The Very Rich Man

There was a very rich man who had a great many servants. Such was his reputation that everyone dealt willingly and honourably with him and with his servants whom they knew always acted fairly, justly and generously with them. They considered it a great honour to have any dealings with the man, not least as they knew they themselves would in some way profit from their dealings. So it was that everyone would go to great lengths to find and supply whatever the man’s desires might be. Merchants would set aside the best of their wares, provisioners the best of their foodstuffs, wine merchants the best of their cellars, cattle dealers the best of their herds. The rich man rode the proudest of horses and wore the finest of clothes. It seemed that everyone waited on his merest wish.

This same man had a beautiful wife whom he loved dearly and a son, of whom both were exceedingly proud; a son who showed every promise of being such another man as his father. The father then, had every reason to think that he was the blessed of the gods. He had everything one might wish for.

But one day this only son was struck down with a terrible fever. The man called the best of the healers in the city. They could do little for the boy; indeed his fever only worsened. His servants recommended the best of the druggists: herbs, potions, poultices did nothing for the boy. Desperate, the grieving father called the temple priests. “I will give everything I have to build the most magnificent temple to your god, if you can persuade him to restore my son,” he pleaded.

“Sir,” replied the eldest of the priests,” we will do all in our power to have god restore your son, beseeching the most holy one to have regard to your goodness and the innocence of your boy.”

They prayed, they laid hands on the child, they chanted their most powerful hymns. There was no change. The man threw himself down before the priest. “Your god is my last resort. Ask your god to exchange my life for my son’s,” he begged, sobbing.

The priest bent down and gently raised the man up. “God may heed our humble prayers but he will not be coerced nor bribed; nor will he bargain one man’s life and destiny against another’s. You have been till now, one of the most fortunate of men; you have known nothing of refusal. Maybe such fortune demands its price, and that price is your suffering and the loss of your child. Death is a terrible thing, and we are all under its sentence. Even such love as you have for your son may not save him. God, however, is not cruel. Who knows what might happen to your son were he to live. You have offered your fortune in exchange for his life; you have nobly offered to sacrifice your life for his. But consider this: how would your son live his life in peace of mind, knowing you had done so; or how might he, raised in luxury, adapt to living in poverty and deep privation? Such a life could be far worse than the threatening hand Death now lays upon him.”

And indeed the child died. The man, in spite of all, had a most magnificent temple built as a memorial to his son. To this day the temple stands, the pride of the rich man’s city, and the son’s name is specially remembered every year on its dedication day. As for the man himself, he has neither monument, nor yearly remembrance. Only this story remains, and that without his name.

Fred Schinkel - A Parable, an Allegory