I asked him to tell me if I was likely to die, and his short ‘Guess not’ acted as a stimulant, and one also which was not followed by a reaction. Had I not had that irritating prickly heat I should have enjoyed the feeling of daily gaining strength. Three other nurses used to come and relieve Sister Dora; the head one was a fine strapping American lady with a strong and cheery face which acted like a tonic. There was also a sister from Holland who could wash me as clean as a Dutch milk-can. I could chat with her in her own language, and while we talked of the juicy green meadows of her country, it seemed to make my room feel cooler. I saw least of the German sister, who had some accident cases which took up most of her time. What a godsend to have educated women who will devote their lives to alleviating the sufferings of so many people!
The hospital was full to overflowing; but, being the only European patient, I had the room allotted to them to myself. The two assistant doctors were both ill themselves, and the whole burden fell on Dr. Henry alone and his excellent nurses. No wonder he had not much time for conversation.
Sister Dora had been in Morocco before she came to Egypt, and was able to tell of her experiences while nursing the sick in Fez. I was also interested to hear about this mission, and how it is supported; for it is a large building, equipped for a hundred in-patients, which number was at that time using it. It is a great work, and though Assiout has a good government hospital, there is more than room enough for both. Subscriptions to the mission fell off when statistics showed that converts from Mohammedanism were few—a proof of Dr. Henry’s honesty; for the converted Egyptian Moslem hardly exists, whatever other statistics may attempt to prove. He did a great work amongst the Copts, Assiout being more or less their headquarters, and a large proportion of the patients in the hospital were Copts.
One Sunday afternoon a chorus of men singing in the next ward surprised me. The tune seemed familiar, and tunes rendered by unassisted Egyptians are not always easy to follow. It was an Arabic version of Sankey’s ‘Safe in the Arms of Jesus.’ Loud prayers to Allah followed, asking Him to look down in compassion on these sick people. It was very touching to hear the afflicted ones calling out Ameem! Ameem! whenever there was a pause in the deep voice of the Elder. I was informed by Sister Dora that a Coptic Plymouth brother visited that ward (which was set apart for the Christian patients) every Sunday, and held a service. A sermon in Arabic with no mention of Mohammed was new to me, and familiar texts in that sonorous language sounded very much as they must have sounded to Hebrew ears. The Arabic of an educated Egyptian has a strong affinity with the original language of the Old Testament.
After about ten days Dr. Henry told me that my lung was cleared, ‘and, mind you, if you had not been a teetotaller, you could never have pulled through this.’ I had to disappoint him by telling him that I had never taken the pledge; the disappointment did not abash him, as I expected it would. ‘The little you’ve taken has made no difference, anyhow,’ was his answer. I seldom feel the want of stimulant, but I felt it strongly then. I longed for a glass of port, and I told him so. He shook his head: total abstinence was the rule of the mission. There was something, however, in my next medicine that proved that the word ‘total’ must not always be taken too literally. It tasted very like a favourite prescription friends in Oporto order on the least provocation. I drank Sister Dora’s health in it, likewise that of the three other ladies who brightened the lives of all who entered this hospital. The only health the three doctors seemed to neglect was their own. One had to leave, during my stay, to try to recruit in a cooler climate, another was awaiting an operation, and Dr. Henry looked as if the strain of overwork was telling on him.
I left Assiout by the same night train which had brought me there from Assuan, and recruited sufficiently during ten days in Cairo to enable me to take the homeward voyage.
Having arrived at Assiout and having left it also during the night, I have seen no more of what is considered the capital of Upper Egypt than I could see from my bedroom window in the hospital.
I often feel indignant at the sneers the very word missionary provokes amongst the self-indulgent people I meet in the hotels in eastern countries; for whatever the religious or moral convictions of these critics may be, their self-indulgence contrasts unfavourably with the self-denial of the many missionaries I have happened to meet.
After a stay of three months in England, I was ready to return to Egypt to complete a series of water-colour drawings for a future one-man show in London. The incidents related in this volume have not always followed a consecutive order: some took place after my return to Cairo, when also several of the illustrations to this book were painted. At Luxor I ran across my Scottish good Samaritan, whom I had not seen since he left me to the care of the hospital porter. He asked me if I remembered his slapping the face of the man who had importuned us while we drove from Assiout station, and on my replying that I did, he told me that on the following day he received a summons to appear before the Mamoor for assault and battery. This might have led to very serious consequences had the Mamoor reported him to his chief in Cairo, for to strike a native is as much as an Englishman’s place in a government office is worth. It would also have been an easy way for the Mamoor to gain popularity with the Moslems, to have got a British official dismissed for such an offence. Fortunately the Scotsman had made the Mamoor’s acquaintance on a previous visit to Assiout, and both men liked each other. When the native had told his version of the services he had rendered and the brutal reward he received, my friend explained what really happened, namely, that while he was lifting an apparently dying compatriot into the cab, this man, who had done no more than to pick up the hat which had fallen off the sick man’s head, tried, in his greed for baksheesh, to force his way into the cab as it was driving off. For this impertinence he received his slap in the face.
‘Come here,’ said the Mamoor, ‘and show me exactly where you were struck.’ The man approached and showed his left cheek, whereupon the modern Solomon gave him a smart slap on the right one, and told him that neither cheek could then be jealous of its fellow.