MORE RELIGIOUS OBSERVANCES, SPRING’S AWAKENING, AND THE CAIRENE HOUSE
OF COUNT ZOGHEB
The religious observances, the festivals, and the superstitions of
Islam have been so fully described by Lane that it seems presumptuous
to attempt to do so here. But they are so intimately associated with
the life and character of the Egyptians that it is impossible to
describe the people amongst whom I have so long lived without referring
to these observances. From the first day of the month of the Prophet
every street and bazaar in Cairo show some signs that the Moolid
en-Nebi will soon be on us. Bands of dervishes, carrying the banners
of the sects to which they belong, make happy incidents in the streets
through which they pass. Should we go past a dervish _tekke_ the sound
of a _zikr_ will be heard; and should we be bold enough to peep in we
may see a group of men swaying backwards and forwards, and hear them
repeat in unison the name of Allah till physical exhaustion causes a
pause. Queer-looking fakirs beg for alms in the name of the Prophet;
and whether they have lain low during ordinary times and only donned
their rags for the great occasion, I cannot tell, but they turn up now
like butterflies on a fine spring morning.
It is pleasant to wander about the streets of the old quarters after
sunset. Their usual dark and deserted appearance is enlivened here and
there by a display of lanterns hung beneath a marvellously patterned
awning, and one’s curiosity is incited to know with what thrilling
romance the _sháer_ is engaging the attention of his audience. It is
also curious to find men who, after the religious excitement of a
_zikr_, will sit in ecstasies in the little theatres while the sensuous
dance of the _ghazeeyeh_ is performed. Arabic music can also be heard
at its best. Incomprehensible at first, as a strange language to the
foreigner, it has a subtle charm which increases as the sounds become
more familiar. A dark lane, where one or two small lanterns mark the
entrances of some old mameluke palaces, may of a sudden be lighted at
one end by the approach of a band of dervishes carrying now flaming
cressets in lieu of the banners we may have seen in the daytime.
I neglected the old quarters, during my last stay in Cairo, when the
month of the Prophet was on us. The commonplace, but luxurious, modern
quarters were made glorious by the wreath of blossoming shrubs and
trees which adorned them. The Esbekiyeh gardens, which I usually avoid,
were a great attraction to me then. A large and rather gimcrack grotto,
which I thought a horror during the winter, was now almost smothered
by the gorgeous blossom of the bougainvillea. Seldom have I seen such
an orgy of colour. I made some studies of it which I have since found
useful; but I should then have left the bougainvillea severely alone. I
heard of a fine display of its blossom in the zoological gardens, where
I knew that the small entrance fee as well as the other attractions
would allow me to work with less of an admiring crowd. Captain Flower
(to whom we are indebted for having made this collection of the fauna
and birds of Africa one of the most interesting in the world) gave me
every facility for working in the gardens which he controls. Besides
the masses of bougainvillea, I found the bohenia in full bloom; the
hibiscus was in flower, the poinciana regia, as well as many other
subtropical shrubs.
I started a morning as well as an afternoon drawing of the
bougainvillea, and much as I was taken by this display of colour in
nature, I found that somehow or another I could not get it to look
pictorially right on my paper. The purplish-crimson fought unpleasantly
with the green, and with the blue of the sky. It is a pity; for the
otherwise delightful days I spent at the Gizeh gardens have this black
mark against them.
The bougainvillea had hardly shed its blossom when the jacaranda
began to show what it is capable of, both as to its beauty as in the
difficulties it sets before the painter who attempts to record the
delicacy of its colouring. I thought nothing more of the bougainvillea
when the jacaranda put on its spring garments. Leafless trees of a
graceful growth, which may be seen in almost every garden, but which
we simply label in our minds as trees without paying them any further
attention, become each one an object of admiration when April glides
into May. I had generally been in Upper Egypt during that season,
or had left the country too soon to see the jacaranda in bloom. The
cherry-blossom had attracted me to Japan the previous year, I have
made studies of the almond tree and the peach during one or two
seasons in Italy, and I never fail to get at the apple-blossom should
I happen to be in England in May. Each in its turn has filled me
with enthusiasm. But there is none to compare with the beauty of the
jacaranda.
Its local colour is a pale violet, but when the declining sun plays
amongst its bloom-laden twigs, it tells as a mass of warm pink against
the turquoise sky. The fear of a _hamseen_ increases as the blossom
gets to perfection, for two or three days of the hot dry wind may rob
the trees of most of their beauty. The colour is so different under a
sand-laden sky that it is hopeless to continue a drawing begun when the
wind came from a better quarter. Should the _hamseen_ have done its
worst before these trees break into blossom, we may enjoy their beauty
for a fortnight or more. When once the green buds show between the
blossoms, we know that in a day or two all will be over. The rapidity
with which a leafless tree changes to a mass of green is surprising to
any one who has spent his years in northern climes.
Whether the oleander was exceptionally fine that season I cannot tell,
but I had seen nothing like it anywhere--and an oleander in flower
is a thing no one with any æsthetic sense would pass unnoticed. The
scorching winds may have shrivelled up some of its bloom, but the
profusion of buds was ever ready to fill up any gaps left by the
falling petals.
Where water is available anything seems to grow in this rich alluvial
soil. Flowers were in plenty during the whole winter, but the flower
gardens in Egypt attracted me less than do those nearer home. The
blackish mud from which they grow makes an unpleasant setting. The
large flowering shrubs get their moisture deeper in the soil, and
little or no irrigation seems required. Cairo is but a few feet above
the level of the Nile, and the roots of the larger trees probably reach
down to where a continuous supply of water is ever available. I can
only account in this way for the luxuriance of growth often seen in a
dry and sandy courtyard.
It is difficult to say when the rose season is at its best; we were
seldom without them. The bushes possibly take a rest during the hottest
months of summer; during the autumn, the winter, and the spring they
are hardly ever denuded of their bloom before they show signs of
renewed efforts to break into flower.
The new suburbs, which are ever stretching out to the north and south
of the modern Cairo, have little to attract one. Architectural studies
may be made there to learn what to avoid. I avoided them altogether
until the blossoming trees, the flowering shrubs, and the gorgeous
colour of some of the creepers attracted me from one otherwise
villainous house to another. There are scarcely any flowers to be seen
in the old parts of the city, so that the houses and mosques could
wait; but not so the blossoming trees in the gardens of the modern
quarters.
Count Zogheb kindly showed me over his house, which forms a striking
exception to the many tasteless buildings in its neighbourhood, and
it was a pleasure to find that the planning and decoration of the
best mameluke palaces can be adapted to modern requirements if the
possessor has the means and the good taste to appreciate them. Herz Bey
designed the building, and though it is no slavish copy of any existing
old Cairene house, it has the spirit and the good taste of the best
Saracenic work. I was also glad to see that it is possible to reproduce
the handsome tiles, which I had repeatedly heard to be a lost art. Some
panels which the owner pointed out to me were made up partly of old
and partly of modern tiles, and I confess I found it difficult to tell
which were which. Connoisseurs in old faience may smile at this, and
they might have pointed out some differences in the glaze; but in the
decorative effect on the walls one was quite as useful as the other.
I wish they had been made in Egypt, for any signs of a revival of the
lost handicraft would be most welcome. The Count informed me that
some were made in Venice from patterns he sent there, and others were
manufactured in Austria.
Nassan, he of the lamp-shop, must have acquired a good customer in
my new acquaintance, for a great number of his lamps were seen here,
and they were beautifully adapted to the electric light. A fear I had
before entering the house was that it might look theatrical and not
suitable to present-day use; but I lost that completely after I had
been there some while. There was no affectation on the part of my host
and his family to live as mediæval Moslems, any more than the possessor
of an old English house attempts to live as did his predecessors.
Chairs, tables, books and all other modern requirements were there,
and they looked no more incongruous than did the unveiled faces of the
handsome wife and daughters of my host. It was a bold venture, and if a
less able architect than Herz Bey had had the designing of this home,
it might have been a deplorable failure, instead of an encouragement to
other wealthy Cairenes to try to do likewise.
The first attempt at a revival of Saracenic domestic architecture was
the French Agency. I can only judge of it from its exterior, which is
a dignified and handsome building; competent judges have assured me
that the interior is very beautiful. It is singular that this noble
attempt to build according to the traditions of Cairo’s best period
went on while Ismael Pasha was tearing down fine old mameluke palaces
and destroying one of the most picturesque parts of the old city, in
order to construct the hideous ‘Boulevard Mohammed Ali.’ This act of
vandalism went on under French influence while a French architect was
constructing the ‘Maison de France,’ as the agency is called, and
endeavouring to give it the appearance of the houses the Cairenes
were destroying. Fine old _mushrbiyeh_ work was to be had in plenty,
and the furniture of a fine mosque, which was partly demolished in
order to preserve the alignment of the Boulevard, were available to
the architect of the agency. It contains, therefore, much genuine old
work which was not procurable when Count Zogheb recently built his
home. It is as well that this should be so. Age does little to improve
the woodwork, whose chief beauty consists in the design, and of this
plenty of examples remain. It is a hopeful sign that all that I saw in
the Count’s beautiful house can still be achieved, providing an able
architect be selected.
[Illustration: THE JACARANDA]