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CHAPTER
V. BEDRESHAYN
TO MINIEH. IT is
the
rule of the Nile to hurry up the river as fast as possible, leaving the
ruins
to be seen as the boat comes back with the current; but this, like many
another
canon, is by no means of universal application. The traveller who
starts late
in the season has, indeed, no other course open to him. He must press
on with
speed to the end of his journey, if he would get back again at low Nile
without
being irretrievably stuck on a sand-bank till the next inundation
floats him
off again. But for those who desire not only to see the monuments, but
to
follow, however superficially, the course of Egyptian history as it is
handed
down through Egyptian art, it is above all things necessary to start
early and
to see many things by the way. For the
history of ancient Egypt goes against the stream. The earliest
monuments lie
between Cairo and Siout, while the latest temples to the old gods are
chiefly
found in Nubia. Those travellers, therefore, who hurry blindly forward
with or
without a wind, now sailing, now tracking, now punting, passing this
place by
night, and that by day, and never resting till they have gained the
farthest
point of their journey, begin at the wrong end and see all their sights
in
precisely inverse order. Memphis and Sakkârah and the tombs
of Beni Hassan
should undoubtedly be visited on the way up. So should El Kâb
and Tell el
Amarna, and the oldest parts of Karnak and Luxor. It is not necessary
to delay
long at any of these places. They may be seen cursorily on the way up,
and be
more carefully studied on the way down; but they should be seen as they
come,
no matter at what trifling cost of present delay, and despite any
amount of
ignorant opposition. For in this way only is it possible to trace the
progression and retrogression of the arts from the pyramid-builders to
the
Cæsars; or to understand at the time, and on the spot, in
what order that vast
and august procession of dynasties swept across the stage of history. For
ourselves, as will presently be seen, it happened that we could carry
only a
part of this programme into effect; but that part, happily was the most
important. We never ceased to congratulate ourselves on having made
acquaintance with the pyramids of Ghîzeh and
Sakkârah before seeing the tombs
of the kings at Thebes; and I feel that it is impossible to
overestimate the
advantage of studying the sculptures of the tomb of Ti before
one’s taste is
brought into contact with the debased style of Denderah and Esneh. We
began the great book, in short, as it always should be begun – at its
first page; thereby
acquiring just that necessary insight without which many an
after-chapter must
have lost more than half its interest. If I
seem
to insist upon this point, it is because things contrary to custom need
a
certain amount of insistance, and are sure to be met by opposition. No
dragoman, for example, could be made to understand the importance of
historical
sequence in a matter of this kind; especially in the case of a contract
trip.
To him, Khufu, Rameses, and the Ptolemies are one. As for the
monuments, they
are all ancient Egyptian, and one is just as odd and unintelligible as
another.
He cannot quite understand why travellers come so far and spend so much
money
to look at them; but he sets it down to a habit of harmless curiousity
– by
which he profits. The
truth
is, however, that the mere sight-seeing of the Nile demands some little
reading
and organising, if only to be enjoyed. We cannot all be profoundly
learned; but
we can at least do our best to understand what we see – to
get rid of obstacles
– to put the right thing in the right place. For the land of
Egypt is, as I
have said, a great book – not very easy reading, perhaps,
under any
circumstances; but at all events quite difficult enough already without
the
added puzzlement of being read backwards. And now
our next point along the river, as well as our next link in the chain
of early
monuments, was Beni Hassan, with its famous rock-cut tombs of the twelfth
dynasty; and Beni Hassan was still more than a hundred and forty-five
miles
distant. We ought to have gone on again directly – to have
weighed anchor and
made a few miles that very evening on returning to the boats; but we
insisted
on a second day in the same place. This, too, with the favourable wind
still
blowing. It was against all rule and precedent. The captain shook his
head, the
dragoman remonstrated, in vain. “You
will
come to learn the value of a wind, when you have been longer on the
Nile,” said
the latter, with that air of melancholy resignation which he always
assumed
when not allowed to have his own way. He was an indolent good-tempered
man,
spoke English fairly well, and was perfectly manageable; but that air
of
resignation came to be aggravating in time. The M.
B.’s being of the same mind, however, we had our second day,
and spent it at
Memphis. We ought to have crossed over to Turra, and have seen the
great
quarries from which the casing-stones of the pyramids came, and all the
finer
limestone with which the temples and palaces of Memphis were built. But
the
whole mountain-side seemed as if glowing at a white heat on the
opposite side
of the river, and we said we would put off Turra till our return. So we
went
our own way; and Alfred shot pigeons; and the writer sketched
Mitrâhîneh, and
the palms, and the sacred lake of Mena; and the rest grubbed among the
mounds
for treasure, finding many curious fragments of glass and pottery, and
part of
an engraved bronze Apis; and we had a green, tranquil, lovely day,
barren of
incident, but very pleasant to remember. The good
wind continued to blow all that night; but fell at sunrise, precisely
when we
were about to start. The river now stretched away before us, smooth as
glass,
and there was nothing for it, said Reïs Hassan, but tracking.
We had heard of
tracking often enough since coming to Egypt, but without having any
definite
idea of the process. Coming on deck, however, before breakfast, we
found nine
of our poor fellows harnessed to a rope like barge-horses, towing the
huge boat
against the current. Seven of the M. B.’s crew, similarly
harnessed, followed
at a few yards’ distance. The two ropes met and crossed and
dipped into the
water together. Already our last night’s mooring-place was
out of sight, and
the pyramid of Ouenephes stood up amid its lesser brethren on the edge
of the
desert, as if bidding us goodbye. But the sight of the trackers jarred,
somehow, with the placid beauty of the picture. We got used to it, as
one gets
used to everything, in time; but it looked like slaves’ work,
and shocked our
English notions disagreeably. That
morning, still tracking, we pass the pyramids of Dahshûr. A
dilapidated brick
pyramid standing in the midst of them looks like an aiguille of black
rock
thrusting itself up through the limestone bed of the desert. Palms line
the
bank and intercept the view; but we catch flitting glimpses here and
there,
looking out especially for that dome-like pyramid which we observed the
other
day from Sakkârah. Seen in the full sunlight, it looks larger
and whiter, and
more than ever like the roof of the old Palais de Justice far away in
Paris. Thus the
morning passes. We sit on deck writing letters; reading; watching the
sunny
river-side pictures that glide by at a foot’s pace and are so
long in sight.
Palm-groves, sand-banks, patches of fuzzy-headed dura1
and fields of
some yellow-flowering herb, succeed each other. A boy plods along the
bank,
leading a camel. They go slowly; but they soon leave us behind. A
native boat
meets us, floating down side-wise with the current. A girl comes to the
water’s
edge with a great empty jar on her head, and waits to fill it till the
trackers
have gone by. The pigeon-towers of a mud-village peep above a clump of
lebbek
trees, a quarter of a smile inland. Here a solitary brown man, with
only a felt
skull-cap on his head and a slip of scanty tunic fastened about his
loins,
works a shâdûf,2
stooping and rising,
stooping and rising, with the
regularity of a pendulum. It is the same machine which we shall see by
and by
depicted in the tombs at Thebes; and the man is so evidently an ancient
Egyptian, that we find ourselves wondering how he escaped being
mummified four
or five thousand years ago.  THE SHADUF. By and
by,
a little breeze springs up. The men drop the rope and jump on board
– the big
sail is set – the breeze freshens – and away we go
again, as merrily as the day
we left Cairo. Towards sunset we see a strange object, like a giant
obelisk
broken off half-way, standing up on the western bank against an
orange-gold
sky. This is the pyramid of Meydûm, commonly called the false pyramid. It looks
quite near the bank; but this is an effect of powerful light and
shadow, for it
lies back at least four miles from the river. That night, having sailed
on till
past nine o’clock, we moor about a mile from Beni
Suêf, and learn with some
surprise that a man must be despatched to the governor of the town for
guards.
Not that anything ever happened to anybody at Beni Suêf, says
Talhamy; but that
the place is supposed not to have a first-rate reputation. If we have
guards,
we at all events make the governor responsible for our safety and the
safety of
our possessions. So the guards are sent for; and being posted on the
bank,
snore loudly all night long, just outside our windows. Meanwhile
the wind shifts round to the south, and next morning it blows full in
our
faces. The men, however, track up to Beni Suêf to a point
where the buildings
come down to the water’s edge and the towing-path ceases; and
there we lay-to
for awhile among a fleet of filthy native boats, close to the
landing-place. The
approach to Beni Suêf is rather pretty. The khedive has an
Italian-looking
villa here, which peeps up white and dazzling from the midst of a
thickly-wooded park. The town lies back a little from the river. A few
coffee-houses and a kind of promenade face the landing-place; and a
mosque
built to the verge of the bank stands out picturesquely against the
bend of the
river. And now
it
is our object to turn that corner, so as to get into a better position
for
starting when the wind drops. The current here runs deep and strong, so
that we
have both wind and water dead against us. Half our men clamber round
the corner
like cats, carrying the rope with them; the rest keep the dahabeeyah
off the
bank with punting poles. The rope strains – a pole breaks
– we struggle forward
a few feet, and can get no farther. Then the men rest awhile; try
again; and
are again defeated. So the fight goes on. The promenade and the windows
of the
mosque become gradually crowded with lookers-on. Some three or four
cloaked and
bearded men have chairs brought, and sit gravely smoking their
chibouques on
the bank above, enjoying the entertainment. Meanwhile the
water-carriers come
and go, filling their goat-skins at the landing-place; donkeys and
camels are
brought down to drink; girls in dark blue gowns and coarse black veils
come
with huge water-jars laid sidewise upon their heads, and, having filled
and
replaced them upright, walk away with stately steps, as if each
ponderous
vessel were a crown. So the
day
passes. Driven back again and again, but still resolute, our sailors,
by dint
of sheer doggedness, get us round the bad corner at last. The Bagstones
follows
suit a little later; and we both moor about a quarter of a mile above
the town.
Then follows a night of adventures. Again our guards sleep profoundly;
but the
bad characters of Beni Suêf are very wide awake. One
gentleman, actuated no
doubt by the friendliest motives, pays a midnight visit to the
Bagstones; but
being detected, chased, and fired at, escapes by jumping overboard. Our
turn
comes about two hours later, when the writer, happening to be awake,
hears a
man swim softly round the Philæ. To strike a light and
frighten everybody into
sudden activity is the work of a moment. The whole boat is instantly in
an
uproar. Lanterns are lighted on deck; a patrol of sailors is set;
Talhamy loads
his gun; and the thief slips away in the dark, like a fish. The
guards, of course, slept sweetly through it all. Honest fellows! They
were paid
a shilling a night to do it, and they had nothing on their minds. Having
lodged a formal complaint next morning against the inhabitants of the
town, we
received a visit from a sallow personage clad in a long black robe and
a
voluminous white turban. This was the chief of the guards. He smoked a
great
many pipes; drank numerous cups of coffee; listened to all we had to
say;
looked wise; and finally suggested that the number of our guards should
be
doubled. I
ventured
to object that if they slept unanimously, forty would not be of much
more use
than four. Whereupon he rose, drew himself to his full height, touched
his
beard, and said with a magnificent melodramatic air:–
“If they sleep, they
shall be bastinadoed till they die!” And now
our good luck seemed to have deserted us. For three days and nights the
adverse
wind continued to blow with such force that the men could not even
track
against it. Moored under that dreary bank, we saw our ten
days’ start melting
away, and could only make the best of our misfortunes. Happily the long
island
close by, and the banks on both sides of the river, were populous with
sand-grouse;
so Alfred went out daily with his faithful George and his unerring gun,
and
brought home game in abundance, while we took long walks, sketched
boats and
camels, and chaffered with native women for silver torques and
bracelets. These
torques (in Arabic Tók)
are tubular but massive, penannular, about as
thick as one’s little finger, and finished with a hook at one
end and a twisted
loop at the other. The girls would sometimes put their veils aside and
make a
show of bargaining; but more frequently, after standing for a moment
with great
wondering black velvety eyes staring shyly into ours, they would take
fright
like a troop of startled deer, and vanish with shrill cries, half of
laughter,
half of terror. At Beni
Suêf we encountered our first sand-storm. It came down the
river about noon,
showing like a yellow fog on the horizon, and rolling rapidly before
the wind.
It tore the river into angry waves, and blotted out the landscape as it
came.
The distant hills disappeared first; then the palms beyond the island;
then the
boats close by. Another second, and the air was full of sand. The whole
surface
of the plain seemed in motion. The banks rippled. The yellow dust
poured down
through every rift and cleft in hundreds of tiny cataracts. But it was
a sight not
to be looked upon with impunity. Hair, eyes, mouth, ears, were
instantly
filled, and we were driven to take refuge in the saloon. Here, although
every
window and door had been shut before the storm came, the sand found its
way in
clouds. Books, papers, carpets, were covered with it; and it settled
again as
fast as it was cleared away. This lasted just one hour, and was
followed by a
burst of heavy rain; after which the sky cleared and we had a lovely
afternoon.
From this time forth, we saw no more rain in Egypt. At
length,
on the morning of the fourth day after our first appearance at Beni
Suêf and
the seventh since leaving Cairo, the wind veered round again to the
north, and
we once more got under way. It was delightful to see the big sail again
towering up overhead, and to hear the swish of the water under the
cabin
windows; but we were still one hundred and nine miles from Rhoda, and
we knew
that nothing but an extraordinary run of luck could possibly get us
there by
the twenty-third of the month, with time to see Beni Hassan on the way.
Meanwhile, however, we make fair progress, mooring at sunset when the
wind
falls, about three miles north of Bibbeh. Next day, by help of the same
light
breeze which again springs up a little after dawn, we go at a good pace
between
flat banks fringed here and there with palms, and studded with villages
more or
less picturesque. There is not much to see, and yet one never wants for
amusement. Now we pass an island of sand-bank covered with snow-white
paddy-birds, which rise tumultuously at our approach. Next comes Bibbeh
perched
high along the edge of the precipitous bank, its odd-looking Coptic convent
roofed all over with little mud domes, like a cluster of earth-bubbles.
By and
by we pass a deserted sugar-factory, with shattered windows and a huge,
gaunt,
blackened chimney, worth of Birmingham or Sheffield. And now we catch a
glimpse
of the railway, and hear the last scream of a departing engine. At
night, we
moor within sight of the factory chimneys and hydraulic tubes of
Magagha, and
next day get on nearly to Golosanèh, which is the last
station-town before
Minieh. It is
now
only too clear that we must give up all thought of pushing on to Beni
Hassan
before the rest of the party shall come on board. We have reached the
evening
of our ninth day; we are still forty-eight miles from Rhoda; and
another
adverse wind might again delay us indefinitely on the way. All risks
taken into
account, we decide to put off our meeting till the twenty-fourth, and
transfer
the appointment to Minieh; thus giving ourselves time to track all the
way in
case of need. So an Arabic telegram is concocted, and our fleetest
runner
starts off with it to Golosanèh before the office closes for
the night. The
breeze, however, does not fail, but comes back next morning with the
dawn.
Having passed Golosanèh, we come to a wide reach in the
river, at which point
we are honoured by a visit from a Moslem santon of peculiar sanctity,
named
“Holy Sheik Cotton.” Now Holy Sheik Cotton, who
is a well-fed, healthy-looking
young man of about thirty, makes his first appearance swimming, with
his
garments twisted into a huge turban on the top of his head, and only
his chin
above water. Having made his toilet in the small boat, he presents
himself on
deck, and receives an enthusiastic welcome. Reïs Hassan hugs
him – the pilot
kisses him – the sailors come up one by one, bringing little
tributes of
tobacco and piastres which he accepts with the air of a Pope receiving
Peter’s pence. All dripping as he is, and smiling like an affable Triton, he
next
proceeds to touch the tiller, the ropes, and the ends of the yards,
“in order,”
says Talhamy, “to make them holy;” and then, with
some kind of final charm or
muttered incantation, he plunges into the river again, and swims off to
repeat
the same performance on board the Bagstones. From
this
moment the prosperity of our voyage is assured. The captain goes about
with a
smile on his stern face, and the crew look as happy as if we had given
them a
guinea. For nothing can go wrong with a dahabeeyah that has been
“made holy” by
Holy Sheik Cotton. We are certain now to have favourable winds
– to pass the
Cataract without accident – to come back in health and
safety, as we set out.
But what, it may be asked, has Holy Sheik Cotton done to make his
blessing so
efficacious? He gets money in plenty; he fasts no oftener than other
Mohammedans; he has two wives; he never does a stroke of work; and he
looks the
picture of sleek prosperity. Yet he is a saint of the first water; and
when he dies,
miracles will be performed at his tomb, and his eldest son will succeed
him in
the business. We had
the
pleasure of becoming acquainted with a good many saints in the course
of our
Eastern travels; but I do not know that we ever found they had done
anything to
merit the position. One very horrible old man named Sheik Saleem has,
it is
true, been sitting on a dirt heap near Farshût, unclothed,
unwashed, unshaven,
for the last half-century or more, never even lifting his hand to his
mouth to
feed himself; but Sheik Cotton had gone to no such pious lengths, and
was not
even dirty. We are
by
this time drawing towards a range of yellow cliffs that have long been
visible
on the horizon, and which figure in the maps as Gebel et
Tâyr. The Arabian
desert has been closing up on the eastern bank for some time past, and
now
rolls on in undulating drifts to the water’s edge. Yellow
boulders crop out
here and there above the mounded sand, which looks as if it might cover
many a
forgotten temple. Presently the clay bank is gone, and a low barrier of
limestone rock, black and shiny next the water-line, has taken its
place. And
now, a long way ahead, where the river bends and the level cliffs lead
on into
the far distance, a little brown speck is pointed out as the Convent of
the
Pulley. Perched on the brink of the precipice, it looks no bigger than
an
ant-heap. We had heard much of the fine view to be seen from the
platform on
which this Convent is built, and it had originally entered into our
programme
as a place to be visited on the way. But Minieh has to be gained now at
all
costs; so this project has to be abandoned with a sigh. And now
the rocky barrier rises higher, quarried here and there in dazzling
gaps of
snow-white cuttings. And now the convent shows clearer; and the cliffs
become
loftier; and the bend in the river is reached; and a long perspective
of
flat-topped precipice stretches away into the dim distance. It is a
day of saints and swimmers. As the dahabeeyah approaches, a brown poll
is seen
bobbing up and down in the water a few hundred yards ahead. Then one,
two,
three bronze figures dash down a steep ravine below the convent walls,
and
plunge into the river – a shrill chorus of voices, growing
momentarily more
audible, is borne upon the wind – and in a few minutes the
boat is beset by a
shoal of mendicant monks vociferating with all their might “Ana
Christian ya
Hawadji! – Ana Christian ya Hawadji!”
(I am a Christian, oh traveller!) As
these are only Coptic monks and not Moslem santons, the sailors, half
in rough
play, half in earnest, drive them off with punting poles; and only one
shivering, streaming object, wrapped in a borrowed blanket, is allowed
to come
on board. He is a fine shapely man, aged about forty, with splendid
eyes and
teeth, a well-formed head, a skin the colour of a copper beech-leaf,
and a face
expressive of such ignorance, timidity, and half-savage watchfulness as
makes
one’s heart ache. And this
is a Copt; a descendant of the true Egyptian stock; one of those whose
remote
ancestors exchanged the worship of the old gods for Christianity under
the rule
of Theodosius some fifteen hundred years ago, and whose blood is
supposed to be
purer of Mohammedan intermixture than any in Egypt. Remembering these
things,
it is impossible to look at him without a feeling of profound interest.
It may
be only fancy, yet I think I see in him a different type to that of the
Arab –
a something, however slight, which recalls the sculptured figures in
the tomb
of Ti. But
while
we are thinking about his magnificent pedigree, our poor
Copt’s teeth are
chattering piteously. So we give him a shilling or two for the sake of
all he
represents in the history of the world; and with these, and the
donation of an
empty bottle, he swims away contented, crying again and
again:– “Ketther-kháyrak
Sitt´t! Ketther-kháyrak keteer!”
(“Thank you, ladies! thank you much!”) And now
the convent with its clustered domes is passed and left behind. The
rock here
is of the same rich tawny hue as at Turra, and the horizontal strata of
which
it is composed have evidently been deposited by water. That the Nile
must at
some remote time have flowed here in an immensely higher level seems
also
probable; for the whole face of the range is honeycombed and water-worn
for
miles in succession. Seeing how these fantastic forms –
arched, and clustered,
and pendent – resemble the recessed ornamentation of
Saracenic buildings, I
could not help wondering whether some early Arab architect might not
once upon
a time have taken a hint from some such rocks as these. Thus the
day wanes, and the level cliffs keep with us all the way –
now breaking into
little lateral valleys and culs-de-sac
in which nestle clusters of tiny
huts and green patches of lupin; now plunging sheer down into the
river; now
receding inland and leaving space for a belt of cultivated soil and a
fringe of
feathery palms. By and by comes the sunset, when every cast shadow in
the
recesses of the cliffs turns to pure violet; and the face of the rock
glows
with a ruddier gold; and the palms on the western bank stand up in
solid bronze
against a crimson horizon. Then the sun dips, and instantly the whole
range of
cliffs turns to a dead, greenish grey, while the sky above and behind
them is
as suddenly suffused with pink. When this effect has lasted for
something like
eight minutes, a vast arch of deep blue shade, about as large in
diameter as a
rainbow, creeps slowly up the eastern horizon, and remains distinctly
visible
as long as the pink flush against which it is defined yet lingers in
the sky.
Finally the flush fades out; the blue becomes uniform; the stars begin
to show;
and only a broad glow in the west marks which way the sun went down.
About a
quarter of an hour later comes the after-glow, when for a few minutes
the sky
is filled with a soft, magical light, and the twilight gloom lies warm
upon the
landscape. When this goes, it is night; but still one long beam of
light
streams up in the tracks of the sun, and remains visible for more than
two
hours after the darkness has closed in. Such is
the sunset we see this evening as we approach Minieh; and such is the
sunset we
are destined to see with scarcely a shade of difference at the same
hour and
under precisely the same conditions for many a month to come. It is
very
beautiful, very tranquil, full of wonderful light and most subtle
gradations of
tone, and attended by certain phenomena of which I shall have more to
say
presently; but it lacks the variety and gorgeousness of our northern
skies.
Nor, given the dry atmosphere of Egypt, can it be otherwise. Those who
go up
the Nile expecting, as I did, to see magnificent Turneresque pageants
of
purple, and flame-colour, and gold, will be disappointed as I was. For
your
Turneresque pageant cannot be achieved without such accessories of
cloud and
vapour as in Nubia are wholly unknown, and in Egypt are of the rarest
occurence. Once, and only once, in the course of an unusually
protracted
sojourn on the river, had we the good fortune to witness a grand
display of the
kind; and then we had been nearly three months in the dahabeeyah. Meanwhile,
however, we never weary of these stainless skies, but find in them,
evening
after evening, fresh depths of beauty and repose. As for that strange
transfer
of colour from the mountains to the sky, we had repeatedly observed it
while
travelling in the Dolomites the year before, and had always found it
take
place, as now, at the moment of the sun’s first
disappearance. But what of this
mighty after-shadow, climbing half the heavens and bringing night with
it? Can
it be the rising shadow of the world projected on the one horizon as
the sun
sinks on the other? I leave the problem for wiser travellers to solve.
We have
not science enough amongst us to account for it. That
same
evening, just as the twilight came on, we saw another wonder
– the new moon on
the first night of her first quarter; a perfect orb, dusky, distinct,
and
outlined all round with a thread of light no thicker than a hair.
Nothing could
be more brilliant than this tiny rim of flashing silver; while every
detail of
the softly glowing globe within its compass was clearly visible. Tycho
with its
vast crater showed like a volcano on a raised map; and near the edge of
the
moon’s surface, where the light and shadow met, keen sparkles
of
mountain-summits catching the light and relieved against the dusk, were
to be
seen by the naked eye. Two or three evenings later, however, when the
silver
ring was changed to a broad crescent, the unilluminated part was as it
were
extinguished, and could no longer be discerned even by help of a glass.
The wind
having failed as usual at sunset, the crew set to work with a will and
punted
the rest of the way, so bringing us to Minieh about nine that night.
Next
morning we found ourselves moored close under the khedive’s
summer palace – so
close that one could have tossed a pebble against the lattice windows
of his
Highness’s hareem. A fat gate-keeper sat outside in the sun,
smoking his
morning chibouque and gossiping with the passers-by. A narrow promenade
scantily planted with sycamore figs ran between the palace and the
river. A
steamer or two, and a crowd of native boats, lay moored under the bank;
and
yonder, at the farther end of the promenade, a minaret and a cluster of
whitewashed houses showed which way one must turn in going to the town.
It
chanced
to be market-day; so we saw Minieh under its best aspect, than which
nothing
could well be more squalid, dreary, and depressing. It was like a town
dropped
unexpectedly into the midst of a ploughed field; the streets being mere
trodden
lanes of mud dust, and the houses a succession of windowless mud
prisons with
their backs to the thoroughfare. The Bazaar, which consists of two or
three
lanes a little wider than the rest, is roofed over here and there with
rotting
palm-rafters and bits of tattered matting; while the market is held in
a space
of waste ground outside the town. The former, with its little
cupboard-like
shops in which the merchants sit cross-legged like shabby old idols in
shabby
old shrines – the ill-furnished shelves – the
familiar Manchester goods – the
gaudy native stuffs – the old red saddles and faded rugs
hanging up for sale –
the smart Greek stores where Bass’s ale, claret,
curaçoa, Cyprus, Vermouth,
cheese, pickles, sardines, Worcester sauce, blacking, biscuits,
preserved
meats, candles, cigars, matches, sugar, salt, stationery, fireworks,
jams, and
patent medicines can all be bought at one fell swoop – the
native cook’s shop
exhaling savoury perfumes of Kebabs and lentil soup, and presided over
by an
Abyssinian Soyer blacker than the blackest historical personage ever
was
painted – the surging, elbowing, clamorous crowd –
the donkeys, the camels, the
street-cries, the chatter, the dust, the flies, the fleas, and the
dogs, all
put us in mind of the poorer quarters of Cairo. In the market, it is
even
worse. Here are hundreds of country folk sitting on the ground behind
their
baskets of fruits and vegetables. Some have eggs, butter, and
buffalo-cream for
sale, while others sell sugar-canes, limes, cabbages, tobacco, barley,
dried
lentils, split beans, maize, wheat, and dura. The women go to and fro
with
bouquets of live poultry. The chickens scream; the sellers rave; the
buyers
bargain at the top of their voices; the dust flies in clouds; the sun
pours
down floods of light and heat; you can scarcely hear yourself speak;
and the
crowd is as dense as that other crowd which at this very moment, on
this very
Christmas Eve, is circulating among the alleys of Leadenhall Market. The
things
were very cheap. A hundred eggs cost about fourteen-pence in English
money;
chickens sold for fivepence each; pigeons from twopence to
twopence-halfpenny;
and fine live geese for two shillings a head. The turkeys, however,
which were
large and excellent, were priced as high as three-and-sixpence; being
about
half as much as one pays in Middle and Upper Egypt for a lamb. A good
sheep may
be bought for sixteen shillings or a pound. The M. B.’s, who
had no dragoman
and did their own marketing, were very busy here, laying in store of
fresh
provision, bargaining fluently in Arabic, and escorted by a bodyguard
of
sailors. A
solitary
dôm palm, the northernmost of its race and the first specimen
one meets with on
the Nile, grows in a garden adjoining this market-place; but we could
scarcely
see it for the blinding dust. Now a dôm palm is just the sort
of tree that De
Wint should have painted – odd, angular, with long forked
stems, each of which
terminates in a shock-headed crown of stiff finger-like fronds shading
heavy
clusters of big shiny nuts about the size of Jerusalem artichokes. It
is, I
suppose, the only nut in the world of which one throws away the kernel
and eats
the shell; but the kernel is as hard as marble, while the shell is
fibrous, and
tastes like stale ginger-bread. The dôm palm must bifurcate,
for bifurcation is
the law of its being; but I could never discover whether there was any
fixed
limit to the number of stems into which it might subdivide. At the same
time, I
do not remember to have seen any with less than two heads or more than
six. Coming
back through the town, we were accosted by a withered one-eyed hag like
a
re-animated mummy, who offered to tell us our fortunes. Before her lay
a dirty
rag of handkerchief full of shells, pebbles, and chips of broken glass
and
pottery. Squatting toad-like under a sunny bit of wall, the lower part
of her
face closely veiled, her skinny arms covered with blue and green glass
bracelets and her fingers with misshapen silver rings, she hung over
these
treasures; shook, mixed, and interrogated them with all the fervour of
divination; and delivered a string of the prophecies usually
forthcoming on
these occasions. “You
have
a friend far away, and your friend is thinking of you. There is good
fortune in
store for you; and money is coming to you; and pleasant news on the
way. You
will soon receive letters in which there will be something to vex you,
but more
to make you glad. Within thirty days you will unexpectedly meet one
whom you
dearly love,” etc. etc. etc. It was
just the old familiar story retold in Arabic, without even such
variations as
might have been expected from the lips of an old fellâha born
and bred in a
provincial town of Middle Egypt. It may
be
that opthalmia especially prevailed in this part of the country, or
that being
brought unexpectedly into the midst of a large crowd, one observed the
people
more narrowly, but I certainly never saw so many one-eyed human beings
as that
morning at Minieh. There must have been present in the streets and
market-place
from ten to twelve thousand natives of all ages, and I believe it is
not
exaggeration to say that at least every twentieth person, down to
little
toddling children of three and four years of age, was blind of an eye.
Not
being a particularly well-favoured race, this defect added the last
touch of
repulsiveness to faces already sullen, ignorant, and unfriendly. A more
unprepossessing population I would never wish to see – the
men half stealthy,
half insolent; the women bold and fierce; the children filthy, sickly,
stunted,
and stolid. Nothing in provincial Egypt is so painful to witness as the
neglected condition of very young children. Those belonging to even the
better
class are for the most part shabbily clothed and of more than doubtful
cleanliness; while the offspring of the very poor are simply encrusted
with
dirt and sores, and swarming with vermin. It is at first hard to
believe that
the parents of these unfortunate babies err, not from cruelty, but
through
sheer ignorance and superstition. Yet so it is; and the time when these
people
can be brought to comprehend the most elementary principles of sanitary
reform
is yet far distant. To wash young children is injurious to health;
therefore
the mothers suffer them to fall into a state of personal uncleanliness
which is
alone enough to engender disease. To brush away the flies that beset
their eyes
is impious; hence opthalmia and various kinds of blindness. I have seen
infants
lying in their mothers’ arms with six or eight flies in each
eye. I have seen
the little helpless hands put down reprovingly, if they approached the
seat of
annoyance. I have seen children of four and five years old with a large
fleshy
lump growing out where the pupil had been destroyed. Taking these
things into
account, the wonder is, after all, not that three children should die
in Egypt
out of every five – not that each twentieth person in certain
districts should
be blind, or partially blind; but that so many as forty per cent of the
whole
infant population should actually live to grow up, and that ninety-five
per
cent should enjoy the blessing of sight. For my own part, I had not
been many
weeks on the Nile before I began systematically to avoid going about
the native
towns whenever it was practicable to do so. That I may so have lost an
opportunity of now and then seeing more of the street-life of the
people is
very probable; but such outside glimpses are of little real value, and
I at all
events escaped the sight of much poverty, sickness, and squalor. The
condition
of the inhabitants is not worse, perhaps, in an Egyptian Beled3
than
in many an Irish village; but the condition of the children is so
distressing
that one would willingly go any number of miles out of the way rather
than
witness their suffering without the power to alleviate it.4
If the
population in and about Minieh are personally unattractive, their
appearance at
all events matches their reputation, which is as bad as that of their
neighbors. Of the manners and customs of Beni Suêf we had
already some
experience; while public opinion charges Minieh, Rhoda, and most of the
towns
and villages north of Siût, with the like marauding
propensities. As for the
villages at the foot of Beni Hassan, they have been mere dens of
thieves for
many generations; and though razed to the ground some years ago by way
of
punishment, are now rebuilt, and in as bad odour as ever. It is
necessary,
therefore, in all this part of the river, not only to hire guards at
night,
but, when the boat is moored, to keep a sharp look-out against thieves
by day.
In Upper Egypt it is very different. There the natives are
good-looking,
good-natured, gentle, and kindly; and though clever enough at
manufacturing and
selling modern antiquities, are not otherwise dishonest. That same evening – (it was Christmas Eve) – nearly two hours earlier than their train was supposed to be due, the rest of our party arrived at Minieh. ________________________1 Sorghum
vulgare. 2 The shâdûf
has been so well described by the Rev. F. B. Zincke, that I cannot do
better
than quote him verbatim:– “Mechanically, the shadoof is an application of the
lever. In no machine which the wit of man, aided by the accumulation of
science, has since invented, is the result produced so great in
proportion to
the degree of power employed. The lever of the shadoof is a long stout
pole poised
on a prop. The pole is at right angles to the river. A large lump of
clay from
the spot is appended to the inland end. To the river end is suspended a
goat-skin bucket. This is the whole apparatus. The man who is working
it stands
on the edge of the river. Before him is a hole full of water fed from
the
passing stream. When working the machine, he takes hold of the cord by
which
the empty bucket is suspended, and bending down, by the mere weight of
his
shoulders dips it in the water. His effort to rise gives the bucket
full of
water an upward cant, which, with the aid of the equipoising lump of
clay at
the other end of the pole, lifts it to a trough into which, as it tilts
on one
side, it empties its contents. What he has done has raised the water
six or seven
feet above the level of the river. But if the river has subsided twelve
or
fourteen feet, it will require another shadoof to be worked in the
trough into
which the water of the first has been brought. If the river has sunk
still
more, a third will be required before it can be lifted to the top of
the bank,
so as to enable it to flow off to the fields that require
irrigation.” – "Egypt
of the Pharoahs and the Khedive,"
p. 445 et seq.
3 Beled
–
village. 4 Miss Whately, whose evidence on this subject is peculiarly valuable, states that the majority of native children die off at, or under, two years of age ("Among the Huts," p. 29); while M. About, who enjoyed unusual opportunities of inquiring into facts connected with the population and resources of the country, says that the nation loses three children out of every five. “L’ignorance publique, l’oubli des premiers éléments d’hygiène, la mauvaise alimentation, l’absence presque totale des soins médicaux, tarissent la nation dans sa source. Un peuple qui perd régulièrement trois enfants sur cinq ne saurait croître sans miracle.” – "Le Fellah," p. 165. |
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