Lady Sybil's Choice: A Tale of the Crusades

  *CHAPTER V.*

  _*CURIOUS NOTIONS*_*.*

  "The soul, doubtless, is immortal--where a soul can be discerned." --ROBERT BROWNING.

  For the last few weeks, since we reached Jerusalem, I have been verybusy going about with the Damoiselle Melisende, and sometimes the LadyIsabel, with Amaury as escort. We have now visited all the holy placeswithin one day's journey. I commanded Marguerite to attend me, for itamuses me afterwards to hear what she has to say.

  We went to the Church of Saint Mary, in the Valley of Jehoshaphat, whichis built in a round form; and in it is the empty tomb in which our Ladywas buried. So some say, and that the angels carried her body away inthe night: but other some say, that while the holy Apostles werecarrying her to her burial, the angels came down and bore her away toParadise. I asked Margot (as she always listens) if she had heardFather Eudes read about it from the holy Evangel: but she said he hadnever read the story of that, at least in French. In this church thereis a stone in the wall, on which our Lord knelt to pray on the night ofHis betrayal; and on it is the impression of His knees, as if the stonewere wax. There is no roof to the church, but by miraculous provisionof the good God, the rain never falls on it. Here also, our Lord'sbody, when taken down from the cross, was wrapped and anointed.

  We also visited the Church of the Holy Ghost, where is the marble tableat which our Lord and the holy Apostles ate the Last Supper, and theyreceived the Holy Sacrament at His hands. There is also a chapel, withan altar whereat our Lord heard mass sung by the angels; and here iskept the vessel wherein our Lord washed the feet of His disciples. Allthese are on Mount Zion.

  Marguerite was very much interested in the vessel in which the holyApostles' feet were washed: but she wanted to know which of them had putit by and kept it so carefully. This, of course, I could not tell her.Perhaps it was revealed by miracle that this was the vessel.

  "Ah, well!" she said, turning away at last, with a contented face. "Itdoes not much matter, if only the good God wash our feet."

  "But that cannot be, Margot!" said I.

  Lady Judith was with us that day, and she laid her hand on my arm.

  "Child," said she gently, "'if He wash thee not, thou hast no part withHim.'"

  "And," said Marguerite, "my Lady will pardon me,--if He wash us, we havepart with Him."

  "Ay," answered Lady Judith. "'Heirs of God, joint-heirs with Christ.'Thou knowest it, my sister?--thou hast washed? Ay, 'we believers enterinto rest.'"

  I wondered what they were talking about. Lady Judith--of the Caesars'purple blood, and born in a palace at Constantinople; and oldMarguerite,--a villein, born in a hovel in Poitou,--marvel to relate!they understood each other perfectly. They have seemed quite friendlyever since. It can hardly be because they are both old. There must besome mystery. I do not understand it at all.

  Another day, we went to the Church of the Ascension, which is on thesummit of Mount Olivet. This also has an open roof. When our Lordascended, He left the impression of His feet in the dust; and thoughpalmers are constantly carrying the holy dust away by basketsful, yetthe impression never changes. This seemed to me so wonderful that Itold Marguerite, expecting that it would very much astonish her. Butshe did not seem to think much about it. Her mind was full of somethingelse.

  "Ah, my Damoiselle," she said, "they did well that built this church,and put no roof on it. For He is not here; He is gone up. And He willcome again. Thank God! He will come again. 'This same Jesus'--thesame that wore the crown of thorns, and endured the agony of thecross,--the same that said 'Weep not' to the bereaved mother, and 'Go inpeace' to the woman that was a sinner--the very same, Himself, and noneother. I marvel if it will be just here! I would like to live and diehere, if it were."

  "O Margot!" said I, laughing, "thou dost not fancy it will be while thouart alive?"

  "Only the good God knows that," she said, still looking up intentlythrough the roof of the church,--or where the roof should havebeen--into the sky. "But I would it might. If I could find it in myheart to envy any mortal creature, it would be them who shall look up,maybe with eyes dimmed by tears, and see Him coming!"

  "I cannot comprehend thee, Margot," said I. "I think it would be justdreadful. I can hardly imagine a greater shock."

  "Suppose, at this moment, my Damoiselle were to look behind her, and seeMonseigneur Count Guy standing there, smiling on her,--would she thinkit a dreadful shock?"

  "Margot! How can the two be compared?"

  "Only love can compare them," answered the old woman softly.

  "Marguerite! Dost thou--canst thou--love our Lord as much as I loveGuy? It is not possible!"

  "A thousand times more, my Damoiselle. Your Nobility, I know, lovesMonseigneur very dearly; yet you have other interests apart from him. Ihave no interest apart from my Lord. All my griefs, all my joys, I taketo Him; and until He has laid His hand on them and blessed them, I canneither endure the one nor enjoy the other."

  I wonder if Lady Judith feels like that! I should like to ask her, if Icould take the liberty.

  Marguerite was looking up again into the sky.

  "Only think what it will be!" she said. "To look up from the cradle ofyour dying child, with the anguish of helplessness pressing tight uponyour heart--and see Him! To look up from your own sick bed, faint andweary beyond measure--and see Him! From the bitter sense of sin andfailure--from cruel words and unkind looks--from loneliness anddesolation--from hunger and cold and homelessness--to look up, and seeHim! There will be some suffering all these things when He comes. Oh,why are His chariot-wheels so long in coming? Does not He long for iteven more than we?"

  I was silent. She looked--this old villein woman--almost like oneinspired.

  "He knows!" she added softly. "He knows. He can wait. Then we can.Surely I come quickly. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus!"'

  Amaury called me, and I left her there.

  He wanted to creep through the columns, and wished me to try first, as Iam slimmer than he. I managed it pretty well,--so now all my sins areremitted, and I do feel so good and nice! Lady Isabel could hardly doit; and Amaury, who has been growing fatter of late, could not getthrough at all. He was much disappointed, and very cross inconsequence. Damoiselle Melisende would not try. She said, laughing,that she was quite sure she could not push through, and she must get hersins forgiven some other way. But she mischievously ran and fetched oldMarguerite, and putting on a grave face, proposed to her to try thefeat. Now I am quite certain Marguerite could never have done it; forthough she is not stout, she is a large-built woman. But she looked atthe place for a moment, and then said to Melisende--

  "If the Damoiselle pleases, what will follow?"

  "Oh, thou wilt have all thy sins forgiven," said she.

  "I thank the Damoiselle," answered Marguerite, and turned quietly away."Then it would be to no good, for my sins are forgiven."

  "What a strange old woman!" exclaimed Lady Isabel.

  "Oh, Marguerite is very queer," said I. "She amuses me exceedingly."

  "Is she quite right in her head, do you think?" demanded the Princess,eyeing Margot with rather a doubtful expression.

  I laughed, and Amaury said, "Oh yes, as bright as a new besant. She isonly comical."

  Then we went into the Church of Saint John, where a piece of marble iskept on which our Lord wrote when the heathen Jews desired to know Hisjudgment on a wicked woman. Marguerite seemed puzzled with this. Shesaid she had heard Father Eudes read the story, and the holy Evangelsaid that our Lord wrote on the ground. How did the writing get on thatmarble?

  "Oh," said I, "the marble must have been down below, and it pleased thegood God that it should receive the impress."

  "The good God can do all things," assented Margot. "But--well, I am anignorant woman."

  Coming down, on the slope of Olivet, the place is shown where our Ladyappeared to Monseigneur Saint Thomas, who refused to be
lieve herassumption, and gave him her girdle as a token of it. This girdle iskept in an abbey in England, and is famous for easing pain.

  That same afternoon, at the spice in the Queen's presence-chamber, wereMessire de Montluc and his sons. And we fell in talk--I remember nothow--upon certain opinions of the schoolmen. Messire Renaud would haveit that nothing is, but all things only seem to be.

  "Nay, truly, Messire," said I, laughing; "I am sure I am."

  "Pardon me--not at all!" he answered.

  "And that cedar-wood fire is," said Damoiselle Melisende.

  "By no means," replied Messire Renaud. "It exists but in your fancy.There is no such thing as matter--only mind. My imagination sees a firethere: your imagination sees a fire:--but there is no fire,--such athing does not exist."

  "Put your finger into this fire which does not exist, if you please,Messire," remarked the Queen, who seemed much amused; "I expect you willcome to a different conclusion within five minutes."

  "I humbly crave your Highness' pardon. My finger is an imagination. Itdoes not really exist."

  "And the pain of the burn--would that be imagination also?" sheinquired.

  "Undoubtedly, Lady," said he.

  "But what is to prevent your imagining that there is no pain?" pursuedHer Highness.

  "Nothing," he answered. "If I did imagine that, there would be none.There is no such thing as matter. Mind--Soul--is the only existence,Lady."

  "What nonsense is the boy talking!" growled the Baron.

  "But, I pray you, Messire Renaud," said I, "if I do not exist, how doesthe idea that I do exist get into my head?"

  "How do I have a head for it to get into?" added Guy.

  "Stuff and nonsensical rubbish!" said the Baron. "Under leave of my LadyQueen,--lad, thou hast lost thy senses. No such thing as matter,quotha! Why, there is nothing but matter that is in reality. What mencall the soul is simply the brain. Give over thy fanciful stuff!"

  "You are a Realist, Messire?" asked Guy.

  "Call me what name you will, Sir Count," returned the Baron. "I am nosuch fool as yon lanky lad of mine. I believe what I see and hear, andthere I begin and end. So does every wise man."

  "Is it not a little odd," inquired Guy, "that everybody should think allthe wise men must believe as he does?"

  "Odd? No!" said the Baron. "Don't you think so yourself, Sir Count?"

  Guy laughed. "But there is one thing I should like to know," said he."I have heard much of Realists and Nominalists, but I never before metone of either. I wish to ask each of you, Messires,--In your system,what becomes of the soul after death?"

  "Nay, if there be no soul, what can become of it?" put in DamoiselleMelisende.

  "Pure foy!" cried the Baron. "I concern myself about nothing of thatsort. Holy Church teaches that the soul survives the body, and it wereunseemly to gainsay her teaching. But--ha! what know I?"

  "For me," said Messire Renaud, a little grandiloquently, "I believe thatdeath is simply the dissolution of that which seems, and leaves only thepure essence of that which is. The modicum of spirit--of thatessence--which I call my soul, will then be absorbed into the great soulof the Universe--the Unknowable, the Unknown."

  "We have a name for that, Messire," said Guy reverently. "We callit--God."

  "Precisely," answered Messire Renaud. "You--we--holy Church--personifythis Unknowable Essence, which is the fountain of all essence. Theparable--for a parable it is--is most beautiful. But It--He--name it asyou will--is none the less the Unknown and the Unknowable."

  "The boy must have a fever, and the delirium is on him," said the Baron."Get a leech, lad. Let out a little of that hot blood which mystifiesthy foolish brains."

  There was silence for a minute, and it was broken by the low, quietvoice of Lady Judith, who sat next to the Lady Queen, with a spindle inher hand.

  "'And this is life eternal, that they should _know Thee_.'" She addedno more.

  "Beautiful words, truly," responded Messire Renaud. "But you willpermit me to observe, Lady, that they are--like all similarphrases--symbolical. The soul that has risen the nearest to thisineffable Essence--that is most free from the shell of that whichseems--may, in a certain typical sense, be said to 'know' this Essence.Now there never was a soul more free from the seeming than that of Himwhom we call our Lord. Accordingly, He tells us that--employing one ofthe loveliest of all types--He 'knew the Father.' It is perfectlycharming, to an enlightened mind, to recognise the force, the beauty,the hidden meaning, of these exquisite types."

  "Lad, what is the length of thine ears?" growled the Baron. "Whatcrouched ass crammed all this nonsense into thee? 'Enlightenedmind'--'exquisite types'--'charming symbolism'! I am not at all surethat I understand thee, thou exquisite gander! But if I do, what thoumeanest, put in plain language, is simply that there is no God. Eh?"

  "Fair Father, under your good leave, I would choose other words.God--what we call God--is the Unknowable Essence. Therefore,undoubtedly there is God, and in a symbolic sense, He is the Creator ofall things, this Essence being the source out of which all otheressences are evolved. Therefore, parabolically speaking"----

  "I'll lay my stick about thy back, thou parabolical mud-puddle!" criedthe Baron. "Let me be served up for Saladin's supper if I understand aword of thy foolery! Art thou a true son of holy Church or not? Thatis what I want to know."

  "Undoubtedly, fair Sir!" said Messire Renaud. "God forbid that I shouldbe a heretic! Our holy Mother the Church has never banned theNominalists."

  "Then it is high time she did!" retorted the Baron. "I reckon shethinks they will do nobody much harm, because no mortal being canunderstand them. But where, in the name of all the Seven Wonders of theWorld, thou gattest such moonshine sticking in thy brains, shoot me if Iknow. It was not from my Lady, thy fair mother; and I am sure it wasnot from me."

  Messire Renaud made no answer beyond a laugh, and the Lady Queen quicklyintroduced a different subject. I fancy she saw that the Baron waslosing his temper. But when Messire Renaud was about to take leave,Lady Judith arose, as quietly as she does everything, and glided to hisside.

  "Fair Sir," she said gently, "I pray you, pardon one word from an oldwoman. You know years should teach wisdom."

  "Trust me, Lady, to listen with all respect," said he courteously.

  "Fair Sir," she said, "when you stand face to face with death, you willfind _It_ does not satisfy your need. You will want _Him_. You are nota thing, but a person. How can the thing produced be greater than thatwhich produces it?"

  "Your pardon, fair Lady and holy Mother!" interposed Messire Renaudquickly. "I do not object to designate the Unknowable Essence as Him.Far from it! I do but say, as the highest minds have said,--We cannotknow. It maybe Him, It, Them:--we cannot know. We can but bow inillimitable adoration, and strive to perfect, to purify and enlighten,our minds, so that they shall grow nearer and nearer to that ineffablePossibility."

  A very sad look passed over Lady Judith's face.

  "My son," she said, "'if the light that is in thee be darkness, howgreat is that darkness!' These are not my words, but His that died forthee."

  And without another word, she glided back to her seat.

  "Margot," said I, when she came to undress me, "is my body or my soulme?"

  "To fall and bruise yourself, Damoiselle, would tell you the one," saidshe; "and to receive some news that grieved you bitterly would show youthe other."

  "Messire Renaud de Montluc says that only my soul is me; and that mybody does not exist at all,--it only seems to be."

  "Does he say the same of his own body?"

  "Oh yes; of all."

  "Wait till he has fleshed his maiden sword," said Margot. "If he comeinto my Damoiselle's hands for surgery[#] with a broken leg and asword-cut on the shoulder, let her ask him, when she has dressed them,whether his body be himself or not."

  [#] All ladies were taught surgery, and practised it, at this date.

  "Oh, he s
ays that pain is only imagination," said I. "If he chose toimagine that he had no pain, it would stop."

  "Very good," said Marguerite. "Then let him set his broken leg with hisbeautiful imagination. If he can cure his pain by imagining he has none,what must he be if he do not?"

  "Well, I know what I should think him. But his father, the Baron deMontluc, will have it just the opposite--that there is no soul, noranything but what we can see and hear."

  "Ah! they will both find out their mistakes when they come to die," saidMargot. "Poor blind things! The good God grant that they may find themout a little sooner."

  I asked Guy if he did not think the Baron's notion a very dangerous one.But while he said "yes," he added that he thought Messire Renaud's muchmore so.

  "It is so much more difficult to disprove," said he. "It may look moreabsurd on the surface, but it is more subtle to deal with, and much moreprofound."

  "They both look to me very silly," said I.

  "I wish they were no worse," was Guy's answer.

  To-day we have been to the Church of the Nativity, at Bethlehem. Thisis a little city, nearly two leagues from Jerusalem, that is, half aday's ride. The way thither is very fair, by pleasant plains and woods.The city is long and narrow, and well walled, and enclosed with goodditches on all sides. Between the city and the church lies the fieldFloridus, where of old time a certain maiden was brought to the burning,being falsely accused. But she, knowing her innocence, prayed to ourLord, and He by miracle caused the lighted faggots to turn into redroses, and the unlighted into white roses; which were the first rosesthat were ever in the world.

  The place where our Lord was born is near the choir of the church, downsixteen steps, made of marble and richly painted; and under thecloister, down eighteen steps, is the charnel-house of the holyInnocents. The tomb of Saint Jerome is before the holy place. Here arekept a marble table, on which our Lady ate with the three Kings thatcame from the East to worship our Lord; and the cistern into which thestar fell that guided them. The church, as is meet, is dedicated to ourLady.

  Marguerite wanted to know if I were sure that the table was marble.Because, she said, our Lady was a poor woman--only imagine such afancy!--but she insisted upon it that she had heard Father Eudes readsomething about it. As if the Queen of Heaven, who was, moreover, Queenof the land, could have been poor! I told Marguerite I was sure shemust be mistaken, for our Lady was a Princess born.

  "That may be, of blood," said she; "but she was poor. Our Lord Himself,when on earth, was but a villein."

  I was dreadfully shocked.

  "O Marguerite!" I cried. "What horrible sacrilege! Art thou not afraidof the church falling on thee?"

  "It would not alter that if it did," said she drily.

  "Our Lord a villein!" exclaimed I. "How is such a thing possible? Hewas the King of Kings."

  "He is the King of Kings," said Marguerite, so reverently that I wassure she could mean no ill; "and He was of the royal blood ofMonseigneur Saint David. That is the Evangel of the nobles. But He wasby station a villein, and wrought as a carpenter, and had no house andno wealth. That is the Evangel of the villeins. And the villeins needtheir Evangel, Damoiselle; for they have nothing else."

  I could not tell what to answer. It is rather puzzling. I suppose itis true that our Lord was reputed the son of a carpenter; and he musthave wrought as such,--Monseigneur Saint Joseph, I mean,--for the Ladyde Montbeillard, who is fond of picking up relics, has a splinter ofwood from a cabinet that he made. But I always thought that it was toteach religious persons[#] a lesson of humility and voluntary poverty.It could not be that He was _poor_!

  [#] By this term a Romanist does not mean what a Protestant does. Theonly "religious persons," in the eyes of the former, are priests ormonks.

  Then our Lady,--I have seen a scrap of her tunic, and it was as finestuff as it could be; and I have heard, though I never saw it, that herwedding-ring is set with gems. I said this to Marguerite. How couldour Lady be poor?

  "All that may be," she replied, with quiet perverseness. "But I know,for all that, Father Eudes read that our Lord was born in a cratch, orlaid in one, because there was no room in the inn. And they do notbehave in that way to kings and nobles. That is the lot of the villein.And He chose the villein's lot; and I, a villein, have been giving Himthanks for it."

  And nothing that I could say would disturb her calm conviction.

  Damoiselle Melisende told me some interesting things as we rode back tothe Holy City. As,--that Jerusalem is very badly supplied with water,and the villeins collect and drink only rain-water. Of course this doesnot affect the nobles, who drink wine. About two leagues fromJerusalem, towards the north, is a little village called Jericho, wherethe walls of the house of Madame Saint Rahab are still standing. Shewas a great lady who received into her house certain spies sent byMonseigneur Saint Joshua, and hid them behind the arras. (Now, thereagain!--if that stupid old Marguerite would not have it that MadameSaint Rahab kept a cabaret. How could a great lady keep a cabaret? Iwish she would give over listening, if it makes her take such fancies.)Damoiselle Melisende also told me that Adam, our first father, wasburied in the place where our Lord was crucified; and our Lord's bloodfell upon him, and he came to life again, and so did many others. AndAdam wept for his son Abel one hundred years. Moreover, there is a rockstill standing in the place where the wicked Jews had their Temple,which was in the holiest place of all; and here our Lord was wont torepose whilst His disciples confessed themselves to Him.[#]

  [#] All these legends may be found in the Travels of Sir JohnMandeville.

  Coming home, we passed by the Golden Gate, which is the gate whereby ourLord entered the Holy City on the ass, and the gate opened to Him of itsown accord. Damoiselle Melisende bade me observe three marks in thestone where the ass had set his feet. The marks I certainly saw, but Icould not have told that they were the print of an ass's hoofs. Isuppose I was not worthy to behold them quite distinctly.

  Guy called me to him this evening.

  "Little Lynette," he said, "I have something to tell thee."

  "Let me spare thee the pains, Guy," answered I mischievously. "Dostthou think I have no eyes? I saw it the first night we came."

  "Saw what?" asked Guy, with an astonished look.

  "That thy beautiful lady had appeared," I replied. "Thou art going towed with Lady Sybil."

  "What fairy whispered it to thee, little witch?" said Guy, laughing."Thou art right, Lynette. The King hath bestowed on me the regency ofthe kingdom, and the hand of his fair sister. To-morrow, in presence ofthe nobles, I am to be solemnly appointed Regent: and a month hence, inthe Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I wed with the Lady Sybil."

  "If thou art happy, Guy, I am very glad," said I; and I said ithonestly.

  "Happy? I should think so!" cried he. "To be Regent of the land of alllands! And she, Lynette--she is a gem and a treasure."

  "I am sure of that, Guy," said I.

  "And now, my news is not finished, little sister," said he. "The Kinghas given Amaury a wife."

  "Oh, poor thing!--who is it?" said I.

  Guy laughed till his eyes were full of tears.

  "Poor thing!--who?" said he. "Amaury or his bride?"

  "Oh, the bride, of course," said I. "Amaury won't care a straw for her,and she will be worried out of her life if she does not dress to pleasehim."

  "Let us hope that she will, then," answered Guy, still laughing. "It isthe Damoiselle Eschine d'Ibellin, daughter of Messire de Rames. Thoudost not know her."

  "Dost thou?--what is she like?"

  "Oh, most women are like one another," said Guy--(what a falsehood!)."Except my fair Lady, and thee, little Lynette, and the Lady Clemence,thy fair mother,--a woman is a woman, and that is all."

  "Oh, indeed!" said I, rather indignantly. "A man is a man, I suppose,and that is all! Guy, I am astonished at thee. If Amaury had said sucha thing, I should not have wondered."

  "Men
are different, of course," answered Guy. "But a woman's business isto look pretty and be attractive. Everybody understands that. Nobodyexpects a woman to be over wise or clever."

  "Thou hadst better be quiet, Guy, if thou dost not want thine earsboxed," said I. "If that is not a speech enough to vex any woman, Inever heard one. You men are the most aggravating creatures. You seemto look upon us as a kind of pretty animal, to be kept for a pet andplaything; and if you are not too obtuse yourselves to find out thatyour plaything occasionally shows signs of a soul within it, you cryout, 'Look here! This toy of mine is actually exhibiting scintillationsof something which really looks almost like human intellect!' Let metell you, Sir Count, we have as much humanity, and sense, andindividuality, as yourselves; and rather more independence. Prettyphrases, and courtly reverences, and professions of servitude, may soundvery well in your ears; and of those you give us plenty. Does it neveroccur to you that we should thank you a great deal more for a littlegenuine respect and consideration? We are _not_ toys; we are not petanimals; we are not pretty pictures. We are human creatures with humanfeelings like yourselves. We can put up with fewer compliments to ourcomplexions, if you please, and a little more realisation of ourseparate consciences and intellects."

  "'Ha, Lusignan!'" cried Guy, looking half ashamed and half amused."'Sainte Marguerite for Poitou!' Upon my word, Lynette, I _have_ had alecture. I shall not forget it in a hurry."

  "Yes," said I, "and thou feelest very much as if Lady Isabel's petmonkey had opened its mouth, and uttered some wise apothegms upon therights of apes. Not that thou hast an atom more respect for the rightsof apes in general, but that thou art a little astonished and amusedwith that one ape in particular."

  Guy went off laughing: and I returned to my embroidery.

  Really, I never did see any thing like these men. "Nobody expects awoman to be wise," forsooth! That is, of course, no man. A woman isnobody.

  I do not believe that men like a woman to be wise. They seem to take itas a personal insult--as though every spark of intellect added to ourbrains left theirs duller. And a woman's mission in life is, _ofcourse_, to please the men,--not to make the most of herself as anindividual human soul. That is treason, usurpation, impertinence.

  They will see what they will see. _I_ can live without them. And Imean to do.