On the fourth day the wind ceased. The Lotus floated down the stream as lightly as the snowy blossom whose name I gave her. We passed Girgeh, Ekhmin; and at noon we brushed the foot of Djebel Shekh Hereedee and reached the landing-place of Tahtah. I had a letter from Rufaā Bey in Khartoum to his family in the latter town, and accordingly walked thither through fields of superb wheat, heavy with ripening ears. Tahtah is a beautiful old town; the houses are of burnt brick; the wood-work shows the same fanciful Saracenic patterns as in Cairo, and the bazaar is as quiet, dim and spicy as an Oriental dream. I found the Bey’s house, and delivered my letter through a slave. The wife, or wives, who remained in the hareem, invisible, entertained me with coffee and pipes, in the same manner, while a servant went to bring the Bey’s son from school. Two Copts, who had assisted me in finding the house, sat in the court-yard, and entertained themselves with speculations concerning my journey, not supposing that I understood them. “Girgos,” said one to the other, “the Frank must have a great deal of money to spend.” “You may well say that;” his friend replied, “this journey to Soudân must have cost him at least three hundred purses.” In a short time the Bey’s son came, accompanied by the schoolmaster. He was a weak, languid boy of eight or nine years old, and our interview was not very interesting. I therefore sent the slave to bring donkeys, and we rode back to the boat.
CHAPTER XL.
THE RETURN TO CAIRO—CONCLUSION.
Siout In Harvest-time—A kind Englishwoman—A Slight Experience of Hasheesh—The Calm—Rapid Progress down the Nile—The Last Day of the Voyage—Arrival at Cairo—Tourists preparing for the Desert—Parting with Achmet—Conclusion.
We reached Siout on the morning of the twenty-eighth of March, twelve days after leaving Assouan. I had seen the town, during the Spring of an Egyptian November, glittering over seas of lusty clover and young wheat, and thought it never could look so lovely again; but as I rode up the long dyke, overlooking the golden waves of harvest, and breathing the balm wafted from lemon groves spangled all over with their milky bloom, I knew not which picture to place in my mind’s gallery. I remained half a day in the place, partly for old acquaintance sake, and partly to enjoy the bath, the cleanest and most luxurious in Egypt. I sought for some relief to my eyes, and as they continued to pain me considerably, I went on board an English boat which had arrived before me, in the hope of finding some medicine adapted to my case. The travellers were a most innocent-faced Englishman and his wife—a beautiful, home-like little creature, with as kind a heart as ever beat. They had no medicine, but somebody had recommended a decoction of parsley, and the amiable woman spoiled their soup to make me some, and I half suspect threw away her Eau de Cologne to get a bottle to put it in. I am sure I bathed my eyes duly, with a strong faith in its efficacy, and fancied that they were actually improving, but on the second day the mixture turned sour and I was thrown back on my hot water and cold water.
While in Egypt, I had frequently heard mention of the curious effects produced by hasheesh, a preparation made from the cannabis indica. On reaching Siout, I took occasion to buy some, for the purpose of testing it. It was a sort of paste, made of the leaves of the plant, mixed with sugar and spices. The taste is aromatic and slightly pungent, but by no means disagreeable. About sunset, I took what Achmet considered to be a large dose, and waited half an hour without feeling the slightest effect. I then repeated it, and drank a cup of hot tea immediately afterwards. In about ten minutes, I became conscious of the gentlest and balmiest feeling of rest stealing over me. The couch on which I sat grew soft and yielding as air; my flesh was purged from all gross quality, and became a gossamer filagree of exquisite nerves, every one tingling with a sensation which was too dim and soft to be pleasure, but which resembled nothing else so nearly. No sum could have tempted me to move a finger. The slightest shock seemed enough to crush a structure so frail and delicate as I had become. I felt like one of those wonderful sprays of brittle spar which hang for ages in the unstirred air of a cavern, but are shivered to pieces by the breath of the first explorer.
As this sensation, which lasted but a short time, was gradually fading away, I found myself infected with a tendency to view the most common objects in a ridiculous light. Achmet was sitting on one of the provision chests, as was his custom of an evening. I thought: was there ever any thing so absurd as to see him sitting on that chest? and laughed immoderately at the idea. The turban worn by the captain next put on such a quizzical appearance that I chuckled over it for some time. Of all turbans in the world it was the most ludicrous. Various other things affected me in like manner, and at last it seemed to me that my eyes were increasing in breadth. “Achmet,” I called out, “how is this? my eyes are precisely like two onions.” This was my crowning piece of absurdity. I laughed so loud and long at the singular comparison I had made, that when I ceased from sheer weariness the effect was over. But on the following morning my eyes were much better, and I was able to write, for the first time in a week.
The calm we had prayed for was given to us. The Lotus floated, sailed and was rowed down the Nile at the rate of seventy miles a day, all hands singing in chorus day and night, while the raïs and his nephew Hossayn beat the tarabooka or played the reedy zumarra. It was a triumphal march; for my six men outrowed the ten men of the Englishman. Sometimes the latter came running behind us till they were within hail, whereupon my men would stand up in their places, and thundering out their contemptuous chorus of “hé tôm, tôm, koosbarra!” strike the water so furiously with their long oars, that their rivals soon slunk out of hearing. So we went down, all excitement, passing in one day a space, which it had taken us four days to make, on our ascent. One day at Manfaloot; the next at Minyeh; the next at Benisooef; the next in sight of the Pyramids; and so it came to pass that in spite of all my delays before reaching Siout, on the sixteenth day after leaving Assouan, I saw the gray piles of Dashoor and Sakkara pass behind me and grow dim under the Libyan Hills.
And now dawns the morning of the first of April, 1852—a day which will be ever memorable to Achmet and myself, as that of our return to Cairo. When the first cock crowed in some village on shore, we all arose and put the Lotus in motion. Over the golden wheat-fields of the western bank the pyramids of Dashoor stand clear and purple in the distance. It is a superb morning; calm, bright, mild, and vocal with the songs of a thousand birds among the palms. Ten o’clock comes, and Achmet, who has been standing on the cabin-roof, cries: “O my master! God be praised! there are the minarets of Sultan Hassan!” At noon there is a strong head-wind, but the men dare not stop. We rejoice over every mile they make. The minaret of old Cairo is in sight, and I give the boat until three o’clock to reach the place. If it fails, I shall land and walk. The wind slackens a little and we work down towards the island of Roda, Gizeh on our left. At last we enter the narrow channel between the island and Old Cairo; it is not yet three o’clock. I have my pistols loaded with a double charge of powder. There are donkeys and donkey-boys on the shore, but Arabian chargers with Persian grooms were not a more welcome sight. We call them, and a horde comes rushing down to the water. I fire my pistols against the bank of Roda, stunning the gardeners and frightening the donkey boys. Mounted at last, leaving Achmet to go on with the boat to Boulak, I dash at full speed down the long street leading into the heart of Cairo. No heed now of a broken neck: away we go, upsetting Turks, astonishing Copts and making Christians indignant, till I pull up in the shady alley before the British consulate. The door is not closed, and I go up stairs with three leaps and ask for letters. None; but a quantity of papers which the shirt of my donkey-boy is scarcely capacious enough to hold. And now at full speed to my banker’s. “Are there any letters for me?” “Letters?—a drawer full!” and he reaches me the missives, more precious than gold. Was not that a sweet repayment for my five months in the heat and silence and mystery of mid-Africa, when I sat by my window, opening on the great square of Cairo, fanned by cool airs from the flowering lemon groves, with the words of home in my ears, and my heart beating a fervent response to the sunset call from the minarets: “God is great! God is merciful!”
I stayed eight days in Cairo, to allow my eyes time to heal. The season of winter travel was over, and the few tourists who still lingered, were about starting for Palestine, by way of Gaza. People were talking of the intense heat, and dreading the advent of the khamseen, or south-wind, so called because it blows fifty days. I found the temperature rather cool than warm, and the khamseen, which blew occasionally, filling the city with dust, was mild as a zephyr, compared to the furnace-like blasts of the African Desert. Gentlemen prepared themselves for the journey across the Desert, by purchasing broad-brimmed hats, green veils, double-lined umbrellas, and blue spectacles. These may be all very good, but I have never seen the sun nor felt the heat which could induce me to adopt them. I would not exchange my recollections of the fierce red Desert, blazing all over with intensest light, for any amount of green, gauzy sky and blue sand. And as for an umbrella, the Desert with a continual shade around you, is no desert at all. You must let the Sun lay his sceptre on your head, if you want to know his power.