(...)And Jesus? Jesus is silent. He goes a little ahead, splashing in the mud, or looking for pieces of grassy land not submerged. But it is also enough to step on them to splash water up to the middle of the shins, as if the foot had stepped on a bag, instead of a piece of earth with grass. Keep silent, let the apostles speak, discontented, entirely men, nothing more than men whom the slightest annoyance makes irascible and unjust.
The southernmost river is already near. Jesus, seeing a man on the back of a mule pass along the flooded bank, asks:
-Where is the bridge?
-Further up. I pass over it too. The other one, the Roman bridge, is already submerged.
Another chorus of complaints... But they hasten to follow the man, who speaks to Jesus.
-In any case, it is better for you to go up into the hills," he says. And he finishes: "Return to the plain when you find the third river after the Yaloc. You will be near the ford. But hurry. Do not stop. For the river grows with every hour that passes. What a horrible season! First the ice, then the water. And strong as now. A punishment from God. But it is just! When blasphemers of the Law are not stoned, God punishes. And we have such blasphemers! You're a Galilean, aren't you? Then you will know the one from Nazareth from whom all the good ones separate themselves because he causes all evils. He attracts the destructive powers with his word! The punishments! It is necessary to hear what those who followed Him tell about Him. The Pharisees are right to persecute him, what a great thief he will be! He must be as scary as Beelzebub. I wanted to go and listen to him, because I had heard very good things about him before. But... they were the speeches of his gang. All unscrupulous people like him. The good ones leave him. And they do well. I, for one, will not try to see him again. And if he comes in my way, I stone him, as must be done against blasphemers.
-Stone me then. I am Jesus of Nazareth. I neither flee nor curse you. I have come to redeem the world by shedding my Blood. Here I am. Sacrifice me, but be just.
Jesus says this opening his arms a little, downward; he says it slowly, meekly, sadly. But, if he had cursed the man, he would not have been more impressed. The man pulls so sharply on the branches, that the mule makes such a sudden stop that it almost falls over the bank into the swollen river. Jesus reaches for the bit and holds the animal, in time to save man and mule.
The man does nothing but repeat:
-"You! You! - and, seeing the act that had saved him, he shouted:
-But I told you that I would stone you... Don't you understand?
-And I tell you that I forgive you and that I will also suffer for you to redeem you. This is the Savior.
The man still looks at him; then he strikes his heel on the side of the mule and runs away quickly.... He flees... Jesus bows his head... The apostles feel the need to forget the mud, the rain and all the other miseries, to comfort him. They surround him and say: "Do not grieve! We have no need of bandits. And that one is. For only an evil person can believe that the slanders said about you are true, and be afraid of you.
-Anyway," they also say, "what imprudence, Master! What if I had attacked you? Why say that it was you, Jesus of Nazareth?
-Because it's the truth.... Let us go to the hills, as you have advised. We will lose a day, but you will get out of the swamp.
-You too," they object.
-For me it doesn't count! The swamp that tires me is the swamp of dead souls - and two tears drip from their eyes.
-Don't cry, Master. We complain, but we love you. If we find those who slander you... We will take revenge.
-You will forgive as I forgive. -But let me cry. But let me weep. After all, I am the Man! And to be betrayed, to be disowned, to be forsaken, causes me pain.
-Look at us, at us. Few but good. None of us will betray you or forsake you. Believe it,
Master.
-To think that we can commit treason is an offense to our soul! -Judas Iscariot exclaims.
But Jesus is grieved. He is silent. And slow tears roll down the pale cheeks of a tired and weary face.
3rd year of public life --Maria Valtorta