“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 was now 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
of the 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
keep silent. 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
among us. 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 the death-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
them stupider. 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-cowled women 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.