_The Laurellas_
IT WAS destined that Napoleon should never enter Rome, and Mahomet never
enter Damascus. What was the reason of this? They were not uninterested
in those cities that interest all. The Emperor selected from the capital
of the Cæsars the title of his son; the Prophet, when he beheld the
crown of Syria, exclaimed that it was too delightful, and that he must
reserve his paradise for another world. Buonaparte was an Italian, and
must have often yearned after the days of Rome triumphant. The son of
Abdallah was descended from the patriarchs, whose progenitor had been
moulded out of the red clay of the most ancient city in the world.
Absorbed by the passionate pursuit of the hour, the two heroes postponed
a gratification which they knew how to appreciate, but which, with all
their success, all their power, and all their fame, they were never
permitted to indulge. What moral is to be drawn from this circumstance?
That we should never lose an occasion. Opportunity is more powerful even
than conquerors and prophets.
The most ancient city of the world has no antiquity. This flourishing
abode is older than many ruins, yet it does not possess one single
memorial of the past. In vain has it conquered or been conquered. Not a
trophy, a column, or an arch, records its warlike fortunes. Temples have
been raised here to unknown gods and to revealed Divinity; all have been
swept away. Not the trace of a palace or a prison, a public bath, a hall
of justice, can be discovered in this wonderful city, where everything
has been destroyed, and where nothing has decayed.
Men moralise among ruins, or, in the throng and tumult of successful
cities, recall past visions of urban desolation for prophetic warning.
London is a modern Babylon; Paris has aped imperial Rome, and may share
its catastrophe. But what do the sages say to Damascus? It had municipal
rights in the days when God conversed with Abraham. Since then, the
kings of the great monarchies have swept over it; and the Greek and the
Roman, the Tartar, the Arab, and the Turk have passed through its walls;
yet it still exists and still flourishes; is full of life, wealth,
and enjoyment. Here is a city that has quaffed the magical elixir and
secured the philosopher’s stone, that is always young and always rich.
As yet, the disciples of progress have not been able exactly to match
this instance of Damascus, but it is said that they have great faith in
the future of Birkenhead.
We moralise among ruins: it is always when the game is played that we
discover the cause of the result. It is a fashion intensely European,
the habit of an organisation that, having little imagination, takes
refuge in reason, and carefully locks the door when the steed is stolen.
A community has crumbled to pieces, and it is always accounted for by
its political forms, or its religious modes. There has been a deficiency
in what is called checks in the machinery of government; the definition
of the suffrage has not been correct; what is styled responsibility has,
by some means or other, not answered; or, on the other hand, people have
believed too much or too little in a future state, have been too much
engrossed by the present, or too much absorbed in that which was to
come. But there is not a form of government which Damascus has not
experienced, excepting the representative, and not a creed which it has
not acknowledged, excepting the Protestant. Yet, deprived of the only
rule and the only religion that are right, it is still justly described
by the Arabian poets as a pearl surrounded by emeralds.
Yes, the rivers of Damascus still run and revel within and without the
walls, of which the steward of Sheikh Abraham was a citizen. They have
encompassed them with gardens, and filled them with fountains. They
gleam amid their groves of fruit, wind through their vivid meads,
sparkle-among perpetual flowers, gush from the walls, bubble in the
courtyards, dance and carol in the streets: everywhere their joyous
voices, everywhere their glancing forms, filling the whole world around
with freshness, and brilliancy, and fragrance, and life. One might
fancy, as we track them in their dazzling course, or suddenly making
their appearance in every spot and in every scene, that they were
the guardian spirits of the city. You have explained them, says the
utilitarian, the age and flourishing fortunes of Damascus: they arise
from its advantageous situation; it is well supplied with water.
Is it better supplied than the ruins of contiguous regions? Did the Nile
save Thebes? Did the Tigris preserve Nineveh? Did the Euphrates secure
Babylon?
Our scene lies in a chamber vast and gorgeous. The reader must imagine a
hall, its form that of a rather long square, but perfectly proportioned.
Its coved roof, glowing with golden and scarlet tints, is highly carved
in the manner of the Saracens, such as we may observe in the palaces
of Moorish Spain and in the Necropolis of the Mamlouk Sultans at Cairo,
deep recesses of honeycomb work, with every now and then pendants of
daring grace hanging like stalactites from some sparry cavern. This roof
is supported by columns of white marble, fashioned in the shape of palm
trees, the work of Italian artists, and which forms arcades around the
chamber. Beneath these arcades runs a noble divan of green and silver
silk, and the silken panels of the arabesque walls have been covered
with subjects of human interest by the finest artists of Munich. The
marble floor, with its rich mosaics, was also the contribution of
Italian genius, though it was difficult at the present moment to trace
its varied, graceful, and brilliant designs, so many were the sumptuous
carpets, the couches, sofas, and cushions that were spread about it.
There were indeed throughout the chamber many indications of furniture,
which are far from usual even among the wealthiest and most refined
Orientals: Indian tables, vases of china, and baskets of agate and
porcelain filled with flowers. From one side, the large Saracenic
windows of this saloon, which were not glazed, but covered only when
required by curtains of green and silver silk, now drawn aside, looked
on a garden; vistas of quivering trees, broad parterres of flowers,
and everywhere the gleam of glittering fountains, which owned, however,
fealty to the superior stream that bubbled in the centre of the saloon,
where four negroes, carved in black marble, poured forth its refreshing
waters from huge shells of pearl, into the vast circle of a jasper
basin.
At this moment the chamber was enlivened by the presence of many
individuals. Most of these were guests; one was the master of the
columns and the fountains; a man much above the middle height, though as
well proportioned as his sumptuous hall; admirably handsome, for beauty
and benevolence blended in the majestic countenance of Adam Besso.
To-day his Syrian robes were not unworthy of his palace; the cream-white
shawl that encircled his brow with its ample folds was so fine that the
merchant who brought it to him carried it over the ocean and the desert
in the hollow shell of a pomegranate. In his girdle rested a handjar,
the sheath of which was of a rare and vivid enamel, and the hilt
entirely of brilliants.
A slender man of middle size, who, as he stood by Besso, had a
diminutive appearance, was in earnest conversation with his host. This
personage was adorned with more than one order, and dressed in the Frank
uniform of one of the Great Powers, though his head was shaven, for
he wore a tarboush or red cap, although no turban. This gentleman was
Signor Elias de Laurella, a wealthy Hebrew merchant at Damascus, and
Austrian consul-general _ad honorem_; a great man, almost as celebrated
for his diplomatic as for his mercantile abilities; a gentleman who
understood the Eastern question; looked up to for that, but still more,
in that he was the father of the two prettiest girls in the Levant.
The Mesdemoiselles de Laurella, Thérèse and Sophonisbe, had just
completed their education, partly at Smyrna, the last year at
Marseilles. This had quite turned their heads; they had come back with a
contempt for Syria, the bitterness of which was only veiled by the high
style of European nonchalance, of which they had a supreme command, and
which is, perhaps, our only match for Eastern repose. The Mesdemoiselles
de Laurella were highly accomplished, could sing quite ravishingly,
paint fruits and flowers, and drop to each other, before surrounding
savages, mysterious allusions to feats in ballrooms, which, alas! no
longer could be achieved. They signified, and in some degree solaced,
their intense disgust at their present position by a haughty and
amusingly impassable demeanour, which meant to convey their superiority
to all surrounding circumstances. One of their favourite modes of
asserting this pre-eminence was wearing the Frank dress, which their
father only did officially, and which no female member of their family
had ever assumed, though Damascus swarmed with Laurellas. Nothing in the
dreams of Madame Carson, or Madame Camille, or Madame Devey, nothing in
the blazoned pages of the Almanachs des Dames and Belle Assemblée, ever
approached the Mdlles. Laurella, on a day of festival. It was the acme.
Nothing could be conceived beyond it; nobody could equal it. It was
taste exaggerated, if that be possible; fashion baffling pursuit, if
that be permitted. It was a union of the highest moral and material
qualities; the most sublime contempt and the stiffest cambric. Figure to
yourself, in such habiliments, two girls, of the same features, the
same form, the same size, but of different colour: a nose turned up, but
choicely moulded, large eyes, and richly fringed; fine hair, beautiful
lips and teeth, but the upper lip and the cheek bones rather too long
and high, and the general expression of the countenance, when not
affected, more sprightly than intelligent. Thérèse was a brunette,
but her eye wanted softness as much as the blue orb of the brilliant
Sophonisbe. Nature and Art had combined to produce their figures, and it
was only the united effort of two such first-rate powers that could have
created anything so admirable.
This was the first visit of the Mesdemoiselles Laurella to the family
of Besso, for they had only returned from Marseilles at the beginning
of the year, and their host had not resided at Damascus until the summer
was much advanced. Of course they were well acquainted by reputation
with the great Hebrew house of which the lord of the mansion was the
chief. They had been brought up to esteem it the main strength and
ornament of their race and religion. But the Mesdemoiselles Laurella
were ashamed of their race, and not fanatically devoted to their
religion, which might be true, but certainly was not fashionable.
Thérèse, who was of a less sanguineous temperament than her sister,
affected despair and unutterable humiliation, which permitted her to
say before her own people a thousand disagreeable things with an air of
artless frankness. The animated Sophonisbe, on the contrary, was always
combating prejudice, felt persuaded that the Jews would not be so much
disliked if they were better known; that all they had to do was to
imitate as closely as possible the habits and customs of the nation
among whom they chanced to live; and she really did believe that
eventually, such was the progressive spirit of the age, a difference
in religion would cease to be regarded, and that a respectable Hebrew,
particularly if well dressed and well mannered, might be able to
pass through society without being discovered, or at least noticed.
Consummation of the destiny of the favourite people of the Creator of
the universe!
Notwithstanding their practised nonchalance, the Mesdemoiselles Laurella
were a little subdued when they entered the palace of Besso, still more
so when they were presented to its master, whose manner, void of all
art, yet invested with a natural dignity, asserted in an instant its
superiority. Eva, whom they saw for the first time, received them like
a queen, and in a dress which offered as complete a contrast to their
modish attire as the beauty of her sublime countenance presented to
their pretty and sparkling visages.
Madame Laurella, the mother of these young ladies, would in Europe have
been still styled young. She was a Smyrniote, and had been a celebrated
beauty. The rose had since then too richly expanded, but even now, with
her dark eyelash charged with yamusk, her cheek touched with rouge, and
her fingers tipped with henna, her still fine hair exaggerated by art
or screened by her jewelled turban, she would have been a striking
personage, even if it had not been for the blaze of jewels with
which she was suffused and environed. The existence of this lady was
concentred in her precious gems. An extreme susceptibility on this head
is very prevalent among the ladies of the Levant, and the quantity
of jewels that they accumulate far exceeds the general belief. Madame
Laurella was without a rival in this respect, and resolved to maintain
her throne; diamonds alone did not satisfy her; immense emeralds, rubies
as big as pigeons’ eggs, prodigious ropes of pearls, were studded and
wound about every part of her rich robes. Every finger glittered,
and bracelets flashed beneath her hanging sleeves. She sat in silent
splendour on a divan, now and then proudly moving a fan of feathers,
lost in criticism of the jewels of her friends, and in contemplation of
her own.
A young man, tall and well-looking, dressed as an Oriental, but with an
affected, jerking air, more French than Syrian, moved jauntily about
the room, speaking to several persons for a short time, shrugging
his shoulders and uttering commonplaces as if they were poignant
originalities. This was Hillel Besso, the eldest son of the Besso of
Aleppo, and the intended husband of Eva. Hillel, too, had seen the
world, passed a season at Pera, where he had worn the Frank dress, and,
introduced into the circles by the lady of the Austrian Internuncio,
had found success and enjoyed himself. He had not, however, returned
to Syria with any of the disgust shared by the Mesdemoiselles Laurella.
Hillel was neither ashamed of his race nor his religion: on the
contrary, he was perfectly satisfied with this life, with the family
of Besso in general, and with himself particularly. Hillel was a little
philosophical, had read Voltaire, and, free from prejudices, conceived
himself capable of forming correct opinions. He listened smiling and in
silence to Eva asserting the splendour and superiority of their race,
and sighing for the restoration of their national glory, and then
would say, in a whisper to a friend, and with a glance of epigrammatic
airiness, ‘For my part, I am not so sure that we were ever better off
than we are.’
He stopped and conversed with Thérèse Laurella, who at first was
unbending, but when she found that he was a Besso, and had listened to
one or two anecdotes which indicated personal acquaintance not only
with ambassadors but with ambassadors’ ladies, she began to relax. In
general, however, the rest of the ladies did not speak, or made only
observations to each other in a hushed voice. Conversation is not the
accomplishment of these climes and circles. They seemed content to
show their jewels to their neighbours. There was a very fat lady, of
prodigious size, the wife of Signor Yacoub Picholoroni, who was also a
consul, but not a consul-general _in honorem_. She looked like a huge
Chinese idol; a perpetual smile played upon her immense good-natured
cheeks, and her little black eyes twinkled with continuous satisfaction.
There were the Mourad Farhis and the Nas-sim Farhis. There were Moses
Laurella and his wife, who shone with the reflected splendour of the
great Laurellas, but who were really very nice people; sensible and most
obliging, as all travellers must have found them. Moses Laurella was
vice-consul to his brother. The Farhis had no diplomatic lustre, but
they were great merchants, and worked with the House of Besso in all
their enterprises. They had married two sisters, who were also their
cousins. Madame Mourad Farhi was in the zenith of her renowned beauty;
in the gorgeous Smyrniote style, brilliant yet languid, like a panther
basking in the sunshine. Her sister also had a rich countenance, and
a figure like a palm tree, while her fine brow beamed alike with
intelligence and beauty. Madame, Nassim was highly cultured,
enthusiastic for her race, and proud of the friendship of Eva, of which
she was worthy.
There were also playing about the room three or four children of such
dazzling beauty and such ineffable grace that no pen can picture their
seraphic glances or gestures of airy frolic. Sometimes serious, from
exhaustion not from thought; sometimes wild with the witchery of infant
riot; a laughing girl with hair almost touching the ground, and large
grey eyes bedewed with lustrous mischief, tumbles over an urchin who
rises doubtful whether to scream or shout; sometimes they pull the
robe of Besso while he talks, who goes on, as if unconscious of the
interruption; sometimes they rush up to their mother or Eva for an
embrace; sometimes they run up to the fat lady, look with wondering
gravity in her face, and then, bursting into laughter, scud away. These
are the children of a sister of Hillel Besso, brought to Damascus for
change of air. Their mother is also here, sitting at the side of Eva: a
soft and pensive countenance, watching the children with her intelligent
blue eyes, or beckoning to them with a beautiful hand.
The men in general remained on their legs apart, conversing as if they
were on the Bourse.
Now entered, from halls beyond of less dimensions, but all decorated
with similar splendour, a train of servants, two of whom carried between
them a large broad basket of silver filigree, filled with branches of
the palm tree entwined with myrtle, while another bore a golden basket
of a different shape, and which was filled with citrons just gathered.
These they handed to the guests, and each guest took a branch with the
right hand and a citron with the left. The conversation of Besso with
Elias Laurella had been broken by their entrance, and a few minutes
afterwards, the master of the house, looking about, held up his branch,
shook it with a rustling sound, and immediately Eva was at his side.
The daughter of Besso wore a vest of white silk, fitting close to her
shape and descending to her knees; it was buttoned with large diamonds
and restrained by a girdle of pearls; anklets of brilliants peeped
also, every now and then, from beneath her large Mamlouk trousers of
rose-coloured silk that fell over her slippers, powdered with diamonds.
Over her vest she wore the Syrian jacket, made of cherry-coloured
velvet, its open arms and back richly embroidered, though these were
now much concealed by her outer pelisse, a brocade of India, massy with
gold, and yet relieved from heaviness by the brilliancy of its light
blue tint and the dazzling fantasy of its pattern. This was loosely
bound round her waist by a Moorish scarf of the colour of a blood-red
orange, and bordered with a broad fringe of precious stones. Her
head-dress was of the same fashion as when we first met her in the kiosk
of Bethany, except that, on this occasion, her Syrian cap on the back
of her head was covered only with diamonds, and only with diamonds was
braided her long dark hair.
‘They will never come,’ said Besso to his daughter. ‘It was one of his
freaks. We will not wait.’
‘I am sure, my father, they will come,’ said Eva, earnestly. And indeed,
at this very moment, as she stood at his side, holding in one hand her
palm branch, which was reposing on her bosom, and in the other her fresh
citron, the servants appeared again, ushering in two guests who had just
arrived. One was quite a stranger, a young man dressed in the European
fashion; the other was recognised at once by all present as the Emir of
Canobia.