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Absalom before the Rebellion
It is not easy to paint the blackness of the crime of Absalom. We have nothing to say for Amnon, who seems to have been a man singularly vile; but there is something very appalling in his being murdered by the order of his brother, something very cold-blooded in Absalom's appeal to the assassins not to flinch from their task, something very revolting in the flagrant violation of the laws of hospitality, and something not less daring in the deed being done in the midst of the feast, and in the presence of the guests. When Shakespeare would paint the murder of a royal guest, the deed is done in the dead of night, with no living eye to witness it, with no living arm at hand capable of arresting the murderous weapon. But here is a murderer of his guest who does not scruple to have the deed done in broad daylight in presence of all his guests, in presence of all the brothers of his victim, while the walls resound to the voice of mirth, and each face is radiant with festive excitement. Out from some place of concealment rush the assassins with their deadly weapons; next moment the life-blood of Amnon spurts on the table, and his lifeless body falls heavily to the ground. Before the excitement and horror of the assembled guests have subsided, Absalom has made his escape, and before any step can be taken to pursue him he is beyond reach in Geshur.
In this assassination of Amnon, David could not but see the further just retaliation of Providence for his own aggravated sin in the murder of Uriah, and the recollection of it must have greatly enhanced the bitterness of his grief, opened afresh the wounds of his conscience, renewed his repentance before his offended God, and caused him to deprecate the further effects of His displeasure.
Verily these your deeds will be brought back to you, as if you yourself were the creator of your own punishment.1 [Note: The Sayings of Muhammad (trans. by Al-Suhrawardy), 33.]
The story of Adam Bede is a tragedy arising from the inexorable consequences of human deeds. It will be remembered that it was Charles Bray who first set George Eliot meditating on the law of consequences. Sara Hennell had thought much about it too. She wrote in Christianity and Infidelity: “When the law of moral consequences is recognized as fixed and absolute, the hope to escape from it would be as great madness as to resist the law of gravitation.” George Eliot's best known expression of this law is in Romola: “Our deeds are like our children that are born to us: they live and act apart from our own will. Nay, children may be strangled, but deeds never; they have an indestructible life both in and out of our own consciousness.” This is the old Buddhist doctrine of Karma. St. Paul had put it still more briefly: “Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.” This law was not fatal to St. Paul, because he believed in regeneration. George Eliot followed Charles Bray. For him, the responsible person was he who, recognizing the inexorable consequences, governed himself accordingly. Nemesis was George Eliot's watchword, but in her handling of this law she approached to the Greek Fate rather than to St. Paul. It is this Fate which makes much of the extraordinary impressiveness of the Mill on the Floss. And in Adam Bede, Arthur Donnithorne's sin brought its retribution of terrible suffering not only to himself, but to Hetty, to Adam, to the Poysers. “There's a sort of wrong that can never be made up,” are the words wrung from him after bitter experience.1 [Note: C. Gardner, The Inner Life of George Eliot, 117.]
2. Great as Absalom's crime had been, we can readily understand that popular sympathy would in large measure be on the side of the princely offender. And David's heart soon turned to him also. Joab accordingly set about effecting Absalom's return. He sent to the king a wise woman of Tekoa with a feigned tale of the risk of death to which her firstborn son was exposed by the clan law of blood-revenge-a tale which moved the king to a solemn oath to save her son from the avengers. Why then-she went on with a compliment to the king's discernment-why then will he not save his son by recalling him from banishment, as Amnon is dead and nothing can bring him back again? The shrewd king rightly suspected that Joab was behind the woman's word; and, sending for him, he gave him leave to bring Absalom back, which he gratefully did. But Absalom was not suffered to see the king's face for two whole years, when at last, by a bold stroke, he prevailed upon the reluctant Joab to intercede for him. The king then gave his son the kiss of reconciliation.
3. The prince, seeing himself restored to favour and his eldest brother removed by death, now began to cherish ambitious schemes. The son of a foreign princess, and enjoying the popularity which often follows great personal attractions, he proceeded to add to it by sympathizing with all suitors whose efforts to obtain justice met with delay, consequent upon the King's failing to appoint the necessary deputies to aid him in his judicial functions. His hints of the beneficent change which would ensue if he were judge, and his grace and courtesy towards every one who approached to make obeisance to him, won all hearts; and he soon assumed something like royal state.
How well Absalom learned the arts of the office-seeker! Along with his handsome equipage he showed admirable devotion to the interests of his “constituents.” He was early at the gate, so great was his appetite for work; he was accessible to everybody; he flattered each with the assurance that his case was clear; he gently dropped hints of sad negligence in high quarters, which he could so soon set right, if only he were in power; and he would not have the respectful salutation of inferiors, but grasped every hard hand, and kissed each tanned cheek, with an affectation of equality very soothing to the dupes. There was, no doubt, truth in the charge he made against David of negligence in his judicial and other duties. Ever since his great sin, the king seems to have been stunned into inaction. If we suppose that he was much in the seclusion of his palace, a heavily-burdened and spirit-broken man, we can understand how his condition tempted his heartless, dashing son to grasp at the reins which seemed to be dropping from his father's slack hands, and how David's passivity gave opportunity for Absalom's carrying on his schemes undisturbed, and a colour of reasonableness to his charges. For four years this went on unchecked, and apparently unsuspected, by the king, who must have been much withdrawn from public life not to have taken alarm. Having in these four years thoroughly equipped himself, Absalom proceeded to proclaim open revolt against the unsuspecting king.
Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, who to advance and who
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed 'em,
Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i' the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck'd my verdure out on't.…
And my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary as great
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it,
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, he did believe
He was indeed the duke.1 [Note: Shakespeare, The Tempest, i. ii. 79.]