Ben Hur (43 page)

The landing was a simple affair, consisting of a short stairway,
and a platform garnished by some lamp-posts; yet at the top of
the steps he paused, arrested by what he beheld.

There was a shallop resting upon the clear water lightly as
an egg-shell. An Ethiop—the camel-driver at the Castalian
fount—occupied the rower's place, his blackness intensified by
a livery of shining white. All the boat aft was cushioned and
carpeted with stuffs brilliant with Tyrian red. On the rudder
seat sat the Egyptian herself, sunk in Indian shawls and a very
vapor of most delicate veils and scarfs. Her arms were bare to
the shoulders; and, not merely faultless in shape, they had the
effect of compelling attention to them—their pose, their action,
their expression; the hands, the fingers even, seemed endowed with
graces and meaning; each was an object of beauty. The shoulders
and neck were protected from the evening air by an ample scarf,
which yet did not hide them.

In the glance he gave her, Ben-Hur paid no attention to these details.
There was simply an impression made upon him; and, like strong light,
it was a sensation, not a thing of sight or enumeration. Thy lips are
like a thread of scarlet; thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate
within thy locks. Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away; for,
lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers
appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,
and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land—such was the
impression she made upon him translated into words.

"Come," she said, observing him stop, "come, or I shall think you
a poor sailor."

The red of his cheek deepened. Did she know anything of his life
upon the sea? He descended to the platform at once.

"I was afraid," he said, as he took the vacant seat before her.

"Of what?"

"Of sinking the boat," he replied, smiling.

"Wait until we are in deeper water," she said, giving a signal to
the black, who dipped the oars, and they were off.

If love and Ben-Hur were enemies, the latter was never more at
mercy. The Egyptian sat where he could not but see her; she,
whom he had already engrossed in memory as his ideal of the
Shulamite. With her eyes giving light to his, the stars might
come out, and he not see them; and so they did. The night might
fall with unrelieved darkness everywhere else; her look would make
illumination for him. And then, as everybody knows, given youth
and such companionship, there is no situation in which the fancy
takes such complete control as upon tranquil waters under a calm
night sky, warm with summer. It is so easy at such time to glide
imperceptibly out of the commonplace into the ideal.

"Give me the rudder," he said.

"No," she replied, "that were to reverse the relation. Did I not
ask you to ride with me? I am indebted to you, and would begin
payment. You may talk and I will listen, or I will talk and you
will listen: that choice is yours; but it shall be mine to choose
where we go, and the way thither."

"And where may that be?"

"You are alarmed again."

"O fair Egyptian, I but asked you the first question of every
captive."

"Call me Egypt."

"I would rather call you Iras."

"You may think of me by that name, but call me Egypt."

"Egypt is a country, and means many people."

"Yes, yes! And such a country!"

"I see; it is to Egypt we are going."

"Would we were! I would be so glad."

She sighed as she spoke.

"You have no care for me, then," he said.

"Ah, by that I know you were never there."

"I never was."

"Oh, it is the land where there are no unhappy people, the desired
of all the rest of the earth, the mother of all the gods, and therefore
supremely blest. There, O son of Arrius, there the happy find increase
of happiness, and the wretched, going, drink once of the sweet water
of the sacred river, and laugh and sing, rejoicing like children."

"Are not the very poor with you there as elsewhere?"

"The very poor in Egypt are the very simple in wants and ways,"
she replied. "They have no wish beyond enough, and how little
that is, a Greek or a Roman cannot know."

"But I am neither Greek nor Roman."

She laughed.

"I have a garden of roses, and in the midst of it is a tree,
and its bloom is the richest of all. Whence came it, think you?"

"From Persia, the home of the rose."

"No."

"From India, then."

"No."

"Ah! one of the isles of Greece."

"I will tell you," she said: "a traveller found it perishing by
the roadside on the plain of Rephaim."

"Oh, in Judea!"

"I put it in the earth left bare by the receding Nile, and the soft
south wind blew over the desert and nursed it, and the sun kissed
it in pity; after which it could not else than grow and flourish.
I stand in its shade now, and it thanks me with much perfume.
As with the roses, so with the men of Israel. Where shall they
reach perfection but in Egypt?"

"Moses was but one of millions."

"Nay, there was a reader of dreams. Will you forget him?"

"The friendly Pharaohs are dead."

"Ah, yes! The river by which they dwelt sings to them in their
tombs; yet the same sun tempers the same air to the same people."

"Alexandria is but a Roman town."

"She has but exchanged sceptres. Caesar took from her that of
the sword, and in its place left that of learning. Go with me
to the Brucheium, and I will show you the college of nations;
to the Serapeion, and see the perfection of architecture; to the
Library, and read the immortals; to the theatre, and hear the
heroics of the Greeks and Hindoos; to the quay, and count the
triumphs of commerce; descend with me into the streets, O son
of Arrius, and, when the philosophers have dispersed, and taken
with them the masters of all the arts, and all the gods have home
their votaries, and nothing remains of the day but its pleasures,
you shall hear the stories that have amused men from the beginning,
and the songs which will never, never die."

As he listened, Ben-Hur was carried back to the night when, in the
summer-house in Jerusalem, his mother, in much the same poetry of
patriotism, declaimed the departed glories of Israel.

"I see now why you wish to be called Egypt. Will you sing me a song
if I call you by that name? I heard you last night."

"That was a hymn of the Nile," she answered, "a lament which I
sing when I would fancy I smell the breath of the desert, and hear
the surge of the dear old river; let me rather give you a piece of
the Indian mind. When we get to Alexandria, I will take you to the
corner of the street where you can hear it from the daughter of
the Ganga, who taught it to me. Kapila, you should know, was one
of the most revered of the Hindoo sages."

Then, as if it were a natural mode of expression, she began the
song.

KAPILA.

I.

"Kapila, Kapila, so young and true,
I yearn for a glory like thine,
And hail thee from battle to ask anew,
Can ever thy Valor be mine?

"Kapila sat on his charger dun,
A hero never so grave:
'Who loveth all things hath fear of none,
'Tis love that maketh me brave.
A woman gave me her soul one day,
The soul of my soul to be alway;
Thence came my Valor to me,
Go try it—try it—and see.'

II.

"Kapila, Kapila, so old and gray,
The queen is calling for me;
But ere I go hence, I wish thou wouldst say,
How Wisdom first came to thee.

"Kapila stood in his temple door,
A priest in eremite guise:
'It did not come as men get their lore,
'Tis faith that maketh me wise.
A woman gave me her heart one day,
The heart of my heart to be alway;
Thence came my Wisdom to me,
Go try it—try it—and see.'"

Ben-Hur had not time to express his thanks for the song before the
keel of the boat grated upon the underlying sand, and, next moment,
the bow ran upon the shore.

"A quick voyage, O Egypt!" he cried.

"And a briefer stay!" she replied, as, with a strong push, the black
sent them shooting into the open water again.

"You will give me the rudder now."

"Oh no," said she, laughing. "To you, the chariot; to me, the boat.
We are merely at the lake's end, and the lesson is that I must
not sing any more. Having been to Egypt, let us now to the Grove
of Daphne."

"Without a song on the way?" he said, in deprecation.

"Tell me something of the Roman from whom you saved us to-day,"
she asked.

The request struck Ben-Hur unpleasantly.

"I wish this were the Nile," he said, evasively. "The kings and
queens, having slept so long, might come down from their tombs,
and ride with us."

"They were of the colossi, and would sink our boat. The pygmies
would be preferable. But tell me of the Roman. He is very wicked,
is he not?"

"I cannot say."

"Is he of noble family, and rich?"

"I cannot speak of his riches."

"How beautiful his horses were! and the bed of his chariot was gold,
and the wheels ivory. And his audacity! The bystanders laughed as he
rode away; they, who were so nearly under his wheels!"

She laughed at the recollection.

"They were rabble," said Ben-Hur, bitterly.

"He must be one of the monsters who are said to be growing up in
Rome—Apollos ravenous as Cerberus. Does he reside in Antioch?"

"He is of the East somewhere."

"Egypt would suit him better than Syria."

"Hardly," Ben-Hur replied. "Cleopatra is dead."

That instant the lamps burning before the door of the tent came
into view.

"The dowar!" she cried.

"Ah, then, we have not been to Egypt. I have not seen Karnak or
Philae or Abydos. This is not the Nile. I have but heard a song
of India, and been boating in a dream."

"Philae—Karnak. Mourn rather that you have not seen the Rameses
at Aboo Simbel, looking at which makes it so easy to think of
God, the maker of the heavens and earth. Or why should you mourn
at all? Let us go on to the river; and if I cannot sing"—she
laughed—"because I have said I would not, yet I can tell you
stories of Egypt."

"Go on! Ay, till morning comes, and the evening, and the next
morning!" he said, vehemently.

"Of what shall my stories be? Of the mathematicians?"

"Oh no."

"Of the philosophers?"

"No, no."

"Of the magicians and genii?"

"If you will."

"Of war?"

"Yes."

"Of love?"

"Yes."

"I will tell you a cure for love. It is the story of a queen.
Listen reverently. The papyrus from which it was taken by the
priests of Philae was wrested from the hand of the heroine herself.
It is correct in form, and must be true:

I.

"There is no parallelism in human lives.

"No life runs a straight line.

"The most perfect life develops as a circle, and terminates in its
beginning, making it impossible to say, This is the commencement,
that the end.

"Perfect lives are the treasures of God; of great days he wears
them on the ring-finger of his heart hand."

II.

"Ne-ne-hofra dwelt in a house close by Essouan, yet closer to the
first cataract—so close, indeed, that the sound of the eternal
battle waged there between river and rocks was of the place a part.

"She grew in beauty day by day, so that it was said of her, as of
the poppies in her father's garden, What will she not be in the
time of blooming?

"Each year of her life was the beginning of a new song more
delightful than any of those which went before.

"Child was she of a marriage between the North, bounded by the sea,
and the South, bounded by the desert beyond the Luna mountains;
and one gave her its passion, the other its genius; so when they
beheld her, both laughed, saying, not meanly, 'She is mine,'
but generously, 'Ha, ha! she is ours.'

"All excellences in nature contributed to her perfection and rejoiced
in her presence. Did she come or go, the birds ruffled their wings in
greeting; the unruly winds sank to cooling zephyrs; the white lotus
rose from the water's depth to look at her; the solemn river loitered
on its way; the palm-trees, nodding, shook all their plumes; and they
seemed to say, this one, I gave her of my grace; that, I gave her
of my brightness; the other, I gave her of my purity: and so each
as it had a virtue to give.

"At twelve, Ne-ne-hofra was the delight of Essouan; at sixteen,
the fame of her beauty was universal; at twenty, there was never
a day which did not bring to her door princes of the desert on
swift camels, and lords of Egypt in gilded barges; and, going away
disconsolate, they reported everywhere, 'I have seen her, and she
is not a woman, but Athor herself.'"

III.

"Now of the three hundred and thirty successors of good King Menes,
eighteen were Ethiopians, of whom Oraetes was one hundred and ten
years old. He had reigned seventy-six years. Under him the people
thrived, and the land groaned with fatness of plenty. He practised
wisdom because, having seen so much, he knew what it was. He dwelt
in Memphis, having there his principal palace, his arsenals, and his
treasure-house. Frequently he went down to Butos to talk with Latona.

"The wife of the good king died. Too old was she for perfect
embalmment; yet he loved her, and mourned as the inconsolable;
seeing which, a colchyte presumed one day to speak to him.

"'O Oraetes, I am astonished that one so wise and great should
not know how to cure a sorrow like this.'

"'Tell me a cure,' said the king.