Egypt's Men of Letters Speak of May

It is the right of the men of letters in Egypt to speak of May, for they lived alongside her for a stretch of time during which "May" was the beacon of the Arab East. Deep spiritual bonds arose between her and them, formed in the atmosphere of that literary salon which was the place of pilgrimage of the great men of letters and statesmen.

Mr. Muhammad Abd al-Ghani Hasan has gathered a number of these recollections, some of which we publish below:

1 — Sheikh Mustafa Abd al-Raziq

— How did the connection between Your Excellency and "May" arise, and what is your opinion of her literary salon?

— I saw her the first time at a party at the Continental celebrating the passage of twenty-five years since the founding of the Ma'arif Press. The truth is that time has made me forget how the connection arose, but what cannot be forgotten is that after this I was among the frequenters of her literary salon. In truth "May" did not often attend social gatherings and clubs; those connected with her met her in her own salon, which she kept in her house, and it was she who conducted the conversation in the assembly. She would vary the conversations, and their soundness showed the measure of her literary competence.

And "May" would direct the conversation, but without ever appearing in the guise of the leader of the salon or the one presiding over the gathering — which points to one of the beautiful sides of her character.

2 — Huda Hanim Shaarawi

— How did you come to know May, what are your first memories of your first meeting with her, and what impression did she leave upon Your Ladyship?

— My acquaintance with May goes back to the year 1914. At that time we were organizing a series of lectures for ladies at the old Egyptian University. A varied number of gracious young ladies and married ladies used to frequent the atmosphere of those lectures, driven by longing for knowledge and led by a lamp of hope — that hope which stirred in the breast of the Egyptian woman at the height of her movement and at the dawn of her renaissance.

As I was on my way out of the lecture hall after the lecture had been delivered, my eye fell upon a young woman distinguished from all that feminine gathering by graceful movements and a light, charming spirit; from her two black eyes shot strong rays of piercing intelligence, sharp brilliance, and rare quickness of mind.

I saw this girl draw a little nearer to me, study me, and stop me, saying: "Madam Huda, I admire your project and appreciate the effort you are expending; therefore I place myself at your disposal. Do not think, madam, that I am too small to help or unable to assist... I am a writer and a poetess; I write in the newspapers and publish in the magazines. I am 'May' — and I cannot think, madam, but that you have read something of what I have written. Do you not know me??"

These frank words, full of literary courage, self-regard, and confidence of personality, and betokening at the same time a spirit brimming with pure intention and good purpose — these were what moved me to clasp that girl to my breast, and to kiss her with a kiss of admiration for her and of satisfaction with the nobility of her purpose and the honor of her aim.

And I expressed to that girl, who had offered herself in the service of our noble cause, my admiration at knowing her, my pleasure at seeing her, and my delight at her joining the ranks of our movement as a writer with her pen, an inspirer with her thought, a muse with her poetic gift...

Her youth did not prevent me from welcoming her adherence to us, nor from expecting of her great effort and great work.

3 — Dr. Taha Husayn

May's life had two aspects, the first of which is:

May's salon. As for May's salon, it was democratic — or say rather that it was open, and those who had not attained distinguished rank in Egyptian life were not turned away from it. I remember that I came into contact with May's salon only after my thesis on Abu al-'Ala' had been examined; May attended that examination, and attended some of the parties my colleagues gave for me at the time, and I asked her teacher and mine, Lutfi al-Sayyid, to present me in her salon. Thus I came to know her in that salon and frequented her on Tuesdays until I traveled to Europe. I returned to Egypt after a year and stayed there some months, and met May there on Tuesdays as I used to meet her before my journey.

Those who frequented this salon differed among themselves enormously: there were Egyptians, Syrians, and Europeans of all their various peoples; there were men and there were women; and they talked of everything and talked in different languages — in Arabic, French, and English especially — and sometimes they listened to a poem recited, or an essay read, or a piece of music played, or a song that pierced to the heart. I was granted the privilege of being among May's intimates, thanks to Mr. Lutfi al-Sayyid, and I would linger in the salon until the visitors departed. At that hour May would give herself over to us, and give herself over freely and generously, and we would hear of her conversation, her compositions, her playing, and her singing. It appears I shall never forget May's voice when she sang us a famous Lebanese song, "Ya Hanina," and sang to us in the different languages and in the different Arabic dialects as well!

As for the second aspect, it is the aspect of the May who preferred solitude and pressed seclusion upon herself. She went her way toward seclusion gently — or say she moved down that road by slow degrees at first, but by swift and insistent degrees at the last.

Her inclination toward seclusion began to show after she had lost her parents, and after grief had flooded her radiant soul. Yet her connection with people was not severed all at once; rather her meetings with them grew fewer, she avoided whatever occasioned such meetings, and she took to receiving people only by an appointment which they must request, the engagement books being consulted to fix it. And the engagement books grew stingier and stingier with such appointments, until meeting May was confined to her closest friends.

And these gatherings were, much of the time, bitter. For May was then in a phase of stinging grief, of gnawing pain, and of a pessimism that hastened to her as she hastened to it.

This seclusion which May preferred at the end of her life did not confine its effect to May alone; people knew of this seclusion, and they knew what pain May was enduring in it, and they thought about her and sought out all manner of explanations for it in May's mental life and in the literary ideals which May contemplated so much.

It may be strange to observe that May, with these two contradictory aspects of her life, was dealt a heedless law; and it is certain, too, that modern Arabic literature has profited and will profit from these two phases of May's life. God rest her soul.

4 — Abbas Mahmoud al-Aqqad

— What do you know of May's wariness in her social life?

— It seems to me that her excessive wariness accompanied her from the beginning of her youth, and then events made it more deeply rooted and more ramified, until at certain times she would trust no one, even the nearest of those closest to her. She was very often invited to

house parties given by her friends among the great families, and most of the time she would answer with an apology, because she disliked dancing parties in particular — despite her skill at dancing and her defense of it in what she wrote in her essays on Bahithat al-Badiya.

And it seems to me that she was formed by nature to hold fast and to endure pains patiently, quite apart from the spells of psychic distress she sometimes met with, which fostered in her the feeling of isolation, doubt, and wariness. Perhaps she inherited something of this from her mother, who held most firmly to her religion.

5 — The Shock of the News of Her Death

— What was the effect of the loss of May upon you, and how did you receive the news of her death?

— May's loss had a profound effect upon my soul and left a deep sorrow in my heart. Her death was a cruel shock. There is no doubt that for one such as May, in her literary station and her social station and her place in authorship and writing, a death in this manner counts as a cruel bereavement.

I read the notice of her death in al-Ahram, in the early morning; it was a sudden notice, a startling piece of news. Such was my stupefaction and emotion that I spoke on the telephone with Khalil Bey Mutran in the hope that he had some word of her death, and I asked him how "May" had died this sudden death, after we had reckoned on rest and quiet for her in her small, tranquil house. But hopes were disappointed and expectation was lost when we were taken unawares by her death, and by death's snatching her away from among us.

Had you seen her funeral you would have seen simplicity embodied in it. There was Ahmad Lutfi al-Sayyid Pasha — and I was with him — and Antoun Bey al-Jumayyil and Khalil Mutran Bey and a few of her friends. I was riding with Lutfi al-Sayyid Pasha in a car behind her bier. And when we reached those far, crushing abodes which part us every day from someone dear, and drew near her grave, Lutfi al-Sayyid Pasha stood over it and shed hot tears as they took her from our hands to deliver her to the stillness of death and the desolation of the grave, and to consign her body to the earth.

And there... in the abode of extinction, May the orator fell silent, and May the immortal lived on. We heard no voice of hers, nor did we hear anyone speak over her grave, nor was any voice raised in the church to eulogize her...

Stillness hung over everything, and silence covered all, and no tongue could loosen its knot. And the sight of the sun hidden away on that day added to the sorrow and grief of the funeral. Everything was sad, and the whole atmosphere breathed sorrow and grief. Her death was a cruel one, and we had hoped for her an ending other than that.