The following morning he went into the wilderness, into the desert of
Judea. He said that he desired to be all alone after the excitement
of the previous day; far from human beings and his own affairs he
wished to take account of his deeds: it was already high time he did
so, for he was very old. He went into the desert, however, in reality
to fast and to torture his body in combat against a desire that comes
from Satan. He went barefoot over the burning sand, on jagged rocks
and through thorns, under the scorching rays of a July sun, without
food or drink, granting himself no rest. Yet the beautiful Athaliah
hovered still before him and behind. Many a time he cast himself to
earth, groaning frightfully. Not from fatigue, not from hunger or
thirst, however, but from despair. Why did she not disappear? He beat
his heart and tore at his breasts. “Lord God, why drivest Thou not
from me this visitation from Satan!”
But he little knew what was still in store for him. When, that
evening, after a meal of figs and water, he lay down upon hard
stones, in a rocky hollow, tired, despairing, wracked by a burning
desire for the beautiful Athaliah, a terrible thought assailed
him. It came altogether unexpectedly, like an enemy from behind
concealment.
_What had he had of all his years, his beauty and his strength?_
These were Jason’s words, but the High Priest no longer knew it. The
thought came to him so overwhelmingly that he groaned and commenced
to tremble, as if he were exposed upon the snow-capped summit of
Mount Lebanon.
He no longer remembered what he had thought the previous night upon
his bed,—what had then made him so strong. One thought alone kept
gnawing at him incessantly: “What have I had of all my life, of my
beauty and my strength?” He even cried to God: “Lord, what have I
had of all my life, of my beauty, and my strength?”
Under the stress of unfulfilled passion his entire life seemed to him
now like a desert. Harsh and ascetic, thorns and stones. Nothing but
debts and debts paid. The body had been nothing; the soul all. The
soul! Who was it crying so within him now? Who was longing within him
now? Was it the soul or the body?
His head sank back and he lay weary and hopeless. All at once he
started up. With frightened eyes he gazed before him and delved into
his soul: How did he know that the truth had been with him,—that his
life had been the true life ordained by God?
He stretched himself out upon his stomach, his chin propped on his
hands, his eyes staring into the desolate night, burrowing, burrowing
into his soul. Somewhere in the distance jackals were howling; a lion
of the desert bellowed with hunger. Johanan heard nothing. He was
cold, and his heart and soul were rent asunder by bloody claws. The
entire people lived altogether differently from him. Were they all
wicked sinners, and was he alone the righteous man? But there was no
righteous man upon earth who had never sinned. What was sin? They had
often ridiculed his severity, crying out against it. Had he really
been too severe? Where was the proper boundary?
He looked up to the sky. He half expected that the heavens would now
open and that he would behold God and hear Him. Then he would know
the whole truth. God would reveal to him everything. To him alone. He
did not remove his eyes from heaven, and a yearning enfolded him. He
longed to see God, to hear Him. He was eighty years old, and for the
greater part of his life had been a High Priest, yet God had never
revealed Himself to him either in reality or in a dream. What he
knew, he knew from others, those who had come before him. From Moses
and the Prophets. And, too, from himself alone,—from what his heart
had told him. But now he wanted to hear it from God’s own lips. Had
he, then, not earned it? But hour after hour went by, yet the heavens
parted not, nor did God reveal Himself. The stars twinkled peacefully
in the high heavens and from afar came the howling of the jackals and
the roaring of a lion.
He cast his face upon his arm and burst into tears. Like a petulant
child; and like a child, too, he fell asleep in his tears.
His slumber was restless and short. Queer dreams wove and interwove
themselves in his mind, and on waking he could not recall them. And
he knew that not even in his dreams had God revealed Himself. His
heart became very heavy, and he accompanied his morning prayers
with deep sobs. Athaliah’s figure was as if veiled by a cloud;
that which had driven him into the desert had disappeared and been
forgotten. Now he had one great yearning: to experience a moment of
revelation,—to hear God’s voice, God’s word. With sighs and tears he
proceeded further into the desert, to torture his body with prayer
and fasting. He strode along in expectancy, his eyes directed to
heaven, his ears wide open. Often he would stop short with bated
breath, for it seemed to him that already he saw or heard something.
Each time, however, after a brief waiting, he would continue on his
way with a deep groan.
His prayers did not cease. “From the depths of my heart I call out
to Thee, Oh God. Lord, hear my entreaty, and bend Thine ear to the
voice of my supplications.” And he discoursed learnedly with God. He
believed in Moses and the Prophets. He knew for a surety that God had
discovered Himself to them and had spoken to them. But if He spoke
to these others and revealed his will, then why not to _him_? If he
was unworthy of this grace, he wished to know why. If none might look
upon God and remain thereafter alive, he did not care. He was ready
to die. With all his heart he desired such a death. Almighty God,
this very moment.
He stopped and waited. Sadly he then continued on his way. At last he
began to call, “God, if Thou Thyself desirest not to reveal Thyself
unto me, then send me Thy messenger!”
But day after day passed by. He travelled the length and breadth of
the desert; his body became cadaverous, his face sunken, and his
weary, extinguished eyes sat in deep sockets.—Then he turned back to
the city, which was much agitated by his disappearance, and where he
was received with cries of fright and wringing of hands because of
his wretched appearance. With still greater fright did they leave
him, for he refused to reply to all questions; his mouth was sealed,
his look severe and distant. His wife and children, and all his
friends in the city went about distracted and in despair, for they
could not tell what was the trouble with the aged High Priest. The
only words he vouchsafed were addressed to the guardian of the keys,
from whom he took the key to the Temple, admonishing him to permit
none to follow the High Priest. The entire city was plunged into
deeper consternation than ever.