A far journey

Front matter

An AutQbiography

BX 9869 .R55 A3 1914 Rihbany, Abraham Mitrie,

BY

Preface

It may not be uninteresting tonhe reader to know how this autobiography came to be written, and what the author considers to be its excuse for being. In my travels in this country, ever since I left New York City, in the winter of 1893, and during the years of my ministry in the Middle West and in Boston, I was called upon on numerous occasions to tell the story of my life. I told this story, in brief, at many church and club meetings, before schools and at hospitable firesides, never thinking that it possessed any greater merits than to entertain an audience for the space of an hour, or give an interested group of friends the pleasure of a rather novel conversation.

In the summer of 191 2, while on a visit to the famous summer resort, Manchester-by-the- Sea, Massachusetts, I was entertained at a beautiful and hospitable home where the gracious members of the family requested me to [ vii ]

PREFACE

tell them my "interesting story." Deeming the narrative worthy to be published, they brought it to the attention of the editor of the Atlantic Monthly. In that highly esteemed magazine, under the general title, "A Far Journey," several chapters of this autobiography appeared, and are here reprinted (with much new material added) by courtesy of the editor.

This narrative's excuse for being is, I believe, to be found, first, in the fact that it is the story, not of an individual, but of a type. There are many others of the children of other lands who have come to the New World as learners of the modes of life and thought of a superior people ; who have succeeded in discovering America on its ideal side, and who know and love this country as that Commonwealth of free, enlightened, and beneficent citizens. Second, this story justifies its existence by being a testimony to the unparalleled opportunities of America. Here, as nowhere else on this planet, the "talented foreigner" finds the ample room and noble incentives necessary to reveal his [ vili ]

PREFACE

talents and to enable him to attain the more abundant intellectual, political, social, and moral life.

While writing the earlier chapters of this story I often seemed to myself to be portraying another life than my own; the periods of childhood and youth appeared to belong to a remote order of things definitely detached from the one in which I now find myself. Yet, in a large sense, the impassable gulf between my Syrian life and my American life is only seeming, and not real. I am conscious of no loss of continuity. Just as manhood fulfills rather than destroys childhood, so does America's large, tumultuous life tend to realize the possibilities with which the ancient, mystic, dreamy Orient endowed me. So to Syria, my loving, untutored mother, as to America, my virile, resourceful teacher, I offset my profound and lasting gratitude.

A. M. R.

Boston, Massachusetts.

Contents

I. My Father's House 3

II. El-Shweir 29

III. At the Feet of my Teachers . . 57

Chapter I

When I first came into this world the Rihbany clan experienced the usual rejoicing which comes to a Syrian clan when a man-child is bom to one of its families. My kindred rejoiced at my advent, not merely because I was a son instead of a daughter, important as that was, but because I was an asset of the clan, a possible reinforcement to their fighting strength, which they had to use often against another powerful clan in the town, called Jirdak. In the Jirdak camp, however, a correspondingly great sorrow was felt. On the same night on which I was born they lost by death one of their most valiant fighters. To be so reduced in power at the same time that the enemy was reinforced with a possible fighter, seemed to the Jirdaks to be a stern heavenly visitation which it was beyond their ability to bear. But so far as I was concerned, the enemies of my people sorrowed in vain. I never lifted a finger against them, never had the chance. My years of strength find me fighting greater battles far, far away from them, but not with carnal weapons.

The usual formalities were observed on the occasion of my birth. Friends, both men and women, came to our house in large numbers, into the very room where the day-old babe and its mother lay, to extend their congratulations. They brought their presents with them as did the "Wise Men" of old on their historic visit to Bethlehem. They sang and were exceeding glad, because unto them a child was born, a son was given. They were served with wine, coffee, and confections. I was baptized by triple immersion, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and thus adopted by the holy and ancient Greek Orthodox Church as one of her children. When I was forty days old, my mother, being permitted again to come into the sanctuary, carried me to the door of the church,

[ 4 1 as is the custom, where the robed priest met her, took me in his arms, as the aged Simeon took the infant Jesus, and presented me at the altar before the God of my fathers. In our family history I took rank as the fourth of a family of twelve children, five sons and seven daughters. My parents were illiterate, as were their parents before them, and the parents of their parents, for generations. My father was a stone-mason, a contractor and builder. He was a man of simple, unaffected dignity, kind-hearted, remarkably industrious, and devoted to his family. He was highly respected by his kindred and business associates throughout his life. He always seemed to me to be the type of man who would never willfully and designedly "walk in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stand in the way of sinners, nor sit in the seat of the scornful." In a business way, however, he was not of the truly sagacious type. Through a wily and decidedly unscrupulous uncle of his, he became involved in certain financial transactions which kept him in debt and perpetual anxiety

[ 5 1 from early manhood until near his death at the age of eighty. And, oh, that *'debt," and the ever-recurring dread "interest" at twelve per cent, and the thousand things which my father might have done to escape the evil designs of his uncle ! How they haunted my soul from infancy to manhood, and how I shiver and shrink even now when I recall them to mind ! Every bit of our property was taken away from us by the "Frenchman" who held the mortgage and the hated "note," after my father had struggled for years, at least to reduce the debt, but was prevented from doing so by the exorbitant rate of interest he was forced to pay.

My mother was in some respects more richly endowed by nature than my father. I grew up to consider her the intellectual leader of the family. She possessed an alert and resourceful mind, was swift both to hear and to speak, humorous, and generous to a fault. In our family troubles we generally looked to mother for the wisest counsel. Along with her intellectual endowment, she possessed beauty of face and [ 6 1 form, and absolute fearlessness. I never knew my mother to fear any situation, or anybody. Only the "debt" oppressed her, because it was foisted upon my father by others. Those who knew her father always testified that she inherited his fearless spirit.

From description, I should judge that that grandfather of mine was such a man as Gideon, or Othniel, or Samson of the ancient leaders of Israel. His mighty voice was so heartening to his own clan in battle, and so terrifying to the enemy, that he was known to his generation as "Ibrahim the Tiger." My mother never forgot to remind me, with "great expectations," of the fact that I bore her father's name. She said that his sister picked me up when I was but an hour old, kissed my doughy, wrinkly, primitive face, and named me Ibrahim (Abraham), but, rather fortunately, left out "the tiger." Her action was confirmed at my baptism.

My mother's strength of mind and great courage did not, as is sometimes the case with such women, militate against her feminine [ 7 1 qualities. She was always a woman from the tip of her finger to the center of her heart, and according to the fashion of her time and country an excellent housekeeper.

My father's house was a typical, common, Syrian house. It was one story high, and consisted of two rooms, a living-room and a storeroom. It was built of roughly hewn stone, ^ and had one door and two windows, which had wooden shutters, without glass. The roof was the Biblical earth-covered flat roof, such as the one on which Peter went up to pray in ancient Joppa. On every Syrian roof there is a stone roller, with which the dirt is rolled down and made hard enough to "shed water." "Rolling the roof " is a daily task for the man of the house in the winter season. Failure to do this causes the roof to soften and the rain to soak through and "drop" into the house. The "dropping" is one of the most hateful things to

* In the western part of Syria all the houses are built of stone; in the eastern part, generally of sun-dried brick.

A. M. RIHBANY S FATHER AND MOTHER a Syrian household. The writer of the book of Proverbs did not at all exaggerate the ugliness of the situation when he said, "Continual dropping in a very rainy day and ^ contentious woman are alike."

The interior of that house of my early childhood appears on the negative of my memory in this shape : On the right as you enter stands a small structure of sun-dried brick, called mekhdaah. It is about five feet high, six feet long, and a foot deep. On the inner side it is divided into openings of different sizes, and serves the cosmopolitan purpose of a china closet, kettle cupboard, a place for father's Turkish pipe {nar" ghile) and tobacco, and whatever other little articles it may be convenient for the moment to thrust into it. The maukedah (fireplace) is at the forward end of this structure. It is such a fireplace as you would build at a picnic : square, open at the top for the kettle to set in, and at one side to admit the fuel. It is built of clay mixed with straw and fine quartz. There is no chimney. The smoke floats in the house with the sufferance of public opinion. The ceiling is black and shining as if it had been varnished. The earthen floor is painted frequently with red mud, and rubbed with a smooth stone until it shines. It is furnished with straw mats, cushions, and, in the winter season, soft and fluffy sheepskins. There are no chairs, no bedsteads. The family sit and sleep on the floor. The bed consists of a thick cushion for a mattress, stuffed with wool or cotton, a pillow of the same material, and a quilt for a cover. So when Jesus said to the man he had healed, "Arise, take up thy bed and walk,'* the man did not have very much to carry. In the daytime the beds are either rolled up, each one in a heap, and left on the floor, next to the wall, or put into a recess in the wall, constructed for the purpose. By the stone pillar stands the large earthen barrel of flour, on top of which is the large basin in which the bread is kept. Back, by the partition which stands between the two rooms, are two or three large, plain wooden chests which form the wardrobe for the whole family. The [ lo 1 opposite wall contains many openings in which earthen jars, containing the family winter supply of dried fruits, cereals, butter, lentils, beans, crushed wheat, olives, olive oil, molasses, rice, and other earthly comforts, are placed. By the door, on the left, there is a low wooden bench which holds the fresh-water jars, in which the women of the house carry the water from the fountain, as did the woman of Samaria whom Jesus met at Jacob's well. There are no pictures on the whitewashed walls. The only ornaments are a shotgun, an ammunition belt, a short sword, and a few articles of wearing apparel, which hang from wooden nails. There are no books of any kind, no musical instruments. The other room contains the wood and charcoal, tools, and so forth.

My father's house did not stand on a street, because streets are unknown to Syrian towns. There was no lawn around the house, no fence, no garden of any kind, no flower-beds. The immediate surroundings were our grove of mulberry trees, consisting of four large terraces, a

[ II ]

terrace of grapevines, a large fig tree which bore black figs, a pomegranate tree, and an apple tree. On the west side of the house we had a large climbing rosebush, which lifted its flaming top above the roof, and an alder bush, which bore blossoms of delicate texture and sweet fragrance. These bushes were permitted to share the soil with the more useful trees, not simply for aesthetic delight, but because their blossoms possessed medicinal properties. At least we thought so, and thoughts are things. The houses of my two uncles, father's brothers, stood very near our house, and had similar surroundings.

Back of our house, and extending some three hundred feet eastward, stood a row of majestic oak trees, which did not belong to us. They were perfect specimens of strength and beauty, and a real delight to the senses and the soul. But, strange as this may seem, the proximity of those trees to our house and my uncles' houses was very displeasing to our families. In so poor a country as Syria has been for ages, objects of mere intellectual and sesthetic delight savor of vain and vexatious things. The mode of life is severely utilitarian. Only the rich and the Europeans revel in the pleasures of gardens and other great luxuries. To the masses, the only desirable possessions are those things which can be converted into bread and raiment. The owners of those oak trees were of the families more highly favored with the things of this world ; therefore they did not need the revenue which the strip of land occupied by the oak trees might yield, if put to better use.

But our family felt differently about this matter. The oaks shaded a whole terrace of our precious, silk-yielding mulberry trees, and some grapevines, while their mighty roots drained the soil of its substance. That was a grave situation. It meant for us loss of revenue. The mighty oaks assumed in the eyes of my people the functions of highway robbers, of enemies which never slumbered nor slept and which stood at our very door. How to get rid of them was one of those family perplexities which filled my childish mind with disquieting curiosity. My father was offered much advice, gratis, as to how to kill those pernicious oaks. Not being ours, they had, of course, to be killed in some mysterious way. One of my uncles, who was of a rather grasping disposition, felt a decidedly keener antagonism toward the oaks than did my father. At times he looked and swore at them with great avidity.

So far as I can remember, the first means which was employed to wither those giants of the forest was prayer, the Oriental's most natural speech. But, for some reason or other, prayer failed to accomplish the desired results. Then an appeal was addressed to St. John (I do not recall whether it was the Baptist or the Evangelist), whose convent was in full view from our house, farther down on the slope of the hill. He was promised three piasters (twelve cents) and a cruse of pure olive oil to be burned in the lamp which hung in front of his very picture. The understanding was that the saint was to show signs of death in the oaks before any payment was made ; but St. John, for reasons known only to himself, failed to rise to the occasion and do what was expected. That was a severe disappointment.

However, there were other means of relief yet to be tried. My father was advised to seek a magician and have him "blast" the oaks by his diabolical art. The formula as I heard it stated was this : The magician would enchant a pailful of water; breathe into it the very essence of Satan himself. Then all my father had to do was to step out in the night and sprinkle the enchanted water at the trunks of the oak trees, close to the ground, and they would wither in an incredibly short time. Fortunately for the trees, however, such magicians passed through our town only at long and uncertain intervals, and when one of them happened to be at hand, father was either absent from home, or something else happened to make the moment altogether inopportune for such dangerous operations.

One of our cousins urged that an appeal be made to a person having the "evil eye." One having the evil eye was supposed to do great damage by just admiring an object. A fat and sweet baby, a handsome and strong man, a beautiful woman, a very fruitful tree, an abundant crop of silk cocoons, or any other good and beautiful person or thing, stood in constant danger of being injured or even killed by an admiring evil eye. Often did my mother grab and run away with me — her beautiful baby — to the nearest hiding-place, when one who was supposed to "strike with the eye " happened to be passing anywhere near our house. Certainly those oak trees were things to be admired. Then why not secure an evil-eyed person, and bribe him or her to cast upon those trees a blasting look.? However, those persons who were suspected of having the evil eye, for obvious reasons never would admit the fact, and certainly they were not in the market for hire.

The last prescription to be considered, so far as I remember, for doing away with the beautif i6 1 ful oaks, was the use of mercury. Father was told by those who "knew," that if he would take an auger and bore a hole in any tree and then pour in the hole a small quantity of mercury— "live mercury" — the tree would die. Mercury, being very heavy in weight and of such awful, mysterious potency, would penetrate the fibers of the tree in seeking to return to the ground, course through the roots, and thus destroy all their fibers. That was a simple operation. But father was not the kind of a man to undertake it. He might resort to some impersonal agency of destruction, like prayer or magic, but to do evil himself, to destroy with his own hands, that he would not. He would not assassinate a tree any more than he would a person. So far as I know, the oak trees still stand, and wave their lofty tops over the mulberry trees and the grapevines which were forced away from us by my father's creditors.

It must be that the nights I was first aware of in my father's house made deeper impressions upon my mind than the days, because they offer themselves now to my pen as the earhest bits of my conscious existence, — this, I suppose, because of the fear with which they inspired me. I do not recall the time when, as a little child, those deep shadows which the dim lamplight emphasized behind the pillar in the middle of the house, and other objects, did not frighten me whenever I looked at them. Our only source of light was a small kerosene lamp, one of the very first to come to our town after the subtle fluid of the Standard Oil Company reached Syria, shortly before my conscious life began. It was, however, a great improvement on the little olive-oil lamp, the " candle " of the Sermon on the Mount and the Ten Virgins — an earthen saucer, with a protruding little lip curled up at one point in the rim for the wick. The lamp was placed on the edge of the mekhdaah, just above the fireplace. The corner in its immediate vicinity was reasonably well lighted, but the remoter parts of the living-room were veiled with ghastly yellowish darkness. I i8 ]

But the most vivid of my early memories of kerosene is very grim. In filling the lamp one night my sister spilled some oil on the earthen floor. In order to amuse me she told fne to soak little bits of cloth in the oil and touch a match to them and they would burn quickly. As I was doing so one of the little rags fell from my hand on the floor. I thought I saw where it fell and reached down and grabbed something that looked like it. It was a scorpion ! The fiery sting pierced my flesh under the thumb nail. I rolled on the floor, a ball of quivering flesh, with a dart of the bitterest, fiery pain, which never abated the whole night, reaching from my thumb to my heart.

I feel no hesitancy in saying that when Rehoboam said to the people of Israel, "My father chastised you with whips but I will chastise you with scorpions," he made a telling figure, and the people of that country, which is full of all manner of "creeping things," must have understood him very clearly.

Our nights were not tricked into cheerfulness

[ 19 1 by any of the multitude of means which delight child-life in this age and country. As a child I enjoyed the love and care of devoted parents, the deep, instinctive, but untutored affections and protection of a richly endowed mother. But notwithstanding all that, and except on festive occasions, the evenings were very dreary for the little ones. There were no children's story-books to read, and there was no one who could have read them, if any of them had fallen into our hands: no pictures for the children, and none to cheer the blankness of those whitewashed walls, which the smoke tinged with a murky hue : no toys of any kind. Now and then we fell spontaneously into a fit of laughter, or played a game of hide-and-seek in the dark corners of the room. Now and then we were favored with a tale about a miracle happening in the graveyard, or about ghosts, or wild beasts, which made the very hairs of our heads hiss with fear. Our peevishness and naughtiness had no "psychological guidance." When bribes, which were by no means of the most f 20 1 persuasive kind, failed, the chief remedy was, " Be good or the camel will get you ! " " Listen ! the hyena is coming! — Coming! right at the door!!'' From the fact that men could ride on his back, we always concluded that the camel must possess at least the imitation of a human spirit. But the hyena, so terrible and so abundant in the surrounding woods and rocky hills, never failed to bring us to terms. This is why, I believe, my earliest memories of the nights in my father's house claim precedence as I write.

And as I reflect on those days now, I realize most clearly how limited, how meagerly inventive, is love without culture. How almost helpless is sympathy without knowledge. Love is, indeed, "the greatest thing in the world," but without knowledge, acquired knowledge, — real culture, — love is like a skilled workman without his tools, a mariner without his chart and compass.

But the more joyful memories of those plastic years were stored in my mind in the spring and [ 21 1 the summer seasons, when the trees poured out their riches in tender leaves and blossoms. In Syria the seasons do not forget to come on time; the calendar and nature are in perfect harmony. There are no "raw winds" and no "cold showers" in April and May. Rain very rarely falls between April and September. The myriads of white and yellow daisies are already out in full force in the latter part of April, and we children rolled on the fragrant blossoms as on a thick carpet. We plucked the daisies and strung them by the yard for necklaces and belts. When the ploughman came to plough the mulberry terraces for us, I experienced a delicious sensation. When that rough peasant arrived with his primitive plough on his right shoulder, the yoke hanging from the left shoulder, his long, hard, strong goad — the same as the one with which "Shamgar, son of Anath, slew of the Philistines six hundred men" — in his left hand, and his two cows, or oxen, or cow and ox, walking before him, my childish eyes beheld a most enchanting picture. His "laborer" also came with the ploughman to break the clods behind the plough. *' Judah shall plough, and Jacob shall break the clods." I would stand at a respectful distance, because of thdr menacing horns, and, with joyous bewilderment, watch those cows, with their eyes enlarged and their backs kinked, pull at the urging and goading of their master, turn the soil and cause the small stones and clods to roll musically over the terrace walls.

In the latter part of April also the eggs or "seeds" of the silkworm ^ begin to stir with life in the muslin sack (their winter quarters) hanging from the ceiling. A scaffolding of poles and long, strong reeds is built along the entire wallspace in the house, and clear up to the ceiling. The trays which should hold the silkworms are placed on the scaffolding in rows and tiers, and the mousam — silkworm season — begins. Mother takes the sack of eggs down, as she makes the sign of the cross and implores the

^ In the western part of Syria the silk crop is the people's chief source of livelihood.

[ 23 1 divine blessing on the silk crop that is to be. The sack is opened, and a few tiny, almost microscopic worms are seen to quiver among the dull gray eggs. A tender mulberry leaf is placed in the sack, on which the little worms soon gather. The leaf is lifted out with its precious freight and placed on a tray, where the worms proceed to receive regular rations. Leaf after leaf thus proceeds into and out of the sack, until all the "blessed ones" are transferred to the trays. As they grow larger the lots on the trays are divided and subdivided until the whole house is filled with bright, greedy, unspeakably interesting silkworms. Holy water is secured from the priest, consecrated especially to protect the crop from ants and mice, and sprinkled on the lower terminus of every pole in the scaffolding. With such a sense of security we proceed to bestow tender and incessant care on the silkworms, for forty days, at which time they cease to eat and begin to spin their cocoons in the bundles of brush especially prepared for them. [ 24 ]

./. Ready to spin; B. Ready for Harvest; C. J Luxuriant Yield SILK WORMS AND COCOONS

Oh, how delightful it is to watch those precious worms weave their silken envelopes. Thousands of them are at work. The web is fastened to a suitable nook in the orush; the upper half of the worm's body sways rhythmically and, seemingly, understandingly; the thread, proceeding from the little black mouth, is thrown round and round as far as the little body can reach. A haze of a web is formed. It is white, yellow, or yellowish brown. My eyes feast on the scene for hours. The web grows heavier; the weaver is barely visible, — it is all hid! In a week's time the bundles of brush are converted into a solid mass of cocoons. One of the most luxurious of the bundles is given to the patron saint of the family for his gracious protection of the crop. Some choice cocoons are saved for seed, and the rest of the crop is sold to the spinners.

The mousam over, the housewife proceeds to

the annual whitewashing of the walls of the

house and the mending and repolishing of the

earthen floor. If she is not obliged to seek

[ 25 1 the hills herself and secure the needed tarsh — chalky white earth — she buys a penny's worth of the stuff from one of the men who peddle it early in the season. The enterprising woman / dissolves the tarsh in a large basinful of water, and very dexterously slaps the liquid on the walls of the house with a piece of sheepskin. As much of the substance in proportion as adheres to the wall rebounds on the woman, who, after a few hours of "slapping," assumes the appearance of a veritable "pillar of salt." I always looked forward to this performance as to a holiday. In the absence of the motionpicture show, the merry-go-round, and any other juvenile entertainment, whitewashing the house afforded the youngsters the stimulus of a significant change in the routine of life, which for the time being enhanced the circulation of the nervous energy. It was real "fun" to haul out all the furniture from the house to the terrace, dispose the earthen barrels, huge jars and clothes-chests in the shape of temporary defenses around the spot where I 26 ]