Uarda : a Romance of Ancient Egypt — Complete by Georg Ebers (find a book to read txt) 📕

illness. He only kept a small house with a little garden, and said that as the Gods had taken his children to themselves in the other world he would take pity on the forlorn in this. ‘Feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked’ says the law; and now that Seni has nothing more to give away, he goes through the city, as you know, hungry and thirsty himself, and scarcely clothed, and begging for his adopted children, the poor. We have all given to him, for we all know for whom he humbles himself, and holds out his hand. To-day he went round with his little bag, and begged, with his kind good eyes, for alms. Paaker has given us a good piece of arable land, and thinks, perhaps with reason, that he has done his part. When Seni addressed him, he told him to go; but the old man did not give up asking him, he followed him persistently to the grave of his father, and a great many people with him. Then the pioneer pushed him angrily back, and when at last the beggar clutched his garment, he raised his whip, and struck him two or three times, crying out: ‘There-that is your portion!’ The good old man bore it quite patiently, while he untied the bag, and said with tears in his eyes: ‘My portion—yes—but not the portion of the poor!’

“I was standing near, and I saw how Paaker hastily withdrew into the tomb, and how his mother Setchem threw her full purse to Seni. Others followed her example, and the old man never had a richer harvest. The poor may thank the Mohar! A crowd of people collected in front of the tomb, and he would have fared badly if it had not been for the police guard who drove them away.”

During this narrative, which was heard with much approval—for no one is more secure of his result than he who can tell of the downfall of a man who is disliked for his arrogance—the Regent and the high-priest had been eagerly whispering to each other.

“There can be no doubt,” said Ameni, “that Bent-Anat did actually come to the festival.”

“And had also dealings with the priest whom you so warmly defend,” whispered the other.

“Pentaur shall be questioned this very night,” returned the high-priest. “The dishes will soon be taken away, and the drinking will begin. Let us go and hear what the poet says.”

“But there are now no witnesses,” replied Ani.

“We do not need them,” said Ameni. “He is incapable of a lie.”

“Let us go then,” said the Regent smiling, “for I am really curious about this white negro, and how he will come to terms with the truth. You have forgotten that there is a woman in the case.”

“That there always is!” answered Ameni; he called Gagabu to him, gave him his seat, begged him to keep up the flow of cheerful conversation, to encourage the guests to drink, and to interrupt all talk of the king, the state, or the war.

“You know,” he concluded, “that we are not by ourselves this evening. Wine has, before this, betrayed everything! Remember this—the mother of foresight looks backwards!”

Ani clapped his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “There will be a space cleared to-night in your winelofts. It is said of you that you cannot bear to see either a full glass or an empty one; to-night give your aversion to both free play. And when you think it is the right moment, give a sign to my steward, who is sitting there in the corner. He has a few jars of the best liquor from Byblos, that he brought over with him, and he will bring it to you. I will come in again and bid you good-night.” Ameni was accustomed to leave the hall at the beginning of the drinking.

When the door was closed behind him and his companion, when fresh rose-garlands had been brought for the necks of the company, when lotus blossoms decorated their heads, and the beakers were refilled, a choir of musicians came in, who played on harps, lutes, flutes, and small drums. The conductor beat the time by clapping his hands, and when the music had raised the spirits of the drinkers, they seconded his efforts by rhythmical clippings. The jolly old Gagabu kept up his character as a stout drinker, and leader of the feast.

The most priestly countenances soon beamed with cheerfulness, and the officers and courtiers outdid each other in audacious jokes. Then the old man signed to a young temple-servant, who wore a costly wreath; he came forward with a small gilt image of a mummy, carried it round the circle and cried:

“Look at this, be merry and drink so long as you are on earth, for soon you must be like this.”

[A custom mentioned by Herodotus. Lucian saw such an image brought in at a feast. The Greeks adopted the idea, but beautified it, using a winged Genius of death instead of a mummy. The Romans also had their “larva.”]

Gagabu gave another signal, and the Regent’s steward brought in the wine from Byblos. Ani was much lauded for the wonderful choiceness of the liquor.

“Such wine,” exclaimed the usually grave chief of the pastophori, “is like soap.”

[This comparison is genuinely Eastern. Kisra called wine “the soap of sorrow.” The Mohammedans, to whom wine is forbidden, have praised it like the guests of the House of Seti. Thus Abdelmalik ibn Salih Haschimi says: “The best thing the world enjoys is wine.” Gahiz says: “When wine enters thy bones and flows through thy limbs it bestows truth of feeling, and perfects the soul; it removes sorrow, elevates the mood, etc., etc.” When Ibn ‘Aischah was told that some one drank no wine, he said: “He has thrice disowned the world.” Ibn el Mu’tazz sang: “Heed not time, how it may linger, or how swiftly take its flight, Wail thy sorrows only to the wine before thee gleaming bright. But when thrice thou st drained the beaker watch and ward keep o’er thy heart. Lest the foam of joy should vanish, and thy soul with anguish smart, This for every earthly trouble is a sovereign remedy, Therefore listen to my counsel, knowing what will profit thee, Heed not time, for ah, how many a man has longed in pain Tale of evil days to lighten—and found all his longing vain.” —Translated by Mary J. Safford.]

“What a simile!” cried Gagabu. “You must explain it.”

“It cleanses the soul of sorrow,” answered the other. “Good, friend!” they all exclaimed. “Now every one in turn shall praise the noble juice in some worthy saying.”

“You begin—the chief prophet of the temple of Atnenophis.”

“Sorrow is a poison,” said the priest, “and wine is the antidote.”

“Well said!—go on; it is your turn, my lord privy councillor.”

“Every thing has its secret spring,” said the official, “and wine is the secret of joy.”

“Now you, my lord keeper of the seal.”

“Wine seals the door on discontent, and locks the gates on sorrow.”

“That it does, that it certainly does!—Now the governor of Hermothis, the oldest of all the company.”

“Wine ripens especially for us old folks, and not for you young people.”

“That you must explain,” cried a voice from the table of the military officers.