Baalbek March 5. Dearest Mother. My last day in Damascus [Dimashq (Esh Sham, Damas)] was as amusing as the others. It was a Friday and consequently a Muslim holiday, and deliciously fine and warm besides. Now Damascus on a Friday is worth seeing. Everyone is out in his best buying and selling and parading the streets, no women, you understand, but Christians in frock coats with rosaries in their hands, Pashas and great Arab sheikhs in gold embroidered cloaks, mighty fine, swaggering along as if Damascus were their own town. And so it is - the great capital of the desert. After lunch there came to see me - I lunched in the bazaars accordingly to my custom, and a Bedouin sat next to me on the divan - the second greatest brigand in all the land, Muhammad Pasha Jerudi. The greatest brigand - no one disputes his right to the title - is me [sic] friend Fayyad Pasha Karyatein, who lives half way to Palmyra [Tadmur]. Now I cannot say I really like Fayyad, though he was remarkably polite to me 5 years ago; he is a proper rogue, an evil rogue, I think; but Jerudi is of a different brand. He is an old man with a wall eye, a great big creature who was a mighty rider and raider in his day, for he comes of Arab blood and his grandfather was one of the high stock of the 'Anazeh; Now he has grown old and heavy and gouty and he wishes to live at peace with the world which is not an easy matter. His property of Jerud [Jayrud], is an oasis out in the desert - I know it, I passed through it on my way from Palmyra. He must keep on terms with his turbulent Arab kin and with the government, each trying to use Jerudi's influence with the other and Jerudi the while seeking to profit from both, with his good eye fixed on his own advantage - and his wall eye turned toward the demands of law and order, if I understand him. Moreover he has no children to inherit his very considerable wealth, and the grasshopper is growing to be a burden on his years. He married the other day a daughter of Fayyad's house, a girl of 15, but I think no amount of wives will bring him offspring. And he is falling into ill health. He has invited me to visit him at Jerud and ride his mares and see his Palmyrene stele and I shall certainly go next time I am in Damascus. I know my Jerudi. The foreigner has nothing to fear from him. I heard a funny tale about him: ten years ago, at the beginning of the great Druze war, he was an officer in the Turkish army - it happened to be one of his moments of adhesion to the government. He was sent up into the Jebel ed Druze [Duruz, Jabal ad] with 20 or 30 men to look round and see how things were, the army following close on his heels. So he came to a village of which he knew the sheikh well and the sheikh bade him very welcome and invited him in to lunch. And as the lunch was preparing, Jerudi heard all the Druzes discussing in very clear terms whether they had not better profit by this opportunity to kill him as an officer of the Turks, and he desired eagerly to go away from that place, but he could not, for the rules of polite society made it incumbent on him to stay and eat the lunch that was cooking. So when it came he depatched it with some speed, for the discussion outside had reached a lively stage, and mounted his horse and rode away before the Druzes had come to a conclusion. And as he went he found himself suddenly between 2 fires, for the Turkish main force had come up and the battle with the Druzes had begun. So he and his men took ambush behind the rocks, as best they might, they found their way back one by one to the extreme rear of the Turkish troops. The Druzes have made a song about this incident which begins:
Oh Muhammad Pasha!

Ask the Turkish government

Where your soldiers are.

But if you wish to stand well in Jerudi's eyes you don't sing that song in his presence. As we talked there came in Sheikh Hassan Naksh Pendi, who is the head of a renowned sect of dervishes, a man with a wicked astute face - I had met him at the Governor's - and as the afternoon was fine and these worthies had their carriages at the door, we four (Selim Beg, my guide and counsellor was the fourth) got into them and drove up to Salahieh, the fashionable suburb in which Naksh Pendi lives, next door to the Vali. I took the opportunity to go and make my adieux to His Excellency, whom I found on his doorstep saying goodbye to the Commandant. He invited me in most cordially and sat for his photograph and then we had rather an interesting talk about the war. I have made some curious observations on that subject {here}, but I think it better to keep them to myself. There is an Arab proverb which says: Let him who talks by day take heed. And it applies to those who talk by post. The Vali, when he heard I was going to ride to Baalbek, was all for sending a large escort with me, so I hastily declared I should go by train - only pretence. Such are the penalties of greatness. I do trust I shall now be allowed to relapse into the position of a modest traveller of no importance to anyone. I have found out that while I was in Damascus, every time I went out alone I was followed by a policeman who was commissioned to watch over my safety - it was merely solicitude on the part of the government and as there were no secrets about my comings and goings it was harmless. So I returned to the house of Naksh Pendi and was introduced to his favourite wife - he has 4, the old rogue. She is quite young, a pretty woman, but shockingly untidy, with her hair all over her eyes and a dirty dressing gown clothing a figure which has already, alas! fallen into ruin. The view from Naksh Pendi's balcony is, however, immortal. The great splendid city of Damascus with its gardens and its domes and its minarets, lies spread out before you, and beyond it the desert - the desert almost up to its gates, and the breath of it blowing in with every wind, and the spirit of it passing in through the city gates with every Arab camel driver. That is the heart of the whole matter.

Next morning, yesterday, I rode off early and an hour or two out of the city, altered my intended route and took my caravan straight over Anti Libanus [Sharqi, Jebel esh (Anti-Lebanon)] in 2 long day's march to Baalbek, the fact being that the thought of all the officials who had been warned to look after me oppressed me so dreadfully that I could not bear it! Last night I had a charming solitary camp under poplar trees by the brink of a spring. {Last night} Today I crossed the mountain ridge, in a howling gale - there was deep snow part of the way - and when we reached Baalbek it was sleeting and raining hard. The admirable Mikhail had a friend, a Christian woman, in whose house he said I could lodge - my spirit revolted at the thought of an hotel. It is perfectly delightful, a tiny house of 3 rooms. She lives in one with her son and daughter (her husband is in America) she has given me another, quite empty, but I have put my camp furniture into it, and in the third Mikhail has cooked my dinner. She is a very nice woman and I have had an interesting talk with her. Moreover I am absolutely peaceful - and the storm rages outside.

March 6. [6 March 1905] It's been a disgusting day, rain and sleet and wind. However it hasn't mattered much as I have employed most of it in examining the result of the German excavations in the temple. They are extraordinarily interesting and I'm very glad I have seen them. I had almost forgotten how beautiful this place is. Except Athens [Athinai] there is no temple group to touch it and I have looked at it with new eyes now that I know a litle more than I did about the history of decoration and the genesis of pattern and ornament. But I wish I knew a great deal more still.
The Commissioner of Police came to see me early in the morning to offer me everything that his government could put at my disposal, but I assured him I wanted nothing. He was a charming man, a Syrian Christian from Damascus [Dimashq (Esh Sham, Damas)] and stayed some time talking. I hope he will come again this evening.

It looks clearer and I trust we may get off tomorrow.

The moral of all this official perturbation is that I certainly should not have got permission to enter the Jebel ed Druze [Duruz, Jabal ad] if I had asked for it. So I am extremely glad I went my own way.

Dear me how interesting the newspapers are! I pant[?] through them even when they are a month old. I consider too who will be Director of the National Gallery.

I've not written to any members of my family but you - except a word to Elsa and Father - so will you please let them see such letters as you think will interest them - Uncle Tom and Horace and my Aunts Florence and Maisie. I have not time to write more than one complete story of my travels and I continue to send it to you so that you may not lose the thread. I write to Edward. Ever your affectionate daughter Gertrude