Matthew Henry John Bartlett

Then he closed his eyes and his head slowly fell forward upon his chest and I thought he had fallen asleep. I sat there, not knowing what to do. Interminable minutes passed. I had decided to go quietly to the door and leave, when I heard him say, his head still upon his chest, “Asher, I want to tell you something. It is important that you listen carefully to my words.” He raised his head and gazed at me unblinking from beneath the rim of the dark hat. “My father, of blessed memory, once said to me, on the verse in Genesis: ‘And He saw all that He did and behold it was good’ — my father once said that the seeing of God is not like the seeing of man. Man sees only between the blinks of his eyes. He does not know what the world is like during the blinks. He sees the world in pieces, in fragments. But the Master of the Universe sees the world whole, unbroken. That world is good. Our seeing is broken, Asher Lev. Can we make it like the seeing of God? Is that possible?”
   He paused a moment, then went on. “Once I told this to Jacob Kahn, of blessed memory. Yes, these same words. And he said to me that an artist, too, must see the world whole, he must somehow learn to see during the blinks, he must see where no one else can see, he must see the connections, the betweenesses in the world. Even if the connections are ugly and evil, the artist must learn to see and record them. I said to Jacob Kahn that a Rebbe, too, must see the connections, and if a Rebbe truly sees, if he is able, through the goodness and mercy of the Master of the Universe, to see as the Master of the Universe Himself sees, then he will see that all is good. Jacob Kahn said to me, ‘It is the task of the artist to see. If what he sees is good, then fine. If not, then not.” But all agree, Asher Lev, that it is the task of a Rebbe and of an artist to see, to look. That is understood?”
   I nodded, slowly.
   “It is understood?” the Rebbe asked again.
   “Yes,” I heard myself say, as if from a distance.
   “It is understood. Good. Very good. Then listen to me Asher. There are things I am able to see that I cannot reveal to you. You must understand that what I will now ask of you comes from that seeing. Listen. I ask you not to return to France tomorrow. I ask you to remain here with us for another week or two. Stay with us. I am told you must go to Paris. I ask you not to go.”
   There was a long silence. I sat very still.
 He leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Asher Lev, I give you and your wife and your children my blessing.”
   With his right hand he made a slight gesture. Then he sat back in the chair and seemed to disappear into the shadows.
   I went silently from the room.

— from The Gift of Asher Lev, by Chaim Potok.