Jonah
Judith heaved a deep sigh. “How exciting that must be,” she said. And
she gazed before her with parted lips and dreamy eyes. But the breeze,
cold with dew, soon made her shiver.
“Let me bring you a shawl,” said Hiram. And he returned to the house
for a shawl of heavy silk, dyed in Tyrian purple, with a holy fringe,
which he had brought along with him as a gift to Judith. When he was
gone, Sarah remarked,
“That is the sort of man I like; one who has made a success in the
world and who says right out what he means.
“What a wonderful life he leads. You can see that he knows how to live.
A merchant--yes; that’s the life for a person.”
Judith did not answer. When the Phœnician returned with the shawl, and
drew it around her shoulders, she thanked him faintly; she would not
even have noticed how beautiful it was, if it had not been for Sarah.
The last birds were singing before night; the sky shone with the blue
of evening. Far off beyond the hills lay the great ocean, wide as the
world, with its sails, like orange moons, blowing home from barbarous
lands. And over it, terrace on terrace, the queenly city with its
laughing festivals, its temples, its sacred pools.... She closed her
eyes ... such beauty, such dignity to life, so much to see and hear of;
her young heart, dry with curiosity, filled like a pool with longing
and despair; her pure and ignorant mind gave itself up in abandon to
excitement, to happiness, to festivals with music, to syrup on the
terraces as the sun went down ... to ships and wonder....
“Oh, how I should like to be a merchant,” she cried.
Hiram of Tyre bent his dark head humbly upon her hand.
XII
With a heavy heart Jonah climbed the hill to the garden. He wore
his old coat, and his face was weary and gloomy. He had come to say
to Judith, “We cannot be married because I am poor, and cannot get
anything to do.” But as he drew near the garden, he forgot what he had
come to say, and thought only of seeing her again.
When he came to the tree under which he had sat with her, Hiram, who
was walking with a satisfied air among the flowers, said to him,
“You, there, are you one of the servants?
“Well, just be so good as to bring me a bowl for these roses.”
“I am not a servant,” said Jonah proudly.
“No?” said Hiram. “Then what are you? Are you interested in horses?”
“I am a prophet,” said Jonah.
Hiram made a small bow. “Forgive me,” he said. “In my country the
prophets are dressed a little differently, because they have priestly
connections. However, it is interesting to meet other kinds of
prophets. It is an interesting profession. Well ... what a pleasant day
it is. Perhaps you would do me the favor to prophesy me something.”
Jonah stared at him angrily. “I have some business with the Lady
Judith,” he declared.
“She is in the house,” said Hiram. And the two men stood looking at
each other with surprise and alarm.
Hiram went to fetch her. She came slowly, with downcast eyes, and
cheeks as white as her own lilies. “How do you do, Jonah,” she said.
At the sight of her, Jonah felt his heart beating through his body, and
a strange sweet sorrow rose up in his eyes. He wanted to say to her,
“This is like coming home. I have been so unhappy, but you will comfort
me. Because you love me, you will feel my sorrow. How sweet it is to
have such a secret together.”
“How do you do, Judith,” he said; “I have been away.”
“Yes,” she said. And they stood without speaking, and without looking
at each other.
“Well, did you have a good time?” she asked finally.
It troubled Jonah that she would not look at him. “I did not go away to
amuse myself,” he said simply. And he added in a lower voice,
“Did you miss me?”
“Yes, I suppose so. At least ... I have been so busy. What hot days
these have been.”
“I went to Bethel,” said Jonah. He wondered how to go on; he was
puzzled and depressed. This was not as he had thought it would be.
“Didn’t you know?”
“No.... Did you prophesy again? What is going to happen now? My
goodness, you prophets, you are always going about.
“I suppose you will be going back to the desert soon.”
Jonah stared at her. She kept her head down, and her hands twisted
together. He began to feel as he did sometimes before God spoke to
him, still and empty inside, with a terrible stillness, waiting for
something.
“Judith,” he half whispered.
“Yes, Jonah,” she said, looking up at him, for only a moment, and then
looking away again.
“All the time I was gone, I thought of only one thing. I remembered
only one thing.”
“Yes, Jonah?”--ever so faintly.
“That night in the garden, and the white moon in the trees like a bird
in the branches....
“Do you remember?”
Judith looked away. “That seems like so long ago, doesn’t it?” she
answered.
“‘Long ago’?” cried Jonah, and his heart sank. “Why, it is no more than
seven days ... Judith, have you forgotten?”
“No,” murmured Judith unhappily; “but I do not exactly remember....”
“You said you loved me,” he cried, in a voice which sounded like a
croak.
She put the backs of her hands to her two cheeks, and whispered with
bent head, “What must you think of me?”
“But,” stammered Jonah. Words would not come; he stood staring at her,
eyes wide with unbelief.
“Forgive me,” she said calmly. “You can understand ... I hardly knew
what I was doing. Do not think too badly of me.”
Jonah did not move or speak. But within him there were voices enough,
too many. “What? I do not believe it. It is impossible. No, it is not
impossible. Well, it has happened. But such things cannot happen ... to
you, Jonah, to you....”
He was still, waiting for the clamor to subside, for the voices to
reduce themselves to one voice. He was afraid to move even; bewildered,
horrified, he was like a man clinging with his finger-tips to the edge
of a precipice. If he moved ... if even a little earth slid from under
his fingers....
No, he must keep very still; not a word, not a motion ... then it would
all turn out right again....
It was Judith who moved, and spoke. Coming forward a step, she laid her
hand timidly on his arm. “You will forgive me,” she said. “You have
work to do in the world. You must go on, you must be a great prophet
for my sake. I am going to be married. I shall be so proud of you.”
And turning, she ran back to meet Sarah, who was hurrying out of the
house after her.
Jonah went home. His feet led him back down the hill to his mother’s
house, but he did not notice where he was going. He felt strangely
light-headed, almost as if he had been drinking. His set face, with
wide amazed eyes, was lifted to the sky. And he kept thinking:
“Something has happened, something has happened....”
But what was it? Could he tell? Something had happened out of all
reason, as though a tree had moved, and stood upright on its head. How
could one believe such a thing? But there it was--on its head.
What was God about? And what had he, Jonah, done to deserve such a
thing?
He passed the field where Aaron kept his cows. And suddenly, as he saw
his brother in the distance, his shoulders sagged, his face broke into
creases, his body seemed to fall together; and he stood weakly wringing
his hands, while a wave of physical sickness stormed through his body
... remembering, remembering....
Then he went on again, with clumsy steps, and bent head.
If only it were something he could understand. But how could he
understand it; how could he ever understand? How could one love, he
wondered, and then not love? Love did something to one’s whole being;
it made one gentle, and tender....
How could she have hurt him so, if she loved him?
And where was God all this time? What did He think about such a thing?
“You, up there--God--what have You to say?”
Nothing.
He came slowly into the house, and sat down with his hands clasped
between his knees. One look at him was enough for Deborah; she knew.
But then, she had expected it. And keeping her glance busily upon her
sewing, she began to sing softly to herself.
But her eyes were full of pain.
“_Men dead long ago.
Have set me like a tree...._
“You are tired, my son.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“It has been hot. The poor always feel the extremes of weather most. If
I had a daughter, I would never let her marry a poor man.”
And she glanced swiftly at her son, sunk in despair upon his stool.
“_Let the wind blow,
What is that to me?_
“Everywhere I go,” she continued calmly, “they speak of you with such
admiration. He is a real prophet, they say. Everybody expects great
things of you. It makes me so happy.”
Still Jonah did not answer. And Deborah said, sighing,
“Is it time you were going back to the desert, Jonah?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Well, I suppose you are right. It will be a rest for you, after all
this. We shall miss you. It will be peaceful in the desert.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“I will send Aaron to you soon, with news, and some little comforts
for you. Even if you have to live with the foxes, you can at least be
comfortable.”
Slowly, putting her sewing away, she rose, and came over to him.
“Jonah,” she said gently, and laid her hand ever so lightly upon his
hair, “my boy....
“People are not very kind to one another.”
“No ... Mother....”
She began to sing again, softly, taking his head in her hands, drawing
him gently to her:
“_My roots are in their dust,
My roots are deep, I trust...._”
And Jonah wept, with his head against his mother’s breast.
“_My son is at my knee._”
XIII
Naaman sat beneath his acacia tree. Gentle and austere, his thoughts
usually concerned themselves with the universe and with God, who he did
not believe belonged exclusively to the Jews. However, he no longer
felt called upon to say so, unless he was asked; then he stated his
opinions with dignity but without the least hope of convincing any one.
When any one wished to know why he, who loved peace, clung to such
disturbing ideas, he replied, “I am an old man, and I like to have in
my mind only what is comfortable there.”
Now, however, his brows were drawn in a frown, and he looked gloomily
at Jonah, who sat with bent head at his feet. And his hands, as he
caressed his long white beard, trembled with age, with pity, and with
indignation.
“So, my son,” he said, “you have hurt yourself. When you were a child
you used to come running to me with eyes full of tears, to show me some
bruise you had received. I can still remember what I used to tell you:
if you did not fall you would not get a bump. The one followed the
other, almost as to make one believe that they were the same thing. And
so I used to ask you: Jonah, are you crying because of the fall or the
bump? Well, my son?”
Jonah smiled sadly. “Yes,” he replied. “And then you went on to say
that I was not a philosopher. How that used to wound me, for I wished
above all things to be a philosopher.
“Well, now it is the bump that has made me cry, Naaman.”
Naaman nodded his head. “Exactly,” he said. “But do you think perhaps
you are any more of a philosopher than you were then? I doubt it, my
son. For you bring me your bruise with the same astonishment as of
old, not seeing that, having fallen, you can expect nothing else.”
Jonah spread out his hands in a gesture of discouragement. “How is one
to stand upright in this world then, Naaman,” he said, “being but a
man, and less than a god.”
The old hermit regarded him gravely. “You are not a man, Jonah,” he
said finally; “although,” he added quickly, “you are not a god, either.
But you are not a man in the sense that your brother Aaron is a man.
Nor do you live in the world he lives in. You belong to another world
altogether, as different from that one as Thebes from Nineveh.