When Prince Ahab told his niece that she was not to be allowed to marry
Jonah, she wept bitterly. For an entire day she refused to eat or
speak; for she thought her heart was broken. In the evening she went to
the tree in the garden where she had sat with Jonah; and, as she leaned
her cheek against its bark, she saw again in her mind the dark, thin
face of her lover, the brown eyes speaking to her in silence. She heard
his voice:
“Beauty often makes people sad. It is something they would like to have
in their hearts, and their sadness is their longing.”
“Oh, Jonah, Jonah....”
And her tears fell unchecked.
When she returned to the house, Sarah said to her indignantly,
“Do you know that your young man wished to marry you for nothing? What
an impertinence.”
Judith replied tearfully, “He has nothing, the poor fellow.”
“That is what makes the insult all the harder to bear,” said Sarah. “If
he has nothing, he should keep quiet, for your sake. What would people
think of you if you were to marry for nothing? You would be ruined
socially.”
Judith sat up straight, with red cheeks. “Why,” she exclaimed, “what an
idea.”
But she remained thoughtful for the rest of the evening. The next
morning she said to Sarah, “He is so gentle and sweet. I love him.” And
she added,
“Men are so thoughtless.”
At once Sarah, who knew what she was doing, exclaimed, “My poor lamb,
you have been badly treated.”
Judith’s eyes filled with tears again. “I am a young girl,” she
thought, “and already my heart has been broken.”
All day she was pale, and said nothing. Occasionally she wept, but
without violence. In the evening she walked among her flowers, composed
and quiet, her brown eyes sad and wondering, like a child’s. And as the
sky faded from the color of roses to the color of leaves, she breathed
a name sadly, but so faintly, into the air.
“Jonah....”
No one answered, and her heart vibrated with sadness and with peace. “I
have lived,” she thought, “I have loved, I have been unhappy.
“That is life, isn’t it....”
And coming upon Hiram the Phœnician among the roses, she gave him a
dignified bow.
In the morning, in the bright sunshine, she said to herself, “Men are
so selfish. Just imagine, if I were married for nothing, what would
people think of me?”
And she said seriously to Sarah, “I feel so old, Sarah. I feel as old
as Methuselah.”
“You are a little pale,” said Sarah, “but that does not do any harm.”
“Do I look well?” asked Judith in surprise. “No.”
“You are like a lily,” said Sarah.
But Judith insisted that she looked, at least, a little thin. “And my
eyes are all red from crying,” she added.
She did not walk in her rose garden that night. In the morning Sarah
said to her, “You are yellow as a dead leaf.” And she brought the
little mirror for her mistress to look into.
Judith looked at her reflection for a long time. She seemed a little
proud and a little vexed at what she saw. “It is because I have
suffered so much,” she said at last to Sarah. And she added,
“Men are so cruel.”
In the afternoon she dressed in white, with a girdle of silver about
her hips. And Hiram, meeting Sarah in the court, cool with its
fountain, said to the nurse,
“The Lady Judith has a very spiritual face. Is she unhappy about
something?”
But Sarah threw up her hands at the mere thought of such a thing.
“‘Unhappy’?” she cried; “what an idea. She knows nothing of life. She
is like a lily. If she looks a little sad, it is because of her gentle
nature.”
That night Judith dined with her uncle and his guest. Her cheeks were
pink as the youngest roses in her garden, her lips red again, like
poppies. Ahab, seeing her blooming so, was satisfied. And Hiram also
watched her carefully, with his shrewd dark eyes.
In Judith’s apartments Sarah put away the pots of red and pink paste,
the myrrh and cassia buds, and the little silver mirror. Then with a
sigh she sat down to await the return of her mistress. She was content;
she felt that the worst was over.
“A woman should know her own worth,” she said to herself; “in that way
she saves every one a lot of trouble.”
X
Jonah stood again before Amaziah, the High Priest. On his face, dark
with woe, were drawn lines of determination. He held out his hands,
empty, and brown as the earth.
“I have not brought you anything this time,” he said, “not even an
eagle’s feather.”
Amaziah chose to ignore this greeting. “What now, Jonah,” he exclaimed
cheerfully; “do you not bring me another war? The presence of my
favorite prophet fills me with the liveliest hopes.”
But Jonah shook his head. “I am weary of being a prophet,” he said
simply; “I have come to ask you to make me a priest.”
Without losing the serenity of his expression, Amaziah looked
thoughtfully at the young man whose weary face expressed
dissatisfaction and bitterness. The old High Priest seemed to be
reaching back into his own past, to the time when he, too, had had
a choice to make. And his face, as he gazed at Jonah, softened; an
expression almost of pity crossed his features, sharp and cruel as a
hawk’s.
“This is bad news, Jonah,” he said gently. And he was silent, waiting
for an answer.
But Jonah had nothing further to say.
Amaziah stroked his chin. “Tell me,” he said at last, “what has caused
you to look with dissatisfaction on your career at the very moment when
all Israel speaks of you with admiration?”
“What is the good of admiration?” asked Jonah sadly. “I have a living
to make.”
“Ah,” said Amaziah, and his face clouded, “so that is it. What a
nuisance.”
And he sat looking before him with a frown.
“You do not really wish to be a priest,” he said at last; “for one
thing the duties would soon prove irksome to one of your temperament.”
Jonah threw out his hands. “What is there for me to do?” he cried.
“Shall I keep cattle, like my brother Aaron? Or am I to beg, with a
bowl?”
“There are worse things than begging,” said Amaziah. “In the desert
every one is a beggar.”
“I am tired of the desert,” said Jonah; “I am not going to live there
any longer.”
But Amaziah held up his hand reprovingly. “My son,” he said gravely,
“one does not change the course of one’s life with impunity, or for no
reason.”
“There is a reason,” said Jonah. He looked down at his feet; then he
looked boldly up again. “I wish to marry,” he said.
The High Priest made a gesture of discouragement. “I might have
guessed,” he murmured. And he gazed sadly at the prophet, on whom he
had been counting to help further his own plans. Presently he said with
a sigh,
“I can see that this maiden’s father does not wish to give her away for
nothing.”
“He is wealthy,” said Jonah gloomily. “For that reason he cannot abide
a poor man for a son-in-law.”
Amaziah nodded his head. “Naturally,” he agreed; “if he is wealthy, he
feels obliged to add to his fortune. It is only those without anything
who can give away what they have, without suffering an overbearing
sense of loss. For one thing they do not lose as much, and for another,
having nothing, they are not required to succeed in the world, and so
they can afford to be generous.”
As Jonah did not reply to this observation, he continued in a grave
voice:
“Are you really determined upon this thing, my son? Think well.
Marriage in your case may well be a calamity. You have a name already
famous in Israel. You are at the outset of a career like that of
Samuel. It is safe to predict that you will go far. And you wish to
give this up in order to be married? Such a thing is incredible.
Farewell to glory, Jonah.”
Jonah folded his arms, and regarded the High Priest with a gloomy and
obstinate look. “Nevertheless,” he said firmly, “that is my decision.”
“It is not even your loss,” continued Amaziah earnestly, “wholly; it
is Israel’s. It is you who shine like a lamp in her darkness; yours is
the voice of hope in her night. If you were Amos, or Hosea, I should
say that Israel could get along without you. But you are different; you
are the messenger of God’s geniality. Israel cannot afford to lose you,
Jonah, my son.”
However, Jonah was proof against arguments of this kind. Seeing which,
Amaziah exclaimed,
“What will God think of His prophet, who no longer listens to His
voice?”
Jonah replied with an effort: “Is God only audible in the desert?
And must He be silent in the Temple? I tell you, He will speak to me
wherever I am.”
Almost at once he astonished Amaziah by crying out in a muffled voice,
full of pain, “Do you think this is easy for me?”
Amaziah seized what he took to be his advantage. “You are confident,”
he remarked in quiet tones, “but I have noticed that God does not speak
to my priests with the same enthusiasm with which He addresses Himself
to the wild and savage hermits who live in the desert of Tob and Golan.
And it is my experience that His angels do not enter the cottages of
married men with the same boldness with which they visit the huts of
bachelors. If it is true that prophets have sometimes been married, it
is also true that they have often left their wives and gone out alone
to live in the wilderness.”
“That,” said Jonah stubbornly, “is a personal matter, which need not
concern us.”
And he added, “You cannot shake me in my resolve.”
Amaziah looked at him sadly. But suddenly his brow cleared, and he
struck his palms together. “Wait,” he cried; “if the father of this
young woman did not object to your poverty, then there would be no
reason for you to become a priest.”
“Well,” said Jonah sourly, “he does object.”
“Then,” exclaimed Amaziah, “for the glory of his country he shall be
prevailed upon to change his mind.”
And he waited with a smile for the name of the unreasonable man whose
opinions were making a successful war with Nineveh highly improbable.
“It is Prince Ahab,” said Jonah.
At once the smile left Amaziah’s face, to be replaced by a look of
consternation. The High Priest sank back in his seat, and stared at
Jonah with brows which slowly drew together into a frown. His fingers
caressed his chin; he sat for a long time without speaking. At last he
said:
“My son, the more I think of things, the more convinced I am that you
would not make a good priest. It is the duty of a priest to serve men,
and the Temple. You cannot be a good priest, and at the same time be
given to divine illumination, because God deals only in generalities,
and does not bother Himself about the details of administration.
“A priest must conform; he must not have ideas of his own. He is a
soldier with certain duties to perform: he must obey his superiors, and
must serve the interests of the men and women who worship the god.
“That would never do for you; your spirit is too lively. You would try
to change everything.
“Moreover, since you are not a Levite, I cannot make you a priest of
Adonai. I cannot believe that you would be willing to become a priest
of a baal such as Melcarth or Kemosh.
“Besides, can you read or write? No? Well....
“I can do nothing for you.”
So saying, he clapped his hands, to show that the interview was at an
end.
“Will you speak to Prince Ahab?” cried Jonah wildly.
Amaziah did not reply. Instead, two Nubian slaves came forward, and
hustled Jonah out of the house.
A number of people, hearing that the prophet Jonah was in town, had
gathered in the street, to gaze at the man who had won a victory over
the Aramæans. When they saw Jonah they waved their sticks and shawls,
and cried,
“Hurrah for the prophet.”
“God bless Jonah.”
“There is a great man; just look at him.”
One old woman came hobbling forward, to touch the hem of his cloak.
Jonah did not even see her. His eyes, hot with anger, were on the
ground; he saw the dust, and the tip of his own beard. Finding an old
woman in his path, he gave her a shove; whereat she fell with a bump to
the ground.
“Oh my,” she said, when she had got her breath. “Oh my. Well, there’s a
great man for you. Tst; I feel better already.”