The Map of Love (28 page)

16 March 1901
I have just come back into my tent from an evening of revelry and fantasia and I am so tired, yet my puke is so quickened that I have been pacing the confines of my tent, unable to settle either to sleep or to my journal.

What a pity it is that I can write neither to Sir Charles nor to Caroline, for I should so delight in describing to them all the events of this day — there are so many aspects of it that I am sure each one would enjoy. But that pleasure will have to wait until I am back in England, I think, and can persuade them by my presence that my adventure was not foolish or rash. Although I confess that earlier today it was difficult to persuade myself of the same thing.

We had travelled the day mostly in silence — and I was grown somewhat uneasy. The plain we traversed was of unbroken gravel, the landscape desolate. I knew from my guidebook that the magnificent scenery was yet to come, but I was almost overcome by a sense of my own foolishness; for the trek to St Catherine and back will take some fourteen days and I could not rid myself of an unease of conscience that I had so precipitately removed Sharif Pasha and his men — not to mention Sabir — from their daily concerns and occupations. As to my host himself, I could gauge nothing of his thoughts, for the kufiyya, hanging down on either side of the face, protects its wearer against the casual or surreptitious glance, and on the few occasions when he turned to speak to me his expression was impassive, his manner distantly polite. His French would pass for that of a Frenchman. I cannot believe he has no knowledge of English, but he seems a man who would not do a thing at all in preference to doing it less than perfectly — and perhaps his English is not perfect. French suffices for what little conversation we have, however. He has informed me that my name is Armand Demange, and my father is none other than Maître Demange who defended Captain Dreyfus in that infamous trial three years ago. It appears that the Maître is a friend of Sharif Pasha and I have been given information on my mother, our estates and my schooling — none of which I expect to need as we are hardly likely to come upon an enquiring passer-by in this desert. When he was satisfied that I could ride as well as any of them and that I suffered no undue weariness, we rode without break except for prayers and a little food and drink at mid-day, mid-afternoon and sunset, and I came to feel that there is something about the desert that discourages idle chatter. And besides, of the men with us only Sabir and Mutlaq knew the truth about me, and perhaps he feared that I should raise my voice and so betray myself. His manner towards me is courteous but most reserved and distant. I am happy that it should be so, for, after all, any true friendship between us cannot — in the nature of things — be possible, and there is no form here that needs to be preserved through polite conversation.

I
was surprised that we did not make camp at sunset. As dusk fell, we saw a group of men on horseback come cantering towards us. I glanced towards him in some alarm but he said ‘Friends’ and, raising his arm in greeting, rode forwards to meet them. They were the men of the
Alawi tribe, for we had entered their territory, and they rode out to welcome us and escort us back to their settlement, where we are camped tonight as guests of their Chief, Sheikh Salim ibn Husayn.

Their encampment is in a most pleasant spot, in the Wadi Gharandal, through which runs a clear stream of sweet water, sweeter still for being the first we have come across in this desert, and there are many acacia trees about which are sparse and thorny, the better to survive the harsh climate. The
Alawis’ homes are black tents woven out of goats’ hair; the people subsist through grazing their flocks of sheep and goats and trading in thoroughbred horses, of which I have seen several fine examples in the fantasia that was held tonight in our honour.

And indeed, they did honour us with sheep roasting on a spit, large dishes of aromatic rice and a light, bitter coffee poured out of elongated jugs, any one of which could be fittingly displayed in the South Kensington Museum.

The old Chief is a small man with a hand as hard as a desert stone (indeed they are all small men and, I think, have to be so — like the acacia — to live in the desert). He was most gracious to me and sat me down on his right — Sharif Pasha being on his left — and pressed morsels of lamb upon me and apologised for not speaking to me in my ‘native’ French, and he seemed much pleased at my delight with their fantasia which truly is a most wonderful affair, the men performing feats of horsemanship, bareback, to the accompaniment of wild cries and whoops and drumming, and the whole scene lit by flares. In that company Sharif Pasha seemed to shed his reserve and leaned back on his cushion, talking and laughing with the old Chief. For a moment I even had a suspicion that he had apprised the Chief of my true nature; I cannot tell whence that suspicion came except that they seemed on such frank and easy terms with each other and that the
Chief’s smile was of a conspicuous broadness as he bade me good night.

My only regret tonight is that I could not spend any time in the company of the women but perforce saw them only as a man would: slight figures in long, embroidered gowns, flitting about as they handed the food to the men who served us, their movements light, their sequined veils glittering in the firelight, their black eyes above them darting at me with curious looks which added piquancy to my situation. And although they took no part in the feats of the fantasia, they joined in the drumming and clapping and their voices rose so that I thrilled to that ululating joy-cry which I had read about but never heard.

If I am to believe my guidebook, tomorrow we should traverse the terrains which have given this desert its fame for magnificence. So far I have found that the book, like my friends at the Agency, has a fairer view of the land than of its inhabitants.

The people who live in the desert have always been a favourite subject of romance, but a very short experience is sufficient to dispel such youthful delusions. The Bedouins, at least such of them as are found between Egypt and Palestine, are of a very prosaic character; rude, ignorant, lazy and greedy, they offer no points of attraction … the ordinary Arabs are destitute alike of grace and strength; their clothing is ragged, their feet are never furnished with shoes, and only occasionally with very rude sandals, and their hands and faces show very plainly that water is scarce … [They] are ignorant and careless of the advantages of civilised life; they constantly carry arms if they can obtain them; a man whose best garment is an untanned sheepskin, will wear a sword, or shoulder a gun, or both … Yet they are apparently a cheerful, contented race, very much like the American Negroes in their simplicity, thoughtlessness and good humour … None of them fails to understand the word baksheesh; it
is the first word the young child learns, the last the old man utters.

19 March 1901
Oh how I wish it were possible to go without sleep entirely, or that the hours of each day would be doubled, that I might have time to see and to feel all there is to see and feel, and then still have time to reflect on it, to let the impressions wind their way through my mind, settling here and there in small, shining pools, or merging with other thoughts and progressing towards some great conclusion! And then again I would have time to write it all down, to record it all, for in that act, I have found my thoughts clarify themselves and what starts as an hysterical burbling of impressions resolves into a view, an image as lucid and present as a painting.

I have never cared for the paintings of the Sinai that I have seen, preferring to them the intricate interiors, the detailed portrayals of domestic life. The paintings with grander ambitions never seemed to come to life for me and now I understand why. I have found myself thinking of the wonderful Turners hanging in Petworth, for surely no lesser genius than his could do justice in watercolours to the magnificence of these landscapes. And in oils, of all the painters I can think of, perhaps Corot comes closest to the possibility of rendering these mountains — and yet a painting would do justice only to that spot it depicted, and the viewer would be mistaken in thinking that now he had an idea of the whole of the Sinai. For each day brings us to a different aspect of this amazing land, this conjunction of the two mighty continents of the Ancient World. One day it is a bare gravel plain stretching as far as the eye can see, and then you are surprised by a small stream and thorny acacias digging deep into the sand for the little water that will help them sustain the small life that is their lot; the next day you find yourself amid stupendous ranges of solid rock, some black, some purple, some red, and you are treading the same land in which the Ancient Egyptian laboured to extract copper and turquoise — indeed, you can see the remains of his excavations still. You then come out on an open plain by the Red
Sea and there you are joined by huge flocks of birds, pausing, resting for the night on the shore where you are camped, and as the sun rises, while the men perform their morning prayers, the birds too rise. They soar and wheel and call out to each other and set off in a great swooping cloud across the sea and towards their summer homes in the North. And then, opening out among cliffs more than a thousand feet in height, a wadi lies before you and life is plentiful again, with gardens of tamarisk and apple trees and fields of wheat and barley. What one painting could even suggest all this?

Tonight we are camped a single day’s ride from the Monastery of St Catherine and in full view of the mountains of Sinai. We rode, Sharif Pasha and I, through the most spectacular pass, called the Nugb Hawa, so precipitous and narrow that camels cannot go through it but have to be sent the wider and more level route through Darb el-Sheikh. Sharif Pasha put the question to me: would I prefer the spectacular route or the easier one? And naturally I chose the first. He said, ‘It can only be done on horseback. And since we have only two horses, we would have to go alone.’

I said, ‘You will have to convince Sabir,’ and he smiled.

For the first time Sabir consented to leave my side, and Sharif Pasha and I broke off from our companions and rode off into the narrow pass of Nugb Hawa. The granite cliffs on either side of us rose to fifteen hundred feet or more and at times, by leaning slightly to one side or the other, I could have touched both walls of the pass with my hands. Sometimes it seemed that we were riding towards a solid rock face, but as we drew near, an opening would miraculously appear and we would turn into it. The incline meanwhile was for stretches so steep that only the most surefooted and even-tempered of horses would have climbed it without harm to his rider. Our mounts were willing and agile, however, and we rode on, mostly in single file with me at the front, but sometimes my companion drew abreast and with the briefest of looks satisfied himself that all was well with me.

It was on one of those occasions, and sensible that this was the first time we had had a possibility of private conversation, that I
started to tell him how grateful I was for all he had done for me and assured him that I was well aware of the great inconvenience this must have caused. But he cut me short with ‘C’est rien. You would have made the journey anyway.’

‘I would have tried,’ I said, ‘but I think I would have met with a tour in Suez and travelled with them, and that would not have been the same thing at all.’

‘Why not?’ he asked, seeming surprised. ‘You would have travelled in comfort and without the necessity of disguise.’

‘I would have …’ I did not quite know how to put this. ‘I would have remained within the world I knew. I would have seen things through my companions’ eyes, and my mind would have been too occupied in resisting their impressions to establish its own —’

‘Have you always been like this?’ he asked.

‘Like what?’ I said, surprised in my turn.

‘So insistent on making up your own mind.’

‘You make me appear wilful.’

‘And are you not?’

‘I have not given free rein to my will before,’ I said. And with that the pass narrowed and he pulled in his horse and fell behind. He had not said it was no trouble, nor assured me that he did not find my company irksome, but I was not displeased with our exchange — and I was glad that I had thanked him.

Nugb Hawa ended as abruptly as it had begun and suddenly we emerged from the dark cool of the pass and into a bright open plain with the majestic mountains of Sinai in full view before us. We were rejoined by the men on camel-back and Sabir greeted me with smiles and with no evidence of any anxiety. I believe he now trusts that I am in safe hands. Indeed, as the days pass and we go deeper and deeper into Sinai, I am quite frightened (although I would not for the world admit this other than to my journal) to think that I tried to do this with only Sabir for company. I had not spoken falsely when I said to Sharif Pasha that I had thought I would meet with a company of Cook’s travellers in Suez and perhaps travel with them, but there was a strong part of me that did not wish to be in the company of my
own kind here. As though I had an instinct that their conversation, their presence itself, would preclude my truly entering into the Sinai. And I know now that it would indeed have been so. The encompassing silence and the ease (or indifference) of my companions have left my soul free to contemplate, to drink in the wonder of this place. How fitting it is that it should have been here that Moses heard the word of God! For here, where Man — if he is to live — lives perforce so close to Nature and by her Grace, I feel so much closer to the entire mystery of Creation that it would not surprise me at all were I to be vouchsafed a vision or a revelation; indeed it would seem in the very order of things that such an epiphany would happen. I have found myself, every time the men stopped for prayer, offering up prayers of my own; simple offerings in praise of Him who fashioned all this and who sent me here that I might see it. I have also prayed for His mercy to be visited on the soul of my poor Edward, for I have fallen, from time to time, to thinking that if he had come here as a pilgrim instead of going to the Soudan as a soldier, he might have been alive today and at peace.

21 March
It is afternoon and the monks have retired to prayer and we to our siesta.

We have been to the summit of Jebel Moussa and have watched the dawn break to the accompaniment of the melodious chant of the Muezzin calling for prayer.

The air is dry and light and its effect on the mind is similar to that of a glass of Champagne before dinner.

I have not written anything of this Monastery where we are lodged. The Father is very kind and — as the men are encamped outside the walls — Sharif Pasha has told him who I am on the grounds of it being wrong to accept hospitality under false pretences.

The building is rather like a mediaeval Castle and was established in the Sixth Century and soon afterwards, as the Moslem armies advanced Westwards from the Arabian Peninsula, somebody had the prescience to build a small Mosque in its courtyard to guard against it being burned or demolished. At the
time of the Crusades it was the turn of the Monastery to protect the Mosque, and so it has been down the ages, each House of God extending its shelter to the other as opposing armies came and went.

Last night it was early when we all retired, and I thought to try on Layla’s gift. It is a lovely, loose gown of deep-green silk, and even though there is, naturally, no minor in my cell, I was happy to be wearing it.

I went out into the dark garden. I knew we would rise early, but the night was not much advanced and I thought there could be no harm in slipping out for a breath of air.

I saw him come out of the Chapel. He too had doffed his desert attire and was in plain trousers and a woollen jersey with his head uncovered to the night air.

I fancied he started when he saw me. He came towards me and I thought he would be angry that I had ventured out, and that in my woman’s dress with the kufiyya draped loosely about my shoulders. And indeed his first words were ‘Que faites vous ici?’ I said I needed air as my room was close and he said, ‘You should go in.’ But presently, when I did not move, he gestured towards the seat and upon my giving him leave he sat himself down beside me. That he was troubled I could tell without even looking into his face. We sat in silence but there was that about his posture, his air, that betokened a restlessness, a disquiet, and eventually I ventured:

‘Could you not sleep?’

‘I have not tried.’

‘You were in the Chapel,’ I said. And he heard the question in my voice.

‘I was looking at the monks. The old ones. The bones,’ he said, and his voice was harsh and bitter. He sat stooped forward, his elbows on his knees, gazing into the darkness.

I could think of nothing to say. Indeed, all I was conscious of was a desire to put out my hand and touch that arm that was so close to mine, to put my hand upon that troubled head — a desire that grew in intensity so that I folded my arms about myself. He turned.

‘You are cold?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘But you are shivering.’

‘No, not really.’

He studied me for a moment, then turned away. ‘What brought you to Egypt, Lady Anna?’ he said into the night air.

It was the first time he had said my name.

‘The paintings,’ I said. And when he turned to me I told him about the paintings in the South Kensington Museum, about their world of light and colour. I told him about my visits there when Edward was sick. When he was dying.

‘You have been very unhappy,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He did not need to die like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Troubled. Not at peace.’

‘But he did what he believed in, surely? He believed he should fight for his Empire.’

‘It was an unjust war.’

‘But he did not know that.’

‘I think — I believe he knew. But he knew too late. And it killed him.’

There was a silence. It was the first time I had said this to anyone. Perhaps it was the first time I had put the thought so clearly to myself. I was shivering in earnest now and had he put his arms around me I believe I would have allowed myself — but he stood up and said, ‘You must go in.’

‘No,’ I whispered, shaking my head, and with an impatient sound he strode off. I thought he was going away but he strode about the garden, then he came back to a stop in front of me and said:

‘So. Tell me. What do you think? Which is better? To take action and perhaps make a fatal mistake — or to take no action and die slowly anyway?’

I considered. I tried to consider, but it was hard with the trembling upon me and he standing tall in front of me, blocking my view of anything but himself. At last I said, ‘I believe you have to know yourself first — above all.’

‘So. She is wise, as well as beautiful and headstrong.’

I shook my head and kept my eyes on the ground. There was a mocking tone to his voice. But — ‘aussi que belle’ — he had called me ‘belle’.

‘What if you know yourself too well? What if you do not like what you know?’

I was silent.

Within moments he had collected himself: ‘Forgive me. It is all those skulls and bones in there. The dead monks. So
—
‘ He sat down again. ‘You came to look for that world you saw in your museum. And you have found it?’

‘In your house, monsieur,’ I said.

‘Ah, there are other houses like mine,’ he said dismissively. ‘We must arrange for you to see them.’