I
When the lively and somewhat spiteful Mrs. Eliza Fay landed at
Alexandria in the summer of 1779 that city was at her lowest ebb. The
glories of the antique had gone, the comforts of the modern had not
arrived. Gone were the temples and statues, gone the palace of Cleopatra
and the library of Callimachus, the Pharos had fallen and been succeeded
by the feeble Pharillon, the Heptastadion had silted up; while the
successors to these—the hotels, the clubs, the drainage system, the
exquisite Municipal buildings—still slept in the unastonished womb of
time.
Attached to Mrs. Fay was her husband, an incompetent advocate, who was
to make their fortunes in the East. Since the boat that had brought them
was owned by a Christian, they were forbidden to enter the Western
Harbour, and had to disembark not far from the place where, in more
enlightened days, the Ramleh Tramway was to terminate. All was barbarism
then, save for two great obelisks, one prone, one erect—“Cleopatra’s
Needles,” not yet transferred to New York and London respectively. They
were met in this lonely spot by the Prussian Consul, a certain Mr.
Brandy, who found them rooms, but had bad news for them: “a melancholy
story,” as Mrs. Fay calls it when writing to her sister. Between Cairo
and Suez, on the very route they proposed to take, a caravan had been
held up and some of its passengers murdered. She was pitiably agitated.
But she did not give up her sight-seeing; she had got to Alexandria and
meant to enjoy it. Cleopatra’s Needles in the first place. What did the
hieroglyphics on them signify? She applied to Mr. Brandy; but the
Consul, following the best traditions of the residential Levant, “seemed
to know no more than ourselves.” His kindness was unfailing. Next day he
produced donkeys—being Christians they were not allowed to ride
horses—and the party trotted over three miles of desert to Pompey’s
Pillar, preceded by a janissary with a drawn sword. Pompey’s Pillar
arouses few emotions in the modern breast. The environs are squalid, the
turnstile depressing, and one knows that it dates not from Pompey but
from Diocletian. Mrs. Fay approached it in a nobler mood.
Although quite unadorned, the proportions are so exquisite that
it must strike every beholder with a kind of awe, which softens
into melancholy when one reflects that the renowned hero, whose
name it bears, was treacherously murdered on this very coast by
the boatmen who were conveying him to Alexandria. His wretched
wife stood on the vessel he had just left, watching his
departure, as we may very naturally suppose, with inexpressible
anxiety. What must have been her agonies at the dreadful event!
The time was to come when Mrs. Fay herself would have watched with very
little anxiety the murder of Mr. Fay. Her Anthony—for such was his
name—led her from mess to mess, and in the end she had to divorce him.
Let us turn from these serious themes to a “ludicrous accident” that
befell Mr. Brandy on the way to “Cleopatra’s Palace.” He was very large
and stout, and his donkey, seizing its opportunity, stole away from
under the consular seat and left him astride on the sand! As for
“Cleopatra’s Palace,” it was not the genuine palace, but it was as
genuine as the emotion it inspired.
Never do I remember being so affected by a like object. I stood
in the midst of the ruins, meditating on the awful scene, till I
could have almost fancied I beheld its former mistress,
revelling in luxury with her infatuated lover, Mark Anthony, who
for her sake lost all.
An account of a party at the Brandies’ concludes the letter—a clear-cut
malicious account. Eliza is the child of her century, which affected
lofty emotions but whose real interest lay in little things, and in
satire.
We were most graciously received by Mrs. Brandy, who is a native
of this place; but as she could speak a little Italian we
managed to carry on something like a conversation. She was most
curiously bedizened on the occasion, and being short,
dark-complexioned, and of a complete dumpling shape, appeared
altogether the strangest lump of finery I ever beheld. She had a
handkerchief bound round her head, covered with strings composed
of spangles, but very large, intermixed with pearls and
emeralds; her neck and bosom were ornamented in the same way.
Add to all this an embroidered girdle with a pair of gold
clasps, I think very nearly four inches square, enormous
ear-rings, and a large diamond sprig at the top of her forehead,
and you must allow that she was a most brilliant figure. They
have a sweet little girl about seven years of age, who was
decked out in much the same style; but she really looked pretty
in spite of her incongruous finery. On the whole, though, I was
pleased with both mother and child; their looks and behaviour
were kind, and to a stranger in a strange land (and this is
literally so to us) a little attention is soothing and
consolatory; especially when one feels surrounded by
hostilities, which every European must do here. Compared with
the uncouth beings who govern this country, I felt at home among
the natives of France, and I will even say of Italy.
On taking leave, our host presented a book containing
certificates of his great politeness and attentions towards
travellers, which were signed by many persons of consideration,
and at the same time requesting that Mr. Fay and myself would
add our names to the list. We complied, though not without
surprise that a gentleman in his situation should have recourse
to such an expedient, which cannot but degrade him in the eyes
of his guests.
Rather cattish, that last remark, considering how much the Consul had
done for her. But a cat she is—spirited and observant, but a cat.