THE SANCTUARY
I crossed the plain of Esdraelon and entered amongst the hills of
beautiful Galilee. It was at sunset that my path brought me sharply
round into the gorge of a little valley, and close upon a grey mass of
dwellings that lay happily nestled in the lap of the mountain. There was
one only shining point still touched with the light of the sun, who had
set for all besides; a brave sign this to “holy” Shereef and the rest of
my Moslem men, for the one glittering summit was the head of a minaret,
and the rest of the seeming village that had veiled itself so meekly
under the shades of evening was Christian Nazareth!
Within the precincts of the Latin convent in which I was quartered there
stands the great Catholic church which encloses the sanctuary, the
dwelling of the blessed Virgin. {111} This is a grotto of about ten feet
either way, forming a little chapel or recess, to which you descend by
steps. It is decorated with splendour. On the left hand a column of
granite hangs from the top of the grotto to within a few feet of the
ground; immediately beneath it is another column of the same size, which
rises from the ground as if to meet the one above; but between this and
the suspended pillar there is an interval of more than a foot; these
fragments once formed a single column, against which the angel leant when
he spoke and told to Mary the mystery of her awful blessedness. Hard by,
near the altar, the holy Virgin was kneeling.
I had been journeying (cheerily indeed, for the voices of my followers
were ever within my hearing, but yet), as it were, in solitude, for I had
no comrade to whet the edge of my reason, or wake me from my noonday
dreams. I was left all alone to be taught and swayed by the beautiful
circumstances of Palestine travelling—by the clime, and the land, and the
name of the land, with all its mighty import; by the glittering freshness
of the sward, and the abounding masses of flowers that furnished my
sumptuous pathway; by the bracing and fragrant air that seemed to poise
me in my saddle, and to lift me along as a planet appointed to glide
through space.
And the end of my journey was Nazareth, the home of the blessed Virgin!
In the first dawn of my manhood the old painters of Italy had taught me
their dangerous worship of the beauty that is more than mortal, but those
images all seemed shadowy now, and floated before me so dimly, the one
overcasting the other, that they left me no one sweet idol on which I
could look and look again and say, “Maria mia!” Yet they left me more
than an idol; they left me (for to them I am wont to trace it) a faint
apprehension of beauty not compassed with lines and shadows; they touched
me (forgive, proud Marie of Anjou!)—they touched me with a faith in
loveliness transcending mortal shapes.
I came to Nazareth, and was led from the convent to the sanctuary. Long
fasting will sometimes heat my brain and draw me away out of the
world—will disturb my judgment, confuse my notions of right and wrong,
and weaken my power of choosing the right: I had fasted perhaps too long,
for I was fevered with the zeal of an insane devotion to the heavenly
queen of Christendom. But I knew the feebleness of this gentle malady,
and knew how easily my watchful reason, if ever so slightly provoked,
would drag me back to life. Let there but come one chilling breath of
the outer world, and all this loving piety would cower and fly before the
sound of my own bitter laugh. And so as I went I trod tenderly, not
looking to the right nor to the left, but bending my eyes to the ground.
The attending friar served me well; he led me down quietly and all but
silently to the Virgin’s home. The mystic air was so burnt with the
consuming flames of the altar, and so laden with incense, that my chest
laboured strongly, and heaved with luscious pain. There—there with
beating heart the Virgin knelt and listened. I strived to grasp and hold
with my riveted eyes some one of the feigned Madonnas, but of all the
heaven-lit faces imagined by men there was none that would abide with me
in this the very sanctuary. Impatient of vacancy, I grew madly strong
against Nature, and if by some awful spell, some impious rite, I could—Oh
most sweet Religion, that bid me fear God, and be pious, and yet not
cease from loving! Religion and gracious custom commanded me that I fall
down loyally and kiss the rock that blessed Mary pressed. With a half
consciousness, with the semblance of a thrilling hope that I was plunging
deep, deep into my first knowledge of some most holy mystery, or of some
new rapturous and daring sin, I knelt, and bowed down my face till I met
the smooth rock with my lips. One moment—one moment my heart, or some
old pagan demon within me, woke up, and fiercely bounded; my bosom was
lifted, and swung, as though I had touched her warm robe. One moment,
one more, and then the fever had left me. I rose from my knees. I felt
hopelessly sane. The mere world reappeared. My good old monk was there,
dangling his key with listless patience, and as he guided me from the
church, and talked of the refectory and the coming repast, I listened to
his words with some attention and pleasure.