Joseph and His Brothers, page 176
may magnanimously favor him with my conversation and he may hve in honor inasmuch as Pharaoh has spoken to him. Farewell!
The letter was delivered to Joseph at his house in Menfe by express courier, and he showed it to all eleven, who kissed their fingertips. They remained with him at his home for a quarter moon; since for twenty years now their father had believed Joseph dead and mutilated, the exact day when he learned that he was still alive no longer mattered. And Joseph's menials served them, and his wife, the daughter of the sun, spoke friendly words to them, and they chatted with their nephews—looking elegant in their special children's locks—with Manasseh and Ephraim, who could speak their language. Of the two, the younger, Ephraim, looked more like Joseph—and thus like Rachel—than did Manasseh, who took entirely after his maternal Egyptian side, so that Judah said, "You'll see, Jacob will favor Ephraim and when he speaks they will not be Manasseh and Ephraim, but Ephraim and Manasseh." He advised Joseph, however, that before Jacob's arrival he cut off that Egyptian braid each wore over one ear, for the old man would take offense at it.
Then, as the week drew to a close, they packed and readied themselves for their journey. A royal commercial caravan was about to depart from Menfe, the balance scale of the Two Lands, traveling by way of Canaan to Mitanniland, and they were to join it with wagons from the royal warehouses, some with two wheels, some with four, which had been handed over to them along with mules and drivers. When one includes ten asses laden with all sorts of baubles and luxuries from the land of Egypt—choice knickknacks of civilization, examples of the finest taste, that Joseph was sending along as presents for Jacob—plus ten she-asses, likewise intended for Jacob and burdened with grain, wine, preserves, smoked meats, and salves, one can well understand that by themselves they formed a grand caravan of their own, especially since the personal property of each had been increased by gifts their exalted brother had lavished on them. For it is well known that he gave them each a festal garment; to Benjamin, however, he gave three hundred debens of silver and no less than five festal garments, in accord with the extra days of the year. So he had good reason for saying as he took leave of them:
"Do not quarrel on the way!" But he meant it more in the sense that they should not bring up matters from the past and accuse one another of what one had done that another knew nothing about. For the notion that they might be hard on Benjamin because as the nearest and truest brother he had been more richly rewarded—that never entered Joseph's mind, just as it was the farthest thing from theirs. They were like lambs and found everything exactly as it should be. As impetuous young men they had risen up in violence against injustice, but now, as things had turned out, they found themselves fundamentally reconciled with injustice and for all time would have no objection to the great "I show favor to whom I show favor, and mercy to whom I show mercy."
How Do We Begin f
How remarkable, how it tickles one's fancy, to note how events in this story are ordered in such lovely correspondence and one piece finds its fulfillment in its counterpart. Long ago, seven days after Jacob received the bloody token, the brothers had returned home from the valley of Dothan to mourn with their father over Joseph's death, yet were sick with dread about what state they might find him in and how they could live with him under the half-false and yet sufficiently accurate suspicion that they had murdered the boy. Now, with hair turning white, they were returning home to Hebron with the no less devastating news up their sleeves: that Joseph had not been dead all this time and was not now, either, but that he lived, lived in glory; and the task of telling this to the old man left them almost equally full of dread. For devastating is devastating and overwhelming is overwhelming—whether it concerns life or death; and they greatly feared that Jacob would fall back in a faint, just as he had then, but that this time, now twenty years older, he would die of "joy," that is of shock, of sheer terror at his good fortune, so that Joseph's life would be the cause of his death and his eyes would never again behold his son alive, nor his son's eyes him. It was, moreover, almost inevitable that at the same time it would be revealed that, although they had not murdered Joseph as a boy—as Jacob had half believed all this time—they had halfway committed that crime and only by accident had not finished the deed, thanks to
the Ishmaelites who found him and took him with them to Egypt. This contributed not a Uttle to their throes of both joy and fear, and they found partial reHef only in the thought that the grace God had shown them in turning them away from true murder by sending His Midianite emissaries would have to impress Jacob and prevent him from cursing and raking over the coals people so blessed by God.
These, then, were the topics of conversation during the entire seventeen-day journey, which, despite their impatience to complete it, seemed on the other hand far too short for their discussions to reach a conclusion about how best tactfully to tell Jacob of all this and how they would stand before him once they told him.
"Children," they said to one another—for ever since Joseph had said, "Children, it is I," they often addressed one another as "children," which had previously not at all been the case—"Children, you shall see, he will fall back in a faint when we tell him, that is, unless we slip it to him very delicately and gently. But whether deHcate or crude—do you think he will believe what we tell him? In all probability he will not want to believe a word we say, for after so many years the idea of death establishes itself in a man's heart and head and is not easily overturned or exchanged for the idea of life—ultimately the soul does not welcome it, but holds fast to old habits. Our brother Joseph thinks it will give the old man great joy, and it will, of course—tremendous joy—but let us hope it does not overwhelm his strength. For how can a man know what to do with joy right off, after feeding upon bitterness for a jubilee of years, and is he glad to learn that he has spent his life in delusion and his days in error? For bitterness was his life, and now it's all gone up in smoke. It will be more than strange having to talk him out of what we once talked him into with that bloody garment to which he still clings. And in the end he will be more embittered with us for having taken this woe from him than for having first inflicted it upon him. He is certain to resist and not believe us—but then again, that is good and necessary. He should and dare not believe us for a while, for if he believed at once, it would slay him. Yes, how to tell him so that the joy is not too abrupt and the disappointment over his bitterness not too great? It would be best if we did not need to say anything, but could lead him back down to the land of Egypt and present him to his son Joseph, so that he might see him with his own eyes and all words would be superfluous. But it will be difficult enough to bring him to
Mizraim and its rich pastures even after he has learned that Joseph is ahve there; which is why he'll have to know beforehand, for he won't go otherwise. But truth, after all, has not just words, but tokens as well, and those include our exalted brother's gifts and Pharaoh's wagons transporting us—we will show him those first perhaps, before all words, and then explain the tokens to him. And from the tokens he will realize how friendly are this exalted man's intentions toward us and how we are of one heart and one mind with the brother we sold, so that once everything is revealed the old man can no longer be angry with us, or curse us. Besides, can he curse Israel, ten of the twelve? He certainly cannot, for that would mean kicking against the counsel of God, who sent Joseph before us as quartermaster in the land of Egypt. So then, children, let us not be all too fearful. The hour will come, and the moment itself will whisper to us how to wiggle our way through. First we shall spread the presents before him, the wares of Egypt, and ask: 'From where and from whom do you suppose all this comes, father? Guess! Yes indeed, it comes from that great marketeer down there, he has sent it to you. But since he has sent it, he must surely love you very much, don't you think? Must love you almost as much as a son loves his father?' And once we have arrived at the little word 'son,' we're halfway there, have the worst behind us. And then we'll ring the changes on that word for a while and gradually move from saying. The marketeer has sent it to you,' to 'Your son has sent it to you, because, you see, he is alive and is lord over all the land of Egypt!'"
That is how they planned it, all eleven, discussing it by day and within their tent at night; but given their worries, they were soon, almost too soon, near the end of a now familiar journey: up from Menfe to the fortified frontier and through the horrid expanse that led to the land of the Philistines and Gaza, the harbor of Khazati by the sea, where they parted company with the commercial caravan they had joined and now headed inland toward the mountains and Hebron, moving in short day marches or, better still, night marches. For spring was in bloom as they arrived, and the nights were lovely now, silvered by an almost full beautiful moon; and since it was difficult to travel with a convoy now swollen to such a size—with its Egyptian wagons, mules and drivers, and a herd of almost fifty asses—that it aroused curiosity and drew gawking crowds everywhere, they usually found a quiet place to stop by day and advanced
by night toward home, toward the terebinths of the grove of Mamre, where their father's house of felt stood and most of them had their tents as well.
The last day, of course, they set out early in the morning and by the fifth hour of the afternoon found themselves nearing their goal, even if from the present slope they could not yet see their clan's camp still lying hidden behind familiar hills. They had left their supply train a little distance behind and now rode ahead on their asses, eleven men lost in thought and not saying a word, for their hearts were pounding and despite all their discussions none of them was sure any longer just how to begin, how to break the news to their father without undoing him. And now that they were so close to him, everything they had intended to say displeased them; they found it all foolish and improper, particularly silliness Hke "Guess!" and "Who else?" seemed hideously banal and totally inapt for the situation. Each rejected and derided it in his heart, and at the last moment a few tried replacing it with something else: Maybe they should send someone, fleet-footed NaphtaH, so that he could tell Jacob that they were approaching with Benjamin and also brought great, incredible tidings—incredible in one sense because one could not believe them, but perhaps even in another as well because they were so contrary to one's habits of thought that one might not want to believe—and yet it was God's living truth. A herald to precede the others—perhaps, one or two of them thought, that was the best way to soften and prepare their father's heart to receive the news. They rode at a slow walk.
Annunciation
The slope the animals were crossing was rough and stony, but blanketed now with the blossoms of spring. Larger boulders lay all about, and the ground was strewn with rocks and pebbles; but wherever there was soft soil and, or so it seemed, even growing from the stones themselves, exuberant wildflowers ran riot—flowers far and wide, white, yellow, sky blue, pink and purple, heaps of flowers, clusters and pillows of flowers, a glut of pied beauty. Spring had called them and they had bloomed, each in its own hour, and when the rains of winter failed, just morning dew evidently sufficed for
them to burst into a fleeting, quickly withering splendor. Even the shrubs scattered here and there in these broad fields blossomed white and pink, for it was their hour as well. Only puffs of high clouds dotted the blue of the sky.
On one boulder jutting up like a cliff amid foaming waves of flowers, sat a figure like another flower in the distance, which soon proved to be a tender young maiden—all alone beneath the sky, clad in a red tunic, marguerites in her hair, and in her arms a zither that she strummed with dainty tanned fingers. It was Serah, Asher's child.
Still a good way off, her father recognized her before all the others and said with delight, "It's Serah there on that boulder, my little girl, plunking out a tune on her strings. That's just like her, the urchin, she sits there all by herself, practicing on her psaltery. She's from the tribe of fiddlers and whistlers, sweet thing. God knows where she got it from; since the day she was born she's had to sing psalms and strum her psaltery. She can make those strings ring with melody, but the voice that blends with her songs of praise is much fuller than you'd ever expect from that little cricket's body—she'll be famous in Israel someday, the hoyden. Look, she's seen us now, has flung her arms up and is running toward us. Halloo, Serah, it's your father Asher, home with your uncles!"
And the child was already near—she ran barefoot between boulders and through the flowers, the silver rings at her wrists and ankles tinkling softly and the yellow and white wreath atop a head of black hair bouncing askew. Panting, she laughed for joy at this reunion and, still short of breath, called out quick words of greeting; yet even her gasps and breathlessness rang with a melody so rich that it was hard to understand how it could come from such a frail little body.
She was indeed what the world calls a maiden—no longer a girl, but not yet a young woman, twelve years old at most. Asher's wife was held to be a great-granddaughter of Ismael—was there something in Serah's blood from Isaac's beautiful and savage half brother that made her sing? Or—since a person's traits can undergo the strangest transformations in his descendants—had the sweet lips and moist eyes of her father Asher, his curiosity and his love of a unity of emotion and opinion become musicality in Httle Serah? You may find it all too bold, too far-fetched, to trace a child's love of song and
art back to her father's sweet tooth, but a man must try as best he can to explain a curious talent for the psaltery like the one Serah had found in her cradle.
The eleven looked down from their long-legged asses to this maiden, they greeted and petted her—and their eyes took on a certain thoughtfulness. Most of them dismounted from their asses and encircled Serah, hands at their backs, nodding and rocking their heads, saying "So, so," and "My, my," and "Look at you!" and "Well, little songstress, there you were sitting and strumming your zither as usual, and now it seems you've come running our way before everyone else, doesn't it?"
Finally, however, Dan, who was called a serpent and an adder, said, "Children, listen to me, I can see it in your eyes that we all have the same thing in mind, and actually it would be up to Asher to say what I have to say now, but it hasn't occurred to him because he is her father. But I have proved often enough that I have the makings of a judge, and my native subtlety has inspired me to say the following: It is not by chance that this maiden here, Serah, the songbird, was the first of our whole tribe to cross our path. God has sent her to us to give us a message, to instruct us as to what we should do. The plan we devised for telling the news to our father, for slipping it to him without slaying him—that was all clumsy stuff and nonsense. Serah—she shall slip it to him in her fashion, so that the truth comes to him in the form of a song, which is always a gentler way to learn a thing, whether it bring bitterness or bliss, or both. Serah shall precede us and sing it to him, and even if he does not believe her song to be the truth, we shall still have softened the soil of his soul and made it ready for the seed of truth, for the moment when we come to him with words and tokens and he will be forced to realize that song and truth are one, just as we were forced to realize, difficult as it was, that Pharaoh's marketeer and our brother Joseph were one and the same. Well? Have I spoken correctly, given solid footing to what was hovering there in your minds as your eyes moved thoughtfully from Serah's foohsh little head and out into space?"
Yes, they said, he had, he had judged rightly. That's how it should be, it was a message from heaven and a great relief. And now they began to instruct the child and impress upon her what this was all about—but it wasn't easy, because they all tried to talk at once
and seldom let just one speak for all, so that Serah's alarmed but amused eyes shifted from one to the other, staring at excited faces and mouths, at gesticulating hands.
"Serah," they said, "it is like this. Believe it or not—but sing it, and then we shall come after and prove it. But it's better if you do believe it, for then you'll sing it better, for it is true, as unbelievable as it sounds—surely you believe your own father and all your uncles. So now see here—you did not know your uncle Jehosiph, who got lost, the son of the true wife, the son of Rachel, who was called the virgin of the stars, but he was called Dumuzi. . . Ah yes, ah yes! . . . And to your grandfather Jacob, he was dead, because long before you were born, the world swallowed him up, so that he was no more and was dead in Jacob's heart all these years. But now it has turned out, incredibly enough, that it all has been turned about—"
"A miracle, for now it has turned out, that everything is turned roundabout,"
impatient Serah began to sing with such rich, laughing exultation that she drowned out all the gruff voices around her.
"Hush, you prodigy!" they cried. "You cannot start singing away before you know what's what and we have given you the whole picture. First learn, then warble! Learn this: Your uncle Joseph is risen again, in other words, he was never dead, but is alive, not only alive, but alive in such and such a fashion. He lives in Mizraim, as such and such a man. It was all a mistake, do you understand, and the bloody garment was a mistake, and God has carried it through beyond all expectation. Have you understood? We were with him in the land of Egypt, and he made himself known to us, beyond any doubt, with the words * It is I!' and has said this and that to us, and that he wants all of us to follow after him—you as well. Have you got that into your head so that you can present it in the form of a song? For you are to sing it to Jacob. Our Serah is a clever child and she can do it. So now take your zither and go across country ahead of us, let your song that Joseph lives ring out. You shall pass between those hills there, making directly for Israel's camp, and look neither right nor left, but just keep on singing. If you should meet anyone and they ask what this means and what your strumming and rhyming are all about, you won't answer any questions, but just
