And one subject leading to another, for our monk is a glib talker, we come to the cheese-makers, the goatherds. “Even these honest rustics,” says he, “are becoming sophisticated (mafsudin). Their cheese is no longer what it was, nor is their faith. For Civilisation, passing by their huts in some shape or other, whispers in their ears something about cleverness and adulteration. And mistaking the one for the other, they abstract the butter from the milk and leave the verdigris in the utensils. This lust of gain is one of the diseases which come from Europe and America—it is a plague which even the goatherd cannot escape. Why, do you know, wherever the cheese-monger goes these days ptomaine poison is certain to follow.”
“And why does not the Government interfere?” we ask.
“Because the Government,” replies our monk in a dry, droll air and gesture, “does not eat cheese.”
And the monks, we learned, do not have to buy it. For this, as well as their butter, olive oil, and wine, is made on their own estates, under their own supervision.
“Yes,” he resumes, placing his breviary in his pocket and taking out the snuffbox; “not long ago one who lived in these parts—a young man from Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest yonder—bought some cheese from one of these muleteer cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw that young man, and were I not passing by I know not what would have become of him. I helped him to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, and he remained with us three days. He ate of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to like both very much. And ever since, while he was here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a tray of his own make—he occupied himself in making wicker-baskets and trays—and ask in exchange some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent, this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But he was queer. The clock in him was not wound right—he was always ahead or behind time, always complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often would I bring him some of our cookery. But he never accepted anything without giving something in exchange.”
Unmistakable signs.
“And his black turban,” continues the monk, “over his long flowing hair made him look like our hermit.” (Strange coincidence!) “On your way here have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is the Hermitage.”
We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who would mistake that for a troglodyte’s cave? “And this young man from Baalbek,” we ask, “how did he live in this forest?”
“Yonder,” points the monk, “he cleared and cleaned for himself a little space which he made his workshop. And up in the pines he constructed a platform, which he walled and covered with boughs. And when he was not working or walking, he would be there among the branches, either singing or asleep. I used to envy him that nest in the pines.”
“And did he ever go to church?”
“He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good Friday and on Easter Sunday, I think.”
“And did he visit the abbey often?”
“Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil.” (Shame, O Khalid!) “But he often repaired to the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to his conversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed, but never quarrelled. I like that young man in spite of his oddities of thought, which savoured at times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me; never tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious as our Hermit, I think. Roll another cigarette.”
“Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your opinion of him?”
“Well, h’m—h’m—go visit him. A good man he is, but very simple. And between us, he likes money too much. H’m, h’m, go visit him. If I were not engaged at present, I would accompany you thither.”
We thank our good monk and retrace our steps to the Hermitage, rolling meanwhile in our mind that awful remark about the Hermit’s love of money. Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and worships thee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe it. The grudges of monks against each other often reach darker and more fatal depths. Alas, if the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated, what shall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If the salt of the earth—but not to the nunnery nor to the monkery, we go. Rather let us to the Hermitage, Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest, not in sport.
X
The Vineyard in the Kaaba
This, then, is the cave of our troglodyte! Allah be praised, even the hermits of the Lebanon mountains, like the prophets of America and other electric-age species, are subject to the laws of evolution. A cottage and chapel set in a vineyard, the most beautiful we have yet seen, looms up in this rocky wilderness like an oasis in a desert. For many miles around, the vicinage presents a volcanic aspect, wild, barren, howlingly dreary. At the foot of Mt. Sanneen in the east, beyond many ravines, are villages and verdure; and from the last terrace in the vineyard one overlooks the deep chasm
