CHAPTER IX
To understand
thoroughly what happened to the Nazarene at the khan, the reader must be
reminded that Eastern inns were different from the inns of the Western world.
They were called khans, from the Persian, and, in simplest form, were fenced
enclosures, without house or shed, often without a gate or entrance. Their
sites were chosen with reference to shade, defence, or water. Such were the
inns that sheltered Jacob when he went to seek a wife in Padan-Aram. Their like
may been seen at this day in the stopping-places of the desert. On the other
hand, some of them, especially those on the roads between great cities, like
Jerusalem and Alexandria, were princely establishments, monuments to the piety
of the kings who built them. In ordinary, however, they were no more than the
house or possession of a sheik, in which, as in headquarters, he swayed his
tribe. Lodging the traveller was the least of their uses; they were markets,
factories, forts; places of assemblage and residence for merchants and artisans
quite as much as places of shelter for belated and wandering wayfarers. Within
their walls, all the year round, occurred the multiplied daily transactions of
a town.
The singular
management of these hostelries was the feature likely to strike a Western mind
with most force. There was no host or hostess; no clerk, cook, or kitchen; a
steward at the gate was all the assertion of government or proprietorship
anywhere visible. Strangers arriving stayed at will without rendering account.
A consequence of the system was that whoever came had to bring his food and
culinary outfit with him, or buy them of dealers in the khan. The same rule
held good as to his bed and bedding, and forage for his beasts. Water, rest,
shelter, and protection were all he looked for from the proprietor, and they
were gratuities. The peace of synagogues was sometimes broken by brawling
disputants, but that of the khans never. The houses and all their appurtenances
were sacred: a well was not more so.
The khan at
Bethlehem, before which Joseph and his wife stopped, was a good specimen of its
class, being neither very primitive nor very princely. The building was purely
Oriental; that is to say, a quadrangular block of rough stones, one story high,
flat-roofed, externally unbroken by a window, and with but one principal
entrance - a doorway, which was also a gateway, on the eastern side, or front.
The road ran by the door so near that the chalk dust half covered the lintel. A
fence of flat rocks, beginning at the northeastern corner of the pile, extended
many yards down the slope to a point from whence it swept westwardly to a
limestone bluff; making what was in the highest degree essential to a
respectable khan - a safe enclosure for animals.
In a village like
Bethlehem, as there was but one sheik, there could not well be more than one
khan; and, though born in the place, the Nazarene, from long residence
elsewhere, had no claim to hospitality in the town. Moreover, the enumeration
for which he was coming might be the work of weeks or months; Roman deputies in
the provinces were proverbially slow; and to impose himself and wife for a
period so uncertain upon acquaintances or relations was out of the question.
So, before he drew nigh the great house, while he was yet climbing the slope,
in the steep places toiling to hasten the donkey, the fear that he might not
find accommodations in the khan became a painful anxiety; for he found the road
thronged with men and boys who, with great ado, were taking their cattle,
horses, and camels to and from the valley, some to water, some to the
neighboring caves. And when he was come close by, his alarm was not allayed by
the discovery of a crowd investing the door of the establishment, while the
enclosure adjoining, broad as it was, seemed already full.
"We cannot
reach the door," Joseph said, in his slow way. "Let us stop here, and
learn, if we can, what has happened."
The wife, without
answering, quietly drew the wimple aside. The look of fatigue at first upon her
face changed to one of interest. She found herself at the edge of an assemblage
that could not be other than a matter of curiosity to her, although it was
common enough at the khans on any of the highways which the great caravans were
accustomed to traverse. There were men on foot, running hither and thither,
talking shrilly and in all the tongues of Syria; men on horseback screaming to
men on camels; men struggling doubtfully with fractious cows and frightened
sheep; men peddling bread and wine; and among the mass a herd of boys
apparently in chase of a herd of dogs. Everybody and everything seemed to be in
motion at the same time. Possibly the fair spectator was too weary to be long
attracted by the scene; in a little while she sighed, and settled down on the
pillion, and, as if in search of peace and rest, or in expectation of some one,
looked off to the south, and up to the tall cliffs of the Mount of Paradise,
then faintly reddening under the setting sun.
While she was
thus looking, a man pushed his way out of the press, and, stopping close by the
donkey, faced about with an angry brow. The Nazarene spoke to him.
"As I am
what I take you to be, good friend - a son of Judah - may I ask the cause of
this multitude?"
The stranger
turned fiercely; but, seeing the solemn countenance of Joseph, so in keeping
with his deep, slow voice and speech, he raised his hand in half-salutation,
and replied,
"Peace be to
you, Rabbi! I am a son of Judah, and will answer you. I dwell in Beth-Dagon,
which, you know, is in what used to be the land of the tribe of Dan."
"On the road
to Joppa from Modin," said Joseph.
"Ah, you
have been in Beth-Dagon," the man said, his face softening yet more.
"What wanderers we of Judah are! I have been away from the ridge - old
Ephrath, as our father Jacob called it - for many years. When the proclamation
went abroad requiring all Hebrews to be numbered at the cities of their birth -
That is my business here, Rabbi."
Joseph's face
remained stolid as a mask, while he remarked, "I have come for that also -
I and my wife."
The stranger glanced
at Mary and kept silence. She was looking up at the bald top of Gedor. The sun
touched her upturned face, and filled the violet depths of her eyes, and upon
her parted lips trembled an aspiration which could not have been to a mortal.
For the moment, all the humanity of her beauty seemed refined away: she was as
we fancy they are who sit close by the gate in the transfiguring light of
Heaven. The Beth-Dagonite saw the original of what, centuries after, came as a
vision of genius to Sanzio the divine, and left him immortal.
"Of what was
I speaking? Ah! I remember. I was about to say that when I heard of the order
to come here, I was angry. Then I thought of the old hill, and the town, and
the valley falling away into the depths of Cedron; of the vines and orchards,
and fields of grain, unfailing since the days of Boaz and Ruth, of the familiar
mountains - Gedor here, Gibeah yonder, Mar Elias there - which, when I was a
boy, were the walls of the world to me; and I forgave the tyrants and came - I,
and Rachel, my wife, and Deborah and Michal, our roses of Sharon."
The man paused
again, looking abruptly at Mary, who was now looking at him and listening. Then
he said, "Rabbi, will not your wife go to mine? You may see her yonder
with the children, under the leaning olive-tree at the bend of the road. I tell
you" - he turned to Joseph and spoke positively - "I tell you the
khan is full. It is useless to ask at the gate."
Joseph's will was
slow, like his mind; he hesitated, but at length replied, "The offer is
kind. Whether there be room for us or not in the house, we will go see your
people. Let me speak to the gate-keeper myself. I will return quickly."
And, putting the
leading-strap in the stranger's hand, he pushed into the stirring crowd.
The keeper sat on
a great cedar block outside the gate. Against the wall behind him leaned a
javelin. A dog squatted on the block by his side.
"The peace
of Jehovah be with you," said Joseph, at last confronting the keeper.
"What you
give, may you find again; and, when found, be it many times multiplied to you
and yours," returned the watchman, gravely, though without moving.
"I am a
Bethlehemite," said Joseph, in his most deliberate way. "Is there not
room for - "
"There is
not."
"You may
have heard of me - Joseph of Nazareth. This is the house of my fathers. I am of
the line of David."
These words held
the Nazarene's hope. If they failed him, further appeal was idle, even that of
the offer of many shekels. To be a son of Judah was one thing - in the tribal opinion
a great thing; to be of the house of David was yet another; on the tongue of a
Hebrew there could be no higher boast. A thousand years and more had passed
since the boyish shepherd became the successor of Saul and founded a royal
family. Wars, calamities, other kings, and the countless obscuring processes of
time had, as respects fortune, lowered his descendants to the common Jewish
level; the bread they ate came to them of toil never more humble; yet they had
the benefit of history sacredly kept, of which genealogy was the first chapter
and the last; they could not become unknown, while, wherever they went In
Israel, acquaintance drew after it a respect amounting to reverence.
If this were so
in Jerusalem and elsewhere, certainly one of the sacred line might reasonably
rely upon it at the door of the khan of Bethlehem. To say, as Joseph said,
"This is the house of my fathers," was to say the truth most simply
and literally; for it was the very house Ruth ruled as the wife of Boaz, the very
house in which Jesse and his ten sons, David the youngest, were born, the very
house in which Samuel came seeking a king, and found him; the very house which
David gave to the son of Barzillai, the friendly Gileadite; the very house in
which Jeremiah, by prayer, rescued the remnant of his race flying before the
Babylonians.
The appeal was
not without effect. The keeper of the gate slid down from the cedar block, and,
laying his hand upon his beard, said, respectfully, "Rabbi, I cannot tell
you when this door first opened in welcome to the traveller, but it was more
than a thousand years ago; and in all that time there is no known instance of a
good man turned away, save when there was no room to rest him in. If it has
been so with the stranger, just cause must the steward have who says no to one
of the line of David. Wherefore, I salute you again; and, if you care to go
with me, I will show you that there is not a lodging-place left in the house;
neither in the chambers, nor in the lewens, nor in the court - not even on the
roof. May I ask when you came?"
"But
now."
The keeper
smiled.
"'The
stranger that dwelleth with you shall be as one born among you, and thou shalt
love him as thyself.' Is not that the law, Rabbi?"
Joseph was
silent.
"If it be
the law, can I say to one a long time come, 'Go thy way; another is here to
take thy place?'"
Yet Joseph held
his peace.
"And, if I
said so, to whom would the place belong? See the many that have been waiting,
some of them since noon."
"Who are all
these people?" asked Joseph, turning to the crowd. "And why are they
here at this time?"
"That which
doubtless brought you, Rabbi - the decree of the Caesar" - the keeper
threw an interrogative glance at the Nazarene, then continued - "brought
most of those who have lodging in the house. And yesterday the caravan passing
from Damascus to Arabia and Lower Egypt arrived. These you see here belong to
it - men and camels."
Still Joseph
persisted.
"The court
is large," he said.
"Yes, but it
is heaped with cargoes - with bales of silk, and pockets of spices, and goods
of every kind."
Then for a moment
the face of the applicant lost its stolidity; the lustreless, staring eyes
dropped. With some warmth he next said, "I do not care for myself, but I
have with me my wife, and the night is cold - colder on these heights than in
Nazareth. She cannot live in the open air. Is there not room in the town?"
"These
people" - the keeper waved his hand to the throng before the door - "have
all besought the town, and they report its accommodations all engaged."
Again Joseph
studied the ground, saying, half to himself, "She is so young! if I make
her bed on the hill, the frosts will kill her."
Then he spoke to
the keeper again.
"It may be
you knew her parents, Joachim and Anna, once of Bethlehem, and, like myself, of
the line of David."
"Yes, I knew
them. They were good people. That was in my youth."
This time the
keeper's eyes sought the ground in thought. Suddenly he raised his head.
"If I cannot
make room for you," he said, "I cannot turn you away. Rabbi, I will
do the best I can for you. How many are of your party?"
Joseph reflected,
then replied, "My wife and a friend with his family, from Beth-Dagon, a
little town over by Joppa; in all, six of us."
"Very well.
You shall not lie out on the ridge. Bring your people, and hasten; for, when
the sun goes down behind the mountain, you know the night comes quickly, and it
is nearly there now."
"I give you
the blessing of the houseless traveller; that of the sojourner will
follow."
So saying, the
Nazarene went back joyfully to Mary and the Beth-Dagonite. In a little while
the latter brought up his family, the women mounted on donkeys. The wife was
matronly, the daughters were images of what she must have been in youth; and as
they drew nigh the door, the keeper knew them to be of the humble class.
"This is she
of whom I spoke," said the Nazarene; "and these are our
friends."
Mary's veil was
raised.
"Blue eyes
and hair of gold," muttered the steward to himself, seeing but her.
"So looked the young king when he went to sing before Saul."
Then he took the
leading-strap from Joseph, and said to Mary, "Peace to you, O daughter of
David!" Then to the others, "Peace to you all!" Then to Joseph,
"Rabbi, follow me."
The party were
conducted into a wide passage paved with stone, from which they entered the
court of the khan. To a stranger the scene would have been curious; but they
noticed the lewens that yawned darkly upon them from all sides, and the court
itself, only to remark how crowded they were. By a lane reserved in the stowage
of the cargoes, and thence by a passage similar to the one at the entrance,
they emerged into the enclosure adjoining the house, and came upon camels,
horses, and donkeys, tethered and dozing in close groups; among them were the
keepers, men of many lands; and they, too, slept or kept silent watch. They
went down the slope of the crowded yard slowly, for the dull carriers of the
women had wills of their own. At length they turned into a path running towards
the gray limestone bluff overlooking the khan on the west.
"We are
going to the cave," said Joseph, laconically.
The guide
lingered till Mary came to his side.
"The cave to
which we are going," he said to her, "must have been a resort of your
ancestor David. From the field below us, and from the well down in the valley,
he used to drive his flocks to it for safety; and afterwards, when he was king,
he came back to the old house here for rest and health, bringing great trains
of animals. The mangers yet remain as they were in his day. Better a bed on the
floor where he has slept than one in the court-yard or out by the roadside. Ah,
here is the house before the cave!"
This speech must
not be taken as an apology for the lodging offered. There was no need of
apology. The place was the best then at disposal. The guests were simple folks,
by habits of life easily satisfied. To the Jew of that period, moreover, abode
in caverns was a familiar idea, made so by every-day occurrences, and by what
he heard of Sabbaths in the synagogues. How much of Jewish history, how many of
the many exciting incidents in that history, had transpired in caves! Yet
further, these people were Jews of Bethlehem, with whom the idea was especially
commonplace; for their locality abounded with caves great and small, some of
which had been dwelling-places from the time of the Emim and Horites. No more
was there offence to them in the fact that the cavern to which they were being
taken had been, or was, a stable. They were the descendants of a race of
herdsmen, whose flocks habitually shared both their habitations and wanderings.
In keeping with a custom derived from Abraham, the tent of the Bedawin yet
shelters his horses and children alike. So they obeyed the keeper cheerfully,
and gazed at the house, feeling only a natural curiosity. Everything associated
with the history of David was interesting to them.
The building was
low and narrow, projecting but a little from the rock to which it was joined at
the rear, and wholly without a window. In its blank front there was a door,
swung on enormous hinges, and thickly daubed with ochreous clay. While the
wooden bolt of the lock was being pushed back, the women were assisted from
their pillions. Upon the opening of the door, the keeper called out,
"Come
in!"
The guests
entered, and stared about them. It became apparent immediately that the house
was but a mask or covering for the mouth of a natural cave or grotto, probably
forty feet long, nine or ten high, and twelve or fifteen in width. The light
streamed through the doorway, over an uneven floor, falling upon piles of grain
and fodder, and earthenware and household property, occupying the centre of the
chamber. Along the sides were mangers, low enough for sheep, and built of
stones laid in cement. There were no stalls or partitions of any kind. Dust and
chaff yellowed the floor, filled all the crevices and hollows, and thickened
the spider-webs, which dropped from the ceiling like bits of dirty linen;
otherwise the place was cleanly, and, to appearance, as comfortable as any of
the arched lewens of the khan proper. In fact, a cave was the model and first
suggestion of the lewen.
"Come
in!" said the guide. "These piles upon the floor are for travellers
like yourselves. Take what of them you need."
Then he spoke to
Mary.
"Can you
rest here?"
"The place
is sanctified," she answered.
"I leave you
then. Peace be with you all!"
When he was gone,
they busied themselves making the cave habitable.
CHAPTER X.
At a certain hour
in the evening the shouting and stir of the people in and about the khan
ceased; at the same time, every Israelite, if not already upon his feet, arose,
solemnized his face, looked towards Jerusalem, crossed his hands upon his
breast, and prayed; for it was the sacred ninth hour, when sacrifices were
offered in the temple on Moriah, and God was supposed to be there. When the
hands of the worshippers fell down, the commotion broke forth again; everybody
hastened to bread, or to make his pallet. A little later, the lights were put
out, and there was silence, and then sleep.
About midnight
some one on the roof cried out, "What light is that in the sky? Awake,
brethren, awake and see!"
The people, half
asleep, sat up and looked; then they became wide-awake, though wonder-struck.
And the stir spread to the court below, and into the lewens; soon the entire
tenantry of the house and court and enclosure were out gazing at the sky.
And this was what
they saw. A ray of light, beginning at a height immeasurably beyond the nearest
stars, and dropping obliquely to the earth; at its top, a diminishing point; at
its base, many furlongs in width; its sides blending softly with the darkness
of the night, its core a roseate electrical splendor. The apparition seemed to
rest on the nearest mountain southeast of the town, making a pale corona along
the line of the summit. The khan was touched luminously, so that those upon the
roof saw each other's faces, all filled with wonder.
Steadily, through
minutes, the ray lingered, and then the wonder changed to awe and fear; the
timid trembled; the boldest spoke in whispers.
"Saw you
ever the like?" asked one.
"It seems
just over the mountain there. I cannot tell what it is, nor did I ever see
anything like it," was the answer.
"Can it be
that a star has burst and fallen?" asked another, his tongue faltering.
"When a star
falls, its light goes out."
"I have
it!" cried one, confidently. "The shepherds have seen a lion, and
made fires to keep him from the flocks."
The men next the
speaker drew a breath of relief, and said, "Yes, that is it! The flocks
were grazing in the valley over there to-day."
A bystander
dispelled the comfort.
"No, no!
Though all the wood in all the valleys of Judah was brought together in one
pile and fired, the blaze would not throw a light so strong and high."
After that there
was silence on the house-top, broken but once again while the mystery
continued.
"Brethren!"
exclaimed a Jew of venerable mien, "what we see is the ladder our father
Jacob saw in his dream. Blessed be the Lord God of our fathers!"
