bounded by a low cliff, perhaps five feet high, from which the bridge had originally sprung. The foundations could be seen deep in the clear water. On the side where we stood there was little left but a pile of large squared stones, some of which had been removed and roughly arranged in the water to make stepping-stones about a yard apart.
‘There was an old bridge here once, a Roman bridge, they say,’ said Hamid. ‘These are still the old stones. Can you manage it?’
He took my hand to help me across, then led the way straight for the foot of the cliff, where I saw a path curling its way up through tangles of wild fig and yellow broom towards the head of the promontory.
It was a steep climb but not difficult, obviously practicable for mules or even horses. We saw no sign of life other than the lizards, and the kestrels which circled above the cliff. There was no sound except that of the water running below us, and the scrape of our steps, and our breathing.
As we came out eventually at the top of the crag and saw the eyeless walls of the palace in front of us, I had the oddest feeling that the building was completely dead and deserted, that this was almost a place outside life. It seemed impossible that anyone should live there,least of all anyone I had known. No one, surely, who had ever been a part of my own extraordinary but vital family could shut themselves away here in this bone-white graveyard of a place …
As I paused to get my breath, eyeing the scoured pale walls, the locked gate of bronze, I found myself remembering the last time I had seen Great-Aunt Harriet. It was a dim childhood’s memory … The orchard at home, at windfall time, and one of those soft gusty September winds with the leaves swirling, and the apples thudding into the damp turf. The sky was full of afternoon clouds, and the rooks wheeling to go home. I remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s voice cawing like a rook with laughter at something Charles had said …
‘There used to be a bell beside the door. You tell me what you want me to say, and if the old chap isn’t asleep, we might get him to take a message,’ said Hamid cheerfully, leading the way across the dusty rock towards the gate.
3
This batter’d Caravanserai …
E. Fitzgerald:
The Rubáiyát of
Omar Khayyám of Naîshápûr
T HE main gate – double leaves of studded bronze under an elaborately carved arch – was at first sight vastly impressive, but as one approached it could be seen that the heavy knocker had vanished from its hinge and that the carving had been fretted almost to nothing by the wind. The walls, high and blind, showed here and there the remains of some coloured decoration, ghostly patterns and mosaics and broken marble plastered over and painted a pale ochre colour which had baked white with the strong sunlight. There was a bell pull to the right-hand side of the gate.
Hamid tugged the handle. Distinctly, in the silence, we could hear the creak of the wires as they strained, foot by rusty foot, to pull the bell. Seconds later, with a squeak and jangle of springs, it clanged hollowly just inside the gate. As the echo ran humming down the bronze a dog barked somewhere. After that, again, there was silence.
Hamid had just raised his hand again to the bellwhen we heard footsteps. Hardly footsteps; just the whispering shuffle of slippers on a dusty floor, then the sound of hands fumbling at the other side of the gate. It was no surprise to hear the heavy sound of bolts being dragged back, or that, when the gate began to open, it creaked ominously.
I caught Hamid’s eye, and saw in it the same bright anticipation as was no doubt in my own. After such a build-up, whoever opened the gate to us could hardly fail to be an anticlimax.
But he wasn’t. He was better than all expectation. One tall leaf of bronze creaked slowly open on a passage that seemed, in contrast to the sunlight where we stood, to be quite dark. In the cautious crack that had opened we
‘There was an old bridge here once, a Roman bridge, they say,’ said Hamid. ‘These are still the old stones. Can you manage it?’
He took my hand to help me across, then led the way straight for the foot of the cliff, where I saw a path curling its way up through tangles of wild fig and yellow broom towards the head of the promontory.
It was a steep climb but not difficult, obviously practicable for mules or even horses. We saw no sign of life other than the lizards, and the kestrels which circled above the cliff. There was no sound except that of the water running below us, and the scrape of our steps, and our breathing.
As we came out eventually at the top of the crag and saw the eyeless walls of the palace in front of us, I had the oddest feeling that the building was completely dead and deserted, that this was almost a place outside life. It seemed impossible that anyone should live there,least of all anyone I had known. No one, surely, who had ever been a part of my own extraordinary but vital family could shut themselves away here in this bone-white graveyard of a place …
As I paused to get my breath, eyeing the scoured pale walls, the locked gate of bronze, I found myself remembering the last time I had seen Great-Aunt Harriet. It was a dim childhood’s memory … The orchard at home, at windfall time, and one of those soft gusty September winds with the leaves swirling, and the apples thudding into the damp turf. The sky was full of afternoon clouds, and the rooks wheeling to go home. I remembered Great-Aunt Harriet’s voice cawing like a rook with laughter at something Charles had said …
‘There used to be a bell beside the door. You tell me what you want me to say, and if the old chap isn’t asleep, we might get him to take a message,’ said Hamid cheerfully, leading the way across the dusty rock towards the gate.
3
This batter’d Caravanserai …
E. Fitzgerald:
The Rubáiyát of
Omar Khayyám of Naîshápûr
T HE main gate – double leaves of studded bronze under an elaborately carved arch – was at first sight vastly impressive, but as one approached it could be seen that the heavy knocker had vanished from its hinge and that the carving had been fretted almost to nothing by the wind. The walls, high and blind, showed here and there the remains of some coloured decoration, ghostly patterns and mosaics and broken marble plastered over and painted a pale ochre colour which had baked white with the strong sunlight. There was a bell pull to the right-hand side of the gate.
Hamid tugged the handle. Distinctly, in the silence, we could hear the creak of the wires as they strained, foot by rusty foot, to pull the bell. Seconds later, with a squeak and jangle of springs, it clanged hollowly just inside the gate. As the echo ran humming down the bronze a dog barked somewhere. After that, again, there was silence.
Hamid had just raised his hand again to the bellwhen we heard footsteps. Hardly footsteps; just the whispering shuffle of slippers on a dusty floor, then the sound of hands fumbling at the other side of the gate. It was no surprise to hear the heavy sound of bolts being dragged back, or that, when the gate began to open, it creaked ominously.
I caught Hamid’s eye, and saw in it the same bright anticipation as was no doubt in my own. After such a build-up, whoever opened the gate to us could hardly fail to be an anticlimax.
But he wasn’t. He was better than all expectation. One tall leaf of bronze creaked slowly open on a passage that seemed, in contrast to the sunlight where we stood, to be quite dark. In the cautious crack that had opened we
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