Zacharias wrote on his tablet, “Go.” He was sure that she had only to cross the threshold and she would be released. It was said—though he’d never tested the theory, that one could confine a hen by drawing a chalk circle; and there were times when Elisabeth, in her present state, seemed to him to be similarly confined by a barrier of which only she was aware.
While the subject was still under discussion they received a letter, written in a large, squarish hand and in the black graphite with which carpenters marked measurements on rough boards. The journey had smudged it but it was legible. It said, simply, “My name is Joseph, Mary my wife, who is your cousin, would like to visit you. Friends leave for Jerusalem on the twelfth day of the month and she could come with them.” The bearer of the letter, a pedlar, in Jerusalem to stock up with what he called ‘pretty things’said that he was intending to return to So Galilee and would carry their reply. Zacharias wrote that Mary would be most welcome.
Elisabeth, though delighted at the prospect of seeing Mary and having her under her roof, was perturbed again. In the first months of one’s marriage, if it were a happy one, one did not give much thought to cousins, or propose an eighty-mile journey in order to visit them. She remembered how, last time they met, at the wedding of another cousin, her Uncle Joachim had said that when Mary was old enough to marry he hoped it would be to someone she loved. Elisabeth, a conventional woman, could see an clement of danger there; girls so often liked men for all the wrong reasons. How, at the age of sixteen or seventeen, if properly reared, could they know anything about men, know what to look for and what to avoid? Such things were better left to parents who had some standard judgement, some experience, and cool heads. Mary might have made a mistake, been misled by good looks or a persuasive tongue.
And yet the letter had something frank and straightforward about it; and would a selfish man—and such the wedding arrangements had indicated Joseph to be—have written at all, been willing so soon to spare his bride from his bed and his hearth?
She turned the letter about as though it might have some hidden information to offer; and in a way it had, for it was written upon the back of a draft obviously from the skilled hand of an architect; the plan of a large house, almost a mansion, and in the lower left-hand corner were the words—“House of Nathaniel in Cana’. A possible explanation occurred to her;, Cana was seven miles from Nazareth and if Joseph were working under pressure he would not get home until well after dark, on some nights perhaps not at all. He might have qualms about leaving Mary alone. Mary might not wish to be left alone. Against the explanation must be set the fact that Mary’s parents were in the village.. ..
Well, she must wait; when Mary came she would tell her everything, no doubt, for despite the disparity in their ages on the few occasions
when they had met they had always beencongenial.
The family with whom Mary was travelling as far as Jerusalem was on its way to attend a Barmitzvah of a young relative there, and they were very merry. The weather was fine and warm, not yet the blistering heat of high summer; in the fields the crops were ripening, poppies and cornflowers abounded, vetches and honeysuckles threw their tendrils over every fence and post. The father of the family had made this journey several times before and knew many short-cuts, through fields and by-ways, and Mary was always glad to leave the highroad where sights, distressing to her, were to be seen.
After Gibeon, however, they kept to the road and joined up with other foot-travellers, for the hills were full of robbers, apt to attack any small party.
There was so much chatter and laughter that there was little chance to think much. A mile short of the city their ways parted. The head of the family issued a hearty invitation to her to enter the city with them and partake of the hospitality in his relative’s house—everybody was welcome on such occasions; and it was a shame—he said to be so near and miss a chance of seeing Jerusalem. But she was anxious to see Elisabeth, and anxious to be alone. So, thanking him, she said that she could see the city under Zacharias’ guidance almost any day. And when they had made certain that she had only a short distance to go, and that over a safe road, they left her.
It was now seven weeks since the angel had visited her and they had been seven weeks of unreality and confusion. The wedding, so hastily arranged, yet, in Anne’s capable hands, so correct; a girl’s great day; to her part of a waking dream. Clad in her grandmother’s beautiful gown, receiving compliments and good wishes and gifts, she had felt utterly detached from it all. She thought of women she knew—some of them women to whom marriage had brought little happiness—who cherished some trinket or piece of clothing, whose worn faces would brighten, whose harsh voices would soften as they said, “I wrote it at my wedding.” Yet here she was, with as much reason to be glad and grateful that she was being married as any woman ever had, looking at the smiling, friendly faces and thinking—If only you knew!
She’d looked at Joseph, too—the one person who did know-and saw with consternation how he had changed in a handful of hours. He’d always worn his years lightly, taking few things seriously except his work, and her; he’d always worn a cheerful, carefree look, in accord with his roving, foot-free life; it had been so easy to visualise him shouldering his tools and going off to see what the next place had to offer. That was all gone now; and his new air of responsibility which would have been right and only slightly touching in a young man just embarking upon the serious step of marriage, in him was very touching, giving him an elderly, almost a troubled look. She made up her mind to be the best possible wife, always cheerful, patient and kind; she would love him forever and try to make up … Her thought jolted to a standstill. Make up for what? Being chosen by God?
And so it had gone on.
Rachel, with the lazy Joshua astride her hip, had offered her a present, a handsome oil-jar.
“I’ll hope you’ll be very happy, Mary,” she said, and all her willing could riot prevent her voice from revealing her doubt that any woman could be really happy in marriage. Then, in a different tone, she had added, “And I hope you’ll have a boy, like this, but less lazy.”
And Mary had thought, dizzily—Suppose I said that I knew I should have a son, and that he will be the Messiah. Rachel would recoil, and probably be so shocked she’d drop Joshua.
The grooms lifted and carried her to her new home; and she thought—You little know whom you are carrying beside me! And there the ritual vase, the symbol of virginity, was broken, and the feast began. Joseph had cleared the workshop for the purpose, and Anne, loudly complaining that she had had time to do nothing, had done marvels. There was wine which Joachim had been saving for the wedding, and Joseph also had a jar; he gave it a peculiar look as he produced it, saying that it was not quite full… as though that mattered I The feast had been very merry; most of the guests lived lives on or only just above subsistence level and were as much exhilarated by the food as by the wine, though
there was plenty of that, the company being so much smaller than it would have been if held on the appointed day. (Years later, she was to remember this, to think—There was plenty of wine at my wedding, and out of kindly pity for the embarrassment of a family less well-provided, make a suggestion that was to result in what was to be known as the first miracle.) Then it was dusk; there were children to put to bed, animals to feed, hens to shut up against the prowling foxes. The company began to disperse. Anne threw her arms about her daughter in one last protective gesture; from this hour on the kindness and the chiding and the sheltering care must come from another, from this fellow who, in Anne’s view, suddenly seemed quite incapable of taking her place as Mary’s guardian. She said, “My dear, I wish you every joy,” and then, hearing and despising the tremor in her voice, said sturdily and rather crossly, “It has been a pleasant day. But there should have been three!”