THE PARTING OF THE WAYS
It was dusk when I set out for the missionary's tent, and starlit
night before I reached it--so fleeting is the summer twilight in that
land.
Rashîd went with me, as in duty bound, and insisted on remaining with
the servants of the missionary by the cook's fire, although I told him
to go back repeatedly, knowing how his mouth must water for the
headman's feast. The dudgeon which he felt at my desertion made him
determined not to let me out of sight, and called for the martyrdom of
someone, even let that someone be himself.
The missionary called: 'Come in!' while I was still a good way off the
tent. Entering, I found him stretched on a deck-chair, with hands
behind his head. He did not rise upon my entrance, but just smiled and
pointed to another chair beyond a little folding table laid for
supper.
He spoke of the day's heat and the fatigues of travel and the flies;
and asked me how I could endure to sleep in native hovels full of
fleas and worse.
I told him that, by Suleymân's arrangement, we were to sleep upon the
roof for safety. He sniffed.
I then related a discussion I had overheard between Rashîd and
Suleymân as to the best way of defeating those domestic pests,
thinking to make him laugh. Rashîd had spoken of the virtues of a
certain shrub; but Suleymân declared the best specific was a new-born
baby. This, if laid within a room for a short while, attracted every
insect. The babe should then be carried out and dusted. The missionary
did not even smile.
'The brutes!' he murmured. 'How can you, an Englishman, and apparently
a man of education, bear their intimacy?'
They had their good points, I asserted--though, I fear, but lamely;
for the robustness of his attitude impressed me, he being a man,
presumably, of wide experience, and, what is more, a clergyman--the
kind of man I had been taught to treat with some respect.
He said no more till we had finished supper, which consisted of
sardines and corned beef and sliced pineapple, tomatoes and
half-liquid butter out of tins, and some very stale European bread
which he had brought with him. Confronted with such mummy food, I
thought with longing of the good, fresh meal which I had left behind
me at the headman's house. He may have guessed my thoughts, for he
observed: 'I never touch their food. It is insanitary'--which I knew
to be exactly what they said of his.
The man who waited on us seemed to move in fear, and was addressed by
his employer very curtly.
After the supper there was tea, which, I confess, was welcome, and
then the missionary put me through a kind of catechism. Finding out
who I was, and that we had some friends in common, he frowned deeply.
He had heard of my existence in the land, it seemed.
'What are you doing here at all?' he asked severely. 'At your age you
should be at college or in training for some useful work.'
'I'm learning things,' I told him rather feebly.
His point of view, the point of view of all my countrymen, imposed
itself on me as I sat there before him, deeply conscious of my youth
and inexperience.
'What things?' he asked. And then his tongue was loosed. He gave me
his opinion of the people of the country, and particularly of my two
companions. He had summed them up at sight. They were two cunning
rogues, whose only object was to fleece me. He told me stories about
Englishmen who had been ruined in that very way through making friends
with natives whom they thought devoted to them. One story ended in a
horrid murder. He wanted me to have no more to do with them, and when
he saw I was attached to them, begged me earnestly to treat them
always as inferiors, to 'keep them in their place'; and this I
promised, coward-like, to do, although I knew that, in the way he
meant, it was not in me.
It seemed that he himself was travelling in these wild places in
search of an old Greek inscription, mention of which he had discovered
in some book. He half-persuaded me to bear him company.
'You are doing no good here, alone with such companions,' he said, as
I at last departed. 'Think over my advice to you. Go back to England.
Come with me for the next few days, and share my tents. Then come and
stay with me in Jerusalem, and we can talk things over.' There was no
doubt of the kindliness of his intention.
I thanked him, and strolled back toward the village in the starlight,
Rashîd, who, at my first appearance, had detached himself from a small
group which sat around the missionary's kitchen fire, stalking on
before me with a lantern.
It seemed a wonder that the village dogs, which had made so great a
noise on our arrival in the place so short a while before, now took no
notice, seeming to recognise our steps as those of lawful inmates.
At the headman's house Suleymân still sat up talking with the village
elders. He expressed a hope that I had much enjoyed myself, but with a
hint of grievance which I noticed as a thing expected. Looking round
upon those eager, friendly faces, I compared them with the cold face
of the missionary, who suddenly appeared to me as a great bird of
prey. I hated him instinctively, for he was like a schoolmaster; and
yet his words had weight, for I was young to judge, and schoolmasters,
though hateful, have a knack of being in the right.
At last we three went up on to the roof to sleep. We had lain down and
said 'good night' to one another, when Suleymân remarked, as if
soliloquising:
'Things will never be the same.'
'What do you mean?' I questioned crossly.
'That missionary has spoilt everything. He told you not to trust us,
not to be so friendly with persons who are natives of this land, and
therefore born inferior.'
I made no answer, and Suleymân went on:
'A man who journeys in the desert finds a guide among the desert
people, and he who journeys on the sea trusts seamen. What allegations
did he make? I pray you tell us!'
'He told me stories of his own experience.'
'His experience is not, never will be, yours. He is the enemy. A
tiger, if one asked him to describe mankind, would doubtless say that
they are masters of the guile which brings destruction, deserving
only to be clawed to death. Question the pigeons of some mosque, upon
the other hand, and they will swear by Allah men are lords of all
benevolence.'
Rashîd broke in: 'His boys, with whom I talked, inform me that he is
devoid of all humanity. He never thanks them for their work, however
perfect, nor has a word of blessing ever passed his lips. He frowns
continually. How can he be the same as one like thee who laughs and
talks?'
We had all three sat up, unconsciously. And we continued sitting up,
debating miserably under the great stars, hearing the jackals' voices
answer one another from hill to hill both near and far, all through
that night, drawing ever closer one to another as we approached an
understanding.
'An Englishman such as that missionary,' said Suleymân, 'treats good
and bad alike as enemies if they are not of his nation. He gives bare
justice; which, in human life, is cruelty. He keeps a strict account
with every man. We, when we love a man, keep no account. We never
think of what is due to us or our position. And when we hate--may God
forgive us!--it is just the same--save with the very best and coolest
heads among us.'
'But you are cunning, and have not our code of honour,' I objected,
with satirical intention, though the statement sounded brutal.
'Your Honour says so!' cried Rashîd, half weeping. 'No doubt you are
referring to that theft in the hotel, of which you thought so little
at the time that you would take no action. That was the doing of a
Greek, as was established. Say, can you of your own experience of
children of the Arabs say that one of us has ever robbed you of a
small para, or wronged you seriously?'
'I cannot,' was my answer, after brief reflection. 'But the experience
of other, older men must weigh with me.'
'Let other men judge people as they find them, and do thou likewise,'
said Suleymân.
'He urged me to give up this aimless wandering and go with him in
search of an old Greek inscription, not far off. Within four days he
hopes to see El Cuds again; and thence he urged me to return to
England.'
At that my two companions became silent and exceeding still, as if
some paralysing fear hung over them. It was the hour immediately
before the dawn, and life seemed hopeless. The missionary's voice
seemed then to me the call of duty, yet every instinct in my blood was
fierce against it.
'Your Honour will do what he pleases,' said my servant mournfully.
'The Lord preserve thee ever!' sighed Suleymân. 'Thou art the leader
of the party. Give command.'
A streak of light grew on the far horizon, enabling us to see the
outlines of the rugged landscape. A half-awakened wild-bird cried
among the rocks below us. And suddenly my mind grew clear. I cared no
longer for the missionary's warning. I was content to face the dangers
which those warnings threatened; to be contaminated, even ruined as an
Englishman. The mischief, as I thought it, was already done. I knew
that I could never truly think as did that missionary, nor hold myself
superior to Eastern folk again. If that was to be reprobate, then I
was finished.
'Saddle the horses. We will start at once,' I told Rashîd. 'Before
the missionary is afoot--towards the East.'
For a moment he sat motionless, unable to believe his ears. Then
suddenly he swooped and kissed my hand, exclaiming: 'Praise be to
Allah!'
'Praise be to Allah!' echoed Suleymân, with vast relief. 'The tiger in
thee has not triumphed. We shall still know joy.'
'I resign myself to be the pigeon of the mosque,' I answered, laughing
happily.
Five minutes later we were riding towards the dawn, beginning to grow
red behind the heights of Moab.