from a liar by the same name. That Ananias and his wife, Saphira, fell
dead at the feet of St. Peter because of falsehood, a warning to those
who trifle with the truth to-day. St. Ananias was a good man, who
restored St. Paul's sight and instructed him in the Christian
doctrine."
We naturally avoided the Doctor for a time after that. His neighborhood
seemed dangerous.
The house of Ananias is below ground, and was probably used as a
hiding-place in a day when it was not safe for an active and busy
Christian to be at large. Such periods have not been unusual in
Damascus. St. Paul preached Christianity openly, but not for long; for
the Jews "took counsel to kill him," and watched the gate to see that he
did not get away.
"Then the disciples took him by night, and let him down the wall in a
basket."
We drove to the outer wall, and came to the place and the window where
Paul is said to have been let down. It _might_ have happened there; the
wall is Roman, and the window above it could have been there in St.
Paul's day. I prefer to believe it is the real window, though I have
reason to think they show another one sometimes.
Habib said we were to visit some of the handsome residences of Damascus.
We were eager for that. From the Minaret of the Bride we had looked down
upon those marble courts and gay facades, and had been fascinated. We
drove back into the city, through narrow mud-walled streets, forbidding
and not overclean. When these alleys had become so narrow and
disheartening that we could travel only with discomfort, we stopped at a
wretched entrance and were told to get out. Certainly this was never the
portal to any respectable residence. But we were mistaken. The Damascus
house is built from the inside out. It is mud and unseemly disrepute
without, but it is fairyland within. Every pretentious house is built
on the same plan, and has a marble court, with a fountain or pool, and
some peach or apricot or orange trees. On one side of the court is the
front of the house. It has a high entrance, and rooms to the right and
to the left--rooms that have a raised floor at one end (that is where
the rich rugs are) and very high ceilings--forty feet high, some of
them--decorated with elaborate designs. In the first house the round
writhing rafters were exposed, and the decoration on them made them look
exactly like snakes. The Apostle took one look and fled, and I confess I
did not care for them much myself. The rest of the house was divided
into rooms of many kinds, and there was running water, and a bath. We
visited another house, different only in details. Some of the occupants
were at home here--women-folks who seemed glad to see us, and showed us
about eagerly. A tourist party from far-off America is a diversion to
them, no doubt.
[Illustration: URGING US TO PARTAKE OF THE PRECIOUS STUFF, WITHOUT
STINT]
Then we went to still another house. We saw at once that it was a
grander place than the two already visited, and we were simply
bewildered at the abundance of the graven brass and inlaid furniture,
rich rugs and general bric-a-brac, that filled a great reception-room.
Suddenly servants in Turkish dress appeared with trays of liqueurs--two
kinds, orange and violet--urging us to partake of the precious stuff,
without stint. Also, there were trays of rare coffee and dainty
sweetmeats, and we were invited to sit in the priceless chairs and to
handle the wonderful things to our hearts' content. We were amazed,
stunned. Oriental hospitality could go no further. Then in some subtle
manner--I don't remember how the information was conveyed, but it must
have been delicately, Orientally done--we learned that all this brass,
all these marvellous things, were for sale!
Did we buy them? Did we! David did not take more brass from Hadadezer
than we carried out of that Damascus residence, which was simply an
annex to a great brass and mosaic factory, as we discovered later.
Perhaps those strange liqueurs got into our enthusiasm; certainly I have
never seen our party so liberal--so little inclined to haggle and hammer
down.
But the things themselves were worth while. The most beautiful brass in
the world is made in Damascus, and it is made in that factory.
They took us in where the work was going on. I expected to see
machinery. Nothing of the sort--not a single machine anywhere. Every
stage of the work is performed by hand--done in the most primitive way,
by workmen sitting on the ground, shaping some artistic form, or with a
simple graving-tool working out an intricate design. Many of the workers
were mere children--girls, most of them--some of them not over seven or
eight years old, yet even these were producing work which would cause
many an "arts and crafts" young lady in America to pale with envy. They
get a few cents a day. The skilled workers, whose deft fingers and
trained vision produce the exquisite silver inlay designs, get as much
as a shilling. No wonder our people did not haggle. The things were
cheap, and they knew it.
In a wareroom in the same factory I noticed that one of the walls was
stone, and looked like Roman masonry; also that in it were the outlines
of two high arches, walled up. I asked Habib about it.
"Those," he said, "are two of the entrances to the Street called
Straight. We are outside of the wall here; this house is built against
it. The Straight street had three entrances in the old days. Those two
have long been closed."
It always gives me a curious sensation to realize that actual people are
living and following their daily occupations in the midst of
associations like these. I can't get used to it at all.
To them, however, it is nothing. The fact that they sleep and wake and
pursue their drowsy round in places hallowed by tradition; that the
house which sheltered St. Paul stands in the midst of their murmuring
bazaar; that one side of this wareroom is the wall of the ancient city,
the actual end of the Street called Straight; that every step they take
is on historic ground, sacred to at least three religions--this to me
marvellous condition is to them not strange at all.
It is not that they do not realize the existence of these things: they
do--at least, most of them do--and honor and preserve their landmarks.
But that a column against which they dream and smoke may be one of the
very columns against which St. Paul leaned as he groped his blind way
down the Street called Straight is to them not a matter for wonder, or
even comment.
I am beginning to understand their point of view--even to envy it. I do
not envy some of the things they have--some of their customs--but their
serenity of habit, their security of place in the stately march of time,
their establishment of race and religion--one must envy these things
when he considers them here, apart from that environment which we call
civilized--the whirl which we call progress.
I do not think I shall turn Moslem. The doctrine has attractive
features, both here and hereafter; but I would not like to undertake the
Koran at my time of life. I can, however, and I do, pay the tribute of
respect to the sun-baked land and sun-browned race that have given birth
to three of the world's great religions, even though they have not
unnaturally claimed their last invention as their best and held it as
their own.
XXVIII
DISCONTENTED PILGRIMS
We entered the remaining portal of the Street called Straight and drove
to the Grand Bazaar. We were in a buying fever by this time, and plunged
into a regular debauch of bargain and purchase. We were all a little
weary when we reached the hotel. We came in carrying our brass and other
loot, and dropped down on the first divan, letting our bundles fall
where they listed.
I thought the Apostle looked particularly solemn. Being a weighty
person, jouncing all day in a carriage and walking through brass bazaars
and fez bazaars and silk bazaars and rug bazaars and silver bazaars and
leather bazaars and saddle bazaars, and at least two hundred and seven
other bazaars, had told on him. When I spoke cheeringly he merely
grunted and reached for something in a glass which, if it tasted as it
smelled, was not calculated to improve his temper. When I sat down
beside him he did not seem over cordial.
[Illustration: ASKED HIM IF HE WOULDN'T EXECUTE A LITTLE COMMISSION FOR
ME IN THE BAZAARS]
Then, quite casually, I asked him if he wouldn't execute a little
commission for me in the bazaars; there were a few trifles I had
overlooked: another coffee-set, for instance--something for a friend at
home; I had faith in his (the Apostle's) taste.
It seemed a reasonable request, and I made it politely enough, but the
Apostle became suddenly violent. He said:
"Damn the bazaars! I'm full of brass and Oriental rugs and bric-a-brac.
I never want to hear of a bazaar again. I want to give away the junk
I've already bought, and get back to the ship." Which we knew he didn't
mean, for he had put in weary hours acquiring those things, inspired
with a large generosity for loved ones at home.
The Colonel came drifting along just then--unruffled,
debonair--apparently unwearied by the day's round. Nothing disturbs the
Colonel. If he should outwear the century, he would still be as blithe
of speech and manner as he is to-day at--dear me, how old is the
Colonel? Is he thirty? Is he fifty? He might be either of those ages or
at any mile-post between.
He stood now, looking down at the Apostle and his cup of poison. Then,
with a coaxing smile:
"Match you, Joe--my plunder against yours--just once."
The Apostle looked up with a perfectly divine sneer.
"_Yes_, you will-- I think I see myself!"
The Colonel slapped a coin on the table briskly.
"Come on, Joe--we never matched for bric-a-brac before. Let's be
game--just this time."
What was the use? The Apostle resisted--at first violently, then
feebly--then he matched--and lost.
For a moment he could hardly realize the extent of his disaster. Then he
reached for the mixture in front of him, swallowed it, gagged, and
choked alarmingly. When he could get his voice, he said:
"I'm the hellfiredest fool in Syria. I walked four hundred miles to buy
those things."
The Horse-Doctor regarded him thoughtfully.
"You always interest me," he said. "I don't know whether it's your shape
or your mental habitudes. Both are so peculiar."
After which we left the Apostle--that is, we stood from under and went
in to dinner.
The Apostle is a good traveller, however--all the Reprobates are. They
take things as they find them, which cannot be said for all of our
people. One wonders what some of them expected in Damascus--probably
steamer fare and New York hotel accommodations. I judge this from their
remarks.
As a matter of fact, we are at the best hotel in Damascus, and the hotel
people are racking their bodies and risking their souls to give us the
best they know. A traveller cannot get better than the best--even in
heaven. Travelling alone in any strange land, he is more likely to get
the worst. Yet the real traveller will make the best of what he finds,
and do better when he finds he can. But these malcontents of ours have
been pampered and spoiled by that steamer until they expect nothing
short of perfection--_their_ kind of perfection--wherever they set foot.
They are so disturbed over the fact that the bill-of-fare is unusual and
not adjusted to their tastes that they are not enjoying the sights, and
want to clear out, forthwith. They have been in Damascus a little more
than a day; they want to go now. This old race has stood it five
thousand years or more. These ship-dwellers can't stand it two days
without complaint. I don't want to be severe, but such travellers tire
me. I suppose the bill-of-fare in heaven won't please them. I hope not,
if I'm invited to remain there--any length of time, I mean.
The rest of us are having great enjoyment. We like everything, and we
eat most of it. There are any number of dried fruits and nuts and fine
juicy oranges always on the table, strung down the centre--its full
length. And even if the meats are a bit queer, they are by no means bad.
We whoop up the bill-of-fare, and go through it forward and backward and
diagonally, working from both ends toward the centre, and back again if
we feel like it. We have fruit and nuts piled by our plates and on our
plates all through the meal. _We_ don't get tired of Damascus. We could
stay here and start a famine. What _will_ these grumblers do in heaven,
where very likely there isn't a single dish they ever heard of before?
In the matter of wines, however, I am conservative. You see, Mohammed
forbade the use of spirituous beverages by the faithful, and liquor
forms no part of their long, symphonic rhyme. They don't drink it
themselves; they only make it for visitors.
It would require no command of the Prophet to make me abstain from it. I
have tried their vintage. I tried one brand called the "Wine of
Ephesus." The name conjured visions; so did the wine, but they were not
the same visions. The name suggested banquets in marble halls, where
gentlemen and ladies of the old days reclined on rich divans and were
served by slaves on bended knee. The wine itself--the taste of it, I
mean--suggested a combination of hard cider and kerosene, with a hurry
call for the doctor.
I was coy about the wines of the East after that, but by-and-by I tried
another brand--a different color with a different name. This time it was
"Nectar of Heliopolis." They had curious ideas of nectar in Heliopolis.
Still, it was better than the Wine of Ephesus. Hair-oil is always better
than kerosene in a mixture like that--but not much better. The flavor
did not invite debauch.
* * * * *
This is Sunday (the Christian Sunday), and I have been out for an early
morning walk. I took the trolley that starts near the hotel. I did not
care for a trolley excursion, but I wanted to see what a Damascus
trolley is like and where it went. It isn't like anything in particular,
and it didn't go anywhere--not while I was on it.
I noticed that it was divided into three sections, and I climbed into
the front one. The conductor motioned to me, and I understood that I had
made a wrong selection, somehow. A woman, veiled and bangled, climbed
aboard just then, and I understood. I was in the women's section--a
thing not allowed in Damascus. So I got back into the rear section, but
that wouldn't do, either. The conductor was motioning again.
I comprehended at length. The rear compartment was second class. He
wanted me to go in style. So I got into the middle compartment and gave
him a tin medal, and got two or three similar ones in change, and sat
there waiting for the procession to move. I waited a good while. There
was an Arabic inscription on the back of the seats in front of me--in
the place where, in America, it says, "Wait for the car to stop." I
suppose it says, "Wait for the car to start" in Damascus. We did that.
The conductor dozed.
Now and then somebody climbed on, but the arrivals were infrequent. I
wondered if we were waiting for a load. It would take a week to fill up,
at that rate. I looked at my watch now and then. The others went to
sleep. That is about the difference between the East and the West. The
West counts the time; for the East it has no existence. Moments, hours,
months mean nothing to the East. The word hurry is not of her language.
She drives her horses fast, but merely for pleasure, not haste. She has
constructed this trolley, but merely for style. It doesn't really serve
any useful purpose.
We moved a little by-and-by, and I had hopes. They were premature. We
crawled up in front of a coffee-house where a lot of turbans and fezzes
were gathered outside, over tiny cups and hubble-bubble pipes; then we
stopped. Our conductor and motorman got off and leaned against an
almond-tree and began gossiping with friends. Finally coffee came out to
them, and pipes, and they squatted down to smoke.
I finished my ride then; I shall always wonder where those other
passengers thought they were going, and if they ever got there.
I followed down a narrow street, and came to a succession of tiny
work-shops. It was then I discovered what a man's feet are for--that
is, some uses I had not known before. They are to assist the hands in
performing mechanical labor. All mechanics work barefooted here. They
sit flat on the floor or ground, with their various appliances in
front of them, and there is scarcely any operation in which the feet
do not take part. I came to a turning-lathe--a whole row of
turning-lathes--tiny, crude affairs, down on the ground, of course,
driven back and forth with a bow and a string. The workman held the bow
in one hand, while the other hand, assisted by the foot, guided the
cutting tool. It would never occur to these workmen to put the lathe
higher in the air and attach a treadle, leaving both hands free to guide
the tool.
Their sawing is the crudest process imaginable. They have no trestles or
even saw-bucks. They have only a slanting stick stuck in the ground, and
against this, with their feet and one hand, they hold the piece to be
sawed, while the other hand runs the earliest saw ever made--the kind
Noah used when he built the Ark. Sometimes a sawyer has a helper--a boy
who pushes and pulls as the saw runs back and forth.
I bought a Sunday-morning paper. It does not resemble the
sixty-four-page New York Sunday dailies. It consists of four small
pages, printed in wriggly animalculae and other aquaria, and contains
news four years old--or four hundred, it does not matter. Possibly it
denounces the sultan--it is proper to do that just now--but I think not.
That would be too current. I think it is still denouncing Constantine.
XXIX
DAMASCUS, THE GARDEN BEAUTIFUL
Later, we drove to the foot of Mohammed's Hill--the hill from which the
Prophet looked down on the Pearl of the East and decided that as he
could have only one paradise he would wait for the next. They have built
a little tower to mark the spot where he rested, and we thought we would
climb up there.
We didn't, however. The carriages could only go a little way beyond the
city outskirts, and when we started to climb that blistering, barren
hillside afoot we changed our minds rapidly. We had permission to go as
high as we pleased, but it is of no value. Anybody could give it. Laura
and I and a German newspaper man were the only ones who toiled up high
enough to look down through the mystical haze on the vision Mohammed
saw. Heavens! but it was hot up there! And this is March--early spring!
How those _Quaker City_ pilgrims stood it to travel across the Syrian
desert in August I cannot imagine. In the _Innocents_ I find this
observation:
"The sun-flames shot down like shafts of fire that stream
out of a blowpipe. The rays seemed to fall in a steady
deluge on my head and pass downward like rain from a roof."
That is a white-hot description, but not too intense, I think, for
Syrian summer-time.
Another thing we noticed up there: Damascus is growing--in that
direction at least. Older than history, the place is actually having a
boom. All the houses out that way are new--mud-walled, but some of them
quite pretentious. They have pushed out far beyond the gardens, across
the barren plain, and they are climbing the still more barren slope.
They stand there in the baking sun, unshaded as yet by any living thing.
One pities the women shut up behind those tiny barred windows. These
places will have gardens about them some day. Already their owners are
scratching the earth with their crooked sticks, and they will plant and
water and make the desert bloom.
Being free in the afternoon, Laura and I engaged Habib and a carriage
and went adventuring on our own account. We let Habib manage the
excursion, and I shall always remember it as a sweet, restful
experience.
We visited a Moslem burying-ground first, and the tomb of Fatima--the
original Fatima--Mohammed's beautiful daughter, who married a rival
prophet, Ali, yet sleeps to-day with honor in a little mosque-like tomb.
We passed a tree said to have been planted by the Mohammedan conqueror
of Damascus nearly thirteen hundred years ago--an enormous tree, ten
feet through or more--on one side a hollow which would hold a dozen men,
standing.
Then at last we came to the gardens of Damascus, and got out and walked
among the olive-trees and the peach and almond and apricot--most of them
in riotous bloom. Summer cultivation had only just begun, and few
workmen were about. Later the gardens will swarm with them, and they
will be digging and irrigating, and afterward gathering the fruit,
preserving and drying it, and sending it to market. Habib showed us the
primitive methods of doing these things.
How sweet and quiet and fragrant it was there among the flowering trees!
In one place a little group of Syrian Christians were recreating (it
being Sunday), playing some curious dulcimer instrument and singing a
weird hymn.
We crossed the garden, and sat on the grass under the peach-bloom while
Habib went for the carriage. Sitting there, we realized that the
guide-book had been only fair to Damascus.
"For miles around it is a wilderness of gardens--gardens
with roses among the tangled shrubberies, and with fruit on
the branches overhead. Everywhere among the trees the murmur
of unseen rivulets is heard."
That sounds like fairyland, but it is only Damascus--Damascus in June,
when the fruit is ripening and the water-ways are full.
We drove out of Damascus altogether--far out across a fertile plain, to
the slopes of the West Lebanon hills. Then turning, we watched the sun
slip down the sky while Habib told us many things. Whatever there is to
know, Habib knows, and to localities and landmarks he fitted stories and
traditions which brought back all the old atmosphere and made this
Damascus the Damascus of fable and dreams.
Habib pointed out landmarks near and far--minarets of the great mosque,
the direction of Jerusalem, of Mecca; he showed us where the waters of
Damascus rise and where they waste into the desert sands. To the
westward was Mount Hermon; southward came the lands of Naphtali, and
Bashan where the giant Og once reigned. All below us lay Palestine;
Mount Hermon was the watch-tower, Damascus the capital of the North.
Damascus in the sunset, its domes and minarets lifting above the lacing
green! There is no more beautiful picture in the world than that. We
turned to it again and again when every other interest had waned--the
jewel, the "pearl set in emeralds," on the desert's edge. Laura and I
will always remember that Sunday evening vision of the old city, the
things that Habib told us, and the drive home.
Next to the city itself I think the desert interested us. It begins just
a little beyond Damascus, Habib said, and stretches the length of the
Red Sea and to the Persian Gulf. A thousand miles down its length lies
Mecca, to which pilgrims have journeyed for ages--a horde of them every
year. There is a railway, now, as far as Tebook, but Mecca is still six
hundred miles beyond. The great annual pilgrimages, made up of the
faithful from all over Asia and portions of Europe and Africa, depart
from Damascus, and those that survive it return after long months of
wasting desert travel. Habib said that a great pilgrimage was returning
now; the city was full of holy men.
Then he told us about the dromedary mail that crosses the desert from
Damascus to Bagdad, like a through express. It is about five hundred
miles across as the stork flies, but the dromedary is not disturbed by
distance. He destroys it at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, and
capers in fresh and smiling at the other end. Habib did not advise
dromedary travel. It is very rough, he said. Nothing but an Arab trained
to the business could stand it. Once an Englishman wanted to go through
by the dromedary mail, and did go, though they implored him to travel in
the regular way. He got through all right, but his liver and his heart
had changed places, and it took three doctors seven days to rearrange
his works.