Ben Hur (67 page)

"It is the Nazarite."

With Balthasar it was very different. The ways of God, he knew,
were not as men would have them. He had seen the Saviour a child
in a manger, and was prepared by his faith for the rude and simple
in connection with the Divine reappearance. So he kept his seat,
his hands crossed upon his breast, his lips moving in prayer.
He was not expecting a king.

In this time of such interest to the new-comers, and in which they
were so differently moved, another man had been sitting by himself
on a stone at the edge of the river, thinking yet, probably, of the
sermon he had been hearing. Now, however, he arose, and walked slowly
up from the shore, in a course to take him across the line the Nazarite
was pursuing and bring him near the camel.

And the two—the preacher and the stranger—kept on until they
came, the former within twenty yards of the animal, the latter
within ten feet. Then the preacher stopped, and flung the hair
from his eyes, looked at the stranger, threw his hands up as a
signal to all the people in sight; and they also stopped, each in
the pose of a listener; and when the hush was perfect, slowly the
staff in the Nazarite's right hand came down and pointed to the
stranger.

All those who before were but listeners became watchers also.

At the same instant, under the same impulse, Balthasar and Ben-Hur
fixed their gaze upon the man pointed out, and both took the same
impression, only in different degree. He was moving slowly towards
them in a clear space a little to their front, a form slightly above
the average in stature, and slender, even delicate. His action
was calm and deliberate, like that habitual to men much given to
serious thought upon grave subjects; and it well became his costume,
which was an undergarment full-sleeved and reaching to the ankles,
and an outer robe called the talith; on his left arm he carried the
usual handkerchief for the head, the red fillet swinging loose down
his side. Except the fillet and a narrow border of blue at the
lower edge of the talith, his attire was of linen yellowed with
dust and road stains. Possibly the exception should be extended
to the tassels, which were blue and white, as prescribed by law
for rabbis. His sandals were of the simplest kind. He was without
scrip or girdle or staff.

These points of appearance, however, the three beholders observed
briefly, and rather as accessories to the head and face of the man,
which—especially the latter—were the real sources of the spell they
caught in common with all who stood looking at him.

The head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped
with hair long and slightly waved, and parted in the middle,
and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where
most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead,
under black well arched brows, beamed eyes dark-blue and large,
and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of the great length
sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the
other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they
were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was
unusual to the latter type; and when it was taken into account
with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion,
the fine texture of the hair, and the softness of the beard,
which fell in waves over his throat to his breast, never a
soldier but would have laughed at him in encounter, never a
woman who would not have confided in him at sight, never a
child that would not, with quick instinct, have given him its
hand and whole artless trust; nor might any one have said he
was not beautiful.

The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain
expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness
have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity, or sorrow;
though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look
easy to fancy as the mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight
and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it
was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with
a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they
who know that the qualities mentioned—love, sorrow, pity—are the
results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener
than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees
and the myriads written down in saintly calendars. And such, indeed,
was the air of this one.

Slowly he drew near—nearer the three.

Now Ben-Hur, mounted and spear in hand, was an object to claim the
glance of a king; yet the eyes of the man approaching were all the
time raised above him—and not to Iras, whose loveliness has been
so often remarked, but to Balthasar, the old and unserviceable.

The hush was profound.

Presently the Nazarite, still pointing with his staff, cried, in a
loud voice,

"Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!"

The many standing still, arrested by the action of the speaker,
and listening for what might follow, were struck with awe by words
so strange and past their understanding; upon Balthasar they were
overpowering. He was there to see once more the Redeemer of men.
The faith which had brought him the singular privileges of the
time long gone abode yet in his heart; and if now it gave him
a power of vision above that of his fellows—a power to see and
know him for whom he was looking—better than calling the power
a miracle, let it be thought of as the faculty of a soul not yet
entirely released from the divine relations to which it had been
formerly admitted, or as the fitting reward of a life in that age
so without examples of holiness—a life itself a miracle. The ideal
of his faith was before him, perfect in face, form, dress, action,
age; and he was in its view, and the view was recognition. Ah,
now if something should happen to identify the stranger beyond
all doubt!

And that was what did happen.

Exactly at the fitting moment, as if to assure the trembling
Egyptian, the Nazarite repeated the outcry,

"Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!"

Balthasar fell upon his knees. For him there was no need of explanation;
and as if the Nazarite knew it, he turned to those more immediately about
him staring in wonder, and continued:

"This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred
before me, for he was before me. And I knew him not: but that
he should be manifest to Israel, therefore am I come baptizing
with water. I saw the Spirit descending from heaven like a dove,
and it abode upon him. And I knew him not: but he that sent me to
baptize with water, the same said unto me, Upon whom thou shalt
see the Spirit descending and remaining on him, the same is he
which baptizeth with the Holy Ghost. And I saw and bare record,
that this"—he paused, his staff still pointing at the stranger
in the white garments, as if to give a more absolute certainty
to both his words and the conclusions intended—"I bare record,
THAT THIS IS THE SON OF GOD!"

"It is he, it is he!" Balthasar cried, with upraised tearful eyes.
Next moment he sank down insensible.

In this time, it should be remembered, Ben-Hur was studying the face
of the stranger, though with an interest entirely different. He was
not insensible to its purity of feature, and its thoughtfulness,
tenderness, humility, and holiness; but just then there was room in
his mind for but one thought—Who is this man? And what? Messiah or
king? Never was apparition more unroyal. Nay, looking at that calm,
benignant countenance, the very idea of war and conquest, and lust
of dominion, smote him like a profanation. He said, as if speaking
to his own heart, Balthasar must be right and Simonides wrong.
This man has not come to rebuild the throne of Solomon; he has
neither the nature nor the genius of Herod; king he may be,
but not of another and greater than Rome.

It should be understood now that this was not a conclusion with
Ben-Hur, but an impression merely; and while it was forming,
while yet he gazed at the wonderful countenance, his memory began
to throe and struggle. "Surely," he said to himself, "I have seen
the man; but where and when?" That the look, so calm, so pitiful,
so loving, had somewhere in a past time beamed upon him as that
moment it was beaming upon Balthasar became an assurance. Faintly
at first, at last a clear light, a burst of sunshine, the scene
by the well at Nazareth what time the Roman guard was dragging
him to the galleys returned, and all his being thrilled. Those
hands had helped him when he was perishing. The face was one of
the pictures he had carried in mind ever since. In the effusion
of feeling excited, the explanation of the preacher was lost by
him, all but the last words—words so marvellous that the world
yet rings with them:

"—this is the SON OF GOD!"

Ben-Hur leaped from his horse to render homage to his benefactor;
but Iras cried to him, "Help, son of Hur, help, or my father will
die!"

He stopped, looked back, then hurried to her assistance. She gave
him a cup; and leaving the slave to bring the camel to its knees,
he ran to the river for water. The stranger was gone when he came
back.

At last Balthasar was restored to consciousness. Stretching forth
his hands, he asked, feebly, "Where is he?"

"Who?" asked Iras.

An intense instant interest shone upon the good man's face, as if
a last wish had been gratified, and he answered,

"He—the Redeemer—the Son of God, whom I have seen again."

"Believest thou so?" Iras asked in a low voice of Ben-Hur.

"The time is full of wonders; let us wait," was all he said.

And next day while the three were listening to him, the Nazarite
broke off in mid-speech, saying reverently, "Behold the Lamb of
God!"

Looking to where he pointed, they beheld the stranger again. As
Ben-Hur surveyed the slender figure, and holy beautiful countenance
compassionate to sadness, a new idea broke upon him.

"Balthasar is right—so is Simonides. May not the Redeemer be a
king also?"

And he asked one at his side, "Who is the man walking yonder?"

The other laughed mockingly, and replied,

"He is the son of a carpenter over in Nazareth."

"Who could resist? Who in this universe?
She did so breathe ambrosia, so immerse
My fine existence in a golden clime.
She took me like a child of suckling-time,
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd,
The current of my former life was stemm'd,
And to this arbitrary queen of sense
I bow'd a tranced vassal."

KEATS, Endymion.

"I am the resurrection and the life."

"Esther—Esther! Speak to the servant below that he may bring me
a cup of water."

"Would you not rather have wine, father?"

"Let him bring both."

This was in the summer-house upon the roof of the old palace of the
Hurs in Jerusalem. From the parapet overlooking the court-yard Esther
called to a man in waiting there; at the same moment another man-servant
came up the steps and saluted respectfully.

"A package for the master," he said, giving her a letter enclosed
in linen cloth, tied and sealed.

For the satisfaction of the reader, we stop to say that it is the
twenty-first day of March, nearly three years after the annunciation
of the Christ at Bethabara.

In the meanwhile, Malluch, acting for Ben-Hur, who could not longer
endure the emptiness and decay of his father's house, had bought
it from Pontius Pilate; and, in process of repair, gates, courts,
lewens, stairways, terraces, rooms, and roof had been cleansed and
thoroughly restored; not only was there no reminder left of the tragic
circumstances so ruinous to the family, but the refurnishment was
in a style richer than before. At every point, indeed, a visitor
was met by evidences of the higher tastes acquired by the young
proprietor during his years of residence in the villa by Misenum
and in the Roman capital.

Now it should not be inferred from this explanation that Ben-Hur
had publicly assumed ownership of the property. In his opinion,
the hour for that was not yet come. Neither had he yet taken
his proper name. Passing the time in the labors of preparation
in Galilee, he waited patiently the action of the Nazarene,
who became daily more and more a mystery to him, and by prodigies
done, often before his eyes, kept him in a state of anxious doubt
both as to his character and mission. Occasionally he came up to
the Holy City, stopping at the paternal house; always, however,
as a stranger and a guest.

These visits of Ben-Hur, it should also be observed, were for more
than mere rest from labor. Balthasar and Iras made their home in the
palace; and the charm of the daughter was still upon him with all
its original freshness, while the father, though feebler in body,
held him an unflagging listener to speeches of astonishing power,
urging the divinity of the wandering miracle-worker of whom they
were all so expectant.

As to Simonides and Esther, they had arrived from Antioch only
a few days before this their reappearance—a wearisome journey
to the merchant, borne, as he had been, in a palanquin swung
between two camels, which, in their careening, did not always
keep the same step. But now that he was come, the good man,
it seemed, could not see enough of his native land. He delighted
in the perch upon the roof, and spent most of his day hours there
seated in an arm-chair, the duplicate of that one kept for him in
the cabinet over the store-house by the Orontes. In the shade of
the summer-house he could drink fully of the inspiring air lying
lightly upon the familiar hills; he could better watch the sun
rise, run its course, and set as it used to in the far-gone, not a
habit lost; and with Esther by him it was so much easier up there
close to the sky, to bring back the other Esther, his love in youth,
his wife, dearer growing with the passage of years. And yet he
was not unmindful of business. Every day a messenger brought him
a despatch from Sanballat, in charge of the big commerce behind;
and every day a despatch left him for Sanballat with directions of
such minuteness of detail as to exclude all judgment save his own,
and all chances except those the Almighty has refused to submit to
the most mindful of men.