CHAPTER VII
Let us take our
stand by the gate, just out of the edge of the currents - one flowing in, the
other out - and use our eyes and ears awhile.
In good time!
Here come two men of a most noteworthy class.
"Gods! How
cold it is!" says one of them, a powerful figure in armor; on his head a
brazen helmet, on his body a shining breastplate and skirts of mail. "How
cold it is! Dost thou remember, my Caius, that vault in the Comitium at home
which the flamens say is the entrance to the lower world? By Pluto! I could
stand there this morning, long enough at least to get warm again!"
The party
addressed drops the hood of his military cloak, leaving bare his head and face,
and replies, with an ironic smile, "The helmets of the legions which conquered
Mark Antony were full of Gallic snow; but thou - ah, my poor friend! - thou
hast just come from Egypt, bringing its summer in thy blood."
And with the last
word they disappear through the entrance. Though they had been silent, the
armor and the sturdy step would have published them Roman soldiers.
From the throng a
Jew comes next, meager of frame, round-shouldered, and wearing a coarse brown
robe; over his eyes and face, and down his back, hangs a mat of long, uncombed
hair. He is alone. Those who meet him laugh, if they do not worse; for he is a
Nazarite, one of a despised sect which rejects the books of Moses, devotes
itself to abhorred vows, and goes unshorn while the vows endure.
As we watch his
retiring figure, suddenly there is a commotion in the crowd, a parting quickly
to the right and left, with exclamations sharp and decisive. Then the cause
comes - a man, Hebrew in feature and dress. The mantle of snow-white linen,
held to his head by cords of yellow silk, flows free over his shoulders; his
robe is richly embroidered, a red sash with fringes of gold wraps his waist
several times. His demeanor is calm; he even smiles upon those who, with such
rude haste, make room for him. A leper? No, he is only a Samaritan. The
shrinking crowd, if asked, would say he is a mongrel - an Assyrian - whose
touch of the robe is pollution; from whom, consequently, an Israelite, though
dying, might not accept life. In fact, the feud is not of blood. When David set
his throne here on Mount Zion, with only Judah to support him, the ten tribes
betook themselves to Shechem, a city much older, and, at that date, infinitely
richer in holy memories. The final union of the tribes did not settle the
dispute thus begun. The Samaritans clung to their tabernacle on Gerizim, and,
while maintaining its superior sanctity, laughed at the irate doctors in
Jerusalem. Time brought no assuagement of the hate. Under Herod, conversion to
the faith was open to all the world except the Samaritans; they alone were
absolutely and forever shut out from communion with Jews.
As the Samaritan
goes in under the arch of the gate, out come three men so unlike all whom we
have yet seen that they fix our gaze, whether we will or not. They are of
unusual stature and immense brawn; their eyes are blue, and so fair is their
complexion that the blood shines through the skin like blue pencilling; their
hair is light and short; their heads, small and round, rest squarely upon necks
columnar as the trunks of trees. Woollen tunics, open at the breast, sleeveless
and loosely girt, drape their bodies, leaving bare arms and legs of such
development that they at once suggest the arena; and when thereto we add their
careless, confident, insolent manner, we cease to wonder that the people give
them way, and stop after they have passed to look at them again. They are
gladiators - wrestlers, runners, boxers, swordsmen; professionals unknown in
Judea before the coming of the Roman; fellows who, what time they are not in
training, may be seen strolling through the king's gardens or sitting with the
guards at the palace gates; or possibly they are visitors from Caesarea,
Sebaste, or Jericho; in which Herod, more Greek than Jew, and with all a
Roman's love of games and bloody spectacles, has built vast theaters, and now keeps
schools of fighting-men, drawn, as is the custom, from the Gallic provinces or
the Slavic tribes on the Danube.
"By
Bacchus!" says one of them, drawing his clenched hand to his shoulder,
"their skulls are not thicker than eggshells."
The brutal look
which goes with the gesture disgusts us, and we turn happily to something more
pleasant.
Opposite us is a
fruit-stand. The proprietor has a bald head, a long face, and a nose like the
beak of a hawk. He sits upon a carpet spread upon the dust; the wall is at his
back; overhead hangs a scant curtain, around him, within hand's reach and
arranged upon little stools, lie osier boxes full of almonds, grapes, figs, and
pomegranates. To him now comes one at whom we cannot help looking, though for
another reason than that which fixed our eyes upon the gladiators; he is really
beautiful - a beautiful Greek. Around his temples, holding the waving hair, is
a crown of myrtle, to which still cling the pale flowers and half ripe berries.
His tunic, scarlet in color, is of the softest woollen fabric; below the girdle
of buff leather, which is clasped in front by a fantastic device of shining
gold, the skirt drops to the knee in folds heavy with embroidery of the same
royal metal; a scarf, also woollen, and of mixed white and yellow, crosses his
throat and falls trailing at his back; his arms and legs, where exposed, are
white as ivory, and of the polish impossible except by perfect treatment with
bath, oil, brushes, and pincers.
The dealer,
keeping his seat, bends forward, and throws his hands up until they meet in
front of him, palm downwards and fingers extended.
"What hast
thou, this morning, O son of Paphos?" says the young Greek, looking at the
boxes rather than at the Cypriote. "I am hungry. What hast thou for breakfast?"
"Fruits from
the Pedius - genuine - such as the singers of Antioch take of mornings to
restore the waste of their voices," the dealer answers, in a querulous
nasal tone.
"A fig, but
not one of thy best, for the singers of Antioch!" says the Greek.
"Thou art a worshiper of Aphrodite, and so am I, as the myrtle I wear
proves; therefore I tell thee their voices have the chill of a Caspian wind.
Seest thou this girdle? - a gift of the mighty Salome -"
"The king's
sister!" exclaims the Cypriote, with another salaam.
"And of
royal taste and divine judgment. And why not? She is more Greek than the king.
But - my breakfast! Here is thy money - red coppers of Cyprus. Give me grapes,
and -"
"Wilt thou
not take the dates also?"
"No, I am
not an Arab."
"Nor
figs?"
"That would
be to make me a Jew. No, nothing but the grapes. Never waters mixed so sweetly
as the blood of the Greek and the blood of the grape."
The singer in the
grimed and seething market, with all his airs of the court, is a vision not
easily shut out of mind by such as see him; as if for the purpose, however, a
person follows him challenging all our wonder. He comes up the road slowly, his
face towards the ground; at intervals he stops, crosses his hands upon his
breast, lengthens his countenance, and turns his eyes towards heaven, as if
about to break into prayer. Nowhere, except in Jerusalem, can such a character
be found. On his forehead, attached to the band which keeps the mantle in
place, projects a leathern case, square in form; another similar case is tied
by a thong to the left arm; the borders of his robe are decorated with deep
fringe; and by such signs - the phylacteries, the enlarged borders of the
garment, and the savor of intense holiness pervading the whole man - we know
him to be a Pharisee, one of an organization (in religion a sect, in politics a
party) whose bigotry and power will shortly bring the world to grief.
The densest of
the throng outside the gate covers the road leading off to Joppa. Turning from
the Pharisee, we are attracted by some parties who, as subjects of study,
opportunely separate themselves from the motley crowd. First among them a man
of very noble appearance - clear, healthful complexion; bright black eyes;
beard long and flowing, and rich with unguents; apparel well-fitting, costly,
and suitable for the season. He carries a staff, and wears, suspended by a cord
from his neck, a large golden seal. Several servants attend him, some of them
with short swords stuck through their sashes; when they address him, it is with
the utmost deference. The rest of the party consists of two Arabs of the pure
desert stock; thin, wiry men, deeply bronzed, and with hollow cheeks, and eyes
of almost evil brightness; on their heads red tarbooshes; over their abas, and
wrapping the left shoulder and the body so as to leave the right arm free,
brown woollen haicks, or blankets. There is loud chaffering, for the Arabs are
leading horses and trying to sell them; and, in their eagerness, they speak in
high, shrill voices. The courtly person leaves the talking mostly to his
servants; occasionally he answers with much dignity; directly, seeing the
Cypriote, he stops and buys some figs. And when the whole party has passed the
portal, close after the Pharisee, if we betake ourselves to the dealer in
fruits, he will tell, with a wonderful salaam, that the stranger is a Jew, one
of the princes of the city, who has travelled, and learned the difference
between the common grapes of Syria and those of Cyprus, so surpassingly rich
with the dews of the sea.
And so, till
towards noon, sometimes later, the steady currents of business habitually flow
in and out of the Joppa Gate, carrying with them every variety of character;
including representatives of all the tribes of Israel, all the sects among whom
the ancient faith has been parcelled and refined away, all the religious and
social divisions, all the adventurous rabble who, as children of art and
ministers of pleasure, riot in the prodigalities of Herod, and all the peoples
of note at any time compassed by the Caesars and their predecessors, especially
those dwelling within the circuit of the Mediterranean.
In other words,
Jerusalem, rich in sacred history, richer in connection with sacred prophecies
- the Jerusalem of Solomon, in which silver was as stones, and cedars as the
sycamores of the vale - had come to be but a copy of Rome, a center of unholy
practises, a seat of pagan power. A Jewish king one day put on priestly
garments, and went into the Holy of Holies of the first temple to offer
incense, and he came out a leper; but in the time of which we are reading,
Pompey entered Herod's temple and the same Holy of Holies, and came out without
harm, finding but an empty chamber, and of God not a sign.
CHAPTER VIII
The reader is now
besought to return to the court described as part of the market at the Joppa
Gate. It was the third hour of the day, and many of the people had gone away;
yet the press continued without apparent abatement. Of the new-comers, there
was a group over by the south wall, consisting of a man, a woman, and a donkey,
which requires extended notice.
The man stood by
the animal's head, holding a leading-strap, and leaning upon a stick which
seemed to have been chosen for the double purpose of goad and staff. His dress
was like that of the ordinary Jews around him, except that it had an appearance
of newness. The mantle dropping from his head, and the robe or frock which
clothed his person from neck to heel, were probably the garments he was
accustomed to wear to the synagogue on Sabbath days. His features were exposed,
and they told of fifty years of life, a surmise confirmed by the gray that
streaked his otherwise black beard. He looked around him with the half-curious,
half-vacant stare of a stranger and provincial.
The donkey ate
leisurely from an armful of green grass, of which there was an abundance in the
market. In its sleepy content, the brute did not admit of disturbance from the
bustle and clamor about; no more was it mindful of the woman sitting upon its
back in a cushioned pillion. An outer robe of dull woollen stuff completely
covered her person, while a white wimple veiled her head and neck. Once in a
while, impelled by curiosity to see or hear something passing, she drew the
wimple aside, but so slightly that the face remained invisible.
At length the man
was accosted.
"Are you not
Joseph of Nazareth?"
The speaker was
standing close by.
"I am so
called," answered Joseph, turning gravely around; "And you - ah,
peace be unto you! my friend, Rabbi Samuel!"
"The same
give I back to you." The Rabbi paused, looking at the woman, then added,
"To you, and unto your house and all your helpers, be peace."
With the last
word, he placed one hand upon his breast, and inclined his head to the woman,
who, to see him, had by this time withdrawn the wimple enough to show the face
of one but a short time out of girlhood. Thereupon the acquaintances grasped
right hands, as if to carry them to their lips; at the last moment, however,
the clasp was let go, and each kissed his own hand, then put its palm upon his
forehead.
"There is so
little dust upon your garments," the Rabbi said, familiarly, "that I
infer you passed the night in this city of our fathers."
"No,"
Joseph replied, "as we could only make Bethany before the night came, we
stayed in the khan there, and took the road again at daybreak."
"The journey
before you is long, then - not to Joppa, I hope."
"Only to
Bethlehem."
The countenance
of the Rabbi, theretofore open and friendly, became lowering and sinister, and
he cleared his throat with a growl instead of a cough.
"Yes, yes - I
see," he said. "You were born in Bethlehem, and wend thither now,
with your daughter, to be counted for taxation, as ordered by Caesar. The
children of Jacob are as the tribes in Egypt were - only they have neither a
Moses nor a Joshua. How are the mighty fallen!"
Joseph answered,
without change of posture or countenance,
"The woman
is not my daughter."
But the Rabbi
clung to the political idea; and he went on, without noticing the explanation,
"What are the Zealots doing down in Galilee?"
"I am a
carpenter, and Nazareth is a village," said Joseph, cautiously. "The
street on which my bench stands is not a road leading to any city. Hewing wood
and sawing plank leave me no time to take part in the disputes of
parties."
"But you are
a Jew," said the Rabbi, earnestly. "You are a Jew, and of the line of
David. It is not possible you can find pleasure in the payment of any tax
except the shekel given by ancient custom to Jehovah."
Joseph held his
peace.
"I do not
complain," his friend continued, "of the amount of the tax - a
denarius is a trifle. Oh no! The imposition of the tax is the offense. And,
besides, what is paying it but submission to tyranny? Tell me, is it true that
Judas claims to be the Messiah? You live in the midst of his followers."
"I have
heard his followers say he was the Messiah," Joseph replied.
At this point the
wimple was drawn aside, and for an instant the whole face of the woman was
exposed. The eyes of the Rabbi wandered that way, and he had time to see a
countenance of rare beauty, kindled by a look of intense interest; then a blush
overspread her cheeks and brow, and the veil was returned to its place.
The politician
forgot his subject.
"Your
daughter is comely," he said, speaking lower.
"She is not
my daughter," Joseph repeated.
The curiosity of
the Rabbi was aroused; seeing which, the Nazarene hastened to say further,
"She is the child of Joachim and Anna of Bethlehem, of whom you have at
least heard, for they were of great repute - "
"Yes,"
remarked the Rabbi, deferentially, "I know them. They were lineally
descended from David. I knew them well."
"Well, they
are dead now," the Nazarene proceeded. "They died in Nazareth.
Joachim was not rich, yet he left a house and garden to be divided between his
daughters Marian and Mary. This is one of them; and to save her portion of the
property, the law required her to marry her next of kin. She is now my
wife."
"And you
were -"
"Her
uncle."
"Yes, yes!
And as you were both born in Bethlehem, the Roman compels you to take her there
with you to be also counted."
The Rabbi clasped
his hands, and looked indignantly to heaven, exclaiming, "The God of
Israel still lives! The vengeance is his!"
With that he
turned and abruptly departed. A stranger near by, observing Joseph's amazement,
said, quietly, "Rabbi Samuel is a zealot. Judas himself is not more
fierce."
Joseph, not
wishing to talk with the man, appeared not to hear, and busied himself
gathering in a little heap the grass which the donkey had tossed abroad; after
which he leaned upon his staff again, and waited.
In another hour
the party passed out the gate, and, turning to the left, took the road into
Bethlehem. The descent into the valley of Hinnom was quite broken, garnished
here and there with straggling wild olive-trees. Carefully, tenderly, the
Nazarene walked by the woman's side, leading-strap in hand. On their left,
reaching to the south and east round Mount Zion, rose the city wall, and on
their right the steep prominences which form the western boundary of the
valley.
Slowly they
passed the Lower Pool of Gihon, out of which the sun was fast driving the
lessening shadow of the royal hill; slowly they proceeded, keeping parallel
with the aqueduct from the Pools of Solomon, until near the site of the
country-house on what is now called the Hill of Evil Counsel; there they began
to ascend to the plain of Rephaim. The sun streamed garishly over the stony
face of the famous locality, and under its influence Mary, the daughter of
Joachim, dropped the wimple entirely, and bared her head. Joseph told the story
of the Philistines surprised in their camp there by David. He was tedious in
the narrative, speaking with the solemn countenance and lifeless manner of a dull
man. She did not always hear him.
Wherever on the
land men go, and on the sea ships, the face and figure of the Jew are familiar.
The physical type of the race has always been the same; yet there have been
some individual variations. "Now he was ruddy, and withal of a beautiful
countenance, and goodly to look to." Such was the son of Jesse when
brought before Samuel. The fancies of men have been ever since ruled by the
description. Poetic license has extended the peculiarities of the ancestor to
his notable descendants. So all our ideal Solomons have fair faces, and hair
and beard chestnut in the shade, and of the tint of gold in the sun. Such, we
are also made believe, were the locks of Absalom the beloved. And, in the
absence of authentic history, tradition has dealt no less lovingly by her whom
we are now following down to the native city of the ruddy king.
She was not more
than fifteen. Her form, voice, and manner belonged to the period of transition
from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair.
The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving
to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness, and trust; the eyes were blue and
large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes; and, in harmony with all, a
flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined
down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the
downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an
effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added
others more indefinable - an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and
of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with
trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue;
often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often
she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and
then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching
the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with
bowed head, wondering, plodded on.
So they skirted
the great plain, and at length reached the elevation Mar Elias; from which,
across a valley, they beheld Bethlehem, the old, old House of Bread, its white
walls crowning a ridge, and shining above the brown scumbling of leafless
orchards. They paused there, and rested, while Joseph pointed out the places of
sacred renown; then they went down into the valley to the well which was the
scene of one of the marvellous exploits of David's strong men. The narrow space
was crowded with people and animals. A fear came upon Joseph - a fear lest, if
the town were so thronged, there might not be house-room for the gentle Mary.
Without delay, he hurried on, past the pillar of stone marking the tomb of
Rachel, up the gardened slope, saluting none of the many persons he met on the
way, until he stopped before the portal of the khan that then stood outside the
village gates, near a junction of roads.
