That is what Joseph did when his feelings nearly overmastered him at the
sight of his brother Benjamin standing before him, all unconscious of
who he was. He "sought where to weep," says the record with quaint
matter-of-factness, for of course he did not want his brothers to see
him weeping just yet. So "he entered into his chamber and wept there."
But Joseph's secret affections being thus recognised and allowed their
expression, he had a duty to perform. He put a curb upon his feelings.
He took a firm grip of himself. He "washed his face and went out, and
refrained himself, and said, Set on bread." One cannot help admiring
that. It was a fine thing to do.
And there are two classes of people in our own time in whom one sees
this same attitude, and never without a strange stirring of heart.
The first and most honourable are those who have already tasted of the
sorrows of war and lost some dear one in the service of King and
country. We speak of the courage and sacrifice of our men, and we
cannot speak too highly or too gratefully about that. But there is
something else that runs it very close, if it does not exceed it, and
that is the quiet heroism and endurance of many of those who have been
bereaved. Time and again one sees them facing up to all life's calls
upon them with a marvellous spirit of self-restraint. God only knows
how sad and sore their loss is. And upon what takes place when they
enter into their chamber and shut the door and face their sorrow alone
with God, it does not beseem us to intrude. Such sorrow is a sacred
thing, but at least we know, and are glad to know, that God Himself is
there as He is nowhere else. It is never wrong and never weak to let
the tears come before Him. As a father understands, so does He know all
about it. As a mother comforteth, so does the touch of His Hand quieten
and console.
But what fills one with reverent admiration is that so many of those
whose hearts we know have been so cruelly wounded have set up a new and
noble precedent in the matter of courage and self-control. They are not
shirking any of the duties of life. They are claiming no exemptions on
the ground of their sorrow, and they excuse themselves from no duty
merely because it would hurt. They wear their hurt gently like a flower
in the breast. They carry their sorrow like a coronet. Out from their
secret chambers they come, with washen face and brave lips to do their
duty and refrain themselves. How beautiful it is! What a fine thing to
see! The sorrowing mother of a noble young fellow I am proud to have
known, said to a friend recently who was marvelling at her fortitude,
"My boy was very brave and I must try to be brave, too, for his sake."
Dear, gentle mother! One cannot speak worthily about a spirit so sweet
and gracious as that. One can only bow the head and breathe the inward
prayer, "God send thee peace, brave heart!" But, surely, to accept
sorrow in that fashion is to entertain unawares an angel of God! The
feeling which underlies this new etiquette of sorrow with the washen
face is not very easily put into words. But it rests, I think, upon the
dim sense that the death which ends those young lives on this noble
field of battle is something different from the ordinary bleak fact of
mortality. If death is ever glorious, it is when it comes to the
soldier fighting for a pure and worthy cause. There is something more
than sorrow, there is even a quiet and reverent pride in the remembrance
that the beloved life was given as "a ransom for many." When one thinks
what we are fighting for, one can hardly deny to the fallen the supreme
honour of the words "for Christ's sake." And it is not death to fall so.
Rather is it the finding of life larger and more glorious still. It is
that that marks the war-mourners of to-day as a caste royal and apart.
It is that that moves so many of them by an inward instinct to wear
their sorrow royally. Hidden in the heart of their grief is a tender
and wistful pride. Lowell has put this feeling into very fine words:
"I, with uncovered head,
Salute the sacred dead,
Who went and who return not--
Say not so.
'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,
But the high faith that fails not by the way.
Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;
No bar of endless night exiles the brave,
And, to the saner mind,
We rather seem the dead that stayed behind."
The other class who are teaching us a new and better way to bear burdens
are the friends at home of those who are on active service. Men, with
sons in the trenches, are going about our streets these days almost as
if nothing were happening, making it a point of honour not to let the
lurking fear in their hearts have any outward expression. Wives and
mothers and sisters are filling their hands and their hearts full of
duties, and putting such a brave face on life that you would never
suspect they have a chamber that could tell a different tale. It is
absolutely splendid. There is no other word for it. I walked a
street-length with a young wife recently whose man has been ill and out
of the fight for a while. She hoped that he might have been sent home,
and who can blame her? but he has gone back to the trenches instead. And
how bravely and quietly she spoke of it! Pride, a true and noble pride
in her beloved soldier, a resolute endeavour to do her difficult bit as
uncomplainingly and willingly as he--it seemed to me that I saw all that
in her brave smile. And I said to myself, "Here is the cult of the
washen face! And a noble cult too! Britain surely deserves to win when
her women carry their crosses so!"
It is easy, of course, to read the thought in their minds. Our men,
they say, are splendid, why should we be doleful and despondent? They
have made a new virtue of cheerfulness; let us try to learn it too. They
have offered everything in a cause which it is an honour to help in any
degree; let us lay beside theirs the worthy sacrifice of the washen face
and a brave restraint. Such, I imagine, is the unconscious kind of
reasoning which results in the resolute and cheerful bearing you may see
on all sides of you every day.
And wherever it is seen, it carries its blessing with it. Others with
their own private burdens and anxieties are encouraged to hold on to
that hope and cheerfulness which are just the homely side of our faith
in God and in the righteousness of our cause.
The cult of the washen face is contagious. It spreads like a beneficent
stain. And since it is entirely praiseworthy, we can but wish it to
spread more and more. Those who come out from the chambers where they
have kept company with sorrow or anxiety, to face life and duty with
shining face and mastered feelings, are not only proving their faith in
the Divine Strength, they are making a precious contribution to the
moral stedfastness of the nation.
"And he washed his face and went out and refrained himself." Good man!