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Iras, the daughter of Balthasar, sends me with salutation and a message, said a servant to Ben-Hur, who was taking his ease in the tent.
Give me the message.
Would it please you to accompany her upon the lake?
I will carry the answer myself. Tell her so.
His shoes were brought him, and in a few minutes Ben-Hur sallied out to find the fair Egyptian. The shadow of the mountains was creeping over the Orchard of Palms in advance of night. Afar through the trees came the tinkling of sheep bells, the lowing of cattle, and the voices of the herdsmen bringing their charges home. Life at the Orchard, it should be remembered, was in all respects as pastoral as life on the scantier meadows of the desert.
Sheik Ilderim had witnessed the exercises of the afternoon, being a repetition of those of the morning; after which he had gone to the city in answer to the invitation of Simonides; he might return in the night; but, considering the immensity of the field to be talked over with his friend, it was hardly possible. Ben-Hur, thus left alone, had seen his horses cared for; cooled and purified himself in the lake; exchanged the field garb for his customary vestments, all white, as became a Sadducean of the pure blood; supped early; and, thanks to the strength of youth, was well recovered from the violent exertion he had undergone.
It is neither wise nor honest to detract from beauty as a quality. There cannot be a refined soul insensible to its influence. The story of Pygmalion and his statue is as natural as it is poetical. Beauty is of itself a power; and it was now drawing Ben-Hur.
The Egyptian was to him a wonderfully beautiful woman—beautiful of face, beautiful of form. In his thought she always appeared to him as he saw her at the fountain; and he felt the influence of her voice, sweeter because in tearful expression of gratitude to him, and of her eyes—the large, soft, black, almond-shaped eyes declarative of her race—eyes which looked more than lies in the supremest wealth of words to utter; and recurrences of the thought of her were returns just so frequent of a figure tall, slender, graceful, refined, wrapped in rich and floating drapery, wanting nothing but a fitting mind to make her, like the Shulamite, and in the same sense, terrible as an army with banners. In other words, as she returned to his fancy, the whole passionate Song of Solomon came with her, inspired by her presence. With this sentiment and that feeling, he was going to see if she actually justified them. It was not love that was taking him, but admiration and curiosity, which might be the heralds of love.
The landing was a simple affair, consisting of a short stairway, and a platform garnished by some lamp-posts; yet at the top of the steps he paused, arrested by what he beheld.
There was a shallop resting upon the clear water lightly as an eggshell. An Ethiop—the camel-driver at the Castalian fount—occupied the rower’s place, his blackness intensified by a livery of shining white. All the boat aft was cushioned and carpeted with stuffs brilliant with Tyrian red. On the rudder seat sat the Egyptian herself, sunk in Indian shawls and a very vapor of most delicate veils and scarfs. Her arms were bare to the shoulders; and, not merely faultless in shape, they had the effect of compelling attention to them—their pose, their action, their expression; the hands, the fingers even, seemed endowed with graces and meaning; each was an object of beauty. The shoulders and neck were protected from the evening air by an ample scarf, which yet did not hide them.
In the glance he gave her, Ben-Hur paid no attention to these details. There was simply an impression made upon him; and, like strong light, it was a sensation, not a thing of sight or enumeration. Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet; thy temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks. Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away; for, lo! the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land—such was the impression she made upon him translated into words.
Come, she said, observing him stop, come, or I shall think you a poor sailor.
The red of his cheek deepened. Did she know anything of his life upon the sea? He descended to the platform at once.
I was afraid, he said, as he took the vacant seat before her.
Of what?
Of sinking the boat, he replied, smiling.
Wait until we are in deeper water, she said, giving a signal to the black, who dipped the oars, and they were off.
If love and Ben-Hur were enemies, the latter was never more at mercy. The Egyptian sat where he could not but see her; she, whom he had already engrossed in memory as his ideal of the Shulamite. With her eyes giving light to his, the stars might come out, and he not see them; and so they did. The night might fall with unrelieved darkness everywhere else; her look would make illumination for him. And then, as everybody knows, given youth and such companionship, there is no situation in which the fancy takes such complete control as upon tranquil waters under a calm night sky, warm with summer. It is so easy at such time to glide imperceptibly out of the commonplace into the ideal.
Give me the rudder, he said.
No, she replied, that were to reverse the relation. Did I not ask you to ride with me? I am indebted to you, and would begin payment. You may talk and I will listen, or I will talk and you will listen: that choice is yours; but it shall be mine to choose where we go, and the way thither.
And where may that be?
You are alarmed again.
O fair Egyptian, I but asked you the first question of every captive.
Call me Egypt.
I would rather call you Iras.
You may think of me by that name, but call me Egypt.
Egypt is a country, and means many people.
Yes, yes! And such a country!
I see; it is to Egypt we are going.
Would we were! I would be so glad.
She sighed as she spoke.
You have no care for me, then, he said.
Ah, by that I know you were never there.
I never was.
Oh, it is the land where there are no unhappy people, the desired of all the rest of the earth, the mother of all the gods, and therefore supremely blest. There, O son of Arrius, there the happy find increase of happiness, and the wretched, going, drink once of the sweet water of the sacred river, and laugh and sing, rejoicing like children.
Are not the very poor with you there as elsewhere?
The very poor in Egypt are the very simple in wants and ways, she replied. They have no wish beyond enough, and how little that is, a Greek or a Roman cannot know.
But I am neither Greek nor Roman.
She laughed.
I have a garden of roses, and in the midst of it is a tree, and its bloom is the richest of all. Whence came it, think you?
From Persia, the home of the rose.
No.
From India, then.
No.
Ah! one of the isles of Greece.
I will tell you, she said: a traveller found it perishing by the roadside on the plain of Rephaim.
Oh, in Judea!
I put it in the earth left bare by the receding Nile, and the soft south wind blew over the desert and nursed it, and the sun kissed it in pity; after which it could not else than grow and flourish. I stand in its shade now, and it thanks me with much perfume. As with the roses, so with the men of Israel. Where shall they reach perfection but in Egypt?
Moses was but one of millions.
Nay, there was a reader of dreams. Will you forget him?
The friendly Pharaohs are dead.
Ah, yes! The river by which they dwelt sings to them in their tombs; yet the same sun tempers the same air to the same people.
Alexandria is but a Roman town.
She has but exchanged sceptres. Caesar took from her that of the sword, and in its place left that of learning. Go with me to the Brucheium, and I will show you the college of nations; to the Serapeion, and see the perfection of architecture; to the Library, and read the immortals; to the theatre, and hear the heroics of the Greeks and Hindoos; to the quay, and count the triumphs of commerce; descend with me into the streets, O son of Arrius, and, when the philosophers have dispersed, and taken with them the masters of all the arts, and all the gods have home their votaries, and nothing remains of the day but its pleasures, you shall hear the stories that have amused men from the beginning, and the songs which will never, never die.
As he listened, Ben-Hur was carried back to the night when, in the summer-house in Jerusalem, his mother, in much the same poetry of patriotism, declaimed the departed glories of Israel.
I see now why you wish to be called Egypt. Will you sing me a song if I call you by that name? I heard you last night.
That was a hymn of the Nile, she answered, a lament which I sing when I would fancy I smell the breath of the desert, and hear the surge of the dear old river; let me rather give you a piece of the Indian mind. When we get to Alexandria, I will take you to the corner of the street where you can hear it from the daughter of the Ganga, who taught it to me. Kapila, you should know, was one of the most revered of the Hindoo sages.
Then, as if it were a natural mode of expression, she began the song.
KAPILA.
I.
Kapila, Kapila, so young and true,
I yearn for a glory like thine,
And hail thee from battle to ask anew,
Can ever thy Valor be mine?
Kapila sat on his charger dun,
A hero never so grave:
‘Who loveth all things hath fear of none,
‘Tis love that maketh me brave.
A woman gave me her soul one day,
The soul of my soul to be alway;
Thence came my Valor to me,
Go try it—try it—and see.’
II.
Kapila, Kapila, so old and gray,
The queen is calling for me;
But ere I go hence, I wish thou wouldst say,
How Wisdom first came to thee.
Kapila stood in his temple door,
A priest in eremite guise:
‘It did not come as men get their lore,
‘Tis faith that maketh me wise.
A woman gave me her heart one day,
The heart of my heart to be alway;
Thence came my Wisdom to me,
Go try it—try it—and see.’
Ben-Hur had not time to express his thanks for the song before the keel of the boat grated upon the underlying sand, and, next moment, the bow ran upon the shore.
A quick voyage, O Egypt! he cried.
And a briefer stay! she replied, as, with a strong push, the black sent them shooting into the open water again.
You will give me the rudder now.
Oh no, said she, laughing. To you, the chariot; to me, the boat. We are merely at the lake’s end, and the lesson is that I must not sing any more. Having been to Egypt, let us now to the Grove of Daphne.
Without a song on the way? he said, in deprecation.
Tell me something of the Roman from whom you saved us to-day, she asked.
The request struck Ben-Hur unpleasantly.
I wish this were the Nile, he said, evasively. The kings and queens, having slept so long, might come down from their tombs, and ride with us.
They were of the colossi, and would sink our boat. The pygmies would be preferable. But tell me of the Roman. He is very wicked, is he not?
I cannot say.
Is he of noble family, and rich?
I cannot speak of his riches.
How beautiful his horses were! and the bed of his chariot was gold, and the wheels ivory. And his audacity! The bystanders laughed as he rode away; they, who were so nearly under his wheels!
She laughed at the recollection.
They were rabble, said Ben-Hur, bitterly.
He must be one of the monsters who are said to be growing up in Rome—Apollos ravenous as Cerberus. Does he reside in Antioch?
He is of the East somewhere.
Egypt would suit him better than Syria.
Hardly, Ben-Hur replied. Cleopatra is dead.
That instant the lamps burning before the door of the tent came into view.
The dowar! she cried.
Ah, then, we have not been to Egypt. I have not seen Karnak or Philae or Abydos. This is not the Nile. I have but heard a song of India, and been boating in a dream.