"Lord," he began, thinking—praying—almost audibly, "I have denied you"—he did not say 'Thee'—"and you have cruelly punished me. Perhaps it is just that which proves your real existence; yet if you do not exist any more within me, then I recreate you, O Lord God! I summon you to be existent, I call you; and my Will ought to be enough here to make you come down to me. Where is even the atheist, who when he has reached the very paroxysm of his despair, does not vomit out your name, as if from the very depths of his entrails?—does not tear out of himself the confession of your power, in the realization of his own weakness? If it be you who have brought me here, Lord, is it not because now you are willing to reveal yourself unto me? to hold out your right hand to me? Yes, Lord, I stand on that, now; I need you, once more. It is shameful! Oh, I know that well—you did not hearken at all to Him who cried out to you, "Father, if thou wilt, let this cup pass from me!" But your Son, he was a god—so it seems—and I, I am only a man. I do not want the divine mission of suffering which you have entrusted to me. Listen, Lord—it is not going to be allowed to you—understand that—to assault my honour without my being allowed to defend myself, because you have put me face to face with something unknown to man. You have set before my eyes a fiery Cross—one that is not met in your every-day problems for humanity. Really, really, Lord, you are carrying things too far!" Here a terrible sort of smile came across Reutler's face; he raised his head. "You, you are responsible for this new crime of mine. If I am not your Only Son among all mankind, I am for all that at least—quite alone. You know well that the shame of my soul is the very greatest of all shames; that nothing can go beyond such ignominy as that in me.—Take care, Lord! When I came near to being a priest, I missed holding you in my two hands; I missed the power of creating you, for the consolation of other men; of distributing out your body, sacred to poor human creatures who hunger for—illusions! Take care, then, lest to console me—me, the inconsolable!—I do not terrify you some day with my blasphemies; … crucify you with my finger-nails. Yes, I say it again to you, this is too much! You must come down here, to know what is going on! Come!—I will have it so! I am not mad; until this very night I have not to reproach myself with the least crazy action. But I know now that the fixity of thoughts can carry me whither I have resolved that I would never go—without you." …
"The only kindly choice that you have left for us is, I think, that we should be enemies: but I see that that kindness is not genuine—for you stoop now to take it back. Speak—at last! Must I kill him? Is that what you wish? To-morrow, it can be too late; I shall— 332 —
