Joseph and His Brothers, page 123
pertaining to marriage and its issue, to such happy events as nuptials, the seeding of the womb, and childbirth, advising other members of the household about these matters, encouraging them, and providing in his own person a model of assiduousness and established order. For much in this regard depended on examples from on high, Dudu said—not from the highest authority, of course, where quite understandably one neither wished nor was able to concern oneself with anything at all, including this matter. It was all the more important and necessary, then, that by taking precautions at the right moment everything be avoided that might disturb the sacred peace of this zenith high above all example—and that might even have the power to supplant such dignity with its opposite. Those standing next to the highest, however, were, in the opinion of the dwarf, duty-bound to take the lead by offering a good example to those beneath them, both in terms of assiduousness and order. And the speaker now asked if, up to this point, he had the approval of his master, the sun of his day.
Petepre shrugged and turned over onto his stomach to offer his massive backside for the masseurs to deal with, but then raised his dainty head and asked what the reference to disruption of peace might mean, and those remarks about dignity and its opposite.
"Your highly placed servant will get to that in a moment," Dudu replied. He now spoke of the late steward Mont-kaw, who had striven to lead an honest life and had at one time brought home a civil servant's daughter, through whom he had become a father or would have become one had things not taken a bad course and his resolve not been undone by fate, so that, discouraged, he had ended his days as a widower, after having shown such goodwill in the cause. But enough of him. Dudu wished now to speak of the beautiful present, beautiful insofar as the departed steward had found a man of equal rank—or if not equal rank, since he was after all a foreigner, then a man who was his equal in intellectual gifts—and as the head of the household one now encountered a young man of the most impressive sort, and though, to be sure, his name was a bit unusual, he was of winning countenance, well-spoken and clever, in short, an individual of obvious merits.
"Idiot," Petepre muttered into his crossed arms, for nothing seems more stupid than praise of an object whose true appreciation we prefer to reserve entirely to ourselves.
Dudu ignored this. It could be that his master had said "idiot," but he chose not to take notice of it, for he had to keep up his courage and good spirits.
He could not emphasize enough his praise for the captivating and dazzHng and—for some—disconcerting qualities of the lad in question, for they in fact lent real weight to concerns one necessarily had about him in regard to the stability and welfare of the house, at whose head he stood thanks to those same qualities.
"What is the fellow babbling about?" Petepre said, turning and raising his head slightly as if asking his masseurs. "The overseer's qualities threaten the stability of the house?"
"Babble" was bitter, as bitter as another "fellow." But the dwarf was not about to be deterred.
"Under circumstances other than those that unfortunately exist," he responded, "they need not have done so, but could have served this house as purest blessing, were they subject or, better, had they earlier been subject to the limitations and lawful amelioration that qualities such as his—that inviting countenance, the astuteness, the eloquence—require if they are not to spread uneasiness, turmoil, and disruption in their immediate vicinity." And Dudu lamented the fact that the house's young overseer, whose religious affiliations were, to be sure, quite opaque, refrained from paying due tribute to the majesty of Min, that as a man of high position he was still unmarried, that he had not deigned to enter into a conjugal relationship commensurate with his origins—for instance with the Babylonian slave Ishtarummi in the house of women—and so bless the estate with an increase of children. That was regrettable and troublesome; it was serious; it was dangerous. For it wasn't merely that it detracted from the prestige of the house and that the higher example of assiduousness and order was also neglected, but that, thirdly and in particularly, it also meant that those same seductive qualities, which no one denied the young steward possessed, lacked the restriction and rectification they so needed—had needed for so long now—to prevent them from inflaming hearts, turning heads, clouding minds, or, in short, from wreaking mischief on all sides, and not just on all immediate sides, but also beyond and above to loftier levels.
A pause followed. Petepre let himself be rubbed down and did not reply. It was either-or, Dudu declared. A young man of this sort should either be married off, so that his qualities could not spread
their wild and ruinous flames in all directions, but be restricted to the safe harbor of marriage and rectified with the world—or it would be better to let the razor do its work, allow it to produce its salutary rectification, thereby preventing any disturbance of highest personages and having their dignity and honor subverted.
Another long silence. Petepre suddenly turned over on his back—leaving the masseurs who had been busy with it standing helpless for a moment, their hands in the air—and lifted his head toward the dwarf. He measured him from top to bottom and back again—which did not take his eyes long—and glanced fleetingly across to a chair where his clothes and sandals, his fan and other utensils were lying. Then he rolled over again, pressing his brow to his folded arms.
He was filled with an anger that brought with it a cold shudder, a sense of outrage and fear at having his peace disrupted by this nasty manikin. This vain, misbegotten fellow knew something and wanted to inform him of it, something that, if it was true, he, Petepre, reallv ought to know, but that he also found it grossly uncharitable to be informed of. "Everything is in order with the house, is it not? No misfortunes? The mistress is of good cheer?" That was evidently what this was about, and evidently someone, without even being asked, wanted to give him an unwelcome answer. He hated him— him above all; leaving aside the question of truth, he was not really inclined to hate anyone else. And so he should probably send away his masseurs and be left alone to speak with this valiant guardian of honor here so that his own sense of honor might be aroused—by truth or empty slander. Honor—one need only stop and consider what that means in terms of what was doubtlessly happening here. It is sexual honor, the rooster's honor, which consists in a wife's being faithful to her spouse to symboHze that he is the cock of the walk, who lacks nothing and gives her such lovely satisfaction that she would never think of having anything to do with another man, with the advances of some third party who could never even tempt a woman so splendidly provided for. But if it does happen, if she does carry on with another man, it is a symbol of just the opposite—the result is sexual dishonor, the cock of the walk becomes a cuckold, a capon; a gentle pair of hands places a ridiculous set of horns atop his head, and if he is to save what can be saved he must challenge and run a sword through the man whom his wife believes to be more
splendid than he, though it is best to slay her as well—an even more impressive bloody deed for restoring regard for his virility, both in his own eyes and in those of the world.
Honor. Petepre had no honor at all. He lacked it in the flesh, for in his condition he was no judge of cock-of-the-walk privileges, and it horrified him whenever others—such as, evidently, this pompous runt—tried to make him into a grand paragon of honor. Instead, he had a heart—a heart, that is, for justice, which is to say, a heart mindful of the rights of others; but it was a vulnerable heart as well, which hoped those others would show him devoted consideration, indeed love, a heart made to suffer bitterly from any disloyalty. During this pause—while the masseurs had gone back to work on his massive backside and he kept his face buried in his plump womanish arms— a great many things swiftly passed through his mind in regard to two people upon whom he pinned such fervent hope for love and loyalty that one might well say he loved them. The one was Mut, his first and true wife, whom, granted, he also hated a little because of the reproach that she could not possibly make and yet simply by her very existence did make, but to whom he also would gladly, sincerely have shown his love and strength, and not merely for his own sake. The other was Joseph, that genial young man, who knew how to make him feel better than wine ever could and for whose sake he had, much to his regret, been unwilling and unable to show himself loving and strong in response to the demand his wife had made in the columned hall that evening. Petepre did not lack some insight into what he had refused her that day; just between us, even during their conjugal discussion he had not lacked a hint of that same insight: that the reasons she gave for requesting Joseph's banishment were mere pretexts and excuses and that her demand had been made for the sake of his own honor. But since he lacked that honor, her fear had been less important to him than ownership of the lad who gave him strength. He had preferred the latter and, by surrendering his wife to her feelings, had invited the two of them to prefer each other to him and to betray him.
He understood that. It hurt, for he had a heart. But he understood it, because his heart inclined to justice—also, perhaps, because that was more comfortable and because justice relieves one of rage and the need to avenge one's honor. He probably also sensed that it is dignity's surest refuge. It looked as if this nasty guardian of honor
here wanted to inform him that his honor was in clanger of betrayal. As if, he thought, dignity ceased to be dignity if it has to hide its head in the agony of being betrayed. As if the one betrayed does not possess more dignity than his betrayer. But if he does not, because he is to blame and has provoked the betrayal, then there is still justice, so that through it dignity can admit both its own blame and the rights of others and thereby reestablish itself.
And so Petepre the eunuch strove for justice, both immediately and in anticipation of whatever information was supposed to rouse his honor. Justice is spiritual, unlike the honor of the flesh—and since he lacked the latter, he knew he had no recourse but the former. He had likewise relied on spiritual qualities in dealing with the two people who—or so this mischief maker and show-off apparently wanted to inform him, without ever being asked—had proved unfaithful to him. A strong spiritual safeguard had, as far as he knew, held their flesh under its spell, for they were both called and chosen, united in their spirituality: the woman, who was more than consoled as Amun's consort, a bride of his temple, dancing in her clinging garment before the goddess; and the young lad, who was loved by a jealous god and in his hair wore a wreath that set him apart, the boy Touch-Me-Not. Had the flesh mastered them? The thought sent a cold shudder through him, for although he possessed flesh in great abundance, it was his enemy, and whenever he had asked upon returning home "Everything is in order with the house, is it not? No misfortunes?" it had always been his subconscious worry that in his absence the flesh might have caused ghastly disruption by somehow becoming master over that considerate, but unreliable, safeguard, over the spiritual spell cast upon his house. But his cold shudder was accompanied by anger—did he have to know this, could he not be left in peace all the same? If that consecrated pair had been overcome by the flesh behind his back and had secrets they kept from him, there was still enough considerate love in their secrecy, in their deception, that he was prepared to thank them. Whereas he had only unutterably bad things to say about this pompous wretch here, this arrogant little guardian of honor, who, without being asked, wanted to force knowledge upon him, was planning a vile attack on his peace and quiet.
"Are you almost finished?" he asked. This was directed to the masseurs, whom he had to dismiss, but did not want to dismiss.
because the reason for doing so came from this tattletale scoundrel— yet send them away he must. They were, to be sure, very stupid fellows, who had more or less consciously cultivated their stupidity so that its magnitude might truly correspond to what was proverbially said of their profession: "dumb as masseurs." But though they had certainly not understood anything until now and would not easily grasp anything that might yet be said, Petepre could not evade his tormentor's implicit demand that he wished to speak with him tete-a-tete. Which only made him more angry at him.
"You are not to go before you've finished," he said, "and don't be all too hasty about it. But if you are finished, then give me a towel and, in due time, be on your way."
They had still not understood that they were to leave even if they were not finished. But since they were in fact finished, they spread a linen sheet over the mass of their master's flesh, all the way up to his neck, bowed so low that their two-finger-wide brows touched the floor, and with arms akimbo exited at a sort of steady waddle that all by itself was convincing proof of their self-willed and total stupidity.
"Come nearer, my friend," the chamberlain said. "Come as near as you like and think fitting for what you wish me to learn, for it appears to be something for which it would be advisable that you not stand so far from me that you would have to shout—to be instead a matter that charges us both with a more muted intimacy, which I count to its credit whatever its nature may be. You are a valuable servant to me, small to be sure, far below average and in that regard a silly creature, but you have dignity and substance and certain qualities that justify your going beyond your duties in my chamber, keeping an eye to larger affairs of the house and setting yourself up as master of its orderly fertility. Not that I can recall having appointed and installed you in that office—no, I do not. But I confirm you in it now after the fact, for I cannot help acknowledging it as your calling. If I understood correctly, love and duty demand that you report to me concerning disturbing observations you have made in that field in which you have oversight and keep records, certain incidents that may kindle disorder."
"Most definitely!" Joseph's antagonist responded emphatically to the words addressed to him, swallowing certain insulting elements for the sake of their otherwise encouraging nature. "The
loyalty of a concerned servant brings me before your presence, master, sun of our days, to warn you of a danger that may be of such urgency that you should have admitted me long before now, as I requested, for all too easily, indeed at any moment now, my warning may come too late."
"You frighten me."
"I am sorry for that. But then again, it is very much my intention to frighten you, for danger is imminent, and despite all the ingenuity I bring to the task, your servant cannot say definitively if it is not already too late and your disgrace an accomplished fact. In that conceivable case it would not yet be too late only insofar as you are still alive."
"Do I face the threat of death?"
"Both, ignominy and death."
"I would welcome the one if I could not avoid the other," Pe-tepre said loftily. "And from whence arise these dreadful things that threaten me?"
"My intimations as to the source of danger," Dudu countered, "have already been as good as unambiguous. Only fear of understanding them would explain your not having understood me."
"Just how dreadful my situation is," Petepre responded, "is clear from your impudence, which evidently corresponds to my own misery, and I have no choice but to praise the zealous loyalty from which it flows. I admit that my fear of understanding is insurmountable. Help me to surmount it, my friend, and tell me the truth so straightforwardly that my fear is robbed of any chance to hide from it."
"Fine, then," the dwarf replied, putting his other foot forward now and setting one fist to his hip. "Your situation is that the un-gratified and wildly incendiary qualities of the steward Osarsiph have kindled a fire in the bosom of my mistress Mut-em-enet, your consort, and the smoking, crackling flames are already licking at the roof beams of your honor, which threaten to collapse and bury your life beneath them."
Petepre pulled the linen sheet covering him higher still, over his chin and mouth, up to his nose.
"You wish to say," he asked from under the sheet, "that the mistress and the steward have not only cast eyes at one another, but also seek to end my life?"
I
"Most definitely!" the dwarf replied, shifting his position by vigorously thrusting his other fist against his other hip. "That is the situation in which a man who but a moment ago stood as tall as you now finds himself."
"And what proof," the captain asked in a muffled voice, the sheet moving with his lips, "do you have for such a dreadful accusation?"
"My watchfulness," was Dudu's answer, "my eyes and ears, the acuity that my zeal for the honor of this house has lent my observations—may these be witnesses, my pitiable master, for the sad and awful truth of my revelation. Who can say which of the two—and one must speak of 'the two' of them, despite the infinite difference in their rank—which of them first cast his eyes upon the other? Their eyes met and were illicitly immersed in each other's depths—and there you have it. We must be clear, my great master, that Mut-in-the-Valley-of-the-Desert is a woman who lies in a lonely bed; and as for the steward, well, he is simply incendiary. What slave would wait for such a mistress to signal twice? That would presume a love and loyalty to the master of the mistress that evidently is not to be found at the highest level of steward but at the next highest level of oversight. . . . And guilt? What good would it do to inquire who first raised his eyes to the other and in whose mind the crime first sprouted? The young steward's guilt does not lie primarily in what he did, but in his existence and in his presence in this house, where his qualities are free to set fires, are gratified neither by marriage bed nor razor; and if the mistress catches fire for her servant, the blame lies in his very existence and upon his head, and in terms of his guilt it is the same as if he had vilely assaulted this pure woman—that is how he is to be dealt with. So that is how things stand. Alas, it has come to this: the two are in most voluptuous concord. Billets-doux—which I have seen with my own eyes, so that I can testify to their sultriness—have passed between them. Under the pretext of discussing household matters they meet together, now here, now there—in the women's chambers, where to please her slave the mistress has set up an image of Horakhte, in the garden and in the cottage upon the embankment there, yes, even in the mistress's room here in your house—the pair secretly meets together in all these places, and as for respectable matters, they long ago ceased to speak of them, and it is all vain billing and cooing and hot lisping. How
