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CHAPTER
II. CAIRO AND THE MECCA PILGRIMAGE. THE
mosque
of Sultan Hassan, confessedly the most beautiful in Cairo, is also
perhaps the
most beautiful in the Moslem world. It was built at just that happy
moment when
Arabian art in Egypt, having ceased merely to appropriate or imitate,
had at
length evolved an original architectural style out of the heterogeneous
elements of Roman and early Christian edifices. The mosques of a few
centuries
earlier (as, for instance, that of Tulûn, which marks the
first departure from
the old Byzantine model) consisted of little more than a courtyard with
colonnades leading to a hall supported on a forest of pillars. A little
more
than a century later, and the national style had already experienced
the
beginnings of that prolonged eclipse which finally resulted in the
bastard
Neo-Byzantine Renaissance represented by the mosque of Mehemet Ali. But
the
mosque of Sultan Hassan, built ninety-seven years before the taking of
Constantinople, may justly be regarded as the highest point reached by
Saracenic art in Egypt after it had used up the Greek and Roman
material of
Memphis, and before its newborn originality became modified by
influences from
beyond the Bosphorus. Its pre-eminence is due neither to the greatness
of its
dimensions nor to the splendour of its materials. It is neither so
large as the
great mosque at Damascus, nor so rich in costly marbles as Saint Sophia
in
Constantinople; but in design, proportion, and a certain lofty grace
impossible
to describe, it surpasses these, and every other mosque, whether
original or
adapted, with which the writer is acquainted. The
whole
structure is purely national. Every line and curve in it, and every
inch of
detail, is in the best style of the best period of the Arabian school.
And
above all, it was designed expressly for its present purpose. The two
famous
mosques of Damascus and Constantinople having, on the contrary, been
Christian
churches, betray evidences of adaptation. In Saint Sophia, the space
once
occupied by the figure of the Redeemer may be distinctly traced in the
mosaic-work of the apse, filled in with gold tesseræ of later
date; while the
magnificent gates of the great mosque at Damascus are decorated, among
other
Christian emblems, with the sacramental chalice. But the mosque of
Sultan
Hassan, built by En Nasîr Hassan in the high and palmy days
of the Memlook
rule, is marred by no discrepancies. For a mosque it was designed, and
a mosque
it remains. Too soon it will be only a beautiful ruin. A number
of small streets having lately been demolished in this quarter, the
approach to
the mosque lies across a desolate open space littered with débris,
but
destined to be laid out as a public square. With this desirable end in
view,
some half dozen workmen were lazily loading as many camels with rubble,
which
is the Arab way of carting rubbish. If they persevere, and the Minister
of
Public Works continues to pay their wages with due punctuality, the
ground will
perhaps get cleared in eight or ten years’ time. Driving
up
with some difficulty to the foot of the great steps, which were crowded
with
idlers smoking and sleeping, we observed a long and apparently
fast-widening
fissure reaching nearly from top to bottom of the main wall of the
building,
close against the minaret. It looked like just such a rent as might be
caused
by a shock of earthquake, and, being still new to the East, we wondered
the government had not set to work to mend it. We had yet to learn that
nothing is
ever mended in Cairo. Here, as in Constantinople, new buildings spring
up
apace, but the old, no matter how venerable, are allowed to moulder
away, inch
by inch, till nothing remains but a heap of ruins. Going up
the steps and through a lofty hall, up some more steps and along a
gloomy
corridor, we came to the great court, before entering which, however,
we had to
take off our boots and put on slippers brought for the purpose. The
first sight
of this court is an architectural surprise. It is like nothing one has
seen before,
and its beauty equals its novelty. Imagine an immense marble
quadrangle, open
to the sky and enclosed within lofty walls, with, at each side, a vast
recess
framed in by a single arch. The quadrangle is more than 100 feet
square, and
the walls are more than 100 feet high. Each recess forms a spacious
hall for
rest and prayer, and all are matted; but that at the eastern end is
wider and
considerably deeper than the other three, and the noble arch that
encloses it
like the proscenium of a splendid stage, measures, according to
Fergusson, 69
feet 5 inches in the span. It looks much larger. This principal hall,
the floor
of which is raised one step at the upper end, measures 90 feet in depth
and 90
in height. The dais is covered with prayer-rugs, and contains the holy
niche
and the pulpit of the preacher. We observed that those who came up here
came
only to pray. Having prayed, they either went away or turned aside into
one of
the other recesses to rest. There was a charming fountain in the court,
with a dome-roof
as light and fragile-looking as a big bubble, at which each worshipper
performed his ablutions on coming in. This done, he left his slippers
on the
matting and trod the carpeted dais barefoot. This was
the first time we had seen Moslems at prayer, and we could not but be
impressed
by their profound and unaffected devotion. Some lay prostrate, their
foreheads
touching the ground; others were kneeling; others bowing in the
prescribed
attitudes of prayer. So absorbed were they, that not even our
unhallowed
presence seemed to disturb them. We did not then know that the pious
Moslem is
as devout out of the mosque as in it; or that it is his habit to pray
when the
appointed hours come round, no matter where he may be, or how occupied.
We soon
became so familiar, however, with this obvious trait of Mohammedan
life, that
it seemed quite a matter of course that the camel-driver should
dismount and
lay his forehead in the dust by the roadside; or the merchant spread
his
prayer-carpet on the narrow mastabah of his little shop in the public
bazaar;
or the boatman prostrate himself with his face to the east, as the sun
went
down behind the hills of the Libyan desert. While we
were admiring the spring of the roof and the intricate Arabesque
decorations of
the pulpit, a custode came up with a big key and invited us to visit
the tomb
of the founder. So we followed him into an enormous vaulted hall a
hundred feet
square, in the centre of which stood a plain, railed-off tomb, with an
empty
iron-bound coffer at the foot. We afterwards learned that for five
hundred
years – that is to say, ever since the death and burial of
Sultan Hassan – this
coffer had contained a fine copy of the Korân, traditionally
said to have been
written by Sultan Hassan’s own hand; but that the khedive,
who is collecting
choice and antique Arabic manuscripts., had only the other day sent an order
for its
removal. Nothing
can be bolder or more elegant than the proportions of this noble
sepulchral
hall, the walls of which are covered with tracery in low relief
incrusted with
discs and tesseræ of turquoise-coloured porcelain; while high
up, in order to
lead off the vaulting of the roof, the corners are rounded by means of
recessed
clusters of exquisite Arabesque woodwork, like pendent stalactites. But
the tesseræ
are fast falling out, and most of their places are vacant; and the
beautiful
woodwork hangs in fragments, tattered and cobwebbed, like time-worn
banners
which the first touch of a brush would bring down. Going
back
again from the tomb to the courtyard, we everywhere observed traces of
the same
dilapidation. The fountain, once a miracle of Saracenic ornament, was
fast
going to destruction. The rich marbles of its basement were cracked and
discoloured, its stuccoed cupola was flaking off piecemeal, its enamels
were
dropping out, its lace-like wood tracery shredding away by inches. Presently
a tiny brown and golden bird perched with pretty confidence on the
brink of the
basin, and having splashed, and drunk, and preened its feathers like a
true
believer at his ablutions, flew up to the top of the cupola and sang
deliciously. All else was profoundly still. Large spaces of light and
shadow
divided the quadrangle. The sky showed overhead as a square opening of
burning
solid blue; while here and there, reclining, praying, or quietly
occupied, a
number of turbaned figures were picturesquely scattered over the matted
floors
of the open halls around. Yonder sat a tailor cross-legged, making a
waistcoat;
near him, stretched on his face at full length, sprawled a basket-maker
with
his half-woven basket and bundle of rushes beside him; and here, close
against
the main entrance, lay a blind man and his dog; the master asleep, the
dog
keeping watch. It was, as I have said, our first mosque, and I well
remember
the surprise with which I saw that tailor sewing on his buttons, and
the
sleepers lying about in the shade. We did not then know that a
Mohammedan
mosque is as much a place of rest and refuge as of prayer; or that the
houseless Arab may take shelter there by night or day as freely as the
birds
may build their nests in the cornice, or the blind man’s dog
may share the cool
shade with his sleeping master. From the
mosque of this Memlook sovereign it is but a few minutes’
uphill drive to the
mosque of Mehemet Ali, by whose orders the last of that royal race were
massacred just sixty-four years ago.1 This mosque, built
within the
precincts
of the citadel on a spur of the Mokattam Hills overlooking the city, is
the
most conspicuous object in Cairo. Its attenuated minarets and clustered
domes
show from every point of view for miles around, and remain longer in
sight, as
one leaves, or returns to, Cairo, than any other landmark. It is a
spacious,
costly, gaudy, commonplace building, with nothing really beautiful
about it,
except the great marble courtyard and fountain. The inside, which is
entirely
built of Oriental alabaster, is carpeted with magnificent Turkey
carpets and
hung with innumerable cut-glass chandeliers, so that it looks like a
huge
vulgar drawing-room from which the furniture has been cleared out for
dancing. The view
from the outer platform is, however, magnificent. We saw it on a hazy
day, and
could not therefore distinguish the point of the Delta, which ought to
have
been visible on the north; but we could plainly see as far southward as
the pyramids of Sakkârah, and trace the windings of the Nile for
many miles across
the plain. The pyramids of Ghîzeh, on their daïs of
desert rock about twelve
miles off, looked, as they always do look from a distance, small and
unimpressive; but the great alluvial valley dotted over with mud
villages and
intersected by canals and tracts of palm forest; the shining river
specked with
sails; and the wonderful city, all flat roofs, cupolas, and minarets,
spread
out like an intricate model at one’s feet, were full of
interest and absorbed
our whole attention. Looking down upon it from this elevation, it is as
easy to
believe that Cairo contains four hundred mosques, as it is to stand on
the brow
of the Pincio and believe in the three hundred and sixty five churches
of
modern Rome. As we
came
away, they showed us the place in which the Memlook nobles, four
hundred and
seventy2 in number, were shot down like mad dogs in a trap,
that fatal
first of
March A.D. 1811. We saw the upper gate which was shut behind them as
they came
out from the presence of the Pasha, and the lower gate which was shut
before
them to prevent their egress. The walls of the narrow roadway in which
the
slaughter was done are said to be pitted with bullet-marks; but we
would not
look for them. I have
already said that I do not very distinctly remember the order of our
sight-seeing in Cairo, for the reason that we saw some places before we
went up
the river, some after we came back, and some (as for instance the
Museum at
Boulak) both before and after, and indeed as often as possible. But I
am at
least quite certain that we witnessed a performance of howling
dervishes, and
the departure of the caravan for Mecca, before starting. Of all
the
things that people do by way of pleasure, the pursuit of a procession
is surely
one of the most wearisome. They generally go a long way to see it; they
wait a
weary time; it is always late; and when at length it does come, it is
over in a
few minutes. The present pageant fulfilled all these conditions in a
superlative degree. We breakfasted uncomfortably early, started soon
after
half-past seven, and had taken up our position outside the
Báb en-Nasr, on the
way to the desert, by half-past eight. Here we sat for nearly three
hours,
exposed to clouds of dust and a burning sun, with nothing to do but to
watch
the crowd and wait patiently. All Shepheard’s Hotel was
there, and every
stranger in Cairo; and we all had smart open carriages drawn by
miserable
screws and driven by bare-legged Arabs. These Arabs, by the way, are
excellent
whips, and the screws get along wonderfully; but it seems odd at first,
and not
a little humiliating, to be whirled along behind a coachman whose only
livery
consists of a rag of dirty white turban, a scant tunic just reaching to
his
knees, and the top boots with which nature has provided him. Here,
outside the walls, the crowd increased momentarily. The place was like
a fair
with provision-stalls, swings, story-tellers, serpent-charmers,
cake-sellers,
sweetmeat-sellers, sellers of sherbet, water, lemonade, sugared nuts,
fresh
dates, hard-boiled eggs, oranges, and sliced water-melon. Veiled women
carrying
little bronze Cupids of children astride upon the right shoulder,
swarthy
Egyptians, coal-black Abyssinians, Arabs and Nubians of every shade
from
golden-brown to chocolate, fellahs, dervishes, donkey-boys, street
urchins, and
beggars with every imaginable deformity, came and went; squeezed
themselves in
and out among the carriages; lined the road on each side of the great
towered
gateway; swarmed on the top of every wall; and filled the air with
laughter, a
Babel of dialects, and those odours of Araby that are inseparable from
an
Eastern crowd. A harmless, unsavoury, good-humoured, inoffensive,
throng, one glance
at which was enough to put to flight all one’s preconceived
notions about
Oriental gravity of demeanour! For the truth is that gravity is by no
means an
Oriental characteristic. Take a Mohammedan at his devotions, and he is
a model
of religious abstraction; bargain with him for a carpet, and he is as
impenetrable as a judge; but see him in his hours of relaxation, or on
the
occasion of a public holiday, and he is as garrulous and full of
laughter as a
big child. Like a child, too, he loves noise and movement for the mere
sake of
noise and movement, and looks upon swings and fireworks as the height
of human
felicity. Now swings and fireworks are Arabic for bread and circuses,
and our
pleb’s passion for them is insatiable. He not only indulges
in them upon every
occasion of public rejoicing, but calls in their aid to celebrate the
most
solemn festivals of his religion. It so happened that we afterwards
came in the
way of several Mohammedan festivals both in Egypt and Syria, and we
invariably
found the swings at work all day and the fireworks going off every
evening. To-day,
the swings outside the Báb en-Nasr were never idle. Here
were creaking Russian
swings hung with little painted chariots for the children; and plain
rope
swings, some of them as high as Haman’s gallows, for the men.
For my own part,
I know no sight much more comic and incongruous than the serene
enjoyment with
which a bearded, turbaned, middle-aged Egyptian squats upon his heels
on the
tiny wooden seat of one of these enormous swings, and, holding on to
the
side-ropes for dear life, goes careering up forty feet high into the
air at
every turn. At a
little before midday, when the heat and glare were becoming
intolerable, the
swings suddenly ceased going, the crowd surged in the direction of the
gate,
and a distant drumming announced the approach of the procession. First
came a
string of baggage camels laden with tent-furniture; then some two
hundred
pilgrims on foot, chanting passages from the Korân; then a
regiment of Egyptian
infantry, the men in a coarse white linen uniform consisting of coat,
baggy
trousers and gaiters, with cross-belts and cartouche-boxes of plain
black
leather, and the red fez, or tarboosh, on the head. Next after these
came more
pilgrims, followed by a body of dervishes carrying green banners
embroidered
with Arabic sentences in white and yellow; then a native cavalry
regiment
headed by a general and four colonels in magnificent gold embroidery
and
preceded by an excellent military band; then another band and a second
regiment
of infantry; then more colonels, followed by a regiment of lancers
mounted on
capital grey horses and carrying lances topped with small red and green
pennants. After these had gone by there was a long stoppage, and then,
with
endless breaks and interruptions, came a straggling irregular crowd of
pilgrims, chiefly of the fellah class, beating small darabukkehs, or
native
drums. Those about us estimated their number at two thousand. And now,
their
guttural chorus audible long before they arrived in sight, came the
howling
dervishes – a ragged, wild-looking, ruffianly set, rolling
their heads from
side to side, and keeping up a hoarse incessant cry of
“Allàh! Allàh!
Allàh!”
Of these there may have been a couple of hundred. The sheiks of the
principal
orders of dervishes came next in order, superbly dressed in robes of
brilliant
colours embroidered with gold, and mounted on magnificent Arabs. Finest
of all,
in a green turban and scarlet mantle, rode the Sheik of the Hasaneyn,
who is a
descendant of the Prophet; but the most important, the Sheik el
Bekree, who is
a sort of Egyptian Archbishop of Canterbury and head of all the
dervishes, came
last, riding a white Arab with gold-embroidered housings. He was a
placid-looking old man, and wore a violet robe and an enormous red and
green
turban. This
very
reverend personage was closely followed by the chief of the
carpet-makers’
guild – a handsome man sitting sidewise on a camel. Then
happened another break in the procession – an eager pause
– a gathering murmur.
And then, riding a gaunt dromedary at a rapid trot, his fat sides
shaking, and
his head rolling in a stupid drunken way at every step, appeared a
bloated,
half-naked Silenus, with long fuzzy black locks and a triple chin, and
no other
clothing than a pair of short white drawers and red slippers. A shiver
of
delight ran through the crowd at sight of this holy man – the
famous Sheik of
the Camel (Sheik el-Gemel), the “great, good priest” – the idol of the people.
We afterwards learned that this was his twentieth pilgrimage, and that
he was
supposed to fast, roll his head, and wear nothing but this pair of
loose
drawers, all the way to and from Mecca. But the
crowning excitement was yet to come, and the rapture with which the
crowd had
greeted the Sheik el-Gemel was as nothing compared with their ecstasy
when the
Mahmal, preceded by another group of mounted officers and borne by a
gigantic
camel, was seen coming through the gateway. The women held up their
children;
the men swarmed up the scaffoldings of the swings and behind the
carriages.
They screamed; they shouted; they waved handkerchiefs and turbans; they
were
beside themselves with excitement. Meanwhile the camel, as if conscious
of the
dignity of his position and the splendour of his trappings, came on
slowly and
ponderously with his nose in the air, and passed close before our
horses’
heads. We could not possibly have had a better view of the Mahmal;
which is
nothing but a sort of cage, or pagoda, of gilded tracery very richly
decorated.
In the days of the Memlooks, the Mahmal represented the litter of the
Sultan,
and went empty, like a royal carriage at a public funeral;3
but we were
told
that it now carried the tribute-carpet sent annually by the
carpet-makers of
Cairo to the tomb of the Prophet. This
closed the procession. As the camel passed, the crowd surged in, and
everything
like order was at an end. The carriages all made at once for the Gate,
so
meeting the full tide of the outpouring crowd and causing unimaginable
confusion. Some stuck in the sand half-way – our own among
the number; and all
got into an inextricable block in the narrow part just inside the gate.
Hereupon the drivers abused each other, and the crowd got impatient,
and some
Europeans got pelted. Coming
back, we met two or three more regiments. The men, both horse and foot,
seemed
fair average specimens, and creditably disciplined. They rode better
than they
marched, which was to be expected. The uniform is the same for cavalry
and
infantry throughout the service; the only difference being that the
former wear
short black riding boots, and the latter, Zouave gaiters of white
linen. They
are officered up to a certain point by Egyptians; but the commanding
officers
and the staff (among whom are enough colonels and generals to form an
ordinary
regiment) are chiefly Europeans and Americans. It had
seemed, while the procession was passing, that the proportion of
pilgrims was
absurdly small when compared with the display of military; but this,
which is
called the departure of the caravan, is in truth only the procession of
the
sacred carpet from Cairo to the camp outside the walls; and the troops
are
present merely as part of the pageant. The true departure takes place
two days
later. The pilgrims then muster in great numbers; but the soldiery is
reduced
to a small escort. It was said that seven thousand souls went out this
year
from Cairo and its neighbourhood. The
procession took place on Thursday the 21st day of the Mohammedan month
of
Showwál, which was our 11th of December. The next day,
Friday, being the
Mohammedan Sabbath, we went to the Convent of the Howling Dervishes,
which lies
beyond the walls in a quiet nook between the riverside and the part
known as
Old Cairo. We
arrived
a little after two, and passing through a courtyard shaded by a great
sycamore,
were ushered into a large, square, whitewashed hall with a dome-roof
and a
neatly-matted floor. The place in its arrangements resembled none of
the
mosques that we had yet seen. There was, indeed, nothing to arrange
– no
pulpit, no holy niche, no lamps, no prayer-carpets; nothing but a row
of
cane-bottomed chairs at one end, some of which were already occupied by
certain
of our fellow-guests at Shepheard’s Hotel. A party of some
forty or fifty
wild-looking dervishes were squatting in a circle at the opposite side
of the
hall, their outer kuftâns and queer pyramidal hats lying in a
heap close by. Being
accomodated with chairs among the other spectators, we waited for
whatever
might happen. More dervishes and more English dropped in from time to
time. The
new dervishes took off their caps and sat down among the rest, laughing
and
talking together at their ease. The English sat in a row, shy,
uncomfortable,
and silent; wondering whether they ought to behave as if they were in
church,
and mortally ashamed of their feet. For we had all been obliged to take
off or
cover our boots before going in, and those who had forgotten to bring
slippers
had their feet tied up in pocket-handkerchiefs. A long
time went by thus. At last, when the number of dervishes had increased
to about
seventy, and every one was tired of waiting, eight musicians came in
– two
trumpets, two lutes, a cocoa-nut fiddle, a tambourine, and two drums.
Then the
dervishes, some of whom were old and white-haired and some mere boys,
formed
themselves into a great circle, shoulder to shoulder; the band struck
up a
plaintive, discordant air; and a grave middle-aged man, placing himself
in the
centre of the ring, and inclining his head at each repetition, began to
recite the
name of Allàh. Softly
at
first, and one by one, the dervishes took up the chant: –
“Allàh! Allàh!
Allàh!” Their heads and their voices rose and fell
in unison. The dome above
gave back a hollow echo. There was something strange and solemn in the
ceremony. Presently,
however, the trumpets brayed louder – the voices grew hoarser
– the heads bowed
lower – the name of Allàh rang out faster and
faster, fiercer and fiercer. The
leader, himself cool and collected, began sensibly accelerating the
time of the
chorus; and it became evident that the performers were possessed by a
growing
frenzy. Soon the whole circle was madly rocking to and fro; the voices
rose to
a hoarse scream; and only the trumpets were audible above the din. Now
and then
a dervish would spring up convulsively some three or four feet above
the heads
of the others; but for the most part they stood rooted firmly to one
spot – now
bowing their heads almost to their feet – now flinging
themselves so violently
back, that we, standing behind, could see their faces foreshortened
upside
down; and this with such incredible rapidity, that their long hair had
scarcely
time either to rise or fall, but remained as if suspended in mid-air.
Still the
frenzy mounted; still the pace quickened. Some shrieked –
some groaned – some,
unable to support themselves any longer, were held up in their places
by the
bystanders. All were mad for the time being. Our own heads seemed to be
going
round at last; and more than one of the ladies present looked longingly
towards
the door. It was, in truth, a horrible sight, and needed only darkness
and
torchlight to be quite diabolical. At
length,
just as the fury was at its height and the very building seemed to be
rocking
to and fro above our heads, one poor wretch staggered out of the circle
and
fell writhing and shrieking close against our feet. At the same moment,
the
leader clapped his hands; the performers, panting and exhausted,
dropped into a
sitting posture; and the first zikr, as it is called, came abruptly to
an end.
Some few, however, could not stop immediately, but kept on swaying and
muttering to themselves; while the one in the fit, having ceased to
shriek, lay
out stiff and straight, apparently in a state of coma. There
was
a murmur of relief and a simultaneous rising among the spectators. It
was
announced that another zikr, with a reinforcement of fresh dervishes,
would
soon begin; but the Europeans had had enough of it, and few remained
for the
second performance. Going
out,
we paused beside the poor fellow on the floor, and asked if nothing
could be
done for him. “He
is
struck by Mohammed,” said gravely an Egyptian official who
was standing by. At that
moment, the leader came over, knelt down beside him, touched him
lightly on the
head and breast, and whispered something in his ear. The man was then
quite
rigid, and white as death. We waited, however, and after a few more
minutes saw
him struggle back into a dazed, half-conscious state, when he was
helped to his
feet and led away by his friends. The
courtyard as we came out was full of dervishes sitting on cane benches
in the
shade, and sipping coffee. The green leaves rustled overhead, with
glimpses of
intensely blue sky between; and brilliant patches of sunshine flickered
down
upon groups of wild-looking, half-savage figures in parti-coloured
garments. It
was one of those ready-made subjects that the sketcher passes by with a
sigh,
but which live in his memory for ever. From
hence, being within a few minutes’ drive of Old Cairo, we
went on as far as the
Mosque of ‘Amr – an uninteresting ruin standing
alone among the rubbish-mounds
of the first Mohammedan capital of Egypt. It is constructed on the plan
of a
single quadrangle 225 feet square, surrounded by a covered colonnade
one range
of pillars in depth on the west (which is the side of the entrance);
four on
the north; three on the south; and six on the east, which is the place
of
prayer, and contains three holy niches and the pulpit. The columns, 245
in
number, have been brought from earlier Roman and Byzantine buildings.
They are
of various marbles and have all kinds of capitals. Some being
originally too
short, have been stilted on disproportionately high bases; and in one
instance
the necessary height has been obtained by adding a second capital on
the top of
the first. We observed one column of that rare black and white speckled
marble
of which there is a specimen in the pulpit of St. Mark’s in
Venice; and one of
the holy niches contains some fragments of Byzantine mosaics. But the
whole
building seems to have been put together in a barbarous way, and would
appear
to owe its present state of dilapidation more to bad workmanship than
to time.
Many of the pillars, especially on the western side, are fallen and
broken; the
octagonal fountain in the centre is a roofless ruin; and the little
minaret at
the south-east corner is no longer safe. Apart,
however, from its poverty of design and detail, the Mosque of
‘Amr is
interesting as a point of departure in the history of Saracenic
architecture.
It was built by ‘Amr Ebn el-’As, the Arab conqueror
of Egypt, in the
twenty-first year of the Hegira (A.D. 642), just ten years after the
death of
Mohammed; and it is the earliest Saracenic edifice in Egypt. We were
glad,
therefore, to have seen it for this reason, if for no other. But it is
a
barren, dreary place; and the glare reflected from all sides of the
quadrangle
was so intense that we were thankful to get away again into the narrow
streets
beside the river. Here we
presently fell in with a wedding procession consisting of a crowd of
men, a
band, and some three or four hired carriages full of veiled women, one
of whom
was pointed out as the bride. The bridegroom walked in the midst of the
men,
who seemed to be teasing him, drumming round him, and opposing his
progress; while
high above the laughter, the shouting, the jingle of tambourines and
the
thrumming of darabukkehs, was heard the shrill squeal of some
instrument that
sounded exactly like a bagpipe. It was a
brilliant afternoon, and we ended our day’s work, I remember,
with a drive on
the Shubra road and a glance at the gardens of the khedive’s
summer palace. The
Shubra road is the Champs Elysées of Cairo, and is thronged
every day from four
to half-past six. Here little sheds of roadside cafés
alternate with smart modern
villas; ragged fellâheen on jaded donkeys trot side by side
with elegant
attachés on high-stepping Arabs; while tourists in hired
carriages, Jew bankers
in unexceptionable phaetons, veiled hareems in London-built broughams,
Italian
shopkeepers in preposterously fashionable toilettes, grave sheykhs on
magnificent Cairo asses, officers in frogged and braided frocks, and
English
girls in tall hats and close-fitting habits followed by the inevitable
little
solemn-looking English groom, pass and repass, precede and follow each
other,
in one changing, restless, heterogeneous stream, the like of which is
to be
seen in no other capital in the world. The sons of the khedive drive
here
daily, always in separate carriages and preceded by four
Saïses and four guards.
They are of all ages and sizes, from the Hereditary Prince, a pale,
gentlemanly-looking young man of four or five and twenty, down to one
tiny,
imperious atom of about six, who is dressed like a little man, and is
constantly leaning out of his carriage-window and shrilly abusing his
coachman.4 Apart,
however, from those who frequent it, the Shubra road is a really fine
drive,
broad, level, raised some six or eight feet above the cultivated plain,
closely
planted on both sides with acacias and sycamore fig-trees, and reaching
straight away for four miles out of Cairo, counting from the railway
terminus
to the summer palace. The carriage-way is about as wide as the road
across Hyde
Park which connects Bayswater with Kensington; and towards the Shubra
end, it
runs close beside the Nile. Many of the sycamores are of great size and
quite
patriarchal girth. Their branches meet overhead nearly all the way,
weaving a
delicious shade and making a cool tunnel of the long perspective. We did
not
stay long in the khedive’s gardens, for it was already
getting late when we
reached the gates; but we went far enough to see that they were
tolerably well
kept, not over formal, and laid out with a view to masses of foliage,
shady
paths, and spaces of turf inlaid with flower-beds, after the style of
the
famous Sarntheim and Moser gardens at Botzen in the Tyrol. Here are sont trees
(Acacia Nilotica)
of unusual size, powdered all over with little
feathery tufts of yellow blossom; orange and lemon trees in abundance;
heaps of
little green limes; bananas bearing heavy pendent bunches of ripe
fruit;
winding thickets of pomegranates, oleanders, and salvias; and great
beds, and
banks, and trellised walks of roses. Among these, however, I observed
none of
the rarer varieties. As for the pointsettia, it grows in Egypt to a
height of
twenty feet, and bears blossoms of such size and colour as we in
England can
form no idea of. We saw large trees of it both here and at Alexandria
that
seemed as if bending beneath a mantle of crimson stars, some of which
cannot
have measured less than twenty-two inches in diameter. A large
Italian fountain in a rococo style is the great sight of the place. We
caught a
glimpse of it through the trees, and surprised the gardener who was
showing us
over by declining to inspect it more nearly. He could not understand
why we
preferred to give our time to the shrubs and flower-beds. Driving
back presently towards Cairo with a big handful of roses apiece, we saw
the sun
going down in an aureole of fleecy pink and golden clouds, the Nile
flowing by
like a stream of liquid light, and a little fleet of sailing boats
going up to
Boulak before a puff of north wind that had sprung up as the sun neared
the
horizon. That puff of north wind, those gliding sails, had a keen
interest for
us now, and touched us nearly; because – I have delayed this
momentous
revelation till the last moment – because we were to start
to-morrow! And this
is why I have been able, in the midst of so much that was new and
bewildering,
to remember quite circumstantially the dates, and all the events
connected with
these last two days. They were to be our last two days in Cairo; and
to-morrow
morning, Saturday the 13th of December, we were to go on board a
certain
dahabeeyah now lying off the iron bridge at Boulak, therein to begin
that
strange aquatic life to which we had been looking forward with so many
hopes
and fears, and towards which we had been steering through so many
preliminary
difficulties. But the
difficulties were all over now, and everything was settled; though not
in the
way we had at first intended. For in place of a small boat, we had
secured one
of the largest on the river; and instead of going alone, we had decided
to
throw in our lot with that of three other travellers. One of these
three was
already known to the writer. The other two, friends of the first, were
on their
way out from Europe, and were not expected in Cairo for another week.
We knew
nothing of them but their names. Meanwhile L.----- and the writer, assuming sole possession of the dahabeeyah, were
about to
start ten days in advance; it being their intention to push on as far
as Rhoda
(the ultimate point then reached by the Nile railway), and there to
await the
arrival of the rest of the party. Now Rhoda (more correctly Roda) is
just one
hundred and eighty miles south of Cairo; and we calculated upon seeing
the
Sakkârah pyramids, the Turra quarries, the tombs of Beni
Hassan, and the famous
grotto of the Colossus on the Sledge, before our fellow-travellers
should be
due. “It
depends
on the wind, you know,” said our dragoman, with a lugubrious
smile. We knew that it depended on the wind; but what then? In Egypt, the wind is supposed always to blow from the north at this time of the year, and we had ten good days at our disposal. The observation was clearly irrelevant. _____________________1 Now,
seventy-seven years ago; the first edition of this book having been
published
thirteen years ago. [Note to second edition.] 2 One
only
is said to have escaped – a certain Emîn Bey, who
leaped his horse over a gap
in the wall, alighted safely in the piazza below, and galloped away
into the
desert. The place of this famous leap continued to be shown for many
years, but
there are no gaps in the wall now, the citadel being the only place in
Cairo
which is kept in thorough repair. 3
“It is
related that the Sultan Ez-Zahir Beybars, King of Egypt, was the first
who sent
a Mahmal with the caravan of pilgrims to Mecca, in the year of the
Flight 670
(A.D. 1272) or 675; but this custom, it is generally said, had its
origin a few
years before his accession to the throne. Sheger-ed-Durr, a beautiful
Turkish
female slave, who became the favorite wife of the Sultan
Es-Sáleh Negm-ed-Deen,
and on the death of his son (with whom terminated the dynasty of the
house of
the Eiyoob) caused herself to be acknowledged as Queen of Egypt,
performed the
pilgrimage in a magnificent ‘hódag,’ or
covered litter, borne by a camel; and
for several successive years her empty
‘hódag’ was sent with the caravan,
merely for the sake of state. Hence, succeeding princes of Egypt sent
with each
year’s caravan of pilgrims a kind of
‘hódag’ (which received the name of
Mahmal) as an emblem of royalty.” – "The
Modern Egyptians," by E. W. Lane,
chap. xxiv. London, 1860. 4 The hereditary prince, it need scarcely be said, is the present khedive,
Tewfik
Pasha. [Note to second edition.] |
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