He found his old teacher seated beneath an acacia tree whose branches perfumed the air. A beam of light from the house, falling among the leaves, touched Naaman’s white hair and his long, snowy beard with a gentle gleam. That was how his pupil had remembered him, the picture of wisdom and peace. He greeted Jonah with affection, but without surprise.
“It is you, my son,” he said. “I am glad to see you again. Your fame has spread, for I heard of you, no later than to-day, as the young prophet who had inspired the king at Bethel.”
And he added gayly, “Come, sit here beside me, and tell me about yourself. As you see, my tree is blossoming again. Thus, at the end of my life, it is vouchsafed me to behold each year the return of spring and the marriage of earth with the Eternal One.”
“I do not know what you mean by the Eternal One,” said Jonah; “for all the gods are immortal and eternal. It is only you and I, Naaman, who grow older each year. But I am glad to see that you are well, and to know that your tree is blossoming.”
Naaman replied gently, “My son, you have traveled, and you have learned something. Have you not learned that there is only one God? Did you not learn that in the desert, Jonah?”
“No, Naaman,” said Jonah gravely, “I have not learned it. I have been in the desert, where God is. And I have also been in Tyre in the month before our Passover, when the quail return in great numbers to mourn the death of a god. I will tell you something about Tyre: there, before they are married, the maidens sacrifice their hair to Astarte. You should travel, Naaman, and hear of other gods.”
“I do not need to travel,” replied Naaman; “here in this quiet garden the sun sets and the moon rises; the breeze of evening whispers through the leaves of my acacia tree, and I see through the branches the stars which have not changed; I hear the voices of cicada, shrill and sad, as when I was a boy, I hear the herds winding down from the hills. All is as it was and as it will be; and my heart overflows with love and peace.”
Jonah shrugged his shoulders. “That is all very well for you,” he repeated, “but when one goes about, as I do, one sees many strange things. In Aram, for instance, there are gods which look like snakes. But it is possible to charm them with a flute. What has that to do with the God of the Jews?”
“Were you not also in Aram?” asked Naaman quietly. “Yet you are a Jew.”
“I was with the army ...” said Jonah.
But Naaman broke in, continuing: “Do you imagine that God would be content with a few tribes and a strip of sea-coast on this earth, which He created with so much trouble? Such an idea is highly improbable. Moreover, there is a regularity about the seasons which would be impossible in the case of a number of gods.”
But Jonah shook his head. “That is all nonsense, Naaman,” he said. “I cannot understand it. Why should God send the Jews to take the country and the flocks of the Aramæans, if they already belong to Him? And if there is no other God but Israel’s God, then who created the other people of the earth? You see into what difficulties an idea of this sort inevitably leads you. There is no doubt that our God is the true God, but to say that He is the only God does not seem to be justified, in the light of history.”
“What do we learn from history?” asked Naaman. “Little enough and nothing to our credit. The golden calf of Og has grown to be a bull. Well, so much for history.”
But Jonah replied discontentedly, “That is all very well theologically speaking, but you lose sight of the problems of administration.” And he repeated to Naaman what Amaziah, the High Priest, had told him.
“After all,” he said, “men must worship God in some form or other.”
But Naaman replied with grave anxiety:
“That is not the voice of Jonah that I hear. My son, do not let yourself be persuaded by those to whose ears the divine speech has never penetrated. God does not speak in the Temple, but in the silence of the heart. The hearts of His prophets are His tabernacles. There, in the quiet, in the hush of lonely piety, He speaks to Israel in tones of sorrow and command. Let us keep His tabernacles holy and austere. Go back to the desert, Jonah; and do not meddle with the affairs of this world.
“Go back to the desert, my son.”
Jonah remained silent for a moment, gazing out at the soft spring night with its faint shine and shadow of leaves. At last he said slowly, “Well, of course, after a while....” But he thought to himself, “Must I hurry? A little holiday will not do me any harm.
“I thought,” he said doubtfully to Naaman, “that I might stay a few days with my mother, who is growing old, and who after all does not see so much of me.”
But Naaman shook his head. “My son,” he said, “you cannot have both heaven and earth. If you are so fortunate as to count angels among your friends, it is because you have no mother and no brother. Be lonely, and content; and do not turn back to this life so full of passion and injustice. Grief and joy are not for you, Jonah; they are nothing for a prophet. The desert is your home; do not go too far away from it.”
“You are right, Naaman,” said Jonah, after a while; “one must not get too far away from the desert.” He rose to go, helping himself to his feet with his staff. “Good-by,” he said, “my teacher and my friend. Once again you convince me, a little against my will. As of old, I leave you, filled with a peace which is not entirely happy.”
And embracing his old teacher, he set off for his mother’s house through the night.
