Great Lion of God

  “My father chose to believe Deborah because he has never liked you,” said David, with kind candor.

  “But he arranged our marriage,” said Hillel in a muffled voice. “He sought me out.”

  David laughed a little. “That was because you were of a truly noble house, and a pious Pharisee Jew, and though he does not know it, my poor father, he has a Jewish soul and has lurking fears that the God of Israel is a very jealous God—though he does not believe in God, naturally. Let us be charitable and admit that he did not seek riches for Deborah, and many there were here in Jerusalem, and Romans of great houses, too, who desired her in marriage, and were notable for wealth. Who can penetrate the secret caverns of a man’s heart?”

  “Not I,” said Hillel. “I confess I do not understand even myself.”

  “I did not tell you about Deborah to sadden you,” said David. It was merely in explanation of my father’s antagonism to you, which has many reasons. I wished you to think of him more kindly. He deserves your pity.”

  “That I know,” said Hillel. He rose. “I wish to see my daughter, Sephorah.”

  “Ah,” said David. “She is ministering to my father. He dotes on her now. If you were to deny her in marriage to my son, to take her away, he would bear her away as did the Romans with the Sabine women.”

  “He will turn my child against me!” cried Hillel.

  “No,” said David. “She is a wise child, your Sephorah. You are heart of her heart, my poor kinsman.”

  But I have nothing at all now, thought Hillel, neither wife nor child, for my daughter will marry a stranger and forget me, and my son is obsessed with God and belongs to no one, not himself, and perhaps not even to God, blessed be His Name. In truth, he has never been my son. Though he comes from my loins his soul is far from me. I am abandoned, and there is none who loves me, and at the last that is the most unbearable thought of all—that one may die and never be mourned or remembered by those he loved.

  The thought of the everlasting love of God could not console Hillel now. He needed the love of a human creature. It was then that he thought of suicide for the first time. “In the grave there is no remembrance.”

  The overseer of the hall entered and said one Rabban Gamaliel desired an audience with the lord, Hillel ben Borush. He had opened the bronze doors of the atrium and the sudden storm, dark and scarlet and blazing, seemed to explode into the still whiteness of the hall.

  “Rabban Gamaliel!” exclaimed Hillel, his pain overcome for a moment by his joy. He turned to David and his worn face was transformed. “I was named for his grandfather, Hillel, may he rest in peace! The Rabban is Nasi (The president, or chief presiding officer) of the Sanhedrin. What an honor it is to receive him, though I knew him in school in Jerusalem and we were lads together! I did not seek him out, fearing presumption.”

  “I know the Rabban well,” said David, in a dry voice. “But let us invite him into this house lest he drown in that rain and smother in that wind. That would be a sad fate for the illustrious Teacher of the Law.”

  But his tone, his condescension, could not impair Hillel’s Joy, and he hastened to the doors of the atrium and stood in the portico. A sturdy curtained litter stood outside held by four dripping youths who winced at every crash of thunder. The sky had steadily darkened. Though it was but mid-afternoon, it seemed on the verge of night, lit only by the inflamed lightning. Impatiently, hands extended, Hillel awaited the guest, who pushed aside the curtains, alighted, then ran like a youth for the portico. Hillel fell upon his neck, embracing him, kissing his cheek, uttering incoherent exclamations of affection and happiness.

  “Greetings, and welcome to this house, Rabban,” said David, who waited near the fine bronze doors.

  “Shalom,” said Gamaliel. “Shalom to this house, and all within it.” He held out his hand to David, for he could not release himself from Hillel’s frantic embrace. It was as if his coming had heralded rescue to the suffering and distraught man, who was almost beside himself, and Gamaliel gently patted his back, for he was extremely perceptive and felt the emotions of others in his own flesh.

  The great Gamaliel, one of the most noble of Jews, was a very small man, with a slight figure and minute hands and feet, the latter shod in fine soft leather boots laced with gold cords and reaching almost to his knees. His garments were excellent but sober in color, gray and dark red, and fringed with the deep blue fringe of the pious Pharisee Jew. His cloak was black, but spangled with gold dots, and his hood was lined with cloth of gold. Despite his height, hardly that of a young girl, he exuded authority and dignity and power and a certain restraint of the spirit. Hillel finally released him, but he held his hand as a child holds the hand of his father, though they were nearly of the same age, and looked upon his face with a touching raptness.

  At first glance, it was not a notable face, nor a patrician one, nor comely. It, too, was small, and bony, and dark in color and of a hard texture, like a peasant’s. There were those who were unkind enough to refer to it as a simian face, particularly the judges in the Sanhedrin who did not like his wise and merciful judgments, and resented his I authority and his antecedents and wealth. Certainly, the area between small and tilted nose and wide thin mouth was overly long, the chin small and receding, the lips slightly protruding, the little skull crowned with rough black hair which no brushing and combing could tame. He had been unable to grow an impressive beard; what hair grew on his chin was sparse and tufted, like the hair on his head. His ears flared out largely; his brow was not lofty, but low and narrow.

  It was in his eyes that his greatness glowed, large gray eyes, diamantine in their fire and brilliance, flashing like a knife at one moment, gentle as a woman’s the next, leaping with humor at an I apt phrase, fixed as marble before folly and malice, radiant at the thought of God, and seeing all things even when he appeared not to see them. His eyes gave him a beauty which was not of his flesh but of his spirit, so that those who knew him well said that never before had a man been endowed with so wonderful an aspect before which the loveliness of a woman was as nothing.

  He gave the impression of enormous vitality, of constant and restless movement, of energetic gesture, of quick response, of imperishable endurance. He was potent in all things, and his voice was like a trumpet, emphatic and clear and penetrating, so that those who heard it for the first time were startled and thought it harsh, and later thought it most eloquent.

  A servant took his cloak and he stood in his gray and crimson robe clasped at his tiny waist with a rope of silver. He wore a magnificent opal on the index finger of his right hand but no other jewels. The elegant David, beside him, was a Hermes, with his fair hair and Grecian features and curly lips and blue eyes, but the effect was only momentarily. David diminished, and there was only Rabban Gamaliel, vividly beaming at Hillel and still patting his back gently and uttering soft sounds of wordless consolation.

  Hillel, always scrupulous, always aware of the amenities to be extended to visitors, could only say in a broken voice, “I am beset, God has sent you to me.”

  David’s delicate nostrils quivered as if surprised and he raised one fair eyebrow, indulgently.

  “Ah, but you were here before Rosh Hoshonah and Yom ha-Kippurim, innah nefesh,” said Gamaliel, but he said it tenderly. “You did not come to me nor invite me to you, Hillel ben Borush.”

  Hillel said, as he had said before, “I am beset.”

  David, the diplomatic, said, “He is loath to lose his daughter to my son. Too, he is a man of humility and modesty.” And David smiled with charm.

  “I have heard of that wedding. Am I not to be a wedding guest at the marriage of the daughter of the man who was named for my grandfather, may he rest in peace?”

  Shebua ben Abraham had invited the grandest of guests to that wedding, but he had not invited the Nasi of the Sanhedrin for fear of a rebuff, for Gamaliel had never deigned to enter this house before nor had he greeted Shebua at meeting places with overwhelming cordiality. He was a ma
n of a great house, and though Shebua often referred to him as to an intimate, they were less than friends. Inferior members of the Sanhedrin, however, had been invited. David’s handsome face quickened with pleasure and he thought how delighted his father would be to receive Rabban Gamaliel, whom Pilate deeply honored and consulted, and whom Herod was proud to embrace.

  “Knowing your tremendous burdens,” said David, “we did not wish to be presumptuous.”

  “Ah, then I am invited,” said Gamaliel, with an air of gratitude, as if David ben Shebua had been excessively gracious. But the gray eyes were amused. Gamaliel was humble enough before his God, prostrating himself in ecstasy and rapture and with a fire in his heart, but he was not humble before man, knowing his fellows, unfortunately, too well. However, his knowledge did not decrease his pity for them, nor his lust that they be given justice.

  They repaired to an inner chamber where the tinted windows had been shut against violent storm and the noise was dimmed. Gamaliel moved like a young child, active and lively, and he perched on the edge of an ebony chair with a gold velvet cushion and looked at Hillel with a smiling and expectant expression. He had seen more than Hillel could guess. The continuous lightning dashed its sharp black shadows on the white walls, where they appeared to dance and sway, and David kept wincing at particularly noisy crashes. But it might have been a summer morn for all the notice Gamaliel gave of it. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped before him.

  Before that affectionate presence and those kind and searching eyes, Hillel began to speak of the years since he had last seen his friend, and Gamaliel did not interrupt and made but slight gestures to emphasize his interest. Only once or twice did he murmur, “Ah,” and then was intent again. He did not speak of himself, and when Hillel had done Hillel said, with shame and embarrassment, “I have spoken only of what concerns me and the years that have passed, and my children, and have asked nothing of your family and their health, and yours. Forgive me.”

  “I am one of those fortunate men,” said Gamaliel, “whom God seems to have forgotten, blessed be His Name!” He laughed, and the sound was endearing. “It is enough that I remember Him. I do not wish to be another Job, nor one of the Children in the Fiery Furnace, whom God tests and tempers. It is possible that He considers it would be useless.”

  “My Greek friends tell me that it is well if the gods are unaware of your existence,” said David. “Good luck, then, is not impeded, and evil is averted. I have heard that when they believe that the gods have noticed them they hastily sacrifice to Fear.”

  Gamaliel chuckled. “The Greeks are very subtle, and their gods are admirable symbols of philosophy and phenomena but are not to be taken literally as the unlettered insist on doing. But the God of the Jews must be taken very literally, for has He not said He is a jealous God?” He looked at Hillel again, who had fallen into another sad revery.

  “Tell me of your son, at more length,” he said. Hillel did not answer, and Gamaliel calmly waited, and David, the very sensitive, understood that they wished him to leave. He clapped his hands for a servant and ordered refreshments for his guest and Hillel, then charmingly excused himself and departed.

  “I find David ben Shebua a man of much sensibility and true aristocracy,” said Gamaliel, in his candid fashion. “He is a far superior man to his father.”

  Hillel cried, with a sudden exacerbation of his despair, “I do not know my son! I never knew him!”

  “So all fathers say, as do I,” said Gamaliel, and his smile did not lessen though his eyes sparkled with understanding. “It is not a matter of the generations, and the few years between father and son, nor experience, nor wisdom, nor obstinacy, nor youthful stubbornness and blindness, and rebellion. It is a human matter. No man knows another. It is unfortunate that men believe that because a son is of their loins they have a closer intimacy, a dearer comprehension, as if they were one being! Yet a man’s friend, older or younger than himself, often has deeper loving insight into his heart and his thoughts than does a son, for kindred is not a matter of blood but a matter of spirit. Blessed is that rare man who discovers in his son a friend! He is celebrated in story. One must not forget that King David’s son attempted to kill him, and David mourned, ‘Absalom, my son, my son, would that I had died instead of you.’ But that was the delusion of a father who thought his son of his heart. It was Jonathan who was truly David’s son, brother, father, kinsman, for they were kindred in spirit.”

  “Then, our children are strangers to us?” said Hillel in the exhausted voice of grief.

  “Almost invariably,” said Gamaliel. “Wise is that father who knows that from the beginning. He clothed his son in his flesh, but he is not the father of his soul. Let him cultivate his son’s friendship, as he would cultivate the friendship of a stranger, and if friendship is repudiated friendship should not be demanded, for what man can be a friend to another if the sympathy is not there, and cannot be forced? I do not deny a father’s love. But a son’s love is a vagrant thing, and may be given or not be given without reason, and it is not a jewel in the marketplace which gold, or even devotion, can buy. A man must not seek to compel his son to love him, for it may be impossible for a thousand illogical impulses. He must only demand respect and honor, and in the end they may be of more value.”

  “Your words increase my sense of loss, dear friend, and my bereavement, for how can a man who loves his son accept them with equanimity?”

  “You have forgotten,” said Gamaliel with a sardonic smile. “The Commandment is that we honor our father and our mother, but it does not demand that we love them.”

  In spite of his despair, Hillel laughed with his friend. “Your commentary is very pertinent,” he said. He felt suddenly relieved, as if Gamaliel had touched his inner wounds with sweet-smelling ointment, and he began to speak of Saul with less emotion though with no less urgency. In the meantime servants had entered with refreshments and were serving them, and the wine brightened Hillel’s sunken eyes and the gray in his beard and hair no longer gave him the appearance of years beyond his own. For in the presence of Gamaliel, who listened with all his attention and concern, Hillel felt himself in the presence of a friend who knew all and understood all, and the brittle pain in his heart began to shatter and melt as ice under the sun.

  Gamaliel said, “I have met others—but not many—like your son, Saul, young men. The ranks of the Essenes and Zealots are filled with them. They have no doubts. They are full of an absolute certitude, which may offend God, blessed be His Name. For how can a man be certain of the Will of God, or the desires of God? These are found only by humble seeking and never by too much egotistic fervency, by self-surety, by ruthless assumptions, and emphatic convictions. It would be useless for you to tell Saul that those crucified today, in pain and blood and agony, sought death with exaltation, in service to God, (though, my friend, I often wonder if God desires such passion and if it would not be better if they would first consult Him). Their devotion, their fire, their sacrificing of self, must be acknowledged as noble, and I trust the angels who conducted them from the crosses were merciful and patient. God does not ask us to die for Him. He asks us to live for Him. If death is inadvertently our fate for our faith, and is imposed on us rather than sought by us, that is a holy thing. But your son Saul would not understand that. Do not lay that to his youth. I have seen graybeards of his opinion.”

  His tone was calm and soothing, and temperate, but his eyes had a shadow of sadness in them.

  All at once, the bitterness of his pain surged over Hillel again, and he said, “If I had my youthful years again I would commit the sin of Onan and spill my seed on the ground, and have no children! For what does it avail a man that he give another life and have that other scorn him and think him a fool, and his words mere prattling, and he become his enemy? A man has enemies enough; he need not beget them!”

  It was then that he glanced up to see his son, Saul, in the doorway. Hillel turned in his chair. He would have spoken but
Saul’s appearance appalled him. It was as if the youth were walking in a dream, a fever, and was not conscious of those in the lightning-lit room before him, and that he was wandering. His face was drawn and ghastly, his eyes like blue coals, his cloak wet. He was shivering.

  Then Hillel cried out, forgetting his own words and said, “Saul, Saul, my son, what is it?” and rose and went to his son and took his arm.

  “I saw them die,” said Saul in a loud and grating voice. “I saw their blood. I heard the nails bite into their flesh. And one was there, a rude peasant, who comforted them, and there was none else to give them such comfort but only a craven congregation, of which I was one! Anathema, anathema!”

  Hillel began to tremble with his grief for his son and his own pain. He did not know what to say. Then he saw that Saul was staring at Rabban Gamaliel fixedly.

  “Saul, my son,” said Hillel and he could barely speak. “We have an illustrious guest, whose fame is great in Israel, and of whom I have told you often in the past. Rabban Gamaliel, my dear old friend, my most honored and reverend friend, Nasi of the Sanhedrin, priest of the Temple, Teacher of the Law, to whom nothing is hidden and who will lie close in the bosom of Abraham.”

  Saul left his father’s arm and took a step toward the Rabban who sat and looked at him in intense silence. Saul made a disordered gesture. “But you were not there, Rabban Gamaliel!”

  Hillel was horrified at such desperate insolence, which came as close to blasphemy as was possible before a human being.

  But Rabban Gamaliel’s eyes shone with a light of their own upon the youth, and he said in the gentlest voice, “I was in the Temple, and I saw their souls as I prayed for them. What is life? Of what moment is it how we die, or when we die, for is it not the fate of man to perish? I tell you, Saul ben Hillel, that those zealous young men will never know the sorrow and loss and loneliness of age, the sad yearning for vanished faces, the lost love, the silence, the emptiness, the abandoned rooms, the voiceless halls, the mirrors which do not reflect the smile of the beloved, the floors which do not echo to the step of the beloved. They will not know betrayal, treachery, despair, disillusionment, vanity, frustration, grief. We all endure pain before we die, and some of us endure more of it, but the pain of living is far worse than the pain of death, and all pain is inevitable.”