stiff resistance from the reds when I told him we would stop at Beni Hassan, which is some 167 miles south of Cairo. Brandishing my copy of M. Maspero’s history, I explained to him that the tombs at Beni Hassan are of the time of Usertsen of the Twelfth Dynasty; chronologically they follow the pyramid of Gizeh, where we had been, and precede the antiquities of Luxor, where we proposed to go. I doubt that he understood my argument. However, we stopped at Beni Hassan.
The village was typical. I would have reported a man who kept his dog in such a kennel. Small mud hovels, roofed with cornstalks, looked as if they had been flung down at random on the ground. These huts are clustered round an inner courtyard, where the cooking is carried on; there is a fire, a stone for grinding corn, a few storage jars, and that is all. The women spin, or grind, or nurse their infants. The men sit. Children, chickens, and dogs tumble about in an indiscriminate mass, equally dirty, equally unclad; and yet the children are pretty little things when they are not disfigured by flies and disease.
When we appeared, the village seethed as if someone had stirred it with a stick. We were besieged by outstretched hands – some empty, begging for the inevitable backsheesh; some holding objects for sale – antiquities, stolen from the tombs, or manufactured by enterprising merchants to delude the unwary. It is said that some Europeans and Americans engage in this immoral trade.
Evelyn recoiled with a cry as an indescribably horrid object was thrust under her very nose. At first it appeared to be a bundle of dry brown sticks wrapped in filthy cloth; then my critical gaze recognized it for what it was – a mummy’s hand, snapped off at the wrist, the dried bones protruding; black from the bitumen in which it had been soaked in ancient times. Two tawdry little rings adorned the bony fingers, and scraps of rotten wrappings were pushed back to display the delicacy in all its gruesome reality.
The seller was not at all put off by our mutual exclamations of disgust; it required Michael’s added comments to convince him that we would not own such a repulsive object. Many travellers buy such mementos, even entire mummies, which are exported from the country like bundles of wood instead of human remains.
Evelyn’s sensitive face was pensive as we went on. ‘How strange and pitiful,’ she said musingly. ‘To reflect that that horrid object was perhaps once clasped ardently by a husband or lover! It was very small, was it not, Amelia – a woman’s hand?’
‘Don’t think about it,’ I said firmly.
‘I wish I could stop thinking about it. My reflections should dwell on the frailty of the flesh, on human vanity, and the other precepts of Christian faith…. Instead I shudder at the horror of what is, after all, only a bit of cast-off flesh – the discarded garment of the soul. Amelia, if it had touched me I should have died!’
We went up to the tombs. You may rest assured, dear reader, that I had not wasted my time during the voyage. I had with me the Reverend Samuel Birch’s little books on the study of Egyptian hieroglyphs; and my hours of poring over these sources were repaid in full when I was able to point out to Evelyn the group of hieroglyphic signs which spells the name of the chief of this district during the Twelfth Dynasty. There is no thrill equal to seeing the actual signs, painted on crumbling rock walls instead of printed on a page; finding in them meaning and sense….
But I fear I am being carried away by my scholarly enthusiasm. The tombs had considerable interest even for casual tourists, the painted scenes on the wall are gay and pretty, showing the activities in which the dead man loved to indulge during his lifetime, as well as the industries pursued on his estates. His serfs blow glass and work gold into jewellery; they tend the flocks, fashion pottery, and work in the fields.
Some years later these same splendid tombs
The village was typical. I would have reported a man who kept his dog in such a kennel. Small mud hovels, roofed with cornstalks, looked as if they had been flung down at random on the ground. These huts are clustered round an inner courtyard, where the cooking is carried on; there is a fire, a stone for grinding corn, a few storage jars, and that is all. The women spin, or grind, or nurse their infants. The men sit. Children, chickens, and dogs tumble about in an indiscriminate mass, equally dirty, equally unclad; and yet the children are pretty little things when they are not disfigured by flies and disease.
When we appeared, the village seethed as if someone had stirred it with a stick. We were besieged by outstretched hands – some empty, begging for the inevitable backsheesh; some holding objects for sale – antiquities, stolen from the tombs, or manufactured by enterprising merchants to delude the unwary. It is said that some Europeans and Americans engage in this immoral trade.
Evelyn recoiled with a cry as an indescribably horrid object was thrust under her very nose. At first it appeared to be a bundle of dry brown sticks wrapped in filthy cloth; then my critical gaze recognized it for what it was – a mummy’s hand, snapped off at the wrist, the dried bones protruding; black from the bitumen in which it had been soaked in ancient times. Two tawdry little rings adorned the bony fingers, and scraps of rotten wrappings were pushed back to display the delicacy in all its gruesome reality.
The seller was not at all put off by our mutual exclamations of disgust; it required Michael’s added comments to convince him that we would not own such a repulsive object. Many travellers buy such mementos, even entire mummies, which are exported from the country like bundles of wood instead of human remains.
Evelyn’s sensitive face was pensive as we went on. ‘How strange and pitiful,’ she said musingly. ‘To reflect that that horrid object was perhaps once clasped ardently by a husband or lover! It was very small, was it not, Amelia – a woman’s hand?’
‘Don’t think about it,’ I said firmly.
‘I wish I could stop thinking about it. My reflections should dwell on the frailty of the flesh, on human vanity, and the other precepts of Christian faith…. Instead I shudder at the horror of what is, after all, only a bit of cast-off flesh – the discarded garment of the soul. Amelia, if it had touched me I should have died!’
We went up to the tombs. You may rest assured, dear reader, that I had not wasted my time during the voyage. I had with me the Reverend Samuel Birch’s little books on the study of Egyptian hieroglyphs; and my hours of poring over these sources were repaid in full when I was able to point out to Evelyn the group of hieroglyphic signs which spells the name of the chief of this district during the Twelfth Dynasty. There is no thrill equal to seeing the actual signs, painted on crumbling rock walls instead of printed on a page; finding in them meaning and sense….
But I fear I am being carried away by my scholarly enthusiasm. The tombs had considerable interest even for casual tourists, the painted scenes on the wall are gay and pretty, showing the activities in which the dead man loved to indulge during his lifetime, as well as the industries pursued on his estates. His serfs blow glass and work gold into jewellery; they tend the flocks, fashion pottery, and work in the fields.
Some years later these same splendid tombs
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