egypt-第11部分

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field。　There　is　now　no　further　room　for　illusion。　We　are　in　a

cemetery；　and　have　been　passing　in　the　midst　of　houses　of　the　dead；

and　mosques　of　the　dead；　in　a　town　of　the　dead。



Once　emerged　from　this　cemetery；　which　in　the　end　at　least　disclosed

itself　in　its　true　character；　we　are　involved　again　in　the

continuation　of　the　mysterious　town；　which　takes　us　back　into　its

network。　Little　houses　follow　one　another　as　before；　only　now　the

little　gardens　are　replaced　by　little　burial　enclosures。　And

everything　grows　more　and　more　indistinct；　in　the　gentle　light；　which

gradually　grows　less。　It　is　as　if　someone　were　putting　frosted　globes

over　the　moon；　so　that　soon；　but　for　the　transparency　of　this　air　of

Egypt　and　the　prevailing　whiteness　of　things；　there　would　be　no　light

at　all。　Once　at　a　window　the　light　of　a　lamp　appears；　it　is　the

lantern　of　gravediggers。　Anon　we　hear　the　voices　of　men　chanting　a

prayer；　and　the　prayer　is　a　prayer　for　the　dead。



These　tenantless　houses　were　never　built　for　dwellings。　They　are

simply　places　where　men　assemble　on　certain　anniversaries；　to　pray　for

the　dead。　Every　Moslem　family　of　any　note　has　its　little　temple　of

this　kind；　near　to　the　family　graves。　And　there　are　so　many　of　them

that　now　the　place　is　become　a　townand　a　town　in　the　desertthat　is

to　say；　in　a　place　useless　for　any　other　purpose；　a　secure　place

indeed；　for　we　may　be　sure　that　the　ground　occupied　by　these　poor

tombs　runs　no　risk　of　being　covetednot　even　in　the　irreverent　times

of　the　future。　No；　it　is　on　the　other　side　of　Cairoon　the　other　bank

of　the　Nile；　amongst　the　verdure　of　the　palm…trees；　that　we　must　look

for　the　suburb　in　course　of　transformation；　with　its　villas　of　the

invading　foreigner；　and　the　myriad　electric　lights　along　its　motor

roads。　On　this　side　there　is　no　such　fear；　the　peace　and　desuetude　are

eternal；　and　the　winding　sheet　of　the　Arabian　sands　is　ready　always

for　its　burial　office。



At　the　end　of　this　town　of　the　dead；　the　desert　again　opens　before　us

its　mournful　whitened　expanse。　On　such　a　night　as　this；　when　the　wind

blows　cold　and　the　misty　moon　shows　like　a　sad　opal；　it　looks　like　a

steppe　under　snow。



But　it　is　a　desert　planted　with　ruins；　with　the　ghosts　of　mosques；　a

whole　colony　of　high　tumbling　domes　are　scattered　here　at　hazard　on

the　shifting　extent　of　the　sands。　And　what　strange　old…fashioned　domes

they　are！　The　archaism　of　their　silhouettes　strikes　us　from　the　first；

as　much　as　their　isolation　in　such　a　place。　They　look　like　bells；　or

gigantic　dervish　hats　placed　on　pedestals；　and　those　farthest　away

give　the　impression　of　squat；　large…headed　figures　posted　there　as

sentinels；　watching　the　vague　horizon　of　Arabia　beyond。



They　are　the　proud　tombs　of　the　fourteenth　and　fifteenth　centuries

where　the　Mameluke　Sultans；　who　oppressed　Egypt　for　nearly　three

hundred　years；　sleep　now　in　complete　abandonment。　Nowadays；　it　is

true；　some　visits　are　beginning　to　be　paid　to　themon　winter　nights

when　the　moon　is　full　and　they　throw　on　the　sands　their　great　clear…

cut　shadows。　At　such　times　the　light　is　considered　favourable；　and

they　rank　among　the　curiosities　exploited　by　the　agencies。　Numbers　of

tourists　（who　persist　in　calling　them　the　tombs　of　the　caliphs）　betake

themselves　thither　of　an　eveninga　noisy　caravan　mounted　on　little

donkeys。　But　to…night　the　moon　is　too　pale　and　uncertain；　and　we　shall

no　doubt　be　alone　in　troubling　them　in　their　ghostly　communion。



To…night　indeed　the　light　is　quite　unusual。　As　just　now　in　the　town　of

the　dead；　it　is　diffused　on　all　sides　and　gives　even　to　the　most

massive　objects　the　transparent　semblance　of　unreality。　But

nevertheless　it　shows　their　detail　and　leaves　them　something　of　their

daylight　colouring；　so　that　all　these　funeral　domes；　raised　on　the

ruins　of　the　mosques；　which　serve　them　as　pedestals；　have　preserved

their　reddish　or　brown　colours；　although　the　sand　which　separates

them；　and　makes　between　the　tombs　of　the　different　sultans　little　dead

solitudes；　remains　pale　and　wan。



And　meanwhile　our　carriage；　proceeding　always　without　noise；　traces　on

this　same　sand　little　furrows　which　the　wind　will　have　effaced　by

to…morrow。　There　are　no　roads　of　any　kind；　they　would　indeed　be　as

useless　as　they　are　impossible　to　make。　You　may　pass　here　where　you

like；　and　fancy　yourself　far　away　from　any　place　inhabited　by　living

beings。　The　great　town；　which　we　know　to　be　so　close；　appears　from

time　to　time；　thanks　to　the　undulations　of　the　ground；　as　a　mere

phosphorescence；　a　reflection　of　its　myriad　electric　lights。　We　are

indeed　in　the　desert　of　the　dead；　in　the　sole　company　of　the　moon；

which；　by　the　fantasy　of　this　wonderful　Egyptian　sky；　is　to…night　a

moon　of　grey　pearl；　one　might　almost　say　a　moon　of　mother…of…pearl。



Each　of　these　funeral　mosques　is　a　thing　of　splendour；　if　one　examines

it　closely　in　its　solitude。　These　strange　upraised　domes；　which　from　a

distance　look　like　the　head…dresses　of　dervishes　or　magi；　are

embroidered　with　arabesques；　and　the　walls　are　crowned　with

denticulated　trefoils　of　exquisite　fashioning。



But　nobody　venerates　these　tombs　of　the　Mameluke　oppressors；　or　keeps

them　in　repair；　and　within　them　there　are　no　more　chants；　no　prayers

to　Allah。　Night　after　night　they　pass　in　an　infinity　of　silence。　Piety

contents　itself　with　not　destroying　them；　leaving　them　there　at　the

mercy　of　time　and　the　sun　and　the　wind　which　withers　and　crumbles

them。　And　all　around　are　the　signs　of　ruin。　Tottering　cupolas　show　us

irreparable　cracks；　the　halves　of　broken　arches　are　outlined　to…night

in　shadow　against　the　mother…of…pearl　light　of　the　sky；　and　debris　of

sculptured　stones　are　strewn　about。　But　nevertheless　these　tombs；　that

are　well…nigh　accursed；　still　stir　in　us　a　vague　sense　of　alarm

particularly　those　in　the　distance；　which　rise　up　like　silhouettes　of

misshapen　giants　in　enormous　hatsdark　on　the　white　sheet　of　sand

and　stand　there　in　groups；　or　scattered　in　confusion；　at　the　entrance

to　the　vast　empty　regions　beyond。



*****



We　had　chosen　a　time　when　the　light　was　doubtful　in　order　that　we

might　avoid　the　tourists；　but　as　we　approach　the　funeral　dwelling　of

Sultan　Barkuk；　the　assassin；　we　see；　issuing　from　it；　a　whole　band；

some　twenty　in　a　line；　who　emerge　from　the　darkness　of　the　abandoned

walls；　each　trotting　on　his　little　donkey　and　each　followed　by　the

inevitable　Bedouin　driver；　who　taps　with　his　stick　upon　the　rump　of

the　beast。　They　are　returning　to　Cairo；　their　visit　ended；　and

exchange　in　a　loud　voice；　from　one　ass　to　another；　more　or　less　inept

impressions　in　various　European　languages。　。　。　。　And　look！　There　is

even　amongst　them　the　almost　proverbial　belated　dame　who；　for　private

reasons　of　her　own；　follows　at　a　respectable　distance　behind。　She　is　a

little　mature　perhaps；　so　far　as　can　be　judged　in　the　moonlight；　but

nevertheless　still　sympathetic　to　her　driver；　who；　with　both　hands；

supports　her　from　behind　on　her　saddle；　with　a　touching　solicitude

that　is　peculiar　to　the　country。　Ah！　these　little　donkeys　of　Egypt；　so

observant；　so　philosophical　and　sly；　why　cannot　they　write　their

memoirs！　What　a　number　of　droll　things　they　must　have　seen　at　night　in

the　outskirts　of　Cairo！



This　good　lady　evidently　belongs　to　that　extensive　category　of　hardy

explorers　who；　despite　their　high　respectability　at　home；　do　not

hesitate；　once　they　are　landed　on　the　banks　of　the　Nile；　to　supplement

their　treatment　by　the　sun　and　the　dry　winds　with　a　little　of　the

〃Bedouin　cure。〃







CHAPTER　VIII



ARCHAIC　CHRISTIANITY



Dimly　lighted　by　the　flames　of　a　few　poor　slender　tapers　which　flicker

against　the　walls　in　stone　arches；　a　dense　crowd　of　human　figures

veiled　in　black；　in　a　place　overpowering　and　suffocatingunderground；

no　doubtwhich　is　filled　with　the　perfume　of　the　incense　of　Arabia；

and　a　noise　of　almost　wicked　movement；　which　sirs　us　to　alarm　and　even

horror：　bleatings　of　new…born　babies；　cries　of　distress　of　tiny　mites

whose　voices　are　drowned；　as　if　on　purpose；　by　a　clinking　of　cymbals。



What　can　it　be？　Why　have　they　descended　into　this　dark　hole；　these

little　ones；　who　howl　in　the　midst　of　the　smoke；　held　by　these

phantoms　in　mourning？　Had　we　entered　it　unawares　we　might　have　thought

it　a　den　of　wicked　sorcery；　an　underground　cavern　for　the　black　mass。



But　no。　It　is　the　crypt　of　the　basilica　of　St。　Sergius　during　the

Coptic　mass　of　Easter　morning。　And　when；　after　the　first　surprise；　we

examine　these　phantoms；　we　find　that；　for　the　most　part；　they　are

young　mothers；　with　the　refined　and　gentle　faces　of　Madonnas；　who　hold

the　plaintive　little　ones　beneath　their　black　veils　and　seek　to

comfort　them。　And　the　sorcerer；　who　plays　the　cymbals；　is　a　kind　old

priest；　or　sacristan；　who　smiles　paternally。　If　he　makes　all　this

noise；　in　a　rhythm　which　in　itself　is　full　of　joy；　it　is　to　mark　the

gladness　of　Easter　morn；　to　celebrate　the　resurrection　of　Christand

a　little；　too；　no　doubt；　to　distract　the　little　ones；　some　of　whom　are

woefully　put　out。　But　their　mammas　do　not　prolong　the　proofa　mere

momentary　visit　to　this　venerable　place；　which　is　to　bring　them

happiness；　and　they　carry　their　babes　away：　and　others　are　led　in　by

the　dark；　narrow　staircase；　so　low　that　one　cannot　stand　upright　in

it。　And　thus　the　crypt　is　not　emptied。　And　meanwhile　mass　is　being

said　in　the　church　overhead。



But　what　a　number　of　people；　of　black　veils；　are　in　this　hovel；　where

the　air　can　scarcely　be　breathed；　and　where　the　barbarous　music；

mingled　with　wailings　and　cries；　deafens　you！　And　what　an　air　of

antiquity　marks　all　things　here！　The　defaced　walls；　the　low　roof　that

one　can　easily　touch；　the　granite　pillars　which　sustain　the　shapeless

arches　are　all　blackened　by　the　smoke　of　the　wax　candles；　and　scarred

and　worn　by　the　friction　of　human　hands。



At　the　end　of　the　crypt　there　is　a　very　sacre