_A Gathering of Sages_
NEAR the gate of Sion there is a small, still, hilly street, the houses
of which, as is general in the East, present to the passenger, with the
exception of an occasional portal, only blank walls, built, as they are
at Jerusalem, of stone, and very lofty. These walls commonly enclose
a court, and, though their exterior offers always a sombre and often
squalid appearance, it by no means follows that within you may not be
welcomed with cheerfulness and even luxury.
At this moment a man in the Syrian dress, turban and flowing robe, is
passing through one of the gateways of this street, and entering the
large quadrangle to which it leads. It is surrounded by arcades; on one
side indications of commerce, piles of chests, cases, and barrels; the
other serving for such simple stables as are sufficient in the East.
Crossing this quadrangle, the stranger passed by a corridor into a
square garden of orange and lemon trees and fountains. This garden court
was surrounded by inhabited chambers, and, at the end of it, passing
through a low arch at the side, and then mounting a few steps, he was at
once admitted into a spacious and stately chamber. Its lofty ceiling was
vaulted and lightly painted in arabesque; its floor was of white marble,
varied with mosaics of fruit and flowers; it was panelled with cedar,
and in six of the principal panels were Arabic inscriptions emblazoned
in blue and gold. At the top of this hall, and ranging down its two
sides, was a divan or seat, raised about one foot from the ground, and
covered with silken cushions; and the marble floor before this divan was
spread at intervals with small bright Persian carpets.
In this chamber some half dozen persons were seated in the Eastern
fashion, and smoking either the choice tobaccoes of Syria through the
cherry-wood or jasmine tube of a Turkish or Egyptian chibouque, or
inhaling through rose-water the more artificial flavour of the nargileh,
which is the hookah of the Levant. If a guest found his pipe exhausted,
he clapped his hands, and immediately a negro page appeared, dressed
in scarlet or in white, and, learning his pleasure, returned in a few
moments, and bowing presented him with a fresh and illumined chibouque.
At intervals, these attendants appeared without a summons, and offered
cups of Mocha coffee or vases of sherbet.
The lord of this divan, who was seated at the upper end of the room,
reclining on embroidered cushions of various colours, and using a
nargileh of fine workmanship, was a man much above the common height,
being at least six feet two without his red cap of Fez, though so well
proportioned, that you would not at the first glance give him credit for
such a stature. He was extremely handsome, retaining ample remains of
one of those countenances of blended regularity and lustre which are
found only in the cradle of the human race. Though he was fifty years
of age, time had scarcely brought a wrinkle to his still brilliant
complexion, while his large, soft, dark eyes, his arched brow, his
well-proportioned nose, his small mouth and oval cheek presented
altogether one of those faces which, in spite of long centuries of
physical suffering and moral degradation, still haunt the cities of Asia
Minor, the isles of Greece, and the Syrian coasts. It is the archetype
of manly beauty, the tradition of those races who have wandered the
least from Paradise; and who, notwithstanding many vicissitudes and
much misery, are still acted upon by the same elemental agencies as
influenced the Patriarchs; are warmed by the same sun, freshened by the
same air, and nourished by the same earth as cheered and invigorated
and sustained the earlier generations. The costume of the East certainly
does not exaggerate the fatal progress of time; if a figure becomes too
portly, the flowing robe conceals the incumbrance which is aggravated
by a western dress; he, too, who wears a turban has little dread of grey
hairs; a grizzly beard indeed has few charms, but whether it were the
lenity of time or the skill of his barber in those arts in which Asia
is as experienced as Europe, the beard of the master of the divan became
the rest of his appearance, and flowed to his waist in rich dark curls,
lending additional dignity to a countenance of which the expression was
at the same time grand and benignant.
Upon the right of the master of the divan was, smoking a jasmine pipe,
Scheriff Effendi, an Egyptian merchant, of Arab race, a dark face in a
white turban, mild and imperturbable, and seated as erect on his crossed
legs as if he were administering justice; a remarkable contrast to the
individual who was on the left of the host, who might have been mistaken
for a mass of brilliant garments huddled together, had not the gurgling
sound of the nargileh occasionally assured the spectator that it was
animated by human breath. This person was apparently lying on his back,
his face hid, his form not to be traced, a wild confusion of shawls and
cushions, out of which, like some wily and dangerous reptile, glided the
spiral involutions of his pipe. Next to the invisible sat a little wiry
man with a red nose, sparkling eyes, and a white beard. His black turban
intimated that he was a Hebrew, and indeed he was well known as Barizy
of the Tower, a description which he had obtained from his residence
near the Tower of David, and which distinguished him from his cousin,
who was called Barizy of the Gate. Further on an Armenian from Stamboul,
in his dark robes and black protuberant head-dress, resembling a
colossal truffle, solaced himself with a cherry stick which reminded him
of the Bosphorus, and he found a companion in this fashion in the
young officer of a French brig-of-war anchored at Beiroot, and who had
obtained leave to visit the Holy Land, as he was anxious to see the
women of Bethlehem, of whose beauty he had heard much.
As the new comer entered the hall, he shuffled off his slippers at the
threshold, and then advancing, and pressing a hand to his brow, his
mouth and his heart, a salutation which signifies that in thought,
speech, and feeling he was faithful to his host, and which salutation
was immediately returned, he took his seat upon the divan, and the
master of the house, letting the flexible tube of his nargileh fall on
one of the cushions, and clapping his hands, a page immediately brought
a pipe to the new guest. This was Signor Pasqualigo, one of those noble
Venetian names that every now and then turn up in the Levant, and borne
in the present case by a descendant of a family who for centuries had
enjoyed a monopoly of some of the smaller consular offices of the
Syrian coast. Signor Pasqualigo had installed his son as deputy in the
ambiguous agency at Jaffa, which he described as a vice-consulate, and
himself principally resided at Jerusalem, of which he was the prime
gossip, or second only to his rival, Barizy of the Tower. He had only
taken a preliminary puff of his chibouque, to be convinced that there
was no fear of its being extinguished, before he said,
‘So there was a fine pilgrimage last night; the Church of the Holy
Sepulchre lighted up from sunset to sunrise, an extra guard in the
court, and only the Spanish prior and two brethren permitted to enter.
It must be 10,000 piastres at least in the coffers of the Terra Santa.
Well, they want something! It is a long time since we have had a Latin
pilgrim in El Khuds.’
‘And they say, after all, that this was not a Latin pilgrim,’ said
Barizy of the Tower.
‘He could not have been one of my people,’ said the Armenian, ‘or he
never would have gone to the Holy Sepulchre with the Spanish prior.’
‘Had he been one of your people,’ said Pasqualigo, ‘he could not have
paid 10,000 piastres for a pilgrimage.’
‘I am sure a Greek never would,’ said Barizy, ‘unless he were a Russian
prince.’
‘And a Russian does not care much for rosaries unless they are made of
diamonds,’ said Pasqualigo.
‘As far as I can make out this morning,’ said Barizy of the Tower, ‘it
is a brother of the Queen of England.’
‘I was thinking it might be that,’ said Pasqualigo, nettled at his
rival’s early information, ‘the moment I heard he was an Englishman.’
‘The English do not believe in the Holy Sepulchre,’ said the Armenian,
calmly.
‘They do not believe in our blessed Saviour,’ said Pasqualigo, ‘but they
do believe in the Holy Sepulchre.’
Pasqualigo’s strong point was theology, and there were few persons in
Jerusalem who on this head ventured to maintain an argument with him.
‘How do you know that the pilgrim is an Englishman?’ asked their host.
‘Because his servants told me so,’ said Pasqualigo.
‘He has got an English general for the principal officer of his
household,’ said Barizy, ‘which looks like blood royal; a very fine man,
who passes the whole day at the English consulate.’
‘They have taken a house in the Via Dolorosa,’ said Pasqualigo.
‘Of Hassan Nejed?’ continued Barizy of the Tower, clutching the words
out of his rival’s grasp; ‘Hassan asked five thousand piastres per
month, and they gave it. What think you of that?’
‘He must indeed be an Englishman,’ said Scheriff Effendi, taking his
pipe slowly from his mouth. There was a dead silence when he spoke; he
was much respected.
‘He is very young,’ said Barizy of the Tower; ‘younger than the Queen,
which is one reason why he is not on the throne, for in England the
eldest always succeeds, except in moveables, and those always go to the
youngest.’
Barizy of the Tower, though he gave up to Pasqualigo in theology, partly
from delicacy, being a Jew, would yield to no man in Jerusalem in his
knowledge of law.
‘If he goes on at this rate,’ said the Armenian, ‘he will soon spend all
his money; this place is dearer than Stamboul.’
‘There is no fear of his spending all his money,’ said their host, ‘for
the young man has brought me such a letter that if he were to tell me to
rebuild the temple, I must do it.’
‘And who is this young man, Besso?’ exclaimed the Invisible, starting
up, and himself exhibiting a youthful countenance; fair, almost
effeminate, no beard, a slight moustache, his features too delicate, but
his brow finely arched, and his blue eye glittering with fire.
‘He is an English lord,’ said Besso, ‘and one of the greatest; that is
all I know.’
‘And why does he come here?’ inquired the youth. ‘The English do not
make pilgrimages.’ ‘Yet you have heard what he has done.’ ‘And why
is this silent Frenchman smoking your Latakia,’ he continued in a low
voice. ‘He comes to Jerusalem at the same time as this Englishman.
There is more in this than meets our eye. You do not know the northern
nations. They exist only in political combinations. You are not a
politician, my Besso. Depend upon it, we shall hear more of this
Englishman, and of his doing something else than praying at the Holy
Sepulchre.’
‘It may be so, most noble Emir, but as you say, I am no politician.’
‘Would that you were, my Besso! It would be well for you and for all of
us. See now,’ he added in a whisper, ‘that apparently inanimate mass,
Scheriff Effendi--that man has a political head, he understands a
combination, he is going to smuggle me five thousand English muskets
into the desert, he will deliver them to a Bedouin tribe, who have
engaged to convey them safely to the Mountain. There, what do you think
of that, my Besso? Do you know now what are politics? Tell the Rose of
Sharon of it. She will say it is beautiful. Ask the Rose what she thinks
of it, my Besso.’
‘Well, I shall see her to-morrow.’
‘I have done well; have I not?’
‘You are satisfied; that is well.’
‘Not quite, my Besso; but I can be satisfied if you please. You see that
Scheriff Effendi there, sitting like an Afrite; he will not give me the
muskets unless I pay him for them; and the Bedouin chief, he will not
carry the arms unless I give him 10,000 piastres. Now, if you will pay
these people for me, my Besso, and deduct the expenses from my Lebanon
loan when it is negotiated, that would be a great service. Now, now, my
Besso, shall it be done?’ he continued with the coaxing voice and with
the wheedling manner of a girl. ‘You shall have any terms you like, and
I will always love you so, my Besso. Let it be done, let it be done! I
will go down on my knees and kiss your hand before the Frenchman, which
will spread your fame throughout Europe, and make Louis Philippe take
you for the first man in Syria, if you will do it for me. Dear, dear
Besso, you will pay that old camel Scheriff Ef-fendi for me, will you
not? and please the Rose of Sharon as much as me!’
‘My prince,’ said Besso, ‘have a fresh pipe; I never can transact
business after sunset.’
The reader will remember that Sidonia had given Tancred a letter of
credit on Besso. He is the same Besso who was the friend at Jerusalem of
Contarini Fleming, and this is the same chamber in which Contarini, his
host, and others who were present, inscribed one night, before their
final separation, certain sentences in the panels of the walls. The
original writing remains, but Besso, as we have already seen, has had
the sentences emblazoned in a manner more permanent and more striking
to the eye. They may, however, be both seen by all those who visit
Jerusalem, and who enjoy the flowing hospitality and experience the
boundless benevolence of this prince of Hebrew merchants.