I SHOULD like to go once to an interesting city where there are no
sights. That city could be enjoyed; and conscience—which never leaves
any human being in peace until it has nagged him into a perfect
condition morally, and keeps punching him about frivolous little details
of duty, especially at the waking morning hour—would not come to insert
her thumb among the rosy fingers of the dawn.
Perhaps I do not make myself clear about conscience. Conscience is a
kind of gastric juice that gnaws upon the very coatings of a person's
moral nature, if it has no indigestible sin to feed on. Of course I know
that neither conscience nor gastric juice has a thumb. And, to get out
of these figures, all I wish to say is, that in Cairo, when the traveler
is aware of the glow of the morning stealing into his room, as if the
day were really opened gently (not ripped and torn open as it is in our
own cold north) by a rosy-fingered maiden, and an atmosphere of sweet
leisure prevails, then Conscience suggests remorselessly: “To-day you
must go to the Pyramids,” or, “You must take your pleasure in a drive in
the Shoobra road,” or “You must explore dirty Old Cairo and its
Coptic churches,” or “You must visit the mosques, and see the Howling
Derweeshes.”
But for this Conscience, I think nothing would be so sweet as the coming
of an eastern morning. I fancy that the cool wind stirring in the palms
is from the pure desert. It may be that these birds, so melodiously
singing in the garden, are the small green birds who eat the fruits and
drink the waters of Paradise, and in whose crops the souls of martyrs
abide until Judgment. As I lie quite still, I hear the call of a muezzin
from a minaret not far off, the voice now full and clear and now faint,
as he walks around the tower to send his entreaty over the dark roofs of
the city. I am not disturbed by this early call to the unconverted,
for this is not my religion. With the clamor of morning church bells in
Italy it is different; for to one born in New England, Conscience is in
the bells.
Sometimes at midnight I am dimly conscious of the first call to prayer,
which begins solemnly:
“Prayer is better than sleep.”
But the night calls are not obligatory, and I do not fully wake. The
calls during the night are long chants, that of the daytime is much
shorter. Mr. Lane renders it thus:
“God is most Great” (four times repeated). “I testify that there is
no deity but God” (twice). “I testify that Mohammed is God's Apostle”
(twice). “Come to prayer” (twice). “Come to security” (twice). “God is
most Great” (twice). “There is no deity but God.”
The muezzin whom I hear when the first faint light appears in the east,
has a most sonorous and sweet tenor voice, and his chant is exceedingly
melodious. In the perfect hush of that hour his voice fills all the air,
and might well be mistaken for a sweet entreaty out of heaven. This call
is a long one, and is in fact a confession and proclamation as well as a
call to prayer. It begins as follows:
“[I extol] the perfection of God, the Existing forever and ever” (three
times): “the perfection of God, the Desired, the Existing, the Single,
the Supreme: the perfection of God, the One, the Sole: the perfection
of Him who taketh to Himself, in his great dominion, neither female
companion nor male partner, nor any like unto Him, nor any that is
disobedient, nor any deputy, nor any equal, nor any offspring. His
perfection [be extolled]: and exalted be His name. He is a Deity who
knew what hath been before it was, and called into existence what hath
been; and He is now existing, as He was [at the first]. His perfection
[be extolled]: and exalted be His name.”
And it ends: “O God, bless and save and still beatify the beatified
Prophet, our lord Mohammed. And may God, whose name be blessed and
exalted, be well pleased with thee, O our lord El-Hassan, and with thee,
O our lord El-Hoseyn, and with thee, O Aboo-Farrâg, O Sheykh of the
Arabs, and with all the favorites ['.he welees'. of God. Amen.”
The mosques of Cairo are more numerous than the churches in Rome; there
are about four hundred, many of them in ruins, but nearly all in daily
use. The old ones are the more interesting architecturally, but all have
a certain attraction. They are always open, they are cool quiet retreats
out of the glare of the sun and the noise of the street; they are
democratic and as hospitable to the beggar in rags as to the pasha in
silk; they offer water for the dusty feet of the pilgrim and a clean mat
on which to kneel; and in their hushed walls, with no images to distract
the mind and no ritual to rely on, the devout worshipper may feel the
presence of the Unseen. At all hours you will see men praying there or
reading the Koran, unconscious of any observers. Women I have seen in
there occasionally, but rarely, at prayer; still it is not uncommon to
see a group of poor women resting in a quiet corner, perhaps sewing or
talking in low voices. The outward steps and open courts are refuges for
the poor, the friendless, the lazy, and the tired. Especially the old
and decaying mosques, do the poor frequent. There about the fountains,
the children play, and under the stately colonnades the men sleep and
the women knit and sew. These houses of God are for the weary as well as
for the pious or the repentant.
The mosques are all much alike. We enter by a few or by a flight of
steps from the street into a large paved court, open to the sky, and
surrounded by colonnades. There is a fountain in the center, a round
or octagonal structure of carved stone, usually with a fanciful wooden
roof; from faucets in the exterior, water runs into a surrounding stone
basin about which the worshippers crouch to perform the ablutions before
prayer. At one side of the court is the entrance to the mosque, covered
by a curtain. Pushing this aside you are in a spacious room lighted
from above, perhaps with a dome, the roof supported by columns rising
to elegant arches. You will notice also the peculiar Arabic
bracketing-work, called by architects “pendentive,” fitting the angles
and the transitions from the corners below to the dome. In decaying
mosques, where the plaster has fallen, revealing the round stick
frame-work of this bracketing, the perishable character of Saracenic
ornament is apparent.
The walls are plain, with the exception of gilded texts from the Koran.
Above, on strings extending across the room are little lamps, and very
often hundreds of ostrich eggs are suspended. These eggs are almost
always seen in Coptic and often in Greek churches. What they signify I
do not know, unless the ostrich, which can digest old iron, is a symbol
of the credulity that can swallow any tradition. Perhaps her eggs
represent the great “cosmic egg” which modern philosophers are trying to
teach (if we may be allowed the expression) their grandmothers to suck.
The stone pavement is covered with matting and perhaps with costly rugs
from Persia, Smyrna, and Tunis. The end towards Mecca is raised a foot
or so; in it is the prayer niche, towards which all worshippers turn,
and near that is the high pulpit with its narrow steps in front; a
pulpit of marble carved, or of wood cut in bewildering arabesque, and
inlaid with pearl.
The oldest mosque in Cairo is Ahmed ebn e' Tooloon, built in 879 A.D.,
and on the spot where, according to a tradition (of how high authority
I do not know), Abraham was prevented from offering up his son by
the appearance of a ram. The modern name of this hill is, indeed,
Kalat-el-Kebsh, the Citadel of the Ram. I suppose the tradition is as
well based as is the belief of Moslems that it was Ishmael and not
Isaac whose life was spared. The center of this mosque is an open court,
surrounded by rows of fine columns, five deep on the East side; and what
gives it great interest is the fact that the columns all support pointed
arches, and exceedingly graceful ones, with a slight curve of the
horse-shoe at the base. These arches were constructed about three
centuries before the introduction of the pointed arch into Europe; their
adoption in Europe was probably one of the results of the Crusades.
In this same court I saw an old Nebk tree, which grows on the spot where
the ark of Noah is said to have rested after its voyage. This goes to
show, if it goes to show anything, that the Flood was “general” enough
to reach Egypt.
The mosque of Sultan Hassan, notwithstanding its ruined and shabby
condition, is the finest specimen of pure Arabic architecture in
the city; and its lofty and ornamented porch is, I think, as fine as
anything of its kind in the world. One may profitably spend hours in
the study of its exquisite details. I often found myself in front of it,
wondering at the poetic invention and sensitiveness to the beautiful in
form, which enabled the builders to reach the same effects that their
Gothic successors only produced by the aid of images and suggestions
drawn from every department of nature.
We ascend the high steps, pass through some dilapidated parts of the
building, which are inhabited, and come to the threshold. Here the
Moslem removes his shoes, or street-slippers, and carries them in his
hand. Over this sill we may not step, shod as we are. An attendant is
ready, however, with big slippers which go on over our shoes. Eager,
bright little boys and girls put them on for us, and then attend us in
the mosque, keeping a close watch that the slippers are not shuffled
off. When one does get off, leaving the unholy shoe to touch the ground,
they affect a sort of horror and readjust it with a laugh. Even the
children are beginning to feel the general relaxation of bigotry.
To-day the heels of my shoes actually touch the floor at every step, a
transgression which the little girl who is leading me by the hand points
out with a sly shake of the head. The attention of this pretty little
girl looks like affection, but I know by sad experience that it means
“backsheesh.” It is depressing to think that her natural, sweet,
coquettish ways mean only that. She is fierce if any other girl seeks
to do me the least favor, and will not permit my own devotion to her to
wander.
The mosque of Sultan Hassan was built in the fourteenth century, and
differs from most others. Its great, open court has a square recess on
each side, over which is a noble arch; the east one is very spacious,
and is the place of prayer. Behind this, in an attached building, is
the tomb of Hassan; lights are always burning over it, and on it lies a
large copy of the Koran.
When we enter, there are only a few at their devotions, though there are
several groups enjoying the serenity of the court; picturesque groups,
all color and rags! In a far corner an old man is saying his prayers
and near him a negro, perhaps a slave, also prostrates himself. At the
fountain are three or four men preparing for devotion; and indeed the
prayers begin with the washing. The ablution is not a mere form with
these soiled laborers—though it does seem a hopeless task for men of the
color of these to scrub themselves. They bathe the head, neck, breast,
hands and arms, legs and feet; in fact, they take what might be called a
fair bath in any other country. In our sight this is simply a wholesome
“wash”; to them it is both cleanliness and religion, as we know, for Mr.
Lane has taught us what that brown man in the blue gown is saying.
It may help us to understand his acts if we transcribe a few of his
ejaculations.
When he washes his face, he says:—“O God whiten my face with thy light,
on the day when thou shalt whiten the faces of thy favorites; and do not
blacken my face, on the day when Thou shalt blacken the faces of thine
enemies.” Washing his right arm, he entreats:—“O God, give me my book in
my right hand; and reckon with me with an easy reckoning.” Passing his
wetted hand over his head under his raised turban, he says:—“O God,
cover me with thy mercy, and pour down thy blessing upon me; and shade
me under the shadow of thy canopy, on the day when there shall be no
shade but its shade.”
One of the most striking entreaties is the prayer upon washing the right
foot:—“O God, make firm my feet upon the Sirat, on the day when feet
shall slip upon it.”
“Es Sirât” is the bridge, which extends over the midst of Hell, finer
than a hair and sharper than the edge of a sword, over which all must
pass, and from which the wicked shall fall into Hell.
In these mosques order and stillness always reign, and the devotions
are conducted with the utmost propriety, whether there are single
worshippers, or whether the mosque is filled with lines of gowned and
turbaned figures prostrating themselves and bowing with one consent.
But, much stress as the Moslems lay upon prayer, they say that they do
not expect to reach Paradise by that, or by any merit of their own,
but only by faith and forgiveness. This is expressed frequently both
in prayers and in the sermons on Friday. A sermon by an Imam of a Cairo
mosque contains these implorings:—“O God! unloose the captivity of the
captives, and annul the debts of the debtors; and make this town to be
safe and secure, and blessed with wealth and plenty, and all the towns
of the Moslems, O Lord of the beings of the whole earth. And decree
safety and health to us and to all travelers, and pilgrims, and
warriors, and wanderers, upon thy earth, and upon thy sea, such as are
Moslems, O Lord of the beings of the whole world. O Lord, we have acted
unjustly towards our own souls, and if Thou do not forgive us and be
merciful unto us, we shall surely be of those who perish. I beg of
God, the Great, that He may forgive me and you, and all the people of
Mohammed, the servants of God.”
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