Кронин Арчибальд Джозеф

The Innkeeper's Wife[Christmas Story]

THE INNKEEPER’S WIFE

At dawn, Seraia, wife of the innkeeper, awoke, and her first instinctive glance showed that Elah, her husband, was not there beside her. She sighed and for some moments lay still, facing another day, feeling anew the weight of sadness that bore down upon her heart. She thought of the troubles in Judea, the last trace of liberty gone, the people oppressed by the harsh rule of the Roman procurator, forced to worship as idols the images of the deified Emperor set up in the temple. Through-out the land, between apathy and recklessness, a blight had spread, brigandage and robbery were rife, the taint of moral decay, of sacrilege, exaction and hung in the air. Would nothing, she asked herself, ever come to change it? Above all, with deepening anxiety, she thought of her own difficulties, and of the painful problem which, beneath her own roof, increasingly beset her.

The morning was grey and cheerless with a harsh breeze blowing across from Mount Hermon but, urged by her sense of duty, she stirred, got up and began to clothe herself, shivering slightly, for Bethlehem lay high on its windswept spur and the air at this season was sharp and chill. She was a comely woman still, despite her forty odd years, short and trim in figure and with an open face marked by lines of kindness. Her expression in repose showed a pleasant quietude. Her grey eyes, matching the sober hue of the robe she now girded about her, had in their depths the look of one who sees more than outward things, one who has, perhaps of necessity, created an interior life all her own.

She had finished dressing and, with a last look around the room to ensure its order, was about to leave when slowly, with a cautious touch, the door opened. It was her husband. Plainly discomfited to find her up, he hesitated irresolutely on the threshold then, too hastily, launched into an explanation of his absence: he had gone downstairs at an early hour to prepare for the crowd of guests that must flock to the inn today; and with a sudden gust of that fretful irritability which had lately come upon him, he began to grumble at the extra work which they would have because of the great movement of people to register in the census ordained by Herod Antipas. When he paused, appearing to expect some reply, she said quietly:

"It is not like you to complain of trade, Elah ."

"Of good trade, no," he retorted. "But today’s may be of a mixed variety. The rabble will be on the move."

"Then why concern yourself so deeply… you must have risen in darkness, long before the dawn?"

He reddened perceptibly under her steady gaze.

"Someone must make arrangements… yes, yes, someone must do it… so why not I…?"

While he ran on with increased confusion she answered little, pitying his weakness and shame, yet finding in these manifest emotions and in his sidelong questing glances, a faint encouragement that he still cared something for her.

As she went downstairs the light was brightening, already there were movements in the kitchen-her two good maids, Rachel and Athalea, both devoted to her, had begun the many preparations for this busy day. The cooking pots of lentils were al ready on the fire, water had been drawn from the well, the goat’s flesh was roasting on the spit, as was proper under the Mosaic law. To Rachel, kneading the dark barley flour she had ground in the stone handmill, Seraia said:

"Today we must make an extra batch of loaves… also a special sauce of butter and milk for the meat. And fill extra gourds with olives."

"But, mistress:’ Rachel, the short dark one, who had a sense of humour, looked up jestingly, " if all the world is to be taxed our guests may well lack appetite."

"They will eat," Seraia said, with a faint smile, "if only to assuage their grief." Then to Athalea : "When the bread is in the oven see that the upper rooms are made ready."

Malthace, Seraia noted with relief, had not yet appeared. She, indeed, from natural indolence, and the elaboration of her toilet, which often occupied her for an hour, or more, was always late, but her brother Zadoc was in the yard and Seraia could hear him bullying the stable boys and shouting for the wine jars to be brought in, as if he owned the place and were not a known rogue with a long record of misdemeanours who, some years before in his native Lydda, had been publicly flogged for stealing.

The rough sound of Zadoc’s voice, and the thought of his sister upstairs, idly bedizening herself before her mirror, plunged a sword in Seraia’s heart but with an effort she drew herself erect and commenced her household tasks, managing in many was through her own competence to make up for the slackness and short-tempered inefficiency which had marked her husband since Malthace and Zadoc had come to the inn, at first as servants, but soon after with a growing assertiveness and authority that could only spring from Elah’s infatuation for the woman.

It was not until after the tenth hour that Malthace showed herself, announced by her loud laugh and wearing the rich, braided gown which Seraia knew Elah had given her. As she swept into the kitchen, with a look of bold effrontery and that sly air of proprietorship which cut Seraia so cruelly, she exclaimed:

"It promises right well for today There should be good pickings for us. Already there are many travellers on the road."

"Doubtless:" Seraia rose from the hot roasting spit, basting spoon in hand, "but not all will be as rich or lavish as you would wish."

"Elah will single out the rich ones," the other laughed knowingly. "That I promise you.

"Then you feel that you may speak for him?" Though her nerves quivered, Seraia forced herself to answer evenly.

"Why not?" Malthace retorted, with a toss of her earrings. Placing her hands upon her hips she postured like a dancer." Tell me, do you like my dress?"

Seraia saw her maids watching her with covert sympathy and this increased her sense of insult. But with an effort she maintained her calm and answered the servant girl.

"Yes, it is beautiful… and costly too, I do not doubt."

"Which makes it fitting for today. There will be excitement in plenty before we see the end of it."

Indeed, as Malthace had said, there presently began a great stir without and a great commotion within. Situated as it was, among the olive groves on the main road to Bethlehem-which lay, girded and fortified by the great wall of Rehoboam, a bare quarter of a league away-the inn was passed by all the traffic to and from the town. Founded by Elah’s grandfather, a man of high integrity and a member of the council of the Zealots, of whom it was said he would rather lose ten talents than overcharge one shekel, the hostel had in these days enjoyed a high and sober reputation. Now, in Elah’s hands, this was less than formerly, but he had made extensions, adding a large atrium, lit from above, in the Roman manner, and with this and other modern innovations, still commanded an abundant though perhaps a less exclusive patronage.

Thus before the day was far advanced the place was filled to overflowing, all rooms occupied or bespoken, the long atrium packed with a noisy throng, eating and drinking, some disputing violently, others forgetting the discomforts of their enforced journey and the gloomy prospect of the new Roman taxes by making merry.

Amongst them Elah bustled officiously, scolding the kitchen maids, interfering with the waiters, but always with a sharp eye to the main chance-it seemed to Seraia that his love of gain, grown within recent months, had never been more evident. Nor had Malthace and Zadoc ever seemed nearer to him, always at his elbow, smiling, prompting, propitiating, yet with an interchange of glances between themselves that, to Seraia, boded ill.

Indeed, for the innkeeper’s wife, as the oppressive noontide passed and the long, noisy afternoon wore on, a strange sense of personal crisis began to form and take shape within her. What, she asked herself, would b e the outcome of it all? She believed that Elah still respected her, yet he seemed more and more under the domination of Malthace. After twenty years of marriage she knew her husband, knew him to be well-meaning in many ways, soft by nature rather than severe, a man absorbed by commerce who, despite his uncertainty of temper, had on the whole been considerate towards her in the past. But lately he had changed and, obsessed with those material things which to her were of slight importance, had fallen into that self-indulgence spread by the loose ideas and looser living of the Imperial masters.

Of one thing she felt sure-if only their child had lived this would not have happened… yes, that would have bound them together. But it had been the will of the Almighty to take their son and now, with that tie unloosed, with nothing to restrain him, of what might not Elah be capable? Might he not even put her away? She trembled at the thought which had long tormented her. He would not be the first who had cast off his lawful wife and taken the bondwoman to his bed. She had prayed that it might not be, yet such things were commonplace in these evil days when immorality was rife and paganism swept the land.

It was just then, towards the fifth hour, that Seraia, meditating thus as she helped her maids scour the piles of platters borne in from the dining hall, suddenly heard her husband’s voice raised angrily in the yard. Looking out she saw that a man, advanced in years, and a young woman, dusty and travel-stained, had come to the back door of the inn.

"I tell you we have no room," Elah’s tone rose higher. "You must go elsewhere."

"But, sir," entreated the old man, "we have sought everywhere in Bethlehem and there also not a single lodging is to be found."

Seraia drew nearer the open window, wiping her hands upon her apron, observing the drawn look of endurance on the young woman’s face and the weariness of her companion as he leaned upon his staff. Now, humbly, and in a deeply troubled voice he was again begging Elah to reconsider his refusal. They had come far, he pleaded; his name, he added, with touching simplicity, was Joseph and Mary, his young wife, was even now expecting to be delivered of her firstborn. Only the edict of the procurator Herod had forced them to journey at such a time - in this extremity they must have shelter of some kind.

"Of your goodness," he concluded, "could you not spare us a corner beneath your roof?"

"I have not even a garret," Elah almost shouted. "Can you not understand, the inn is full? And were it not, there would still be no room for such as you."

As the innkeeper turned away, the rejected travellers stood in silence: Mary with downcast eyes, her husband so bowed in troubled perplexity it was plain he knew not what to do. Meanwhile Zadoc and one of the waiters, standing by, found the opportunity to demonstrate their wit too good to miss.

"Ay, ay, this is a sorry pass you’re in," Zadoc began, with affected concern. "Had we known of your distinguished coming we should certainly have reserved our finest chamber… plenished it with brocades from Damascus, rich carpets from Persia, furnishings of sandalwood inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl…" His grin broke through and, encouraged by the sniggers of this ally, leaning idly against the wall, he continued to mock the two wayfarers.

To these jeers Joseph made no answer but, taking Mary’s arm, slowly turned away. Touched in her generous heart, Seraia could bear it no longer. She must not, could not, let them go. Impulsively she ran from the kitchen and caught the dusty sleeve of Mary’s dress. Because of Elah she dared not take them into the house. Perhaps he was watching even now, ready to forbid and rebuke her. Hurriedly, she conducted them across the yard towards the low straggle of outbuildings on the opposite side and pushing open an unlatched door drew them into the protective darkness of the stable. This was no more than a deep recess cut from the ridge of red volcanic earth that marked the boundary of the courtyard, but it was faced with sun-dried bricks and thatched with stout osiers. At the back, dimly seen, an ox and a young ass lay together in their stall.

"It is poor enough, the Lord knows," Seraia said, breathing a little quickly from nervousness and haste, "but it is all I have to offer. Still… here at least is shelter, warmth against the keen wind, and a clean litter of straw on which to rest."

"We are grateful… most grateful," Joseph said, gazing at her earnestly. "Heaven will bless you for your kindness."

"You will not mind the animals?" Seraia ventured, with anxious solicitude. "They are quiet beasts."

"We are country people… we shall be at home with them," Joseph answered. Then turning to Mary he pressed her hand, murmuring reassuringly: "Be of good cheer. It is come to pass… exactly as in my dream."

These strange words, though spoken in an undertone, were heard distinctly by the innkeeper’s wife. They surprised and confounded her. So too did the calm and inevitable air with which the travellers accepted this makeshift haven in which they found themselves. Hurriedly, almost with embarrassment, she said:

"I will bring you some refreshment." And, even as Joseph started to thank her, she hastened away. It was not easy to procure the food under her husband’s watchful eye, but here again she was successful and in no more than a few minutes had returned, bringing barley bread, slices of goat’s cheese, and a brimming bowl of milk. Nor was her intervention too soon. Both were faint for want of sustenance but beyond this she saw that Mary, worn to the point of collapse, was already suffering in silence the pangs of labour. And so, with deepening compassion, the innkeeper’s wife set out to help her.

Afternoon turned to evening with a sky from which the clouds had passed, leaving the heavens bathed in a strange pellucid twilight, and Seraia, between her duties at the inn, made many journeys across the courtyard. By taking her good maid, Rachel, into her confidence, thus far she had succeeded in accomplishing all these missions unobserved - an augury bringing much relief, for now she stood so deeply committed she dreaded discovery by Elah. Yet, come what may, she must go on. Begun in charity, this work of human kindness insensibly had assumed for her a different character, mysterious and momentous, even intimidating. These were no ordinary vagrants. Joseph, when questioned, revealed that he came of the house of David - a royal line. Advanced so far in years beyond his youthful bride, withal so gentle, he appeared more a guardian than a husband. And Mary, over and above her modesty and beauty, possessed a dignity striking in one so young. In the uncomplaining serenity with which she submitted to the humble circumstances of her confinement, it seemed almost as though she knew these to be predestined. This sky, too, windless now, and of an unearthly purity, in which a great star had suddenly appeared, distant yet brilliant, increased Seraia’s sense of fearful wonderment. She asked herself if she was not partaking in some great event, she knew not what, and at this a sweet thought came to her. On an impulse to give what was dearest to her heart she climbed to the attic of the inn. Here, under the roof tree, laid carefully away in a cedar chest were the swaddling clothes which, ten years before, she had made with loving fingers, for her own child. Between pain and tenderness Seraia viewed them, breathing the fragrance of the cedarwood, reflecting wistfully on her own loss, on all that might have been, and on the strange undreamed of use to which now, with gladness, she would put these soft, long-treasured garments. Swiftly she took them up.

But as she came down, bearing them, all expectant of the joy of giving, she drew up short. There, at the foot of the stairs, Elah was awaiting her, his look charged with anger and resentment. In the shadows of the passage Malthace was visible behind him.

"What’s this you are about, woman?" he burst forth. "Did I not send these two beggars upon their way? Yet I am told you have given them both food and shelter. And now," he bent forward, outraged, pulling at the clothes, "these."

She had turned pale, realizing that the woman had spied, then informed, upon her. But she answered bravely, in a tone mingling resolution with entreaty.

"Their need is great, Elah, how could I do otherwise than help them? I beg you not to interfere. There is in this… something beyond our understanding."

"Beyond whose understanding?" he cried.

"Have you not seen the great star… rising… there in the East? It is a sign, Elah."

"What nonsense are you talking? Once and for all, I forbid you to continue this… this… wasteful folly."

A moment of silence, prolonged and absolute, while with downcast eyes Seraia sustained the gaze of her husband and Malthace. Then she raised her head and faced him steadily.

"No, Elah, I must do it."

Quite taken aback, he stood gaping - but only for an instant.

"What… would you openly disobey me?" And in an access of violence he raised his hand and struck her on the face.

The force and unexpectedness of the blow drove Seraia back. Yet she did not fall and, with a sharp intake of breath, recovered herself. With bent head and without a word she hurried off towards the yard.

"You see," Malthace murmured, coming nearer, "how little she respects you. Are you not the master here? Why should you be browbeaten by her when there are others who would bend to your slightest wish?" And she leaned enticingly against him.

But for once, Elah did not respond. Bitter though he was against Seraia he was now, by a swift turn of mood, equally angry with himself. It seemed impossible that he had struck her. Never before had he used violence against her. The thing was unaccountable. Yet surely she had merited it. Advancing to the doorway he watched the retreating figure of his wife who for the first time in her life had disregarded his authority. Why had she done so? And what was the meaning of the strange words she had used? It was at this moment that, looking up involuntarily towards the sky, he perceived the star which though far away, actually seemed to move toward the inn. Glittering in the tremulous twilight, a scintilla of brilliance, it caught and held him motionless, until abruptly he drew away his gaze. Disturbed and undecided, he turned restlessly towards Malthace.

"Let us go in and drink a cup of wine," he said. "I am sick to death of this talk of signs and portents."

They went to the cabinet opening from the vestibule which he used as his office and there, from a cool jar, holding the sweet vintage which, because she favoured it, he had specially obtained from Petra, he poured two generous measures. It was a habit he had fallen into and which at first had highly entertained him - snatching a respite from the humdrum round in amorous dalliance, amused by her idle chatter and the blandishments she freely exercised upon him. But now here was little pleasure in it. Somehow the wine did not refresh him, nor did the woman’s flattery ease his sullen mood. He remained dull and silent and after a brief interlude he rose and went into the atrium. Here were gathered most of the guests, now returned from the registration booths and awaiting the evening meal. Mingling with them, Elah felt more himself, assumed the business of a host, joining in the general conversation, discussing the census and the Roman levy which must follow it. In this serious talk of money and imposts no mention was made of anything so trivial and unremunerative as the star. Yet an hour later when Elah emerged, more comfortable in mind, there was Seraia, waiting in the passage for him, recalling the whole disconcerting affair by her rapt exclamation:

"The child is born!"

Her face was bright, her look almost radiant, the blow he had given her seemed banished from her recollection, for all in that one communicative breath she added:

"And I… I held him in my arms."

"Well, what of it?" he said roughly, withdrawing from her hand she would have laid upon his arm. "All has been done against my will."

"But hear me, Elah," she eagerly persisted, undeterred by the rebuff. "There was of course no place for him. Can you fancy what I did… took fresh straw, made a little bed and laid him in it… in the manger. At first the ox was startled, then came forward and licked his little foot. Come, Elah, come and see for yourself. I entreat you. It is a sight you must not miss."

"Let me be." He shook her off. "I will have no part of it. There is no reason in what you say."

"I cannot speak of reason, or of what manner of child this may be… only this… when I held him in my arms it was as though my heart thrilled and sang within me."

Part of him wanted to respond in unwilling recognition of her goodness but his other self choked back the inclination. Because of this inner struggle, because he blamed her as the cause of it, he sought the harder for words with which to hurt her.

"What a fool you are," he said, "to drivel thus over an unknown brat. And a shrewish fool besides… striving to press your will upon me. Go now and see about the serving of the supper."

When she had gone, he felt appeased by her submission, once again master of his household. Yet this reversal of his mood did not last, for presently that provoking and unnatural malaise began, once more, to harass him. He could not shake it off, and against his will, drawn irresistibly, he found himself, by a roundabout way, back in the courtyard, gazing upwards uneasily out of the corner of his eye. Yet, the star was still there, and still drawing nearer, larger and more luminous than before. Could it be, in truth, a portent? As he struggled with the question, suddenly, to his surprise, he saw some shepherds from the neighboring fields approaching the inn. They had no business here at this hour yet on they came, in their shaggy wool cloaks and thonged leggings, a band of seven or eight, led by old Joab, who was piping the little tune with which he homed his flock. Old Joab was a queer one, judged wise by some and simple by others, a man who knew herbs and their uses, foretold the weather, studied the heavens, and even explained dreams. A solitary who lived alone, tending his sheep and seeking no man’s company, there were many none the less who sought his, for he could heal the sick and, it was whispered, make predictions which came true. When asked about such powers he would reply that he had no powers, but that sometimes in the wide spaces of the wilderness he heard voices - which stamped him, of course, in the eyes of the learned, as a natural half-wit.

Now, when Elah called to him, asking the reason of his coming, he finished first his little tune, then gaily gave back these preposterous words:

"We are come, master, to give honour to the newborn Babe."

"Honour, you old clown?" the innkeeper shouted back. "Are you out of your mind?"

"If so, it’s for joy, master. This is a day that has long been waited for, and one that will be long remembered."

And forthwith he grouped his band about the stable and with a preliminary flourish led them in what, despite the untutored voices and the feeble tootling of the pipe, was plainly intended as a canticle of praise and jubilation.

Biting his lip, Elah stood watching and listening in acute vexation. It was beyond his comprehension, this unlooked for performance, and so also was the whole sequence of events which had been, as it were, arranged and enacted on the very threshold of his inn.

For some woman of no account to bear her child obscurely when on a journey, that surely was commonplace. Why then had his wife lost her wits in a passion of devotion, why had these idiot carollers been drawn from their fields to stand moping and mowing to a reedy tune. Why, above all, this unique, incredible star? With all his soul Elah wanted to cross the yard, his own yard, throw open the stable door, his own door, and pierce the very core of the conundrum. He could not do it: stubbornness, pride, and something else - a vague fear of the unknown, of what to his own undoing he might discover - all this held him back. Instead, he swung round and re-entered his inn. As he did so he almost stumbled over the figure of Zadoc sunk down in a dark corner of the passage, befuddled with wine, and snoring noisily. The sight, though it was no novelty, depressed Elah further. He touched the sot with his foot but failed to rouse him then, after a moment of gloomy contemplation, he went into his office, began to prepare the reckonings for the morrow.

When he finished, supper had finally been served, indeed was almost over. Moodily watching the last dishes being cleared, Elah realized that it was time for him to go to register. As one of the most important men in the district and a close friend of Ammon the publican who, besides occupying the position of local tax collector, was now acting as the chief census teller, Elah had no need to scramble with the common herd but could go privately after the official hours. Ammon indeed owed him many favours: a bag of flour here - a cask of wine there, delivered from the inn after dark, had created a solid understanding between them, and Elah well knew from his experience in the past that he would receive a highly favourable treatment under the new tax levy.

The prospect of this visit and, even more, the thought of quitting the inn came to him with relief. He was soon ready and as he set off into Bethlehem he hoped that the change of scene, together with the movement of his limbs, might lift the cloud that hung upon him. But it was not so. The faster and the farther he went the more spiritless his thoughts became. In the town, adding to his oppression, he found that the star-struck shepherds had gone before him, still in an exalted state, and were even now parading the streets, singing their crazy hymns, proclaiming tidings of great joy for all people, crying aloud that light has come into the world, that the glory of the Lord was around them.

Avoiding these madmen, Elah spent an hour in close and confidential communion with Ammon, then he called on another acquaintance, ordered some stores to be delivered next day, but all the while he was not himself, there was no relish in his bargaining, nor in his most profitable meeting with the publican.

When he got back to the inn the windows were darkened, the hubbub of the long day was stilled. Now perhaps he might find some peace. But when he threw himself upon his bed his sleep was fitful and disturbed. He rose unrefreshed and met the morning with the sullen frown. Indeed, all that day, and during the days that followed, there lay upon the innkeeper a fearful indecision. Though now he made no move to interfere, covertly, with a brooding disquiet, he watched the comings and goings of his wife in her ministrations to the mother and the child. And all the time the great star drew nearer. He felt he could endure it no longer. Then, late one night, as he took his keys and went the rounds of his establishment, preparing to lock up, a sudden sound of hooves made him spin round. Three horsemen, richly dressed and of dark complexion were entering the courtyard, urging their mounts to a canter, as though at long last they saw their destination before them.

Expert from long experience in appraising the social order, Elah perceived at once that these were men of the highest rank, perhaps even - from the jewels they wore, their swinging scimitars and richly hued turbans - potentates from the East. Instinctively, as they drew up, habit and the thought of gain drove him forward, bowing and scraping, servilely offering hospitality.

"Welcome, good sirs… your excellencies. You have ridden far I see. Permit me to take your horses. You shall have the best my house can offer."

Did they understand him? Did they even hear him? To his chagrin they ignored him - a passing glance, calm and detached, was all that he received. Then, one said, with an air of high authority, but using the words awkwardly and with a foreign accent:

"We do not stay. Only see that no one disturbs us while we are here."

Dismounting, they unstrapped their saddle bags and shook the dust from their garments, then as Elah stood, mortified and dumbfounded, they looked upwards towards the star which now was stationary, shining directly above them, spoke a few words in low tones amongst themselves, and entered the stable.

Now, indeed, the innkeeper could hold back no longer. A fearful curiosity bore down his stubborn resistance, overcame his fear of discovering, in the unknown, something which of its very nature would hurt and humiliate him. Slowly, step by step, as though drawn by some unseen and irresistible force, he followed the three strangers and, taking his stance at the half open doorway, peered within.

The interior was dim, lit only by a shallow vessel of oil in which a wick of plaited rushes flickered, casting soft shadows into the corners of the cave and amongst the bare beams which held the osier roof. Yet the scene was plainly visible, vivid and distinct, as though limned by the brush of some great master. Mary, the mother, reclining upon a pallet of straw, held the Child closely in her arms, while Joseph, having risen to greet the visitors, now stood back, withdrawn, shrouded in his grey cloak. Behind, the ox and the ass lay peacefully in the dimness of their stall. All this Elah might have anticipated, though he could not have foreseen its simplicity and beauty. What struck and stupefied him was the behaviour of the three men of rank, these rich and powerful rulers from the East. There, with his own eyes, he observed them step forward, each in his turn, kneel reverently on the earthen floor and offer homage to the newborn Child then, having made obeisance, each humbly proffered a gift. Craning forward, Elah caught his breath as he discerned the rare nature of the offerings - myrrh, frankincense, and gold. All these Mary, the mother, received in silence, simply, timidly, and with a kind of awe, as though submissive to a ritual not yet perhaps fully understood but for which in her heart she knew herself predestined. The Babe, resting close against her breast, also seemed conscious of the ceremony enacted before Him, for His gaze, lingering upon the three visitants, followed their movements with a strange and touching solemnity.

All this, to the innkeeper, so passed comprehension he began to question its reality, striking his forehead with his knuckles as though to dispel a mirage of self-delusion. Was he drunk or was he dreaming? A beggar child, chance begotten in this stable, venerated, yes, worshipped, by three high-born kings. He could not as a rational man find reason in it. Ah yes, he clung to the phrase… a rational man… like a swimmer in deep water overcome and reaching for support. Was he not practical, sensible and shrewd, a realist steeped in sound logic, a man of the world whose skeptical eye had many times pierced a bogus scheme or a concocted story? It was madness to shout of glory and great joy, of a light to lighten the world, when some sane material reason must exist, and would be found, to explain this mummery.

But suddenly, as he rejected all the mystery of this mysterious event, the songs of the shepherds, the visitation of the kings and the portent of the star, the child in his mother’s arms moved slightly and turned its gaze full upon him. As that single glance from those innocent and unreproachful eyes, filled with such tenderness and grace, fell upon the innkeeper, he could not sustain it. A shock passed through him, his own glance fell to the ground. Instinctively he turned away and, like one intent only upon escape, went back across the yard as though pursued.

The inn was quiet now, servants and guests alike had retired for the night. But in an anteroom, as Elah entered, one light remained unextinguished and there, seated alone, was Malthace. She wore a loose robe, ungirded, her cheek was flushed from some hot and pungent brew and her dark hair, unbound, fell across her shoulders. The smile with which she greeted him was warm with invitation.

"Where have you been? I had begun to fear you would not come. And after such a day when I have had but the barest word with you." She stretched her arm towards him. "Come, sit and drink with me. Tell me I am kind to wait for you. Then speak to me of love."

Dazed by the light, the unexpected sight of her and above all by the turmoil of his thoughts, Elah passed one hand across his eyes and with the other supported himself against the lintel of the door.

"Why? Are you not well?" Then she laughed meaningly. "Is it the need of me that turns you so weak?"

He did not answer. She was the last person he had wished to see. In the revulsion of his feelings she was at this moment repugnant to him. But he dared not, from very shame, expose his weakness to her.

"I am tired perhaps," he muttered. "As you say… the day has been long."

"Then come sit by me and I will refresh you." She repeated her gesture of invitation.

"No…" With head averted, he fumbled for an excuse. "I am indeed weary, Malthace… there was much for me to do… tonight I must rest."

Her face changed, hardened - less at the words than at the manner of his refusal.

"Come now, Elah," she cried sharply, "you cannot treat me like this…"

But before she could protest further, he turned and went away.

In truth, a great lassitude had come upon him and, heavily, as though each foot were weighted with lead, he climbed the steep stairs to his room. He had thought to find his wife asleep but despite the lateness of the hour she had not yet retired. Seated on a low stool by the open window, a pensive, lonely figure lined against the brightness of the heavens, she was gazing outwards, so still and self-absorbed she seemed unaware that he had entered. Something in her posture, or in his own state of mind, arrested him and, though he wished to speak, left him at a loss for words. And suddenly he felt drawn to her, with an acuteness of emotion he had not experienced for years, not since those early days when, as an awkward youth, he had sought her in marriage. In the present confusion of his thoughts he longed to converse with her, to open his heart and confide in her. But that was an intimacy he had lost during these past months and awareness that the fault was his left him constrained and mute. Yet he had to speak, it was a necessity that could not be denied, and finally, with an effort, he broke the silence.

"Is it not time you were abed? You have worked hard these past days."

"They have not seemed hard," she replied, without moving. "For me this has been a time of gladness."

"Then do not mar it with a fever. You know the night air suits you ill. Draw the shutter and I will light the lamp."

"Need you?" she queried, in a low voice. "Is not there light enough from the star without?"

"Ay, the star," he answered and broke off. Then, not to expose himself, he tried feebly to introduce a touch of lightness to his tone. "Odd things have happened here of late… and tonight as well. As I went to lock up three purse-proud strangers appeared… a haughty trio, I warrant you… they would have none of us. What business they were about I could not tell."

"They have gone," she said quietly. "I saw them come and I saw them take their leave only a moment ago, so doubtless they have accomplished what they came for."

He saw that she was looking down towards the row of outbuildings now wrapped in perfect stillness, and more than ever he felt within him the pressing need to reveal his state of mind, and to seek in her wise experience an elucidation of his incredible enigma which from first to last had so unceasingly afflicted him. But before he could grasp it, the moment passed - with a sigh she had risen and begun to shade the window, saying:

"I had better shut out the brightness Otherwise you will not sleep."

In silence they began to disrobe and presently they had composed themselves to rest. But weary as he was, and try as he would, Elah could not find the respite of sleep which he craved. Never had he known such affliction of mind, such abject desolation of soul, such a crushing sense of his own worthlessness. It was as though for the first time he saw himself with the eyes of truth. The foundations on which he had built his life, the whole comfortable structure of his existence, had been undermined by the sequence of events which had marked these past days. In this moment of enlightenment and self-revelation all that he had sought and striven for so avidly - profit and gain, worldly success, the pleasures of the senses - all now seemed futile and sordid. Especially did he perceive in its true light the folly and danger of his involvement with Malthace. He had never loved her. It was a mere infatuation, surrender to flattery and enticement by a man past his prime.

And then, by contrast, hid thoughts turned to Seraia, his wife, who for so many years had made life’s journey with him, worked by his side, endured his irritable words, his moods and selfishness, suffered without complaint, the heat and burden of the day. How could he have taken all this for granted, without a word of gratitude? Patience and kindness, regard for her neighbor, the desire to do good, above all a constant unselfishness, these were her qualities, all hitherto unacknowledged, and they rose to confront and accuse him. A dampness broke upon his brow. That unearthly light, penetrating the slats of the shutter, cast bars of shadow on the walls, seemed to imprison him in his iniquity. Swept by a wave of compunction and remorse he turned to her.

"Seraia… are you awake?"

She answered him at once: she, too, had been unable to sleep. A tense silence vibrated between them, then, at last, the strings of his tongue were loosed. In a broken voice, with a rush of words that told of his troubled spirit, he acknowledged his unfaithfulness, expressed his sorrow, asked her forgiveness. He would break with Malthace, send her away, with her brother, tomorrow. She heard him in silence, holding his hand with a consoling touch, and when he ceased she soothed him with calm and tender words.

After this release of all that had been upon his mind a great relief came to him. It was like a burden thrown off and, with renewed intimacy, he began to talk freely, confidingly, even in some degree extravagantly, since this was precisely his nature, that in his rebound from the depths he should soar to the opposite extreme.

"Tell me, Seraia… dear wife… all that has occurred… what do you make of it?"

"I do not know. But of one thing I am sure. There is a heavenly secret in what we have witnessed here."

"For my part," he meditated, "striving to put the facts together - and you know I have always been a logical man - this little one could well be the son of someone most important - an august personage… the Lord alone knows whom… yet one who for his own good reasons might wish at this stage to conceal the child’s origin. All the circumstances, especially the obscurity of the birth - though the meaning of this is not altogether clear to me - seem in great measure to support this view." He ran on like this for a few minutes, extemporizing, then concluded fulsomely: "Be that as it may, I will admit freely that I regret my unfeeling conduct in the matter - so much indeed, that I would willingly make reparation."

The innkeeper paused. Ever since the Child’s glance had struck into his heart a longing had germinated there, born of an unsuspected love and fostered by the instinct of possession. Thus with a touch of his old self-importance he resumed:

"I have been thinking, dear wife… if perhaps… we might offer to take the infant for our own."

For a moment she did not reply. Then she shook her head slowly, but with certainty.

"No, Elah, that could never be. What mother would give up such a one?"

"But consider the advantages we could offer. We are well off… at least," he interpolated cautiously, "moderately so… I could well afford to be generous and kind."

There was a brief silence then, seriously, she said:

"This very afternoon I spoke with Joseph. He told me they must leave tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!"

Elah exclaimed. "It is not possible."

"Yes, it is possible. The mother is young and strong. And if danger threatens her child she will not tarry."

"Danger?"

"Herod, the procurator, means evil towards the little one."

"Ah, come, my good wife, I think you carry it somewhat too far. What proof have you of this? Did Joseph say from whom the warning came?"

"There are some, Elah… a chosen few… who are not guided by the voices of the world. Such were the prophets… and such… though he does not prophesy, is this good man. I assure you they must leave us, and for awhile go afar from here."

He made as if to speak, then restrained himself. Holding to his own opinion, he nevertheless did not wish to contradict her, to oppress her with argument or reassert his will. His feeling towards her was too sweet, his assuagement too complete. He merely said, with what for him was unaccustomed mildness:

"Tomorrow I will rise up betimes. I will speak to your worthy Joseph, reason with him kindly, persuade him… you will see."

She realized that he had caught only a glimmer of what, so clearly for her, was a celestial light, that while he marveled at the mystery, still could view it only on a natural plane. Yet in the happiness of her reconciliation she was content to hold her peace. And in peace they fell asleep.

But indeed, when morning came Elah, the first to awake, remained intent upon his purpose. He roused Seraia, bade her dress quickly and come with him downstairs. She smiled at his tone of urgency but made it her pleasure to humour him. Avoiding the kitchen, when the maids were already stirring, they went by the side passage to the back premises. The sun was rising and the walls and the roofs of Bethlehem, outlined against the dappled sky, were caught by the blush of dawn. The air struck cool and fresh, and already wild doves were circling above the olive groves which lay on the slopes beyond. Elah had taken his wife by the arm as they made their way across the courtyard. Although she knew in advance what they must find, Seraia, hoping against hope, could feel her heart beating painfully as Elah knocked, then threw open the stable door.

Yes, they had gone. Except for the ox and the ass, the little hut was empty. Slowly the innkeeper entered, followed by his wife, glancing around in his disappointment, as though searching for something, a trace of its occupants, that might still remain. The place had been neatly tidied, the floor cleared of straw and carefully swept, everything indeed restored to an order better than before. In the air there faintly lingered the mingled aromatic odours of myrrh and frankincense and, on the edge of the manger where the Child had lain, there had been left a piece of gold.

"You see," Seraia could not resist the quiet rebuke, "Mary has made payment for her lodging."

Elah coloured deeply: the gold indeed would have settled tenfold the reckoning for his best room. He picked up the precious metal, which was not a coin but an oddly fashioned piece, bearing still, no doubt, the shape in which it had come from the mine or from some distant river bed. For a long moment he studied it in silence then, strange in one usually so covetous, he handed it to his wife.

"Take it… it is yours."

Seraia took the piece. She, too, noted with surprise its singular outline. It had the rough form of a cross.

"And now," Elah braced himself, "there is much for me to do. I pray you leave me till it is done." With his head erect he swung round and went before her towards the inn.

Back in her room Seraia stood for a while in anxious speculation. Would Elah carry through his resolution to send Malthace and her brother away? How often in the past had he expressed his good intentions and failed in the end to carry them out. She knew his inconstant nature, knew too that such weakness was not cured overnight. Yet this time she was hopeful, yes, she fully believed that his effort to redeem himself would succeed. A wave of happiness surged over her. Mindful of a fine filigree chain which at her betrothal, years before, Elah had given her, she sought it, found it finally in a forgotten casket laid away in a drawer. Then, threading her little cross upon the chain, she placed it around her neck.

The ordinary day of the inn was beginning - the cooking pots bubbling in the kitchen, guests moving in the passages, shouting and clattering over the cobblestones of the courtyard. Had these days of wonder ever been? All might have seemed a dream but for the cross that lay upon her breast. Yet for Seraia it was no dream. In her mind’s eye she saw the little family moving bravely on… Mary, Joseph, and the Child… ever advancing on their predetermined path, suffering hardship and persecution, fulfilling their heavenly destiny. Tears moistened her eyes as she remembered the indescribable happiness of holding the Babe in her arms. He shall be great, she thought… and it was I who saw and held Him on the day that He was born. Would others, now or in the future, ever feel the sweetness of that blessed day? She could not tell but, fingering the cross, she vowed: every year, as long as I live, though I am the only one in all the world to do so, I shall keep the birthday of this Child, and keeping it, I shall know happiness. Then, softly to herself, as though treasuring it, she murmured that name which Mary had told her they would give Him.

THE END

First published in 1958 by Hearst Publishing Co, Inc.

Content

Кронин Арчибальд Джозеф The Innkeeper's Wife[Christmas Story]

THE INNKEEPER’S WIFE