The Innkeeper's Wife

by A. J. Cronin

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 there 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 the 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’ll 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. Yes, 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 was 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 a 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 sceptical 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 thus …”

  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 g
azing 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 this 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: