Surely somewhere in the Past there must be a voice; the intense Life which had created yonder city could not be wholly dead; all that was beautiful and true must somewhere, somehow, be living still! We were roused from our meditations by the cheery voice of the Professor calling out of the darkness to know whether any were missing among us. We were close by the house of the mudir, and could even see the guards and servants assembled in the lighted portico. It was an anxious moment, for it depended upon the nature of his reception whether we had hospitable entertainment or were cast adrift upon the resources of the village, as had been the case last night in Ammân. We rallied our forces, dismounted from our horses, and presented ourselves and our credentials.
We were very thankful when the door was at once unlocked, and we were admitted into the guest-room, a large apartment, with a high divan running its entire length provided with cushions, a few chairs, a round table in one corner, and on the deep window-ledges great piles of very official-looking papers. We were too tired to criticise our accommodation, which was, at all events, infinitely superior to that of the night before, and thankfully seated ourselves. Meantime the news of the Professor's arrival had evidently reached the mudir himself, for in a few minutes the scene was changed: three or four servants appeared, the floor was spread with two magnificent carpets, either of which would have been the pride of any London drawing-room, additional lights and some extra chairs were brought in, and nothing was needed but a duster, which, however, did not appear. The Lady surreptitiously cleaned the table, the carpets having stirred the æstheticism which our Ammân experiences had put to sleep, and we deposited our head-gear. The men removed their shoes, and placed themselves on the high divan; the Lady, unable to emulate so lofty an example, seized some cushions, and established herself upon the floor, secure of violating no Oriental etiquette, and, by the Professor's direction, covered her head with her keffeeye, which was, he said, more distinguished under the circumstances.
Next the mudir himself appeared—'Abd el-hamid Bey, son of Nūh Bey, already mentioned—a fine-looking man in European dress, who shook hands cordially with all the party, and assured us of our welcome, and coffee was at once served. To say that it was coffee with hêhl conveys nothing to the Occidental understanding, and mere words fail to express all that hêhl can add to a cup of coffee. It is nectar and ambrosia brewed in Olympus; it is a taste and a perfume, a stimulus and a sedative. For centuries we have been drinking coffee—unimaginative Occidentals that we are!—and nobody has taught us the virtues of hêhl. It is only a bean, portable, one would suppose, conceivably an article of commerce, or which might be cultivated or otherwise introduced, although how, on second thoughts, it would combine with the beverage we profanely call "coffee" is another matter. Coffee worth the drinking must be roasted, crushed (in Heaven's name not ground!), and made while you wait, not brought in paper bags from the grocer, and kept for weeks. It is brought to the door of the room in the brass pot in which it was made, and poured out tenderly as a butler pours out a perfumed wine, leaving space at the top of the cup, small as it is, for the aroma.
After coffee we entered into conversation—that is to say, the Professor did—with the mudir, the Arabic-speaking Sportsman being occasionally called in when their Arabic vocabulary ran short; for to both it was a foreign language, the mudir, as has already been seen, being a Circassian. He remembered the names of the few savants and other travellers who had passed that way, and inquired after all, asked particulars as to our journey and as to the personality of each, exhibited some polite surprise at the presence of the Lady in these distant regions, and still more that she was not the property of any of her fellow-travellers. He showed great concern as to her comfort, sent for additional cushions, and several times personally addressed her. He is known as a man of exceptional intelligence and breadth of mind, and of a friendly and amiable disposition, in striking contrast to the average Circassian, who is said to be treacherous and morose. He is quite an important person, having at his command from ten to fifteen mounted gens-d'armes, and when he goes eastward among the neighbouring tribe of the Beni Hasan for the collection of taxes is accompanied by as many regular soldiers, with their officer. He settles small differences and disputes, and, says Dr Schumacher, carries a few bullet-holes in his coat as token of his office of peacemaker. More serious cases are taken by both Bedu and fellahin before the Mutesarrif (Governor) of Haurân.
While conversation proceeded we could hear most welcome sounds without—chopping, frying, beating of eggs; and, after a second edition of coffee, two servants entered, carrying a large cotton drugget, which was spread over the carpet, and upon which was set the Sanīye, a large round tray, placed upon an X-shaped stand, which raised it several inches from the ground. We all seated ourselves on the floor, as well as our host and another guest, a very intelligent man, and a great talker, but less adapted than the mudir to polite society.
Each guest had a large slice of excellent wholemeal bread, and each had a spoon and a towel. There were two dishes of meat, with vegetables, two of rice, two of fried eggs, and two basins of pomegranate juice, exquisite in colour and delicious to the taste. Everything was very good, well cooked, and neatly served. It was etiquette to help yourself to any dish, and in any rotation you fancied, putting in your spoon, and conveying the food direct to your mouth—a custom which had its drawbacks, as the Lady found when she fixed her affections on pomegranate juice, and found it becoming gradually impregnated with onions, as her neighbour, the Bey, our fellow-guest, was alternating it with mouthfuls of stewed mutton. The hospitable mudir constantly pressed us to eat, inquiring, when the Lady's appetite failed, whether there were anything else she would prefer. Finally we all adjourned to the doorstep to have water poured upon our hands. Then followed more coffee, always with hêhl, cigarettes, and, after half-an-hour, the samovar. If the coffee had been worthy of the Bedu the tea was worthy of Russia. We drank it, of course, in tumblers, with crystallised sugar and floating slices of lemon, and we stirred it with spoons of heavy silver, beautifully chased and enamelled.
Then came more conversation, mainly political, and it was very interesting to hear the mudir's emphatic repudiation of prejudice, national or religious, especially since the Circassians are accused of fanaticism and of hatred of Europeans. "It was all one to him," he averred—"Moslems, Jews, Nazarenes!" Two or three servants stood by the whole time, and one could not but contrast the perfection and apparent readiness of their service with that of the superior domestics at home. They perceived your needs before you could find them out yourself, and tea, or bread, or sugar, or a match, as the case might be, was ready to your use before you were aware that you needed it. Bread or sugar was brought in the fingers, it is true; but knives there were none, and spoons were scarce.
The Lady gave the signal for retirement by frankly falling asleep among her cushions. Retirement, as a matter of fact, there was none; but mattresses, pillows, and lehafs (wadded coverlets) were brought in, and laid side by side upon the floor. The Lady's bed, lehaf, and cushions were covered with rich crimson satin. An ornamental sheet of white cotton, with a coloured design, was spread upon the mattress; the silk cushions, as is the cleanly Eastern custom, had an embroidered breadth of cotton down the centre, and the lehaf had a sheet of fine cotton tacked to it upon the under side. Thus luxuriously accommodated we all slept so comfortably that we were able to think of Ammân next morning as a nightmare of the past. We must, however, acknowledge that during the early part of the night we were occasionally awakened by the conversation outside the door, probably of our escort and the servants; for in this country, where men rise at dawn, sleep odd half-hours anywhere, and at any time in the day, they may or may not go to bed at night if they should happen to find anything more amusing to do. However, when at last the Professor went outside to suggest silence and the extinction of lights, they most obligingly met his views at once.
Next morning we rose about six from our silken couches, and went outside the door in search of towels and a piece of soap, and poured water into each other's hands wherewith to make such ablution as was possible under very public conditions; for, though there was none of the ill-mannered staring and crowding around of the Madaba Christians, the Circassians condescended to a little distant curiosity, and even a couple of women appeared upon an opposite housetop.
We knew that a very long day was before us, and we had hoped to start early, but our host detained us with kindly importunity. When he appeared upon the scene our bedroom had once more become a drawing-room, and we had taken our early cup of coffee. Then followed more coffee, and then the samovar, with bread and excellent goat's-milk cheese; and finally the mudir's son, a fresh, open-faced, young man, appeared, mounted on a beautiful mare, to accompany us across the valley to the ruined city on the western side.
From the terrace outside the mudir's house we had already taken in the general effect—all the more striking and wonderful that the old town has not been defaced by a single modern building, and hence is far more easily reconstructed by the imagination than Madaba, or even Ammân—a fact for which the history of the settlement, rather than any æsthetic perception, accounts. When the followers of the Emir Nūh Bey arrived at Jerash he took possession of the east side of the valley for the use of his immediate family and attendants, reserving the opposite bank for relatives who were to follow. For various reasons—possibly the accounts of discord with the Bedu, possibly even some diplomacy on the part of the family here—they have not, so far, arrived, and some two hundred immigrants who came in 1895 were passed on southward. There seems to be some difference of opinion as to the extent of the population, Baedeker giving it at three hundred; Schumacher, whose very interesting monograph is the only other available source of information, at between fifteen and sixteen hundred souls, including some score of fellahin, who serve as labourers and ploughmen, and a few Moslem shopkeepers, Here, as in Ammân, we saw not a single woman in the streets.
The ruins are so extensive, and stand out so clear against the hillside, that, with the Professor's help in identifying the buildings, it was easy, from the east side of the valley, to reconstruct in imagination a town which imagination only can picture, so utterly different is it from the banalities and vulgarities of modern utilitarianism.
Owing to the harder qualities of the stone the ruins are better preserved than those at Ammân, have lost less of their original sharpness, and have the freshness so remarkable at Pompeii. And yet an Arabic writer of the thirteenth century, Yakut, describes it even then "as a great city now a ruin." In the ninth century it was mentioned with admiration by the earlier writer, Yakubi, although its decline probably began with the expulsion of the Byzantines.
The most striking features of the scene before us are its highest point, the Temple of the Sun; its most southern point, the triumphal arch leading towards the Roman road to Ammân; and the great colonnade, of which over a hundred pillars are still standing, running from one end to the other of the city. There are two large theatres, two temples, a great oval forum, four bridges, and at each of the two points at which the main street, with its propylæa, is intersected by side streets, there is a tetrapylon, a rotunda, square on the exterior and once decorated with statues. The town was pear-shaped, and enclosed by walls 3552 metres long, having at least three, probably six or seven, gates.
This is a mere enumeration; of such a feast of beauty for the lover of form it is almost hopeless to attempt description. As we descended, and took a few points in detail, we realised that, with the amount of time at our disposal, even to catalogue such a scene was an impossibility. At the utmost we could but note a few of the more obvious features, and we longed for a few days to dispose of.
Crossing the main street with its great colonnade, many of its splendid pillars lying on the ground, overthrown by earthquakes, we pass the ruins of grand propylæa and of a ruined palace, and, climbing an almost perpendicular ascent, reach the great Temple of the Sun, enclosed by a colonnade, with a portico approached by steps, consisting of three rows of immense Corinthian columns, 38 feet high and 6 feet thick, the acanthus leaves of the capitals being of rare perfection of workmanship. Smaller temples have stood around it, and, descending again, turning our horses' heads a little northward, we find a theatre with sixteen tiers of seats, and a proscenium strikingly low, intended, it is said, for gladiatorial combats and exhibitions of wild beasts. This theatre, like the temple, is joined to the main street by a colonnade and tetrapylon, the rotunda of which was once decorated with statues. The forum next attracted us. It is of oval shape, 120 paces in length, and fifty-five of its columns are still standing, all having Ionic capitals. Another temple, smaller than the first, lies near the south gate. Its massive walls, 7½ feet thick, contain many niches and windows; the double Corinthian colonnade is scattered far and wide, though the bases are easily traced, and the little that remains testifies to the former grace of the building.
Close beside this is a large theatre facing towards the north, so that the spectators must have had a magnificent background of their familiar public buildings. Twenty-eight tiers of seats are visible, but probably others lie buried in the débris. It is estimated that the acoustic properties of the building must have been excellent, and that at least 5000 spectators could enjoy the spectacle. We observed an arrangement upon the pillars for the hanging of garlands. Beyond the south exit in the town wall is the Triumphal gateway; according to some the two gateways were alike, forming a splendid vista as one approached the town, each being of triple construction—the central arch 29 feet in height, the total width 82 feet. There are considerable remains of an interesting building, thought by some to be a naumachia, or theatre for the representation of naval battles. That there exists a circus, of which many rows of seats still remain, cannot be doubted; but recent authorities are of opinion that the adjoining basin, 230 yards in length by 100 yards in width, into which well-preserved channels lead the water from the brook below, must have served some other purpose.
We could not but regret that the lateness of our start cut short our opportunity for further enjoyment of the scene; but a day of ten or twelve hours was before us, and we soon found ourselves once more upon the Roman road, with our horses turned towards the south.
CHAPTER VII
ES-SALT
"And fade into the light of common day."
We knew, when we had lost sight of Jerash, that the romance of our journey was over, although we had still before us three days of the happiness of an open-air life, and of being face to face with Nature in her wilder utterances. We were bound for Es-Salt, across the fertile land of Gilead, and over some of the highest ground east of the Jordan; but we could not but feel that, having looked upon "the giant forms of empires on their way to ruin," all else must seem commonplace, so far, at least, as it was associated with humanity. The land had relapsed into the hands of a people perhaps even more rudimentary than that from which it had been wrested, or, so far as the city of Es-Salt was concerned, into the worse savagery of a veneer of Europeanism.
We were not sorry to have to retrace, for some two hours, our steps of last night, and so recover some of the impressions which we had lost in the gathering twilight. We halted, for a short time only, at the fords of Jabbok, after which we followed a steep path for about half-an-hour, and then began to descend into the Wady El-Mastaba, a desolate gorge, shadeless and hot, from whence we were glad to escape again into the open, passing a few huts, which constitute the village of Mastaba, which owes its existence to the spring Ain El-Mastaba. Again another gorge, the Wady Umm Rabi, also with its spring; and a third, and more important wady and spring, with its village of some thirty huts, Er-Rummâna, which yesterday we had seen only in the distance. It is inhabited almost entirely by Turcomans, who, as usual, betray their nationality by the scarlet and orange touches in their dress—an agreeable change from the perpetual blue of the Arab. These nomadic tribes are to the settled Turks as the Bedu to the fixed population of the Arabs. They are fair, of less pronounced features than their Semitic neighbours, and most numerous in the north of Syria. They are occupied partly in agriculture, but more especially in cattle and camel rearing. We passed some women at a spring, and their manners struck us as having something of Circassian moroseness.
Just beyond the village the horizon widened, and showed, away to the west, the distant Samaritan hills, half way between us and the Mediterranean.
Presently we came to the edge of the tableland, and saw far below us the fertile gorge of Wâdi Salîhi. Here, we had been assured, we should find a beautiful waterfall, 60 feet in height, and embowered in creepers—a phenomenon almost unknown in Palestine. We never saw that waterfall; and we had a secret theory, some of us, that "Someone had blundered," for we were, moreover, required to descend a precipice calculated to disturb the nerves of even such experienced travellers as we considered ourselves to be. Some traces of a passing donkey were the only argument which—about half way down—seemed to be in favour of a prospect of ever reaching the bottom, which, however, was in course of time safely achieved. We were much impressed by the agility of the baggage animals, which clumsily, rather than heavily, laden, and wisely abandoned by the mukaris, picked their way as skilfully and daintily as cats, although it would be difficult to say whether the loose shale that crumbled beneath one's feet, or the polished rock, which offered no foothold at all, was the more disconcerting.
Down in the valley we found abundant shade, and the bushes were fresh and green, but the water in the wady was so low and muddy that we were the more convinced that we had entirely missed all traces of the waterfall. The horses, after the recent excitement, were thankful to drink, and we gladly spread our luncheon and made some coffee. In missing our waterfall we had also missed an interesting cromlech, said to be 13 feet in diameter.
About seven hours after leaving Jerash we entered the Wady Er-Rumemin, where we forded a brook which serves to turn two or three mills, and waters the small plain into which the valley finally opens. Here we found the first traces of Christianity since leaving Madaba, always excepting the locanda at Ammân: an orderly village with a Latin and a Greek church, school, and presbytery, well-planted olive grounds and neatly-kept vegetable gardens. We were already late, and dared not stay to examine a group of ruins to the west of the Latin church, still less others which, we were told, lay at a little distance.
Leaving the village by the right bank of the wady, now called El-Hor, we climbed a steep hill, and found ourselves in a beautiful oak wood.
As over a score of varieties of oaks are found in Palestine they are somewhat difficult to distinguish, but some at least of these were of the species quercus ægilops, having acorns with scales, the cups of which may be familiarly described as looking like miniature pineapples. They are used in tanning, and, as they form quite an important article of commerce, the trees are treated with more respect than is usual among the destructive fellahin.
During the winter one meets, coming into Jerusalem, whole caravans laden with great roots of trees, dug up for sale by the peasants of the mountains, and from this, as well as from tradition, we may well suppose that whole districts have been denuded of their forests. We are told, however, by various authorities that woods as we know them, lofty, as well as thick with undergrowth, have never existed here, and that such wood as we were now passing through is of the normal type, the growth open and scattered, and the trees thick rather than high. The undergrowth seemed to consist largely of dwarf oak and terebinth, and as we progressed farther, and the wood became thicker, of pine and thorn.
With thick foliage on either side, and lofty hills before us, we hardly realised that the sun was setting when it was suddenly night. Our cavalcade closed up together, and those in front were constantly calling back to others to beware of stretching branches or other difficulties of the path. The very horses, with the instinct of self-protection, in a country where other protection does not exist, kept close to each other. Our officer hurried to the front at sound of voices and movement, the mukaris brought up the rear, and the Lady's horse was secured by a rope to that of one of the men. An opening in the trees revealed a camp of charcoal-burners, and as we once more began to ascend we could see the lurid flames of others of the same trade, lighting up the surrounding hilltops, and making the darkness around seem all the more substantial. It was a darkness which might be felt. We knew, from occasional contact with the branches, that we were still in thick woodland, and as we began to climb once more, the path was so narrow and so perpendicular that our horses could go only in single file. All but the Professor and the Lady dismounted, rather from humanity than for safety, for the animals' sense of direction was better than ours. As usual on occasions of anxiety, no one spoke. Suddenly a shout arose out of the darkness, and the horses halted; while those on foot pressed on to know the cause, and the Professor, who was in advance, sent back his electric lantern. One of the baggage horses had found his bulk too great for the narrow passage, and the way was blocked by his entanglement. It took some time to set him free and to ascertain that nothing was lost from his various burdens. As we waited in the dense blackness of the wood, the poor animals struggling for foothold on the steep ascent, the smell of the hyænas was almost nauseating, and the cries of troops of jackals, answering each other out of the darkness, lent a weird touch to our surroundings.
Presently the obstacle was removed, and we were able to continue in the direction of our oriflamme—the spark of light which showed that the Professor, with his lantern, had reached a spot where he could safely await our arrival. A fervent Alhamdul-Illah! ("God be thanked!") from one of our mukaris bringing up the rear, showed that the horses at least were safe; and in a few minutes the stragglers on foot had joined the group, one at least having special cause for thankfulness, as he had had a very narrow escape from a fall over an unsuspected precipice. To see each other was still impossible, and a startled wain es-Sitt? ("Where is the Lady?") uttered close beside her, almost gave her pleasure, not from any desire to give trouble to her friends, but rather as assurance that she had not already done so, for there had been moments of which some of us hardly yet felt competent to give an account.
The look backward, from the high ground we had reached, was a spectacle not to be forgotten. Three huge fires flamed high against the great dome of night, which, now that we were out in the open, was perceptible in the clear starlight, and no longer the wall of dense blackness which had seemed to press against our very eyeballs. Moreover, behind us, to the north-east, the moon was rising from behind the Jebel Osha, a mountain 3595 feet high, associated with the prophet Hosea, said to have been born and buried here. The Bedu have a wely containing his grave, about 16 feet long, for all the great men of old were giants, and here they annually sacrifice sheep in his honour. We felt, as we heard the story, that a sacrifice to the rising moon would be less of an anachronism than we were accustomed to suppose, so thankful were we to have some notion of where the next step would lead us.
It seemed as if Es-Salt were extraordinarily remote, and we asked Khalil if we were not near, with a faint hope that a light we could see away down in the valley might represent the windows of the convent upon whose hospitality we counted, and when he replied: "After two hills," we were even inclined to suppose it a façon de parler, equivalent to "by-and-by." However, he was right enough, and we had to descend and climb, and again to descend and climb before, below, up the valley to our left, the town became visible. The light we had counted upon, proved to be again that of charcoal-burners, and a most Satanic spectacle it was, for we came near enough to see a group of figures dancing and leaping against the flaming background.
The last descent was somewhat of a pendant, except that it was on open ground and by moonlight, to our perpendicular ascent in the wood, and a row of telegraph posts at the bottom seemed to add insult to our injuries: the affectation of an effort at civilisation which we felt had been better expended in the clearing of a few rocks and the construction of, let us say, some kind of path. Again, most of the party dismounted, and it was interesting to observe how cleverly the animals picked their way, even the laden baggage animals. When now and then they went, for convenience, a little wide of the ultimate point, we noted with interest how they came at a call from the mukaris—each animal having his own name, to which he readily responded. It may be mentioned in passing that, so willing and intelligent were our friendly quadrupeds, that the only whip in the cavalcade was never used during the whole expedition but to reprove the moral obliquities of the Professor's horse, who took long to recover from his jealousy.
It was some consolation, in riding through the long town of Es-Salt, to find that its inhabitants were still up. They were, in fact, celebrating a festive occasion—the engagement, or, perhaps, more correctly, the sale, of the daughter of some prominent townsman. We could learn no particulars of the transaction, but to judge from the extreme gaiety of the groups gathered about a flaming bonfire in an open space, it would seem to be satisfactory to both parties—meaning, of course, the bridegroom and the nearest male relatives—father, uncle, and brothers—of the bride, for she herself was not likely to be consulted in the matter.
The kindly parish priests of the patriarchate, like those at Madaba, received us with ready hospitality; one of them even vacated his own room for the use of the Lady when it was ascertained that the Sisters of the Rosary, who could more conveniently have accommodated her, had closed their doors for the night.
We had time next morning to make some small acquaintance with Es-Salt. Although it is a town having a large fixed population (10,000, which includes 3000 Christians) we were struck by the anomalous fact that a large number of the people looked like Bedu. The men had the slender build and finer features we had met so universally since crossing the Jordan, and the women had the much-tattooed faces, and even the long, trailing skirts, we had met all over the Belka. Although it is the seat of a kaimmakâm (governor), and has a Turkish telegraph office, it seems to be still in spirit, as until recently it was in fact, in opposition to the Government. Burckhardt, who was here nearly a century ago, speaks warmly of the hospitality of what he calls the "Szaltese," who were then Bedu at heart, and even in dialect. He says their public hospitality may be estimated at about £1000 a year, collected from the people, and adds that were they subject to the Turks more than that would be extorted from them for forced entertainment. They had lately withstood a three months' siege by the Pasha of Damascus. Then, as now, they were engaged in three branches of commerce: the collection and sale for export of sumach leaves, used largely for dyeing purposes; the weaving of carpets from the wool of their own flocks; and above all, the preparation of raisins.
It was quite a useful enlargement of notions to most of us to find that the familiar raisin used in puddings is not, as the grocers spell it, "Sultana," with some vague notion of an Oriental association with the Sultan, but Saltana, and that it comes almost entirely from Es-Salt. The fruit used for the purpose is a small grape without seeds. They are spread out as soon as picked, and then turned over and over, with fingers dipped in olive oil until they are all impregnated in every part. They are then dried on wood ashes,—the wood employed being the oak or terebinth—collected in baskets, and then spread out to dry on a well-trodden earthen floor. Two and a half kilogrammes (a kilogramme is about two pounds and a fifth avoirdupois) cost, on the spot, twelve piasters, or about two shillings, less, in large quantities.
Another article of commerce is a very strong tobacco known as "heesh," from the Arabic word for the forests where it is cultivated. It burns so badly as to have given rise to a proverb applied to a man or a subject which puts a stop to conversation: "It is heesh tobacco; do not speak!"
A minor industry, the manufacture of rosaries, has originated in the abundance of certain kinds of hard wood.
The situation of Es-Salt is 2740 feet above sea-level; but the town itself lies in so deep a gorge, the mountains rising like a perpendicular wall on either hand, that we asked the padre whether the place were healthy, and he pointed out that the town extended, in fact, along two valleys—the Wady Osha, and a narrower wady, much less airy, and consequently less sanitary, as had been proved again and again in times of epidemic, when cholera and influenza have lingered and recurred long after they had ceased in the town itself.
The water is good, and very abundant, the town spring being the finest we had seen in the country.
Es-Salt, the seat of a bishopric, was not important till the Crusades. A fine mausoleum, known as Sâra, is said to be of Christian origin; and there are the remains of a church, hewn in the rocks, with many scattered rock tombs. The castle dates only from the thirteenth century, when it was rebuilt after destruction by the Mongols of the ancient fortress, which may have withstood Saladdin.
We were quite sorry to take leave here of our silent Circassian, who had always shown himself kindly and capable, but it seemed that his duty ended at Es-Salt—and, indeed, his services were no longer requisite. We noticed several Europeans in the town, probably merchants bringing raisins for export, or possibly grapes—for we had had some for breakfast of very unusual quality, and what a gardener would call "well grown," which seldom happens in this country, where the vines are most often not raised from the ground, so that the under side of the bunch, though well ripened by the warm, dry earth, is flat, and not always well coloured.
Considering the amount of commerce with other places it seemed to us to show an almost insolent—perhaps it was only an ignorant—indifference on the part of the inhabitants that they should make no effort whatever to improve the approach to Es-Salt. We left the town by a track but little better than that by which we had approached it—a track which would have spoilt the business of any decent stone quarry. The immediate exit was over a series of ash-heaps and middens, across which the women were trailing their long skirts with entire composure. Next we mounted a steep ascent over polished rock or scattered shale, just as it happened, and then, after a short distance on level ground, we began a long and difficult descent into the deep gorge, which more or less we followed all the way to the plain, that of the Wady Shaib, now absolutely dry, but which must be in winter, judging from the nature of its bed, a rushing torrent, losing itself finally in the Jordan.
About an hour from Es-Salt we met a boy with a laden donkey, which we passed with some difficulty, and a little farther observed a spring of water and a khan. There was some question as to whether we should meet with any water in the only other spring upon our route; but it was obviously too early for luncheon, and we continued our way, passing on a hill, to our left, a wely dedicated to Shu'aib, diminutive of Shaib, the Arabic name (used in the Koran) for Jethro, who gives his name to the wady—why is not obvious.
About noon we reached the Ain Es-Shech, and our horses were not slow in discovering that water of a kind was to be had. There was, at all events, welcome shade from a magnificent, wide-spreading fig-tree, the branches of which, growing close to the side of the hill, were available as couches and resting-places for half of its height. We boiled the water again and again, and fished out all its most striking disadvantages, though some were, unfortunately, less obvious than the microbes during a recent cholera scare at Bethlehem, which were reported by those personally interested in the quarantine question to be "as large as a napoleon."
CHAPTER VIII
THE JORDAN VALLEY
"Jordan past"
Nothing during the rest of that day's ride contributed so much to our entertainment as the conduct of the white baggage-horse. He was the pair of Sadowi, and of very similar appearance, but had not been selected to carry the Lady because he was, like most Arabs, and some Arab horses, blind of one eye. It had not at first dawned upon him that his companion had received promotion, but the fact had been lately revealed by some accident, and had been working in his mind ever since. To-day things had come to a climax, and he now perceived that not only had Sadowi escaped from the hateful and galling pack-saddle—in itself a preposterous load—not only had he a much lighter burden to carry, but he was giving himself airs of superiority, and travelling, as a rule, the foremost of the entire cavalcade. Such autocracy was not to be endured, and could and should be put a stop to; if he reigned he should not reign alone. The creature, a worthy and excellent baggage horse, doing his duty in his own state of life, now became self-willed and persistent under the overmastering influence of this dominant idea. We called him the "majnoon," the name which the Arabs give to the half-crazy men, generally derwishes, who wander about, living upon the alms of the benevolent. He insisted on keeping up with his comrade. In spite of all inconveniences occasioned by his imperfect sight, his clumsy burden, he generally succeeded in remaining side by side with, or immediately behind, the Lady. If driven back he would persistently push his way past all the rest in turn, till he regained his position, loudly grunting dissatisfaction and determination. As we descended to the plain, and the broad caravan road allowed room for any number to ride abreast on the wide sands, the horse most accustomed to go beside Sadowi made several efforts to take up his usual position, always repulsed by the "majnoon." Sadowi himself, who received an occasional push from the unwieldy heap of baggage, especially when on the blind side of his companion, was not wholly pleased with the arrangement; but whenever the Lady tried to give a wider berth to her inconvenient attendant, the "majnoon" always followed, discontentedly grunting at the extra strain of the additional pace he compelled himself to assume.
We had become, by this time, exceedingly conscious of the change of climate, which had occurred even since the morning, and much more so since we left the Belka. The gorges had been hot and close, the sands of the plain seemed to radiate heat, and the level rays of the sun, as we rode westward, produced towards evening, that sense of brain fatigue indescribable to those who do not know their effect in an Oriental climate—to many far more exhausting than the direct heat and glare of midday. The moment, however, that the great god sank to rest behind the hills of Judæa, we luxuriated to the full in the wonderful beauty of the brief twilight. Away to the east, almost without our perceiving it, the purple hills arose once more to shut out from us that enchanted world of which we had taken one brief glimpse. A distant flame, lurid against the pearly sky, showed us that the charcoal-burners were still at work. Wreaths of white mist lay in the hollows of the mountains; while the clear mirror of the Dead Sea, stretching far as the eye could reach, reflected the hills of Judæa, dark masses, looking across the wide plain to the evening glow beyond. A single line, standing up like a needle against the west, showed us the Russian tower on the Mount of Olives, reminder of all that world of politics, and rivalry, and ambition, of which for a few days we had so gladly lost sight. Even our old friend the jujube-tree, zizyphus, was here again, reminding us that we were once more in subtropical surroundings, and several times we had to stoop to the horses' necks to avoid its unwelcome embraces.
It was some hours since we had met with anything human; but, as the darkness gathered, the glare of camp fires broke out here and there, among the bushes, and, far away, the lights of Jericho seemed to beckon us to the repose we were beginning to need. Suddenly we came upon a weird scene—an assembly of the black tents of the Bedu, a bright fire in the midst. Quite a large number of men were gathered about the flaming pile, some preparing supper, others tending the animals—horses, asses, camels—tethered beside the tents or left free to wander in search of food among the undergrowth of scrub. "Waiting to cross the Jordan Bridge," it was whispered among us, together with a warning that we must approach this Rubicon as silently as possible, lest we should provoke the jealousy and rivalry of others less fortunate than ourselves, and cause superfluous discussion, and delay—for even those who had fulfilled the necessary conditions of a now practically unlimited quarantine, might not cross the river after sunset.
We rode on silently to the water's edge, and drew rein while Khalil went forward, barefoot, to secure the opening of the gates before we ventured in the darkness upon the slippery and rotten planks. There was a cautious knocking, a long, low-toned parley. Our mukari returned, and there was more parley among our leaders, and a suggestion made of "a few napoleons," emphatically negatived by the Professor. Khalil returned to his conference, and came back with a request for papers. The Arabic-speaking Sportsman, armed with a portentous sheaf of teskerys (local passports) and permits, went forward, soon returning, for an instant, to tell us to get off our horses, for the poor beasts, becoming restless, were making too much noise. This, we felt, implied that we must be resigned to further delay, and we stretched ourselves upon the sand, each securely holding the tether of his own horse, which would otherwise have been off in an instant in search of food; for their supper hour was already past, and they had had nothing since yesterday.
Entertainment did not fail us. In the camp we had passed, the Bedu had finished their supper, and were now amusing themselves about the camp fire, which flared high, and showed every detail more clearly than daylight. First there was dancing and singing, both of the kind which seems to us so singularly uninspiring—the tunes moving over about four notes, the dance of about, perhaps, as many steps, accompanied by shouts and hand-clappings; men dancing with each other, of course, or rather opposite to each other, each occasionally resting his hands upon his neighbour's shoulders. When this amusement palled, each kilted his kumbaz into his waistband as one has seen a Blue-coat School boy dispose of his very similar garment for precisely the same amusement, of playing—leapfrog! With long, bronzed limbs, clean cut as those of a race-horse, with not a superfluous pound of flesh and not an ounce that was not muscle, it was really exciting to see these children of the desert vying with each other in the familiar game, after a fashion which would be edifying at Eton or Harrow.
No; it was not amusement that lacked, it was water! It was nearly eight hours since we had had those precious cups of tea at Ain es-Shech, and what we had brought away with us was, for the most part, finished. One member of the party, an especially thirsty soul, whose supply had long been exhausted, looked with ever-increasing longing at the flask of the absent Sportsman. It was one of those admirable aluminium flasks, covered with felt, which kept the liquid exquisitely cool and sweet, and it had been hanging all day at the saddle-bow, and must now be ice cold. The very thought added to his sufferings, as the beauty of that luscious apple on a hot Oriental noontide may have increased the longing of our mother Eve. "Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink!" The Jordan murmured sweetly at our feet, rippling gently, and shining silver clear in the starlight; but the cholera about the Lake of Galilee, whence came that tempting stream, was a real and mortal disease, and not the "backsheesh cholera" prevalent elsewhere. But that flask! He knew it to be half full—a fact which in itself showed that the Sportsman was not in thirsty mood: no man who knew anything of thirst—thirst such as this—thirst which made one indifferent to all else—would carry about with him a supply of delicious, reviving nectar, medicine alike for body and soul—a pint of ice-cold tea! No; it was absolutely certain that were he here, that kindly Sportsman, he would press the gift upon him, insist upon his acceptance. Here in the East are there any laws so binding, are there any rules of honour, of generosity, so inflexible as those which concern the question of water? The most niggardly will give, the most selfish will share, the most churlish will not refuse. How long will that worthy Sportsman tarry?
There was a slight, a very slight, rustle in the darkness; something moved beside that treasured flask, truly "the cynosure of neighbouring eyes"; there was the suppressed sound of the withdrawing of a cork, and the whole of the precious liquid went down the throat of the younger mukari! It was impossible to move, to speak; and if there be any test of endurance worse than thirst it is that, under certain circumstances, of compulsory self-suppression!
After that the return of this longed-for friend was a matter almost of indifference, and the information he brought was but unimportant in the presence of that mighty thirst. The guardians of the bridge returned our papers, which they probably could not read; they knew nothing of the Professor's special privileges, or considered them a mere pretext for the avoidance of backsheesh; there was cholera in Kerak; who was to say that we had not spent these ten days in Kerak?—quarantine was compulsory; no one crossed the bridge after sunset; they were heartless, relentless, immovable, deaf to explanation. The hasty return of some Bedu, who had also striven to enter with a caravan of laden asses, and who, probably having some personal reason for travelling at this hour, would have no conscientious scruples in offering backsheesh, confirmed the report of the guardians' inflexibility.
To pass the night, weary as we were, upon this dry sand, beside a cool, murmuring stream, with waving branches overhead, would be no special hardship. The camp fires about us would keep off the jackals, which were answering each other's cries across the plain; we had blankets, we had even food. Alas! however, we had no drink, and then, our poor horses!—kind, patient servants that they were: to-day, at the end of, in some respects, the hardest day's work of the whole expedition, for, although they had done little climbing, their long twelve hours' steady work had been endured in burning sun and without the refreshing breezes of the Belka. The three baggage animals had not even had the relief of nearly an hour's freedom from their burdens, such as the others had enjoyed, during the long conference. And again, for ourselves, how were we, some of us especially, to endure the continued thirst?
"Bonsoir, madame, bonsoir, messieurs! je regrette—je vous en prie—venez prendre un peu de café chez nous—vous reposer un peu!"
This messenger of mercy was a charming young man, beautifully dressed, smiling, debonnair, shaking hands with all of us in turn. In a few minutes we had walked across the bridge; the tramp behind us of our horses' feet was convincing that it was not all a dream; in a few minutes more we were seated about the door of a comfortable tent, carpets were under our feet, the Lady had an easy-chair, the men had stools; the light of a lantern showed comfortable domesticity within; we were drinking sherbet, we were revived with cognac, we were refreshed with fruit, and the preparation of coffee was in rapid progress.
By degrees we understood what had happened. The wardens of the bridge, after the fashion of subordinates "clothed in a little brief authority," had taken our affairs into their own hands, and turned a deaf ear to all explanation. Somehow, however, the matter had finally come to the ears of the superior officer, an important functionary, who at sunset, his duty done, had retired to his tent at some little distance. The name of the Professor, carried to intelligent ears, had had its immediate effect—and here we were, relieved of all apprehension, and luxuriously awaiting the moonrise for the accomplishment of our journey.
Nothing could exceed the kindness of our welcome. Our new friend presented his card to each of us, and we in turn wrote down our names on paper, that all might feel friendly and at home. We discussed common acquaintances among the Jerusalem effendis, promised exchange of visits, sympathised as to the monotony of a solitary existence on the banks of the Jordan, and were interested in hearing—from a Moslem—that such things were all very well for John the Baptist or Elijah, but now one's ideas were different. When conversation failed we ate nuts, almonds, delicious salted pistachios: an Arab, even in the wilderness of Judæa, is certain to be not far from nuts. The spirit of hospitality was so diffused that when the Lady was about to reject one she was unable to crack in her fingers, the negro servant gently took it, cracked it with his own gleaming teeth, and returned it to her.
He was one of those big negroes common in this country and known as haji (pilgrims), probably because they often arrive with the Mecca caravan, or even come on their own account to the mosque at Jerusalem, the secondary pilgrimage of the Moslem faith. They are employed as guardians of property, much as, at home, we employ watch-dogs, and may be seen everywhere, sitting at the doors of public buildings or at the gates of enclosed spaces. If you wish to enter a courtyard you knock at the door, and call out "Haj!" certain that a giant negro will appear upon the scene. They are said to be extraordinarily faithful, allowing themselves to be misused and beaten rather than depart from the strict letter of the commands they have received from their employers. The negro in question was clad in snow-white robes, and as he leaned up against the door of the tent in the starlight, absolutely motionless when not employed, the intense blackness of his countenance showing between his white turban and white kumbaz, it was difficult to realise that he was of ordinary humanity and not a picture in a fairy-tale book.
Presently the moon looked over the heights of the mountains of Moab, just as last night she had arisen above the Jebel Osha, and, if only for the sake of our famishing steeds, we felt we must not delay. Our host insisted upon sending an escort with us, alleging the difficulty of finding the way among those weird hills and along the trackless sands. On being assured that our men were competent to conduct us he still most courteously insisted, and finally a sufficient reason transpired which, out of kindness, he had so far withheld. It appeared that soldiers were secreted in the wilderness on the lookout for criminals, of some nature not specified, who were expected to attempt to escape by night into the border country at the south end of the Dead Sea, the city of refuge for the desperate and lawless, and it was just possible we might have some inconvenience.
We gratefully accepted his kindness, and took our leave. We had already received a lesson in hospitality, now we were to have one in deportment. We could not but feel that our own adieux were lacking in grace, in gratitude, in dignity, when compared with those of our friend; so gracious without empressement, so respectful without servility—in short, so entirely all that is most attractive in the higher-class Oriental. The Professor, who had learned much in the school of Bedu, alone showed to advantage, and seemed to possess a courtesy not wholly graceless and European.
Our next lesson was in horsemanship. Our escorting soldier was as nearly ubiquitous as it was in the nature of man and horse to be. A distant caravan of camels showed sharp against the sky. He had flashed up to them, interrogated them, and was back, beating up our rear, and again in front, indicating the track we were to pursue; for Khalil had abandoned responsibility, and was frankly asleep on the top of a pile of baggage. Even the "majnoon" had wearily desisted from his ambitions, and had retired to the rear with his humbler companions.
If that strange world had seemed weird and visionary in the morning twilight, it was even more so under the moon, where the silent sand cities cast long shadows of a blackness so intense as to be comparable only to those of electric light. Indeed, this Oriental moonlight has nothing of that quality of softness—the half-revealing, half-concealing gleams, to which we are accustomed in the West. It is hard, clear, metallic. It is a peculiarity, perhaps, of this Syrian atmosphere that outlines appear so sharp that they lose, apparently, in solidity; in what artists call "the round," so that the distant view of Jerusalem, for example, has the effect of stage scenery, of an absolute lack of perspective, which makes it extraordinarily difficult to compare distances. Tonight, for instance, when a vista between the sand hills allowed us to perceive the village of Jericho, it seemed inconceivable that we should not reach it in a few minutes, and yet it was already after eleven o'clock before the splash of our horses' feet in the water, told us that we were crossing the brook Cherith.
At this point our soldier disappeared, flashed out of sight—his kind intention, as we soon found, being to arouse the haj, the solitary occupant of the hotel, and apprise him of our arrival. We had not to wait long before the gates were opened and the barking of the dogs exchanged for a kindly welcome. They were old friends, degenerate descendants of some far-away mastiff, and still more distant collie, who had made mésalliances with some son or daughter of the soil, and left traces of another race, much as we trace the Crusader in the blue eyes and fair hair, of which specimens remain, here and there, in almost every village in Syria.
There was naturally no fire, and dreams of tea were destined to disappointment; but there were other combinations obtainable where water was good and abundant, from which we were not averse. Have we not, some of us, drunk "Ben Nevis" on Mount Lebanon and "Talisker" in glens other than those of Skye? We had food with us, though our friends' hospitalities had left us little appetite, and we made no complaint—having water and towels—that sheets were not forthcoming. All that lacked, in this semi-tropical atmosphere, was a sweet-scented breeze from off the Belka.
We rose somewhat sadly next morning, and compared our twilight start with that of nine days ago—sad, not as so often happens, from any consciousness of anticipations unfulfilled, of hopes disappointed, but only because those golden days were now buried with the past.
We rested for some time at the Good Samaritan Inn, and wrote some picture postcards, to be stamped—strange anachronism—with the postmark Bon Samaritain! Perhaps twopence was a large sum in New Testament days, or it may be that good man had a long bill when he "came again"; or, still more likely, the progress of civilisation and of religion has relegated hospitality and trustworthiness to the ignorant and savage Bedu. Anyway, the shilling demanded seemed to us a good deal to pay for a cup of tea and a biscuit.
We had no further adventure, and stopped but once, to photograph the stone which Abraham brought on his back from some distant place—variously stated as Hebron and Damascus. Whoever shall place his back under that stone will be reinforced for carrying his own especial burden. We looked back now with a sense of familiar friendship at those grey hills, which had so lately been among the limitations of life, with a realisation of widened knowledge and added sympathies, which, on our return to the commonplace burdens of every day, should move us to thankfulness and not to regret. Each evening now the sunset glow would seem to smile to us from the faces of old friends, telling of a country beyond—fairer, purer, it may be, than ours, but in its friendships, its loves, its presentation of the beautiful, not very different from this.
We reached home in time for luncheon, and it is fair to record that the "majnoon," grunting and breathless, was in at the death.