long race of great violence, and the horses engaged in it were
disgracefully thin and weak. "Very Mohammedan--that," some one comments.
The race was Mohammedan from one point of view, for it was connected
with the dervishes, Mohammedans of fanatical creed. The dervishes,
however, remained in their monasteries--with their fanaticism; the race
was made by Christians, who, crowded into rattling carriages, flew in a
body from the square of Sultan Hassan through the long, winding lanes
that lead towards Old Cairo at a speed which endangered everybody's
life, with wheels grating against each other, coachmen standing up and
yelling like demons, whiplashes curling round the ribs of the wretched,
ill-fed, galloping horses, and natives darting into their houses on each
side to save themselves from death, as the furious procession, in clouds
of dust, rushed by. The cause of this sudden madness is found in the
fact that the two best-known orders of these Mohammedan monks (one calls
them monks for want of a better name; they have some resemblance to
monks, and some to Freemasons) go through their rites once a week only,
and upon the same afternoon; by making this desperate haste it is
possible to see both services; and as travellers, for the most part,
make but a short stay in Cairo, they find themselves taking part,
_nolens volens_, in this frantic progress, led by their ambitious
dragomans, who appear to enjoy it. The service of the Dancing Dervishes
takes place in their mosque, which is near the square of Sultan Hassan.
Here they have a small circular hall; round this arena, and elevated
slightly above it, is an aisle where spectators are allowed to stand;
over the aisle is the gallery. This January day brought a crowd of
visitors who filled the aisle completely. Presently a dervish made the
circuit of the empty arena, warning, by a solemn gesture, those who had
seated or half-seated themselves upon the balustrade that the attitude
was not allowed. As soon as he had passed, some of the warned took their
places again. Naturally, these were spectators of the gentler sex. I am
even afraid that they were pilgrims from the land where the gentler sex
is accustomed from its earliest years to a profound deference. Two of
these pretty pilgrims transgressed in this way four times, and at last
the dervish came and stood before them. They remained seated, returning
his gaze with amiable tranquillity. What he thought I do not know--this
lean Egyptian in his old brown cloak and conical hat. I fancied,
however, that it had something to do with the great advantages of the
Mohammedan system regarding the seclusion of women. He did not conquer.
At length began the music. The band of the dervishes is placed in one of
the galleries; we could see the performers squatting on their rugs, the
instruments being flutes or long pipes, and small drums like tambourines
without the rattles. Egyptian music has a marked time, but no melody; no
matter how good an ear one has, it is impossible to catch and resing its
notes, even though one hears them daily. Pierre Loti writes: "The
strains of the little flutes of Africa charm me more than the most
perfect orchestral harmonies of other lands." If by this he means that
the flutes recall to his memory the magic scenes of Oriental life, that
is one thing; but if he means that he really loves the sounds for
themselves, I am afraid we must conclude that this prince of verbal
expression has not an ear for music (which is only fair; a man cannot
have everything). The band of the dervishes sends forth a high wail,
accompanied by a rumble. Neither, however, is distressingly loud.
[Illustration: OUTER ENTRANCE OF THE CITADEL, CAIRO
From a photograph by Sebah, Cairo]
Meanwhile the dervishes have entered, and, muffled in their cloaks, are
standing, a silent band, round the edge of the arena; their sheykh--a
very old man, much bent, but with a noble countenance--takes his place
upon the sacred rug, and receives with dignity their obeisances. All
remain motionless for a while. Then the sheykh rises, heads the
procession, and, with a very slow step, they all move round the arena,
bowing towards the sacred carpet as they pass it. This opening ceremony
concluded, the sheykh again takes his seat, and the dervishes, divesting
themselves of their cloaks, step one by one into the open space, where,
after a prayer, each begins whirling slowly, with closed eyes. They are
all attired in long, full white skirts, whose edges have weights
attached to them; as the speed of the music increases, their whirl
becomes more rapid, but it remains always even; though their eyes are
closed, they never touch each other. From the description alone, it is
difficult to imagine that this rite (for such it is) is solemn. But
looked at with the actual eyes, it seemed to me an impressive ceremony;
the absorbed appearance of the participants, their unconsciousness of
all outward things, the earnestness of the aspiration visible on their
faces--all these were striking. The zikr, as this species of religious
effort is named, is an attempt to reach a state of ecstasy
(hallucination, we should call it), during which the human being, having
forgotten the existence of its body, becomes for the moment spirit only,
and can then mingle with the spirit world. The Dancing Dervishes
endeavor to bring on this trance by the physical dizziness which is
produced by whirling; the Howling Dervishes try to effect the same by
swinging their heads rapidly up and down, and from side to side, with a
constant shout of "Allah!" "Allah!". The latter soon reach a state of
temporary frenzy. For this reason the dancers are more interesting;
their ecstasy, being silent, seems more earnest. The religion of the
Hindoos has a similar idea in another form--namely, that the highest
happiness is a mingling with God, and an utter unconsciousness of one's
humanity. Christian hermits, in retiring from the world, have sought, as
far as possible, the same mental condition; but for a lifetime, not,
like the dervishes, for an hour. These enthusiasts marry, if they
please; many of them are artisans, tradesmen, and farm laborers, and
only go at certain times to the monasteries to take part in the zikrs.
There are many different orders, and several other kinds of zikr besides
the two most commonly seen by travellers.
[Illustration: A MECCA DOOR]
Travellers see also the Mohammedan prayers. These prayers, with
alms-giving, fasting during the month Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to
Mecca, are the important religious duties of all Muslims. The excellent
new hotel, the Continental, where we had our quarters, a hotel whose
quiet and comfort are a blessing to Cairo, overlooked a house which was
undergoing alteration; every afternoon at a certain hour a plasterer
came from his work within, and, standing in a corner under our windows,
divested himself of his soiled outer gown; then, going to a wall-faucet,
he turned on the water, and rapidly but carefully washed his face, his
hands and arms, his feet, and his legs as far as his knees, according to
Mohammed's rule; this done, he took down from a tree a clean board which
he kept there for the purpose, and, placing it upon the ground, he
kneeled down upon it, with his face towards Mecca, and went through his
worship, many times touching the ground with his forehead in token of
self-humiliation. His devotions occupied five or six minutes. As soon as
they were over, the board was quickly replaced in the tree, the soiled
gown put on again, and the man hurried back to his work with an
alertness which showed that he was no idler. On the Nile, at the
appointed hour, our pilot gave the wheel to a subordinate, spread out
his prayer-carpet on the deck, and said his prayers with as much
indifference to the eyes watching him as though they did not exist. In
the bazaars the merchants pray in their shops; the public cook prays in
the street beside his little furnace; on the shores of the river at
sunset the kneeling figures outlined against the sky are one of the
pictures which all travellers remember. The official pilgrimage to Mecca
takes place each year, the departure and return of the pilgrim train
being celebrated with great pomp; the most ardent desire of every
Mohammedan is to make this journey before he dies. When a returning
Cairo pilgrim reaches home, it is a common custom to decorate his
doorway with figures, painted in brilliant hues, representing his
supposed adventures. The designs, which are very primitive in outline,
usually show the train of camels, the escort of soldiers, wonderful wild
beasts in fighting attitudes, nondescript birds and trees, and garlands
of flowers. One comes upon these Mecca doorways very frequently in the
old quarters. Sometimes the gay tints show that the journey was a recent
one; often the faded outlines speak of the zeal of an ancestor.
THE REIGNING DYNASTY
[Illustration: THE ROAD TO CHOUBRA.
From a photograph by Sebah, Cairo]
While in the city of the Khedive, if one has a wish for the benediction
of a far-stretching view, he must go to the Citadel. The prospect from
this hill has been described many times. One sees all Cairo, with her
minarets; the vivid green of the plain, with the Nile winding through
it; the desert meeting the verdure and stretching back to the red hills;
lastly, the pyramids, beginning with those of Gizeh, near at hand, and
ending, far in the distance, with the hazy outlines of those of Abouseer
and Sakkarah. The Citadel was built by Saladin in the twelfth century.
Saladin's palace, which formed part of it, was demolished in 1824 to
make room for the modern mosque, whose large dome and attenuated
minarets are now the last objects which fade away when the traveller
leaves Cairo behind him. This rich Mohammedan temple was the work of
Mehemet Ali, the founder of the present dynasty. It is not beautiful, in
spite of its alabaster, but Mehemet himself would probably admire it,
could he return to earth (the mosque was not completed until after
his death), as he had to the full that bad taste in architecture and art
which, for unexplained reasons, so often accompanies a new birth of
progress in an old country. Mehemet was born in Roumelia; he entered the
Turkish army, and after attaining the rank of colonel he was sent to
Egypt. Here he soon usurped all power, and had it not been for the
intervention of Russia and France, and later of England and Austria, it
is probable that he would have succeeded in freeing himself and the
country whose leadership he had grasped from the domination of Turkey.
Every one has heard something of the terrible massacre of the Memlooks
by his order, in this Citadel, in 1811. The Memlooks were opposed to all
progress, and Mehemet was bent upon progress. Freed from their power,
this ferocious liberator built canals; he did his best to improve
agriculture; he established a printing-office and founded schools; he
sent three hundred boys to Europe to be educated as civil engineers, as
machinists, as printers, as naval officers, and as physicians; his idea
was that, upon their return, they could instruct others. When the first
class came back, he filled his public schools by the simple method of
force. The translators of the French text-books which had been selected
for the use of the schools were taken from the ranks of the returned
students. A text-book was given to each, and all were kept closely
imprisoned in the Citadel a period of four months, until they had
completed their task. Mehemet had a dream of an Arabian kingdom in Egypt
which should in time rival the European nations without joining them. It
is this dream which makes him interesting. He was the first modern. A
Turk by birth, and remaining a Turk as regards his private life, he had
great ideas. Undoubtedly he possessed genius of a high order.
As to his private life, one comes across a trace of it at Choubra. This
was Mehemet's summer residence, and the place remains much as it was
during his lifetime. The road to Choubra, which was until recently the
favorite drive of the Cairenes, is now deserted. The palace stands on
the banks of the Nile, three miles from town, and its gardens, which
cover nine acres, are beautiful even in their present neglected
condition; in the spring the fragrance from the mass of blossoms is
intoxicatingly sweet. But the wonder of Choubra is a richly decorated
garden-house, containing, in a marble basin, a lake which is large
enough for skiffs. Here Mehemet often spent his evenings. Upon these
occasions the whole place was brilliantly lighted, and the hareem
disported itself in little boats on the fairy-like pool, and in
strolling up and down the marble colonnades, unveiled (as Mehemet was
the only man present), and in their richest attire. The marbles have
grown dim, the fountains are choked, the colonnades are dusty, and the
lake has a melancholy air. But even in its decay Choubra presents to the
man of fancy--a few such men still exist--a picture of Oriental scenes
which he has all his life imagined, perhaps, but whose actual traces he
no more expected to see with his own eyes in 1890 than to behold the
silken sails of Cleopatra furled among Cook's steamers on the Nile.
Mehemet's last years were spent at Choubra, and here he died, in 1849,
at the age of eighty-one. As he had forced from Turkey a firman
assigning the throne to his own family, he was succeeded by one of his
sons.
ISMAIL
In 1863 (after the short reign of Ibrahim, five years of Abbas, and
eight of Said), Ismail, Mehemet's grandson, ascended the throne. He had
received his education in Paris.
[Illustration: GARDEN-HOUSE AT CHOUBRA, SHOWING PART OF THE LAKE NEAR
CAIRO
From a photograph by Sebah, Cairo]
Much has been written about this man. The opening, in 1869, of the Suez
Canal turned the eyes of the entire civilized world upon Egypt. The
writers swooped down upon the ancient country in a flock, and the canal,
the land, and its ruler were described again and again. The ruler was
remarkable. Ismail was short (one speaks of him in the past tense,
although he is not dead), with very broad shoulders; his hands were
singularly thick; his ears also were thick, and oddly placed; his feet
were small, and he always wore finically fine French shoes. There was
nothing of the Arab in his face, and little of the Turk. One of his
eyelids had a natural droop, and vexed diplomatists have left it upon
record that he had the power of causing the other to droop also, thus
making it possible for him to study the faces of his antagonists at his
leisure, he, meanwhile, presenting to them in return a blind mask. The
mask, however, was amiable; it was adorned almost constantly with a
smile. The man must have had marked powers of fascination. At the
present day, when some of the secrets of his reign are known--though by
no means all--it is easy to paint him in the darkest colors; but during
the time of his power his great schemes dazzled the world, and people
liked him--it is impossible to doubt the testimony of so many pens;
European and American visitors always left his presence pleased.
There are in Cairo black stories of cruelty connected with his name.
These for the most part are unwritten; they are told in the native cafes
and in the bazaars. It does not appear that he loved cruelty for its own
sake, as some of the Roman emperors loved it; but if any one rebelled
against his power or his pleasure, that person was sacrificed without
scruple. In some cases it took the form of a disappearance in the night,
without a sound or a trace left behind. This is the sort of thing we
associate with the old despotic ages. But 1869 is not a remote date,
and at that time the present Emperor of Austria, the late Emperor
Frederick (then Crown-Prince of Prussia), the Empress Eugenie, Prince
Oscar of Sweden, Prince Louis of Hesse, the Princess of the Netherlands,
the Duke and Duchess of Aosta, and other distinguished Europeans, were
the guests of this enigmatic host, eating his sumptuous dinners and
attending his magnificent balls. The festivities in connection with the
opening of the canal are said to have cost Ismail twenty-one millions of
dollars. The sum seems large; but it included the furnishing of palaces,
lavish hospitality to an army of guests besides the sovereigns and their
suites, and an opera to order--namely, Verdi's _Aida_, which was given
with great brilliancy in Cairo, in an opera-house erected for the
occasion. Ismail, like Mehemet, had his splendid dream. He, too, wished
to free Egypt from the power of Turkey; but, unlike his grandfather, he
wished to take her bodily into the circle of the civilized nations, not
as a rival, but as an ally and friend. An Egyptian kingdom, under his
rule, was to extend from the Mediterranean to the equator; from the Red
Sea westward beyond Darfur. His bold ambition ended in disaster. His
railways, telegraphs, schools, harbors, and postal-service, together
with his personal extravagance, brought Egypt to the verge of
bankruptcy. All Europe now had a vital interest in the Suez Canal, and
the powers therefore united in a demand that the Sultan should stop the
career of his audacious Egyptian Viceroy. The Viceroy might perhaps have
resisted the Porte; he could not resist the united powers. In 1879 he
was deposed, and his son Tufik appointed in his place. Ismail left
Egypt. For several years he travelled, residing for a time in Naples; at
present he is living in a villa near Constantinople. There is a rumor in
Cairo that he is more of a prisoner there than he supposes. But this may
be only one of the legends that are always attached to Turkish
affairs. His dream has come true in one respect at least: Egypt has
indeed joined the circle of the European nations, but not in the manner
which Ismail intended; she is only a bondwoman--if the pun can be
permitted.
[Illustration: THE KHEDIVE. From a photograph by Sebah, Cairo]
THE HAUNTED PALACE
The Gezireh road is to-day the favorite afternoon drive of the Cairenes.
It is a broad avenue, raised above the plain, and overarched by trees
throughout its course. At many points it commands an uninterrupted view
of the pyramids. Two miles from town the Gezireh Palace rises on the
right, surrounded by gardens, which, unlike those of Choubra, are
carefully tended. It was built by Ismail. Of all these Cairo palaces it
must be explained that they have none of the characteristics of castles
or strongholds; they are merely lightly built residences, designed for a
climate which has ten months of summer. The central hall and grand
staircase of Gezireh are superb; alabaster, onyx, and malachite adorn
like jewels the beautiful marbles, which came from Carrara. The
drawing-rooms and audience-chambers have a splendid spaciousness: the
state apartments of many a royal palace in Europe sink into
insignificance in this respect when compared with them. Much of the
furniture is rich, but again (as in the old house of the Sheykh es
Sadat) one finds it difficult to forgive the tawdry French carpets and
curtains, when the bazaars close at hand could have contributed fabrics
of so much greater beauty. But Ismail's taste was French--that is, the
lowest shade of French--as French is still the taste of modern Egypt
among the upper classes. It remains to be seen whether the English
occupation will change this. During the festivities at the time of the
opening of the canal, Ismail's royal guests were entertained at
Gezireh. On the upper floor are the rooms which were occupied by the
Empress Eugenie, the walls and ceilings covered with thick satin, tufted
like the back of an arm-chair, its tint the shade of blue which is most
becoming to a blond complexion--Ismail's compliment to his beautiful
guest. During these days there were state dinners and balls at Gezireh,
with banks of orchids, myriads of wax-lights, and orchestras playing
strains from _La Belle Helene_ and _La Grande Duchesse_. During one of
these balls the Emperor of Austria made a progress through the rooms
with Ismail, band after band taking up the Austrian national anthem as
the imperial guest entered. The vision of the stately, grave Franz Josef
advancing through these glittering halls by the side of the waddling
little hippopotamus of the Nile, to the martial notes of that fine hymn
(which we have appropriated for our churches under another name, and
without saying "By your leave"), is one of the sinister apparitions with
which this rococo palace, a palace half splendid, half shabby, is
haunted.
[Illustration: CHIEF WIFE OF EX-KHEDIVE ISMAIL, WITH HER PRIVATE BAND
From a photograph by Schoefft, Cairo]
In the garden there is a kiosk whose proportions charm the eye. The
guide-books inform us that this ornamentation is of cast-iron; that it
is an imitation of the Alhambra; that it is "considered the finest
modern Arabian building in the world"--all of which is against it.
Nevertheless, viewed from any point across the gardens, its outlines are
exquisite. Within there are more festal chambers, and a gilded
dining-room, which was the scene of the suppers (they were often orgies)
that were given by Ismail upon the occasion of his private masked balls.
At some distance from the palace, behind a screen of trees, are the
apartments reserved for the hareem. This smaller palace has no beauty,
unless one includes its enchanting little garden; such attraction as it
has comes from the light it sheds upon the daily life of Eastern
women. Occidental travellers are always curious about the hareem. The
word means simply the ladies, or women, of the family, and the term is
made to include also the rooms which they occupy, as our word "school"
might mean the building or the pupils within it. At Gezireh the hareem,
save that its appointments are more costly, is much like those
caravansaries which abound at our inland summer resorts. There are long
rows of small chambers opening from each side of narrow halls, with a
few sitting-rooms, which were held in common. The carpets, curtains, and
such articles of furniture as still remain are all flowery, glaring, and
in the worst possible modern taste, save that they do not exhibit those
horrible hues, surely the most hideous with which this world has been
cursed--the so-called solferinos and magentas. Besides their private
garden, the women and children of the hareem had for their entertainment
a small menagerie, an aviery, and a confectionery establishment, where
fresh bonbons were made for them every day, especially the sugared rose
leaves so dear to the Oriental heart. The chief of Ismail's four wives
had a passion for jewels. She possessed rubies and diamonds of unusual
size, and so many precious stones of all kinds that her satin dresses
were embroidered with them. She had her private band of female
musicians, who played for her, when she wished for music, upon the
violin, the flute, the zither, and the mandolin. The princesses of the
royal house, Ismail's wives and his sisters-in-law, could not bring
themselves to admire the Empress of the French. They were lost in wonder
over what they called her "pinched stiffness." It is true that the
uncorseted forms of Oriental beauties have nothing in common with the
rigid back and martial elbows of modern attire. Dimples, polished limbs,
dark, long-lashed eyes, and an indolent step are the ideals of the
hareem.