Joseph and His Brothers, page 134
All this was expressed in lips pursed and pulled down and in the almost imperceptible jerks of their heads by which the choristers gestured to one another, directing an ear toward the river of Egypt, toward an oared sailboat in which that same scion, with arms bound behind his back, was being transported to prison.
Part One
THE SECOND PIT Joseph Recognizes His Tears
Obeying the law of correspondence between above and below, Joseph, too, was thinking of the Flood. These thoughts met or, if you like, moved side by side, separated by a vast distance—except that here below on the waves of the Yeor, the human scion, burdened by the spiritual weight of hard experience, thought of that primal episode, that pattern for all inflicted punishment, with far more urgency and associative energy than those delicate gossipmongers, knowing neither suffering nor experience, could ever have managed.
More of that in a moment. The convicted man lay, quite uncomfortably, in the plank shed that served as both cabin and storeroom on a smaller freighter that was made of acacia wood and had a caulked deck: a so-called oxen boat, the same sort on which he himself had probably once moved up and down the river, bringing his house's goods to market and learning oversight as a future steward. It was manned by four rowers, who, when the wind was adverse or fell away and the swaying double mast was lowered, had to stand at the deck railings near the bow and put their weight to the oars, plus a helmsman at the stern, and two of Petepre's menials who served as escorts, but also as sailors, handling lines and observing the current. Over them all was Kha'ma't, the scribe of the sideboard, who had been entrusted with the command of the boat and transport of the prisoner to the island fortress of Zawi-Re. He carried on his person a sealed letter that his master had written about his reprehensible steward to the warden of the prison, a captain of troops and "commissioned scribe of the victorious army," whose name was Mai-Sakhme.
The journey was long and wearisome—Joseph could not help thinking of that other, earlier one, when, some seven plus three years before, he had traveled these waters the first time, together with the old man who had bought him, and with Mibsam, the old man's son-in-law, Epher, his nephew, and Kedar and Kedma, his sons—a nine-
day boat trip from Menfe, the city of the wrapped god, to No-Amun, the royal city. But this return journey downriver was taking him far beyond Menfe, even beyond the golden city of On and Per-Bastet, the city of cats; for Zawi-Re, their grim goal, lay deep in the land of Seth and the red crown, which is to say in Lower Egypt, in the Delta in fact, in the middle of a branch of the river that ran through the nome of Mendes, which was here called Djedet; and the idea that he was being brought to the nome of that loathsome goat only added to his uneasiness, to the general depression and gloom that overshadowed him, but that was also accompanied by a lofty awareness of destiny and a meditative play of thought.
For the son of Jacob and his true wife had been unable to resist such play his whole life long, no more as a grown man, whose years were now counted at twenty-seven, than as a callow lad. But for him the dearest and sweetest form of play was allusion, and whenever events in his carefully monitored life grew rich with allusion and circumstances proved transparent for a higher correspondence, then he was happy, for transparent circumstances can never be entirely gloomy.
And his present circumstances were gloomy indeed; in a mood of pensive sadness and with elbows bound together, he regarded them as he lay on his mat in the cabin shed, its roof piled high with the crew's provisions for the journey: melons, ears of corn, and bread. It was the return of a frighteningly familiar situation: once more he lay helpless in his bonds, just as he had once lain for three ghastly black-mooned days in the round depths of a well, sharing that hole with crickets and cellar denizens, and like a sheep had soiled himself with his own filth; and although his situation was milder and not as straitened as then, since his fetters had been applied only for the sake of appearances and good form—out of consideration and instinctive leniency they had tied the piece of warp rope they had used fairly loosely—nevertheless, the fall itself was no less deep and numbing, this change in life no less abrupt and incredible. That first time his father's favorite, the coddled pet, who had always anointed himself only with the oil of gladness, had been mistreated in ways that he never could have dreamt or thought possible; and now it was Osarsiph—who had risen so high in the land of the dead, who as the master of oversight and resident of the special chamber of trust had grown accustomed to refinement, charming
culture, and clothes of pleated royal linen—who was being ill used. And he, too, was thunderstruck.
There was no question now of pleated refinement, of a fashionable apron and expensive sleeved jacket (like the one that had served as "proof" against him)—a slave's loincloth no different from what the crew wore was all that had been allowed him. There was no question now of wigged elegance, nor of enameled collars, bracelets, and a necklace of reed and gold. That entire beautiful civilization had melted away, and the only paltry ornament left him was an amulet bag hung on a bronzed cord around his neck, the same one he had worn in the land of his fathers and had taken with him into the pit as a seventeen-year-old. The rest had been "removed"—Joseph himself used that evocative word, a word rich with allusion, just as the thing itself was an allusion, a thing of sorrowful order and correspondence. It would have been entirely wrong of him to travel where he was traveling still wearing necklaces and bracelets; for the hour of unveiling and the removal of ornaments was at hand, the hour of the descent into hell. One cycle had come around, one small cycle, often repeated, but also a larger, rarer one that restored what was, for these cycles shared a center and moved each within the other.
One little year was turning back on itself, the sun's year—in the sense, that is, that the water had deposited its mud and receded once more and (not according to the calendar, but in practical reality) it was now the time of sowing, the time of hoe and plow, of ripping the earth open. When Joseph got up from his mat, as Kha'ma't, his guardian, occasionally had to permit, he would stand on the caulked deck, his hands at his back as if held there voluntarily, moving with the river through the bright echoing air filled with calls and cries, or he might sit on a coil of rope, watching the farmers along the fertile banks go about the serious, dangerous business of tilling and sowing, each task with its attendant rules of precaution and atonement— and a mournful business as well, for seed time is a time of mourning, a time for burying the god of grain, for Usir's interment in darkness, a time of only distant hope. It is a time of weeping—and Joseph wept a little as well at the sight of peasants burying their grain, for he too was about to be buried in darkness again, with any hope still very distant—as a sign that another great year has come round again, bringing with it repetition, renewal of life, a journey into the abyss.
It was the abyss into which the True Son descends: Etura, the
subterranean sheepcote, Aralla, the realm of the dead. He had arrived, by way of the well's pit, in the underworld, the land of death that turned rigid; and now his path led down there again, into the hor and prison, into Lower Egypt—it could go no deeper. Days of the dark moon returned, great days that would become years, and during that time the underworld had power over the Beautiful One. He waned and died; after three days, however, he would rise to wax again. As the evening star, Attar-Tammuz likewise sank into the well; but as the morning star he was certain to rise again. This is called hope, and it is a sweet gift. But there is something forbidden about it as well, for it diminishes the value of the sacred moment and anticipates those festal hours of the cycle that have not yet come. Each hour enjoys its own honor, and the man who cannot despair does not live his life rightly. Joseph shared this view. His hope was indeed a most certain knowledge; but he was a child of the moment, and he wept.
He recognized his tears. Gilgamesh had wept them in rejecting Ishtar's demands, for she had "prepared tears" for him. He was truly exhausted from the trouble he had been through—the woman's importuning, the grave crisis in which it had culminated, the upheaval that had changed his life entirely; and during the first few days he had not even asked Kha'ma't for permission to stroll on deck to watch the colorful, bustling traffic on Egypt's highway, but had kept to himself in the shed, lying on his mat and weaving dreamy thoughts. He dreamed of verses on a tablet:
In her rage Ishtar soared up to Anu, king of the gods, demanded revenge. "You shall make the bull of heaven, and he shall trample the world, scorch the earth with the fiery breath of his nostrils, withering and destroying its fields!"
"I will make the bull of heaven. Lady Ashirta, for you have been sorely offended. But years of chaff shall follow, seven in number, years of famine because of his trampling and scorching. Have you made provision for sustenance, piled up foodstuffs with which to counter the years of want?"
"I have made provision for sustenance, have piled up foodstuffs."
"Then will I make the bull of heaven and send him forth, for you have been sorely offended. Lady Ashirta."
What strange behavior! If Asherah wanted to destroy the earth
because of Gilgamesh's prudery and burned to have her bull of heaven, it made little sense for her to pile up foodstuffs in anticipation of the seven years of chaff that were to be his work. All the same, that is what she had done, replied that she had indeed done it, so great was her burning desire for her bull of revenge. What Joseph liked about the whole story, what preoccupied him, was precisely that, if she was to have her fiery bull, the goddess had had to worry about taking precautions, even in her rage. Precaution, foresight, had always been a familiar and important idea for the dreamer— even if in his childish way he had sinned against it often enough. Moreover, it came close to being the primary maxim of life in the land where he had grown as if beside a spring, in the land of Egypt, an anxious nation, incessantly concerned, in things both great and small, to secure every step, every action with magic signs and charms to counter any possible evil lying in wait; and because he had been an Egyptian himself for so long now, because both his flesh and bodily garment were of pure Egyptian stuff, that nation's idea of precaution and foresight was fixed deep in his own soul, where, though for different reasons, it had always had a home. For its roots were equally deep in his own original tradition—where sin was nearly the same thing as a failure to exercise precaution, which was folly and absurd clumsiness in one's dealings with God, whereas foresight and precautionary safeguards were wisdom. Noah-Utnapishtim—was he not the arch-clever man because he had seen the Flood coming and taken measures, that is, built his ark? The ark, the great chest, the aron in which creation survived a time of curses, was for Joseph an early example, a primal model of all wisdom—that is, of all wise precaution. And thus—by way of Ishtar's embitterment, her scorching, trampling beast, and her piles of foodstuffs as a safeguard against want—his thoughts, in requisite parallel to higher trains of thought, had arrived at the great Flood; and with tears in his eyes he also thought of the smaller one that had swept over him, for even though he had not been so foolish as to betray God and totally destroy his relationship with Him, he had certainly proved culpable in his lack of foresight.
Just as he had done in that first pit, one great year ago, he confessed his guilt and repented, and the hurt he felt was for his father, it was a hurt for Jacob's sake, and he was bitterly ashamed before him because he had managed once again to bring himself into the pit,
here in the land to which he had been carried off. What a beautiful raising-up had resulted from his being carried off, and now it had been destroyed and laid low out of a lack of wisdom, so that the third motif of sending for others to follow appeared to have been delayed beyond all reckoning. Alone, Joseph was truly contrite of heart and begged the forgiveness of the "father" whose image had saved him from the worst at the last moment. But when dealing with his guard Kha'ma't, the scribe of the sideboard, who partly out of boredom, partly out of the delight he took in the downfall of someone who had once risen far above him in the household, often sat down to talk with him—when dealing with him, Joseph was very cocky and confident, refusing to allow even a hint of despondency to show. In fact, after only a few days of travel, simply by his way of presenting things, he was able, as we shall see, to convince his guard to remove his fetters and allow him to walk about freely—despite Kha'ma't's fear that doing so might be a gross violation of his duties. "By the life of Pharaoh!" Kha'ma't said sitting down beside Joseph's mat in the cabin shed, "what has become of you, ex-steward! How you have sunk beneath all those of us whom you once climbed over so nimbly. It's hard to believe, and a man can only shake his head at the sight of you. There you lie like a Libyan prisoner of war or maybe one from the wretched land of Kush, elbows tied together, when only just recently you scrambled your way to head of the household, and have now been cast, so to speak, before the devourer, before the dog of Amente. May Atum, the lord of On, have mercy! How you've managed to end up on the ash heap—to use a figure of speech from wretched Syria that we managed to pick up from you. By Khons! we won't be picking fine things up from you from here on. Why, you've come so low that a dog wouldn't accept a piece of bread from you now. And why is that? Because of pure folly and lechery. Wanted to play the great man in a household like ours and couldn't even tame the gaping hunger of your lust. To think you made our holy mistress, of all people, the object of your gluttony and lechery, when here she's almost as sacred as Hathor herself. What enormous brazenness! I'll never forget you standing there before the master at the household court, and just hanging your head because you couldn't find one word of excuse, hadn't the least idea how to cleanse yourself of your guilt. And how could you, what with the loud and clear testimony against you of that garment you
left behind crumpled in the mistress's hand, after first trying in vain to overpower and violate her—and evidently went about it very clumsily besides. What a sorry mess in every regard! Do you remember when you first came to me in the pantry to fetch the refreshment for the old couple from the upper floor? You turned arrogant right off when I warned you not to spill the beverage on the old ones, and you threw me into some confusion by pretending that sort of thing could never happen to you. Well, now you've spilled it over your own feet, till they're so sticky you can't move. Oh my! I knew that in the long run you wouldn't be able to hold the serving tray. And why not? Because you're a barbarian! Because you're nothing but a sand rabbit, as dissolute as every other wretched Zahi, lacking all moderation, ignorant of the wisdom of the land of human beings. You were incapable of taking our moral precepts to heart, for they teach that a man may indeed take his pleasures in this world, but not with married women, for that can cost him his life. But in your blind lust and lack of reason, your threw yourself on the mistress herself, and you can be very glad you weren't turned into a pallid corpse on the spot—though that's the only thing left to gladden your heart."
"Do me the favor, Kha'ma't, scholar of the house of books," Joseph said, "of not speaking about matters you do not understand. It is a terrible thing when a delicate and difficult subject that is far too subtle for the great masses becomes pubHc knowledge, so that everyone whets his tongue on it and speaks purest bilge. It is almost intolerable and odious, less for the persons involved than for the matter itself, for it is far too good for that. Your addressing me in this way is foolish and crude and no testimony to Egypt's culture—not because until only yesterday I was your overseer before whom you bowed low, I leave that aside. But you need to consider that in the matter between myself and the mistress I must surely know what is what far better than you, who can have heard only the most superficial gossip. What right have you to lecture to me? It is moreover rather ridiculous of you to make a false comparison between the raw gaping hunger of my flesh and the moderation of Egypt—which has earned a very sultry reputation everywhere in the world; and when you spoke of Violation' and did not hesitate to apply that word to me, you were surely thinking instead of the goat, toward whose
realm we are sailing and to whom the daughters of Egypt give themselves at his feast. Now I call that moderation and reason indeed! I shall tell you something: It may well happen that in the future people will talk of me as one who preserved his purity among a people whose rutting was like the rutting of the ass and the stallion—it may well be. It could be that the maidens of this world will one day weep for me on the eve of their wedding, offering me locks of their hair and lifting up a lament in which they bewail my youth and tell the story of a young lad who, though he stood firm against the feverish importuning of a woman, lost both his reputation and life all the same. Lying here and reflecting on it all, I can imagine such customs arising on my behalf. On that basis, then, judge how petty your invective directed against my fate and situation must sound! Why are you so amazed, and also a bit dehghted, at my misfortune? I was Pe-tepre's slave, purchased by him. Now, by his decree, I am Pharaoh's slave. Why then, surely I've become more than I was—I have increased! Why this simpleton's laughter? All right, then, I am on my way down at the moment. Is descent not without its own honor and solemnity, and does this oxen boat not remind you of the barque of Usir and his journey by night, when he goes down to bring light to the subterranean sheepcote and to greet those who live in caves? It seems strikingly that way to me, let me tell you. You may be right in thinking that I am departing the land of the living. But who says that my nose will not sniff the herb of life, that I will not rise up over the rim of the world come the morrow, like a bridegroom emerging from his chamber so radiant that those dull eyes of yours will sting?" "Oh, ex-steward, I see that you are still the same, even in your misery. The trouble is that no one knows what 'the same' means with you. For it's much like those colorful balls that dancers throw in the air and catch again in their hands, and yet no one can tell one ball from the other because they form a flashing arc in the air. Where you get your arrogance, despite your fate and situation, is known only to the gods with whom you commune, so that a pious man can just smile and shudder at the same time, leaving his skin as bumpy as the skin of a goose. You have no qualms at babbling on about brides who will someday dedicate their hair in your honor, the way they do only for a god, and you compare this barge, which is the barge of your shame, with Usir's barque of evening—in the Hidden One's
