LIFE ON THE NILE.
Independence of Nile Life—The Dahabiyeh—Our Servants—Our
Residence—Our Manner of Living—The Climate—The
Natives—Costume—Our Sunset Repose—My Friend—A Sensuous Life
Defended.
——“The life thou seek’st
Thou’lt find beside the Eternal Nile.”—MOORE’S ALCIPHRON.
We hear much said by tourists who have visited Egypt, concerning the
comparative pains and pleasures of life on the Nile, and their decisions
are as various as their individual characters. Four out of every five
complain of the monotony and tedium of the voyage, and pour forth
touching lamentations over the annoyance of rats and cockroaches, the
impossibility of procuring beef-steak, or the difficulty of shooting
crocodiles. Some of them are wholly impermeable to the influences of the
climate, scenery and ruins of Egypt, and carry to the Nubian frontier
the airs of Broadway or Bond-street. I have heard such a one say: “This
seeing the Nile is a nice thing _to have gotten over_, but it is a great
bore while you are about it.” Such is the spirit of those travelling
snobs (of all nations), by some of whom sacred Egypt is profaned every
winter. They are unworthy to behold the glories of the Nile, and if I had
the management of Society, they never should. A palm-tree is to them a
good post to shoot a pigeon from, Dendera is a “rum old concern,” and a
crocodile is better than Karnak.
There are a few, however, who will acknowledge the truth of the picture
which follows, and which was written in the cabin of the Cleopatra,
immediately after our arrival in Upper Egypt. As it is a faithful
transcript of my Nilotic life, I have deviated from the regular course of
my narrative, in order to give it without change:—
The Nile is the Paradise of Travel. I thought I had already fathomed
all the depths of enjoyment which the traveller’s restless life could
reach—enjoyment more varied and exciting, but far less serene and
enduring than that of a quiet home—but here I have reached a fountain
too pure and powerful to be exhausted. I never before experienced such
a thorough deliverance from all the petty annoyances of travel in other
lands, such perfect contentment of spirit, such entire abandonment to the
best influences of nature. Every day opens with a _jubilate_, and closes
with a thanksgiving. If such a balm and blessing as this life has been to
me, thus far, can be felt twice in one’s existence, there must be another
Nile somewhere in the world.
Other travellers undoubtedly make other experiences and take away other
impressions. I can even conceive circumstances which would almost
destroy the pleasure of the journey. The same exquisitely sensitive
temperament which in our case has not been disturbed by a single untoward
incident, might easily be kept in a state of constant derangement by an
unsympathetic companion, a cheating dragoman, or a fractious crew. There
are also many trifling _desagrémens_, inseparable from life in Egypt,
which some would consider a source of annoyance; but as we find fewer
than we were prepared to meet, we are not troubled thereby. Our enjoyment
springs from causes so few and simple, that I scarcely know how to make
them suffice for the effect, to those who have never visited the Nile.
It may be interesting to such to be made acquainted with our manner of
living, in detail.
In the first place, we are as independent of all organized Governments as
a ship on the open sea. (The Arabs call the Nile _El bahr_, “the sea.”)
We are on board our own chartered vessel, which must go where we list,
the captain and sailors being strictly bound to obey us. We sail under
national colors, make our own laws for the time being, are ourselves the
only censors over our speech and conduct, and shall have no communication
with the authorities on shore, unless our subjects rebel. Of this we have
no fear, for we commenced by maintaining strict discipline, and as we
make no unreasonable demands, are always cheerfully obeyed. Indeed, the
most complete harmony exists between the rulers and the ruled, and though
our government is the purest form of despotism, we flatter ourselves that
it is better managed than that of the Model Republic.
Our territory, to be sure, is not very extensive. The _Cleopatra_ is a
_dahabiyeh_, seventy feet long by ten broad. She has two short masts in
the bow and stern, the first upholding the _trinkeet_, a lateen sail
nearly seventy feet in length. The latter carries the _belikôn_, a small
sail, and the American colors. The narrow space around the foremast
belongs to the crew, who cook their meals in a small brick furnace, and
sit on the gunwale, beating a drum and tambourine and singing for hours
in interminable choruses, when the wind blows fair. If there is no wind,
half of them are on shore, tugging us slowly along the banks with a long
tow-rope, and singing all day long: “_Ayà hamàm—ayà hamàm!_” If we strike
on a sand-bank, they jump into the river and put their shoulders against
the hull, ringing: “_hay-haylee sah!_” If the current is slow, they ship
the oars and pull us up stream, singing so complicated a refrain that
it is impossible to write it with other than Arabic characters. There
are eight men and a boy, besides our stately raïs, Hassan Abd el-Sadek,
and the swarthy pilot, who greets us every morning with a whole round of
Arabic salutations.
Against an upright pole which occupies the place of a main-mast, stands
our kitchen, a high wooden box, with three furnaces. Here our cook,
Salame, may be seen at all times, with the cowl of a blue capote drawn
over his turban, preparing the marvellous dishes, wherein his delight is
not less than ours. Salame, like a skilful artist, as he is, husbands his
resources, and each day astonishes us with new preparations, so that, out
of few materials, he has attained the grand climax of all art—variety
in unity. Achmet, my faithful dragoman, has his station here, and keeps
one eye on the vessel and one on the kitchen, while between the two he
does not relax his protecting care for us. The approach to the cabin is
flanked by our provision chests, which will also serve as a breastwork
in case of foreign aggression. A huge filter-jar of porous earthenware
stands against the back of the kitchen. We keep our fresh butter and
vegetables in a box under it, where the sweet Nile-water drips cool
and clear into an earthen basin. Our bread and vegetables, in an open
basket of palm-blades, are suspended beside it, and the roof of the cabin
supports our poultry-yard and pigeon-house. Sometimes (but not often) a
leg of mutton may be seen hanging from the ridge-pole, which extends over
the deck as a support to the awning.
The cabin, or Mansion of the Executive Powers, is about twenty-five feet
long. Its floor is two feet below the deck, and its ceiling five feet
above, so that we are not cramped or crowded in any particular. Before
the entrance is a sort of portico, with a broad, cushioned seat on each
side, and side-awnings to shut out the sun. This place is devoted to
pipes and meditation. We throw up the awnings, let the light pour in
on all sides, and look out on the desert mountains while we inhale the
incense of the East. Our own main cabin is about ten feet long, and newly
painted of a brilliant blue color. A broad divan, with cushions, extends
along each side, serving as a sofa by day, and a bed by night. There are
windows, blinds, and a canvas cover at the sides, so that we can regulate
our light and air as we choose. In the middle of the cabin is our table
and two camp stools, while shawls, capotes, pistols, sabre and gun are
suspended from the walls. A little door at the further end opens into
a wash-room, beyond which is a smaller cabin with beds, which we have
alloted to Achmet’s use. Our cook sleeps on deck, with his head against
the provision chest. The raïs and pilot sleep on the roof of our cabin,
where the latter sits all day, holding the long arm of the rudder, which
projects forward over the cabin from the high end of the stern.
Our manner of life is simple, and might even be called monotonous, but
we have never found the greatest variety of landscape and incident so
thoroughly enjoyable. The scenery of the Nile, thus far, scarcely changes
from day to day, in its forms and colors, but only in their disposition
with regard to each other. The shores are either palm-groves, fields of
cane and dourra, young wheat, or patches of bare sand, blown out from
the desert. The villages are all the same agglomerations of mud-walls,
the tombs of the Moslem saints are the same white ovens, and every
individual camel and buffalo resembles its neighbor in picturesque
ugliness. The Arabian and Libyan Mountains, now sweeping so far into
the foreground that their yellow cliffs overhang the Nile, now receding
into the violet haze of the horizon, exhibit little difference of
height, hue, or geological formation. Every new scene is the turn of a
kaleidoscope, in which the same objects are grouped in other relations,
yet always characterized by the most perfect harmony. These slight, yet
ever-renewing changes, are to us a source of endless delight. Either from
the pure atmosphere, the healthy life we lead, or the accordant tone of
our spirits, we find ourselves unusually sensitive to all the slightest
touches, the most minute rays of that grace and harmony which bathes
every landscape in cloudless sunshine. The various groupings of the
palms, the shifting of the blue evening shadows on the rose-hued mountain
walls, the green of the wheat and sugar-cane, the windings of the great
river, the alternations of wind and calm—each of these is enough to
content us, and to give every day a different charm from that which went
before. We meet contrary winds, calms and sand-banks without losing our
patience, and even our excitement in the swiftness and grace with which
our vessel scuds before the north-wind is mingled with a regret that our
journey is drawing so much the more swiftly to its close. A portion of
the old Egyptian repose seems to be infused into our natures, and lately,
when I saw my face in a mirror, I thought I perceived in its features
something of the patience and resignation of the Sphinx.
Although, in order to enjoy this life as much as possible, we subject
ourselves to no arbitrary rules, there is sufficient regularity in our
manner of living. We rise before the sun, and after breathing the cool
morning air half an hour, drink a cup of coffee and go ashore for a
walk, unless the wind is very strong in our favor. My friend, who is an
enthusiastic sportsman and an admirable shot, takes his fowling-piece,
and I my sketch-book and pistols. We wander inland among the fields of
wheat and dourra, course among the palms and acacias for game, or visit
the villages of the Fellahs. The temperature, which is about 60° in the
morning, rarely rises above 75°, so that we have every day three or four
hours exercise in the mild and pure air. My friend always brings back
from one to two dozen pigeons, while I, who practise with my pistol on
such ignoble game as hawks and vultures, which are here hardly shy enough
to shoot, can at the best but furnish a few wing feathers to clean our
pipes.
It is advisable to go armed on these excursions, though there is
no danger of open hostility on the part of the people. Certain
neighborhoods, as that of Beni Hassan, are in bad repute, but the
depredations of the inhabitants, who have been disarmed by the
Government, are principally confined to thieving and other petty
offences. On one occasion I fell in with a company of these people, who
demanded my tarboosh, shoes and shawl, and would have taken them had I
not been armed. In general, we have found the Fellahs very friendly and
well disposed. They greet us on our morning walks with “_Salamàt!_” and
“_Sàbah el Kheyr!_” and frequently accompany us for miles. My friend’s
fowling-piece often brings around him all the men and boys of a village,
who follow him as long as a pigeon is to be found on the palm-trees.
The certainty of his shot excites their wonder. “Wallah!” they cry;
“every time the Howadji fires, the bird drops.” The fact of my wearing a
tarboosh and white turban brings upon me much Arabic conversation, which
is somewhat embarrassing, with my imperfect knowledge of the language;
but a few words go a great way. The first day I adopted this head-dress
(which is convenient and agreeable in every respect), the people saluted
me with “good morning, O Sidi!” (Sir, or Lord) instead of the usual
“good morning, O Howadji!” (_i. e._ merchant, as the Franks are rather
contemptuously designated by the Arabs).
For this climate and this way of life, the Egyptian costume is
undoubtedly much better than the European. It is light, cool, and does
not impede the motion of the limbs. The turban thoroughly protects the
head against the sun, and shades the eyes, while it obstructs the vision
much less than a hat-brim. The broad silk shawl which holds up the baggy
trowsers, shields the abdomen against changes of temperature and tends
to prevent diarrhœa, which, besides ophthalmia, is the only ailment
the traveller need fear. The latter disease may be avoided by bathing
the face in cold water after walking or any exercise which induces
perspiration. I have followed this plan, and though my eyes are exposed
daily to the full blaze of the sun, find them growing stronger and
clearer. In fact, since leaving the invigorating camp-life of California,
I have not felt the sensation of health so purely as now. The other day,
to the great delight of our sailors and the inexhaustible merriment of
my friend, I donned one of Achmet’s dresses. Though the short Theban’s
flowing trowsers and embroidered jacket gave me the appearance of a
strapping Turk, who had grown too fast for his garments, they were so
easy and convenient in every respect, that I have decided to un-Frank
myself for the remainder of the journey.
But our day is not yet at an end. We come on board about eleven o’clock,
and find our breakfast ready for the table. The dishes are few, but well
cooked, and just what a hungry man would desire—fowls, pigeons, eggs,
rice, vegetables, fruit, the coarse but nourishing bread of the country,
and the sweet water of the Nile, brought to a blush by an infusion of
claret. After breakfast we seat ourselves on the airy divans in front
of the cabin, and quietly indulge in the luxury of a shebook, filled by
Achmet’s experienced hand, and a _finjan_ of Turkish coffee. Then comes
an hour’s exercise in Arabic, after which we read guide-books, consult
our maps, write letters, and occupy ourselves with various mysteries of
our household, till the noonday heat is over. Dinner, which is served
between four and five o’clock, is of the same materials as our breakfast,
but differently arranged, and with the addition of soup. My friend avers
that he no longer wonders why Esau sold his birthright, now that he has
tasted our pottage of Egyptian lentils. Coffee and pipes follow dinner,
which is over with the first flush of sunset and the first premonition of
the coolness and quiet of evening.
We seat ourselves on deck, and drink to its fulness the balm of this
indescribable repose. The sun goes down behind the Libyan Desert in a
broad glory of purple and rosy lights; the Nile is calm and unruffled,
the palms stand as if sculptured in jasper and malachite, and the torn
and ragged sides of the Arabian Mountains, pouring through a hundred
fissures the sand of the plains above, burn with a deep crimson lustre,
as if smouldering from some inward fire. The splendor soon passes off
and they stand for some minutes in dead, ashy paleness. The sunset has
now deepened into orange, in the midst of which a large planet shines
whiter than the moon. A second glow falls upon the mountains, and this
time of a pale, but intense yellow hue, which gives them the effect
of a transparent painting. The palm-groves are dark below and the sky
dark behind them; they alone, the symbols of perpetual desolation, are
transfigured by the magical illumination. Scarcely a sound disturbs
the solemn magnificence of the hour. Even our full-throated Arabs are
silent, and if a wave gurgles against the prow, it slides softly back
into the river, as if rebuked for the venture. We speak but little, and
then mostly in echoes of each other’s thoughts. “This is more than mere
enjoyment of Nature,” said my friend, on such an evening: “it is worship.”
Speaking of my friend, it is no more than just that I should confess
how much of the luck of this Nile voyage is owing to him, and therein
may be the secret of my complete satisfaction and the secret of the
disappointment of others. It is more easy and yet more difficult for
persons to harmonize while travelling, than when at home. By this I
mean, that men of kindred natures and aims find each other more readily
and confide in each other more freely, while the least jarring element
rapidly drives others further and further apart. No confessional so
completely reveals the whole man as the companionship of travel. It is
not possible to wear the conventional masks of Society, and one repulsive
feature is often enough to neutralize many really good qualities. On
the other hand, a congeniality of soul and temperament speedily ripens
into the firmest friendship and doubles every pleasure which is mutually
enjoyed. My companion widely differs from me in age, in station, and in
his experiences of life; but to one of those open, honest and loving
natures which are often found in his native Saxony, he unites a most warm
and thorough appreciation of Beauty in Nature or Art. We harmonize to a
miracle, and the parting with him at Assouan will be the sorest pang of
my journey.
My friend, the Howadji, in whose “Nile-Notes” the Egyptian atmosphere is
so perfectly reproduced, says that “Conscience falls asleep on the Nile.”
If by this he means that artificial quality which bigots and sectarians
call Conscience, I quite agree with him, and do not blame the Nile for
its soporific powers. But that simple faculty of the soul, native to all
men, which acts best when it acts unconsciously, and leads our passions
and desires into right paths without seeming to lead them, is vastly
strengthened by this quiet and healthy life. There is a cathedral-like
solemnity in the air of Egypt; one feels the presence of the altar, and
is a better man without his will. To those rendered misanthropic by
disappointed ambition—mistrustful by betrayed confidence—despairing by
unassuageable sorrow—let me repeat the motto which heads this chapter.
I have endeavored to picture our mode of life as faithfully and minutely
as possible, because it bears no resemblance to travel in any other part
of the world. Into the heart of a barbarous continent and a barbarous
land, we carry with us every desirable comfort and luxury. In no part
of Europe or America could we be so thoroughly independent, without
undergoing considerable privations, and wholly losing that sense of rest
which is the greatest enjoyment of this journey. We are cut off from
all communication with the great world of politics, merchandise and
usury, and remember it only through the heart, not through the brain.
We go ashore in the delicious mornings, breathe the elastic air, and
wander through the palm-groves, as happy and care-free as two Adams in a
Paradise without Eves. It is an episode which will flow forward in the
under-currents of our natures through the rest of our lives, soothing
and refreshing us whenever it rises to the surface. I do not reproach
myself for this passive and sensuous existence. I give myself up to it
unreservedly, and if some angular-souled utilitarian should come along
and recommend me to shake off my laziness, and learn the conjugations of
Coptic verbs or the hieroglyphs of Kneph and Thoth, I should not take
the pipe from my mouth to answer him. My friend sometimes laughingly
addresses me with two lines of Hebel’s quaint Allemanic poetry:
“Ei solch a Leben, junges Bluat,
Desh ish wohl für a Thierle guat.”
(such a life, young blood, best befits an animal), but I tell him that
the wisdom of the Black Forest won’t answer for the Nile. If any one
persists in forcing the application, I prefer being called an animal to
changing my present habits. An entire life so spent would be wretchedly
aimless, but a few months are in truth “sore labor’s bath” to every wrung
heart and overworked brain.
I could say much more, but it requires no little effort to write three
hours in a cabin, when the palms are rustling their tops outside, the
larks singing in the meadows, and the odor of mimosa flowers breathing
through the windows. To travel and write, is like inhaling and exhaling
one’s breath at the same moment. You take in impressions at every pore of
the mind, and the process is so pleasant, that you sweat them out again
most reluctantly. Lest I should overtake the remedy with the disease, and
make to-day Labor, which should be Rest, I shall throw down the pen, and
mount yonder donkey which stands patiently on the bank, waiting to carry
me to Siout once more, before starting for Thebes.