Ben-Hur

by Wallace, Lew

  Ilderim’s small Arab eyes were bright with understanding, and Ben-Hur, lifted from his dejection, said heartily, “I, at least, may not gainsay them. What further, pray?”

  “Hast thou not enough, my son? Well,” he began, in calmer tone, “seeing that the reasons were good—more plainly, seeing it was God’s will that the Child should not be found—I settled my faith into the keeping of patience, and took to waiting.” He raised his eyes, full of holy trust, and broke off abstractedly—“I am waiting now. He lives, keeping well his mighty secret. What though I cannot go to him, or name the hill or the vale of his abiding-place? He lives—it may be as the fruit in blossom, it may be as the fruit just ripening; but by the certainty there is in the promise and reason of God, I know he lives.”

  A thrill of awe struck Ben-Hur—a thrill which was but the dying of his half-formed doubt.

  “Where thinkest thou he is?” he asked, in a low voice, and hesitating, like one who feels upon his lips the pressure of a sacred silence.

  Balthasar looked at him kindly, and replied, his mind not entirely freed from its abstraction,

  “In my house on the Nile, so close to the river that the passers-by in boats see it and its reflection in the water at the same time—in my house, a few weeks ago, I sat thinking. A man thirty years old, I said to myself, should have his fields of life all ploughed, and his planting well done; for after that it is summer-time, with space scarce enough to ripen his sowing. The Child, I said further, is now twenty-seven—his time to plant must be at hand. I asked myself, as you here asked me, my son, and answered by coming hither, as to a good resting-place close by the land thy fathers had from God. Where else should he appear, if not in Judea? In what city should he begin his work if not in Jerusalem? Who should be first to receive the blessings he is to bring, if not the children of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; in love, at least, the children of the Lord? If I were bidden go seek him, I would search well the hamlets and villages on the slopes of the mountains of Judea and Galilee falling eastwardly into the valley of the Jordan. He is there now. Standing in a door or on a hill-top, only this evening he saw the sun set one day nearer the time when he himself shall become the light of the world.”

  Balthasar ceased, with his hand raised and finger pointing as if at Judea. All the listeners, even the dull servants outside the divan, affected by his fervor, were startled as if by a majestic presence suddenly apparent within the tent. Nor did the sensation die away at once: of those at the table, each sat awhile thinking. The spell was finally broken by Ben-Hur.

  “I see, good Balthasar,” he said, “that thou hast been much and strangely favored. I see, also, that thou art a wise man indeed. It is not in my power to tell how grateful I am for the things thou hast told me. I am warned of the coming of great events, and borrow somewhat from thy faith. Complete the obligation, I pray thee, by telling further of the mission of him for whom thou art waiting, and for whom from this night I too shall wait as becomes a believing son of Judah. He is to be a Saviour, thou saidst; is he not to be King of the Jews also?”

  “My son,” said Balthasar, in his benignant way, “the mission is yet a purpose in the bosom of God. All I think about it is wrung from the words of the Voice in connection with the prayer to which they were in answer. Shall we refer to them again?”

  “Thou art the teacher.”

  “The cause of my disquiet,” Balthasar began, calmly—“that which made me a preacher in Alexandria and in the villages of the Nile; that which drove me at last into the solitude where the Spirit found me—was the fallen condition of men, occasioned, as I believed, by loss of the knowledge of God. I sorrowed for the sorrows of my kind—not of one class, but all of them. So utterly were they fallen it seemed to me there could be no Redemption unless God himself would make it his work; and I prayed him to come, and that I might see him. ‘Thy good works have conquered. The Redemption cometh; thou shalt see the Saviour’—thus the Voice spake; and with the answer I went up to Jerusalem rejoicing. Now, to whom is the Redemption? To all the world. And how shall it be? Strengthen thy faith, my son! Men say, I know, that there will be no happiness until Rome is razed from her hills. That is to say, the ills of the time are not, as I thought them, from ignorance of God, but from the misgovernment of rulers. Do we need to be told that human governments are never for the sake of religion? How many kings have you heard of who were better than their subjects? Oh no, no! The Redemption cannot be for a political purpose—to pull down rulers and powers, and vacate their places merely that others may take and enjoy them. If that were all of it, the wisdom of God would cease to be surpassing. I tell you, though it be but the saying of blind to blind, he that comes is to be a Saviour of souls; and the Redemption means God once more on earth, and righteousness, that his stay here may be tolerable to himself.”

  Disappointment showed plainly on Ben-Hur’s face—his head drooped; and if he was not convinced, he yet felt himself incapable that moment of disputing the opinion of the Egyptian. Not so Ilderim.

  “By the splendor of God!” he cried, impulsively, “the judgment does away with all custom. The ways of the world are fixed, and cannot be changed. There must be a leader in every community clothed with power, else there is no reform.”

  Balthasar received the burst gravely.

  “Thy wisdom, good sheik, is of the world; and thou dost forget that it is from the ways of the world we are to be redeemed. Man as a subject is the ambition of a king; the soul of a man for its salvation is the desire of a God.”

  Ilderim, though silenced, shook his head, unwilling to believe. Ben-Hur took up the argument for him.

  “Father—I call thee such by permission,” he said—“for whom wert thou required to ask at the gates of Jerusalem?”

  The sheik threw him a grateful look.

  “I was to ask of the people,” said Balthasar, quietly, “where is he that is born King of the Jews?”

  “And you saw him in the cave by Bethlehem?”

  “We saw and worshipped him, and gave him presents—Melchior, gold; Gaspar, frankincense; and I, myrrh.”

  “When thou dost speak of fact, O father, to hear thee is to believe,” said Ben-Hur; “but in the matter of opinion, I cannot understand the kind of king thou wouldst make of the Child—I cannot separate the ruler from his powers and duties.”

  “Son,” said Balthasar, “we have the habit of studying closely the things which chance to lie at our feet, giving but a look at the greater objects in the distance. Thou seest now but the title—King of the Jews; wilt thou lift thine eyes to the mystery beyond it, the stumbling-block will disappear. Of the title, a word. Thy Israel hath seen better days—days in which God called thy people endearingly his people, and dealt with them through prophets. Now, if in those days he promised them the Saviour I saw—promised him as King of the Jews—the appearance must be according to the promise, if only for the word’s sake. Ah, thou seest the reason of my question at the gate!—thou seest, and I will no more of it, but pass on. It may be, next, thou art regarding the dignity of the Child; if so, bethink thee—what is it to be a successor of Herod?—by the world’s standard of honor, what? Could not God better by his beloved? If thou canst think of the Almighty Father in want of a title, and stooping to borrow the inventions of men, why was I not bidden ask for a Caesar at once? Oh, for the substance of that whereof we speak, look higher, I pray thee! Ask rather of what he whom we await shall be king; for I do tell, my son, that is the key to the mystery, which no man shall understand without the key.”

  Balthasar raised his eyes devoutly.

  “There is a kingdom on the earth, though it is not of it—a kingdom of wider bounds than the earth—wider than the sea and the earth, though they were rolled together as finest gold and spread by the beating of hammers. Its existence is a fact as our hearts are facts, and we journey through it from birth to death without seeing it; nor shall any man see it until he hath first known his own soul; for the kingdom is not for him, but for his soul.
And in the dominion there is glory such as hath not entered imagination—original, incomparable, impossible of increase.”

  “What thou sayest, father, is a riddle to me,” said Ben-Hur. “I never heard of such a kingdom.”

  “Nor did I,” said Ilderim.

  “And I may not tell more of it,” Balthasar added, humbly dropping his eyes. “What it is, what it is for, how it may be reached, none can know until the Child comes to take possession of it as his own. He brings the key of the viewless gate, which he will open for his beloved, among whom will be all who love him, for of such only the redeemed will be.”

  After that there was a long silence, which Balthasar accepted as the end of the conversation.

  “Good sheik,” he said, in his placid way, “to-morrow or the next day I will go up to the city for a time. My daughter wishes to see the preparations for the games. I will speak further about the time of our going. And, my son, I will see you again. To you both, peace and good-night.”

  They all arose from the table. The sheik and Ben-Hur remained looking after the Egyptian until he was conducted out of the tent.

  “Sheik Ilderim,” said Ben-Hur then, “I have heard strange things to-night. Give me leave, I pray, to walk by the lake that I may think of them.”

  “Go; and I will come after you.”

  They washed their hands again; after which, at a sign from the master, a servant brought Ben-Hur his shoes, and directly he went out.

  CHAPTER XVII

  UP a little way from the dowar there was a cluster of palms which threw its shade half in the water, half on the land. A bulbul sang from the branches a song of invitation. Ben-Hur stopped beneath to listen. At any other time the notes of the bird would have driven thought away; but the story of the Egyptian was a burden of wonder, and he was a laborer carrying it, and, like other laborers, there was to him no music in the sweetest music until mind and body were happily attuned by rest.

  The night was quiet. Not a ripple broke upon the shore. The old stars of the old East were all out, each in its accustomed place; and there was summer everywhere—on land, on lake, in the sky.

  Ben-Hur’s imagination was heated, his feelings aroused, his will all unsettled.

  So the palms, the sky, the air, seemed to him of the far south zone into which Balthasar had been driven by despair for men; the lake, with its motionless surface, was a suggestion of the Nilotic mother by which the good man stood praying when the Spirit made its radiant appearance. Had all these accessories of the miracle come to Ben-Hur? Or had he been transferred to them? And what if the miracle should be repeated—and to him? He feared, yet wished, and even waited for the vision. When at last his feverish mood was cooled, permitting him to become himself, he was able to think.

  His scheme of life has been explained. In all reflection about it heretofore there had been one hiatus which he had not been able to bridge or fill up—one so broad he could see but vaguely to the other side of it. When, finally, he was graduated a captain as well as a soldier, to what object should he address his efforts? Revolution he contemplated, of course; but the processes of revolution have always been the same, and to lead men into them there have always been required, first, a cause or pretence to enlist adherents; second, an end, or something as a practical achievement. As a rule he fights well who has wrongs to redress; but vastly better fights he who, with wrongs as a spur, has also steadily before him a glorious result in prospect—a result in which he can discern balm for wounds, compensation for valor, remembrance and gratitude in the event of death.

  To determine the sufficiency of either the cause or the end, it was needful that Ben-Hur should study the adherents to whom he looked when all was ready for action. Very naturally, they were his countrymen. The wrongs of Israel were to every son of Abraham, and each one was a cause vastly holy, vastly inspiring.

  Ay, the cause was there; but the end—what should it be?

  The hours and days he had given this branch of his scheme were past calculation—all with the same conclusion—a dim, uncertain, general idea of national liberty. Was it sufficient? He could not say no, for that would have been the death of his hope; he shrank from saying yes, because his judgment taught him better. He could not assure himself even that Israel was able single-handed to successfully combat Rome. He knew the resources of that great enemy; he knew her art was superior to her resources. A universal alliance might suffice, but, alas! that was impossible, except—and upon the exception how long and earnestly he had dwelt!—except a hero would come from one of the suffering nations, and by martial successes accomplish a renown to fill the whole earth. What glory to Judea could she prove the Macedonia of the new Alexander! Alas, again! Under the rabbis valor was possible, but not discipline. And then the taunt of Messala in the garden of Herod—“All you conquer in the six days, you lose on the seventh.”

  So it happened he never approached the chasm thinking to surmount it but he was beaten back; and so incessantly had he failed in the object that he had about given it over, except as a thing of chance. The hero might be discovered in his day, or he might not. God only knew. Such his state of mind, there need be no lingering upon the effect of Malluch’s skeleton recital of the story of Balthasar. He heard it with a bewildering satisfaction—a feeling that here was the solution of the trouble—here was the requisite hero found at last; and he a son of the Lion tribe, and King of the Jews! Behind the hero, lo! the world in arms.

  The king implied a kingdom; he was to be a warrior glorious as David, a ruler wise and magnificent as Solomon; the kingdom was to be a power against which Rome was to dash itself to pieces. There would be colossal war, and the agonies of death and birth—then peace, meaning, of course, Judean dominion forever.

  Ben-Hur’s heart beat hard as for an instant he had a vision of Jerusalem the capital of the world, and Zion, the site of the throne of the Universal Master.

  It seemed to the enthusiast rare fortune that the man who had seen the king was at the tent to which he was going. He could see him there, and hear him, and learn of him what all he knew of the coming change, especially all he knew of the time of its happening. If it were at hand, the campaign with Maxentius should be abandoned; and he would go and set about organizing and arming the tribes, that Israel might be ready when the great day of the restoration began to break.

  Now, as we have seen, from Balthasar himself Ben-Hur had the marvellous story. Was he satisfied?

  There was a shadow upon him deeper than that of the cluster of palms—the shadow of a great uncertainty, which—take note, O reader! which pertained more to the kingdom than the king.

  “What of this kingdom? And what is it to be?” Ben-Hur asked himself in thought.

  Thus early arose the questions which were to follow the Child to his end, and survive him on earth—incomprehensible in his day, a dispute in this—an enigma to all who do not or cannot understand that every man is two in one—a deathless Soul and a mortal Body.

  “What is it to be!” he asked.

  For us, O reader, the Child himself has answered; but for Ben-Hur there were only the words of Balthasar, “On the earth, yet not of it—not for men, but for their souls—a dominion, nevertheless, of unimaginable glory.”

  What wonder the hapless youth found the phrases but the darkening of a riddle?

  “The hand of man is not in it,” he said, despairingly. “Nor has the king of such a kingdom use for men; neither toilers, nor councillors, nor soldiers. The earth must die, or be made anew, and for government new principles must be discovered—something besides armed hands—something in place of Force. But what?”

  Again, O reader!

  That which we will not see, he could not. The power there is in Love had not yet occurred to any man; much less had one come saying directly that for government and its objects—peace and order—Love is better and mightier than Force.

  In the midst of his reverie a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

  “I have a word to say, O son of
Arrius,” said Ilderim, stopping by his side—“A word, and then I must return, for the night is going.”

  “I give you welcome, sheik.”

  “As to the things you have heard but now,” said Ilderim, almost without pause, “take in belief all save that relating to the kind of kingdom the Child will set up when he comes; as to so much keep virgin mind until you hear Simonides the merchant—a good man here in Antioch, to whom I will make you known. The Egyptian gives you coinage of his dreams which are too good for the earth; Simonides is wiser; he will ring you the sayings of your prophets, giving book and page, so you cannot deny that the Child will be King of the Jews in fact—ay, by the splendor of God! a king as Herod was, only better and far more magnificent. And then, see you, we will taste the sweetness of vengeance. I have said. Peace to you!”

  “Stay—sheik!”

  If Ilderim heard his call, he did not stay.

  “Simonides again!” said Ben-Hur, bitterly. “Simon ides here, Simonides there; from this one now, then from that! I am like to be well ridden by my father’s servant, who knows at least to hold fast that which is mine; wherefore he is richer, if indeed he be not wiser, than the Egyptian. By the covenant! it is not to the faithless a man should go to find a faith to keep—and I will not. But, hark! singing—and the voice a woman’s—or an angel’s? It comes this way.”

  Down the lake towards the dowar came a woman singing. Her voice floated along the hushed water melodious as a flute, and louder growing each instant. Directly the dipping of oars was heard in slow measure; a little later the words were distinguishable—words in purest Greek, best fitted of all the tongues of the day for the expression of passionate grief.

  THE LAMENT.

  (Egyptian.)