Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
its motionless surface, was a suggestion of the Nilotic mother by which
the good man stood praying when the Spirit made its radiant appearance.
Had all these accessories of the miracle come to Ben-Hur? or had he
been transferred to them? And what if the miracle should be
repeated—and to him? He feared, yet wished, and even waited for the
vision. When at last his feverish mood was cooled, permitting him to
become himself, he was able to think.
His scheme of life has been explained. In all reflection about it
heretofore there had been one hiatus which he had not been able to
bridge or fill up—one so broad he could see but vaguely to the other
side of it. When, finally, he was graduated a captain as well as a
soldier, to what object should he address his efforts? Revolution he
contemplated, of course; but the processes of revolution have always
been the same, and to lead men into them there have always been
required, first, a cause or presence to enlist adherents; second, an
end, or something as a practical achievement. As a rule he fights well
who has wrongs to redress; but vastly better fights he who, with wrongs
as a spur, has also steadily before him a glorious result in prospect—a
result in which he can discern balm for wounds, compensation for valor,
remembrance and gratitude in the event of death.
To determine the sufficiency of either the cause or the end, it was
needful that Ben-Hur should study the adherents to whom he looked when
all was ready for action. Very naturally, they were his countrymen. The
wrongs of Israel were to every son of Abraham, and each one was a cause
vastly holy, vastly inspiring.
Ay, the cause was there; but the end—what should it be?
The hours and days he had given this branch of his scheme were past
calculation—all with the same conclusion—a dim, uncertain, general idea
of national liberty. Was it sufficient? He could not say no, for that
would have been the death of his hope; he shrank from saying yes,
because his judgment taught him better. He could not assure himself
even that Israel was able single-handed to successfully combat Rome. He
knew the resources of that great enemy; he knew her art was superior to
her resources. A universal alliance might suffice, but, alas! that was
impossible, except—and upon the exception how long and earnestly he had
dwelt!—except a hero would come from one of the suffering nations, and
by martial successes accomplish a renown to fill the whole earth. What
glory to Judea could she prove the Macedonia of the new Alexander!
Alas, again! Under the rabbis valor was possible, but not discipline.
And then the taunt of Messala in the garden of Herod—“All you conquer
in the six days, you lose on the seventh.”
So it happened he never approached the chasm thinking to surmount it,
but he was beaten back; and so incessantly had he failed in the object
that he had about given it over, except as a thing of chance. The hero
might be discovered in his day, or he might not. God only knew. Such
his state of mind, there need be no lingering upon the effect of
Malluch’s skeleton recital of the story of Balthasar. He heard it with
a bewildering satisfaction—a feeling that here was the solution of the
trouble—here was the requisite hero found at last; and he a son of the
Lion tribe, and King of the Jews! Behind the hero, lo! the world in
arms.
The king implied a kingdom; he was to be a warrior glorious as David, a
ruler wise and magnificent as Solomon; the kingdom was to be a power
against which Rome was to dash itself to pieces. There would be
colossal war, and the agonies of death and birth—then peace, meaning,
of course, Judean dominion forever.
Ben-Hur’s heart beat hard as for an instant he had a vision of
Jerusalem the capital of the world, and Zion, the site of the throne of
the Universal Master.
It seemed to the enthusiast rare fortune that the man who had seen the
king was at the tent to which he was going. He could see him there, and
hear him, and learn of him what all he knew of the coming change,
especially all he knew of the time of its happening. If it were at
hand, the campaign with Maxentius should be abandoned; and he would go
and set about organizing and arming the tribes, that Israel might be
ready when the great day of the restoration began to break.
Now, as we have seen, from Balthasar himself Ben-Hur had the marvelous
story. Was he satisfied?
There was a shadow upon him deeper than that of the cluster of
palms—the shadow of a great uncertainty, which—take note, O reader!
which pertained more to the kingdom than the king.
“What of this kingdom? And what is it to be?” Ben-Hur asked himself in
thought.
Thus early arose the questions which were to follow the Child to his
end, and survive him on earth—incomprehensible in his day, a dispute in
this—an enigma to all who do not or cannot understand that every man is
two in one—a deathless Soul and a mortal Body.
“What is it to be?” he asked.
For us, O reader, the Child himself has answered; but for Ben-Hur there
were only the words of Balthasar, “On the earth, yet not of it—not for
men, but for their souls—a dominion, nevertheless, of unimaginable
glory.”
What wonder the hapless youth found the phrases but the darkening of a
riddle?
“The hand of man is not in it,” he said, despairingly. “Nor has the
king of such a kingdom use for men; neither toilers, nor councillors,
nor soldiers. The earth must die or be made anew, and for government
new principles must be discovered—something besides armed
hands—something in place of Force. But what?”
Again, O reader!
That which we will not see, he could not. The power there is in Love
had not yet occurred to any man; much less had one come saying directly
that for government and its objects—peace and order—Love is better and
mightier than Force.
In the midst of his reverie a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
“I have a word to say, O son of Arrius,” said Ilderim, stopping by his
side—“a word, and then I must return, for the night is going.”
“I give you welcome, sheik.”
“As to the things you have heard but now,” said Ilderim, almost without
pause, “take in belief all save that relating to the kind of kingdom
the Child will set up when he comes; as to so much keep virgin mind
until you hear Simonides the merchant—a good man here in Antioch, to
whom I will make you known. The Egyptian gives you coinage of his
dreams which are too good for the earth; Simonides is wiser; he will
ring you the sayings of your prophets, giving book and page, so you
cannot deny that the Child will be King of the Jews in fact—ay, by the
splendor of God! a king as Herod was, only better and far more
magnificent. And then, see you, we will taste the sweetness of
vengeance. I have said. Peace to you!”
“Stay—sheik!”
If Ilderim heard his call, he did not stay.
“Simonides again!” said Ben-Hur, bitterly. “Simonides here, Simonides
there; from this one now, then from that! I am like to be well ridden
by my father’s servant, who knows at least to hold fast that which is
mine; wherefore he is richer, if indeed he be not wiser, than the
Egyptian. By the covenant! it is not to the faithless a man should go
to find a faith to keep—and I will not. But, hark! singing—and the
voice a woman’s—or an angel’s! It comes this way.”
Down the lake towards the dower came a woman singing. Her voice floated
along the hushed water melodious as a flute, and louder growing each
instant. Directly the dipping of oars was heard in slow measure; a
little later the words were distinguishable—words in purest Greek, best
fitted of all the tongues of the day for the expression of passionate
grief.
THE LAMENT.
(Egyptian.)
I sigh as I sing for the story land
Across the Syrian sea.
The odorous winds from the musky sand
Were breaths of life to me.
They play with the plumes of the whispering palm
For me, alas! no more;
Nor more does the Nile in the moonlit calm
Moan past the Memphian shore.
O Nilus! thou god of my fainting soul!
In dreams thou comest to me;
And, dreaming, I play with the lotus bowl,
And sing old songs to thee;
And hear from afar the Memnonian strain,
And calls from dear Simbel;
And wake to a passion of grief and pain
That e’er I said—Farewell!
At the conclusion of the song the singer was past the cluster of palms.
The last word—farewell—floated past Ben-Hur weighted with all the sweet
sorrow of parting. The passing of the boat was as the passing of a
deeper shadow into the deeper night.
Ben-Hur drew a long breath hardly distinguishable from a sigh.
“I know her by the song—the daughter of Balthasar. How beautiful it
was! And how beautiful is she!”
He recalled her large eyes curtained slightly by the drooping lids, the
cheeks oval and rosy rich, the lips full and deep with dimpling in the
corners, and all the grace of the tall lithe figure.
“How beautiful she is!” he repeated.
And his heart made answer by a quickening of its movement.
Then, almost the same instant, another face, younger and quite as
beautiful—more childlike and tender, if not so passionate—appeared as
if held up to him out of the lake.
“Esther!” he said, smiling. “As I wished, a star has been sent to me.”
He turned, and passed slowly back to the tent.
His life had been crowded with griefs and with vengeful
preparations—too much crowded for love. Was this the beginning of a
happy change?
And if the influence went with him into the tent, whose was it? Esther
had given him a cup. So had the Egyptian. And both had come to him at
the same time under the palms.
Which?
BOOK FIFTH
“Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.”
SHIRLEY.
“And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law,
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.”
WORDSWORTH.
CHAPTER I
The morning after the bacchanalia in the saloon of the palace, the
divan was covered with young patricians. Maxentius might come, and the
city throng to receive him; the legion might descend from Mount Sulpius
in glory of arms and armor; from Nymphaeum to Omphalus there might be
ceremonial splendors to shame the most notable ever before seen or
heard of in the gorgeous East; yet would the many continue to sleep
ignominiously on the divan where they had fallen or been carelessly
tumbled by the indifferent slaves; that they would be able to take part
in the reception that day was about as possible as for the lay-figures
in the studio of a modern artist to rise and go bonneted and plumed
through the one, two, three of a waltz.
Not all, however, who participated in the orgy were in the shameful
condition. When dawn began to peer through the skylights of the saloon,
Messala arose, and took the chaplet from his head, in sign that the
revel was at end; then he gathered his robe about him, gave a last look
at the scene, and, without a word, departed for his quarters. Cicero
could not have retired with more gravity from a night-long senatorial
debate.
Three hours afterwards two couriers entered his room, and from his own
hand received each a despatch, sealed and in duplicate, and consisting
chiefly of a letter to Valerius Gratus, the procurator, still resident
in Cæsarea. The importance attached to the speedy and certain delivery
of the paper may be inferred. One courier was to proceed overland, the
other by sea; both were to make the utmost haste.
It is of great concern now that the reader should be fully informed of
the contents of the letter thus forwarded, and it is accordingly given:
“ANTIOCH, XII. Kal. Jul.
“Messala to Gratus.
“O my Midas!
“I pray thou take no offense at the address, seeing it is one of love