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

"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.