The Weavers

Chapter 5

THE WIDER WAY

Some months later the following letter came to David Claridge in Cairo

from Faith Claridge in Hamley:

David had been long enough in Egypt to know what sort of toiling it was.

A man's labour was not his own. The fellah gave labour and taxes and

backsheesh and life to the State, and the long line of tyrants above him,

under the sting of the kourbash; the high officials gave backsheesh to

the Prince Pasha, or to his Mouffetish, or to his Chief Eunuch, or to his

barber, or to some slave who had his ear.

But all the time the bright, unclouded sun looked down on a smiling land,

and in Cairo streets the din of the hammers, the voices of the boys

driving heavily laden donkeys, the call of the camel-drivers leading

their caravans into the great squares, the clang of the brasses of the

sherbet-sellers, the song of the vendor of sweetmeats, the drone of the

merchant praising his wares, went on amid scenes of wealth and luxury,

and the city glowed with colour and gleamed with light. Dark faces

grinned over the steaming pot at the door of the cafes, idlers on the

benches smoked hasheesh, female street-dancers bared their faces

shamelessly to the men, and indolent musicians beat on their tiny drums,

and sang the song of "O Seyyid," or of "Antar"; and the reciter gave his

sing-song tale from a bench above his fellows. Here a devout Muslim,

indifferent to the presence of strangers, turned his face to the East,

touched his forehead to the ground, and said his prayers. There, hung to

a tree by a deserted mosque near by, the body of one who was with them

all an hour before, and who had paid the penalty for some real or

imaginary crime; while his fellows blessed Allah that the storm had

passed them by. Guilt or innocence did not weigh with them; and the dead

criminal, if such he were, who had drunk his glass of water and prayed to

Allah, was, in their sight, only fortunate and not disgraced, and had

"gone to the bosom of Allah." Now the Muezzin from a minaret called to

prayer, and the fellah in his cotton shirt and yelek heard, laid his load

aside, and yielded himself to his one dear illusion, which would enable

him to meet with apathy his end--it might be to-morrow!--and go forth to

that plenteous heaven where wives without number awaited him, where

fields would yield harvests without labour, where rich food in gold

dishes would be ever at his hand. This was his faith.

David had now been in the country six months, rapidly perfecting his

knowledge of Arabic, speaking it always to his servant Mahommed Hassan,

whom he had picked from the streets. Ebn Ezra Bey had gone upon his own

business to Fazougli, the tropical Siberia of Egypt, to liberate, by

order of Prince Kaid,--and at a high price--a relative banished there.

David had not yet been fortunate with his own business--the settlement of

his Uncle Benn's estate--though the last stages of negotiation with the

Prince Pasha seemed to have been reached. When he had brought the

influence of the British Consulate to bear, promises were made, doors

were opened wide, and Pasha and Bey offered him coffee and talked to him

sympathetically. They had respect for him more than for most Franks,

because the Prince Pasha had honoured him with especial favour. Perhaps

because David wore his hat always and the long coat with high collar like

a Turk, or because Prince Kaid was an acute judge of human nature, and

also because honesty was a thing he greatly desired--in others--and never

found near his own person; however it was, he had set David high in his

esteem at once. This esteem gave greater certainty that any backsheesh

coming from the estate of Benn Claridge would not be sifted through many

hands on its way to himself. Of Benn Claridge Prince Kaid had scarcely

even heard until he died; and, indeed, it was only within the past few

years that the Quaker merchant had extended his business to Egypt and had

made his headquarters at Assiout, up the river.

David's donkey now picked its way carefully through the narrow streets of

the Moosky. Arabs and fellaheen squatting at street corners looked at him

with furtive interest. A foreigner of this character they had never

before seen, with coat buttoned up like an Egyptian official in the

presence of his superior, and this wide, droll hat on his head. David

knew that he ran risks, that his confidence invited the occasional

madness of a fanatical mind, which makes murder of the infidel a passport

to heaven; but as a man he took his chances, and as a Christian he

believed he would suffer no mortal hurt till his appointed time. He was

more Oriental, more fatalist, than he knew. He had also early in his life

learned that an honest smile begets confidence; and his face, grave and

even a little austere in outline, was usually lighted by a smile.

From the Mokattam Hills, where he read Faith's letter again, his back

against one of the forts which Napoleon had built in his Egyptian days,

he scanned the distance. At his feet lay the great mosque, and the

citadel, whose guns controlled the city, could pour into it a lava stream

of shot and shell. The Nile wound its way through the green plains,

stretching as far to the north as eye could see between the opal and

mauve and gold of the Libyan Hills. Far over in the western vista a long

line of trees, twining through an oasis flanking the city, led out to a

point where the desert abruptly raised its hills of yellow sand. Here,

enormous, lonely, and cynical, the pyramids which Cheops had built, the

stone sphinx of Ghizeh, kept faith with the desert in the glow of

rainless land-reminders ever that the East, the mother of knowledge, will

by knowledge prevail; that:

As he made his way down the hillside again he fell to thinking upon all

Faith had written. The return of the drunken chair-maker made a deep

impression on him--almost as deep as the waking dreams he had had of his

uncle calling him.

"Soolsby and me--what is there between Soolsby and me?" he asked himself

now as he made his way past the tombs of the Mamelukes. "He and I are as

far apart as the poles, and yet it comes to me now, with a strange

conviction, that somehow my life will be linked with that of the drunken

Romish chair-maker. To what end?" Then he fell to thinking of his Uncle

Benn. The East was calling him. "Something works within me to hold me

here, a work to do."

From the ramparts of the citadel he watched the sun go down, bathing the

pyramids in a purple and golden light, throwing a glamour over all the

western plain, and making heavenly the far hills with a plaintive colour,

which spoke of peace and rest, but not of hope. As he stood watching, he

was conscious of people approaching. Voices mingled, there was light

laughter, little bursts of admiration, then lower tones, and then he was

roused by a voice calling. He turned round. A group of people were moving

towards the exit from the ramparts, and near himself stood a man waving

an adieu.

"Well, give my love to the girls," said the man cheerily. Merry faces

looked back and nodded, and in a moment they were gone. The man turned

round, and looked at David, then he jerked his head in a friendly sort of

way and motioned towards the sunset.

"Good enough, eh?"

"Surely, for me," answered David. On the instant he liked the red,

wholesome face, and the keen, round, blue eyes, the rather opulent

figure, the shrewd, whimsical smile, all aglow now with beaming

sentimentality, which had from its softest corner called out: "Well, give

my love to the girls."

"Quaker, or I never saw Germantown and Philadelphy," he continued, with a

friendly manner quite without offence. "I put my money on Quakers every

time."

"But not from Germantown or Philadelphia," answered David, declining a

cigar which his new acquaintance offered.

"Bet you, I know that all right. But I never saw Quakers anywhere else,

and I meant the tribe and not the tent. English, I bet? Of course, or you

wouldn't be talking the English language--though I've heard they talk it

better in Boston than they do in England, and in Chicago they're making

new English every day and improving on the patent. If Chicago can't have

the newest thing, she won't have anything. 'High hopes that burn like

stars sublime,' has Chicago. She won't let Shakespeare or Milton be

standards much longer. She won't have it--simply won't have England

swaggering over the English language. Oh, she's dizzy, is Chicago--simply

dizzy. I was born there. Parents, one Philadelphy, one New York, one

Pawtucket--the Pawtucket one was the step-mother. Father liked his wives

from the original States; but I was born in Chicago. My name is

Lacey--Thomas Tilman Lacey of Chicago."

"I thank thee," said David.

"And you, sir?"

"David Claridge."

"Of--?"

"Of Hamley."

"Mr. Claridge of Hamley. Mr. Claridge, I am glad to meet you." They shook

hands. "Been here long, Mr. Claridge?"

"A few months only."

"Queer place--gilt-edged dust-bin; get anything you like here, from a

fresh gutter-snipe to old Haroun-al-Raschid. It's the biggest jack-pot on

earth. Barnum's the man for this place--P. T. Barnum. Golly, how the

whole thing glitters and stews! Out of Shoobra his High Jinks Pasha

kennels with his lions and lives with his cellars of gold, as if he was

going to take them with him where he's going--and he's going fast.

Here--down here, the people, the real people, sweat and drudge between a

cake of dourha, an onion, and a balass of water at one end of the day,

and a hemp collar and their feet off the ground at the other."

"You have seen much of Egypt?" asked David, feeling a strange confidence

in the garrulous man, whose frankness was united to shrewdness and a

quick, observant eye.

"How much of Egypt I've seen, the Egypt where more men get lost, strayed,

and stolen than die in their beds every day, the Egypt where a eunuch is

more powerful than a minister, where an official will toss away a life as

I'd toss this cigar down there where the last Mameluke captain made his

great jump, where women--Lord A'mighty! where women are divorced by one

evil husband, by the dozen, for nothing they ever did or left undone, and

yet 'd be cut to pieces by their own fathers if they learned that 'To

step aside is human--' Mr. Claridge, of that Egypt I don't know much

more'n would entitle me to say, How d'ye do. But it's enough for me.

You've seen something--eh?"

"A little. It is not civilised life here. Yet--yet a few strong patriotic

men--"

Lacey looked quizzically at David.

"Say," he said, "I thought that about Mexico once. I said

Manana--this Manana is the curse of Mexico. It's always

to-morrow--to-morrow--to-morrow. Let's teach 'em to do things to-day.

Let's show 'em what business means. Two million dollars went into that

experiment, but Manana won. We had good hands, but it had the joker.

After five years I left, with a bald head at twenty-nine, and a little

book of noble thoughts--Tips for the Tired, or Things you can say To-day

on what you can do to-morrow. I lost my hair worrying, but I learned to

be patient. The Dagos wanted to live in their own way, and they did. It's

one thing to be a missionary and say the little word in season; it's

another to run your soft red head against a hard stone wall. I went to

Mexico a conquistador, I left it a child of time, who had learned to

smile; and I left some millions behind me, too. I said to an old Padre

down there that I knew--we used to meet in the Cafe Manrique and drink

chocolate--I said to him, 'Padre, the Lord's Prayer is a mistake down

here.' 'Si, senor,' he said, and smiled his far-away smile at me. 'Yes,'

said I, 'for you say in the Lord's Prayer, "Give us this day our daily

bread."' 'Si, senor,' he says, 'but we do not expect it till to-morrow!'

The Padre knew from the start, but I learned at great expense, and went

out of business--closed up shop for ever, with a bald head and my Tips

for the Tired. Well, I've had more out of it all, I guess, than if I'd

trebled the millions and wiped Manana off the Mexican coat of arms."

"You think it would be like that here?" David asked abstractedly.

Lacey whistled. "There the Government was all right and the people all

wrong. Here the people are all right and the Government all wrong. Say,

it makes my eyes water sometimes to see the fellah slogging away. He's a

Jim-dandy--works all day and half the night, and if the tax-gatherer

isn't at the door, wakes up laughing. I saw one"--his light blue eyes

took on a sudden hardness--"laughing on the other side of his mouth one

morning. They were 'kourbashing' his feet; I landed on them as the soles

came away. I hit out." His face became grave, he turned the cigar round

in his mouth. "It made me feel better, but I had a close call. Lucky for

me that in Mexico I got into the habit of carrying a pop-gun. It saved me

then. But it isn't any use going on these special missions. We Americans

think a lot of ourselves. We want every land to do as we do; and we want

to make 'em do it. But a strong man here at the head, with a sword in his

hand, peace in his heart, who'd be just and poor--how can you make

officials honest when you take all you can get yourself--! But, no, I

guess it's no good. This is a rotten cotton show."

Lacey had talked so much, not because he was garrulous only, but because

the inquiry in David's eyes was an encouragement to talk. Whatever his

misfortunes in Mexico had been, his forty years sat lightly on him, and

his expansive temperament, his childlike sentimentality, gave him an

appearance of beaming, sophisticated youth. David was slowly apprehending

these things as he talked--subconsciously, as it were; for he was seeing

pictures of the things he himself had observed, through the lens of

another mind, as primitive in some regards as his own, but influenced by

different experiences.

"Say, you're the best listener I ever saw," added Lacey, with a laugh.

David held out his hand. "Thee sees things clearly," he answered.

Lacey grasped his hand.

At that moment an orderly advanced towards them. "He's after us--one of

the Palace cavalry," said Lacey.

"Effendi--Claridge Effendi! May his grave be not made till the

karadh-gatherers return," said the orderly to David.

"My name is Claridge," answered David.

"To the hotel, effendi, first, then to the Mokattam Hills after thee,

then here--from the Effendina, on whom be God's peace, this letter for

thee."

David took the letter. "I thank thee, friend," he said.

As he read it, Lacey said to the orderly in Arabic "How didst thou know

he was here?"

The orderly grinned wickedly.

"Always it is known what place the effendi honours. It is not dark where

he uncovers his face."

Lacey gave a low whistle.

"Say, you've got a pull in this show," he said, as David folded up the

letter and put it in his pocket.

"In Egypt, if the master smiles on you, the servant puts his nose in the

dust."

"The Prince Pasha bids me to dinner at the Palace to-night. I have no

clothes for such affairs. Yet--" His mind was asking itself if this was a

door opening, which he had no right to shut with his own hand. There was

no reason why he should not go; therefore there might be a reason why he

should go. It might be, it no doubt was, in the way of facilitating his

business. He dismissed the orderly with an affirmative and ceremonial

message to Prince Kaid--and a piece of gold.

"You've learned the custom of the place," said Lacey, as he saw the gold

piece glitter in the brown palm of the orderly.

"I suppose the man's only pay is in such service," rejoined David. "It is

a land of backsheesh. The fault is not with the people; it is with the

rulers. I am not sorry to share my goods with the poor."

"You'll have a big going concern here in no time," observed Lacey. "Now,

if I had those millions I left in Mexico--" Suddenly he stopped. "Is it

you that's trying to settle up an estate here--at Assiout--belonged to an

uncle?"

David inclined his head.

"They say that you and Prince Kaid are doing the thing yourselves, and

that the pashas and judges and all the high-mogul sharks of the Medjidie

think that the end of the world has come. Is that so?"

"It is so, if not completely so. There are the poor men and humble--the

pashas and judges and the others of the Medjidie, as thee said, are not

poor. But such as the orderly yonder--" He paused meditatively.

Lacey looked at David with profound respect. "You make the poorest your

partners, your friends. I see, I see. Jerusalem, that's masterly! I

admire you. It's a new way in this country." Then, after a moment: "It'll

do--by golly, it'll do! Not a bit more costly, and you do some good with

it. Yes--it--will--do."

"I have given no man money save in charity and for proper service done

openly," said David, a little severely.

"Say--of course. And that's just what isn't done here. Everything goes to

him who hath, and from him who hath not is taken away even that which he

hath. One does the work and another gets paid--that's the way here. But

you, Mr. Claridge, you clinch with the strong man at the top, and, down

below, you've got as your partners the poor man, whose name is Legion. If

you get a fall out of the man at the top, you're solid with the Legion.

And if the man at the top gets up again and salaams and strokes your

hand, and says, 'Be my brother,' then it's a full Nile, and the fig-tree

putteth forth its tender branches, and the date-palm flourisheth, and at

the village pond the thanksgiving turkey gobbles and is glad. 'Selah'!"

The sunset gun boomed out from the citadel. David turned to go, and Lacey

added:

"I'm waiting for a pasha who's taking toll of the officers inside

there--Achmet Pasha. They call him the Ropemaker, because so many pass

through his hands to the Nile. The Old Muslin I call him, because he's so

diaphanous. Thinks nobody can see through him, and there's nobody that

can't. If you stay long in Egypt, you'll find that Achmet is the worst,

and Nahoum the Armenian the deepest, pasha in all this sickening land.

Achmet is cruel as a tiger to any one that stands in his way; Nahoum, the

whale, only opens out to swallow now and then; but when Nahoum does open

out, down goes Jonah, and never comes up again. He's a deep one, and a

great artist is Nahoum. I'll bet a dollar you'll see them both to-night

at the Palace--if Kaid doesn't throw them to the lions for their dinner

before yours is served. Here one shark is swallowed by another bigger,

till at last the only and original sea-serpent swallows 'em all."

As David wound his way down the hills, Lacey waved a hand after him.

"Well, give my love to the girls," he said.