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Title: Arabi and his household

Author: Lady Gregory

Release date: August 13, 2024 [eBook #74246]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Kegan Paul, Trench & Co, 1882

Credits: Jamie Brydone-Jack, Chris Hapka and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Books project.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ARABI AND HIS HOUSEHOLD ***





                                 ARABI
                                  AND
                             HIS HOUSEHOLD




                                   BY
                              LADY GREGORY




                                 LONDON
            KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., 1 PATERNOSTER SQUARE
                                  1882

                             Price Twopence

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                        ARABI AND HIS HOUSEHOLD.


                             --------------


‘Report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied.’ I wrote these last
words of Hamlet on a photograph of Arabi which a friend asked me for at
Cairo. But that friend had personal reason for supporting the rule of
the English officials in Egypt, and had also doubt as to the possibility
of a constitutional government succeeding in a country which could not
boast a House of Peers. Other Englishmen have said to me, since I have
come home: ‘Arabi is a good man, and his aims are honest. I know it and
you know it, but we dare not say it. A lady may say what she likes, but
a man is called unpatriotic who ventures to say a word that is good of
the man England is determined to crush; it may injure us if we speak as
we think.’ But I, like Master Shadow, present no mark to the enemy. I
have spoken what I knew to be the truth all through the war, and I wrote
down these recollections of Arabi and his family, which I knew must make
him appear less of an ogre than he was generally supposed to be some
time ago, though not intending them for immediate publication. But now
news has reached me from Cairo that Arabi’s wife has had to find a
refuge with a high-minded princess, who has always been known as one who
loved Egypt, and that that princess is consequently in danger of arrest;
that Arabi’s mother is hidden in a poor quarter of the town, afraid to
face the vengeance of his enemies now in power; and it is hoping to
interest Englishmen in this family—simple, honest, hospitable, as I
found them, and who are now poor, hunted, in danger—that I publish them
now.

In appearance Arabi is a tall, strongly-built man; his face is grave,
almost stern, but his smile is very pleasant. His photographs reproduce
the sternness, but not the smile, and are, I believe, partly responsible
for the ready belief which the absurd tales of his ferocity and
bloodthirstiness have gained. He always wears the blue Egyptian uniform,
the red tarboosh pushed back on his head, and the sword, whose imaginary
feats rival those of Excalibur, by his side. ‘I make no more jokes,’
said M. de Blignières, the sharp-tongued Controller, after Arabi had
been made Minister of War; ‘Arabi comes to the Council with his big
sword on, and I think it better to be silent.’ ‘Arabi drew his sword,
threatened the Notables, and told Sultan Pasha he would make his
children fatherless and his wife a widow,’ was the story sent to England
when the Chamber demanded the right of voting the Budget. It was hardly
necessary for the old and childless Sultan Pasha to deny this story
altogether when brought to his ears. ‘Arabi flourished his sword and
broke several windows,’ cries the hysterical correspondent of an English
newspaper later on.

As a matter of fact, I believe him to be exceedingly gentle and humane.
An English official, one of the fairest of his class, said to me: ‘He
has too much of the gentleness of the fellah, and too little of the
brute in him to succeed. If he would take lessons in brutality at 100
francs a week, he would have a much better chance of getting on.’ He was
for months the almost absolute ruler of Egypt, and even from his enemies
comes no story of cruelty or oppression, except that of the torture of
the Circassian officers; and having searched the Blue-book laid before
Parliament for proof of this, I can only find a despatch from our
Minister saying a European gentleman has told him that two natives had
told him that they had heard cries proceeding from the prison where the
Circassians were confined, from which is inferred that they were being
tortured.

I do not understand Arabic, the only language spoken by Arabi, so could
not judge of his eloquence. It is said to be striking, and his words
well chosen. His intimate knowledge of the Koran and all the literature
of his religion, including our own Old Testament books, will account for
this, just as a life-long study of the English Bible is said to lend
force and vigour to the language of one of our own great orators. He
speaks very earnestly, looking you straight in the face with honest
eyes. I have an entire belief in his truthfulness; partly from his
manner; partly because from everyone, without exception, who had known
him long or watched his career—some of them members of the Viceregal
family—I heard on this point the same report—‘He is incapable of
speaking untruth’; partly because it was many months ago—it was in
November—that my husband first saw and spoke with him, and to every word
he said then he has adhered ever since. The abhorrence of Ismail which
he then expressed has been proved to be real, though long disbelieved,
by the refusal to allow his emissaries to land at Alexandria in April,
and the proposal to cut his name out of the Civil List when he was found
to be spending his money in intrigues in Egypt. And his sentiments
towards the Sultan seem to be the same now as when he said: ‘We honour
him as Caliph and as suzerain; we belong to him; his dominion is a great
house, and Egypt is one of the rooms in that house; we acknowledge him
as our lord, but we like to have our room to ourselves.’ ‘You may
believe every word spoken by him,’ said a Princess of the family of
Mehemet Ali, ‘because he is a man who fears God.’ I believe it is the
implicit faith in his honesty and truth which prevails that accounts for
much of his immense influence, which undoubtedly exists. At Luxor, in
January, we noticed the eager interest taken by the people in hearing of
him; and European gentlemen, living as overseers on estates still higher
up, told us that his was the name continually on men’s lips. I have been
told that when Sir Rivers Wilson first went to Egypt, and found the
people groaning under the tyranny of Ismail, his name took possession of
the people in the same way, and whenever a man suffered an injustice or
a wrong, he said: ‘The Wilson will be sure to set it right.’ But later
on the Control did not inspire enthusiasm, and Arabi became the centre
of the people’s desire. Of his childhood I know nothing, except that his
old mother told me he was ‘always a good son.’ The first noteworthy
action of his I can hear of was in the days of Said Pasha. Said devoted
himself to his army, its drill and discipline. At one time he took it
into his head that keeping the Fast of Ramadan was injurious to the
troops, and he issued an order that the fast was not to be observed.
After a few days he was told that some of the soldiers were neglecting
his orders. Indignant at their disobedience, he himself went out, and,
walking along the ranks, asked each man, ‘Do you fast?’ ‘Do you?’ A few
confessed with fear and trembling—many denied. At last a young soldier
stepped forward and said very respectfully, ‘Oh, Effendina! I have read
in the Commandment of God, given in the Koran, that we must fast. If I
neglect the commands of my God, how shall I be faithful to those of an
earthly ruler?’ ‘What is your name?’ ‘Ahmed Arabi.’ ‘Take him from my
sight!’ No one expected ever to see him again, but next day he was not
only sent back to his regiment, but with the increased rank of corporal.
This is the man of whom we read in the despatches of last winter that
the motive power of all his actions is cowardice.

I next hear of him in the disastrous Abyssinian War. His duty was to
arrange for the transport of provisions and baggage—not much glory or
fame to be gathered there, though no fault was found with his efficiency
or discipline. But even then, I have been told by a European officer who
went through the campaign, his influence was growing. Each night, when
the day’s work was done, it was round him that the soldiers gathered,
and he preached, or spoke, or recited the Koran to them.

It was in February, last year, that the Egyptian authorities, having no
ground of accusation against Arabi, but distrusting him as ‘a man with
ideas,’ tried to put him out of the way quietly, but failed. He had a
short time before, in conjunction with two other colonels, Abdullal, of
the Black Regiment, and Ali Fehmy, presented a petition asking for an
inquiry into the grievances of the army, which was accepted. In
February, these three colonels received a summons from the Khedive to
come to the Abdin Palace to receive orders for the arrangement of a
procession which was to be formed next day on the occasion of the
marriage of one of the Princesses. Their suspicions were aroused, and
before going to the Palace they left a message with their regiments—‘If
we are not back at sunset, come for us.’ As soon as they arrived at the
Palace they were seized, thrown into a room, their swords taken from
them, and the doors locked. Whether their friends would ever have seen
them again is a matter for speculation; all Cairo to this day says ‘No’;
but at sunset the soldiers arrived, demanding their officers, and then
it was too late to do anything but throw the doors open as quickly as
might be and let the prisoners out. Those who saw the release say that
the two other colonels seemed in a great hurry to be safe in their
barracks again, but Arabi walked slowly out, calm and unmoved as usual,
Those who take the trouble may read this story, plainly told in the
Blue-books published in June. Why is it that one hears so often of
Arabi’s mutiny, but never of the first act in the piece which led to it?

I am not writing a history of Arabi, and need not go into the details of
the September demonstration, when the soldiers who had learnt their way
to the Palace to release the colonels appeared there again with a demand
for a Constitution, which was promised them. In December the Khedive
made him Under-Secretary of War, whether with the idea of strengthening
the Government, or that Arabi’s popularity would be lessened by his
acceptance of office, I cannot tell.

In the Government of Mahmoud Samy, which came into office on the 3rd of
February, he became Minister of War. His popularity was then at its
height in Cairo. Many European officials paying the necessary formal
visits to the new Ministers met him for the first time, and one and all
came away with a more favourable impression of him than they had before.
Men who a month earlier had spoken of him as beneath contempt now
boasted of a few civil words from him. At the American public dinner, at
which he was a guest and made a short speech in Arabic, those who were
present, unable to judge of his eloquence, could talk of nothing but the
charm of his smile.

It was just at this time that the Sacred Carpet was brought back from
Mecca. It is a time of great rejoicing among the people, and all Cairo
went out to meet it. When Arabi appeared in the procession the
enthusiasm of the people knew no bounds. They threw themselves upon him,
kissed his hands, his knees, his feet, tore his gloves into fragments to
keep in memory of him. The soldiers tried in vain to beat them back, but
he stopped them, and, lifting his hand, said quietly, ‘Go back, my
children,’ and in an instant was obeyed. The Khedive’s wife was looking
on from a window ill-pleased. ‘See,’ she said, ‘how this man is stealing
the hearts of the people.’ Her own husband had passed, receiving but
little notice, just before.

I had already seen and spoken with Arabi, but it was not until the end
of February that I went, with Lady Anne Blunt, to see his wife. They had
moved some little time before to a new house, large and dilapidated
looking, and which Arabi was represented as having fitted up in a
luxurious style; in fact, at that time the crime most frequently alleged
against him was that he had bought carpets to the amount of £120. I must
confess that there were some pieces of new and not beautiful European
carpets in the chief rooms, but I must add that if Arabi paid £120 for
them he made a very bad bargain. I do not know how he has spent his
official salary, but I have heard very lately, from one who has taken
the trouble to investigate the truth of the stories of his avarice, that
he has the same small amount of money to his credit now that he had
before he was either Pasha or Minister, and that the foundation of the
story of his having become a large landed proprietor is his having
become trustee for the orphan child of an old friend of his who had been
kind to him.

The sole furniture of the reception room of Arabi’s wife consisted of
small hard divans covered with brown linen and a tiny table with a
crochet antimacassar thrown over it. On the whitewashed walls the only
ornaments were photographs of him in black wooden frames, and one larger
photograph of the Sacred Stone at Mecca. In the room where Arabi himself
sat and received were a similar hard divan, two or three chairs, a
table, and an inkstand covered with stains. His wife was ready to
receive us, having heard an hour or two earlier of our intended visit.
She greeted us warmly, speaking in Arabic, which Lady Anne interpreted
to me. She has a pleasant, intelligent expression; but, having five
children living out of fourteen that have been born to her, looked
rather overcome with the cares of maternity, her beauty dimmed since the
time when the tall, grave soldier she had seen passing under her window
every day looked up at last, and saw and loved her. She wore a long
dress of green silk. ‘My husband hates this long train,’ she told us
afterwards; ‘he would like to take a knife and cut it off, but I say I
must have a fashionable dress to wear when I visit the Khedive’s wife
and other ladies.’ I think there are English husbands who, in this
grievance at least, will sympathise with Arabi.

An old woman with white hair, dressed in the common country fashion—a
woollen petticoat and blue cotton jacket—came into the room and occupied
herself with the children. Presently we found that she was Arabi’s
mother. She spoke with great energy and vivacity, welcoming us and
talking of her son with much affection and pride. ‘I am only a fellah
woman,’ she said, ‘but I am the mother of Ahmed Arabi.’ She took me
twice into another room to see an oleograph, of which she was very
proud, representing him in staring colours. After a short time, a negro
boy, the only visible attendant, brought in a tray, and we were invited
to sit down and eat. The meal began with boiled chicken and broth, which
were followed by forcemeat balls, rice, vegetables, sweet pastry, and
other native dishes in abundance, though our hostess lamented the short
notice she had been given of our visit. If she had known in time she
would have had a cow killed. Two little girls, her daughters, waited on
us, and brought water to wash our hands. She, herself, kept up an
animated conversation, and gave us a vivid account of the imprisonment
of the three colonels and their rescue. When they were in prison the
others were frightened, but Arabi was not. He said: ‘It is not the will
of God that we should perish.’ ‘When I heard what had happened, though I
was almost too ill to leave the house, I hired a carriage and drove up
towards the palace to ask for news of them, but could hear nothing, and
soon I had to come back, and that evening my baby was born. At the
moment of her birth came the news that my husband had been released by
the soldiers, so I called her “Bushra”’ (good tidings). She was brought
in for us to see, a tiny, thin, black-eyed creature, clinging to her
grandmother. She is her father’s favourite, they said—she and Saida, the
eldest girl, who was with him when he was quartered at Alexandria, and
Hassan, a bright-eyed little imp of four years. We had paid a long
visit, and got away after many leave-takings and hopes for their
wellbeing as well as that of ‘El Bey.’ ‘Inshallah,’ his wife answered
rather sadly. ‘They say the Christian Powers want to do something to my
husband. I don’t understand it at all. We can’t get on without the
Christians, or they without us. Why can’t we all live in peace
together?’

In November I had been taken to see Madame Sherif Pasha, a voluble lady,
full of importance, and telling us between the puffs of her cigarette
how she had had a visit from Arabi’s wife, and had spoken severely to
her, and told her to go home and make her husband behave better and keep
him from these _bêtises_, and the poor woman had cried and promised to
do her best. Now, in February, Madame Sherif had retired to obscurity,
and Madame Arabi was wife of the Minister of War.

Sherif himself I did not know, but those who knew him found him a
pleasant companion, a plausible speaker, and a crack billiard-player.
Arabi, terribly in earnest about some important question, calling at his
house and finding him engrossed in a game of billiards, would retire in
disgust. A clear-sighted foreign Consul said of him: ‘Sherif is full of
good intentions, but he has never any intention of carrying them out.’
The most able of our English officials said of him, ‘He is honest in
intention, hazy in his ideas, indolent in action; but, as partisanship
for his Ministry seems to be one of the chief causes that has led us
into war, let us say the best of him now.’

Towards the end of March, before we left Cairo, Arabi came to say
good-bye to us. A little worried and troubled by false accusations made
against him in English newspapers, he was still confident that some day
his character would be cleared. ‘They must know some day that it is the
good of the people that we seek.’ A little time before their work was
judged, that was all he asked. This has been denied him, and those who
thought it well to ‘bring things to a crisis and hasten intervention’ by
raising a quarrel between him and the Khedive have done their work. I
spoke of my visit to his house, and he said: ‘Our women have not been in
the habit of receiving the visits of the ladies of Europe, so if in any
way they failed in the courtesy and attention due to a guest, I hope you
will understand it was not from want of goodwill, but from want of
knowledge.’ I showed him a picture of my little boy; he raised it to his
lips and kissed it, hoping he would some day come to Egypt to be the
friend of his children. Perhaps I have not been a fair judge in his
cause since then.

A day or two before we left I went again to see his wife. She looked a
little sadder, a little more anxious, than when I had last seen her, but
was on hospitable cares intent, and soon went out of the room to see to
the preparation of dinner. I had an Italian lady with me as interpreter,
who spoke French and Arabic very well. They had expected me this time,
and made more preparations, and when the meal was ready and I saw dish
after dish coming in, I was in despair until I found that one of the
children, my little bright-eyed friend Hassan, was quite ready to sit by
me, and be fed from my plate, and so I disposed of my share to his great
satisfaction. ‘I like this better than having to wait downstairs till
dinner is over,’ he said; ‘then they forget me and eat up all the good
things.’ By the time dessert arrived he said he liked me but hated other
ladies, and would like to come and see me in England, but did not know
how he could manage it, as his papa wanted the carriage every day. I
advised him to learn English, and his mother said she would like to send
him to one of the Christian schools in Cairo, ‘But how can I send him
where he would hear his father spoken ill of?’ She seemed troubled, poor
woman, because the Khedive’s wife, who used to be good and kind to her,
now says: ‘How can we be friends when your husband is such a bad man?’
The old mother sat in the corner attending to the children and counting
over her beads. I said, ‘Are you not proud now your son is a Pasha?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘we were happier in the old days when we had him with us
always and feared nothing. Now he gets up at daybreak and has only time
to say his prayers before there are people waiting for him with
petitions, and he has to attend to them and then go to his business, and
often he is not back here until after midnight, and until he comes I
cannot sleep, I cannot rest; I can do nothing but pray for him all the
time. There are many who wish him evil and they will try to destroy him.
A few days ago he came home suffering great pain, and I was sure then he
had been poisoned; but I got him a hot bath and remedies and he grew
better, and since then I keep even the water that he drinks locked up.
But, say all I can, I cannot frighten him or make him take care of
himself; he always says, “God will preserve me.”’

‘God will preserve me!’ ‘It is not the will of God that we should
perish.’ The words of a man who believes God has given him work to do
and will support him while he does it—not the words of a coward. But
those who wrote the published despatches say that cowardice is the
mainspring of his character, and surely they know better than his old
mother!

‘The Khedive is unjust to him,’ she went on; ‘he will give him no help
or support, and yet if anything goes wrong, or there is a disturbance
ever so far away, Arabi is blamed for it.’ She had a grievance against
her son also. He had been already working hard towards the abolition of
slavery, and I found that in this matter his foes were they of his own
household. ‘He ought not to do it,’ the old woman said; ‘he does not see
the consequences as I do. All the slaves will leave as soon as they are
freed, and European women will take their places, and they will seduce
their masters, and their children will be stronger than ours, and we
shall be driven out of the country.’ Poor old soul! she must have had
sore and anxious days since then. I often think of her, and of the poor
wife, puzzled and troubled, ‘Why should the Christian Powers want to
harm my husband?’


                             --------------

        Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


This file uses _underscores_ to indicate italic text. Itemized changes
from the original text:

 ● p. 10: Removed comma after “wife” (…his wife answered…)





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