In another
part, a huge dimly-lit tent, reeking hot, and garnished with cane
seats, contained knots of Egyptians, as their red Tarbushes, white
turbands, and black Za’abuts showed, noisily intoxicating themselves with
forbidden hemp. There were frequent brawls and great confusion; many
men had lost their parties, and, mixed with loud Labbayks, rose the
shouted names of women as well as of men. I was surprised at the
disproportion of female nomenclature—the missing number of fair ones
seemed to double that of the other sex—and at a practice so opposed to
the customs of the Moslem world. At length the boy Mohammed enlightened
me. Egyptian and other bold women, when unable to join the pilgrimage,
will pay or persuade a friend to shout their names
[p.190] in hearing of the Holy Hill, with a view of ensuring a real
presence at the desired spot next year. So the welkin rang with the
indecent sounds of O Fatimah! O Zaynab! O Khayz’ran![FN#25] Plunderers,
too, were abroad. As we returned to the tent we found a crowd assembled
near it; a woman had seized a thief as he was beginning operations, and
had the courage to hold his beard till men ran to her assistance. And
we were obliged to defend by force our position against a knot of
grave-diggers, who would bury a little heap of bodies within a yard or
two of our tent.
One point struck me at once—the difference in point of cleanliness
between an encampment of citizens and of Badawin. Poor Mas’ud sat holding
his nose in ineffable disgust, for which he was derided by the Meccans.
I consoled him with quoting the celebrated song of Maysunah, the
beautiful Badawi wife of the Caliph Mu’awiyah. Nothing can be more
charming in its own Arabic than this little song; the Badawin never
hear it without screams of joy.
“O take these purple robes away,
Give back my cloak of camel’s hair,
And bear me from this tow’ring pile
To where the Black Tents flap i’ the air.
The camel’s colt with falt’ring tread,
The dog that bays at all but me,
Delight me more than ambling mules—
Than every art of minstrelsy;
And any cousin, poor but free,
Might take me, fatted ass! from thee.[FN#26]”
[p.191] The old man, delighted, clapped my shoulder, and exclaimed,
“Verily, O Father of Mustachios, I will show thee the black tents of my
tribe this year!”
At length night came, and we threw ourselves upon our rugs, but not to
sleep. Close by, to our bane, was a prayerful old gentleman, who began
his devotions at a late hour and concluded them not before dawn. He
reminded me of the undergraduate my neighbour at Trinity College,
Oxford, who would spout Aeschylus at two A.M. Sometimes the chant would
grow drowsy, and my ears would hear a dull retreating sound; presently,
as if in self-reproach, it would rise to a sharp treble, and proceed at
a rate perfectly appalling.
