"Well, let me see," Arif said. "There is Hamadj's daughter, Fenzile."
"Is she young, Arif Bey?"
"Not so young, nineteen, but she is a mountain woman and lasts."
"Is she good-looking?"
"Yes, she is very good-looking."
"Is she kindly?"
"Yes, yes, I think so."
"Is she wild?"
"No, She is very docile."
"You trust me a lot, Arif Bey."
"Yes, we trust you much."
"And I trust you, Arif Bey.... Will Fenzile marry me?"
"Yes," Arif Bey decided, "Fenzile will marry you."
§ 8
It seemed to him, at thirty-five, that only now had he discovered the
secret of living. Not until now had his choice and destiny come together
to make this perfect equation of life. The work he loved of the bark
_Queen Maeve_, with her beautiful sails like a racing yacht's, her white
decks, her shining brass. The carrying of necessities from Britain to
Syria, the land he loved, next to Ulster, his mother. And the carrying
from Syria into harsh plain Britain of cargoes of beauty like those of
Sheba's queen, on camels that bare spices, and very much gold and
precious stones. And the great ancient city where he lived; not even
Damascus, the pride of the world, exceeded it for beauty. Forward of
massed Lebanon, white with snow it lay, a welter of red roots and green
foliage--the blue water, the garlanded acacias, the roses, the sally
branches. Beauty! Beauty! The Arab shepherds in abbas of dark magenta,
the black Greek priests, the green of a pilgrim's turban, the veiled
women smoking narghiles and daintly sipping sherbet, pink and yellow and
white. The cry of the donkey-boy, and the cry of the cameleer, and the
cry of the muezzin from the mosque. The quaint salutations as he passed
along the staired streets: _Naharkum Sayeed!_--May your day be blessed.
_Naharaka abyad!_--May your day be white. _Allah yahtikum el
afiyeh!_--God give health to you. They were chanted like a refrain of a
song.
Beauty! Riot and slashing of color. Yet there was line here and massive
proportion. The sparkling, magenta city had been the theater of great
marching hosts. The Phenicians had built it: "the root of life, the
nurse of cities, the primitive queen of the world," they had named her.
And gone the Phenicians, and came the slim subtle Egyptians. And the
massive burly Assyrians came next: and now the memory of them was
forgotten, also their love and their hatred and their envy was now
perished. And then came the tramp of the Roman legions, Agrippa's men,
and held the city for centuries. Justinian had one of his law schools
there, until the earth quaked and the scholars dispersed. And then the
Saracens held it until Baldwin, brother of Godfrey de Bouillon, clashed
into it with mailed crusaders; and Baldwin, overcome with the beauty of
the land, took him a paynim queen. And then came the occult reign of the
Druse. And then the Turk.
And St. George had killed the Dragon there, after the old monk's tale.
Shane Campbell was never weary of looking at the inscriptions on the
great cliffs at the River of the Dog--the strange beauty of that name!
It was like the place-names of native Ulster--_Athbo_, the Ford of Cows,
_Sraidcuacha_, the Cuckoo's Lane--one name sounded to the other like
tuning-forks. And the sweet strange harmony of it filled his heart, so
that he could understand the irresistible charm of Lebanon--the high
clear note like a bird's song. Here was the sun and the dreams of mighty
things, and the palpable proximity of God. Here was beauty native, to be
picked like a nugget, not to be mined for in bitter hours of torment and
distress.
High, clear, sustained, the note held. Arose the moon and the great
stars like spangles. The slender acacias murmured. The pines
_hush-hushed_. The _bronhaha_ of the cafés was like a considered
counterpoint. Everywhere was harmony; beauty. And there would be no
depression. It would last. There would be no ghosts. They were
exorcised. For now there was Fenzile. How understandable everything was!
It must have been under a moon like this, under these Syrian stars, to
the _hush-hush-hush_ of the pine and the rustle of willow branches, that
Solomon the king sang his love-song. And it must have been to one whose
body was white as Fenzile's, to eyes as emerald, to velvety lips, to
slim hands with orange-tinted finger nails that he sang. Surely the
Shulamite was not fairer than the Fenzile, daughter of Hamadj, a Druse
emir!
How beautiful are thy feet with shoes, O prince's daughter!
The joints of thy thighs are like jewels,
The work of the hands of a cunning workman.
Thy navel is like a round goblet,
Which wanteth not liquor:
Thy belly is like an heap of wheat set about with lilies.
Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.
Thy neck is like a tower of ivory:
Thine eyes like the fishpools in Heshbon,
By the gate of Bath-rabbim:
Thy nose is as the tower of Lebanon which looketh toward Damascus.
Thine head upon thee is like Carmel,
And the hair of thine head like purple;
The king is held in the galleries.
How fair and pleasant art thou,
O love, for delights!
This thy stature is like to a palm tree.
And thy breasts to clusters of grapes.
I said, I will go up to the palm tree.
I will take hold of the boughs thereof:
Now also thy breasts shall be as clusters of the vine,
And the smell of thy nose like apples;
And the roof of thy mouth like the best wine for my beloved,
That goeth down sweetly,
Causing the lips of those that are asleep to speak....
§ 9
Where before he had made his mistake with women was allowing them to
become spiritually important. His mother had been important; he had
suffered from the sense of her lack of heart to him. His wife had been
important; they hadn't understood life together, he made no attempt
to.... They were so young.... And Claire-Anne had become spiritually
important to him. So that when she was gone, it was hell.
If he had treated his mother casually, depending on his uncles, it would
have been all right. If he had discerned--and he had discerned, though
he knew not how to act--that his wife and he would forever be
inharmonious, it would not have been a scar on his youth. If he had gone
for instance to Alan Donn and said, "Uncle Alan, I'm afeared there's a
mistake been made. And what are we going to do about this woman o'
Louth?" And Alan would have said: "I ken't well you were a damned young
fool. Ah, well, gang off aboard your boatie, and I'll see to her." Alan
would have ditched her and her mother mercilessly, and there would have
been no scar on his youth....
And Claire-Anne, had he only taken her as he should have taken her, as a
light love, easily gotten, to be taken easily, instead of tragedizing
until his fingers were scarlet.... God!... Yes, where before he had made
his mistakes with women was allowing them to become spiritually
important.
Well, he wouldn't do that with Fenzile. He knew better now. Keep the
heart free. Let there be beauty and graciousness and kindliness, but
keep the heart free, and ask for no heart. All tragedies were internal,
all the outward deeds being only as sounds. Keep the heart free.
There were so many aspects to her. She was like a bird about the house,
gaily colored, of bright song. He loved to see her move here and there,
with movements as of music. And she was like a child at times, as she
solemnly made sherbets--very like a child she was, intense, simple. And
she was like a young relative; there was emptiness in the house as she
went, and when she came back it was like a bird singing.
And she was so beautiful about the place, with her eyes green of the
sea, her dusky velvet lips, her slim cinnamon hands, with the dramatic
orange tinting on the nails. Always was some new beauty in her, a tilt
of the head, a sudden gracious pose. She was like some piece of warm
statuary. From any angle came beauty, shining as the sun.
And in the dusk when his arms were about her, she was no longer child,
relative, or statue. She was woman, vibrant woman. Tensed muscles and a
little stifled moan. And an emotional sob, maybe, or a tear glistening
on her cheek. Relaxation, and a strange, easy dignity. With her arms
about her white knees, her little head upraised, thoughts seemed to be
going and coming from her like bees in and out of their straw skep. And
often he was tempted to ask her what she was thinking of. But he stopped
himself in time. Of course she was thinking of nothing at all, barring
possibly a new sherbet to be made, or whether, if they sold Fatima, the
Abyssinian cook, who was becoming garrulous, would Fatima have a good
home. Trifles! What was the use of asking her? And here was another
possibility. She might--anything was possible--be in some deep subtle
thought, into which, if he asked, he might get enmeshed, or be trapped
emotionally. Better not ask. He wanted to know nothing of her heart, and
to keep his.
He loved her in a happy guarded way. And she loved him. When he came
back after a voyage she looked at him with an amazed joy. "O Zan! Zan,
dear! Is it you? Is it really you?" She would rush and hold him. What
amazing strength her little arms had! And she would stand back and look
at him again. "O Zan! Zan!" And she would bury her perfumed head in his
shoulder to hide the glad tears. "O Zan!"
"Do you know why I love you so much, Zan dear?" she once said.
"Why, Fenzile?"
"Because you are so big, and yet you are so gentle. And you wouldn't do
a little thing, my Zan."
"Don't be foolish, Fenzile!"
"I am not foolish."
Only once she asked him how he loved her.
"I wonder--how much do you love me, my Zan?"
"Oh, lots, Fenzile. A terrible lot." And he smiled.
"As much as you do your ship?"
"Yes, as much as I do my ship."
"That is a lot, Zan.... Zan, would you miss me, if I should die?"
"I should miss you terribly."
"If you died, I should die, too." Her voice quavered.
"Don't be silly. Of course you wouldn't."
"Don't you think I would?" And she laughed with him one of her rare,
rare laughs. And that was the way it all should end, in pretty laughter.
Let there be none of this horrible emotionalism, this undignified welter
of thought and feeling. Kindness of eyes, and pleasantness of body, but
keep the heart away. Let them be--how? There wasn't a word in English,
or in Gaidhlig to express it; in French there was--_des amis_, not _des
amants_. Let them be that. Let there be no involution of thought and
mind about it. Let there be this time no mistake.... Where before he had
made his mistake with women was allowing them to become spiritually
important....
§ 10
Into this idyl of Beirut came now the wrestler from Aleppo, Ahmet Ali,
and the occurrence irritated Campbell to a degree which he had not
conceived possible. There he passed the door with his dreamy Syrian
face, his red rose, his white burnoose, his straggling followers. And
Fenzile smiled her quiet aloof smile.
There might be amusement in it, a queer Eastern comedy of the mountebank
who raised his eyes to a Druse princess, and wife of a Frank ship's
master. It might be amusing to Fenzile to see this conqueror of men
conquered by her presence, but it wasn't dignified. By God! it wasn't
dignified.
But it wasn't dignified to talk about it. To show Fenzile that it
mattered a tinker's curse to him. So he said nothing, and the wrestler
went by every day. It was becoming intolerable. It seemed to amuse
Fenzile, but it didn't amuse him.
And suddenly a chill smote him. What did he know of these people of the
East anyhow? In six years one could learn their language perfectly,
know their customs, know themselves, but know only as much as they
wanted to be known. The outer person, which is hallucination, one might
know, but what of the inner, which is reality? A strange country, where
the merchants spoke like princes and the princes like cameleers, and the
_sakyeh_, the water-carrier, might quote some fancy of Hafiz, as the
water gurgled from the skin. The obedience, the resignation in the
women's eyes might cover intrigue, and what was behind the eyes of the
men, soft as women's?
"Fenzile, you say you love me, because I am kind. Don't you love me
because I am strong?"
"Anyway, anyhow, dear Zan."
"I am strong, you know. As strong as your friend, Ahmet Ali."
"Of course, dear Zan." But somehow her tone did not carry conviction. If
she understood there was nothing this wrestler had he did not have
better, it would have been all right. All attributes in the world would
have been for her in him. But she thought the wrestler was strong. Damn
women! Couldn't they understand the difference between the muscles of a
hunting leopard and the bulk of a sea-cow? It was silly, but it
irritated him.
And then a thought came to him that he felt degraded him, but of which
he could not rid himself, try as he would. What did he know of Fenzile,
barring that she was young and strong and beautiful? Nothing. Of what
was she thinking in those dreamy eyes, green of the sea? And women
always admired strength in a man. And he was away most of the time, half
anyway. And the breath of the East was intrigue.
"Oh, don't be rotten," he told himself. But the occasional hot and
searing pain remained, and the little black cloud was in his mind. When
they were close in the soft gloom, shoulder to shoulder, her eyes
closed, her slim cinnamon hands clenched, pain stabbed him like a knife.
And in the gay mornings, when she was arranging her flowers in vases of
Persian blue, it made him silent as the grave. And in the evening when
she was doing her subtle Syrian broideries, it aroused in him queer
gusts of controlled fury.... Could it be possible? A mountebank.... And
the "Thousand and One Nights" began with _Shah Zamon's_ queen and her
love for the blackamoor slave....
If the wrestler would only go away, become tired of parading, and
Fenzile would tire of smiling.... And later on Campbell would laugh....
But the wrestler stayed, and many times Campbell met him in the streets,
and each time was exaggerated, insulting courtesy from the Aleppo man,
as he drew aside to let the Frank pass. There was hostility and contempt
in his veiled eyes.... There nonchalance in his smelling of the rose ...
Campbell passed by frigidly, as if the man weren't there, and all the
time his blood was boiling.... But what was one to do? One could not
make a scene before the riff-raff of Syria. And besides, there was too
much of a chance of a knife in the back.... Franks were cheap these
days, and it would be blamed on the war of the Druses....
Argue with himself as much as he could, it was intolerable. It was
silly, but it was intolerable.... To think of another caressing that
perfumed hair, of another kissing the palm of that slim hand, of another
seeing those sleek, sweet shoulders....
Was he jealous ...? No, irritated, just, he told himself. Was he in love
with her himself? Of course not. She wasn't close enough to him for
that.... Then why ...?
Oh, damn it! He didn't know why, but it was just intolerable....
§ 11
The bark was in the open roadstead, cargo all ready, Levantine pilot on
board. A reaching breeze from the north and all favorable. And when he
would get home to Liverpool, he had a design to spend a few weeks in
Ulster.... The roads would be glistening with frost there, and the
pleasant Ulster moon at the full.... The turf would be nearly black, and
bare as a board, and there would be coursing of hares ... November
mists, and the trees red and brown.... Eh, hard Ulster, pleasant Ulster!
He should have been happy, as he made his way down the Beirut streets to
go aboard, leaving the land of his adoption for the land of his birth,
leaving pleasant Fenzile for the shrewd pleasantry of his own folk.... A
little while of Ulster and he would be coming back again.... One's heart
should lift the glory of the world, the bold line of Ulster and the
lavish color of Syria; the sincere, dour folk of Ulster and the warmth
of Fenzile.... He should have left so warmly. "In a little while,
dearest, I'll be back and my heart will speak to your twin green eyes."
"Yes, Zan. I'll be here." But he had left dourly. And Fenzile had
watched him go with quivering lip.... Oh, damn himself for his
suspicions, for his annoyance, and damn the fatuous Arab fool for
arousing them.... Christ, if only he had that fellow on board ship. And
suddenly he met him, with his attendants and hangers-on. The wrestler
drew aside with his insolent smile. Campbell's temper broke loose.
"Listen, O certain person," he insulted the Aleppo man, "there is a
street in Beirut down which it does not please me to see you go."
"Will the foreign gentleman tell me," the wrestler's voice drawled, and
he smelled his rose, "who will stop a Moslem from going down a Moslem
street?"
"By God, I would!" The Syrians of Ahmet Ali's escort gathered around,
smiling.
"The foreign gentleman forgets that I am the wrestler from Aleppo."
"Just so. I happen to be a bit of a wrestler myself."
"Some day perhaps the foreign gentleman will condescend to try a fall
with me."
Syrians, Egyptians, Turks, were pouring from all quarters. Six French
soldiers, walking gapingly along the bazaars, stopped wonderingly.
"Dites, les soldats," Shane called. "Vous ne voulez pas voir quelque
chose d'interessant?"
"Mais si, Monsieur!"
"Eh bien, je vais lutter contre l'homme avec la rose. C'est un lutteur
arabe. Voulez-vous-y assister?"
"Mais, pour bien sur, Monsieur."
"All right, then, by God!" Shane looked square at Ahmet Ali. "We'll
wrestle right here and now."
"But the stones, the street," Ahmet Ali looked surprised. "You might get
hurt."
"We'll wrestle here and now."
"Oh, all right." The Arab lifted an expressive shoulder. Carefully he
removed the great white robe and handed it to an attendant. To another
he gave the rose. Shane handed his coat and hat to a saturnine French
corporal. Ahmet Ali took his shirt off. Kicked away his sandals. There
was the dramatic appearance of an immense bronze torso. The Syrians
smiled. The French soldiers looked judicially grave. Ahmet Ali stood
talking for an instant with one of his men, a lean bilious-seeming Turk.
The Turk was urging something with eagerness. The wrestler's soft girl's
face had concentrated into a mask of distaste. He was shaking his head.
He didn't like something.
"How God-damned long are you going to keep me here?"
Ahmet turned. There was a smile on his face, as of amused, embarrassed
toleration. He was like a great athlete about to box with a small boy.
And the boy in earnest.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Any time," Shane snapped.
"All right."
Very easily he came forward over the cobbled street. He was like some
immense bronze come suddenly to life and shambling. Like the brazen
servant Thomas Aquinas made under the influence of particular stars. His
great brown shoulders, his barreled chest, his upper arms like a man's
leg, his packed forearms, his neck like a bull's, his shaven head. All
seemed superhuman, and then came his shy embarrassed smile, his troubled
eyes. One felt he hated to do this....
He dropped suddenly, easily, into his wrestler's crouch. His shoulders
swayed lightly. He pawed like a bear.
Campbell stood easily, left foot forward, like a boxer. His left arm
shot out suddenly. The heel of his hand stopped, jolted, Ahmet on the
chin. The Syrian shook his head. Pawed again. Campbell slapped him on
the forearms, jolted him again on the chin, broke away easily to the
right. Ahmet's brown forehead frowned. "Don't be childish," he seemed to
chide Campbell. The crowd pressed. The French soldiers rapped them back
with the scabbard of their sidearms. _En arrière, les puants, en
arrière!_ "Back, sons of polecats, get back." The scabbards clacked like
slapsticks.
Ahmet Ali stood up straighter. He wanted to get away from that annoying
hand on his chin. His forearms moved faster now, like brown pistons.
There was a slight frown on his face. He was becoming impatient. Shane
broke again to the right. Ahmet followed, his immense hands poised.
Campbell feinted for the chin again with his left hand. The wrestler's
smile flickered. His right arm went out in guard. Campbell shifted,
caught the brown wrist in his right hand, his left hand shot forward to
the chin again. He brought forward all his forces to twisting that
gigantic arm. He held the Syrian locked. The right arm began to give. If
he could only shift his feet, get some sort of leverage. But how in
God's name, how? How could he get behind. With an immense wrench of
shoulders Ahmet got free. He stood for an instant, nursing his numbed
wrist. He nodded and grinned. "That wasn't bad," he seemed to say. The
lean bilious Turk on the edge of the crowd began talking viciously. The
saturnine French corporal turned and smacked him terribly across the
nose with the edge of the scabbard of his bayonet. "_Et-ta soeur!_" He
had the air of a schoolmaster reproving a refractory pupil. But his
language was obscene and his blow broke the man's nose.... He vouchsafed
no further interest in the Turk, but turned to watch the wrestling,
twirling an oiled mustache....
The Syrian closed his mouth, breathed heavily through his nostrils. His
brow corrugated. His eyes became pinpoints. He was a workman out to do a
job. He began to weave in, his brown arms describing slow arabesques.
The crowd around became oppressively silent. They breathed hissingly.
Shane feinted, dodged, broke away. Doggedly Ahmet Ali followed. Faster
than time, Shane's right hand shot out and gripped the wrestler's right
wrist. His right foot hooked around the Syrian's right ankle. He pulled
downward with sudden, vicious effort. Ali crashed forward on his face, a
great brown hulk like an overturned bronze statue. Shane stooped down
for either the half-Nelson and hammer-lock, or full Nelson.... An
instant too long of hesitation. Light as a lightweight acrobat Ahmet
Ali had rolled aside, put palm to ground, sprung to his feet. His face
was bloody, his right knee shook. With the back of his hand he wiped the
blood from his eyes. There was a twitter from the Syrians. The wrestler
lumbered forward again.... A little quake of fear came into Campbell's
being. There was an impersonal doggedness about the wrestler from
Aleppo's eyes, a sense of inevitability.... Shane's eyes shifted, right
and left....
Then suddenly, the wrestler had him....
He felt a twirl to his shoulder, and then he was pinioned by two immense
brown arms. They caught him above the elbows around the chest. First
they were like boys' arms, light. They became firm as calipers. They
settled, snugged. Then they tightened slowly, with immense certainty.
There was something about it like the rise of the tide. A gigantic cable
around his chest. At his shoulder-blades the Syrian's pectoral muscles
pressed like shallow knobs of steel. His arms began to hurt. His
breathing began to be hard with every output of breath. The arms
tightened.... All his vitality was flying through his opened mouth....
He hit futilely with his knuckles at the rope-like sinews of the brown
forearms.... His head throbbed like drums.... In an instant he would be
like a bag bound midways ... his ribs giving like saplings in the wind
... Lights danced....
Stupidly he looked down at the clasped hands, and a sudden fury of
fighting came on him.... Something terrible, sinister, cold. His free
hands caught the Syrian's little finger, tugged, pulled, bent, tore....
He wanted to shred it from its hand.... Rip it like silk.... He felt the
great arms about him quiver, grow uncertain.... Tear, tear!...
With a little whine like a dog's, the wrestler let go.... He nursed the
finger for an instant like a hurt child.... Opening and shutting the
hand.... Looking worried.... Great waves of air came into Shane's
chest.... His knees were weak.... The Syrian walked around an instant,
thinking, worrying.... He was serious now.... Suddenly he plunged....
But swifter than Ahmet's plunge was thought and memory.... Of a day at
Nagasaki ... of a little brown smiling Japanese and a burly square-head
sailorman.... Of the Japanese's courteous explanation in smiling
Pidgin.... With luck and timing he could do it.... Fast, but not too
fast, and steady.... Handsomely, as the ship-word was.... There!