Nothing remains. Such is the final result of this extended stocktaking. We have already seen that no contribution to science resulted from von Haven’s participation in the Danish expedition. The two ambitious and rival professors end by sharing the same fate. Throughout the entire expedition, the one was indolent, devoid of ideas, lacking in initiative, and interested only in his personal comfort. He left nothing more than a worthless diary covering one particular section of the expedition, which itself was a complete fiasco. The other worked from morning till night, was interested in everything, threw out brilliant new ideas and theories, discovered and solved fascinating problems where others saw only the obvious. He collected, catalogued, described. He not only left behind his diary, but his seven large packages of manuscripts and ten large chests of specimens. Yet he got no more out of it than the other. The effort in the two cases is very different, but the result is the same. Nothing remains.
Apart from one thing. A plant by the name of Forsskalea. Forsskål had himself found this plant, but the name is due to Linnaeus, who used to name plants after both scientists and patrons of science—an honour greatly coveted by his contemporaries. When in this way, on the dramatic expedition Forsskål undertook alone to Alexandria, he found a flower that he regarded as new, he wrote to Linnaeus from Cairo, asking him to give it the name of its discoverer.
Linnaeus examined the flower, of which Forsskål had sent him the seed, but discovered that, contrary to what his pupil had supposed, it was not a new species; in consequence, he could not meet his wishes. By the time Linnaeus received this consignment and had got the seed to grow in Uppsala, nearly two years had passed. Then he heard of Forsskål’s death in distant Jerim and decided to honour his memory by giving his name to another plant that had grown from the seed Forsskål had sent and which, by contrast, really was new. Forsskål himself had called it Caidbeja on the packet, because it had been found near the village of Caid Bey, near Cairo. Linnaeus now named it Forsskalea, and ascribed to it the following description: tenacissima, hispida, adhaerens, uncinata.
When Carsten Niebuhr heard of this choice, he was beside himself with rage. His son relates that he never forgave Linnaeus for having, as Niebuhr thought, given a degrading characterisation of the dead man. Both Christensen and Schück tried to defend Linnaeus against Niebuhr’s reproaches by recalling that several of the descriptive terms that had most aroused Niebuhr’s anger were originally given to the plant by Forsskål himself. It is difficult in this instance to share their view. They had to meet not only Carsten Niebuhr’s protest but those of several other contemporaries, like Beckmann and Lindberg, who all shared the same attitude—no doubt because it was well known that the great Linnaeus, when naming a plant after a man, not infrequently tried to achieve some sort of harmony between the character of the plant and the character of the man. Besides, Linnaeus could as well have chosen some other plant as the one described in such suggestive terms. The crucial point is that Linnaeus’ choice characterises Peter Forsskål in so striking a way that it cannot be ascribed to mere coincidence. This is no doubt why Niebuhr was so offended. But even though Linnaeus’ choice was deliberate, his characterisation is not necessarily as degrading as Niebuhr imagined. He deserves not so much acquittal as recognition. He had hit upon the truth. He knew Peter Forsskål. He knew that this man was not to be honoured by orchids and roses. No delicate flowers grew on that desert grave outside Jerim. Forsskål’s memorial should not be a reminder of perfumes and beauty; it was to become a corrosive, a burning memory. The four famous descriptive terms, tenacissima, hispida, adhaerens and uncinata mean stubborn, wild, obstinate and angular. The one living memory of Peter Forsskål is the plant Forsskalea, a stinging nettle.
5
Peter Forsskål’s illness and death had further delayed the expedition at a time when there was already not a day to lose. Now there was less than a month before the English ships left Mocha, and they had not yet covered even half the distance to Sana. The day following Forsskål’s burial, Niebuhr, Baurenfeind, Kramer and Berggren set off from Jerim to continue their journey through the mountains. In view of the circumstances their decision to continue seems heroic, but no particularly heroic mood prevailed among them as they set about covering the final stages separating them from the last of the expedition’s more important objectives. The events in Jerim had put them all in terror of their lives. If Forsskål, who was incomparably the strongest, could die like that, what had they to expect? Already for several months Niebuhr had suffered from regular attacks of fever; and in the last few weeks Baurenfeind and Berggren had gone rapidly downhill. When would the fever attack in earnest? To-day? To-morrow? In a week’s time? What sufferings would they have to endure in their last hours in this accursed Arabia Felix, where death would perhaps not even grant them a grave?
For Carsten Niebuhr in particular the blow was severe. In Forsskål he had lost the man he was most attached to in the expedition. After von Haven’s defection, it was their combined work which promised to produce results worthy of such a tremendous undertaking. Moreover, for more than a year Forsskål had to all intents and purposes been the expedition’s leader; he it was who had negotiated with the Arabs, who had drawn up plans and made possible their implementation. Now Niebuhr remained alone to bear this huge responsibility, without any help but that of Baurenfeind and Kramer, both of them older than he, but weak and lacking initiative, and incapable of expressing themselves in Arabic.
It looked hopeless; Niebuhr seriously began to doubt whether any of them would ever return, and this gave rise to yet another worry. If the entire expedition is lost, what would become of their papers? Who would look after the chests containing Forsskål’s specimens? Niebuhr was now carrying seven packages containing Forsskål’s manuscripts, in addition to his own diary which had long ago filled more than a thousand pages, to say nothing of his map and astronomical tables; and then there were all Baurenfeind’s drawings of landscapes, towns, clothing, plants and animals. Who was to look after this material and take it to Copenhagen if none of them survived? And what would be said at home if the entire expedition vanished here among these mountains without leaving any results? Was the achievement of years of work and endeavour really destined to be nil?
His son writes: “This was the one point on the journey when my father, overcome by feelings of despair, lost his grip. At last he found himself in that state of apathetic inertia that not infrequently assails Europeans in hot countries when suffering from sickness or worry.” Niebuhr’s dispiritedness is evident on several occasions after Jerim. Suddenly the intervals between the place-names on his map become conspicuously long, and he rides straight past the villages of Hoddafa and Dháfar without visiting them or copying the Himyaritic inscriptions he had been told about, and which formed the objective of several nineteenth-century expeditions. On the evening of 13th July, when, after their first day’s journey from Jerim, they arrived at Damar, the otherwise scrupulous treasurer dispensed with accommodation at the common inn and instead rented a house for a whole month that the expedition might spend a single night in peace—a precaution which turned out to be useless since they were here also exposed to a violent bombardment of stones. Worse still, when Berggren was too sick next day to continue the journey, the others abandoned him to his fate while they themselves rode on.
Disorganised, disunited, glum and withdrawn, each of them sunk deep in his own thoughts, Niebuhr, Kramer and Baurenfeind now covered the last stretches of their long journey. They scarcely noticed the crowd of curious Arabs walking beside them under the pretext of wanting to consult Doctor Kramer. The rainy season had set in in earnest, and every afternoon thunderstorms drenched their clothes and their baggage. Silent, they crouched down on their donkeys, while fever burnt their flesh and the rain streamed down. Then on the evening of 16th July, when things could become no more hopeless, the weather cleared, the sun broke through, and they rode past a few wealthy estates surrounded by extensive orchards in which were vi
nes and walnut trees and apricots, already ripe. The leaves of the trees were dripping after the rain, and the puddles on the road also seemed to have been touched by the glow of the setting sun. One more bend in the road and the landscape opened out before them. The three men halted and looked down over the valley and its houses, the smoke from whose fires rose and blended with the steam from the rain still hanging about the hillsides; everything was still, and a bee-eater was sitting on a branch in the foreground. It took some time before the weary travellers dared believe their own eyes. The town in the valley was not some fevered vision. It was real, just as the fresh earthy smell in the air around them was real, the sound of the dripping trees, and the green bee-eater that kept on flying up and returning to the same branch. It was no mirage. It was Sana, the capital of Arabia Felix. After two and a half years of travel they had finally arrived.
Niebuhr, Kramer and Baurenfeind were still dressed in their Arab robes, which they had worn ever since Egypt and which had gradually become so tattered and dirty that, with faces drawn and ravaged by sickness, they looked more like a band of famished robbers than anything else. They agreed that they could not ride into the Imam’s town in these rags, so they called in at a nearby coffee hut to change their clothes. The finest they had were some Turkish costumes acquired in Constantinople. They were hardly appropriate to this locality, but they were clean and not torn. After washing and trimming their beards, they put on their clean clothes and continued refreshed down the mountain road. Shortly afterwards an important-looking Arab came riding up to them on a horse. He halted in front of them and introduced himself in exquisite turns of phrase. He was the scribe of Fakih Ahmed, the Imam’s Minister of State. He told them they had long been expected, and that when rumour of their arrival reached the town, the Imam had asked him to ride out to welcome them and tell them that His Highness had placed a residence at their disposal, where they could stay as long as they desired.
That night the expedition slept for the first time for many a long day in proper beds; and as they sat drinking their morning coffee the following day, the Imam’s gifts of welcome arrived. There was a whole procession: five live sheep, three camels loaded with fuel for the kitchen, a quantity of wax candles, sacks of rice, and all kinds of vegetables. At the same time the Imam asked to be forgiven for not being able to receive them for two days; he was extremely busy paying his troops. Niebuhr in his diary deplores the delay; he had the English ships constantly in mind, and as it would be impolite to move about Sana before they had had audience of the Imam, the delay meant two idle days spent in their residence. Yet this did give them a chance of recovering somewhat. Their spirits rose; and who should also arrive from Damar but Berggren. The tough Swede looked a little bleary-eyed. He admitted that this last trip had been harder than any war in Prussia, but there had been nothing else for it but to continue the journey towards Sana. At the sight of him people had refused to give him shelter; they had been afraid that he would die on them. At one place they had even presented him with a donkey so that he could ride away and they could be rid of him.
The expedition was once again back to its full strength. In these splendid surroundings, Niebuhr ate grapes and enjoyed a respite from melancholy thoughts of the past and his own worries for the future: “Not for a long time had we had such comfortable accommodation. The house was full of lovely rooms, and was surrounded by a garden containing all sorts of fruit trees seemingly growing wild. It was a garden in the Arabic style, with fountains and pools, and where one sought the shade rather than walked.”
Two days later, on 19th July, they were received in audience by the Imam. Fakih Ahmed’s scribe arrived in the forenoon and took them to the palace, where elaborate arrangements had been made for their reception. The sundrenched square was crowded with horses, servants and officials; and it was only when the Imam’s stable-master arrived and cleared a path for them with a large cudgel that the members of the expedition were able to reach the entrance. Carsten Niebuhr, as the only Arabic speaker among them, was their leader. Here is the description of the meeting between the self-educated peasant lad from the damp marshlands and His Royal Highness, the Imam of Arabia Felix, told by Niebuhr himself:
“The audience took place in a large rectangular hall under an arched roof. In the middle was a fountain whose jets shot fourteen feet into the air. Behind the pool there was a raised platform, and behind this again another dais where the Imam’s throne was situated. The entire floor both round the fountain and on the raised platforms was covered with Persian carpets. The throne itself consisted merely of a square dais covered with silks, on which had been placed three large cushions, one behind and one to each side of the Imam, all covered in very costly materials. The Imam himself sat on the throne among the cushions with his legs doubled beneath him in Oriental fashion. He was clad in a light green blouse with long wide sleeves. He had a large golden bow fastened to his cloak on both sides of his breast. On his right hand stood his sons, on his left his brothers. In front of him on the platform stood his Minister of State, Fakih Ahmed, and on the next lower step the expedition now took up its position. Along the walls as far as the door stood two long rows of Arab leaders.
“We were taken straight across to the Imam to kiss the back and palm of his right hand, and also his clothing where it hung down over one knee. The first and last of these are usual when one is received by Arab princes; but it is a mark of extraordinarily great honour if a foreigner is given the palm of the hand to kiss. Deep silence prevailed in the whole room. But the moment any of us touched the Imam’s hand, a herald cried out certain words that apparently meant something like ‘Allah preserve the Imam.’ His cry was repeated by all those present, who seemed to shout the words with all the force of their lungs. As I went first and was thinking only of how to express my compliments in as good Arabic as possible and observing the magnificent splendour, the like of which I had not seen anywhere else in Arabia, I cannot deny that I was rather alarmed by this tremendous noise, especially as they began to shout at the very moment I touched the Imam’s hand. I quickly recovered my composure, however, and as they began to shout again when my colleagues took the Imam’s hand, it occurred to me that what was happening at this ceremony was rather like what happens at home when we call for three cheers.”
Carsten Niebuhr had some difficulty in understanding the dialect spoken in Sana, and during the conversation with the Imam he had to use an interpreter. As he preferred not to go into detail about the purpose and motive of their expedition, he explained that they were Danish and that they had travelled through the Red Sea because it was the shortest route to the Danish colony in Trankebar. On their journey they wanted to visit the Imam’s extensive territories, so famous for their wealth and beauty. Niebuhr did not mention their having had to pay for this pleasure with the lives of two of their colleagues, nor that their stay in Mocha had cost them fifty Venetian ducats, nor that the population in Jerim and Damar had greeted them with stones. He said that he could not suppress his praise for the security they had enjoyed when travelling by the Imam’s roads, as well as for the hospitality with which they had everywhere been received. Then he signed to the others to display their rarities, first and foremost the magnifying glass and telescope. The well-tried circus turns were brought out for another performance. The Imam looked at people walking about on their heads and at lice transformed into monsters. Niebuhr showed their barometers and compasses, some of Baurenfeind’s drawings, and some engravings, maps and charts. Finally, he presented to the Imam and to Fakih Ahmed gifts of watches and certain pieces of Forsskål’s equipment. Everything was most graciously received. When they again returned to their house, each of them received a purse containing ninety-nine komassi, or three Speciedaler, in small coin. The treasurer wondered a little at this strange gift: “It seemed peculiar that the Imam should send us money exclusively in coin, but as everything had to be bought for cash in the market, perhaps this was the result of particular thoughtfulness on the
part of the Arabs; they wanted to spare us the difficulty of changing large denominations.”
After their audience with the Imam the members of the expedition had permission to move freely about the capital and Niebuhr immediately started to work out a sketch map of the town. The news of their arrival had long since spread among the population, and the crowds of curious onlookers so interfered with his work that he had to abandon any idea of taking angular bearings with his astrolabe and compass, and return to his old method from Egypt and pace out the streets while pretending indifference. When he had drawn up his map, he tried to form some picture of the city’s trade—the kind of work he used to do with Forsskål. He visited the large market and described the special alleyways trading in fuel, charcoal, iron, grapes, corn, butter, salt and bread, the latter being sold (as it is almost everywhere in Arabia) exclusively by women. There was also a special market where old clothes could be exchanged for new, and where there were stalls with Turkish, Indian and Persian goods. There were herbs and medicaments, dried and fresh fruits like pears and apricots, peaches and figs. There were streets for various trades, with smiths, cobblers, saddle-makers, tailors, hat-makers, masons, goldsmiths, book-binders, and scribes. Everywhere were fresh vegetables in plenty, and of grapes alone he counted up to twenty different kinds.
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