In The Levant 20

In The Levant 20

About two hundred yards from the shore is an artificial island of stone,

upon which are remains of regular masonry. Probably some crusader had

a castle there. We notice upon looking down into the clear depths, some

distance out, in the sunlight, that the lake seems, as it flows, to have

translucent streaks, which are like a thick solution of sugar, showing

how completely saturated it is with salts. It is, in fact, twelve

hundred and ninety-two feet below the Mediterranean, nothing but a

deep, half-dried-up sea; the chloride of magnesia, which gives it its

extraordinarily bitter taste, does not crystallize and precipitate

itself so readily as the chloride of sodium.

 

We look in vain for any evidence of volcanic disturbance or action of

fire. Whatever there may be at the other end of the lake, there is none

here. We find no bitumen or any fire-stones, although the black stones

along the beach may have been supposed to be bituminous. All the pebbles

and all the stones of the beach are of chalk flint, and tell no story of

fire or volcanic fury.

 

Indeed, the lake has no apparent hostility to life. An enterprising

company could draw off the Jordan thirty miles above here and make all

this valley a garden, producing fruits and sugar-cane and cotton, and

this lake one of the most lovely watering-places in the world. I have

no doubt maladies could be discovered which its waters are exactly

calculated to cure. I confidently expect to hear some day that great

hotels are built upon this shore, which are crowded with the pious, the

fashionable, and the diseased. I seem to see this blue and sunny lake

covered with a gay multitude of bathers, floating about the livelong day

on its surface; parties of them making a pleasure excursion to the foot

of Pisgah; groups of them chatting, singing, amusing themselves as they

would under the shade of trees on land, having umbrellas and floating

awnings, and perhaps servants to bear their parasols; couples floating

here and there at will in the sweet dream of a love that seems to

be suspended between the heaven and the earth. No one will be at any

expense for boats, for every one will be his own boat, and launch

himself without sail or oars whenever he pleases. How dainty will be

the little feminine barks that the tossing mariner will hail on that

peaceful sea! No more wailing of wives over husbands drowned in the

waves, no more rescuing of limp girls by courageous lovers. People may

be shipwrecked if there comes a squall from Moab, but they cannot be

drowned. I confess that this picture is the most fascinating that I have

been able to conjure up in Syria.

 

We take our lunch under the wigwam, fanned by a pleasant breeze. The

persons who partake it present a pleasing variety of nations and colors,

and the "spread" itself, though simple, was gathered from many lands.

Some one took the trouble to note the variety: raisins from Damascus,

bread, chicken, and mutton from Jerusalem, white wine from Bethlehem,

figs from Smyrna, cheese from America, dates from Nubia, walnuts from

Germany, water from Elisha's well, eggs from Hen.

 

We should like to linger till night in this enchanting place, but for

an hour the sheykh and dragoman have been urging our departure; men

and beasts are represented as suffering for water,--all because we have

reversed the usual order of travel. As soon as we leave the lake we lose

its breeze, the heat becomes severe; the sandy plain is rolling and a

little broken, but it has no shade, no water, and is indeed a weary way.

The horses feel the want of water sadly. The Arabs, whom we had supposed

patient in deprivation, are almost crazy with thirst. After we have

ridden for over an hour the sheykh's horse suddenly wheels off and runs

over the plain; my nag follows him, apparently without reason, and in

spite of my efforts I am run away with. The horses dash along, and soon

the whole cavalcade is racing after us. The object is soon visible,--a

fringe of trees, which denotes a brook; the horses press on, dash down

the steep bank, and plunge their heads into the water up to the eyes.

The Arabs follow suit. The sheykh declares that in fifteen minutes more

both men and horses would have been dead. Never before did anybody lunch

at the Dead Sea.

 

When the train comes up, the patient donkey that Madame rides is pushed

through the brook and not permitted to wet his muzzle. I am indignant at

such cruelty, and spring off my horse, push the two donkey-boys aside,

and lead the eager donkey to the stream. At once there is a cry of

protest from dragomans, sheykh, and the whole crowd, "No drink donkey,

no drink donkey, no let donkey, bad for donkey." There could not have

been a greater outcry among the Jews when the ark of the covenant was

likely to touch the water. I desist from my charitable efforts. Why the

poor beast, whose whole body craved water as much as that of the horse,

was denied it, I know not. It is said that if you give a donkey water on

the road he won't go thereafter. Certainly the donkey is never permitted

to drink when travelling. I think the patient and chastened creature

will get more in the next world than his cruel masters.

 

Nearly all the way over the plain we have the long snowy range of Mt.

Herinon in sight, a noble object, closing the long northern vista, and a

refreshment to the eyes wearied by the parched vegetation of the valley

and dazzled by the aerial shimmer. If we turn from the north to the

south, we have the entirely different but equally poetical prospect of

the blue sea enclosed in the receding hills, which fall away into the

violet shade of the horizon. The Jordan Valley is unique; by a geologic

fault it is dropped over a thousand feet below the sea-level; it is

guarded by mountain-ranges which are from a thousand to two thousand

feet high; at one end is a mountain ten thousand feet high, from which

the snow never disappears; at the other end is a lake forty miles long,

of the saltest and bitterest water in the world. All these contrasts the

eye embraces at one point.

 

We dismount at the camp of the Russian pilgrims by Rîha, and walk among

the tents and booths. The sharpers of Syria attend the strangers,

tempt them with various holy wares, and entice them into their dirty

coffee-shops. It is a scene of mingled credulity and knavery, of

devotion and traffic. There are great booths for the sale of vegetables,

nuts, and dried fruit. The whole may be sufficiently described as a

camp-meeting without any prayer-tent.

 

At sunset I have a quiet hour by the fountain of Elisha. It is a

remarkable pool. Under the ledge of limestone rocks the water gushes

out with considerable force, and in such volume as to form a large brook

which flows out of the basin and murmurs over a stony bed. You cannot

recover your surprise to see a river in this dry country burst suddenly

out of the ground. A group of native women have come to the pool with

jars, and they stay to gossip, sitting about the edge upon the stones

with their feet in the water. One of them wears a red gown, and her

cheeks are as red as her dress; indeed, I have met several women to-day

who had the complexion of a ripe Flemish Beauty pear. As it seems to be

the fashion, I also sit on the bank of the stream with my feet in the

warm swift water, and enjoy the sunset and the strange concourse of

pilgrims who are gathering about the well. They are worthy Greeks, very

decent people, men and women, who salute me pleasantly as they arrive,

and seem to take my participation in the bath as an act of friendship.

 

Just below the large pool, by a smaller one, a Greek boy, having bathed,

is about to dress, and I am interested to watch the process. The first

article to go on is a white shirt; over this he puts on two blue woollen

shirts; he then draws on a pair of large, loose trousers; into these

the shirts are tucked, and the trousers are tied at the waist,--he is

bothered with neither pins nor buttons. Then comes the turban, which is

a soft gray and yellow material; a red belt is next wound twice about

the waist; the vest is yellow and open in front; and the costume is

completed by a jaunty jacket of yellow, prettily embroidered. The heap

of clothes on the bank did not promise much, but the result is a very

handsome boy, dressed, I am sure, most comfortably for this climate.

While I sit here the son of the sheykh rides his horse to the pool. He

is not more than ten years old, is very smartly dressed in gay colors,

and exceedingly handsome, although he has somewhat the supercilious

manner of a lad born in the purple. The little prince speaks French,

and ostentatiously displays in his belt a big revolver. I am glad of the

opportunity of seeing one of the desert robbers in embryo.

 

When it is dusk we have an invasion from the neighboring Bedaween,

an imposition to which all tourists are subjected, it being taken for

granted that we desire to see a native dance. This is one of the ways

these honest people have of levying tribute; by the connivance of our

protectors, the head sheykhs, the entertainment is forced upon us, and

the performers will not depart without a liberal backsheesh. We are

already somewhat familiar with the fascinating dances of the Orient, and

have only a languid curiosity about those of the Jordan; but before

we are aware there is a crowd before our tents, and the evening is

disturbed by doleful howling and drum-thumping. The scene in the

flickering firelight is sufficiently fantastic.

 

The men dance first. Some twenty or thirty of them form in a

half-circle, standing close together; their gowns are in rags, their

black hair is tossed in tangled disorder, and their eyes shine with

animal wildness. The only dancing they perform consists in a violent

swaying of the body from side to side in concert, faster and faster as

the excitement rises, with an occasional stamping of the feet, and a

continual howling like darwishes. Two vagabonds step into the focus of

the half-circle and hop about in the most stiff-legged manner, swinging

enormous swords over their heads, and giving from time to time a

war-whoop,--it seems to be precisely the dance of the North American

Indians. We are told, however, that the howling is a song, and that the

song relates to meeting the enemy and demolishing him. The longer the

performance goes on the less we like it, for the uncouthness is

not varied by a single graceful motion, and the monotony becomes

unendurable. We long for the women to begin.

 

When the women begin, we wish we had the men back again. Creatures

uglier and dirtier than these hags could not be found. Their dance is

much the same as that of the men, a semicircle, with a couple of women

to jump about and whirl swords. But the women display more fierceness

and more passion as they warm to their work, and their shrill cries,

dishevelled hair, loose robes, and frantic gestures give us new ideas of

the capacity of the gentle sex; you think that they would not only slay

their enemies, but drink their blood and dance upon their fragments.

Indeed, one of their songs is altogether belligerent; it taunts the men

with cowardice, it scoffs them for not daring to fight, it declares that

the women like the sword and know how to use it,--and thus, and thus,

and thus, lunging their swords into the air, would they pierce the

imaginary enemy. But these sweet creatures do not sing altogether of

war; they sing of love in the same strident voices and fierce manner:

"My lover will meet me by the stream, he will take me over the water."

 

When the performance is over they all clamor for backsheesh; it is given

in a lump to their sheykh, and they retire into the bushes and wrangle