They will shrive me who believe in
inspired Spenser’s lines—
“And every spirit, as it is more pure,
And hath in it the more of heavenly light,
So it the fairer body doth procure
To habit in.”—
The evil came of a “fairer body.” I had prepared en cachette a slip of
paper, and had hid in my Ihram a pencil destined to put down the heads
of this rarely heard discourse. But unhappily that red cashmere shawl
was upon my shoulders. Close to us sat a party of fair Meccans,
apparently belonging to the higher classes, and one of these I had
already several times remarked. She was a tall girl, about eighteen
years old, with regular features, a skin somewhat citrine-coloured, but
soft and clear, symmetrical eyebrows, the most beautiful eyes, and a
figure all grace. There was no head thrown back, no straightened neck,
no flat shoulders, nor toes turned out—in fact, no “elegant” barbarisms: the
shape was what the Arabs love, soft, bending, and relaxed, as a woman’s
[p.198] figure ought to be. Unhappily she wore, instead of the usual
veil, a “Yashmak” of transparent muslin, bound round the face; and the
chaperone, mother, or duenna, by whose side she stood, was apparently a
very unsuspicious or complaisant old person. Flirtilla fixed a glance
of admiration upon my cashmere. I directed a reply with interest at her
eyes. She then by the usual coquettish gesture, threw back an inch or
two of head-veil, disclosing broad bands of jetty hair, crowning a
lovely oval. My palpable admiration of the new charm was rewarded by a
partial removal of the Yashmak, when a dimpled mouth and a rounded chin
stood out from the envious muslin. Seeing that my companions were
safely employed, I entered upon the dangerous ground of raising hand to
forehead. She smiled almost imperceptibly, and turned away. The pilgrim
was in ecstasy.
The sermon was then half over. I was resolved to stay upon the plain
and see what Flirtilla would do. Grace to the cashmere, we came to a
good understanding. The next page will record my disappointment—that
evening the pilgrim resumed his soiled cotton cloth, and testily
returned the red shawl to the boy Mohammed.
The sermon always lasts till near sunset, or about three hours. At
first it was spoken amid profound silence. Then loud, scattered “Amins”
(Amens) and volleys of “Labbayk” exploded at uncertain intervals[.] At last
the breeze brought to our ears a purgatorial chorus of cries, sobs, and
shrieks. Even my party thought proper to be affected: old Ali rubbed
his eyes, which in no case unconnected with dollars could by any amount
of straining be made to shed even a crocodile’s tear; and the boy
Mohammed wisely hid his face in the skirt of his Rida. Presently the
people, exhausted by emotion, began to descend the hill in small
parties; and those below struck their tents and commenced loading their
camels, although at least an hour’s sermon remained. On this occassion,
[p.199] however, all hurry to be foremost, as the “race from Arafat” is
enjoyed by none but the Badawin.
Although we worked with a will, our animals were not ready to move
before sunset, when the preacher gave the signal of “Israf,” or permission
to depart. The pilgrims,
“—swaying to and fro,
Like waves of a great sea, that in mid shock
Confound each other, white with foam and fear,”
rushed down the hill with a “Labbayk” sounding like a blast, and took the
road to Muna. Then I saw the scene which has given to this part of the
ceremonies the name of Al-Daf’a min Arafat,—the “Hurry from Arafat.” Every man
urged his beast with might and main: it was sunset; the plain bristled
with tent-pegs, litters were crushed, pedestrians were trampled, camels
were overthrown: single combats with sticks and other weapons took
place; here a woman, there a child, and there an animal were lost;
briefly, it was a chaotic confusion.
To my disgust, old Ali insisted upon bestowing his company upon me. He
gave over his newly found mule to the boy Mohammed, bidding him take
care of the beast, and mounted with me in the Shugduf. I had persuaded
Shaykh Mas’ud, with a dollar, to keep close in rear of the pretty Meccan;
and I wanted to sketch the Holy Hill. The senior began to give orders
about the camel—I, counter-orders. The camel was halted. I urged it on:
old Ali directed it to be stopped. Meanwhile the charming face that
smiled at me from the litter grew dimmer and dimmer; the more I
stormed, the less I was listened to—a string of camels crossed our path—I
lost sight of the beauty. Then we began to advance. Again, my
determination to sketch seemed likely to fail before the Zemzemi’s little
snake’s eye. After a few minutes’ angry search for expedients, one
suggested itself. “Effendi!” said old Ali, “sit quiet; there is danger here.” I
tossed about like one suffering from evil conscience or from the
[p.200] colic. “Effendi!” shrieked the senior, “what art thou doing? Thou
wilt be the death of us.” “Wallah!” I replied with a violent plunge, “it is all
thy fault! There!” (another plunge)—“put thy beard out of the other opening,
and Allah will make it easy to us.” In the ecstasy of fear my tormentor
turned his face, as he was bidden, towards the camel’s head. A second
halt ensued, when I looked out of the aperture in rear, and made a
rough drawing of the Mountain of Mercy.
At the Akhshabayn, double lines of camels, bristling with litters,
clashed with a shock more noisy than the meeting of torrents. It was
already dark: no man knew what he was doing.
