Jonah
meditatively. “There it is,” he said; “times change, whether you like
it or not. When I was a young man it was entirely different. Feasts,
festivals.... I can tell you, we knew how to enjoy ourselves. And
what is more, we were religious; it was not like to-day. At any rate,
children were respectful, and considered their parents; when they went
to a war, they brought something home.”
And he lamented the decay of Israel’s greatness.
But Deborah put in a good word for her son. “If he brought me nothing,”
she said, “it was because he knows that really I am satisfied with
what I have, and besides there was nothing there which caught his
fancy.”
“The old days are no more,” said David, and relapsed into gloomy
silence.
Aaron, who had been growing restless in his corner, got to his feet.
“Mother,” he said, “I am going out for a while, to see some of my
friends.”
“Again,” cried Deborah, “so soon, when your brother has just come home,
and Uncle David is here? Aaron, no....”
“I will go with him,” said Jonah quietly; “I should like to visit old
Naaman, who lives at the edge of the village. Do you remember, Mother,
how I used to go there when I was young; and I have not seen him in
many years.”
“Yes,” said Deborah with a smile, “it is true; I remember, you were
always there; whenever I could not find you, I had only to look for you
in Naaman’s house, and there you were. Go along, but do not be late;
and”--she added in a whisper--“when you come home I will have some food
set out for you.”
She turned sternly to her younger son. “Aaron,” she said, “please do
not get into any fresh mischief with your friends. Perhaps you would
do better to go with your brother; it would do you good for a change
instead of running up and down the village with nobody knows who.”
Her gaze followed her sons with tender anxiety across the threshold.
“So thin he looks,” she murmured; “and his cloak is so tattered;
really, I am ashamed. But what can I do; I have nothing; and he is so
proud, besides.”
And she smiled at her brother, with a tear shining in her eye.
Jonah and Aaron walked along in silence, under the dark boughs of
trees. At last Aaron remarked: “Well ... you see ... you have made a
start now with things. The desert is all very well for old men. But
what sort of life is that, after all?”
And in an embarrassed manner he took his leave of Jonah, and went off
to join his companions, whose voices could be heard raised in youthful
laughter among the shadows.
Jonah stood leaning upon his staff in the darkness. A few lights
gleamed among the trees, whose branches bent above him as though to
envelope him in their quiet embrace. The odors of night crept around
him; he remembered his youth, spent in this village, and he felt in
his heart a longing for that lonely boy whose only friends had been
an old man and his own dreams. So much of life had gone by, yet here
he was again, wearier, wiser, still led by hopes, of what he did not
know, hurt by memories, but why he could not tell. He heard the voices
of Aaron and his friends fading in the distance; he knew that in the
shadows young lovers whispered together, although he could not see
them. All about him trembled the happy laughter of youth, the peace of
age, the quietness of rest after labor. The sky of heaven, shining with
stars, bent upon his home a regard of kindness; and the wind, moving
through the sycamores, spoke to him in the accents of the past.
Bowing his head upon his breast, he thought, “Jonah, Jonah, what have
you done with your youth?”
Slowly, and with halting steps, he approached the house of Naaman, at
the village edge.
III
He found his old teacher seated beneath an acacia tree whose branches
perfumed the air. A beam of light from the house, falling among the
leaves, touched Naaman’s white hair and his long, snowy beard with a
gentle gleam. That was how his pupil had remembered him, the picture of
wisdom and peace. He greeted Jonah with affection, but without surprise.
“It is you, my son,” he said. “I am glad to see you again. Your fame
has spread, for I heard of you, no later than to-day, as the young
prophet who had inspired the king at Bethel.”
And he added gayly, “Come, sit here beside me, and tell me about
yourself. As you see, my tree is blossoming again. Thus, at the end of
my life, it is vouchsafed me to behold each year the return of spring
and the marriage of earth with the Eternal One.”
“I do not know what you mean by the Eternal One,” said Jonah; “for all
the gods are immortal and eternal. It is only you and I, Naaman, who
grow older each year. But I am glad to see that you are well, and to
know that your tree is blossoming.”
Naaman replied gently, “My son, you have traveled, and you have learned
something. Have you not learned that there is only one God? Did you not
learn that in the desert, Jonah?”
“No, Naaman,” said Jonah gravely, “I have not learned it. I have been
in the desert, where God is. And I have also been in Tyre in the month
before our Passover, when the quail return in great numbers to mourn
the death of a god. I will tell you something about Tyre: there, before
they are married, the maidens sacrifice their hair to Astarte. You
should travel, Naaman, and hear of other gods.”
“I do not need to travel,” replied Naaman; “here in this quiet garden
the sun sets and the moon rises; the breeze of evening whispers through
the leaves of my acacia tree, and I see through the branches the stars
which have not changed; I hear the voices of cicada, shrill and sad,
as when I was a boy, I hear the herds winding down from the hills. All
is as it was and as it will be; and my heart overflows with love and
peace.”
Jonah shrugged his shoulders. “That is all very well for you,” he
repeated, “but when one goes about, as I do, one sees many strange
things. In Aram, for instance, there are gods which look like snakes.
But it is possible to charm them with a flute. What has that to do with
the God of the Jews?”
“Were you not also in Aram?” asked Naaman quietly. “Yet you are a Jew.”
“I was with the army ...” said Jonah.
But Naaman broke in, continuing: “Do you imagine that God would be
content with a few tribes and a strip of sea-coast on this earth, which
He created with so much trouble? Such an idea is highly improbable.
Moreover, there is a regularity about the seasons which would be
impossible in the case of a number of gods.”
But Jonah shook his head. “That is all nonsense, Naaman,” he said. “I
cannot understand it. Why should God send the Jews to take the country
and the flocks of the Aramæans, if they already belong to Him? And if
there is no other God but Israel’s God, then who created the other
people of the earth? You see into what difficulties an idea of this
sort inevitably leads you. There is no doubt that our God is the true
God, but to say that He is the only God does not seem to be justified,
in the light of history.”
“What do we learn from history?” asked Naaman. “Little enough and
nothing to our credit. The golden calf of Og has grown to be a bull.
Well, so much for history.”
But Jonah replied discontentedly, “That is all very well theologically
speaking, but you lose sight of the problems of administration.” And he
repeated to Naaman what Amaziah, the High Priest, had told him.
“After all,” he said, “men must worship God in some form or other.”
But Naaman replied with grave anxiety:
“That is not the voice of Jonah that I hear. My son, do not let
yourself be persuaded by those to whose ears the divine speech has
never penetrated. God does not speak in the Temple, but in the silence
of the heart. The hearts of His prophets are His tabernacles. There, in
the quiet, in the hush of lonely piety, He speaks to Israel in tones
of sorrow and command. Let us keep His tabernacles holy and austere. Go
back to the desert, Jonah; and do not meddle with the affairs of this
world.
“Go back to the desert, my son.”
Jonah remained silent for a moment, gazing out at the soft spring night
with its faint shine and shadow of leaves. At last he said slowly,
“Well, of course, after a while....” But he thought to himself, “Must I
hurry? A little holiday will not do me any harm.
“I thought,” he said doubtfully to Naaman, “that I might stay a few
days with my mother, who is growing old, and who after all does not see
so much of me.”
But Naaman shook his head. “My son,” he said, “you cannot have both
heaven and earth. If you are so fortunate as to count angels among your
friends, it is because you have no mother and no brother. Be lonely,
and content; and do not turn back to this life so full of passion and
injustice. Grief and joy are not for you, Jonah; they are nothing for a
prophet. The desert is your home; do not go too far away from it.”
“You are right, Naaman,” said Jonah, after a while; “one must not get
too far away from the desert.” He rose to go, helping himself to his
feet with his staff. “Good-by,” he said, “my teacher and my friend.
Once again you convince me, a little against my will. As of old, I
leave you, filled with a peace which is not entirely happy.”
And embracing his old teacher, he set off for his mother’s house
through the night.
IV
Prince Ahab lived in a palace of stone and fragrant cedarwood, on a
hill above the village of Gath-Hepher, and almost within sight of the
little cottage occupied by Jonah’s mother. The prince, whose large
holdings in the North had increased in value due to the success of
the war in Syria, surrounded himself with every luxury. Nevertheless,
in the midst of jewels, silks, slaves, and the richest perfumes, he
himself remained simple and straightforward. Of a martial, almost to
say gloomy appearance, he affected the stern manners of the Assyrians,
with whose thick gold fringes he decorated his cloak and his girdle.
He was heavy, but he was vigorous and active; like the nobles of
Assur, he took endless pleasure in hunting, for which he imported
blooded falcons and swift horses from Iran. He lived in the saddle;
and he complained of the degeneracy of Israel. “Effeminate people,” he
exclaimed, “you do not exercise enough.” And the sleepy citizens of
Bethel would be awakened by the trampling of horses and the sound of
horns, as Ahab rode out at dawn to hunt boar in the forests of Baal
Hazor.
In the afternoon, while the king deliberated with his nobles upon
affairs of state, Ahab dozed. Upon being reminded of the presence
before the council of important matters, he remarked that he had been
out riding. And he exclaimed with enthusiasm:
“Exercise is the thing.”
An old woman by the name of Sarah kept house for him in his palace
of cedarwood and broadstone. She was sharp and severe, but she knew
her own value. By noticing the faults of other people, she kept her
self-respect. She managed the house and the slaves, and acted as nurse
to Ahab’s niece, his sister’s child, Judith.
Judith at sixteen possessed a voluptuous body, a pious spirit, and an
inexperienced mind. Her gentle soul united in itself the gay ardors of
a child with the cloudy desires of a woman. Everything surprised her,
and everything pleased her; she was anxious to know everything, and she
knew nothing. Eager and trusting, her brown eyes explored with sympathy
but without understanding the life she saw all about her. She was happy
and dreamy by turns; but sometimes at night her pillow was wet with
tears. She would have said that something beautiful had made her cry,
perhaps a thought, perhaps a feeling. But she could not have explained
what it was, not even to Sarah, to whom she told everything. Perhaps it
was the moonlight in the courtyard, and the scent of jasmine or lotus
from the garden. But that was lovely; why should it make her cry? Such