...And Nashwa sank, in a leap of delight, onto the soft armchair, then let her head fall back in something of joy, or of feminine coquetry, closing her eyes in a dreamy way while her hands set about drawing the letter from its envelope.
She read it twice and three times, and it seemed to her that she was looking down from a great height upon a virgin world calling out to whoever would hear, with a happy smile upon her lips:
Life is beautiful, and the most beautiful thing in it now is these enchanting verses in her hands — these verses that cast their golden veil over the sorrows of the world, so that she sees of it nothing but radiance, nothing but this face with its glances strong in gentleness, serene in strength.
And she returns once more to the reading of the beloved letter, and the visions return, carrying her tenderly and gently to set her down before him anew; she sees him from where he does not see her, and knows his secrets from where he does not feel it...
And she savors this position, and goes on, in a kind of delicious mischief, looking at him with laughing eyes; and when she gazes at him long, a deep sigh escapes her and she looks up at him with dazed eyes; and before long she feels a hard pressure — she knows not whether upon her love or upon her pride — and she stares at him with angry eyes.
With the speed of lightning the angry glances turn to the letter, and she reads it with another eye than the one she read it with before, and understands it with another mind than the one she understood it with a moment ago, and examines it with another heart
than the one she carried between her sides a few minutes past:
She pauses a little over certain sentences and recites them in a low voice with the panting of a chilled weariness in it:
"No, my adored one; no, my cherished wife: let my affairs not trouble you at all, for I am content and happy so long as you are so. Be at ease in your soft refuge, where the flocks of your companions flutter about you, singing and warbling; and leave me here to work for your sake, braving dangers, paying no heed to this thing people call a war against the days, and which I call a struggle filled with every kind of temptation. Leave me alone and forlorn, for the hope of meeting you, however long its term, fills my heart with devotion, and fills it with patience and strength."
And there appeared to her a pale phantom, at whom her husband glances from the corner of his eye while he blows the smoke of his cigarette high into the air with a calm nervousness; and she began to study the phantom's delicate features — and behold, she sees for the first time that in the dreaming glances lie the tears of deprivation, that between the full lips lie the sighs of one who burns, and that in the loving bend of the head lies a submissive acquiescence. And behold the tall figure with the slender waist, coming and going before the husband to do the work of the house — and his work above all — with mechanical speed and a lively bound; and behold, she herself is staring at him with astonished, tired eyes; then suddenly she springs to her feet and paces, as though in her train marched thousands of the soldiers of the jinn, to wage a raging war upon all men — these men whom the new fascinates, whatever its
shape, its kind, or its price; whom the novel charms even when it cheapens itself — heedless of any bond, faithless to any conscience.
And her husband is of that covetous kind whom beauty captivates wherever he finds it; and it reveals itself to him, too, in a flower of brilliant color, or a sea intensely blue, or a moon drawing near its setting, or a dark and quiet night, or the soft cry of a bird, or the smile of a child, or a plaintive, artless melody.
How often he stopped her at the roadside to point out to her the hiding-place of beauty — as he put it — in a corner of one of the buildings.
And she pictures him now in one of his moments with her in the street: she was on his arm when a cry of admiration escaped him, and he clung to her, imploring, to draw her attention to a young beauty who had passed before her, in whose eyes the innocence of childhood had gathered, and in whose glance was the childlikeness of womanhood.
And she pictures him likewise as he talks to people: how he lingers over the polishing of his sentences, how splendid expression captivates him, so that he pauses at one of his phrases to let his gesture help him create the ornate speech he aspires to, pouring it out deliberately into a polished mold.
Why then, this being his way, has he never gone so far as to utter a single word about this maidservant, at whom she never sees him look except from the corner of his eye? Has nothing in her captivated him at all? Or does this silence hide what it hides?
And those concealed tears that overflowed from the maid's eyes the day she asked her why she had left her old master's house — without any answer? And those constant sighs she heaves from the depths, careless of critic or reprover?
Is there not in all this something to catch the husband's eye, so that he might make a single comment — he who is famous for his many critical comments?