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Title: Jonah

Author: Robert Nathan

Release date: October 7, 2025 [eBook #76998]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Robert M. McBride & Co, 1925

Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at [Link] (This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JONAH ***

_JONAH_

_Books by ROBERT NATHAN_

[Illustration]

AUTUMN: _A novel_

THE PUPPET MASTER: _A novel_

YOUTH GROWS OLD: _A book of verse_

JONAH :: :: _by_
ROBERT NATHAN

ROBERT M. McBRIDE & COMPANY

NEW YORK :: :: :: :: :: 1925

JONAH BY ROBERT NATHAN WAS FIRST PRINTED AND PUBLISHED IN NINETEEN

 HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND IS
COPYRIGHTED NINETEEN HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE BY ROBERT M. MC BRIDE
AND COMPANY

_To_
ALICE AND ARTHUR CARNS

JONAH

In those days there were prophets in Israel. They lived in the desert,
beyond the Jordan, in caves and in rude huts made of clay and mats.
There were many holy men among them, whose ears had been pierced by the
sweetness of God’s voice and whose eyes had been dazzled by the fiery
appearance of His angels. They were like the saints to whom in later
times the Virgin Mary used to come with eyes melting with tenderness,
and who used to perform such astonishing miracles in the desert near
Thebes. Theirs was an holy and severe life, made anxious by the sins of
the Jews, whose punishment they prophesied in tones of great bitterness
and haunting sadness.

Surrounded by gloomy rocks, they beheld visions, and conversed with

angels. They shared their meals with the lions of the desert, with
such birds and beasts as foxes, gazelles, snakes, mice, and ravens.
Many of these were holy beings; more than human, but less than divine,
they were obliged to eat, and devoured with shy and reverent looks the
food set apart for Jehovah.

It was a life of poverty, of danger, and of glory. In the silence

of the desert the prophets drew together in an austere community.
Those returning from lands across the Jordan brought back news to the
Schools. It was said that Amos of Tekoa had spoken at Bethel; standing
in the presence of King Jeroboam, surrounded by the proudest nobles,
he had prophesied the doom of Israel. Two angels attended him while he
spoke, and collected the drops of moisture which fell from his brow.

Thereafter an earthquake, followed by a drought, destroyed the crops of

Israel and Judah.

When Jonah, the prophet, heard this news, he left his hut in Golan, and
taking his stick and a gourd filled with water, set his face southward
toward the Land of Tob. He walked from dawn to dusk; his thoughts were
grave, and his expression serious. As evening fell he found himself
beside a little pool in the desert; here he sat down to rest. The sky
was green with early night; the evening star, smaller than the moon
and silver as a distant sea, sailed above Sharon. Before him lay the
desert, heavy with silence, drenched with the cold dew of evening.
Jonah shivered, and drew his cloak closer about him.
As he sat there, his head bowed upon his hand, a fox came out of a hole
and, seeing Jonah, exclaimed,

“There is the man of God.”

Touched and astonished at this mark of recognition, Jonah offered the

little animal some meal with which he had expected to make his own
supper. Then the fox lay down beside Jonah and remarked,

“I am not a theologian. So I do not understand the wars of Judah and

the other tribes. However, I would like to ask you something. When I go
down into my hole, God goes down after me. What I want to know is this:
is He a Jew, or a fox?”

Jonah answered as he had been taught in the Schools: “God has the
appearance of a man. From His beard, which extends to His feet and is
divided into thirteen portions, fall drops of gracious balm; and from
His mouth proceed the names of all things. His angels also appear as
men, with long white wings, and faces shining with light.” And he gazed
at the little animal in a kindly manner.

“Well,” said the fox, “a beard or a tail, that is merely a matter of

direction.” So saying, he put his head down between his paws, and fell
asleep. Jonah also slept, watched by the stars, and by an angel, who
said to him just before dawn:

“Arise, Jonah, and hasten to Bethel. Say to King Jeroboam, ‘Against the
insolence of Hamath, Israel shall prevail once again.’”

Jonah immediately awoke, and gave thanks to God. Then he took leave
of the fox, who said to him, “I dreamed that God was a raven, and was
giving me some sharp pecks with His beak.”

In the gray light of dawn Jonah started toward the hills which guard
the Jordan. He breathed the pure air of the desert, sweet with desert
flowers, fresh and cold as water; he lifted his face to the western
sky, into which night was retreating like a storm; and his heart sang.

“God will redeem Israel through me,” he thought.

At noon he entered the valley of Jezreel, on the other side of the

Jordan. There the fig trees were in blossom, and their scent mingled
with almonds in the air. At every village he saw roadside altars
above which were erected rude copies of the golden bulls of Tyre. The
afternoon sun cast sinister shadows behind them, and Jonah averted his
face as he went by.

He stayed that night near Joseph’s Well, in the cottage of a poor

herdsman. A faint and holy glow illuminated one corner of the kitchen
where the prophet lay, while the wide wings of seraphim, like slow
birds, beat overhead through the darkness. In the morning the herdsman,
who had not slept all night, hurried out to purify himself in the river
from such close contact with divinity.

When Jonah arrived at Bethel, he went at once to the house of the High
Priest Amaziah. A servant admitted the prophet, dusty with travel, into
the presence of his master. And Jonah gazed proudly and without fear at
the priest.
Amaziah, High Priest of Israel, was a churchman; therefore he disliked
confusion. For that reason also he detested the prophets who he felt
were unable to understand the problems of administration. Seated upon
a bench of ivory, he gazed wearily at Jonah before addressing him in
these terms:

“I do not know your name, but from your gloomy countenance covered with
hair, I can see that you are a prophet from Golan, or the Land of Tob.
And I suppose that you have come, like all the others, to tell me that
God admires Judah more than Israel. In that case I must say to you what
I said to Amos: ‘Go south, to Jerusalem, and prophesy in Judah, because
what you have to say does not amuse me.’”

Jonah replied simply, “I must speak at Bethel, because that is what God
told me to do.”

But he added that he did not intend to prophesy another earthquake, as

Amos had done. “What I have to say,” he declared, “concerns Israel,
and Hamath in the north.”

At this the High Priest looked pleased. “So,” he said; “well, that is
better.” And he regarded Jonah with a kindlier expression.

But presently he burst out again in an exasperated voice: “You prophets

do not understand the difficulties of my position. You imagine that
because I am High Priest, I should be able to control the forms in
which the people of Israel worship the Divinity. Nothing is more
improbable, seeing that every one has his own idea of what is truly
noble.”

To this outburst Jonah replied, with dignity: “Still, the God of the
Jews does not look like a bull, or a little dove. It is a sin to
worship such things.”

Amaziah gave utterance to a long sigh. “My son,” he said gently, “I

see that you are like all prophets, which is to say that you are
impractical. Otherwise you would know that it is impossible not to
worship the Divinity in some form or other. And since He refuses to
reveal Himself in His proper form, one is left to imagine Him in any
form one pleases. That is a great mistake, in my opinion; but it is
God’s mistake, not mine. I cannot help it if the inhabitants of Dan,
who are mostly farmers, admire the dignified mien of a bull, or if the
villagers of Asher, who are lazy and uxorious, choose to worship the
Divine Power in the form of a dove.”

“The dove and the bull,” declared Jonah, who remembered what he had
studied in the Schools, “belong to the moon and to the sun. God, having
created man in His Own image, necessarily has the form of a man. He
is bearded; and His face shines with wisdom and benevolence. He also
created the animals, but He created them in the image of animals. That
is the important thing to remember in dealing with such matters.”

But Amaziah replied that Jonah was an idealist. “You will understand,”
he said, “when I tell you that idealism is something to which close
attention to the disputes and duties of the Temple does not dispose me.
We churchmen are obliged to be practical. The important thing is that
there should be uniformity. And that is impossible where one person
must be right, and the other wrong. I am not here to help men argue,
but to help them agree. Many trees bear fruit upon this earth, my
friend; the leaf is different, but a tree is a tree. So let us all be
right, or at least as many of us as possible.”

Jonah remained silent and gloomy; he respected the Law, and did not
know how to reply to Amaziah. The old priest regarded him in a more
genial manner, and continued:

“However, these pastoral matters need not concern you. You are a
prophet, not a priest, a messenger, not an interpreter. That is
something you prophets could learn to your advantage.

“Tell me what tidings you bear the King. You speak of Hamath, and the
Aramæans; is it possible that you know of some conspiracy in the north
of which your rulers are ignorant?”

Jonah replied that as far as he knew, the Aramæans were peaceful, and
their army was unprepared. “An angel appeared to me in a dream,” he
declared. “This angel was more beautiful than I can say, and had long
white wings which kept up a slow movement in the air. I could wish that
the women of Israel had such wings, which lend to the figure a charm
that cannot be described. The beauty of that angel caused my heart to
overflow with grief and longing.”

And he remained silent, lost in painful memories. He resumed:

“In a voice of heavenly sweetness I was told to arise, and bidden to

say to King Jeroboam, ‘Against the insolence of Hamath, Israel shall
prevail once again.’ When I awoke I found on the ground a white feather
which shone like snow. I picked it up, and put it beneath my cloak.”
And he held out to Amaziah a white feather about a foot long.

“Here is the proof,” he said, “of what I have told you.”

Amaziah reverently received the angelic token, which he put to his nose
and carefully tasted with his tongue, before remarking, “It does not
surprise me, seeing the marvelous economy of Heaven, that the wings
which support the angels should be not unlike those on which the snowy
herons sail so majestically above the hills. However, as the king and
his nobles might consider this feather a trifle too light to support
so august a body as an angel through the air, let me place this sacred
relic in the Tabernacle, and give you, instead, the feather of an
eagle, which has a more important look. Do not draw back in dismay, my
son; in dealing with simple minds, a certain amount of ingenuity is
needed. It is a characteristic which has distinguished the Jews in the
past even more than their valor. I have only to remind you of David’s
treaties with the Philistines, and the manner in which the heroic Jael
divorced the head of Sisera from his Canaanite body. It is upon such
stratagems as these, added to the irresistible power of the Lord, that
the glory of Israel depends.”

He sat for a brief space, his head sunk forward upon his breast in
meditation. Presently he said thoughtfully:

“After all, there is nothing like a war to draw together a nation’s

diverse elements. The trouble with Israel is that her wars have been
so often civil wars. Civil wars are of no value, since they destroy
uniformity; they are, besides, inclined to be a little half-hearted,
seeing that the vanquished do not expect to be plundered, raped, and
murdered with the same methodical energy by their own people as by
strangers.”

And he added humbly, “Is it likely that God in His infinite wisdom
should see this any less clearly than I do?”

When Jonah had supped on lettuce, olives, and wine, he left his host
and went out to walk in the city. The night was cold, and the odor of
the streets mingled with the sweet aroma of earth. He filled his lungs
with the clear air of the hills, stained by the smoke of fires and the
sour smell of wine; he heard about him in the gloom the lazy hum of the
city, the faint, sharp chime of voices, far-off cries, the crowing of a
cock, the creak of a water-wheel.

He thought, “Here is thy home, O Israel, in the land of thy God.”

And he gazed in silence and with a heart overflowing with reverence at

the sky, blue with night, above the roofs of Bethel.

In the morning, pale but confident, he presented himself before the

king.

Seated upon a golden throne in his palace of broadstone, his hair and
beard glistening with oil, and surrounded by proud and bearded nobles,
Jeroboam listened with attention to what the prophet had to say.

Then he asked for the opinion of Amaziah, who stood at the side of the
throne. The old priest hesitated a moment, before replying in a grave
voice:

“Who am I to question the will of the Almighty? A war against Aram is

a holy war, since God Himself desires it. This prophet speaks in a
voice of heavenly wisdom. I foresee that your soldiers will rush with
impetuous enthusiasm upon a foe by no means prepared to defend himself.
I shudder to think of such carnage. However, your commands are mine, O
King.”

So saying, he withdrew. Jeroboam then passed around a large feather

given him by Jonah as proof of his prophetic mission. A noble who
looked after the royal falcons remarked,

“This indeed must be the feather of an angel, for it is larger than

that of an eagle, which it favors in color, although it is more divine
in appearance.”

The king next asked for the opinion of Ahab, who owned a great deal of
land bordering on the country of Aram. This prince, whose beard curled
like an Assyrian’s, spoke without hesitation in favor of war. In a dry
voice he declared,

“It stands to reason that God would prefer His own people to have the
pasture lands which obviously belong to them, according to geography,
history, and the opinion of every right-minded person. I only wonder
that He did not think of it before.”

The young prince Absalom, who had more than fifty wives, exclaimed in
ringing tones,

“I am in favor of war, to teach these barbarians to know and worship

the God of the Jews.” And he held up his sword, the handle of which was
carved to represent the Adonis of Sidon, to whose inexhaustible vigor
the prince sacrificed, every spring, a ram and a cock.

This speech of Absalom’s was received with acclaim by the nobles. The
next day the armies of Israel, led by the king, and accompanied by more
than a thousand priests of Adonis, Astarte, Kemosh, Melcarth, the local
Baalim, and the Holy Ark, set out for the frontiers of Aram.

II

Night came gently down over Israel. The darkness of earth slid like
a shadow across the rocks stained by the sunset. Calm and deep the
sea of Cinnereth reflected the stars whose lights gleamed upon the
trans-Jordanic hills. There the desert slept; while in the north the
lights of Tyre shone upon the sea.

The village herds returned from their pastures. Then the roads
of Zebulon resounded with the tonk of bells, as the cows with
sweet-smelling breath wound down from the hills. The day was over, and
their stalls awaited them. Melancholy and austere, they parted from
each other without regret.

Aaron, the brother of Jonah, walked behind them. In his hand he carried
a rod with which he beat now and then upon the flanks of the animals
nearest him. Then they rushed forward, clumsily, to avoid the blows
which fell upon them without force.

The young man enjoyed this hour of the day, when he strode home through
the village, driving the herds before him. He was proud to be in charge
of the village cows. His mother also was proud of him; she foresaw an
important future for him. “Always do your best,” she said. “However,”
she added, “do not tire yourself out. And in case of robbers, or a
lion, please come home; and do not make a fool of yourself.”

“Well,” the young man would say, twirling his stick, “we’ll see about
that.”

Aaron did not think that his brother led a very sensible life. To live
all alone in the desert seemed to him a nonsensical thing to do, and
he felt sure that his mother agreed with him. Else why did she shake
her head so sadly, and heave such a sigh, when she spoke of her eldest
son? As a matter of fact, she relived in Jonah, but very faintly, the
dreamy, mild, religious ecstasy of her maidenhood. That was all over
for her now; life had long ago got down to being practical. Besides,
one did not hear so much about God as when she was a girl. Still, she
remembered the beauty of those times, when her heart beat with joy
and love, when a sweet unrest brought her to her knees, and she felt
through her prayers the breath of holiness upon her cheek.

No, one did not hear nowadays so much about God. Take Aaron, for
example: as he came home from the pastures at evening, he bent his
head before the golden bull which adorned the wayside shrine. In the
spring he enjoyed the feasts of the Passover; and he also enjoyed the
celebrations in honor of Astarte and Adonis, in company with the other
young men of the village. The problems of theology did not concern him;
he simply wished to enjoy himself, and to get on in the world. To
do that, one did something about it; one began by taking care of the
village herds. Then one could look confidently to the future, and leave
God to dispute with other people about what He looked like.

When the last of the cattle was safely housed, Aaron turned back to his
own home, and entering the yard gate, walked toward the kitchen from
whose open door a rosy glow spread over the yard. Jonah was at home;
and Aaron stood a moment in the doorway, gazing with a smile at his
mother, who was preparing supper. Deborah kept one eye on the oven,
and the other on her elder son, who, with a small cake of bread in his
hand, was relating to her some incidents of the Aramæan campaign. She
wished to know if Hamath was as large as Salem, or Bethel.

“It is larger than Bethel,” replied Jonah, “but not as large as

Jerusalem.” Deborah sighed happily; it was something to have traveled
as much as that.

“The armies of Aram,” said Jonah, biting into the coarse bread, “were
drawn up in a truly terrifying array. I saw a number of men seated upon
ostriches, so I knew that we were obliged to battle against demons. Not
in the least frightened, our men rushed at the foe in an irresistible
manner. Nevertheless, they would have been beaten, and were already
in flight, when the High Priest Amaziah appeared upon a nearby hill,
and announced that the King of Aram with all his generals had been
consumed by a thunderbolt. At this our men decided to turn once more
upon the foe, who retreated in confusion, and we rushed triumphantly
forward into the enemy’s camp, where we surprised and killed a number
of generals, including the King of Aram, and his High Priest.

“When our victorious armies arrived at the gates of Hamath, Prince

Absalom came out to greet us, accompanied by the women of the town
bearing flowers and bowls of wine for our thirsty soldiers. This noble
prince, disguised as a Syrian, had left the battle-field before the
armies had begun to fight, and had gone quietly off to prepare our
welcome in the city, where he knew a number of prominent people. It is
faith joined to foresight of this nature that has made Israel great.”

He was silent; the light from the oven glowed upon his face, which
shone with enthusiasm and love. He thought to himself, “All Israel
resounds with my glory. There is a new prophet; and his name is Jonah.”

And he added, humbling himself before God,

“I understand that this is Your doing.”

Anxious that Deborah should know of his part in his country’s history,
he mumbled shyly, with his mouth full,

“The King considers me a greater prophet even than Amos of Tekoa.”

“Well,” said Deborah sensibly, “why not?” Coming up to Jonah, she

smoothed his hair with her hand, and gazed at him anxiously. “What
a trouble you are to me,” she said gently; “making wars and such
mischief. Well....”

Seeing her younger son standing in the doorway, she called to him:
“Come in, Aaron, here is your brother Jonah. He has just made a war.
Tschk ... you would think there was nothing but fighting in the world.”

Aaron came into the room, and went up to Jonah with frank curiosity. He
wished to know all about it, and he asked innumerable questions. When
he learned that Jonah had not brought home any gold ornaments, or rich
shawls, he was disappointed.

“No, really,” he exclaimed, “what is the good of a war like that?” And
he sat sulkily down in a corner.

But Deborah took Jonah’s part. “No, Aaron,” she said, “that would be
all right for you; if you made a war, I should expect you to come home
with something, a colored shawl for me, or some gold bracelets. But
Jonah is different; and living in the desert, the way he does, gives
him ideas. Better a war far away, like this one, than like what we
used to have in your father’s time, right under my nose, killing and
fighting all day long.”

She turned to Jonah with a sigh. “Why,” she exclaimed, “did you choose
the Aramæans to make a war with? Such wild people.” She shook her head
ruefully. “Always trouble,” she decided; “never what would be sensible.

“At any rate,” she wound up, “perhaps you’ll settle down now for a
while and let your mother look after you, instead of living all alone
in a desert with foxes.

“Ak, what an old coat you have.”

She went back to her oven with a smile; cheerful and loving, she found
in everything some cause for satisfaction, or at least hope, if she was
given time enough. And she sang now, under her breath, as she always
did when she was disturbed or happy--for happiness or sorrow, either
one, disturbed only a little her amiable, confused spirit:

“_Men dead long ago

Have set me like a tree.
Let the wind blow,
What is that to me?
My roots are in their dust,
My roots are deep, I trust.
My son is at my knee._”

Jonah looked at her with a gloomy but tender expression. “Mother,” he

said, “what is the matter with my coat? Because it is old? It does me
very well. Must I also be a beauty, to suit you?”

After supper Deborah’s brother David came in to see Jonah. He also

wished to know about the war, concerning which he had heard rumors.

“Well,” he said to his sister, “so we have actually a prophet in our

family. I congratulate you. We could afford to give a little party in
honor of this.”

And he looked around him with pride.

“No, really,” cried Jonah; “what an idea.” He blushed to think of it.

But his uncle peered angrily at him from under his shaggy eyebrows.

“So,” he said slowly, “that is the kind of prophet you are, then. You
think only of yourself, but what about your family? Do you imagine we
have so many opportunities to give feasts, and call in the neighbors?
Or have you done something to be ashamed of? When an honor comes to
us, that is the time to talk about it.”

Aaron agreed with his uncle, although he did not see what they had to
be proud of. “We are no better off than before,” he complained, “seeing
that Jonah brought home nothing with him from the war.”

“What?” exclaimed Uncle David. “What a pity.” He wagged his old head
meditatively. “There it is,” he said; “times change, whether you like
it or not. When I was a young man it was entirely different. Feasts,
festivals.... I can tell you, we knew how to enjoy ourselves. And
what is more, we were religious; it was not like to-day. At any rate,
children were respectful, and considered their parents; when they went
to a war, they brought something home.”

And he lamented the decay of Israel’s greatness.

But Deborah put in a good word for her son. “If he brought me nothing,”
she said, “it was because he knows that really I am satisfied with
what I have, and besides there was nothing there which caught his
fancy.”

“The old days are no more,” said David, and relapsed into gloomy
silence.

Aaron, who had been growing restless in his corner, got to his feet.
“Mother,” he said, “I am going out for a while, to see some of my
friends.”

“Again,” cried Deborah, “so soon, when your brother has just come home,
and Uncle David is here? Aaron, no....”

“I will go with him,” said Jonah quietly; “I should like to visit old
Naaman, who lives at the edge of the village. Do you remember, Mother,
how I used to go there when I was young; and I have not seen him in
many years.”

“Yes,” said Deborah with a smile, “it is true; I remember, you were
always there; whenever I could not find you, I had only to look for you
in Naaman’s house, and there you were. Go along, but do not be late;
and”--she added in a whisper--“when you come home I will have some food
set out for you.”

She turned sternly to her younger son. “Aaron,” she said, “please do
not get into any fresh mischief with your friends. Perhaps you would
do better to go with your brother; it would do you good for a change
instead of running up and down the village with nobody knows who.”

Her gaze followed her sons with tender anxiety across the threshold.

“So thin he looks,” she murmured; “and his cloak is so tattered;

really, I am ashamed. But what can I do; I have nothing; and he is so
proud, besides.”

And she smiled at her brother, with a tear shining in her eye.

Jonah and Aaron walked along in silence, under the dark boughs of
trees. At last Aaron remarked: “Well ... you see ... you have made a
start now with things. The desert is all very well for old men. But
what sort of life is that, after all?”

And in an embarrassed manner he took his leave of Jonah, and went off
to join his companions, whose voices could be heard raised in youthful
laughter among the shadows.

Jonah stood leaning upon his staff in the darkness. A few lights
gleamed among the trees, whose branches bent above him as though to
envelope him in their quiet embrace. The odors of night crept around
him; he remembered his youth, spent in this village, and he felt in
his heart a longing for that lonely boy whose only friends had been
an old man and his own dreams. So much of life had gone by, yet here
he was again, wearier, wiser, still led by hopes, of what he did not
know, hurt by memories, but why he could not tell. He heard the voices
of Aaron and his friends fading in the distance; he knew that in the
shadows young lovers whispered together, although he could not see
them. All about him trembled the happy laughter of youth, the peace of
age, the quietness of rest after labor. The sky of heaven, shining with
stars, bent upon his home a regard of kindness; and the wind, moving
through the sycamores, spoke to him in the accents of the past.

Bowing his head upon his breast, he thought, “Jonah, Jonah, what have
you done with your youth?”

Slowly, and with halting steps, he approached the house of Naaman, at

the village edge.

III

He found his old teacher seated beneath an acacia tree whose branches
perfumed the air. A beam of light from the house, falling among the
leaves, touched Naaman’s white hair and his long, snowy beard with a
gentle gleam. That was how his pupil had remembered him, the picture of
wisdom and peace. He greeted Jonah with affection, but without surprise.

“It is you, my son,” he said. “I am glad to see you again. Your fame
has spread, for I heard of you, no later than to-day, as the young
prophet who had inspired the king at Bethel.”

And he added gayly, “Come, sit here beside me, and tell me about
yourself. As you see, my tree is blossoming again. Thus, at the end of
my life, it is vouchsafed me to behold each year the return of spring
and the marriage of earth with the Eternal One.”

“I do not know what you mean by the Eternal One,” said Jonah; “for all
the gods are immortal and eternal. It is only you and I, Naaman, who
grow older each year. But I am glad to see that you are well, and to
know that your tree is blossoming.”

Naaman replied gently, “My son, you have traveled, and you have learned
something. Have you not learned that there is only one God? Did you not
learn that in the desert, Jonah?”
“No, Naaman,” said Jonah gravely, “I have not learned it. I have been
in the desert, where God is. And I have also been in Tyre in the month
before our Passover, when the quail return in great numbers to mourn
the death of a god. I will tell you something about Tyre: there, before
they are married, the maidens sacrifice their hair to Astarte. You
should travel, Naaman, and hear of other gods.”

“I do not need to travel,” replied Naaman; “here in this quiet garden

the sun sets and the moon rises; the breeze of evening whispers through
the leaves of my acacia tree, and I see through the branches the stars
which have not changed; I hear the voices of cicada, shrill and sad,
as when I was a boy, I hear the herds winding down from the hills. All
is as it was and as it will be; and my heart overflows with love and
peace.”

Jonah shrugged his shoulders. “That is all very well for you,” he
repeated, “but when one goes about, as I do, one sees many strange
things. In Aram, for instance, there are gods which look like snakes.
But it is possible to charm them with a flute. What has that to do with
the God of the Jews?”

“Were you not also in Aram?” asked Naaman quietly. “Yet you are a Jew.”

“I was with the army ...” said Jonah.

But Naaman broke in, continuing: “Do you imagine that God would be
content with a few tribes and a strip of sea-coast on this earth, which
He created with so much trouble? Such an idea is highly improbable.
Moreover, there is a regularity about the seasons which would be
impossible in the case of a number of gods.”

But Jonah shook his head. “That is all nonsense, Naaman,” he said. “I
cannot understand it. Why should God send the Jews to take the country
and the flocks of the Aramæans, if they already belong to Him? And if
there is no other God but Israel’s God, then who created the other
people of the earth? You see into what difficulties an idea of this
sort inevitably leads you. There is no doubt that our God is the true
God, but to say that He is the only God does not seem to be justified,
in the light of history.”

“What do we learn from history?” asked Naaman. “Little enough and

nothing to our credit. The golden calf of Og has grown to be a bull.
Well, so much for history.”

But Jonah replied discontentedly, “That is all very well theologically

speaking, but you lose sight of the problems of administration.” And he
repeated to Naaman what Amaziah, the High Priest, had told him.

“After all,” he said, “men must worship God in some form or other.”

But Naaman replied with grave anxiety:

“That is not the voice of Jonah that I hear. My son, do not let
yourself be persuaded by those to whose ears the divine speech has
never penetrated. God does not speak in the Temple, but in the silence
of the heart. The hearts of His prophets are His tabernacles. There, in
the quiet, in the hush of lonely piety, He speaks to Israel in tones
of sorrow and command. Let us keep His tabernacles holy and austere. Go
back to the desert, Jonah; and do not meddle with the affairs of this
world.

“Go back to the desert, my son.”

Jonah remained silent for a moment, gazing out at the soft spring night
with its faint shine and shadow of leaves. At last he said slowly,
“Well, of course, after a while....” But he thought to himself, “Must I
hurry? A little holiday will not do me any harm.

“I thought,” he said doubtfully to Naaman, “that I might stay a few

days with my mother, who is growing old, and who after all does not see
so much of me.”

But Naaman shook his head. “My son,” he said, “you cannot have both
heaven and earth. If you are so fortunate as to count angels among your
friends, it is because you have no mother and no brother. Be lonely,
and content; and do not turn back to this life so full of passion and
injustice. Grief and joy are not for you, Jonah; they are nothing for a
prophet. The desert is your home; do not go too far away from it.”

“You are right, Naaman,” said Jonah, after a while; “one must not get
too far away from the desert.” He rose to go, helping himself to his
feet with his staff. “Good-by,” he said, “my teacher and my friend.
Once again you convince me, a little against my will. As of old, I
leave you, filled with a peace which is not entirely happy.”

And embracing his old teacher, he set off for his mother’s house
through the night.

IV

Prince Ahab lived in a palace of stone and fragrant cedarwood, on a

hill above the village of Gath-Hepher, and almost within sight of the
little cottage occupied by Jonah’s mother. The prince, whose large
holdings in the North had increased in value due to the success of
the war in Syria, surrounded himself with every luxury. Nevertheless,
in the midst of jewels, silks, slaves, and the richest perfumes, he
himself remained simple and straightforward. Of a martial, almost to
say gloomy appearance, he affected the stern manners of the Assyrians,
with whose thick gold fringes he decorated his cloak and his girdle.
He was heavy, but he was vigorous and active; like the nobles of
Assur, he took endless pleasure in hunting, for which he imported
blooded falcons and swift horses from Iran. He lived in the saddle;
and he complained of the degeneracy of Israel. “Effeminate people,” he
exclaimed, “you do not exercise enough.” And the sleepy citizens of
Bethel would be awakened by the trampling of horses and the sound of
horns, as Ahab rode out at dawn to hunt boar in the forests of Baal
Hazor.

In the afternoon, while the king deliberated with his nobles upon
affairs of state, Ahab dozed. Upon being reminded of the presence
before the council of important matters, he remarked that he had been
out riding. And he exclaimed with enthusiasm:

“Exercise is the thing.”

An old woman by the name of Sarah kept house for him in his palace
of cedarwood and broadstone. She was sharp and severe, but she knew
her own value. By noticing the faults of other people, she kept her
self-respect. She managed the house and the slaves, and acted as nurse
to Ahab’s niece, his sister’s child, Judith.

Judith at sixteen possessed a voluptuous body, a pious spirit, and an

inexperienced mind. Her gentle soul united in itself the gay ardors of
a child with the cloudy desires of a woman. Everything surprised her,
and everything pleased her; she was anxious to know everything, and she
knew nothing. Eager and trusting, her brown eyes explored with sympathy
but without understanding the life she saw all about her. She was happy
and dreamy by turns; but sometimes at night her pillow was wet with
tears. She would have said that something beautiful had made her cry,
perhaps a thought, perhaps a feeling. But she could not have explained
what it was, not even to Sarah, to whom she told everything. Perhaps it
was the moonlight in the courtyard, and the scent of jasmine or lotus
from the garden. But that was lovely; why should it make her cry? Such
things perplexed her.

Sometimes she wished she were a boy, so that she might go hunting with
her uncle. Then she saw herself seated on a white horse, with her green
cape blowing in the wind, galloping and shouting. But at the thought
of piercing an animal with her spear, she turned away with quick
displeasure. “No,” she thought, “I should not like to go hunting.”

And she told her uncle that she was glad she was a girl. “So am I,” he
replied, “because if you were a boy, I should be disgusted with you.”
He loved his niece, but he liked people to be active and hardy. “The
women of to-day,” he often said, “do not amount to much.

“They have no enthusiasm.”

Now Judith sat before her bronze mirror, twisting her long brown hair
into plaits. As she sat, she sang:

“_My love is a shepherd in Sharon,

By rivers he waters his sheep,
Blue are the waters of Sharon,
Rivers of Sharon are deep._”

She knew no one in Sharon. Nevertheless her nurse said to her angrily,
“Now tell me, what sort of song is that for a young girl to sing?”

Judith replied that it was just a song. She added with a smile, “You
are vexed because you do not know any shepherds, and because you have
no lover.”

“That is my own business,” said Sarah, drawing herself up with dignity.

“However, I must say that it does not become you to speak of things
like that. What do you know about love? Nothing, I sincerely hope. You
should be thinking of marriage, with respectful modesty.”

“Well,” said Judith, “as a matter of fact, I think love is silly. It

does not interest me, really. Were you ever in love? Tell me honestly,
Sarah; I cannot imagine such a thing.”

Sarah gazed gloomily at her mistress. Presently a blush overspread her

sallow countenance. “In love?” she exclaimed; “certainly not. With
what, if I may ask? The trouble with you is that your head is full of
nonsense. When I was your age I had more decorum. I was prettier than
I am to-day, and I attracted the attention of a very handsome man, a
camel driver, but such a wild one. He was not good enough for me, and I
sent him about his business. I knew my own worth.”

So saying she tossed her head, with an air. But Judith clapped her
hands. “A camel driver,” she exclaimed, “why, Sarah, you never told me.
Did he take you up on his camel? Just think, how delightful. That’s
really life, isn’t it, Sarah?”

“Ak,” cried the nurse, “where do you get such ideas?”

And turning to Prince Ahab, who was entering the room at that moment,
she exclaimed,

“God knows who puts such things into her head.”

Prince Ahab replied, with a discouraged gesture, “Do not ask me, Sarah,
for I do not know who puts anything into people’s heads nowadays. I
assure you, the entire world is mad. Do you know what the king is
doing, now that the war is over? You would think he would be getting
ready for the next one. Not at all; he prefers to discuss the marriage
laws with Prince Absalom. What a state of affairs. Do not expect me to
know what makes a young girl foolish besides.”

“I am not foolish, Uncle,” said Judith; “when I am older, I shall be

just as wise as you or Sarah.”

“Be respectful to your uncle,” said Sarah.

Ahab shrugged his shoulders. “No one is respectful any more,” he said;
“I simply wonder that people do not go around with their fingers
actually to their noses. But, then, with so many prophets filling the
air with groans and complaints.... Amos, Joel, Hosea, they are enough
to fill the mind of anybody with disrespect.”

“And Jonah?” asked Judith.

Ahab replied gravely: “Jonah is not like the others. He comes of a

worthy family of Zebulon; as a matter of fact, his home is here in this
village. So, you can see, there is something to him. His brother is the
village herdsman. Yes, Jonah is quite a different thing altogether.”

Judith looked lazily at her face in the mirror. “Tell me what he is

like,” she said.

“What’s that to you?” asked Sarah. She added that she supposed he was
old and had a long white beard.

“No,” replied Ahab, “he is not old. He is young, and enthusiastic. His
eyes seem to burn. He is a little thin, but one can understand that,
living in the desert, and probably starving most of the time. It is not
a healthy life. I came upon him during the battle against the Aramæans;
the fighting had made him sick. He is not what I would call a very
robust individual.”

“And did he really see an angel,” asked Judith, “as they say he did?”
“Why not?” said Ahab. “Is there any reason why a man from my own
village should not see an angel? He has certainly as much right to see
one as Amos of Tekoa; or do you imagine that angels only appear to the
men of Judah?”

“What an idea,” cried Sarah.

And she added with conviction, “For myself, I would sooner take the
word of a man from Zebulon.”

But when Prince Ahab had gone, she said, sniffing the air with
vexation, “Men ought to stay out of the women’s apartments, where they
have no business, whether they are uncles or not.” Seizing a vial of
sweet-smelling oil, she began to sprinkle its contents in the room.
This consoled her nose, which had been outraged by the prince, who, as
usual, had come from the stables.

Judith went out into the warm spring morning. The bees were humming in
the blossoms, the birds sang quietly and gaily in the trees, and trees
and blossoms stretched themselves luxuriously in the bright sunshine.
Judith took a deep breath of the hot, sweet air; it was like eating
flowers, she thought. Underfoot, in the grass, beetles moved gravely to
and fro on their mysterious business; the world of stones and twigs was
being explored by little eager ants; wasps hung and buzzed. The earth
exhaled the beneficent fragrance of spring; everywhere was drowsy joy,
tranquil activity. A tanager flew overhead with scarlet wings, turned,
shone, and fled among the trees. The girl paused, and looked up at the
sky, blue as a robin’s egg. “I should like to dance,” she thought.

A moment later she added doubtfully, “But perhaps it would be wrong.”

At her feet a beetle with a bright green coat which reflected the light
was walking soberly toward his house. Presently an ant approached him
and gave him a bite on the leg. The beetle turned an anxious look on
his tiny assailant, whose head barely came up to his knee, “Come,
come,” he exclaimed, “have you no respect for beauty? Do you think God
enjoys having you bite me? He would be very much upset if anything
happened to me.”

Disdaining to reply, the ant went away to find his friends and discuss
the situation. “I gave it to him,” he said; “I gave him a bite he won’t
forget in a hurry. Now he knows who I am.”

Left to himself, the beetle hurried home in an agitated manner. And

Judith, remarking his awkward gait, cried,

“There, you are dancing, you strange creature, with your lovely green
coat. But that is quite another matter, because you are a beetle, and
not a Jew.”

She had a sudden thought. “Perhaps,” she said, “that is why you are
dancing. Perhaps you are a little god, with such a fine green coat.
Well, go in peace, I will not step on you. I will make a wish, instead.
Little beetle, tell me what love is. It does not interest me, really; I
would simply like to know....”

She broke off with a start. A shadow had fallen on the grass at her
feet, and she looked up with surprise. There, behind her and to one
side, stood a young man. He was not good-looking, but his expression
was gentle and kind. He had on an old, tattered cloak, and he leaned
thoughtfully upon a rough staff which easily supported his weight.
Judith looked at him with wide-open eyes.

“Oh, my,” she said.

And she added faintly, but in accents of hope, “Are you also a camel
driver?”

The young man shook his head. “No,” he said, “I am not a camel driver.”

Seeing that his reply had disappointed the young woman, he added simply,

“I am Jonah, the prophet.”

Jonah and Judith sat on a bank of ferns and moss beneath the shade of a
giant sycamore tree. Already they were friends; they talked earnestly
together, and twisted in their fingers the ferns with their tough
stalks and cool leaves.

“Well, but tell me,” said Judith, “did you really see an angel? Just
imagine, how exciting that must be. What was this angel like? Very
beautiful, I suppose.” And she looked down with a frown.

“Such beauty,” said Jonah gravely, “I cannot describe to you.

Because, actually, one does not see beauty, one feels it. One looks
at something, and suddenly one feels a pain in one’s heart. Then one
thinks ‘what a beautiful thing.’”

“Yes,” said Judith. “Well, tell me, did this angel have dark hair too,
like mine?”

“I do not know,” replied Jonah candidly. “I did not exactly see any
hair. But I remember the wide, white, folded wings, and the glow which
entered my heart at the sight of that serene face.”

Judith pouted. “Didn’t you notice anything at all?” she enquired. “For
instance, what did she wear. And was she young or old? What a strange
fellow you are; you saw almost nothing, or at any rate, nothing of any
consequence.”

“Why do you speak always of ‘her’?” asked Jonah. “This angel was not a
woman. At least, I did not think so.”

“Then he was a man,” cried Judith.

“No,” said Jonah slowly, “he was not a man, either.”

“You see,” said Judith, “I was right; she was a woman. And besides, if
she was so beautiful, naturally she was a woman.”

“I confess,” admitted Jonah, “that had not occurred to me.”

“Of course not,” said Judith. “But it occurred to me, because I am a
woman.”

And she added with a smile,

“Even if I am not as beautiful as an angel.”

“You are very pretty,” said Jonah shyly. “But it is not the same
thing.” And he dug in the moss with his staff.

“Do you really think I am pretty?” asked Judith. “Sarah, my nurse, says
that to be pretty is nothing, because any one can be pretty. She would
rather I were virtuous, because virtue is woman’s richest jewel. Of
course I mean to be virtuous, and to do what is expected of me.”

She began to weave some ferns into a chaplet. “Sometimes,” she said in
a low voice, “I look at myself in my mirror, and I give myself a little
kiss. Do you think it is wrong? Nobody sees me.”

Jonah moved uncomfortably in the moss. “God...?” he said.

“Oh,” said Judith. “Well, God ... old God.

“Anyway,” she added, “I don’t think He sees me.”

She looked at the garden from which an overpowering fragrance arose,

at the flowers languidly lifting their bright-colored faces to the
sun, drinking in the warmth and the light. “I have a little dove,”
she said, “made all of silver. It is a copy of the doves of Eryx, and
it is sacred to Astarte. My uncle brought it to me from Tyre. It is
pretty, because it is of silver, with eyes of rubies. I put it on the
window-sill of my room. It brought the birds; they came and sang on my
window-sill.

“My little dove sees me kiss myself in my mirror.

“Is it wrong, Jonah?”

When Jonah did not reply, she said, “Tell me what it is like in the
desert. Just imagine, to live all alone in a little hut or a cave, how
exciting that is.”

Jonah began to tell her of his life in the desert. Seated in the shade
on the moss, while the bees hummed outside in the sun, he described the
way in which the prophets came together for study and meditation. “I
have a little cell,” he said, “in Golan, near a tiny stream which rises
in the hills. It is clear and cold, and many prophets live beside its
banks among the rushes. In the morning, after we have prayed, we gather
in the shade to listen to some learned man, or eminent saint. Our
midday meal is simple, a few dates, some maize, a little oil or wine,
perhaps a fish from the deep waters of Cinnereth across the hills.
And in the afternoon we meditate upon the Law, and the history of our
people.

“Evening comes suddenly in the wilderness. The shadows lengthen, and

night approaches across the desert. The wind of night blows upon the
east, which turns dark and blue with cold. In the west the sun goes
down into the sea; the sky turns yellow, then green, and shines like
a lamp. The stars appear, the dews descend, and the wings of angels
begin to sweep through the skies. It is cold, and the desert is silent,
save for the prayers of the hermits, which rise in a soft sigh from the
earth. As it grows darker the voices of animals begin to mingle with
our psalms, and we hear, far off, the roaring of lions on their way to
drink. Then our fires are lighted, to guide the Hosts of Heaven to our
homes.

“The animals are our friends. The little divinities of the rocks and
streams know and reverence us. They bring us food, and they tell us of
the approach of demons in the form of ostriches and jackals. Against
such beings as these our holiness is sufficient protection while we are
on God’s land.

“Well, that is all, really. It is a simple life, but it has its beauty.
In the quiet of the desert our hearts expand like flowers in warm
weather, and in our minds blossom lovely and tranquil thoughts.”

Moved by a sweet emotion, Judith replied, “How delightful it must be to

live in the desert.”

She continued in a low tone, “When you speak of God, I seem to feel Him
in my heart. It is such a strange feeling, so peaceful and yet a little
painful.”

And she looked at him with surprised and shining eyes.

Suddenly she looked down; the dark lashes rested softly against her
cheeks warm as sunny roses. “I must go home now,” she murmured.
“Good-by.”

She got swiftly to her feet. “I will not look in my mirror any more,”
she said, “if you think it is wrong.”

And she ran away without once looking behind her. When she got home
she hid her mirror in a box of ivory and sandalwood. Then she went to
put her silver dove away also. But all at once, instead of hiding it,
she gave it a kiss on its ruby eyes.

“Little dove,” she said, “tell me what love is.”

Going to her box, she took out her mirror again, and gazed for a long
time, and with a smile, at her own reflection.

Jonah went thoughtfully home. There he found his Uncle David, who
had stopped in for a moment to see if anything was being cooked.
Deborah was filling the lamps for the Sabbath. When she saw Jonah she
straightened her bent back, and remarked anxiously, “Where have you
been all morning?”

“I have been out walking,” replied Jonah evasively. And he sat gloomily
down in a corner of the room, as far as possible from his uncle. Then
all at once he burst out laughing. When his mother asked him what he
was laughing at, he answered,

“I was thinking of a green beetle.”

“You see,” said Uncle David, nodding his head, “he is not all there.”
Deborah arose, and went to fetch more oil for the lamps. As she passed
her son, she touched his forehead with her hand. “What is there so
peculiar about that?” she demanded of her brother. “Or perhaps you have
never seen a green beetle? Well, I have been amused by them myself.”

“Sit still for a little,” she said anxiously to Jonah; “after walking
so much in the sun.”

Uncle David settled himself comfortably in his seat. “To-day,” he said,

“who should I meet but Bildad, the water carrier. He said to me, ‘This
is fine news about your nephew, Jonah. I suppose that we shall hear
from you soon,’ and with that he gave me a look full of meaning.

“I did not reply; naturally, because I had nothing to say. Could I tell
him the truth? We should be the laughing-stock of the entire village.
I simply wrinkled my forehead and looked as grave as possible. At any
rate, my expression struck him as peculiar, because he said as he went
away, ‘Excuse me for intruding in your affairs.’”

“I have been thinking of something,” said Deborah. “It has occurred to

me that if we do not give a feast, people might begin to think that we
wished to give ourselves airs.”

“There you are,” said David; “that is the way I feel about it, word for
word. Speak up, and people believe you. Otherwise what is the good of
all this?”

Jonah stirred uneasily in his corner. “Mother,” he said, “do you really
insist upon giving a feast for me? I think it is foolish. Still, if it
would give you pleasure ... but who would come? The whole village, I
suppose. Would you actually ask the prince, and his niece?”

“What?” cried David; “what? I shall ask him myself, because I am

acquainted with him in a humble way.”

“Well,” said Jonah, hesitating.... “But what would you wear, Mother?”
he asked with sudden anxiety. “These old rags.... And who would pay for
it? No, it is impossible.”

“Do not worry about what I would wear,” returned Deborah sharply. “You
will not be ashamed of me. As for who is to pay for it ... you need not
worry about that, either, because it will not be you, at all events.”

Jonah sat for a long time without speaking. At last he sighed. “Very
well,” he said, “if you like....

“I will stay a few days longer.”

VI

So Jonah did not at once return to the desert. Instead, he said shyly
to his mother the next morning: “My cloak is torn almost in two. Is
there nothing else for me to wear?”

“There is an old coat which belonged to your father,” said Deborah.

“But it is brightly colored, and it is too heavy for this mild weather.”

“It cannot be helped,” replied Jonah; “if people are going to notice
me.”

When it was brought to him, he regarded it with a timid expression.

Nevertheless, he put it on, giving Deborah his old coat to mend.

“You will be overheated,” said Deborah. She added, “Must you go out on
such a hot day? You will come home all wet, like a river.”

“Mother,” said Jonah earnestly, “I am not a child any longer.”

“Was I interfering in your affairs?” cried Deborah. “I simply said it

was such a hot day.”

Clasping her hands anxiously, she asked, “Shall I put some oil upon
your hair before you go out?”

For she thought, “Then his head will be cool, at all events.”

Without waiting for an answer, she ran to get the oil. Then she combed
her son’s beard and poured oil upon his hair. “There,” she said,
stepping back to admire him, “now you look like somebody.”

As Jonah stalked gloomily out of the house, she called after him
tenderly, “Keep out of the sun.”

In the village Jonah met Bildad, the water carrier. Balancing his heavy
gourds upon his shoulder by means of a wooden yoke and some leather
thongs, the old man was going slowly from house to house with his
wares. When he saw Jonah, he stopped and said with surprise,

“I see that you have a new coat.”

“Yes,” said Jonah.

Bildad scratched his head. “I am glad to see that you are doing so well
in your profession,” he said.

And he passed by, carrying his water gourds.

Walking hastily through the village, Jonah climbed the hill toward
Ahab’s house. The moment he entered the garden he saw Judith. She was
seated in the same spot as the day before, and she was twining a wreath
of flowers in her hair.

“What a surprise,” she exclaimed, “to see you again.”

“Yes,” said Jonah. “I was passing by; it occurred to me to stop ...

that is, I thought you might be interested to hear that I am going
back to the desert again.”

Judith’s face remained drowsy and content. “Are you going soon?” she
asked, and held up her wreath to admire it. The wide golden sleeves of
her robe fell back from her round brown arms; and she smiled dreamily
at nothing.

Jonah replied that he had decided to wait a few days in order to

satisfy his mother, who wished to give a feast in his honor. “Just
imagine,” he said, with a laugh. “Nevertheless, her heart is set on it.”

Judith sighed. “I wish I were a man,” she said, “and could go to

feasts.”

Jonah told her that the whole village was to be asked. “Your uncle,
the great prince,” he said, “has also been invited. He might even,” he
added timidly, “bring his family.”

“Oh, how exciting that would be,” she cried.

And they looked at each other with happy smiles.

“Why are you going back to the desert?” she asked at length. “But I
suppose it is necessary for a prophet. Well, I hope you will be a great
man.”

Something suddenly occurred to her, for she added, “My goodness, you
are really a great man already, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no,” he said; “it was nothing; God simply wished to speak to me.”

“You are modest,” said Judith; “that is nice.”

Smiling, she looked at the flowers in her hand. Suddenly she frowned,
and said seriously,

“One finds so few modest people nowadays. All the prophets have so much
to say, but I do not like what they say; they talk about such gloomy
things. Jonah, tell me--what is there to be so sad about in Israel?”

Jonah replied gravely, “We are sad because life is not simple, the way
it used to be. We imitate other nations and so we are not certain about
ourselves any more. We are not even sure of God; we begin to wonder if
He is not a bull, or a dove, and if He is not also the god of Aram and
Babylon. That is why we are unhappy. When the things we believe in are
questioned, it makes us restless and sad. Patriots are the only happy
people, for they believe in themselves; and if other people disagree
with them, they do not forgive them for it.”

Judith gazed at the young prophet with admiration. His black eyes
glowed, his head was lifted, and he continued bitterly:

“However, that is not all, by any means. One expects a certain amount
of ignorance among the poor. But the rich ought to be an example to
the rest of the people. Well, the rich have only one desire, to forget
that they are Jews. With their beards curled like Assyrians, they vex
and oppress the poor, who cry out to the gods of other lands for
deliverance.”

“That is not true,” cried Judith angrily. “And I will not let you speak
of my uncle like that.”

“Your uncle,” stammered Jonah; “yes ... well ....”

He sat staring at the grass, with burning cheeks. Presently Judith

remarked timidly,
“Forgive me.”

“You see,” said Jonah in a low voice, “you do not know what it is to be
poor.”

“I am sorry,” said Judith sweetly. And she added, “What is the good of
talking about it?”

“Do you think that I mind being poor?” cried Jonah. “I do not wish to
be anything else. Since I am poor, I am free, my heart is at peace.
Remember that I live in the desert, where all your uncle’s wealth would
not do him the least good. It is you, not I, for whom you ought to
reserve your sympathy. I do not need anything; I am happy, my heart is
full of beauty, like the wilderness, quiet, fragrant, and bare.”

Judith bowed her head, “My heart is bare, too,” she thought. But
something moved in it, and she sighed.

“No,” she told herself, “my heart is quite bare.”

Jonah continued: “You have never seen the dawn come up across the
desert. The night rolls away into the west like the last clouds of
a storm, dark and terrifying. The east grows brighter and brighter,
shining like a lamp, so clear and quiet; and the sky seems to be full
of angels going out into the world. There is no sound, for the birds do
not sing yet. All is peace, all is holiness and beauty. No, you do not
know anything about such things.”

Judith sat silent, her hands clasped in her lap, her brown eyes cloudy.
At last she murmured sighing,

“I should like to be poor, like you.”

And they sat dreaming, hearing their thoughts knock like echoes on the
walls of their hearts.

At noon Jonah returned home through the field where his brother Aaron
was grazing the village cattle. Bright-colored insects buzzed and
hummed about him as he walked; lazy lizards sunned themselves on
stones; in the noonday heat earth spoke with faint but audible voices.
The trees drank in the light; the wild bees hurried to and fro among
the flowers which opened their petals with voluptuous joy to the south
wind.

The prophet found his brother asleep beneath a locust tree. “So,” he
said, rousing him with his staff, “that is the way you make a success,
by going to sleep. I could do that too, without any trouble.”

Aaron sat up and rubbed his eyes. “I have my hands full,” he said.
“Remember that I am up at daybreak. And then there are all these cows.
If I doze now and then, it is what any one would do in my place.”

Seeing Jonah’s coat, he cried out angrily, “That is the coat mother
promised me.”

Jonah paid no attention to this outburst. “Tell me,” he said seriously,

“how does one make a living? I am interested, and should like to know a
few things.”
An appeal of this nature made Aaron feel pleased. “To make a living,”
he said thoughtfully, “is, to begin with, a very difficult thing. Then
there are other questions to consider: such as, what sort of a living
do you wish to make? Any one can live. Look at Uncle David.”

“No,” said Jonah; “by a living I mean a family and children.”

But Aaron shook his head. “There again,” he replied, “it depends on
what kind of wife will do. Must she be expensive? Then you need a good
living, naturally. But what could you do, Jonah? Could you sell cloth,
or gold? Or perhaps you might build roads.”

And he burst out laughing.

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“There is always the cattle business,” he said finally, pointing to the

cows.

“I am not joking, Aaron,” cried Jonah impatiently.

His tone caused his younger brother to sit up, and to regard him with
a curious expression. “Are you in earnest, Jonah?” he asked. “Do you
really mean to settle down? I thought you would never leave the desert.
Are you going to be married? Good Heavens....”

Jonah replied carefully, with his eyes on the ground, “No ... what
an idea. I may leave the desert for a while, but only to be with our
mother. As for marriage ... well, to tell the truth, I had heard it
said of you....”

“Of me?” cried Aaron with wide-open eyes. “You are dreaming, Jonah,
the heat has touched you. A wife, for me? Why, I could only afford a
poor girl from the village. No, when I marry I mean to take a wife from
town. But that will cost a good deal. One pays for a wife in Israel;
perhaps you have forgotten that.”

“You are right,” said Jonah; “I had forgotten it.” And he turned home
again. His thoughts were grave, and he walked slowly, with a serious
air. At the entrance to the village he passed the statue of a winged
bull, before which lay the remains of a sacrifice of cereal, which was
being enjoyed by some birds. Jonah looked for a long time at the idol
which seemed to gaze back at him with an ironic expression.

“Perhaps,” he said sadly at last, “it is I, not you, who am a stranger

here in Israel.”

And he felt a coldness lay itself upon his heart.

VII

Moonlight covered the earth, the trees showered down their perfume of
blossom and cedar, the fragrance of lilies rose through the night.
Voices sang softly in the shadows, teased, laughed, whispered in the
moonlight; lamps shone, light fell upon trees. In Deborah’s kitchen
Uncle David passed around cakes, fruits, and bitter almonds, and helped
the guests to wine, milk, and honey. He was a genial host; his eyes
shone, he urged every one to enjoy himself.

Deborah moved among her friends, anxious and happy. She kept one eye on
Uncle David, and had something to say to everybody.

“Well, this is like old times. This is what peace does for a country.”

“What a lovely night.”

“We should have such a war every year.”

“A son to be proud of.”

Under a tree in the garden two old men were discussing religion. They
pulled at their long beards and gazed at each other with indignation.
“God belongs to Israel,” said one; “do not lend Him around.”

The other replied: “Does the earth belong to the tree? Does the air
belong to the wind? Can I lend the sky? How many gods are there, then?”

First old man: “Maybe a hundred, maybe two hundred. There is nothing in
the Laws of Moses which says how many. Do you wish to dispute with the
Holy One Himself?”

Second old man: “As for that, I am not the disputer. I simply say of
God, ‘He is everywhere, and He does not look like anything.’ But you
say, ‘No. He is here, and He looks like a Jew.’”

First old man: “All the gods look like something. There is a tribe in
the south whose god is only two feet high, and entirely covered with
short black hair. His people are naturally pygmies. What have you to
say to that? or would you like me to believe that our God is also the
father of pygmies?”

Second old man: “Pygmies are not human beings, but monsters. It does
not surprise me to find monsters in the world. I say it does not
surprise me because I can see a little beyond the front of my face. On
the other hand you cannot see anything but what is right under your
nose. You are not a philosopher; you are a patriot. You would like to
keep God all to yourself.”

First old man: “Exactly, I am a patriot. And what are you? I hesitate
even to say it.”

The two old men glared angrily at each other.

“Look,” said the first old man to Bildad, the water carrier, who was
passing by, “he wishes to give God away to the Gentiles.”

Bildad shook his head. “No,” he said accusingly: “Oh, my.” And he
hurried away to join a group of villagers about Prince Ahab, who was
standing by the side of a table on which was set out a large bowl of
wine.

The prince was in the best of humor. “My friends,” he exclaimed, “what
we need is more exercise. That is what makes a nation healthy. Talk is
all very well, but there is too much of it.”
He paused to take a long drink of wine. Several farmers who worked in
the fields from dawn until dark applauded his remarks. It was easy to
see that they respected his opinions, and that they did not know what
he was talking about.

“Just imagine,” said Bildad, “there is a man outside who wishes to give
our God away to the gentiles.”

“He is an ignoramus,” said Ahab. He continued,

“Every one will agree with me that a good horse is the most beautiful
thing in the world. Next to a horse, the best thing in the world is to
be active, and to take a lot of exercise.”

Uncle David nodded his head vigorously. “Exactly,” he said; “those are
my opinions, almost word for word. A good active life is what I say.”

The Prince turned upon Uncle David a face flushed with wine. “What,” he
exclaimed, “here is an honest man.” And he embraced Uncle David, who
said proudly to those standing near by,

“We agree with each other. After all, he is a noble fellow.”

Then he quietly asked Bildad to point out to him the old man who wished
to give God away. When he found him, he went up to him and said,

“Go away; please get out of this, as we do not want an ignoramus here.”

Returning to the kitchen, he looked around him with an important air,

and after blowing his nose, exclaimed,

“Unhealthy people.”

Prince Ahab was still talking. Clutching his beard, stained with grape,
he concluded morosely,

“Nobody rides any more.”

It was time to divide the roasted ox among the guests. But first it was
necessary to find Jonah, who was expected to perform the sacrifice to
the god, in the absence of a priest. So Uncle David went to look for
him; but he did not find him at once. For Jonah was in a corner of the
garden with Judith, Ahab’s niece.

The moonlight fell down upon them through the leaves like a shower of
milky petals and blossoms without weight and without fragrance. The
faint cheep of frogs, the shrill screech of the cicada, rose from
the ground and answered from the branches through the air laden with
sweetness. A single bird, cheated by the moon, sang far away; his song
tumbled through the air like water falling.

They leaned against the trunk of a tree, shadows making pools of

darkness over their eyes, moonlight in their hair and on their hands.
And their hearts, cheated, too, by the night, sang in confusion a song
of joy which seemed to them like pain.

They had little to say to each other. They discussed the weather.
“What a beautiful night,” said Jonah. “It is like the nights on the
desert, so still, so calm, and yet it makes me sad.”

“It makes me sad, too,” whispered Judith. “Why does it make me sad,
Jonah?”

He shook his head. “I do not know,” he said. “Beauty often makes people
sad. It is something they would like in their hearts, and their
sadness is their longing.”

She looked at him in the darkness. “Yes,” she said, “that’s it; that is
what I feel sometimes when I look in my little mirror.”

Jonah did not answer. The fragrance, the rapture of the night, moved
through his heart. It seemed to flow from the young girl at his side
and return to her again, lovely, obscure, a sweet sorrow, a longing
filled with grief. He raised his head to the little dapple of moonlight
among the leaves.

“I’ve never felt anything like this before,” he thought. “It is like
having God speak to me.

“How beautiful she is. And she would like to be poor, like me. Of
course, that is nonsense. Still....”

He thought that she swayed a little closer to him. Intoxicated by an

imperceptible warmth, he touched her hand. “Judith,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“No--nothing. How lovely it is out here.” He trembled; his hand, twined

with hers, was moist and warm, but he shivered as though with cold.

She stood beside him, breathless, drowsy with sweetness, waiting....

“This is love,” she thought. “He loves me, and I love him. How exciting
it is.

“I am a young girl, and already I am in love with a prophet.”

She gave his hand a faint squeeze. Jonah sighed deeply. Was there
anything else so lovely in the whole world, he thought.

Judith raised her head. “Listen,” she said, “there’s a bird singing.
Just think, in the moonlight; isn’t it sweet, Jonah? This is beauty,
isn’t it? I could stay here forever.”

No--there was nothing else in the whole world....

From the garden arose the sound of voices; shadows moved among the
trees. Aaron went by with a village girl, his hands stuffed with
cakes. He offered them to her to nibble at, and kissed her mouth
full of crumbs. She accepted his caresses with pleasure, but without
passion. “What a thing you are,” she cried. “There’s your brother; he
behaves himself, at least.”

“He is a noodle,” said Aaron; “most of him is still in the desert. Who
is that with him? My goodness....”

They ran away, linked in laughter. Jonah looked after them, but he did
not see them. The desert was in his heart, wide, starry, still; all the
beauty in the world trembled at the moment’s edge. If it made itself
known ... would the heart break with it?

“This is too beautiful,” he wanted to cry; “wait, you are hurting me.”

In another part of the garden Deborah said to Sarah, Judith’s nurse,

“How charming your Judith is. She is not spoilt like so many of the
young girls to-day. And when you consider her wealth, that makes it all
the more remarkable.”

“Yes,” said Sarah with satisfaction, “she knows nothing of life. She is
a pure lily.”

She added, “I have brought her up myself.”

Deborah nodded her head. “Children cannot be brought up too strictly,”

she said. “That is what is responsible for the success of my son Jonah.”

And she moved away, smiling at her guests. Sarah gazed after her with
pursed lips. “Indeed,” she said to herself. “Well, that is one thing to
call it, of course.”

Jonah was not thinking about being a prophet. His heart beat heavily;
he felt as though he were all eyes, staring blindly into the night. The
sweet, heavy scent of lilies struck him like a wind. He felt terrified
of what he was about to say, of what he felt obliged to ask. But there
was no help for it; the very shadows would begin to murmur if he were
silent longer.

“Judith, do you love me?”

“Yes, Jonah.”

Astonished, they gazed at each other without speaking.

Then, slowly, their dark heads bent together.

At that moment Uncle David, hurrying through the garden, caught sight
of them under the tree. “Well,” he cried briskly, “there you are. Come,
my son; the ox is about to be divided.”

Jonah had only time to whisper, “Wait here for me, Judith.” Then he
went, in a daze, to make the sacrifice. He heard but little of what was
going on around him, the gay shouts, the pious wailing, but the sudden
hush as he consigned the holy portions to the flames broke on him like
a light.

“Wait,” he said to himself; “something has happened.”

And suddenly he began to feel very gay.

“Why,” he thought, looking around at the familiar faces, “what are all
these people so happy about? They do not know what has happened. They
have no reason to be happy, as I have.

“I ought at least to be happier than they are.”

Seizing a cup of wine, he threw the contents on the blazing altar. “For
You, too, God,” he cried recklessly; “enjoy Yourself.”

At once murmurs of protest arose. The old man who had caused the
philosopher to be sent home expressed the opinion that such an act was
not customary. “What does he mean, ‘Enjoy yourself,’” he exclaimed. “Is
that a way to speak to God? Or does he think that the Eternal One and
he are such good friends already?”

Prince Ahab shrugged his shoulders. “What do you expect of young people
to-day?” he inquired. “It only surprises me that he did not call God
something even more irreverent.”

Uncle David went anxiously about among the guests with apologies. “He
is a little wild,” he said to several people; “you must excuse it ...
the life he leads, in the sun....” He tapped his head significantly.
“He is not all there.”

Deborah, on the other hand, did not seem at all disturbed. In a calm
manner she explained that very likely there were different ways of
making a sacrifice. “After all,” she said, “my son is a prophet, and
therefore closer to God than any of us here. Did you see the feather
he brought home, actually from an angel? Besides, if you ask me, why
shouldn’t God enjoy Himself, if He likes?”

But she gave Jonah a look, when no one was watching, which said
plainly, “What a trouble you always make for yourself and for me.”

When the sacrifice was over, Jonah hurried back to the tree where he
had left Judith. But she was gone; Sarah had come to take her home.

As if in a dream he wandered off in the moonlight, down the road and

through the fields. Behind him the lights and the hum of the feast
faded out; he was alone, in the silence of night. About him the
pastures, bathed in dew, shone like silver under the moon which covered
the earth with delicate mist. Everything was peaceful, everything
breathed a quiet and resigned joy. Only in the heart of the man, filled
with bliss, there was no peace.

He spread out his arms, “I am happy,” he cried, “I am happy.”

He thought of the Deity to whom he had so often prayed. “Thank You,” he

whispered.

And he gazed with love at the heavens, pale, and shining with stars.

He began to imagine the future. “What does it matter if we are poor?”

he thought. “One cannot buy beauty. We will live in a little house, and
I will do great things, like Nathan, or Elisha.”

But that mood did not suit his spirit for long. “No,” he exclaimed, “I
will never allow her to be poor. I will make a large fortune, to keep
her comfortably.”

But how? He did not trouble to find out. Already he was living in his
palaces, surrounded by slaves.

All night he walked through the fields soaked with dew, through the
woods, silent and dark. The moon floated on to the west, and went down
over seas and lands unknown, undreamed. The world slept; even the frogs
were still. But there was no sleep for Jonah that night; his joy kept
him awake. Accustomed to sorrow and indignation, he could not bear his
own happiness.

“Judith,” he cried over and over, in a sort of amazement. “Judith.”

Dawn broke in the east, and hunger turned him homeward. On the road
near the village he passed a golden litter, also bound for Gath-Hepher,
on whose curtains were woven in silver the little doves of Eryx. The
litter was followed by several donkeys, laden with merchandise, and
a number of servants in the livery of the Phœnicians. “There goes a
rich man,” thought Jonah, “but I am happier than he. I will buy his
litter and give it to Judith, because of the little silver doves on the
curtains.”

It was Hiram, a merchant of Tyre, on his way to visit Prince Ahab,

with dyed silks from Sidon, sandalwood, and cloves. Jonah had no
forebodings. Cold, wet, weary, but overborne by happiness, he went on
home to his mother’s house for breakfast.

VIII

That morning Jonah said to his mother, “Mother, I am going to be

married.”

Deborah did not stop singing to herself as she sat mixing curds. But
she looked at Jonah as though to say, “Are you preparing some new
trouble for us both?”

At last, since Jonah did not offer any further information, she
remarked quietly:

“What of your career?”

“What of it?” replied Jonah. “I have been alone a long while; now I am
going to take a wife.”

Deborah went on stirring her curds. But she stopped singing. Presently
she put down her wooden spoon and sat still, staring at her son.

“You know,” she said gravely, “that I want you to be happy. But what
are you doing? Your father also had a great deal of talent. He might
have been a priest, but he preferred to marry me; and he died by
being gored by a bull. Marriage is a serious thing, and nothing for a
prophet.”

“Do you think prophets are made of wood or stone?” cried Jonah
irritably. “They also have feelings, like any one else.”

Deborah nodded her head. “I suppose so,” she said. “Still, how much
better it would be if you could find something else to do with those
feelings.”

“Well, I can’t,” said Jonah. And he relapsed into gloomy silence.

His mother began to stir her curds again. “If that is the case,” she
said at last, “you had better tell me all about it, and we will see
what can be done.”

Since Jonah did not reply, she added, “I suppose it is some woman of
Bethel, or perhaps a girl from the desert.”

“It is Judith,” said Jonah simply, “Ahab’s niece.”

The spoon fell with a clatter into the bowl. “Ak,” cried Deborah. And
she gazed at her son in consternation.

“Have you gone out of your mind?” she exclaimed at last. “Do you
imagine for a single moment such a thing would be allowed? Who are you,
Jonah, the grandson of King David? Or are you perhaps a nephew of King
Hiram of Tyre? You must be mad, my son.”

And she added, shaking her head, “It is always something difficult or
impossible with you.”

Jonah raised his eyes, burning with enthusiasm, to his mother. “After
all,” he said with dignity, “it was I who led the Jews against Aram. Is
that nothing? Is it nothing that I have spoken with God? Or is a noble
a greater person in Israel than the God of the Jews? Let him order the
angels, then.”

“What does a noble know about God?” cried Deborah. “I am poor, and your
mother; I know what it means to be a prophet. But a noble--no, my son,
you have taken leave of your senses. All he knows is what he can buy,
which is nearly everything.”

“Can he buy love?” asked Jonah scornfully.

Deborah thought to herself, “Yes, love, too”; but she did not say so.
Putting aside her bowl, she asked more gently,

“Do you love her so much?”

“Yes, mother.”

“And does she love you, my son?”

When Jonah nodded his head, she arose and, coming over to him, put her
hand a moment on his hair.

“Poor Jonah,” she whispered.

“Well,” she said, after a silence, sighing, “well ... I will see what I
can do.”

Taking down her best shawl, she went to find Uncle David, to discuss
the matter.

At first Uncle David was frightened. “He is crazy,” he exclaimed. But

after a while, when he had listened to Deborah, he began to take a more
hopeful point of view. “Who knows,” he said, “perhaps God is with him.”

He thought: “It is not as though our family were just a common one.”
And he began to feel that he was already connected with nobility.
But he had no scented oil for his hair, and he wished to make a good
impression when he went to call. Therefore, as there was a little oil
of olives left over from the feast, he put this on his hair, and,
taking also his me’il, or over-garment, which he kept for special
occasions, he exclaimed hopefully to his sister,

“Now, leave all this to me, because I know Prince Ahab very well, and
we understand each other, he and I.”

And he began to rehearse what he would say to the Prince. “Of course,”
he declared, with a wave of his hand, “the difference in wealth.... But
you are a man of the world. You know that a prophet is not born every
day.”

“And such a good son,” said Deborah.

“And such a good son,” added Uncle David.

“Also, I say to you as one father to another, or, at least, an uncle,

what is there in the world like youth? Can we old ones tell the young
how to behave?”

“Come,” said Deborah; “you are only wasting time.”

Gravely, with slow steps and thoughtful expressions, they went up

through the village to the palace. Uncle David helped Deborah over the
rough places, and she leaned upon his arm.

Prince Ahab came to meet them in his hall in which a single fountain
sang. There a peacock led his long tail across the floor set in
triangles of marble and ebony. Rich silks adorned the walls, which
exhaled an odor of musk and cedar.

After greeting them cordially, the Prince offered his guests cakes in
which cinnamon, spices, and poppy-seeds were happily mingled. Then he
said in a hearty voice,

“What a splendid feast you gave us last night. I wish to thank you in
the name of my household, all of whom enjoyed themselves.”

“Thank you,” said Deborah shyly. She was timid and ill at ease, yet she
managed to appear calm and smiling. “It was nothing, or at least for
such an occasion, nothing....”

And she gave Uncle David a nudge with her elbow. But now that Uncle
David found himself called upon to say something, confusion rendered
him speechless. “Yes,” he said feebly, “an occasion....”

Prince Ahab broke in, with a smile: “A feast in honor to a prophet. Do

you think I have forgotten what is due your son for his help against
Aram? A feast like that is not too good for him.”

Warmed by his tone, Deborah said eagerly: “If you only knew him; such
kindness, with all that talent besides. He has made a great success,
and he is still a very young man.”

“I do not doubt it,” replied Prince Ahab.

“He speaks to angels,” continued Deborah proudly, “but he is like a
lamb with his own mother.”

“Say something,” she whispered to Uncle David; “make an effort.”

“Yes,” said Uncle David.

“I congratulate you upon your son,” said Prince Ahab heartily; “there
are too few in Israel like him. I am proud to have him in my village.
I was saying as much the other day to my niece, the Lady Judith.”

And he added hopefully, “Does he speak of another war?”

“No,” said Deborah, “he is not thinking of wars just now.” She hung her
head, and gazed at the floor. Presently she lifted her head again, and
looked, full of blushes, at the Prince. “He has something else on his
mind,” she said.

“Are you dumb?” she whispered in Uncle David’s ear.

Uncle David gave a start. “As a matter of fact,” he said huskily, “it
is this way: Jonah is thinking of settling down.”

“Ah,” said Prince Ahab, and curled his beard idly in his fingers.
“Well, that would be too bad. Such men as he have work to do in the
world. We cannot afford to lose such optimistic voices. To whom is
Israel to look for her glory if not to such prophets as your son, my
good Deborah? No, no, I hope he will not settle down.”

“He has made up his mind,” said Deborah; “I cannot argue with him.” And
she added in a voice too low for Ahab’s ears, “He is like a goat.”

“As a matter of fact,” said Uncle David suddenly, “he has made up his
mind to marry.”

“To marry?” exclaimed Prince Ahab. “What?” And he stood frowning with
disappointment.

“Then there will be no more wars,” he declared gloomily.

But Deborah replied with conviction: “One can marry and still be a
prophet. And my son is particularly suited to be a husband. He is
gentle and pure.”

“That must please you,” said Ahab, “although I do not know if it is the
best thing in a husband.

“Well,” he said, with a sigh, “I dare say there is no help for it. So
tell me what I can do for you, my good Deborah.”

And he gazed amiably at the two who stood before him shifting on their
feet with embarrassment.

It was Deborah at last who spoke.

“My brother should by rights speak for me,” she said, looking
indignantly at Uncle David, “but as he is so dumb, I shall have to
speak for myself.”
She took a deep breath. “Prince Ahab,” she said, “my son Jonah, the
prophet, wishes to marry your niece, the Lady Judith.”

“That’s it,” said Uncle David; “that’s what we came to say.”

The smile died upon Prince Ahab’s face, and he stared at them in
amazement. “What?” he exclaimed; “did I hear you aright?”

Deborah repeated in a firmer tone what she had said; then, raising her
eyes to his, looked at him with a candid and satisfied expression. Now
that the declaration was out, she felt entirely different.

But Prince Ahab began to laugh.

“My good woman,” he cried, “are you mad? Such a thing is impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?” asked Deborah calmly. “I do not see anything

impossible about it. Do you, David?”

“No,” said David hurriedly, “no. Of course it seems impossible; I said

at once that it looked absurd. Still ... there you are.

“Ha ha.”

And he also essayed a laugh like a croak.

Prince Ahab controlled himself with an effort. “Madam,” he said, “what

does this extraordinary son of yours offer as price for my niece, if I
may be so bold as to inquire?”

Deborah at least had the grace to blush. “Nothing,” she said in a low
tone. “But he thought, being a prophet ... and what is wealth to you,
who have so much?”

Prince Ahab let out a sudden roar of anger. The joke no longer amused
him. “Nothing,” he cried.

“He wishes to give me nothing for the Lady Judith.

“What impudence.”

“What did I tell you?” said David, trembling, turning to his sister.
“He has insulted her. O my God.”

Prince Ahab spread his legs apart, and clutched his beard with both
hands. “Woman,” he cried in thunderous tones, “let me tell you that my
sister’s daughter will not marry a pauper, prophet or no prophet. A fig
for your prophets. They are dirty, unhealthy, meddlesome creatures.
Tell your son to go back to the desert where he belongs. And as for my
niece, she has been given too much liberty. I shall see that she is
properly guarded hereafter.

“What ideas. I tell you there is no respect in this unhappy country.”

Summoning his slaves, he bade them hustle Deborah from his sight. Then
he went off in a violent mood to find his niece. Fortunately for Judith
she was not in the garden; instead he came upon Hiram, the Phœnician,
strolling among the flowers. Prince Ahab took the wealthy merchant by
the arm. “Come,” he said, “I am in a rage. Let me show you my horses.
I have some things to talk over with you. I have had a shock this
morning, and I do not know what the world is coming to. What ideas.
What impudence. Let us go riding for a while; it will do me good.”

And he hurried to the stables.

Deborah walked home with her head in the air, the color bright on her
face. In the village she stopped to speak a few words to the gossips,
who greeted her with curiosity and interest.

“Well,” she said, “Jonah is going back to the desert soon. God will
need him again shortly.

“Such excitement last night; I couldn’t sleep after it. So I still have
on my shawl, taking some air in the morning.”

She passed on, humming a little tune to herself.

Uncle David hurried home before her. Dripping with perspiration, and
with a white face, he burst into the house, and sank dejectedly upon a
bench.

“All is lost,” he cried.

“Woe is me.”

He could say no more. Deborah, when she came home, told Jonah the story.

IX

When Prince Ahab told his niece that she was not to be allowed to marry
Jonah, she wept bitterly. For an entire day she refused to eat or
speak; for she thought her heart was broken. In the evening she went to
the tree in the garden where she had sat with Jonah; and, as she leaned
her cheek against its bark, she saw again in her mind the dark, thin
face of her lover, the brown eyes speaking to her in silence. She heard
his voice:

“Beauty often makes people sad. It is something they would like to have
in their hearts, and their sadness is their longing.”

“Oh, Jonah, Jonah....”

And her tears fell unchecked.

When she returned to the house, Sarah said to her indignantly,

“Do you know that your young man wished to marry you for nothing? What
an impertinence.”

Judith replied tearfully, “He has nothing, the poor fellow.”

“That is what makes the insult all the harder to bear,” said Sarah. “If
he has nothing, he should keep quiet, for your sake. What would people
think of you if you were to marry for nothing? You would be ruined
socially.”

Judith sat up straight, with red cheeks. “Why,” she exclaimed, “what an
idea.”

But she remained thoughtful for the rest of the evening. The next
morning she said to Sarah, “He is so gentle and sweet. I love him.” And
she added,

“Men are so thoughtless.”

At once Sarah, who knew what she was doing, exclaimed, “My poor lamb,
you have been badly treated.”

Judith’s eyes filled with tears again. “I am a young girl,” she

thought, “and already my heart has been broken.”

All day she was pale, and said nothing. Occasionally she wept, but
without violence. In the evening she walked among her flowers, composed
and quiet, her brown eyes sad and wondering, like a child’s. And as the
sky faded from the color of roses to the color of leaves, she breathed
a name sadly, but so faintly, into the air.

“Jonah....”

No one answered, and her heart vibrated with sadness and with peace. “I
have lived,” she thought, “I have loved, I have been unhappy.

“That is life, isn’t it....”

And coming upon Hiram the Phœnician among the roses, she gave him a
dignified bow.

In the morning, in the bright sunshine, she said to herself, “Men are
so selfish. Just imagine, if I were married for nothing, what would
people think of me?”

And she said seriously to Sarah, “I feel so old, Sarah. I feel as old
as Methuselah.”

“You are a little pale,” said Sarah, “but that does not do any harm.”

“Do I look well?” asked Judith in surprise. “No.”

“You are like a lily,” said Sarah.

But Judith insisted that she looked, at least, a little thin. “And my
eyes are all red from crying,” she added.

She did not walk in her rose garden that night. In the morning Sarah
said to her, “You are yellow as a dead leaf.” And she brought the
little mirror for her mistress to look into.

Judith looked at her reflection for a long time. She seemed a little
proud and a little vexed at what she saw. “It is because I have
suffered so much,” she said at last to Sarah. And she added,

“Men are so cruel.”

In the afternoon she dressed in white, with a girdle of silver about
her hips. And Hiram, meeting Sarah in the court, cool with its
fountain, said to the nurse,

“The Lady Judith has a very spiritual face. Is she unhappy about
something?”

But Sarah threw up her hands at the mere thought of such a thing.
“‘Unhappy’?” she cried; “what an idea. She knows nothing of life. She
is like a lily. If she looks a little sad, it is because of her gentle
nature.”

That night Judith dined with her uncle and his guest. Her cheeks were
pink as the youngest roses in her garden, her lips red again, like
poppies. Ahab, seeing her blooming so, was satisfied. And Hiram also
watched her carefully, with his shrewd dark eyes.

In Judith’s apartments Sarah put away the pots of red and pink paste,
the myrrh and cassia buds, and the little silver mirror. Then with a
sigh she sat down to await the return of her mistress. She was content;
she felt that the worst was over.

“A woman should know her own worth,” she said to herself; “in that way
she saves every one a lot of trouble.”

Jonah stood again before Amaziah, the High Priest. On his face, dark
with woe, were drawn lines of determination. He held out his hands,
empty, and brown as the earth.

“I have not brought you anything this time,” he said, “not even an
eagle’s feather.”

Amaziah chose to ignore this greeting. “What now, Jonah,” he exclaimed

cheerfully; “do you not bring me another war? The presence of my
favorite prophet fills me with the liveliest hopes.”

But Jonah shook his head. “I am weary of being a prophet,” he said

simply; “I have come to ask you to make me a priest.”

Without losing the serenity of his expression, Amaziah looked

thoughtfully at the young man whose weary face expressed
dissatisfaction and bitterness. The old High Priest seemed to be
reaching back into his own past, to the time when he, too, had had
a choice to make. And his face, as he gazed at Jonah, softened; an
expression almost of pity crossed his features, sharp and cruel as a
hawk’s.

“This is bad news, Jonah,” he said gently. And he was silent, waiting
for an answer.

But Jonah had nothing further to say.

Amaziah stroked his chin. “Tell me,” he said at last, “what has caused
you to look with dissatisfaction on your career at the very moment when
all Israel speaks of you with admiration?”

“What is the good of admiration?” asked Jonah sadly. “I have a living

to make.”

“Ah,” said Amaziah, and his face clouded, “so that is it. What a
nuisance.”

And he sat looking before him with a frown.

“You do not really wish to be a priest,” he said at last; “for one

thing the duties would soon prove irksome to one of your temperament.”

Jonah threw out his hands. “What is there for me to do?” he cried.
“Shall I keep cattle, like my brother Aaron? Or am I to beg, with a
bowl?”

“There are worse things than begging,” said Amaziah. “In the desert
every one is a beggar.”

“I am tired of the desert,” said Jonah; “I am not going to live there

any longer.”

But Amaziah held up his hand reprovingly. “My son,” he said gravely,
“one does not change the course of one’s life with impunity, or for no
reason.”

“There is a reason,” said Jonah. He looked down at his feet; then he

looked boldly up again. “I wish to marry,” he said.

The High Priest made a gesture of discouragement. “I might have

guessed,” he murmured. And he gazed sadly at the prophet, on whom he
had been counting to help further his own plans. Presently he said with
a sigh,

“I can see that this maiden’s father does not wish to give her away for
nothing.”

“He is wealthy,” said Jonah gloomily. “For that reason he cannot abide
a poor man for a son-in-law.”

Amaziah nodded his head. “Naturally,” he agreed; “if he is wealthy, he

feels obliged to add to his fortune. It is only those without anything
who can give away what they have, without suffering an overbearing
sense of loss. For one thing they do not lose as much, and for another,
having nothing, they are not required to succeed in the world, and so
they can afford to be generous.”

As Jonah did not reply to this observation, he continued in a grave

voice:

“Are you really determined upon this thing, my son? Think well.
Marriage in your case may well be a calamity. You have a name already
famous in Israel. You are at the outset of a career like that of
Samuel. It is safe to predict that you will go far. And you wish to
give this up in order to be married? Such a thing is incredible.
Farewell to glory, Jonah.”
Jonah folded his arms, and regarded the High Priest with a gloomy and
obstinate look. “Nevertheless,” he said firmly, “that is my decision.”

“It is not even your loss,” continued Amaziah earnestly, “wholly; it

is Israel’s. It is you who shine like a lamp in her darkness; yours is
the voice of hope in her night. If you were Amos, or Hosea, I should
say that Israel could get along without you. But you are different; you
are the messenger of God’s geniality. Israel cannot afford to lose you,
Jonah, my son.”

However, Jonah was proof against arguments of this kind. Seeing which,
Amaziah exclaimed,

“What will God think of His prophet, who no longer listens to His
voice?”

Jonah replied with an effort: “Is God only audible in the desert?
And must He be silent in the Temple? I tell you, He will speak to me
wherever I am.”

Almost at once he astonished Amaziah by crying out in a muffled voice,

full of pain, “Do you think this is easy for me?”

Amaziah seized what he took to be his advantage. “You are confident,”

he remarked in quiet tones, “but I have noticed that God does not speak
to my priests with the same enthusiasm with which He addresses Himself
to the wild and savage hermits who live in the desert of Tob and Golan.
And it is my experience that His angels do not enter the cottages of
married men with the same boldness with which they visit the huts of
bachelors. If it is true that prophets have sometimes been married, it
is also true that they have often left their wives and gone out alone
to live in the wilderness.”

“That,” said Jonah stubbornly, “is a personal matter, which need not
concern us.”

And he added, “You cannot shake me in my resolve.”

Amaziah looked at him sadly. But suddenly his brow cleared, and he
struck his palms together. “Wait,” he cried; “if the father of this
young woman did not object to your poverty, then there would be no
reason for you to become a priest.”

“Well,” said Jonah sourly, “he does object.”

“Then,” exclaimed Amaziah, “for the glory of his country he shall be

prevailed upon to change his mind.”

And he waited with a smile for the name of the unreasonable man whose
opinions were making a successful war with Nineveh highly improbable.

“It is Prince Ahab,” said Jonah.

At once the smile left Amaziah’s face, to be replaced by a look of

consternation. The High Priest sank back in his seat, and stared at
Jonah with brows which slowly drew together into a frown. His fingers
caressed his chin; he sat for a long time without speaking. At last he
said:
“My son, the more I think of things, the more convinced I am that you
would not make a good priest. It is the duty of a priest to serve men,
and the Temple. You cannot be a good priest, and at the same time be
given to divine illumination, because God deals only in generalities,
and does not bother Himself about the details of administration.

“A priest must conform; he must not have ideas of his own. He is a

soldier with certain duties to perform: he must obey his superiors, and
must serve the interests of the men and women who worship the god.

“That would never do for you; your spirit is too lively. You would try
to change everything.

“Moreover, since you are not a Levite, I cannot make you a priest of
Adonai. I cannot believe that you would be willing to become a priest
of a baal such as Melcarth or Kemosh.

“Besides, can you read or write? No? Well....

“I can do nothing for you.”

So saying, he clapped his hands, to show that the interview was at an

end.

“Will you speak to Prince Ahab?” cried Jonah wildly.

Amaziah did not reply. Instead, two Nubian slaves came forward, and
hustled Jonah out of the house.

A number of people, hearing that the prophet Jonah was in town, had
gathered in the street, to gaze at the man who had won a victory over
the Aramæans. When they saw Jonah they waved their sticks and shawls,
and cried,

“Hurrah for the prophet.”

“God bless Jonah.”

“There is a great man; just look at him.”

One old woman came hobbling forward, to touch the hem of his cloak.
Jonah did not even see her. His eyes, hot with anger, were on the
ground; he saw the dust, and the tip of his own beard. Finding an old
woman in his path, he gave her a shove; whereat she fell with a bump to
the ground.

“Oh my,” she said, when she had got her breath. “Oh my. Well, there’s a
great man for you. Tst; I feel better already.”

XI

Hiram, the Phœnician, was short, dark, and compactly built. His hair
was curled and oily; his body, dressed in richest silks, and in linens
forbidden to the Jews, exhaled an arresting fragrance. He walked in the
garden with Judith and her nurse, Sarah, as evening was falling.

“Redder roses than these,” he said, “bloom in the gardens of Tyre. The
serpent priestesses of Astarte, the Kedeshoth, wear them in their hair
at the festival of their goddess, who reigns in Sidon as the deity of
cows, but in Tyre as the goddess of doves.”

He had about him an air of the world, of cities by the shores of seas,
of mountains far away. As he stood on the terrace at Gath-Hepher, his
dark, shrewd eyes seemed to behold in the distance the white domes of
Tyre, shining above the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean.

“He reminds me of a man I knew long ago,” said Sarah to Judith in a low
voice; “he was a camel driver, and he had been everywhere.”

The Phœnician went on to describe the wonders of his country; the

mighty trees of Lebanon, from which Solomon’s Temple had been built,
the markets of Acre, with their silks, fruits, and ivory, the Temple of
Melcarth, Baal of Tyre, with its two great pillars of marble and gold.
He told them of the spacious Temple of Atareatis at Ascalon, with its
pool in which floated sacred fish adorned with ornaments of gold.

“At Aphaca,” he said, “there is a temple dedicated to Astarte, with a

pool into which gifts are thrown by her worshippers. Once a year this
pool is visited by the goddess in the form of a falling star. It is a
marvelous sight and makes one very thoughtful.”

“How strange,” said Judith. “And how I should love to see such a thing.”

Hiram looked at her proudly. “You can understand,” he said, “that your
temples do not compare with ours. In the first place, ours is a very
old country. And then, our religion is not like yours. Our gods have
faces you can look at, and love.”

“Yes,” said Judith, thinking of her little silver dove.

“What is more,” continued Hiram, “you who live inland cannot imagine
the wonders of the great sea-coast cities. This is all very well;
you have a pleasant garden here. But it is nothing compared to the
terraces above the harbor at Tyre, looking out over the sea. There is
magnificence for you. Well, you see, ships have come from all over the
world to decorate them.”

Sarah sighed. “I’d have seen them,” she said, “if I had gone as I was
bid.”

The Phœnician gave Sarah a wise look. “Perhaps you will see them after
all,” he said. And he glanced for a moment at Judith as he turned away.

“Oh,” said Sarah.

Overhead the sky had grown dull with evening, green in the west, where
the evening star, planet of love, hung silver over the hills. Shadows
drew down about the garden, the wind rose and moved among the trees,
the scent of flowers in the slow-falling dew ascended from the earth
and mingled with the fragrance of pines.

“How you would love the markets,” said Hiram, “with their bales of silk
and rich stuffs, the strange fruits from the West and South, the gold
and ivory. And such an enchanting odor of spices in the air.”

“Just imagine,” said Judith.

Hiram continued: “All the nations of the earth trade with my city.
The masts of our ships rise like a forest along the sea wall, and
their sails in the harbor are like orange and yellow moons. Ophir and
Egypt, the colonies of Carthage, the isles of the barbaric Greeks with
golden hair, all send their produce to us, in exchange for our linens,
cedarwood, and dyes. It is a wonderful sight to see the ships come in,
loaded with so much wealth.”

Judith sighed. “How I should love that,” she said. And she looked
around her at her uncle’s simple garden.

“That is life, isn’t it?” she said; “to live in the world, in a great
city with ships, and strange things to wear, and interesting sights to
see.”

“It is the life of a Phœnician,” said Hiram simply.

And he added, “This sort of thing is all very well, but where does it
lead to? You spend your life in a rose garden, between some low hills,
among ignorant people.”

“You would never believe how ignorant some of these people are,” said
Sarah, nodding her head.

“The life of a merchant,” said Hiram, “is another thing entirely. Take
myself, for example; I travel a great deal. And it is really amazing
how much information one is able to pick up here and there. I have been
to Crete, where I went to look at the sewers. They are made out of
stone, and very interesting. But perhaps sewers do not appeal to you?”

“Oh, yes,” said Judith, “they appeal to me very much. But tell me
something about your own city. What do the women wear? I suppose they
are very beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Hiram slowly, with his eyes on Judith, “they are beautiful.
But to tell you the truth, I have never bothered much with women. How
do they dress? With jewels, of course, and silks.... I hardly know. I
am too busy most of the time to notice such things.”

“Well,” said Sarah firmly, “I am sure you’ve seen no one in your city,
or in any other city, for that matter, to compare with our young lady.”

“No,” said Hiram, with a smile, “that is true.”

Judith blushed a fiery red. “Why,” she cried, “I am not even pretty.”

“You see,” said Sarah in Hiram’s ear, “she is not at all spoiled. What
a jewel.”

“The life of a merchant,” said Hiram thoughtfully, “is the most

interesting life in the world. There is nothing like commerce to give
one a liberal education. For one thing, the merchant has to travel a
great deal, because naturally he has to see what he is buying; he has
to visit other countries, in order to know what to sell. As you can
imagine, it is a delightful way to occupy oneself.”
“It’s quite another thing from living in a stable,” said Sarah.

“Why, Sarah,” exclaimed Judith indignantly, “we don’t live in a stable.”

“Maybe not,” the nurse admitted. “But we might just as well.”

“In the morning,” said Hiram, “I go down to the docks, to see what
ships are in. Several of the captains are known to me, and we discuss
some matters of importance. Then I visit the markets, to see for
myself what people are buying, because that is the only way to make a
success of business. It is very interesting, all of it. One has to be
perspicacious, to be a merchant. For instance, if people wish to buy
silk in Damascus, it is useless to send them sandalwood, or betel-nut,
even though I, personally, might prefer such things.

“In the evening one goes for a stroll on the terraces above the water,
to drink syrups, and watch the sun go down in the sea.

“On festival occasions the streets are gayly decorated with flowers and
rugs, and processions carrying the god pass among the houses, and meet
at the Temple. Then there is music in the evening on the terraces, and
bands of priests and worshippers perform the dances in honor of the
deity.”

Judith heaved a deep sigh. “How exciting that must be,” she said. And
she gazed before her with parted lips and dreamy eyes. But the breeze,
cold with dew, soon made her shiver.

“Let me bring you a shawl,” said Hiram. And he returned to the house
for a shawl of heavy silk, dyed in Tyrian purple, with a holy fringe,
which he had brought along with him as a gift to Judith. When he was
gone, Sarah remarked,

“That is the sort of man I like; one who has made a success in the
world and who says right out what he means.

“What a wonderful life he leads. You can see that he knows how to live.
A merchant--yes; that’s the life for a person.”

Judith did not answer. When the Phœnician returned with the shawl, and
drew it around her shoulders, she thanked him faintly; she would not
even have noticed how beautiful it was, if it had not been for Sarah.
The last birds were singing before night; the sky shone with the blue
of evening. Far off beyond the hills lay the great ocean, wide as the
world, with its sails, like orange moons, blowing home from barbarous
lands. And over it, terrace on terrace, the queenly city with its
laughing festivals, its temples, its sacred pools.... She closed her
eyes ... such beauty, such dignity to life, so much to see and hear of;
her young heart, dry with curiosity, filled like a pool with longing
and despair; her pure and ignorant mind gave itself up in abandon to
excitement, to happiness, to festivals with music, to syrup on the
terraces as the sun went down ... to ships and wonder....

“Oh, how I should like to be a merchant,” she cried.

Hiram of Tyre bent his dark head humbly upon her hand.
XII

With a heavy heart Jonah climbed the hill to the garden. He wore
his old coat, and his face was weary and gloomy. He had come to say
to Judith, “We cannot be married because I am poor, and cannot get
anything to do.” But as he drew near the garden, he forgot what he had
come to say, and thought only of seeing her again.

When he came to the tree under which he had sat with her, Hiram, who
was walking with a satisfied air among the flowers, said to him,

“You, there, are you one of the servants?

“Well, just be so good as to bring me a bowl for these roses.”

“I am not a servant,” said Jonah proudly.

“No?” said Hiram. “Then what are you? Are you interested in horses?”

“I am a prophet,” said Jonah.

Hiram made a small bow. “Forgive me,” he said. “In my country the
prophets are dressed a little differently, because they have priestly
connections. However, it is interesting to meet other kinds of
prophets. It is an interesting profession. Well ... what a pleasant day
it is. Perhaps you would do me the favor to prophesy me something.”

Jonah stared at him angrily. “I have some business with the Lady
Judith,” he declared.

“She is in the house,” said Hiram. And the two men stood looking at
each other with surprise and alarm.

Hiram went to fetch her. She came slowly, with downcast eyes, and
cheeks as white as her own lilies. “How do you do, Jonah,” she said.

At the sight of her, Jonah felt his heart beating through his body, and
a strange sweet sorrow rose up in his eyes. He wanted to say to her,
“This is like coming home. I have been so unhappy, but you will comfort
me. Because you love me, you will feel my sorrow. How sweet it is to
have such a secret together.”

“How do you do, Judith,” he said; “I have been away.”

“Yes,” she said. And they stood without speaking, and without looking
at each other.

“Well, did you have a good time?” she asked finally.

It troubled Jonah that she would not look at him. “I did not go away to
amuse myself,” he said simply. And he added in a lower voice,

“Did you miss me?”

“Yes, I suppose so. At least ... I have been so busy. What hot days
these have been.”
“I went to Bethel,” said Jonah. He wondered how to go on; he was
puzzled and depressed. This was not as he had thought it would be.

“Didn’t you know?”

“No.... Did you prophesy again? What is going to happen now? My

goodness, you prophets, you are always going about.

“I suppose you will be going back to the desert soon.”

Jonah stared at her. She kept her head down, and her hands twisted
together. He began to feel as he did sometimes before God spoke to
him, still and empty inside, with a terrible stillness, waiting for
something.

“Judith,” he half whispered.

“Yes, Jonah,” she said, looking up at him, for only a moment, and then
looking away again.

“All the time I was gone, I thought of only one thing. I remembered
only one thing.”

“Yes, Jonah?”--ever so faintly.

“That night in the garden, and the white moon in the trees like a bird
in the branches....

“Do you remember?”

Judith looked away. “That seems like so long ago, doesn’t it?” she
answered.

“‘Long ago’?” cried Jonah, and his heart sank. “Why, it is no more than
seven days ... Judith, have you forgotten?”

“No,” murmured Judith unhappily; “but I do not exactly remember....”

“You said you loved me,” he cried, in a voice which sounded like a
croak.

She put the backs of her hands to her two cheeks, and whispered with
bent head, “What must you think of me?”

“But,” stammered Jonah. Words would not come; he stood staring at her,
eyes wide with unbelief.

“Forgive me,” she said calmly. “You can understand ... I hardly knew
what I was doing. Do not think too badly of me.”

Jonah did not move or speak. But within him there were voices enough,
too many. “What? I do not believe it. It is impossible. No, it is not
impossible. Well, it has happened. But such things cannot happen ... to
you, Jonah, to you....”

He was still, waiting for the clamor to subside, for the voices to
reduce themselves to one voice. He was afraid to move even; bewildered,
horrified, he was like a man clinging with his finger-tips to the edge
of a precipice. If he moved ... if even a little earth slid from under
his fingers....

No, he must keep very still; not a word, not a motion ... then it would
all turn out right again....

It was Judith who moved, and spoke. Coming forward a step, she laid her
hand timidly on his arm. “You will forgive me,” she said. “You have
work to do in the world. You must go on, you must be a great prophet
for my sake. I am going to be married. I shall be so proud of you.”

And turning, she ran back to meet Sarah, who was hurrying out of the
house after her.

Jonah went home. His feet led him back down the hill to his mother’s
house, but he did not notice where he was going. He felt strangely
light-headed, almost as if he had been drinking. His set face, with
wide amazed eyes, was lifted to the sky. And he kept thinking:

“Something has happened, something has happened....”

But what was it? Could he tell? Something had happened out of all
reason, as though a tree had moved, and stood upright on its head. How
could one believe such a thing? But there it was--on its head.

What was God about? And what had he, Jonah, done to deserve such a
thing?

He passed the field where Aaron kept his cows. And suddenly, as he saw
his brother in the distance, his shoulders sagged, his face broke into
creases, his body seemed to fall together; and he stood weakly wringing
his hands, while a wave of physical sickness stormed through his body
... remembering, remembering....

Then he went on again, with clumsy steps, and bent head.

If only it were something he could understand. But how could he

understand it; how could he ever understand? How could one love, he
wondered, and then not love? Love did something to one’s whole being;
it made one gentle, and tender....

How could she have hurt him so, if she loved him?

And where was God all this time? What did He think about such a thing?
“You, up there--God--what have You to say?”

Nothing.

He came slowly into the house, and sat down with his hands clasped
between his knees. One look at him was enough for Deborah; she knew.
But then, she had expected it. And keeping her glance busily upon her
sewing, she began to sing softly to herself.

But her eyes were full of pain.

“_Men dead long ago.

Have set me like a tree...._

“You are tired, my son.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“It has been hot. The poor always feel the extremes of weather most. If
I had a daughter, I would never let her marry a poor man.”

And she glanced swiftly at her son, sunk in despair upon his stool.

“_Let the wind blow,

What is that to me?_

“Everywhere I go,” she continued calmly, “they speak of you with such
admiration. He is a real prophet, they say. Everybody expects great
things of you. It makes me so happy.”

Still Jonah did not answer. And Deborah said, sighing,

“Is it time you were going back to the desert, Jonah?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Well, I suppose you are right. It will be a rest for you, after all
this. We shall miss you. It will be peaceful in the desert.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I will send Aaron to you soon, with news, and some little comforts
for you. Even if you have to live with the foxes, you can at least be
comfortable.”

Slowly, putting her sewing away, she rose, and came over to him.
“Jonah,” she said gently, and laid her hand ever so lightly upon his
hair, “my boy....

“People are not very kind to one another.”

“No ... Mother....”

She began to sing again, softly, taking his head in her hands, drawing
him gently to her:

“_My roots are in their dust,

My roots are deep, I trust...._”

And Jonah wept, with his head against his mother’s breast.

“_My son is at my knee._”

XIII

Naaman sat beneath his acacia tree. Gentle and austere, his thoughts
usually concerned themselves with the universe and with God, who he did
not believe belonged exclusively to the Jews. However, he no longer
felt called upon to say so, unless he was asked; then he stated his
opinions with dignity but without the least hope of convincing any one.
When any one wished to know why he, who loved peace, clung to such
disturbing ideas, he replied, “I am an old man, and I like to have in
my mind only what is comfortable there.”

Now, however, his brows were drawn in a frown, and he looked gloomily
at Jonah, who sat with bent head at his feet. And his hands, as he
caressed his long white beard, trembled with age, with pity, and with
indignation.

“So, my son,” he said, “you have hurt yourself. When you were a child
you used to come running to me with eyes full of tears, to show me some
bruise you had received. I can still remember what I used to tell you:
if you did not fall you would not get a bump. The one followed the
other, almost as to make one believe that they were the same thing. And
so I used to ask you: Jonah, are you crying because of the fall or the
bump? Well, my son?”

Jonah smiled sadly. “Yes,” he replied. “And then you went on to say
that I was not a philosopher. How that used to wound me, for I wished
above all things to be a philosopher.

“Well, now it is the bump that has made me cry, Naaman.”

Naaman nodded his head. “Exactly,” he said. “But do you think perhaps
you are any more of a philosopher than you were then? I doubt it, my
son. For you bring me your bruise with the same astonishment as of
old, not seeing that, having fallen, you can expect nothing else.”

Jonah spread out his hands in a gesture of discouragement. “How is one

to stand upright in this world then, Naaman,” he said, “being but a
man, and less than a god.”

The old hermit regarded him gravely. “You are not a man, Jonah,” he
said finally; “although,” he added quickly, “you are not a god, either.
But you are not a man in the sense that your brother Aaron is a man.
Nor do you live in the world he lives in. You belong to another world
altogether, as different from that one as Thebes from Nineveh.

“And that world, my son, where you belong, is not here, among the
tribes, among the towns and villages. It is in the desert; it is in the
wilderness, where there is quiet for God to speak, where there is room
for His angels to move about. When you left Golan, your heart was like
the desert, spacious and calm. But now it is like a crowded village,
full of tumult and pain.”

“Yes,” said Jonah in a low voice, “it is full of pain.”

“I hoped you would not stay here,” continued Naaman; “I implored you to
return to Golan, to your home. Yet you stayed; with the result it was
impossible not to foresee.”

“I did not foresee it,” said Jonah.

“That is because you are ignorant,” said Naaman severely. “You do not
know the world, yet you wish to live in it.”

“No,” said Jonah, “that is not true. For such things do not happen to
everybody, or to other people. Why, love is holy, Naaman. It is as
though God had told a lie.”
“Be silent,” exclaimed Naaman harshly, “and do not blaspheme. Love
is not holy; and God does not lie. That alone is holy which concerns
itself with holy things. But love ... no, my son; it is pain and
impurity, it is violence and sorrow. The world of desire is the world
of demons, of concealment, of Sathariel which hides the face of mercy.”

Jonah regarded the old man with astonishment. “You are so bitter,” he
exclaimed; “I have never heard you speak in that tone before.”

Naaman peered off beneath his shaggy white eyebrows to the distant
hillside, swimming in the haze of summer heat. For a moment he did not
speak, but presently he said, sighing,

“You know but little of my life, my son. I, too, loved in my youth.

Does that surprise you? Yes, it is hard to imagine that old men have
ever been in love, swept by the flames of passion and of sorrow. And
sometimes it is hard for the old to remember how it goes with the young
men, with their joy, and their pain.

“I, too, was young like you, Jonah. Do you think your heart is the
first to break? Other hearts have broken before; and other men have
wept, as you are weeping. I know; for I, too, wept, Jonah, my son.”

He was silent. Jonah took the old man’s trembling hand between his two
brown palms. “I am sorry,” he said. And he remained respectfully silent.

“But, Naaman,” he broke out at last, “what then is holy here on earth?”

Naaman replied gently and inexorably, “My son, the love of earth is
holy, the love that God bears the least of His creatures, without
desire, without envy, and without malice. That mercy and generosity
with which the sun warms and the soil nourishes its flowers and trees,
is holy; all that gives of itself, without reason, without measure, and
without return. For that is the way of God; it is the way of the One,
from which all things spring, to which all things return. Go back to
the desert, Jonah; go back to the desert, and learn that God is One,
and that His love is holy.”

But Jonah did not understand him. “Yes,” he said. “I shall go back
to the desert, because that is all I can do. But I shall have no
happiness, Naaman; my heart will never be at peace again. There is no
beauty in the world for me now, ever. Oh, Naaman,” he cried suddenly,
clasping his hands together, “if God loves His creatures, how can He
make them suffer so?”

Naaman looked sadly at the young prophet whose face was hidden from
him. “Must you have beauty, too, Jonah?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jonah.

Rising to his feet, he added, “You do not know what it is to love and
to be unhappy.”

And he went home again. As he entered his yard, a green beetle crossed
his path. He went a few steps out of his way in order to tread upon it.
XIV

And so Jonah returned to the desert, to his hut among the rushes in
Golan. As he stood waiting for the ferry to take him across the Jordan,
a party of soldiers coming from Hamath passed him on their way home.
“There is Jonah,” they said, “the prophet. Now we shall have another
war.”

“That is the sort of prophet to have.”

“Hurrah for Jonah.”

But Jonah paid no attention to them. He was thin and deathly tired, and
his eyes, which burned with a deep and weary fire, were fixed on the
distant hills beyond the river. There, Naaman had said, he would have
peace again.

He walked northward through Tob, climbing from the river valley toward
the table-land behind the hills. His heart was heavy, so heavy it
seemed to weigh him down; and he walked slowly. At dusk he found
himself still far from Golan, with a river yet to cross, and near the
little pool at which he had halted on his way to Bethel, months before.
How different life had seemed to him then. Why, it was not the same
thing at all any longer; now it seemed like a dream, without reality,
without anything about it that he could feel.

He sank down and looked around him.

The night came on. The shrill frogs sang together; and the little fox
came out of his hole, and lay down beside Jonah, whom he recognized.

“Ah,” he remarked, as he settled himself comfortably at his side, “here

is the man of God again.”

Jonah let his hand stroke the fox’s soft fur. His face was turned to
the west, and he peered back through the darkness over the way he had
come, as though trying to see again the home he had left. Uncle David,
Aaron--his mother....

He remembered how she had pressed him to her breast as he departed.

“Go, my son,” she had said, “go back to God. He misses you. Here is a
little cake for the journey, and a few silver pieces. They are all I
have. Buy yourself a coat on the way.”

She had sold her shawl to give him a coat. But he left the silver
pieces in a pot before the oven. He wanted nothing, only to forget
the sickness of his heart, the heaviness like a weight of lead in his
breast.

“Cheer up,” she had said at the last; “see, you will forget all this
after a while. There is the storm, and then the sun shines. Do not stay
away too long. Who knows, maybe God will send you home again soon.”

And she had kissed him. No, he would not forget all this soon. Would he
ever forget it? that was what he wondered. And Judith, with her brown
eyes, and the scent of lilies and jasmine in the moonlight....
“O Judith, Judith, how could you do such a thing to me?”

His eyes filled with tears, and he bowed his head.

The fox stirred beneath his hand. “Well, Jonah,” he said sadly, “God is
a raven. I believe that now, since a jackal ate my wife. He could not
very well be a fox, and allow such things; or even an old man with a
beard.”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Jonah in a low tone; “perhaps He is a

raven.”

Hearing this, the Devil, who was going by in the form of a scorpion,
stopped, and said to himself,

“I shall tempt this holy man a little.”

And remembering how Jonah’s quiet and pious spirit had vexed him in the
past, Satan considered how best to be revenged on the prophet.

“There is nothing like an odor,” he thought, “to hurt the memory.”

And he changed himself into a jasmine vine. The unwilling night wind,
trembling and sighing, carried the fragrance of its blossoms toward
Jonah, who shivered as though with cold.

“Ak,” he thought, “I can never forget.”

And staring with wide eyes at the west, he saw again the garden, with
the moonlight falling through the leaves like honey; heard the voices
of the old men under the trees, the whispers of lovers, and laughter,
like a sound of flutes; felt on his hand the touch of her fingers....
Judith’s....

“What a beautiful night.... It makes me sad. Why does it make me sad,

Jonah?

“Listen ... there’s a bird singing. Just think, in the moonlight; isn’t
it sweet, Jonah? This is beauty, isn’t it.

“I could stay here forever.”

“Oh, Judith, Judith....”

“There is a smell of sulphur here,” said the fox, wrinkling up his nose.

But Jonah did not hear him. Something was hurting in his throat. He
sprang to his feet, and took a deep breath. “Look,” he cried out to
God, “look; it is I, Jonah.”

And he stood there, with bowed head, in the silence.

“This is very good,” said Satan to himself.

After thinking for a moment, the Arch-Demon decided to become a woman

with brown eyes and brown hair. She came up to Jonah out of the
darkness, timidly, draped in her shawls. “Well, Jonah,” she said, “here
is the desert. See how quiet it is; what peace, what beauty. How happy
we shall be here.”
“Go away,” cried Jonah, throwing out his hands in front of his face,
“go away.”

“Why do you want me to go away?” asked the woman quietly. “Have I not
come all this long way with you, as you wished? Am I not your love,
tender and gentle and kind? Come, let me make you happy.”

And as Jonah stood trembling, unable to reply, she continued in her

soft voice,

“Are you not young, Jonah, and lonely? The young ought not to be
lonely. See how beautiful the night is with its stars, its clouds, half
seen, half guessed, how the music of the wind rises over the desert and
sings in the hills, softly, softly. It is a night for love, Jonah, for
young hearts beating each to each in the silence, in the darkness. That
is what life is for, Jonah, for lips to kiss, for hands to fondle....
There is no beauty like mine, Jonah, no voice like mine to hurt your
heart so, no hands like mine to hold your face tenderly, to kiss your
mouth, Jonah, and your tired eyes, your mouth and your eyes....

“And you in your little hut, all alone among the rushes, all alone,
Jonah, all alone....

“You will always be alone now, summer and winter, winter and summer,
your pillow the earth, harder and colder than my arms; only the song of
birds and the sound of rain in your ears.... And you will never see me
again, Jonah, never hold my young white beauty close to your breast,
never feel, as other men, love singing in your heart, and peace folding
down upon your eyes. You will be all alone, Jonah, with no one to tell
the secret things in your heart to at the set of sun, at the rise of
moon ... until at last, old and sleepy, you take my single kiss with
you into the darkness ... alone in the darkness too, Jonah ... alone in
the darkness....”

“O God,” cried Jonah, sobbing, “help me, help me.”

“God will not help you now,” said the woman.

The drowsy fragrance of her body spread through the night. “Come,” she
said, holding out her arms to him.

“God cannot help you now, my poor Jonah.”

Jonah took a step forward, and fell upon his knees. And then, one by
one far off and near, the demons of the desert broke into laughter,
wild peals of laughter, bitter and full of pain, cruel and without pity.

“Ha, ha, ha.”

“Alone, alone....”

“God cannot help you now.”

Under that mocking clamor, Jonah swayed like a reed, beaten to the
earth, his face hidden in his hands. And then, at last, when it seemed
to him as though he could bear no more, the terrible laughter stopped.
There was a cry, and then silence.
Jonah got up and looked around him. Nothing was to be seen; the woman
had vanished.

The little fox had run forward, and seized the demon by the leg. Once
again the desert was filled with a holy peace, as though brooding
beneath the wings of angels.

“One can at least always help oneself,” remarked the fox.

He lay down next to Jonah with a contented sigh. And presently the man
and the fox fell asleep together.

In her kitchen at home, Deborah sat praying for her son. She prayed
that God would be kind to him. “He is only a boy,” she said; “do not
ask him to behave like a man. Watch over him a little. I do not ask for
anything for myself. I am an old woman, and my heart was broken long
ago. But he is so young ... leave a little of his heart unbroken.”

She lifted up her eyes full of tears. “Leave me my son,” she said.

And Judith, at her window in Tyre, knelt with a pale and weary face,
peering out across the plains and hills of Phœnicia, across the wide
waters of Meram, far off and unseen, toward the desert, where the night
had already rolled up its cold blue clouds. And she, too, thought of
Jonah; she, too, saw in the moonlight, in the little garden, the thin,
worn face with its grave, dark eyes. They seemed to follow her, without
reproach, but with infinite tenderness, pitying and forgiving. And
suddenly she thought, “Yes, there in the desert there is peace; it is
gentle out there, where Jonah is. O my dear, my dear, do you forgive
me? Have you forgotten? It would have been different, Jonah, it would
have been so different....”

Wearily she went to her little gold box, and drew out her silver dove.
Holding it in her hands like a tiny live bird, she kissed its ruby eyes
and its silver beak. “Little dove,” she said sadly, “tell me what love
is.”

But the dove said nothing. And all at once she let it fall to the
ground.

“Ak,” she cried, “you don’t know anything about it.”

And as she wept, Hiram’s steps mounted through the house to her room.

XV

God was worried about Jonah. Watched by reverent cherubim, whose wings
fanned the air all about Him, the Lord of Hosts walked up and down in
the sky, and said to Moses, who was accompanying Him,

“I must find something for this young man to do.”

Moses looked down at Jonah with an expression of contempt. “He is

hardly worth the effort,” he declared gloomily. “He seems to me to lack
character.”
“You are right,” said God. “Still, he expects something from Me.”

And He added, smiling gently, “Perhaps that is why I am fond of him. He

has not your strong and resourceful mind, Moses, nor Noah’s faithful
heart; but he has suffered. He is simply a man, like anybody.”

“What?” cried Noah, hurrying up, “are you talking about me?”

God replied: “I was saying that Jonah did not trust Me as you did, My
friend.”

“No,” said Noah; “but then, what do you expect? There are so many
different ideas now in the world. I do not recognize my posterity in
these warring nations. Let us have another flood, Lord.”

Moses looked sadly down at Jerusalem, where golden idols were being
sold in the streets. “You are right, Noah,” he said, “but I do not
like the idea of a flood. A flood does not teach people how to live.
Sometimes I wonder if anything can teach people what they are unwilling
to learn.”

“Nonsense,” said Noah. “A flood is the most sanitary thing. Wait and
see; even you could learn something about sewers from a good flood.”

God checked the old patriarch with a kindly hand. “Things are not the
same as they used to be in the early days,” He said. “I cannot drown
the world to-day without drowning My wife, Israel. She is young, and a
nuisance, but she has yet to bear Me a son. I foresee that He will give
His mother a great deal of pain, but that cannot be helped.

“Let us not think of Israel now, but of the prophet Jonah. Moses is of
the opinion that he is not a first-class prophet, and I am inclined
to agree with him. He is a poet; and for that reason I feel warmly
inclined toward him. After all, you, Noah, and you, Moses, see only one
side of My nature. You try to look upon the Greater Countenance, but
what you see is the Lesser Countenance. It is different with a poet. He
does not see Hod, or Chesed, the thrones of Glory and Mercy. He looks
through Beauty to the Crown itself. Whereas you, Moses, have never seen
beyond Knowledge; and you, my good Noah, have seen My face only in
Severity.”

Moses and Noah bowed their heads. “It is true, Lord,” said Noah humbly.

God continued:

“At this moment Jonah does not see Me at all. In the first place, he
is unhappy, and he no longer looks toward beauty. He believes that
there is no more beauty in the world because his heart is broken. He is
mistaken; and after a while his sorrow will sharpen his eyes. Then he
will see more than before.”

“In that case,” said Moses, “why do You bother Yourself?”

The Lord considered a moment before replying. It was obvious that He

wished to express Himself in terms intelligible to His hearers.

“The trouble, My friends,” He said at last, “is this: our young prophet
is a patriot. He is convinced that I am God of Israel alone. I do not
mind that point of view in a prophet, but it will not do in a poet.
Severity, glory, knowledge, belong to the nations, if you like. But
beauty belongs to the world. It is the portion of all mankind in its
God.

“I have covered the heavens with beauty, the green spaces of the earth,
the cloudy waters, the tall and snowy peaks. These are for all to see,
these are for all to love. Shall any one take beauty from another, and
say, ‘This is mine’?”

“Now He is beginning to talk,” said Moses in an undertone to Noah;

“this is like old times.”

But God grew silent again. Presently he continued wearily,

“It is your fault, Moses, that the Jews believe I belong to them
entirely. Well, I do not blame you, for you could not have brought
them safely through the desert otherwise. But you did not tell them
that I was a bull. I foresee that for a long time yet men will be
irresistibly led to worship Me in the form of an animal.”

“Well, then,” said Noah, “if You foresee so much....”

“Be silent,” said God, in a voice of thunder which made the wings of
angels tremble. He continued more gently, “Actually, at the moment, I
am not interested in theology. I am thinking of Jonah.”

And He walked quietly up and down in the sky, thinking. The cherubim,
moving all about Him, beat with their snowy wings the air perfumed with
frankincense; and the clouds rolled under His feet.

Left to themselves, Moses and Noah regarded each other in an unfriendly

manner. At last Moses shrugged his shoulders. He was vexed to think
that he did not know everything.

“Well, old man,” he said to Noah, “have you nothing to talk about
except the flood? You do not understand conditions in the world
to-day.”

“I understand this much,” replied Noah calmly, “that faith is more

important than knowledge. Where would you be, with all your wisdom, if
it had not been for me and my ark? You would be a fish, swimming in the
sea.”

“Do you take credit for saving your own skin?” cried Moses. “Wonderful.
I, on the other hand, was very comfortable in Egypt. What I did was
from the highest motives. I am not even sure that I am a Jew.”

“I believed in God,” said Noah stoutly, “and I did as He told me.”

“So did I,” said Moses angrily, “but I also used my wits a little.
Faith is nothing; any animal can have faith. You and your faith had to
get inside a wooden ark, in order to keep dry. But when I wished to
take an entire nation across the sea, I simply parted the waters. I
shall not tell you how I did it, because it would be lost on you. It
takes a first-rate intelligence to understand such a thing.”

Noah replied excitedly, “Please remember that I am your ancestor, and

treat me with more respect.”
“You are an old drunkard,” said Moses.

But at this point God joined them again, and they were silent, to hear
what the Holy One had to say.

“This young man,” said God, “does not believe in Me any more. How then
shall I convince him of Myself?”

Desirous of showing his knowledge, Moses began to quote from the Book
of Wisdom: “Infidelity, violence, envy, deceit, extreme avariciousness,
a total want of qualities, with impurity, are the innate faults of
womankind.”

“Nevertheless,” said God, “they are also My creations. In My larger

aspects I am as impure as I am pure; otherwise there would not be a
balance. However, as I have said, we are not concerned with My larger
aspects.”

Noah broke in at this point. “Send him to sea, Lord,” he begged. “There
is nothing like a long trip at sea to quiet the mind. It is very
peaceful on the water. One forgets one’s disappointments.”

“You are right,” said God; “we need the sea; it will give him peace.
But as a matter of fact, I do not care whether he finds peace or not.
As I have told you, I simply wish this poet to understand that I am
God, and not Baal of Canaan. The attempt to confuse Me with a sun-myth,
with the fertility of earth as symbolized by the figure of a bull, or
a dove, vexes Me. Increase is man’s affair, not God’s. Besides, where
will all this increase end? I regret the days of Adam and Eve and the
Garden of Eden. Already there are more people on earth than I have any
use for, socially speaking. Now I could wish there were more beauty in
the world. I should like some poet to speak of Me in words other than
those of a patriot. Yet if I try to explain Myself, who will understand
Me? Not even you, Moses, with all your wisdom. And so I, in turn,
must forget My wisdom, in order to explain Myself. I must act as the
not-too-wise God of an ignorant people. That this is possible is due to
the fact that along with infinite wisdom, I include within Myself an
equal amount of ignorance.”

He sighed deeply. “I shall send Jonah to Nineveh,” he concluded. “The

subjects of King Shalmaneser the Third are honest, hard-working men and
women. I enjoy, in some of My aspects, their vigorous and spectacular
festivals. Nevertheless, repentance will not do them any harm, since
for one thing they will not know exactly what it is they are asked to
repent of, and for another, they will soon go back to their old ways
again.

“Thus I shall convince Jonah of Myself where he least expects to

find Me. He shall hear from Me at sea, and again within the walls of
Nineveh. It will surprise him. And perhaps the rude beauty of that city
will speak to his heart, dreamy with woe.”

“I do not doubt that it will surprise him,” said Moses, “but will he be
convinced?”

God did not answer. Already He was on his way to earth. And Noah,
looking after Him, shook his hoary head with regret.
“A flood would have been the better way,” he said.

XVI

God went down to the water. He stood on the shores of the sea and
called; like the voice of the storm a name rolled forth from those
august lips across the deep. And the deeps trembled. Presently a
commotion took place in the waters; wet and black the huge form of
Leviathan rose gleaming from the sea, and floated obediently before its
God.

The Lord spoke, and the whale listened. After He had explained the
situation, God said:

“I foresee that Jonah will not go to Nineveh as I command. He will

attempt to flee from Me, and he will choose the sea as the best means
of escape. It will not help him. I shall raise a storm upon the waters,
and the ignorant sailors will cast him overboard as a sacrifice to the
gods of the storm. That is where you can be of assistance to Me, My old
friend. As he sinks through the water, I wish you to advance upon him,
and swallow him.”

“Ak,” said the whale; “O my.”

“Well,” said God impatiently, “what is the matter?”

The great fish blew a misty spray of water into the air. “It is
impossible,” he declared; “in the first place, I should choke to death.”

“You are an ignorant creature,” said God; “you have neither faith, nor
science. Let Me tell you a few things about yourself in the light of
future exegesis. Know then, that you are a cetacean, or whalebone type
of whale. Such animals obtain their food by swimming on or near the
surface of the water, with their jaws open.”

“That is true,” said the whale, reverent and amazed.

“The screen of whalebone,” continued the Lord, “opens inward, and

admits solid objects to the animal’s mouth. This screen does not allow
the egress of any solid matter, only of water. As the gullet is very
small, only the smallest objects can pass down it.

“Jonah will therefore be imprisoned in your mouth. You cannot swallow

him; and he cannot get out, because of the screen of whalebone.”

“Then he will suffocate,” said the whale.

“Nonsense,” said God. “Remember that you are an air-breathing,

warm-blooded animal, and can only dive because of the reservoir of air
in your mouth. When this air becomes unfit to breathe, you must rise to
the surface for a fresh supply.

“While you have air to breathe, Jonah will have it also.

“So do not hesitate any longer, but do as you are told.”

The whale heaved a deep sigh; his breath groaned through the ocean,
causing many smaller fish, terrified, to flee with trembling fins.

“How horrid for me,” he exclaimed.

God replied soothingly, “It will assure you a place in history.”

So saying, the Lord blessed Leviathan, who sank sadly back to the
depths of the sea; and, turning from the shore, the Light of Israel
rolled like thunder across the valleys toward Golan.

The night came to meet Him from the east, pouring down over the hills
like smoke. In the cold night air God went to look for Jonah.

Poor Jonah, he had not found peace after all. The lonely desert, so
calm and quiet in the past, had given no rest to his thoughts. His
mind went back over and over again to those days at home; he felt the
wonder of the love-night, his heart shrank again with sickness for what
followed. And he asked himself for the thousandth time how such things
could be. Then he cried out against Judith for her cruelty; yet the
next moment he forgave her.

And these thoughts, climbing and falling wearily up and down through
his head, kept him awake until long after the desert was asleep. In the
morning, when he awoke, it was with regret; he tried to sleep a little
longer, to keep his eyes closed, to keep from thinking again ... why
wake at all? he wondered. There was nothing to wake to. Only the hot
sun over the desert, only his heavy heart, which grew no lighter as the
days went by.

Why wake at all?

God found him sitting wearily upon a rock, his head bowed between his
hands. The Lord spoke, and the desert was silent.

“Jonah,” said God in a voice like a great wave breaking, slowly, and
with the peace of the sea, “Jonah, you have wept enough.”

Jonah replied simply, “I have been waiting for You a long while, and I
am very tired.”

“I had not forgotten you,” said God; “I have been thinking.”

And He added, “Now I have something for you to do.”

Jonah remained seated without looking up. He seemed no longer to care

what God had for him to do.

“Arise, Jonah,” said God, “and go to Nineveh. Cry out against that
great city for its sins.”

But Jonah looked more dejected than ever. “What have I to do with
Nineveh?” he asked. “Am I prophet to the Assyrians? I am a Jew. Do not
mock me, Lord.”

“I do not mock you,” said God gravely. “Go, then, and do My bidding.”

And as Jonah did not reply, he added sadly, “Do you still doubt Me?”
Jonah rose slowly to his feet. His eyes blazed, and his hands were
tightly clenched. “Oh,” he cried bitterly, all the passion in his
heart storming out at last in a torrent of despair, “You ... what are
You God of? Were You God of Israel when a Tyrian stole my love? Was I
Your prophet then? Have You power over Tyre, that You let Your servant
suffer such anguish? Or are You God of the desert, where the demons
mock me night and day, where the very stones cry out against me, and
the whole night is noisy with laughter? Nineveh ... Nineveh ... in
whose name shall I cry out against Nineveh? Do the gods of Assur visit
their wrath upon Jerusalem? What power have You in Nineveh? For my
youth which I gave You, what have You given me? How have You returned
my love, with what sorrow? What have You done to me, Lord? I stand
in the darkness, weary, and with a heavy heart. What are You God of?
Answer: what are You God of?”

And God answered gently, “I am your God, Jonah, and where you go, there
you will find Me.”

Jonah sank down upon the rock again. His passion had exhausted him; but
he was not convinced. “Well,” he said in a whisper, “You are not God in
Nineveh, and I will not go.”

Then the wrath of the Lord, slow to start, flamed for a moment over the
desert, and Jonah cowered to earth while the heavens groaned and the
ground shook with fright. And in his hole by the pool in the Land of
Tob, the little fox said to himself, “Jonah is talking to God.”

But God’s anger passed, leaving Him sad and holy.

“Peace unto you, Jonah,” He said in tones of divine sweetness; “take up

your task, and doubt Me no more.”

And He returned to heaven in a cloud. Overcome with weariness, empty

of passion, Jonah fell asleep upon the ground.

No jackals laughed that night. Silence brooded over the desert. The
stars kept watch without a sound, and Jonah slept with a quiet heart.

XVII

But in the morning his doubts returned more strongly than ever.
“They will mock me in Nineveh,” he told himself. “I shall be made a
laughing-stock. What power has the Light of Israel in the land of
Marduk, of Dagon, of Istar, of the warrior Ashur? I should count myself
lucky if I escaped being stoned to death.

“For how can God destroy Nineveh? I might as well preach to the fish in
the sea.”

But now he had something to do, at least. He determined to flee from

God. “I shall go to Tarshish,” he thought, “and begin life over again.
There is nothing for me here any longer. The desert will be glad to be
rid of me.”
And without bothering even to return to his hut, he started south,
toward Joppa, where he expected to find a ship bound west for Tarshish.

He traveled swiftly, on other roads from those he had come. Late on the
afternoon of the second day he crossed the Brook Kanah, and saw in the
distance the white domed roofs of Joppa shining above the sea.

As he came down from the low hills, the sight of ocean rounded like a
bowl under the wide arch of the sky, the distant and titanic clouds
piled above the unseen shores of Africa, filled his heart for a moment
with beauty. But then he thought:

“This is like Tyre. It is by the shore of this same sea that Judith has
gone to live.”

And he cursed the beauty that hurt him.

It was late when he came to the shore, and night was already moving
upon the deep. In profound silence he leaned above the harbor wall and
regarded the shadowless water which with the sound of immemorial tides
passed under him in the darkness. It was the season when the mists
from the ocean blow landward in the evening. In the gray night fog the
masts of the vessels at anchor rocked toward one another on the long,
low waves; and the mist, salty with sea air, mingled along the quays
with the odors of the city.

It was the dark of the moon in the month of Nisan. The moon was gone,
and his youth with it. Other moons would rise, fall through the
branches of a tree, and cheat a bird to sing. But where would Jonah be?
And Judith, in her great house over the terraces of Tyre; she would
grow old, soon she would be like Deborah, looking backward over her
life.... What happened to youth, to beauty? Where did they go? They
hardly lasted at all.

Night hung black and silent over the sea. The wings of angels leaned
upon the wind which moved dark and vast between the earth and sky. The
stars paled, and the sun rose like a ball of fire in the east. Then the
ocean mist, cold as frost, melted away. The tide turned, and the waves,
breaking far out, spoke with their murmur like the sound of wind to the
sleeping city on the shore.

In the morning Jonah found a ship bound for Tarshish. The cargo was
already loaded; and when he had made his bargain, he went aboard.
Bearded and singing, the seamen hoisted the sails, yellow as a slice
of moon; with a sly, tranquil motion the ship moved out of the harbor,
over the blue sea, sparkling in the sun, past sails stained blue as the
sky, or brown as the sands. The white roofs of Joppa faded behind them
in the east, lost in the gradual fog; the seagulls cried above them;
and Jonah sat silent, dreaming, gazing at the sea.

He was tired, and listless. “Now,” he said to himself, “God has lost
me.”

And he thought of Deborah with sadness and peace. He remembered what

she had said to him, as she had held him, weeping bitterly, in her
arms, on her breast.

“Jonah,” she had said, “when you are dead, or perhaps very old and
ready to die, people will say of you, ‘There, he was a great prophet.’
And they will feel honored because they knew you, because their names
will be spoken of with yours. But now ...” she sighed; she wanted to
say, “now you are only a nuisance.”

What she finally said was, “Well, people are like that.”

But Jonah knew what she wanted to say. And as he sat quietly on the
deck of the ship under the yellow, curved sail, he thought,

“I shall not bother anybody now.”

The warmth of the sun, reflected from the sea, entered his mind and
lulled his limbs. Sea-quiet took hold of him; the peace of ocean bathed
his spirit. He grew drowsier and drowsier; he began to doze. And as he
fell asleep, his last thought was that he had got away from God.

All day the sails sang in the wind, under the sun. Jonah slept; his
dreams swept out like homing birds over the calm waters; and in his
sleep he wept.

But in the afternoon the wind died away; an ominous haze enveloped the
sky; and the sea grew oily. The sails were hastily drawn in; and the
oars were made ready. Huddled together on the deck, the seamen spoke in
low, anxious voices. All eyes were turned toward the east, which grew
darker and darker. All was still; the air did not stir. Moved by fear,
the men trembled; and as though herself frightened, the ship started
to creak in all her timbers. All at once the sky uttered a moan; high
above them the air began to sing; and the sea rolled in slow, unwilling
swells. And then it seemed as if the sky fell down upon the sea, for
the water rose like the hills, and the dark came down upon it. Unable
to move, the ship trembled from bow to stern, lifted dizzily upon the
waves, tilted in the wind, and dropped like a stone into the trough.
The gulls were flattened to the sea, and the air was filled with the
shout of the gale, and the crash of water falling upon itself. It was
God’s storm, but Satan also was enjoying it.

Pale with fear, the sailors rushed to lighten the ship by throwing the
cargo overboard. Then, as the tiny vessel dashed about in the water
like a cork, they fell upon their knees and prayed to their gods, to
Ramman, the thunderer, to Dagon, to Enlil, the old god of storms.

Seeing that Jonah still slept, sheltered by the deck which curved above
him, the captain ran to awaken him. “Here,” he said, “this is a storm.
Well, see for yourself. You should be more anxious, my friend. Have
you a god? Then pray to him, for we need all the help we can get.”

Dazed by the tumult, still half asleep, Jonah gazed in confusion at the
heaving waters. The wind lashed him to the deck; he stared in dismay at
the mighty waves rising above him on every side like mountains. “I will
not pray,” he said. And the captain shrank back at the sight of his
face.

But the seamen, clinging to the deck, looked anxiously at Jonah, and
at the great seas which broke over them without ceasing. “This is no
common storm,” they told each other; “some great god is angry.”

They were good and simple men. Had one of them sinned, to draw down
upon them all such wrath? No, it was Jonah, the stranger whose face
was like a demon’s, dark as the storm itself. They looked at him with
terror.

And Jonah looked back at them as frightened as they were. His mind
reeled; had he not got away from God after all? Had God come after
him--out there on the sea? Was there no way to flee from God?

Why had he tried to run away? What a fool.... God would never forgive
him for it.

And then, in the crash of wind and water, a feeling of disdain came
over Jonah, a bitter strength, a final pride. Well, here was the storm
... here was God still. God had taken everything away from him. What
was his life worth to him now? Oh, be done with it, once and for all.
“Look ... if You want it, God ... it is of no value to me any more....”

“It is my fault,” he said to the sailors proudly. “I alone am to blame.

I am a Jew who has denied his God. It is my life that is wanted. Throw
me overboard.”

But the sailors were frightened, and they would not touch him. “No,”
they said, “we will row back to Joppa again. Then your god can do as
he likes. If we throw you overboard, you will drown. Then we shall have
blood upon our hands.”

They tried with all their strength to row against the storm. But the
black sea, breaking, splintered their oars, and the wind pressed them
backwards.

Then they said humbly, in fear, “This sea belongs to Iaveh, the god of
the Jews. We cannot prevail against him any longer.”

And seizing Jonah, they cast him overboard, with a prayer. “Do not lay
innocent blood upon us,” they said, “O god of the Jews. This is your
doing, not ours.”

So saying they waited, trembling.

At once the sea grew calm, the wind died away, and the sun sank
tranquilly down in the clear west. The peace of evening brooded again
upon the water. And the ship, with all her sails set for Joppa, fled to
the east.

Jonah sank through the waters without complaint. It was the end,
and he had no desire to live. But as his breath failed, so his mind
brought back to him the blue and shining sky, the sweet odors of the
desert, the happy dreams of his youth, of glory, of peace. He began to
struggle; his body fought against the sea, his mind shouted against
death. “No,” he cried to himself, “no, I must live; I must live.”

With a groan Leviathan hurled himself through the waves and took the
prophet into his mouth.

XVIII

In the darkness the whale spoke to Jonah. “What a lot of trouble you
have made for yourself,” he said. And he told Jonah how God had made
arrangements.

Jonah was not unhappy. In the whale’s mouth he was uncomfortable, but
he had a great deal to think about. His mind was filled with wonder.

So it turned out that God was at home everywhere; that He commanded the
fish of the sea, as well as the hosts of the air, and the creatures of
the land. That was an extraordinary thing.

What an upset to theology.

Jonah asked the whale many questions. And the whale, who had often
thought about such things as he rested among the weeds at the bottom
of the sea, answered him as best he could.

“Do you deny,” said Jonah, “that God created man in His own image?”

“No,” replied the whale, “but on the other hand, do you suppose God
has only one image? And then it depends, besides, on who is looking;
because people do not see things all alike. Well, do you suppose a
whale does not also look like God?”

“A whale does not look like God at all,” replied Jonah firmly.

“Still,” said the whale thoughtfully, “the most beautiful sight in the
world, in my opinion, is a female whale. And you must admit I have seen
as much of God as you have. So you see what difficulties you make for
yourself.”

But Jonah would not believe that God looked like a whale. And they
discussed other aspects of theology.

The whale swam through the waters green with daylight, or black with
night, rising to the surface now and then to breathe. Out of respect
for the sanctity of the prophet, he did not attempt to eat any of the
small fish which fled in terror from his path. “We will fast together,”
he said kindly to Jonah.

In his warm, black prison, Jonah slept, and woke, and thought about
God. His spirit lifted; he felt peaceful, resigned, and almost happy.
Gone was the bitter sense of defeat, the shame of betrayal. What if his
heart ached still? he had God again. And what a God, now that he saw
Him: the thunder of sea-surges, the holy calm of the desert, all peace,
all beauty, were His ... one need not seek it, it was there, it was
everywhere. Jerusalem was His--Tarshish and Tyre....

“I am your God, Jonah, and where you go, there you will find Me.”

Tyre was His, too. The Master strode through the streets of the city
with thunder on His brow, with love and sorrow in His hands. And His
prophet walked beside Him, wrapped in glory, like a king.

When they came to Judith’s house it was Jonah who blessed it with
gently outstretched arms.

“My sister,” he said; “my poor, faithless love.”

The whale asked Jonah what he was doing. “I was dreaming,” said Jonah.
“I think you had better pray,” said the whale. So Jonah prayed.

“Lord, I have sinned,” he said humbly. “I was unhappy; and I ran away.
And for that reason You cast me into the sea; the waves passed over me.

“The waves passed over my soul, Lord.

“I went down to the bottom of the hills; the bars of the earth were
about me. But I did not perish. You heard my cry, and You remembered
me. I thank You, Lord.

“Look, I am not vain any longer; I do not wish anything for myself.
Let me do Your bidding again, with a quiet heart.”

And he added with a cry, “Give me peace, Lord.”

The whale swam on, past schools of appetizing fish, down through the
dim flower-branches of the sea’s deep bed, up through sunny foam.
Hungry, weary, but hopeful, the great fish waited patiently for God to
speak.

On the third day, God spoke. And the whale, lashing the waters with his
tail, sped like an eager minnow to the shore, and vomited Jonah forth
upon the sand.

XIX

Jonah was let out of the whale in the North, near Arvad, and not far
from Kadesh as a crow might fly, which is to say, over the coastal
hills and then in a straight line across the jungles and the desert.
This was the route he took as being the shortest way to Nineveh. He was
in a hurry; he was impatient to begin his mission. He was filled with
enthusiasm.

How different from his flight to sea, this vigorous return across the
land dry with the sun of midsummer. Now he marched with a firm and
hurried step, his face darkly radiant with divine purpose, with pious
anger. Yes, he would speak; Nineveh would hear him. Let them stone him
if they liked, God would amply repay them for it. What glory.

And this was all his, not hers, not for her sake; let her be proud of
him if she liked; what did it matter any more? She would hear enough of
it in Tyre; Jonah here, and Jonah there....

Yes, they would speak of it in Tyre.

As he passed the wayside altars of the baalim with their pillars

surmounted by horns of sacrifices, he smiled at them in derision.

“You,” he said scornfully, “you ... what are you gods of, anyway?”

At Kadesh he saw statues of the river deities, Chrysonhoa and Pegai. He

spat in the dust before them; fortunately, no one was looking. In the
sun of late afternoon their shadows pointed like great spears toward
Nineveh.

“Israel will hear my name again,” he thought proudly.

The evergreen oaks of the hills gave way to the tamarisks of the Syrian
jungles, and the palms and scrub of the desert. He slept the first
night in the wilderness between Kadesh and Rehoboth. The jackals were
silent, awed by the presence of lions among the rocks. Padding to and
fro, the great beasts watched Jonah from afar, with eyes like flames.
And Jonah dreamed of Deborah; when he awoke, he remembered her gentle
smile.

In the fresh light of early morning a mother goat divided her milk
between the prophet and her ewe. “These are stirring times, Jonah,” she
said; “angels are abroad in great numbers.” Recognizing a minor deity,
Jonah blessed her and resumed his journey.

At the end of the second day he began to pass the boundary stones of
Assyria, set up to warn trespassers upon private property. Thinking
them altars, Jonah cursed each one as he went by. The next day he
passed kilns in which colored bricks were being baked. As far as he
could see, the blue, green, and yellow bricks stood in rows on the red
earth.

That night he slept outside the gates of Nineveh. The city rose above
him in the dark; he heard the sentries challenge on the walls.

In the morning he entered the city with some farmers on their way to
the markets. The sun was rising, gleaming upon the great winged bulls
before the temples, the green and yellow lions upon the walls. Under
the clear upland sky the city shone with color like a fair. The markets
opened; the streets filled with men and women in their colored shawls
and clashing ornaments. And Jonah, looking and looking, was astonished.
“Why,” he thought, “this is strange; there is something bright and bold
about all this. This is fine, after all.” And he felt a gayety of heart
take hold of him. How vigorous these mountain people looked with their
insolent faces and their swaggering air. There was nothing old or sad
in Nineveh. He forgot why he had come; he was excited, and happy. It
was not at all what he had expected; and he forgot himself.

But not for long. As the hours passed, he grew weary; and as the
brightness wore off, and he began to think of his own life again, he
began to hate Nineveh, to hate the bold colors all around him, the
youth that carried itself so proudly and carelessly in the streets.
“Yes,” he thought, “that is all very well for you; but you know
nothing about life.” And, lifting his arms, he cried aloud with gloomy
satisfaction, “Yet forty days, and Nineveh shall be overthrown.”

The success of this remark astonished him. Without waiting to find

out any more about it, the Assyrians hurried home and put ashes on
their heads. Nineveh repented like a child of its sins; in an orgy
of humility the city gave up its business, and dressed itself in
sackcloth. The king, even, left his throne, and sat down in some ashes.

Jonah was vexed. This, also, was not what he had expected. He had
looked for a wind of fury, for stones, and curses, and a final effect
of glory. And when he learned that because of its repentance Nineveh
was to be spared, his courage gave way in a flood of disappointment.
“I knew it,” he said bitterly to God; “I knew You’d never do it.”

And with an angry countenance he retired to an open field on the east

side of the city, to see what would happen. His heart was very sore.

“Where is my glory now?” he thought.

Then God, who was anxiously watching, spoke to Jonah from the sky. “Why
are you angry?” said the Holy One. “Have I done you a wrong?”

Jonah replied, sighing, “Who will ever believe me now, Lord?”

And for the rest of the day he maintained a silence, full of reproach.

Then because the sun was very hot, and because where Jonah was sitting
there was no shade of any sort, God made a vine grow up, overnight, to
shelter Jonah.

“There,” said God, “there is a vine for you. Rest awhile and see.”

That day Jonah sat in comfort beneath his shelter. The wind was in the
west, full of agreeable odors; at noon a farmer brought him meal, salt,
and oil; he ate, was refreshed, and dozed beneath his vine. The sun
went down over the desert; and the evening star grew brighter in the
sky, which shone with a peaceful light. The dews descended; and Jonah,
wrapped in his cloak, dreamed of home.

But in the morning worms had eaten the leaves of the vine; gorged and
comfortable, they regarded Jonah from the ground with pious looks. As
the day progressed, the sun beat down upon him without pity, a strong
wind blew up from the east, out of the desert, and the prophet grew
faint with misery. Too hot even to sweat, he nevertheless refused to
move.

“No,” he said, “I shall sit here.”

An obstinate rage kept him out in the sun, although he half expected to
die of it. “Well,” he said to himself, “what if I do?”

It seemed to him that he had nothing more to live for.

Then God said to Jonah, “Do you do well to be angry, My son?”

Jonah did not wish to reply. But he was sure of one thing: that he had
every right to be angry. “Why did You wither my vine, Lord?” he asked
bitterly. “Was that also necessary?”

God, looking down on His prophet, smiled sadly. “What is a vine?” He

said gently. “Was it your vine, Jonah? You neither planted it nor
cared for it. It came up in a night, and it perished in a night. And
now you think I should have spared the vine for your sake. Yes ... but
what of Nineveh, that great city, where there are so many people who
cannot discern between their right hand and their left hand? Shall I
not spare them, too, for My sake, Jonah?”

Jonah rose wearily to his feet. “Well,” he said, “I may as well go home
again.”

And with bowed head he passed through the city, and out of the western
gate. In the streets the citizens made way for him with pious murmurs
and anxious looks, but Jonah did not notice them. All his courage was
gone, his pride, his hope of glory, all gone down in the dust of God’s
mercy to others, to all but him. To him alone God had been merciless
and exacting. One by one the warm hopes of the youth, the ardors of
the man, had been denied him; peace, love, pride, everything had been
taken from him. What was there left? Only the desert, stony as life
itself ... only the empty heart, the deliberate mind, the bare and
patient spirit. Well, Jonah ... what a fool to think of anything else.
Glory ... yes, but the glory is God’s, not yours.

But he had not learned even that. He was not a good prophet. The
flowers of his hope, the bitter blossoms of his grief, sprang up
everywhere, where there should have been only waste brown earth. No, he
was not a prophet; he was a man, like anybody else, whose love had been
false, whose God had been unkind....

And as he trudged dejectedly along, his heart, bare now of pride,

filled with loneliness and longing. He thought of Judith, of the
happiness that would never be his; and he wept.

High among the clouds, God turned sadly to Moses. “You Jews,” He said
wearily, “you do not understand beauty. With you it is either glory or
despair.”

And with a sigh He looked westward to the blue Ægean. Warm and gold the
sunlight lay over Greece.

THE END

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