Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 490
It was said on the day of his departure that Black Zogal, who followed him to the last with the fidelity of a human dog, kept close at his heels until he came to the top of the Mokattam hills, where the Master sent him back after strictly charging him to tell no one which way he was going. Since then, however, Zogal has given it out (with every appearance of believing his own story) that he saw Ishmael ascend to heaven from the Gebel Mokattam in a blinding whirlwind of celestial light, a flight of angels carrying him away.
A Saint’s House has been built for Black Zogal on the spot on which he says he saw the ascent; the half-crazy Soudanese inhabits it, and its outer walls are almost covered with the small flags which devotees have brought and fixed to them in their childlike effort to show reverence.
Nothing could exceed the boundless affection which is still felt for Ishmael by those who came into immediate contact with him. He seems to have inspired them with a love which survives absence and could even conquer death. Everybody who ever spoke to him has a story to tell of his wisdom, his power, and his tenderness. The number of his “miracles” has increased tenfold, and though not described as sinless, he is always talked of as if he were divine.
His Mouled (his birthday, a conjectural date) is celebrated by ceremonies which almost outrival the “Nights of the Prophet.” About the Saint’s House on the Mokattam hills a huge encampment of tents is made, and there, under the blaze of thousands of dazzling lights, the dervishes hold their Zikrs amid scenes of frantic excitement due to exhibitions of hypnotic suggestion which ever include “the effect of tongues,” while more serious-minded Sheikhs repeat a long record of Ishmael’s genealogy. This is a very circumstantial story with a vague resemblance to something which Christians speak of with bated breath — how, when his mother, who was a virgin, was bearing him, an angel appeared to her in a dream and said, “You carry the Lord of Man,” and how, when the child was delivered, three great Sheikhs came from Mecca to pay reverence to him, having seen a star in the sky which told them where he was to be born.
In the course of years a great body of Ishmael’s “Sayings “ have been gathered up. Some of them are authentic, but most of them are out of the wisdom of the ages, and not a few are directly borrowed from the Christian gospels, which the Moslems, as a whole, do not know. Whatever their sources, they are deeply treasured. Women chant them to the children at their knees, and men lisp them with their last breath and then die with brave faces.
Besides the impression he has produced upon the people, which is strong and likely to be enduring, Ishmael seems to have an almost unaccountable fascination for Arabic scholars and theologians. A number of the professors at El Azhar are already deep in metaphysical disputations about the inner significance of the words attributed to him, and it is whispered that the venerable Chancellor (now nearly a hundred years of age) is compiling a book, half biography and half commentary, that is full of mystical meanings.
More extraordinary still, it seems probable that a large and gorgeous mosque will be built in Ishmael’s honour, and that he who loved best to worship in that temple of the open desert whereof the dome is the sky, he who cared so little about dogmatic theology that he never even wrote a line, may, by the wild irony of fate, become the founder of a sect in Islam which will teach everything he fought against and practise everything he condemned.
Chief among the subjects of disputation is Ishmael’s expectation of a Kingdom of Heaven upon earth, though the Ulema, less concerned with the spirit than with the letter of the Prophet’s hope, are divided as to the source of it. Some say it is plainly indicated in the Koran and the traditions; others, more widely read, say it is borrowed from the Hebrew Bible, while a few refer it to a vague and misty antiquity.
Hardly less interesting to the theologians is the question of Ishmael’s identity. Nearly all agree that there was an element of the supernatural about him, so hard is it to attribute to men of ordinary human passions the great movements that affect the world. But while there are those who believe him to have been the Mahdi, sent expressly to earth to destroy Anti-Christ, that is to say, the Consul-General, an influential group hold to the opinion that he was, and is, Seyidna Isa — Our Lord Jesus.
About this latter view there gathers a strange and not unimpressive theory — that Jesus (who, according to the Islamic faith, did not die on the cross) reappears at intervals among different races — now among the Jews, now among the Indians, now among the Arabs — and that he will continue to make these manifestations until the world is ready for the greatest happiness obtainable by man — the establishment of the Kingdom of God.
But not all the disputations of the wise heads of El Azhar can rob the humble of the object of their veneration. Ishmael came from the people, and with the people he will always remain. His blameless life, his touching history, his deep humanity, his simple teaching and, above all, his lofty hopes have made him Sultan of a vast empire of souls — the empire of the poor, the oppressed, the downtrodden, and the broken-hearted. From the central heart of the East his spirit came as a ray of sunlight, inspiring men in the dark places to live nobly, to die bravely, and to keep up their courage to the last.
And what of Ishmael’s influence in the West?
Nothing! European historians have written since his time without saying a word about him. One of them who devotes long chapters to accounts of the bombardment of Alexandria, the battle of Tel-el-Kebir, the craven flight of Arabi and his theatrical scene with the Khedive in Abdeen Square, and yet other chapters to the building of the Assouan Dam and the construction of the Cape to Cairo railway, dismisses Ishmael’s pilgrimage from Khartoum in five lines of a section dealing with “Mahdism and Sedition in the Soudan.”
And indeed, so hard do we find it, in spite of our civilisation and Christianity, to believe that the things of the spirit may be more helpful in sustaining our steps and shaping our destinies than any forces we can weigh, measure, and calculate, that it is difficult to think of any real welcome in the cities of the West for one whose only teaching was that great wealth is an inheritance taken by force from the Almighty, that property beyond the proper needs of civilised human life is pillage; and that God so loves the world that He will come in person to govern it and to save mankind from its suffering and the consequences of its sins.
Certainly the mere thought of anyone holding these opinions, least of all an Arab, the son of a boat-builder, born on the Libyan Desert, brought up in the depths of the Soudan, educated in the stagnant schools of El Azhar, wearing sandals and a turban and probably eating with his fingers — the mere thought of such a one, in the present year of grace, forcing his way into the Cathedrals and Parliament Houses of Westminster, Washington, Rome, Berlin, and Paris, where Archbishops officiate in embroidered copes and Ministers prepare budgets toward the re-paganization of the world, would at least provoke a smile.
Nevertheless, there are some who think that the world is not ruled by its great men, but by its great ideas, that these ideas are few and very old; that when as humanity needs to renew itself it has only to go back to them, and that it is not so often in the “sick hurry” of civilised communities as out of the calm solitude of the desert that we hear the sublime but simple notes of the World’s One Voice.
(1)
THE END
THE WOMAN THOU GAVEST ME
THE NARRATIVE OF MARY O’NEILL
Published after a four year interlude, The Woman Thou Gavest Me (1913) caused the most controversy of any of Caine’s novels. Libraries objected to its morals, dealing as it did with the divorce laws of the time and attitudes towards illegitimacy. The novel also once more addressed the Woman Question. Nevertheless, The Woman Thou Gavest Me sold extremely well and was reprinted five times before the end of the year, when nearly half a million copies had been sold. Due to the furore of criticism, Caine’s reputation as a novelist had been restored.
The original title page
CONTENTS
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
FIRST PART. MY GIRLHOOD
FIRST CHAPTER
SECOND CHAPTER
THIRD CHAPTER
FOURTH CHAPTER
FIFTH CHAPTER
SIXTH CHAPTER
SEVENTH CHAPTER
EIGHTH CHAPTER
NINTH CHAPTER
TENTH CHAPTER
ELEVENTH CHAPTER
TWELFTH CHAPTER
THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
SEVENTEENTH CHAPTER
EIGHTEENTH CHAPTER
NINETEENTH CHAPTER
TWENTIETH CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
TWENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
TWENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
MEMORANDUM BY MARTIN CONRAD
SECOND PART. MY MARRIAGE
TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
THIRTIETH CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIRST CHAPTER
THIRD PART. MY HONEYMOON
THIRTY-SECOND CHAPTER
THIRTY-THIRD CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINTH CHAPTER
FORTIETH CHAPTER
FORTY-FIRST CHAPTER
FORTY-SECOND CHAPTER
FORTY-THIRD CHAPTER
FORTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
FORTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
FORTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
FORTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
FORTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
FORTY-NINTH CHAPTER
FIFTIETH CHAPTER
FOURTH PART. I FALL IN LOVE
FIFTY-FIRST CHAPTER
FIFTY-SECOND CHAPTER
FIFTY-THIRD CHAPTER
FIFTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
FIFTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
FIFTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
FIFTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
FIFTY-NINTH CHAPTER
SIXTIETH CHAPTER
SIXTY-FIRST CHAPTER
SIXTY-SECOND CHAPTER
SIXTY-THIRD CHAPTER
SIXTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
SIXTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
SIXTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
SIXTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
SIXTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
SIXTY-NINTH CHAPTER
FIFTH PART. I BECOME A MOTHER
SEVENTIETH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FIRST CHAPTER
SEVENTY-SECOND CHAPTER
SEVENTY-THIRD CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
SEVENTY-NINTH CHAPTER
EIGHTIETH CHAPTER
EIGHTY-FIRST CHAPTER
EIGHTY-SECOND CHAPTER
EIGHTY-THIRD CHAPTER
EIGHTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
EIGHTY-FIFTH CHAPTER
EIGHTY-SIXTH CHAPTER
EIGHTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
EIGHTY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
SIXTH PART. I AM LOST
MEMORANDUM BY MARTIN CONRAD
EIGHTY-NINTH CHAPTER
NINETIETH CHAPTER
NINETY-FIRST CHAPTER
NINETY-SECOND CHAPTER
NINETY-THIRD CHAPTER
NINETY-FOURTH CHAPTER
NINETY-FIFTH CHAPTER
NINETY-SIXTH CHAPTER
NINETY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
NINETY-EIGHTH CHAPTER
NINETY-NINTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDREDTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND FIRST CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND SECOND CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRD CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTH CHAPTER
SEVENTH PART. I AM FOUND
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND NINTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND TENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND TWELFTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND FOURTEENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTEENTH CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTEENTH CHAPTER
MARY O’NEILL’S LETTER TO MARTIN CONRAD
MARY O’NEILL’S LAST NOTE WRITTEN ON THE FLY-LEAVES OF HER MISSAL
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
Advertisement for the 1919 film adaptation
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
How much of the story of Mary O’Neill is a work of my own imagination, and how much comes from an authentic source I do not consider it necessary to say. But as I have in this instance drawn more largely and directly from fact than is usually the practice of the novelist, I have thought it my duty to defeat all possible attempts at personal identification by altering and disguising the more important scenes and characters. Therefore this novel is not to be understood as referring to any living person or persons, and the convent school described in it is not to be identified with any similar educational institution in Rome.
MARTIN CONRAD TO THE AUTHOR
Here are the Memoranda we have talked about. Do as you like with them. Alter, amend, add to or take away from them, exactly as you think best. They were written in the first instance for my own eye alone, and hence they take much for granted which may need explanation before they can be put to the more general uses you have designed for them. Make such explanation in any way you consider suitable. It is my wish that in this matter your judgment should be accepted as mine. The deep feeling you could not conceal when I told you the story of my dear one’s life gives me confidence in your discretion.
Whatever the immediate effect may be, I feel that in the end I shall be justified — fully justified — in allowing the public to look for a little while into the sacred confessional of my darling’s stainless heart.
I heard her voice again to-day. She was right — love is immortal. God bless her! My ever lovely and beloved one!
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The name Raa (of Celtic origin with many variations among Celtic races) is pronounced Rah in Ellan.
FIRST PART. MY GIRLHOOD
FIRST CHAPTER
“Out of the depths, O Lord, out of the depths,” begins the most beautiful of the services of our church, and it is out of the depths of my life that I must bring the incidents of this story.
I was an unwanted child — unwanted as a girl at all events. Father Dan Donovan, our parish priest, told me all about it. I was born in October. It had been raining heavily all day long. The rain was beating hard against the front of our house and running in rivers down the window-panes. Towards four in the afternoon the wind rose and then the yellow leaves of the chestnuts in the long drive rustled noisily, and the sea, which is a mile away, moaned like a dog in pain.
In my father’s room, on the ground floor, Father Dan sat by the fire, fingering his beads and listening to every sound that came from my mother’s room, which was immediately overhead. My father himself, with his heavy step that made the house tremble, was tramping to and fro, from the window to the ingle, from the ingle to the opposite wall. Sometimes Aunt Bridget came down to say that everything was going on well, and at intervals of half an hour Doctor Conrad entered in his noiseless way and sat in silence by the fire, took a few puffs from a long clay pipe and then returned to his charge upstairs.
My father’s impatience was consuming him.
“It’s long,” he said, searching the doctor’s face.
“Don’t worry — above all don’t worry,” said Father Dan.
“There’s no need,” said Doctor Conrad.
“Then hustle back and get it over,” said my father. “It will be five hundred dollars to you if this comes off all right.”
I think my father was a great man at that time. I think he is still a great man. Hard and cruel as he may have been to me, I feel bound to say that for him. If he had been born a king, he would have made his nation feared and perhaps respected throughout the world. He was born a peasant, the poorest of peasants, a crofter. The little homestead of his family, with its whitewashed walls and straw-thatched roof, still stands on the bleak ayre-lands of Ellan, like a herd of mottled cattle crouching together in a storm.
His own father had been a wild creature, full of daring dreams, and the chief of them had centred in himself. Although brought up in a mud cabin, and known as Daniel Neale, he believed that he belonged by lineal descent to the highest aristocracy of his island, the O’Neills of the Mansion House (commonly called the Big House) and the Barons of Castle Raa. To prove his claim he spent his days in searching the registers of the parish churches, and his nights in talking loudly in the village inn. Half in jest and half in earnest, people called him “Neale the Lord.” One day he was brought home dead, killed in a drunken quarrel with Captain O’Neill, a dissolute braggart, who had struck him over the temple with a stick. His wife, my grandmother, hung a herring net across the only room of her house to hide his body from the children who slept in the other bed.
There were six of them, and after the death of her husband she had to fend for all. The little croft was hungry land, and to make a sufficient living she used to weed for her more prosperous neighbours. It was ill-paid labour — ninepence a day fine days and sixpence all weathers, with a can of milk twice a week and a lump of butter thrown in now and then. The ways were hard and the children were the first to feel them. Five of them died. “They weren’t willing to stay with me,” she used to say. My father alone was left to her, and he was another Daniel. As he grew up he was a great help to his mother. I feel sure he loved her. Difficult as it may be to believe it now, I really and truly think that his natural disposition was lovable and generous to begin with.
