Joseph and His Brothers, page 173
with an animars. But Ruben had not participated in his sale; he had not been present for that, but elsewhere, and so his understanding of Joseph's being no more was even vaguer than that of his brothers, which was vague enough, foggy enough—and yet in another sense not sufficiently so. They knew that they had sold the boy to traveling merchants, and so they knew a bit too much. Ruben had the advantage of not knowing it; the place where he had lingered while they were selling Joseph had been the empty grave, and an empty grave produces a different relationship to someone's being no more than does the sale of the victim into endless horizons and faraway mists.
In short, big Ruben, whether he knew it himself or not, had kept and nourished the seed of expectation all these years, and that bound him—in contradistinction to all his brothers—with innocent Benjamin, who had not participated in any of it and for whom the fact that the brother he admired was no more had never been anything but a source of hope. Do we not hear his childish voice, though it is so long ago now, saying to the broken old man: "He will come back. Or he will send for us to come." It is a good twenty years ago now, but that expectation was still as present in his heart as his words are in our ears—though he knew nothing of either the sale (as did the nine who had miade it) or the empty pit from which the man interred there might very well have been stolen. He knew only what his father knew, nothing more: that Joseph was dead—which really leaves no room for hope. And yet hope seems to best find a home where there is no room for it.
Benjamin rode with Ruben; on the way Ruben asked him what all the man had said to him during the meal—as the oldest he had been sitting too far from them to hear.
"All manner of things," the youngest replied. "He and I exchanged funny stories about our children."
"Yes, I saw you laughing," Ruben said. "Everyone saw how you were both buckled over with laughter. I think it astonished the Egyptians."
"They know he's a charming man," his little brother responded, "and can amuse almost anyone, until you forget yourself and laugh along with him."
"We've learned," Ruben replied, "that he can also be quite different and very disagreeable."
"True enough," Benjamin said. "You could all tell a tale about that. And yet he means well by us, and I could tell a tale of my own there. Because the last thing he said is still ringing in my ears—a piece of advice, an invitation issued through me to us all, no matter how many we are, to settle in Egypt, to bring Father down here and graze on these pastures."
"Did he actually say that?" Ruben asked. "Yes indeed, the man knows us and our father so very well—him in particular. Why, it*s as if he knows him personally, knows exactly what he's going to do. First he forces him to send you on this journey to exonerate us and buy bread, and now he invites him to come to Egypt, the Land of Mud. There's no denying he understands a thing or two about Jacob."
"Are you making fun of him," Benjamin rejoined, "or of Father? Mocking either one doesn't suit your little brother. For it pains me so, Ruben—listen to what I'm saying, Ruben—it pains my heart so that we are leaving."
"Yes," Ruben said, "one can't have lunch and jest with the lord of Egypt every day. That's the exception to the rule. But now you need to remember you're not a child, but the head of your tents, and your children are crying for bread."
It's with Benjamin!
They soon came to a spot where they decided to take their noonday rest and wait until it would be cooler to travel. The previous time they did not make it here until evening, now they had arrived at noon. We need only mention palm tree, well, and shed to mark the place, for it to rise up in the reader's mind as clearly as the man had seen the grave of Benjamin's mother with the help of his magic cup. They were pleased to find this cozy spot again, though, to be sure, it was also associated with memories of the fright certain puzzUng events had given them here. But that was all behind them, had melted away in harmony and tranquillity, they could rest easy in the shade of these rocks without a care.
They are still standing there, looking around, have not yet seen to their baggage or begun to set up camp, when they hear a noise
growing louder and louder behind them, from the direction they have come, and shouts ring out: "Hey! Ho!" and "Halt!" Are these meant for them? They stand rooted to the spot, listening to this tumult, so startled they don't even turn around. Only one of them turns around—it's Benjamin. What's wrong with Benjamin? He flings his arms and stubby hands into the air and erupts in a cry—a single cry! Then, to be sure, he falls silent—and for a long time.
It is Mai-Sakhme who has charged down on them with steed and chariot, with several chariots. In them are armed men. They leap down and close off the rockbound area. The steward strides stolidly up to the brothers.
His face was very grim. His heavy eyebrows were drawn together in a scowl and one corner of his mouth, only one, was pinched tight—this made the effect especially grim.
He said, "So I have found you and caught up with you, have I? I have chased after you with steed and chariot on my master's order and have caught you here in your camp, where you hoped to hide. What must it feel like to see me here, I wonder?"
"We don't know what it feels like," the baffled brothers replied, sensing that it was all happening again, that the hand had reached out again to drag them to judgment, that all that harmony just now was collapsing into muddled discord. "We really don't know. We're happy to see you again so soon, though we had not hoped to do so."
"If you did not hope for it," he said, "you may well have feared it. Why have you returned good for evil, that we must chase after you and arrest you? My men, you are in very serious trouble."
"Explain yourself," they said. "What are you talking about?"
"You may very well ask!" he replied. "Is this not about that from which my master drinks and with which he prophesies? It is missing. The master had it at his table yesterday. It has been stolen."
"Are you talking about a cup?"
"I am. About Pharaoh's silver cup, and now my master's own. He drank from it yesterday noon. It is gone. Obviously it has been pilfered. Someone has taken it with him. But who? Unfortunately, there can be no doubt. My men, you have indeed done wrong."
They were silent.
"Are you suggesting," Judah, Leah's son, asked with a slight quiver in his voice, "do you intend by these words to say that we
have defrauded your master of this table utensil and have taken it with us like thieves?"
"Sad to say, there can hardly be any other name for your conduct. The piece has been missing since yesterday, and it has obviously been filched. And who can have taken it with them? Alas, there is but one answer. I can only repeat that you are in very serious trouble, for you have done wrong."
They were silent again, setting arms akimbo and puffing air from their lips.
"Hear me, my lord," Judah spoke again. "How would it be if you would look to your words and consider what you say before saying it? This is indeed outrageous. We must ask you politely, yet earnestly: What do you think we are? Do we leave the impression of being vagabonds and brigands? But then what sort of impression can it be, that you come here implying we have removed some precious article from the marketeer's table, a cup, it would appear, and have proved all too light-fingered? That is what I, in the name of all eleven, call outrageous. For together we are solemnly, imposingly sons of one man, and indeed are twelve in all. Except that one is no more, otherwise I would call it outrageous in his name as well. You say that we have done wrong. Well then, I shall not boast or sanctimoniously praise us brothers by saying that we have never done wrong and have come through this harsh life without a wicked deed. I do not say we are innocent, that would itself be wicked. But guilt has its own dignity, its own self-respect, more perhaps even than does innocence, and it is not of a mind to pilfer silver cups. My lord, we have been exonerated before your master and by bringing the eleventh of our number have proved to him that we deal in truth. We have exonerated ourselves before you by bringing back to you from the land of Canaan the money we paid but then found at the top of our sacks, offered it to you with open palms—but you did not want it. After such experiences, then, should you not scruple and hesitate before coming here and accusing us of having removed silver or gold from the table of your master?"
Ruben, however, was boiling over now and added, "Why do you have no answer, steward, for the excellent words of my brother Je-huda, and instead simply pinch the corner of your mouth tighter still in that insufferable way? Here we are. Search among us! And with whomever this wretched silver gewgaw, this cup, is found, let him
die. Moreover, if you find it, the rest of us, to a man, shall be your slaves for life."
"Ruben," Judah said, "stop gushing away! Inasmuch as we are completely pure in this matter, there is no need for such oaths."
Mai-Sakhme, however, responded, "Quite right, why seethe like this? We know how to exercise moderation. With whomever I find this cup, he shall be our slave and remain in our hands. But the others shall be blameless. Open, if you please, your sacks."
Which they did. They practically ran to their baggage, could not bring it back from their asses fast enough, and ripped their fodder sacks wide open. "Laban!" they cried with a laugh. "Laban, searching there on that mountain in Gilead. Ha, ha! Just let him sweat and ransack himself half to death. Come here, master steward! Come search me first!"
"Just keep calm," Mai-Sakhme said. "Everything in due time and in the proper sequence, just as my lord knew to name you by your names. I shall begin with this big hothead here."
And while they mocked him—ever more certain of victory the farther he went, laughing loudly and constantly calling him Laban, that sweating, searching clod of earth—he moved from one to the other according to their ages and rummaged in their belongings, stood there bent over, hands on hips, eyeing what was in their sacks, and before proceeding to the next was sure first to shake his head or shrug his shoulders when he found nothing despite all his rummaging and digging. And so he came to Asher, to Issakhar, came to Ze-bulun. There were no stolen goods. He was nearing the end of his search. Only Benjamin was left.
And now they jeered all the louder.
"He's searching Benjamin now!" they cried. "He's sure to be lucky there. He's searching the most innocent of all, innocent not just in this matter, but innocent in general, hasn't been guilty of a wicked deed in all his life. Pay attention now, this is worth watching, how he searches as he gets close to the end, and we're curious just what he'll have to say when he's done searching and has to speak words of—"
All of a sudden they fell silent. They saw it glinting in the steward's hand. From Benjamin's fodder sack, and from not all that deep in the grain, he had pulled out the silver cup.
"Here it is," he said. "Found it with the littlest brother. Had I
gone about it the other way round, I would have spared myself a good deal of effort and mockery. So young and yet so thievish. Of course I'm happy to have rounded up the item; but my joy is seriously soured to learn of such ingratitude and such corruption at so early an age. Young man, you are now in extraordinarily serious trouble."
And the others? They clasped their heads in their hands, their eyes bugged out, staring at the cup. They let out a hiss through puffed-out lips—puffed out so far that they couldn't form the words "What's this!" but could manage only the sibilants.
"Benoni!" they cried, their voices filled with tears and exasperation. "Defend yourself! Open your mouth, if you please! How did you come by this cup?"
But Benjamin was silent. He dropped his chin to his chest so that no one could see into his eyes, and said nothing.
They rent their clothes. Several actually grabbed their tunics by the hem and with one hard tug ripped them all the way to the chest.
"We are disgraced!" they wailed. "Disgraced by our youngest! Benjamin, for the last time, open your mouth! Vindicate yourself!"
But Benjamin was silent. He did not raise his head, and he said not a word. His was an indescribable silence.
"He cried out just before," Dan, Bilhah's son, shouted. "Now I remember that he gave an indescribable cry as these men were approaching. Fear tore that cry from his heart. He knew why they were chasing us."
They pounced upon Benjamin with a loud curse and pummeled him with pinches and opprobrium and called him a villainous thief—called him "a son of a thief," and asked, "Did his mother not steal her father's teraphim? It's inherited, it's in his blood. Oh you bloody thief, did you have to put your inheritance to use here, so that you've brought this shameless shame on us, brought your whole tribe to the ash heap, your father, all of us and our children?"
"Now you're exaggerating," Mai-Sakhme said. "That's not the case at all. Besides, you have been exonerated and are blameless. We do not accept your sharing in his guilt, but find instead that your little brother has pilfered aU on his own. As free men you may now return home to your honest father. Only he who took the cup is now ours to keep."
But Judah answered him and said, "Not one word more of that. Not a word, steward, for I wish to have some words with your master, and he shall hear the words Judah has resolved to speak. We will all return with you to appear before his face, and he shall judge us all. For we are all liable in this matter and are as one in regard to this incident. Behold, our youngest was innocent his whole life long, for he was always at home. But we others were out in the world, and we became guilty there. We have no intention of pretending purity and leaving him in the lurch now that he has become guilty on this journey, while we have remained innocent in this matter at least. Come, lead us all together with him before the marketeer's throne." "Fine with me," Mai-Sakhme said, "just as you please." And under the guard of lance-bearers, they turned back toward the city, following the same road they had traveled without a care. And Benjamin still said not one word.
"It Is I!"
It was late afternoon when they arrived before Joseph's house again; for, as it is written, it was there that the steward took them, and not to the Central Office, where they had first bent low and bowed before him—he was not to be found there, he was at home.
"For he was yet there," or so the story says, and is correct insofar as Pharaoh's friend had returned to his office after yesterday's merry luncheon, but since early morning today had not wanted to leave the house. He knew that the captain, his steward, was hard at work, and he was on tenterhooks. The holy game was nearing its climax, and it was up to the ten whether they would be present at the scene of its unfolding or merely hear of it. Would they let their youngest brother return alone with Mai-Sakhme or would they join him?—Joseph's nervousness knew no bounds. To a large extent this would determine his future conduct toward them. We, on the other hand, are exempted from all such suspense, because we can recite by heart each of the stages of the story being told here, particularly since our own account has established what Joseph was still so anxiously waiting to learn, and we already know that the brothers were unwilling to leave Benjamin alone with his guilt. Knowing what we
know, we can smile at Joseph and his expectant anxiety as he paces through his house, from Ubrary to reception hall, from there to the hall of bread, then retraces his steps to his bedchamber, where with a trembling hand he touches up this or that in his makeup. His conduct reminds us of a costumed actor running about backstage as he waits for the show to begin.
He also strode to the women's wing to pay a visit to his wife, Asenath, the stolen bride, joined her to watch Manasseh and Ephraim at play. But all the while he chatted with her, he was unable to conceal his own tension and stage fright.
"Husband," she said, "dear master and abductor—what is wrong? You are not relaxed, your ears are pricked, you shuffle your feet. Is something on your mind? Shall we sit down for a game at the board to divert you, or should a few of my handmaids perform a charming dance for you?"
But he responded, "No, Maiden, thanks, but not now. I have other moves on my mind than those of a board game and cannot play the spectator for a dance by handmaids, but must juggle the balls myself and play my own game, whose spectators shall be God and the world. I must return to the vicinity of the reception hall, for that is where it is to be staged. But I know something better to occupy your handmaids than dancing, for I came in fact to order them to make you more beautiful than you already are and clad you in your finest, and to tell the nursemaids to wash Manasseh's and Ephraim's hands and dress them in embroidered shirts, for I am awaiting most extraordinary visitors, whom I wish to introduce to you as my family, once the word is spoken as to who it is whose family you are. Yes, what big eyes you make, my shield-maiden with the dainty waist. But comply with my wishes and make yourselves fine; you will hear from me soon."
Then he ran off, ran back to the men's wing, but could not simply bask in pure expectation and suspense, which is all he really wanted to do, but had to report to the library, along with his reader and true scribe, to receive important agents from the Office of Provisions, who had come on business—certain accounts awaiting his approval—and to spoil the joy of pure expectation, for which he roundly cursed them. And yet they were also welcome, for he needed supernumeraries.
The sun had already begun its decline when, keeping an ear
cocked over his papers, he heard muffled noises at the front of the house and knew that the hour had come, that his brothers' caravan had arrived. Mai-Sakhme entered—that one corner of his mouth pinched more tightly than ever—bearing the cup, which he handed over. "With the youngest," he said, "After a long search. They are in the hall awaiting your verdict."
