10. M. M. Badawi, Modern Arabic Drama in Egypt (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 66.
11. Ibid., 67.
12. Joseph Conrad, The Nigger of the Narcissus (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, Page, and Co., 1925), xii.
13. Tawfiq al-Hakim, “I Challenge,” in Shajara al-Hukm al-Siyasi fi Misr 1919–1979 (The Rulership Tree) (Cairo: Maktabat al-Adab, 1985), 272.
14. Ali B. Jad, Form and Technique in the Egyptian Novel: 1912–1971 (London: Ithaca Press, published for the Middle East Centre, St. Antony’s College, Oxford, UK, 1983), 51.
15. Hilary Kilpatrick, The Modern Egyptian Novel (London: Ithaca Press, 1974), 41.
16. Tawfiq al-Hakim, The Return of Consciousness, trans. Bayly Winder (New York: New York University Press, 1985), 79, note 47.
17. Shukri, Thawrat al-Mu‘tazil, 138.
18. Naguib Mahfouz, “Return of the Spirit,” Al-Ahram Weekly, June 29–July 5, 2000, 10.
19. Denis Hoppe, “The Novels of Tawfiq al-Hakim,” senior thesis, Princeton University, 1969, chapter 2, available at http://www-personal.umich.edu/~dhoppe/THESEPIC.htm.
20. Nizami, The Story of Layla and Majnun, English trans. R. Gelpke with E. Mattin and G. Hill (Boulder, CO: Shambala, 1978).
21. Dwight F. Reynolds, ed., Interpreting the Self: Autobiography in the Arabic Literary Tradition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001).
22. Usama ibn Munqidh, The Book of Contemplation, trans. Paul M. Cobb (London: Penguin Books, 2008).
23. English translation in W. Montgomery Watt, The Faith and Practice of al-Ghazali (London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967).
24. Ibn Tufayl, Hayy ibn Yaqzan, trans. Lenn Evan Goodman (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003).
25. Tawfiq al-Hakim, The Sacred Bond, trans. Mohamed S. Ghattas in “Balance Through Resistance: The Novels of Tawfiq al-Hakim,” PhD diss., Oklahoma State University, May 2000, 109.
26. Jad, Form and Technique in the Egyptian Novel, 74.
27. Tawfiq al-Hakim, Bird of the East, trans. R. Bayly Winder (Beirut: Khayats, 1966).
28. Shukri, Thawrat al-Mu‘tazil, for example, complained: “We are unable to see the characters of Return of the Spirit as personalities of flesh and blood,” 131.
29. E. M. Forster, Howards End (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1951 [1921]), 295–300.
30. Tawfiq al-Hakim, The Prison of Life, trans. Pierre Cachia (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1964).
31. See, for example, Dimitri Mérejkovsky, Les Mystères de l’Orient: Égypte-Babylone, trans. Dumesnil de Gramont (Paris: L’Artisan du Livre, 1927), 109–111, 112–113, 117, 165–166, 169.
32. See K. O. Yunusov, “Introduction,” in A. A. Dolinina and N. M. Zand, Tawfik al-Hakim Biobibliograficheski Ukazatel (Moscow: Kniga Press, 1963).
33. Roger Allen, The Arabic Novel (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1982), 38.
34. Jad, Form and Technique in the Egyptian Novel, 38.
35. Ibid., 92.
36. Hamdi Sakkut, The Egyptian Novel and Its Main Trends 1913–1952 (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1971), 89.
37. Ibid.
38. Sasson Somekh, The Changing Rhythm (Leiden, NL: E. J. Brill, 1973), 19.
39. Long, Tawfiq al Hakim: Playwright of Egypt, 27–28.
40. Jad, Form and Technique in the Egyptian Novel, 40.
41. Yahya Haqqi, in Roger Allen, ed., Modern Arabic Literature (New York: Ungar, 1987), 111–112.
42. Shukri, Thawrat al-Mu‘tazil, 133.
43. Ibid., 135, 139.
44. Roger Allen, The Arabic Literary Heritage (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 306.
45. Dina Amin, “Tawfiq al-Hakim (1898–1986),” in Roger Allen, ed., Essays in Arabic Literary Biography, 1850–1950 (Wiesbaden, DE: Harrassowitz, 2010), 104.
46. Roger Allen, An Introduction to Arabic Literature (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 185.
47. Paul Starkey, From the Ivory Tower (London: Ithaca Press, 1987), 228.
48. M. M. Badawi, A Short History of Modern Arabic Literature (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 1993), 120.
Summary and List of Characters
A NOVEL IN TWO VOLUMES OF EIGHTEEN AND TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTERS, RESPECTIVELY
PLOT SUMMARY
A sensitive Egyptian lad matures through the early years of the twentieth century as romantic heartbreak and patriotic revolt against British colonial rule help him find his calling as an author who celebrates his solidarity with his extended family and with all levels of Egyptian society.
MAIN CHARACTERS
Muhsin, an upper-middle-class, provincial Egyptian boy who decides to become a writer
Muhsin’s three uncles:
Salim, a vain and earthy police captain
Hanafi, the sleepy head of the blended family, a math teacher
Abduh, an irascible engineering student
Zanuba, Muhsin’s homely and illiterate spinster aunt, who serves as housekeeper for her male relatives in Cairo but still hopes to marry
Saniya, the beautiful girl next door with whom all the young men fall in love
SUPPORTING CAST
Hamid Bey, Muhsin’s henpecked father
Muhsin’s mother, who is proud of her Ottoman/Turkish ancestry and dismissive of Egyptian farmers
Mabruk, the household servant and a family friend from their village
Mr. Black, a British irrigation inspector
M. Fouquet, a French archaeologist
Mustafa, the young man who steals Saniya’s heart from Muhsin and his roommates
Abbas, Muhsin’s school pal
Maestra Labiba Shakhla‘, a female entertainer who teaches Muhsin to sing and allows him to perform at least once with her troupe
SETTING
Cairo in 1918–1919, especially the area of Al-Sayyida Zaynab, which is named for a beloved granddaughter of the Prophet Muhammad, with some scenes in rural Egypt in and around Damanhur
Return of the Spirit
VOLUME 1
When time passes over into eternity
We shall see you again.
Because you are going there
Where all will be one.
—Egyptian funeral lament, cited in Dimitri Mérejkovsky, Les Mystères de l’Orient
PROLOGUE
They all caught flu at the same time. The moment the doctor laid eyes on them, he was stunned, because they were all crowded into one room, where five beds with flimsy mattresses were lined up next to each other. The single armoire, reminiscent of cabinets used by public scribes, had lost one of its two doors and held clothes of every color and size, including some police uniforms with brass buttons. An old musical instrument with bellows—an accordion—was hanging from the wall.
“Is this a barracks for a military base?”
The doctor was certain he had entered a house. He still remembered the street and the address. When he finally reached the fifth bed, he couldn’t keep from smiling. This wasn’t a bed; it was a wooden dining table that had been converted into a bunk for one of them.
The doctor stood for a moment gazing at his patients lying in a row. At last he took a step forward and said, “No, this isn’t a house; it’s a hospital!”
He examined them, one after the other. When he had finished and was ready to depart, he looked back in amazement at them—crammed together into that room. Why did they put up with this crowding when there was room elsewhere in the apartment—the sitting room at least? When he asked, a voice replied from the depths of a bed, “We’re happy like this!”
This declaration was uttered simply and sincerely, like a profound truth. A person pondering it would sense an inner joy at their communal life. It might even have been possible to read on their sallow faces the glow
of a secret happiness at falling sick together—succumbing to one regimen, taking the same medicine, eating the same food, and suffering the same fortune and destiny.
The doctor’s visit concluded, and he prepared to depart. He reached the threshold but stood there thoughtfully. He turned to the invalids in their beds and said, “You must be from the country!”
The doctor left without awaiting a reply. His imagination had sketched a picture of subsistence farmers, and he told himself: Only a peasant could live like this, not anyone else. No matter how spacious his house, the fellah will sleep with his wife, children, calf, and donkey colt in a single room!
CHAPTER 1
The lunch hour having ended, the family members went off on their separate ways, even Mabruk, the servant. He finished helping Miss Zanuba clear the table and wash the dishes and then he too departed to sit with the fruit seller next to the Bab al-Mayda quarter. Miss Zanuba remained at home, alone, far from anything that might disturb the serenity of her solitude. She went to her small room and sat down gravely on her cabbage-colored pallet. She looked for a long time at the cards she had lined up in front of her on the faded red kilim carpet.
Time passed. The call to the afternoon prayer rang out. Zanuba was still sunk in her dreams. All she saw was the blond boy beside the dark maiden; both were overcome by happiness. One of them would travel and . . . and . . . and everything else from the world of mystery and symbols.
The door to the room opened suddenly, and Muhsin appeared with his books, ruler, and compass under his arm. He shouted at her in his merry, boyish voice, “Haven’t the folks come home yet?”
She did not move, nor did she answer right away. She continued sunk in her reverie. At last, without looking at him, she said, “You’re back from school?”
“We got out a long time ago, but I was at the tailor’s!” He adjusted his clothes with great care and sat down beside Zanuba on the edge of the mattress. He was silent for a bit; then he fidgeted and looked at her. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something but felt embarrassed.
Zanuba seemed to remember something suddenly. Without raising her head from the cards she said, “I imagine you’re hungry, Muhsin. Go get a cucumber to munch on. That should hold you over. It’ll be a long time till supper.”
She looked up to show him a basket she was hiding from Mabruk behind the door. The moment she peered at Muhsin, though, she shouted in astonishment, “My God! God’s will be done! You’re wearing a new suit?”
The boy bowed his head and did not reply. Zanuba continued in her amazement: “Fantastic, sister! A person seeing you would say you’re a different person. So your family sent you money? Isn’t that fantastic!”
Muhsin asked her with some embarrassment and hesitation, “Fantastic? Why?”
Zanuba did not stop gazing at his new clothing with an astonished and admiring eye. “Because it’s not like you. You’ve never been willing to wear a new suit except for the Feast of the Sacrifice, like your uncles. It’s amazing! Today, like this, you’ve turned into a handsome swell! By the Prophet, anyone seeing you would say you’re the sultan’s son. May the Prophet’s name protect you! You’re a sight for sore eyes! It might as well be Thursday! Thursday!”
Muhsin blushed a little at this lavish tribute. The praise, though, instead of filling his heart with satisfaction and joy, created a strange pang in his heart. He immediately changed the topic: “What’s for supper tonight?”
Zanuba replied lackadaisically after returning to her cards, “Same as lunch.”
Muhsin raised his voice a little: “Goose leg, again?”
She brought her head up abruptly and, giving him a reproachful look, asked, “What’s wrong with goose leg? Even you, Muhsin, who I say is smart? Okay, by the Pure Lady, tomorrow they’ll see what this ingratitude brings. Is our Lord going to bless someone who sticks up his nose at a bite to eat? Don’t be like those uncles of yours—they’re unbearable. God preserve us. Don’t be like them.”
The boy replied gently, “But Auntie, this goose leg we’ve seen in front of us for three days—at every meal. Uncle Abduh swore on the Holy Qur’an today at noon . . .”
He did not finish, because Zanuba waved her arm furiously and shouted, “Abduh! Who is His Lordship Mr. Abduh? Is he the respected head of the household or is that the eldest? Shame on Mr. Abduh! Shame! Since when, fellow, has this house had a head other than the eldest, who is rightfully and justly the senior: your uncle Hanafi, may God protect him. He works, pays the bills, and cares for us. He never complains or breathes a word. May God never deprive us of him! Then there’s that boy Abduh. All he does on the face of the earth is to shoot his mouth, yell, and attack.”
“He’ll be making good money tomorrow, aunt. At the end of this year he’s going to get his diploma and become an engineer.”
Zanuba did not reply. Her expression was still sullen. She had gone back to the cards—arranging, sorting, and lining them up.
After a moment, though, she raised her head suddenly and asked, “Does he think I’m going to be frightened by his pointy fez? That pipsqueak kid . . . God’s name; just because he’s nervous and impatient . . . No, by the Mighty Lady, I’m not afraid of anyone.”
Muhsin smiled sarcastically and asked, “Could you say that to his face?”
She turned toward him fiercely and asked, “What are you saying?”
Muhsin did not want to quarrel with her, especially not today, and seemed to regret what he had said. So he laughed, or pretended to laugh, to make her think he was kidding and did not expect to be taken seriously. Then he said earnestly, “Do you want the truth, auntie? Uncle Abduh has a good heart and is a fine person like all the others.”
Zanuba did not reply. She was silent for a moment and then leaned over the cards again, busy and preoccupied with them. Before long she was immersed in her previous musings and thoughts. Muhsin began to watch her, following the movement of her hands as she picked up and set down the cards. He observed the expression of her face as if eager to discover her secret. His eyes shone with an innocent, childish skepticism.
Finally he approached her familiarly and sat beside her. He asked with a mischievous smile, “For whom are you reading the cards? For a bridegroom?”
As soon as she heard these words her eyelids, which were heavily daubed with kohl, began to tremble. She raised her hand nervously to rearrange her scarf—which did not need it—over her henna-tinted hair. Then, her eyes downcast, she replied with embarrassment, “No, by the Prophet. That’s not what I was thinking about.”
Muhsin kept up his veiled sarcasm. “Then about what? Am I a stranger you should hide things from? You know, auntie, by God Almighty, no one has chased away bridegrooms except Uncle Hanafi. The mistake is entirely Hanafi’s—he’s the one who’s run off the suitors.”
“No, by the Prophet, that’s not what I’m thinking about.”
She kept her eyes modestly downcast as though she were a girl of twenty. Muhsin was silent for a moment while he stealthily began to study the lined and misshapen face of this old maid. He seemed to be wondering whether this modesty of hers was an affectation or genuine. Then, as his boyish sarcasm was quickly overtaken by a kind of melancholy, he bowed his head.
* * *
• • •
Zanuba grew up in the country, where she was neglected and left uneducated. She served her father’s wife and raised chickens for her. When her brothers Hanafi and Abduh came to Cairo to study, she came with them, together with Mabruk ibn al-Khawli—her classmate from the village Qur’an school, who had not prospered there. She was to look after them and to manage the household. Her long stay in the capital had had no real effect on her; she remained just as she had been. The life of the commercial center and metropolis had intruded on her only superficially, its influence limited to her clothing and speech. In these she mimicked the standards of her Cairo girlfriends and modern neighbors w
ithout understanding what she was imitating. Muhsin said he once heard her greet some female visitors before noon with “Bonsoir, ladies.” Zanuba, like many other homely women, was aware of everything except her homeliness. She was quite amazed when she saw one of her acquaintances and neighbors become engaged and marry. Although she was lovely, thrifty, the lady of her house, perfect in every way, she still had no offers. She consoled herself by ascribing that to: “Luck, bad luck! May you never experience it! Nothing but that!” This she repeated to herself and others.
Even so, matchmakers had come to her more than once. One of them stopped her pitch as soon as she saw Zanuba, stood up, and, tucking her wrap around her, hastened to leave. Zanuba was sure the matchmaker was delighted and was going immediately to inform the groom. She scurried along beside her to the door of their apartment, whispering, “So, say nice things about me to him.”
The matchmaker’s smirk was hidden by her veil. She replied maliciously and sarcastically, “Well, sister, no one deserves praise but you!” and departed, never to return.
One day, however, there occurred a historic event in the life of Zanuba. On a day that hardly seems to have been part of her life, a rare, never to be repeated opportunity was offered her, but, alas, Mr. Hanafi, through his stupidity, idiocy, and naiveté, forfeited that unique opportunity. One afternoon, as luck would have it, good fortune—apparently grumpy at being slandered and unfairly censured—sent Zanuba a suitor who was an educated gentleman, a perfectly acceptable person, to ask for her hand directly, without recourse to a matchmaker or mother. He was apparently a good-hearted gentleman with upright intentions, or else a pious person who placed blind and unlimited trust in God.
This man came and met with Hanafi Effendi, a math teacher at the Khalil Agha school, since he was head of the household and its ranking member by age and position. He discussed the matter with him, saying that there was no need to delegate someone from his side to see the bride and that he would be satisfied with asking whether she was ugly. So long as she wasn’t ugly or misshapen, he wouldn’t demand anything more.
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