Thus Lady Hester was dying in a struggle to cure her men and maids of theft, lying, and carelessness, whilst they ended the month with the same indifference to honesty, truth, and cleanliness, as they began it.
Each one was a sycophant to those who had authority over him; each one distrusted his comrade. Lady Hester might say with truth, “If I did not act so, they would cut your throat and mine:” but why did she keep such wretches about her? why not turn them away, and procure European servants? or why continue to live in such a wild mountain, and not make her dwelling-place in or near a city, where consular protection was at hand? The first three questions I have endeavoured to answer already; and, as for the last, respecting consular protection, he that had dared to suggest such an expedient of safety to her would have rued the observation. To name a consul in that sense to her was to name what was most odious; and the epithets that were generally coupled with their names were such as I have too much respect for that useful body of magistrates to put down in writing.
Saturday, November 25.—As I was returning from the village about four in the afternoon, on ascending the side of the hill on which Lady Hester’s house stands, I met four persons mounted on mules, and conjectured them, by their boots, which were black, and reached up to the calf of the leg, not to be of the country; for in Syria either red or yellow boots are always worn. They had on Morea capotes, and their dress was that of the more northern provinces of Turkey. In passing them, I said, “Good evening!” in Arabic, but, on receiving no answer from the two nearest to me, I looked hard at them, and immediately saw they were Europeans.
On alighting at my own door, I asked the servant if he had seen anybody go by, and his reply was, that three or four Turkish soldiers had passed. I then inquired of one of Lady Hester’s muleteers, who was unloading some provisions he had brought from Sayda, if he knew who the four men were whom I had seen; and he answered that, at the foot of the hill, they had inquired of him the road to Jôon, and that they were Milordi travelling: Milordo being the term applied to every European who travels in the Levant with a man-servant, and has money to spend.
I went in to Lady Hester a few minutes afterwards, and told her that some travellers, as I thought, to get a nearer view of her house than could be had from the high road, had made a round, and had just ridden past the door. About a quarter of an hour afterwards, the maid brought in a message from the porter to say that two Franks, just arrived at the village of Jôon, had sent their servant with a note, and the porter wished to know whether the note was to be taken in. For Lady Hester had been so tormented with begging letters, petitions, stories of distress, &c., that it was become a general rule for him never to receive any written paper, until he had first sent in to say who had brought it, and from whom it came; and then she would decide whether it was to be refused or not. The note, accordingly, was fetched.
Lady Hester read it to herself, and then the following conversation took place, which will explain some of the reasons why she did not always receive strangers who presented themselves at her gate. “Yes, doctor,” said she, “you were right: they are two travellers, who have been to Palmyra and about, and want to come and talk to me concerning the Arabs and the desert. Should you like to go to Jôon, and tell them I can’t see them, because I have been confined to my room for several days from a bad cold?” I answered, “Certainly; I would go with the greatest pleasure.” She then rang the bell, and desired the servant to order my horse. She continued, “One of the names, I think, is a man of a great family.”—“What is it?” I asked. She took up the note again. “Boo, poo, bon—no—Boo—jo—lais—Beaujolais, I think it is. No, Pou—jo—lat; it is Poujolat.”—“Then,” interrupted I, “I guess who they are: there was a Monsieur Poujolat, who came into the Levant six or seven years ago, to make researches respecting the crusades: I saw him at Cyprus; he and Monsieur Michaud were together. They were considered men of talent, and I believe were contributors to some Paris newspaper during Charles the Tenth’s time. They had published already some volumes of their travels before I left Europe, and the greatest part of the ground was travelled over, as I surmise, in the saloons of their consuls, during the long evenings when they were shut in by the plague of 1831 and 1832; for they speak of many places where they could hardly have gone. But this is not unusual,” I added, “with some writers; for Monsieur Chaboçeau, a French doctor at Damascus, told me, in 1813, when I was staying in his house, that Monsieur de Volney never went to Palmyra, although he leads one to suppose he had been there; for, owing to a great fall of snow just at the period when he projected that journey, he was compelled to relinquish the attempt. Monsieur Chaboçeau, an octogenarian, had known him, and entertained him as his guest in his house; and he answered me, when I reiterated the question, that Volney never saw Palmyra.”
“Oh! if they have written about the crusades,” said Lady Hester, paying no attention to what I said about Volney, “tell them that all the crusaders are not dead, but that some of them are asleep only; asleep in the same arms and the same dress they wore on the field of battle, and will awake at the first resurrection. Mind you say the first resurrection; for I suppose you know there are to be two, one a partial one, and the last a general one.[15]
“But there, doctor, I must not detain you. Now, just listen to what you have got to do. Mohammed shall take to them two bottles of red wine, and two bottles of vino d’oro” (ding, ding.) “Zezefôon, tell Mohammed to get out four bottles of wine, two of each sort; of my wine—you understand—and he is to put them in a basket, and be ready to go with the doctor to Jôon.” Then, addressing herself again to me, “You must say to them that I am very sorry I can’t see them, but that I am not very well, and that I beg their acceptance of a little wine, which, perhaps, they might not find where they sleep to-night. Say to them, I should be very much pleased to talk over their journey to Palmyra with them; and add that the respect I bear to all the French makes me always happy to meet with one of their nation. Say that the wine is not so good as I could wish it to be, but that, since Ibrahim Pasha and his soldiers have been in the country, they have drunk up all the good, and it is now very difficult to procure any. If they talk about Ibrahim Pasha, say that I admire his courage, but cannot respect him; that I am a faithful subject of the Sultan, and shall always be so, and that I do not like servants that rise against their masters; for whether Cromwells, or Buonapartes, or people in these countries, it never succeeds. If they allude to the horrors of the recruiting service, and to the nizàm troops, tell them that I never interfere in matters like that; but that, when heads were to be saved and the wounded and houseless to be succoured, as after the siege of Acre, then I was not afraid of Ibrahim Pasha, or any of them. Well, I think that’s all:” then, musing a little while, she added, “I ought, perhaps, to ask them to pass the night here; but, if I did, it would be all confusion: no dinner ready for them—and, before it could be, it would be midnight, for I must have a sheep killed: besides, it would be setting a bad example. There would be others then coming just at nightfall to get a supper and be off in the morning, as has happened more than once already. So now go, doctor, and” (ding, ding) “Fatôom! who is that woman that lodges strangers sometimes at Jôon?”—“Werdy, Sytty, the midwife.”—“Ah! so; very well. Tell them, doctor, that they had better not think of going to Sayda to-night, as the gates will be shut; and that they will be nowhere better off for sleeping in all the village than at Werdy, the midwife’s: for she has good beds and clean counterpanes: so now go.”
I half rose to go, still hanging back, as knowing her ladyship would, as usual, have much more to say. “Oh! by the bye,” she resumed, “if they inquire about me, and ask any questions, you may say that sometimes I am a great talker when subjects please me, and sometimes say very little if they do not. I am a character: what I do, or intend to do, nobody knows beforehand; and, when done, people don’t always know why, until the proper time, and then it comes out.” Here she paused a little, and then resumed. “I dare say they came here to have something to put in their book, so mind you tell them about the crusaders; for it is true, doctor. You recollect I told you the story, and how these sleeping crusaders had been seen by several persons; and I don’t suppose those persons would lie more than other people; why should they?”—“Why should they indeed?” I answered. “They were martyrs,” resumed her ladyship, “and those who sleep are not only of the Christians who fought, but of the Saracens also; men, that is, who felt from their souls the justice of the cause they fought for. As for yourself, if you don’t believe it, you may add you know nothing about it; for you are lately come into the country, and all these are things which are become known to me during my long residence here.”
At last I went, mounted my horse, and rode out of the gate, Mohammed following with the basket of wine. But, instead of having to go to the village, I found the strangers waiting on their mules about two or three hundred yards from the porter’s lodge. My horse, taken from his feed, for it was near sunset, and seeing the mules, jumped and pranced so that I was obliged to dismount before I could approach them. I delivered Lady Hester’s message to them, and in answer they expressed, in polite terms, their regret at not seeing her, and their still greater regret that the reason was from her ill state of health. Unlike what some Englishmen have done on similar occasions, they uttered not the slightest murmur about her want of hospitality, nor the least doubt of the veracity of the excuse; but, as soon as they found that they should not be admitted, they cut short all further conversation; lamenting, as night was fast approaching, that they could not stop, and that they were under the necessity of bending their way somewhere as fast as possible to get a night’s lodging. I pointed to the village, recommended them to go there, and repeated Werdy, the midwife’s name, two or three times, as a cottage where they would be comfortably lodged. But, yielding to the advice of their servant, who, as is the case with all travellers ignorant of the language in a strange country, seemed to lead his masters pretty much where he liked, they were induced to set off for Sayda, where they could not arrive in less than three hours, instead of passing the night at Jôon, where they would have been housed in ten minutes. So, presenting them with the wine, and having informed them of the name of the French consular agent at Sayda, where they would do well to demand a lodging, I wished them good night, and took my leave. They mounted their mules, and descended the bank by the narrow path that led under the hill to the Sayda road; when, as I was going back to the house, I heard one of the gentlemen calling out to me, “But the empty bottles?” Now the interview had been conducted, on my part, with all the etiquette I was master of, and on theirs, up to the moment of saying good night, with the politeness so natural to the French nation. But the exclamation, “What’s to be done with the empty bottles? you gave us the wine, but did you give us the bottles too?” sounded so comic, and in the vicinity of that residence too, where it was customary to give in a princely way, that the speaker fell a degree in the scale of my estimation on the score of breeding, how much soever he might be commended for his intended exactitude and probity.