We started from Bāsufān at eight o'clock on the morning of April 4,
and rode south by incredibly stony tracks, leaving Ḳal'at Sim'ān to
the west and skirting round the eastern flanks of the Jebel Sheikh
Barakāt. Mūsa declared that he must accompany us on the first part of
our way, and came with us to Deiret 'Azzeh, a large Mohammadan village
of from three hundred to four hundred houses. Here he left us, and we
went down into the fertile plain of Sermeda, ringed round with the
slopes of the Jebel Ḥalaḳah. At midday we reached the large village
of Dāna, and lunched by the famous third-century tomb that de Vogüé
published, to my mind the loveliest of the smaller monuments of North
Syria and worthy in its delicate simplicity to stand by the Choragic
Monument of Lysicrates at Athens. There was nothing else to detain us at
Dāna, and having waited for the baggage animals to come up I sent them
on with Mikhāil and a local guide, bidding them meet Najīb and me at
the ruins of Deḥes. After some consultation Najīb and the local man
decided on the spot, known to me only from the accounts of travellers,
and it was not till we had reached it that I discovered that we were at
Meḥes instead of Deḥes. It was all one, however, since we had met
and found the place to be a convenient camping ground. From Dāna,
Najīb took me north along the Roman road by a Roman triumphal arch, the
Bāb el Hawa, finely situated at the entrance of a rocky valley. We rode
along this valley for a mile or two, passing a ruined church, and struck
up the hills to the west by a gorge that brought us out on to a wide
plateau close to the deserted village of Ksejba.[17] We went on to the
village of Bābiska, through country which was scattered with flowers
and with groups of ruined houses and churches: the heart leapt at the
sight of such lonely and unravished beauty. On these hilltops it was
difficult to say where stood Bāḳirḥa, the town I wished to visit,
but near Bābiska we found a couple of shepherd tents, and from one of
the inhabitants inquired the way. The shepherd was a phlegmatic man; he
said there was no road to Bāḳirḥa, and that the afternoon had grown
too late for such an enterprise, moreover he himself was starting off in
another direction with a basket of eggs and could not help us. I,
however, had not ridden so many miles in order to be defeated at the
last, and with some bullying and a good deal of persuasion we induced
the shepherd to show us the way to the foot of the hill on which
Bāḳirḥa stands. He walked with us for an hour or so, then pointed
towards the summit of the Jebel Bārisha and saying, "There is
Bāḳirḥa," he left us abruptly and returned to his basket of eggs.
[Illustration 143: TOMB AT DĀNA]
High up on the mountain side we saw the ruins bathed in the afternoon
sun, and having looked in vain for a path we pushed our horses straight
in among the boulders and brakes of flowering thorn. But there is a
limit to the endurance even of Syrian horses, and ours had almost
reached it after a long day spent in clambering over stones. We had
still to get into camp, Heaven alone knew how far away; yet I could not
abandon the shining walls that were now so close to us upon the hill,
and I told the reluctant Najīb to wait below with the horses while I
climbed up alone. The day was closing in, and I climbed in haste; but
for all my haste the scramble over those steep rocks, half buried in
flowers and warm with the level sun, is a memory that will not easily
fade. In half an hour I stood at the entrance of the town, below a
splendid basilica rich in varied beauty of decoration and design. Beyond
it the ruined streets, empty of all inhabitants, lay along the mountain
side, houses with carved balconies and deep-porched doorways, columned
market-places, and the golden sunlight over all. But I was bent upon
another pilgrimage. A broad and winding road led up above the town until
it reached the boundary of the flowered slopes, and nothing except a
short rocky face of hill lay between the open ground where the path
ended and the summit of the range. The mountain was cleft this way and
that by precipitous gorges, enclosing between their escarpments
prospects of sunlit fertile plain, and at the head of the gorges on a
narrow shelf of ground stood a small and exquisite temple. I sat down by
the gate through which the worshippers had passed into the temple court.
Below me lay the northern slopes of the Jebel Bārisha and broad fair
valleys and the snow-clad ranks of the Giour Dāgh veiled in a warm
haze. Temple and town and hillside were alike deserted save that far
away upon a rocky spur a shepherd boy piped a wild sweet melody to his
scattered flocks. The breath of the reed is the very voice of solitude;
shrill and clear and passionless it rose to the temple gate, borne on
deep waves of mountain air that were perfumed with flowers and coloured
with the rays of the low sun. Men had come and gone, life had surged up
the flanks of the hills and retreated again, leaving the old gods to
resume their sway over rock and flowering thorn, in peace and loneliness
and beauty.
[Illustration 144: THE BĀB EL HAWA]
So at the gate of the sanctuary I offered praise, and having given
thanks went on my way rejoicing.
Najīb welcomed me back with expressions of relief.
"By God!" said he, "I have not smoked a single cigarette since I lost
sight of your Excellency, but all this hour I have said: 'Please God she
will not meet with a robber among the rocks.'"
Therewith, to make up for lost opportunity, he lighted the cigarette
that his anxiety had not prevented him from rolling during my absence,
and though I will not undertake to affirm that it was indeed the only
one, the sentiment was gratifying. I thought at the time (but next day's
march proved me to be wrong) that we rode down to the plain of Sermeda
by the roughest track in the world. When we got to the foot of the hill
we turned up a valley to the south, a narrow ribbon of cultivation
winding between stony ranges. Presently it widened, and we passed a
large modern village, where we received the welcome news that our camp
had been seen ahead; at a quarter past six we struggled into Meḥes or
Deḥes, whichever it may have been, feeling that our horses would have
been put to it if they had been asked to walk another mile. An
enchanting camp was Meḥes. It was not often that I could pitch tents
far from all habitation. The muleteers pined for the sour curds and
other luxuries of civilisation, and indeed I missed the curds too, but
the charm of a solitary camp went far to console me. The night was still
and clear, we were lodged in the ruined nave of a church, and we slept
the sleep of the blessed after our long ride.
[Illustration 145: THE TEMPLE GATE, BĀḲIRḤA]
There was one more ruin that I was determined to visit before I left the
hills. It was the church of Ḳalb Lōzeh, which from descriptions
seemed to be (as indeed it is) the finest building after Ḳal'at
Sim'ān in all North Syria. I sent the baggage animals round by the
valleys, with strict, but useless, injunctions to Fāris that he was not
to dawdle, and set out with Mikhāil and Najīb to traverse on horseback
two mountain ranges, the Jebel Bārisha and the Jebel el 'Ala. It is
best to do rock climbing on foot; but if any one would know the full
extent of the gymnastic powers of a horse, he should ride up the Jebel
el 'Ala to Ḳalb Lōzeh. I had thought myself tolerably well versed in
the subject, but I found that the expedition widened my experience not a
little. We rode straight up an intolerably stony hill to the west of
Meḥes, and so reached the summit of the Jebel Bārisha. The ground
here was much broken by rocks, but between them were tiny olive groves
and vineyards and tiny, scattered cornfields. Every ledge and hollow was
a garden of wild flowers; tall blue irises unfurled their slender buds
under sweet-smelling thickets of bay, and the air was scented with the
purple daphne. This paradise was inhabited by a surly peasant, the least
obliging and the most taciturn of men. After much unsuccessful
bargaining (the price he set on any service he might render us was
preposterous, but we were in his hands and he obliged us to give way) he
agreed to guide us to Ḳalb Lōzeh, and conducted us forthwith down the
Jebel Bārisha by a precipitous path cut out of the living rock. It was
so steep and narrow that when we met a party of women coming up from the
lower slopes with bundles of brushwood--brushwood! it was flowering
daphne and bay--we had great difficulty in edging past them. At the
bottom of this breakneck descent there was a deep valley with a lake at
one end of it, and in front of us rose the Jebel el 'Ala, to the best of
my judgment a wall of rock, quite impossible for horses to climb. The
monosyllabic peasant who directed us--I am glad I do not remember his
name--indicated that our path lay up it, and Najīb seeming to
acquiesce, I followed with a sinking heart. It was indescribable. We
jumped and tumbled over the rock faces and our animals jumped and
tumbled after us, scrambling along the edge of little precipices, where,
if they had fallen they must have broken every bone. Providence watched
over us and we got up unhurt into a country as lovely as that which we
had left on top of the Jebel Bārisha. At the entrance of an olive grove
our guide turned back, and in a few moments we reached Ḳalb Lōzeh.
Whether there was ever much of a settlement round the great church I do
not know; there are now but few remains of houses, and it stands almost
alone. It stands too very nearly unrivalled among the monuments of
Syrian art. The towered narthex, the wide bays of the nave, the apse
adorned with engaged columns, the matchless beauty of the decoration and
the justice of proportion preserved in every part, are the features that
first strike the beholder; but as he gazes he becomes aware that this is
not only the last word in the history of Syrian architecture, spoken at
the end of many centuries of endeavour, but that it is also the
beginning of a new chapter in the architecture of the world. The fine
and simple beauty of Romanesque was born in North Syria. It is curious
to consider to what developments the genius of these architects might
have led if they had not been checked by the Arab invasion. Certain it
is that we should have had an independent school of great builders,
strongly influenced perhaps by classical tradition and yet more strongly
by the East, but everywhere asserting an unmistakable personality as
bold as it was imaginative and delicate. There is little consolation in
the reflection that the creative vigour that is evident at Ḳalb Lōzeh
never had time to pass into decadence.
I had heard or read that in the mountains near Ḳalb Lōzeh were to be
found a few Druze villages, inhabited by emigrants from the Lebanon, but
as I had not yet come upon them I had almost forgotten their existence.
Near the church stood half a dozen hovels, the inhabitants of which came
out to watch me as I photographed. Almost unconsciously I was struck by
some well known look in the koḥl-blackened eyes and certain
peculiarities of manner that are difficult to specify but that combine
to form an impression of easy and friendly familiarity with perhaps a
touch of patronage in it. When the women joined the little crowd my eye
was caught by the silver chains and buckles that they wore, which I
remembered vaguely to have remarked elsewhere. As we were about to
leave, an oldish man came forward and offered to walk with us for an
hour, saying that the way down to Ḥārim was difficult to find, and we
had not walked fifty yards together before I realised the meaning of my
subconscious recognition.
"Māsha'llah!" said I, "you are Druzes."
The man looked round anxiously at Najīb and Mikhāil, following close
on our heels, bent his head and walked on without speaking.
"You need not fear," said I. "The soldier and my servant are discreet
men."
He took heart at this and said:
"There are few of us in the mountains, and we dread the Mohammadans and
hide from them that we are Druzes, lest they should drive us out. We are
not more than two hundred houses in all."
[Illustration 146: ḲALB LŌZEH]
"I have been hoping to find you," said I, "for I know the sheikhs in the
Ḥaurān, and they have shown me much kindness. Therefore I desire to
salute all Druzes wherever I may meet with them."
"Allah!" said he. "Do you know the Turshān?"
[Illustration 147: THE APSE, ḲALB LŌZEH]
"By God!" said I.
"Shibly and Yaḥya his brother?"
"Yaḥya I know, but Shibly is dead."
"Dead!" he exclaimed. "Oh Merciful! Shibly dead!" And with that he drew
from me all the news of the Mountain and listened with rapt attention to
tales for which I had not thought to find a willing ear so far from
Ṣalkhad. Suddenly his questions stopped and he swerved off the path
towards a vineyard in which a young man was pruning the vines.
"Oh my son!" he cried. "Shibly el Aṭrash is dead! Lend me thy shoes,
that I may walk with the lady towards Ḥārim, for mine are worn."
The young man approached, kicking off his red leather slippers as he
came.
"We belong to God!" said he. "I saw Shibly but a year ago." And the news
had to be repeated to him in detail.
We journeyed on along the stony mountain tops, brushing through purple
daphne that grew in wonderful profusion, and talking as we went as
though we had been old friends long parted. When we came to the lip of
the Jebel el 'Ala we saw Ḥārim below us, and I insisted that my
companion should spare himself the labour of walking further. He agreed,
with great reluctance, to turn back, and stood pouring out blessings on
me for full five minutes before he would bid me farewell, and then
returned to us again that he might be sure we had understood the wav.
"And next time you come into the Jebel el 'Ala," said he, "you must
bring your camp to Ḳalb Lōzeh and stay at least a month, and we will
give you all you need and show you all the ruins. And now may you go in
peace and safety, please God; and in peace and in health return next
year."
"May God prolong your life," said I, "and give you peace!"
So we separated, and my heart was warm with an affection for his people
which it is never difficult to rekindle. Cruel in battle they may
be--the evidence against them is overwhelming; some have pronounced them
treacherous, others have found them grasping; but when I meet a Druze I
do not hesitate to greet a friend, nor shall I until my confidence has
been proved to have been misplaced.
Ḥārim castle stands on a mound at the entrance of one of the few
gorges that give access to the Jebel el 'Ala. Beyond it lies the great
Orontes plain that was a granary in old days to the city of Antioch.
Much of the northern part of the plain was under water, the swampy lake
which the Syrians call El Baḥra having been extended by the recent
rains to its fullest limit. We turned south from Ḥārim and rode along
the foot of the slopes of the Jebel el 'Ala to Salḳīn, a memorable
ride by reason of the exceeding beauty of the land through which we
passed. I have seen no such abundant fertility in all Syria. Groves of
olive and almond shared the fat ground with barley and oats; tangled
thickets of gorse and broom, daphne and blackberry, edged the road, and
every sunny spot was blue with iris stylosa. Salḳīn itself lay in a
wooded valley amid countless numbers of olive-trees that stretched
almost to the Orontes, several miles away. We dismounted before we
reached the town in an open spot between olive-gardens. It was five
o'clock, but Fāris had not arrived, and we disposed ourselves
comfortably under the trees to wait for him. Our advent caused some
excitement among the people who were sitting on the grass enjoying the
evening calm; before long one, who was evidently a person of
consideration, strolled up to us, accompanied by a servant, and invited
me to come and rest in his house. He was a portly man, though he had
barely touched middle age, and his countenance was pleasant; I accepted
his invitation, thinking I might as well see what Salḳīn had to
offer. Opportunities of enlarging the circle of your acquaintance should
always be grasped, especially in foreign parts.
[Illustration 148: ḤĀRIM]
I soon found that I had fallen into the hands of the wealthiest
inhabitant of the town. Muḥammad 'Ali Agha is son to Rustum Agha, who
is by birth a Circassian and was servant in the great Circassian family
of Kakhya Zādeh of Ḥamādan--that is their Arabic name, the Persians
call them Kat Khuda Zādeh. The Kakhya Zādehs migrated to Aleppo two
centuries back; by such transactions as are familiar to Circassians,
they grew exceedingly rich and are now one of the most powerful families
in Aleppo. Their servants shared in their prosperity, and Rustum Agha,
being a careful man, laid by enough money to buy land at Salḳīn near
his master's large estate in the Orontes valley. Fortune favoured him so
well that the hand of a daughter of the Kakhya house was accorded to his
son. I did not learn all these details at once, and was astonished while
I sat in Muḥammad 'Ali's harem to observe the deference with which he
treated his wife, wondering why the sharp-featured, bright-eyed little
lady who had borne him no sons should be addressed by her husband with
such respect, for I did not then know that she was sister to Reshīd
Agha Kakhya Zādeh. Muḥammad 'Ali's only child, a girl of six years
old, what though she were of so useless a sex, was evidently the apple
of her father's eye. He talked to me long of her education and
prospects, while I ate the superlatively good olives and cherry jam that
his maid servants set before me. The Khānum was so gracious as to
prepare the coffee with her own hands, and to express admiration of the
battered felt hat that lay, partly concealed by its purple and silver
kerchief, on the divan beside me.
"Oh, the beautiful European hat!" said she. "Why do you wear a mendīl
over it when it is so pretty?"
And with that she stripped it of the silk scarf and camel's hair rope,
and placing it in all its naked disreputableness on her daughter's black
curls, she declared that it was the most becoming head-dress in the
world.
At six o'clock news was brought that my baggage animals had arrived, but
before I could be allowed to return to my tents Rustum Agha had to be
visited. He was lying on a couch heaped with wadded silken coverlets in
an upper chamber overlooking the beautiful rushing stream and the two
great cypresses that add much to the picturesqueness of Salḳīn. These
trees stand like tall black sentinels before the gate of the house,
which is the first and the largest in the winding village street. Rustum
Agha was very old and very sick. His face lay like the face of a corpse
upon the pale primrose silk of the bedclothes. He seemed to be gratified
by my visit, though when he opened his lips to greet me he was seized
with such an intolerable fit of coughing that his soul was almost shaken
out of his body. As soon as he recovered he asked for the latest tidings
of Russia and Japan, and I marvelled that he, who seemed so near his
end, had the patience to ask anything of us, but whether we could see
the lagging garnerer with the scythe hobbling up between the cypresses
at the door.
[Illustration 149: SALḲĪN]
As I sat down to dinner in my tent two of Muḥammad 'Ali's servants
staggered into camp bearing a large jar of olives grown in the gardens
of Salḳīn and preserved in their own oil. They brought too a request
from their master that he might come and spend an hour with me, and I
sent back a message praying that he would honour me. He appeared later,
with one or two people in attendance to carry his hubble-bubble, and
settled himself for a comfortable chat to the gurgling accompaniment of
the water pipe, a soothing and an amicable sound conducive to
conversation. He told me that Salḳīn was one of the many Seleucias,
and that it had been founded by Seleucus I. himself as a summer resort
for the inhabitants of Antioch. The spot on which I was camped, said he,
and the graveyard beyond it, formed the site of the Seleucid town, "and
whenever we dig a grave we turn up carved stones and sometimes writing."
It seems not unnatural that the fertile foothills should have been
selected by the people of Antioch for their country houses, but I have
no further evidence to support the statement. He said also that his
brother-in-law, Reshīd Agha, was staying with him, and he expressed a
hope that I would call on him before I left next day.
If Reshīd Agha Kakhya Zādeh is the chief magnate of the district he is
also the chief villain. I found him sitting in the early morning under
the cypresses by the foaming stream, and a more evil face in a sweeter
setting and lighted by a fairer sun it would have been hard to picture.
He was a tall man with an overbearing manner; his narrow forehead
sheltered a world of vicious thoughts, his eyes squinted horribly, his
thick sensuous lips spluttered as they enunciated the vain boastings and
the harsh commands that formed the staple of his conversation. He was
wrapped in a pale silk robe, and he smoked a hubble-bubble with a
jewelled mouthpiece. By his side lay a bunch of Spring flowers, which he
lifted and smelt at as he talked, finally offering the best of them to
me. It is one of the privileges of the irresponsible traveller that he
is not called upon to eschew the company of rogues, and when I found
that my friend Muḥammad 'Ali was about to accompany Reshīd Agha to
the latter's house at Alāni and that this lay upon my path, I agreed to
their suggestion that we should start together. The animals were brought
out, we mounted under the cypresses and trotted off through olive groves
towards the Orontes valley. Reshīd Agha rode a splendid Arab mare; her
black livery shone with the grooming she had received, she was lightly
bitted, her headstall was a silver chain, her bridle was studded with
silver ornaments, her every movement was a pleasure to behold. Her
master appealed repeatedly to Muḥammad 'Ali, who jogged along by his
side on a fine mule, for admiration of his mount, and when the latter
had replied obsequiously with the required praise, his words were taken
up and reinforced by an old fat man who rode with us upon a lean pony.
He was jester and flatterer in ordinary to the Kakhya Zādeh, and, if
his countenance spoke truly, panderer to his employer's vices and
conniver at his crimes--among such strange company I had fallen that
April morning. Ḥājj Najīb trotted along contentedly enough behind
us; but Mikhāil, whose sense of the proprieties was strong, could
barely conceal his disapproval, and answered in monosyllables when the
jester or Reshīd Agha addressed him, though he unbent to Muḥammad
'Ali, whom he judged (and rightly) to be of another clay. We rode for an
hour over soft springy ground, Reshīd pointing out the beauties of his
property as we went.
"All these olive-gardens are mine," said he, "by God and the Prophet of
God! there are no such olives in the land. Every year I come out from
Aleppo and see to the olive harvest with my own eyes lest the knaves who
work for me should cheat me, God curse them! And therefore I have built
myself a house at Alāni--God knows a man should make himself
comfortable and live decently. But you shall see it, for you must eat
with me; my table is spread for all comers. And around the house I have
planted fields of mulberry-trees; ten thousand stripling trees I have
set in the last five years. I shall raise silkworks, please God! in
great number. Oh Yūsef! show her the boxes of eggs that came from the
land of France."
[Illustration 150: TRAVELLERS]
The jester drew out of his breast a little cardboard box marked with the
brand of a French firm; but before I could express my respect for the
Agha's industry his attention had been distracted by some peasants who
were pruning the olives not to his liking, and he spurred his mare up to
the trees and poured out volleys of oaths and execrations upon the
unfortunate men, after which he returned to my side and resumed the tale
of his own prowess.
The house was large and new, and furnished throughout with plush and
gilt-framed mirrors. Nothing would satisfy the Agha but that I should
see and admire every corner, and the jester gave me the lead in praise
and congratulation. From him I gathered that I was chiefly called upon
to exalt the merits of the iron stoves that were prominent in each of
the rooms--no doubt they added to the comfort if not to the
picturesqueness of the establishment. This over we sat down on a divan
to wait till lunch was ready. The Agha employed the time in relating to
me with an over-emphasised indignation his struggles against the corrupt
and oppressive government under which he lived, but he omitted to
mention that what he suffered at the hands of those above him he passed
on with interest to those below.
"By God!" he spluttered, "you have seen how I labour among my
olive-trees, how I plant mulberries and send for the silkworm eggs from
afar, that I may make a new trade at Alāni. Is the Vāli grateful? No,
by the Prophet! He sends his men and they say: 'Stop! till we see how
much more we can tax you!' And when I would have set up a mill by the
river for the grinding of my corn, they said: 'Stop! it is not lawful.'
Then they sent for me in the middle of the harvest, and I rode hastily
to Aleppo, and day by day and week by week they kept me waiting, and
forbade me to leave the city. And by God!" shouted the Agha, thumping on
a little inlaid table with his fist, "I baffled them! I went to the
Ḳāḍi, and said: 'From whom is the order?' He said: 'From the
Vāli.' Then I went to the Vāli and said: 'From whom is the order?' And
he answered: 'I know not; perchance from the Ḳāḍi.' And I bade them
put it in writing, but they dared not, and so they let me go."
In the middle of these tales three visitors were announced. They took a
deferential seat on the opposite divan, and expended themselves in
salutations and compliments. The Agha received them as an emperor might
receive his subjects, and one of them presently seized the opportunity
of saying to me in a stage whisper audible to all:
"You have seen what manner of man is the Agha? He is like a king in this
country." Whereat the Agha grew yet more regally gracious.
We sat down at last to a board loaded with every variety of Syrian
delicacy, and few cuisines can beat the Syrian at its best. The Agha
talked and ate with equal eagerness, and pressed one dish after another
upon his guests. When the feast was in full swing a servant came to him
and said that there was a certain Fellāḥ who wished to speak with
him.
"Let him come!" said the Agha indifferently. A ragged peasant figure
appeared in the doorway and gazed with eyes half sullen, half frightened
at the company, and the profusion of delicate meats.
"Peace be upon you, oh Agha!" he began.
But as soon as he saw the suppliant the Agha started to his feet in a
very fury of passion. His face became purple, his squinting eyes started
from his head, and he thumped the table with his clenched fist while he
cried:
"Begone! and may God curse you and your offspring, and destroy your
father's house! Begone, I tell you, and bring the money, or I will send
you to prison with your wife and your family, and you shall starve there
till you die."
"Oh Agha!" said the man, with a certain dignity that faced the other's
rage, "a little time. Grant me a little time."
"Not a day! not an hour!" yelled the Agha. "Away! go! and to-night you
shall bring me the money."
The peasant vanished from the doorway without another word, the Agha sat
down and continued his interrupted conversation and his interrupted
meal; the other guests ate on as if nothing had happened, but I felt a
little ashamed of my place at Reshīd's right hand, and I was not sorry
to bid him farewell.
The Agha sent us down to the Orontes and caused us to be conveyed across
the stream in his own ferry-boat. When we reached the other side
Mikhāil ostentatiously took a crust from his pocket and began to eat
it.
"Have you not eaten at Alāni?" said I.
"I do not eat with such as he," replied Mikhāil stiffly.
At this Najīb, whom no such scruple had withheld from enjoying the
unwonted luxury of an ample meal, nodded his head and said:
"The Agha is an evil man, may God reward him according to his deeds! He
squeezes their last metalīk from the poor, he seizes their land, and
turns them out of their houses to starve."
"And worse than that," said Mikhāil darkly.
"By God!" said Najīb. "Every man who has a fair wife or a fair daughter
stands in fear of him, for he will never rest until the woman is in his
hands. By God and Muḥammad the Prophet of God! many a man has he
killed that he might take his wife into his own harem, and no one is
hated more than he."
"Cannot the law prevent him?" said I.
[Illustration 151: ANTIOCH]
"Who shall prevent him?" said Najīb. "He is rich--may God destroy his
dwelling!"
"Oh Mikhāil!" said I as we picked our way across the muddy fields. "I
have travelled much in your country and I have seen and known many
people, and seldom have I met a poor man whom I would not choose for a
friend nor a rich man whom I would not shun. Now how is this? Does
wealth change the very heart in Syria? For, look you, in my country not
all the powerful are virtuous, but neither are they all rogues. And you
and the Druze of Ḳalb Lōzeh and Mūsa the Kurd, would you too, if you
had means, become like Reshīd Agha?"
"Oh lady," said Mikhāil, "the heart is the same, but in your country
the government is just and strong and every one of the English must obey
it, even the rich; whereas with us there is no justice, but the big man
eats the little, and the little man eats the less, and the government
eats all alike. And we all suffer after our kind and cry out to God to
help us since we cannot help ourselves. But at least I did not eat the
bread of Reshīd Agha," concluded Mikhāil rather sententiously; and at
this Najīb and I hung our heads.
[Illustration 152: ANTIOCH]
[Illustration 153: ON THE BANK OF THE ORONTES, ANTIOCH]
Then followed five hours of the worst travelling. It may have been a
judgment upon Najīb and me for sitting at the table of the wicked, but,
like most of the judgments of Providence, it fell impartially on the
just and the unjust, for Mikhāil endured as much as we. All that we had
suffered the day before from the rocks we now suffered at the opposite
end of the scale from the mud. The torture was a thousand times more
acute. For five hours we crossed hills of earth on which there was never
a stone, but the sticky slime of the slopes alternated with deep
sloughs, where our horses sank up to their girths, and when at last we
emerged from this morass into the Orontes valley man and beast were
exhausted. The rising ground, which we had left, now rose into rocky
ridges and peaks, the broad valley lay on our right hand, half full of
flood water, and beyond it stood a splendid range of mountains. It was
not long before we caught sight of the Byzantine towers and walls
crowning the ridges to the left, and between hedges of flowering bay we
stumbled along the broken pavement of the Roman road that led to
Antioch. The road was further occupied by a tributary of the Orontes,
which flowed merrily over the pavement. It was with some excitement that
I gazed on the city of Antioch, which was for so many centuries a cradle
of the arts and the seat of one of the most gorgeous civilisations that
the world has known. Modern Antioch is like the pantaloon whose clothes
are far too wide for his lean shanks; the castle walls go climbing over
rock and hill, enclosing an area from which the town has shrunk away.
But it is still one of the loveliest of places, with its great ragged
hill behind it, crowned with walls, and its clustered red roofs
stretching down to the wide and fertile valley of the Orontes.
Earthquakes and the changing floods of the stream have overturned and
covered with silt the palaces of the Greek and of the Roman city, yet as
I stood at sunset on the sloping sward of the Noṣairiyyeh graveyard
below Mount Silpius, where my camp was pitched, and saw the red roofs
under a crescent moon, I recognised that beauty is the inalienable
heritage of Antioch.
[Footnote 17: The ancient towns in the Jebel Bārisha have been visited
and described by the American Expedition.]