Like every other old Jew, Dan liked the marvellous, and listened to his
son's stories, not knowing whether he believed or disbelieved, nor
seeking to inquire; content to enjoy the stories as they went by, he
listened, suffering such a little disappointment when his son's voice
ceased as he might at the death of a melodious wind among the branches,
the same little sadness. Moreover, while Joseph talked he had his
attention, and it irritated him to see Joseph's thoughts wander from him
in search of parrots and monkeys; and he begged his son to tell him
another miracle, for he was sure that Joseph had not told him the last
one. Joseph pleaded that there was no use relating miracles to one who
only believed in ancient miracles, a statement that Dan combated, saying
that one could like a story for its own sake. Like a Gentile, Joseph
interposed gaily, bringing all the same a cloud into his father's face,
which he would have liked to disperse with the relation of another
miracle, but he continued to plead that he had told all his stories.
There was, however, a certain faint-heartedness in his pleading, and Dan
became more certain than ever that his son was holding back a miracle,
and becoming suddenly curious, he declared that Joseph had no right to
hold back a story from him, for to do that provoked argument, and
argument fatigued him.
Joseph thought the device to extort a story from him, which he did not
wish to tell, a shabby one, but, fearing to vex his father in his
present state of health, he began to think it would be better to tell
him the miracle he had heard of that morning at Capernaum; but, still
loath, he tried instead to divert his father's attention from Jesus,
reminding him of the numerous matters that would have to be settled up
between them, especially Dan's responsibility in the new adventure, the
transport of grain from Moab to Jerusalem. Dan's curiosity was not to be
diverted, and seeing him give way to his rage like a petulant child,
Joseph decided that he must tell him, and he began with a disparagement
of his story, the truth of which he did not vouch for. At Capernaum they
were all telling how some two or three weeks ago Jesus heard God
speaking within him, and, naming those he wished to accompany him, led
them through the woods, up the slow ascending hills in silence, no word
being exchanged between him and them. Every one of the disciples was
aware that the Master was in communion with his Father in heaven, and
that his communion was shared by them as long as a word was not spoken.
A word would break it; and so they journeyed with their eyes set upon
the stars or upon the ground, never daring to look for Jesus, who
remained amongst them for an hour or more and then seemed to them to
pass into shadow, only his voice remaining with them bidding them to
journey on, which they did, each man in his faith, until they reached a
lonely hill on the top of which stood a blighted tree. Why, Master, they
asked, have you led us hither? and, receiving no answer, they looked
round for Jesus, but he was missing, and, thinking they walked too fast
and had left him on the road behind them, they returned to the place
where he had last spoken to them; and, not finding him there, they
returned to the hill-top, and, seeing him among the white branches
waiting for them, they knelt and prayed. When the stars began to grow
dim they heard a voice cry out: behold he is with you, he who brings
salvation to all men, Jew and Gentile; and ye twelve are bidden to carry
the joyful tidings to the ends of the earth.
At these words the disciples rose from their knees and looked round
astonished, for only four had gone with Jesus up the hillside, but
twelve were kneeling at the foot of the tree, and the four that had come
with Jesus knew not how the eight were gathered with them, nor could the
eight tell how they reached the hill-top, nor what spirit guided them
thither. The day is breaking, someone said; and looking towards the
east they saw innumerable angels and all of them singing hosanna;
hosannas fell from the skies and blossoms from the tree; for the tree
was no longer a blighted but a quickened tree. Jesus was amongst them,
talking to them, telling those who were standing around him that they
were chosen by his Father in heaven first of all, and then by him, to
carry the joyful tidings to the ends of the earth, and they all
answered: we heard the words that thou hast spoken, Master. And he
answered: ye have heard truly, and I am here to carry out my Father's
will; ye shall go forth and bring salvation to all, Jew and Gentile
alike.
Father, of what art thou thinking--that the twelve slept and dreamed?
But before Dan could find an answer to his son's question Joseph sank
away into regrets that he had acceded to his father's request and told
him this last miracle, and that he had not been able to disguise the
fact, in the telling, that Jesus had chosen as his apostles those who
accompanied him into the mountains. He intended to omit all mention of
this election, but it slipped from him unawares in the excitement of the
telling, and now to divert his father's thoughts from the unfortunate
admission Joseph called to one of the parrots and spoke cheerfully to
the bird, and to the monkey that came hopping across the sward and
jumped into his arms; but Dan knew his son's face too well to be
deceived by the poor show Joseph could paint upon it, and guessing that
his father divined the truth, words deserted him altogether. He sat
striving against regret and hoping that his father did not think he
loved him less than he loved Jesus. At last something had to be said,
and Dan could find nothing better to say than: Joseph, there is gloom in
thy face; but be not afraid to tell me if thou art disappointed that
thou wert not with Jesus when his Father spoke to him out of heaven, and
thereby missed being among the apostles. For this suspicion Joseph
rebuked his father, but as it was his dearest wish to be numbered
amongst the apostles his rebukes were faint, and feeling he was making
bad worse, he put as bold a face upon it as he could, saying to his
father that he would have liked to have been numbered among the twelve,
but since it did not befall he was content; and to himself that he was
younger than any that were elected, and if one of them were to die he
would be called to fill his place.
So much admission was forced upon him, for it was important that his
father should accept his absence from the mountain that day as a
sufficient reason for his not having been elected an apostle, the real
reason being, not his absence from the mountain, but the fact that he
chose to turn aside from Jesus and leave him to attend his father's
sick-bed. That was the sin he was judged guilty of, an unpardonable act
in Jesus' mind, and one that discredited Joseph for ever, proving him
for good and all to be unworthy to follow Jesus, which might be no more
than the truth. He could follow Jesus' way of thinking, apprehending it
remotely; but to his father, Jesus present teaching, that one must learn
to hate one's father and one's mother, one's wife and one's children
before one can love God, would be incomprehensible; and he would be
estranged from Jesus for ever, as many of the disciples had been that
morning by such ultra-idealism. It would have been better to have
withheld the miracle, he said to himself, and then he lost himself
thinking how the election of the apostles had dropped from him, for it
had nothing to do with the miracle, and then awakening a little from his
reverie he assured himself that his father must never know, for Dan
could never understand Jesus in his extravagant moods. But if some
accident should bring the knowledge to his father? It wasn't likely that
this could happen, for who knew it? Hardly was it known among those whom
he had met that morning as he crossed the Plain of Gennesaret. He had
seen the disciples with Jesus, Jesus walking ahead with Peter and with
James and John, to whom he addressed not a word, the others following
him shamefacedly at a little distance. One of his black moods is upon
him, Joseph said to himself, and gliding in among the crowd he
questioned the nearest to him, who happened to be Judas, who told him
that Jesus didn't know for certain if he were called to go to Jerusalem
for the Feast of the Tabernacles. The Master foresees his death in
Jerusalem, but he is not sure if it be ordained for this year or the
next. Peter would dissuade him, he added, and in the midst of his
wonderment Joseph heard from Judas that Jesus had elected his apostles,
and now Joseph remembered how, speaking out of his heart, he uttered a
little cry and said: it was because I am a rich man that he didn't think
of me. But Judas answered that there might be another reason, to which
he replied: there can be no other reason except the simple one--I wasn't
there and he didn't think of me. But Judas murmured that there might be
another reason--he never allows a disciple to desert him, whatever
reason may be for so doing. But there was no desertion on my part. My
father's illness! Wait in any case, Judas had said, till the Master has
fallen out of his mood, for he is in his blackest now; we dare not speak
to him. But I couldn't believe that that could make any difference,
Joseph said to himself, and he put the monkey away from him somewhat
harshly, and fell to thinking how he ran to Jesus, his story on his
lips. But it all seemed to drift away from him the moment he looked upon
Jesus, so changed was he from the Jesus he had seen in the cenoby, a
young man of somewhat stern countenance and cold and thin, with the neck
erect, walking with a measured gait, whose eyes were cold and distant,
though they could descend from their starry heights and rest for a
moment almost affectionately on the face of a mortal. That was two years
ago. And the Jesus whom he met in rags by the lake-side one evening and
journeyed with as far as Cæsarea Philippi, to Tyre and Sidon, was no
doubt very different from the severe young man he had seen in the
monastery. He had grown older, more careworn, but the first Jesus still
lingered in the second, whereas the Jesus he was looking at now was a
new Jesus, one whom he had seen never before; the cheeks were fallen in
and the eyes that he remembered soft and luminous were now concentrated;
a sort of malignant hate glowered in them: he seemed to hate all he
looked upon; and his features seemed to have enlarged, the nose and chin
were more prominent, and the body was shrunken. A sword that is wearing
out its scabbard was the thought that passed through Joseph's frightened
mind; and frightened at the change in Jesus' appearance, and still more
by the words that were hurled out at him, when intimidated and
trembling, he babbled out: my father lay between life and death for
eight days and came out of his swoon slowly. He could say no more, the
rest of his story was swallowed up in a violent interruption, Jesus
telling him that there was no place among his followers for those who
could not free themselves from such ghosts as father, mother and
children and wife.
Jesus had flung his father's wealth and his own in his face, and his own
pitiful understanding that had not been able to see that this world and
the world to come were not one thing but twain. And whosoever chooses
this world must remain satisfied with its fleshly indulgences and its
cares and its laws and responsibilities, and whoso ever chooses the
Kingdom of Heaven must cast this world far from him, must pluck it, as
it were, out of his heart and throw it away, bidding it depart; for it
is but a ghost. All these, he said, pointing to his apostles, have cast
their ghosts into the lake. The apostles stood with eyes fixed, for they
did not understand how they had despoiled themselves of their ghosts,
and only Peter ventured into words: all my family is in the lake,
Master; and at his simplicity Jesus smiled, then as if to compensate
him for his faith he said: I shall come in a chariot sitting on the
right hand of our Father, the Judgment Book upon my lap. As the rocks of
this world are shaken and riven by earthquakes, my words shall sunder
father from son, brother from brother, daughter from mother; the ties
that have been held sacred shall be broken and all the things looked
upon as eternal shall pass away even as the Temple of Jerusalem shall
pass away. My words shall sunder it Beam by beam, pillar by pillar, and
every stone of it shall be scattered. For I say unto you that God is
weary of the fat of rams and goats, and incense delights his nostrils;
it is not our flocks and herds that our Father desires nor the
sweet-smelling herbs of this world, but a temple in which there shall be
nothing but the love of God. It is for the building of this temple that
I have been called hither; and not with hands during laborious years
will it be built, but at once, for the temple that I speak to you of, is
in the heart of every man; and woe, woe, woe, I say unto you who delay
to build this temple, for the fulfilment of the prophecies is at hand,
and when the last day of this world begins to dawn and the dead rise up
seeking their cere-clothes it will be too late. Woe! woe! woe! unto
thee, Chorazin, Bethsaida and Magdala, for you have not repented yet,
but still choose the ghosts that haunt the sepulchres out of which ye
shall be called soon; too soon for many; for I say unto you that it is
not the dead that sleep but the living. At these words there were
murmurings among the disciples, and they said, turning from one to the
other: he says we sleep, brother, but this is not true. He mocks at us.
But Jesus, as if he did not hear these rebukers, and moved as if by a
sudden sympathy for Joseph, said: here is one that left me to attend
his father's sick-bed, but I would have you understand me in this, that
if we would love God we must abandon father, mother, wife and children,
for there is not room in our hearts for two loves. Ye say that I lay
heavy burdens on your backs, but I say unto you that I lay no burdens on
your backs that I did not first weigh upon my own shoulders; for have I
not denied myself brothers and sisters, and did I not say to my mother,
who came to dissuade me: God chose thee as a vehicle to give to man a
redeemer to lead him out of this kingdom of clay. Thou hast done it and
so there is no further need of thee. Out of this corruptible body I
shall rise in Jerusalem, my mission accomplished, into the incorruptible
spirit. His passion rising again and into flood, he seemed like one
bereft of reason, for he said that all men must drink of his blood if
they would live for ever. He who licked up one drop would have
everlasting life. Joseph recalled the murmurings that followed these
words, but Jesus would not desist. These murmurings seemed to sting him
to declare his doctrine to the full, and he added that his flesh, too,
was like bread, and that any crumb would give to him who ate it a place
before the throne of the Almighty. Whereupon many withdrew, murmuring
more loudly than before, saying among themselves: who is this man that
asks us to assuage our thirst with his blood and our hunger with his
flesh? Moses and Elijah did not ask such things. Who is he that says he
will scatter the Temple to build up another?
Many other animadversions Joseph remembered among the multitude, and he
recalled them one by one, pondering over each till one of the monkeys
sprang into his arms and snatched some flowers out of his hand and
hobbled away shrieking, awaking Dan, who had been dozing, and who,
seeing whence the shrieking came, closed his eyes again. While his
father slept Joseph remembered that Peter, John and James stood by the
Master throughout the dissidence. But what answer will they give, Joseph
asked himself, when they are questioned as to what the Master meant when
he said that they must drink his blood and eat his flesh? What answer
will they make when the people question them in the different
countries?--for they are to go to every part of the world, carrying the
joyful tidings. It seemed to Joseph that the apostles would be able to
make plain these hard sayings even less well than he, and he could not
make plain to anybody what the Master had meant, and still less would he
be able to convince others that the Master had said well that a man must
leave his father though he were dying. He said that he should leave his
father unburied, the dead not needing our care, for they are the living
ones, and the hyenas and crows would find to eat only that which had
always been dead. Of course if the old world were going out and the new
coming in, it mattered very little what happened within the next
twenty-four hours. But was the new world as near as that? He wondered!
It might be nearer still without his being able to leave his father to
die among strangers, and a feeling rose up within him that he knew he
would never be able to subdue though he were to gain an eternity of
happiness by subduing it; and, pursuing this thread of thought, he came
to the conclusion that he was a very weak creature, neither sufficiently
enamoured of this world nor of the next; so he supposed Jesus was right
to discard him, for, as he knew himself, he would be an insufficient
apostle, just as he was an insufficient son. But his father did not
think him a bad son. He raised his eyes, and, finding his father's eyes
upon him, he remembered that he had left him because he wished to see
the world, to go to Jerusalem, to live with the Essenes, to go to Egypt;
and that he had remained away for nearly two years, and had returned to
settle a business matter between himself and his father. Therefore it
was not love of his father but a business matter that brought him back
from Egypt; and now he was going to leave his father again, though he
knew that his father wished him to marry some lusty girl, who would bear
healthy children.
If he were a good son he would take a maid to bed. But that he couldn't
do! I am afraid, he said, speaking suddenly out of his thoughts, I'm not
the son you deserve, Father. I'm not a bad son, but I'm not the son God
should have given you. Thou shouldst not say that, Joseph, for we have
loved each other dearly. It is true that I hoped to see little children
about me, and it may be that hope will never be fulfilled, which is sad
to think on. I've never seen thee over-busy with one of our serving
girls, nor caught thee near her bed, and the family will end with, thee,
and the counting-house will end with me, and these things will happen
through no fault of mine or thine, Joseph. Our lives are not planned by
ourselves, and when life comes sweetly to a man a bitter death awaits
him, for death is bitter to those that have lived in ease and health as
I have done. I am still obdurate, for I can sit down to a meal with
pleasure, but a time will come when I shall not be able to do this, and
then the sentence that the Lord pronounced over all flesh will seem easy
to bear, and the grandchildren I have not gotten will be desired no
longer; only the peace of the grave, where there is no questioning nor
dainties. But, Father, this world is but the shadow of a reality beyond
the grave, and I beseech you to believe in your eternity and in mine. In
the eternity of my body or of my soul--which, Joseph? Thou knowest not,
but of this we are sure, that there is little time left for me to love
you in this comfortable land of Galilee. And, this being so, I will ask
you to promise me that thou wilt not leave Judea in my lifetime. Thou'lt
have to go to Jerusalem, for business awaits you there, and to Jericho,
perhaps, which is a long way from Galilee, but I'd not have thee leave
Judea to preach a strange creed to the Gentiles. I know no reason now,
Father, for me to leave Judea, since I am not among the chosen. If thou
hadst been, Joseph, thou wouldst not have left me in these last years of
my life? Jesus is dear to thee, but he isn't thy father, and every
father would like his son to be by him when the Lord chooses to call
him. I would have thee within a day's journey or two; death comes
quicker than that sometimes, but we must risk something. I'd have thee
remain in Judea so that thou mayest come, if thou art called, to receive
my last blessing. I'd have thee close my eyes, Joseph. The children I'll
forgive thee, if thou wilt promise me this. I promise it, Father, and
will hold to my promise if I live beyond thee. If thou livest beyond me,
Joseph? Of course thou wilt live many years after me. But, Joseph, I
would have thee shun dangerous company. And guessing that his father had
Jesus in his mind, Joseph asked him if it were so, and he answered that
it was so, saying that Jesus was no new thing in Judea, and that the
priests and the prophets have ever been in strife. That is my meaning,
he said. The exactions of the priests weigh heavily, and Jesus is right
in this much, that priests always have been, and perhaps always will be,
oppressors of the poor; they are strong, and have many hirelings about
them. Thou hast heard of the Zealots, Son, who walk in the streets of
Jerusalem, their hands on their knives, following those who speak
against the law and the traditions, and who, when they meet them, put
their knives into their ribs, and when the murdered man falls back into
their arms call aloud for help? So do the priests free themselves from
their opponents, and, my good son, Joseph, think what my grief would be
if I were to receive tidings that thou hadst been slain in the streets.
Dost think that the news would not slay me as quickly as any knife? I
ask little of thee, Joseph, the children I'll forgo, but do thou
separate thyself from these sectaries during my lifetime. Think of me
receiving the news of thy death; an old man living alone among all his
riches without hope of any inheritance of his name. But, Joseph, I can't
put away altogether the hope that the day will come when thou'lt look
more favourably on a maid than now. Thy thoughts be all for Jesus, his
teaching, and his return to this world, sitting by the side of his
Father in a fiery chariot, but maybe the day will come when these hopes
will fade away and thy eyes will rest upon a maid. It is strange that
thou shouldst be so unlike me. I was warmer-blooded at thy age, and when
I saw thy mother----Father, the promise is given to thee already, and my
hand upon it. I'll not see Jesus during thy life. If the sudden news of
my death were to kill thee, I should be thy murderer. Jesus will forgive
thee these few years, Dan said. The expression on Joseph's face changed,
and Dan wondered if Jesus were so cruel, so hard, and so self-centred
that he would not grant his son a few years, if he were to ask it, so
that he might stay by his father's bedside and close his eyes and bury
him. It seemed from Joseph's face that Jesus asked everything from his
disciples, and if they did not give everything it was as if they gave
nothing.
And while Dan was thus conferring with his own thoughts he heard Joseph
saying that if he were to keep the promise he had just given, not to see
Jesus again, he must not remain in his neighbourhood. Yes, that is so,
Joseph; go to Jerusalem. And the old man began to babble of the
transport of figs from Jericho, till Joseph could not do else than
ponder on the grip of habit on a man's heart, and ask himself if the
news of his death would affect his father's health more than the news
that there was no further demand in Damascus for his salt fish. He
repented the thought as soon as it had passed through his mind, and he
understood that, however much it would cost him, he must go away to
Jerusalem. He dared not risk the accusation that would for ever echo in
his heart: my father has no peace by day, nor rest at night, he is
thinking always that a Zealot's knife is in my back. But after my
father's death--His thoughts brought him back again to a sudden shame of
himself. I am like that, he said, and shall always be as I am. And, not
daring to think of himself any more, he jumped to his feet: I must tell
my servant that I shall start soon after daybreak.