Joseph and his brothers, p.73
Joseph and His Brothers, page 73
These were the mother cities—each, surrounded by white walls, shaded by palm trees, and set atop a hill—and they served both as refuges for rural people and as fortresses of the Sarnim; and just as they had done in the fields outside villages, so here, too, the Midian-ites would set up for business in the gates of these large cities, home to throngs of people and many temples, and offer the residents of Ekron, Yabne, and Ashdod their trans Jordanian wares. Joseph acted as scribe. There he sat, wielding his ink brush and entering each transaction completed with the haggling children of Dagon—fishermen, sailors, craftsmen, and the citadel's mercenary soldiers clad in copper armor—Usarsiph, the literate young slave, obliging his good master. The sold and bought slave found his heart beating higher from day to day—one can well imagine why. It was not his nature to immerse himself thoughtlessly in the impressions thronging in upon his senses and not abstract some conceptual notion of where he was and how this place stood in relation to others. Despite their many stops and protracted, sluggish pauses, he knew that he was returning from the same journey—in the opposite direction and via a route through different country several leagues farther toward evening— that he had taken on Hulda, the poor beast, to visit his brothers, that he was moving toward his home, indeed would be passing beyond it, and that they would soon arrive at the point where he would have completed the circuit, his father's hearth lying only a little off to one side, a distance no more than half as long as his journey to his brothers. Somewhere near Ashdod—home of Dagon, the fish-god who was worshiped here, a lively settlement two hours from the sea, which was reached by a harbor road filled with shouts and jammed with men, oxcarts, and teams of horses—would be the spot, for Joseph knew that the coastline turned more and more westward as it ran down toward Gaza, so that the distance to the mountainous interior to the east would increase with each day, not to mention that
by afternoon they would have passed the high point at which they would be even with Hebron.
That was why, in anxiety and temptation, his heart pounded as they moved through the region and continued their unhurried advance toward the rocky citadel of Askuluna. He took in this landscape. They were now crossing Shephelah, the lowland running parallel to the coast; but the chain of mountains that glowered down at them from the east and toward which his pensive eyes, Rachel's eyes, now gazed, formed the second, higher, valley-threaded level of the land of the Philistines, rising ever more steeply above the sea and toward the dawn, to a rougher, harder world of pastures avoided by the palms of the low plain, to upland meadows spicy with herbs, populated by sheep, by Jacob's sheep. . . . And how was it all playing out? There sat Jacob in despair, crushed by his tears, suffering anguish sent by God, the bloody token of Joseph's death and mutilation in his poor hands—while at his feet, down here, Joseph, his stolen son in the company of strange men, was mutely passing Jacob's camp, was moving from one Philistine city after the other, yet never giving so much as a sign on his way down to Sheol, to the house where death was worshiped. And the thought of escape—how close at hand it lay! How the urge itched in his limbs, tugged at him, half stirred in the ferment of his mind and impetuously forged ahead to accomplished deeds in his imagination—especially in the evening, after he had said his good-night salute to the old man who had bought him, something he had to do every day now, for it had become one of his duties to wish the Ishmaelite pleasant slumbers in ever-new variations, since otherwise the old man would say he had already heard that one. Especially in the dark, then, as they camped outside a village or a Philistine city and his fellow travelers were lost in sleep, the idea would grab hold of their captive and try to snatch him away, into the fruitful hills of night and on across ridges and wooded ravines, eight marches away, surely it couldn't be more than that, and Joseph would scramble until he found the path—up into the mountains, into Jacob's arms, where he would dry his father's tears with the words "Here I am" and be his favorite again.
But did he carry it out and steal away? No, of course not, we know he didn't. He reconsidered, once or twice rejecting the temptation only at the last moment, renounced his plan, and stayed where
he was. This was, by the way, easiest at the moment, for escape on his own brought with it great peril—he could die of hunger, fall prey to thieves and murderers, be eaten by wild beasts. But one would be belittling his renunciation to reduce it to the dictum that, given man's natural passivity about making decisions, doing nothing easily gains the upper hand over doing something. There were instances in Joseph's life when he refused to engage in a physical act that would have been considerably sweeter than a wild escape across the mountains. No, both at that moment and in the future crucial instance we have in mind, his refusal, despite such stormy temptation, came from the very special way Joseph had of considering things, which, if put into words, would have been something like "How could I do such a foolish thing and sin against God?" Or put another way, it was insight into the absurdly sinful error of thinking about escape, a clear, intelligent perception that it would have been an oafish blunder, an attempt to erase God's plans. For Joseph was imbued with the certainty that he had not been carried away for no purpose, but rather that He who had planned this, wrenching him from his old life and leading him to the new, intended to deal with him in one way or another in the future, and that to kick against this goad, to escape these troubles, would have been a sin and a great mistake—which were the same in Joseph's eyes. He had truly been born with the concept of sin as a mistake, a blunder in life, an oafish offense against God's wisdom, and experience had only strengthened him greatly in it. He had made enough mistakes—he had become aware of that in the pit. But if he had escaped that hole and been carried away according to some apparent plan, then all his prior mistakes might perhaps have been part of the plan, have had a purpose, that is, and, blind as they were, have been steered by God. Any more such mistakes, however, such as escaping, for instance, would be blatant and foolish evil; it would literally mean wanting to be wiser than God— which, according to Joseph's prudent insight, was simply the height of stupidity.
To be his father's favorite again? No, to still be the favorite—but in a new sense that he had long yearned for and dreamt of. It was a new, higher favor and election, in which he was meant to live now, after the pit, in the bitter-scented adornment of a rescue set apart for those who have been set apart and chosen for those who are chosen. The torn wreath, the adornment of the whole sacrifice, he wore it
anew now—no longer in dreamy play, but in truth, and that meant: in his spirit. And should he now renounce it for the sake of some foolish fleshly instinct? So silly, so devoid of wisdom about God, Joseph was not—not so stupid as to trifle away at the last moment the benefits of his new status. Did he know the feast in all its hours, or did he not? The instrument of the present and of the feast—was he that, or was he not? With the wreath in his hair—should he now run from the feast to be a shepherd of sheep again with his brothers? The temptation was great only in the flesh—in the spirit, however, it was weak. Joseph withstood it. He traveled on with his owners, on past Jacob and away from his nearby presence—Usarsiph, born of the reeds, Joseph-em-heb, which in plain Egyptian simply means Joseph in the Feast.
A Reencounter
Seventeen days? No, it was a journey of seven times seventeen—not counted, but understood in the sense of a great weary duration; and over time one could not determine how much of it was the fault of the Midianites' sluggishness and how much was due to the distance measured. They journeyed through fruitful land bustling with people, garlanded with olive groves, with heavy stands of palm, walnut, and fig trees, with fields of grain irrigated from deep wells visited by camels and oxen. Here and there in the fields were small royal fortresses, called way stations, with walls and battle turrets, on whose parapets stood archers and from whose gates charioteers drove forth with snorting teams; and the Ishmaelites did not hesitate to do business even with these royal warriors. Everywhere were villages, farms, and migdal settlements inviting them to tarry, and they tarried by the week, it made no difference to them. And summer was already waning before they came to the spot where the low coastal border was steeply abutted by a high precipice, at the top of which lay Ashkelon.
Holy and strong was Ashkelon. The hewn stones of its surrounding walls, which fell in a semicircle to the sea and embraced the harbor, appeared to have been heaved into place by giants; its house of Dagon was a compact square with many courts, beloved for its grove and the pond in the grove, teeming with fish; and the dwelling
place of Ashtaroth boasted that it was older than any other site dedicated to the Baalat. A spicy kind of small onion grew wild here in the sand beneath the palm trees—the gift of Derketo, Ashkelon*s divine mistress—and it could be sold to outsiders. The old man had them gathered in sacks, on which he wrote in Egyptian letters: "Finest Ashkelon Onions."
From there they traveled through gnarled forests of olives, in whose shade great herds were pastured, and arrived in Gaza, or Khazati—they had truly come a long way now. They were almost within the sphere of Egypt itself; for whenever Pharaoh had burst forth from below with his chariots and foot soldiers and advanced through the wretched lands of Zahi, Amor, and Retenu to arrive at the end of the world, so that he could then be depicted in giant deeply engraved reliefs across the walls of temples, suddenly grabbing five barbarians by their hair with his left hand and, to their holy amazement, swinging a club in his right hand over their heads—on such occasions, Gaza was always the first stage of the enterprise. One also saw a great many Egyptians in Gaza's pungent streets. Joseph eyed them carefully. Broad-shouldered people, they kept their noses in the air and wore white. Excellent and inexpensive wine came from these coasts and from far inland in the direction of Beer-sheba. The old man traded for numerous jugs of it, enough for two camels to carry, and wrote on the jugs: "Eightfold Good Wine from Khazati."
But no matter how far they may have come in reaching the city of Gaza and its mighty walls, the worst part of their journey—compared with which the dawdling trip through the land of the Philistines had been child's play—still stood before them; for as the Ishmaelites knew, having traveled this stretch several times, beyond Gaza to the south the sandy road that hugged the coast and led to Egypt's great brook passed through an utterly inhospitable world, and before one came to nourishing fields among the branches of the Nile, there lay a profoundly doleful underworld, an accursed, dangerous, and horrid expanse, nine days wide: a dismal desert that allowed for no dallying, but that had to be covered and left behind as quickly as possible, making Gaza the last resting place before one arrived in Mizraim. Which was why the old man, Joseph's master, was in no hurry to move on, since, as he said, they would be moving on
in great hurry for far too long. Instead he remained in Gaza for a goodly number of days, particularly since he needed to make serious preparations for the desert journey, taking on a supply of water and a special guide to open the ways, and actually should have stocked up as well on weapons to fight marauding bands and the thievish denizens of the sand, though our old man dispensed with these: first because in his wisdom he considered them useless, for, he said, either you escaped these villains entirely—in which case you had no need of weapons—or, unfortunately, they caught up with you—and then no matter how many you killed, there were always enough left to rob you naked. The merchant, he said, must depend on his luck, not on spears and toy bows, that was not for him. Second, the guide they had hired at the city gate, there where such men offered their services to travelers, had reassured him greatly about such marauders, pledging that under his escort there was no need for weapons whatever, because he was a perfect guide and would open the safest ways through that horrid world, rendering it absolutely absurd to secure him as a guide and drag along weapons besides. So then, when the hireling joined the little caravan as they set out early one morning and took his place at their head, how startled, indeed both frightened and pleased, Joseph was to recognize him, incredibly enough, as the peevishly helpful young man who, only recently, yet prior to so many other things, had led him from Shekem to Dothan.
It was he beyond a doubt, although the desert robe he wore altered his appearance. The little head and massive neck, the red mouth and the chin like a plump fruit, but especially the languid eyes and the strangely affected poses were all unmistakable; and the startled Joseph thought he had also caught a wink that the guide had directed his way by briefly closing one eye in his otherwise immobile face, both alluding to their old acquaintance and requesting discretion. That greatly comforted Joseph, for their acquaintance reached back farther into his previous life than he wished the eyes of the Ishmaelites to penetrate, and he could take the wink to mean the man understood this.
And yet he felt a great need to exchange a word with the man, and when, to the songs of the drivers and the sound of the lead camel's bells, the band of travelers had left green land behind them and dry wastes opened up before them, Joseph asked the old man,
behind whom he was riding, if he might be allowed yet once more, just in case, to ask their guide if he was entirely sure of what he was doing.
"Are you afraid?" the merchant asked.
"It concerns us all," Joseph replied. "But I'm traveling for the first time into this accursed land, and so am close to tears."
"Then ask him."
And so Joseph directed his animal to the lead camel and said to their guide, "I am my master's mouthpiece. He wishes to know if you are sure of the route."
The young man gazed in the same old way over his shoulder with barely opened eyes. "You could have reassured him from experience," he replied.
"Hush!" Joseph whispered. "How is it that you're here?"
"And you?" came the answer.
"Well, yes . . . but not a word to the IshmaeHtes that I was on my way to my brothers," Joseph whispered.
"Not to worry," the other man rejoined just as softly; and that was that for now.
But after they had proceeded farther into the desert, one day and then another—a murky sun was sinking behind chains of dead mountains, and armies of clouds, gray in the middle but with edges inflamed by evening, covered the sky above a waxen yellow, sandy plain with a few hills scattered in the distance ahead like little bushy cushions covered with dry grass—another opportunity presented itself for speaking with the man unobserved. For a few travelers had camped around one of those cushions of grass and lit a fire of brushwood to ward off the sudden cold; and since their guide was among them, though he did not usually keep company with either masters or servants, scorning small talk and consulting only with the old man each day about the path ahead, Joseph, having completed his duties for the day and wished his master pleasant slumbers, joined the group, sat down beside their guide, and waited until the monosyllabic exchanges had died out and they were all evidently beginning to be wrapped in dozing semisleep. Then he gave his neighbor a Httle nudge and said, "Listen, I'm sorry I was unable to keep my word that day and had to leave you in the lurch, waiting for me."
The man cast him only a languid glance over his shoulder and then returned to gazing at the glow of the fire.
"I see, so you were unable to?" he replied. "Well, let me tell you, I've never met such a faithless fellow in all the world before. Had it been up to him, he would have let me sit there watching over a jackass for seven jubilee years, and he never returned as promised. I'm amazed that I'm even speaking with you; I'm amazed at myself, in fact."
"But I'm apologizing as you can hear," Joseph muttered, "and truly have an excuse, which you do not know about. Things turned out differently from what I supposed and went as I had not expected. I could not return to you despite my best intentions."
"Yes, yes, yes, gibberish and empty excuses. I could have sat there for seven of God's jubilee years waiting for you ..."
"But you didn't sit there for seven jubilee years waiting for me, but went your way when you realized that I was not going to appear. Don't exaggerate the hardship that I reluctantly caused you. Tell me instead what became of Hulda after my departure."
"Hulda? Who is Hulda?"
"'Who' is asking a bit too much," Joseph said. "I'm asking you about Hulda, the ass that bore us, my little white riding jenny from Father's stall."
"Little ass, little ass, white riding jenny!" the guide mimicked softly. "You have a way of speaking so tenderly of things you hold dear that one may conclude it comes from your love of yourself. Such people then behave so faithlessly that..."
"Not at all," Joseph countered. "I do not speak tenderly of Hulda for my own sake, but for hers, for she was such an amiably cautious animal, entrusted to me by my father, and when I think of how the curls of her forelock grew down over her eyes, it makes my heart melt. I have not ceased to worry about her since taking leave of you, and continued to ask about her fate even in moments and long hours that were not without some terror for me. You must know that since I came to Shekem my unlucky star has never left me, and sore tribulation has been my lot."
"Impossible," the man said, "and unbelievable. Tribulation? My reason comes to a halt, and I am firmly convinced that I did not hear rightly. You were going to your brothers, were you not? Other people and you, you're forever smiling at one another, because you are handsome and beautiful as a graven image, and you possess sweet life itself on top of it, do you not? Where is there an unlucky star in
that and where should sore tribulation come from? I ask myself, but without any sort of answer."
"It is at any rate so," Joseph replied. "And, I'm telling you, despite everything I have never stopped worrying about poor Hulda's fate for a moment."
"Well," the guide said, "well, fine." And Joseph recognized that strange movement of his eyeballs that he had noticed before, the way the man rolled them in cross-eyed circles. "Fine then, Usarsiph, young slave, you will speak and I shall listen. One might well think it quite futile also to worry about an ass amidst these many other adversities, for what sort of role can she play and what was so incomparable about her? But I consider it possible your worries might be to your credit and that it might be recorded as praiseworthy for you to think of a dumb beast despite your own troubles."
