Joseph and his brothers, p.56
Joseph and His Brothers, page 56
when you are traveling amongst others—you shall ride her. But so that you may realize just what I expect of you, and so that your brothers may see it as well, I charge you to ride alone the entire journey, from here to Shechem's pastures. For I shall not give you any servants, nor allow Eliezer to ride at your side. But you shall travel by yourself, all on your own, and say to your brothers, 'I have come alone on a white ass to visit you, as our father wished.' It may be that you will then not have to return to me by yourself, but that your brothers will travel with you, several or all of them. That, in any case, is what I have in the back of my mind in making this extraordinary demand."
"I shall surely manage that," Joseph promised, "and I pledge to bring them back to you, indeed I warrant it and dare to say: I shall not return unless I bring them to you!"
Joseph followed his asinine chatter with a little dance around his father, rejoicing in the name of Yah that he would be traveling all on his own and seeing the world. Then he ran to Benjamin and to old Eliezer to tell them everything. But Jacob nodded as he watched him go and saw quite well that if his demand was extraordinary, its challenge applied to himself and that he was treating no one more roughly than himself. And yet was it not the right thing to do, did not his heart's answerability for Joseph desire it? He would not see the child for several days, that seemed penance enough for his culpability—he had no idea, for it was beyond his imaginings, what "rough treatment" meant in higher realms. He took into account that Joseph's mission might fail, inasmuch as he considered it possible he might return without his brothers. The terrible opposite never entered his mind. For its own sake, fate excluded that notion. Since everything turns out differently from what we intend, destiny is greatly hampered by man's fearful apprehensions, which are almost conspiratorial. Destiny cripples our anxious imagination by allowing it to anticipate everything except its fate—fate that thus avoids being turned aside by vigilant thoughts and retains all its primordial power and crushing blows.
During the brief preparations that Joseph's excursion demanded, Jacob was sensibly reminded of fateful days from his own past, of the measures Rebekah took to prepare his departure from home after the switch in blessings she herself had initiated, and his soul was filled with a solemn sense of recurrence. One must say that it
was a risky correlation he was making here, for his role did not compare with that of Rebekah, his heroically courageous mother, who knowingly sacrificed her own heart by arranging a deception that set things right and then, fully aware that she might never see her favorite again, sent him off to strange lands. That theme underwent a good many mutations. It was indeed true that Joseph had to leave home because of aggrieved fraternal anger, and yet he was not fleeing from their rage, but rather Jacob was sending him, so to speak, into Esau's arms. It was the scene beside the Jabbok that Jacob had in mind and whose recurrence he was trying to hasten—an external humbling, the forms of a makeshift reconciliation filled with reservations, the cobbling-over of an irreparable breach, the sham resolution of something never to be resolved. In his dignified weakness he was a long way from the determined Rebekah, who had acted regardless of consequences. His goal in sending Joseph on a mission was indeed the restoration of a previous situation—already abundantly proved untenable. For no one can doubt that once the ten had returned home, the old game—consisting of Jacob's weakness, Joseph's blind arrogance, and the brothers' fatal rancor—would have continued its hopeless course, leading inevitably to the same consequences.
Nonetheless, the golden son was readied for a journey rooted in fraternal strife—to that extent it was a recurrence and Jacob saw to other similarities as well, making sure that Joseph rode off in the early morning, before sunrise, just as he had done in his own day. He was scarcely even Jacob as they said their farewells, but rather was Rebekah, was the mother. He held his departing son for a long time, murmured blessings against his cheek, took a protective amulet from his own neck and hung it around the boy's, and hugged him yet again—behaving more or less as if Joseph were traveling for who knew how long or forever, seventeen days or more, toward the utterly strange world of Naharaim, when in fact the lad, provisioned with more than ample food, was setting out on a jaunt over safe roads to the hardly distant Shechem—much to his delight. Which shows how excessive a man's behavior can appear when one's awareness is one's yardstick, but how, when observed from the viewpoint of a fate still quite unknown to the man, the same conduct seems all too fitting. This can even offer consolation once the conscious mind clears and we learn what was truly meant. Therefore people should
never say their farewells lightly, for then, no matter what, they will be able to say: At least I pressed him to my heart!
No need to record that the farewell taken that morning at the side of Hulda—packed to the full and adorned in colorful woolen flowers and glass beads—was but the last of several occasions when advice, recommendations, and warnings were offered. Jacob had taught the boy the way and its stations in every detail he knew and, just as a mother would, warned him of getting too hot or taking a chill, had given him the names of men and fellow members of the faith in various towns where the traveler could spend the night and warned him sternly that, when passing the city of Urusalim and beholding there the temple of Baal and its house of consecrated women, he should not even enter into the smallest conversation with any of those who wove for Asherah, and above all constantly impressed on him the need to treat his brothers with particular courtesy. It would do no harm, he had instructed, if Joseph would prostrate himself seven times before them and frequently address them as his lords—presumably they would then henceforth decide to dip hands with him in the bowl, never leaving his side for the rest of their lives.
Jacob-Rebekah repeated many of these things during his final farewell at the break of day, before allowing the lad to swing his leg over the ass and, with a click of the tongue, ride off toward the midnight of the north. He even strode a little way alongside Hulda, fresh with morning vigor, but could not keep pace for long and gave up, standing there with a heart heavier than seemed suitable. He caught the flash of teeth turned in a last smile and raised a hand to wave. Then a turn in the path removed his son's figure from view, and he would see no more the Joseph who had ridden off.
Joseph Rides to Shechem
The lad, now out of his father's eye, feeling comfortably at home and yet all by himself, trotted along the road to Beth-lachem astride the animal's croup, his slender brown legs stretched forward and his upper body tilted saucily back under the gentle light of the morning sun bathing the hills round about. His mood perfectly suited the circumstances as he saw them, and he accepted his father's excessive
farewell with the cheerful forbearance of a coddled favorite, his heart burdened not in the least by the knowledge that he had responded to his father's worries about their first separation with a Ht-tle trick of his own.
Jacob, you see, had expatiated at length on how the traveler should conduct himself, overlooking not a single precept or warning—except that he neglected one thing, for which a peculiar and not totally blameless lapse in memory was at fault. He had forgotten to advise the boy concerning one particular act of consideration and requisite tact and did not think of it until the day when the object that his admonishment would have concerned was suddenly, and horribly, presented to his view again: the veiled ketonet. He should have suggested Joseph leave it at home, but Joseph had slyly, silently taken advantage of Jacob's lapse and taken it with him. He so longed to show himself to the wider world in it that he had literally trembled for fear his father might decide at the last moment to deny it to him—yes, we consider it possible that in that case he would have lied to the old man and declared that the sacred embroidery lay in its chest, whereas in truth it was hidden among his baggage. Dangling from the back of his beast of burden, milk-white Hulda, a charming three-year-old, clever and obliging, though inclined to harmless bits of mischief, with that touching good humor that sometime peeks through the nature of such reserved creatures, with eloquent velvet ears and a droll woolly forelock growing down over her large and merrily mild eyes, where only too quickly flies began to gather— Hulda, then, had dangling from both sides of her back all sorts of travel necessities and provisions: a goatskin with soured skim milk for thirst, lidded baskets and clay pots with wheat and fruit cakes, parched grain, salted olives, cucumbers, roasted onions, and fresh cheeses. All this and more, both for the traveler's own refreshment and as gifts for his brothers, had been carefully inspected by his father, who had failed to peer into just one container, an utterly ordinary, age-old item of traveler's luggage: a round piece of leather that served as a tablecloth or, better, as the table itself, for dining, with metal rings sewn around its edge. Even the Bedouin of the desert, they in particular, used it—it came from them. A cord was drawn through the rings, and during a journey the dining table was hung from the animal as a bag. Joseph had done the same, but in his dining bag, much to his gloating delight, his ketonet was tucked.
Why did it belong to him, why had he inherited it, if he was not to let himself be seen in it on his journey? Close to home, people along the road and in the fields knew him and called his name in delight. But farther on, when after a few hours they no longer knew him, it was a good idea not to rely solely on the plentiful provisions he had with him as evidence that a man of refinement was passing by. Which was why, especially as the sun climbed higher, he soon pulled out his splendid attire and put it on to suit his mood, protecting his head, but with the myrtle wreath he usually wore no longer in his hair, but set atop the veil framing his face.
That day he did not reach the place for which he had also donned his robe and where, following both Jacob's fervent instructions and his own desires, he had planned to spend the night, offering sacrifices and praying; and yet it was only a short distance from Beth-lachem, where he found shelter with a friend of Jacob's, a carpenter and believer in God. The second morning, however, after saying good-bye to his friendly host, the man's wife, and their household, he was soon at the spot, and Hulda waited beneath the propped-up mulberry tree, while Joseph, clad in his bridal heirloom, offered prayers and libations at the stone erected beside the road—a memorial stone for God, that He might be reminded of what He had once done here.
Morning stillness lay upon the vineyards and rock-strewn fields, and as yet no traffic was passing to and from Urusalim. A breeze casually played in the tree's shining foliage. The landscape was silent, and the spot where Jacob had once laid Laban's child to rest accepted in silence his son's gifts and tokens of devotion. Joseph placed water beside the stone, added a loaf of raisin bread, kissed the ground beneath which an eager life had vanished, and stood up again, raising heavenward hands, eyes, and lips—all inherited from this vanished woman—and muttering litanies of veneration. There was no answer from the depths. What had vanished was silent, spellbound in indifference, incapable of caring. What it possessed of the present in this place was Joseph himself, who wore her bridal dress and turned her eyes heavenward. Might it not have warned him, that maternal part of his own flesh and blood alive in him? No, it lay within him, in the thrall of blind, coddled, boyish folly, and could not speak.
And so in a cheerful mood Joseph continued on his way, along roads and mountain paths. It was the smoothest journey in the
world; neither misfortune nor unforeseen accident marred its success. It wasn't exactly as if the earth leapt up to greet him; but it extended obligingly before him and offered joyous greetings through people's eyes and mouths wherever he went. They had long since ceased to know him personally, but his type is extraordinarily popular in these climes, and his appearance—enhanced by the power of the veil—awakened favor and delight in all those who saw him, particularly among the women. Sitting in the garish sun beside village walls of honeycombed baked clay and dung, they suckled their children, and the pleasure they took in nursing their brood was reinforced by the sight of the handsome and beautiful young man riding by.
"Good health to you, apple of every eye!" they called to him. "Blessed be she who bore you, warmer of hearts!"
"Perfect health to you!" Joseph responded, showing them his teeth. "Your son shall rule over many!"
"A thousand thanks!" they called after him. "May Ashtaroth show you favor. You are like one of her gazelles." For they were all devotees of Asherah and thought of worshiping only her.
In other instances—because of his veil, but also because of his ample provisions—some simply considered him to be a god and showed an inclination to worship him. But that was the case only in the countryside, not in walled cities that bore names like Beth-shemesh or Kiriath-Ayin or even Kerem-Baalat and the like, beside whose ponds and gateways he would stop to chat and soon be surrounded by large numbers of people. For he amazed them with the kind of learning that city people love, spoke with them of the miracles God performed with numbers, of eons, of the secret of the pendulum, and of the peoples of the earth, and also, to flatter them, told them of the wench from Uruk who converted the woodsman to civilized conduct, all the while displaying so much engaging charm in speech and manners that they agreed he might very well be the mazkir of a city prince or the voice of memory for a great king.
He brilliantly displayed the knowledge of languages he had gained with Eliezer's help, and there beneath the gate he spoke Hit-tite with a man from Hetti, Mitannite with a man from the north, and a few words of Egyptian with a cattle trader from the Delta. It was not much that he knew, but a clever man can say more with ten words than a stupid one with a hundred, and he understood that
those who were hstening would be impressed with him as a mar-velously facile polyglot even if his conversational partner was not. He served as interpreter for a woman at the well, who had dreamt a terrifying dream. In it her little three-year-old son had suddenly appeared larger than she herself, and had had a beard. That meant, he told her, his eyes rolling back briefly to show the whites, that her son would soon leave her, but that she would indeed see him again, but only after many years, as a grown man with a beard. Since the woman was very poor and might possibly be forced to sell her son into slavery, the interpretation had a certain probability, and people marveled at the union of beauty and wisdom embodied in this young traveler.
There were always several who invited him to their homes, asking him to be their guest for a few days. But following his father's traveling instructions as best he could, he neglected his duty no more than common courtesy demanded. Of the three nights separating his four days of travel, he spent only one other in a house, as the guest of a silversmith named Abisai, whom Jacob had once visited and who, though not unconditionally and exclusively a follower of Abraham's God, was strongly inclined in His favor and noted, by way of excuse for fashioning idols from the moon's metal, that a man had to make a living somehow. As a man of the world, Joseph conceded the point and slept under his roof. The third brief period of darkness he spent in the open, making his bed in a grove of fig trees, for he had rested during the day because of the excessive heat and was so late in arriving at his third way station that he did not want to ask admission into the city. Something similar happened on the last night as he was nearing his goal. For the sun's ferocity had forced him to rest during the afternoon hours of the fourth day too, and since he had slept the day away under trees and set forth again only toward evening, it was already the second watch of the night when he arrived at Shechem's narrow valley. But if his journey had thus far proceeded so favorably, it turned mad and bedeviled from the first hour he entered the valley and, by the light of a moon still floating like a trim barque, beheld the walled city with its fortress and temple set on the slopes of Mount Gerizim—from that moment on, nothing went quite right; indeed things went so awry and at such utter cross-purposes that Joseph was tempted to connect this turnabout in fortune's mood with the person of a man who met him that night outside Shechem
and who forced himself upon him as a companion for this final period preceding the transformation of all things.
The Man in the Field
We read that Joseph was wandering in the field. But what does "wandering" mean here? Had his father demanded too much of him, and did young Joseph go about it so poorly that he made mistakes and lost his way? Not at all. To wander is not the same as to lose one's way, and when one is looking for something that is not there, one need not go astray in order not to find it. Joseph had spent several boyhood years in the valley of Shechem and was no stranger to the area, though it was with a kind of dreamy familiarity that he recognized it again, particularly by night and faint moonlight. He was not lost, he was searching. And since he found nothing, his search was pointless exploration of a maze. Leading his animal by the bridle through the silence of night, he wandered the rolling expanses of meadow and field, beneath darkly brooding starlit mountains, and he thought, "Where can my brothers be?" He came across sheep-folds, where the flocks inside slept as they stood. It was uncertain whether these were Jacob's sheep, and there was no one there—the silence was remarkable.
Then he heard a voice, heard a question asked by a man whose footsteps he had not noticed approaching from behind, but who had now caught up with him and was at his side. Had the man been coming toward him, Joseph would have asked him a question, but as things stood the man allowed no questions, but asked one instead: "Whom are you looking for?"
He did not ask "What are you looking for here?" but simply "Whom are you looking for?" And it may be that the emphatic way he posed the question helped shape Joseph's childish and thoughtless answer. The boy's mind was weary, and his joy at meeting someone in this cursed maze of night was so great that he immediately turned the man—simply because he was another person—into an object of ingenuously obliging and illogical trust. He said, "I am looking for my brothers. Tell me, good man, please, where they are grazing their flocks."
