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The
next
day
,
however
,
precipitated
us
delightfully
into
the
heart
of
the
Arabian
Nights
atmosphere
;
and
in
the
winding
ways
and
exotic
skyline
of
Cairo
,
the
Bagdad
of
Harun-al-Rashid
seemed
to
live
again
.
Guided
by
our
Baedeker
,
we
had
struck
east
past
the
Ezbekiyeh
Gardens
along
the
Mouski
in
quest
of
the
native
quarter
,
and
were
soon
in
the
hands
of
a
clamorous
cicerone
who
--
notwithstanding
later
developments
--
was
assuredly
a
master
at
his
trade
.
Not
until
afterward
did
I
see
that
I
should
have
applied
at
the
hotel
for
a
licensed
guide
.
This
man
,
a
shaven
,
peculiarly
hollow-voiced
and
relatively
cleanly
fellow
who
looked
like
a
Pharaoh
and
called
himself
'
Abdul
Reis
el
Drogman
'
appeared
to
have
much
power
over
others
of
his
kind
;
though
subsequently
the
police
professed
not
to
know
him
,
and
to
suggest
that
reis
is
merely
a
name
for
any
person
in
authority
,
whilst
'
Drogman
'
is
obviously
no
more
than
a
clumsy
modification
of
the
word
for
a
leader
of
tourist
parties
--
dragoman
.
Abdul
led
us
among
such
wonders
as
we
had
before
only
read
and
dreamed
of
.
Old
Cairo
is
itself
a
story-book
and
a
dream
--
labyrinths
of
narrow
alleys
redolent
of
aromatic
secrets
;
Arabesque
balconies
and
oriels
nearly
meeting
above
the
cobbled
streets
;
maelstroms
of
Oriental
traffic
with
strange
cries
,
cracking
whips
,
rattling
carts
,
jingling
money
,
and
braying
donkeys
;
kaleidoscopes
of
polychrome
robes
,
veils
,
turbans
,
and
tarbushes
;
water-carriers
and
dervishes
,
dogs
and
cats
,
soothsayers
and
barbers
;
and
over
all
the
whining
of
blind
beggars
crouched
in
alcoves
,
and
the
sonorous
chanting
of
muezzins
from
minarets
limned
delicately
against
a
sky
of
deep
,
unchanging
blue
.
The
roofed
,
quieter
bazaars
were
hardly
less
alluring
.
Spice
,
perfume
,
incense
beads
,
rugs
,
silks
,
and
brass
--
old
Mahmoud
Suleiman
squats
cross-legged
amidst
his
gummy
bottles
while
chattering
youths
pulverize
mustard
in
the
hollowed-out
capital
of
an
ancient
classic
column
--
a
Roman
Corinthian
,
perhaps
from
neighboring
Heliopolis
,
where
Augustus
stationed
one
of
his
three
Egyptian
legions
.
Antiquity
begins
to
mingle
with
exoticism
.
And
then
the
mosques
and
the
museum
--
we
saw
them
all
,
and
tried
not
to
let
our
Arabian
revel
succumb
to
the
darker
charm
of
Pharaonic
Egypt
which
the
museum
's
priceless
treasures
offered
.
That
was
to
be
our
climax
,
and
for
the
present
we
concentrated
on
the
mediaeval
Saracenic
glories
of
the
Califs
whose
magnificent
tomb-mosques
form
a
glittering
faery
necropolis
on
the
edge
of
the
Arabian
Desert
.
At
length
Abdul
took
us
along
the
Sharia
Mohammed
Ali
to
the
ancient
mosque
of
Sultan
Hassan
,
and
the
tower-flanked
Babel
--
Azab
,
beyond
which
climbs
the
steep-walled
pass
to
the
mighty
citadel
that
Saladin
himself
built
with
the
stones
of
forgotten
pyramids
.
It
was
sunset
when
we
scaled
that
cliff
,
circled
the
modern
mosque
of
Mohammed
Ali
,
and
looked
down
from
the
dizzy
parapet
over
mystic
Cairo
--
mystic
Cairo
all
golden
with
its
carven
domes
,
its
ethereal
minarets
and
its
flaming
gardens
.
Far
over
the
city
towered
the
great
Roman
dome
of
the
new
museum
;
and
beyond
it
--
across
the
cryptic
yellow
Nile
that
is
the
mother
of
eons
and
dynasties
--
lurked
the
menacing
sands
of
the
Libyan
Desert
,
undulant
and
iridescent
and
evil
with
older
arcana
.
The
red
sun
sank
low
,
bringing
the
relentless
chill
of
Egyptian
dusk
;
and
as
it
stood
poised
on
the
world
's
rim
like
that
ancient
god
of
Heliopolis
--
Re
--
Harakhte
,
the
Horizon
--
Sun
--
we
saw
silhouetted
against
its
vermeil
holocaust
the
black
outlines
of
the
Pyramids
of
Gizeh
--
the
palaeogean
tombs
there
were
hoary
with
a
thousand
years
when
Tut
--
Ankh-Amen
mounted
his
golden
throne
in
distant
Thebes
.
Then
we
knew
that
we
were
done
with
Saracen
Cairo
,
and
that
we
must
taste
the
deeper
mysteries
of
primal
Egypt
--
the
black
Kem
of
Re
and
Amen
,
Isis
and
Osiris
.
The
next
morning
we
visited
the
Pyramids
,
riding
out
in
a
Victoria
across
the
island
of
Chizereh
with
its
massive
lebbakh
trees
,
and
the
smaller
English
bridge
to
the
western
shore
.
Down
the
shore
road
we
drove
,
between
great
rows
of
lebbakhs
and
past
the
vast
Zoological
Gardens
to
the
suburb
of
Gizeh
,
where
a
new
bridge
to
Cairo
proper
has
since
been
built
.
Then
,
turning
inland
along
the
Sharia-el-Haram
,
we
crossed
a
region
of
glassy
canals
and
shabby
native
villages
till
before
us
loomed
the
objects
of
our
quest
,
cleaving
the
mists
of
dawn
and
forming
inverted
replicas
in
the
roadside
pools
.
Forty
centuries
,
as
Napoleon
had
told
his
campaigners
there
,
indeed
looked
down
upon
us
.
