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Full download The Embodied God: Seeing the Divine in Luke-Acts and the Early Church Brittany E. Wilson file pdf all chapter on 2024
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The Embodied God
The Embodied God
Seeing the Divine in Luke-Acts and the
Early Church
B R I T TA N Y E . W I L S O N
1
3
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education
by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University
Press in the UK and certain other countries.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190080822.001.0001
1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
Introduction
Seeing God’s Body
Since the Middle Ages, it has become axiomatic among both Jews and Christians
to reject the notion of an embodied God. With a few exceptions, the idea that
God possesses neither a body nor a form in the material sense has become a
part of the collective consciousness of the West in the modern period.1 Even
today, popular and scholarly discourse alike describes the God of Judaism and
Christianity, as well as Islam, as an invisible, incorporeal being who cannot be
perceived via the bodily senses. And while Christians specify that the imper-
ceptible God can be seen in Jesus, God “the Father” remains, at least in theory,
disembodied and largely veiled from human eyes.
In recent years, however, a growing number of Hebrew Bible scholars have
questioned the assumption that God lacks a body. Scholars such as Esther
Hamori, Benjamin Sommer, and Mark Smith all highlight God’s embodied
manifestations in scriptural texts and problematize the commonly held assump-
tion that God is both invisible and incorporeal, noting that these metaphysical
musings concerning God’s nature derive more from the Greek philosophical
world of Platonism than the ancient Near Eastern world of the Hebrew Bible.2
In the Bible itself, we do not find an abstract, immaterial being who is ultimately
unknowable and beyond human perception. Instead, we find a visible—and
even at times embodied—being who chooses to be made known to humans and
does so in ways that engage their bodily senses.
When it comes to the New Testament, though, scholars have been mainly
remiss in querying God’s so-called incorporeality.3 Such an oversight is in
1 As Christoph Markschies notes, groups as disparate as pantheists and Mormons (The Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints) are the “exceptions” who subscribe to the notion of an embodied
God (God’s Body, 1; cf. 323–24). See also Webb, Jesus Christ, Eternal God, esp. 243–70.
2 Sommer, The Bodies of God; Hamori, “When Gods Were Men”; Hamori, “Divine Embodiment in
Bockmuehl, “ ‘The Form of God’ (Phil. 2:6)”; Litwa, We Are Being Transformed, esp. 120–26; Thiessen,
“ ‘The Rock Was Christ.’ ” See also Bultmann, “Untersuchungen zum Johannesevangelium”; Malone,
The Embodied God. Brittany E. Wilson, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2021.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190080822.003.0001
2 Introduction
part understandable, for the New Testament never reveals God’s body in the
same way that we find in parts of the Hebrew Bible, as when Jacob wrestles
with God (Gen 32:22–32) or when Moses glimpses God’s back (Exod 33:17–
23). By the time of the New Testament, we also find Jews and Christians
interacting in a more sustained manner with Platonism (the philosophical
“school” that argued most adamantly for an incorporeal God) and even
referring to God as invisible (e.g., Col 1:15; 1 Tim 1:17; Heb 11:27).4 Such dif-
ferences, however, do not mean that all Jews and Christians during this time
period conceived of God in disembodied terms. Instead, opinions were di-
vided among Jews and Christians over the question of God’s body throughout
late antiquity, and it was not until the Middle Ages, with theologians such as
Maimonides and Thomas Aquinas, that the tide began to turn against those
who favored God’s corporeality.5 Before the Middle Ages, though, Jews and
Christians expressed God’s corporeality in a variety of ways, and this variety,
I argue, can be found within the pages of the New Testament itself, especially
in relation to how early Christians conceived of Jesus’s own body.
This book, then, addresses a current lacuna in New Testament scholarship
by turning its attention to recent discussions of divine embodiment that are
occurring in related disciplines. In addressing this lacuna, I primarily focus
on the two-volume work known as Luke-Acts as a test case. Thus, while each
chapter discusses pertinent New Testament texts, I narrow my discussion to
Luke-Acts in order to provide a thick description of the ways in which the
narrator (or “Luke”) represents divine embodiment in his narrative. These
representations reflect an awareness of debates concerning the divine in the
ancient world and point ahead to future christological controversies, both of
which make Luke-Acts an especially fruitful test case for understanding di-
vine embodiment in the early church (especially given that Luke-Acts makes
up approximately one-third of the entire New Testament).
Thus, while there is a diversity of views in the New Testament regarding
God’s body, this book argues that Luke-Acts stands out as an important
example of a New Testament text that portrays God as visible and corpo-
real. According to Luke, God is a visible, concrete being who can take on a
“The Invisibility of God.” See also the discussion of Christ’s cosmic body (and the literature cited
therein) in Chapter 2.
4 See also John 1:18; 5:37–38; 6:46; Rom 1:20; 1 Tim 6:16; 1 John 4:12, 20; 3 John 11. Cf. 2 Cor 4:17–
Many modern Westerners assume that God lacks a body. How, though, did
this assumption come to be? A number of different factors have led to this
pervasive idea among Jews and Christians in the West and among biblical
scholars more specifically, but the role of Greek philosophical thought has
been instrumental.6 Greek philosophy’s antagonism toward the notion of
God having a body, and divine anthropomorphism more broadly, stretches
back to the pre-Socratic philosopher Xenophanes (c. 570–478 BCE).
Xenophanes, whose words are preserved in the writings of the Christian
theologian Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215 CE), satirized the anthropo-
morphic gods of Homer and Hesiod and offered in place of the Homeric pan-
theon a supreme God who is “in no way similar to mortals either in body
or in thought.”7 However, it is Plato (427–347 BCE) who most famously
6 For a more in-depth discussion that traces the opposition toward God’s body in Western philo-
sophical and theological circles, see Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 35–50; Markschies, God’s Body,
esp. 1–73. See also Webb, Jesus Christ, Eternal God.
7 Xenophanes, fr. 170 (= Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 5.109.1), in Kirk, Raven, and Schofield,
The Presocratic Philosophers, 169. Xenophanes, however, does not deny that God has a body, saying
only that God’s body is different from those of humans. See Vernant, “Mortals and Immortals,”
4 Introduction
28–29; cf. Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 35–36. For an overview of perspectives on God’s body in
ancient philosophy from Xenophanes to Aristotle, see Markschies, God’s Body, 31–53.
8 See Renehan, who argues that the very notions of incorporeality and immateriality originate
with Plato (“On the Greek Origins of the Concepts of Incorporeality and Immateriality”).
9 For a comprehensive guide to Plato’s philosophy and Platonism more broadly, see Fine, The
132–35.
11 See the discussion in Chapter 2 for examples of how some Second Temple Jewish texts start to
14 See Berchman, From Philo to Origen. See also Markschies, God’s Body, 54–73.
15 Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 37–38. See also, though, Markschies, God’s Body, 222–31.
16 Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 39–41; Markschies, God’s Body, 3–6.
17 Trans. Maimonides, Guide of the Perplexed, 28.
18 Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 41–45; Markschies, God’s Body, 7–9.
6 Introduction
[T]he core of classical theism includes the doctrine that God is immaterial
and the doctrine that God is immutable (thus is not embodied, and cannot
become embodied), and includes the idea that the prevailing model of all
language about God is necessarily analogical. In some circles it is thus un-
derstood as a given that biblical passages describing God in such terms must
be interpreted metaphorically. The influence of this standard framework
(the philosophically “orthodox” view) in modern biblical interpretation is
radical and pervasive, even among those who would not think themselves
influenced by Xenophanes, Averroes, Maimonides and Aquinas.20
19 This impact continues today, to the point where the philosopher Richard Swinburne (1934–)
offers this representative definition in the opening line of his classic work on theism: “By a theist I un-
derstand a man who believes that there is a God. By a ‘God’ he understands something like a ‘person’
without a body (i.e. a spirit)” (The Coherence of Theism, 1). He expands later: “By a ‘spirit’ is under-
stood a person without a body, a non-embodied person. . . . That God is a person, yet one without a
body, seems the most elementary claim of theism” (The Coherence of Theism, 99). Cited in Hamori,
“When Gods Were Men,” 45.
20 Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 46
21 Peppard, The Son of God, 31.
Introduction 7
During the Enlightenment, the wedge between the soul, or “the mind,” and
the body became particularly sharp, for the respective components of this
binary were assigned to separate and distinct ontological realms. Scholars
often attribute this ontological separation to the seventeenth-century French
philosopher René Descartes, who famously distinguished between mental
substance (res cogitans, “the thinking thing”) and corporeal substance (res
extensa, “the extended thing”).22 Such a “Cartesian dualism,” however, is es-
pecially problematic for our purposes, because it does not accurately capture
depictions of the body in the ancient world, or even depictions of the body in
ancient Platonic accounts, which tend to describe the body’s relationship to
the immaterial realm more in terms of a spectrum rather than an unbridge-
able chasm.23 Plato himself, while positing a radical distinction between the
body and the soul, still thought that the soul was composed of elements from
the world. Unlike Descartes, Plato does not equate corporeality and incorpo-
reality with materiality and immateriality, and around the time of the New
Testament, many self-styled Platonists look remarkably like Stoics on matters
related to the body and the soul.24 When I speak of Platonism, or a Platonic-
Christian framework, therefore, it is important to remember that those of us
living in the wake of the Enlightenment often view these systems of thought
through a lens that potentially distorts their ancient manifestations.
Yet while this brief overview explains why many biblical scholars take
God’s invisible immateriality for granted, an increasing number of people are
starting to challenge this assumption. As noted earlier, Hebrew Bible schol-
ars have been in the vanguard on this front, and I will highlight three in par-
ticular who have emerged as significant voices in the recovery of the Bible’s
portrayals of God as an embodied being and who are especially important
for this project: Esther Hamori, Benjamin Sommer, and Mark Smith.25
Esther Hamori was by no means the first to write on God’s body in the
Hebrew Bible, for before Hamori we find others addressing this topic, such
as James Barr in his landmark article on theophany and anthropomorphism
and Howard Eilberg-Schwartz in his equally important work on the gendered
22 Note, though, that even Descartes’s dualism is not absolute (see, e.g., his famous Sixth
Meditation).
23 See Martin, The Corinthian Body, 6–15.
24 Martin, The Corinthian Body, 12. For a discussion of the debates over the corporeality of the soul
Embodiment, and Theology; Knafl, Forming God; Putthoff, Gods and Humans, Wagner, Göttliche
Körper; Wagner, God’s Body.
8 Introduction
26 Barr, “Theophany and Anthropomorphism”; Eilberg-Schwartz, God’s Phallus, 59–133. For fur-
ther discussion on God’s body in relation to gender concerns, see Moore, God’s Gym, esp. 82–102;
Wagner, God’s Body, 118, 138, 162.
27 In addition to concrete anthropomorphism, Hamori’s categories include the following: envi-
sioned, immanent, transcendent, figurative, and mixed anthropomorphism (“When Gods Were
Men,” 26–34). However, for a more thorough taxonomy that complicates some of these categories
(especially envisioned anthropomorphism), see Knafl, Forming God, esp. 256–66.
28 This quote comes from Mark Smith’s summary of Hamori’s approach to anthropomorphism
Mark Smith extends the insights of Hamori and Sommer (and Smith’s
own prior work) by discussing divine anthropomorphism in relation to
space and place in his 2016 book, Where the Gods Are: Spatial Dimensions
of Anthropomorphism in the Biblical World. Here Smith argues that God has
three different types of bodies in the Hebrew Bible: one that is human in scale
and manifest on earth in a material sense (as in Genesis), a second that is a
superhuman-sized body manifest on earth but often luminous and not phys-
ical or fleshy (as in Exodus and Isaiah), and a third that partakes of a bodily
form, though the nature of its physicality remains unclear, and is manifest in
the cosmic realm (as in the later prophets).31 This third divine body becomes
particularly important in the postbiblical period and demonstrates that there
is not a linear development in Jewish tradition from earlier “primitive” ac-
counts of an embodied God to later “sophisticated” accounts of a disem-
bodied God.32 What we find instead is that some sources move away from
the idea of a divine body (such as the Priestly and Deuteronomic traditions),
whereas others move toward a divine cosmic body (such as Ezek 1, Second
Isaiah, Dan 7, and 1 Enoch).
All of these above works, in their own way, problematize the classical the-
istic claim that God lacks a body. Such work on God’s body is particularly
important for this project, since the authors of the New Testament, Luke in-
cluded, drew extensively on Jewish scriptural texts and the depictions of God
received therein. But it is important to note that the intellectual history behind
classical theism also does not represent the diversity of opinions regarding
God’s body within the wider Greco-Roman world of the New Testament. The
Greek philosophical tradition directly critiques the anthropomorphic gods
of the epic tradition, as found, for example, in the mythologies of Homer and
Hesiod, but the opinions preserved in philosophical texts likely represent a
very small percentage of the population.33 The majority of people living in
the ancient world would not have been privy to such elite ruminations, and
the popularity of cult statues and other images of the divine suggests that
31 Smith, Where the Gods Are, esp. 13–30. Note that his opening chapter draws from his previous
Note, though, that the division between poets and philosophers on this issue is too tidy, for some
poets were also vehemently opposed to the depiction of the gods in anthropomorphic terms,
Euripides being a prime example.
10 Introduction
34 For a discussion of cult statues and other forms of divine representation, see Markschies, God’s
ical positions regarding God’s “body” in his On the Nature of the Gods (De natura deorum).
36 See Markschies, God’s Body, 41–48. On Stoicism in particular, see Sellars, Stoicism, esp. 81–106;
Salles, “Introduction.”
37 On the role of Stoicism in early Christianity and how Platonism superseded Stoicism as the
more popular philosophical framework for Christians by the end of the second century, see Engberg-
Pedersen, “Setting the Scene.”
38 On how traditions about God’s body also extended into early Islam, see Williams, “A Body
Unlike Bodies.”
39 For the German edition, see Markschies, Gottes Körper.
40 Markschies, God’s Body, 231–82. See also Patterson, Visions of Christ.
Introduction 11
Manifestations, esp. 19–151. Orlov and others who argue for a linear development between apoca-
lyptic texts and later mystical texts stand in the tradition of Gershom G. Scholem and his foundational
work on this topic (e.g., Major Trends). On the problems in tracing Jewish mysticism’s “prehistory” in
earlier Jewish and Christian texts and in generalizing about its development, see Reed, “Rethinking
(Jewish-)Christian Evidence.” See also Schäfer, The Origins of Jewish Mysticism.
44 For a helpful overview of the role of Hellenistic philosophy, including Platonism, in the New
Testament, see Sterling, “Hellenistic Philosophy.” For an argument that Paul appropriates Platonic
traditions, see Wasserman, The Death of the Soul; Wasserman, Apocalypse as Holy War, 174–202.
45 See, e.g., Rasimus, Engberg-Pedersen, and Dunderberg, Stoicism in Early Christianity.
12 Introduction
46 Jonathan Z. Smith’s devastating critique of this “decline” narrative in Protestant Christian schol-
arship looms large here (Drudgery Divine, esp. 54–84). See also J. Warren Smith, “Plato among the
Christians.”
47 For an overview of the relationship between Hellenistic philosophy—including Platonism—and
early Christianity, see Drobner, “Christian Philosophy.” On how Origen, for example, differed from
Platonism, see Edwards, Origen against Plato.
48 See, for instance, Markschies’s discussion of Tertullian and Melito of Sardis (God’s Body, 69–71,
183–93).
49 See, in particular, M. David Litwa’s discussion of this topic in Iesus Deus, 6–21.
Introduction 13
First-century Judaism was not immune to Platonism (Philo being the pri-
mary case in point) or to wider Greco-Roman culture. Indeed, most writers
of the New Testament, to varying degrees, had a foot in both “worlds,” so
to speak: the world of Judaism and the world of the ancient Mediterranean.
Luke himself is no different, and even though I primarily focus on the Jewish
distinctiveness of Luke’s work, I also highlight places where he engages
“Greco-Roman” ideas, a trend we shall see in particular with his portrayal
of Jesus.
All the same, this project proceeds on the assumption that Judaism is the
primary matrix of the New Testament, and specifically Luke-Acts.50 Jewish
representations of God have their own flavor and distinctives, and I shall
flesh out these distinctives throughout much of the project. Luke himself
relies heavily on the Greek translations of Israel’s Scriptures, and he stands
within the literary traditions of the Second Temple period, especially texts of
the apocalyptic variety. He does not, however, find much affinity with texts—
Jewish or otherwise—that promulgate a picture of the divine in metaphysical
or philosophically fraught terms. A Philo Luke is not. When I speak, there-
fore, of Luke’s indebtedness to Jewish traditions, I primarily mean those tra-
ditions that represent the God of Israel as an anthropomorphic deity and/or
concrete presence who visibly encounters humans on earth (and sometimes
in heaven) in the “bodily” sense and who desires to be in relationship with
humans.
By focusing on the specifically Jewish origins of Luke’s portrayal of God and
Jesus, my main goal is to further discussions that emphasize the Jewishness
of Christianity’s earliest theological and christological convictions. My hope
for this book is that it will advance conversations that focus on the Jewish
roots of Christianity’s conceptions not only of God but of Jesus’s own embod-
iment. As Sommer provocatively puts it, the Christian claim that God has an
earthly body, a Holy Spirit, and a heavenly manifestation is in effect a Jewish
one.51 In this way, I hope to demonstrate how the embodied God of Jewish
50 For an excellent discussion of Luke’s Jewish context and a critique of the long-held view that
Daniel Boyarin (The Jewish Gospels, esp. 34, 102, 158) make a similar point by noting that the
Christian doctrines of the Trinity and incarnation have Jewish roots. See also the discussions
of Christian scholars who argue that the Old Testament’s depiction of divine anthropomorphism
and human theomorphism anticipates the incarnation (Mauser, Gottesbild und Menschwerdung;
Dearman, “Theophany, Anthropomorphism, and the Imago Dei”), as well as Jewish scholars who
argue that Judaism is inherently incarnational (Wyschogrod, “A Jewish Perspective on Incarnation”;
Neusner, The Incarnation of God; Wolfson, “Judaism and Incarnation”). (On this latter point, though,
14 Introduction
Scripture both contributes to and differs from the embodied Jesus of the New
Testament. Thus, while many of the early church fathers found it necessary
to “translate” the relationship between God and Jesus into the philosophical
language of their day, I want to suggest that with the benefit of hindsight,
it is necessary—and indeed imperative—for us to recognize the inherently
Jewish shape of the God-Jesus relationship for our own historical moment.
Before proceeding any further, it is important to say a brief word about what
I mean when I say God’s “body.” Since the “corporeal turn” in the 1980s, the
body has been a site of debate among theorists and has even generated an
interdisciplinary field known as “body studies.” Chris Shilling, a leading
figure in body studies, defines the body as emergent material phenomena
that shapes, and is shaped by, its social environment.52 Shilling’s definition
helpfully captures both naturalistic and social constructionist positions on
the body by holding in tension the biological materiality of bodies and the
social forces that shape and define bodies. It highlights how bodies are both
active agents and passive receptors, as well as the fact that bodies are never
static entities or fully complete (hence the “emergent”). His definition also
helpfully destabilizes a mind/body dualism, and he elsewhere critiques the
Western tendency to equate a person with their “mind,” while also cautioning
against an inverted Cartesianism that equates a person with a limited con-
ception of physicality. Yet while this definition offers a helpful starting point,
Shilling is ultimately a sociologist who is writing primarily from the position
of present-day social theory. For our purposes, therefore, I offer some emen-
dations and clarifications to this definition that are more specifically tailored
to understanding the body—and specifically, God’s body—in biblical texts.
First, it is important to underscore that I am dealing with textual repre-
sentations of God’s body. Of course, embodied human beings constructed
these representations, and these representations in turn have the ability to
construct human conceptions of the body. Biblical representations of God’s
see also Segal, “The Incarnation,” 116–39.) For a helpful summary of the implications of God’s body
for Jewish and Christian theology, see Hamori, “Divine Embodiment,” 161–83.
52 Shilling, The Body and Social Theory, xii. See also his helpful overview in The Body: A Very Short
Introduction.
Introduction 15
53 Note also that material representations of God’s anthropomorphic form often depict that form
as a male body, drawing from “verbal images” such as “the Ancient of Days” (e.g., Dan 7:9–10; cf.
Rev 1:13–16). The image on the cover of this book, for instance, depicts God as a male “Ancient of
Days” figure and also draws from Isa 66:1 and New Testament descriptions of Jesus being exalted
to God’s right. Note too that the artist, Peter Paul Rubens (1577–1640), portrays God as a white,
European male.
54 See Wolfson, “Judaism and Incarnation,” 239–54, and my discussion in Chapter 1.
55 See Smith’s discussion of theriomorphism in the Hebrew Bible in Where the Gods Are, 47–57.
Anthropomorphism”; Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 46–50. On how religion is a type of anthro-
pomorphism (or should be redefined as “systematic anthropomorphism”), see Guthrie, Faces in the
Clouds.
58 Hamori, “When Gods Were Men,” 46.
16 Introduction
Substitution; Hundley, Gods in Dwellings; Putthoff, Gods and Humans; Sommer, The Bodies of God.
On the divine embodying physical objects in the Greco-Roman world, see, e.g., Platt, Facing the
Gods, 77–123; Steiner, Images in Mind; Markschies, God’s Body, 74–99. See also Thiessen’s discussion
of Christ’s “rock body,” drawing here on Sommer’s argument concerning God’s rock bodies (“ ‘The
Rock Was Christ’ ”; cf. Sommer, The Bodies of God, 49–54).
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l’argent, laborieusement réuni, et le gardait pour former un nouveau
fonds, un capital nouveau.
L’année même du mariage, les enfants, qui étaient entrés dans la
vie matrimoniale avec un bien-être relatif, commencèrent à ressentir
les coups du sort, comme s’ils avaient hérité de la malédiction qui
pesait sur leur pauvre mère. Obdulia, qui ne pouvait s’habituer à
vivre au milieu des cercueils, fut prise par l’hypocondrie; elle fit une
fausse couche; ses nerfs se déchaînèrent; la pauvreté et les
négligences de son mari, qui ne s’occupait plus d’elle, aggravèrent
ses maux constitutifs. Mesquinement secourue par ses beaux-
parents, elle vivait sous les toits dans la maison de la rue de la
Cabeza, mal abritée, plus mal nourrie, indifférente à son mari, se
consumant dans une oisiveté mortelle, qui fomentait les
dérèglements de son imagination.
Par contre, Antonito était devenu un homme sérieux depuis qu’il
était marié et cela grâce à la vertu du bon jugement et à l’application
au travail de sa femme, qui était un vrai trésor. Pourtant tous ces
mérites qui avaient produit le miracle de la rédemption morale
d’Antoine Zapata ne suffisaient point à les défendre de la pauvreté.
Le ménage vivait dans un petit logement de la rue San-Carlos, qui
avait l’air d’une bonbonnière et où à peine entré on reconnaissait la
présence d’une main active et soigneuse. Et par surcroît de bonheur,
celui qui, à une autre époque, faisait partie de la classe des mauvais
sujets, avait pris l’habitude et le goût du travail productif, et, ne
trouvant rien de mieux à faire, il s’était mis courtier d’annonces.
Toute la sainte journée, il allait affairé de boutique en boutique, de
journal en journal, et, bien qu’il eût à payer sur ses gains une grande
usure de chaussures, il lui restait toujours quelque chose pour aider
la marmite et soulager Juliana de son énorme tâche de machine
Singer. Et la femme ne se perdait pas en petites choses; sa
fécondité n’était point inférieure à ses aptitudes domestiques, car, de
sa première couche, elle eut deux jumeaux. Il fallut par force prendre
une petite bonne, et une bouche de plus à la maison nécessita de
doubler les mouvements de la Singer et les courses d’Antonito par
les rues de Madrid.
Avant l’arrivée des jumeaux, l’ancien mauvais garnement avait
l’habitude de surprendre sa mère par les splendeurs et les rayons de
son amour filial, qui furent les seules joies savourées pendant de
longs temps par la pauvre femme; il lui apportait une piécette, deux
piécettes, quelquefois un demi-douro, et doña Paca en était plus
heureuse que si elle avait reçu de ses parents de Ronda une
métairie. Mais, lorsque les poupons avides de vie et de lait se
rendirent maîtres de la maison et eurent besoin de bons aliments
pour croître et se développer, l’heureux père se trouva dans
l’impossibilité de faire de petits cadeaux à la grand’mère avec
l’excédent de ses gains, parce qu’il n’y en eut plus assez pour en
faire profiter l’aïeule.
Il lui aurait été plutôt utile de recevoir de l’argent que possible
d’en donner.
Bien au contraire de ce ménage, celui des funéraires, Luquitas et
Obdulia, allait fort mal, parce que le mari se laissait distraire de ses
obligations domestiques et de son travail; il fréquentait sans cesse le
café et même d’autres lieux moins honnêtes, ce pourquoi on dut lui
retirer le recouvrement des factures de la maison des funérailles.
Obdulia ne tenait aucun ordre dans la conduite de la maison; elle se
trouva promptement accablée de dettes: chaque lundi, chaque
mardi, elle envoyait la concierge à sa mère avec de petits billets
pour lui réclamer le secours de quelques sous que sa mère ne
pouvait lui donner.
Tout cela était occasion de nouvelles anxiétés et préoccupations
pour Benina qui, dans son amour sans fin pour sa maîtresse, ne
pouvait la voir affamée ou dans le besoin, sans chercher
immédiatement à la secourir selon ses moyens. Non seulement elle
avait à pourvoir à l’entretien de la maison, mais il fallait encore
qu’elle fît en sorte que le nécessaire ne vînt point à manquer chez
Obdulia. Quelle vie, quelles horribles fatigues, quel pugilat avec le
destin, dans les profondeurs sombres de la misère qui fait honte et
doit se cacher pour conserver une ombre de crédit et conserver un
certain décorum! La situation arriva à un point d’anxiété tel que
l’héroïque vieille, fatiguée de passer son temps à considérer le ciel
et la terre afin de voir s’il ne tomberait pas inopinément un secours
de quelque part, ayant tout crédit fermé chez les marchands, toutes
les voies étant bouchées, ne vit plus d’autre moyen pour continuer la
lutte que de boire sa honte et de se mettre à demander l’aumône
dans les rues. Elle commença un matin, espérant que ce serait la
seule fois, mais elle dut recommencer tous les jours, la triste
nécessité lui imposant l’office de mendiante, se trouvant dans
l’impossibilité de sauver autrement les siens. Elle y arriva à pas
comptés et elle dut reconnaître qu’elle serait obligée de continuer la
voie douloureuse jusqu’à la mort, suivant la loi économique et
sociale, puisque c’est ainsi que l’on dit. Elle n’eut plus qu’une idée,
ce fut d’empêcher que sa maîtresse en sût rien; elle commença par
lui conter qu’il lui était échu une place d’aide de cuisine dans la
maison d’un curé de l’Alcarria, aussi bon que riche.
Avec sa prestesse imaginative, elle baptisa ce personnage de
pure invention, en lui donnant, pour mieux tromper sa maîtresse, le
nom de don Romualdo. Doña Paca crut tout ce que Benina voulut
bien lui dire, et elle récitait journellement quelques Pater Noster pour
que Dieu augmentât la piété et les rentes du bon prêtre, afin que
Benina eût quelque chose à rapporter à la maison. Elle désirait le
connaître, et, la nuit, tandis qu’elles trompaient leur tristesse par des
conversations et des histoires, elle lui demandait mille détails sur lui,
sur ses nièces, sur ses sœurs, comment était arrangée la maison et
les dépenses qu’on y faisait; à cela, Benina répondait avec maints
détails et circonstances qui auraient bien pu être vrais tant ils étaient
vraisemblables.
IX