Short Fiction · A Ride Across Palestine (4/6)

He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all nothing⁠—absolutely nothing. But then do we not know that our thoughts are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or intrinsic evidences of things⁠—as would be the case were we always rational⁠—but by the inner workings of the mind itself? At the present turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.”

“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy. You have come to grief in some of your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter to the taste. I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper appreciation of flavours has come back to me. Bah⁠—how noisome was that Dead Sea water!”

“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of them by long draughts.”

“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him. “Draughts have not been long which can have been swallowed in your years. Your disease may be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic. A man always thinks at the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his lifetime; but God is too good for that. I do not know what ails you; but this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.”

We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar. Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking⁠—which was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is enjoying it with him.

“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore, cannot judge.”

“Perhaps not, my dear fellow. But my experience tells me that early wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that yours may be so. The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies. I hope it may be so with you.”

“God knows. I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied than I am; but at the present moment, I am not⁠—not lighthearted.”

“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”

“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then trouble you with my cares. But I had been alone so long, and I was so weary of it!”

“By Jove, and so had I. Make no apology. And let me tell you this⁠—though perhaps you will not credit me⁠—that I would sooner laugh with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion demands, I can do the latter also.”

He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my friendship. My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s. I thoroughly hate an effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this fellow, I could not hate him. “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal gums. I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I will do my best. I don’t say this with reference to the present moment, but think of it before we part.”

I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears. “I know that you will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to his eyes.

“By no means. There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments come to him. As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which disgraces them.”

“It is left for women to do that,” he answered.

“Oh, women! A woman cries for everything and for nothing. It is the sharpest arrow she has in her quiver⁠—the best card in her hand. When a woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?”

“Do you⁠—dislike women?”

“No, by Jove! I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more than one. A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he cannot turn to profit on himself alone. It is good for him to have a woman by him that he may work for her, and thus have exercise for his limbs and faculties. I am very fond of women. But I always like those best who are most helpless.”

We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I found myself lying with my head in his lap. I had slept, but it could have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon my brow. As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me, and that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary. “It has been that double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed when I am detected sleeping in the day. “In hot weather the water does make one drowsy. By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the horses.”

“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.”

“There is no hurry in life,” I said.

“You promised me just now you would assist me.”

“If it be in my power, I will.”

“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you you the story of my troubles, and then if you can aid me⁠—” It struck me as he paused that I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by it now⁠—with one or two provisoes. The chances were that the young man was short of money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl. In either case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it behoved me to make him understand that I would not consent to become a participator in mischief. I was too old to get my head willingly into a scrape, and this I must endeavour to make him understand.

“I will, if it be in my power,” I said. “I will ask no questions now; but if your trouble be about some lady⁠—”

“It is not,” said he.

“Well; so be it. Of all troubles those are the most troublesome. If you are short of cash⁠—”

“No, I am not short of cash.”

“You are not. That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble also.” And then I paused before I came to the point. “I do not suspect anything bad of you, Smith. Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I have done. And if there be nothing bad⁠—”

“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said.

“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything for you that may be within my power. Now let us look for Joseph and the mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.”

I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to Jaffa. At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night, according to the tariff. We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their coffee-kettle. And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the bastinado⁠—a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith very sick. Indeed after the first blow he walked away. Jericho is a remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe it. But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to Jaffa. I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their continual begging. They begged for our food and our drink, for our cigars and our gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the handkerchiefs out of our pockets. As to gunpowder I had none to give them, for my charges were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that the guns behind their backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a grain of powder among them.

We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following morning. Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for the move. We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we had no further use. On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat together, but only one adventure. Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken, journey to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were now taking from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in crowds by the French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and Constantinople. As their number confers security in that somewhat insecure country, many travellers from the west of Europe make arrangements to travel with them. On our way down we met the last of these caravans for the year, and we were passing it for more than two hours. On this occasion I rode first, and Smith was immediately behind me; but of a sudden I observed him to wheel his horse round, and to clamber downwards among bushes and stones towards a river that ran below us. “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will destroy your horse, and yourself too.” But he would not answer me, and all I could do was to draw up in the path and wait. My confusion was made the worse, as at that moment a long string of pilgrims was passing by. “Good morning, sir,” said an old man to me in good English. I looked up as I answered him, and saw a grey-haired gentleman, of very solemn and sad aspect. He might be seventy years of age, and I could see that he was attended by three or four servants. I shall never forget the severe and sorrowful expression of his eyes, over which his heavy eyebrows hung low. “Are there many English in Jerusalem?” he asked. “A good many,” I replied; “there always are at Easter.” “Can you tell me anything of any of them?” he asked. “Not a word,” said I, for I knew no one; “but our consul can.” And then we bowed to each other and he passed on.

I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith. I found him gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what strange freak had taken him.

“You were talking to that old man,” he said.

“Well, yes, I was.”

“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.”

“The d⁠⸺ he is!”

“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.”

I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle. He had no living father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to Jerusalem in quest of him. “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late. It is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa, or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.”

“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on. That night we slept at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath. This place is supposed to stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the maps. The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and the place on such occasions is terribly crowded. On the night of our visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion seemed to lay considerable stress.

On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an inn there which is kept by a Pole. The boat from Beyrout, which touches at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even sighted; we were therefore amply in time. “Shall we sail tonight?” I asked of the agent. “Yes, in all probability,” he replied. “If the signal be seen before three we shall do so. If not, then not;” and so I returned to the hotel.

Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but yet he had borne up well against it. I had never felt called on to grant any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him. But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened, fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun. I was alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa doctor. But this he utterly refused. He would shut himself for an hour or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would be in sight. It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject, fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had started.

I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such occasions, my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs. I also acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length during such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do so never comes till I have well eaten and drunken. A bottle of French wine, three or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the freshest eggs, and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set before me; and though I might have found fault with it in Paris or London, I thought that it did well enough in Jaffa. My poor friend could not join me, but had a cup of coffee in his room. “At any rate take a little brandy in it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed. “I could not swallow it,” said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes. “Beshrew the fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing the door, so that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better than a woman, and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my brother.”

I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been signalled. “And we shall not get out tonight?” “No, not tonight,” said the agent. “And what time tomorrow?” “If she comes in this evening, you will start by daylight. But they so manage her departure from Beyrout, that she seldom is here in the evening.” “It will be noon tomorrow then?” “Yes,” the man said, “noon tomorrow.” I calculated, however, that the old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time. He would not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw him, and it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew. But it might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa by four or five on the day after his arrival. That would be this very day which we were now wasting at Jaffa. Having thus made my calculations, I returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it might be in my power to afford.

He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this. “He will have traced me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.”

“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best he can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve hours. Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the journey under two days.”

“But he will send. He will not mind what money he spends.”

“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them carry your complaints back. You are not a felon whom he can arrest.”

“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands in despair.

I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me this story of his. If he required that I should give him my aid in the presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them. But as he said nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the orange-groves by which the town is surrounded. In answer to this he looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to him. “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to feel fatigue as I do.” And yet he had declared on commencing his journey that he would not be found to complain? Nor had he complained by a single word till after that encounter with his uncle. Nay, he had borne up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late. I felt convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish. What it was that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some great terror almost overwhelmed him.