Joseph and his brothers, p.103
Joseph and His Brothers, page 103
had always been a kind of amiable and roguish puzzle that engaged his mind from that first moment when he had stood before him with the scroll and a smile that tempted the steward to confuse him with the ibis-headed god.
Mont-kaw could barely see at all now or name the number of fingers held before his eyes. But he could still Usten, and with the help of these strange and foreign stories so cleverly told at his bedside, he could drive away the torpid slumber into which his poison-laden blood tried to lure him. He learned about Eliezer who is always present, who, along with his master, had defeated the kings of the East, and whom the earth had leapt up to greet on his journey to find a bride for the averted sacrifice. About the virgin at the well, who had jumped down from her camel and veiled herself upon seeing him for whom she had been wooed. About the savagely beautiful brother of the desert, who had tried to persuade the cheated hairy red man to slay his father and devour him. About the ancient wanderer, the father of them all, and what had once happened to him and his sister-wife here in the land of Egypt. About his brother Lot, the angels at his door, and the flagrant shamelessness of the Sodomites. About the rain of brimstone, the pillar of salt, and what Lot's daughters had done out of worry for the future of mankind. About Nim-rod of Shinar and his tower of presumption. About Noah, the second first man, the arch-clever man, and his ark. About the first man himself, made of clay in the Garden of the East, about the woman made from his rib, and about the serpent. Sitting by the dying man's bed, Joseph spent of his treasure, his heirloom of most marvelous stories, trying to ease his conscience with wit and eloquence and to tie the steward to the here and now for a little longer. But finally, caught up in this epic spirit himself, Mont-kaw began to speak; he had himself propped up in his pillows and, with the look of approaching death on his face, groped to lay his hand on Joseph's, as if he were Yitzchak feeling for his sons' hands in his tent.
"Let me see with seeing hands," he said, his face directed toward the ceiling, "whether you are Osarsiph, my son, for I wish to bless you before my end and am greatly strengthened for blessing by the stories you have so richly fed me. Yes, it is you, I see and know you well in the way blind men do, and there can be no creeping doubt or deception here, for I have only one son to bless, and that is you, Osarsiph, of whom I have grown fond over the course of years, in place
of the little boy whom his mother took with her in her labors, suffocating him, for she was built too narrowly. Beside the road? No, she died in childbirth in her chamber at home, and I do not venture to say her torments were beyond nature, but they were terrible and cruel, so that I fell upon my face and begged the gods for her death, which they granted. They also granted the death of the child, though I had not begged for that. But what would the child have been to me without her? She was called Olive Tree, the daughter of Kegboi, a treasury official. Beket was her name, and I was not bold enough to love her the way that man of blessing made bold to love his wife, the lovely woman of Naharina, your mother—I could not presume to do so. But she was lovely too, unforgettably lovely in the adornment of her silken eyelashes, which she would lower whenever I spoke words of the heart to her, words of songs, which I myself would never have presumed to speak, but which became my words in those days, in those beautiful days. Yes, we loved each other, despite the narrowness of her body, and when she died along with the child, I wept for her through many nights, until time and work dried my tears—dried my eyes, and I no longer wept at night, but the heavy bags beneath them and the fact that they are so small comes, I think, from those many nights—I do not know for certain, it may be so, it may not be so, but since I am dying and the light is fading in those eyes that wept for Beket, it will all be one in this world whether it was so or not. But after my eyes had dried, my heart stood empty and bleak; it had also grown small and narrow, like my eyes, and despondent at having loved to no avail, so that it seemed to have room left only for resignation. But the heart must care for something besides resignation and wants to beat for something more tender than its advantage and profit. I was Petepre's chief steward and oldest servant and knew of nothing except to make his house flourish and blossom in beauty. For he who is resigned is good for service. Behold, it was something that my narrowed heart could care for—service and tender helpfulness to Petepre, my master. For is there anyone who is more in need of loving service than he? He has no other concern, for all things are foreign to him and he was not made for business. Strange, tender, and proud is he, this titular official, in the face of all human enterprise, moving one to pity and to care for him, for he is a good man. Has he not come to me and visited me in my illness? He took the trouble to come here to my bed, while you were
looking after business, and inquired after me, a sick man, out of the goodness of his heart, though it was clearly evident that illness, too, makes him feel strange and shy, for he is never ill, though one would hesitate either to call him healthy or to believe that he will die—I can scarcely believe it myself, for one must be healthy in order to become ill, and live in order to die. But does that diminish one's care for him and the need to be helpful to his tender dignity? On the contrary! My heart has offered such care beyond its own advantage and profit and made a point of serving in love so that I might be able to be helpful to his dignity and humor his pride as well I knew how and was able to do. You, however, Osarsiph, know how to do it incomparably better, for the gods have given your mind subtle refinements and higher charms that mine lacks, whether because it is too dull and dry for them, or because it simply did not presume to trust itself for higher things. Which is why I have made a covenant with you for the sake of such service, which you are to keep when I am dead and am no more; and if I should bless you and bequeath you my office as steward of this house, you must swear to me here at my deathbed that you will not only watch over this house and its affairs for our master as best your wit and eye for business allow, but that you will also faithfully keep our more tender covenant by providing loving service to Petepre's soul and by shielding and justifying his dignity with all your skill—nor need I even mention that you would never offend that worrisomely delicate dignity or be tempted to disgrace it in word or deed. Will you swear this to me by all that is holy, my son Osarsiph?"
"Gladly and by all that is holy," Joseph repHed to these dying words. "You need not worry about that, my father. I swear to you to be helpful to his soul in considerate, faithful service according to our covenant and to remain as loyal as humanly possible to him in his need, and will think of you should I ever be assaulted by the temptation to cause him the special pain that unfaithfulness inflicts upon the lonely—you may depend upon it."
"That is a great comfort to me," Mont-kaw said, "although the sense of death agitates me greatly, which it ought not; for nothing is more common than death, and particularly my own—the death of so simple a man who always made a point of avoiding higher things. And so I shall die no higher sort of death, either, and wish to make no great fuss, no more than I made over my love for Olive Tree, or in
presuming that the torment of her labor was beyond nature. But I wish to bless you all the same, Osarsiph, in place of my son, not without solemnity, for it is the blessing that is solemn and not I, and so bow now beneath a blind man's hand. I bequeath this house and estate to you, my true son and successor in the office of steward to Petepre, the great courtier and my lord, and I resign from it in your favor, which gives my soul great satisfaction—indeed death brings me this joy and, as I now notice, the agitation it causes me is one of joy and nothing more. But my leaving all this to you is in accordance with the will of the master, who has pointed his finger at you among all his servants and has marked you to be his overseer in my place upon my death. For when he recently visited me out of the goodness of his heart and gazed upon me helplessly, I arranged this with him and entreated him to point his finger at you alone and to call you by name when I have become a god, so that I might depart with confidence as to the house and all its affairs. 'Yes,' he said, 'that's fine, Mont-kaw, old man, that's fine. Should you in fact depart, which would grieve me sorely, I will, without hesitation, point to him and no other, that is agreed, and should anyone attempt to meddle, he will learn that my will is of iron and like black granite from the quarries of Rehenu. He himself has said that such is the nature of my will, and I must agree with him. He stirs in me the sense of well-being that comes with trust, even more than you have done in your lifetime, and often I have thought I sensed that a god or several gods are with him, who lend success to everything he puts his hand to. And he is even less likely to go behind my back than you in all your honesty, for he was born knowing what sin is and wears in his hair a kind of sacrificial adornment as an amulet against sin. In short, it is settled, Osarsiph shall follow after you and be set over the house and assume all those affairs that I cannot possibly concern myself with. My finger is pointed at him.' Those were the master's very words—I have kept them faithfully. So I am blessing you now only after he first blessed you, for is it ever done otherwise? One always blesses only him who is blessed and wishes happiness to him who is happy. Even the blind man in his tent blessed his smooth son only because he, and not the rough one, was a man of blessing. One can do no more. So then, be blessed, as you are blessed. You have a joyful heart and boldly presume to deal with higher things and venture to say that your mother's torments were beyond nature and to call your
own birth virginal for reasons that are at least disputable—those are the signs of blessing, which I did not have and so cannot bestow upon you, but I can bless you by also wishing you happiness as I die. Incline your head lower still beneath my hand, my son—the head of one who strives higher beneath the hand of a modest man. I bequeath to you house, estate, and fields in the name of Petepre, for whom I administered them; I give to you their fatness and their purity, that you may preside over the workshops, the provisions in the storehouses, the fruits of the garden, the beasts, large and small, as well as the tilled fields of the island, the ledgers and every act of trade, and I set you over sowing and harvest, kitchen and cellar, the master's table, the needs of his house of women, the oil mills and winepresses, and all the servants. I hope I have forgotten nothing. But likewise do not forget me, Osarsiph, when I have become a god and like unto Osiris. Be my Horus, who shields and justifies his father, and do not let what is inscribed upon my grave grow illegible, but maintain my life. Tell me, will you see to it that Min-neb-mat, the master of wrappings, and his assistants make a very beautiful mummy of me? And not black, but a beautiful yellow, for which I have left behind what is needed, not for them to consume for themselves, but rather that I may be salted with good natron and fine balsam, so that I may live eternally—with storax, juniper wood, cedar resin from the harbor, mastic from the sweet pistachio bush, and soft linens nearest my body. Will you pay heed, my son, that my eternal shell is beautifully painted and covered on the inside with protective words, without gap or breach? Do you promise me to make sure that Imhotep, the priest of the dead in the West, does not distribute among his children the funds I have set aside for my sacrificial provisions of bread, beer, oil, and incense, but that they remain intact so that your father is provided with food and drink on feast days for all eternity? It is good and loving of you to promise me all this in a reverent voice, for though death is common, it is bound up with great cares, and a man must secure himself on many sides. Also place a little grate in my chamber, so that servants may roast haunches of beef for me there. Likewise add an alabaster goose, a wine pitcher carved of wood, and provide me as well with an abundance of your sycamore figs made of clay. It pleases me to hear you agree to all this in calming, pious words. Place a little boat manned by rowers beside
my coffin, just in case, and see to it that a few aproned slaves are there inside with me, too, so that they may report in my stead when the god of the West calls me to work in his fertile field, for I had a head for generalities and was good at oversight, but cannot manage plow and sickle. Oh, how many precautions death demands! Have I forgotten any? Promise me you will also think of those that I have forgotten—for instance, that you will see to it that in place of my heart they insert the lovely jasper scarab that Petepre gave me out of the goodness of his heart and that bears an inscription saying that my heart may not rise up to witness against me upon the scale. It is in the little box of yew wood lying just to the right in the chest, along with both my necklaces, which I bequeath to you. But enough of this, I shall now close my dying words. A man cannot think of everything, and there is left behind much uneasiness, which death itself brings with it, so that there is but an apparent need to take precautions. Even the question and uncertainty of how we shall live after our departure is more a guise of death's uneasiness, the form it takes in our thoughts—but these happen to be my thoughts, thoughts of uneasiness. Shall I sit in the trees as a bird among other birds? Shall I be permitted to be this or that just as I please: a heron in the marshes, a scarab rolling his little ball, a lotus chalice upon the water? Shall I live within my chamber and enjoy the sacrifices from the funds I left behind? Or shall I be there where Re shines by night and where everything will be just as it is here—both heaven and earth, river, field, and house, and shall I again be Petepre's oldest servant as has been my custom? I have heard it told one way and the other and both at once, and one way may well stand for another and all of it for our uneasiness, which, however, falls away beneath the rustling of sleep that calls me now. Lay me out upon my bed again, my son, for I am without strength, having spent the last of it in blessings and cares. I will give myself over to sleep, which rustles with a great rustling in my head. But before I give myself over, I would, to be sure, like to know whether in the West, on the far side of the Nile, I shall again meet my Olive Tree that perished. Ah, but above all let my care be that in the last moment as I try to fall asleep, I shall not be wrenched back again by a cramp. Say good-night to me, my son, as you know so well to do, hold my arm and leg and conjure away the cramp with soothing words. Discharge once more this fine office of
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yours—for the last time. And yet not the last, for if everything along the Nile of the transfigured is just as it is here, then you, too, Osar-siph, will surely be at my side again as my apprentice and will speak evening blessings to me, sweetly reshaped by your gifts for each night. For you are blessed and may spend your blessing, while I can only wish you happiness. ... I can speak no more, my friend. Here is an end to my dying words. But do not think I do not still hear you."
Joseph laid his right hand on the pale hands of the dying man, and with his left he firmly held his thigh.
"Peace be with you," he said. "A blessed rest, my father, this night. Behold, I wake and watch over your limbs so that you may follow the path of consolation without care or any further worry. Rather, be of good cheer and let your thoughts be of nothing at all. Not of your limbs, nor the affairs of this house, nor even of yourself and what will become of you or how the life after this life may be— for that is the nub, that all this and everything else is not your care or concern and you need not be troubled by any uneasiness, but can let all things be as they are, for since they are, they must be some way or other, conduct themselves in one way or another—they have been taken care of, and your cares are at an end and your bed is one of cares provided for. Is that not gloriously comforting and soothing? Is it not with must and may today just as always, just as when I took leave of you with my evening blessing, saying you need not think that you must rest, but that you may? Behold, you may! Here is an end to problems and plagues and every vexation. No more bodily pain, no choking constriction, no fear of cramps. No loathsome medicines, no burning poultices or sucking, wriggling worms at your neck. The dungeon pit of your troubles is open wide. You walk out of it and stroll whole and free down the paths of consolation, which with each step lead deeper into consolation. For at first you move through fields you know well, those that received you each evening with the help of my blessing. Yet without your knowing it, there is still some heaviness and shortness of breath in you, in your body, which I hold here in my hands. But soon—you do not even notice the step that leads you across—new meadows of total lightness receive you, where you are not aware, even from afar, of the least distress still clinging, still tugging at you, and of a sudden you
