Chapter VIII: Amid the Sacred Scenes

The Princess Charles von Felsen-Schvoenig was also in Jerusalem, but she stayed at a hospice in the Christian quarter, where a friendly bishop and two or three other English Christians were included among the guests. In a fortnight’s time she would be _en route_ for the Rhenish principality where her husband was patiently awaiting her return, but at the present moment her one desire was to “do” Jerusalem thoroughly, and in this she succeeded fairly well. Armed with Baedeker’s guide, she called at Dr. Engelmacher’s house for Lady Patricia, and chartering a light _arabiyeh_, drove wherever the streets would permit. The influence of the British Consul and Turkish Governor, combined with an unlimited amount of _backsheesh_, gained admittance to the innermost courts of the _Harâm_, and most effectually paved the way to the various places of interest. But the enjoyment of the Princess was somewhat marred by her inherent scepticism. She refused to believe in many cases that certain events happened on the exact spots to which they were ascribed, and therefore the great fascination of them was lost. For the city itself she possessed the deepest reverence; indeed it was this very reverence which made the morbid hallowing of certain rocks and stones so repugnant to her mind. Descended from a strictly Puritanical race, she found it impossible to manifest enthusiasm for relics—so many of them spurious—and the numerous mementoes sold by avaricious Moslems. The fanaticism of some of the Latins and Greeks was to her as incomprehensible as it was revolting.

She was obliged to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre by herself; for Patricia, being nominally a Jewess, was not permitted to enter the sacred precincts. So she left her friend in the little _arabiyeh_ to meditate on the ambiguity of her position, and descended to the paved quadrangle alone. After what seemed a very long time she returned, thankful to be out again in the fresh air.

“Well?” said Patricia, with a smile, as she made room for her in the carriage. “Did it come up to your expectations?”

“Yes—and no,” the Princess replied, sitting down with relief. “To me the chapels are tawdry in the extreme, and the building enclosing the Holy Sepulchre is a miracle of bad taste. But to see the adoration of the pilgrims is wonderful; what a pity that the place has been desecrated by so much bloodshed! I wish you could come with me next time I go.”

“Impossible,” returned her friend, as the vehicle pursued its way. “I should be drawn and quartered by the mob. You forget that I am to all intents and purposes a Jewess.”

“Ridiculous!”

“But I am,” the girl insisted, as though trying to convince herself; “otherwise I could not be Lionel’s wife.”

“And you are happy?”

“As Lionel’s wife, yes. As a Jewess, no. Fortunately, my husband’s love is more than compensation for the difficulty I find in his religion.”

“Then, by your experience, mixed marriages are a success?”

“Yes, where there is such love as ours. Of course I cannot help wishing sometimes that we were one in our faith, especially for the sake of the child.”

“But you are one in your faith!” exclaimed the Princess, with surprise. “Have you not become a Jewess? By your own confession you had no cherished belief to renounce at the time of your apostasy—excuse the word.”

Patricia sighed, but was silent, scarcely liking to give voice to her thoughts. They had just passed through the Jaffa gate on the road to Bethlehem, and the magnificent view attracted their attention. Wild mountains stretched above them, varied by occasional vineyards and olive plantations; and a bend in the road disclosed that which was said to be Rachel’s tomb.

The stone streets of Bethlehem were so narrow that the carriage occupied almost all the available space. Their destination was, of course, the Church of the Nativity, which stands at the upper end of the market-place. Passing through the low and narrow doorway, they descended to the sacred crypt, where about fifty exquisite lamps hung from the roof. On the pavement below one of the altars a metal star had been let into the rock; it indicated the exact spot where the Holy Babe was born.

“This, I believe, is authentic,” said the Princess, as she bent down to read the Latin inscription on the star: “‘_Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est._’ Can you realise that this is the very cave—the outhouse of the khân—in which the greatest event recorded in history occurred? Is it not wonderful! The thought almost takes my breath away!”

Had she been a pilgrim and emotional, she would have knelt and kissed the star. As it was, she stood by the altar with reverently bent head, her thoughts concentrated on the stupendous miracle which had been enacted there. In the adjoining church of the Latins the choir were singing vespers; and their voices, subdued by distance, rose and fell in pleasant rhythm; but within the cave itself there was silence, and the solemnity of the moment was undisturbed.

A deep sigh from her friend recalled her to the present, and with a last look at the star she turned away. To Patricia the sight of Bethlehem was like a silent reproach. It recalled with almost vivid clearness the many Christmas Days of her childhood, and how thoroughly she had entered into the spirit of the Festival; for she had been a Christian then. She was silent as they re-entered their little carriage and were driven onwards towards the village of Bêt Sahûr; and the Princess also seemed to have little to say. Their destination this time was the field “where shepherds watched their flocks by night, all seated on the ground”; and arrived there they alighted to stroll among the olive groves. Near by, the Field of Boaz brought to their minds the charming idyll of Ruth the gleaner, and they could almost imagine the sweet Hebrew maiden gathering the ears of corn. Gazing down the slopes, they could see far away in the distance the brilliant waters of the Dead Sea; above them was the still deeper blue of the Syrian sky.

“This is heavenly!” exclaimed the Princess, as she flung herself down on the dry turf. “It only needs the music of Handel’s Pastoral Symphony to complete the scene. The very atmosphere seems to breathe peace.”

“I did not think you could be so enthusiastic,” said Patricia, with a smile. “I thought you were one of the _nil admirari_ kind.”

“So I am—sometimes; it’s just how I feel. Nature appeals to me much more than the showy buildings wrought by the hand of man. Do you know, I made a splendid resolution when we were in the little crypt of the Nativity. I believe Palestine is making me good. I suppose you think I can do with it, Pat?” she added, with a naïve smile.

Patricia glanced at her curiously.

“I don’t know,” she returned honestly. “I believe your heart is in the right place, and I know you wouldn’t hurt a fly if you could help it. But you might be kinder to a certain person, you know.”

“My husband? Yes. It is concerning him that I have made the resolution. Of course he is rather stupid, but I suppose he can’t help it, and I’m afraid I did treat him rather badly. You see he always let me squash him; and he is so delicate that it made me feel mean—as if I had thrown a stone at a child. If he had placed himself on the defensive, I should not have minded in the least. But if I smote him on one cheek, he would turn the other to me also; and no woman could stand that.”

“Why smite him at all?” asked Patricia pertinently. “Is it not better to live in peace?”

“Ye—es; but if you were shut up in that grim old castle at Felsen-Schvoenig with an invalid husband, I believe even your sweet temper would be tried. However, I promised God in that little cave of the Nativity that I would go home and try and make Karl a better wife. I haven’t the least idea what made me think of Karl just then; his figure seemed to rise up and reproach me when I was looking at the star.”

“It is an excellent resolution,” said her friend, as she gazed thoughtfully over the Shepherds’ Field to the distant hills. “Strange that you should have to come all the way to Palestine to make it. I believe there is something in this atmosphere which stirs us up to spiritual action; I felt it directly we came to Jerusalem. You would not think it to look at me, would you?—but I am as worried as I can possibly be.”

The Princess looked up sharply, with an expression of surprise.

“Worried?” she repeated. “Why?”

Patricia pulled up the grass with nervous energy.

“I don’t know if I am wise to talk about it,” she rejoined slowly; “but I think I can trust you, Olive. I said a little while ago that I was a Jewess. The statement was false; I am not a Jewess.”

“No? Well, I never thought you were. What need is there to worry yourself about that?”

“Ah, you do not understand.” She threw away the blade of grass, and pressed her hands together. “I am living, spiritually, a double life, deceiving others as well as myself. I thought at the time of my marriage that it was quite easy to renounce Christianity; and indeed it was then—my soul must have been in a comatose condition. But since I have come to Jerusalem, all is changed. These sacred scenes have revived within me the faith of my childhood; almost every stone reminds me of the Master I have denied. It is impossible for one who has ever been a Christian to gaze on the Holy City unmoved. Even you have come under the influence of this wonderful place.”

“Yes, that is true. In London and New York one does not seem to have time or the inclination to trouble oneself about religion, but here Christianity is so very real. I understand your frame of mind exactly. It was absurd to ever expect you to conform to Jewish law.”

“Lady Montella does expect me to conform to the Jewish law,” Patricia continued seriously. “She is always impressing upon me that I have become a Jewess, and until now I have constantly reminded myself of the fact. Situated as he is, Lionel _must_ have a Jewish wife. That is why I am so greatly troubled. I can no longer pretend to be what I am not.”

“But you must!” exclaimed the Princess forcibly. “Since you have married a Jew, you must abide by the consequence. I believe I know your people better than you know them yourself. It will never do for them to find out that you have relapsed—that there is a heretic within the fold. You must exercise tact and discretion: learn to be a diplomatist.”

“Learn to be a hypocrite, you mean. It will be a hard lesson! I am afraid I shall never master it. After all, what does it matter to the Montellas what I privately believe so long as I respect their Judaism? Will it not be better to make a clean breast of it, and tell them at once?”

“Tell them if you like, but do not say that I failed to warn you. I am older than you, Patricia, and have seen more of the world. Religion was never meant to disturb domestic happiness, and break up a home. Openly declare your faith, and you can no longer remain in Palestine. You yourself said that Lionel must have a Jewish wife.”

The coachman was growing impatient, and seeing that he wished to return, they bade good-bye to the Shepherds’ Field. The homeward drive was made almost in silence, for Patricia was too much disturbed to speak. She knew that her friend’s view was a correct one, and that to confess her newly-recovered faith would cause an open breach. And to leave Palestine would mean separation from the two dear ones to whom she was bound by the most sacred ties. The thought was too terrible to be borne.

“I must keep silence!” she said to herself. “I must!” But she knew that at any time her secret might escape, and she would be lost.

She went back with the Princess to supper, in accordance with the arrangement they had made before they started on their expedition; but she was poor company that night. The conversation of the guests in the hospice rolled past her like a distant echo; and even the epigrams of the Bishop (who was noted for his wit) failed to dispel her troubled thoughts. She was glad when Lionel came for her and took her home—although “home” at present was Dr. Engelmacher’s house. She nestled her head against his shoulder in the little _arabiyeh_, and closed her eyes in dreamy satisfaction. His very presence imbued her with a sense of protection, and drove away the worry—at least temporarily—from her mind.

“Don’t let me be away from you for a whole day again, darling,” she said, in what he always called the “baby” voice. “Olive is the dearest woman I know, but I want you. I seem to have been parted from you for ages—positively _ages_!” And then she laughed in order to drive away a tear.