One is forcibly struck with the Damascene bazars. They thread the old
city in all directions. Some of them are new, and some very old. The most
of them are covered ways, where either side is divided into small booths,
or shops. The bazar has its specialty—the brass bazar, the silversmith
bazar, the goldsmith bazar, the shoe bazar, the silk bazar, and all the
rest. Then there is another order of division, such as the Greek bazar
and the Frank bazar. There is sometimes, however, a breaking up of all
orders, for goods of very varied character you can sometimes get in the
same bazar. The oldest of these quaint marts date back many centuries,
and are mere holes, or rickety houses, where buying and selling have
been going on for many a generation. The venders love these old places.
I imagine their fathers, and even remote ancestors sat in the same spot,
and did business in much the same way, and chaffed about the prices in
quite as much hyperbole, four or five centuries ago, as their children
do to-day, when a Frank drops into the busy way, and halts, and asks a
question concerning the beautiful wares.
The love is for the old. No Damascene wants to change to the new. The
smooth floor and familiar shelves of his booth he could not give up to
another for many a bright _bishlik_.
Not long since the Pasha of Damascus, who had been long making vain
efforts to get the shop-keepers of a stretch of the bazar in the “street
that is called straight,” to pull down their booths and put up new ones,
had to give up the task as hopeless. Finally he ordered that, at a given
signal, one night, the bazar should be set fire to in a number of places.
His officers did their duty well. They knew what they were about. The
result was that long reaches of this one bazar were burned to the ground.
The wares went up in smoke with the tinder which enclosed them.
“What could the people do?” I asked my informant.
“Do? Why, nothing at all.”
“Were they insured? Did they get any compensation back again for the
destruction of their property?”
“Not in the least. The Pasha had the power. No questions were asked. The
consequence is, that, as you see, new bazars are building in various
places. Soon they will be occupied by gay, oriental wares, and things
will go on quite the same as before. Only there will be more light and
fresher air.”
Among the specialties sold in the Damascene bazars we may mention silk
goods, first of all. They are combined with cotton, and woven into
various patterns for dress and furniture. They defy all competition the
world over. The patterns are exquisite. No wonder this artistic weaving
has given the city’s name, or damask, to such fabrics for all time.
Curtains and all manner of stuffs are woven, and are here displayed in
such combinations as to bewilder any but Orientals. I saw, during my
stay, the places where these fine silks are woven. There are no great
shops, no few places where they come from. They are produced in small
houses, in obscure and ill-odorous streets, and by thousands of hands,
young and old. It is the toil of the poor, the young, and the infirm, in
sunless cellars and obscure corners which brings out these sunny silks
and beautiful designs. Queens send here from afar to buy them. There, in
the hotel, I saw the Crown Prince of Austria and his fair-haired Belgian
bride. Before twenty-four hours will have passed they will be buying
these silks of Damascus, and in less than six months Stephanie will be
wearing them at a court dinner. When she becomes Empress she will be
having more of them, and her favorite rooms will likely be hung with the
rich stuffs sent direct from these busy bazars, but coming first from
dingy homes and little rickety looms.
Yes, one learns an easy lesson here, in these oriental countries, of
the contrast between the hand that weaves and the body that wears the
stuffs that adorn the world’s gayest places. In Agra, behind the barred
gate, I saw the chained prisoners of the jail weaving most patiently one
rich India carpet for the ex-Empress Eugenie, and another, of different
figure, but even more rich, for Queen Victoria. It takes about six months
for the workers to finish their work. As they weave, one hears the clank
of the chains about their feet. But, in the later years, when those great
carpets will still delight the eye, few will ever think of the places
where the fine wool from Cashmere was woven into such pleasing shapes.