Voices from the Other World

The Mummy Awakens

I am deeply embarrassed to tell this tale — for some of its events violate the laws of reason and of nature altogether. If this were merely fiction, then it would not cause me to feel such embarrassment. Yet it happened in the realm of reality — and its victim was one of the most renowned and extraordinary men of Egypt’s political and aristocratic circles. Moreover, I am relating it as recorded by a great professor in the national university. There is no room for doubt of his sentience or his character, nor is he known for any tendency toward delusions or wild stories. Still, it may truly be said, I do not know how to believe it myself, nor to persuade others to do so. This is not due to the want of miracles and wonders in our time. Yet rational people of our day do not accept matters without good cause — just as they do not oppose putting faith in something if there is a logical explanation for it. Though the strange account that I now transmit has claims of authenticity, a coherent narrative, and tangible attestations, the scientific basis for it is still much in doubt. Would I not, then, express my hesitation in presenting it?

Whatever one makes of the matter, here it is as portrayed by Dr. Dorian, professor of Ancient Egyptian Archaeology at Fuad I University:

On that painful day, when the heart of Egypt shook with anguish and sorrow, I went to visit the late Mahmoud Pasha al-Arna’uti at his grand country palace in Upper Egypt. I remember that I found the Pasha with a group of friends that flocked around him when circumstances permitted. Among them was M. Saroux, headmaster at the school of fine arts, and Dr. Pierre, the expert on mental diseases. We all gathered in his elegant, sophisticated salon, filled with the choicest examples of contemporary art — both paintings and sculpture. It was as though they were marshaled in that place in order to convey the salute of the genius of modernity to the memory of the immortal Pharaonic spark. Buried in the ruins of the Nile Valley, its light nonetheless burned through the darkness of the years like the points of the harmonious stars in the sky, a voyager through the void of the jet-black night.

The deceased was among the richest, most cultured people in Egypt, and the noblest in disposition. His friend Professor Lampere once said of him that he was “three persons in one”—for he was Turkish in race, Egyptian in nationality, and French in his heart and mind. To achieve his acquaintance was the height of accomplishment.

In fact, the Pasha was France’s greatest friend in the East — he thought of her as his second country. His happiest days were those that he spent beneath her skies. All of his companions were drawn from her children, whether they lived on the banks of the Nile or the Seine. I myself used to imagine, when I was in his salon, that I had suddenly been transported to Paris — the French furniture, the French people present, the French language spoken, and the French cuisine. Many French intellectuals did not know him except as a singular fancier of French art, or as a composer of passionate verse in the fine Gallic tongue. As for me, I knew him only this way — as a lover of France, a fanatic for her culture, and a preacher of her policies.

On that fateful day, I was sitting at the Pasha’s side when M. Saroux said, while scrutinizing a two-inch bronze bust with his crossed and bulging eyes, “You fortunate man, your palace needs but a trifling change to turn it into a complete museum.”

“I certainly agree,” the doctor ventured, tugging at his beard contemplatively, “for it is a permanent exhibit of all the schools of genius combined, with an obvious Francophile tendency.”

The Pasha chimed in, “Its greatest virtue is in my balanced taste, which moves equally between the various trends, treating the rigid views of the differing schools all the same. And which strives for the enjoyment of beauty — whether its creator be Praxiteles or Raphael or Cézanne — with the exception of radical modern contrivances.”

As I spoke, I glanced covertly at M. Saroux, teasing whom always delighted me, and said, “If the Ministry of Education could move this salon to the Higher College of Fine Arts, then they wouldn’t waste money sending study missions to France and Italy.”

M. Saroux laughed, swiveling to address me, “Then maybe they could save on the French headmaster, as well!”

But the Pasha said seriously, “Be assured, my dear Saroux, that if it were possible for this museum to leave Upper Egypt, then it would be heading straight for Paris.”

We stared at him with surprise, as if we did not believe our ears. In truth, the Pasha’s art collection was worth hundreds of thousands of Egyptian pounds — all of which had flowed into French pockets. It was stunning that he would think of donating it to France. While we were entitled to rejoice and be glad at this idea, nonetheless I could not restrain myself from asking:

“Excellence, is what you are saying true?”

The Pasha answered calmly, “Yes, my friend Dorian— and why not?”

M. Saroux broke in, “How deservedly happy and jubilant we French should be! But I must tell your Excellency sincerely that I fear this may bring you a great many troubles.”

When I seconded M. Saroux’s view, the Pasha shifted his blue eyes back and forth between us with a sarcastic expression, and asked in feigned ignorance, “But why?”

Without hesitation, I said, “The press would find that quite a subject!”

“There is no doubt that the nationalist press is your old enemy,” said Dr. Pierre. “Have you forgotten, Your Excellency, their biased attacks against you, and their accusations that you squander the money of the Egyptian peasants in France without any accountability?”

The Pasha sighed in dismissal, “The money of the peasants!”

Apologetically, the doctor hastened to add, “Please forgive me, Pasha — this is what they say.”

Pursing his lips, His Excellency shrugged his shoulders disdainfully, as he adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles over his eyes, saying, “I pay no heed to these vulgar voices of denunciation. And so long as my artistic conscience is ill at ease with leaving these miracles amidst this bestial people, then I will not permit them to be entombed here forever.”

I knew my friend the Pasha’s opinion of the Egyptians and his contempt for them. It is said in this regard that the year before, a gifted Egyptian physician, who had attained the title of “Bey,” came to him, asking for the hand of his daughter. The Pasha threw him out brutally, calling him “the peasant son of a peasant.” Despite my concordance with many of the Pasha’s charges against his countrymen, I could not follow his thinking to its end.

“Your Excellency is a very harsh critic,” I told him.

The Pasha giggled, “You, my dear Dorian, are a man who has given his entire, precious life to the past. Perhaps in its gloom you caught the flash of the genius that inspired the ancients, and it has inflamed your sympathy and affection for their descendants. You must not forget, my friend, that the Egyptians are the people who eat broad beans. ”

Laughing too, I bantered back, “I’m sorry, Your Excellency, but do you not know that Sir Mackenzie, professor of English language at the Faculty of Arts, has recently declared that he has come to prefer broad beans to pudding?”

The Pasha laughed again, and so did we all with him. Then His Excellency said, “You know what I mean, but you like to jest. The Egyptians are genial animals, submissive in nature, of an obedient disposition. They have lived as slaves on the crumbs from their rulers’ banquets for thousands of years. The likes of these have no right to be upset if I donate this museum to Paris.”

“We are not speaking about what is right or not right, but about reality — and the reality is that they would be upset about it,” said Saroux. “And their newspapers will be upset about it along with them,” he added, in a meaningful tone.

Yet the Pasha displayed not the slightest concern. He was by nature scornful of the outcry of the masses, and the deceitful screams of the press. Perhaps due to his Turkish origins, he had the great defect of clinging to his own conceptions, his pertinacity, and his condescension toward Egyptians. He did not want to prolong the discussion, but closed the door upon it with his rare sense of subtlety. He kept us occupied for an hour sipping his delicious French coffee — there was none better in Egypt. Then the Pasha peered at me with interest, “Are you not aware, M. Dorian, that I have begun to compete with you in the discovery of hidden treasures?”

I looked at him quizzically and asked, “What are you saying, Excellence?”

The Pasha, laughing, pointed outdoors through the salon’s window, “Just a short distance from us, in my palace garden, there is a magnificent excavation in progress.”

Our interest was immediately obvious. I expected to hear a momentous announcement, for the word “excavation” prompts a special stimulus in me. I have spent an enormous part of my life — before I took up my post at the university — digging and sifting through the rich, magical earth of Egypt.

Still smiling, the Pasha continued, “I hope that you will not all make fun of me, my dear sirs, for I have done what the ancient kings used to do with sorcerers and masters of legerdemain. I don’t know how I yielded to it, but there is no cause for regret, for a bit of superstition relieves the mind of the weight of facts and rigorous science. The gist of the story is this. Two days ago, a man well known in this area, named Shaykh Jadallah— whom the people here respect and revere as a saint (and how many such saints do we have in Egypt!) — came to me, to insist on a peculiar request. And I acceded to it, amazing as it was.

“The man hailed me, in his own manner, and informed me that he had located — by means of his spiritual knowledge and through ancient books — a priceless treasure in the heart of my garden. He beseeched me to let him uncover it, under my supervision, tempting me with gold and pearls, if I would but gratify his wish. He was so annoying that I considered tossing him out. But he begged and pleaded with me until he wept, saying: ‘Do not mock the science of God, and do not insult his favored believers!’ I laughed a long time — until I had a sudden thought, and said to myself, ‘Why don’t I humor the man in his fantasy and go along with him in his belief? I wouldn’t lose anything, and I would gain a certain type of amusement.’ And so I did, my friends, and gave the man my permission.

“And now, in all seriousness I show him to you — he who is digging in my garden, with two of my faithful servants assisting in his arduous labor. What do you think?”

The Pasha said all this with considerable mirth: we all laughed again with him. But as for myself, I recalled an incident similar to this one: “Naturally, you don’t believe in the science of Shaykh Jadallah. Nor can I believe in it, either — more’s the pity. But I also cannot forget that I discovered the tomb of the High Priest Kameni because of this same superstition!”

The amazement was plain on the faces of those present, and the Pasha queried me, “Professor, is what you are saying true?”

“Yes, Pasha, one day a shaykh like Shaykh Jadallah came to me in a place near the Valley of the Kings. He said that he had found, by means of his books and knowledge, the whereabouts of a treasure there. We kept pounding away in that spot, and — before the day was out — we found Kameni’s tomb. This was, without a doubt, one of the most brilliant of coincidences.”

Dr. Pierre laughed ironically, “Why do you credit that to coincidence, and deny the ancient science? Isn’t it conceivable that the pharaohs bequeathed to their descendants their hidden secrets, just as they passed on to them their appearance and their customs?”

We kept on distracting ourselves with this sort of chatter, flitting from one topic to another, passing the time in great pleasure. And just before sunset, the guests took their leave. But I announced my wish to observe the excavation that Shaykh Jadallah was conducting in the garden. So we all left the salon, walking through the rear door to bid our good-byes. We had gone but a few steps when we could hear the sounds of a great uproar— and a group of the servants cut across our path. We saw that they were holding a Sa‘idi man, an Upper Egyptian, by his collar, giving him a sound beating with their fists. They dragged him roughly up to the Pasha, and one of them said, “Your Excellency, we caught this thief stealing Beamish’s food.”

I knew Beamish quite well — he was the Pasha’s beloved dog, the most precious creature of God to his heart after his wife and children. He lived a spoiled and honored life in the Pasha’s palace — attended by the staff and servants, and visited by a veterinarian once every month. Each day he was presented with meat, bones, milk, and broth — this wasn’t the first time that the Sa‘idis had pounced on Beamish’s lunch.

The thief was an unmixed Upper Egyptian, marked by the looks of the ancients themselves. It was clear from his dress that he was wretchedly poor. The Pasha fixed him with a vicious stare, interrogating him gruffly, “Whatever induced you to violate the sanctity of my home?”

The man replied in fervent entreaty, panting from his efforts to fight off the servants, “I was starving, Your Excellency, when I saw the cooked meat scattered on the grass. My resistance failed me — I haven’t tasted meat since the Feast of the Sacrifice!”

Turning to me, the Pasha exclaimed, “Do you see the difference between your unfortunates and ours? Your poor are propelled by hunger into stealing baguettes, while ours will settle for nothing less than cooked meat.”

Then, raising his cane in the air, he wheeled back upon the thief and struck him hard on the shoulder, shouting to the servants, “Take him to the watchman!”

As the man was handed over, Dr. Pierre laughed, inquiring of the Pasha, “What will you do tomorrow if the natives get a whiff of the heaps of gold in the treasure of Shaykh Jadallah?”

The Pasha replied instantly, “I’ll surround it with a wall of sentries, like the Maginot Line!”

We — the Pasha and I — bade the others farewell, and I followed him silently to where Shaykh Jadallah seemed about to transform himself into a great archaeologist. He was a man completely absorbed in his work — he and his helpers alike. They hacked at the earth with their hoes, lifting the dirt with baskets and throwing it aside. Shaykh Jadallah — his eyes flashing with a sharp gleam of hope and resolve, his scrawny arms charged with an unnatural strength — was nearing his goal, to which his divine insight had guided him. To me, his anomalous person represented Man in his activity, in his belief, and in his illusions — for the truth is that we create for ourselves gods and hallucinations, yet we believe in them in an extraordinary fashion. Our belief makes worlds for us of extreme beauty and creativity. Did not the ancestors of Shaykh Jadallah — whose face reminds me of the famous statue of an ancient Egyptian scribe — make humanity’s first civilization? Did they not create loveliness equally on the surface of the earth, and beneath it? Were they not inspired in their work and their thought by Osiris and Amon? And what is Osiris, and what is Amon? Nothing much, on the whole. As for their civilization, it could be compared with — indeed, it is — our own civilization today.

We stood about watching the devout old shaykh. The Pasha smiled derisively, while I was sunk in my dreams. Neither us knew what Fate had concealed from us under those piles of dust. The labor appeared fruitless, and the Pasha grew bored. He suggested that we sit on the veranda — I followed him quietly. But we had hardly reached the stairs when Shaykh Jadallah ran up to intercept us, gasping from his gap-toothed mouth, “My lord. . my lord. . come and look!”

We turned toward him automatically. My heart was beating queerly from the shaykh’s appeal. He reminded me of his old counterpart who had cleaved my life between failure and success, between despair and hope. We hurried down the stairs, because the man had gone back the way he came — we both followed him, fighting our wish to run.

We found the three men moving a huge stone, approximately a square meter in size. As we drew nearer to them, we saw that the stone covered an opening of similar dimensions. I glanced at the Pasha, and he looked at me with eyes filled with astonishment and stupefaction. We then looked into the opening and saw a small staircase that ended in a corridor that led to the interior, parallel to the surface of the ground. The sun was about to go down, so I said to the Pasha, “Let’s have a lantern.” He sent a servant to fetch one. The man returned with the lantern, and I ordered him to walk before us. But he balked; I considered seizing the lamp from him. Shaykh Jadallah, however, reached him before me. He seized the man by the hand, reciting verses from the Qur’an and strange incantations. Then, sure-footedly, the shaykh went down; I followed him, and the two restive servants followed behind.

We found ourselves in an underground passage no more than ten meters in length. Its ceiling hung several inches over our heads. The ground was simply soil, but the walls were granite. We advanced in slow steps until we met a stone door that blocked the path to intruders. Its appearance was not unfamiliar to me, nor were the symbols carved in its center. I ran my eyes over it, then glanced at the Pasha — whom I told in a shaking voice:

“Your Excellency, you have discovered an ancient tomb — for here lies General Hor, one of the most powerful figures in the Eighteenth Dynasty.”

Violently piqued, Shaykh Jadallah declared, “Behind this door are riches — so says the book that does not lie!”

I shrugged my shoulders, “Call it what you will, the important thing is to open it.”

“Opening the treasure is hard,” the shaykh rejoined. “The only way to smash down the door and make it yield is by long recitation, which I will start doing now. That will take until dawn — are you ritually clean?”

His speech greatly affected the two servants, who looked at their master with embarrassment. They believed that they were soon to find themselves in the presence of the hidden power — but there was no time for ablution and the incantation of prayer. I reproved the shaykh firmly, “We didn’t reach this door through recitation, so it seems more fitting to open it by force, as we did the one that came before it.”

The shaykh was about to object, but could find no basis to do so, while the Pasha upbraided him. I kept quiet, as the shaykh looked at me askance. They resumed work once more: I snapped out of my reverie and set to work with them, until the insurmountable obstacle was sundered — and we found before us an opening into Hor’s place of eternal rest.

As I was an expert at this sort of work, I directed them to stay in their places awhile until the air had recirculated. For all of us together, it was a tense hour of waiting. The Pasha was silent and confused like one caught in a powerful dream, while the two servants looked on earnestly at the man in whom they placed their faith. The shaykh was warning me of what might befall us because of my contempt for his beliefs. As for myself, I was perhaps imagining what my eyes would behold. “Do you conceive what could happen if you acquire such a great antiquity, one that would become the highlight of the immortal museum in Paris?” I mused.

Then I went inside. Behind me entered al-Arna’uti Pasha, followed by Shaykh Jadallah; the servants deemed it wiser to remain in the outer corridor. But when the light of the lamp vanished, and the place plunged into darkness, they both leapt inside and cowered in a corner.

The burial chamber was just as its exterior indicated — I have seen its like numerous times in the past. The sarcophagus was in its customary place: on its surface was an image of its owner in gold. Next to it were three life-sized statues, one of them of a man — most probably Hor himself. Another was of a woman; from its position next to the man, this was undoubtedly his wife. In front of them both was a statue of a young boy.

Across from them were some sealed boxes, plus a number of colored vessels, chairs, tables, and military tackle. The walls were covered with paintings, signs, and inscriptions.

I shot a quick, awed glance over that now-resurrected world, but the Pasha did not leave me to my musings. He said to me — in what I did not know would be his last spoken words in this life, “The most appropriate thing, Professor Dorian, would be to inform the government about this matter immediately.”

I sensed the defeat of my hopes, as I replied, “Wait a little, Pasha, while I make a quick appraisal.”

With the Pasha to my right, I approached the boxes and furnishings, continuing to scrutinize them with expert, covetous eyes. My soul urged me to open them and to see their contents. I believed that they were filled with food, clothes, and jewelry, but it was very difficult for someone like me to control his will in the presence of those majestic artifacts that overwhelmed my heart with passion and emotion. And let us not forget the sarcophagus and the statues and the mummy — how bewitching was their allure!

I was awakened again from my fantasies when I heard the crude voice of Shaykh Jadallah shouting “Hush!” I turned toward him, hopping with rage — the least whisper at that time gravely affected my nerves. But then the shaykh blurted idiotically, “A sparrow!”

“What sparrow is this, O shaykh! Is this the time for jokes?” I rebuked him.

“I saw a sparrow fluttering its wings over the sarcophagus,” he insisted.

We looked at the sarcophagus but saw nothing there. It would have been ludicrous to question the servants, so I told the obsolete holy man, “Spare us your delusions, Shaykh Jadallah.”

Then I laughed, exclaiming to the Pasha in French, “Perhaps it was the ka—the soul of the deceased — come to pay him a visit with us.”

I returned to perusing the boxes and the walls, which conversed with my heart in a silent language that only I could comprehend. Yet I could not give them my complete attention — for I soon heard the voices of the servants shrieking in terror, “Your Excellency — Pasha!”

We looked over at them quickly with wrath and exasperation — but only to find them in a bizarre state of horror, each grabbing onto the other. Their eyes widened and bulged wildly out of their heads, gazing stiff as the dead in the direction of the sarcophagus. Shaykh Jadallah was frozen where he stood, his hand trembling on the lamp, his eyes never moving from the same object. I looked at the sarcophagus and forgot my ire — for I saw its lid rising, and the mummy lying before us in its wrappings. .

What is this? How was the sarcophagus opened? Have I been so influenced by my long residence in the Orient that my eye has been traduced — to this absurd degree — by its illusions and sleight of hand?

But what sleight of hand is this? I see the mummy in front of me — and I am not the only one to see it. And how the Pasha has turned into a statue! And how these three men seem about to die with extreme fear and fright! What hallucination is this?

The truth is that I feel shame each time that circumstances compel me to tell what happened next — for I normally recount it to rational, well-educated people who have studied Taylor and Levy-Bruhl and Durkheim. But what can I do? Descartes himself, if he were then in my place, would not have dared to dismiss his own senses.

What did I see?

I saw the mummy stir and sit up in his sarcophagus with a swift, nimble movement that would be impossible for a drunken man or one heavy from sleep, to say nothing of a corpse just roused from the world of the Dead. Then he bounded with a smoothly athletic motion — and stood erect facing us before the coffin.

My back was to the servants and Shaykh Jadallah, so I did not observe what was happening to them. But the light that illuminated the room was shaking with the hand that held it, while I fell into a state that beggars all description. I confess that my limbs rattled in a manner that I cannot convey — prey to a fear that I had never in my life experienced. Next to it, I cannot even recall the terror I felt in those harrowing days I spent on the Eastern Front and at the Battle of the Marne. How astonishing! Is that not a mummy there ahead? Or is that a corpse to which life has been restored by mysterious means? Or is that an Egyptian general who quivered with awe and submissiveness whenever he crossed the threshold of Pharaoh’s palace?

Is it possible that such thoughts possessed me at that time? Nevertheless, I resisted this possession with all my might — for how can one be rightly guided by terror? I was mortally afraid. Yet my eyes were able to see even as my memory was able to preserve what my eyes saw.

I did not find before me a mere mummy, but a whole living man — complete in his manliness and vitality. His form reminded me of those images that one sees on so many temple walls. He was garbed in a white robe and a short loincloth, his great head covered with an elegant cowl. His broad chest was hung with many glittering honors. He was dignified, dreadful, of an imposing height. But, with all of his daunting splendor, it seemed to me that I had seen him before. I remembered the Sa‘idi that the servants dragged to the Pasha and accused of stealing the dog Beamish’s food. The resemblance was unnerving, but it was confined to his stature and color, not to his spirit and liveliness. Yet if this being right before me did not display such majesty and nobility, then perhaps I would be seized by doubts.

All the while, Hor fixed the Pasha in a cruel glare that he did not lift from him, as though he saw nothing but him.

What should I say, gentlemen? Yet I heard him speak — my God, Hor spoke after a silence of three thousand years. But he spoke in that ancient language that Death had enfolded for more than a millennium. I will forget everything in the world before I forget a single word of what his tongue uttered.

He said to my luckless friend, the Pasha, in a voice whose equal in augustness I had never heard before — for I have not yet had the honor of conversing with kings:

“Do you not know me, slave? Why are you not falling on your knees before me?”

From the Pasha, I heard not a sound, nor could I shift my rigid stare toward him. But I heard the Mighty One, possessor of the overpowering voice, speak once more:

“I did not feel the troubling captivity of Death until my soul saw the astounding things that take place in this world, while I was bound with the shackles of Eternity, unable to move. Nor could I go to you, because my life had ended, as Osiris had decreed. But you came to me on your own two feet. I am bewildered at how you could seduce yourself into doing this foolish thing. Madness and vanity have overtaken you. Do you not praise the gods that Death had intervened between us? What did you come to do here, servant? You aren’t satisfied with robbing my sons — so you have come to plunder my tomb, as well? Speak, you slave!”

But the poor man could say nothing. . for he understood nothing. . he appeared struck by paralysis. Life had stolen back into the long-dead mummy — as it abandoned the living Pasha.

The mummy, meanwhile, resumed his reproach:

“What’s the matter with you — why do you not speak? Am I not Hor? Are you not my servant, Shanaq? Do you not recollect that I came to you in your northern country, during one of my victorious raids? Do you pretend not to know me, slave? Your white skin, which is the mark of servitude, gives you away — no matter how much you may deny it. What are these ridiculous clothes that you have on? And what is this false pride that you hide yourself behind?”

Hor evidently believed that the Pasha deliberately refused to reply — so he shouted, his veins swelling, his face scowling with anger:

“What has befallen you? What has befallen the earth that the lowly are made lords and the lords are laid low? The sovereigns are reduced to slaves, and the slaves raised to sovereigns? How can you, slave, own such a palace, while my sons sweat there as your servants? Where are our inherited traditions? Where are the divine laws? Is this some sort of mockery?”

Hor’s rage intensified. His eyes turned a furious red. Sparks flew out of them, as he railed with a voice like pealing thunder:

“How could you be so insolent with my son, you slave? Indeed, you humiliated him with a harshness that proves the slave-like nature that your soul exudes. You struck him with your stick because he was hungry, and forced his brothers to beat him, as well. Do Egypt’s children go without food? Woe unto you, abject one. . ”

Hor had not quite finished his rant when he advanced, roaring like a lion, upon the Pasha — intent to make him his prey. But the hapless Pasha did not wait for him — he had lost his power to endure. He fell motionless upon the ground, while Hor’s menace spread a new terror throughout the chamber that shattered our last shred of composure. Shaykh Jadallah instantly prostrated himself on his face, the lamp going down with him — extinguishing its light, sending the room back into gloom. I recoiled in shock, as if expecting a deadly blow, without knowing from what direction it would strike my head. I stared into the darkness, shivering with panic and alarm. My strength deserted me, while, to my good fortune, I lost all consciousness — and absented myself from the world. .

My dear sirs. . There are times when I am beset by confusion, when I am wracked with doubt. So I ask myself, was what I saw real, or a deception? Perhaps, at times, I have a tendency to lie to myself. Yet each time that I incline toward disbelief, I am confronted by facts over which I have no control. What do you say, for example, to the testimony of Shaykh Jadallah, a living person ready and able to repeat to you what I have relayed? And what is your reply to the two pathetic servants, who were driven insane? And what of the tomb of Hor, and the now-deserted palace? And, above all else, what of the death of Mahmoud Pasha al-Arna’uti— which all the readers of the press remember with the utmost sense of wonder?