Let me in!

ORIF. Unable to contain himself. Miaow-miaow.

ZIF. Unable to contain himself. Miaow-miaow.

Zif and Orif thrust their heads at the cranny like blind kittens after milk.

SCENE FOUR

Zif, Orif, Judas

JUDAS. Watches them from the steps with great curiosity. What are you two up to then?

ZIF. Caught off his guard. With a grimness unusual for him. Business.

ORIF. Caught off his guard. Furiously. Business.

JUDAS. Quickly descending the steps. To Zif. You’ve come back from the ship then. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.

ZIF. Regaining his composure. I didn’t venture to disturb you, prince. I saw that lunch was being served, and so I came here and found Orif. We had a little argument: is it possible for a man to crawl through a crack in a fence or not? And so—hey presto—we began to try it out for size.

ORIF. And that’s all there was to it.

JUDAS. An odd sort of a game! Well, what did the merchants have to say, what’s the news?

ZIF. Things couldn’t be worse. It looks pretty serious. The king’s mind is clouded. No one is allowed to enter the palace. Spies swarm everywhere, anyone pointed to by an informer is seized. The king’s got it into his head that you’re back on the island, and an order has gone out that all redheaded men are to be put to death. As you know, there aren’t any redheaded men apart from yourself, but the king’s faithful servitors have done in more than a few whose hair was gray or black just to demonstrate their zeal. Unkrada …

JUDAS. Unkrada?

ZIF. Is to marry Prince Stratim …

JUDAS. Incredulously. Can that be true?

ZIF. As I’m standing here. Murder, looting, executions. Failed crops, stunted grass. Plague, famine, tempests. Trees torn up by the roots. Clouds have loosed their thunderbolts and the earth has been shaken. The sea has been in turmoil, day and night it roars unceasingly. Meadow and marsh are under water. Wolves prowl and snakes lurk everywhere. The sea is avenging you. They say that the sea will grow calm, ill fortune pass and the earth be at peace only when Prince Judas returns to the island.

JUDAS. As if drained of all emotion. I—return? I knew nothing of this! My heart is like night, the world is tottering about me, something has been overturned … Where shall I go? I can hardly see. Father, mother, brother … He begins to spin around like a top, shouting. Unkrada! Unkrada!

ZIF. At the top of his voice, trying to shout him down. The Hegumen!

ORIF. Imperturbably. Now is it worth getting into such a state over a trifle?

SCENE FIVE

Judas, Pilate, Zif, Orif

PILATE. From the steps. I have despatched messengers. They have left no stone unturned. It’s as if the earth had swallowed him up. And here he is, lost in his daydreams. Bad. It’s treason.

Laughs.

JUDAS. To himself. Unkrada …

PILATE. Judas! Prince! Have you lost your tongue or something?

JUDAS. Incoherently. Say it again—again—again!

PILATE. It’s clear you’ve lost your hearing. I told you it was dangerous to bathe in the Jordan. Prince! Pointing into the distance. Look—the blue sea isn’t far away.

JUDAS. He gives a start. Approaching Pilate. I have just received disturbing news. My native land is at war.

PILATE. There you go again. What is this “native land?” Spit on it. Is it musicians you want? Shall I order someone to crawl through a log from one end to the other to amuse you? Or we could rest for a bit and go for a ride on the elephants. I don’t suppose they have white elephants on your island?

JUDAS. Only little white beasts of prey with long legs like fleas and quick, soft paws to guard their own. Apart from that, nothing.

PILATE. You’re out of sorts today. Come on, laugh! Do you know what’s on my mind?

JUDAS. I’m not God.

PILATE. Guess!

JUDAS. Why should I?

PILATE. You can’t. All right, I’ll tell you … Or shall I keep it to myself?

JUDAS. After an awkward silence. It’s all the same to me.

PILATE. I want you to get married.

JUDAS. What nonsense! Why?

PILATE. What do you mean, why? You are a strange fellow. If I’m not mistaken, I just told you in perfectly clear Russian that I want you to get married.

JUDAS. I’m not in need of that.

PILATE. Then allow me to enquire what it is you do need. I received you as if you had been my own son. You were naked as a stripped linden and barefoot as a goose. I shod you and clothed you; you hung like a raindrop from a leaf—I gave you a home, I made you the first in the land. What kind of hegumen would I be if I didn’t hold my subjects’ welfare dear—especially the welfare of such a subject as yourself? Just look at you—I ask you, what do you look like? Sleep never touches your eyes, and then you’re forever fidgeting about. Believe me: just get married, and everything will be as smooth as oil.

JUDAS. Hardly able to control himself. In that case I’d advise you to get a divorce—you look a bit too oily to me.

PILATE. Get a divorce? Ha-ha! Me! Looks about him complacently, as if prepared to embrace everything that could possibly be embraced, and notices the apple tree with the golden apples. In amazement. What wonders have we here?! Prince, do you see?

JUDAS. Apples.

PILATE. Unable to believe his eyes. Golden ones?

JUDAS. Golden ones.

PILATE. Pick me one.

JUDAS. Impossible.

PILATE. Impossible?!

JUDAS. They don’t belong to us.

PILATE. Just like a little boy. I’ll waste away! Pick me one! I want a golden apple!

JUDAS. The law forbids it.

PILATE. I am the law.

JUDAS. Remaining motionless for a moment. Silence. Abruptly. All right, I’ll get you one. Goes over the fence, tears the lock from the gate and disappears into the orchard.

Zif and Orif, who have been skulking somewhere in the background, hurry forward at the clank of the lock and, shaking with laughter, stare inquisitively at Pilate. The autarch sits with mouth agape, filled with the consciousness of his unlimited majesty and lost in anticipation of the forbidden delight.

ZIF. The law!

ORIF. There’s a maw for you—looks as if he just swallowed an ox.

ZIF. Life and Death.

ORIF. Now that’s what I call a pretty face.

ZIF. He who knows all.

ORIF. See how his belly glows.

ZIF. The light that shineth in darkness.

ORIF. He’s drooling.

ZIF. Destiny incarnate.

ORIF. On his knees. Rejoice, rejoice, O king!

ZIF. On his knees. Rejoice, rejoice, O king!

Zif and Orif conceal themselves at the sight of Judas, who emerges from the orchard with apples in his hands.

JUDAS. Agitated. The old fool … He came rushing at me from behind a bush and tried to hit me. Threateningly, to no one in particular. Well, you have only yourself to blame. You and your pilfering … Hands Pilate the golden apples.

PILATE. Selecting an apple. How splendid to sink your teeth into a golden apple. Taking a bite. As sweet as sugar!

JUDAS. Examining an apple. Not bad. I’ve never come across anything like them. It burns like a hot coal.

PILATE. With relish. You’ve really given me a treat. Simply delicious. Sinking his teeth into another apple. What a dimwit I am. How is it I never noticed them before?

JUDAS. Tossing an apple from hand to hand. You don’t notice anything. A whole tree right in front of your nose.

PILATE. We’ll bear it in mind. Oh, and I’d completely forgotten. We have visitors today: the Monkey King himself is to be our guest.

JUDAS. How interesting.

PILATE. An old and dear friend: a pood of salt we’ve eaten together. Our Jerusalem is the most ancient of all kingdoms; it stands at the center of the earth—the hub of the universe—and the Monkey Kingdom is just a stone’s throw away … It’s a land of dense forests, heat, riches undreamed of. As for the people who live there—rogues, the lot of them: you can’t so much as sneeze without them knowing all about it. There’s nothing the Monkey King doesn’t know, and he doesn’t mind handing out advice either. Heh heh, he comes in and everyone goes crazy, he gives out such a stench of monkey … it would raise the dead. Just wait and you’ll see for yourself. Just have a chat with him. He’s a remarkable fellow: he keeps his nose to the wind when he walks, knows all the back streets and alleys, doesn’t do anything without some hidden reason, lies like a trooper—he’ll shower you with words as if they were autumn leaves, will Asyka the First. What a stroke of luck this is! We have to entertain him. He’s got a terribly sweet tooth.

JUDAS. Does he have many retainers?

PILATE. Ooo! There’s no counting them! At first you think there aren’t all that many, but then they keep on coming and coming, like fish in the River Jordan, and they’ll be singing and clapping their hands—such a shrieking, whooping, pushing and shoving there’ll be. They munch enough sugar in a day to last anyone else a year, and they make such a mess of the floor that there’s no getting it clean afterwards, even if you scrub it for a week. But some of them are very amusing fellows.

JUDAS. Buffoons?

PILATE. What buffoons? Abstractedly. Wait a minute! . . What was that just came into my head? Ah yes! Guffaws. I’ll marry off those old clowns of yours. By God I will! Rubbing his hands with satisfaction. We’ll see, something will come of it … a man and a monkey … Guffaws. Do they go in for that in your country?

The faint sound of a woman’s weeping is heard from the orchard.

JUDAS. Suddenly alert. I don’t know.

PILATE. And we’ll invest you with the monkey insignia. Have you ever seen such things?

JUDAS. Listening intently. No, never.

PILATE. I sent King Herod one not long back, and he was offended. The fool! As if there weren’t all kinds of insignia: you know, some have stars, others have animals, others have … What’s that noise?

JUDAS. Tensely. Yes, there does seem to be some sort of noise.

PILATE. It’s not a fire, is it? Brightening suddenly. Ah! It must be him—the Monkey King! And here I was thinking Lord knows what. The gates must be thrown open.

JUDAS. Trembling all over. Someone is weeping in there.

PILATE. What will you think of next! You’re imagining it. I am never mistaken.

JUDAS. Someone is weeping.

Knocking at the gates.

PILATE. Getting up. Hey, come out, whoever’s there!

JUDAS. Someone in the orchard is weeping.

PILATE. Impatiently. What the devil is this! I’ll poke your eyes out! I’ll flay you alive!

Silence. Enter Orif.

PILATE. Well?

ORIF. Zif will find out right away. A fast one on his feet is Zif—he’ll be there and back in a jiffy. Oh he’s a sharp one—he’ll find out quick as a wink.

Knocking at the gates. Fearful expectation. A messenger appears.

SCENE SIX

Judas, Pilate, Orif, Messenger, Monkey King

MESSENGER. His Majesty the King of the Monkeys, the Great Monkey Valakh-Tantararakh-Tarandarufa Asyka the First.

PILATE. Bid him welcome. The messenger vanishes. To Judas. There! You see, I’m never mistaken. Goes toward the door.

Music: march of the monkeys.

PILATE. On the threshold. Welcome, dear guest—we’ve been awaiting your arrival with impatience. The tables are set, the pies are baked, the honey is flowing, the kasha’s cooked. Hey there, bring in the goose, the ram and the white swan!

MONKEY KING. A star with a flaming tail has appeared in the east. Its path is fiery. Day and night it gleams. It’s moving toward Jerusalem.

PILATE. But we have golden apples.

MONKEY KING. Staring at the wonder. Shams. Fakes.

PILATE. Don’t be afraid. Hold one in both paws. Take a good bite—and then sing their praises.

MONKEYKING. Reluctant to take one. Suddenly recovering himself. Well, we had a bear that flew through the skies—it flapped its legs and steered itself with its tail.

PILATE. But we have golden apples.

MONKEY KING. But we had an armless man who picked up an egg and slipped it into a naked man’s shirtsleeve; a blind man saw it, a deaf man overheard it, a dumb man shouted hurrah and sent a legless man in pursuit.

PILATE. But we have golden apples.

MONKEY KING. But we had a blackamoor arrive. He doesn’t ask to be fed—sits under a pyramid and eats sand.

PILATE. But we have Judas, Prince of Iscariot.

MONKEY KING. Glancing at Judas in bewilderment. But we have … Stops short.

PILATE. Mimicking him. But we have …

SCENE SEVEN

The same and Zif

ZIF. Appearing from the gate. A man has died.

ORIF. I knew it.

ZIF. Our neighbor Simon, the owner of the orchard.

JUDAS. Where?

ZIF. He was found dead beneath the apple tree.

JUDAS. Had he been dead long?

ZIF. Still warm.

JUDAS. What do they want then?

ZIF. They say he was killed.

JUDAS. Who killed him?

ZIF. They demand to see the Hegumen.

PILATE. Flustered. Tell them that I—I have nothing to do with it—I have guests. Please excuse me, Asyka, I’ll be right back. Takes refuge in the palace.

JUDAS. To himself. An old man has been killed. Harshly, curtly. Who dares make such a demand? Who? Disperse the mob, bury the body; all property is forfeit to the treasury, and if he has a wife, let her be brought to the palace immediately!

ZIF. Withdrawing. Royally done.

ORIF. Withdrawing. So be it.

MONKEY KING. Grabbing a golden apple, to Judas. Good lad! Your hand …

PILATE. Peering from the palace through a half-closed door. It’s starting. Now there’ll be the devil to pay!

JUDAS. Frenziedly, as if tearing himself loose from a chain. Whether you be black or red or yellow or white—monster or the most hideous freak—it’s all one to me; all women are one to me. The heart has no memory. The heart may not be judged. The heart may not be answered. You, O Sun, you, O Moon, you, stars, and He by Whose word the earth stands, give me the animal’s power to forget! Arise, you stormclouds, rend my heart asunder: the heart remembers, the heart has not forgotten … My feet are pierced by nails, my hands are pierced by nails, my heart is transfixed—yet I am still alive!

The gate opens to reveal Siboria, accompanied by Zif and Orif.

SCENE EIGHT

Judas, Monkey King, Zif, Orif, Siboria

ZIF. Do not mar your beauty. Do not break your heart.

SIBORIA. Where are you taking me? What have I done to you?

ORIF. Do not grieve. Do not weep.

SIBORIA. Why have you taken me away? What do you want of me?

ZIF. Do not bow your head. Dry your tears.

ORIF. Our prince is not a vixen: he won’t devour you, he won’t tear you with his claws.

JUDAS. Catching sight of the approaching Siboria. Ah, there she is!

MONKEY KING. Tossing up a golden apple with one hand and catching it with the other. A star is coming! A star is coming!

JUDAS. Gazing long and intently at Siboria. Do you know who I am? I am Judas, Prince of Iscariot. After a tense silence, to Zif and Orif. Take her into the palace. Goes on ahead.

SIBORIA. I had a son called Judas.

Curtain

ACT THREE

In Simon’s orchard by the bank of the River Jordan.

SCENE ONE

Zif and Orif

ORIF. He is sitting on a bench not far from the wicket-gate. He croons. “Dawn had not reddened, the sun had not risen, when a dark man came—his hair unkempt and bast shoes on his feet. And by the lily-white hand he took her, and to the green forest he led her. And there she saw a fine new palace with sunlit chambers. And he seated her at a table covered with a white cloth and loaded her with silver and gold.

— Oh for silver and gold I care not, for mother and father, for brothers and sisters care I only.

— Oh be silent, fair lady, do not weep—ten servants shall you have, troubles ten…”

ZIF. Wandering about aimlessly like a drowsy fly. All those damned monkeys—a fine state of affairs! And we have to grin and bear it. Well, it’s true what they say: the Monkey King has only to appear and everyone goes crazy—he’d raise the dead, that devil would! I heard a story about one of them: in two shakes of a lamb’s tail he grabbed hold of a sharp stick and walloped a sleeping woman over the head with it so that her skull split right in two. He just prodded her with the stick and went on his way as if nothing at all had happened.

ORIF. Did he do it out of jealousy?

ZIF. No, no special reason.

ORIF. Well, that’s a monkey for you! Those monkeys could make mincemeat of any one of us.

ZIF. And you should have seen what they did with that slant-eyed wench—you’d have died laughing! One of them kept stroking her and stroking her—quiet as a mouse—then all of a sudden he stuck his knife in …

ORIF. And were they brought to trial?

ZIF. According to our law.

ORIF. They got what was coming to them.

ZIF. That’s the only way—the death sentence for all of them, and no mercy. Prince Judas is not to be moved: he won’t pardon a guilty man.

ORIF. If I had my way, I’d take that Valakh-Tantararakh-Tarandarufa, lay him flat on the palm of one hand and squash him flat with the other, just like that! He’s behind everything. Yes, and he’s not the only one who’d get it … there are one or two others beside … Fulsome flattery, honeyed words, airs and graces. He’s human to the waist—a beast below. He’s turned everything upside down, the swine!

ZIF. They’ll get their comeuppance! Each according to his deserts: some will be stretched on the rack, some will have nails driven into their heads, some will be disemboweled, some will be burned to a cinder, some will be thrown into cauldrons of molten lead, some will be buried to their ears, some will have their heads chopped off. That’ll teach them to fool around with us!

ORIF. Sadly. What’s happening now on the island of Iscariot?

ZIF. There’s been no news for ages. Gone to rack and ruin, you can be sure.

ORIF. In your own house even the corners help.

ZIF. When an ant crawls over the sea—that’s when we’ll return to our island. We shall no more see that island than we shall our own ears. Put it out of your head.

ZIF. Mockingly. What are you all bundled up for then? It’s not winter. Why don’t you unbutton?

ORIF. Irritably. Why don’t you?

ZIF. All right, I will.

ORIF. Teasing him. Well then?

ZIF. Turning his back on Orif. Accursed Wednesday—unhappy day! What an idiotic whim—to make us wear these monkey insignia. And with treasures like these hanging round your neck you’d better not show yourself without something to cover them up. There’s not a soul who wouldn’t hold you up to mockery.

ORIF. Thank God we only have to wear them on Wednesdays. Or we’d have to swelter even more. Whining. I’m in a terrible state. They’ll be the death of me, they will: you get limper than a rotting leaf. Oh to be somewhere a bit cool!

ZIF. So here we are—a laughing stock! That’s what we get for all our services—a slap in the face! We’ve been led by the nose! And there I was thinking they’d be handing us gold by the bagful—three bags apiece. Overcome with indignation. What does he care about us, after all? A pox on these monkey insignia! I have my self-respect too! Call that friendship … The ingratitude!

ZIF. The prince is jealous of us where she’s concerned.

ORIF. Sssh, he’s here in the garden.

ZIF. With her?

ORIF. No, with the Hegumen.

ZIF. Where’s Siboria then?

ORIF. She went to the palace. Meaningfully. She always makes sure that she walks past me. She’s a real …

ZIF. You need to keep an eye on that kind or they’ll cuckold you in a jiffy.

ORIF. With satisfaction. It’s not so long since they were married and she’s climbing the wall already.

ZIF. Stroking his whiskers. And that pipsqueak doesn’t take a blind bit of notice. Digging Orif in the ribs. I’ll wager there’s something she’ll be needing!

ORIF. Not worth getting mixed up in that.

ZIF. It is worth it—even very much so … Bitterly. So he gets himself a fine wench, and all we get are these … monkey insignia. And that’s not all … Just think what he wanted us to do: marry a monkey, he says! With a grimace of disgust. Try it yourself, if that’s your fancy.

ORIF. I still have nightmares about that filthy beast. I almost went out of my mind.

ZIF. And I got a black one with thick lips, absolutely repulsive … I spat right in her face.

ORIF. Hissing. Mouse tail—cockroach eye!

ZIF. It’s clear what the trouble is: Prince Judas is jealous.

ORIF. Wolves’ carrion—bag of hay!

ZIF. It’s gnawing at his heart: and so he makes a mock of us.

ORIF. Don’t even talk about it! What has this Jerusalem got to offer? Be it in love or soul or conscience—nothing makes sense. Now on the island things were different: eat your fill and push your plate away. But here you go hungry the whole year round. Back at home, you eat a bun, you feel like another one, you can’t resist a third. They’re monsters here, not decent folk. You struggle, you wear yourself out like a river between its banks. You’re either numb with cold or baked alive. Something like eggshell is slowly spreading all over my body. I don’t see how things could get worse.

ZIF. I tell you that there’s going to be such a fine old to-do here that the feathers will fly—all hell will be let loose.

ORIF. In alarm. Not that Monkey again? I can’t take any more of that. I’m clearing out.

ZIF. Nobody’s seen hair nor hide of the Monkey King for ages: he knows when to make himself scarce. No, a strange kind of man has appeared: he raises the dead, gives the blind back their sight, has power over the winds and waves, and when he goes forth he is a shining light to all the world, the grass of the fields and beasts bow down before him, and there’s nothing his eyes can’t see through. They say that this man and no other will be king of Jerusalem.

ORIF. And the Hegumen will be sent packing?

ZIF. He won’t be handled with kid gloves, that’s for sure! He’ll get a taste of his own medicine. A terrible time is at hand: such doings there’ll be—death will follow on destruction, mark my words!

ORIF. Sinking down. I’m an old man now, two and seventy summers weigh me down; I don’t need newfangled things, I don’t need riches. No matter how you twist and turn, time will claim its own. Once I was otherwise—handsome, lithe, you could slip me through a ring. My strength has gone from me. There’s no returning to the days of my youth. Squats. Nothing is sweeter than sleep.

ZIF. Sleep and death are brothers. There’s a storm brewing, and here you are moping. I’m still a fine fellow: I can still cut a caper or two!

ORIF. On the verge of tears. Oh for a bite of something sour! Everything’s lost its savor … I’m deathly afraid of that storm.

ZIF. Up with you then! Chaffing him. Let’s go and get some goat-milk curds. With a wink. Or shall we feed you with honey pancakes? Oh you frogspawn you! Softy!

Zif and Orif move away into the orchard. A storm gathers.

SCENE TWO

Zif and Unkrada

ZIF. Coming back. Everything’s gone dark in front of my eyes. No, I couldn’t be mistaken. It is she—Unkrada. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.

UNKRADA. Following him in. You recognized me?

ZIF. I’d know you among a thousand. You haven’t changed in the least, Unkrada!

UNKRADA. Shhh! No one must know. Where is Judas?

ZIF. Here, in the orchard. His wife is in the palace.

UNKRADA. He’s married?

ZIF. The honeymoon year is over.

UNKRADA. Who is she?

ZIF. Siboria, the wife of our neighbor Simon.

UNKRADA. I knew nothing of this.

ZIF. The prince will soon be here.

UNKRADA. After some thought. Do you know the road to the quay?

ZIF. A merry road—of course I know it!

UNKRADA. Will you escort me there? No one must know. I do not wish it … Do you understand? Our ships have not all cast anchor yet. Will you escort me?

ZIF. Whenever you wish.

UNKRADA. I want to know everything.

ZIF. You won’t stay?

UNKRADA. I shall return later. I shall come in a different guise.

ZIF. Quick, let’s go! Do you hear?

UNKRADA. Listening intently. Judas?

ZIF. With the Hegumen.

Unkrada and Zif exit hurriedly.

SCENE THREE

Judas and Pilate

PILATE. Emerging from the garden, to Judas. You’re always able to reason so calmly about everything. This man’s teaching is absurd.

JUDAS. Deliberately. He is one of those who appear in times of oppression, when the hand of authority is strong and there’s peace and quiet throughout the land. A fearful time is upon us. Cemeteries—graves scattered with earth—only seem to be at rest, and what they hide—all the stifled longing of the earth—still lives, and secretly in the silence it is forging a heart from the tears of men in the flames of their anger, and that heart, proud and fearless, it will set in one man’s breast … He will fall like a thunderbolt, avenging thousands, and his vengeance will be more cruel than a thousand vengeances … No, he is greater than any avenger, he is more powerful than a prophet who brings down fire and pestilence upon the earth, he is higher than man. The winds bear him. Beasts, plants and stones talk to him and own him their lord; birds give heed to him. Life is beyond our understanding: men live, not knowing for what; they suffer torment, not knowing why. And truth is yours and truth is mine—truth is everywhere, yet nowhere to be found. He will justify life, he will give a new law.

PILATE. Law! He wants to be king? King of Jerusalem!

JUDAS. Mysteriously. Now he has halted where three roads meet. He awaits another … and a man must come to him, one who is tormented, who finds no comfort anywhere, who is willing to take upon himself the ultimate, the most terrible guilt, that the cup of sin may overflow and that by his sacrifice the way may be opened for him who waits …

PILATE. What sacrifice? As it is, we do everything we can for them.

JUDAS. Not answering; to himself. But the heart that has taken upon itself the ultimate, most terrible guilt, can that heart bear all the burden of that ultimate guilt?

PILATE. These rebels have done a great deal of harm.

JUDAS. The ultimate sin, the ultimate guilt … It will flood the heart, it will encompass the soul, it will enfold you from head to foot. Men will recoil from you in horror, the power of heaven will fly away from you shrieking, the earth will slide from beneath your feet, and you will remain alone—you will be suspended in air, you will hang alone between earth and heaven.

PILATE. With growing irritation. What more do they want, then? How dare they? My head’s spinning. Of course we shall find ways. I shall look to you, prince, as a tower of strength. Stopping short. What a black cloud! Spring hail is flying. There will be ringing in heaven.

JUDAS. A storm is approaching.

PILATE. And how is your wife? Are you happy?

JUDAS. My wife? . .

PILATE. Is she ailing? You know, I told you, I warned you … Choose another one if you like. That’s easily arranged.

JUDAS. No, I didn’t mean that. We love each other. She’s cheerful, calm, meek as the dew. At times she’s moody. On sultry days at the end of the month—days like these.

PILATE. Do you know, that happens with me too.

JUDAS. Here she is.

Siboria walks through the orchard and stops by the apple tree.

PILATE. Observing Siboria. Not bad looking.

JUDAS. She stands by the apple tree and weeps.

PILATE. For the old man?

JUDAS. No, for her son.

PILATE. I didn’t know they had children.

JUDAS. They had one son. On the night he was to be born, this apple tree with golden apples miraculously appeared. There is a great mystery in this.

PILATE. You haven’t talked to her about it?

JUDAS. Never.

PILATE. She’s melting away like a candle. Look, she’s kissing the earth. She imagines herself to be at her son’s grave.

PILATE. I’m going. I feel like a bite of something. Tears aren’t to my taste, and graves sicken me. Let’s go.

JUDAS. She feels better when she’s alone. I’ll come in a moment. You go on.

Pilate goes out in the direction of the palace. Judas remains behind.

SCENE FOUR

Siboria and Judas

SIBORIA. She stands by the apple tree, lamenting. Little did I think, little did I dream that I would live to this sad parting and be left to moan in sorrow and misfortune. I can no longer mourn in silence—the fierce grief that consumes me must be given utterance. My heart beats only in longing for you, wasting away with grief, and there is none to comfort me. Every hour, every minute, be it at noontide or midnight, I cannot eat, I cannot drink without shedding tears. O bitter weariness! Poor heart, morning to evening consumed with grief. You were whiter than white snow, ruddier than the flaming sun, more lovely than the silvery moon. Mountains close upon me—grief encompasses me. Draw breath and answer me! Or have you, forgetting your own mother, become enamored of damp mother earth? Blizzards arose, bringing with them snow—and that to my grief; black clouds emerged from white, bringing fierce storms—and that to my misfortune; they have carried away my precious darling, they have buried him beneath the earth. Dawn will come, but you will not arise: you have sworn brotherhood to black night. The great fiery tears of the stars will arise and gaze at you, and fall, but you will not stir. If I pluck flowers and lay them on your grave, my burning tears will keep them from fading. Who will drink my tears, if not the damp earth? O you, my unforgettable one! Dreaming and waking I weep and do not see you. Grief is wasting me away. Was it for this I conceived you, was it for this I loved you? Where are you? Has the blue sea swallowed you or lulled you to sleep, crooning, “Sing lullaby, blue sea, sing lullaby?” Where are you? O tell me, tell me truly. I stand here close to you, alone, and long have I waited for an answer. Or do you not know the voice of your own mother, choked with sobbing? I bow before you, I kiss your lips—whisper into my ear, bring a joyless woman joy, embrace her who embraces you … Awake, arouse yourself from your eternal slumber!

JUDAS. Siboria … Siboria gazes at Judas, her arms extended. He goes up to her. Siboria, tell me … I have stood here and listened to you. Your lamentation rends my heart. Have pity on yourself. Do you not love me?

SIBORIA. I love you!

JUDAS. My sweet, my lovely turtle-dove! We shall always love each other. We shall be together for eternity. The two of us—forever and ever. Neither snows nor frosts shall part us. Caressing her, softly. Open your heart to me. Have no fear. Siboria hangs her head. I shall help you.

SIBORIA. There is no help for me.

JUDAS. Does some sin weigh upon your soul?

SIBORIA. I am beyond all comfort.

JUDAS. With what do you reproach yourself?

SIBORIA. After an inward struggle, bowing very low. I have committed a grievous sin.

JUDAS. Does anyone know of it?

SIBORIA. Simon knew.

JUDAS. Resolutely, after a silence lasting some moments. Siboria, whatever your sin, be it even the most terrible, I swear to you that I will take it upon myself.

SIBORIA. I shall never find absolution. It is a sin that cannot be washed away with repentance. I have needlessly destroyed a helpless, innocent soul.

JUDAS. Whatever your sin, I take it upon myself.

SIBORIA. Despairingly. I have killed my only child.

JUDAS. Your son?

SIBORIA. My son … I shall tell you, I shall conceal nothing.

JUDAS. Softly. Tell me.

SIBORIA. With an effort of will, calmly. In the year of my marriage I dreamed a dream. A winged youth appeared to me and seared me as with fire, and he said to me that I would give birth to a son who would destroy all our house: “He will kill his father, marry his mother and be king, but woe unto his soul—woe exceeding woe, grief exceeding grief—it would have been better for him had he never been born.” I told my husband, and Simon laughed and made a joke of it. That very night I conceived. And when our son was born we were seized with fear: we wanted to kill him—but we could not raise a hand for pity; to let him remain with us, to bring him up was fearful. I knocked together a little raft out of planks, sealed the little coffin with pitch and lined it with straw. I took the child, washed him with my tears, dried him with my tresses, wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid the little one in the coffin; I inscribed his name on a parchment and put in a golden apple for him to play with. I carried the coffin to the River Jordan and let it float out to sea. I thought to myself: the waves will carry him away and the sea will surely swallow him. And the sea did swallow him. Simon lived to old age, no one laid a finger on him, and he died suddenly, without absolution. I married you. And my innocent child perished. No one can know the ways of fate. Yet I believed my dream.

JUDAS. Did all this happen long ago?

SIBORIA. Twenty years.

JUDAS. To himself. Twenty years. Aloud. And the apple was from this apple tree?

SIBORIA. The night he was born, the golden apple tree appeared by a miracle. There is not such an apple tree in the whole world.

JUDAS. And if a man were to appear with such a golden apple, he would be your son?

SIBORIA. He will never appear. The sea has swallowed him. There was a time when I waited for him: I would fall to the ground and listen for the clatter of horses’ hoofs … My eyes are dim with weeping. I will never be released from torment.

JUDAS. And what was your son’s name?

SIBORIA. Judas.

A silence. A messenger appears, and after him Zif.

SCENE FIVE

Siboria, Judas, Messenger, Zif

ZIF. Holding the messenger back. Stop! Wait a moment! Where are you going?

MESSENGER. I must deliver a message to the prince.

ZIF. It is not the time now.

MESSENGER. Unkrada has brought news of great moment from the island of Iscariot.

ZIF. What’s that to you! She herself will come and tell it.

MESSENGER. The prince has no idea of …

ZIF. The prince has forgotten the world.

MESSENGER. Happy man.

ZIF. Look how his brow has darkened; it is darker than a stormcloud. Better stay clear of trouble: if he sees you you’re done for!

MESSENGER. Very well then, let her come herself. That’s what I’ll tell her.

Zif and the messenger disappear. Shortly after, Unkrada appears from the direction of the river, unseen by Siboria and Judas.

SCENE SIX

Siboria, Judas, Unkrada

SIBORIA. To Judas, whose silence is becoming unbearable. But why do you say nothing? Give me an answer.

JUDAS. Deliberately. I killed your husband.

SIBORIA. Not understanding. Who killed?

JUDAS. I … I killed Simon.

SIBORIA. Staring at him in incredulity and alarm. You don’t know what you’re saying.

JUDAS. Steadily. At the Hegumen’s command, I came here, came into your orchard, after the golden apples, but before I had time to pick one, an old man threw himself on me, intending to strike me. I pushed him away—the old man had a hard fall and never rose again. It was Simon, your husband. He didn’t die a natural death, but by these hands. I killed him. Can you forgive me?

SIBORIA. She has risen in silent horror. Wait a moment … I don’t know anything … I can’t all at once … Let me collect my thoughts. She walks away, into the orchard; suddenly she stops. O God, how can this be? . . It cannot be possible … Again she begins to walk. I didn’t know anything.

JUDAS. Following her with his eyes. You can’t forgive—you can’t forgive me? He is crushed. Involuntarily he turns his head in the direction of Unkrada; his eyes widen and he staggers back as he recognizes her.

SCENE SEVEN

Judas and Unkrada

UNKRADA. You’ve made your confession?

JUDAS. Who brought you here?

UNKRADA. The sea.

JUDAS. What do you want?

UNKRADA. I bring news from the island of Iscariot.

JUDAS. What has happened?

UNKRADA. You have broken your oath.

JUDAS. And you?

UNKRADA. You believed that … So that’s the way you love!

JUDAS. You betrayed me.

UNKRADA. Your brother has been killed—Prince Stratim.

JUDAS. My brother killed?

UNKRADA. Laughing. The Jerusalem merchants killed him.

JUDAS. I don’t understand.

UNKRADA. You have forgotten everything … But I, in the twilight hour, in that brief time when day and night merge—I would steel my heart, bow my head, hold back my longing … And the forest will be shaken … You have forgotten everything. And the forest will be shaken, and in the groaning and the soughing nothing will be heard, save a solitary human voice. It is I who sing—and the song I am singing sears my heart. O songs of mine, my swift-winged hawks, whither shall I send you? I loved you, Judas, and shall always love you, love you in defiance of wind and thunderstorm and blizzard. A year I passed without you and it seemed an age. There was no thought I did not think. And my longing grew like the evening dark at autumn time. Moving toward him. If I had forgotten you, I would never have come to you. Look, my head is twined about with gold. I am your will, I am your fate. I reach up my arms to place the crown upon your head. The crown I give will not be blown away by winds or washed away by rains or snatched from you by men. I have found you.

JUDAS. Seized with foreboding. Unkrada … Unkrada?

UNKRADA. Your mother has died.

JUDAS. In confusion. My mother?

UNKRADA. She is no mother to you. You are no son to her.

JUDAS. No mother to me? . .

UNKRADA. Come closer. I am not a walking fire: I will not burn you.

JUDAS. What are you saying! Approaching Unkrada. That cannot be.

UNKRADA. For twenty years your mother kept her secret, and only on her deathbed did she resolve to make confession to the king. She had long been sterile—everyone knew of it—and wanted a child. She went nowhere and prayed continually to the sea alone. One day she was praying at the sea’s edge when she noticed a little coffin, sealed with pitch, that the waves had cast up; inside it on some straw lay a baby. There was also a parchment inscribed with a name and a curious golden apple—for him to play with. Here is the apple! It burns like a hot coal. She gives Judas the apple. Now you are a free man. There is nothing to fear. It is dark between earth and heaven. No one can know the ways of fate. All prophecies are false.

JUDAS. Speaking with his lips alone. Prophecies are false … And this apple?

UNKRADA. Golden as the sun!

JUDAS. The sun does not lie.

UNKRADA. The king awaits you, the king will yield his kingdom to you. The winds have grown calm in the field, the earth is at peace, the great wave has rolled back to sea. The lowering, salt, black sea, no longer churned by the ill weather, is at rest. Gently its water ebb and flow. The ship stands ready. Reaches out her hand to Judas. Why are you standing there? I am not a crawling serpent, I will not bite you. Bitterly. Or are you loath to leave your cosy nest, your shady garden? Your wife is meek, she will forget everything. You killed the old man, her husband—what of it? You have repented. She will forgive you. And you will live at peace together, and your lives will pass like a bird in flight! Angrily. Go, take your leave of her. Judas continues to stand before her with eyes downcast. King! You are king!

JUDAS. Shuddering with an effort. See how she fares—my mother …

UNKRADA. Your mother?! Looks about her in bewilderment. Her eyes fall on the apple tree. She stands amazed. Golden apples! Suddenly recalling something. Where have I seen them before? . . Tormentedly. Golden apples … Quickly she goes over to Judas and examines the apple. Give it to me! She stares into his face.

JUDAS. Not letting go of the apple. She is there, in the garden … my mother …

UNKRADA. Drawing back Your wife!

JUDAS. And mother.

UNKRADA. Suppressing the shriek which rises to her throat, she retreats into the garden, moving uncertainly and looking about her as she goes; she quickly returns. In a whisper. Sleep has overcome her—she lies beneath the apple tree. Her golden tresses are spread over the earth like the rays of the sun. It is as if the sun were sleeping in an apple orchard. Pink blossoms fall upon her eyelids. Crying out. Look! A black cloud is passing over us … A thunderbolt will strike her dead.

JUDAS. Draws himself to his full height. Throws away the apple. Makes the sign of the cross over himself. I am ready.

UNKRADA. Blocking his path. Where are you going?

JUDAS. To the crossroads.

UNKRADA. As if in her sleep. To the place where three roads meet.

JUDAS. To take upon myself for the whole world the ultimate, the most terrible sin.

UNKRADA. I shall follow you. We shall go together … Do you know the name of the ultimate sin?

JUDAS. After a moment’s thought; to himself. The ultimate sin …

UNKRADA. As if suddenly bursting into bloom. Its name is—betrayal.

JUDAS. I am ready. In a silence that presages storm, he begins to move.

UNKRADA. Rushing after him. No! You are king. The sea is yours. The ocean is yours. On her knees. Stop! As earth falls upon earth—softly, tenderly—so I upon you … Frenziedly. Your shadow is leaving you. You have no shadow now! Judas! Crawling after him. Traitor … traitor … traitor…

Curtain

1908