A man of consideration, on whom the Basha had forced the post of Muder of Dongola, for a considerable sum of money, died the day before he was about to set out for Dongola. My brother said to Suliman Effendi, that the unfortunate man was poisoned. “Pare cosi ma ben pagato la sua morte da Muder,” answered the renegade, and then abused the avaricious Basha, because, instead of paying his debts, he had required him to reduce them himself.
What, however, made a great noise and sensation in Egypt, was the death of Farat-Bey, in Wollet Mèdine, and especially the sudden decease of the brave Mustaphà Bey, in Khartùm, the only Turk who was really beloved in the whole country, and who was therefore an enemy of the Basha. He came from Kordofan to Fàzogl, during the time of the extreme heat, where Ahmed Basha hoped he would perish from the insufferable climate, as he said himself jocosely. He was not well, and was exhausted by the journey; he became worse without Suliman Effendi summoning to a consultation the three Italian physicians who happened to be present, Cecconi, Toscanelli, and Count de Domine. The Bey, surrounded by Memlukes and servants, requested Suliman Effendi to give him medicine to send him to sleep. The latter spoke in Italian to himself, went to the small army medicine-chest, being watched by the slaves, took laudanum and gave it to the Bey, in a silver tablespoon; but the desired sleep did not come;—and Mustaphà himself called for opium, though he was not accustomed at other times to use it. The attendants, still remaining in respectful silence, heard and saw how the Sicilian muttered again in Italian, again poured laudanum into the spoon, and held it to the mouth of the Bey. Scarcely had the latter taken this dose, which was larger than the first, than blood rushed from his nose and mouth, and he slept for ever. His Memlukes knew the bottle on which the name was specified, too exactly, and called it Rogh el Affiùn (spirit of opium). Suliman Effendi did not appear the next day, and on the morning after, when he came to me, was very discomposed and absent in mind—exclaiming, “che brav’ uomo! peccato,”—whilst he sought every moment his snuff-box. Whereupon I asked him, whether he had given the Bey laudanum twice? He did not deny it, but he had only given “a few drops,” “e, Signor Avvocato! mi era padrone, io servo suo.”
I had everything to fear from this man, who otherwise was friendship and familiarity itself, on account of my brother, whom the Basha intended to put in his place, as medical inspector of Belle Sudan, and had openly expressed that intention. It was therefore with the most solemn earnestness, that I threatened him with death, if I should not find my brother alive on my return, and should discover that he had come in contact with him.
“Dio guardi, che affronto,” he said, and quietly drank his glass of rum; for a similar insult had been openly offered to him in the divàn of the Basha, which naturally referred to the poisonings laid to his charge in Arabia and here. Not only did the superior military and civil officers fear to take medicine from him; but also the Basha—who, indeed, knew him best—would not receive on one occasion a glass of lemonade from him, though he had prepared it under his own eyes, and asked my brother for another glass, which was, of course, annoying to him. He was called at the bazaars “Rogh el Affiùn;” in the coffee-houses, “Rogh el Affiùn,” and “el Marras” (ruffian, or bad man).
The unhappy end of Mustaphà Bey found general sympathy; and some astonishment was excited when it was known that the Basha had threatened Suliman Effendi with the bastinado if he did not pay his debts. Even in the divan of Vaissière (which we also called the exchange, because this man, who was an officer under Napoleon, and decorated with the croix d’honneur, carries on the most considerable traffic in slaves in the whole country) the death of the Bey was discussed by the Franks; and it was doubted whether it had been done by Ahmed Basha’s orders, or whether Suliman Effendi had accomplished the deed of his own accord, in order to render an essential service to him.
Whilst they were speaking of him, the old greybeard entered with his accustomed sallies of wit. They laughed at his conceits, and treated him as usual, which is so easy for these European people, even when they have deadly hatred in their hearts, that it makes an honest man shudder. I could relate a good deal of these Europeans, but it would make too long a digression here, although we are stopping between the Blue and White Nile; and I consider it even my duty to particularize them by name on another opportunity, as I, with my iron sceptre in my hand, have before threatened to do. My brother and myself might perhaps be reproached for having visited such companions, who, under an exterior appearance, by which the mere passing traveller is so easily blinded, have utterly abandoned all law, justice, and morality, and have almost renounced Europe; and for having associated with men who are no longer masters of their better selves, but entirely lost, and of whom we were warned in Káhira. Kahira and Alexandria must be known to estimate properly such a warning, as it does not refer to the immorality of men, but only to the preservation of one’s own interests against danger. Káhira, as well as Alexandria, affords abundance of materials for a chronique scandaleuse, and forms an uncommonly rich and highly interesting stubble-field of unmistakable colonial nature, where a careful winnowing of the higher society would give a surprising result. It is the same even with the small and partly ephemeral colonies of Franks in Khartùm, where they concentrate themselves at times.
After a tedious journey of three months, we arrived here. The Muslims perceived the French flag hoisted as a matter of precaution, as it generally prevents the ship being taken away for the use of Bilik (government), and they crossed over to the Douaniers, who never lose sight of their prey: we were truly glad to find human beings again. Our flag was known by no one except by Vaissière, who gave vent to an old grudge against the Prussians, and excited a prejudice against us among the Italians, which was so much the greater, because a noble example of Prussian manners and customs had caused an uncommon sensation here in Khartùm. The long title of my countryman was hardly perceptible on the fragments of pots, whereon we read “Puckler-Muscau,” called and supposed by the common people to be “Sultan betal Moscow.” However, they tendered their services to us with uncommon hospitality, letters having preceded us which possibly described us as harmless fellows,—except one, a German letter. A Frank, in white Turkish costume, addressed us, like a shade from the lower regions, in the German language: we were surprised, and especially when he asked about a letter from my countryman ——, which at the best, therefore, must have been an Uriah’s letter. The pale citizen of Khartùm calls himself a peasant (from the neighbourhood of Wurzburg), and is now inspector of manufactories in Kamlin.
A letter, full of low calumny, from my amiable friend had found its way even to him, although I had not done him any injury; but he was too well known. He had, in a peculiar sense of the word, given me letters of recommendation against my will, not only here, but in Cairo, to which city he took the trouble of writing three. It is the curse of a prolonged residence in the South that the character of Europeans, and particularly of the northern nations, alters more or less in course of time. Slumbering passions display themselves in an odious and very dangerous manner; the cat becomes a tiger raging against itself, if the spirits of Ahriman,—brandy, and opium,—have him betwixt them;—and at last he is mocked and laughed at. A choice of companions, who might be called “good and bad, or high and low,” was not to be found among the few Franks in Khartùm. They live a cat and dog life with each other, but are breathing witnesses that this is the land of the Lotophagi; for, from their frequent convivia and bacchanalia, they might be supposed to be bursting with love and friendship. Whoever is really in earnest to acquire general information on the manners and customs of the East, and to increase his knowledge of human nature, must not carry himself as cautiously as a diplomatist, provided he is conscious of good sound principles, fostered from youth upwards.
Mustaphà Bey was dead; Ahmed Basha had lost a rival, and moreover came into possession of 2000 purses, by the closest money transactions with the public exchequer. The brother of the victim arrived with a high and mighty Firman from Constantinople and Káhira, to fetch his brother back to Thrace from the unhealthy climate, and, perchance, also from the dangerous contiguity to Ahmed Basha. It was intended, perhaps, that he should come too late, for they managed, in a remarkable manner, to procrastinate his stay in Káhira, and also on the road. He was very much cast down, and scarcely regarded by the Turks, even by the Copts, wherefore he did not dare to reclaim his inheritance, as he valued his life. Sero venientibus ossa could not, however, be said of him, for the Charim (harim), with flesh and blood in abundance, remained to him. This arose from the Princess or Bashalessa,—as the wife of Ahmed Basha, and the daughter, or adopted daughter, of Mohammed Ali, is called by the Franks,—having, in an unusual visit, openly shewn her sympathy, and prevented, by her authority, on the part of the Divàn, the harim being plundered. This lady was awarded to Ahmed as a mark of peculiar favour, when he was residing in Káhira, where she also remained behind till the year 1840.
Ahmed Basha was obliged to discard his former wives, according to the custom here, and also in Turkey, when the daughters of the Sultan are married. Even those great men were forced to do this, to whom Mohammed Ali, in that magnanimous reduction of his inventory of women in 1838, bequeathed princesses from his Charim (for whom he had lost all regard, and would not pension as widows), to be their reigning lawful wives, and whose slippers, conformably to the Mussulman custom, they were compelled to kiss. Our Bashalessa is, according to my brother’s opinion, an accomplished Levant lady, who knows how to distinguish good from bad, and feels herself extremely unhappy in Khartùm, where she is confined to her cloister, with an occasional excursion on the Nile. She is desirous of getting away from the place, and wanted, therefore, to entrust my brother, when we had determined on our return, with a letter to her father Mohammed Ali: she sent also, contrary to her former custom, several times during my brother’s illness to inquire after his health. When he was called in to see her as a physician, she received him without a veil, just like her attendants, and spoke continually of Masr, and asked after political news. She is a tall, imposing, and almost masculine person, with a deep voice, yet very courteous;—but not nearly so handsome as two novices in her train, condemned to chastity. In the antechamber, from whence the Tauwàsch (eunuchs) did not dare to step over the threshold of the cell, he always found an European breakfast to console him. She may, therefore, have contributed to Ahmed Basha’s being recalled to Káhira. The latter, however, did not obey the repeated invitations, and died of a tertian ague in the spring of 1844. His successor was Ahmed Basha, known by the epithet of “Menikli,” (meaning “great ear,”) whose march to Taka appears, according to the usual vaunting of the Arabs, to have turned into just as rapid a retreat.