Whereas Egypt has left the world; Egypt is dead; there is no link with present things. Both heart and mind are aware of this deep vacuum they vainly strive to fill. That ancient civilisation, both marvellous and somewhere monstrous, breaking with beauty, burning with aspiration, mysterious and vital — all has vanished as completely as though it had not been. The prodigious ruins hint, but cannot utter. No reconstruction from tomb or temple can recall a great dream the world has lost. It is forgotten, swept away, there is no clue. Egypt has left the world.…
Yet, as he thought about it in his uninspired way, it seemed that some part of him still beat in sympathy with the pulse of the forgotten dream. Egypt indeed was dead, yet sometimes — she came back.… She came to revisit her soft stars and moon, her great temples and her mighty tombs. She stole back into the sunshine and the sand; her broken, ruined heart at Thebes received her. He saw her as a spirit, a persistent, living presence, a stupendous Ghost.… And the idea, having offered itself, remained. Both he and Lettice somehow were associated with it, and with this elusive notion of return. They, too, were entangled in the glamour and the spell. They, too, had stolen back as from some immemorial lost dream to revisit the scenes of an intenser yet forgotten life. And Thebes was its centre; the secretive and forbidding Theban Hills, with their desolate myriad sepulchres, its focus and its climax.…
Assouan detained him only a couple of days. He had capable lieutenants; there was delay, moreover, in the arrival of certain material; he could always be summoned quickly by telephone. He sent home his report and took the express train back to Luxor and to — her.
He had been too occupied, too tired at night, to do more than write a fond, short letter, then go to sleep; the heat was considerable; he realised that he was in Africa; the scenery fascinated him, the enormous tawny desert, the cataracts of golden yellow sand, the magical old river. The wonder of Philae, with its Osirian shrine and island sanctuary, caught him as it has caught most other humans. After the sheer bulk of the pyramids and temples, Philae bursts into the heart with almost lyrical sweetness. But his heart was fast in Thebes, and not all the enchantment of this desert paradise could seduce him. Moreover, one detail he disliked: the ubiquitous earthenware tom-tom that sounded day and night… he heard its sullen beating in his dreams.
Yet of one thing he was ever chiefly conscious — that he was impatient to be with Lettice, that his heart hungered without ceasing, that she meant more to him than ever. Her new beauty astonished him, there was a subtle charm in her presence he had not felt in London, her fresh spontaneous gaiety filled him with keen delight. And all this was his. His arrival gave her such joy that she could not even speak of it; yet he was the cause of it. It made him feel almost shy.
He received one characteristic letter from her. ‘Come back as quickly as you can,’ she wrote. ‘Tony has gone down the river after his birds, and I feel lonely. Telegraph, and come to dinner or breakfast according to your train. I’ll meet you if possible. You must come here for all your meals, as I’m sure the hotel food is poor and the drinking water unsafe. This is open house, remember, for you both.’ And there was a delicious P.S. ‘Mind you only drink filtered water, and avoid the hotel salads because the water hasn’t been boiled.’ He kissed the letter. He laughed. Her tender thought for him almost brought the tears into his eyes. It was the tenderness of his own mother who was dead.
He reached Luxor in the evening, and to his delight she was on the platform; long before the train stopped he recognised her figure, the wide sun-hat with the little roses, the white serge skirt and jacket of knitted yellow silk to keep the evening chill away. They drove straight to her house; the sun was down behind the rocky hills and the Nile lay in a dream of burnished gold; the little owls were calling; there was singing among the native boatmen on the water; they saw the fields of brilliant green with the sands beyond, and the keen air from the desert wafted down the street of what once was great hundred-gated Thebes. A strangely delicate perfume hung about the ancient city. Tom turned to look at the woman beside him in the narrow-seated carriage, and felt as if he were driving through a dream.
‘I can stay a week or ten days at least,’ he said at last. ‘Is old Tony back?’
Yes, he had just arrived and telephoned to ask if he might come to dinner. ‘And look, Tom, you can just see the heads of the Colossi rising out of the haze,’ — she pointed quickly— ‘I thought we would go and show them you to-morrow. We might all take our tea and eat it in the clover. You’ve seen nothing of Egypt yet.’ She spoke rapidly, eagerly, full of her little plan.
‘All?’ he repeated doubtfully.
‘Yes, wouldn’t you like it?’
‘Oh, rather,’ he said, wondering why he did not say another thing that rose for a moment in his mind.
‘You must see everything,’ she went on spontaneously, ‘and a dragoman’s a bore. Tony’s a far better guide. He knows old Egypt as well as he knows his old birds.’ She laughed. ‘It’s too ridiculous — his enthusiasm; he’s been dying to explain it all to you as he did to me, and he does it exactly like a museum guide who is a scholar and a poet too. And he is a poet, you know. I’d never noticed it before.’
‘Splendid,’ said Tom. He was thinking several things at once, among them that the perfumed air reminded him of something he could not quite recall. It seemed far away and yet familiar. ‘I’m a rare listener too,’ he added.
‘The King’s Valley you really must do alone together,’ she went on; ‘I can’t face it a second time — the heat, the gloom of it — it oppressed and frightened me a little. Those terrible grim hills — they’re full of death, those Theban hills.’
‘Tony took you?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘We did the whole thing,’ she added, ‘every single Tomb. I was exhausted. I think we all were — except Tony.’ The eager look in her face had gone. Her voice betrayed a certain effort. A darkness floated over it, like the shadow of a passing cloud.
‘All of you!’ he exclaimed, as though it were important. ‘No bird-man ever feels tired.’ He seemed to think a moment. There was a tiny pause. The carriage was close to the house now, driving up with a flourish, and Tony and Mrs. Haughstone, an incongruous couple, were visible standing against the luminous orange sky beside the river. Tom pointed to them with a chuckle. ‘All right,’ he exclaimed, with a gesture as though he came to a decision suddenly, ‘it shall be the Colossi to-morrow. There are two of them, aren’t there — only two?’
‘Two, yes, the Twin Colossi they call them,’ she replied, joining in his chuckle at the silhouetted figures in the sunset.
‘Two,’ he repeated with emphasis, ‘not three.’ But either she did not notice or else she did not hear. She was leaning forward waving her hand to her other guests upon the bank.
There followed then the happiest week that Tom had ever known, for there was no incident to mar it, nor a single word or act that cast the slightest shadow. His dread of the ‘other’ who was to come apparently had left him, the faint uneasiness he had felt so often seemed gone. He even forgot to think about it. Lettice he had never seen so gay, so full of enterprise, so radiant. She sparkled as though she had recovered her girlhood suddenly. With Tony in particular she had incessant battles, and Tom listened to their conversations with amusement, for on no single subject were they able to agree, yet neither seemed to get the best of it. Tom felt unable to keep pace with their more nimble minds.…
Tony was certainly improved in many ways, more serious than he had showed himself before, and extraordinarily full of entertaining knowledge into the bargain. Birds and the lore of ancient Egypt, it appeared, were merely two of his pet hobbies; and he talked in such amusing fashion that he kept Tom in roars of laughter, while stimulating Madame Jaretzka to vehement contradictions. They were much alone, and profited by it. The numerous engagements Lettice had mentioned gave no sign. Tony certainly was a brilliant companion as well as an instructive cicerone. There was more in him than Tom had divined before. Hi
s clever humour was a great asset in the longer expeditions. ‘Tony, I’m tired and hot; please come and talk to me: I want refreshing,’ was never addressed to Tom, for instance, whose good nature could not take the place of wit. Each of the three, as it were, supplied what the other lacked; it was not surprising they got on well together. Tom, however, though always happy provided Lettice was of the party, envied his cousin’s fluid temperament and facile gifts — even in the smallest things. Tony, for instance, would mimic Mrs. Haughstone’s attitude of having done her hostess a kindness in coming out to Egypt: ‘I couldn’t do it again, dear Lettice, even for you’ — the way Tony said and acted it had a touch of inspiration.
Mrs. Haughstone herself, meanwhile, within the limits of her angular personality, Tom found also considerably improved. Egypt had changed her too. He forgave her much because she was afraid of the sun, so left them often alone. She showed unselfishness, too, even kindness, on more than one occasion. Tom was aware of a nicer side in her; in spite of her jealousy and criticism, she was genuinely careful of her hostess’s reputation amid the scandal-loving atmosphere of Egyptian hotel life. It amused him to see how she arrogated to herself the place of chaperone, yet Tom saw true solicitude in it, the attitude of a woman who knew the world towards one who was too trustful. He figured her always holding up a warning finger, and Lettice always laughingly disregarding her advice.
Her warnings to Lettice to be more circumspect were, at any rate, by no means always wrong. Though not particularly observant as a rule, he caught more than once the tail-end of conversations between them in which advice, evidently, had been proffered and laughed aside. But, since it did not concern him, he paid little attention, merely aware that there existed this difference of view. One such occasion, however, Tom had good cause to remember, because it gave him a piece of knowledge he had long desired to possess, yet had never felt within his rights to ask for. It merely gave details, however, of something he already knew.
He entered the room, coming straight from a morning’s work at his own hotel, and found them engaged hammer and tongs upon some dispute regarding ‘conduct.’ Tony, who had been rowing Madame Jaretzka down the river, had made his escape. Madame Jaretzka effected hers as Tom came in, throwing him a look of comical relief across her shoulder. He was alone with the Irish cousin. ‘After all, she is a married woman,’ remarked Mrs. Haughstone, still somewhat indignant from the little battle.
She addressed the words to him as he was the only person within earshot. It seemed natural enough, he thought.
‘Yes,’ said Tom politely. ‘I suppose she is.’
And it was then, quite unexpectedly, that the woman spoke to him as though he knew as much as she did. He ought, perhaps, to have stopped her, but the temptation was too great. He learned the facts concerning Warsaw and the — husband. That the Prince had ill-treated her consistently during the first five years of their married life could certainly not justify her freedom, but that he had lost his reason incurably, no longer even recognised her, that her presence was discouraged by the doctors since it increased the violence of his attacks, and that his malady was hopeless and could end only in his death — all this, while adding to the wonder of her faithful pilgrimages, did assuredly at the same time set her free.… The effect upon his mind may be imagined; it deepened his love, increased his admiration, for it explained the suffering in the face she had turned to sweetness, while also justifying her conduct towards himself. With a single blow, moreover, it killed the dread Tom had been haunted by so long — that this was that ‘other’ who must one day take her from him, obedient to a bigger claim.
This knowledge, as though surreptitiously obtained, Tom locked within his breast until the day when she herself should choose to share it with him.
He remembered another little conversation too when, similarly, he disturbed them in discussion: this time it was Mrs. Haughstone who was called away.
‘Behaving badly, Lettice, is she? Scolding you again?’
‘Not at all. Only she sees the bad in every one and I see the good. She disapproves of Tony rather.’
‘Then she will be less often deceived than you,’ he replied laughingly. The reference to Tony had escaped him; his slow mind was on the general proposition.
‘Perhaps. But you can only make people better by believing that they are better,’ she went on with conviction — when Mrs. Haughstone joined them and took up her parable again:
‘My cousin behaves like a child,’ she said with amusing severity. ‘She doesn’t understand the world. But the world is hard upon grown-ups who behave like children. Lettice thinks everybody good. Her innocence gets her misjudged. And it’s a pity.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on her,’ Tom said solemnly, ‘and we’ll begin this very afternoon.’
‘Do, Mr. Kelverdon, I’m glad to hear it.’ And as she said it, he noticed another expression on her face as she glanced down the drive where Tony, dressed in grey flannels and singing to himself, was seen sauntering towards them. She wore an enigmatic smile by no means pleasant. It gave him a moment’s twinge. He turned from her to Lettice by way of relief. She was waving her white-gloved hand, her eyes were shining, her little face was radiant — and Tom’s happiness came back upon him in a rising flood again as he watched her beauty.… He thought that Egypt was the most marvellous place he had ever known. Even Tony looked enchanted — almost handsome. But Lettice looked divine. He felt more and more that the woman in her blossomed into life before his very eyes. His content was absolute.
CHAPTER XVI.
With Tony as guide they took their fill of wonder. The principal expeditions were made alone, introducing Tom to the marvels of ancient Egypt which they already knew. On the sturdiest donkey Thebes could furnish, he raced his cousin across the burning sands, Madame Jaretzka following in a sand-cart, her blue veil streaming in the cool north wind. They played like children, defying the tide of mystery that this haunted land pours against the modern human soul, while yet the wonder and the mystery added to their enjoyment, deepening their happiness by contrast.
They ate their al fresco luncheons gaily, seated by hoary tombs that opened into the desolate hills; kings, priests, princesses, dead six thousand years, listening in caverns underground to their careless talk. Yet their gaiety had a hush in it, a significance behind the sentences; for even their lightest moments touched ever upon the borders of an awfulness that was sublime, and all that they said or did gained this hint of deeper value — that it was set against a background of the infinite, the deathless.
It was impossible to forget that this was Egypt, the deposit of immemorial secrets, the store-house of stupendous vanished dreams.
‘There was a majesty, after all, about their strange old gods,’ said Tony one afternoon as they emerged from the stifling darkness of a forgotten kingly tomb into the sunlight. ‘They seem to thunder still — below the ground — subconsciously.’ He was ever ready with the latest modern catchword. He flung himself down upon the sand, shaded from the glare by a recumbent column of granite exquisitely carved, then abandoned of the ages. ‘They touch something in one even to-day — something superb. Human worship hasn’t changed so fundamentally after all.’
‘A sort of ghostly deathlessness,’ agreed Lettice, making a bed of sand beside him. ‘I think that’s what one feels.’
Tony looked up. He glanced alertly at her. A question flashed a moment in his eyes, then passed unspoken.
‘Perhaps,’ Tony went on in a more flippant tone, ‘even the dullest has to acknowledge the sublime in their conceptions. Isis! Why, the very name is a poem in a single word. Anubis, Nepthys, Horus — there’s poetry in them all. They seem to sing themselves into the heart, as Petrie might have said — but didn’t.’
‘The names are rather splendid,’ Tom put in, as he unpacked the kettle and spirit-lamp for tea. ‘One can’t forget them either.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Tony spoke again. He had lost his flippant tone. He addresse
d his remark to Lettice. Tom was aware that she was somehow waiting for it.
‘Their deathlessness! Yes, you’re right.’ He turned an instant to look at the colossal structure behind them, whence the imposing figures of a broken Pharaoh and his Queen stared to the east cross the shoulder of some granite Deity that had refused to crumble for three thousand years. ‘Their deathlessness,’ he repeated, lowering his voice, ‘it’s really startling.’
He looked about him. It was amazing how his little words, his gesture, his very atmosphere created a spontaneous expectancy — as though Thoth might stride sublimely up across the sand, or even Ra himself come blazing with extended wings and awful disk of fire.
Tom felt the touch of the unearthly as he watched and listened. Lettice — he was certain of it — shivered. He moved nearer and spread a rug across her feet.
‘Don’t, Tom, please! I’m hot enough already.’ Her tone had a childish exasperation in it — as though he interrupted some mood that gave her pleasure. She turned her eyes to Tony, but Tony was busily opening sandwich packets with hands that — Tom thought — shared one quality at least of the stone effigies they had been discussing — size. And he laughed. The spell was broken. They fell hungrily upon their desert meal.…
Yet, it was odd how Tony had expressed precisely what Tom had himself been vaguely feeling, though unable to find the language for his fancy — odd, too, that apparently all three of them had felt the same dim thing. No one among them was ‘religious,’ nor, strictly speaking, imaginative; poetical least of all in the regenerative, creative sense. Not one of the trio, that is, could have seized imaginatively the conception of an alien deity and made it live. Yet Tony’s idle mood or idler words had done this very thing — and all three acknowledged it in their various ways. The flavour of a remote familiarity was manifest in each one of them — collectively as well.
Collected Works of Algernon Blackwood Page 176