FOOTPRINTS OF PAUL
We entered the "street which is called Straight," and came to the house of Judas, where St. Paul lodged when he was led blind into Damascus, trembling and astonished of the Lord. His name was Saul, and he had been on his way to Damascus to persecute the Christians, by the authority of Rome. The story is in the ninth chapter of Acts, and is too familiar to repeat here. I believe, though, most of us thought the house of Judas had some connection with the unfaithful disciple of that name, until Habib enlightened us. Habib said that this was another Judas--a good man--well-to-do for his time. The Street called Straight runs through the Grande Bazaar, and the house of Judas is in the very midst of that dim aggregation of trades. It is roofless and unoccupied, but it is kept clean and whitewashed, and its stone walls will stand for another two thousand years.
Next to the birth and crucifixion of the Saviour, the most important event in the story of Christianity happened there. It seemed strange and dream-like to be standing in the house of St. Paul"s conversion--a place which heretofore had seemed to exist only in the thin leaves and fine print of our Sunday-school days--and I found myself wondering which corner of the house St. Paul occupied, just where he sat at table, and a number of such things. Then I noticed the drifting throngs outside, pa.s.sing and repa.s.sing or idling drowsily, who did not seem to know that it was St. Paul"s house, and paid no attention to it at all.
At the house of Ananias, which came next, Habib was slow in arriving, and the Horse-Doctor gave us a preliminary lecture.
"This," he said, "is the house of Ananias, once fed by the ravens.
Later, through being a trifle careless with the truth, he became the founder and charter member of a club which in the United States of America still bears his name. Still later he was struck by lightning for deceiving his mother-in-law, Saphira, who perished at the same time to furnish a Scripture example that the innocent must suffer with the guilty (see Deuteronomy xi. 16): This is the spot where Ananias fell.
That stone marks the spot where his mother-in-law stood. The hole in the roof was made by the lightning when it came through. We will now pa.s.s on to the next--"
That was good enough gospel for our party if Habib had only let it alone. He came in just then and interrupted. He said:
"This is the house of Ananias--called St. Ananias, to distinguish him from a liar by the same name. That Ananias and his wife, Saphira, fell dead at the feet of St. Peter because of falsehood, a warning to those who trifle with the truth to-day. St. Ananias was a good man, who restored St. Paul"s sight and instructed him in the Christian doctrine."
We naturally avoided the Doctor for a time after that. His neighborhood seemed dangerous.
The house of Ananias is below ground, and was probably used as a hiding-place in a day when it was not safe for an active and busy Christian to be at large. Such periods have not been unusual in Damascus. St. Paul preached Christianity openly, but not for long; for the Jews "took counsel to kill him," and watched the gate to see that he did not get away.
"Then the disciples took him by night, and let him down the wall in a basket."
We drove to the outer wall, and came to the place and the window where Paul is said to have been let down. It _might_ have happened there; the wall is Roman, and the window above it could have been there in St.
Paul"s day. I prefer to believe it is the real window, though I have reason to think they show another one sometimes.
Habib said we were to visit some of the handsome residences of Damascus.
We were eager for that. From the Minaret of the Bride we had looked down upon those marble courts and gay facades, and had been fascinated. We drove back into the city, through narrow mud-walled streets, forbidding and not overclean. When these alleys had become so narrow and disheartening that we could travel only with discomfort, we stopped at a wretched entrance and were told to get out. Certainly this was never the portal to any respectable residence. But we were mistaken. The Damascus house is built from the inside out. It is mud and unseemly disrepute without, but it is fairyland within. Every pretentious house is built on the same plan, and has a marble court, with a fountain or pool, and some peach or apricot or orange trees. On one side of the court is the front of the house. It has a high entrance, and rooms to the right and to the left--rooms that have a raised floor at one end (that is where the rich rugs are) and very high ceilings--forty feet high, some of them--decorated with elaborate designs. In the first house the round writhing rafters were exposed, and the decoration on them made them look exactly like snakes. The Apostle took one look and fled, and I confess I did not care for them much myself. The rest of the house was divided into rooms of many kinds, and there was running water, and a bath. We visited another house, different only in details. Some of the occupants were at home here--women-folks who seemed glad to see us, and showed us about eagerly. A tourist party from far-off America is a diversion to them, no doubt.
[Ill.u.s.tration: URGING US TO PARTAKE OF THE PRECIOUS STUFF, WITHOUT STINT]
Then we went to still another house. We saw at once that it was a grander place than the two already visited, and we were simply bewildered at the abundance of the graven bra.s.s and inlaid furniture, rich rugs and general bric-a-brac, that filled a great reception-room.
Suddenly servants in Turkish dress appeared with trays of liqueurs--two kinds, orange and violet--urging us to partake of the precious stuff, without stint. Also, there were trays of rare coffee and dainty sweetmeats, and we were invited to sit in the priceless chairs and to handle the wonderful things to our hearts" content. We were amazed, stunned. Oriental hospitality could go no further. Then in some subtle manner--I don"t remember how the information was conveyed, but it must have been delicately, Orientally done--we learned that all this bra.s.s, all these marvellous things, were for sale!
Did we buy them? Did we! David did not take more bra.s.s from Hadadezer than we carried out of that Damascus residence, which was simply an annex to a great bra.s.s and mosaic factory, as we discovered later.
Perhaps those strange liqueurs got into our enthusiasm; certainly I have never seen our party so liberal--so little inclined to haggle and hammer down.
But the things themselves were worth while. The most beautiful bra.s.s in the world is made in Damascus, and it is made in that factory.
They took us in where the work was going on. I expected to see machinery. Nothing of the sort--not a single machine anywhere. Every stage of the work is performed by hand--done in the most primitive way, by workmen sitting on the ground, shaping some artistic form, or with a simple graving-tool working out an intricate design. Many of the workers were mere children--girls, most of them--some of them not over seven or eight years old, yet even these were producing work which would cause many an "arts and crafts" young lady in America to pale with envy. They get a few cents a day. The skilled workers, whose deft fingers and trained vision produce the exquisite silver inlay designs, get as much as a shilling. No wonder our people did not haggle. The things were cheap, and they knew it.
In a wareroom in the same factory I noticed that one of the walls was stone, and looked like Roman masonry; also that in it were the outlines of two high arches, walled up. I asked Habib about it.
"Those," he said, "are two of the entrances to the Street called Straight. We are outside of the wall here; this house is built against it. The Straight street had three entrances in the old days. Those two have long been closed."
It always gives me a curious sensation to realize that actual people are living and following their daily occupations in the midst of a.s.sociations like these. I can"t get used to it at all.
To them, however, it is nothing. The fact that they sleep and wake and pursue their drowsy round in places hallowed by tradition; that the house which sheltered St. Paul stands in the midst of their murmuring bazaar; that one side of this wareroom is the wall of the ancient city, the actual end of the Street called Straight; that every step they take is on historic ground, sacred to at least three religions--this to me marvellous condition is to them not strange at all.
It is not that they do not realize the existence of these things: they do--at least, most of them do--and honor and preserve their landmarks.
But that a column against which they dream and smoke may be one of the very columns against which St. Paul leaned as he groped his blind way down the Street called Straight is to them not a matter for wonder, or even comment.
I am beginning to understand their point of view--even to envy it. I do not envy some of the things they have--some of their customs--but their serenity of habit, their security of place in the stately march of time, their establishment of race and religion--one must envy these things when he considers them here, apart from that environment which we call civilized--the whirl which we call progress.
I do not think I shall turn Moslem. The doctrine has attractive features, both here and hereafter; but I would not like to undertake the Koran at my time of life. I can, however, and I do, pay the tribute of respect to the sun-baked land and sun-browned race that have given birth to three of the world"s great religions, even though they have not unnaturally claimed their last invention as their best and held it as their own.
XXVIII
DISCONTENTED PILGRIMS
We entered the remaining portal of the Street called Straight and drove to the Grand Bazaar. We were in a buying fever by this time, and plunged into a regular debauch of bargain and purchase. We were all a little weary when we reached the hotel. We came in carrying our bra.s.s and other loot, and dropped down on the first divan, letting our bundles fall where they listed.
I thought the Apostle looked particularly solemn. Being a weighty person, jouncing all day in a carriage and walking through bra.s.s bazaars and fez bazaars and silk bazaars and rug bazaars and silver bazaars and leather bazaars and saddle bazaars, and at least two hundred and seven other bazaars, had told on him. When I spoke cheeringly he merely grunted and reached for something in a gla.s.s which, if it tasted as it smelled, was not calculated to improve his temper. When I sat down beside him he did not seem over cordial.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ASKED HIM IF HE WOULDN"T EXECUTE A LITTLE COMMISSION FOR ME IN THE BAZAARS]
Then, quite casually, I asked him if he wouldn"t execute a little commission for me in the bazaars; there were a few trifles I had overlooked: another coffee-set, for instance--something for a friend at home; I had faith in his (the Apostle"s) taste.
It seemed a reasonable request, and I made it politely enough, but the Apostle became suddenly violent. He said:
"d.a.m.n the bazaars! I"m full of bra.s.s and Oriental rugs and bric-a-brac.
I never want to hear of a bazaar again. I want to give away the junk I"ve already bought, and get back to the ship." Which we knew he didn"t mean, for he had put in weary hours acquiring those things, inspired with a large generosity for loved ones at home.
The Colonel came drifting along just then--unruffled, debonair--apparently unwearied by the day"s round. Nothing disturbs the Colonel. If he should outwear the century, he would still be as blithe of speech and manner as he is to-day at--dear me, how old is the Colonel? Is he thirty? Is he fifty? He might be either of those ages or at any mile-post between.
He stood now, looking down at the Apostle and his cup of poison. Then, with a coaxing smile:
"Match you, Joe--my plunder against yours--just once."
The Apostle looked up with a perfectly divine sneer.
"_Yes_, you will-- I think I see myself!"
The Colonel slapped a coin on the table briskly.
"Come on, Joe--we never matched for bric-a-brac before. Let"s be game--just this time."
What was the use? The Apostle resisted--at first violently, then feebly--then he matched--and lost.
For a moment he could hardly realize the extent of his disaster. Then he reached for the mixture in front of him, swallowed it, gagged, and choked alarmingly. When he could get his voice, he said:
"I"m the h.e.l.lfiredest fool in Syria. I walked four hundred miles to buy those things."
The Horse-Doctor regarded him thoughtfully.