THE PASSING OF CAIRO
Ragged, threatening clouds, like those that bring the showers of our
early spring, hurry across a pale evening sky, whose mere aspect makes
you cold. A wintry wind, raw and bitter, blows without ceasing, and
brings with it every now and then some furtive spots of rain.
A carriage takes me towards what was once the residence of the great
Mehemet Ali: by a steep incline it ascends into the midst of rocks and
sand--and already, and almost in a moment, we seem to be in the desert;
though we have scarcely left behind the last houses of an Arab quarter,
where long-robed folk, who looked half frozen, were muffled up to the
eyes to-day. . . . Was there formerly such weather as this in this
country noted for its unchanging mildness?
This residence of the great sovereign of Egypt, the citadel and the
mosque which he had made for his last repose, are perched like eagles'
nests on a spur of the mountain chain of Arabia, the Mokattam, which
stretches out like a promontory towards the basin of the Nile, and
brings quite close to Cairo, so as almost to overhang it, a little of
the desert solitude. And so the eye can see from far off and from
all sides the mosque of Mehemet Ali, with the flattened domes of its
cupolas, its pointed minarets, the general aspect so entirely Turkish,
perched high up, with a certain unexpectedness, above the Arab town
which it dominates. The prince who sleeps there wished that it should
resemble the mosques of his fatherland, and it looks as if it had been
transported bodily from Stamboul.
A short trot brings us up to the lower gate of the old fortress; and, by
a natural effect, as we ascend, all Cairo which is near there, seems to
rise with us: not yet indeed the endless multitude of its houses; but at
first only the thousands of its minarets, which in a few seconds point
their high towers into the mournful sky, and suggest at once that an
immense town is about to unfold itself under our eyes.
Continuing to ascend--past the double rampart, the double or triple
gates, which all these old fortresses possess, we penetrate at length
into a large fortified courtyard, the crenellated walls of which shut
out our further view. Soldiers are on guard there--and how unexpected
are such soldiers in this holy place of Egypt! The red uniforms and the
white faces of the north: Englishmen, billeted in the palace of Mehemet
Ali!
The mosque first meets the eye, preceding the palace. And as we
approach, it is Stamboul indeed--for me dear old Stamboul--which
is called to mind; there is nothing, whether in the lines of its
architecture or in the details of its ornamentation, to suggest the
art of the Arabs--a purer art it may be than this and of which many
excellent examples may be seen in Cairo. No; it is a corner of Turkey
into which we are suddenly come.
Beyond a courtyard paved with marble, silent and enclosed, which serves
as a vast parvis, the sanctuary recalls those of Mehemet Fatih or the
Chah Zade: the same sanctified gloom, into which the stained glass of
the narrow windows casts a splendour as of precious stones; the same
extreme distance between the enormous pillars, leaving more clear space
than in our churches, and giving to the domes the appearance of being
held up by enchantment.
The walls are of a strange white marble streaked with yellow. The ground
is completely covered with carpets of a sombre red. In the vaults, very
elaborately wrought, nothing but blacks and gold: a background of black
bestrewn with golden roses, and bordered with arabesques like gold lace.
And from above hang thousands of gold chains supporting the vigil lamps
for the evening prayers. Here and there are people on their knees,
little groups in robe and turban, scattered fortuitously upon the red of
the carpets, and almost lost in the midst of the sumptuous solitude.
In an obscure corner lies Mehemet Ali, the prince adventurous and
chivalrous as some legendary hero, and withal one of the greatest
sovereigns of modern history. There he lies behind a grating of gold, of
complicated design, in that Turkish style, already decadent, but still
so beautiful, which was that of his epoch.
Through the golden bars may be seen in the shadow the catafalque of
state, in three tiers, covered with blue brocades, exquisitely faded,
and profusely embroidered with dull gold. Two long green palms freshly
cut from some date-tree in the neighbourhood are crossed before the door
of this sort of funeral enclosure. And it seems that around us is an
inviolable religious peace. . . .
But all at once there comes a noisy chattering in a Teutonic tongue--and
shouts and laughs! . . . How is it possible, so near to the great dead?
. . . And there enters a group of tourists, dressed more or less in the
approved “smart” style. A guide, with a droll countenance, recites to
them the beauties of the place, bellowing at the top of his voice like
a showman at a fair. And one of the travellers, stumbling in the sandals
which are too large for her small feet, laughs a prolonged, silly little
laugh like the clucking of a turkey. . . .
Is there then no keeper, no guardian of this holy mosque? And amongst
the faithful prostrate here in prayer, none who will rise and make
indignant protest? Who after this will speak to us of the fanaticism of
the Egyptians? . . . Too meek, rather, they seem to me everywhere. Take
any church you please in Europe where men go down on their knees
in prayer, and I should like to see what kind of a welcome would
be accorded to a party of Moslem tourists who--to suppose the
impossible--behaved so badly as these savages here.
Behind the mosque is an esplanade, and beyond that the palace. The
palace, as such, can scarcely be said to exist any longer, for it has
been turned into a barrack for the army of occupation. English soldiers,
indeed, meet us at every turn, smoking their pipes in the idleness of
the evening. One of them who does not smoke is trying to carve his
name with a knife on one of the layers of marble at the base of the
sanctuary.
At the end of this esplanade there is a kind of balcony from which one
may see the whole of the town, and an unlimited extent of verdant
plains and yellow desert. It is a favourite view of the tourists of the
agencies, and we meet again our friends of the mosque, who have preceded
us hither--the gentlemen with the loud voices, the bellowing guide and
the cackling lady. Some soldiers are standing there too, smoking their
pipes contemplatively. But spite of all these people, in spite, too,
of the wintry sky, the scene which presents itself on arrival there is
ravishing.
A very fairyland--but a fairyland quite different from that of Stamboul.
For whereas the latter is ranged like a great amphitheatre above the
Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmora, here the vast town is spread out
simply, in a plain surrounded by the solitude of the desert and
dominated by chaotic rocks. Thousands of minarets rise up on every side
like ears of corn in a field; far away in the distance one can see their
innumerable slender points--but instead of being simply, as at Stamboul,
so many white spires, they are here complicated by arabesques, by
galleries, clock-towers and little columns, and seem to have borrowed
the reddish colour of the desert.
The flat rocks tell of a region which formerly was without rain. The
innumerable palm-trees of the gardens, above this ocean of mosques and
houses, sway their plumes in the wind, bewildered as it were by these
clouds laden with cold showers. In the south and in the west, at the
extreme limits of the view, as if upon the misty horizon of the plains,
appear two gigantic triangles. They are Gizeh and Memphis--the eternal
pyramids.
At the north of the town there is a corner of the desert quite singular
in its character--of the colour of bistre and of mummy--where a whole
colony of high cupolas, scattered at random, still stand upright in
the midst of sand and desolate rocks. It is the proud cemetery of the
Mameluke Sultans, whose day was done in the Middle Ages.
But if one looks closely, what disorder, what a mass of ruins there
are in this town--still a little fairylike--beaten this evening by the
squalls of winter. The domes, the holy tombs, the minarets and terraces,
all are crumbling: the hand of death is upon them all. But down there,
in the far distance, near to that silver streak which meanders through
the plains, and which is the old Nile, the advent of new times is
proclaimed by the chimneys of factories, impudently high, that disfigure
everything, and spout forth into the twilight thick clouds of black
smoke.
The night is falling as we descend from the esplanade to return to our
lodgings.
We have first to traverse the old town of Cairo, a maze of streets
still full of charm, wherein the thousand little lamps of the Arab shops
already shed their quiet light. Passing through streets which twist at
their caprice, beneath overhanging balconies covered with wooden trellis
of exquisite workmanship, we have to slacken speed in the midst of a
dense crowd of men and beasts. Close to us pass women, veiled in black,
gently mysterious as in the olden times, and men of unmoved gravity, in
long robes and white draperies; and little donkeys pompously bedecked in
collars of blue beads; and rows of leisurely camels, with their loads of
lucerne, which exhale the pleasant fragrance of the fields. And when
in the gathering gloom, which hides the signs of decay, there appear
suddenly, above the little houses, so lavishly ornamented with
mushrabiyas and arabesques, the tall aerial minarets, rising to a
prodigious height into the twilight sky, it is still the adorable East.
But nevertheless, what ruins, what filth, what rubbish! How present is
the sense of impending dissolution! And what is this: large pools of
water in the middle of the road! Granted that there is more rain here
than formerly, since the valley of the Nile has been artificially
irrigated, it still seems almost impossible that there should be all
this black water, into which our carriage sinks to the very axles; for
it is a clear week since any serious quantity of rain fell. It would
seem that the new masters of this land, albeit the cost of annual upkeep
has risen in their hands to the sum of fifteen million pounds, have
given no thought to drainage. But the good Arabs, patiently and without
murmuring, gather up their long robes, and with legs bare to the knee
make their way through this already pestilential water, which must be
hatching for them fever and death.
Further on, as the carriage proceeds on its course, the scene changes
little by little. The streets become vulgar: the houses of “The Arabian
Nights” give place to tasteless Levantine buildings; electric lamps
begin to pierce the darkness with their wan, fatiguing glare, and at a
sharp turning the new Cairo is before us.
What is this? Where are we fallen? Save that it is more vulgar, it might
be Nice, or the Riviera, or Interkalken, or any other of those towns
of carnival whither the bad taste of the whole world comes to disport
itself in the so-called fashionable seasons. But in these quarters,
on the other hand, which belong to the foreigners and to the Egyptians
rallied to the civilisation of the West, all is clean and dry, well
cared for and well kept. There are no ruts, no refuse. The fifteen
million pounds have done their work conscientiously.
Everywhere is the blinding glare of the electric light; monstrous hotels
parade the sham splendour of their painted facades; the whole length of
the streets is one long triumph of imitation, of mud walls plastered so
as to look like stone; a medley of all styles, rockwork, Roman, Gothic,
New Art, Pharaonic, and, above all, the pretentious and the absurd.
Innumerable public-houses overflow with bottles; every alcoholic
drink, all the poisons of the West, are here turned into Egypt with a
take-what-you-please.
And taverns, gambling dens and houses of ill-fame. And parading the
side-walks, numerous Levantine damsels, who seek by their finery to
imitate their fellows of the Paris boulevards, but who by mistake, as
we must suppose, have placed their orders with some costumier for
performing dogs.
This then is the Cairo of the future, this cosmopolitan fair! Good
heavens! When will the Egyptians recollect themselves, when will they
realise that their forebears have left to them an inalienable patrimony
of art, of architecture and exquisite refinement; and that, by their
negligence, one of those towns which used to be the most beautiful in
the world is falling into ruin and about to perish?
And nevertheless amongst the young Moslems and Copts now leaving
the schools there are so many of distinguished mind and superior
intelligence! When I see the things that are here, see them with
the fresh eyes of a stranger, landed but yesterday upon this soil,
impregnated with the glory of antiquity, I want to cry out to them, with
a frankness that is brutal perhaps, but with a profound sympathy:
“Bestir yourselves before it is too late. Defend yourselves against
this disintegrating invasion--not by force, be it understood, not by
inhospitality or ill-humour--but by disdaining this Occidental rubbish,
this last year's frippery by which you are inundated. Try to preserve
not only your traditions and your admirable Arab language, but also
the grace and mystery that used to characterise your town, the refined
luxury of your dwelling-houses. It is not a question now of a poet's
fancy; your national dignity is at stake. You are _Orientals_--I
pronounce respectfully that word, which implies a whole past of early
civilisation, of unmingled greatness--but in a few years, unless you are
on your guard, you will have become mere Levantine brokers, exclusively
preoccupied with the price of land and the rise in cotton.”