Joseph and His Brothers Read online

  the same time to observe a holy precept—the lad had rubbed his limbs supple with the oil, but he had not removed either the myrtle wreath plaited loosely in his hair or the amulet hanging by a bronzed cord from around his neck to the middle of his chest—a small packet, into which potent threads of protective roots had been sewn.

  He appeared now to be engaged in devotions, for with his face lifted to the moon shining full upon it, he held both arms against his ribs, but with forearms erect and open palms turned up and out; and as he sat there rocking gently back and forth, his voice added a kind of low chant to the words or sounds formed by his lips. He wore a blue ring of glazed stoneware on his left hand, and the nails on his fingers and toes showed traces of brick-red henna, presumably applied on the occasion of the town's most recent festival—a dandy's attempt to please the ladies on the rooftops—although he could easily have done without such cosmetic precautions and depended solely on the handsome face God had given him, which despite a still childlike oval was really very charming, thanks in particular to the gentle look of his black, slightly slanting eyes. Beautiful people think they need to enhance nature and "spruce themselves up," presumably as a way of conforming to the pleasing role they play in life or of providing a service for gifts received—which, when taken as a kind of piety, is certainly excusable, whereas there is something sad and foolish about ugly people decking themselves out. But beauty, too, is never perfect and for that very reason incites to vanity; for beauty works hard to achieve what it finds lacking in its own self-imposed ideal—yet another error, for beauty's secret actually consists in the attraction that comes from imperfection.

  Around the head of this young man whom we see before us now in reality, hearsay and poetry have woven a veritable halo of fabled beauty, giving us some cause for wonder in the presence of flesh and blood—even with the moon's precarious magic of soft dazzling light lending its aid. As days have multiplied upon days, what all has not been proclaimed and asserted, in song and saga, in apocrypha and pseudepigrapha, in praise of his appearance—praise which, now that we behold him, might well cause us to smile. That his countenance could have shamed the splendor of sun and moon is the least of what became fixed in memory. It has been said that he literally had to cover his brow and cheeks with a veil so that people's hearts might

  not be ignited by earthly passion for this man sent from God, and that whoever had seen him without his veil would—"now lost in deep and blissful contemplation"—no longer recognize the lad. Oriental tradition does not hesitate to declare that one-half of all potential beauty was bestowed upon this young man, and the other half doled out to the rest of humankind. A Persian bard of great authority outdoes even that conception with the eccentric notion that if all the world's beauty were melted into a single coin weighing twenty-four drachms, then twenty drachms, so our poet enthuses, would have fallen to him, the incomparable paragon.

  Fame so extravagant and overweening that it no longer assumes it will be verified is somehow both confusing and alluring to anyone beholding the reality. It can prove dangerous to a sober observation of fact. There are many examples of the power of suggestion inherent in an exaggerated evaluation that gains such general acceptance that individuals allow themselves to be dazzled by it, even to the point of frenzy. Some twenty years before the time now engaging our attention, a man very closely related to this lad had, as we shall hear later, offered sheep for sale in the region of Haran in the land of Mesopotamia, sheep that he had bred himself, but that enjoyed such a reputation that people paid him absolutely absurd prices for them, although anyone had to have seen that these were not heavenly sheep, but quite normal and naturally bred specimens, however excellent. Such is the power of our human need to submit to others! Although determined not to let our minds be darkened by fame that, given our situation, allows us to compare it with reality, we ought not err in the opposite direction either and yield to an exaggerated desire to find fault. Posthumous enthusiasm of the kind that we sense can threaten healthy judgment does not, of course, come out of nothing and nowhere; it has roots sunk firmly in reality and was demonstrably offered, at least in part, to that person while still alive. In order to comprehend this, we must above all accommodate ourselves to the viewpoint of a certain darkling Arabic taste, the aesthetic perspective operative at the time, according to which the young man was indeed so handsome, so beautiful that on many an occasion he was taken at first glance to be, more or less, a god.

  We wish therefore to be careful with our words and, yielding to neither a feckless indulgence of rumor nor a hypercritical spirit, shall

  offer the statement that the face of the moon's young devotee beside the well was a pleasant one, even in its defects. The nostrils, for example, of his rather short and very straight nose were too thick; but since that gave them a flared effect, they added to his countenance a certain liveliness, passion, and fleeting pride that corresponded nicely to the cordiality of the eyes. We shall not censure the expression of haughty sensuality caused by the pout of the lips. That can be misleading, and besides, when it comes to the shape of the lips, we must maintain the viewpoint of the land and its peoples. Whereas we would consider ourselves justified in finding the area between the mouth and nose as too fully arched—or we would, had it not been part and parcel of an especially appealing contour at the corners of the mouth, so that a simple meeting of the lips, without any tightening of muscles, produced a serene smile. Above the strong and handsome line of the brows, the lower part of the forehead was smooth, but farther up it bulged slightly beneath the thick, black hair, which was adorned, of course, with that myrtle wreath and tied back in a pale leather band that gathered the hair at the nape of the neck, but left the ears free—ears that would have been perfectly in order had the lobes not turned out a bit fleshy and too long, evidently the result of unnecessarily large silver rings inserted in early childhood.

  So was the lad praying now? He was seated too comfortably for that. He should have been standing. The murmurs and sotto voce singsong with raised hands seemed more a diversion lost in self-forgetfulness, rather like a soft dialogue with the heavenly body that he was addressing. He rocked and mumbled: "Abu—Hammu— Aoth—Abaoth—Abiram—Haam-mi-ra-am ..."

  The ideas muddled together in his improvisation were elaborated and associated in every conceivable way, for although he included within it the Babylonian pet names for the moon, calling it Abu, father, and Hammu, uncle, he was also playing both with the name of Abram, his true and presumed ancestor and, in a chain of permutations on that name, yet another honored by tradition: the legendary name of the Lawgiver Hammurabi, which means "My divine uncle is exalted." Although these syllables proceeded by way of the star worship practiced in ancient eastern homelands to a commemoration of family, they were also intended to move beyond the concept of fatherhood, culminating in stammered attempts at something new and yet to be, something that shared the spirit of what was

  so passionately cherished, debated, fostered by those closest to him . . .

  "Yao—Aoth—Abaoth—" the chant intoned. "Yahu, Yahu! Ya-a-we-ilu, Ya-a-um-ilu—" But as it continued with raised hands, swaying body, rocking head, and loving smiles lifted to the light-spending moon, something remarkable, almost frightening became noticeable about the solitary figure. He seemed to be carried away by his devotions, by this lyrical diversion or whatever it was; the increasing self-forgetfulness into which he was lulling himself now took on an eerie aspect. He had not put much voice into his chant, nor would he have had much to give. His still high-pitched, half-childish voice was brittle and immature, its organic resonance still youthful and inadequate. But now every tone left it, it died away in a throttled cramp; his "Yahu! Yahu!" was just a whispered gasp from lungs that were totally devoid of air and that he failed to fill again. At the same time his body wrenched, the chest collapsed, the muscles of his abdomen began a strange rotating motion, neck and shoulders rose in contortion, hands trembled, biceps stood out like strands of ro
pe, and in a flash the black of his eyes had rolled back—leaving the ghastly glint of white voids in the moonlight.

  One must add that no one would easily have misinterpreted the irregularity of the lad's behavior. His seizure, or whatever one chose to call it, seemed incongruous, a disquieting surprise, an improbable contradiction to the cordial, reasonable, well-mannered impression that the agreeable young man—at worst something of a dandy— convincingly made at first glance. If this was serious, then the question became who was to take responsibility for the state of his soul, which in this case could conceivably be regarded as bewitched, or at least as imperiled. Even as a game or a whim, this was dangerous business—and it appeared likely that it was at least something of the sort, to judge from the moonstruck lad's behavior in circumstances now to be described.

  The Father

  From the direction of the hill and its dwellings his name was called: "Joseph! Joseph!" twice, three times, the distance dwindling with each cry. He heard the third call, or at least only first acknowledged

  it, and quickly extricating himself from his state, he muttered, "Here I am." His eyes rolled back into place, and as he dropped his arms and lowered his head, he smiled an embarrassed smile down at himself. It was his father's mild voice, slightly plaintive and charged with emotion as always. It now sounded close at hand. Although he had already spied his son beside the well, he repeated his question, "Joseph, where are you?"

  Jacob—or Yaaqov ben Yitzchak, as he wrote when signing his name—was standing now between the well and the oracle tree, but close enough to the latter for the shadows of its leaves to dapple his long robes; and the fantastically clear moonlight, which can exaggerate any image, provided so sharp an outline that he appeared majestically, almost superhumanly tall. The figure's impressiveness was enhanced, whether intentionally or not, by his pose, for he was leaning on a long staff, grasping its hilt so high that his arm—adorned with a copper bracelet, but already that of an elderly man—was raised above his head and the wide sleeve fell back against the heavy folds of his coat, a wool and cotton outer garment with narrow, pale blue stripes. This brother of Esau, this preferred twin, was sixty-seven years old at the time. His sparse beard had no curl, but was long and wide—for just below the temples wisps of it stood out from his cheeks and it had been left to grow without any shaping until it now reached his chest at full width. Thin lips were visible under the beard glistening silver in the moonlight. The nose was sharply ridged and deep creases ran from both nostrils to the beard below. Beneath a brow half veiled by a hooded shawl of dark and gaudy Canaanite cloth that fell in folds to his chest and was then flung over one shoulder, were small bright brown eyes—already weary with age above the soft pouches of sagging lower lids and keen solely because of a keen mind—and they gazed anxiously now at the lad beside the well. The pose of the arm pushed the coat back, opening it enough to reveal an undergarment of dyed goat's wool, sewn with a hem that fell to the tips of his cloth shoes and arranged in long, fringed pleats, making it look as if it were several garments, one beneath the other. The old man's garb was heavy and diverse, the work of a very arbitrary, eclectic taste: elements of an Eastern cultural heritage were joined with those belonging more to the Ish-maelite or Bedouin traditions of the desert.

  Joseph was prudent enough not to answer the last call, for its

  question had obviously been asked even as his father saw him. He contented himself with the response of a smile—lips separated, his teeth sparkling white, the way teeth always gleam in a dark face, though not set closely together, but with small gaps—and accompanied it with the usual gestures of greeting. He raised his hands yet again, just as he had to the moon, rocked his head and gave a click of his tongue to express delight and admiration. Now he put his hand to his brow, palm up, and let it glide earthward in one smooth and elegant motion. Then, half closing his eyes and laying his head back, he put both hands to his heart and without separating them extended them several times toward the old man, each time circling back to the region of the heart, offering it in service to his father as it were. He also pointed with both forefingers to his eyes and touched his knees, the top of his head, his feet, each time returning hands and arms to the pose of devoted greeting—a lovely performance, carried out with both the casualness and formality prescribed by good manners and yet also with personal art and charm, expressing an amiable, courteous nature, but certainly not devoid of feeling either. Along with the intimacy of the accompanying smile, it was a pantomime of fiUal submission to his sire and master, the head of the clan, but it was also enlivened with the genuine joy afforded by such an opportunity for paying homage. Joseph knew well that his father had not always played a dignified and heroic role in life. Jacob's love of loftiness in word and demeanor had at times been undone by a gentle timidity of the soul; he had known moments of humiliation, of flight, of naked fear—situations in life that, though they proved to be the very ones transparent to grace, were also ones in which the lad he loved did not like to imagine him. And although Joseph's smile was not entirely free of coquetry and a sense of triumph, it came primarily from the joy of beholding his father—a sight intensified by moonlight and enhanced by the old man's regal pose on his long staff. Such childlike satisfaction showed a sensitivity for pure effect, absent any consideration of profounder factors.

  Jacob stayed where he was. Perhaps he noticed his son's delight and wanted to prolong it. His voice—we described it as "charged with emotion" because it always carried a tremolo of inner anxiety—called out again from a short way off. Its statement was half a question.

  "My child is sitting beside the depths of the well?"

  A Strange, uncertain declaration, like some faux pas in a dream. It sounded as if the speaker found it improper or at least surprising that anyone so young would sit beside depths; as if the words "child" and "depth" were at odds. But the question's true intent, what it wanted to express, was a nursemaid's worry that Joseph, whom his father saw as a much smaller child than he had become by now, might carelessly fall into the well.

  The lad's smile broadened, so that even more of his gapped teeth became visible, and he offered a nod in lieu of a reply. But his expression quickly changed, for Jacob's second statement was much sterner. "Cover your nakedness," he commanded.

  Raising his arms to form a circle, Joseph gazed down at himself in half-playful dismay, then hastily undid the knotted sleeves of his shirt and pulled the linen up over his shoulders. And it looked as if the old man had indeed been keeping his distance because his son was naked, for he stepped closer now. He used his long staff in earnest as a cane, lifting and setting it down firmly, for he limped. He had been lame, halt in one thigh, for twelve years now, ever since an encounter—in which he had prevailed—while on a journey undertaken amid dire circumstances and at a time of great fear and distress.

  The Manjebshe

  It had indeed been only a short time since the two had last seen one another. As usual, Joseph had sat in his father's tent, fragrant with the scent of musk and myrrh, and eaten his evening meal with whoever of his brothers and half brothers happened to be at home; for in order to guard other flocks some of them were living in the country farther to the north, near a stronghold and shrine in the valley overlooked by Mounts Ebal and Gerizim, and called Sichem, or Shechem, "the nape of the neck," and probably Mabartha as well, which meant "the pass." Jacob maintained religious connections with the people of Shechem; for although the divinity worshiped there was a variant of the Syrian shepherd, the handsome Lord Adoni or Tammuz—a strapping youth who was mutilated by the boar and whom people in the Lower Lands called Osiris, the Martyr—as far back as the days of Abraham and Malkizedek, king and priest of Sichem, this divine personage had assumed particular

  conceptual contours that earned him the title of El-Elyon, Baal-Berith, the name of God Most High, the Lord of Hosts, maker and owner of heaven and earth. This was to Jacob's mind a correct and pleasing viewpoint, and he was incHned to regard
Shechem's mutilated son as the true and highest God, the God of Abraham, and to see the Shechemites as brothers covenanted in faith, particularly since according to a firm tradition passed from generation to generation that ancient wanderer had engaged the Lord Mayor of Sodom in a learned conversation in which he, Abraham, had equated the God whom he knew and called El-Elyon with Malkizedek's Baal and Adon. And years before, upon his return from Mesopotamia, Jacob, Abraham's grandson in the faith, had himself erected an altar to this God near where he set up camp outside the city of Sichem. He had also built a well there and purchased pasturing rights with good silver shekels.

  There had later been serious altercations between Sichem and Jacob's people, with dreadful results for the city. But peace had been established and their relationship reinstated, so that a portion of Jacob's flocks now grazed on Shechem's commons and for the sake of those flocks some of his sons and shepherds had to remain far from the light of his countenance.

  Besides Joseph, two of Leah's sons had shared in the meal, raw-boned Issakhar and Zebulun, who had no use for the shepherd's life, nor did he wish to be a tiller of the soil, but wanted only to be a sailor. For ever since he had seen the sea at Askalon, he knew of no finer calling and carried on at length about nautical adventures and horrible mongrel creatures that lived across the water and that only sailors could visit—humans with the heads of bulls or lions, or two heads, or two faces, one of which was human, the other that of a sheepdog, so that they took turns speaking and barking, or people with feet like sponges and other such monstrosities. Also present were Bilhah's son, the nimble Naphtali, and Zilpah's two boys: outspoken Gad and Asher, who as usual had kept an eye out for the best morsels and made sure to agree with everyone. As for Joseph's full brother, the child Benjamin, he still lived with the women and was too small to join in a feast for guests, for that is what this evening's meal had been.