It Happened in Egypt | Page 8

opera singer. After Peter's death, his half-sister gave
up novels for Egyptian and Roman history, took to studying
hieroglyphics, and learning translations of Greek poetry. She invited a
clairvoyant and crystal-gazer, claiming Egyptian origin, to visit at her
Madison Square flat. Sayda Sabri, banished from Bond Street years ago,
took up her residence in New York, accompanied by her tame mummy.
Of course, it is the mummy of a princess, and she keeps it illuminated
with blue lights, in an inner sanctum, where the bored-looking thing
stands upright in its brilliantly painted mummy case, facing the door.
About the time of Sayda's visit, it was noticed by Mrs. East's friends
(this, according to Biddy) that the colour of the lady's hair was slowly
but surely changing from black to chestnut, then to auburn; she was
heard to remark casually that Queen Cleopatra's hair had been red. She
took to rich Eastern scents, to whitening her face as Eastern women of
rank have whitened theirs since time immemorial. The shadows round
her almond-shaped eyes were intensified: her full lips turned from
healthful pink to carmine. The ends of her tapering fingers blushed
rosily as sticks of coral. The style of her dress changed, at the moment
of going into purple as "second mourning" for Peter, and became
oriental, even to the turban-like shape of her hats, and the design of her
jewellery. She did away with crests and monograms on handkerchiefs,
stationery, luggage and so on, substituting a curious little oval
containing strange devices, which Monny discovered to be the
"cartouche" of Cleopatra. Then the whole truth burst forth. Sayda

Sabri's crystal had shown that Clara East, née Gilder, was the
reincarnation of Cleopatra the Great of Egypt. There had been another
incarnation in between, but it was of no account, and, like a poor
relation who has disgraced a family, the less said about it the better.
The lady did not proclaim her identity from the housetops. Rare souls
possessing knowledge of Egyptian lore might draw their own
conclusions from the cartouche on her note-paper and other things.
Only Monny and a few intimates were told the truth at first; but
afterward it leaked out, as secrets do; and Mrs. East seemed shyly
pleased if discreet questions were asked concerning her amulets and the
cartouche.
Now, I never feel inclined to laugh at a pretty woman. It is more
agreeable, as well as gallant, to laugh with her; but the trouble is,
Cleopatra doesn't go in for laughter. She takes life seriously. Not only
has she no sense of humour, but she does not know the difference
between it and a sense of fun, which she can understand if a joke (about
somebody else) is explained. She is grateful to me because I look her
straight in the eyes when the subject of Egypt is mentioned. Sheridan
from Harvard has been in her bad books since he put Ptolemaic rulers
outside of the pale of Egyptian history, called their art ornate and bad,
mentioned that each of their queens was named Cleopatra and
classified the lot as modern, almost suburban.
Mrs. East, leaning beside me on the rail, was burning with thoughts
inspired by Alexandria. She had "Plutarch's Lives" under her arm, and
"Hypatia" in her hand. Of course, she dropped them both, one after the
other, and I picked them up.
"Do you know, Lord Ernest," she said, in the low, rich voice she is
cultivating, "I don't mind telling you that I felt as if I were coming
home, after a long absence. Monny wanted to see Egypt; I was dying to.
That's the difference between us."
"It's natural," I answered, sympathetically.
"Yes--considering everything. Yet we're both afraid. She in one way, I

in another. I haven't told her. She hasn't told me. But I know. She has
the same impression I have, that something's going to happen
--something very great, to change the whole of life--in Egypt: 'Khem,' it
seems to me I can remember calling it. You know it was Khem, until
the Arabs came and named it Misr. Do you believe in impressions like
that?"
"I don't disbelieve," I said. "Some people are more sensitive than
others."
"Yes. Or else they're older souls. But it may be the same thing. I can't
fancy Monny an old soul, can you?--yet she may be, for she's very
intelligent, although so self-willed. I think what she's afraid of is
getting interested in some wonderful man with Turkish or Egyptian
blood, a magnificent creature like you read of in books, you know; then
you have to give them up in the last chapter, and send them away
broken-hearted. I suppose there are such men in real life?"
"I doubt if there are such romantic figures as the books make out," I