Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
JEWS—their political King, their Cæsar. By their instrumentality he
was to make armed conquest of the earth, and then, for their profit and
in the name of God, hold it down forever. On this faith, dear reader,
the Pharisees or Separatists—the latter being rather a political
term—in the cloisters and around the altars of the Temple, built an
edifice of hope far overtopping the dream of the Macedonian. His but
covered the earth; theirs covered the earth and filled the skies; that
is to say, in their bold, boundless fantasy of blasphemous egotism, God
the Almighty was in effect to suffer them for their uses to nail him by
the ear to a door in sign of eternal servitude.
Returning directly to Ben-Hur, it is to be observed now that there were
two circumstances in his life the result of which had been to keep him
in a state comparatively free from the influence and hard effects of
the audacious faith of his Separatist countrymen.
In the first place, his father followed the faith of the Sadducees, who
may, in a general way, be termed the Liberals of their time. They had
some loose opinions in denial of the soul. They were strict
constructionists and rigorous observers of the Law as found in the
books of Moses; but they held the vast mass of Rabbinical addenda to
those books in derisive contempt. They were unquestionably a sect, yet
their religion was more a philosophy than a creed; they did not deny
themselves the enjoyments of life, and saw many admirable methods and
productions among the Gentile divisions of the race. In politics they
were the active opposition of the Separatists. In the natural order of
things, these circumstances and conditions, opinions and peculiarities,
would have descended to the son as certainly and really as any portion
of his father’s estate; and, as we have seen, he was actually in course
of acquiring them, when the second saving event overtook him.
Upon a youth of Ben-Hur’s mind and temperament the influence of five
years of affluent life in Rome can be appreciated best by recalling
that the great city was then, in fact, the meeting-place of the
nations—their meeting-place politically and commercially, as well as
for the indulgence of pleasure without restraint. Round and round the
golden mile-stone in front of the Forum—now in gloom of eclipse, now in
unapproachable splendor—flowed all the active currents of humanity. If
excellences of manner, refinements of society, attainments of
intellect, and glory of achievement made no impression upon him, how
could he, as the son of Arrius, pass day after day, through a period so
long, from the beautiful villa near Misenum into the receptions of
Cæsar, and be wholly uninfluenced by what he saw there of kings,
princes, ambassadors, hostages, and delegates, suitors all of them from
every known land, waiting humbly the yes or no which was to make or
unmake them? As mere assemblages, to be sure, there was nothing to
compare with the gatherings at Jerusalem in celebration of the
Passover; yet when he sat under the purple velaria of the Circus
Maximus one of three hundred and fifty thousand spectators, he must
have been visited by the thought that possibly there might be some
branches of the family of man worthy divine consideration, if not
mercy, though they were of the uncircumcised—some, by their sorrows,
and, yet worse, by their hopelessness in the midst of sorrows, fitted
for brotherhood in the promises to his countrymen.
That he should have had such a thought under such circumstances was but
natural; we think so much, at least, will be admitted: but when the
reflection came to him, and he gave himself up to it, he could not have
been blind to a certain distinction. The wretchedness of the masses,
and their hopeless condition, had no relation whatever to religion;
their murmurs and groans were not against their gods or for want of
gods. In the oak-woods of Britain the Druids held their followers; Odin
and Freya maintained their godships in Gaul and Germany and among the
Hyperboreans; Egypt was satisfied with her crocodiles and Anubis; the
Persians were yet devoted to Ormuzd and Ahriman, holding them in equal
honor; in hope of the Nirvana, the Hindoos moved on patient as ever in
the rayless paths of Brahm; the beautiful Greek mind, in pauses of
philosophy, still sang the heroic gods of Homer; while in Rome nothing
was so common and cheap as gods. According to whim, the masters of the
world, because they were masters, carried their worship and offerings
indifferently from altar to altar, delighted in the pandemonium they
had erected. Their discontent, if they were discontented, was with the
number of gods; for, after borrowing all the divinities of the earth
they proceeded to deify their Cæsars, and vote them altars and holy
service. No, the unhappy condition was not from religion, but
misgovernment and usurpations and countless tyrannies. The Avernus men
had been tumbled into, and were praying to be relieved from, was
terribly but essentially political. The supplication—everywhere alike,
in Lodinum, Alexandria, Athens, Jerusalem—was for a king to conquer
with, not a god to worship.
Studying the situation after two thousand years, we can see and say
that religiously there was no relief from the universal confusion
except some God could prove himself a true God, and a masterful one,
and come to the rescue; but the people of the time, even the discerning
and philosophical, discovered no hope except in crushing Rome; that
done, the relief would follow in restorations and reorganizations;
therefore they prayed, conspired, rebelled, fought, and died, drenching
the soil to-day with blood, to-morrow with tears—and always with the
same result.
It remains to be said now that Ben-Hur was in agreement with the mass
of men of his time not Romans. The five years’ residence in the capital
served him with opportunity to see and study the miseries of the
subjugated world; and in full belief that the evils which afflicted it
were political, and to be cured only by the sword, he was going forth
to fit himself for a part in the day of resort to the heroic remedy. By
practice of arms he was a perfect soldier; but war has its higher
fields, and he who would move successfully in them must know more than
to defend with shield and thrust with spear. In those fields the
general finds his tasks, the greatest of which is the reduction of the
many into one, and that one himself; the consummate captain is a
fighting-man armed with an army. This conception entered into the
scheme of life to which he was further swayed by the reflection that
the vengeance he dreamed of, in connection with his individual wrongs,
would be more surely found in some of the ways of war than in any
pursuit of peace.
The feelings with which he listened to Balthasar can be now understood.
The story touched two of the most sensitive points of his being so they
rang within him. His heart beat fast—and faster still when, searching
himself, he found not a doubt either that the recital was true in every
particular, or that the Child so miraculously found was the Messiah.
Marvelling much that Israel rested so dead to the revelation, and that
he had never heard of it before that day, two questions presented
themselves to him as centring all it was at that moment further
desirable to know:
Where was the Child then?
And what was his mission?
With apologies for the interruptions, he proceeded to draw out the
opinions of Balthasar, who was in nowise loath to speak.
CHAPTER XVI
“If I could answer you,” Balthasar said, in his simple, earnest, devout
way—“oh, if I knew where he is, how quickly I would go to him! The seas
should not stay me, nor the mountains.”
“You have tried to find him, then?” asked Ben-Hur.
A smile flitted across the face of the Egyptian.
“The first task I charged myself with after leaving the shelter given
me in the desert”—Balthasar cast a grateful look at Ilderim—“was to
learn what became of the Child. But a year had passed, and I dared not
go up to Judea in person, for Herod still held the throne bloody-minded
as ever. In Egypt, upon my return, there were a few friends to believe
the wonderful things I told them of what I had seen and heard—a few who
rejoiced with me that a Redeemer was born—a few who never tired of the
story. Some of them came up for me looking after the Child. They went
first to Bethlehem, and found there the khan and the cave; but the
steward—he who sat at the gate the night of the birth, and the night we
came following the star—was gone. The king had taken him away, and he
was no more seen.”
“But they found some proofs, surely,” said Ben-Hur, eagerly.
“Yes, proofs written in blood—a village in mourning; mothers yet crying
for their little ones. You must know, when Herod heard of our flight,
he sent down and slew the youngest-born of the children of Bethlehem.
Not one escaped. The faith of my messengers was confirmed; but they
came to me saying the Child was dead, slain with the other innocents.”
“Dead!” exclaimed Ben-Hur, aghast. “Dead, sayest thou?”
“Nay, my son, I did not say so. I said they, my messengers, told me the
Child was dead. I did not believe the report then; I do not believe it
now.”
“I see—thou hast some special knowledge.”
“Not so, not so,” said Balthasar, dropping his gaze. “The Spirit was to
go with us no farther than to the Child. When we came out of the cave,
after our presents were given and we had seen the babe, we looked first
thing for the star; but it was gone, and we knew we were left to
ourselves. The last inspiration of the Holy One—the last I can
recall—was that which sent us to Ilderim for safety.”
“Yes,” said the sheik, fingering his beard nervously. “You told me you
were sent to me by a Spirit—I remember it.”
“I have no special knowledge,” Balthasar continued, observing the
dejection which had fallen upon Ben-Hur; “but, my son, I have given the
matter much thought—thought continuing through years, inspired by
faith, which, I assure you, calling God for witness, is as strong in me
now as in the hour I heard the voice of the Spirit calling me by the
shore of the lake. If you will listen, I will tell you why I believe
the Child is living.”
Both Ilderim and Ben-Hur looked assent, and appeared to summon their
faculties that they might understand as well as hear. The interest
reached the servants, who drew near to the divan, and stood listening.
Throughout the tent there was the profoundest silence.
“We three believe in God.”
Balthasar bowed his head as he spoke.
“And he is the Truth,” he resumed. “His word is God. The hills may turn
to dust, and the seas be drunk dry by south winds; but his word shall
stand, because it is the Truth.”
The utterance was in a manner inexpressibly solemn.
“The voice, which was his, speaking to me by the lake, said, ‘Blessed
art thou, O son of Mizraim! The Redemption cometh. With two others from
the remotenesses of the earth, thou shalt see the Savior.’ I have seen
the Savior—blessed be his name!—but the Redemption, which was the
second part of the promise, is yet to come. Seest thou now? If the
Child be dead, there is no agent to bring the Redemption about, and the
word is naught, and God—nay, I dare not say it!”
He threw up both hands in horror.
“The Redemption was the work for which the Child was born; and so long
as the promise abides, not even death can separate him from his work
until it is fulfilled, or at least in the way of fulfilment. Take you
that now as one reason for my belief; then give me further attention.”
The good man paused.
“Wilt thou not taste the wine? It is at thy hand—see,” said Ilderim,
respectfully.
Balthasar drank, and, seeming refreshed, continued: