Gérard de Nerval
Travels in the Near East (Voyage en Orient, 1843)
Part XII: Druze and Maronites (Druses et Maronites) – The Akkals, Anti-Lebanon, and Epilogue
View of Constantinople. Taken near the Seraglio Fountain, 1841, Lottier
Rijksmuseum
Translated by A. S. Kline © Copyright 2025 All Rights Reserved
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Contents
- Chapter 1: The Packet-Boat.
- Chapter 2: The Priest and his Wife.
- Chapter 3: Lunch at Acre.
- Chapter 4: The Adventures of a Marseillais.
- Chapter 5: The Pasha’s Dinner.
- Chapter 6: Correspondence (Fragments of letters sent to Théophile Dondey de Santeny).
- Epilogue.
- Chapter 1: Constantinople (Istanbul).
- Chapter 2: Galata.
- Chapter 3: Pera (Beyoğlu).
Chapter 1: The Packet-Boat
Aboard Arabian and Greek ships, one must expect capricious crossings which revisit the fates of those wanderers, Ulysses and Telemachus; the slightest breath carries them to all corners of the Mediterranean; thus, the European who wants to travel from one point to another of the coast of Syria is forced to wait for the passage of the English packet-boat which alone serves the Palestine echelon. Every month, a simple brig, not even a steamer, goes up and down that line of illustrious cities which were once Berytus, Sidon, Tyre, Ptolemais, and Caesarea, and which have preserved neither their names nor their ruins. Those queens of the seas, and of commerce, of which she is the sole heir, England does not honour with even a single steamboat. However, the social divisions so dear to that free nation are strictly observed on deck, as if it were a superior vessel. First class is forbidden to inferior passengers, that is to say, to those whose purses are the least well-stocked, and this arrangement sometimes astonishes the Orientals on seeing merchants in the places of honour, while sheikhs, sheriffs, or even emirs are found among the soldiers and servants. In general, the heat is too great for sleeping in the cabins, and each traveller, carrying his bed on his back like the paralytic in the Gospel, chooses a place on deck for sleeping and resting; the remainder of the time, he crouches on his mattress or mat, his back against the planking, and smokes his pipe or hookah. Only the Franks spend the day walking on the deck, to the great surprise of the Levantines, who understand nothing of their squirrel-like agitation. It is difficult to pace the deck like this without catching the legs of some Turk or Bedouin, who makes a fierce start, raises his hand to his dagger, and lets out imprecations, promising to meet you elsewhere. The Muslims who travel with their seraglio, and who have not paid enough to obtain a separate cabin, are obliged to leave their wives in a sort of enclosure backed by a rail, in which they crowd like lambs. Sometimes, seasickness overtakes them, and then each husband must take care of accompanying his wife below deck, and then returning her to the fold. Nothing equals the patience of a Turk for the thousand family attentions that must be carried out under the mocking eye of the infidels. It is he himself who, morning and evening, goes to fill the copper vessels intended for religious ablutions from the common barrel, he who renews the water in the hookahs, and cares for his children inconvenienced by the pitching and tossing of the vessel, so as to remove his wives or slaves as much as possible from dangerous contact with the Franks. These precautions do not take place on ships where there are only Levantine passengers. The latter, although they are of different religions, observe a sort of etiquette among themselves, especially as regards women.
Lunchtime arrived as the English missionary, who had embarked with me for Acre, was pointing out to me a point on the coast which is supposed to be the very spot where Jonah sprang from the belly of the whale. A small mosque indicates the piety of the Muslims concerning the biblical tradition, and, in that connection, I entered into one of those religious discussions with the Reverend which are no longer fashionable in Europe, but which arise so naturally between travellers in countries where one feels that religion is everything.
— ‘Basically,’ I said to him, ‘the Koran is only a summary of the Old and New Testaments written in other terms, and augmented by a few prescriptions specific to the climate. Muslims honour Christ as a prophet, if not as a god; they elevated the Kadra Myriam (the Virgin Mary), and also our angels, our prophets and our saints; whence then comes the immense prejudice which separates them from Christians and which always makes relations between the two uncertain?’
— ‘I cannot accept that prediction as valid,’ said the Reverend, ‘since I think that the Protestants and the Turks will one day reach an understanding. Some intermediate sect will form, a sort of oriental Christianity....’
— ‘Or Anglican Islam’, I said to him. ‘But why should Catholicism not achieve such a fusion?’
— ‘Because, in the eyes of the Orientals, Catholics are idolaters. You may explain to them in vain that one worships not the painted or sculpted figure, but the divine person it represents; that you honour, but do not adore the angels and the saints: they do not understand the distinction. Moreover, what idolatrous people has ever adored simply the wood or metal? You are therefore for them both idolaters and polytheists, while the various Protestant communions....’
Our discussion, which I have summarised here, had continued after lunch, and these last words had caught the ear of a small man with a lively eye and a black beard, dressed in a Greek pea-coat whose hood, raised over his head, concealed the style of his hair, the only indication in the Orient of status and nationality.
We did not remain in a state of unknowing for long.
— ‘Oh! Holy Virgin!’ he cried, ‘the Protestants will achieve no more than the others. The Turks will always be Turks!’
He pronounced the word: Turs.
Neither his indiscreet interruption, nor the man’s Provençal accent, rendered me insensible to the pleasure of meeting a compatriot. I therefore turned towards him, and answered him in a few words, to which he replied volubly.
— ‘No, sir, there is nothing to be done with the Tur, they are a people that is vanishing!... Sir, I was recently in Constantinople; I said to myself: “Where are the Turs?” There are none left!’
The paradox combined with his pronunciation increasingly signalled a son of the Canebière (the street in Old Marseille). Only, the word Turs, which he frequently repeated, annoyed me a little.
— ‘You go too far!’ I replied. ‘I have myself already met quite a number of Turks....’
I articulated the word, emphasising the ending; the Provençal failed to take the hint.
— ‘Do you think those were Turs you saw?’ he said, pronouncing the syllable in an even more flute-like voice. ‘They are not real Turs: I mean the Osmanli (Ottoman) Tur ... not all Muslims are Turs!’
In truth, a Southerner always finds his own pronunciation excellent and that of a Parisian quite ridiculous; I accepted that of my neighbour more readily than I did his paradox.
— ‘Are you sure, I said to him, that that is so?’
— ‘Ah! Sir, I have come from Constantinople; they are all Greeks, Armenians, Italians, people from Marseilles. All the Turs that are to be found, are made cadis, ulamas, pashas; or else they send them to Europe to display them there. What would you have! All their children die; their race is disappearing!’
— ‘But,’ I said to him,’ they still know how to maintain the rule of their provinces quite well, it seems.’
— ‘Ah! Sir, what allows them to do so? It is Europe, it is our governments that do not wish to change what exists, that fear revolution, war, such that each wants to prevent the others from taking control; they remain in check, staring at the whites of one another’s eyes, and, meanwhile, it is the people who suffer! They speak of the Sultan’s armies; what do you find? Albanians, Bosnians, Circassians, Kurds; the sailors are Greeks; only the officers are of the Turkish race. They are despatched to the field; all of them flee at the first cannon shot, as we have seen many times..., unless the English are there to hold bayonets to their backs, as in the affairs of Syria.’ (This southern jest, which refers to the circumstances of another era, should certainly not be taken seriously. If formerly the strength of the Turkish empire rested on the energy of militias foreign in origin to the race of Osman, the Porte has finally managed to rid itself of that dangerous element, and regained a power by means of which the sincere execution of the ideas of Reform will assure its duration.)
I turned towards the English missionary; but he had moved away from us and was walking about to our rear.
— ‘Sir,’ said the Marseillais, taking my arm, ‘what do you think the diplomats will do when the rayas (non-Muslim Ottoman subjects) come and say: “Misfortune has befallen us; there is not a single Tur left in the whole empire.... We do not know what to do, we bring you the keys to it all!”’
The audacity of this supposition made me laugh heartedly. The Marseillais continued imperturbably:
— ‘Europe will say: “There must still be some somewhere, look carefully!... Is it possible? No more pashas, no more viziers, no more mouchirs, no more nazirs?... It will upset all diplomatic relations. Who should we turn to? How will we continue to pay the dragomans?”’
— ‘It will be embarrassing indeed.’
— ‘The Pope, for his part, will say: “Oh! my God! What to do? Who is going to guard the holy sepulchre now? There are no more Turs!”’
A Marseillais when developing a paradox never lets you off lightly. This one seemed happy to have arrived at the opposite view to that naive remark of one of his fellow citizens: ‘Are you going to Constantinople? ... You will see many Turs there!’
His assertions, full of exaggeration no doubt, struck me as possessing some measure of truth. That the number of Turks has diminished greatly is not in doubt; nations alter, or vanish, due to various influences, like animal species. Already, for many a day, the principal force of the Turkish empire has relied on the energy of militias of foreign origin, and not on the people of Osman I; militias such as the Mamluks and the Janissaries. Today, it is with the help of a few legions of Albanians that the Porte renders twenty million Greeks, Catholics, and Armenians subject to the laws of the crescent. Could it still do so without the moral support of European diplomacy, and without armed aid from England? When we consider that Syria, whose ports were bombarded by English guns in 1840, to the benefit of the Turks, is the same land to which all feudal Europe hastened for six centuries, and which our state religions hold sacred, we must believe religious feeling is at a very low ebb in Europe. The English do not even think of retaining, on behalf of Christendom, the heritage Richard the Lionheart won by invasion.
I wanted to communicate these reflections to the Reverend; but, when I returned to his side, he received me with a very cool air. I understood that being in first class, he found it improper that I had spoken to someone from second. From now on I had no right to socialise with him; he doubtless bitterly regretted having begun relations with a man who did not behave like a gentleman. Perhaps he had forgiven me, because of my Levantine costume, for not wearing yellow gloves and patent leather boots; but to lend oneself to the conversation of the first comer was decidedly improper! He did not speak to me again.
Chapter 2: The Priest and his Wife
There being no barrier now to doing so, I wished to enjoy, fully, the company of the Marseillais, who, given the rare opportunities for amusement that one can meet on an English vessel, became a valuable companion. This man had travelled a great deal, and seen a lot; his business forced him to stop at various places, and led him to start relations, naturally, with everyone.
— ‘The Englishman no longer wishes to make conversation?’ he asked me. ‘Perhaps he has the mal-de-mer (he pronounced it merre). Ah! yes, there he is, diving into his cabin. He’ll have had too much lunch, no doubt....’
He paused, then continued, after a burst of laughter:
— ‘It is like that member of parliament from our country, who was very fond of plump wild-fowl. One day, into a plate of thrushes, they inserted a chouette (an owl: he pronounced it souette). “Ah!” said the fellow, “That’s a big one!” When he’d finished, they told him what he’d eaten.... Sir, it had the same effect on him as the waves!... Owls are highly indigestible!’
Decidedly, my Provençal did not belong to the finest company, but I had crossed the Rubicon. The line which separates first class from second had been traversed, I no longer belonged to the world as it ought to be (comme il faut); I had to resign myself to my fate. Alas, perhaps the Reverend who had so imprudently admitted me to intimacy, compared me, in his thoughts, to one of Milton’s fallen angels. I will admit that I did not regret it much; the bow of the vessel was infinitely more amusing than the stern. The most picturesque clothes, the most varied types, were crowded together on mats, mattresses, and carpets full of holes, radiant with the brilliance of the splendid sun which covered them with a mantle of gold. The sparkling eyes, the white teeth, the carefree laughter of the mountain-dwellers, the patriarchal attitude of the poor Kurdish families, here and there grouped in the shade of the sails as beneath tents in the desert, the imposing gravity of certain emirs or sheriffs richer in ancestors than in piastres, and who, like Don Quixote, seemed to be saying inwardly: ‘Wherever I sit, I sit in the place of honour,’ all this was doubtless well worth the company of a few taciturn tourists, and a number of ceremonious Orientals.
The Marseillais had led me, while conversing, to the place where he had spread his mattress next to another occupied by a Greek priest and his wife who were making the pilgrimage to Jerusalem. They were two very good-natured old folk, who had already formed a close friendship with the Marseillais. These people had a pet crow that hopped about their knees and feet and shared their meagre lunch. The Marseillais made me sit down beside him, and took from a crate an enormous sausage, and a European-shaped bottle.
— ‘If you had not had lunch already,’ he said ‘I would offer you some; have a taste, though: it is sausage from Arles, sir! It would give a dead man an appetite!... Think what they give you to eat in first class, all that preserved roast beef and vegetables they store in tin cans... and if it’s not all worth less than a good slice of sausage, let tears run down the knife!... You can cross the desert with that in your pocket, and still be hospitable to the Arabs, who will tell you that they’ve never eaten anything finer!’
The Marseillais, to prove his assertion, cut two slices and offered them to the Greek priest and his wife, who did not fail to do justice to the treat.
— ‘Moreover, it always rouses one to drink,’ he continued. Here’s some Camargue wine which is better than Cyprus wine, if you like common fare.... But you’ll need a cup; when I’m alone, I drink straight from the bottle.’
At this, the priest took, from beneath his clothes, a sort of silver vessel covered with embossed ornaments of ancient workmanship, which bore traces of gilding on the inside; perhaps it was a church chalice. The blood of the grape beaded there, joyfully vermilion. It was so long since I had drunk red wine, and I will even add French wine, that I emptied the cup without fuss. The priest and his wife were not yet familiar with Marseillais wine.
— ‘You see these good people,’ he said to me, ‘they have perhaps a century and a half of years between them, and they wish to see the Holy Land before they die. They are going to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their marriage in Jerusalem; they had children, who died, they have now only this crow! Well, no matter, they are going to give thanks to the good Lord, nonetheless!’
The priest, who understood that we were talking about them, smiled benevolently under his black cap; the good old woman, in her long blue woollen draperies, seemed like some austere Biblical Rebecca.
The boat’s progress had slowed, and a few passengers standing on the shore appeared as whitish dots; we had arrived before the port of Saida, the ancient Sidon. The mountain of Elijah (Mar Elias), sacred to the Turks as well as to the Christians and the Druze, loomed to the left of the city, and the imposing mass of the French khan soon caught our eyes. Its walls and towers bear traces of the English bombardment of 1840, which marred all the maritime cities of Lebanon. Moreover, all the harbours, from Tripoli to Acre, had, as is known, been filled in before then, according to the orders of Fakr al-Din II, Prince of the Druze, in order to prevent the landing of Turkish troops, so that those illustrious cities are nothing now but ruin and desolation. Nature, however, does not associate herself with the effects, ever-renewed, of biblical curses. She still delights in framing their remains in delightful verdure. The gardens of Sidon still flourish as at the time of the cult of Astarte. The modern city is built a mile from the old one, whose remnants surround a hillock surmounted by a square tower from the Middle Ages, itself a ruin.
Many passengers disembarked at Saida, and, as the steamboat anchored there for a few hours, I was put ashore at the same time as the Marseillais. The priest and his wife also landed, no longer able to endure the sea, and having decided to continue their pilgrimage by land.
We sailed, in a caique (skiff), past the arches of the maritime bridge which links the city to the fort built on an islet; we passed among the frail tartanes (trading ships) which alone find the harbour deep enough to provide shelter, and approached an old jetty whose enormous stones were partly covered by the waves. The water foams over the ruins, and one can only reach dry land borne by almost naked hamals (bearers). We laughed a little at the embarrassment of the two English female companions of the missionary, who writhed in the arms of these coppery tritons, like the blonde Nereids of the Triumph of Galatea (see Raphael’s fresco in the Villa Farnesina, Rome) though more amply clothed. The crow, that friend of the poor Greek household, beats its wings and cawed; a crowd of young rascals, who had made themselves striped mishlahs (coats) out of camel-hair sacking, rushed upon the baggage; some offered themselves as guides, shouting out two or three words in French. My eyes rested with pleasure on boats loaded with oranges, figs, and enormous grapes, from the Promised Land; further on, a penetrating smell of groceries, salted-meat, and fried-food indicated the proximity of the market. Indeed, we passed between the Naval headquarters and the Customs building, and found ourselves in a street, lined with stalls, which terminated at the gate of the French khan. We were on terra firma. The tricolour flew over the building, which is the most considerable in Saida. The vast square courtyard, shaded by acacias, with a pond in the centre, is surrounded by two rows of arcades which correspond on the ground floor to shops, and above to rooms occupied by merchants. I was shown the consular lodgings located in the left-hand corner, and, while I was ascending the stairs, the Marseillais and the priest sought the Franciscan monastery, which occupies the rear of the building. The French khan is like a township, and we have none more important in all of Syria. Unfortunately, our trade is no longer in proportion to the size of the establishment.
I was chatting quietly with Monsieur Conti, our Vice-Consul, when the Marseillais arrived, in a most animated state, complaining about the Franciscans, and heaping Voltairean epithets on them. They had refused to receive the priest and his wife.
— ‘That,’ said Monsieur Conti, ‘is because they refuse to provide lodging for anyone who has not arrived with a letter of recommendation.’
— ‘Well, that’s typical,’ said the Marseillais, ‘I know them all, those monks, and that’s their way; when they deal with some poor devil, they always do the same. Well-off people give eight piastres (two francs) a day to the monastery; it’s not a tax, but that’s the cost, and by doing so they’re sure to be well received everywhere.’
— ‘But poor pilgrims who are recommended are also received,’ said Monsieur Conti, ‘and the monks welcome them free of charge.’
— ‘Doubtless, and then, after three days, they throw them out,’ said the Marseillais. ‘And how many of these poor people do they receive a year? You know that in France we only grant passports for use in the Orient to those who can prove they’ve the means to make the journey’.
— ‘That’s exactly right,’ I said to Monsieur Conti, ‘and it’s considered within those rules, as regards equality, which apply to all French people... if they have money in their pocket.’
— ‘You are probably aware,’ he replied, ‘that, according to the various treaties with the Porte, Consuls are forced to repatriate those of their nationals who lack the resources to return to Europe. That is a great cost to the State.’
— ‘So,’ I said, ‘there is no longer any possibility of voluntary crusades, or pilgrimages, but we have State religion!’
— ‘All this’, cried the Marseillais, ‘fails to provide lodging for these good people.’
— ‘I would provide a recommendation for them,’ said Monsieur Conti, ‘but you understand that, regardless, a Catholic monastery cannot receive a Greek priest with his wife. There is a Greek convent here which will readily receive them.’
— ‘Ah! What would you have?’ cried the Marseillais, ‘It’s a bad business, as ever. These poor devils are schismatic Greeks; in all religions, the more similar the belief, the more the believers hate each other; try and make sense of that.... Well, I shall knock on some Tur’s door. They have this virtue, at least, that they show hospitality to everyone.’
Monsieur Conti had great difficulty in restraining the Marseillais from doing so; he was willing to take charge of finding accommodation for the priest, his wife and the crow, who had joined to his owners’ anxiety its own plaintive croaks.
Our Vice-Consul is an excellent man, and also a learned orientalist; he showed me two works translated from manuscripts that had been lent to him by a Druze. One may see from this that the doctrine is no longer kept a secret as formerly. Knowing that the subject interested me, Monsieur Conti was kind enough to discuss it at length with me during dinner. We then went to visit the ruins, which one arrives at through delightful gardens, the most beautiful on the whole coast of Syria. As for the ruins, situated to the north, they are now nothing more than fragments and dust: only the foundations of a wall appeared to date back to the Phoenician period; the rest are from the Middle Ages: we know that Saint Louis (Louis IX of France) had the city rebuilt, and repaired a square castle built by the Ptolemies. The cistern of Elijah, the sepulchre of Zabulon, and some burial chambers with remains of pilasters and paintings complete the picture of all that Saida reveals of its past.
On our way back, Monsieur Conti showed us a house located on the shore, which was inhabited by Bonaparte at the time of his Syrian campaign. The wallpaper, decorated with military insignia, was hung for his benefit, and two bookcases, surmounted by Chinese vases, contain the books and plans that the hero consulted assiduously. We know that he had advanced as far as Saida to establish relations with the emirs of Lebanon. A secret treaty placed at his disposal six thousand Maronites and six thousand Druze intended to prevent the army of the Pasha of Damascus, marching on Acre. Unfortunately, various intrigues engendered by the sovereigns of Europe, and a number of the monasteries, hostile to the ideas of the Revolution, slowed the popular momentum; the princes of Lebanon, always politically minded, made their formal support dependent on the result of the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Acre. Moreover, thousands of local warriors had already joined the French army due to their hatred of the Turks. However, numbers were inadequate to the purpose. The siege engines that were expected were seized by the English navy, which had managed to lodge its engineers and gunners within the walls of Acre. It was a Frenchman, named Antoine le Picard de Phélippeaux, a former schoolmate of Napoleon, who, as we know, led their force. A schoolboy hatred may have decided the fate of a nation!
Chapter 3: Lunch at Acre
The boat set sail again; the Mount Lebanon range sank lower, and receded little by little, as we approached Acre; the shore was sandier and bare of verdure. However, it was not long before we saw the port of Sour, the ancient Tyre, where we stopped only to allow a few passengers to board. The city is much less significant than Saida. It is built along the shore, while the islet where Tyre stood at the time of Alexander the Great’s siege is now covered solely with gardens and pasture-land. The jetty that conqueror built, buried in sand, no longer bears any trace of human hands; it is an isthmus scarcely half a mile long. But, if antiquity is no longer revealed on these shores except by the remains of red and grey pillars, Christianity has left more imposing vestiges. One can still see the foundations of the old cathedral, built in the Syrian style, that consisted of three separate semi-circular naves, separated by pilasters, and in which stood the tomb of Frederick Barbarossa, drowned in the Saleph river (the Göksu, now in southern Turkey, then in Armenian Cilicia), opposite Tyre. The famous mineral water wells of Ras-al-Ayn, celebrated in the Bible, and which are really artesian wells, whose creation is attributed to Solomon, still exist a few miles from the city, and several of the immense arches of the aqueduct which brought the waters to Tyre still stand proud against the sky. That is all that is left of Tyre: its translucent vases, its dazzling purples, its precious timber were once renowned throughout the earth. Those rich exports have given way to a small trade in grain, from crops harvested by the Metouali (Matawila, Shia Muslims) and sold by the Greeks, who are very numerous in the city.
Night was falling when we entered the harbour of Acre. It was too late to disembark; but, by the clear light of the stars, all the details of the graceful arc of the sea between Acre and Haifa, were highlighted by the contrasting land and water. On the horizon, some miles away, the peaks of the Anti-Lebanon were visible sloping to the north, while to the south in bold ridges rose the levels of the Carmel range, which stretches towards Galilee. The slumbering city was revealed only by its crenellated walls, square towers and the metal domes of its mosque, indicated from afar by a single minaret. Apart from this Islamic detail, one might still dream it to be the feudal city of the Templars, the last stronghold of the Crusades.
Daylight came to dispel this illusion by betraying a mass of shapeless ruins resulting from the many sieges and bombardments over the years. The Marseillais had woken me at dawn, to show me the morning star rising over the village of Nazareth, only twenty-five miles distant. I could not escape the emotion aroused by such a fact. I suggested to the Marseillais that we make the journey.
— ‘It’s a pity,’ he said, ‘that the house of the Virgin is no longer there; but you know that the angels transported it in one night to Loreto, near Venice. Here, they show the site, that’s all. It’s not worth a visit only to find there’s nothing left!’
In any case, at that moment, I was thinking above all of paying my visit to the Pasha. The Marseillais, through his experience of Turkish custom, could give me advice on how to introduce myself, and I told him how I had made the acquaintance of the person in question in Paris.
— ‘Do you think he will recognise me?’ I asked him.
— ‘Well, of course,’ he replied, ‘only, you must resume dressing as a European; without that, you’ll be obliged to wait for an audience, and may not be received today.’
I followed his advice, but kept the tarbouch (rimless hat), my hair having been shaved in the oriental style.
— ‘I know your pasha well,’ continued the Marseillais, while I changed my costume. ‘In Constantinople they call him Gözlük, meaning the man with spectacles.’
— ‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘he was wearing glasses when I met him.’
— ‘Well, that’s how it goes among the Turs: this nickname has become his public name, and will remain in the family; his son will be called Gözlük-Oglou, and so will all his descendants. Most proper names have similar origins.... They indicate that, the man having risen by his own merit, his children accept the inheritance of a nickname often intended ironically, because it recalls either a reason for mockery, or a bodily defect, or evokes the profession the person practiced before his elevation.’
— ‘It is,’ I said, ‘one more example of the principle of Muslim equality. One honours oneself through humility. Is that not also a Christian principle?’
— ‘Listen,’ said the Marseillais, ‘since the Pasha is your friend, you must do something for me. Tell him that I have a musical clock for sale that plays all the Italian operas. It has birds on it that beat their wings and sing. It is a little marvel.... They like such things, the Turs!’
It was not long before we were set on shore, and I soon wearied of walking the narrow, dusty streets while awaiting the proper time to present myself to the Pasha. Apart from the vaulted bazaar and the newly restored mosque of Djezzar Pasha (Ahmad Pasha al-Jazzar), there is little left to see in the city; one would need an architect’s skills to draw up plans of the churches and monasteries from the time of the Crusades. Their foundations are still visible; an arcade that runs beside the harbour is the only one left standing, like the ruins of the palace of the Grand Masters of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem (the Knights Hospitaller).
The Pasha lived outside the city, in a summer cabin located near the gardens of Abdullah (Abdullah Pasha ibn Ali), at the end of an aqueduct that traverses the plain. Seeing horses and slaves, belonging to various visitors, in the courtyard, I recognised that the Marseillais had been right to make me change my costume. In the Levantine habit, I would have appeared a meagre personage; in my black clothing, all eyes were fixed on me.
Under the peristyle, at the bottom of the stairs, an immense pile of slippers had been left by visitors as they entered. The seradjbachi (official) who received me, wished to relieve me of my boots; but I refused, which gave him a high opinion of my importance. I therefore only remained a moment in the waiting room. The Pasha had, moreover, been handed the letter I was charged with, and ordered that I be allowed to enter, though it was not my turn.
Here my reception was conducted more ceremoniously. I was expecting a European welcome; but the Pasha confined himself to having me sit near him on a divan which surrounded part of the room. He feigned to speak only Italian, although I had heard him speak French in Paris, and, having addressed the obligatory phrase to me: ‘Is your kief good?’ which is as much as to say: ‘Do you find yourself well?’ he had a chibouk and coffee brought to me. Our conversation was still fuelled by commonplaces. Then the Pasha repeated his question: ‘Is your kief good’ and had another cup of coffee served. I had walked the streets of Acre all morning, and had traversed the plain, without encountering the least trattoria; I had even refused the piece of bread and Arles-sausage offered by the Marseillais, counting on Muslim hospitality; but place no reliance on friendship with the great of this world! The conversation continued without the Pasha offering anything other than coffee without sugar, and tobacco smoke. He repeated a third time: ‘Is your kief good?’ I rose, to take my leave. At that moment, the hour of noon struck on a clock placed above my head, it commenced playing a tune; a second clock struck almost immediately and began a different tune; a third and a fourth began in turn, and the result was the sort of hullabaloo one might imagine. However accustomed I may have been to the singularities of the Turks, I failed to comprehend why so many clocks had been gathered in the same room. The Pasha seemed delighted by their harmoniousness, and was proud no doubt to display his love of progress to a European. I thought of the commission with which the Marseillais had charged me. The business seemed all the more difficult to me, since those four clocks each occupied one of the walls of the room, in perfect symmetry. Where to place a fifth? I chose not to mention it.
Nor was it the right time to speak of the affair of the Druze sheikh, a prisoner in Beirut. I kept that delicate matter for another visit, when the Pasha might receive me less coldly. I withdrew, pretending to have business in the city. When I reached the courtyard, an officer came to inform me that the Pasha had ordered two cavasses (guards) to accompany me wherever I wished to go. I was not over-impressed by this degree of attention, which usually results in a substantial amount of bakshish being handed to the said brutes.
When we re-entered the city, I asked one of them where I could lunch. They looked at each other in astonishment, saying that it was not the proper time. As I insisted, they asked me for a columnario (a Spanish piastre) to buy chickens and rice.... Where would they cook them? In the guardhouse. It seemed to me an expensive and complex task. Finally, they had the idea of leading me to the French Consulate; but I learned there that our agent resided on the other side of the gulf, on the far side of Mount Carmel. In Saint-Jean-d’Acre, as in the cities of Lebanon, the Europeans have homes in the mountains, at an elevation whereby the effects of the great heat, and the burning winds of the plain, are mitigated. I lacked the courage to go and seek my lunch so far above sea level. As for presenting myself at the monastery, I knew I would not be received there without a letter of recommendation. I therefore counted on meeting the Marseillais, who would probably be in the bazaar.
In fact, he was selling, to a Greek merchant, an assortment of those old bulbous pocket-watches loved by our grandfathers, which the Turks prefer to ones in flat cases. The largest are the most expensive; Nuremberg Eggs (early clock-watches) are beyond price. Our old European rifles also find their place throughout the Orient, because they only seek flintlocks there.
— ‘Such is my trade,’ said the Marseillais, ‘I buy all these old things cheaply in France, and resell them here for as high a price as possible. Fine antique jewellery, old cashmeres, all of them sell very well. They came from the East, and return here. In France, we fail to understand the value of beautiful things; everything depends on fashion. So, the best idea is to buy things in France: Turkish weapons, chibouks, pieces of amber, all the oriental curiosities brought back at various times by travellers, and then come here to resell them. When I see Europeans buying fabrics, costumes, weapons here, I say to myself: ‘Poor fools! They would cost you less in Paris, at some dealer in bric-a-brac.’
— ‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘never mind all that; do you still have any of that Arles sausage?’
— ‘Well! I think so! It lasts me awhile. I see your problem: you have missed lunch.... That’s fine. We’ll find a cafedji (coffee-shop proprietor); we’ll buy you some bread.’
The saddest thing was that in all that city there was only unleavened bread, cooked on sheet metal, and resembling a galette, or carnival pancake. I never suffer eating such indigestible food except on condition of eating but little, and compensating for it with other edibles. With only a bite of sausage, that was more difficult; so, I had but a poor lunch.
We offered some sausage to the cavasses; but they refused it due to religious qualms.
— ‘The poor fellows!’ said the Marseillais, ‘they imagine it’s pork!... ‘They are ignorant of the fact that sausages from Arles are made with donkey-meat....’
Chapter 4: The Adventures of a Marseillais
The siesta hour had arrived long since; everyone was asleep, and the two cavasses, thinking that we would do as they, had stretched out on the benches of the café. I was inclined to quit my inconvenient entourage there, and take my kief outside the city, in some shaded place; but the Marseillais told me it would not be sensible, and that we would find no more shade and freshness there than within the thick walls of the bazaar where we now were. So, we began to converse to pass the time. I told him of my situation, and my plans; the idea I had conceived of settling in Syria, of marrying a woman from that country, and, that being unable to wed a Muslim woman, unless I changed my religion, how I had become preoccupied with a young Druze girl who would suit me in every way. There are times when one feels the need, like King Midas’ barber, to tell someone one’s secrets. The Marseillais, a frivolous man, perhaps did not deserve my confidences; but, at heart he was a good fellow, and proved it by the interest my predicament inspired in him.
— ‘I must confess,’ I said, ‘that having known the Pasha during his stay in Paris, I had hoped for a less formal reception; I had even set my hopes, in the circumstances, of rendering some service perhaps to the Druze sheikh, the father of the pretty girl I speak of.... but now, I know not what I might expect from him.’
— ‘Are you joking?’ replied the Marseillais. ‘You are ready to take such trouble over a little girl from the mountains? Eh! What idea do you have of these Druze? A Druze sheikh; well, what is he compared to a European, a Frenchman of the best society? Recently, the son of an English consul, Mr. Parker, married one of these women, an Alawite, from the area round Tripoli; no one in his family will now receive him! She too was the daughter of a sheikh, moreover.’
— ‘Oh! The Alawites are not the Druze,’ I said.
— ‘Look here, this is a young man’s whim. I stayed awhile in Tripoli; I did business with one of my compatriots who had established a silk-mill in the mountains; he knew all those people well; their men and women lead a very singular life.’
I began to laugh, knowing full well that such Lebanese sects had only a distant connection with the Druze, and asked the Marseillais to tell me what he knew.’
— ‘They’re droll!’ he whispered in my ear with that comical expression displayed by Southerners, who understand by that term something particularly lewd.
— ‘That is possible,’ I said; ‘but the young girl I speak of does not belong to a sect in which some degenerate practice of the primitive Druze cult might still exist. She is what is called a learned woman, an akkalé.’
— ‘Ah! Yes, that’s right; those I met called their priestesses akkals; it is the same word, as pronounced locally. Well, these priestesses, do you know what they are made to do? They have them climb on the altar table as a representation of the Kadra (the Virgin). Of course they are there in the most basic attire, without a dress or anything on, and the priest prays to them, saying that the image of motherhood must be adored. It is like a Mass; only, on the altar there’s a large jug of wine from which he drinks, and which he then passes to all the assistants.’
— ‘Do you truly believe,’ I said, ‘such a tale, invented by people of other religions?’
— ‘Do I believe it? I believe it because I saw, in the district of Al-Qadmus, on the day of the feast of the Nativity, every man who met a woman in his path prostrating himself before them, and kissing their knees.’
— ‘Well, these are remnants of the ancient idolatry of Astarte, which has become merged with Christian ideas.’
— ‘And what do you say about their way of celebrating Epiphany?’
— ‘The Feast of Kings?’
— ‘Yes.... But, for them, this festival also brings in the new year. On that day, the akkals (the initiated), men and women, gather in their khalwats, the name for their temples: there is a moment in the service when all the lights are extinguished, and I leave you to imagine what fine things may then occur.’
— ‘I don't believe in any of that; the same has been said about the agapes of the first Christians. And what European could have seen such a ceremony, since only the initiated can enter these temples?’
— ‘Who? Well, only my fellow countryman from Tripoli, the silk-spinner, who was doing business with one of these akkals. The latter owed him money. My friend said to him: ‘I’ll forgo the debt, if you’ll arrange to take me to one of your gatherings.’ The other created many difficulties, saying that if they were discovered, they’d both be knifed. No matter, when a Marseillais has an idea in his head, it has to be brought to fruition. They made an appointment for the day of the festival; the akkal explained to my friend in advance all the mummeries that had to be enacted, and, dressed in the costume, and knowing the language well, the risk was not great. They arrived in front of one of these khalwats; it was like a santon’s tomb, a square chapel with a small dome, surrounded by trees, abutting a cliff. You will have seen some in the mountains.’
— ‘I have indeed.’
— ‘Well, there are always armed men around to prevent curious people from approaching during prayer times.’
— ‘And what happened then?’
— ‘Then they waited for the rising of the planet that they call Sockra (Zuhrah, in Arabic); it is the planet, Venus. They pray to it.’
— ‘That is a further remnant, no doubt, of the worship of Astarte.’
— ‘Wait. They then began to count the shooting stars. When they reached a certain number, they drew omens from them, and on finding them favourable, entered the temple and began the ceremony. During the prayers, the women entered one by one, and, at the time of the sacrifice, the lights went out.’
— ‘And what happened to the Marseillais?’
— ‘He was told what to do, there being no choice; it is like a marriage that takes place with your eyes closed....’
— ‘Well, it’s their way of marrying, that is all; and, since there is an act of consecration at that time, the enormity of the fact seems to me much diminished; it is a custom most favourable to ugly women.’
— ‘You don’t understand! They are married off later, when each man is required to take a wife. The grand sheikh himself, whom they call the Mekkadam, cannot prevent this egalitarian practice.’
— ‘I am beginning to worry about your friend’s fate.’
— ‘My friend was delighted with the lot that had befallen him. “But,” he said to himself: “It’s a pity no one knows to whom they’ve made love!” Those people’s ideas are absurd....’
— ‘Probably, they want no one to know quite who their father is; that is, indeed, pushing the doctrine of equality a little too far. The East is more advanced than we are in communalism.’
— ‘My friend,’ the Marseillais continued, ‘had a most ingenious idea; he cut a piece from the dress of the woman who was beside him, saying to himself: “Tomorrow morning, in broad daylight, I shall be certain with whom I had dealings.”’
— ‘Aha!’
— ‘Sir,’ continued the Marseillais, ‘when daybreak came, everyone departed, without saying a word, after the officiants had called for the blessing of the good Lord ... or, the Devil perhaps, who knows, … on the offspring of all these marriages. There was my friend, his eyes scanning the women, each of whom had donned her veil. He soon found the one who was lacking a piece of her dress. He followed her to her house without seeming to do so, and entered the place a little later, like a mere passer-by to ask for a drink: something which is never refused in the mountains, and there he found himself surrounded by children and grandchildren.... The woman was old!’
— ‘An old woman?’
— ‘Yes, sir! And you can judge whether my friend was pleased with his adventure.’
— ‘Why do we delve into everything? Isn’t it better to preserve the illusion? The ancient mysteries involve a more graceful tale, that of Psyche.’
— ‘You think it a fable that I relate; but everyone knows the story in Tripoli. Now, what do you think of all these believers and their ceremonies?’
—Your imagination exceeds the facts,’ I said to the Marseillais, ‘the custom you speak of only takes place among a sect rejected by all the others. It would be as unjust to attribute such morals to the Alawites and the Druze as to claim for Christianity certain like follies attributed to the Anabaptists or the Waldensians. (In France, a similar practice has been ascribed to the Beguines, but these Oriental sectarians are probably the only ones whose religious frenzy has been taken to such extremes).
Our discussion continued for some time in this way. My companion’s false impressions threatened the empathy I felt for the people of Lebanon, and I neglected nothing in my attempts to undeceive him, while welcoming the valuable information that his personal observations brought me.
Most travellers grasp only odd details of the life and customs of certain peoples. The essence escapes them and can only be acquired through in-depth study. How I congratulated myself on having acquired in advance a precise knowledge of the history and religious doctrines of many of the peoples of Lebanon, whose character inspired esteem! In the desire I had to settle among them, such information was not a matter of indifference to me, and I required it so as to resist a host of European prejudices.
In general, as regards Syria, we are only interested in the Maronites, Catholics like us, and to some extent in the Greeks, Armenians and Jews, whose ideas are less distant from ours than those of the Muslims; we fail to consider that there exist a series of intermediate beliefs capable of being related to the principles of Northern civilisation, and of gradually bringing the Arabs to recognise those same.
Syria is certainly the only area of the East where we Europeans can firmly establish a foothold and establish commercial relations, as the ancient Greeks did. Anywhere else, it would prove necessary to contain the Arab population, or fear frequent rebellion, as occurs in Algeria. Half, at least, of the Syrian population is composed of Christians, or people disposed to the ideas of reform which now prevail among enlightened Muslims. One ought to add to this number a majority of the desert Arabs, who, like the Persians, belong to the sect of Ali (Ali ibn Ali Talib was the cousin and son-in-law of Muhammad, and is venerated by Shia Muslims, Alawites, and Ali Ilahis.)
Chapter 5: The Pasha’s Dinner
The day was now advanced, and a fresh sea breeze brought to an end the sleep of the city’s population. We left the café, and I began to worry about dinner; but the cavasses, whose gibberish, more Turkish than Arabic, I understood only imperfectly, kept repeating: ‘Ti sabir?’ much like Molière’s Mufti (see Molière’s comedy ‘Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Scene V, Fourth Interlude’).
— ‘Ask them what it is I’m supposed to know,’ I said to the Marseillais, at last.
— ‘They say it’s time to revisit the Pasha.’
— ‘For what reason?’
— ‘To dine with him.’
— ‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘I no longer count on it; the Pasha failed to invite me.’
— ‘Since he loaned you these guards, it went without saying.’
— ‘But in these countries, they usually dine at noon.’
— ‘Not the Turks, whose main meal is at sunset, after prayers.’
I took leave of the Marseillais, and returned to the Pasha’s ‘kiosk’. Crossing the plain, clothed in wild grasses bleached by the sun, I admired the situation of the ancient city, once so powerful and so magnificent, and now reduced to a shapeless strip of land projecting into the waves, on which the ruins of three dreadful bombardments in the last forty-five years (Bonaparte in 1799, Ibrahim-Pasha in 1832, and Napier in 1840) had accumulated. Everywhere, on the plain, one stumbled over the debris of bombs and cannonballs, riddling the ground.
On returning to the pavilion where I had been received in the morning, I no longer saw piles of shoes at the bottom of the stairs, and visitors no longer cluttered the mabahim (entrance room); I was ushered through the room with the clocks, and found the Pasha in the next room; he was smoking, seated on the window sill, and rising, without undue ceremony, gave me a French-style handshake.
— ‘How are you? Have you had a good walk through our beautiful city?’ he asked me in French, ‘Have you seen everything?’
His reception was so different from that of the morning, that I could not help revealing some surprise.
— ‘Ah! Forgive me,’ he said ‘if I received you this morning as the Pasha. Those good people in the reception-hall would never have forgiven me for failing in etiquette in favour of a Frangui. In Constantinople, all would understand; but, here, we are provincial.’
Having emphasised that last word, the Pasha was kind enough to tell me that he had lived for a long time in Metz in Lorraine, as a student at the Preparatory School of Artillery. This detail put me completely at ease by providing me with the opportunity to speak to him about some friends of mine who had been his comrades. During this conversation, the harbour cannon, fired to greet the sunset, sounded from the direction of the city. A great tumult of drums and fifes announced the hour of prayer to the Albanians scattered in the courtyards. The Pasha left me for a moment, doubtless to fulfil his religious duties; then he returned and said to me:
— ‘We are about to dine in the European manner.’
Indeed, chairs and a proper board arrived, instead of their merely setting a low table down, and placing a metal tray on it, and cushions all around it, as is usually done. I felt that the Pasha’s attentions were most obliging, and yet, I must admit, I dislike the way in which these European customs are gradually invading the East; I complained to the Pasha of being treated as a mere tourist.
— ‘Yet, you come to see me dressed in your black attire!’ he said.
The reply was just; yet I still felt that I had been in the right. Whatever one does, and however far Turkish benevolence extends, one sees that there can be no immediate fusion between our way of life and theirs. The European customs the Turk adopts, in certain cases, become a sort of neutral ground on which he welcomes us without yielding himself; he consents to imitate our customs, as he deploys our language, only in regard to ourselves. He resembles that ballet character who is half-peasant and half-lord; he shows Europe his gentlemanly side, but is always a pure Osmanli (Ottoman) as far as the Orient is concerned.
Popular prejudice renders this policy a necessity.
However, I found the Pasha of Acre to be a most excellent person, full of politeness and affability, and deeply saddened by the situation that the various powers have placed Turkey in. He told me that he had just left the senior position of Pasha of Tophane in Constantinople (Istanbul), due to the tedious annoyances of consular protection.
— ‘Imagine,’ he said to me, ‘a great city in which a hundred thousand individuals escape local justice: there is not a thief, murderer, or debauchee who fails to have himself placed under the protection of some consulate. Twenty separate police forces act to nullify each other, and yet it is the Pasha who is responsible!... We are scarcely better off, here, amidst seven or eight different peoples, with their sheikhs, cadis and emirs. We agree to leave them alone, in their mountains, provided they pay the tribute.... Well, it is three years since we received a para (penny) from them.’
I saw that it was not yet the right time to speak in favour of the Druze sheikh imprisoned in Beirut, and turned the conversation to another subject. After dinner, I hoped the Pasha would at least follow the old custom of treating me to a performance by almahs, knowing full well that he would not extend his courtesy towards the French as far as to introduce me to his female household; but I was forced to suffer a European reception to the end. We went down to the billiard-room, where I was obliged to attempt cannons till one in the morning. I allowed myself to lose, as often as possible, to great bursts of laughter from the Pasha, who remembered with joy this form of entertainment when at school in Metz.
— ‘A Frenchman, a Frenchman who lets himself be beaten!’ he cried.
— ‘I agree,’ I said, ‘that Saint-Jean-d’Acre has shown me no favour; however, you were forced to take the field alone, while the former pasha of Acre was supported by English cannons.’
We finally parted. I was led to a very large room, lit by a candle in an enormous candlestick placed on the ground, in the centre. This was in keeping with local custom. The slaves made me a bed with cushions placed on the floor, on which were spread sheets sewn on one side only to the blankets; I was, moreover, handed a large nightcap of quilted yellow silk, ribbed like a melon.
Chapter 6: Correspondence (Fragments of letters sent to Théophile Dondey de Santeny)
Here, I interrupt my itinerary, I mean the record, day by day, hour by hour, of local events, which have no merit other than detailing reality. There are moments when life’s pulse quickens, in spite of the laws of time, like a mad clock with a broken mechanism; others when it drags on in a series of inappreciable sensations, hardly worthy of being noted. Shall I speak of my wanderings in the mountains, among places which offer only an arid topography, amongst a people whose nature can only be grasped over time, and whose serious attitude and uniformity of existence lend themselves even less to the picturesque than do the noisy and contrasting city populace? It seems to me that, for some time, I have been living in a past century magically resurrected; the age of feudalism surrounds me with institutions as unchanging as the stones of the keeps that guarded them.
After viewing the mountains and black abysses, where the fires of noon cut circles of mist; the rivers and torrents, illustrious as the ruins of temple columns and broken idols their waters contain; the eternal snows which crown mountains whose flanks slope to the ash-fields of the desert; the distant outlines of valleys the sea half fills with its blue waves; the fragrant forests of cedar and cinnamon; the sublime rocks where the hermitage-bell resounds; the fountains celebrated by the biblical muse, to which young girls hasten in the evening, bearing slender urns on their heads; it seems, yes, to the European mind, the paternal and holy land, the homeland still! Let Damascus, that Arab city, flourish on the edge of the desert and greet the rising sun from the top of its minarets; but Lebanon and Carmel are the Crusader’s heritage: they belong, if not to the Cross alone, at least to what the Cross symbolises, as regards freedom.
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I will summarise for you the changes that have accumulated in the last few months during my destined wanderings. You know with what kindness the Pasha of Acre received me during my passage. I finally confided to him the entire extent of the project I had formed as concerned my marrying the daughter of Sheikh Seid-Escherazy, and of the help I expected from him on this occasion. He began to laugh at first with the naive enthusiasm of Orientals, saying to me:
— ‘Oh, you really desire this?’
— ‘Absolutely,’ I replied. ‘You see, one may admit to a Muslim that there is in this affair a chain of fatalities. It was in Egypt that the idea of marriage was suggested: the thing seemed so simple, so sweet, so easy, so free from all the obstacles which mar that institution in Europe, that I accepted, and lovingly brooded upon, the idea; but I am sensitive, I admit, and though, doubtless, many Europeans have no qualms about it; ... nonetheless, this purchase of girls from their parents has always seemed to me somewhat revolting. The Copts, the Greeks, who make such deals with Europeans, know well that these marriages are not true ones, despite their supposed religious consecration.... I hesitated, I reflected, I ended up buying a slave for the price I would have paid for a wife. But one scarcely touches with impunity the mores of a world of which one is not a part; this woman, I can neither send away, nor sell, nor abandon, without scruple, nor marry her without seeming mad. Yet she is a chain fastened to my feet, and it is I who am the slave; it is fate that keeps me here, as you see!’
— ‘Is that all?’ said the Pasha, ‘Hand her to me ... in exchange for a horse or whatever you like, if not for money; we have not the same ideas as you, we foreigners.’
— ‘For the freedom of Sheikh Seid-Escherazy,’ I said to him: ‘that, at least, would be a noble prize.’
— ‘No,’ he replied, ‘such grace and favour cannot be sold.’
— ‘Well, you see me revert to my state of uncertainty. I am not the first Frank who has bought a slave; ordinarily, the poor girl is left behind in a convent; she makes a fine convert whose honour reflects on her master, and on the holy fathers who educated he; then she becomes a nun or whatever she can, that is to say she is often unhappy. That would be a reason for terrible remorse on my part.’
— ‘What do you wish, then?’
— ‘To marry the girl I spoke of, to whom I will give the slave as a wedding present, as a dowry; they are friends, they will live together. I will tell you, furthermore, it is she herself who gave me this idea. Its realisation depends on you.’
------------------------------
I present to you, in no particular order, the reasons I gave, in my attempt to rouse, and benefit from, the Pasha’s benevolence.
‘I can do very little.’ he told me, finally, ‘The pashalik of Acre is no longer what it once was; it is divided between three governing bodies, and I have only nominal authority over that of Beirut. Let us suppose, moreover, that I succeeded in having the sheikh released, he will accept the favour without gratitude.... You do not know these people! I admit that this sheikh deserves some consideration. At the time of the last troubles, his wife was killed by the Albanians. Resentment has led him to imprudent action, and renders him a danger still. If he will promise to remain quiet in the future, I might see.’
I pursued this sign of his good-nature, with all my strength, and obtained a letter for the governor of Beirut, Essad Pasha. The latter, with whom the Armenian, my old traveling companion, possessed some influence, agreed, on my behalf, to send his prisoner to the Druze kaymakam (governor), reducing the affair, previously complicated by the former’s act of rebellion, to a simple non-payment of taxes over which it would be easy to come to some arrangement.
You observe that the Pashas themselves are unable to achieve everything they wish in this country; otherwise, Mehmet’s extreme kindness to me would have smoothed away all obstacles. Perhaps he also wanted to oblige me, in a more delicate manner, by masking his own intervention in the eyes of the lower officials. The fact is that I had only to present myself on his behalf to the kaymakam to be favourably received; the sheikh had already been transferred to Deir al-Qamar, the current residence of this personage, heir in part to the former authority of Emir Bashir (Bashir Shihab II). There is, as you know, today a kaymakam for the Druze and another for the Maronites; it is a shared form of power which depends ultimately on Turkish authority, but whose institution spares these peoples’ national pride and their claim to govern themselves.
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All have described Deir al-Qamar, with its cluster of flat-roofed houses on a steep hill, as like the staircase of some ruined Babel. Beit ed-Dine, the ancient residence of the emirs of the mountain, occupies another peak which seems almost to touch this one, but which is separated from it by a deep valley. If, from Deir al-Qamar (‘The Monastery of the Moon’), you look towards Beit ed-Dine (‘The House of Faith’), you might believe you were viewing a faery castle; its ogival arches, bold terraces, colonnades, pavilions, and turrets offer a mix of styles more dazzling in mass than satisfying in detail. The palace is indeed symbolic of the policy of the emirs who inhabited it. It is pagan in its columns and paintings, Christian in its towers and ogive arches, Muslim in its domes and kiosks; it involves a temple, a church and a mosque, contained amidst its buildings. At once palace, keep, and seraglio, today only one portion remains inhabited: the prison.
It was there that Sheikh Seid-Escherazy had been temporarily lodged, happy at least to be no longer under the control of a foreign authority. Sleeping beneath the vault of the old palace of his princes was doubtless a relief; he had been allowed to lodge his daughter near him, another favour he had been unable to obtain in Beirut. However, the kaymakam, being responsible for the prisoner, and the debt, had him closely guarded.
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I obtained permission to visit the sheikh, as I had done in Beirut; having taken lodgings at Deir al-Qamar, I had only to cross the intermediate valley to reach the immense terrace of the palace, from which, amidst the peaks of the mountains, one can discern in the distance a resplendent patch of blue sea. The echoing galleries, the deserted rooms, formerly full of pages, slaves, and soldiers, reminded me of those castles of Walter Scott which the fall of the Stuarts stripped of their royal splendour. The majesty of the natural landscape spoke no less loudly to my mind.... I felt that I must frankly explain myself to the sheikh and not conceal from him the reason I possessed for seeking to be useful to him. Nothing is worse than an outpouring of undeserved thanks.
At the first opening, I made, with great embarrassment, he struck his forehead with his finger.
— ‘Enté medjnoun (are you crazy)?’ he said.
— ‘Medjnoun,’ I said, ‘was the epithet of a famous lover (see Jami’s ‘Medjnoun and Leila’), and I am far from rejecting it.’
— ‘Have you viewed my daughter’s face?’ he cried.
The expression of his gaze was such at that moment, that I involuntarily thought of a story the Pasha of Acre had told me when speaking of the Druze. The memory of it was certainly not a pleasant one. A kyaya (steward) had related it to him, as follows:
‘I was asleep, when at midnight I heard a knock at the door; I saw a Druze enter carrying a bag on his shoulders.
— “What have you there?” I asked him.
— “My sister was plotting, and I killed her. This bag contains her tantour (cone-shaped headdress).”
— “But there are two!”
— “That is because I killed the mother also, who was aware of the plot. There is no strength and power except in the Lord on high.”
The Druze had brought these treasures from his victims to appease the Turkish system of justice.
The kyaya stopped him, and said:
— “Go to sleep, I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
The next day he said to him:
— “Doubtless, you had a sleepless night?”
— “On the contrary,” replied the other. “For a year I suspected this shameful plot, and lost sleep; I found it again last night.”’
This memory came back to me in a flash; I hesitated no longer. I had nothing to fear on my account, no doubt, but this prisoner had lodged his daughter near him: might he not suspect her of something more than having been seen without a veil? I explained to him my visits to Madame Carlès, justified, certainly, by the fact that my slave dwelt with her, and the friendship that the latter had for his daughter, due to which I had occasion to meet her; I passed swiftly over the question of the veil which might have been disturbed by chance.... I thought that, regardless, he would not doubt my sincerity.
— ‘Amongst all people,’ I added, ‘a girl’s father is asked for her hand in marriage, and I see no reason for your surprise. You may believe, from the connections I possess in this country, that my position is in no way inferior to yours. As for religion, I would not accept changing it for the most beautiful marriage on earth; but I understand yours, I know that it is extremely tolerant and admits all possible forms of worship, and views all the accepted revelations as diverse but equally holy manifestations of the divine. I fully share these ideas, and, without ceasing to be a Christian, I believe I can....’
— ‘Ah! wretch!’ cried the sheikh, ‘it is not allowed: the pen is broken, the ink is dry, the book is closed!’
— ‘What do you mean?’
— ‘These are the very words of our law. None can, any longer, enter our communion.’
— ‘I thought initiation was open to everyone.’
— ‘To the djahels (ignorant folk) who are of our people, and who rise through study and virtue, but not to foreigners, since our people are the only ones chosen by God.’
— ‘However, you do not condemn others.’
— ‘No more than a bird condemns an animal that crawls on the ground. The word was preached to you, but you did not listen.’
— ‘In whose day?’
— ‘In the time of Hamza, the prophet of our lord Hakim.’
— ‘But how did we hear it?’
— ‘Doubtless, he sent missionaries (dais) to all the isles (regions).’
— ‘And how is this our fault? We were not born, then!’
— ‘You existed in some other body, but possessed the same spirit. This spirit, immortal like ours, remained closed to the divine word. It showed by this its inferior nature. Everything is proclaimed to all eternity.’
It is not easy to astonish a fellow who has studied philosophy in Germany, and who has read Friedrich Creuser’s text (see his ‘Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Griechen’ 1810-12) in the original German. I readily conceded to the worthy Akkal his doctrine of transmigration, and said to him, starting from that point:
— ‘When the dais sowed the word about the world, around the year 1000 of the Christian era, they made proselytes, did they not, elsewhere than in these mountains? What proof have you that I am not descended from them? Would you like me to tell you where the plant called ahliledj (cuscuta epithymum, or dodder, a sacred plant) grows?
— ‘Does it grow in your country?’
— ‘It grows only in the hearts of the faithful for whom Hakim is the one true God.’
— ‘That is indeed the sacramental phrase; but you may have learned these words from some renegade.’
— ‘Do you wish me to recite the entire Druze catechism to you?’
— ‘The Franks have stolen many books from us, but the knowledge acquired by infidels can only derive from evil spirits. If you are one of the Druze from the other isles, you must have your black stone (‘horse’). Show it, and we will recognise you.’
— ‘You shall see it later,’ I told him.
But I really did not know of what he wished to speak. I broke off the conversation for that time, and, promising to come back and see him, returned to Deir al-Qamar.
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That same evening, I asked the kaymakam, as if merely out of curiosity, what this horse was; he was happy to tell me that it was a stone cut in the shape of an animal that all the Druze carry on them as a sign of recognition, and which, found on various Druze corpses, had given rise to the opinion that they worshipped a foal, something as absurd as believing Christians worshipped the symbolic lamb, or dove. These stones, which in an age of primitive communication were distributed to all the faithful, were transmitted from father to son.
So, I only had to find one to convince the akkal that I was descended from some ancient believer; but the thought of such deceit disgusted me. The kaymakam, more enlightened due to his position, and more open to the ideas of Europe than his compatriots, gave me various details that brought sudden enlightenment. My friend, I understood everything, divined everything in an instant; my absurd dream is alive, the impossible has been realised!
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Seek carefully, entertain the most baroque suppositions, or rather ‘let the dogs give tongue’, as Madame de Sévigné says (‘jette ta langue aux chiens’, see her letter of the 15th December 1670, to Emmanuel de Coulanges). And learn something of which I myself had until now only a vague idea: the Druze akkals are the Freemasons of the Orient.
No other reason is needed to explain the ancient claim made by the Druze that they descend from certain knights of the Crusades. What their great emir Fakr al-Din declared at the court of the Medici when invoking the support of Europe against the Turks, and was so often recalled in the letters-patent of Henry IV and Louis XIV in favour of the people of Lebanon, is true, at least in part. During the two centuries that the Knights Templar occupied Lebanon, they laid deep institutional foundations there. In their desire for domination over nations of different races and religions, it is seemingly they who established this system of Masonic affiliation, marked, moreover, by local customs. The oriental ideas which, as a result, penetrated the Templars’ Order were, in part, the source of those accusations of heresy which they suffered in Europe. Freemasonry has, as you know, inherited the doctrines of the Templars; Thus, the connection is established, and that is why the Druze speak of their co-religionists in Europe, dispersed among various countries, and principally in the mountains of Scotland (Djebel-el-Scouzia). They mean by this the Scottish companions and masters, as well as the Rosicrucians, whose grades correspond to those of the ancient Templars. (The English missionaries rely heavily on this circumstance to establish the influence of their country among the Druze. They induce the Druze to believe that the Scottish rite is peculiar to their island. We can be sure that the French Freemasons were the first to understand the relationship, since France founded, at the time of the Revolution, the lodges of the United Druze, the Commanders of Lebanon, etc).
And then, you know that I myself am one of the Widow’s Sons, a louveteau (a Masonic epithet, from a mason’s lifting-device), or wolf-cub (the son of a master-mason; for all this see the rites of Freemasonry), that I was raised to treat with horror the murder of Adoniram, and venerate the Holy Temple, whose columns were cedars from Mount Lebanon. Seriously, Freemasonry is very degenerate among us... you see, however, that it may prove useful when travelling. In short, I am no longer an infidel among the Druze, I am a muta-darassin, a student. In Freemasonry, this would correspond to the grade of apprentice; one must then become a companion (refik), then a master (dai); the akkal would be for us a Rosicrucian, one who is known as a kaddosch (sacred) knight. All the rest has intimate connection with our own Freemasons’ lodges, I have abridged the details here.
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You will surmise what happened next. I produced my credentials, fortunately having among my papers one of those beautiful Masonic diplomas full of cabalistic signs familiar to Orientals. When the sheikh asked me again for my ‘black stone’, I told him that the French Templars, having been burned at the stake, had not been able to transmit theirs to the Freemasons, who are their spiritual successors. On would need to ascertain as fact what remains only a probability; this ‘black stone’ must be the baphomet (idol) mentioned at the trial of the Templars.
At this point, my marriage becomes a matter of high politics, involving a renewal perhaps of the ties which formerly attached the Druze to France. These good people complain that our protection extends only to the Catholics, while formerly the kings of France included the Druze in their favours, as descendants of the crusaders, and Christians in a manner of speaking. (Author’s note: however frivolous these pages may appear they contain a matter of fact. One recalls the collective petition that the Druze and the Maronites recently addressed to the Chamber of Deputies.)
The agents of England have taken advantage of the situation to assert their own support, and hence the struggles between the two rival peoples, Druze and Maronite, formerly united under the same princes.
The kaymakam finally allowed Sheikh Seid-Escherazy to return to his district, and did not hide from him that it was to my representations to the Pasha of Acre that he owed this result. The Sheikh said:
— ‘If you wished to make yourself useful, well that is every man’s duty; if it was in your own interest, why should I thank you?’
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His Druze faith astonished me in various ways, however it is a noble and pure one, when it is well understood. The akkals recognise neither virtue nor crime. An honest person has no merit; only, he or she rises in the scale of being while the vicious degrade themselves. Transmigration brings punishment or reward as appropriate.
They do not say that a Druze has died, they say that the person has transmigrated.
The Druze do not give alms, because alms, according to them, degrade the one who accepts them. They only exercise hospitality, as an exchange to be completed in this life or another.
Vengeance is a feature of their laws; all injustice must be punished, while forgiveness degrades the one who receives it.
Among them, one rises not through humility, but through knowledge; one must make oneself as like as possible to God.
Prayer is not obligatory; it offers no aid in redeeming sin.
It is a person’s own responsibility to repair the evil they have done, not because they may have acted badly, but because that evil, by force of circumstance, will otherwise return to haunt them some day.
The institution of the akkals is somewhat similar to that of scholars in China. The nobles (sharifs) are obliged to undergo tests of initiation; the rest (salems) can become their equals or superiors, if they reach them, or surpass them in learning.
Sheikh Seid-Escherazy was one of the latter.
I presented the slave to him, saying:
— ‘Here is your daughter’s servant.’
He looked at her with interest, and found her sweet and pious. Since then, the two women have remained together.
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We left Beit ed-Dine, all four of us on mules; we traversed the Beqaa valley, the ancient Coele-Syria, and, after having reached Zahle, we arrived at Baalbek, in the Anti-Lebanon. I dreamed for a few hours amidst those magnificent ruins, the descriptions of which by Volney and Lamartine I cannot improve on. We soon reached the mountainous chain which borders the Hauran. There we halted in a village, where vines and mulberry trees are cultivated, a day’s journey from Damascus. The sheikh took me to his humble house, whose flat roof was supported by an acacia tree (the tree of Hiram Abif, see the rites of Freemasonry). At certain times, the house fills with children: it is a school, which is the loveliest of titles for an akkal’s dwelling.
There is no need to describe to you the rare meetings I have with my fiancée. In the East, the women live together, and the men together, unless in special cases. I will mention only that this amiable person gave me a red tulip, and planted a small acacia in the garden, which is to grow with our love. It is a custom of the country.
And now I am studying to reach the dignity of refik (companion), which I hope to attain shortly. The marriage will take place at that time.
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From time to time, I make an excursion to Baalbek. There I met Father Planchet at the house of the Maronite bishop, who was on tour. He did not criticise my decision too forcefully, but told me that my marriage ... would not be a true one. Nurtured on philosophical ideas, I am unconcerned by his Jesuitical opinion. Nonetheless, might it not create a fashion for mixed marriages in Lebanon? – I will think on it.
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Epilogue
Chapter 1: Constantinople (Istanbul)
My friend, human beings are restless creatures, and God determines their progress. It was doubtless established for all eternity that I would not marry either in Egypt or Syria, a country where such unions are nonetheless readily accomplished, to an extent that borders on the absurd. At the moment when I was about to render myself worthy of marrying the sheikh’s daughter, I found myself suddenly seized by one of those Syrian fevers which, even if they do not kill you, last for months or years. The only remedy is to quit the country. I hastened to flee those valleys of the Hauran, at once humid and dusty, whence the rivers that water the plain of Damascus flow. I hoped to recover my health in Beirut, but was only able to regain the strength necessary to embark on the Austrian steamboat that plied the route from Trieste, and transported me to Smyrna, then Constantinople. I have finally set foot on European soil — the climate here is more or less that of our southern cities.
Returning health deepens my regrets.... But what to do? If I return to Syria hereafter, I will see the fever I had the misfortune to catch there reappear; such is the doctors’ opinion. As for bringing the woman I had chosen here, would it not be exposing her to those terrible diseases that in Northern countries carry off, three-quarters of the women from the Orient who are transplanted there?
Having thought about all this for a long time, with the serenity of mind that convalescence gives, I decided to write to the Druze sheikh and release us from our mutual obligation.
Chapter 2: Galata
From the foot of the Galata Tower — with the whole panorama of Constantinople, the Bosphorus and the sea before me — I turn my gaze once again towards long since vanished Egypt!
Beyond the peaceful horizon that surrounds me, in this European land — Muslim, it is true, but already recalling our homeland — I always feel the glare of that distant mirage that blazes and smokes in my memory ... as the image of the sun, if one stares at it awhile pursues the weary eye, that has plunged back into the shadows.
My surroundings add to this impression: a Turkish cemetery, in the shadow of the walls of Galata, once a Genoese colony. Behind me, an Armenian barber’s shop which also serves as a café; enormous red and yellow dogs lie in the grass, in the sun; they are covered with wounds and scars resulting from their nocturnal combats. To my left, a venerable santon, wearing his felt cap, sleeps that blissful sleep which is for him the anticipation of paradise. Below, is Tophane with its mosque, its fountain and its batteries of cannon commanding the entrance to the strait. From time to time, I hear psalms from the Greek liturgy sung in a nasal tone, and see passing, on the causeway which leads to Pera, long funeral processions led by priests, who wear imperial-shaped crowns on their heads. With their long beards, silk robes strewn with tinsel and gilded ornaments, they seem like the ghosts of sovereigns of the Late Empire.
All appears less than happy at the moment. Let me return to the past. What I regret as regards Egypt now is not the monstrous onions whose absence the Hebrews mourned in the land of Canaan (see the Bible, ‘Numbers XI:5’), but rather a friend, and a woman — the one separated from me simply by the grave, the other forever lost.
What leads me to conjoin here two names which combine in my memory alone, and for entirely personal reasons! Because it was on arriving in Constantinople that I received the news of the death of the French Consul-General, of whom I have already spoken to you and who had welcomed me with such kindness in Cairo. He was a man well-known to the scholars of Europe, a diplomat and a scholar, two things rarely seen together. He believed it necessary to fulfil in a serious manner one of those consular posts which, generally, do not oblige anyone to acquire special knowledge.
Indeed, according to the ordinary rules of diplomatic advancement, the consul in Alexandria may find himself promoted, from one day to the next, to the position of minister plenipotentiary in Brazil; while a chargé d’affaires in Canton is promoted to Consul-General in Hamburg. Why learn the language, or study the customs of a country, establish relations there, or inquire about the outlets our trade might find there? At most, one thinks of worrying about whether the situation, the climate, and the amenities provided by the residence one requests will prove superior to those of the post one currently occupies.
The Consul, at the time I met him in Cairo, was thinking only of research into Egyptian antiquities. One day when he was talking to me about hypogea and pyramids, I said to him:
— ‘Why worry so much about tombs?... Are you applying for a consulate in the other world?’
It hardly registered, at that moment, that I was saying something cruel.
— ‘Do you not see,’ he replied, ‘the state I am in?... I can scarcely breathe. Nonetheless, I would like to see the pyramids. That is why I came to Cairo. My residence in Alexandria, by the sea, was less dangerous, for the air that surrounds us here, impregnated with ashes and dust, must prove fatal.’
Indeed, Cairo, at that time, offered a less than healthy atmosphere and had an effect on one like being smothered in a close atmosphere, in front of incandescent coals. The khamsin blew through the streets with all the ardour of Nubia. Night alone restored one’s strength, and allowed one to endure another day.
It formed a sad counterpart to the splendours of Egypt; always, as before, the fatal breath of Typhon triumphs over the work of the benevolent gods!
The south wind, the khamsin, which lasts about fifty days, offers, however, intervals of calm. One evening, after a more beautiful day than usual, the Consul invited me to accompany him next day to the pyramids of Giza. We left at daybreak in his carriage, and stopped for lunch at the isle of Roda, green as an island in the Baltic, cultivated in the English manner through the attentions of Ibrahim Pasha, planted in part with poplars, willows and acacias, and replete with ponds, and artificial rivers populated with swans, and Chinese bridges over grassy paths.
Lunch was served in a kiosk located in the north of the island and built of rough stone, which had long housed Ibrahim’s summer harem. The latter, almost always lodged in Alexandria, had not occupied it for some years.
— ‘The palace in which we are standing,’ the Consul said, ‘was placed at my disposal by Ibrahim, and I live here when staying in Cairo becomes too painful for me.’
We then visited all the various parts of the island, a delightful retreat where the Fatimid caliphs had formerly established their palace; the Consul showed me, at the end of the branch of the Nile which corresponds to old Cairo, the place where it is supposed that Moses was found, in his floating cradle, by Pharoah’s daughter. This point is situated near al-Miqyas, the Nilometer, which, as we know, is employed to ascertain the height of the floods. A hexagonal marble pillar, formerly consecrated to Serapis, set in the middle of a well, has marked, for thirty centuries, the low water level of the sacred river.
Midday came, and my poor traveling companion did not speak of going any further.... But I have already told you of this.
Is it the attack of fever that I myself suffered from in Syria, which makes me return to the thought of his death with so sad a feeling?...
It is in the midst of the cemetery of Galata too, in front of the dazzling view of Constantinople and Üsküdar, which joins the coast of Europe to the coast of Asia Minor, that I think sadly of the premature death of a man whose conversation revealed to me so much humble knowledge and so much affability, a precious combination when travelling in these Arab lands ... where one has only tombs and ruins to choose between.
Everything overwhelms me at once. I wrote to the Consul in Beirut asking him to inquire about the fate of those people who had become dear to me.... He could only give me vague information. A new revolt had broken out in the Hauran.... Who knows what will have become of the good Druze sheikh, and his daughter, and the slave I had left with their family? Perhaps some future letter will tell me of them.
Chapter 3: Pera (Beyoğlu)
My itinerary from Beirut to Constantinople is necessarily very brief. I embarked on the Austrian steamboat, and the day after my departure we put into Larnaca, the Cyprian port. Unfortunately, there as elsewhere, we were forbidden to disembark, unless we accepted being quarantined. The coast is arid as are those of the whole archipelago; it is, it is said, in the interior of Cyprus alone that one finds the vast meadows, dense woods and shady forests formerly dedicated to the goddess of Paphos (Venus-Aphrodite). The ruins of her temple still exist, while the village which surrounds them is the residence of a bishop.
Next day we saw the dark mountains of the Anatolian coast take shape. We stopped once more, this time at the port of Rhodes. I saw the twin rocks on which the feet of the colossal statue of Apollo must once have stood. That work of bronze must have seemed twice as high as the towers of Notre-Dame when viewed by a human being. Two forts, built by the knights of old, defend this entrance to the harbour.
On the following day we skirted the eastern part of the archipelago, not losing sight of land for a single instant. For several hours the island of Cos was on our left, made illustrious by the memory of Hippocrates. Here and there I could distinguish charming areas of greenery, and towns with white houses, where it seemed a stay might prove happy. The father of medicine had not made a bad choice as regards his dwelling-place.
I cannot express sufficient astonishment at the pink hues which clothe the high rocks and mountains in the evening and in the morning — Thus, yesterday I saw Patmos, the island of Saint John, flooded with those sweet rays. Perhaps that is why the Apocalypse sometimes offers us attractive description.... Day and night, the Apostle dreamed of monsters, destructions and war; at dawn and eve, he announced in smiling colours the wonders of the future reign of Christ, and of the new Jerusalem sparkling with light.
We were obliged to remain in quarantine in Smyrna (Izmir) for ten days. It is true that this was in a delightful garden, with a full view of the immense gulf, which resembles the roads at Toulon. We lived in tents rented on our behalf.
On the eleventh day, our first day of freedom, we spent the daylight hours touring the streets of Smyrna, while I regretted not being able to visit Bournabat (Bornova), where the merchants’ country-houses are found, and which is seven miles or so away. It is, they say, a delightful place to stay.
Smyrna is almost European. When you have seen the bazaar, similar to all those in the Orient; the citadel; and the ‘Caravan Bridge’ (Kemer Çayı) over the ancient Meles, which provided an epithet for Homer (Melesigenes, or ‘Son of Meles’); its most attractive feature is the Street of Roses (Gül Sokak, now Izmir’s Cumhuriyet Square) where one glimpses, at the windows and doors, the furtive features of young Greek women — who like Virgil’s nymph (see ‘Eclogues III: 65’) never flee until they have let themselves be seen.
We returned to the ship after hearing a performance of a Donizetti opera at the Italian Theatre.
It took a whole day to reach the Dardanelles, leaving on our left the shore where Troy once stood —and Tenedos, and so many other famous places the traces of which were only a misty line on the horizon.
After the strait, which seemed like a wide river, we sailed the Sea of Marmara for a whole day, and the next, at dawn, enjoyed the dazzling spectacle of the port of Constantinople certainly the most beautiful in all the world.
(Authors’ Note: All the details of this trip are correct; on certain points, however, it has been necessary to group the events to avoid undue length.
The author has since learned that the Javanese slave ran away from the house where he had placed her. Religious fanaticism was no doubt a factor in the matter.
As for her current fate, which our Consul showed interest in, it fortunately seems settled, according to the overly-laconic postscript of a letter addressed to the author by Camille Rogier, the painter, who is travelling in Syria: ‘The yellow woman is in Damascus, married to a Turk, she has two children.’)
The End of Part XII of Gérard de Nerval’s ‘Travels in the Near East’