But he little knew what was still in store for him. When, that evening, after a meal of figs and water, he lay down upon hard stones, in a rocky hollow, tired, despairing, wracked by a burning desire for the beautiful Athaliah, a terrible thought assailed him. It came altogether unexpectedly, like an enemy from behind concealment.
What had he had of all his years, his beauty and his strength?
These were Jason’s words, but the High Priest no longer knew it. The thought came to him so overwhelmingly that he groaned and commenced to tremble, as if he were exposed upon the snow-capped summit of Mount Lebanon.
He no longer remembered what he had thought the previous night upon his bed,—what had then made him so strong. One thought alone kept gnawing at him incessantly: “What have I had of all my life, of my beauty and my strength?” He even cried to God: “Lord, what have I had of all my life, of my beauty, and my strength?”
Under the stress of unfulfilled passion his entire life seemed to him now like a desert. Harsh and ascetic, thorns and stones. Nothing but debts and debts paid. The body had been nothing; the soul all. The soul! Who was it crying so within him now? Who was longing within him now? Was it the soul or the body?
His head sank back and he lay weary and hopeless. All at once he started up. With frightened eyes he gazed before him and delved into his soul: How did he know that the truth had been with him,—that his life had been the true life ordained by God?
He stretched himself out upon his stomach, his chin propped on his hands, his eyes staring into the desolate night, burrowing, burrowing into his soul. Somewhere in the distance jackals were howling; a lion of the desert bellowed with hunger. Johanan heard nothing. He was cold, and his heart and soul were rent asunder by bloody claws. The entire people lived altogether differently from him. Were they all wicked sinners, and was he alone the righteous man? But there was no righteous man upon earth who had never sinned. What was sin? They had often ridiculed his severity, crying out against it. Had he really been too severe? Where was the proper boundary?
He looked up to the sky. He half expected that the heavens would now open and that he would behold God and hear Him. Then he would know the whole truth. God would reveal to him everything. To him alone. He did not remove his eyes from heaven, and a yearning enfolded him. He longed to see God, to hear Him. He was eighty years old, and for the greater part of his life had been a High Priest, yet God had never revealed Himself to him either in reality or in a dream. What he knew, he knew from others, those who had come before him. From Moses and the Prophets. And, too, from himself alone,—from what his heart had told him. But now he wanted to hear it from God’s own lips. Had he, then, not earned it? But hour after hour went by, yet the heavens parted not, nor did God reveal Himself. The stars twinkled peacefully in the high heavens and from afar came the howling of the jackals and the roaring of a lion.
He cast his face upon his arm and burst into tears. Like a petulant child; and like a child, too, he fell asleep in his tears.
His slumber was restless and short. Queer dreams wove and interwove themselves in his mind, and on waking he could not recall them. And he knew that not even in his dreams had God revealed Himself. His heart became very heavy, and he accompanied his morning prayers with deep sobs. Athaliah’s figure was as if veiled by a cloud; that which had driven him into the desert had disappeared and been forgotten. Now he had one great yearning: to experience a moment of revelation,—to hear God’s voice, God’s word. With sighs and tears he proceeded further into the desert, to torture his body with prayer and fasting. He strode along in expectancy, his eyes directed to heaven, his ears wide open. Often he would stop short with bated breath, for it seemed to him that already he saw or heard something. Each time, however, after a brief waiting, he would continue on his way with a deep groan.