Chapter IX: Memorable Moments

Montella and the Rabbi Ben Yetzel had quarrelled, in spite of Dr. Engelmacher’s warning. It was a great pity, because Ben Yetzel was a dangerous man to offend; but his decision on certain matters had been so arbitrary that Montella could not help protesting, and the discussion had led to hot words on either side. Engelmacher, knowing that to overthrow the Rabbinical authority altogether was bad policy on Lionel’s part, endeavoured to make peace between them, but in vain. The young Governor of Haifa declared that he would sell his conscience in bondage to no man, were he priest or peasant; and determined to use his own judgment in matters pertaining to the people. So the incensed Chief Rabbi literally shook off the dust of Engelmacher’s courtyard from his feet, and departed in great wrath, calling down in the choicest Hebrew the vengeance of Heaven on all concerned.

“You have done wrong, my boy,” said the doctor to Lionel in the calm which followed the storm. “It is never wise to make an enemy, especially such a man as Ben Yetzel. ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ is his motto. I am afraid he will make you suffer for what you have said to-day. He holds the majority of the Palestinian Jews in the hollow of his hand.”

“Even if it is so, I could not have spoken otherwise,” rejoined the young man, his eyes still flashing with the intensity of his outraged feelings. “Ben Yetzel must do his worst. One generally has to suffer for right and truth in this world, I find.”

“H’m, perhaps so.” The doctor applied a match to his pipe. “But as ‘this world’—as you so contemptuously call it—is the only one with which we have to do, I think we ought to jog along with as few jars as possible. However, what’s done is done, and you will have to make the best of it. Be on your guard against Ben Yetzel—that’s all. He will never forget that he owes you a grudge.”

“He is welcome to pay me back whensoever he pleases,” Montella said carelessly.

He was too young and too strong to cherish the smallest fear.

Nevertheless he knew that the quarrel was to be regretted. He had come to Jerusalem, hoping to improve matters by the aid of diplomacy, and had failed. It was perhaps that the English method of handling such affairs did not work in Palestine; but he could not help that—he was British to the backbone. What he said he meant with his whole heart, and the foreign system of prevarication and petty quibbling was to him as distasteful as it was unintelligible. Therefore it was impossible for him to tolerate the slippery dealings of Ben Yetzel and his clan; a breach had been inevitable from the first.

“We may as well return to Haifa as soon as the Princess leaves,” he said to his wife, when he had given vent to his indignation. “I can do no good here, I am afraid.”

Patricia looked up at him with her blue eyes full of sympathy.

“Poor boy!” she exclaimed softly. “You always seem to be in hot water with these rabbis. They remind me of the Pharisees of old.”

“They are Pharisees—and hypocrites,” he returned, with a touch of bitterness. “However, I am not going to trouble about them; they are not worth it. I shall try to take a leaf out of Engelmacher’s book: instead of getting angry with them he simply laughs.”

“That is the most sensible way. How many quarrels would be averted if we could only laugh!” She sighed, and added regretfully: “I shall be sorry to leave Jerusalem. It is the most wonderful little city in the world.”

She would not tell him how much she dreaded the return to Haifa, but the fact remained. Here, in Mrs. Engelmacher’s house, she had been comparatively free from the obligations of the Jewish ceremonial, but when she took up the domestic reins once more, the responsibility would again devolve upon her shoulders. Lady Montella had been careful to train her in the right way, and hitherto she had responded with a certain degree of enthusiasm; indeed, she had been so anxious to do the correct thing that she had sometimes done more than was absolutely necessary. Now all was changed. She felt that she could no longer show spontaneity in the duties of a Jewish housewife, even though she meant to perform them conscientiously for her husband’s sake; and she feared the keenly perceptive powers of her mother-in-law, who almost seemed able to read one’s thoughts. The Premier’s words to her on her wedding-day recurred with new and added force. She had thought so lightly of her apostasy at the time; she could see the reprehensibility and gravity of her action now.

It was Sunday afternoon—their last Sunday in Jerusalem—and she had promised to go to the hospice for tea. The Engelmachers were expecting friends in the evening, and she was not sorry to obtain leave of absence; but her husband, on whose account the company had been invited, was obliged to remain. She found the Princess in the pretty hospice drawing-room surrounded by a little group of admirers, whilst a good-looking curate from Devonshire obligingly handed round the tea.

The scene was in marked contrast to the glaring Orientalism without. Patricia felt as if she had been suddenly transported to a homely English vicarage, and experienced an indefinable sense of comfort at the thought. The Bishop was in the midst of one of his innumerable anecdotes, and was dilating on the humorous vagaries of a certain Scotch gillie; but he paused at the most interesting point of the story in order to fetch the new-comer a chair.

“Sit down here, Lady Patricia,” he said genially. “You will be able to get a breath of air from the window.”

And then he resumed his account of the golf-loving Tammas, to the amusement, if not the edification of his friendly audience.

“We are all going to St. George’s this evening,” the Princess informed her, when a momentary lull in the conversation occurred. “You don’t mind coming, do you, Pat? The Bishop has been asked to preach.”

“I shall be very glad,” the girl answered promptly. “It is such a long, long time since I went to church; I have almost forgotten what the service is like. But I wonder if Lionel would object? I hardly like to go without his knowledge.”

The Princess looked dubious.

“I should think he is too broad-minded to object,” she said thoughtfully. “However, you must do just as you like; I don’t want Lionel to tell me that I have led you astray.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t do that,” returned Patricia quickly, wondering how she should decide. There was an uneasy sensation at the back of her mind, that in her present position she ought not to attend a Christian church; but the desire to form one of the party conquered. After all, she was acquainted with so few people in Jerusalem that it was very improbable that she would meet anyone she knew. But she made up her mind to tell her husband that same night; she had no wish to act clandestinely.

They set out just as the bells began to ring, the Devonian curate in attendance. Passing through the Damascus Gate, they paused at El Hieremîyeh—the “green hill far away, without a city wall,” which some believed, with General Gordon, to be the true Calvary, in preference to the site within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Certain it was that the caves on the southern side gave it the appearance of “the place which is called the place of a skull”; and it was the Jews’ traditional place of execution. Below was a garden, containing a rock-hewn sepulchre, which might well have been the “new tomb” belonging to Joseph of Arimathea; but by some it was said to be fifth-century work, and its authenticity was open to question. To the Princess it seemed well that the exact locality of the Great Redemption should never be decided; for the place was surely too sacred to be desecrated by the wrangling of the various Christian denominations for its possession, which had so often led to bloodshed; by gaudy altars, the bartering of candles, the gross irreverence of the Mohammedan guardians. Better far that the exact spot where Divine Love was crucified should remain unknown, since that knowledge, instead of making for reverent peace, would only serve to engender strife.

They had just examined the cave called Jeremiah’s grotto, at the foot of the hill, when Patricia became conscious of a man in the attire of a Jerusalemite Christian, who seemed to be watching her with special intent. Every time she looked in his direction she encountered the dog-like expression of his melancholy eyes, and as he did not attempt to ask for _backsheesh_, she wondered why he favoured her with his regard. When they left the grotto, he walked, or rather glided away in an opposite direction, but no sooner had they arrived at the Tombs of the Kings than he suddenly reappeared, although it was impossible to tell which way he had come.

Patricia felt vaguely alarmed, but she scarcely liked to communicate her nervousness to the others. The last bell of St. George’s opposite had almost ceased, and there was no time to look at the tombs, so they crossed over and entered the church without delay. The man also crossed, peered into the vestibule, and then withdrew; but, unobserved by Patricia, re-entered when the service began, and remained until the beginning of the sermon.

To no one in the sacred building did Evensong sound more solemn and sweet than to the girl who for so long had been alienated from her Church. The General Confession, Psalms, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis brought back a host of recollections to her mind, even though she had lapsed into indifference for some time before her marriage. She could almost imagine herself back in the little parish church of Newlingham Heath—her father’s village—with her mother’s memorial tablet and window just above her head, and the memorial chancel rails a few paces to the front. Ah, if that mother had lived, what a different training she would have received! For the Countess Torrens had been known for her gentle piety, and it was only since her death that the Earl had drifted into Agnosticism. Thoroughly repentant and subdued, she determined to reconsecrate her life to the Highest, and to do all in her power to atone for her temporary aberration. The difficulties of the situation vanished away as she meditated upon the marvellous compelling power of the Divine. She was so certain that if she were but true to the highest instincts of her spiritual nature, all things would work together for good. The pettiness of the Jewish ceremonial should trouble her not at all; she would look through and above it to the Great Majesty beyond.

There was a new impress of spirituality upon her face when, the service over, she left the church. The Princess guessed the nature of her thoughts, and instead of criticising—as she usually did—the sermon, the music, and the congregation, she remained silent for awhile. The Devonian curate suggested a walk to the Mount of Olives, for the night was fine, and the moon brilliantly full. So they betook themselves through the north-eastern suburb of the city, and past St. Stephen’s Gate, near where a belated beggar afflicted with the terrible disease of leprosy called out his melancholy warning “Lebbra!” and solicited alms. Then down they went into the Kidron Valley, and past the venerable olive trees of Gethsemane, where they paused awhile. Bathed in moonlight, the Sacred Garden seemed enwrapt by a solemn peace, and as lonely as in the time of old, save for the little chapel tended by Franciscan monks. Whether this were the authentic spot or not, it could not have been far away where the Agony of the Divine Sufferer had taken place; for the Mount of Olives was close at hand, and though all the ecclesiastical localities were spurious, this sacred mount remained unchanged.

The ascent was steep and difficult, but they climbed high enough to obtain a splendid view. They could look right down into the Temple area on one side, and towards Bethany and the Dead Sea on the other. The air was cool and balmy, and so still that they scarcely cared to disturb the silence by conversation, but the Princess could not resist the temptation to quote some verses of a poem she remembered, which so beautifully described the scene:

“The full moon rose o’er Anathoth,
And gleamed upon the lone Dead Sea,
Threw silver spears o’er Olivet
And touched each hoary rock and tree.

In solemn darkness Kedron lay;
But all the wealth of light was poured
Fondly upon Jerusalem,
The ancient city of the Lord.

As ivory her houses gleamed
Against the blue of hill and sky,
And all her slender towers arose,
Like shafts of silver thrown on high.

No sound profaned the holy scene,
Save the sad jackal’s plaintive wail;
No light of lamp, no ray of star,
Disturbed the shadows blue and pale.

And just so looked Jerusalem
To Him, who, on the self-same spot,
Would long ago have sheltered her
Beneath His wing, but she would not.

So she remains unchanged and lone,
Till He shall come again and fold
In the vast pity of His love
Creeds, nations, empires, worlds untold.”[13]

Footnote 13:

“Jerusalem by Moonlight” (Margaret Thomas).

“I like that,” said Patricia, with a sigh of enjoyment, when she had finished. “And oh, how glorious it is up here! No wonder our Saviour loved to come here when He wished to be alone. I like this better than all the other historic places we have seen, because it is the work of Nature, and there is no chance of its having been artificially disturbed. The same blue sky overhead, the same rocks and stones and flowers as were here over nineteen hundred years ago, when He walked and taught on these slopes. This is grander than all the churches which have been erected in His name; it is an everlasting witness—Heaven’s own natural church!”

Surprised at her own effusiveness, she turned away and walked a few paces to the rear, alone. It was something to be remembered, this moonlight night on the Mount of Olives, with the sleeping city below; and the emotions of her newly-quickened soul—they were to be remembered too. How good was God; how fair was the earth; how sweet was life! Could she not say with Browning,

“God’s in His Heaven,
All’s right with the world”?

for at this height the troublous details of human existence sank into insignificance compared with the grandeur of eternity which knows not time. With a strange feeling of exaltation she stooped down, and plucking a tiny flower from the rocky soil, pinned it gently to her breast. Then with a sigh of perfect contentment she rejoined her friends. No matter what sorrow there might be for her in the future, she was strong—she had braced herself to endure.