CHAPTER XI
ARAFAT DAY: FORENOON AND AFTERNOON
Early in the morning, shortly after my visit to the Persian encampment, the Turkish cavalry paraded and manœuvred. The troops were composed of Turks, Kurds, Arabs, and Albanians. To see these men in the pride of a soldier’s bearing, you must watch them as they rush into life and motion; for with their ragged uniforms and unlikely-looking mounts, they are at a disadvantage when standing at attention. But once let them get in full swing, and they soon prove that they are trained for use and not for show. To me this sudden change from unsoldierly slovenliness to skill and daring activity, was a revelation. And the horses—lean Arabs from Southern Arabia or wiry nags from Egypt—responded spiritedly to every twist and turn of the bridle wrist: they too were transformed. The feats of horsemanship performed by the Albanians were the wonder and delight of every pilgrim. These manœuvres of theirs, so different from those of European cavalry, are doubtless aboriginal. They leave their cantonment in fighting array, riding to the tattoo of a small kettle-drum called nakus. On a sudden, at a beat of the drum, the regiment opens out, scattering in all directions: each man pricks it in pursuit of the enemy, firing incessantly into the air. The sound of the drum now changes, and the men come galloping back, meeting in a dense column: then all is ordered confusion and breathless expectation. The signal is given, and then with impetuous fury the whole squadron hurls itself on the spot chosen to represent the enemy’s position. The men, alternately dispersing and reforming, advancing and retreating, obey every beat of the drum, their horses being as intelligently alert as well-trained polo ponies. So reckless were the Albanians on this occasion, that it was a miracle that only a rider here and there came to grief. And all the time this sham fight was raging, horsemen from every corner of chivalrous Arabia galloped aimlessly about the encampment, waving their tufted spears. In the hearts of the pilgrim bands watching their every movement they struck an awe not unmixed with terror: for, as Seyyid ’Alí put it, the horses seemed shod with lightning as they flashed to and fro; and lightning, may it not spare the guilty and strike the righteous?...
You must not think that the pilgrims were idle all this while—not even Seyyid ’Alí and myself. A party of us met about nine o’clock to visit the holy places on the plain, Seyyid ’Alí acting as guide. My companions were Sheykh Eissa, Mullá Ahmad, Mirza Yusúf, and Seyyid Muhsin. The demeanour of these men is worth describing as a touch of character. The tour being a religious duty, their mien was designed to give expression to the earnestness of their devotion. The talkative charm-monger, Sheykh Eissa, strode forward as in a trance; though he rarely said a word, his lips moved constantly, as if he were whispering in the ear of a jinn: he was spellbound. His companion, Mullá Ahmad, looking neither to the right nor the left, tripped along with mincing steps, reciting prayer after prayer in Arabic (classical style). The man who walked at my side was Mirza Yusúf, than whom a deaf-mute of ordinary intelligence had made himself better understood; for the Mirza, having taken a vow to remain silent till he had repeated the Verse of the Throne seven thousand times, replied to all my questions by signs and nods and awkward contortions of the body. As for the two Seyyids—Muhsin, a friend of mine from Central Persia, and ’Alí, a man you already know—even they, though drawn together by the law of affinity, yet felt constrained to conceal their innate lightheartedness from each other, wearing in its place an expression of sanctimoniousness more comical than insincere.
Well, the usual course is to proceed at once to a place called Jammé-Sakhra, where the Prophet used to stand and say his Talbiyah; but my friends, allowing themselves to be persuaded by me, had set out instead in the direction of the Mountain of Mercy. There, with even greater difficulty than on the previous night, I shoved my way up the first flight of steps, using Seyyid ’Alí sometimes as a buffer and sometimes as a wedge. The others had remained below, being afraid to risk the dangers of the ascent; for even on the lowest skirts of the Mountain the swarms of pilgrims were subjected to pretty rough handling; while on a somewhat higher ridge the Wahhabis of Nijd were quarrelling with the Bedouins of Al-Hejaz as to who should have the best places for listening to the Kazi’s eloquence in the afternoon. We had skirted the angry disputants and reached the steps not much the worse for wear; but despite all our efforts we found it quite impossible to mount higher than the first enclosure whence the sermon is preached. There we might have stayed till sunset, a prey to the rapacity of paupers, had not the pilgrims on the plain learned wisdom from our plight, and stayed where they were. This lessened the pressure round the platform: and the number of pilgrims coming up being now less than the number going down, we took advantage of this opportunity without a moment’s hesitation, and allowed ourselves to be carried away by the downgoing stream to the foot of the Hill.
On reaching the bottom, we turned to the right and made for the Ainé-Zobeideh—Zobeideh, wife of Caliph Harun-ur-Rashid. To this spring has been given the power of working miracles: merely dip a black cloth in it, and it will be washed as white as milk. No dye can resist its cleansing property, no stone withstand its charm. I might believe this or not as I liked, said Seyyid ’Alí; for his part, he would demand no greater wonder than that it should quench his thirst—a thirst that was insatiable, he begged Zobeideh Khanum (Lady Zobeideh) to believe. Throwing himself on his stomach, he wriggled through the crowd to the water’s brink; I did likewise; and then, having washed our hands and feet and quenched our thirst, we crawled back and said a two-prostration prayer out of the gratitude of our hearts.
“God bless Zobeideh! May her fountain never run dry!” cried Seyyid ’Alí; then off we went at last to where the Prophet used to recite his Supplication before preaching his sermon on the Mount. This place, as already mentioned, is called Jammé Sakhra: it is a small enclosure standing within whitewashed walls, and is divided into two compartments—one for men and one for women—both of which contain prayer-niches. Here our friends were awaiting our arrival, having said their prayers—a duty which they discharged a second time (God will increase His kindness!) by way of returning thanks for our safety.
By this time the sun shone in the zenith, and the whole plain was covered with worshippers, saying their mid-day prayers: the angels, as they believed most fervently, lending ear to their entreaties and responding to such as were sincere with an approving Amen.
Now, a Mussulman believes in earnest; watch him as he bows himself in praise or supplication, and you will not doubt his sincerity. His faith is unquestioning, for is it not to him as an elemental force, as necessary as the air he breathes? Why, it warms him like fire, this faith of his, and refreshes him like water, nor is the earth than it more solid and indestructible. The East has many things still to learn from the West, but faith is not one of them. Surrounded by the dying and the dead, these terror-struck pilgrims, at the first cry of the muezzin, regained their presence of mind. They had been stricken with fear as with an ague, they had fled from death as from a scourge, but at the first sound of that devotional summons, they stood at attention before their Creator, like soldiers awaiting the word of command. And then, as though God had spoken, they bowed their bare heads—then they sank on their bare knees—and then they prostrated themselves on the ground. Do you doubt their sincerity still? And if their faith is unimpeachable, can you deny that the Prophet was less magnificently sincere?
With these thoughts in my mind, I hurried to our tents to read a few chapters of the Kurán and to say the prescribed prayers, before setting out again to witness the Sheríf’s procession and attend the Kazi’s sermon. This day, the 9th of the moon, was a day of fasting; but a good many pilgrims found pretexts for breaking their fasts, and I, being worn out after the long journey of the preceding day and the exciting vigil of the night, was among the number. Having eaten my fill, I dropped fast asleep, to be awakened about three o’clock by the firing of guns. Our party at once left the tents, giving full instructions to the servants to have everything in readiness for the rush from Arafat at sundown.
