“And if you take tobacco from Môṣul to Baghdâd,” ’Abdullah pursued, “it rots there. The air of Baghdâd is not like the air of Môṣul.”
“Wallah, no!” said Jûsef the much-travelled, weighing city against city in the finest judicial manner.
We rode through exquisite meadows, and in about five hours and a half from Ḳaraḳôsh crossed a mountain stream that rippled between banks rosy with oleander—Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed in robes so softly flushed. Beyond it my camp was pitched upon a swelling slope below the steep rocks of Jebel Maḳlûb, wherein, placed high among the hills, stood the monastery of Mâr Mattai, a grey wall hanging over a precipice. I left my horse at the camp, and taking ’Abdullah with me, set out on a half-hour’s climb up a narrow gorge, full of the western sun, which was golden now, and clement. Every crevice between the stones was gay with a small starry campanula, gentian-blue, mountain-blue, the full clear colour of an upland flower; and thrusting their strong roots under the rocks, the terebinths hung glossy foliage over the path—I found myself, as I looked once more upon the divine curves of leafy twig and bough, heaping contempt upon the recollection of that leggy vegetable, the palm. A ragged boy opened the monastery gate and conducted us by a long stair to a terrace from which the bishop had watched our progress up the gorge. He bade me go quickly, while the sun still shone, to see the church and the tombs of Mâr Mattai and of Bar Hebræus, but the church had been rebuilt, the inscriptions on the tombs were already known, and my desire turned towards the bishop, and the coffee which he was preparing for us, and the room on the terrace where the cushioned windows opened on to the Assyrian plain. The bishop was old and very garrulous; the monastery, high set above the world, was beyond the reach of mundane intelligence, the only monk had gone down to Môṣul, and in the Jebel Maḳlûb men were still uncertain under which lord they served. Was it indeed true, asked the bishop, that Muḥammad Reshâd was Sultan of Turkey? and he rejoiced greatly when we confirmed the rumour. But his thoughts wandered back to older histories, and hearing that we had come from Mâr Behnâm, he began to instruct us in matters pertaining to that shrine.
“My daughter, listen,” said he, and I lay back upon the cushions and watched the light redden and fade over the plains of Assyria, while the sweet mountain silence fell more closely in the gorge, and the bishop’s rambling tale filled the idle hour like some voice out of the past. ’Abdullah sat cross-legged upon a pile of carpets at the end of the room, rolling cigarettes and nodding his head in approval as the venerable weaver of romance unfolded his chronicle. “Senherib, king of Assyria, king of kings,” he began, “to him a son was born whose name was Behnâm. And it happened upon a day that the Amîr Behnâm was hunting, and he lost his gazelle and night came upon him while he pursued her. And being weary with the chase he fell asleep beside a fountain. Then in his sleep an angel appeared unto him and bade him hearken to one whom he should meet next day upon the road. And when he had journeyed but a little way he met Mâr Mattai. And Mâr Mattai stopped him and said: ‘Oh prince, why do you worship idols that have eyes that see not, ears that hear not, lips that speak not, instead of worshipping the living God, who made heaven and earth, al ins w’al jins w’al jami?’—mankind and different kinds and all kinds. And Behnâm answered: ‘Give me a sign.’ Then said Mâr Mattai: ‘What sign shall I give you?’ And he said: ‘Heal my sister who is sick.’ And they went on their way towards Nineveh, and as they went, Behnâm was full of fear, for he dared not take the saint into his father’s city. But when they reached Bârtallâ, Mâr Mattai was weary and could walk no further. And he said: ‘If I make water to gush out of the rock, will you believe?’ And Behnâm answered: ‘I will believe.’ And the water gushed forth. Then Behnâm returned to Nineveh, and he refused to worship idols that have eyes that cannot see and ears that cannot hear and lips that cannot speak.”
“It is true,” said ’Abdullah.
“Neither would he worship the sun,” pursued the bishop, “nor the moon, nor the stars, nor anything but the living God, who created heaven and earth, mankind and different kinds and all kinds.”
“It is written in the book,” said ’Abdullah.
“My son,” said the bishop, “it is written.” And Christian and Moslem met on the common ground of scripture. “Then Senherib put him and his sister to death. But the king was old and sick unto death, and he repented of what he had done, for he had no heir to inherit the kingdom. Therefore he sent for Mâr Mattai and entreated him to bring his son to life. And Mâr Mattai answered: ‘Oh king, I will raise him from the dead if you will build me a monastery in the Jebel Maḳlûb.’ And Senherib built the house wherein we sit,” concluded the bishop.
“And who built Mâr Behnâm?” said I, anxious to prolong the recital.
“My daughter,” he replied, “the house of Mâr Behnâm was built by Isḥâk the merchant. For Isḥâk was journeying to Baghdâd, and upon the road he fell ill, and Mâr Behnâm appeared to him and healed him. Verily the Assyrians were idolaters, but they came to know the true God. So the world changes.” The bishop broke off abruptly at this confusing point in the narrative, for even he felt that it would be an anachronism to assert that the Assyrian empire was Christian. But the historical sequence of events was nothing to ’Abdullah.