CHAPTER XVIII

THE END OF THE RAFT

We were now only sixty-five miles from Baghdad, and with luck we should

reach it next day. We travelled on all night, and on waking up next

morning found ourselves floating past cultivated banks and creaking

waterwheels, and sighted in the distance dark patches of palm-groves.

But, in spite of Ali's prayers to the "God of the favouring breeze,"

our enemy the wind rose up once more and compelled us to put to shore.

From this point it was only a few hours by land to Baghdad. We could

faintly see the town itself on the distant horizon line to the east,

separated from us by a great expanse of sandy desert. We were told,

however, that the river wound in and out so much that it was still a

day's journey off by water.

We kicked our heels disconsolately on shore--a sandy shore this time;

little sandy hillocks alternated with patches of struggling tufts of

grass. We sat there all day. The sand blew into our faces, and the

river rolled on past us--and just behind me a rat put its head

occasionally out of a hole to see if we were still there. Arten also at

intervals put his head out of the hut and held up his hand in the

hurricane to feel if the wind was blowing. "There is still much wind,"

he would say, and as no one paid any attention to his original remark

he retired again into the hut, and the rat looked out of his hole. I

always mixed up Arten with rats after that day. By and by a goufa

appeared on the scene. A goufa is a native boat made of pomegranate

branches laced together with ropes and covered inside and out with

bitumen. It is like a circular coracle, eight to ten feet across and

about four feet deep, and is propelled with a single paddle. The crew

disembarked just above us. First came half a dozen Arabs, then a veiled

woman, then a donkey, then a buffalo, then another woman, then three

more men. One donkey still remained inside with two men. He refused to

be jumped over the side like his predecessors. All the people on shore

yelled at him and the men in the boat hit him. Hits and cries were of

no avail; he sneered at the yellers and kicked at the hitters. The

donkey on land gazed mournfully at his companion and brayed. Finally

the offender put his two fore feet on the edge of the boat and the men

behind seized his hind legs and heaved him overboard. He rolled over in

the water, shook himself unconcernedly, and started to browse the

withered grass. Then everybody disappeared behind sandy hillocks, the

goufa floated past us, and we were once more left alone with the wind

and the rat.

Towards sunset we made a start again, and floated on most of the night.

Small mud villages and plantations of palms and orange-trees were

scattered thickly on each side of the river. We seemed to be quite

close to Baghdad; gilded domes and minarets stood up on the sky-line

above confused masses of flat-topped houses and groups of palm-trees.

But all the morning we wound slowly round and round endless loops of

the river and hardly seemed to get any nearer to our destination. The

banks now teemed with life; goufas shot across past us from one bank to

another with mixed consignments of men and animals; mules plodded up

and down drawing skins of water over windlasses; groups of Arabs lay

about on the sunny banks and shouted inquiries at the kalekjis as we

passed. The houses, which had been mud hovels higher up the river, now

looked more substantial, and were each surrounded by high walls

enclosing shady orange gardens. Finally we hove in sight of the bridge

of boats which guards the entrance to the town, and ran into the shore

just above it. The bridge, we learnt, had to be broken down before the

raft could pass through, and as this seemed likely to take some hours

we landed and drove up to the Consulate. H.M. Vice-Consul was away, and

so we proceeded to the Babylon Hotel.

[Illustration: "DRAWING SKINS OF WATER."]

Baghdad can be reached in a normal way up the Persian Gulf to Busra and

from thence by the weekly mail steamer; it contains, therefore, certain

concessions to the ideas of occasional European agents and commercial

travellers. The Babylon Hotel is one of these concessions. There was a

dining-room hung all round with the framed self-assertions of various

wine and spirit merchants whose names, strangely familiar, mocked us

from the wall as a first greeting from the borders of civilisation.

Hassan stood in the middle of the room and gazed at them open-mouthed.

These were to him English works of art, decorations of great English

houses, in keeping with the gaudily covered chairs and meaningless

glass ornaments. Each one had unmistakable pictorial aspects of the

bottle. He pointed at first one and then another.

"Ingilhiz," he said in a tone of congratulation. He was always pleased

when we met with anything which would seem to remind us of our native

land. We were irresponsive; he studied them further.

"Raki?" (Whisky) he added, the note of inquiry tinged with apologetic

scorn.

The hotel was built, like all the better modern houses, along the banks

of the river, with overhanging balconies. I escaped from the further

evidences of Western vulgarity, and, leaning over the rail of the

balcony, let the passing river wash them away from the disturbed

crevices of my brain. Just beneath, on one side, the narrow street

which led to the hotel was continued past it down to the shore; and

here came an incessant stream of natives; women with waterskins to fill

and men with mules carrying baskets of town refuse to empty; the same

spot served admirably for both purposes. The Eastern has an

overwhelming love for "taze su" (fresh water); he drinks it, he sings

to it, he worships it, he makes an emblem of it, and yet--with his

extraordinarily consistent inconsistency--he makes the town midden and

the town watering-place one and the same spot.

A nearly naked child sprawled about amongst the dirt and rubbish,

unearthing hidden treasures in the form of bright tin lids. The mules

strayed about at the water's muddy edge, putting in a drink on their

own account whilst their masters, having emptied the loads, filled

waterskins for the return journey.

A big, lumbering sailing boat was being unloaded just below me; the men

swung themselves to and fro together as they pitched heavy bales

overboard.

"Allah, Allah, Allah," they sang out as they swung. Round their heads

circled and swooped white gulls talking of the sea.

And now, through the distant broken bridge, clumsily floating down the

current, came our raft, square and stubborn amongst the twirling,

swiftly paddled goufas. Like a great, uncertain, bewildered animal,

turning now this way and now that, guided by the unwieldy poplar poles,

it lurched up the watering-place and stuck on the midden.

From every corner of the narrow, winding street sprang out half-clothed,

jabbering Arab forms; gesticulating, fighting, jostling, they proffered

their services in the task of unloading.

In a few moments all our belongings were removed; the cooking-pots, the

rugs, the beds, all the personal requirements which had made it into

our home for so many weeks. Stripped and deserted, looking almost

ashamed of itself, it lay there in all its naked clumsiness. By

to-morrow even this vestige of our journey will have disappeared for

ever from the realms of historic evidence. The felt strips, the walls

which have sheltered us through so many stormy nights, will be sold to

the highest bidder; they will serve henceforth as carpets in some

native hovel, on which the Mahomedan will kneel to say his prayers or

squat to smoke his pipe. The poles and oars will go as firewood; and

the skins, deflated, will return to the country we have left. Nothing

will remain but the memory of it to a few human minds. We are glad that

it is to be so; as it has been exclusively ours in the past, so will it

remain ours only in the future. We made it what it was, and without us

it will cease to be.

The waters gave it a farewell lap as they passed on. We had stopped;

but they went hurrying on, taking with them all those mixed memories of

peace and danger, of contemplation and exertion, of idleness and hurry

which they, and they only, had shared with us. They had borne us from

the wilds and fastnesses of the unconquered East to the gateway of the

Western invasion; through the dreariness and desolation of desert

lands, through the magnificent isolation of gorgeous mountain scenery,

past the ruined evidences of ancient Western civilisations still mocked

by the persistence of squalid tribal huts; and now, having deposited us

to draw our own conclusions in this decayed city of the Khalifs, they

hurried on, lapping scornfully in their course at the rocking

pleasure-boat of Messrs. Sassoon's representatives and the white steam

launch of H.M. British Vice-Consulate.

Impartially, as they had borne us up, so down here they bore up alike

the brass trinkets shipped in their thousands from Manchester, the

emissary of the British and Foreign Bible Society, the golf clubs and

society papers for the English Club; and with an indescribable roar, as

of grim laughter, rushed headlong into the salt blue waters of the

Persian Gulf, where, surrendering irretrievably their own bounded

individuality, they merged themselves in the larger life of the

untrammelled Eastern seas.

PART III

BAGHDAD TO DAMASCUS

"I read on a porch of a palace bold,

In a purple tablet letters cast--

'A house though a million years old,

A house of earth comes down at last;

Then quarry thy stones from the crystal All,

And build the dome that shall not fall.'"

CHAPTER XIX

BABYLON

The eastern gate of heaven was unbarred; Shamash, the Sun-god of

Babylonia, flamed forth and stepped upon the Mount of Sunrise at the

edge of the world. As he had poured the light of heaven upon the

luxuriant gardens and fertile corn-lands of the Babylonians, so was he

pouring it upon the same spot, now an arid and deserted wilderness. We

were crossing it on our way to visit Babylon. It was pitch dark when we

had left Baghdad in the procession of covered arabas which conveyed

pilgrims to Kerbela and merchants to Hillah. We had been roused at 2

a.m., and had threaded our way silently through the sleeping streets by

the light of a dim lantern. Huddled human forms lay about in angles and

on doorsteps, and at every moment we stumbled over the outstretched

limbs of a yellow dog. We crossed the Tigris in one of the round native

boats, and landed within a few minutes' walk of the khan from where the

arabas started. We had an araba to ourselves: an oblong wooden box on

four wheels, with a light canvas top and canvas sides that could be

rolled up or let down at pleasure; a narrow wooden plank, with a

singularly sharp edge and an uncomfortably hard face, ran down each

side, and was called a seat. We were going to sit on it for twelve

hours. We were drawn by four mules harnessed abreast. Our driver had

knotted the reins and hooked them on to his seat; his hands were rolled

inside his cloak, and he sat huddled up on the box in the freezing air

of sunrise. The mules galloped ahead at their own discretion; the araba

lurched over ruts; sudden jerks shot us against one another, or threw

us in the air, from whence we descended with some emphasis in the

vacuum between the two sharp edges.

Now the horizon on the left blazed orange and red, and the desert sands

were pink. Stunted tufts of grey-green grass tried to assert themselves

in the barren soil; mounds, marking the site of ancient villages,

occurred at random; walls of sand, indicating the course of old

irrigating canals, broke the level plain; they could almost be taken

for the work of Nature, for the hand of Time had obliterated the marks

of man. Every twenty minutes the arabas came to a sudden stop to give

the mules breathing time; there is a general dismounting of the

passengers; the plain is suddenly dotted with bending, praying forms,

groups of excited talking Arabs, isolated, contemplative, smoking

individuals, fussy superior Turkish officers flicking the specks of

travel off their smart uniforms; veiled women peep from behind the

curtain of a closely packed conveyance; a small Arab child plants

himself with outstretched legs in front of us, and sucks his thumb in

complete absorption as he gazes upon us like a little wild animal. Then

the whole scene dissolves itself into a sudden rush for the carriages,

as of so many rabbits bolting into a warren at the sound of an alarm,

and off goes the whole train at a gallop; belated loiterers hang

perilously on the step of any conveyance they can catch, and try to

snatch the lash of the whip with which the driver good-humouredly

flicks them. Finally, we approach a collection of mud huts; we dash

through them, scattering hens and children, and draw up in a long line

opposite a large khan in the centre of the village. This is one of the

regular halting places for caravans, and we have a short wait while the

mules are being changed. A stall close by is already closely besieged

by our fellow-travellers clamouring for tea, which is sold in small

glasses after the Persian custom. We buy a little blue dish of thick

cream from an Arab girl in a blue smock, and make a sumptuous breakfast

off it and dates.

With a fresh set of mules we start off again; the party is more lively.

We dash up the sides of an embankment, catch a glimpse of a silted-up

canal as we waver for a moment on the top; then a fearful double lurch

throws us about as the two front wheels go downwards whilst the two

back ones are still going upwards. A short, sharp descent follows, then

comes a level stretch; the driver boys shout and race one another, we

overtake and are overtaken, we jeer and are jeered at.

And the Sun-god pursues his journey in silence and unconcern across the

dome of heaven.

We pass bands of Persian pilgrims on their way to the sacred Tomb of

Hosein, son of Ali and grandson of the Prophet. Many of them trudge

along on foot, grasping only the stout staff which one's mind

associates with pilgrims; these give a true feeling of sackcloth and

ashes. Some ride mules and carry a few worldly goods in saddle-bags.

There is a Pasha mounted on a fine Arab horse and followed by servants;

large pack trunks on mules in his train make one doubt the existence of

his hair shirts. The women sit in covered wicker cradles suspended on

each side of mules; donkeys bear rude coffins strapped crossways over

their backs, for the ambition of the true believer is not only to make

the pilgrimage during life, but that after death his bones may rest in

peace in the holy ground of Hosein's martyrdom.

At Mushayhib we halt again to get a fresh relay of mules. Here the

roads branch and we part company with the rest of the party, who are

going to Kerbela. We jerk along over the ridged and rutty ground. I

find myself wondering whether cushions in the chariots were amongst the

luxuries of wicked Babylon; and if so, whether it was part of the

punishment of the fourth generation that we should be deprived of them.

We come to a marshy tract with water standing in pools; the driver

thrashes the mules vigorously and shouts, the animals plunge forward,

and the boy bends his body to and fro with them as they plunge. We go

headlong into the marsh and stick; the boy uses his whip unsparingly;

the light, energetic members of our party dismount, the fat and heavy

ones remain seated; we all shout in anger or encouragement, and by

means of these strenuous endeavours are landed on the other side.

On the horizon in front we see a black line; it is formed, we are told,

by the rows of palm-trees which border the Euphrates. We are now

soberly trotting towards a great mound which, rising abruptly out of

the level plain, appears in the distance like a sudden thought of

Nature's, tired of the monotony of her own handiwork. But as we

approach, its symmetrical sides and flat table-top proclaim it to be

the work of man. Our native escort tell us, in subdued tones of awe,

how Marut and Harut, the fallen angels, are suspended by their heels in

the centre awaiting the Day of Judgment. We leave it at some distance

to the right. In front of us stretches a tract of land more desolate

and naked even than that through which we have been driving; small

heaps are scattered amongst a few larger mounds, and all are enveloped

in a network of high-banked canals, now mostly silted up. There are

marshy pools here and there, and rough tussocks of coarse grass catch

the blown sand.

"And Babylon shall become heaps," said Jeremiah. It was the heaps of

Babylon we were looking upon. Babylon, the "glory of nations," was laid

out in front of us.

The Sun-god had reached the pinnacle of his height, and covered the

spot with the brightness of heaven.

We made a detour round the edge to avoid the embankments and marshy

places, and then struck to the right across the uneven ground, at a

jolting foot's pace, towards a clump of palms on the banks of the

river. The trees partially concealed the one stone house of the

district, the home of three German professors who are superintending

the work of excavation now going on. A mud wall separated it from a

collection of mud huts; here live the natives employed in removing the

sand which buries the architectural monuments of ancient times.

We were at the foot of one of the larger mounds; it is called the

Kasr by travellers and Mujelibe (the overturned) by the Arabs, and

represents the only part of Babylon which is not altogether buried.

We climbed up the great square mass composed entirely of the debris

of former habitations; the surface was strewn with broken bricks

and tiles; in the centre stood the remains of solid blocks of

masonry. Looking down into a large ravine at the further end we

saw--half-blocked with rubbish--walls, courtyards, doorways,

pilasters, and buttresses built of pale yellow-coloured bricks, each

bearing the name of Nebuchadnezzar. Here and there architectural

ornaments were built in with the walls; bits of bright-coloured enamel

and pieces of broken pottery lay about. We wandered amongst the huge

ruin, balancing ourselves on the edges of low remaining walls and

clambering from one courtyard to another. A jackal darted from under

our feet with a shrill bark; he was answered from behind distant walls

by innumerable hidden companions. An owl flew out of a dark corner and

perched, blinking, a little way off; a great black crow hovered

uneasily overhead. The broad walls of Babylon were indeed utterly

broken, and her houses were indeed full of doleful creatures. We sat

down and listened to the wild beasts crying in her desolate houses; it

was indeed "a dwelling-place for dragons, an astonishment, and an

hissing without an inhabitant."

Shamash, the Sun-god, was nearing the western gate of heaven. The

gate-bolts of the bright heavens were giving him greeting.

The Euphrates and its wooded banks lay between us and the horizon;

above the river-line we saw a row of jet black palms in an orange

setting, and below it a row of jet black palms standing on their heads

in the rippled golden water. Shamash has reached the summit of the

Mount of Sunset; he slowly descends; the orange changes to red, the

general conflagration becomes streaked and barred; the waters of the

river grow black, almost as black as the reflected palms, the streaks

slowly die away. Shamash has entered into the Kirib Shame, the

"innermost part of heaven, that mysterious realm beyond the heavenly

ocean, where the great gods dwell apart from mankind."

"O Shamash, thou art the judge of the world,

Thou directest the decisions thereof...."

Thus prayed the dwellers of the city four thousand years ago. And with

the same light with which you lit the pomp and splendour of the works

of their time, you light the decay and ruin and hideous desolation of

the present.

"Verily there is a God which judgeth the earth," say we, four thousand

years later.

And as you smiled on those who worshipped you as the supreme God and

Creator of all things, so you smile on us who look upon you, bound and

fixed, with no will of your own, following the inevitable laws of

Nature. Will you, four thousand years hence, light with the same light

sojourners in this land, and will they wonder at our conception of your

nature and function, as we wonder at the faith that your ancient

worshippers had in you? Or will you, before them, have run your

allotted course and consumed the whole world, whether in the fiery

furnace of your wrath or in the uncontrolled madness of your broken

bonds?

The next morning we visited Babel, the mound we had passed the day

before. We walked for more than a mile through the palm-groves by the

river. Under the shade of the trees were numerous huts made of mud,

covered and enclosed with piles of fine brushwood. There were various

signs of human occupations. Two cows were toiling peacefully up and

down an entrenchment, drawing water in skins over a rough windlass; the

skins emptied themselves into a channel, and the water wandered about

in vaguely directed irrigation. On the bank beside them lolled an Arab

with a long pole, who prodded the sleepy beasts in the moments when he

was more awake than they were. A large mass of brushwood was moving in

front of us; it looked like one of the huts endowed with a pair of very

thin brown legs. As we overtook it the mass half-turned towards us, and

a woman's form, doubled in two, looked small in the middle of it.

At the doors of the enclosures naked children sprawled about, all with

gleaming white teeth and closely shaven heads, save for the one lock of

hair, with which they are to be pulled up to heaven; women with

tattooed faces and dangling ornaments pounded barley in primitive stone

mortars, and baked thin cakes of bread on flat stones.

Leaving the river-side we struck out to the right for half a mile

across the bare, parched ground, where tufts of rough grass were trying

to get a footing in the white, barren soil. We climbed up the mound,

passing bands of workmen tunnelling in the sides and removing the

bricks which lay about in tumbled heaps or in bits of standing walls.

From the top of Babel we could look right over the tract of land once

enclosed by the walls of Babylon. The descriptions of Herodotus enable

the traveller to call up some sort of idea of the scene in his time. We

learn from him that the city was built in the form of a square,

surrounded by walls of enormous strength; each side of the square was

fourteen miles long, each side had twenty-five gates of solid brass and

was defended by square towers built above the wall; twenty-five streets

went straight across the city each way from gate to gate. The city was

thus cut into squares. The houses, three or four stories high, faced

the street and were built at a little distance apart from each other;

between them were gardens and plantations. A branch of the river ran

through the city; its banks were one long quay. The larger buildings

stood in the centre of a square, each apparently fortified and

surrounded by walls of its own. It is of these smaller walls only that

any trace can be detected. From the foot of Babel, where we stood,

remains of earthen ramparts could be traced for two or three miles

southwards; they then turned at right angles towards the river and

extended as far as its eastern bank. The mounds they enclosed were

presumably the site of the more important buildings. Babel itself is

supposed to represent the temple of Belus. The Mujelibe, or Kasr, lying

to the south of us, is identified with the Palace of Nebuchadnezzar and

the hanging gardens; further south still was a lesser mound, Amram. We

knew that Birs Nimroud, the great ruin which is looked upon as the

Tower of Babel, lay beyond this again, although we could not see it

from where we stood.

The whole gleamed white in the strong sunshine. On our right the

Euphrates rolled along, as unconcerned in his course as the Sun-god

overhead. We could trace the direction of the river southwards to the

horizon, marked by the palms along its banks. They made a thin, dark

line across a wide, light plain--an alluvial tract which is only

waiting to yield its hidden gifts on the day when Man joins hands with

Nature and distributes the waters of the river. But not so the actual

soil of Babylon; that soil, consisting as it does of building dust and

debris, is of a nature which destroys vegetation. "The Lord of Hosts

hath swept it with the besom of destruction," and it is doomed

perpetually to be a "dry land, a wilderness, a land wherein no man

dwelleth."

As we looked upon the great plain which stretched away all round until

it carried the eye on into the sky above, we could almost believe with

the ancients that the edge of the earth joined the dome of heaven and

that both were supported by the waters of Apsn--the deep.

A great wave of silence rolled out of the desert and broke over us. It

seemed natural to be immersed in silence; could anything else be

expected from a land which had never been alive with the stir of

humanity even in far-off ages, of which one might now feel the hush

while listening for the echo? The desert had always been silent and

would be silent for ever more--a dead, unconscious silence, with no

significance save of absence of life. But when we looked at the site of

Babylon stretched just beneath us, we became vividly conscious of a

real, living silence; we were listening to the "hum of mighty

workings"; voices of souls long since dead, the dust of whose bodies

lay at our feet, were "wakening the slumbering ages." Had not

Nebuchadnezzar entered into the House of the Dead in the great cavern

Araltu, the Land of No Return? The dead had been stirred up, even the

chief ones of earth, to greet him as he entered hell: "Art thou also

become weak as we? Art thou become like unto us? Thy pomp is brought

down to the grave, and the noise of thy viols: the worm is spread under

thee, and the worms cover thee, ..." and they looked at him narrowly,

saying, "Is this the man that made the earth to tremble?"

And yet still for us "the wind uttered" and "the spirit heard" his

vainglorious cry: "Is not this the great Babylon that I have built for

the house of the kingdom by the might of my power and for the honour of

my majesty?"

The silent answer to it lay at our feet. And, listening, we heard the

solemn warnings of Daniel, the sorrowful forebodings of Jeremiah, and,

above all, the ironical voice of Isaiah:--

"Let them stand up and save thee,

Mappers of heavens, Planet observers, Tellers of new moons,

From what must befall thee."

As we listened again we heard the noise "like as of a great people; a

tumultuous noise of the kingdoms of nations gathered together....

"A sound of battle is in the land and of great destruction....

"A sound of a cry cometh from Babylon and great destruction from the

land of the Chaldeans....

"One post ran to meet another post, and one messenger to meet another

to shew the king of Babylon that his city is taken."

Then we heard a sound of much feasting and revelling; we heard a solemn

hush when there came forth fingers of a man's hand and wrote upon the

wall. Even as we listened to the hush it seemed to grow into the great

hush of ages, and we remembered that we stood alone in the living

silence of these great dead, surrounded by the dead silence of an

uninhabited land.

Overhead the Sun-god silently vaunted his eternal existence; at our

feet the Euphrates rolled fresh waters of oblivion from an eternal

source to an eternal sea.

CHAPTER XX

THE SOUND OF THE DESERT

The Syrian desert between Baghdad and Damascus; two white tents, a

prowling jackal, and a starry sky.

* * * * *

There was a sense of stir in camp; a rattle of tins and a neighing of

animals; a faint odour of lighted charcoal was wafted in at the tent

door. I opened one eye; X still slumbered peacefully at the opposite

side of the tent. Arten appeared at the door with a jug of water and a

light. "One o'clock," he said laconically as he placed them on the

ground and retired. The stars were still shining, my bed was very warm.

True, it was one o'clock in Turkish time only, but no Christian ought

to be roused at that hour. X fell out of bed with a determined thump.

"It's late," she said. I made no response, but, knowing from experience

that X was always right, tried to reconstruct my ideas about time and

reconcile the fact that it was late with its being one o'clock in the

morning. Besides, if X ordained that it was late, in another half-hour

the tent ropes would be loosened regardless of the stage our toilet had

reached, and a falling tent, when one has just got one's back hair into

shape, is exasperating if not damaging. I got up, and just managed to

hurl myself through the door, mostly clothed, as the tent collapsed on

the ground. X was already seated cross-legged on a rug outside, holding

one blue hand over a few charcoal embers while she munched a piece of

dry bread held in the other. "You need not think I have eaten all the

butter," she said, "because there wasn't any." Satisfied with the

explanation, I munched my bread in silence and swallowed a cup of thick

tea; we had been carrying water for three days and it was getting

opaque.

The stillness of the night which reigned outside was being invaded by

the cries and movements of men; dark forms flitted about as they

watered the animals and adjusted the nose-bags for the morning's feed.

A horse, impatient of his tether, had broken loose and was galloping

defiantly round the camp, inspired to further mischief by the methods

of his pursuers, whose idea of reassuming their authority over him was

to rush in his direction flourishing whips and uttering piercing cries.

He was finally brought to bay entangled in some tent ropes, and a

sudden lull fell on the disturbed atmosphere. The Oriental can work

himself into a pitch of excitement which would keep a European in

hysterics for several hours, and then suddenly drop the matter and

become instantly silent and unconcerned. There seems no half-way stage

between excessive noise and an indifferent silence.

Somewhat awakened by this incident, the men set to work to pack up the

camp; the mules were unloosed and stood about with looks of resignation

as the loads were adjusted on the creaking pack-saddles and secured

with ropes. There was a subdued din and confusion without any sense of

hurry. "Allah! Allah!" the native cries when he exerts himself in

any way. "Aha, aha!" he cries with equal ardour, mingled with

satisfaction, when his task is accomplished.

And now the last knot has been tied, the last cloak laid across the

saddle; the last ember of the dying charcoal fire has been carefully

raked out to light the cigarette, and we straggle slowly out into the

gloom, leaving one charred spot and a sardine tin in the sandy waste.

There had been a suggestion of redness in the gathering light for the

last few moments; streaks of silver and bars of gold lined the dusky

sky. It is disconcerting to be travelling westwards when one wishes to

be aware of a rising sun. I twisted myself round in the saddle and,

leaving my horse to pick his way, advanced backwards. The whole scene

was soon a vast glow of colour, the yellow sand of the desert holding

and reflecting the brilliant reds and yellows; and now the sun appeared

on the horizon line and slowly rose, until the whole disc of fire stood

out in glowing magnificence and then gradually grew paler as he shared

his substance with the surrounding sky. The long straggling line of our

caravan, which had looked like a black serpent twisting through a sea

of fire, became less black in the growing light, and men and animals

assumed individual shapes.

In another half-hour the broad light of day showed the surroundings in

their common aspect. I twisted round again in the saddle, and, having

turned my back on poetry and romance, became only conscious of the

temperature of my extremities. The cold was intense; X and the soldiers

were far ahead; the caravan lagged behind; I was alone with cold hands

and feet. Poets and philosophers have talked of being alone with the

sun and the earth: if ever conditions were favourable for enjoying the

sole companionship of these two elements, it might seem to be under the

present circumstances. But in the desert one can be more alone even

than this, for in some frames of mind the sky and the earth give one no

sense of companionship. Cold and implacable the grim silent desert

stretched away in front beyond the realms of space; the hard blue sky

overhead stared into the abyss of Time, offering no link between Nature

and Man. There was nothing one could take hold of; no cloud in the sky

of which to ask the question "Whither?"; no shadow on the earth to

which one could say "Whence?" You were thrown back on yourself, were

only conscious of your beating heart and a void. The words of a great

lover of nature rose up in my mind: "There is nothing human in nature.

The earth, though loved so dearly, would let you perish on the ground

and neither bring forth food nor water. Burning in the sky the great

sun, of whose company I have been so fond, would merely burn on and

make no motion to assist me." You felt keenly alive in the middle of

this cold dead space, and you knew there was something alive in you

which demanded something of it: had you no place in the economy of this

great silent Universe? was there no way of making yourself heard or

felt? Is it that the soul of man must be there to make things alive,

and you were now crossing earth where no soul of man had crossed

before, and all things were dead? From sheer agony I cried out; no

answering echo followed; the sound fell flat and dead. The cold heavens

stared placidly on, the surface of the earth was unruffled. I drew rein

and listened intently: I heard the roar of London streets; the cry of

the newsboy, the milkman's call, the tramp of a million hurrying feet;

I heard the rush of trains and the screech of engines; I heard a

thousand discordant voices in divers tongues where men were struggling

and rushing after material ends. And dominating all this, infinitely

louder and more distinct, making itself heard supreme and all powerful,

filling the great space in which one had seemed eternally lost, I

heard--the Silence of the desert. Why wish to make one's self

heard?--better be still and listen to the voice of silence; let its

words sink into you and become part of you, and so take some of its

quiet and peace back with you into those crowded cities of men.

If there is a link between anything in you and this grim stretch of

barren sand and impassive depth of distant sky, it is the response of

its silence to the silence in you. It is the material aspect of silence

in its crudest form appealing to and recognising in you the unspeakable

realms of silence which exist in the region you are dimly conscious of

beyond your senses. As we pray to the sea for its depth and calm, to

the wind for its freedom, to the sun for its light, so we pray to the

desert for its silence. Let your nature expand to the width of this

horizon, to the height and depth of this sky, and fill it all with the

eternity of this silence.

Ask of the sun why it shines, and if there is light in you it will

answer; ask of the wind why it blows, and to fettered and free alike it

gives its answer; ask of the desert why it is silent, and if there is

silence in you you need no answer.

Is there any calm for you in the sea until you put it there? Do you

feel any freedom in the wind until you have created it? But can you, in

any mood or under any circumstance, evade the silence of the desert?

Its influence extends alike to those who receive it and those who

resent it.

The men who have no region of silence in themselves are under the power

of its physical aspect; to them it is oppressive, wearying, and

deadening; there is an absence of life, a presence of monotony from

which there is no escape. But once we recognise its silence as being of

the nature of what we possess in ourselves, the shadow of monotony and

oppressiveness is lifted. Can its effect be better described than it is

in that fundamental doctrine of Islam, where it almost coincides with

the teachings of Christianity in its endeavour to give expression to

the truth? "Islam," that is the resignation of our own will to that of

one great power, the effacement of self, the futility of putting our

own will or mind against that of the great, silent, all powerful,

inevitable laws of Nature--the Moslem idea of Fate and Power--the

Christian's blending of his own will with the Divine will--the

scientist's recognition of Law--you may put it how you will; are they

not but different interpretations of the unseen power, which, silent in

itself and only understood in silence, holds supreme sway in moments of

silence, and, when expressed in its physical aspect in these barren

regions of the earth, appeals through our eyes and ears to the regions

in us, beyond these senses, where it exists in its essential condition?

I rode on; the sun had warmed my left side through and the right was

beginning to thaw. My shadow, which had been keeping pace with the

horse on the right, now began to creep in front as the sun rose higher.

By the time its burning rays poured straight down overhead the

foreshortened shadow seemed to be leading the way along the desert

track. In time the heat became almost unbearable, and, suddenly

awakening to the stern realities of physical discomfort, I brought my

whip down on the horse's flank; he leaped, startled, in the air, and

then flew after his shadow in a settled gallop. Air, of which one had

become unconscious, rushed past one's face, and the muffled thud of his

hoofs on the sand seemed to measure time and space. I dashed up to X

and stopped dead beside her. She looked round inquiringly. "Let's eat,"

I said. She looked at her watch. "We have been riding four hours," she

said; "we might stop at the next good place." I looked ahead

significantly. "One place looks much the same as another," I said. "I

think there is a dip in the ground further on," she answered, "where we

might get a little shelter." There did seem to be a slight wave in the

flat expanse and we rode on to it, but, like all dips in this country,

when we arrived at it, it did not seem to be there. We had had so much

experience in riding after delusive dips that we decided to stop here,

and slid off our horses. The cook unpacked the lunch from his

saddle-bags and placed hard-boiled eggs, biscuits, and dates beside us.

He carefully filled a cup with a thick, brown liquid from the bottom of

his waterskin. "Bitdi," he said, by which expression he conveyed that

the fresh water was now finished. Then he and the men retired a few

yards and ate their lunch. Nothing was heard but the steady munch of

human jaws. Then they stretched themselves on the sand and absolute

silence reigned, broken by occasional snores. We too lay back, each

concealed from the other under two huge umbrellas, which seemed rather

to focus the sun's rays than shade them from us.

When one was alone the desert had seemed full of unqualified silence;

in company with others the silence seemed even greater, for the slight

sounds which there were made one more conscious of the sound which was

not. The clank of the horses' bits, the quiet breathing of one's

companions, the stir of a foot, made one realise the intensity of the

silence of the whole vast expanse. The far-off tinkling of the mule

bells in the approaching caravan gave one a sense of distance in a way

one would hardly experience by simply gazing at an unapproachable

horizon. The heat and the slight fatigue added a feeling of drowsiness

which would make even the solid things around one seem shadowy and

distant. It was a waking sleep; one's senses were numb because of the

absence of anything to call them into play, though one might "see,

hear, feel, outside the senses." In the same way that one is alone in a

London street one can live in a whirl in the desert; the throb of

humanity---- X's umbrella shut with a bang. "Wake up, the caravan is

coming." A cloud of dust, a stamping of animals, a shouting of men, and

we were off once more. It was our habit to keep pace with the camp in

the latter half of the day, and for the next three hours we dawdled

along at caravan pace. It was a motley crew. The muleteers trudge along

behind the laden animals, taking turns on the back of a patient,

sorrowful donkey, on which they ride sideways with dangling legs,

pricking its side with a long needle, the secondary object of which is

the repairing of broken straps. The pack-mules go doggedly on in front,

jostling one another with their unwieldy loads. Occasionally one gets

off the track and wanders aside, only to be urged back into line with

yells and blows. Another stops dead, feeling its load slip round

sideways. The men rush at it with shouts of "Allah! Allah!" the

load is shoved up and the ropes tightened. There is a general din of

shouting and swearing and jangling of bells; and above it all the

disdainful camel moves deliberately on with measured step and arched

neck, unmindful of the petty skirmishes so far below it; its owner,

infected by its spirit, rocking on the top, surveys the whole scene

with a dejected, uninterested air. Bringing up the rear, motionless and

erect on small donkeys, ride one or two older Arabs, wrapped in long

sheepskin cloaks, their faces entirely concealed in the folds of a

keffiyeh, save where two stern and solemn eyes gaze unceasingly at you

with expressionless imperturbability. Wild sons of the desert, product

of this eternal silence, are you so much a part of it that you are

unconscious of its power?

The only gay and careless element is introduced by the Turkish

soldiers. Mounted on splendid Arab mares they ride in front, sometimes

dashing ahead at a wild gallop, holding out their rifles at arm's

length, wheeling suddenly round and coming to a dead stop in front of

an imaginary enemy, upright in their stirrups; in their more subdued

moments breaking into song with the mournful Eastern refrains.

And so, forming one small world of our own, we "follow and follow the

journeying sun," and as it sinks lower on the horizon and its fierce

rays cease to beat pitilessly down on the parched ground and thirsty

animals, a silence falls on the moving band. The spirit of the desert

again holds sway. The men cease quarrelling, the animals' heads sink

lower, the donkey looks more resigned, the mule more dogged, the camel

more superior, the silent Arab more stern and forbidding; the soldier

hums where he sang before. Then at last the walls of a solitary

guard-house heave in sight. The men hail it with joyful cries, the

soldiers dash ahead, the pack-animals prick their ears and quicken

their steps to an amble. There is a general rush and tumble,

culminating in a dead halt on the ground which has formed the place for

caravans since caravans crossed the desert. All is noise and confusion.

The loads are unloosed and fall in promiscuous heaps amongst the medley

of animals, who, released of their burdens, roll over on their backs

kicking up the dust. A line of men draw water from the well, pulling at

a squeaky chain and invoking the aid of Allah in chorus as they pull. A

fight is going on in one corner; men are knocking one another down,

encouraged by a circle of yelling spectators. The din of excited

quarrelling voices, the hammering of tent pegs, dominates everything,

broken at times by the sudden neigh of a horse bitten by its neighbour

or the harsh, imperious cry of the camel for its supper. And in the

middle of it all the Turkish soldier spreads his cloak upon the ground,

turns his face to Mecca, and offers up his murmured prayer to Allah,

the one restful form in this scene of chaos.

"Allah Akbar" (God is great), prays this son of Islam, and with his

hands upon his knees, he bows his head; "Subhana 'llah" (I praise God),

and he falls upon his knees; "Allah Akbar" (God is great), and he bows

his head to touch the earth; "Subhana 'llah, subhana 'llah, subhana

'llah," and he sits upon his heels; "Allah Akbar," and he again

prostrates himself; "Allah Akbar, subhana 'llah."

And on this scene the sun casts his final rays of gold and red. As the

shades of night draw in, quiet reigns once more; the men collect round

the blazing camp-fire, and in its light we see the outline of their

dark forms seated cross-legged, as they eat out of the common bowl or

take turns at the bubbling narghile; to one side the mules are tethered

in two lines forming a half square; a muleteer is grooming them, and

one hears the rattle of his scraper and the ever tinkling bell. The

cook is stirring our evening meal in a pot on the fire outside our

tent. Hassan fetches our rugs and spreads them on the ground; we lie

down and he covers us over with his sheepskin cloak. "Rahat" (Rest),

he says, and lifts his hands over us as if pronouncing a blessing. Then

he sits down beside us and lights a cigarette. "Bourda ehe," he goes

on, describing the universe with a sweep of his hand. "Kimse yok" (It

is well here--there is no one). "Is Allah here?" asks X. "Allah is

here," he answers with simple reverence, "Allah is everywhere"; and we

all lie motionless under the stars, unwilling to probe the silence by

the sound of uttered thoughts. The murmur of the men's voices gradually

dies away as, one by one, they doze off; a jackal cries in the

distance; a star falls down to earth. The day is over, and in this land

of the Oriental there is no thought of the morrow.

The passive silence of sleep; the active silence of communing souls;

the silence of night--all fitful expressions of the one great Silence

brooding over all, be one asleep or awake, by night and by day, in

desert places and in busy haunts of men.

CHAPTER XXI

PALMYRA

It burst upon us all at once, Palmyra, in the desert--a chaos of golden

pillars in the glow of the setting sun. We had been riding all day

towards an indefinite shape on the horizon; slowly it had resolved

itself into a barrier of yellow rock with dark lines becoming

distinguishable against it. We had passed through the patches of rising

corn, making green holes in the brown desert; we had wound through the

gardens of pomegranate and plantations of palm trees and turned the

corner of the ugly konak which barred the ruins from our view; and

there it lay, the desert-girt city, in the unutterable lonely

magnificence of its reckless confusion.

We drew rein under the Triumphal Arch; from here the eye is led on down

the great colonnade from column to column, now upright, now fallen, to

where a mile away a castle crowns a peak of the range under which

Palmyra crouches--an old time harbour for the sand sea beyond.

[Illustration: PALMYRA. TRIUMPHAL ARCH.]

Behind us the present village of Tadmor was concealed inside the walls

of the great Temple of the Sun; its mud hovels lie rotting behind the

gigantic columns of the inner court in the dirt which chokes the

massive archways. Here it is that the present life of Palmyra, such as

it is, is slowly obliterating the remaining evidences of her past;

while on the opposite side of the ruins, where the hills cleave to form

a lonely valley, the dead of Palmyra, buried in a line of square

tomb-towers, still keep alive the memory of her ancient greatness.

* * * * *

Was it the sun only, with its light on the yellow columns, that made

one think of Palmyra purely as a city of gold? Or were one's thoughts

unconsciously influenced by the fact that its traditions all rest on

the getting of gold; its power was built up on trade; its great men

were the successful traffickers of the desert; its statues and columns

were raised to the memory of those who brought the caravans of goods

from India and Persia unharmed through the dangers of the desert; its

temples were dedicated to the Sun-god by those whose lives were spared

in their getting of great wealth, or to the memory of those who

perished in the attempt.

Those were the days when it was a man's boast that the blood of a

merchant ran in his veins--when a youth could aspire to no higher goal

than that of being a merchant prince of his proud city.

Her prosperity had been her ruin; the gold had led to her undoing; and

now the Sun, to whom the temples had been raised at the time of her

pride, mocked her ruins by giving them the semblance of scattered gold.

* * * * *

This is the best way to realise Palmyra--to make it the culmination of

a long and tedious journey through the desert. The first sight of it

under any conditions must indeed be wonderful, but coming in from

Damascus, which is the natural approach for visitors to the ruins, one

could never feel about it in quite the same way. Civilisation is only

five days behind you; the country you pass through, moreover, although

desert enough in a way, does not give you the same sense of being

utterly cut off from everything in limitless space; there are chains of

mountains to be seen in the distance, and cultivated patches stretching

round villages are more frequent. Then when you arrive at Palmyra you

ride first through the valley of tombs--it is the dead that give you

the first greeting; you get glimpses through the opening ahead of the

highest columns, and are slowly prepared for what is coming, until,

emerging finally through the gap, the whole scene is laid out before

you, with the gleaming desert beyond.

* * * * *

But approach it from the desert side, and all the meaning and force of

its one time existence is borne in upon you with an overwhelming

realisation. For three weeks you have been following the old trade

route from the Persian Gulf. You have made one of a caravan amongst the

doggedly jogging mules and the slow stepping camels, both heavily laden

with the clumsy pack-saddles holding bales of merchandise; the sound of

their jangling bells is the only sound you hear through the long,

monotonous ride under the blazing sun; you have spent night after night

in the circle round the camp-fire, with the men crouched under the

bales of goods piled up on the ground to form a rude shelter; the

places where you stop have been the regular halting places for caravans

for all time--now they are oases big enough to support a village, now

it is merely a well and a guard-house. As you ride through the

immeasurable expanse every dark object on the horizon line forms a

subject for speculation. Its appearance is a signal for the hasty

consolidation of the straggling line of men and animals, arms are

looked to, you all close up and ride on, apparently unconcerned, but

equally prepared for a sudden onslaught or a friendly greeting. For it

is not only the difficulties and dangers due to Nature's barrenness

that have to be guarded against. What must it have been in the days

when the countless hordes of wealth of a huge caravan were at stake,

and when the whole desert was beset with marauding tribes specially on

the look-out for such prey? What must have been the feelings of those

responsible for its safe conduct when they once more saw the first dim

outline of the Palmyra hills in the distance? The goal would be reached

that day; the troubles, the anxieties, the sleeplessness of the

watching nights would be over; proud and triumphant they would ride

down the long colonnade, the pack animals jostling one another in the

unaccustomed crush of the bounded way, and the noise of shouting

drivers and jangling bells sounding strangely loud and near in the

confining space. Down on them from the columns above would look the

statues put up to honour those who had achieved the same feat which

they themselves had just accomplished. Their names too would now be

written up and handed down from generation to generation in remembrance

of the service they had rendered their State. For such deeds as these

had built up the great city, and their fellow-citizens honoured them in

this way.

[Illustration: HASSAN.]

At first it would seem that Tadmor was merely an Arab encampment, a

stopping place amongst others for the passing caravans. The abundance

of its water and its position on the meeting point of two great trade

routes would gradually cause it to become an important centre. Dues

were levied on all goods passing in and out, and even the privilege of

using the wells was heavily taxed. Slowly it became the market-place of

the East and the West; its inhabitants were the carriers between the

Persian Gulf and the Mediterranean Sea. As the foundations of the city

were built up on trade, so commerce was a pursuit for its aristocracy,

involved as it was with all the elements of warfare and danger. Its

merchants would be pure Arabs of good blood, welcomed as equals by the

shaykhs of the desert tribes through whose territory their goods had to

pass. Palmyra had thus gradually built up her own existence as an

independent State. Political events then added to her power. The wars

of Rome with Persia made her an important military post; recognised by

Rome more as a partner State than a dependency, she was able to pursue

her own policy with such effect that she tried to assert her entire

independence and cut herself adrift from the Western power. Taking

advantage of the temporary ascendance of Persia over the Roman arms,

the desert Queen, Zenobia, fulfilled her ambition as sole Queen of the

East. After her defeat by Aurelian the town was partially destroyed; a

change in the political factors which had contributed to her importance

now hastened her downfall by lessening the significance of her

geographical position; safer trade routes further south led to the

decay of her commercial prosperity. Bit by bit she loses her place in

historical records, and at the present day Palmyra stands a lonely ruin

on a deserted trade route, inhabited by a score of Arab families.

In one sense Time has dealt gently with her; there is no decay from the

growth of vegetation in this dry climate. Neither moss nor ivy has

softened the aspect of destruction; the overturned columns show as true

and sharp a face now as the day they were set up, and the ornate

carving stands out in the same relief. One thinks of the place as built

entirely of columns; they lie in rank profusion everywhere, like a

great forest of trunks overturned by a gale. The great central avenue

runs from the Temple of the Sun in a north-westerly direction to the

castle on the range of hills which bounds the city to the north. It has

been calculated that it alone contains 1,500 columns. Much of this

still remains standing, but the gaps become more frequent, until at the

castle end the whole thing has collapsed, forming a perfect sea of

broken columns and fragments of carved pilasters. It is evident that

the minor streets also were lined with pillars in the same way; short

rows of them stand up here and there in various directions. Groups of

twos and threes suggest also their attachment to some public building

or temple. The statues were placed on brackets projecting from the

upper part of the pillars, and the inscriptions below, which have

escaped destruction, give the names and dates of those whom they were

intended to honour.

* * * * *

As we had entered Palmyra with a vivid conception of its life, so we

left it with an equally vivid conception of its death.

Standing guard like a row of sentinels at the base of the hills are the

square tomb-towers in which Palmyra buried its dead. The proud

merchants seem to have been imbued with two main ideas: the erection of

columns in their lifetime and of resting places for their families in

death. Many of the towers are over a hundred feet high and consist of

five and six stories. The bodies were arranged in tiers in the recesses

on either side of a central chamber. Some of these buildings are still

nearly perfect, others are practically heaps of ruins. The bones of the

proud merchants are mingled with the bones of the wild beasts who have

sought refuge there through the long ages.

We turn our backs on the city and ride away through the gap in the

hills. The city is hidden from view, but the tomb-towers still stand in

silent rows down the valley on either side.

We forget the golden pillars and all the ruined magnificence; we can

think of nothing but these ghostly towers seeing us out, as it were,

from this city of the dead.

High up on the hill above, in the still morning air, a shepherd boy

pipes merrily at them, and flocks of goats and sheep browse

unconcernedly at their feet.

CHAPTER XXII

AN ARMENIAN AND A TURK

I. ARTEN.

Arten was an Armenian; he was quick, thin, methodical, dirty,

intelligent, and untruthful; he was also the cook. I say _the_ cook

advisedly, for _a_ cook he was not. No doubt he would have made an

excellent cook if he had known anything about the art; but it was not

till after we had engaged him in this capacity that we discovered that

he had not thought this qualification necessary. At any rate, he knew,

being a hungry man himself, that we were in need of food of some sort

at stated intervals. In this he was a decided improvement on the Greek

cook we had just dismissed; this man had a habit of coming to us,

after we had been waiting hours in momentary expectation of a meal,

and saying with a languid air, "Do you wish to eat?" He was a good

cook, but always seemed overcome with astonishment when we expected

him to cook.

Arten was a dirty man, and he looked dirtier than he was owing to his

dark complexion and hairy hands; besides this, his unbrushed and greasy

black European clothes showed off to disadvantage amongst the simpler

Eastern garments of his companions.

"Arten is not a clean cook," Hassan would say, and Arten would smile

sadly. He must have been slightly conscious of this defect, for he

never handed me a plate or a spoon without saying "Temiz" (clean) as a

forestalling measure before I had even looked at it. He spent a good

deal of time rubbing smeary plates with a blackish cloth, murmuring

"Temiz, temiz."

He had a sincere desire to please us; but he always imagined this

object was attained by the vigorous assertion of any fact that seemed

necessary for our pleasure. "Taze" (fresh) he would say every time he

handed me an egg; and, when I cut off the top and an explosion

followed, "Taze" he would say again.

"Eat it yourself then," I would suggest, handing it back to him; after

putting his great nose right into it, "Taze," he would say. But he

never ate it; he kept it for omelettes.

His nose was his chief feature. One saw the nose first and then the man

behind it. On cold days, when we all wrapped our heads and faces

entirely in keffiyehs, Arten would be always distinguishable from the

others by this protrusion. He had a jet black drooping moustache which

he was always wiping furtively with a jet black pocket-handkerchief,

for Arten was a greedy man and the only person who loved the taste of

his own cookery.

"I like to see him getting fat," X would say; "he looked half starved

when he came to us."

But Hassan and I were not so charitable.

"Look," Hassan would say, "the door of the tent is shut; that pig Arten

is stealing the food," and he would go and kick at the tent until Arten

looked out, guiltily wiping his moustache.

"You are cold, I suppose," says Hassan with lofty sarcasm. Arten mops

his perspiring brow--he was always perspiring.

"How cold?" he answers with well feigned surprise.

"Because you shut the tent door," answers Hassan.

"Aman," rejoins Arten, "what am I to do? if the muleteers see me

cooking they come and ask for food; they are such greedy men, the

muleteers."

Hassan returns to us snorting.

"Arten says the muleteers are greedy men. Mashallah! greedy men! We

know who is the greedy man!" And he slaps his thigh vehemently.

Arten's notions of cookery were, as I have said, limited. His staple

dish was a mixture of mutton, potatoes, onions, and rice, which were

all cooked up together in the same pot, each ingredient being thrown in

according to the length of time it took to cook. It certainly tasted

very good, and I would suggest the method to those in England who

dislike washing many saucepans. His other idea of cooking mutton was

less satisfactory in results, though simpler in method, and I have no

hesitation in not recommending it to English housewives, though I

append the recipe as a matter of interest from its originality.

Take a piece of sheep, and with an axe cut it into chunks, regardless

of bones or gristle; take a chunk and throw it on to red-hot charcoal

in a brazier; when there is a distinct smell of burning and the hissing

has nearly ceased, turn it over on the other side. When it resembles a

piece of burnt charcoal, remove it and serve at once; swallow whole, as

if you try to bite it your teeth will remind you of it for a

considerable time, and in any case you will be conscious of its

resting-place for the remainder of the day.

When staying at a consulate in the middle of our tour, the consul's

wife, horrified at our fare, offered to let her cook teach Arten a few

simple dishes which would considerably add to our comfort. Arten

acquiesced with very good grace, and was inducted, amongst other

things, in the art of making cutlets. On our departure our kind

hostess, moreover, provided us with a piece of meat suitable for

cutlets. The first evening there was an undercurrent of excitement in

the air; there were to be cutlets for dinner. Arten had an important,

self-conscious bustle about him and looked mysterious; the Zaptiehs

seemed awed and asked questions under their breath; the greedy

muleteers were distinctly interested; we pretended to be unmoved.

Finally, with a modest air, through which bumptiousness glared

furiously, Arten announced that supper was ready. There was a covered

dish keeping warm under the brazier; Arten very deliberately placed it

before us and with a dramatic flourish removed the cover. We were only

conscious of a yellow-looking crumby paste.

"Where are the cutlets?" we asked, keeping up our courage nobly.

"That is cutlets, Pasha."

We tasted it; it appeared to consist of fried eggs and breadcrumbs. We

felt justified in contradicting him, but he still persisted that it was

cutlets.

"But we want the cutlets, like those the Effendi's cook showed you how

to make."

"Yes, that is it, Pasha; that is what the Effendi's cook showed me."

"But cutlets are meat," we persisted.

"Yes, Pasha; but that is cutlets without the meat."

This reasoning was incontrovertible. We tried to fill up with dates and

rice and went to bed crestfallen and hungry. The next day we returned

to the charge. I undertook to show Arten how to cook cutlets, though I

had not the smallest idea myself how it ought to be done. I had an

inkling, however, that egg and breadcrumbs were in it somehow.

"Arten," I said, "cut the meat as the Effendi's cook did for cutlets."

Arten obeyed.

"Make egg and breadcrumb," I said. He did this also.

"Now do with it what the Effendi's cook did," I said. Arten smeared the

meat with it. I began to see light and breathed more freely, but I had

still one venture to make.

"Now cook the meat as the Effendi's cook did," I said.

I held my breath; for all I knew they might now have to be boiled in a

saucepan or toasted on a fork. But Arten appeared to know what he was

doing. He took a frying-pan and fried them in fat. A glow of

satisfaction crept all over me as I watched them beginning to resemble

the finished appearance I was acquainted with. When they were actually

on a dish, I said loftily:--

"Please remember for the future that when we say we want cutlets, this

is what we mean."

"As you please," he answered affably; "I call them frisolen. I knew how

to cook them before the Effendi's cook showed me," he went on.

"Why did you never let us have them, then?" I said severely.

"How could I know you would like them?" he answered with injured

innocence.

"How did you know we liked tough chunks burnt on a brazier?" was my icy

retort.

Arten shrugged his shoulders; there never has been any accounting for

the whims of women.

Small differences of opinion such as these were continually cropping up

between us; and I would tell him in calm and measured tones, though in

forcible English, what I thought of him. As the language was

unintelligible to him, this method had the advantage of relieving my

feelings without hurting his. But there were secret bonds of sympathy

between us. We both suffered intensely from the cold, and Arten would

carefully wrap things round me so that the apertures and crevices were

not on the windward side. There is a good deal of art in this, and he

did it very scientifically.

"Little things feel the cold," he would say compassionately, and in

such a kindly spirit that, for the moment, I forgave him his greed and

forgot to feel undignified.

We were also on common ground when I tried to cook dishes which I did

not know how to cook. Currents of great sympathy ran between us when

things did not seem to be turning out right and Arten would tentatively

suggest various ways and means. But he never did what a foolish or

disagreeable person would have done: he never expressed in his looks

that I was no better than himself, which obviously would not have been

true, since I did not pretend to be a cook, while Arten did.

And then when the critical moments of our existence arrived and we

placed the dish before X, we both watched with the same intensity for

the expression of her face after the first mouthful. X was singularly

appreciative, and, when she kept assuring us how excellent it was,

Arten would glance at me encouragingly and appear to share the delight

I experienced at my own prowess. X thought Arten's cookery good, too,

but then she never knew what she was eating, and, if you do not know

the name of the dish, how can you judge whether or not it is cooked as

it ought to be?

"What is this?" X would ask one day.

"Mutton," Arten would answer.

"What is this?" she would say the next day, when the identical

substance was handed to her.

"Chicken," Arten would answer. And X was perfectly satisfied.

The next day it would be "tinned meat," and it was all the same to

her--and to me; but then I knew what a liar Arten was.

His kindness of heart and his desire to please us made it all the more

difficult not to be irritated with him when circumstances did not draw

out the better side of his nature. It is uncomfortable to despise

people in a qualified manner, and I found it impossible to despise

Arten unreservedly and therefore happily. There was no doubt that he

was a horrible coward. If he had said, "I am a coward--I am afraid," he

would have enlisted my sympathy for what it was worth, because I was a

coward myself and admired sincerity. If he had even preserved a decent

silence on the subject I should have been unable altogether to despise

him, for that was the course I pursued myself. But when any real or

imaginary danger was past he would come out with assumed and aggressive

hilarity, and make tales about it and his prowess, which latter he had

already made conspicuous enough by its absence. Yet his position was no

doubt complicated: he knew that the Turks in our train despised not

only him but his race; there was no one to suggest his courage if he

did not do it himself, and, as he was unable to exhibit it in deeds, I

have no doubt he saw no other course to pursue but that of publishing

it by word of mouth. Moreover, he had suffered personally from bad

treatment; the tale was a piteous one. Near his native town of Adana he

had a small mill where he ground corn through the season. On one

occasion he had done well and was on his way back to his wife and

children in the town, carrying his earnings, which were to keep them

through the winter. Half way home he was attacked by a band of robbers,

who relieved him not only of his gold but of all his clothes. He had to

remain in hiding by the roadside until some one passed from whom he

could borrow a garment in which to return starved and penniless to his

expectant family. Small wonder that the poor man shuddered at the word

"Khursus" (brigand) which we laughingly joked about.

"What is it to you?" he said one day; "you have rich relations, kind

friends, and a just Government. If you are robbed, justice is done to

you. But what can I expect but more abuse and ill-treatment?--and I

have a wife and small children into the bargain!"

When he was not posing as a hero, he was posing as a feature in the

landscape. This was particularly exasperating, for no amount of pity

for his condition would turn him into a picturesque martyr, even in the

foreground of ancient ruins. No sooner was my camera produced than

Arten produced himself. The only occasion on which I knew him keep out

of sight was when I was trying to get a snap-shot of the band of Kurds

who held us up on the Tigris. He seemed to have no desire to show

himself, although I was considerate enough to invite him to occupy a

prominent position for once. His appearance was not calculated to

enhance the effect of any picture. He was like a starved black

scarecrow dressed up in tight and clerical garments, with a fez on the

top--and then there was the nose. He would have made any warm desert

scene look cold, as it would not be obvious that he was perspiring, and

in any group of picturesque natives he would look ludicrous.

I recall, as I write, isolated moments of exasperation--when, for

instance, he sat, singing a hymn, kicking up the dust with his heels,

when we were trying to inflate ourselves with worthy feelings on the

contemplation of Babylon, awed by the silence and desolation of the

scene around us. Or again, how in a fit of nervousness he hurled the

whole of our dinner in agitation on the floor, while we, after an

unusually long fast, could have cried for food.

But reviewing him calmly at a distance, one remembers a man that one

alternately laughed at and pitied; who annoyed one by his transparent

faults, but who commanded one's sympathy by his tragic condition, and

one's admiration by his cheerful willingness in trying circumstances. A

man who was meant by nature to be light-hearted and happy, kind to his

fellows, energetic and interested in his work, ambitious for his

children; but who fate dictated was to have his spirit quenched, his

nature hardened, and mean and cowardly qualities developed owing to the

fear, injustice, and poverty in which, like the rest of his countrymen,

he was condemned to live.

II. HASSAN.

Hassan was an Albanian Turk; he belonged to one of the old Turkish

families and looked every inch the gentleman that he was. Introduced to

us by a common friend, he accompanied us during our seven months'

wandering through Asiatic Turkey in a semi-professional capacity, but

what that capacity was it would be difficult to define by any

particular name. A dragoman he was not, though he called himself our

"tergeman." "Tergeman," literally translated, being "interpreter," he

could claim nothing entitling him to this function, for he spoke no

European language, and it was not till we learnt Turkish that we could

hold any spoken communication with him. Briefly, he acted as a sort of

amateur dragoman without any of the qualifications usually expected of

these gentlemen--and possessing a great many of the virtues in which,

as a rule, they are sadly lacking. Essentially he was our Figure-head,

and a splendid one he made, six foot six in stature and broad in

proportion, as straight as a die and as supple as a willow, with a

handsome head set well back on strong shoulders, and keen, kindly eyes

which looked out very straight from under shaggy eyebrows. When he

walked he put into his great stride a grace and dignity which soon

earned for him the nickname of "the Prince." His chief characteristics

were that gentleness which comes of great strength under perfect

command; the courtesy which arises from a sense of other people's worth

measured by a sense of his own; and an imperturbability which could be

as irritating as it was admirable. "Ne faidet?" (what is the use?), was

a favourite expression of his, and "ne faidet," he looked all over. In

scenes of human quarrel, excitement, or danger, one was chiefly

conscious of his calm indifference of mind and manner as he silently

surveyed his companions in fear of brigands or in joy over a piece of

meat. Yet he was a man full of the passions of his race, capable of an

iron self-control when he thought fit to make use of it, but

occasionally roused into a state of temper bordering on madness. On

these occasions he would afterwards say his "jan" had had him by the

throat, and he did not know what he was doing.

A great man with a great imprisoned soul, as free and light-hearted as

a careless boy when roaming in the great forests or on the bare

mountain-side of his native home, fettered and fretful when the bonds

of artificial civilisation held him.

"What a Kallabalak! what is the use of this Kallabalak?" he would say

with a wave of disgust when he got into the middle of a noisy crowd.

"This is good, this is keyf," was his comment, with great gasps of

enjoyment, when we three sat on the ground together in some lonely spot

of a lonely desert. One felt he was breathing freely again. A silent

man by nature, he could not bear loquacious people. "Burra, burra,

burra," he would say, pointing his thumb at them; "burra, burra, burra,

what is the use of all this talking?" If the remarks were addressed to

him, they were always answered with stern courtesy. A talkative young

Armenian rode with us one day and tried to draw him into conversation.

"Is not that mirage in front of us? What a wonderful sight--trees and

water and mountains! Do you not think it must be mirage, Effendi?"

"With the eyes that Allah has given me, it does seem to be so, young

man," was Hassan's grim answer, and he rode on without turning his head

to right or left.

Yet on occasion he enjoyed a refined "Kallabalak." One night in Cairo,

when we had done for the time with camping and were seated in

cleanliness and finery in the hotel garden, a confetti feast was going

on. Serious young men and maidens, larky old men and festive matrons,

were diverting themselves in the essentially hilarious proceeding of

scattering confetti on one another. The garden was hung with Chinese

lanterns; fireworks hissed and spluttered, shooting flames of colour.

Hassan sat in convulsed enjoyment of the gay scene. It was a revelation

to him of the lighter side of life. And when a charming young lady,

bolder than the many who cast coy and curious glances at the handsome

Turk, came and administered a dose of confetti down the back of his

neck, he was overcome with glee and merriment. Afterwards, on

subsequent wanderings in wilds and deserts, he would turn to us after

hours of silence, and, bursting into a deep roar of laughter, would

say, "Do you remember the paper and the foolish men and women?"

His function, as I have said, was first and foremost that of

Figure-head; he escorted us on our visits to Turkish officials and

dignitaries, and, with grave dignity and courtly manner, unembarrassed

by his own unshaven chin or the stains and dust of travel on our

weather-worn and unwashed garments, he would make the most of anything

entitling us to belong to "the great ones of England." He cast a

general air of respectability over us, and we always felt it was

largely due to him that we were shown so much consideration in a land

where all travellers are treated with suspicion, and where women are

not regarded in a particularly chivalrous light.

But beside this, he was general caretaker of our personal comforts: he

put up our camp-beds and arranged our tent; he always sat beside us at

meals, which we took seated cross-legged on the ground, either outside

by the camp-fire, or in bad weather on the floor of the tent. His first

self-constituted duty was to peel the oranges with which we generally

finished a meal; he removed the peel to form two cups, in which he

neatly piled the sections and placed them beside us, carefully counting

the pieces to make sure that he had treated us alike. "Shimdi" (now) he

would say when we had finished the first course and we would ask for

dates. "Shimdi" he would say again when the last of these were

demolished. "Shimdi Kahiveh," and coffee would come in its turn.

"Shimdi." "Nothing more." "Nothing," he would exclaim; "nothing?" "We

will smoke now." "Tuetuen (tobacco), aha, Shimdi tuetuen," and he would

light us each a cigarette. Then, when this too was finished,

"Shimdi"--"Shimdi Rahat" (now rest), we answer--and he makes pillows

for us with our saddle-bags and covers us over with rugs. This process

was repeated every day until it became a stock joke. His jokes were all

of this kind; there were certain standing ones which had to be gone

through periodically. My Turkish was limited to about fifty words, so

that conversation between us did not flow, but X, who had learned to

speak more fluently, would ride with him for hours together, holding

endless conversations on Turkish religion, habits, and ideas. When X

and he fell out he would come and joke with me: one day I teazed him

about being a better friend to her than to me.

"How can that be?" he said gravely.

"Because," I answered, "you quarrel with the Vali Pasha" (X was the

Vali Pasha and I was the Padishah), "and then you make it up and are

great friends again. But you are never cross with me. If I were your

friend you would quarrel with me, too. But I am glad I am not your

friend, or you would get angry with me." This idea seemed to tickle him

immensely, and every day after this conversation there would be a

moment when he would ride alongside of me, and, feigning an air of

great disgust, would shrug his shoulders and say, "Istemen, istemen" (I

do not want you). It was his singularly primitive way of acting a

quarrel with me, and thereby showing that he and I were also friends. X

would also attack him on the subject.

"Why don't you go and scold the Padishah?" she said on one occasion;

"she thinks the same as I do about these things, only she cannot talk

Turkish, so she does not say them."

"The Padishah is but a child," he answered; "it would hurt her. It

would be a shame to hurt a child."

As a matter of fact I was older than X in months, but her bodily

proportions were larger than mine, and everything goes by size in the

East.

As time went on, however, we too had our little rubs, and his methods

of making friends again were what one would expect from his schoolboy

nature. If I was in the tent, he would throw stones at it until I

looked out smiling; this was taken as a sign that the quarrel was over;

he would roll up an extra large cigarette for me, and we would sit on

the ground and have a smoke of peace together. Our friendship was of a

silent nature. I made my fifty words express everything I had to say,

and to simplify matters only used the verbs in the infinitive and nouns

in the nominative. Long custom had established a certain meaning to

various sentences between us which would have been unintelligible to

any other Turk.

"What Turkish, aman, what Turkish she speaks!" he used to say to X,

holding up his hands in amused dismay.

We taught him a few English sentences, of which he was very proud.

"Pull it up," he invariably said when he held out his hand to help us

off the ground.

"Pull it down," was his formula when he arranged our habit skirts after

mounting us.

"Pull it off," when he helped us off with our oats.

When he was in a temper I made him say, "I am a silly man," which he

pronounced:

"I am----

"A Silliman."

Although he did not know the meaning of the words, he connected them

with his own misdemeanours.

"Silliman yok (not), silliman yok," he used to say fiercely when he was

beginning to repent and get ashamed of himself. He always said

"Good-bight" for "Goodbye," confusing it with "Good-night."

Great was his pleasure whenever in the course of our travels we came

across a European, or any one who could speak a language which I

understood.

"See now," he would exclaim at the unwonted sight of me talking with

any one, "she has found a friend!" And then, when we parted and I

relapsed into silence: "See now, how sad she looks! She is thinking of

her friend."

And he would ride up to me compassionately.

"Where is your friend now, Padishah?"

"Where, indeed?" I answer. "I have no friend; you must buy me one in

the bazaars next time we get to a town."

"And how much money must I give for him, Padishah?"

"You must not give much, because I am poor, but you must get a very

good one."

"Aman, ama, see now what she says: I must get a good one, and

yet not give much money. Do you hear, Vali Pasha?"

And when he came back from the bazaars:

"I have bought the friend, Padishah."

"Where is he? I don't see him."

"He is here, in my bag."

"How much did you give for him?"

"Ten piastres."

"He cannot be a good one if he is as cheap as that, and so small that

he will go in your bag."

"Oh yes, he is a good friend," and he produces a roll of tobacco; "a

good friend and little money. That was what you said, wasn't it,

Padishah?"

And I reflect that there is many a true word spoken in jest.

"Has she no friend in England," he asked X one day, "or does she never

speak in England either?"

"Yes," said X, "she has a friend in England, and she does not speak

because she is thinking of him."

"And you, Vali Pasha, have you also a friend in England?"

"Yes," I answered for X; "she has twenty-nine friends in England, and

you are only the thirtieth."

And Hassan would ride on in silence, pondering over the strange ways of

English ladies.

Amongst his other duties he had to purchase the food, pay the muleteers

and soldiers, and give tips; and it fell to my lot to do up the

accounts with him periodically. The unusual mental exertion required by

this he found very trying. His imperturbability would forsake him

completely. On the first occasion he broke down altogether. "What can I

do with figures?" he said, the tears rolling down his cheeks; "let me

go back to my hills and forests; I am only a poor hunter. She brings

out her little book and I shall not know how the piastres have gone,

and she will think I have taken her piastres," and he laid his head on

his knees and groaned aloud.

When we became better acquainted, however, "hisab" (accounts) became a

joke, though they always caused him to perspire profusely.

At first my entire ignorance of the language made our intercourse over

the account-book somewhat difficult. We would sit on the ground

opposite one another, and Hassan would fumble in the folds of his belt

until he had found his spectacles and his account-book.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Peki (very good), Effendim; yimurta (eggs), 2 piastres." I would write

it down.

"Yasdin me?"

"Ne yasdin me?" (what is "yasdin me?").

"Yasdin me? yasdin me? yasdin me?"

I have not the smallest idea what "yasdin me" means, but I pretend to

write it down and then say:

"How many piastres was it?"

Hassan makes a gesture of despair.

"Yasdin me? yasdin me? yasdin me?" he repeats again.

"X," I shout across the tent, "what does 'yasdin me' mean? I suppose

it's some sort of food, only he won't tell me how many piastres it

costs."

"It means 'Have you written it?'" said X calmly.

"Yasdin me?" repeats Hassan again.

"Yes," I answer meekly.

"Aha, now she know," says Hassan, and he mops his forehead vigorously.

"I say 'Yasdin me' and she says, 'How many piastres?' Aman, aman!"

"Peki, Effendim" (very good), he goes on. "Etmek (bread), 3 piastres.

Have you written it?"

"Yes."

"Peki, Effendim. Et (meat), 12 piastres. Have you written it?"

"Yes."

"Peki, Effendim. Pilij (chicken), 3 piastres."

"Ne Pilij?" (what is pilij?).

"Pilij, _pilij_, PILIJ."

"Yes, but what is it?"

"Pilij, pilij--she doesn't know pilij, and she learns it every day."

He begins to crow like a cock.

"Oh yes, I know."

"Ah, ah, now she knows! Peki; pilij 3 piastres. Have you written it?"

"Yes."

"Peki, Effendim."

And so we go on through all the items, and finally add up the total in

our respective languages. By means of holding up our ten fingers a

large number of times, we ascertain whether the results tally, for in

those early days I could only count in Turkish up to twenty-nine, and

knew the words for a hundred and a thousand. Then Hassan would give a

great sigh, close his book, fold his spectacles, take off his fez, and

wipe his head all over, and finally forget his troubles under the

soothing influence of tobacco.

[Illustration: ERECH. SYRIAN DESERT.]

And so the days slipped away. At the end of six months we landed out of

the Syrian desert into Damascus. An immense change came over Hassan

when he was released from the anxieties of piloting us through

impossible places and rumoured dangers. He became more boyish and

cheerful and amused at everything. His first care on arriving at the

end of our journey was, after spending several hours in a public bath,

to go a clean and happy man to the Mosque, to return thanks to Allah

for having brought us safely through.

We had been to call at the consulate, and, as we drove up to the hotel

on our return, I caught sight of Hassan in the street with a crowd

round him; he was strutting up and down in his shirt-sleeves, with his

head even more thrown back than usual and a wild look in his eye.

"Good heavens," I said to X, "the Prince must have got into one of his

tempers and killed a few people in the street," and I anxiously looked

round for signs of gore. The Prince took no notice of us, but stalked

up and down, the crowd making way before him with looks of awe.

"What are we to do?" I said; "he looks as if he had gone off his head

and would knock down any one who comes near him."

"He does look like a prize-fighter," said X; "I have never seen him

look like that before."

Our cook was standing on the steps.

"What is the matter with Hassan?" I said to him.

The man stared.

"Nothing," he said, "it's only his new shirt."

We went inside, telling him to fetch Hassan to us.

The Prince stalked into the room with the same air with which he had

been stalking the streets, and stood in front of us with an excited and

expectant expression.

"The cook is right," said X; "it is his new shirt. He is overcome with

pride and conceit; he is on parade, that's all."

He certainly had something to be conceited about. The shirt was of fine

silk in gorgeous yellow and red stripes; round his waist was a wide,

bright-coloured kammerband, round his head a new keffiyeh flashed all

the colours of the rainbow. Clean and shaven, his tight-fitting shirt

showing up the strong outline of his muscular frame, he exhibited, to

say the least of it, a striking spectacle.

We were evidently expected to be overcome at the magnificence of his

appearance, and certainly we did not disappoint him in this respect.

"You are grand," said X to him in his own language; "you quite surprise

us."

Hassan put his hands into his trouser pockets and strutted up and down

the room, speechless with delight.

"Who would have thought you could be such a turkey-cock, you old

gander!" I said in English.

"What is she saying?" said Hassan to X.

"She says you are just like a very magnificent bird we have in

England," answered X.

Hassan beamed triumphantly.

"You have fine clothes," he said; "I must not disgrace you."

"Is he always going about in his shirt-sleeves, I wonder?" I inquired.

X asked him.

"It is quite usual in my country not to wear a coat in hot weather," he

said; "my coat is old and dirty, and my shirt is new and clean: why

should I wear my coat?"

And he rarely put it on again.

He loved to see us in nice clothes, and took great delight in wandering

about the bazaars with us buying presents for the "twenty-nine friends"

in England. But we used to sigh over the good old camping days.

"Hebsi bitdi" (all is over), he would say dolefully, when anything

particularly brought them back to our thoughts.

We rode down Palestine and took him over to Egypt with us. Evading with

difficulty the importunities of Cook, and the rush of tourists on the

beaten track, we tried to steal days which brought back a sense of our

old free-and-easy times.

But there came a day when there was an end to it all, an end to the

long silent rides, an end to the quiet smokes in desert places, an end

to the little daily jokes, an end to the serious talks and the foolish

quarrels, an end to the Kallabalaks and the Keyfs.

We stood on the steamer which was to take Hassan back to his old life

in the forests of the Turkmendagh.

"You will soon be going a long journey with some one else," said X

cheeringly.

Hassan shook his head.

"No, indeed," he said; "I should take care not to go with two ladies

again, and I shall not go with a man, for no man would be so much of a

fool as to wish to go such a mad journey."

The steamer gave vent to its first hideous whistle. We put our fingers

to our ears.

"Good-bight, little Padishah," he said, as we clasped hands for the

last time; "good-bight. Go home to your friend in England; he will be

glad to see you looking so fat."

"Silly man," I said with a lump in my throat.

"Silliman yok," he answered.

The whistle blew again, we turned and went our different ways. If there

had been a stone he would have thrown it after me; as it was, when I

turned he made a face and shouted, "Istemen, istemen!"

And now, looking back on those days, there rises invariably before us

the memory of this companion in our many adventures--the memory of a

simple-minded, honourable man, a trusted friend, a pleasant companion,

and a devoted servant, who, whether he was sharing the discomforts and

dangers of winter travel in a wild and lawless country, or experiencing

the joyous freedom of the roaming desert life we loved so well, or

enduring the terrors of critical and carping civilisation, invariably

put us in the foremost place, and, without swerving an inch from the

traditions of his race, never offended the susceptibilities of ours.

CHAPTER XXIII

RETROSPECTIVE

Last night we were dirty, isolated, and free; to-night we are clean,

sociable, and trammelled. Last night the setting sun's final message

written in flaming signs of gold was burnt into us, and the starry

heights carried our thoughts heavenward and made them free as

themselves. To-night the sunset passed all unheeded and we gaze, as we

retire from the busy rush of the trivial day, at a never-ending,

twisting, twirling pattern on the four walls that imprison us,

oppressed by the confining ceiling of our room in the Damascus Palace

Hotel.

We are no longer princesses whose hands and feet are kissed, whose word

is law, sharing the simple hospitality of proud and dignified wayfarers

in desert kingdoms. Our word is law according to the depth of our

purses, our hands and feet are kissed according to the height of our

floor in the hotel. We are no longer in a land where men and women are

judged by their capacities for being men and women: the cost of our

raiment apportions our rank.

We are now no longer amongst people to whom we say what we mean and are

silent when we have nothing to say. We are in surroundings where to say

what you mean is an offence, where silence is not understood and looked

upon askance as an uncanny visitor. The less we have to say, the more

we make an effort to say it; and the more we have to say, the greater

the effort to suppress it.

Everything seems unreal or unnecessary, everything is dressed up.

All these people moving about, sitting still, in a hurry, catching

trains, eating long dinners, dressing themselves, looking at each other

dressed--what does it all mean? Was all this going on when we were in

that other world which we have just left, that great silent world where

everything was itself and big, and not confused by accessories? Was all

this din and bustle going on? It is strange that we should have had no

inkling of it, for it seems of so much importance to all these people,

idle with a great restlessness; it seems essential to them.

It is hard, too, to realise that that other world still exists out

there in the distance, and that it would be quite possible to reach it

by merely riding out on a camel. Can it indeed be true that the same

sun which lights all these moving streets, these buyers and sellers,

these catchers of trains, is lighting the desert out there as

imperturbably as it lit us, journeying on after it day after day in the

silent places; did it see all these people from its inaccessible

height, and, sharing its gifts equally with them and with us, give us

no hint of what it was looking down upon? It showed then no more favour

to us than to these dwellers in towns, and yet was it not more to us?

Were we not more conscious of its innumerable gifts; and did we not

receive more from it as a result of our greater appreciation? No bars

of windows, no roofy outlines, no sleepy oblivion hid the glory of its

first appearance for us. As far as its rays could range, so far, and

further, could we see. Not a pale silver thread or wiry line of gold,

or faint reflection of its glowing colours on the opposite horizon, was

lost to our vision; and, as we rode through the chilly morning air,

were we not conscious of every separate ray of warmth as it grew and

grew until we were bathed in its delicious heat, and all day it served

as our sole guide, indicating direction in boundless space and hour in

limitless time. No finger-posts, no winding up of clocks; only this sun

with its fixed and unalterable decrees.

The sun, then, we share, although apparently in divers degrees. But was

not the moon more for us alone? For they can shut it out from their

lives altogether. It, too, looked down upon this city, but not on the

noise and chaos of it. As far as it was concerned all the bustlers were

dead, buried away in their roofed houses behind their shuttered

windows. The silence of night is the moon's heritage, and it exercises

its autocratic sway to the full; it admits no disturbing rush or

unseemly hurry beneath its gaze. What do they know of you who pull down

blinds and light up the gas and dwell in curtained rooms? Accident may

cause a benighted traveller to look at you with a passing sense of

rest, a casual tossing sleeper may be half conscious of your charm, the

weary toiler at the end of a long day may momentarily bless your

soothing light, and in so far as they take hold of you they make

themselves akin with us out there. But you are not a part of them, as

you are a part of us; you do not enter into the very heart of their

existence and carry their minds up, night after night, to the realms

where you live serene and calm, making us forget the saddle rubs, the

parching thirst, the driven sand, the fire that would not light, the

kettle that would not boil--all the little near things, the things

which matter so much in the day, and which you remind us do not matter

at night. But here they matter so much more at night, all shut up with

us inside these confining walls--inside these muslin curtains. The

darkness and the enclosed space make them assume exaggerated

dimensions; all the little trivialities in the room accentuate their

importance. We see them cropping up again and again in that blue flower

on the wall paper, or running round and round the red coils on the

dado. We raise our eyes to heaven and encounter the fixed, inane smile

of a painted lady with a wand, seated in a wreath of flowers. We shut

our eyes, determined to forget her, but a terrible fascination makes us

peep again and again, and always that same inane smile; and when at

last the kindly shades of night hide it altogether in darkness, we are

still conscious of her only, smiling away there, looking at us while we

cannot see her. And all the time outside the steadfast moon and the

stars eternally twinkling are telling the same tale that they told out

in that other world, but we have shut them out and will not listen to

their silent teaching.

In vain the Prophet of the Desert has said:

"And we have adorned the lower heaven with lamps and set them to pelt

the devils with ... we touched the heavens, and found them filled with

a mighty guard and shooting stars, and we did sit in certain seats

thereof to listen; but whoso of us listens now finds a shooting star

for him on guard."

Emblems of all the great abiding truths have been set up on high,

where, one would have thought, every poor, striving mortal could not

fail to see them; vastness and distance is displayed as a rest to those

wearied with the smallness and nearness of things; solidity and

eternity are there to comfort the grievers over passing men and

disappointed hopes; the kindly darkness which hides us intermittently

from our fellows is pierced with points of guiding light. And yet we do

not habitually, and as a matter of course, accept these gifts for which

no price is asked; we go blundering on, intensifying the grim blackness

of night by shutting ourselves up with it, surrounded with all the

small things of earth, and this when we might forget them by reason of

their very smallness in the vast distances of the vaulted heavens. It

almost seems as though we would deliberately wish to hide from

ourselves and each other the few simple sufficient laws of existence,

for in this as in other things we not only avoid the truth but appear

ashamed of it, and dress it up in every possible accessory of human

invention.

We dress everything up--our bodies, our minds, our food. I look down

this long _table d'hote_, and what do I see? I see a crowd of people

dressed up, exchanging dressed-up commonplaces, eating dressed-up

food.

I feel that nothing is real.

But this unreality is so real that I ask:

"Have, then, the unrealities, the non-essentials of existence become

the realities, and have we, emerging from a world where only the

essentials of existence concerned us, given them an undue importance?

Coming out of a state of primitive civilisation, are we unable to

appreciate the true meaning of our surroundings? These people wear the

burdens of fashion so lightly, they talk these complicated nothings so

simply, they toil so contentedly discontented through these endless

disguised dishes: what is it behind it all that our minds cannot

grasp?" I look again: I talk to them and they answer me; I eat another

dressed-up dish. Here I feel a weary heart, there I touch a bored mind;

now one gets a flash of intellect, now a gleam of soul, all alike so

carefully wrapped up, and yet with a longing to be out. Why this

unnatural dread of truth and simplicity? I am getting positively

affected by it. I sit here amongst these smart people in my travelling

clothes, and I confess to a new strange sense of discomfort in

consequence. I feel ashamed of my old clothes. Opposite to me is a lady

with a kindly face and a comfortable look about her; her mauve dress

gives a pleasing sense of colour, but as she moves two beaded flaps

keep jumping about, which detracts from the sense of repose suggested

by her comfortable look; when she leans back an array of stitched beads

catches on the carved projection of the chair, and she has to be

disengaged by the waiter. Her sleeves drooping gracefully from the

elbow require elaborate gymnastics to prevent them dipping into her

plate as she eats, and twice they caught in the pepper-pot and

overturned its contents on the floor. But she bore it all with a

pleasant apologetic smile which called out my admiration for such a

display of schooled temper under these trying circumstances. Then, with

an unconscious transition of thought, I found myself comparing her to

the Arab woman who brought the bowl of youart off which we supped last

night. I recalled how I envied her the dignified carriage of her free

unfettered form, the natural grace of her untrammelled manners. I

recalled the simple graceful folds of her clinging single garment, so

much a part of herself that she was quite unconscious of it, and I

compare this lady trying to adapt herself to the elaborate creation in

which she is enthralled. Long custom prevents her from realising how

her form and movements are rendered artificial and ungraceful. As the

Chinese lady, unconscious of her deformity in feet, would resent or

wonder at our pity for her enslaved by the idea of a barbarous custom,

so would my neighbour resent or wonder should I feel pity for her at

this moment, equally a slave to a Western idea.

* * * * *

I glanced at my battered old coat and was pervaded with a sense of

remorse at having been ashamed of it.

Here, in the middle of this bewildering appearance of unreality, it

was telling me of so many solid facts. How often had it not covered

the aching pangs of hunger, and the satisfied sense of that hunger

appeased; it had felt the thumping of my heart stirred by danger, or

hastened by exhilarating motion; it had known the long-drawn breaths of

quiet enjoyment at a peaceful scene. That tear was made on the rocks

the day we climbed to the "written stone" at the top of the Boulghar

Mountains, and I mended it one long quiet evening by the Euphrates. I

lost this button the night we scrambled up to the castle at Palmyra, my

little friend Maydi pulled me up a rock by it and it broke. That burnt

mark was made by Mahmet, who dropped the live charcoal with which I was

lighting my cigarette in the shaykh's hut at Harran. All this and more

is what my coat says to me.... I am no longer ashamed of it. I feel

sure if the kind lady opposite realised all this she would not regard

me as an outcast, for there is something very honest about the coat.

But I had got no further away from the feeling of unreality. I tried to

recall what it had felt like to live in civilisation, but all I could

remember was how difficult it had been to disentangle ourselves from

it. While we were still in it, we had not known what we should want

outside it. But, once outside, all these difficulties had disappeared:

everything at once seemed to happen naturally; we missed nothing of the

things we had left behind. And as it had been difficult while we were

still in it to get disentangled from it, so now we experienced a

difficulty in entering it again--a difficulty in once more taking up

and using the things we had discarded for a time. It was as if we had

never used them, so strange did they seem, and so little did we

understand their meaning. Entering it differed, moreover, in this way

from our entrance into the new life outside it; once in it nothing

seemed to happen naturally. This was the more disconcerting since

civilisation was not altogether a new world to us, in the sense that

the other had been. We had spent many long years in it, and yet on

returning we found it all strange and incomprehensible.

* * * * *

We rose and left the table. Hassan joined us at the door, and we all

sat down on a red plush settee. Waiters hurried past us with trays of

coffee and stronger drinks; ladies in bright colours rustled about the

passage; and in the corners men in evening dress lounged and smoked.

Hassan stroked the settee gingerly. "It is very soft," he said, "but

the sand was better." Then he looked round and paused. "What are all

these people doing?" he asked irritably; "why can't they sit down and

be quiet. There is no quiet here; the sand was better." Earlier in the

day he had been pleased with the bright colours and the sense of

movement, but now they seemed to vex him.

"Why do they keep on looking at us?" he went on; "is it because you are

great Pashas?"

"No," I answered, "they have no idea that we are great Pashas."

"My countrymen in the desert looked at you because you were strangers

from another country and they had not seen women like you before; but

these are your own countrymen: why do they stare at you?"

"It is because we are not dressed like them," I said; "we have not got

our beautiful clothes yet; when these come they will no longer look at

us."

"But can they not see that you are travelling?" he said. "The people of

my country, the Valis and the Kaimakams who prepared feasts for us,

knew that you also had beautiful clothes in your own country."

"Yes, but our travelling clothes are not quite the same as those worn

by our countrymen here," I explained, "so they do not understand us."

"But why," persisted Hassan, "should that cause them not to understand

you?"

"We all do alike in our country," I explained; "if one person wears no

pockets and big sleeves, then we all do the same."

"Who is this person then?" said Hassan; "he must be a very great

Pasha."

"We none of us know who he is," I said; "in fact, he is not any one

particular person; it is more like a sort of jinn who spreads about an

unwritten law."

Hassan looked perplexed.

"And are there no written words," he said, "to tell you the meaning of

this law?"

"Yes," I said; "the people in our land who have the most money write

out the meaning of the law."

"And if you do not follow the law, what then?"

"Your fellow-creatures are rather afraid of you; they do not ask you to

their feasts, neither do they give you places of command, however

capable you may be."

"Is it this jinn that makes your men wear the hard black hats and the

tight black clothes?"

I nodded assent.

"And it is not only our clothes," I added; "the jinn says we may not

think differently from other people, or if we do, we must hide it."

"Is it a sin that your country has committed that it is thus

condemned," he went on, "or is the jinn an evil spirit under whose

curse it lies?"

"We do not know," I said. "There are some of the younger men who are

trying to discover; they do not do as the jinn says, and so they do not

live happily amongst others; many of them live apart, and we call them

cranks and are afraid of them."

"Are they wicked men, then?"

"No, they are good men as a rule, but in our country we do not

understand the people who do not do what others do."

"But if you all do the same," said Hassan, "how can you progress? We in

the East have not changed our customs, so we do not progress. Do you

never change then either, you in the West?"

"We change very slowly," I answered, "because we tend to the thought

that if a thing has always been, then it is good."

"Aman, aman," said Hassan.

APPENDIX

ITINERARY OF JOURNEY

KONIA TO TARSUS.

Chumra.

Kisilkeui.

Karaman.

Adeteppe.

Buadjik.

Eregli.

Tchaym.

Ulu Kishla.

Boulghar Maden.

Chiftekhan.

Ak Kupru.

Gulek Boghaz.

A Khan.

Tarsus.

(These stages are from 5 to 8 hours.)

ADANA TO DIARBEKR. (18 stages.)

Hours.

Missis 4 Small village with khan.

Hamidieh 4-1/2 Cotton-mills and town.

Kalakeui 5 Small Kurdish village.

Osmanieh 1-1/2 Town.

Bagtsche 6 Village.

Shekasskeui 5 Village with khan.

Avjilar 5 Small Kurdish village. No khan.

Aintab 5 Town.

Urral 5 Village with khan.

Birejik 5 Town. Ferry across Euphrates.

Abermor 6 Kurdish huts.

Karekeui 6 Kurdish huts.

Urfa 3-1/2 Town.

Sheksheligher 7 Khan.

Mismischen 7 Large khan.

Severek 6 Town.

Kaimach 7 Large khan.

Gergeli 6 Small Kurdish village.

Diarbekr 3-1/2

BAGHDAD TO DAMASCUS. (27 stages.)

Hours.

Menasseyeh No village.

Fellujah 6 Village on Euphrates.

Rumadeyeh 6 Village on Euphrates.

_Hit_ 10 Town on Euphrates.

Bagdadi 8 Ruined water-mill on Euphrates.

Hadittah 8 Village on Euphrates.

Fukaymeh 6-1/2 Large khan on Euphrates.

_Ana_ 7 Town on Euphrates.

Niteyah 8 Guard-house on Euphrates.

Gayyim 9-1/2 Guard-house on Euphrates.

Abu Kamal 5 Village on Euphrates.

Salihiyyeh 7 Khan with a few Arab huts.

Micardin 9-1/2 Village.

Deir-el-Zor 7 Town.

Pools of

brackish water 2-1/2

Guard-house 8 Well of bad water.

Bir Jeddid 8 Well of bad water.

Suknak 9 Village with hot sulphur springs.

Erek 8-1/2 Village.

Tadmor 6 Palmyra.

Baytha 6 Khan with bad water.

Gusayr 16 (Camping-place half-way, where water

is found early in the year).

Karietein 7 Village.

Nasariyeh 12 Village.

Kutayfah 5 Village.

Guard-house 2

Damascus 4

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's By Desert Ways to Baghdad, by Louisa Jebb