Shivers for Christmas

by Richard Dalby

  That which impelled Mustapha still further in his course was the attitude assumed towards him by his own relatives and the natives of his own village. They were strict Moslems, and they regarded him as one on the highway to becoming a renegade. They treated him with mistrust, showed him aversion, and loaded him with reproaches. Mustapha had a high spirit, and he resented rebuke. Let his fellows grumble and objurgate, said he; they would cringe to him when he became a dragoman, with his pockets stuffed with piastres.

  There was in our hotel, the second winter, a young fellow of the name of Jameson, a man with plenty of money, superficial good nature, little intellect, very conceited and egotistic, and this fellow was Mustapha’s evil genius. It was Jameson’s delight to encourage Mustapha in drinking and gambling. Time hung heavy on his hands. He cared nothing for hieroglyphics, scenery bored him, antiquities, art, had no charm for him. Natural history presented to him no attraction, and the only amusement level with his mental faculties was that of hoaxing natives, or breaking down their religious prejudices.

  Matters were in this condition as regarded Mustapha, when an incident occurred during my second winter at Luxor that completely altered the tenor of Mustapha’s life.

  One night a fire broke out in the nearest village. It originated in a mud hovel belonging to a fellah; his wife had spilled some oil on the hearth, and the flames leaping up had caught the low thatch, which immediately burst into a blaze. A wind was blowing from the direction of the Arabian desert, and it carried the flames and ignited the thatch before it on other roofs; the conflagration spread, and the whole village was menaced with destruction. The greatest excitement and alarm prevailed. The inhabitants lost their heads. Men ran about rescuing from their hovels their only treasures—old sardine tins and empty marmalade pots; women wailed, children sobbed; no one made any attempt to stay the fire; and, above all, were heard the screams of the woman whose incaution had caused the mischief, and who was being beaten unmercifully by her husband.

  The few English in the hotel came on the scene, and with their instinctive energy and system set to work to organize a corps and subdue the flames. The women and girls who were rescued from the menaced hovels, or plucked out of those already on fire, were in many cases unveiled; and so it came to pass that Mustapha, who, under English direction was ablest and most vigorous in his efforts to stop the conflagration, met his fate in the shape of the daughter of Ibraim the Farrier.

  By the light of the flames he saw her, and at once resolved to make that fair girl his wife.

  No reasonable obstacle intervened, so thought Mustapha. He had amassed a sufficient sum to entitle him to buy a wife and set up a household of his own. A house consists of four mud walls and a low thatch, and housekeeping in an Egyptian house is as elementary and economical as the domestic architecture. The maintenance of a wife and family is not costly after the first outlay, which consists in indemnifying the father for the expense to which he has been put in rearing a daughter.

  The ceremony of courting is also elementary, and the addresses of the suitor are not paid to the bride, but to her father, and not in person by the candidate, but by an intermediary.

  Mustapha negotiated with a friend, a fellow hanger-on at the hotel, to open proceedings with the farrier. He was to represent to the worthy man that the suitor entertained the most ardent admiration for the virtues of Ibraim personally, that he was inspired with but one ambition, which was alliance with so distinguished a family as his. He was to assure the father of the damsel that Mustapha undertook to proclaim through Upper and Lower Egypt, in the ears of Egyptians, Arabs, and Europeans, that Ibraim was the most remarkable man that ever existed for solidity of judgment, excellence of parts, uprightness of dealing, nobility of sentiment, strictness in observance of the precepts of the Koran, and that finally Mustapha was anxious to indemnify this same paragon of genius and virtue for his condescension in having cared to breed and clothe and feed for several years a certain girl, his daughter, if Mustapha might have that daughter as his wife. Not that he cared for the daughter in herself, but as a means whereby he might have the honour of entering into alliance with one so distinguished and so esteemed of Allah as Ibraim the Farrier.

  To the infinite surprise of the intermediary, and to the no less surprise and mortification of the suitor, Mustapha was refused. He was a bad Moslem. Ibraim would have no alliance with one who had turned his back on the Prophet and drunk bottled beer.

  Till this moment Mustapha had not realised how great was the alienation between his fellows and himself—what a barrier he had set up between himself and the men of his own blood. The refusal of his suit struck the young man to the quick. He had known and played with the farrier’s daughter in childhood, till she had come of age to veil her face; now that he had seen her in her ripe charms, his heart was deeply stirred and engaged. He entered into himself, and going to the mosque he there made a solemn vow that if he ever touched wine, ale, or spirits again he would cut his throat, and he sent word to Ibraim that he had done so, and begged that he would not dispose of his daughter and finally reject him till he had seen how that he who had turned in thought and manner of life from the Prophet would return with firm resolution to the right way.

  2

  From this time Mustapha changed his conduct. He was obliging and attentive as before, ready to exert himself to do for me what I wanted, ready also to extort money from the ordinary tourist for doing nothing, to go with me and carry my tools when I went forth painting, and to joke and laugh with Jameson; but, unless he were unavoidably detained, he said his prayers five times daily in the mosque, and no inducement whatever would make him touch anything save sherbet, milk, or water.

  Mustapha had no easy time of it. The strict Mohammedans mistrusted this sudden conversion, and believed that he was playing a part. Ibraim gave him no encouragement. His relatives maintained their reserve and stiffness towards him.

  His companions, moreover, who were in the transitional stage, and those who had completely shaken off all faith in Allah and trust in the Prophet and respect for the Koran, were incensed at his desertion. He was ridiculed, insulted; he was waylaid and beaten. The young fellows mimicked him, the elder scoffed at him.

  Jameson took his change to heart, and laid himself out to bring him out of his pot of scruples.

  ‘Mustapha ain’t any sport at all now,’ said he. ‘I’m hanged if he has another para from me.’ He offered him bribes in gold, he united with the others in ridicule, he turned his back on him, and refused to employ him. Nothing availed. Mustapha was respectful, courteous, obliging as before, but he had returned, he said, to the faith and rule of life in which he had been brought up, and he would never again leave it.

  ‘I have sworn,’ said he, ‘that if I do I will cut my throat.’

  I had been, perhaps, negligent in cautioning the young fellow the first winter that I knew him against the harm likely to be done him by taking up with European habits contrary to his law and the feelings and prejudices of his people. Now, however, I had no hesitation in expressing to him the satisfaction I felt at the courageous and determined manner in which he had broken with acquired habits that could do him no good. For one thing, we were now better acquaintances, and I felt that as one who had known him for more than a few months in the winter, I had a good right to speak. And, again, it is always easier or pleasanter to praise than to reprimand.

  One day when sketching I cut my pencil with a pruning-knife I happened to have in my pocket; my proper knife of many blades had been left behind by misadventure.

  Mustapha noticed the knife and admired it, and asked if it had cost a great sum.

  ‘Not at all,’ I answered. ‘I did not even buy it. It was given me. I ordered some flower seeds from a seeds-man, and when he sent me the consignment he included this knife in the case as a present. It is not worth more than a shilling in England.’

  He turned it about, with looks of admiration.

  ‘It is just the sort that would suit
me,’ he said. ‘I know your other knife with many blades. It is very fine, but it is too small. I do not want it to cut pencils. It has other things in it, a hook for taking stones from a horse’s hoof, a pair of tweezers for removing hairs. I do not want such, but a knife such as this, with such a curve, is just the thing.’

  ‘Then you shall have it,’ said I. ‘You are welcome. It was for rough work only that I brought the knife to Egypt with me.’

  I finished a painting that winter that gave me real satisfaction. It was of the great court of the temple of Luxor by evening light, with the last red glare of the sun over the distant desert hills, and the eastern sky above of a purple depth. What colours I used! the intensest on my palette, and yet fell short of the effect.

  The picture was in the Academy, was well hung, abominably represented in one of the illustrated guides to the galleries, as a blotch, by some sort of photographic process on gelatine; my picture sold, which concerned me most of all; and not only did it sell at a respectable figure, but it also brought me two or three orders for Egyptian pictures. So many English and Americans go up the Nile, and carry away with them pleasant reminiscences of the Land of the Pharaohs, that when in England they are fain to buy pictures which shall remind them of scenes in that land.

  I returned to my hotel at Luxor in November, to spend there a third winter. The fellaheen about there saluted me as a friend with an affectionate delight, which I am quite certain was not assumed, as they got nothing out of me save kindly salutations. I had the Egyptian fever on me, which, when once acquired, is not to be shaken off—an enthusiasm for everything Egyptian, the antiquities, the history of the Pharaohs, the very desert, the brown Nile, the desolate hill ranges, the ever-blue sky, the marvellous colorations at rise and set of sun, and last, but not least, the prosperity of the poor peasants.

  I am quite certain that the very warmest welcome accorded to me was from Mustapha, and almost the first words he said to me on my meeting him again were: ‘I have been very good. I say my prayers. I drink no wine, and Ibraim will give me his daughter in the second Iomada—what you call January.’

  ‘Not before, Mustapha?’

  ‘No, sir; he says I must be tried for one whole year, and he is right.’

  ‘Then soon after Christmas you will be happy!’

  ‘I have got a house and made it ready. Yes. After Christmas there will be one very happy man—one very, very happy man in Egypt, and that will be your humble servant, Mustapha.’

  3

  We were a pleasant party at Luxor, this third winter, not numerous, but for the most part of congenial tastes. For the most part we were keen on hieroglyphics, we admired Queen Hatasou and we hated Rameses II. We could distinguish the artistic work of one dynasty from that of another. We were learned on cartouches, and flourished our knowledge before the tourists dropping in.

  One of those staying in the hotel was an Oxford don, very good company, interested in everything, and able to talk well on everything—I mean everything more or less remotely connected with Egypt. Another was a young fellow who had been an attaché at Berlin, but was out of health—nothing organic the matter with his lungs, but they were weak. He was keen on the political situation, and very anti-Gallican, as every man who has been in Egypt naturally is, who is not a Frenchman.

  There was also staying in the hotel an American lady, fresh and delightful, whose mind and conversation twinkled like frost crystals in the sun, a woman full of good-humour, of the most generous sympathies, and so droll that she kept us ever amused.

  And, alas! Jameson was back again, not entering into any of our pursuits, not understanding our little jokes, not at all content to be there. He grumbled at the food—and, indeed, that might have been better; at the monotony of the life at Luxor, at his London doctor for putting the veto on Cairo because of its drainage, or rather the absence of all drainage. I really think we did our utmost to draw Jameson into our circle, to amuse him, to interest him in something; but one by one we gave him up, and the last to do this was the little American lady.

  From the outset he had attacked Mustapha, and endeavoured to persuade him to shake off his ‘squeamish nonsense’, as Jameson called his resolve. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, old fellow,’ he said, ‘life isn’t worth living without good liquor, and as for that blessed Prophet of yours, he showed he was a fool when he put a bar on drinks.’

  But as Mustapha was not pliable he gave him up. ‘He’s become just as great a bore as that old Rameses,’ said he. ‘I’m sick of the whole concern, and I don’t think anything of fresh dates, that you fellows make such a fuss about. As for that stupid old Nile—there ain’t a fish worth eating comes out of it. And those old Egyptians were arrant humbugs. I haven’t seen a lotus since I came here, and they made such a fuss about them too.’

  The little American lady was not weary of asking questions relative to English home life, and especially to country-house living and amusements.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ said she, ‘I would give my ears to spend a Christmas in the fine old fashion in a good ancient manor-house in the country.’

  ‘There is nothing remarkable in that,’ said an English lady.

  ‘Not to you, maybe; but there would be to us. What we read of and make pictures of in our fancies, that is what you live. Your facts are our fairy tales. Look at your hunting.’

  ‘That, if you like, is fun,’ threw in Jameson. ‘But I don’t myself think anything save Luxor can be a bigger bore than country-house life at Christmas time—when all the boys are back from school.’

  ‘With us,’ said the little American, ‘our sportsmen dress in pink like yours—the whole thing—and canter after a bag of aniseed that is trailed before them.’

  ‘Why do they not import foxes?’

  ‘Because a fox would not keep to the road. Our farmers object pretty freely to trespass; so the hunting must of necessity be done on the highway, and the game is but a bag of aniseed. I would like to see an English meet and a run.’

  This subject was thrashed out after having been prolonged unduly for the sake of Jameson.

  ‘Oh, dear me!’ said the Yankee lady. ‘If but that chef could be persuaded to give us plum-puddings for Christmas, I would try to think I was in England.’

  ‘Plum-pudding is exploded,’ said Jameson. ‘Only children ask for it now. A good trifle or a tipsy-cake is much more to my taste; but this hanged cook here can give us nothing but his blooming custard pudding and burnt sugar.’

  ‘I do not think it would be wise to let him attempt a plum-pudding,’ said the English lady. ‘But if we can persuade him to permit me I will mix and make the pudding, and then he cannot go far wrong in the boiling and dishing up.’

  ‘That is the only thing wanting to make me perfectly happy,’ said the American. ‘I’ll confront monsieur. I am sure I can talk him into a good humour, and we shall have our plum-pudding.’

  No one has yet been found, I do believe, who could resist that little woman. She carried everything before her. The cook placed himself and all his culinary apparatus at her feet. We took part in the stoning of the raisins, and the washing of the currants, even the chopping of the suet; we stirred the pudding, threw in sixpence apiece, and a ring, and then it was tied up in a cloth, and set aside to be boiled. Christmas Day came, and the English chaplain preached us a practical sermon on ‘Goodwill towards men’. That was his text, and his sermon was but a swelling out of the words just as rice is swelled to thrice its size by boiling.

  We dined. There was an attempt at roast beef—it was more like baked leather. The event of the dinner was to be the bringing in and eating of the plum-pudding.

  Surely all would be perfect. We could answer for the materials and the mixing. The English lady could guarantee the boiling. She had seen the plum-pudding ‘on the boil’, and had given strict injunctions as to the length of time during which it was to boil.

  But, alas! the pudding was not right when brought on the table. It was not enveloped in lambent blue
flame—it was not crackling in the burning brandy. It was sent in dry, and the brandy arrived separate in a white sauce-boat, hot indeed, and sugared, but not on fire.

  There ensued outcries of disappointment. Attempts were made to redress the mistake by setting fire to the brandy in a spoon, but the spoon was cold. The flame would not catch, and finally, with a sigh, we had to take our plum-pudding as served.

  ‘I say, chaplain!’ exclaimed Jameson, ‘practice is better than precept, is it not?’

  ‘To be sure it is.’

  ‘You gave us a deuced good sermon. It was short, as it ought to be; but I’ll go better on it, I’ll practise where you preached, and have larks, too!’

  Then Jameson started from table with a plate of plum-pudding in one hand and the sauce-boat in the other. ‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘I’ll teach these fellows to open their eyes. I’ll show them that we know how to feed. We can’t turn out scarabs and cartouches in England, that are no good to anyone, but we can produce the finest roast beef in the world, and do a thing or two in puddings.’

  And he left the room.

  We paid no heed to anything Jameson said or did. We were rather relieved that he was out of the room, and did not concern ourselves about the ‘larks’ he promised himself, and which we were quite certain would be as insipid as were the quails of the Israelites.

  In ten minutes he was back, laughing and red in the face.

  ‘I’ve had splitting fun,’ he said, ‘You should have been there.’

  ‘Where, Jameson?’

  ‘Why, outside. There were a lot of old moolahs and other hoky-pokies sitting and contemplating the setting sun and all that sort of thing, and I gave Mustapha the pudding. I told him I wished him to try our great national English dish, on which her Majesty the Queen dines daily. Well, he ate and enjoyed it, by George. Then I said, “Old fellow, it’s uncommonly dry, so you must take the sauce to it.” He asked if it was only sauce—flour and water. “It’s sauce, by Jove,” said I, “a little sugar to it; no bar on the sugar, Musty.” So I put the boat to his lips and gave him a pull. By George, you should have seen his face! It was just thundering fun. “I’ve done you at last, old Musty,” I said. “It is best cognac.” He gave me such a look! He’d have eaten me, I believe—and he walked away. It was just splitting fun. I wish you had been there to see it.’