Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Someone leaned above him to inspect his work. Chap X.]
THE WAYFARERS LIBRARY
The
VALLEY of the KINGS
Marmaduke Pickthall
J.M.DENT & SONS. Ltd.
LONDON
1914
THE
VALLEY OF THE KINGS
CHAPTER I
"Woe on you, mothers of nothing! May the scourge of Allah flay you as
you go!"
The mother of Iskender held the doorway of her little house in a
posture of spitting defiance. Rancour, deep-rooted and boundless,
ranged in her guttural snarl. Her black eyes burned to kill, their
thick brows quite united by the energy of her frown as she gazed across
a sand-dell, chary of vegetation but profuse in potsherds, towards the
white walls and high red roof of the Mission-house seen above a wave of
tamarisks on the opposite dune. The hedge of prickly pear defining her
small domain did not obstruct the view, for it consisted largely of
gaps, by one of which a group of three Frankish ladies had just gone
from her. She could see their white-clad forms, under sunshades, down
there in the hollow, battling ungracefully with the sand for foothold.
With one hand raised as a screen from the declining sun, the mother of
Iskender clenched the other, and shook it down the pathway of those
ladies so that the bracelets of coloured glass tinkled upon her strong
brown arm.
"Ha, Carûlîn, most ancient virgin, thy stalk is a crane's! There is
neither flesh nor blood in thee, but only gristle and dry skin. Thy
heart is gall and poison. . . . O Jane, thou art a fruit all husk;
half man, yet lacking man's core, half maid, yet lacking woman's pulp!
In thee is no fount of joy, no sweetness. Did love of our Blessed
Saviour and the Sacred Book bring the pair of you to this land? By
Allah, not so; well I know it! It was the love of change, of
adventure; and what is that in a virgin save the hope of men? And now,
seeing none have desired you, your longing is turned to hatred of all
things sweet! My son is bad, you declare; it is a grace for him to be
allowed to sweep your house. But the son of Costantîn--that sly-eyed
devil!--he is good: of him you make a clergyman, a grand khawâjah!
Have I not washed these twenty years for you and the false priest whose
things you are? Was I not among the first to profess your damning
heresy? The house of Costantîn are converts of last year. Let Allah
judge between us this day."
She paused a moment, the better to gesticulate a frantic reverence to
the ladies, now on the opposite slope, who were waving hands to her.
"O poor little Hilda! Thou art a ripe fruit that whispers 'Pluck me.'
But those two sexless devils guard thee sleeplessly. Thou wast not
angry when Iskender kissed thy mouth. Is it likely, since thou didst
incite him to it by previously stroking his hand? But the rest, thy
keepers. . . . Holy Mother of God! . . . When shall I hear the last
of my son's guilt! Iskender is vile, Iskender is worthless, Iskender
is the son of all things evil. Ah, if the great lady, the mother of
George, had been here, you would never have dared to use the poor lad
so, for she loved him from a babe. But alas! she is away in your
native land, watching the education of her many children. You and the
priest, her husband, were gentler in your ways while she was here. But
since she left, you have become true devils. Aye, you are right,
forsooth, and the whole world of nature is quite wrong. May Allah set
the foot of Iskender upon the necks of you, O false saints!"
With a parting menace of the fist, she turned indoors, still snarling.
After the sun-glare on the sands, the room was darkness. Doorway and
unshuttered casement framed each its vision of relentless light; but no
ray entered.
The place consisted of a single chamber, which, with door and window
open as at present, became a draughtway for what air there was. A
curtain veiled one corner, where the beds were stowed in daytime, with
whatever else was unpresentable through dirt or breakage: for the
ladies of the Mission valued tidiness above all virtues, and claimed
the right to inspect the abode of their washerwoman and pet proselyte.
The mother of Iskender courted their inspection, being secured against
complete surprise by the position of her house upon an eminence whence
approaching visitors could be descried a long way off. To-day she had
run to meet them with delighted cries; but old Carûlîn had met the
welcome in the dullest manner, stalking on into the house, where,
instated in the only chair, with hands crossed on the handle of her
parasol, she proceeded to give judgment on Iskender, while Jane and
Hilda, standing one on either side, contributed their sad Amen to all
she said.
"We are more grieved than we can express, Sarah," the old devil
concluded in her creaking voice; "more especially on your account, who
are a Christian woman. It is solely out of regard for you that we are
prepared to take him as a servant, provided he repents and mends his
ways. We cannot have him associating with men like that Elias."
She spoke as the mouthpiece of the missionary, the dispenser of wealth
and preferment. Sarah was obliged to thank the Lord for her kindness,
instead of tearing her eyes out, or treading her dog-face level with
the ground. Yet Iskender was robbed of his birthright. It had always
been known that one boy of the little congregation would be made a
clergyman; and Iskender was clearly designated, his parents having been
the first converts, and himself the spoilt child of the Mission till
six months ago. Furthermore, he was fatherless, a widow's only son.
Yet Asad son of Costantîn was put before him. Asad had a father--aye,
and a clever one--a father who dwelt at the Mission-house, and was
always at the ladies' ears with cunning falsehoods. If only Iskender's
father--the righteous Yâcûb--had been still alive! . . .
Thus brooding on her wrongs, with lips still murmurous, the mother of
Iskender brushed a hand across her eyes, and looked about her. There
was the chair still standing in the middle of the room where Carûlîn
had sat.
Snatching up the defiled thing, she swung it to its usual place beside
the wall, banging it down with spiteful energy enough to break it.
Having stooped to make sure that it was not actually broken, she
brushed her eyes again, and wept a little. Then, on a sudden thought,
she sprang to the curtained corner, and, groping among mattresses and
sweat-stained coverlets which the ladies from the Mission never dared
turn over, brought forth a picture of the Blessed Virgin which Iskender
had made for her with the help of a paint-box given to him by the Sitt
Hilda on his eighteenth birthday. This she set upon a stool against
the wall and, crossing herself, knelt down before it. Here was one at
least to whom she could expose her wrongs, secure of sympathy--a woman
of almighty influence bound to her in the common tie of motherhood.
Was not Iskender clever, handsome, good? For what could any one prefer
that lanky, pig-eyed son of Costantîn the gardener--the convert of a
day, whereas Iskender had been a Protestant from his birth? Naturally,
she had looked for some reward of her long adherence. But lo; they
thrust her aside, exalting in her stead the mother of Asad son of
Costantîn. They would never have dared to do it if the wife of the
missionary, the excellent mother of George, had not been absent with
her children in the land of the English.
At the first planting of the Mission here upon the sandhills, it had
seemed to many Christians of the town to promise escape from the
repressive shadow of the Muslim, and the protection of a foreign flag
which bore the Cross. O sad delusion! That cold priest, those
bloodless women, considered nothing but their own comfort. To that
they made every convert minister; their notion being to patronise and
not to raise; witness Allah how she herself had slaved for them, obeyed
and flattered them, for twenty years! By the Gospel, it was black
ingratitude that the son of Costantîn should be set apart for their
priesthood, be made an Englishman, a grand khawâjah, whilst Iskender
was offered employment--mark the kindness!--as a scullion and a sweeper
in their house--Iskender, who had been their favourite till a month ago!
How had he fallen? Ah, that was a joke indeed! Listen, O Holy Miriam
and all saints! It was because one hot afternoon, at their
Bible-class, he had kissed the pretty Sitt Hilda, who sat close to him,
teaching. Forgetting he was no longer a child, she had caressed his
hand approvingly; that was Hilda's tale. A likely one, forsooth! And
the lad quite sick for love of her, as an infant of the female sex must
have perceived blindfold! Already, before that, they had begun to
persecute the lad, finding fault with his painting, his idleness, his
language, his smoking--Allah knows with what besides!--so that he was
vexed in mind, no longer quite himself. From his birth he had been a
sensitive boy, always responsive to a touch of kindness. He was in
love with the Sitt Hilda, and his mind was clouded; she touched him
fondly, and he kissed her mouth. It was all quite natural. As well
blame flowers for opening to the sun! Iskender was immoral, was he?
Then what should be said of those who set such ripe and tempting fruit
before a youth of the ravenous age, simply to punish him if he made a
bite? Ah, they were moral, doubtless! But Our Lady Miriam and the
Host of Heaven thought otherwise, they might be sure!
And if, in the month which had elapsed since then, he had turned his
back on prayer-meetings and haunted taverns of the town, whose fault
was that? His new associates were not depraved. Their only crime was
that they were not Protestants. Even Elias Abdul Messîh, the cause of
all this outcry, was a respectable man, only scatter-brained and
light-hearted. He was a Christian, not a Muslim or an idolater, so
what was there to justify such bitter chiding?
The missionaries called it a crime in Iskender that he idled abroad,
trying to make a likeness of the things he saw with his pencils and
paints--the gift of the Sitt Hilda, mark that well! It was all their
own doing, yet so wrong! Did he smoke a cigarette, it was a sin! Did
he call in talk upon the name of Allah--a sin most deadly! . . .
"Peace on this house!" said a man's complacent voice at the doorway.
Still on her knees, the mother of Iskender turned and peered at the
disturber, pressing both hands to her temples. In her confusion on the
start the greeting gave her she failed at first to recognise the figure
standing forth against the sand-glare, which, now that evening drew on,
had the colour of ripe wheat.
"O mother of Iskender, how is thy health to-day?" pursued the visitor;
and then she knew him for the brother of her dead husband.
"Is it thyself, Abdullah?" She rose up to greet him. "My soul has
grief this day on account of Iskender. They treat him shamefully over
yonder--worse than a dog!"
Abdullah rejected her offer of the only chair in favour of a cushion by
the wall. He was an elderly man of most respectable appearance, being
clad in a blue zouave jacket and pantaloons, both finely braided, a
crimson sash at his waist, and on his head a low-crowned fez with long
blue tassel hanging to the neck. He wore top boots and held a whip,
though he had not come riding. The skin of his face had withered in
loose folds, leaving the bushy grey moustache and brows unduly
prominent, a crowd of wrinkles round his large brown eyes giving an
effect of intelligence to orbs whose real expression was a calm
stupidity in keeping with the general dignity of his demeanour.
"Even the son of Costantîn--that dirt!--is preferred before him. In
this minute I was kneeling to our gracious Lady on his behalf."
"Praise to her!" exclaimed Abdullah, crossing himself. "There is none
like her in a difficulty, as I, of all men living, have best cause to
know, since she gave me all that I possess."
"Allah increase thy wealth!" said Sarah hastily, fearing the story she
had heard a thousand times.
Years ago the respectable Abdullah had been no better than a sot and
wastrel, having contracted the habit of drunkenness at Port Said, where
he spent three years as porter in a small hotel. He had squandered all
his savings and had drunk himself to the verge of madness, when one
summer night, as he lay on the floor of his house (as he himself
expressed it) "between drunk and sober," the Mother of God appeared to
him, "all white and blinding like the sand at noon." The vision, after
gazing on him a space, stretched out its hand and vanished. That was
all. But Abdullah arose with new heart. Thenceforth he honoured
himself, whom God had honoured. The change in him was plain for all to
see, and he proclaimed the cause of it aloud with streaming eyes. The
Orthodox Church confirmed the miracle, which made a noise at the time.
The Patriarch himself wrote the seer a long letter. People who had
long since washed their hands of the drunken reprobate vied one with
another to help the known favourite of Heaven. Abdullah obtained good
employment, first in an hotel at Jerusalem, then with an English
traveller of importance. Now, for some years, he had been a trusted
dragoman in the pay of a mysterious power called Cook. His religious
vogue had passed, his story and the miracle involved were quite
forgotten of the multitude. But Abdullah himself remembered, viewing
his respectability at the present day with the same feelings of awe and
reverence with which he had received it at the first. It was the
mantle of the Blessed Virgin, her gift to him. In it lay all his hope
for this world and the next.
"It is of Iskender that I come to speak," he said, having pulled out
his moustache to the utmost and swallowed twice with solemn gulps
preliminary to the announcement. "It hurts my soul to see him wasting
time----"
"Enough! enough, I say!" The woman screamed aloud to drown his words.
"Am I not already killed with such bad talk, deafened with it, maddened
with it every day from morn till night. Ah, by the Gospel, it has
grown past bearing! They will no longer make a priest of our Iskender;
that honour is for the son of Costantîn;--low, cunning devil! Iskender
may now, as a favour, sweep their house. Here, in this very room, on
yonder chair, the abandoned Carûlîn sat and told me the fine news--to
me, the mainstay of the Mission, who have not missed a prayer-meeting
for twenty years----"
"Allah is merciful!" ejaculated the dragoman. Though himself a staunch
supporter of the Holy Orthodox Church, he had a regard for the
Protestant, as the faith of the wealthy English. He had looked forward
to the welcoming smile of English travellers when he told them that his
nephew was a Protestant clergyman. This rejection of Iskender was
therefore a disappointment to him. Nevertheless, since God so willed
it, there were other occupations that the boy could follow. More
insupportable by far was the screaming fury of this woman, which, he
feared, might lead her to disgrace her relatives by overt rudeness
towards the English missionaries. He said:
"The flush of anger well becomes thee. By Allah, it enriches thy dark
beauty, like the bloom on purple grapes."
The mother of Iskender started and blushed hotly, struck in the face by
such audacious flattery. She exclaimed:
"Be silent, imbecile! Are such words for the ear of one like me? Keep
thy fine phrases for the tourist ladies, who know the fashion, and can
answer thee."
"Nay, the daughters of our land nowadays rival the foreign ladies in
wit and fashion," said Abdullah gravely, pursuing his advantage. "I
myself assisted at a wedding in Beyrût where the ladies talked and
jested freely with the gentlemen, with roars of laughter in the
Frankish manner. Ah, that was a sight! A hundred carriages, all
festively bedecked, conveyed the guests to church, with cracking of
whips and shoutings to clear a way. All the women were arrayed in
splendid dresses brought from Fransa, and grand big hats with ostrich
plumes and flying ribbons. A sight, I tell thee, equal to anything to
be seen in Barîs or Lûndra."
"Thou seest such things!" The mother of Iskender pouted, envious.
"Here there is never anything to call a show. Even when Daûd el Barûdi
married, there were no fine dresses. Every woman present wore the
head-veil. I fain would try a Frankish hat myself; but the ladies will
not let me--curse their father!"
"They fear to be outshone," put in Abdullah, and continued quickly,
apprehending a fresh storm: "Now, as concerns Iskender, I have a
project for thee. It was for that I came here, not to blame the lad.
Know that a young Englishman arrived yesterday at the Hotel Barûdi, in
search of amusement, it would seem, for when Selîm Barûdi inquired how
long he wished to stay, he replied it might be all his life if the
place pleased him. From that and the plenteousness of his luggage I
conclude him to be the son of a good house--no less than an Emîr, by
Allah--though why he comes here out of season Allah knows! Elias and
the rest have not got wind of him. He as yet knows no one in the land
except the two Barûdis and myself, who met him at their house an hour
ago. My plan is to present our dear one to him----"
At this point Iskender's mother interrupted him with sudden outcry as
of one possessed:
"Aha, O cruel priest! O soured virgins! Let the son of Costantîn be
your dog if he will. My son shall tread on all your faces, the friend
of an Emîr."
She shook her fist towards the Mission, seen in fierce sunlight through
the shadowed doorway.
"Hush, woman!" cried Abdullah in an agony. Her foolish words set wasps
about his head. "For the love of Allah, let Iskender anger no man, but
be supple, politic, and so respected. Now that he is cast off by your
Brûtestânts, there is nothing for it but he must become a dragoman.
The Englishman of whom I spoke is but a step. He has need of all men's
favour, and must court it diligently. . . . Where is the boy himself?
I thought to find him."
"Ask me not where he is!" The woman raised her hands despairingly.
"He went out early this morning with his paint-things, and has not
returned. May his house be destroyed! He is the worst of sons. He
shuns all counsel, and does nothing that one asks of him. How often
have I begged him to renounce his painting, or to go with me to the
Mission and make show of penitence. As well instruct the sand. It is
likely he will scout this plan of thine. Oh, what have I ever done to
be thus afflicted? Why, why has he not the wit of Asad son of
Costantîn?"
"Let us go out and meet him," proposed old Abdullah, still bent on
diverting her mind from its maddening grievance. "He cannot be far
off, and to smell the air is pleasant at this hour."
The mother of Iskender flung her cares aside. To walk out by the side
of so respectable a man, at an hour when many people took the air upon
the sandhills, was to gain distinction. She draped a black lace shawl
upon her head, while Abdullah strode to the doorway and stared out,
flicking his boots with his whip. Then, gathering up the skirt of her
flowered cotton gown in one hand, she placed the other in Abdullah's
arm, ready crooked to receive it.
"It is the fashionable way," she tittered as they set forth.