Ben-Hur: A tale of the Christ
Antioch. To the rabbis I will accuse you of impenitence; to her—”
“Well, to her?”
“I will repeat what you have said to me under the lifted cup, with the
gods for witnesses.”
He was still a moment, as if waiting for the Egyptian to go on. With
quickened fancy he saw Esther at her father’s side listening to the
despatches he had forwarded—sometimes reading them. In her presence he
had told Simonides the story of the affair in the Palace of Idernee.
She and Iras were acquainted; this one was shrewd and worldly; the
other was simple and affectionate, and therefore easily won. Simonides
could not have broken faith—nor Ilderim—for if not held by honor, there
was no one, unless it might be himself, to whom the consequences of
exposure were more serious and certain. Could Esther have been the
Egyptian’s informant? He did not accuse her; yet a suspicion was sown
with the thought, and suspicions, as we all know, are weeds of the mind
which grow of themselves, and most rapidly when least wanted. Before he
could answer the allusion to the little Jewess, Balthasar came to the
pool.
“We are greatly indebted to you, son of Hur,” he said, in his grave
manner. “This vale is very beautiful; the grass, the trees, the shade,
invite us to stay and rest, and the spring here has the sparkle of
diamonds in motion, and sings to me of a loving God. It is not enough
to thank you for the enjoyment we find; come sit with us, and taste our
bread.”
“Suffer me first to serve you.”
With that Ben-Hur filled the goblet, and gave it to Balthasar, who
lifted his eyes in thanksgiving.
Immediately the slave brought napkins; and after laving their hands and
drying them, the three seated themselves in Eastern style under the
tent which years before had served the Wise Men at the meeting in the
Desert. And they ate heartily of the good things taken from the camel’s
pack.
CHAPTER III
The tent was cosily pitched beneath a tree where the gurgle of the
stream was constantly in ear. Overhead the broad leaves hung motionless
on their stems; the delicate reed-stalks off in the pearly haze stood
up arrowy-straight; occasionally a home-returning bee shot humming
athwart the shade, and a partridge creeping from the sedge drank,
whistled to his mate, and ran away. The restfulness of the vale, the
freshness of the air, the garden beauty, the Sabbath stillness, seemed
to have affected the spirits of the elder Egyptian; his voice,
gestures, and whole manner were unusually gentle; and often as he bent
his eyes upon Ben-Hur conversing with Iras, they softened with pity.
“When we overtook you, son of Hur,” he said, at the conclusion of the
repast, “it seemed your face was also turned towards Jerusalem. May I
ask, without offence, if you are going so far?”
“I am going to the Holy City.”
“For the great need I have to spare myself prolonged toil, I will
further ask you, Is there a shorter road than that by Rabbath-Ammon?”
“A rougher route, but shorter, lies by Gerasa and Rabbath-Gilead. It is
the one I design taking.”
“I am impatient,” said Balthasar. “Latterly my sleep has been visited
by dreams—or rather by the same dream in repetition. A voice—it is
nothing more—comes and tells me, ‘Haste—arise! He whom thou hast so
long awaited is at hand.’”
“You mean he that is to be King of the Jews?” Ben-Hur asked, gazing at
the Egyptian in wonder.
“Even so.”
“Then you have heard nothing of him?”
“Nothing, except the words of the voice in the dream.”
“Here, then, are tidings to make you glad as they made me.”
From his gown Ben-Hur drew the letter received from Malluch. The hand
the Egyptian held out trembled violently. He read aloud, and as he read
his feelings increased; the limp veins in his neck swelled and
throbbed. At the conclusion he raised his suffused eyes in thanksgiving
and prayer. He asked no questions, yet had no doubts.
“Thou hast been very good to me, O God,” he said. “Give me, I pray
thee, to see the Saviour again, and worship him, and thy servant will
be ready to go in peace.”
The words, the manner, the singular personality of the simple prayer,
touched Ben-Hur with a sensation new and abiding. God never seemed so
actual and so near by; it was as if he were there bending over them or
sitting at their side—a Friend whose favors were to be had by the most
unceremonious asking—a Father to whom all his children were alike in
love—Father, not more of the Jew than of the Gentile—the Universal
Father, who needed no intermediates, no rabbis, no priests, no
teachers. The idea that such a God might send mankind a Saviour instead
of a king appeared to Ben-Hur in a light not merely new, but so plain
that he could almost discern both the greater want of such a gift and
its greater consistency with the nature of such a Deity. So he could
not resist asking,
“Now that he has come, O Balthasar, you still think he is to be a
Saviour, and not a king?”
Balthasar gave him a look thoughtful as it was tender.
“How shall I understand you?” he asked, in return. “The Spirit, which
was the Star that was my guide of old, has not appeared to me since I
met you in the tent of the good sheik; that is to say, I have not seen
or heard it as formerly. I believe the voice that spoke to me in my
dreams was it; but other than that I have no revelation.”
“I will recall the difference between us,” said Ben-Hur, with
deference. “You were of opinion that he would be a king, but not as
Cæsar is; you thought his sovereignty would be spiritual, not of the
world.”
“Oh yes,” the Egyptian answered; “and I am of the same opinion now. I
see the divergence in our faith. You are going to meet a king of men, I
a Saviour of souls.”
He paused with the look often seen when people are struggling, with
introverted effort, to disentangle a thought which is either too high
for quick discernment or too subtle for simple expression.
“Let me try, O son of Hur,” he said, directly, “and help you to a clear
understanding of my belief; then it may be, seeing how the spiritual
kingdom I expect him to set up can be more excellent in every sense
than anything of mere Cæsarean splendor, you will better understand
the reason of the interest I take in the mysterious person we are going
to welcome.
“I cannot tell you when the idea of a Soul in every man had its origin.
Most likely the first parents brought it with them out of the garden in
which they had their first dwelling. We all do know, however, that it
has never perished entirely out of mind. By some peoples it was lost,
but not by all; in some ages it dulled and faded, in others it was
overwhelmed with doubts; but, in great goodness, God kept sending us at
intervals mighty intellects to argue it back to faith and hope.
“Why should there be a Soul in every man? Look, O son of Hur—for one
moment look at the necessity of such a device. To lie down and die, and
be no more—no more forever—time never was when man wished for such an
end; nor has the man ever been who did not in his heart promise himself
something better. The monuments of the nations are all protests against
nothingness after death; so are statues and inscriptions; so is
history. The greatest of our Egyptian kings had his effigy cut-out of a
hill of solid rock. Day after day he went with a host in chariots to
see the work; at last it was finished, never effigy so grand, so
enduring: it looked like him—the features were his, faithful even in
expression. Now may we not think of him saying in that moment of pride,
‘Let Death come; there is an after-life for me!’ He had his wish. The
statue is there yet.
“But what is the after-life he thus secured? Only a recollection by
men—a glory unsubstantial as moonshine on the brow of the great bust; a
story in stone—nothing more. Meantime what has become of the king?
There is an embalmed body up in the royal tombs which once was his—an
effigy not so fair to look at as the other out in the Desert. But
where, O son of Hur, where is the king himself? Is he fallen into
nothingness? Two thousand years have gone since he was a man alive as
you and I are. Was his last breath the end of him?
“To say yes would be to accuse God; let us rather accept his better
plan of attaining life after death for us—actual life, I mean—the
something more than a place in mortal memory; life with going and
coming, with sensation, with knowledge, with power and all
appreciation; life eternal in term though it may be with changes of
condition.
“Ask you what God’s plan is? The gift of a Soul to each of us at birth,
with this simple law—there shall be no immortality except through the
Soul. In that law see the necessity of which I spoke.
“Let us turn from the necessity now. A word as to the pleasure there is
in the thought of a Soul in each of us. In the first place, it robs
death of its terrors by making dying a change for the better, and
burial but the planting of a seed from which there will spring a new
life. In the next place, behold me as I am—weak, weary, old, shrunken
in body, and graceless; look at my wrinkled face, think of my failing
senses, listen to my shrilled voice. Ah! what happiness to me in the
promise that when the tomb opens, as soon it will, to receive the
worn-out husk I call myself, the now viewless doors of the universe,
which is but the palace of God, will swing wide ajar to receive me, a
liberated immortal Soul!
“I would I could tell the ecstasy there must be in that life to come!
Do not say I know nothing about it. This much I know, and it is enough
for me—the being a Soul implies conditions of divine superiority. In
such a being there is no dust, nor any gross thing; it must be finer
than air, more impalpable than light, purer than essence—it is life in
absolute purity.
“What now, O son of Hur? Knowing so much, shall I dispute with myself
or you about the unnecessaries—about the form of my soul? Or where it
is to abide? Or whether it eats and drinks? Or is winged, or wears this
or that? No. It is more becoming to trust in God. The beautiful in this
world is all from his hand declaring the perfection of taste; he is the
author of all form; he clothes the lily, he colors the rose, he distils
the dew-drop, he makes the music of nature; in a word, he organized us
for this life, and imposed its conditions; and they are such guaranty
to me that, trustful as a little child, I leave to him the organization
of my Soul, and every arrangement for the life after death. I know he
loves me.”
The good man stopped and drank, and the hand carrying the cup to his
lips trembled; and both Iras and Ben-Hur shared his emotion and
remained silent. Upon the latter a light was breaking. He was beginning
to see, as never before, that there might be a spiritual kingdom of
more import to men than any earthly empire; and that after all a
Saviour would indeed be a more godly gift than the greatest king.
“I might ask you now,” said Balthasar, continuing, “whether this human
life, so troubled and brief, is preferable to the perfect and
everlasting life designed for the Soul? But take the question, and
think of it for yourself, formulating thus: Supposing both to be
equally happy, is one hour more desirable than one year? From that then
advance to the final inquiry, what are threescore and ten years on
earth to all eternity with God? By-and-by, son of Hur, thinking in such
manner, you will be filled with the meaning of the fact I present you
next, to me the most amazing of all events, and in its effects the most
sorrowful; it is that the very idea of life as a Soul is a light almost
gone out in the world. Here and there, to be sure, a philosopher may be
found who will talk to you of a Soul, likening it to a principle; but
because philosophers take nothing upon faith, they will not go the