by George Moore
Impossible! He couldn’t go back to Jerusalem in three days, nor in three weeks. His father would be mortally grieved if he did; and Pilate himself would be surprised to see him back so soon and think him lacking altogether in filial affection if, after an absence of more than two years, he could stay only three days with his father. He must, however, send a letter to Pilate and one that consisted with all the circumstances. The barely stirring foliage of the acacia inspired a desire of composition: a more favourable moment than the present, or a more inspiring spot, he did not think he would be likely to find. He called for his tablets and fell to thinking, but hardly filled in the first dozen lines when his foreman — this time apologising for the intrusion — came to tell him that if he wished to reach Magdala that evening they must start at once. He could not but acquiesce, and — as if contemptuous of the protection of his escort — he rode on in front, wishing to be left alone so that he might seek out the terms of his letter, and his mood of irritated perplexity did not pass away till he came within sight of the great upland, rising, however, so gently that he did not think Xerxes would mind ascending it at a gallop. As soon as he reached the last crest, he would see the lake alone, having — thanks to the speed of Xerxes — escaped from his companions for at least five minutes. He looked forward to these moments eagerly yet not altogether absolved from apprehension of a spiritual kind, for the lake always seemed to him a sort of sign, symbol or hieroglyphic, in which he read a warning addressed specially, if not wholly, to himself. The meaning that the lake held out to him always eluded him, and never more completely than now, at the end of an almost windless spring evening.
It came into view a moment sooner than he thought for, and in an altogether different aspect — bluer than ever seen by him in memory or reality — and, he confessed to himself, more beautiful. Like a great harp it lay below him, and his eyes followed the coast-lines widening out in an indenture of the hills: on one side desert, on the other richly cultivated ascents, with villages and one great city, Tiberias — its domes, cupolas, towers and the high cliffs abutting the lake between Tiberias and Magdala bathed in a purple glow as the sun went down. My own village! he said, and it was a pleasure to him to imagine his father sipping sherbet on his balcony, in good humour, no doubt, the weather being so favourable to fish-taking. Now which are Peter’s boats among these? he asked himself, his eyes returning to the fishing fleet. And which are John’s and James’s boats? He could tell that all the nets were down by the reefed sails crossed over, for the boats were before the wind. A long pull back it will be to Capernaum, he was thinking, a matter of thirteen or fourteen miles, for the leading boat is not more than a mile from the mouth of the Jordan. Then, raising his eyes from the fishing-boats, he followed the coast-lines again, seeking the shapes of the wooded hills, rising in gently cadenced ascents.
A more limpid evening never breathed upon a lake! he said; and when he raised his eyes a second time they rested on the ravines of Hermon far away in the north, still full of the winter’s snow; and — being a Galilean — he knew they would keep their snow for another month at least. The eagerness of the spring would then be well out of the air; and I shall be thinking, he continued, of returning to Jerusalem and concerning myself once more with Pilate’s business. But what a beautiful evening! still and pure as a crystal.
A bird floated past, his black eyes always watchful. The bird turned away to join his mates, and Joseph bade his escort watch the flock: a bird here and a bird there swooping and missing and getting no doubt sometimes a fish that had ventured too near the surface — that one leaving his mates, flying high towards Magdala, to be there, he said, in a few minutes, by my father’s house; and in another hour thou shalt be in thy stable, thy muzzle in the corn, he whispered into his horse’s ear; and calling upon his comrades to put their heels into their tired steeds, he turned Xerxes into the great road leading to Tiberias.
But there were some Jews among the escort who shrank from entering a pagan city. Their prejudices might be overcome with argument, but it were simpler to turn their horses’ heads to the west and then to the north as soon as the city was passed. The detour would be a long one, but it were shorter than argument: yet argument he did not escape from, for as they rode through the open country behind Tiberias, some declared that Herod was not a pure Jew; and to make their points clearer they often reined up their horses, to the annoyance of Joseph, who could not bring the discussion to an end without seeming indifferent to the law and the traditions. But, happily, it had to end before long, for within three miles of Magdala they were riding in single file down deep lanes along whose low dykes the cactus crawled, hooking itself along. One lane led into another. A network of deep lanes wound round Magdala, which, judging by the number of new dwellings, seemed to have prospered since Joseph had last seen it. Humble dwellings no doubt, Joseph said to himself, but bread is not lacking, nor fish. Then he thought of the wharves his father had built for the boats, and the workshops for the making of the barrels into which the fish was packed. Magdala owed its existence to Dan’s forethought, and he had earned his right, Joseph thought, to live in the tall house which he had built for his pleasure in a garden amid tall acacia-trees that every breeze that blew up from the lake set in motion.
If ever a man, Joseph thought, earned his right to a peaceable old age amid pleasant surroundings, that man was his father; and he thought of him returning from his counting-house to his spacious verandah, thinking of the barrels of salt fish that he would send away the following week, if the fishers were letting down their nets with fortunate enterprise.
CHAP. X.
A VERY GOOD guessing of his father’s wonts and thoughts was that of Joseph while riding from Tiberias, for as the horsemen came up the lane at a canter the old man was wending homeward from his counting-house, wishing Peter and Andrew, James and John and the rest good fortune with their nets, or else, he had begun to think, the order from Damascus cannot —— The completed sentence would probably have run: cannot be executed, but the sound of the hooves of Joseph’s horse checked the words on his lips and he had to squeeze himself against the ditch, to escape being trodden upon. Joseph sprang from the saddle. Father, I haven’t hurt you, I hope? I was dreaming. Why, Joseph, it is you! You haven’t hurt me, and I was dreaming too. But what a beautiful horse you are riding! Aren’t you afraid he will run away? Up and down these lanes he would give us a fine chase. No, Joseph replied, he’ll follow me. And the horse followed them, pushing his head against Joseph’s shoulder from time to time; but Joseph was too much engaged with his father to do more than whistle to Xerxes when he lingered to browse.
As we rode past Tiberias, I had imagined you, Father, sitting in the verandah drinking sherbet. We will have some presently, Dan answered. I was detained at my business. Tell me, Father, how are the monkeys and the parrots? Much the same as you left them, Dan answered, as he laid his hand on the latch of the large wooden gate. A servant came forward to conduct them, and Joseph threw his reins to him.
A monkey came hopping across the sward and jumped on to Joseph’s shoulder. Another came, and then a third. Dan would have been annoyed if the monkeys had not recognised Joseph, for it seemed to him quite natural that all things should love Joseph. You see, he continued, the parrots are screaming and dancing on their perches, waiting for you to scratch their polls. Joseph complied, and then Dan wearied of the monkeys, which were absorbing Joseph’s attention, and drove them away. You haven’t told me that you’re glad to be back in Galilee in front of that beautiful lake. Jerusalem has its temple but God made the lake himself. But you don’t seem as pleased to be back as I’d like. Father, it is of thee I’m thinking and not of temples or lakes, Joseph answered, and for a moment Dan could not speak, so deep was his happiness, and so intense. Overcome by it, they walked a little way and Joseph followed his father up the tall stairs on to the verandahed balcony, and when they had drunk some sherbet and Joseph had vowed he had not tasted any like it, Dan interposed suddenl
y: but thou hast not told me, Joseph, how thou camest by thy beautiful horse. He came from Egypt, Joseph answered casually, and was about to add that he was an Egyptian horse, but on second thoughts it seemed to him that it would be well not to speak the word “Egypt” again: to do so might put another question into his father’s mouth; he would not commit himself to a rank lie, and to tell that he had gone to Egypt could not do else than lead him into an intricate story which would indispose his father to listen to Pilate’s projects, or at least estrange Dan’s mind from a calm judgment of them; so he resolved to omit all mention of Banu, Jesus and Egypt and to begin his narrative with an account of his meeting with the camel-driver Gaddi. But the camel-driver seemed to be the last person that Dan was interested in. But he’s my partner! Joseph exclaimed, and it was he who sent me to Pilate. I’ll tell thee about the Essenes afterwards. And feeling that he had at last succeeded in fixing his father’s attention on that part of the story which he wished to tell him, Joseph said: an excellent governor, one who is ready to listen to all schemes for the furtherance of commercial enterprise in Judea: he has ridded the hills of the robbers; and his account of the summer in the desert with the Roman soldiers, smoking out nest after nest and putting on crosses those that were taken alive interested the old man. I wish he would start on Samaria, Dan mentioned casually; and Joseph replied, and he will as soon as he is certain that he can rely on the help of men like thee. Pilate’s favour is worth winning, Father, and it can be won. I doubt thee not, but wilt tell how it may be won, my boy? By falling in with his projects, Joseph answered, and began his relation. And when he had finished, Dan sat meditating, casting up the account: Pilate’s good will is desirable, he said, but a large sum of money will have to be advanced. But, Father, the carrying trade has been a great success. Well, let us go into figures, Joseph. And they balanced the profits against the losses. Without doubt thou hast done well this last half year, Dan said, and if business don’t fall away —— But, Father, Joseph interrupted, think of the profit my account would have shown if we had not lost two convoys. The loss has already been very nearly paid off. There are no more robbers and the demand for figs is steady in Jerusalem. Figs ripen much earlier —— Say no more, Joseph. My money is thy money, and if fifty camels be wanted, thou shalt have them. ’Tis the least I can do for thee, for thou hast ever been a frugal son, Joseph, and art deserving of all I have. So Pilate has heard of my fish-salting and maybe that was why he met thee on such fair terms. That has much to do with it, Joseph replied, and he watched the look of satisfaction that came into his father’s face. But tell me, Joseph, has all this long time been spent smoking out robbers? Tell me again of their caves. Well, Father, the caves often opened on to ledges, and we had to lower the soldiers in baskets.
And the tale how one great cavern was besieged amused the old man till he was nigh to clapping his hands with delight and to reminding Joseph of the time when he used to ask his grandmother to tell him stories. Were she here she’d like to hear thee telling thy stories. Thou wast in her thoughts to the last and now we shall never see her any more, however great our trouble may be; and in the midst of a great silence they fell to thinking how the same black curtain would drop between them and the world. She has gone away to Arimathea, Joseph, whence we came and whither I shall follow her. We go forward a little way but to go back again. But I can’t talk of deaths and graves. Go on telling me about Pilate and the robbers, for I’ve been busy all day in the counting-house adding up figures, and to listen to a good tale is a rare distraction. Yet I wouldn’t talk of them either, Joseph, but of thyself and thy horse that all the country will be talking about the day after to-morrow, when thou’lt ride him into the town. And now say it, Joseph: ye are a wee bit tired, isn’t that so? Nay, Father, not a bit. We have come but twenty miles from the last halt, and as for the telling of my story, maybe the loose ends which I’ve forgotten for the moment will unravel themselves while we’re talking of fish-salting — of the many extra barrels you’ve sent out. Now, Father, say how many? At it, Joseph, as beforetimes, rallying thy old father! Well, I’ve not done so badly, but a drop in the year’s trading is never a pleasant thought, though it be but a barrel. And he began again his complaint against the government of Antipas, who had never encouraged trade as he should have done. Now, if we had a man here such as thy friend Pilate, I’d not be saying too much were I to say that my trade could be doubled. But Pilate has no authority in Galilee. Joseph thought that Pilate’s authority should be extended. But how can that be done? Dan inquired, and being embarrassed for an answer, Joseph pressed Dan to confide in him, a thing which Dan showed no wish to do; but at last his reluctance was overcome, and shyly he admitted that his despondency had nothing to do with Antipas nor with a casual drop in the order from Damascus, but with a prophet that was troubling the neighbourhood. A very dangerous prophet, too, is this one; but I am afraid, Joseph, we don’t view prophets in exactly the same light. Joseph was about to laugh, but seeing the smile coming into his eyes, his father begged him to wait till he heard the whole story.
He called up all his attention into his face, and the story he heard was that the new prophet, who came up from Jordan about a year ago, was preaching that the Lord was so outraged at the conduct of his chosen people that he had determined to destroy the world, and might begin the wrecking of it any day of the week. But before the world ends there’ll be wars. Joseph said: but there has been none, nor have I heard rumours of any. We don’t hear much what’s going on up here in Galilee, Dan answered, and he continued his story: the new prophet had persuaded many of the fishers to lay down their nets. Simon Peter, thou rememberest him? Well, he’s the prophet’s right-hand man, and now casts a net but seldom. And thou hast not forgotten James and John, sons of Zebedee? They come next in the prophet’s favour, and there are plenty of others walking about the village, neglecting their work and telling of the judgment and the great share of the world that’ll come to them when the prophet returns from heaven in a chariot. Among them is Matthew, a publican, the only one that can read or write. You don’t remember him? Now I come to think on it, he was appointed soon after thou wentest to Jerusalem. Soon after I went to Jerusalem? Joseph asked; was the prophet preaching then? No. It all began soon after thy departure for Jerusalem about a year ago; a more ignorant lot of fellows thou’st be puzzled to find, if thou wert to travel the world over in search of them. The prophet himself comes from the most ignorant village in Galilee — Nazareth. But why look like that, Joseph? What ails thee? Go on, Father, with thy telling of the prophet from Nazareth. He started in Nazareth, Dan answered, but none paid any heed to him but made a mock of him, for he’d have us believe that he is the Messiah that the Jews have been expecting for many a year. But it was predicted that the Messiah will be born in Bethlehem; and everybody knows that Jesus was born in Nazareth. There’s some talk, too, that he comes from the line of David, but everybody knows that Jesus is the son of Joseph the Carpenter. His mother and his brothers tried all they could do to dissuade him from preaching about the judgment, which he knows no more about than the next one, but he wouldn’t listen to them. A good quiet woman, his mother; I know her well and am sorry for her; but she has better sons in James and Jude. Joseph her husband, I knew him in days gone by — a God-fearing honest man, whom one could always entrust with a day’s work. He doted on his eldest son, though he never could teach him to handle a saw with any skill, for his thoughts were always wandering, and when an Essene came up to Galilee in search of neophytes, Jesus took his fancy and they went away together. But what ails thee? As soon as Joseph could get control of his voice, he asked his father if the twain were gone away together to the cenoby on the eastern bank of Jordan, and Dan answered that he thought he had heard of the great Essenes’ encampment by the Dead Sea. A fellow fair-spoken enough, Dan continued, that has bewitched the poor folk about the lakeside. But, Joseph, thy cheek is like ashes, and thou’rt all of a tremble: drink a little sherbet, my boy. No, Father, no. Tell m
e, is the Galilean as tall or as heavy as I am, or of slight build, with a forehead broad and high? And does he walk as if he were away and in communion with his Father in heaven? But what ails thee, my son? What ails thee? He came from the cenoby on the eastern shores of the Jordan? Joseph continued; and has been here nearly two years? He received baptism from John in the Jordan? Isn’t that so, Father? I know naught of his baptism, Dan answered, but he’ll fall into trouble. I was with Banu, Joseph said, when the hermit saw him in a vision receiving baptism from John; but though I ran, I was too late, and ever since have sought Jesus, in Egypt and afterwards among the hills of Judea. I can’t tell thee more at present, but would go out into the garden or perhaps wander by myself for a little while under the cliffs by the lake. Thou’lt forgive me this sudden absence, Father?
