PRELUDE

PRELUDE

Memory swings backward to revel in a certain Garden of Delight; to picture the high whitewashed wall, topped with red tiles, and guarding within its quadrangle of acres clustering palms, grave cypress trees, the fig, quince, orange, pomegranate, and mulberry; also the gray olive, with roots twisted out of the soil as if by force and seeming to hint that, once upon a time, giant souls were imprisoned within each grizzly trunk and struggled themselves to death, in mad wrestlings after freedom.

Shielded by these varied branches, roses and cabbages, lilies and onions, jessamine and melons, the crimson-flowered oleander, pumpkins, tomatoes, and carrots mingle in a delightful democracy. Here the day wakens with sweet morning clearness, waxes into a scorching noontide, and burns onward, to be extinguished by the breath of a dewy twilight. Stars march slowly from out the vaulted shadows overhead, to halt at awful distances. Distant mountain peaks stretch away beyond the city, in indescribable loveliness, and melt in the distance, like a veritable land of cloud. Upon the other hand lies the desert; become a sea of silver under the stern light of the stars. One stands impressed—oppressed and compelled to listen to the mighty, threatening silence. Small wonder is it that, to-day, in the interior of Arabia, like his forefathers during the time of Abimelech and Jethro, the lonely shepherd is a worshiper of the stars—poised, unchanging and serene, above the changing, tumultuous earth.

Through this Garden, in which Memory lies dreaming, a silvery stream flows from a marble basin. Into this basin play the waters from a tree-shaded fountain. Beside it sits a gruff old pelican, eyeing dweller and guest with equal disfavor. This bird of desolation likes not his fair prison. Sweeter, to his ear, is the owl’s hoot than any music distilled by human voices.

At one corner of the great quadrangle stands the long, roomy dwelling. Its lower story comprises the general reception room, the kitchen, and stables. From contiguous windows in this last, two white heads lean out and gaze, wistfully, each into the other’s eyes. One is that of the snow-white ass, upon which the daughter of the house rides when, attended by Ismail, she goes forth to pay visits. The other is that of the foal, shut into a separate stall because he has grown so large that he must be weaned. Here his greatest effort only succeeds in reaching up and resting his funny little head upon the window sill; where he must content himself with waving long ears and casting glances of entreaty across at the mother, who stands helpless in all but the expression of her sympathy.

Attention is fastened upon these patient dumb creatures. At this, the young hostess—who, by the way, speaks Arabic, modern Greek, French, German, English; who interprets Chopin with appealing sympathy upon the piano in the beautiful drawing-room; and, upon occasion, picks her mandolin to light, minor-keyed melodies—decides that the American lady must have a ride about the garden.

Ismail, a dark-skinned boy who has haunted our footsteps in readiness for service, and whose eyes and teeth are marvels of brilliancy, leads forth the petted beast and tricks her out with the most gorgeous trappings. Then the visitor is wheedled into mounting the high, smooth saddle. This she does gingerly and sidewise, after the fashion of her countrywomen. The baby donkey is let out to enjoy a bit of exercise, and crowds so closely to the side of his adored parent as nearly to crush the ankles of her nervous rider.

The white beasts trot placidly over the graveled walks of the quadrangle, and the pastime is growing pleasant to the rider. But “Faster! faster!” commands the young hostess. “It is not with this sleep of the day that we should seek to amuse one who comes from the Land of Haste! Faster! Ismail, faster!”

Time is not given in which to explain that a mild gait is preferred; for the Arab boy at once enters into the spirit of his mistress—strikes a resounding blow upon each snowy flank, with such immediate effect that the unaccustomed rider slides from her insecure position and joins in the merriment.

“Alas! the Orient has broken your spirit! It is not like this that in your own country you would ride. Think you that I do not know?”

Hastily arranging her flowing skirts, the young girl sprang gayly astride the high, polished saddle; leaned forward and whispered, “Away! Babash!” During the next few moments, shadow and sunlight became a swift kaleidoscope of gayety and color. The little animal, divining what was expected of her, broke into a gallop of whose madness one never would have dreamed her capable; and which made it most comical to witness the wild attempts of her poor little foal at keeping pace, and his bewilderment when, after viewing, with despair, her disappearance before him, his astonished gaze discovered her hastening toward him from behind, only to leave him again, a little farther on.

Meantime the surly pelican had waddled to an unfrequented corner, where the gravel, flying from delicate hoofs, could not reach him. Madame, the elder hostess, came out upon the balcony, which extended along the second story of the dwelling, to wave her hand in enjoyment of the sport.

At length, wearied with making exhibition of the speed which, in her opinion, characterized the home life of her visitor, the young girl tossed her reins to Ismail, commanded that coffee be brought, then conducted to a beautiful summerhouse, or kiosk, where were cushions and rugs in profusion; where the most comfortable corner hid its hand mirror and rose-water sprinkler, and over whose lattice climbed roses and jessamine.

Of these latter flowers—so precious to every woman of the Orient—three were gathered and tucked into the visitor’s belt. “Three, the Oriental number: one for health, one for wealth, and one for prosperity. If I wish you these and to you they come, what is there more, that for it you should ask?” was the compelling explanation, made in a voice that was music’s own in quality and, like her manner—when not merrily exemplifying prevailing notions of American life—was gentle as the most fastidious aristocrat could desire.

The air was sprayed with rose water; we reclined upon the cushions. Quiet restored, the Madame descended and joined us. Coffee was brought—though not at once; for the moments do not urge, as in the Occident; they weave themselves, unnoted, into slow and shining hours. Resting thus, and, later on, tasting the cream tart of whose deliciousness the half has never been told, it was inevitable that we should fall into the custom of the country and relate, each to the others, tales of our native lands.

Story-telling is a most natural blossom upon the Oriental life tree. Silent, tropical, motionless days breed no restlessness of the life intellectual, no ravening after to-day’s knowledge and its fleeting fame, no feverish haste after anything. The past fades and the future becomes dim. It is a Land of the Present Moment. In the estimation of its people, the present moment, only, is to be compared with Paradise. As consequence, the dreaming of dreams or the relation of marvelous tales, concerning adventures and intrigues of imaginary characters, serves to satisfy the indolent and luxurious character. Disinclination to travel has found expression in “Better be a dog at home than a lion afloat.” And universal custom exemplifies the belief that it is better also to recline at ease, with coffee and nargileh; enfolded in such peace that any relation of turbulence and romance is rendered thrilling by mere force of contrast—far better is all this than to fare forth one’s self. One does not marvel that natures pent in such inactive bodies should require, to their better satisfaction with the stories told them, blood-curdling elements, violence, with strange interventions and achievements of the supernatural. By this means is poise maintained and the slothful soul drugged into dreaminess.

Action and progress are discouraged in the Orient. Until the authorities grant permission, a man may not rebuild his house after the flames have destroyed it; nor may he celebrate the marriage of a child. Only during the feast month of Ramazan is any woman permitted outside of her walls after sunset; and a man, without his lighted lantern, is in danger of trouble with the police. Indeed, the dwellers not only are expected, but themselves expect, to retire at sunset into their separate home worlds, without whose walls the strait-laced effendi likes not to have his women seen at any time. Yet, even when within the home, cards seldom are resorted to; and games of chance everywhere are forbidden the good Moslem.

Then how should this be other than a land for reverie? Certain hours of every day are witness to the sun’s terrible triumph. Its atmosphere becomes of intolerable sultriness. Its climate renders the people indolent in action, while permitting their intellects to remain keen and their passions lively. They have, moreover, quick sense of the ludicrous; a childish, untutored taste for practical jokes; a refinement of cunning, and, often seemingly asleep, in reality they never lose their sagacity. Only when in dispute are their voices and actions unsubdued. As a rule, they are not good in conversation; any point is made clear by the relation of some parallel tale; and always the men are ready to loiter and to loaf.

Although the dairy life of the women is enriched with the arts of cookery and exquisite needlework, it must become monotonous. They are passionately fond of the open air; but their fullest enjoyment of it consists in reclining upon rug and cushion, beneath some fragrant shade, while their slow, indolent eyes traverse the beauty of garden, sea, or sky, and the ear is soothed with some story which, at the same time, stirs the sense, gives wing to imagination, and satisfies the inaction of their present by calling up visions of far-away activities, perhaps aided by the unseen and unknown.

One, for whom character needs not to consist in eternal effort, must find great charm in these people, with their childish love for the passing hour and readiness to give or accept friendliness. Often the youths are of ideal beauty. Usually the men are well built, healthful, abstemious. Always the women are splendidly robust and handsome. Nearly everyone is unmalicious, gentle in temper, leisurely—nay, more—loitering. Nobody is in a hurry. He who hastes is viewed with suspicion. Even punctuality in the payment of dues is decried; and no shopkeeper, worthy of a booth in the bazaar, will permit a customer to depart until after bewildering his sight with the most gorgeous properties upon the shelves. Should an unwary shopper ask the price of any article or permit his eye to linger upon it, coffee is at once served and the business call becomes a visit of ceremony.

With touching faith in his kismet—decreed fate—the peasant endures whatever of ill his days may bring. He receives every stranger with perfect faith; trusting that he may be the messenger of some long-delayed good. The thought of seeking an occupation rarely occurs to him—however needy he may be. With only a few piasters in his pouch for present needs, he becomes wealthy; for, may he not dream of hidden treasure which, when found, will supply splendors ineffable? Beside, were he to make strenuous effort in the hope of bettering his estate, he might thwart some beautiful on-coming providence. In this land where gentle consideration reigns, children treat their mothers with a royal deference, which but increases with every added year of their own lives.

The Osmanlis will have nothing to do with hereditary rank. The misfortunes and sins which constitute the unanswerable Eastern Question, arise from the fact that their Prophet failed to provide a law by which his successors might be determined. Members of the reigning family marry the simplest family; and the genealogical records are forgotten. Sentiment is opposed to class lines between ruler and people; hence, in their stories, the young prince is free to marry any maiden, be she ever so lowly.

However somber this life, the pious Moslem finds content in letting his mind dwell upon the bliss of that life beyond. He is profoundly submissive in the presence of death; accepts its coming with unquestioning resignation, since his Edjel—appointed death hour—and that of his beloved ones, was decreed by Allah and invisibly inscribed upon the brow at birth. Dying means that one is bidden, by “the Cupbearer of the Spheres,” to partake of the joys of Paradise. Why, then, should one regret the summons?

Devotion is natural to him. Five times each day does the dweller in village or city obey a call to prayer—even though the muezzin who cries may be far from holy and his intrigues furnish the point for many a tale. According to Lady Blunt, “nothing gives so much distinction, in this land, as regular attendance at prayers.” The name of Allah enters into every bargain, greeting, or conflict. To the really faithful, every living creature has some spiritual significance. The killing of a dog may cost a man many bushels of grain—perchance, his life. The stork and swallow are sacred. Even the unclean vulture must not be slain. His body is the abode of some sinful soul; and, if the bird be killed, the poor soul forever must perish.

The Land of Midian is a mysterious, dreary land of gloomy cliffs and broad deserts; of shadowless plains, narrow valleys, and monotonous wilderness regions. Its mirage allures to death; and the clear atmosphere suddenly may become dark with the burning heat of the simoon. Through its desert God’s Chosen People are believed to have wandered during their forty years of punishment and preparation. Fiery serpents and scorpions made their passage hideous; and the undisciplined wanderers were “much discouraged because of the way.”

Over this indescribably romantic country—which has been inhabited since the earliest time and has undergone fewer changes than any other known upon the globe—a mighty Presence seems on patient guard. One is never freed from the sense of some Great Unseen.

At points the configuration is fantastic and weird in the character of its desolation. It is a region of gloomy cliffs, of granite hills, of detached, volcanic centers—like that of the true Mount Sinai—and over whose difficult passages the complaining camel seems fittest transport.

Each tribe, in this Land of Ishmael, claims descent from some one of the three members of Abraham’s family; and insists that social and religious status were overthrown by Mohammed, when he subjected them to his version of the law of the One God. To this it may be added that there are those who believe that the enmity of Christians against the Jews prevented the great prophet from adopting the Christian faith.

Upon his possession of Arabia does the Sultan base his title of Caliph. With the downfall of those rulers came a relapse into the former separate chieftaincies; so that every valley, between desert and coast, or mountain range, now supports its wandering band. For this reason, these people love that the stories told them should concern that time of the Caliphs; when the country flourished as never before or after.

Yemen, a central, fertile tract in southwest Arabia, is the Arab’s Arcadia. Here Alexander the Great determined to fix his court after he should have conquered India. His strong nature was attracted to this surprising land; where a single step may bear one from dreary somberness into the most luxurious vegetation—from the desert into an oasis, redolent with the scent of flowers, shadowed with orchards and musical with the insect’s drone.

In a land like this, among a people of courtesy and charm, it becomes gently imperative that the most barren imagination should indulge in bits of phantasy and the dullest sense become susceptible to passing beauty. A pure and refreshing fountain is certain to become a center of romantic interest that will unseal the lips of a traveler. And, since bachelors are looked upon with disfavor and not an old maid exists in all the country, it is to be expected that any relation should turn upon marriage. Nor need one fear that the tale will prove erotic, since its creation was in a land where the modesty of a peasant will not admit even of his staring at a company of bathers; but sends his eyes to search the tree tops or distant mountains, until temptation is far passed.

Perhaps it will be well to begin these stories from the Orient with a relation of cruel intrigue and of patient revenge, aided by potent, albeit most unlikely, supernatural forces: