EGYPT IN 1896
Life in Egypt--Accident--The Men Who Made Egypt--Up the Nile--The Salt
Lakes--Adventure in the Desert--The Coptic Monastery--Colonel Lewis--A
Surprise.
The wretched microbe which had so completely disorganized our lives,
and which had produced all the sufferings so patiently borne, now
seemed to be latent, and it was hoped that if we spent a winter in
Egypt the cure might be complete. During this short visit to England,
whither I had to rush every now and again in order to adjust my
affairs, I met Grant Allen at luncheon, and he told me that he had also
suffered from consumption and that he had found his salvation in the
soil and air of Hindhead in Surrey. It was quite a new idea to me that
we might actually live with impunity in England once more, and it was a
pleasant thought after resigning oneself to a life which was unnatural
to both of us at foreign health resorts. I acted very promptly, for
I rushed down to Hindhead, bought an admirable plot of ground, put
the architectural work into the hands of my old friend and fellow
psychic researcher, Mr. Ball of Southsea, and saw the builder chosen
and everything in train before leaving England in the autumn of 1895.
If Egypt was a success, we should have a roof of our own to which to
return. The thought of it brought renewed hope to the sufferer.
I then set forth, picked up my wife and my sister Lottie at Caux and
took them on by easy stages through Italy, stopping a few days at Rome,
and so to Brindisi, where we picked up a boat for Egypt. Once at Cairo
we took up our quarters at the Mena Hotel, in the very shadow of the
Pyramids, and there we settled down for the winter. I was still doing
the Brigadier Gerard stories at the time, which required a good deal of
historical research, but I had brought my materials with me, and all I
lacked was the energy, which I found it most difficult to find in that
enervating land.
On the whole it was a pleasant winter and led up to a most unforeseen
climax. I ascended the Great Pyramid once, and was certainly never
tempted to do so again, and was content to watch the struggles of
the endless drove of tourists who attempted that uncomfortable and
useless feat. There was golf of sorts and there was riding. I was
still an immature horseman, but I felt that only practice would help
me, so I set forth upon weird steeds provided by the livery stables
opposite. As a rule they erred on the side of dulness, but I have a
very vivid recollection of one which restored the average. If my right
eyelid droops somewhat over my eye it is not the result of philosophic
brooding, but it is the doing of a black devil of a horse with a
varminty head, slab-sided ribs and restless ears. I disliked the look
of the beast, and the moment I threw my leg over him he dashed off as
if it were a race. Away we went across the desert, I with one foot in
the stirrup, holding on as best I might. It is possible I could have
kept on until he was weary, but he came suddenly on cultivated land
and his forelegs sank in a moment over his fetlocks. The sudden stop
threw me over his head, but I held on to the bridle, and he, pawing
about with his front hoofs, struck me over the eye, and made a deep
star-shaped wound which covered me with blood. I led him back and a
pretty sight I presented as I appeared before the crowded verandah!
Five stitches were needed, but I was thankful, for very easily I might
have lost my sight.
My wife was well enough now to join in society, while my sister was
just at an age to enjoy it, so that we saw a little of the very jovial
life of Cairo, though the fact that Mena is some seven miles out, on
the most monotonous road in the world, saved us from any excess. It was
always a task to get in and out, so that only a great temptation would
draw us. I joined in male society, however, a good deal and learned
to know many of those great men who were shaping the new destinies of
Egypt. I sketched some of them at the time in two paragraphs which may
be quoted.
“There is a broad and comfortable sofa in the hall of the Turf Club,
and if you sit there about luncheon time you will see a fair sprinkling
of Anglo-Egyptians, men who have helped to make, and are still helping
to make, the history of our times. You have a view of the street from
where you are, and perhaps in the brilliant sunshine a carriage flies
past with two running syces before it and an English coachman upon
the box. Within, one catches a glimpse of a strong florid face with a
close-cropped soldierly grey moustache, the expression good-humoured
and inscrutable. This is Lord Cromer, whom Egypt has changed from a
major of gunners to a peer of the realm, while he in turn has changed
it from a province of the East to one of the West. One has but to look
at him to read the secret of his success as a diplomatist. His clear
head, his brave heart, his physical health, and his nerves of iron are
all impressed upon you even in that momentary glance at his carriage.
And that lounging ennuyé attitude is characteristic also--most
characteristic at this moment, when few men in the world can have more
pressing responsibility upon their shoulders. It is what one could
expect from the man who at the most critical moment of recent Egyptian
history is commonly reported to have brought diplomatic interviews to
an abrupt conclusion with the explanation that the time had come for
his daily lawn-tennis engagement. It is no wonder that so strong a
representative should win the confidence of his own countrymen, but
he has made as deep an impression upon the native mind, which finds
it difficult under this veiled Protectorate of ours to estimate the
comparative strength of individuals. ‘Suppose Khedive tell Lord Cromer
go, Lord Cromer go?’ asked my donkey-boy, and so put his chocolate
finger upon the central point of the whole situation.
“But this is a digression from the Turf Club, where you are seated
upon a settee in the hall and watching the Englishmen who have done so
much to regenerate Egypt. Of all the singular experiences of this most
venerable land, surely this rebuilding at the hands of a little group
of bustling, clear-headed Anglo-Saxons is the most extraordinary. There
are Garstin and Wilcocks, the great water captains who have coaxed
the Nile to right and to left, until the time seems to be coming when
none of its waters will ever reach the Mediterranean at all. There is
Kitchener, tall and straight, a grim silent soldier, with a weal of a
Dervish bullet upon his face. There you may see Rogers, who stamped
out the cholera, Scott, who reformed the law, Palmer, who relieved the
over-taxed fellaheen, Hooker, who exterminated the locusts, Wingate,
who knows more than any European of the currents of feeling in the
Soudan--the same Wingate who reached his arm out a thousand miles
and plucked Slatin out of Khartoum. And beside him the small man
with the yellow-brown moustache and the cheery, ruddy face is Slatin
himself, whose one wish in the world now is to have the Khalifa at his
sword-point--that Khalifa at whose heels he had to run for so many
weary years.”
Shortly after the opening of the New Year of 1896 we went in one
of Cook’s boats up the river, getting as far as the outposts of
civilization at Wady Halfa. The banks in the upper reaches were not
too safe, as raiders on camels came down at times, but on the water
one was secure from all the chances of Fate. At the same time I
thought that the managers of these tours took undue risks, and when I
found myself on one occasion on the rock of Abousir with a drove of
helpless tourists, male and female, nothing whatever between us and the
tribesmen, and a river between us and the nearest troops, I could not
but think what an appalling situation would arise if a little troop of
these far-riding camel men were to appear. We had four negro soldiers
as an escort, who would be helpless before any normal raiding party. It
was the strong impression which I there received which gave me the idea
of taking a group of people of different types and working out what the
effect of so horrible an experience would be upon each. This became
“The Tragedy of the Korosko,” published in America as “A Desert Drama”
and afterwards dramatized with variations as “The Fires of Fate.” All
went well as a matter of fact, but I thought then, and experienced
British officers agreed with me, that it was unjustifiable. As the
whole frontier force was longing for an excuse to advance, I am not
sure that they would not have welcomed it if the Dervishes had risen to
the ground bait which every week in the same place was laid in front of
them.
I do not know how many temples we explored during that tour, but they
seemed to me endless, some dating back to the mists of antiquity
and some as recent as Cleopatra and the Roman period. The majestic
continuity of Egyptian History seems to be its most remarkable feature.
You examine the tombs of the First Dynasty at Abydos and there you see
carved deep in the stone the sacred hawk, the goose, the plover, the
signs of Horus and Osiris, of Upper and Lower Egypt. These were carved
long before the Pyramids were built and can hardly be less ancient than
4000 B.C. Then you inspect a temple built by the Ptolemies, after the
date of Alexander the Great, and there you see the same old symbols cut
in the same old way. There is nothing like this in the world. The Roman
and the British Empires are mushrooms in comparison. Judged by Egyptian
standards the days of Alfred the Great would be next door to our own,
and our customs, symbols and way of thinking the same. The race seems
to have petrified, and how they could do so without being destroyed by
some more virile nation is hard to understand.
Their arts seem to have been high but their reasoning power in many
ways contemptible. The recent discovery of the King’s tomb near
Thebes--I write in 1924--shows how wonderful were their decorations
and the amenities of their lives. But consider the tomb itself. What
a degraded intelligence does it not show! The idea that the body, the
old outworn greatcoat which was once wrapped round the soul, should at
any cost be preserved is the last word in materialism. And the hundred
baskets of provisions to feed the soul upon its journey! I can never
believe that a people with such ideas could be other than emasculated
in their minds--the fate of every nation which comes under the rule of
a priesthood.
It had been suggested that I should go out to the Salt Lakes in the
Desert some 50 miles from Cairo, and see the old Coptic Monastery
there. Those ancient monasteries, the abode alternately of saints
and perverts--we saw specimens of each--have always aroused my keen
interest, dating as they do to very early days of Christianity. Indeed,
their date is often unknown, but everything betokens great age and the
spirit which founded them seems to have been that of the hermits who in
the third and fourth centuries swarmed in these wildernesses.
Leaving my wife at Mena, I went with Colonel Lewis of the Egyptian
army, an excellent companion and guide. On arriving at a wayside
station, we found a most amazing vehicle awaiting us, a sort of circus
coach, all gilding and frippery. It proved to be the coach of State
which had been prepared for Napoleon III on the chance that he would
come to open the Suez Canal. It was surely a good bit of work, for here
it was still strong and fit, but absurdly out of place in the majestic
simplicity of the Libyan Desert.
Into this we got and set forth, the only guide being wheel-marks across
the sand which in some of the harder places were almost invisible.
The great sand waste rolled in yellow billows all around us, and far
behind us the line of green trees marked the course of the Nile. Once
a black dot appeared which, as it grew nearer, proved to be some sort
of Oriental on foot. As he came up to us he opened a blackened mouth,
pointed to it, and cried, “Moya! Moya!” which means water. We had none
and could only point encouragingly to the green belt behind us, on
which with a curse he staggered upon his way.
A surprising adventure befell us, for the heavens suddenly clouded
over and rain began to fall, an almost unknown thing in those parts.
We lumbered on, however, with our two horses, while Colonel Lewis, who
was keen on getting fit, ran behind. I remember saying to him that
in my wildest dreams I never thought that I should drive across the
Libyan Desert in an Emperor’s coach with a full colonel as carriage
dog. Presently in the fading light the horses slowed down, the Nubian
driver descended, and began alternately scanning the ground and
making gestures of despair. We realized then that he had lost the
tracks and therefore that we had no notion where we were, though we
had strong reasons to believe that we were to the south of the route.
The difficulty was to know which was north and which south. It was an
awkward business since we had no food or water and could see no end to
our troubles. The further we moved the deeper we should be involved.
Night had closed in, and I was looking up at the drifting scud above
us when in the chink of two clouds I saw for an instant a cluster of
stars, and made sure that they were the four wheels of Charles’s Wain.
I am no astronomer, but I reasoned that this constellation would lie
to the north of us, and so it proved, for when we headed that way,
examining the ground every hundred yards or so with matches, we came
across the track once more.
Our adventures, however, were not over, and it was all like a queer
dream. We had great difficulty in keeping the track in the darkness,
and the absurd coach lumbered and creaked while we walked with lanterns
ahead of it. Suddenly to our joy we saw a bright light in the gloom. We
quickened our pace, and came presently to a tent with a florid-bearded
man seated outside it beside a little table where he was drawing by
the light of a lamp. The rain had cleared now, but the sky was still
overcast. In answer to our hail this man rather gruffly told us that
he was a German surveyor at work in the desert. He motioned with his
hand when we told him whither we were bound, and said it was close by.
After leaving him we wandered on, and losing the tracks we were again
very badly bushed. It seemed an hour or two before to our joy we saw a
light ahead and prepared for a night’s rest at the halfway house, which
was our immediate destination. But when we reached the light what we
saw was a florid bearded man sitting outside a small tent with a lamp
upon a table. We had moved in a circle. Fresh explanations--and this
time we really did keep to the track and reached a big deserted wooden
hut, where we put up the horses, ate some cold food, and tumbled, very
tired, into two of the bunks which lined it.
The morrow made amends for all. It broke cold and clear and I have
seldom felt a greater sense of exhilaration than when I awoke and
walking out before dressing saw the whole endless desert stretching
away on every side of me, yellow sand and black rock, to the blue
shimmering horizon. We harnessed up and within a few hours came on the
Natron Lake, a great salt lake, with a few scattered houses at one end
where the workers dry out and prepare the salt. A couple of miles off
was the lonely monastery which we had come to see--less lonely now, but
before the salt works were established one of the most inaccessible
places one could imagine. It consisted of a huge outer wall, which
seemed to be made of hardened clay. It had no doors or windows save
one little opening which could be easily defended against the prowling
Arabs, but I fear the garrison would not be very stout-hearted, for it
was said to be the fear of military service which caused many of the
monks to discover that they had a vocation. On being admitted I was
conscious that we were not too welcome, though the military title of my
companion commanded respect. We were shown round the inner courtyard,
where there were palm trees and a garden, and then round the scattered
houses within the wall. Near the latter there was, I remember, a barrel
full of some substance which seemed to me, both by look and feel, to be
rounded pieces of some light stone, and I asked if it were to hurl down
at the Arabs if they attacked the door. It proved to be the store of
bread for the Monastery. We were treated to wine, which was sweet tent
wine, which is still used, I believe, in the Holy Communion, showing
how straight our customs come from the East. The Abbot seemed to me to
be a decent man, but he complained of illness and was gratified when I
overhauled him thoroughly, percussed his chest, and promised to send
him out some medicine from Cairo. I did so, but whether it ever reached
my remote patient I never learned. Some of the brothers, however,
looked debauched, and there was a general air of nothing-to-do, which
may have been deceptive but which certainly impressed me that day.
As I looked from the walls and saw the desert on all sides, unbroken
save for one blue corner of the salt lake, it was strange to consider
that this was all which these men would ever see of the world, and to
contrast their fate with my own busy and varied existence. There was
a library, but the books were scattered on the floor, all of them old
and some no doubt rare. Since the discovery of the “Codex Sinaiticus”
I presume that all these old Coptic libraries have been examined by
scholars, but it certainly seemed to me that there might be some
valuable stuff in that untidy heap.
Next evening Colonel Lewis and I were back in Cairo. We heard no news
upon the way, and we had reached the Turf Club and were in the cloak
room washing our hands before dinner when some man came in and said:
“Why, Lewis, how is it you are not with your brigade?”
“My brigade!”
“Have you been away?”
“Yes, at the Natron Lakes.”
“Good Heavens! Have you heard nothing?”
“No.”
“Why, man, war is declared. We are advancing on Dongola. The whole army
is concentrating on the frontier, and you are in command of an advanced
brigade.”
“Good God!” Lewis’s soap splashed into the water, and I wonder he did
not fall plump on the floor. Thus it was that we learned of the next
adventure which was opening up before both us and the British Empire.