CHAPTER XXIXNews from the world of men reached the harîm like voices from the street without. From time to time some item, interesting them, was cried in tones of censure or approval; but always in a manner of abstraction. This apathy arose from centuries of strict seclusion, in which, through change of dynasties and strife of factions, the privilege of the harîm had been respected. The women felt that politics could not come near them; the government which ruled the men was none of theirs. A realm within the realm, they had their own excitements, their own concerns of life and death and amorous crime. Events the most important failed to move them, while trifling breaches of religion or old custom caused a vast commotion in that nursery of fanaticism.One day, when Barakah was out driving in her carriage, she was stopped near Abdîn palace by the pressure of excited crowds and heard the sounds of angry tumult. The driver backed the horses and then turned. On reaching home she asked the eunuch of the matter.He shrugged: “It is the soldiers, O my lady.They are angry at the coming of the Frank commissioners.”It was then that she presumed to question Yûsuf, and learnt that two commissioners, one French, one English, had come to take control of the finances of the country. The Khedive, that jovial libertine and spendthrift, was now bankrupt. The Europeans, as his creditors, assumed the reins.“But why the English?” questioned Barakah with irritation, for up to then the French alone had been a power in Egypt.“Wallahi, just because their men are clever,” was the answer. “They bought up all our Sovereign’s shares in the canal. Their guile is great, but greater Allah’s mercy, for the arrival of these Franks is good for me. Knowing both their languages I am put forward to receive them, and so rise in honour.”In fact, a few days later he was made a Pasha.But Barakah could not regard the case thus philosophically. The intrusion of the English frightened her. If they should ever come to lord it in the country her degradation would be unendurable. She confided her displeasure to Muhammad, who took an interest in politics as schoolboys will. He bade her have no fear; the Muslims would destroy them presently. The women told her God would intervene. But things went rapidly from bad to worse.Since a French force under Bonaparte hadentered Cairo, before the era of Muhammad Ali, no such fury had possessed the world of women as that which seized them on the deposition of the Khedive Ismaîl. Whatever touched the majesty of El Islâm excited them; vile infidels had here contrived the downfall of a Muslim ruler. And there ensued a host of innovations, in which the hand of unbelief was plainly visible.The slave-trade had been formally abolished under Ismaîl, to please the Franks, but with the customary wink of that facetious monarch. The trade continued gaily with his sly connivance. Now, in his son’s reign, it began to be suppressed in earnest. The slaves themselves were loud in lamentation. When it was known that slavery itself was menaced, the harîm chattered like ten thousand angry parrots.“The Lord have mercy on us! It is gross impiety,” screamed Fitnah Khânum. “Does not the august Corân lay down strict rules for the control of slaves? Is it not therefore Allah’s will that they exist?”“The trade in slaves is holy,” cried Gulbeyzah; “bringing every year a thousand converts out of heathendom. If some are slain, it is no matter, since the death of heathens is uncounted, like the death of beasts. Without the cruel raids, the bloodshed, the survivors had not known salvation. Praise be to Allah, they cannot suppress the trade in us white people, since a father’s right to sell hischild resides in nature. Only since the English meddle do we hear such wickedness.”Besides the slave-trade, good old customs were abolished—one ceremony called the trampling, in particular, in which a sheykh, renowned for piety, was wont to ride on horseback over strewn believers. Some people thought the world was coming to an end, and looked for the appearance of the final prophet. The times were full of omens, portents, monstrous births. The French and English, in collusion, gave command in Egypt; the monarch was a puppet in their hands. The apathy of men amazed the women looking on. The good Khedive appeared a devil to those hot non-combatants; rebellion a plain duty upon all believers. They prayed for a deliverer to be raised up; and in the absence of the prophet whom they half expected, applauded the exertions of a simple soldier, who ventured to oppose the wicked rulers.With the exception of some Turks, who sneered from pride of race, the whole harîm acclaimed Arâbi from his first appearance as a champion. The women viewed the question very simply. Here, on one hand, was a man who wished to free the land from foreign interference, whose cry of Egypt for the Egyptians, must mean Egypt for the Muslims, since the Copts were nobody; on the other, an infirm, if not a wicked, ruler who was letting all the privilege of El Islâm be torn away. In vain their men assured them the Khedive was agood Muslim, and only deferential to the Franks from sheer expediency; that Arâbi’s faction was the work of clever rascals, and boasted not one man of solid parts. They took religious ground and would not listen. They taught their children to admire Arâbi. Muhammad, now a student in the school of war, assisted by his faithful Ali, fought five boys who dared to ridicule the peasant soldier. Though beaten many times the two did not give way, though Ali, for his own part, would have fled thrice over. But Muhammad was indomitable. Bruised and bleeding, he returned with fury to the charge, till his opponents fled in pure religious terror of such dauntless rage. A few weeks later the whole land was cringing before Arâbi’s power. And then excitements followed thick and fast. Muhammad brought his mother all the latest rumours. One day it was:“Great tidings, O my mother! All the Franks are flying! Ali and I have been to watch them at the railway station. Such a crowd! The faithful, past all patience, have risen up at Tantah and Iskenderîyeh and slain thousands of them.”A number of the loyal Turks were also flying. Amînah Khânum and Bedr-ul-Budûr came to take leave of Barakah. They were bound for Alexandria, in the train of the Khedive, and thence would take ship for Constantinople if things grew no better. Muhammad, when informed of their departure, rendered praise to Allah.“They are vanquished,” he remarked. “But would to Allah that we had more Turks on our side. These fellâhîn, though braggarts, are great cowards. They need the whip to urge them into battle. I, who am half a Turk and half an Englishman, cannot endure the sluggishness of this Nile mud.”The boy forgot the portion of his blood which was derived from Fitnah Khânum, his paternal grandmother. It was Nile mud of the thickest, but it did not show in him. All hot and noble counsels moved him to enthusiasm; the lukewarm and the philosophical enraged his soul. Stupidity or insolence in an inferior he could not brook. If his commands were not obeyed at once and with intelligence, he struck hard with the first instrument that came to hand, and called down Allah’s wrath on the offender. The old Pasha was delighted by those outbursts, as showing the commanding spirit of his Turkish race.“When all these low-born troubles have passed over, we must procure him some small government,” he said to Yûsuf, who acquiesced with a pathetic smile. He had not that supreme contempt for the Egyptian rebels which kept his aged father calm amid the storm. He held a good position, and he feared to lose it; whereas his father had retired from public life.Barakah delighted in her son’s account of the disorders. His excitement and the animation ofeach glance and gesture provided her with pictures upon which she brooded in the vacancy of summer days. The air which drifted through her lattice was oppressive, the sunlight like a furnace fire without; the voices of the street complained of dust and heat; the ceaseless buzz of flies benumbed the brain; the call for water rang incessantly through all the house, and even Umm ed-Dahak felt too weak to talk. But Barakah was happy, since Muhammad spent much time with her, finding her conversation more congenial to his patriotic mood than that of Yûsuf. In his absence she lay still and smoked, and quenched her thirst at frequent intervals, taking scant notice of her little daughter—the only other of her many children who had managed to survive the second year. Umm ed-Dahak loved the child and schooled her privately, telling her stories of man’s love and woman’s duty, and teaching her to pose and ogle in the proper way. But for the rest she was of no importance; Muhammad’s known affection for her was her only merit.One afternoon Muhammad came in with a mien of wild excitement and, having kissed his mother’s hand, cried out:“Most dreadful news! O horror! O revenge! The English have destroyed Iskenderîyeh with their cruel guns! The English only, since the French, more honourable, fled from the hateful sight with tears of shame. Simply because theforts were being mended, and work was not relaxed at their command. But, praise to Allah, we have hurt them also. Quite half their fleet has been destroyed by our brave fire. After this, we give no quarter—no, by Allah! It is holy war. Muhammad Tewfik is proclaimed a scoundrel. Our Arâbi is Dictator. The army is to be augmented fourfold by forced levies. I met a boy, no older than myself, who goes to fight. I go this minute to implore my father to let me likewise join the army in the field.”“Thy age is but fifteen. O Lord, he must not go!” cried out his mother in an agony of apprehension.“I am a man full-grown, proficient in all exercises that belong to war. As young as I are going. Think, it is against the English, O my mother—thy vile enemies!”Embracing her without a thought for her despair, he left her in great haste to find his father.
News from the world of men reached the harîm like voices from the street without. From time to time some item, interesting them, was cried in tones of censure or approval; but always in a manner of abstraction. This apathy arose from centuries of strict seclusion, in which, through change of dynasties and strife of factions, the privilege of the harîm had been respected. The women felt that politics could not come near them; the government which ruled the men was none of theirs. A realm within the realm, they had their own excitements, their own concerns of life and death and amorous crime. Events the most important failed to move them, while trifling breaches of religion or old custom caused a vast commotion in that nursery of fanaticism.
One day, when Barakah was out driving in her carriage, she was stopped near Abdîn palace by the pressure of excited crowds and heard the sounds of angry tumult. The driver backed the horses and then turned. On reaching home she asked the eunuch of the matter.
He shrugged: “It is the soldiers, O my lady.They are angry at the coming of the Frank commissioners.”
It was then that she presumed to question Yûsuf, and learnt that two commissioners, one French, one English, had come to take control of the finances of the country. The Khedive, that jovial libertine and spendthrift, was now bankrupt. The Europeans, as his creditors, assumed the reins.
“But why the English?” questioned Barakah with irritation, for up to then the French alone had been a power in Egypt.
“Wallahi, just because their men are clever,” was the answer. “They bought up all our Sovereign’s shares in the canal. Their guile is great, but greater Allah’s mercy, for the arrival of these Franks is good for me. Knowing both their languages I am put forward to receive them, and so rise in honour.”
In fact, a few days later he was made a Pasha.
But Barakah could not regard the case thus philosophically. The intrusion of the English frightened her. If they should ever come to lord it in the country her degradation would be unendurable. She confided her displeasure to Muhammad, who took an interest in politics as schoolboys will. He bade her have no fear; the Muslims would destroy them presently. The women told her God would intervene. But things went rapidly from bad to worse.
Since a French force under Bonaparte hadentered Cairo, before the era of Muhammad Ali, no such fury had possessed the world of women as that which seized them on the deposition of the Khedive Ismaîl. Whatever touched the majesty of El Islâm excited them; vile infidels had here contrived the downfall of a Muslim ruler. And there ensued a host of innovations, in which the hand of unbelief was plainly visible.
The slave-trade had been formally abolished under Ismaîl, to please the Franks, but with the customary wink of that facetious monarch. The trade continued gaily with his sly connivance. Now, in his son’s reign, it began to be suppressed in earnest. The slaves themselves were loud in lamentation. When it was known that slavery itself was menaced, the harîm chattered like ten thousand angry parrots.
“The Lord have mercy on us! It is gross impiety,” screamed Fitnah Khânum. “Does not the august Corân lay down strict rules for the control of slaves? Is it not therefore Allah’s will that they exist?”
“The trade in slaves is holy,” cried Gulbeyzah; “bringing every year a thousand converts out of heathendom. If some are slain, it is no matter, since the death of heathens is uncounted, like the death of beasts. Without the cruel raids, the bloodshed, the survivors had not known salvation. Praise be to Allah, they cannot suppress the trade in us white people, since a father’s right to sell hischild resides in nature. Only since the English meddle do we hear such wickedness.”
Besides the slave-trade, good old customs were abolished—one ceremony called the trampling, in particular, in which a sheykh, renowned for piety, was wont to ride on horseback over strewn believers. Some people thought the world was coming to an end, and looked for the appearance of the final prophet. The times were full of omens, portents, monstrous births. The French and English, in collusion, gave command in Egypt; the monarch was a puppet in their hands. The apathy of men amazed the women looking on. The good Khedive appeared a devil to those hot non-combatants; rebellion a plain duty upon all believers. They prayed for a deliverer to be raised up; and in the absence of the prophet whom they half expected, applauded the exertions of a simple soldier, who ventured to oppose the wicked rulers.
With the exception of some Turks, who sneered from pride of race, the whole harîm acclaimed Arâbi from his first appearance as a champion. The women viewed the question very simply. Here, on one hand, was a man who wished to free the land from foreign interference, whose cry of Egypt for the Egyptians, must mean Egypt for the Muslims, since the Copts were nobody; on the other, an infirm, if not a wicked, ruler who was letting all the privilege of El Islâm be torn away. In vain their men assured them the Khedive was agood Muslim, and only deferential to the Franks from sheer expediency; that Arâbi’s faction was the work of clever rascals, and boasted not one man of solid parts. They took religious ground and would not listen. They taught their children to admire Arâbi. Muhammad, now a student in the school of war, assisted by his faithful Ali, fought five boys who dared to ridicule the peasant soldier. Though beaten many times the two did not give way, though Ali, for his own part, would have fled thrice over. But Muhammad was indomitable. Bruised and bleeding, he returned with fury to the charge, till his opponents fled in pure religious terror of such dauntless rage. A few weeks later the whole land was cringing before Arâbi’s power. And then excitements followed thick and fast. Muhammad brought his mother all the latest rumours. One day it was:
“Great tidings, O my mother! All the Franks are flying! Ali and I have been to watch them at the railway station. Such a crowd! The faithful, past all patience, have risen up at Tantah and Iskenderîyeh and slain thousands of them.”
A number of the loyal Turks were also flying. Amînah Khânum and Bedr-ul-Budûr came to take leave of Barakah. They were bound for Alexandria, in the train of the Khedive, and thence would take ship for Constantinople if things grew no better. Muhammad, when informed of their departure, rendered praise to Allah.
“They are vanquished,” he remarked. “But would to Allah that we had more Turks on our side. These fellâhîn, though braggarts, are great cowards. They need the whip to urge them into battle. I, who am half a Turk and half an Englishman, cannot endure the sluggishness of this Nile mud.”
The boy forgot the portion of his blood which was derived from Fitnah Khânum, his paternal grandmother. It was Nile mud of the thickest, but it did not show in him. All hot and noble counsels moved him to enthusiasm; the lukewarm and the philosophical enraged his soul. Stupidity or insolence in an inferior he could not brook. If his commands were not obeyed at once and with intelligence, he struck hard with the first instrument that came to hand, and called down Allah’s wrath on the offender. The old Pasha was delighted by those outbursts, as showing the commanding spirit of his Turkish race.
“When all these low-born troubles have passed over, we must procure him some small government,” he said to Yûsuf, who acquiesced with a pathetic smile. He had not that supreme contempt for the Egyptian rebels which kept his aged father calm amid the storm. He held a good position, and he feared to lose it; whereas his father had retired from public life.
Barakah delighted in her son’s account of the disorders. His excitement and the animation ofeach glance and gesture provided her with pictures upon which she brooded in the vacancy of summer days. The air which drifted through her lattice was oppressive, the sunlight like a furnace fire without; the voices of the street complained of dust and heat; the ceaseless buzz of flies benumbed the brain; the call for water rang incessantly through all the house, and even Umm ed-Dahak felt too weak to talk. But Barakah was happy, since Muhammad spent much time with her, finding her conversation more congenial to his patriotic mood than that of Yûsuf. In his absence she lay still and smoked, and quenched her thirst at frequent intervals, taking scant notice of her little daughter—the only other of her many children who had managed to survive the second year. Umm ed-Dahak loved the child and schooled her privately, telling her stories of man’s love and woman’s duty, and teaching her to pose and ogle in the proper way. But for the rest she was of no importance; Muhammad’s known affection for her was her only merit.
One afternoon Muhammad came in with a mien of wild excitement and, having kissed his mother’s hand, cried out:
“Most dreadful news! O horror! O revenge! The English have destroyed Iskenderîyeh with their cruel guns! The English only, since the French, more honourable, fled from the hateful sight with tears of shame. Simply because theforts were being mended, and work was not relaxed at their command. But, praise to Allah, we have hurt them also. Quite half their fleet has been destroyed by our brave fire. After this, we give no quarter—no, by Allah! It is holy war. Muhammad Tewfik is proclaimed a scoundrel. Our Arâbi is Dictator. The army is to be augmented fourfold by forced levies. I met a boy, no older than myself, who goes to fight. I go this minute to implore my father to let me likewise join the army in the field.”
“Thy age is but fifteen. O Lord, he must not go!” cried out his mother in an agony of apprehension.
“I am a man full-grown, proficient in all exercises that belong to war. As young as I are going. Think, it is against the English, O my mother—thy vile enemies!”
Embracing her without a thought for her despair, he left her in great haste to find his father.
CHAPTER XXXYûsuf Pasha was upon the point of going out when his son was shown into his presence in his private room. He smiled upon the stripling’s prayer to be allowed to fight, but said:“No, no, my son. Thou art too young as yet. Wait till the war is ended and then join the fray.”With that he patted the boy’s cheek, bestowed his blessing on him, and went out, little guessing that he left despair behind him. A carriage waited for him at the door. An armed slave scrambled up beside the driver. It was the hour of sunset. Two months since the ways would have been merry at that hour. But now the passengers were few and fully armed; they looked suspicious and, where groups were formed, the talk seemed guarded. A curse had fallen on the happy city. The sunset blushed on her high roofs, the crescent flashed on all her spires and domes, and in the gullies which were streets lay depths of shade; yet no one felt the rapture of the evening.Yûsuf, lolling in the carriage, gnawed his black moustache and cursed the revolutionaries from his heart. He had attained the wisdom whichcomes easily to middle age, hated disturbance and distrusted novelty. The nervous passion which had marked his youth still dwelt in him; but he reserved its transports for the calls of private life; having another wife besides the Englishwoman, and two concubines, whom he kept in the provincial centre whither public business often called him. Politics had been for him a well-ruled game, on which a man would be a fool to waste vitality. As a functionary, he had lounged on sofas, telling beads, dictating orders to his secretaries, at ease except when called before superiors; until this military rising scared his soul. Its swiftness and success seemed downright fiendish.One day a painstaking, obedient native officer had been selected by the Khedive Ismaîl to organize a riot hostile to the Frank commissioners. He seemed so trusty and discreet that Ismaîl forbore to execute him for the trifling service. Within two years he was the idol of the native soldiers, the spokesman of their grievances against the foreign Turks; in five, he was the incubus and dread of Egypt, first Minister of War and now Dictator. That first employment recommended him to schemers as one who did not fear to lead rebellion. Straightforward and excitable, extremely zealous in whatever charge he undertook, he was thrust forward by the clever ones to posts of hazard. His prompters, Asiatics, saw the bounds of his intelligence and thought to keephim in their hands, a priceless instrument. But they had not allowed for the inflation of the African, who, being once exalted, swelled and swelled until his greatness overawed its very founders.An honest man and a good Muslim, Ahmad Arâbi lacked the cleverness of the conspirator; nor was he one. The sordid plots which guided his career were spun behind him; while he pressed onward with clear brow and conquering smile—a doomed man, in the view of calm spectators.Yûsuf had known Arâbi for some years and liked him personally; but the Khedive Muhammad Tewfik was his friend from childhood. Entreated by the agitators to take office with them, he had referred the question to the good Khedive, who begged him to accept the post thus offered, that he (Muhammad Tewfik Pasha, Lord of Egypt) might have one friend among his so-called servants. Tied by his duties, he had not fled to Alexandria with the Sovereign; but remained behind in an absurd position, a member of the rebel government which he abhorred. He was now upon his way to meet some other Turks thus stranded, to decide on some safe line of future conduct.The rendezvous was at his father’s house, where, in the great reception-room, he found a score of men assembled. All had the faces of conspirators except his father, a very old man now, who bade them welcome as to some court function.“Where is my son Hamdi?” asked the patriarch upon the dais, peering round upon the red-capped and black-coated throng.“He is not with us. He has joined the fellâhîn. He dared not tell thee,” answered Yûsuf sadly.“Well, well,” remarked Muhammad Pasha, with benignity. “Boys will be foolish! In Allah’s name I bid you welcome, O my friends. It is well known that I myself despise these upstarts and have told their leader my opinion to his face. Less old, I should have spent my life and fortune for the young Khedive, whose ancestor, the great Muhammad Ali, raised my house to honour; as it is, I pray to God to grant him victory. But his dependence on the English likes me not; and God forbid that I should influence your counsels. You have, each one, his life and fortune to protect, his duty to decide towards El Islâm.”He stopped, and an uneasy silence reigned for quite a minute. It was broken by a man exclaiming, “They have set up a tribunal in each town with power to ruin or to kill a man on mere suspicion. Hear the wording of a document which I received this day.”With that, he took a paper from his breast and read aloud its contents—a call in truculent, inflated language upon the patriot Mahmûd the son of Hâfiz to show his fervour by a contribution to the war fund; failing which, he wouldbe prosecuted as a foe to Egypt—“for the public safety.”“Aha!” laughed the old Pasha in his thin, cracked voice. “A French model, by my beard! For men who would eschew all foreign influence! That is the hand of Tulbah, not Arâbi. The mountebanks! The silly children—apish imitators!”“By your Excellency’s leave the matter is extremely serious—for me at least,” groaned out the owner of the notice.“Thou wilt make the contribution?” inquired Yûsuf.“Better flee,” remarked another.And then they all began to talk together in low whispers with frightened glances round the room, for spies were everywhere. Flight was now hopeless, every one agreed; nothing remained but to feign ardour in Arâbi’s cause, give up communication with the loyalists at Alexandria, and pray for the usurper’s overthrow.“They cannot last, I tell you,” chuckled the old Pasha. “These fellâhîn are quite unfit for government. The young Khedive has been too kind. He has not whipped them. My son and I were present when his father warned him to execute these men, his creatures, who had tasted power. A sad mistake, by Allah! For, Allah knows, we do not want the English in this land. My life-work, that of all the old diplomatists, hasbeen to stave off European interference, by compliments, by guile, by small concessions. O Allah, let me die before the evil day! The Lord preserve us from the domination of the infidels!”The old man dropped his hands and hung his head.“Better the English than this present anarchy,” another murmured. “Already the whole land is overrun by gangs of brigands. The streets here in the capital grow dangerous. There is no order kept except among the soldiers. All trade, all enterprise is at a standstill, and every public undertaking goes to ruin. Already all the people hate Arâbi.”“The Lord deliver us,” said Yûsuf, “from him and from the English both. A dreadful quandary!”When he went forth to his carriage, still in waiting, he told his slave to have his pistols ready, and himself examined the revolver which he carried. He wrapped a shawl about his face to pass unrecognized and, thus protected and disguised, drove through the darkling streets, where every wayfarer betrayed the like anxiety. Only the street-dogs went about their work as usual, prowling along the walls in search of offal.At his own door a man accosted him. It was one of his paid spies. He led the way across the hall into his private room.“What news?” he questioned.“May Allah turn it to thy good!” the spy replied, with his profoundest reverence. “I have it from a member of the new Committee that your Highness is marked down as a suspected notable. They say it may mean destitution, even death.”“I thank thee,” murmured Yûsuf and dismissed the man. Directly he was gone he called Ghandûr and said:“Didst thou not tell me, O beloved, that thou hadst some relative a member of the new Committee for the Public Safety?”“Yes, O my lord! The person is my father’s brother, a small merchant.”“Where is their place of meeting?”“I can show it thee.”“Do they meet every day?”“I think so, but will ascertain.”“Good. I shall wait upon them in the morning. At daybreak take ten pounds out of the treasury and carry it to thy relation to bespeak his favour.”“Has aught untoward happened?”“Untoward? Listen!” Yûsuf told the story.“Merciful Allah! How can such things be?” exclaimed Ghandûr. “We are the greatest in the land, they—filthy upstarts. How much does my good lord propose to give?”“A thousand pounds were not too much to save my life.”“Deign but to hear my counsel! Give a hundred and ask leave for thy son to join the army. He is prostrated by thy late refusal. His going will prove more than any gift of money that thy heart is with the cause—which, Allah knows, may be the right one, since our lord has chosen to put trust in infidels. His mother even wishes it, to heal his chagrin. She sent for me and asked me to entreat your Excellency. We have good friends within the army who will see that he is kept from fighting. My son shall go along with him, to be his servant.”Ghandûr, the simple creature, was in tears.“By Allah, I will think about it,” murmured Yûsuf.Five minutes later he repaired to his son’s room, revived the lad, and passing thence to the haramlik, told Barakah that her request was granted. She was half stunned, for she had counted on his obduracy.Not noticing her dazed condition, for his mind ran still on puzzles of diplomacy, he added:“Thou, who art English, O my sweet one, inform me of that nation! Are they harsh as conquerors? What is their custom with regard to vengeance? Do they burn and ravish, or merely punish those who have borne arms against them? It is important I should know beforehand if they win the day.”Barakah stared at him vaguely for a moment; then bursting into tears, exclaimed:“Cut short thy life! O most unfeeling father! O appalling prospect! I would sooner die a thousand deaths than see them conquer.”“Merciful Allah, are they so fanatical?” gasped Yûsuf, with a face of great dismay. “I meant not to alarm thee, O beloved. I was thinking only of myself, how to behave in case things happened so, which God forbid!”But Barakah thought only of their son.
Yûsuf Pasha was upon the point of going out when his son was shown into his presence in his private room. He smiled upon the stripling’s prayer to be allowed to fight, but said:
“No, no, my son. Thou art too young as yet. Wait till the war is ended and then join the fray.”
With that he patted the boy’s cheek, bestowed his blessing on him, and went out, little guessing that he left despair behind him. A carriage waited for him at the door. An armed slave scrambled up beside the driver. It was the hour of sunset. Two months since the ways would have been merry at that hour. But now the passengers were few and fully armed; they looked suspicious and, where groups were formed, the talk seemed guarded. A curse had fallen on the happy city. The sunset blushed on her high roofs, the crescent flashed on all her spires and domes, and in the gullies which were streets lay depths of shade; yet no one felt the rapture of the evening.
Yûsuf, lolling in the carriage, gnawed his black moustache and cursed the revolutionaries from his heart. He had attained the wisdom whichcomes easily to middle age, hated disturbance and distrusted novelty. The nervous passion which had marked his youth still dwelt in him; but he reserved its transports for the calls of private life; having another wife besides the Englishwoman, and two concubines, whom he kept in the provincial centre whither public business often called him. Politics had been for him a well-ruled game, on which a man would be a fool to waste vitality. As a functionary, he had lounged on sofas, telling beads, dictating orders to his secretaries, at ease except when called before superiors; until this military rising scared his soul. Its swiftness and success seemed downright fiendish.
One day a painstaking, obedient native officer had been selected by the Khedive Ismaîl to organize a riot hostile to the Frank commissioners. He seemed so trusty and discreet that Ismaîl forbore to execute him for the trifling service. Within two years he was the idol of the native soldiers, the spokesman of their grievances against the foreign Turks; in five, he was the incubus and dread of Egypt, first Minister of War and now Dictator. That first employment recommended him to schemers as one who did not fear to lead rebellion. Straightforward and excitable, extremely zealous in whatever charge he undertook, he was thrust forward by the clever ones to posts of hazard. His prompters, Asiatics, saw the bounds of his intelligence and thought to keephim in their hands, a priceless instrument. But they had not allowed for the inflation of the African, who, being once exalted, swelled and swelled until his greatness overawed its very founders.
An honest man and a good Muslim, Ahmad Arâbi lacked the cleverness of the conspirator; nor was he one. The sordid plots which guided his career were spun behind him; while he pressed onward with clear brow and conquering smile—a doomed man, in the view of calm spectators.
Yûsuf had known Arâbi for some years and liked him personally; but the Khedive Muhammad Tewfik was his friend from childhood. Entreated by the agitators to take office with them, he had referred the question to the good Khedive, who begged him to accept the post thus offered, that he (Muhammad Tewfik Pasha, Lord of Egypt) might have one friend among his so-called servants. Tied by his duties, he had not fled to Alexandria with the Sovereign; but remained behind in an absurd position, a member of the rebel government which he abhorred. He was now upon his way to meet some other Turks thus stranded, to decide on some safe line of future conduct.
The rendezvous was at his father’s house, where, in the great reception-room, he found a score of men assembled. All had the faces of conspirators except his father, a very old man now, who bade them welcome as to some court function.
“Where is my son Hamdi?” asked the patriarch upon the dais, peering round upon the red-capped and black-coated throng.
“He is not with us. He has joined the fellâhîn. He dared not tell thee,” answered Yûsuf sadly.
“Well, well,” remarked Muhammad Pasha, with benignity. “Boys will be foolish! In Allah’s name I bid you welcome, O my friends. It is well known that I myself despise these upstarts and have told their leader my opinion to his face. Less old, I should have spent my life and fortune for the young Khedive, whose ancestor, the great Muhammad Ali, raised my house to honour; as it is, I pray to God to grant him victory. But his dependence on the English likes me not; and God forbid that I should influence your counsels. You have, each one, his life and fortune to protect, his duty to decide towards El Islâm.”
He stopped, and an uneasy silence reigned for quite a minute. It was broken by a man exclaiming, “They have set up a tribunal in each town with power to ruin or to kill a man on mere suspicion. Hear the wording of a document which I received this day.”
With that, he took a paper from his breast and read aloud its contents—a call in truculent, inflated language upon the patriot Mahmûd the son of Hâfiz to show his fervour by a contribution to the war fund; failing which, he wouldbe prosecuted as a foe to Egypt—“for the public safety.”
“Aha!” laughed the old Pasha in his thin, cracked voice. “A French model, by my beard! For men who would eschew all foreign influence! That is the hand of Tulbah, not Arâbi. The mountebanks! The silly children—apish imitators!”
“By your Excellency’s leave the matter is extremely serious—for me at least,” groaned out the owner of the notice.
“Thou wilt make the contribution?” inquired Yûsuf.
“Better flee,” remarked another.
And then they all began to talk together in low whispers with frightened glances round the room, for spies were everywhere. Flight was now hopeless, every one agreed; nothing remained but to feign ardour in Arâbi’s cause, give up communication with the loyalists at Alexandria, and pray for the usurper’s overthrow.
“They cannot last, I tell you,” chuckled the old Pasha. “These fellâhîn are quite unfit for government. The young Khedive has been too kind. He has not whipped them. My son and I were present when his father warned him to execute these men, his creatures, who had tasted power. A sad mistake, by Allah! For, Allah knows, we do not want the English in this land. My life-work, that of all the old diplomatists, hasbeen to stave off European interference, by compliments, by guile, by small concessions. O Allah, let me die before the evil day! The Lord preserve us from the domination of the infidels!”
The old man dropped his hands and hung his head.
“Better the English than this present anarchy,” another murmured. “Already the whole land is overrun by gangs of brigands. The streets here in the capital grow dangerous. There is no order kept except among the soldiers. All trade, all enterprise is at a standstill, and every public undertaking goes to ruin. Already all the people hate Arâbi.”
“The Lord deliver us,” said Yûsuf, “from him and from the English both. A dreadful quandary!”
When he went forth to his carriage, still in waiting, he told his slave to have his pistols ready, and himself examined the revolver which he carried. He wrapped a shawl about his face to pass unrecognized and, thus protected and disguised, drove through the darkling streets, where every wayfarer betrayed the like anxiety. Only the street-dogs went about their work as usual, prowling along the walls in search of offal.
At his own door a man accosted him. It was one of his paid spies. He led the way across the hall into his private room.
“What news?” he questioned.
“May Allah turn it to thy good!” the spy replied, with his profoundest reverence. “I have it from a member of the new Committee that your Highness is marked down as a suspected notable. They say it may mean destitution, even death.”
“I thank thee,” murmured Yûsuf and dismissed the man. Directly he was gone he called Ghandûr and said:
“Didst thou not tell me, O beloved, that thou hadst some relative a member of the new Committee for the Public Safety?”
“Yes, O my lord! The person is my father’s brother, a small merchant.”
“Where is their place of meeting?”
“I can show it thee.”
“Do they meet every day?”
“I think so, but will ascertain.”
“Good. I shall wait upon them in the morning. At daybreak take ten pounds out of the treasury and carry it to thy relation to bespeak his favour.”
“Has aught untoward happened?”
“Untoward? Listen!” Yûsuf told the story.
“Merciful Allah! How can such things be?” exclaimed Ghandûr. “We are the greatest in the land, they—filthy upstarts. How much does my good lord propose to give?”
“A thousand pounds were not too much to save my life.”
“Deign but to hear my counsel! Give a hundred and ask leave for thy son to join the army. He is prostrated by thy late refusal. His going will prove more than any gift of money that thy heart is with the cause—which, Allah knows, may be the right one, since our lord has chosen to put trust in infidels. His mother even wishes it, to heal his chagrin. She sent for me and asked me to entreat your Excellency. We have good friends within the army who will see that he is kept from fighting. My son shall go along with him, to be his servant.”
Ghandûr, the simple creature, was in tears.
“By Allah, I will think about it,” murmured Yûsuf.
Five minutes later he repaired to his son’s room, revived the lad, and passing thence to the haramlik, told Barakah that her request was granted. She was half stunned, for she had counted on his obduracy.
Not noticing her dazed condition, for his mind ran still on puzzles of diplomacy, he added:
“Thou, who art English, O my sweet one, inform me of that nation! Are they harsh as conquerors? What is their custom with regard to vengeance? Do they burn and ravish, or merely punish those who have borne arms against them? It is important I should know beforehand if they win the day.”
Barakah stared at him vaguely for a moment; then bursting into tears, exclaimed:
“Cut short thy life! O most unfeeling father! O appalling prospect! I would sooner die a thousand deaths than see them conquer.”
“Merciful Allah, are they so fanatical?” gasped Yûsuf, with a face of great dismay. “I meant not to alarm thee, O beloved. I was thinking only of myself, how to behave in case things happened so, which God forbid!”
But Barakah thought only of their son.
CHAPTER XXXI“A splendid victory at Kafr ed-Dowâr! A thousand infidels dispatched to Hell, and not a single blessed martyr gone to Paradise!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, entering her lady’s presence on a summer evening. “Ghandûr has got the news-sheet, and craves leave to read it to thee.”The lady ordered him to be admitted instantly. Muhammad and his servant Ali were at Kafr ed-Dowâr. Drawing her head-veil so as to leave one eye visible, she listened to the short triumphant notice, which began and ended with “the praise to Allah!”“The praise to Allah truly!” she suspired. “Not one was killed.”Ghandûr assured her then, as he had done a score of times, that Muhammad, with the blessing of the Highest, ran no danger. By arrangement with the leaders he was kept at work in the trenched camp, away from fighting. But her anxiety was not allayed, her boy was venturesome and, burning as he was to fight, might break through rules.Every evening in Arâbi’s journal there was news of some fresh triumph, either at Kafr ed-Dowâr, by Alexandria, or on the banks of the Canal, where the main force of the English wasnow operating. She heard it said on all hands that the war would soon be over. Yet, though every one abounded in exultant phrases, no single soul appeared exceptionally cheerful; and she herself did not disguise her sorrow. The absence of Muhammad was a constant pain. She gave attention to her little daughter fitfully.The weather was intensely hot, the town a desert full of dismal noises. So many men had been compelled to join the army, so many beasts of burden had been pressed for transport purposes, that trade was paralysed and traffic almost ceased. When she drove out, the aspect of the streets dismayed her; it was as if the city had been ravaged by a pestilence. The European, Syrian, Armenian quarters were utterly deserted, all the houses closed; and elsewhere there was very little movement. In other summers the harîm had gone into the country, and Barakah would gladly have drawn nearer to the seat of war; but her husband vetoed the proposal instantly, the country districts were unsafe and overrun by brigands. Yûsuf was irritable in those days. He had his bed in the selamlik and seldom could spare time to visit Barakah.“I believe he has another woman somewhere,” she told Umm ed-Dahak in a hopeless tone.“It is his right, by Allah,” answered the old woman; “and no slight to thee, if thou wouldst view it fairly, and throw aside the silly fiction ofthe Franks. It is the nature of a man to have more wives than one, and a woman should no more resent his doing so—always provided he does not defraud her—than blame a cat for having several kittens at a birth. Ibrahîm, the father of the faithful, Mûsa—all the prophets till the crown of them (God bless and save him) married more than one. Polygamy was in the customs of the Jews and Christians until they fell away from El Islâm. Nay, a remembrance of it still exists among the Franks. For do not their religious women dwell together in one house, obedient to a rule like ours, attired like us, and call themselves—I ask pardon of the Lord—Harîm Allah (the wives of God)? Rank blasphemy, by Allah! Yet it shows that the old rule is not entirely lost.”Barakah was too disconsolate to be contentious. Let Muhammad but return to her in safety and she would not care though Yûsuf took a thousand wives; but in his absence everything seemed grievous.A real sorrow overhung the house of Yûsuf; for the old Pasha was fast sinking to the grave. Hamdi, the hot disciple of Arâbi, the poet of rebellion, author of the famous calls to patriotism which were printed every week in the official journal, was bowed down by grief. He thought his siding with the malcontents had killed his father.“But what was I to do?” he asked of Barakah, to whom, as an old friend, he took his troubles. “Their cries had fired my spirit. I could not keepsilent. Na’imah tells me not to worry, yet I feel most guilty.”Yûsuf, too, was downcast and repentant.“We have been like fools,” he sighed, “wasting in vanity the precious hours we might have spent with him—as if we thought that he would live for ever. Now the end draws near, we can but beat our breasts and curse our folly.”When Barakah went to the old palace to inquire, she was struck by the despairing looks of all the servants. A eunuch with a very woeful smile conducted her to Fitnah Khânum, who exclaimed at sight of her:“The praise to Allah, thou art come! Our lord has asked for thee. Murjânah was just going to dispatch a messenger. Come! Come at once! There is no time to lose. He has refused to take a potion which I had prepared. He will not let a charm be hung upon him. He resigns his life to Allah. It is the end.”Murjânah Khânum sat beside the bed, holding the old man’s hand. About the walls crouched many black-robed women, waiting in silence, like a flock of vultures.“Here is the wife of Yûsuf,” said Murjânah, giving place to Barakah.The Pasha spoke in French. His voice was faint.“Madame,” he said, “I am about to die, and I am glad to be allowed to say adieu to you. Very often have I thought of you and of your life amongus. I feel a very grave responsibility. I trust that you have been, upon the whole, content?”Barakah declared herself quite happy, and he said, “Thank God!”“But you will not leave us yet; you will recover,” she exclaimed.“No, no, my cherished daughter. My last hour has sounded. I have lived to see my life-work all undone. The Christians always sought a war with El Islâm. We kept a calm face under insults, even made concessions, as one gives a rabid dog a stick to worry.” For a moment the worn face resumed its light of humour. “But now the war has come.... Those rash fanatics!...”There rose a murmur in the room.“The Grand Mufti comes,” announced Murjânah Khânum.“Forgive me, dear madame. It is an old and cherished friend,” the dying man suspired, with a faint smile. “Adieu! Adieu!”And Barakah, with all the women save Murjânah Khânum, hurried out into the passage. At the door a tall and stately man brushed past her. His head was so erect beneath the massive turban, his long robe fell so straight from well-squared shoulders, that it astonished her to see his beard as white as snow. He passed into the room. The door was shut.A minute later, Murjânah Khânum uttered a loud cry; the Mufti came forth sobbing, with head bowed; the black-cowled women scurried shrieking to thedeath-room, where they instantly began the dance of death. They leapt and pirouetted, waving arms above their heads, with frenzied cries. Barakah was gazing horror-stricken at the sight, when some one took her hand and whispered, “Come away!”It was Murjânah.“I cannot bear these customs,” she confessed. “The women of the country keep them in defiance of religion. It is useless to protest; one has to suffer. I am very tired, my dear; for I have not slept for many nights. Indeed, my weariness and grief are such that I can hardly look for rest save in the grave.”Barakah took coffee in Murjânah’s room, and tried to comfort her. She too was sad. But her despair was turned to joy when that same day Muhammad rushed into her arms. He had been called by telegram. She held him back from her and gazed at him until he blushed and hung his head. The uniform, the high-crowned fez, the sword, the snowy gloves, embellished him. When she had gazed her fill, she made him tell her of the camp, his friends, his duties; and, started on that theme, he talked for hours.“If only I could be transferred to the Canal!” he sighed. “That is the real centre of the war. The fighting where I am is empty show, and I am kept from taking part in it. Day after day, I have to teach recruits, dull fellâhîn, who know not right from left. Instruction seems to make themstupider. I beat and beat them, till my arm aches. By my sword and valour, I could often kill them! Think, O my mother!—El Islâm is menaced, armed infidels have set foot in our land, and these men, Muslims, will not learn their exercises!”His mother laughed at his impetuosity. She told his grandfather’s last words to her, and how he feared the English would take hold of Egypt.“There is no fear of that, in sh´Allah!” cried Muhammad. “Our faithful host will sweep them off like fleas. I wish I had been there to reassure the dear one. May Our Lord have mercy on him!”The funeral of Muhammad Pasha Sâlih was among the greatest ever known, although the town was empty. The harassed population flocked to pay respect to one who had denounced Arâbi—a demonstration which could not be punished since sons of the dead man—nay, half his family—acclaimed the tyrant. In the front of the procession were led sheep and bullocks to be slaughtered at the tomb, their meat distributed among the needy in the name of the deceased. Then came hired chanters of the Corân, then half the male inhabitants of Cairo, walking, flanked by two thin lines of soldiers, then the male relations, then a choir of boys shrieking an ode in honour of the Prophet. Immediately behind these moved the lidless coffin, carried on men’s shoulders, with its coloured pall, and then the females of the family in shuttered carriages. A crowd of black-cowledwomen of the city, whose wailing sounded bird-like in the open air, brought up the rear.The train, a mile long, wound out in the blinding sunlight over the sandhill to the city of the dead, from which at its approach the kites and crows went up, affrighted. There ensued a period of forced inaction, which to Barakah in the haramlik at the mausoleum seemed interminable. The ceaseless chanting in the tomb, the wailing of the crowd outside, attacked her nerves. Muhammad was to leave again that evening, and every minute she was parted from him seemed an hour. He was kept upon the men’s side of the tomb; nor would she see him till they reached the house again; she had first to drive home in the stuffy carriage with Na´imah and two of the late Pasha’s daughters. It was maddening.In fact, she saw him only for a moment, ere he ran to catch his train. She wept a little at the disappointment, but his visit had relieved her of a weight of sorrow. She had only to dispatch a telegram and he would come again. Moreover, she was now quite certain he was not in danger.When told by Yûsuf that her drives must cease, because the horses had been taken for the army, she did not complain, but hired a donkey when she had to pay a call; nor could the prospect of a famine frighten her. Her mind had rest. Each evening brought the news of an Egyptian victory. The English would be driven out. Her son was safe. Once more she joked and dreamt with Umm ed-Dahak.
“A splendid victory at Kafr ed-Dowâr! A thousand infidels dispatched to Hell, and not a single blessed martyr gone to Paradise!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, entering her lady’s presence on a summer evening. “Ghandûr has got the news-sheet, and craves leave to read it to thee.”
The lady ordered him to be admitted instantly. Muhammad and his servant Ali were at Kafr ed-Dowâr. Drawing her head-veil so as to leave one eye visible, she listened to the short triumphant notice, which began and ended with “the praise to Allah!”
“The praise to Allah truly!” she suspired. “Not one was killed.”
Ghandûr assured her then, as he had done a score of times, that Muhammad, with the blessing of the Highest, ran no danger. By arrangement with the leaders he was kept at work in the trenched camp, away from fighting. But her anxiety was not allayed, her boy was venturesome and, burning as he was to fight, might break through rules.
Every evening in Arâbi’s journal there was news of some fresh triumph, either at Kafr ed-Dowâr, by Alexandria, or on the banks of the Canal, where the main force of the English wasnow operating. She heard it said on all hands that the war would soon be over. Yet, though every one abounded in exultant phrases, no single soul appeared exceptionally cheerful; and she herself did not disguise her sorrow. The absence of Muhammad was a constant pain. She gave attention to her little daughter fitfully.
The weather was intensely hot, the town a desert full of dismal noises. So many men had been compelled to join the army, so many beasts of burden had been pressed for transport purposes, that trade was paralysed and traffic almost ceased. When she drove out, the aspect of the streets dismayed her; it was as if the city had been ravaged by a pestilence. The European, Syrian, Armenian quarters were utterly deserted, all the houses closed; and elsewhere there was very little movement. In other summers the harîm had gone into the country, and Barakah would gladly have drawn nearer to the seat of war; but her husband vetoed the proposal instantly, the country districts were unsafe and overrun by brigands. Yûsuf was irritable in those days. He had his bed in the selamlik and seldom could spare time to visit Barakah.
“I believe he has another woman somewhere,” she told Umm ed-Dahak in a hopeless tone.
“It is his right, by Allah,” answered the old woman; “and no slight to thee, if thou wouldst view it fairly, and throw aside the silly fiction ofthe Franks. It is the nature of a man to have more wives than one, and a woman should no more resent his doing so—always provided he does not defraud her—than blame a cat for having several kittens at a birth. Ibrahîm, the father of the faithful, Mûsa—all the prophets till the crown of them (God bless and save him) married more than one. Polygamy was in the customs of the Jews and Christians until they fell away from El Islâm. Nay, a remembrance of it still exists among the Franks. For do not their religious women dwell together in one house, obedient to a rule like ours, attired like us, and call themselves—I ask pardon of the Lord—Harîm Allah (the wives of God)? Rank blasphemy, by Allah! Yet it shows that the old rule is not entirely lost.”
Barakah was too disconsolate to be contentious. Let Muhammad but return to her in safety and she would not care though Yûsuf took a thousand wives; but in his absence everything seemed grievous.
A real sorrow overhung the house of Yûsuf; for the old Pasha was fast sinking to the grave. Hamdi, the hot disciple of Arâbi, the poet of rebellion, author of the famous calls to patriotism which were printed every week in the official journal, was bowed down by grief. He thought his siding with the malcontents had killed his father.
“But what was I to do?” he asked of Barakah, to whom, as an old friend, he took his troubles. “Their cries had fired my spirit. I could not keepsilent. Na’imah tells me not to worry, yet I feel most guilty.”
Yûsuf, too, was downcast and repentant.
“We have been like fools,” he sighed, “wasting in vanity the precious hours we might have spent with him—as if we thought that he would live for ever. Now the end draws near, we can but beat our breasts and curse our folly.”
When Barakah went to the old palace to inquire, she was struck by the despairing looks of all the servants. A eunuch with a very woeful smile conducted her to Fitnah Khânum, who exclaimed at sight of her:
“The praise to Allah, thou art come! Our lord has asked for thee. Murjânah was just going to dispatch a messenger. Come! Come at once! There is no time to lose. He has refused to take a potion which I had prepared. He will not let a charm be hung upon him. He resigns his life to Allah. It is the end.”
Murjânah Khânum sat beside the bed, holding the old man’s hand. About the walls crouched many black-robed women, waiting in silence, like a flock of vultures.
“Here is the wife of Yûsuf,” said Murjânah, giving place to Barakah.
The Pasha spoke in French. His voice was faint.
“Madame,” he said, “I am about to die, and I am glad to be allowed to say adieu to you. Very often have I thought of you and of your life amongus. I feel a very grave responsibility. I trust that you have been, upon the whole, content?”
Barakah declared herself quite happy, and he said, “Thank God!”
“But you will not leave us yet; you will recover,” she exclaimed.
“No, no, my cherished daughter. My last hour has sounded. I have lived to see my life-work all undone. The Christians always sought a war with El Islâm. We kept a calm face under insults, even made concessions, as one gives a rabid dog a stick to worry.” For a moment the worn face resumed its light of humour. “But now the war has come.... Those rash fanatics!...”
There rose a murmur in the room.
“The Grand Mufti comes,” announced Murjânah Khânum.
“Forgive me, dear madame. It is an old and cherished friend,” the dying man suspired, with a faint smile. “Adieu! Adieu!”
And Barakah, with all the women save Murjânah Khânum, hurried out into the passage. At the door a tall and stately man brushed past her. His head was so erect beneath the massive turban, his long robe fell so straight from well-squared shoulders, that it astonished her to see his beard as white as snow. He passed into the room. The door was shut.
A minute later, Murjânah Khânum uttered a loud cry; the Mufti came forth sobbing, with head bowed; the black-cowled women scurried shrieking to thedeath-room, where they instantly began the dance of death. They leapt and pirouetted, waving arms above their heads, with frenzied cries. Barakah was gazing horror-stricken at the sight, when some one took her hand and whispered, “Come away!”
It was Murjânah.
“I cannot bear these customs,” she confessed. “The women of the country keep them in defiance of religion. It is useless to protest; one has to suffer. I am very tired, my dear; for I have not slept for many nights. Indeed, my weariness and grief are such that I can hardly look for rest save in the grave.”
Barakah took coffee in Murjânah’s room, and tried to comfort her. She too was sad. But her despair was turned to joy when that same day Muhammad rushed into her arms. He had been called by telegram. She held him back from her and gazed at him until he blushed and hung his head. The uniform, the high-crowned fez, the sword, the snowy gloves, embellished him. When she had gazed her fill, she made him tell her of the camp, his friends, his duties; and, started on that theme, he talked for hours.
“If only I could be transferred to the Canal!” he sighed. “That is the real centre of the war. The fighting where I am is empty show, and I am kept from taking part in it. Day after day, I have to teach recruits, dull fellâhîn, who know not right from left. Instruction seems to make themstupider. I beat and beat them, till my arm aches. By my sword and valour, I could often kill them! Think, O my mother!—El Islâm is menaced, armed infidels have set foot in our land, and these men, Muslims, will not learn their exercises!”
His mother laughed at his impetuosity. She told his grandfather’s last words to her, and how he feared the English would take hold of Egypt.
“There is no fear of that, in sh´Allah!” cried Muhammad. “Our faithful host will sweep them off like fleas. I wish I had been there to reassure the dear one. May Our Lord have mercy on him!”
The funeral of Muhammad Pasha Sâlih was among the greatest ever known, although the town was empty. The harassed population flocked to pay respect to one who had denounced Arâbi—a demonstration which could not be punished since sons of the dead man—nay, half his family—acclaimed the tyrant. In the front of the procession were led sheep and bullocks to be slaughtered at the tomb, their meat distributed among the needy in the name of the deceased. Then came hired chanters of the Corân, then half the male inhabitants of Cairo, walking, flanked by two thin lines of soldiers, then the male relations, then a choir of boys shrieking an ode in honour of the Prophet. Immediately behind these moved the lidless coffin, carried on men’s shoulders, with its coloured pall, and then the females of the family in shuttered carriages. A crowd of black-cowledwomen of the city, whose wailing sounded bird-like in the open air, brought up the rear.
The train, a mile long, wound out in the blinding sunlight over the sandhill to the city of the dead, from which at its approach the kites and crows went up, affrighted. There ensued a period of forced inaction, which to Barakah in the haramlik at the mausoleum seemed interminable. The ceaseless chanting in the tomb, the wailing of the crowd outside, attacked her nerves. Muhammad was to leave again that evening, and every minute she was parted from him seemed an hour. He was kept upon the men’s side of the tomb; nor would she see him till they reached the house again; she had first to drive home in the stuffy carriage with Na´imah and two of the late Pasha’s daughters. It was maddening.
In fact, she saw him only for a moment, ere he ran to catch his train. She wept a little at the disappointment, but his visit had relieved her of a weight of sorrow. She had only to dispatch a telegram and he would come again. Moreover, she was now quite certain he was not in danger.
When told by Yûsuf that her drives must cease, because the horses had been taken for the army, she did not complain, but hired a donkey when she had to pay a call; nor could the prospect of a famine frighten her. Her mind had rest. Each evening brought the news of an Egyptian victory. The English would be driven out. Her son was safe. Once more she joked and dreamt with Umm ed-Dahak.
CHAPTER XXXIIAt Kafr ed-Dowâr Muhammad was kept drilling conscripts, relieving older officers who were required for actual fighting. Almost every day he heard the boom of cannon, the stirring noises of attack and skirmish; and often in his leisure moments he would perch in some high nook and watch the flashes, the white puffs of smoke, dispersed upon the green of level fields between the sea-coast sandhills and the lake—a pretty sight. Beyond the plain of water skimmed by white-winged birds the town of Alexandria basked in sunlit haze. Upon the land-plain doves were wheeling round deserted villages, kites and vultures hovered high in air. Franks from the seaport rode out in the rearward of the English troops, and from the vantage-point of dykes and hillocks watched the operations through their field-glasses. The assaults, as he had told his mother, were not serious; mere “fantaziyeh” the old soldiers called them. The aim of the assailants was to keep a portion of Arâbi’s troops from joining the main army on the banks of the Canal, where war was being waged in bitter earnest. Muhammad fretted at his dull employment. The atmosphereof strife, the bugle-calls, the march of men, no longer satisfied him as at first. He wished to fight, and begged the general-in-chief, who favoured him, being a close friend of his uncle Hamdi, to move him to some post of danger. The great one laughed and patted him upon the back.“We cannot spare thee yet from the recruits,” he said. “That work is useful, and it must be done. Think, thou hast given us a thousand soldiers, none like them for rigidity and speed of motion.”Muhammad hated the recruits, who still were driven in by hundreds every day—men past their prime, and boys dragged from the wretched villages, and active rogues caught hiding in some ditch or patch of cane. The land had been already drained; the dregs were called for. And they were stupid, dazed, those fellâhîn; a flock of sheep has more intelligence! Muhammad, for whom soldiering was a religion and every detail of the drill had sanctity, was driven frantic by their apathy, their foolish stare. Dancing with fury, he reviled their mothers and beat them with his cane about the ears.“By the Prophet, they are pigs!” he told the son of Ghandûr, who served him in his tent and hung upon his every word. “Here is El Islâm in danger; they are Muslims; yet they yawn and gape if asked to hold a gun. Ah! if I had a hundred Turks instead of them!”The son of Ghandûr, who to please Muhammad would himself have put his head into a cannon’s mouth, was horrified at the behaviour of the conscripts. That they could fail to see the light of inspiration on Muhammad’s brow was proof sufficient of their utter baseness. For the same reason he despised the generals. Muhammad was more gifted for command than they, and yet they kept him ever at this menial task. Had Muhammad—or his foster-brother even—owned the leadership, Iskenderîyeh would long since have fallen, and all the English have been pushed into the sea. He dared to proffer this opinion to his lord one evening. But Muhammad in his wisdom answered:“No, we cannot take the town, for this good reason, that a portion of their fleet, unseen from here, commands it, and would pour in shells to our destruction.”Ali received this information with head bowed and thanks to God. He prayed the Maker of the World to put some mind in the recruits in order that they too might profit by such high instruction.It was usual at that time for officers to handle soldiers roughly on parade, caning them upon the head and shoulders, kicking them, and heaping on them every species of abuse. Muhammad might be called indulgent as commanders went; but he was over-much in earnest. His outbreaks lacked the touch of humour which endears. Old soldiers might have borne them with a laugh for the sake of his enthusiasm, which was very evident.But these were men who had been driven fromtheir homes like cattle, at the goad’s point. For days they had been herded up in pens in a provincial town, and there harangued by holy men and maddened by religious shouting till they lost what little wits remained to them and hardly knew a true believer from an infidel. Arâbi had proclaimed the golden age; yet here they were imprisoned, hounded, driven, and now subjected to the cuffs and insults of a shameless boy. Huddling together, they looked on with lowered brows, too scared to understand what the young Turk was shouting. Arâbi had proclaimed the Turks abolished. Where was reason? They gave forth inarticulate harsh cries like frightened beasts.Each squad Muhammad handled seemed more stupid than the last—so stupid that one early morning an inspecting general advised him, laughing, to give drill a rest, and take them to the trenches; they were used to digging.Muhammad felt the order as a whip-cut; he was furious. The general despised his work as an instructor, whereas God knew what trouble he had taken. It was all their fault. In the trenches he allowed them to do nothing right, but shrieked out contradictory orders emphasized by slashes of his cane. Slowly it dawned on them that he was quite alone; the place was hidden by high banks from supervision.The daily pageant of attack was then in progress. The crackle of a volley came from no great distance. Muhammad implored Allah to direct the bullets so as to kill them all, for they were worse than infidels. He did not notice the changed manner of their breathing, nor the new fire which smouldered in their eyes.At a blow across the face, accompanied by frightful insults, a burly fellow seized Muhammad’s wrists and deftly tripped him. The boy lay on his back bereft of speech. His captor knelt upon his belly, while the others crowded round like cattle interested. He could feel their breath.“Hear, O my little son! Swear by the Sayyid Ahmad to be civil. It were best for thee.”Muhammad, with his pride undaunted, answered: “Sinful hog! I swear to have thee thrashed with the nailed whip and then decapitated. O Muslimîn! Do you not know that this is mutiny, an awful crime?”“Then we must finish him,” remarked his captor, with a sigh. “With his own sword! Here! Quickly, while I stop his screeching.”The speaker pressed his hand down on Muhammad’s mouth, while another drew the sword and plunged it several times into the prostrate form. They watched until the last convulsions ceased; then piously observed: “Our Lord have mercy on him! There is no power nor might save in Allah, the High, the Tremendous!”“By Allah, he could bite!” observed his first assailant, shaking blood from his right hand. Thepalm was bitten through. He stopped to bandage it; and then they made a litter with their spades and so conveyed the body back to camp with wailing.“The darling of our souls is dead,” they chanted. “Slain by the infidels, whom we repulsed. Our brother, Abdul Câder, too, is wounded in the hand.”The lie was quite transparent, yet it passed unquestioned. The high commanders shrugged and let it go. There were a hundred men concerned, with Allah knew how many sympathizers. They dreaded a stampede of all the conscripts in the camp.When Ali, mad with grief, demanded justice, he was told to hold his tongue. The general was profoundly grieved; he shed some tears, and swore that every honour should be paid to the remains. A telegram was sent to Yûsuf Pasha announcing that his son had died a martyr, and that the blessed body was upon its way to Cairo. Within an hour of death it had been dressed for burial. It was carried in a fine procession to the railway, where a special train—a locomotive and an open truck—was waiting. The corpse was laid down in the truck, and covered with some tent-cloth; and Ali sat beside it, while the train sped hooting on past empty villages, where only a few children played upon the dust-heaps, a few women stood in doorways with hands shading eyes, past palm-groves and the fields of cotton and of sugar-cane until the citadel rose up before him in the evening sky.
At Kafr ed-Dowâr Muhammad was kept drilling conscripts, relieving older officers who were required for actual fighting. Almost every day he heard the boom of cannon, the stirring noises of attack and skirmish; and often in his leisure moments he would perch in some high nook and watch the flashes, the white puffs of smoke, dispersed upon the green of level fields between the sea-coast sandhills and the lake—a pretty sight. Beyond the plain of water skimmed by white-winged birds the town of Alexandria basked in sunlit haze. Upon the land-plain doves were wheeling round deserted villages, kites and vultures hovered high in air. Franks from the seaport rode out in the rearward of the English troops, and from the vantage-point of dykes and hillocks watched the operations through their field-glasses. The assaults, as he had told his mother, were not serious; mere “fantaziyeh” the old soldiers called them. The aim of the assailants was to keep a portion of Arâbi’s troops from joining the main army on the banks of the Canal, where war was being waged in bitter earnest. Muhammad fretted at his dull employment. The atmosphereof strife, the bugle-calls, the march of men, no longer satisfied him as at first. He wished to fight, and begged the general-in-chief, who favoured him, being a close friend of his uncle Hamdi, to move him to some post of danger. The great one laughed and patted him upon the back.
“We cannot spare thee yet from the recruits,” he said. “That work is useful, and it must be done. Think, thou hast given us a thousand soldiers, none like them for rigidity and speed of motion.”
Muhammad hated the recruits, who still were driven in by hundreds every day—men past their prime, and boys dragged from the wretched villages, and active rogues caught hiding in some ditch or patch of cane. The land had been already drained; the dregs were called for. And they were stupid, dazed, those fellâhîn; a flock of sheep has more intelligence! Muhammad, for whom soldiering was a religion and every detail of the drill had sanctity, was driven frantic by their apathy, their foolish stare. Dancing with fury, he reviled their mothers and beat them with his cane about the ears.
“By the Prophet, they are pigs!” he told the son of Ghandûr, who served him in his tent and hung upon his every word. “Here is El Islâm in danger; they are Muslims; yet they yawn and gape if asked to hold a gun. Ah! if I had a hundred Turks instead of them!”
The son of Ghandûr, who to please Muhammad would himself have put his head into a cannon’s mouth, was horrified at the behaviour of the conscripts. That they could fail to see the light of inspiration on Muhammad’s brow was proof sufficient of their utter baseness. For the same reason he despised the generals. Muhammad was more gifted for command than they, and yet they kept him ever at this menial task. Had Muhammad—or his foster-brother even—owned the leadership, Iskenderîyeh would long since have fallen, and all the English have been pushed into the sea. He dared to proffer this opinion to his lord one evening. But Muhammad in his wisdom answered:
“No, we cannot take the town, for this good reason, that a portion of their fleet, unseen from here, commands it, and would pour in shells to our destruction.”
Ali received this information with head bowed and thanks to God. He prayed the Maker of the World to put some mind in the recruits in order that they too might profit by such high instruction.
It was usual at that time for officers to handle soldiers roughly on parade, caning them upon the head and shoulders, kicking them, and heaping on them every species of abuse. Muhammad might be called indulgent as commanders went; but he was over-much in earnest. His outbreaks lacked the touch of humour which endears. Old soldiers might have borne them with a laugh for the sake of his enthusiasm, which was very evident.
But these were men who had been driven fromtheir homes like cattle, at the goad’s point. For days they had been herded up in pens in a provincial town, and there harangued by holy men and maddened by religious shouting till they lost what little wits remained to them and hardly knew a true believer from an infidel. Arâbi had proclaimed the golden age; yet here they were imprisoned, hounded, driven, and now subjected to the cuffs and insults of a shameless boy. Huddling together, they looked on with lowered brows, too scared to understand what the young Turk was shouting. Arâbi had proclaimed the Turks abolished. Where was reason? They gave forth inarticulate harsh cries like frightened beasts.
Each squad Muhammad handled seemed more stupid than the last—so stupid that one early morning an inspecting general advised him, laughing, to give drill a rest, and take them to the trenches; they were used to digging.
Muhammad felt the order as a whip-cut; he was furious. The general despised his work as an instructor, whereas God knew what trouble he had taken. It was all their fault. In the trenches he allowed them to do nothing right, but shrieked out contradictory orders emphasized by slashes of his cane. Slowly it dawned on them that he was quite alone; the place was hidden by high banks from supervision.
The daily pageant of attack was then in progress. The crackle of a volley came from no great distance. Muhammad implored Allah to direct the bullets so as to kill them all, for they were worse than infidels. He did not notice the changed manner of their breathing, nor the new fire which smouldered in their eyes.
At a blow across the face, accompanied by frightful insults, a burly fellow seized Muhammad’s wrists and deftly tripped him. The boy lay on his back bereft of speech. His captor knelt upon his belly, while the others crowded round like cattle interested. He could feel their breath.
“Hear, O my little son! Swear by the Sayyid Ahmad to be civil. It were best for thee.”
Muhammad, with his pride undaunted, answered: “Sinful hog! I swear to have thee thrashed with the nailed whip and then decapitated. O Muslimîn! Do you not know that this is mutiny, an awful crime?”
“Then we must finish him,” remarked his captor, with a sigh. “With his own sword! Here! Quickly, while I stop his screeching.”
The speaker pressed his hand down on Muhammad’s mouth, while another drew the sword and plunged it several times into the prostrate form. They watched until the last convulsions ceased; then piously observed: “Our Lord have mercy on him! There is no power nor might save in Allah, the High, the Tremendous!”
“By Allah, he could bite!” observed his first assailant, shaking blood from his right hand. Thepalm was bitten through. He stopped to bandage it; and then they made a litter with their spades and so conveyed the body back to camp with wailing.
“The darling of our souls is dead,” they chanted. “Slain by the infidels, whom we repulsed. Our brother, Abdul Câder, too, is wounded in the hand.”
The lie was quite transparent, yet it passed unquestioned. The high commanders shrugged and let it go. There were a hundred men concerned, with Allah knew how many sympathizers. They dreaded a stampede of all the conscripts in the camp.
When Ali, mad with grief, demanded justice, he was told to hold his tongue. The general was profoundly grieved; he shed some tears, and swore that every honour should be paid to the remains. A telegram was sent to Yûsuf Pasha announcing that his son had died a martyr, and that the blessed body was upon its way to Cairo. Within an hour of death it had been dressed for burial. It was carried in a fine procession to the railway, where a special train—a locomotive and an open truck—was waiting. The corpse was laid down in the truck, and covered with some tent-cloth; and Ali sat beside it, while the train sped hooting on past empty villages, where only a few children played upon the dust-heaps, a few women stood in doorways with hands shading eyes, past palm-groves and the fields of cotton and of sugar-cane until the citadel rose up before him in the evening sky.
CHAPTER XXXIIIThe news was broken gently to the stricken mother. Yûsuf, overcoming his own grief, came in at noon and sat an hour with her, leading her up by little steps to view the glory that their son had died a martyr for the Faith. When the announcement came at length, the fortitude he had assumed gave way. He wept profusely. But Barakah was tearless. She sat rigid, with pale eyes staring vaguely in a face of stone. She asked that Ali, as soon as he arrived, might be sent in to her; and that was all. Umm ed-Dahak came and mumbled on her hand, moaning endearments which she did not hear. Then Ali was announced. At the same instant dreadful wailing filled the house. She drew her head-veil round her face (the movement had become instinctive) when he fell before her, pouring forth his awful story, concluding with the words: “The funeral sets forth this minute, O my lady. His body will not keep with all those wounds.”And then her anguish passed the bounds of suffering; she moved and looked and spoke, but felt no more.Her women, half demented, danced around her. They tore their flesh with finger-nails, defiled their faces, and raised an endless chant, reviewing all the charms and virtues of the dear one, his mother’s love, the blackness of the world, each verse concluding with a shriek of “O calamity!” It was the triumph-song of death.Robbed of the corpse, the funeral over, they thronged her chamber, keeping up the ghastly round, the death-chant, in the hope to give her tears. Her petrifaction filled them with dismay. To women who accept with rapture all life’s chances, whose custom is to celebrate each blow that strikes them and magnify it as a witness to the power of God, her stony apathy appeared uncanny. They increased their efforts, while Umm ed-Dahak poured into her ear a song of memory designed to loose the frozen fountain of despair.“She was the fairest daughter of the seed of Adam. See her now! Her feet, her finger-tips dropped perfume. She had the grace of flowers, the voice of turtles. Now behold her! In a moment blind and deaf and dumb and paralyzed. And why? Alas, O thou who askest! it is because the sunshine of her life is fled. We saw her follow his dead body to the grave. As the cow pursues the calf that has been reft from her, so did she follow blindly with a noise of lowing. She has not even strength to beat herface. Her breath is painful, husky like the voice of doves; its sound is all the sobbing of the childless mother. Say, O beloved, what is in thy mind? Dost thou remember his tarbûsh, his yellow slippers, the loveliness of all that touched his body, which was perfumed amber? There was a little mole upon his breast well known to thee. O Allah, waken memory, or grief will slay her!”Barakah saw and heard as in a trance. She thought herself in Hell, bound fast and gagged while devils taunted her. She was tortured by the memory of English winter evenings, of walking back from church in the long train of orphans, the patter of their feet resounding sadly. That dreariness appeared a state of bliss compared with this luxurious life enclosed in heat. She longed for a cold wind, with rain in it. Remembrance of a garden under sunset came to her; she saw once more a cool verandah with long windows open on an English drawing-room, and heard the earnest voice of Mrs. Cameron entreating her to stay and save her soul. This was God’s punishment. Her life from then till now had been all frowardness and self-indulgence. While basking in it she had been aware that it was baneful. A thousand awful faces rose to sneer, “We warned you!” The glimpses she had had of horrid depths, the scenes of bloodshed and the tales of cruelty, seemed now emphaticwarnings of this end. She had sunk downward till she had no faith nor virtue more than beasts have. Her all was in her son, whom God had killed. Crushed, maimed, defrauded, she was flung upon the earth, the scorn of men and angels and the sport of fiends.As by degrees her sense returned to her, she looked about her with strange eyes and tried to think. But every effort was a sword that pierced her heart. One morning, peering dully through her lattice, she saw a gay pavilion in the yard, and leading to it rows of masts with lanterns hung between. They were erected for the meytam, or reception for the dead. She had seen them often when she visited great houses; but now her mind attached no meaning to them. It was two hours later, in the middle of the function, that her sense returned. A mighty gust of grief, a cry of “O calamity!” swept through the crowd of black-clad women in her great reception-room. It roused her mind. She saw, and was alarmed. What was she doing? What was all this crowd of people? Were they human?The great saloon was full of women. The ladies sat up on the dais with flourished handkerchiefs, beating their breasts, their faces, at each burst of woe. Dependants crouched upon the ground and rocked incessantly, with foaming lips. Some faces wore a hideous fixed grin; some mouthed continually. The hired performers stoodand chanted with obscene contortions, or squatted on a mat and wailed in chorus. The words “O my calamity,” recurring in a sort of running chant without coherence, shook the assembly like a tempest-blast. And all the while dainties were being handed round by weeping servants, and accepted by the mourners as fresh cause for grief.An ague of intense repugnance seized on Barakah. She felt that she must fly from this inferno, must keep the hope of flight before her resolutely, or her soul was lost. It was as if a hostile hand compressed her throat. She struggled, was determined to get free. Towards that end she battled with instinctive cunning.After the meytam, when she seemed exhausted, her brain, enamoured of this hope, was planning madly.“Take heart, O moon of moons,” the servants told her. “In sh´Allah thou shalt bring forth sons instead of him.”She strove to smile.Her resolution was to leave her husband and her little daughter, the comfortable house, the easy life, to stray alone and homeless, back to Christian lands. There she would enter some religious order, and spend the residue of life in prayer for Muslims.Every one was kind. The tender sympathy of Yûsuf, though himself hard stricken, might wellhave won her heart had she possessed one. Her heart was dead and buried in the grave. The ladies and her servants tried at first to cheer her; but when they found their efforts useless, let her be. Only Umm ed-Dahak remained with her constantly. Discreet as ever, she kept silence for long hours, watching her mistress with a doleful mow. They thought her too depressed to take a step unaided, had not the least suspicion of her wish to flee. It was, besides, a time of national anxiety, when every one who could went out to seek the news, and those imprisoned listened to the noises of the street.One day, in the full heat of noon, when men are sleepy, she sent out the old woman on an errand; and went and kissed her child, Afîfah, who was fast asleep. Then, having made sure that the slave-girls were not moving, she returned to her own room and donned a common habbarah, which she had sometimes worn when she went out with Umm ed-Dahak. From the store of money Yûsuf had entrusted to her she took sufficient to defray her fare to France, and hung it in a bag around her neck.Thus furnished, she stole out through the selamlik hall. No eunuch challenged; the doorkeeper was snoring on his couch within the entry. Beside him lay the best part of a water-melon.
The news was broken gently to the stricken mother. Yûsuf, overcoming his own grief, came in at noon and sat an hour with her, leading her up by little steps to view the glory that their son had died a martyr for the Faith. When the announcement came at length, the fortitude he had assumed gave way. He wept profusely. But Barakah was tearless. She sat rigid, with pale eyes staring vaguely in a face of stone. She asked that Ali, as soon as he arrived, might be sent in to her; and that was all. Umm ed-Dahak came and mumbled on her hand, moaning endearments which she did not hear. Then Ali was announced. At the same instant dreadful wailing filled the house. She drew her head-veil round her face (the movement had become instinctive) when he fell before her, pouring forth his awful story, concluding with the words: “The funeral sets forth this minute, O my lady. His body will not keep with all those wounds.”
And then her anguish passed the bounds of suffering; she moved and looked and spoke, but felt no more.
Her women, half demented, danced around her. They tore their flesh with finger-nails, defiled their faces, and raised an endless chant, reviewing all the charms and virtues of the dear one, his mother’s love, the blackness of the world, each verse concluding with a shriek of “O calamity!” It was the triumph-song of death.
Robbed of the corpse, the funeral over, they thronged her chamber, keeping up the ghastly round, the death-chant, in the hope to give her tears. Her petrifaction filled them with dismay. To women who accept with rapture all life’s chances, whose custom is to celebrate each blow that strikes them and magnify it as a witness to the power of God, her stony apathy appeared uncanny. They increased their efforts, while Umm ed-Dahak poured into her ear a song of memory designed to loose the frozen fountain of despair.
“She was the fairest daughter of the seed of Adam. See her now! Her feet, her finger-tips dropped perfume. She had the grace of flowers, the voice of turtles. Now behold her! In a moment blind and deaf and dumb and paralyzed. And why? Alas, O thou who askest! it is because the sunshine of her life is fled. We saw her follow his dead body to the grave. As the cow pursues the calf that has been reft from her, so did she follow blindly with a noise of lowing. She has not even strength to beat herface. Her breath is painful, husky like the voice of doves; its sound is all the sobbing of the childless mother. Say, O beloved, what is in thy mind? Dost thou remember his tarbûsh, his yellow slippers, the loveliness of all that touched his body, which was perfumed amber? There was a little mole upon his breast well known to thee. O Allah, waken memory, or grief will slay her!”
Barakah saw and heard as in a trance. She thought herself in Hell, bound fast and gagged while devils taunted her. She was tortured by the memory of English winter evenings, of walking back from church in the long train of orphans, the patter of their feet resounding sadly. That dreariness appeared a state of bliss compared with this luxurious life enclosed in heat. She longed for a cold wind, with rain in it. Remembrance of a garden under sunset came to her; she saw once more a cool verandah with long windows open on an English drawing-room, and heard the earnest voice of Mrs. Cameron entreating her to stay and save her soul. This was God’s punishment. Her life from then till now had been all frowardness and self-indulgence. While basking in it she had been aware that it was baneful. A thousand awful faces rose to sneer, “We warned you!” The glimpses she had had of horrid depths, the scenes of bloodshed and the tales of cruelty, seemed now emphaticwarnings of this end. She had sunk downward till she had no faith nor virtue more than beasts have. Her all was in her son, whom God had killed. Crushed, maimed, defrauded, she was flung upon the earth, the scorn of men and angels and the sport of fiends.
As by degrees her sense returned to her, she looked about her with strange eyes and tried to think. But every effort was a sword that pierced her heart. One morning, peering dully through her lattice, she saw a gay pavilion in the yard, and leading to it rows of masts with lanterns hung between. They were erected for the meytam, or reception for the dead. She had seen them often when she visited great houses; but now her mind attached no meaning to them. It was two hours later, in the middle of the function, that her sense returned. A mighty gust of grief, a cry of “O calamity!” swept through the crowd of black-clad women in her great reception-room. It roused her mind. She saw, and was alarmed. What was she doing? What was all this crowd of people? Were they human?
The great saloon was full of women. The ladies sat up on the dais with flourished handkerchiefs, beating their breasts, their faces, at each burst of woe. Dependants crouched upon the ground and rocked incessantly, with foaming lips. Some faces wore a hideous fixed grin; some mouthed continually. The hired performers stoodand chanted with obscene contortions, or squatted on a mat and wailed in chorus. The words “O my calamity,” recurring in a sort of running chant without coherence, shook the assembly like a tempest-blast. And all the while dainties were being handed round by weeping servants, and accepted by the mourners as fresh cause for grief.
An ague of intense repugnance seized on Barakah. She felt that she must fly from this inferno, must keep the hope of flight before her resolutely, or her soul was lost. It was as if a hostile hand compressed her throat. She struggled, was determined to get free. Towards that end she battled with instinctive cunning.
After the meytam, when she seemed exhausted, her brain, enamoured of this hope, was planning madly.
“Take heart, O moon of moons,” the servants told her. “In sh´Allah thou shalt bring forth sons instead of him.”
She strove to smile.
Her resolution was to leave her husband and her little daughter, the comfortable house, the easy life, to stray alone and homeless, back to Christian lands. There she would enter some religious order, and spend the residue of life in prayer for Muslims.
Every one was kind. The tender sympathy of Yûsuf, though himself hard stricken, might wellhave won her heart had she possessed one. Her heart was dead and buried in the grave. The ladies and her servants tried at first to cheer her; but when they found their efforts useless, let her be. Only Umm ed-Dahak remained with her constantly. Discreet as ever, she kept silence for long hours, watching her mistress with a doleful mow. They thought her too depressed to take a step unaided, had not the least suspicion of her wish to flee. It was, besides, a time of national anxiety, when every one who could went out to seek the news, and those imprisoned listened to the noises of the street.
One day, in the full heat of noon, when men are sleepy, she sent out the old woman on an errand; and went and kissed her child, Afîfah, who was fast asleep. Then, having made sure that the slave-girls were not moving, she returned to her own room and donned a common habbarah, which she had sometimes worn when she went out with Umm ed-Dahak. From the store of money Yûsuf had entrusted to her she took sufficient to defray her fare to France, and hung it in a bag around her neck.
Thus furnished, she stole out through the selamlik hall. No eunuch challenged; the doorkeeper was snoring on his couch within the entry. Beside him lay the best part of a water-melon.