In a Syrian Saddle

by A. Goodrich-Freer

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.