And so the narrative, now serene, approaches its ending—and a happy ending it is: Cain, the personification of brutal crime, of lying cynicism, constitutes living proof that pardon is possible, thus justifying hope in man’s renewal, if not in his fate.

• • •

Yet the enigma remains: Why did Cain kill? What drove him to murder? For once, the Biblical tale, for all its sobriety and terseness, gives us more clues than its Midrashic commentaries.

Let us go back to Abel. We examined the fact and the extent of his guilt or complicity. Even assuming that Cain had to kill, why did Abel deserve to be killed? Let us reread the text: God accepted Abel’s offerings but not those of Cain, who became bitter and sank into a deep depression. God then aggravated his sorrow by pretending not to know, by speaking of the future while forgetting the past, in other words, by ignoring his grief. Locking himself into the silence of his despair, Cain did not answer. He was angry with God but not with his brother. Not yet. He forgave him for having stolen his idea, his gesture, for having outdone him by bringing better offerings than his own. When he finally felt the need to speak, to confide, he turned not to God—nor to his parents—but to his brother. Rejecting dialogue with God, vayomer Cain el Hebel akhiv—Cain spoke to his brother, Abel. What did he say? We don’t know. Perhaps he simply repeated to him the words he had just heard. It hardly seems to matter. Cain, grief-stricken, wanted to, had to, unburden himself. All he wanted was someone to talk to, to commune with. To feel a presence. And break his solitude. To have a brother, an ally when confronting God.

And Abel? Abel remained aloof. He did nothing to console his brother, to cheer him up or appease him. He who was responsible for Cain’s sorrow did nothing to help him. He regretted nothing, said nothing. He simply was not there, he was present without being present. No doubt he was dreaming of better worlds, of holy things. Cain spoke to him and he did not listen. Or else he listened but did not hear. Therein lay his guilt. In the face of suffering, one has no right to turn away, not to see. In the face of injustice, one may not look the other way. When someone suffers, and it is not you, he comes first. His very suffering gives him priority. When someone cries, and it is not you, he has rights over you even if his pain has been inflicted by your common God. To watch over a man who grieves is a more urgent duty than to think of God. Though too weak to oppose God, man is strong enough to defend his fellow-man or at least to dress his wounds. Abel did nothing—such was the nature of his fault.

So much for Abel. But what about Cain? If Abel was guilty, does that mean Cain was innocent? Not at all. Cain should have understood his brother’s tragedy: to be chosen by God is no less painful and restrictive than to incur His wrath. Man punishes those who love him, God chastises those He loves. In either case the punishment is unjust: to live with God causes no less anguish than to live without Him or against Him. When he saw God’s hand stretched toward Abel, singling him out, Cain should have felt sorry for him, for man pays dearly for God’s favors. By envying Abel, by refusing to understand him, to love him in spite of everything, by judging him and thus repudiating him, Cain became guilty. He was guilty even before he killed; his murderous deed only brought to a climax that which was already there.