Jonah

MOONLIGHT covered the earth, the trees showered down their perfume of blossom and cedar, the fragrance of lilies rose through the night. Voices sang softly in the shadows, teased, laughed, whispered in the moonlight; lamps shone, light fell upon trees. In Deborah’s kitchen Uncle David passed around cakes, fruits, and bitter almonds, and helped the guests to wine, milk, and honey. He was a genial host; his eyes shone, he urged every one to enjoy himself.

Deborah moved among her friends, anxious and happy. She kept one eye on Uncle David, and had something to say to everybody.

“Well, this is like old times. This is what peace does for a country.”

“What a lovely night.”

“We should have such a war every year.”

“A son to be proud of.”

Under a tree in the garden two old men were discussing religion. They pulled at their long beards and gazed at each other with indignation. “God belongs to Israel,” said one; “do not lend Him around.”

The other replied: “Does the earth belong to the tree? Does the air belong to the wind? Can I lend the sky? How many gods are there, then?”

First old man: “Maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred. There is nothing in the Laws of Moses which says how many. Do you wish to dispute with the Holy One Himself?”

Second old man: “As for that, I am not the disputer. I simply say of God, ‘He is everywhere, and He does not look like anything.’ But you say, ‘No. He is here, and He looks like a Jew.’”

First old man: “All the gods look like something. There is a tribe in the south whose god is only two feet high, and entirely covered with short black hair. His people are naturally pygmies. What have you to say to that? or would you like me to believe that our God is also the father of pygmies?”

Second old man: “Pygmies are not human beings, but monsters. It does not surprise me to find monsters in the world. I say it does not surprise me because I can see a little beyond the front of my face. On the other hand you cannot see anything but what is right under your nose. You are not a philosopher; you are a patriot. You would like to keep God all to yourself.”

First old man: “Exactly, I am a patriot. And what are you? I hesitate even to say it.”

The two old men glared angrily at each other.

“Look,” said the first old man to Bildad, the water carrier, who was passing by, “he wishes to give God away to the Gentiles.”

Bildad shook his head. “No,” he said accusingly: “Oh, my.” And he hurried away to join a group of villagers about Prince Ahab, who was standing by the side of a table on which was set out a large bowl of wine.

The prince was in the best of humor. “My friends,” he exclaimed, “what we need is more exercise. That is what makes a nation healthy. Talk is all very well, but there is too much of it.”

He paused to take a long drink of wine. Several farmers who worked in the fields from dawn until dark applauded his remarks. It was easy to see that they respected his opinions, and that they did not know what he was talking about.

“Just imagine,” said Bildad, “there is a man outside who wishes to give our God away to the gentiles.”

“He is an ignoramus,” said Ahab. He continued,

“Every one will agree with me that a good horse is the most beautiful thing in the world. Next to a horse, the best thing in the world is to be active, and to take a lot of exercise.”

Uncle David nodded his head vigorously. “Exactly,” he said; “those are my opinions, almost word for word. A good active life is what I say.”

The Prince turned upon Uncle David a face flushed with wine. “What,” he exclaimed, “here is an honest man.” And he embraced Uncle David, who said proudly to those standing near by,

“We agree with each other. After all, he is a noble fellow.”

Then he quietly asked Bildad to point out to him the old man who wished to give God away. When he found him, he went up to him and said,

“Go away; please get out of this, as we do not want an ignoramus here.”

Returning to the kitchen, he looked around him with an important air, and after blowing his nose, exclaimed,

“Unhealthy people.”

Prince Ahab was still talking. Clutching his beard, stained with grape, he concluded morosely,

“Nobody rides any more.”

It was time to divide the roasted ox among the guests. But first it was necessary to find Jonah, who was expected to perform the sacrifice to the god, in the absence of a priest. So Uncle David went to look for him; but he did not find him at once. For Jonah was in a corner of the garden with Judith, Ahab’s niece.

The moonlight fell down upon them through the leaves like a shower of milky petals and blossoms without weight and without fragrance. The faint cheep of frogs, the shrill screech of the cicada, rose from the ground and answered from the branches through the air laden with sweetness. A single bird, cheated by the moon, sang far away; his song tumbled through the air like water falling.

They leaned against the trunk of a tree, shadows making pools of darkness over their eyes, moonlight in their hair and on their hands. And their hearts, cheated, too, by the night, sang in confusion a song of joy which seemed to them like pain.

They had little to say to each other. They discussed the weather.

“What a beautiful night,” said Jonah. “It is like the nights on the desert, so still, so calm, and yet it makes me sad.”

“It makes me sad, too,” whispered Judith. “Why does it make me sad, Jonah?”

He shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “Beauty often makes people sad. It is something they would like in their hearts, and their sadness is their longing.”

She looked at him in the darkness. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it; that is what I feel sometimes when I look in my little mirror.”

Jonah did not answer. The fragrance, the rapture of the night, moved through his heart. It seemed to flow from the young girl at his side and return to her again, lovely, obscure, a sweet sorrow, a longing filled with grief. He raised his head to the little dapple of moonlight among the leaves.

“I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he thought. “It is like having God speak to me.

“How beautiful she is. And she would like to be poor, like me. Of course, that is nonsense. Still....”

He thought that she swayed a little closer to him. Intoxicated by an imperceptible warmth, he touched her hand. “Judith,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“No—nothing. How lovely it is out here.” He trembled; his hand, twined with hers, was moist and warm, but he shivered as though with cold.

She stood beside him, breathless, drowsy with sweetness, waiting.... “This is love,” she thought. “He loves me, and I love him. How exciting it is.

“I am a young girl, and already I am in love with a prophet.”

She gave his hand a faint squeeze. Jonah sighed deeply. Was there anything else so lovely in the whole world, he thought.

Judith raised her head. “Listen,” she said, “there’s a bird singing. Just think, in the moonlight; isn’t it sweet, Jonah? This is beauty, isn’t it? I could stay here forever.”

No—there was nothing else in the whole world....

From the garden arose the sound of voices; shadows moved among the trees. Aaron went by with a village girl, his hands stuffed with cakes. He offered them to her to nibble at, and kissed her mouth full of crumbs. She accepted his caresses with pleasure, but without passion. “What a thing you are,” she cried. “There’s your brother; he behaves himself, at least.”

“He is a noodle,” said Aaron; “most of him is still in the desert. Who is that with him? My goodness....”

They ran away, linked in laughter. Jonah looked after them, but he did not see them. The desert was in his heart, wide, starry, still; all the beauty in the world trembled at the moment’s edge. If it made itself known ... would the heart break with it?

“This is too beautiful,” he wanted to cry; “wait, you are hurting me.”

In another part of the garden Deborah said to Sarah, Judith’s nurse,

“How charming your Judith is. She is not spoilt like so many of the young girls to-day. And when you consider her wealth, that makes it all the more remarkable.”

“Yes,” said Sarah with satisfaction, “she knows nothing of life. She is a pure lily.”

She added, “I have brought her up myself.”

Deborah nodded her head. “Children cannot be brought up too strictly,” she said. “That is what is responsible for the success of my son Jonah.”

And she moved away, smiling at her guests. Sarah gazed after her with pursed lips. “Indeed,” she said to herself. “Well, that is one thing to call it, of course.”

Jonah was not thinking about being a prophet. His heart beat heavily; he felt as though he were all eyes, staring blindly into the night. The sweet, heavy scent of lilies struck him like a wind. He felt terrified of what he was about to say, of what he felt obliged to ask. But there was no help for it; the very shadows would begin to murmur if he were silent longer.

“Judith, do you love me?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

Astonished, they gazed at each other without speaking.

Then, slowly, their dark heads bent together.

At that moment Uncle David, hurrying through the garden, caught sight of them under the tree. “Well,” he cried briskly, “there you are. Come, my son; the ox is about to be divided.”

Jonah had only time to whisper, “Wait here for me, Judith.” Then he went, in a daze, to make the sacrifice. He heard but little of what was going on around him, the gay shouts, the pious wailing, but the sudden hush as he consigned the holy portions to the flames broke on him like a light.

“Wait,” he said to himself; “something has happened.”

And suddenly he began to feel very gay.

“Why,” he thought, looking around at the familiar faces, “what are all these people so happy about? They do not know what has happened. They have no reason to be happy, as I have.

“I ought at least to be happier than they are.”

Seizing a cup of wine, he threw the contents on the blazing altar. “For You, too, God,” he cried recklessly; “enjoy Yourself.”

At once murmurs of protest arose. The old man who had caused the philosopher to be sent home expressed the opinion that such an act was not customary. “What does he mean, ‘Enjoy yourself,’” he exclaimed. “Is that a way to speak to God? Or does he think that the Eternal One and he are such good friends already?”

Prince Ahab shrugged his shoulders. “What do you expect of young people to-day?” he inquired. “It only surprises me that he did not call God something even more irreverent.”

Uncle David went anxiously about among the guests with apologies. “He is a little wild,” he said to several people; “you must excuse it ... the life he leads, in the sun....” He tapped his head significantly. “He is not all there.”

Deborah, on the other hand, did not seem at all disturbed. In a calm manner she explained that very likely there were different ways of making a sacrifice. “After all,” she said, “my son is a prophet, and therefore closer to God than any of us here. Did you see the feather he brought home, actually from an angel? Besides, if you ask me, why shouldn’t God enjoy Himself, if He likes?”

But she gave Jonah a look, when no one was watching, which said plainly, “What a trouble you always make for yourself and for me.”

When the sacrifice was over, Jonah hurried back to the tree where he had left Judith. But she was gone; Sarah had come to take her home.

As if in a dream he wandered off in the moonlight, down the road and through the fields. Behind him the lights and the hum of the feast faded out; he was alone, in the silence of night. About him the pastures, bathed in dew, shone like silver under the moon which covered the earth with delicate mist. Everything was peaceful, everything breathed a quiet and resigned joy. Only in the heart of the man, filled with bliss, there was no peace.

He spread out his arms, “I am happy,” he cried, “I am happy.”

He thought of the Deity to whom he had so often prayed. “Thank You,” he whispered.

And he gazed with love at the heavens, pale, and shining with stars.

He began to imagine the future. “What does it matter if we are poor?” he thought. “One cannot buy beauty. We will live in a little house, and I will do great things, like Nathan, or Elisha.”

But that mood did not suit his spirit for long. “No,” he exclaimed, “I will never allow her to be poor. I will make a large fortune, to keep her comfortably.”

But how? He did not trouble to find out. Already he was living in his palaces, surrounded by slaves.

All night he walked through the fields soaked with dew, through the woods, silent and dark. The moon floated on to the west, and went down over seas and lands unknown, undreamed. The world slept; even the frogs were still. But there was no sleep for Jonah that night; his joy kept him awake. Accustomed to sorrow and indignation, he could not bear his own happiness.

“Judith,” he cried over and over, in a sort of amazement. “Judith.”

Dawn broke in the east, and hunger turned him homeward. On the road near the village he passed a golden litter, also bound for Gath-Hepher, on whose curtains were woven in silver the little doves of Eryx. The litter was followed by several donkeys, laden with merchandise, and a number of servants in the livery of the Phœnicians. “There goes a rich man,” thought Jonah, “but I am happier than he. I will buy his litter and give it to Judith, because of the little silver doves on the curtains.”

It was Hiram, a merchant of Tyre, on his way to visit Prince Ahab, with dyed silks from Sidon, sandalwood, and cloves. Jonah had no forebodings. Cold, wet, weary, but overborne by happiness, he went on home to his mother’s house for breakfast.