Ben Hur (64 page)

"We are greatly indebted to you, son of Hur," he said, in his
grave manner. "This vale is very beautiful; the grass, the trees,
the shade, invite us to stay and rest, and the spring here has the
sparkle of diamonds in motion, and sings to me of a loving God.
It is not enough to thank you for the enjoyment we find; come sit
with us, and taste our bread."

"Suffer me first to serve you."

With that Ben-Hur filled the goblet, and gave it to Balthasar,
who lifted his eyes in thanksgiving.

Immediately the slave brought napkins; and after laving their
hands and drying them, the three seated themselves in Eastern
style under the tent which years before had served the Wise Men
at the meeting in the Desert. And they ate heartily of the good
things taken from the camel's pack.

The tent was cosily pitched beneath a tree where the gurgle of the
stream was constantly in ear. Overhead the broad leaves hung motionless
on their stems; the delicate reed-stalks off in the pearly haze stood up
arrowy-straight; occasionally a home-returning bee shot humming athwart
the shade, and a partridge creeping from the sedge drank, whistled to
his mate, and ran away. The restfulness of the vale, the freshness of
the air, the garden beauty, the Sabbath stillness, seemed to have
affected the spirits of the elder Egyptian; his voice, gestures,
and whole manner were unusually gentle; and often as he bent his
eyes upon Ben-Hur conversing with Iras, they softened with pity.

"When we overtook you, son of Hur," he said, at the conclusion of
the repast, "it seemed your face was also turned towards Jerusalem.
May I ask, without offence, if you are going so far?"

"I am going to the Holy City."

"For the great need I have to spare myself prolonged toil, I will
further ask you, Is there a shorter road than that by Rabbath-Ammon?"

"A rougher route, but shorter, lies by Gerasa and Rabbath-Gilead.
It is the one I design taking."

"I am impatient," said Balthasar. "Latterly my sleep has been
visited by dreams—or rather by the same dream in repetition.
A voice—it is nothing more—comes and tells me, 'Haste—arise! He
whom thou hast so long awaited is at hand.'"

"You mean he that is to be King of the JewsY' Ben-Hur asked,
gazing at the Egyptian in wonder.

"Even so."

"Then you have heard nothing of him?"

"Nothing, except the words of the voice in the dream."

"Here, then, are tidings to make you glad as they made me."

From his gown Ben-Hur drew the letter received from Malluch.
The hand the Egyptian held out trembled violently. He read aloud,
and as he read his feelings increased; the limp veins in his neck
swelled and throbbed. At the conclusion he raised his suffused
eyes in thanksgiving and prayer. He asked no questions, yet had
no doubts.

"Thou hast been very good to me, O God," he said. "Give me, I pray
thee, to see the Saviour again, and worship him, and thy servant
will be ready to go in peace."

The words, the manner, the singular personality of the simple prayer,
touched Ben-Hur with a sensation new and abiding. God never seemed
so actual and so near by; it was as if he were there bending over
them or sitting at their side—a Friend whose favors were to be
had by the most unceremonious asking—a Father to whom all his
children were alike in love—Father, not more of the Jew than of
the Gentile—the Universal Father, who needed no intermediates,
no rabbis, no priests, no teachers. The idea that such a God might
send mankind a Saviour instead of a king appeared to Ben-Hur in a
light not merely new, but so plain that he could almost discern
both the greater want of such a gift and its greater consistency
with the nature of such a Deity. So he could not resist asking,

"Now that he has come, O Balthasar, you still think he is to be
a Saviour, and not a king?"

Balthasar gave him a look thoughtful as it was tender.

"How shall I understand you?" he asked, in return. "The Spirit,
which was the Star that was my guide of old, has not appeared to
me since I met you in the tent of the good sheik; that is to say,
I have not seen or heard it as formerly. I believe the voice that
spoke to me in my dreams was it; but other than that I have no
revelation."

"I will recall the difference between us," said Ben-Hur, with deference.
"You were of opinion that he would be a king, but not as Caesar is;
you thought his sovereignty would be spiritual, not of the world."

"Oh yes," the Egyptian answered; "and I am of the same opinion
now. I see the divergence in our faith. You are going to meet a
king of men, I a Saviour of souls."

He paused with the look often seen when people are struggling,
with introverted effort, to disentangle a thought which is either
too high for quick discernment or too subtle for simple expression.

"Let me try, O son of Hur," he said, directly, "and help you to a
clear understanding of my belief; then it may be, seeing how the
spiritual kingdom I expect him to set up can be more excellent in
every sense than anything of mere Caesarean splendor, you will better
understand the reason of the interest I take in the mysterious person
we are going to welcome.

"I cannot tell you when the idea of a Soul in every man had its
origin. Most likely the first parents brought it with them out of
the garden in which they had their first dwelling. We all do know,
however, that it has never perished entirely out of mind. By some
peoples it was lost, but not by all; in some ages it dulled and
faded, in others it was overwhelmed with doubts; but, in great
goodness, God kept sending us at intervals mighty intellects to
argue it back to faith and hope.

"Why should there be a Soul in every man? Look, O son of Hur—for
one moment look at the necessity of such a device. To lie down
and die, and be no more—no more forever—time never was when man
wished for such an end; nor has the man ever been who did not in
his heart promise himself something better. The monuments of the
nations are all protests against nothingness after death; so are
statues and inscriptions; so is history. The greatest of our Egyptian
kings had his effigy cut-out of a hill of solid rock. Day after
day he went with a host in chariots to see the work; at last it
was finished, never effigy so grand, so enduring: it looked like
him—the features were his, faithful even in expression. Now may
we not think of him saying in that moment of pride, 'Let Death
come; there is an after-life for me!' He had his wish. The statue
is there yet.

"But what is the after-life he thus secured? Only a recollection
by men—a glory unsubstantial as moonshine on the brow of the great
bust; a story in stone—nothing more. Meantime what has become of
the king? There is an embalmed body up in the royal tombs which
once was his—an effigy not so fair to look at as the other out
in the Desert. But where, O son of Hur, where is the king himself?
Is he fallen into nothingness? Two thousand years have gone since
he was a man alive as you and I are. Was his last breath the end
of him?

"To say yes would be to accuse God; let us rather accept his better
plan of attaining life after death for us—actual life, I mean—the
something more than a place in mortal memory; life with going
and coming, with sensation, with knowledge, with power and all
appreciation; life eternal in term though it may be with changes
of condition.

"Ask you what God's plan is? The gift of a Soul to each of us at
birth, with this simple law—there shall be no immortality except
through the Soul. In that law see the necessity of which I spoke.

"Let us turn from the necessity now. A word as to the pleasure
there is in the thought of a Soul in each of us. In the first place,
it robs death of its terrors by making dying a change for the better,
and burial but the planting of a seed from which there will spring
a new life. In the next place, behold me as I am—weak, weary, old,
shrunken in body, and graceless; look at my wrinkled face, think of
my failing senses, listen to my shrilled voice. Ah! what happiness
to me in the promise that when the tomb opens, as soon it will,
to receive the worn-out husk I call myself, the now viewless doors
of the universe, which is but the palace of God, will swing wide
ajar to receive me, a liberated immortal Soul!

"I would I could tell the ecstasy there must be in that life to
come! Do not say I know nothing about it. This much I know,
and it is enough for me—the being a Soul implies conditions
of divine superiority. In such a being there is no dust, nor any
gross thing; it must be finer than air, more impalpable than light,
purer than essence—it is life in absolute purity.

"What now, O son of Hur? Knowing so much, shall I dispute with
myself or you about the unnecessaries—about the form of my
soul? Or where it is to abide? Or whether it eats and drinks?
Or is winged, or wears this or that? No. It is more becoming to
trust in God. The beautiful in this world is all from his hand
declaring the perfection of taste; he is the author of all form;
he clothes the lily, he colors the rose, he distils the dew-drop,
he makes the music of nature; in a word, he organized us for this
life, and imposed its conditions; and they are such guaranty to me
that, trustful as a little child, I leave to him the organization
of my Soul, and every arrangement for the life after death. I know
he loves me."

The good man stopped and drank, and the hand carrying the cup to
his lips trembled; and both Iras and Ben-Hur shared his emotion
and remained silent. Upon the latter a light was breaking. He was
beginning to see, as never before, that there might be a spiritual
kingdom of more import to men than any earthly empire; and that
after all a Saviour would indeed be a more godly gift than the
greatest king.

"I might ask you now," said Balthasar, continuing, "whether this
human life, so troubled and brief, is preferable to the perfect
and everlasting life designed for the Soul? But take the question,
and think of it for yourself, formulating thus: Supposing both to
be equally happy, is one hour more desirable than one year? From
that then advance to the final inquiry, what are threescore and
ten years on earth to all eternity with God? By-and-by, son of Hur,
thinking in such manner, you will be filled with the meaning of the
fact I present you next, to me the most amazing of all events, and in
its effects the most sorrowful; it is that the very idea of life as a
Soul is a light almost gone out in the world. Here and there, to be
sure, a philosopher may be found who will talk to you of a Soul,
likening it to a principle; but because philosophers take nothing
upon faith, they will not go the length of admitting a Soul to be
a being, and on that account its purpose is compressed darkness
to them.

"Everything animate has a mind measurable by its wants. Is there
to you no meaning in the singularity that power in full degree to
speculate upon the future was given to man alone? By the sign as
I see it, God meant to make us know ourselves created for another
and a better life, such being in fact the greatest need of our
nature. But, alas! into what a habit the nations have fallen! They
live for the day, as if the present were the all in all, and go
about saying, 'There is no to-morrow after death; or if there be,
since we know nothing about it, be it a care unto itself.' So when
Death calls them, 'Come,' they may not enter into enjoyment of the
glorious after-life because of their unfitness. That is to say,
the ultimate happiness of man was everlasting life in the society
of God. Alas, O son of Hur, that I should say it! but as well yon
sleeping camel constant in such society as the holiest priests
this day serving the highest altars in the most renowned temples.
So much are men given to this lower earthly life! So nearly have
they forgotten that other which is to come!

"See now, I pray you, that which is to be saved to us.

"For my part, speaking with the holiness of truth, I would not
give one hour of life as a Soul for a thousand years of life as
a man."

Here the Egyptian seemed to become unconscious of companionship
and fall away into abstraction.

"This life has its problems," he said, "and there are men who
spend their days trying to solve them; but what are they to the
problems of the hereafter? What is there like knowing God? Not a
scroll of the mysteries, but the mysteries themselves would for
that hour at least lie before me revealed; even the innermost and
most awful—the power which now we shrink from thought of—which
rimmed the void with shores, and lighted the darkness, and out
of nothing appointed the universe. All places would be opened.
I would be filled with divine knowledge; I would see all glories,
taste all delights; I would revel in being. And if, at the end of
the hour, it should please God to tell me, 'I take thee into my
service forever,' the furthest limit of desire would be passed;
after which the attainable ambitions of life, and its joys of
whatever kind, would not be so much as the tinkling of little
bells."

Balthasar paused as if to recover from very ecstasy of feeling;
and to Ben-Hur it seemed the speech had been the delivery of a
Soul speaking for itself.

"I pray pardon, son of Hur," the good man continued, with a bow the
gravity of which was relieved by the tender look that followed it,
"I meant to leave the life of a Soul, its conditions, pleasures,
superiority, to your own reflection and finding out. The joy of
the thought has betrayed me into much speech. I set out to show,
though ever so faintly, the reason of my faith. It grieves me that
words are so weak. But help yourself to truth. Consider first the
excellence of the existence which was reserved for us after death,
and give heed to the feelings and impulses the thought is sure to
awaken in you—heed them, I say, because they are your own Soul
astir, doing what it can to urge you in the right way. Consider next
that the afterlife has become so obscured as to justify calling
it a lost light. If you find it, rejoice, O son of Hur—rejoice
as I do, though in beggary of words. For then, besides the great
gift which is to be saved to us, you will have found the need of
a Saviour so infinitely greater than the need of a king; and he
we are going to meet will not longer hold place in your hope a
warrior with a sword or a monarch with a crown.