ch2

In the last chapter, we left Said Pasha in the midst of trumpets and songs. His sudden death in January 1863, like all royal deaths, required a renewed pact between the new governor, Ismail, and the local elites. This occurred, I argue in this chapter, through the acknowledgment of the new dynastic order. Royalist historians viewed the codification of the new dynastic order, and the khedivate, as signs of “independence” while nationalists maintained that these were personal follies of a Westernizer.² In contrast, I show first the Ottoman face of Ismail, the political role of his mother Hoşyar (d. 1886), and “the Ottoman political culture of conspiracy.”³ This was a unique moment of merging the patriotic idea with the Ottoman-Muslim ideas and symbols of just rule to establish a monarchical order in Egypt. Building on and somewhat upgrading Toledano’s theory of Ottomanization/localization, we follow how changes at the imperial level were accepted in the province.

Showing the Ottoman face of Ismail is not an easy task. Many men and women fabricated and constantly revised the pasha’s public image (and counterimages) in Arabic, French, and Italian during and after his rule. We shall see the European image of the pasha in the next chapter. His Ottoman face has been lost, so much so that scholars often write about the Egyptian-“Turkish” relation as a diplomatic one between sovereign rulers and states during his reign.⁵ However, this chapter demonstrates that in trying to understand the psyche of this pasha we find that “being Ottoman” was his political strategy during the 1860s.⁶

Like Mehmed Ali, Ismail’s actions were dictated by his intermediary position between the empire and Egypt but unlike his grandfather he could count on the sultan. Understanding this support is crucial, since this was what the zevat and the aʿyān saw when they looked at Ismail in the 1860s.

There is a striking image in Vienna depicting the fourteen-year-old Ismail (figure 2.1). We see him in proper Turkish clothes, with all the attributes of the Ottoman ruling class: sword, golden belt, golden necklace, and a well-fed, round body. It is unclear whether the young Ismail habitually wore these clothes or whether he was depicted in such fashion by the possibly Orientalizing artist. The painting reflects his social position and conveys the message that he is a confident, powerful, and rich member of the Ottoman elite. This is the image from which Ismail would transform himself into the image of a progressive ruler accepted in Europe.

Source: S.A. Ismael Bey Fils de S.A. Ibrahim Pacha d’Égypte, Nach der Natur gemalt und lith. von Robert Theer. Wien 1845. Gedr. bei Joh. Höfelich. Bildarchiv, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, with permission, cat. n. 7346018.

In the 1860s, retroactive rumours circulated to connect Ismail personally to the sultan. It was said that his mother, Hoşyar (d. 1886) had a sister, Pertevniyal, the mother of Sultan Abdülaziz.¹¹ How Mehmed II and Mehmed Ali’s son Ibrahim acquired two sisters in their harems remains a mystery, but if this story is true, it is unlikely to be a coincidence. Ibrahim certainly knew Istanbul, or at least the Palace, since he was a hostage in the imperial capital in 1806–1807,12 and he may have met and fallen in love with Hoşyar later in Bebek.¹³ What was a coincidence was the fact that only a few weeks after Ismail’s birth, Pertevniyal gave birth to Abdülaziz, the second son of Sultan Mahmud II, on February 9, 1830. Thus Ismail, the future khedive of Egypt, and Abdülaziz, the future sultan, were of the same age, and said to be cousins.

An invisible (or often visible) competition within the ruling family would define Ismail’s reign. His elder half-brother Ahmed Rifaat (1825–1858) died early, but his younger half-brother Mustafa Fazıl (1830–1875) became a crucial political player. Their mothers competed for and through their sons for Ibrahim’s attention.¹⁴ Female and male cousins, in addition to uncles and aunts who were even younger than Ismail, such as Abdülhalim (1831–1894) and Mehmed Ali junior (1833–1861) were also influential. Abdülhalim, the longest living son of Mehmed Ali, was a life-long contester of Ismail’s legitimacy. These zevat—half-brothers, cousins, aunts, uncles, and a foster brother—would compete in and for Ottoman Egypt.

Unlike his grandfather, Ismail knew the imperial elite. Although he was educated for almost five years (1844–1849) in Vienna and Paris, in the Egyptian Military School, these years may have only given him a personal experience of an aristocratic regime falling to a nationalist revolution in Paris in 1848. The real education occurred after the death of his father Ibrahim in November 1848, when the new governor Abbas Hilmi ordered the “princes” home from Paris in March 1849.¹⁵ This is the moment when the earlier competition fledged into what Toledano names an “intra-family strife”¹⁶ (see chapter 1). As a consequence, Ismail moved to Istanbul where many of the Mehmed Ali family members and elite employees fled. Zeynep, who had been forced to divorce in Egypt, married Kiamil Pasha again in Istanbul around April 1851;¹⁷ in June Mehmed Ali junior announced to the British ambassador that he never would return to Egypt.¹⁸

These appointments may reflect the strategy of Mustafa Reşid, the grand vizier. Reşid wanted to utilise the disagreement between the Egyptian Turks to strengthen the Porte’s hand over Egypt.²⁴ The shower of titles indicates that the Porte or the Palace (or together) found it useful to incorporate the young Egyptian “princes” into the imperial hierarchy. Around this time Ismail, Mustafa Fazıl, and Abdülhalim all received the title vezir from Sultan Abdülmecid²⁵ (though in 1856 Mustafa Fazıl was still named a bey in contrast to his brother Ismail who was a pasha).²⁶ The Mehmed Ali household became firmly accepted as part of the imperial order.

Besides the insertion of the young men in the political elite of the imperial capital, they must have been initiated into the fully fledged Tanzimat political and cultural life. This chapter and the next argue that the European cultural infrastructure in khedivial Cairo paradoxically originated, in part, from Abdülmecidian Istanbul. Being close to the entourage of Sultan Abdülmecid, Ismail must have experienced refined Turkish court music, Italian operas, French comedies, circus entertainments, and other pleasures of the Bosporus. There is, however, an opposing Ottoman view: the statesman Cevdet Pasha remembers that the “exiled” Egyptian Turks (especially Zeynep, daughter of Mehmed Ali) “corrupted” the morals of the capital and the sultan because of their spending and their alafıranga (“Frankish,” European) lifestyle.27

In the order of seniority, Ismail was not considered to be heir of the governorship since Abbas’ heir was his uncle Said, and Said’s was Ahmed Rifaat. By the 1850s, Ismail had wives and consorts, a number of daughters, and two sons: Mehmed Tevfik (1852–1892) and Hüseyin Kamil (1853–1917). It is not known when Ismail returned to Egypt from Istanbul. He attended the investiture ceremony of Said in July 1854 in Cairo.²⁸ In November 1854, Ferdinand de Lesseps, rushing to convince Said about the importance of the Suez Canal, had no high opinion about Ismail because he loved pleasures, expensive furniture, and de Lesseps suspected him of already fathering twelve children!²⁹

At this moment, Ismail was a leading member of the Ottoman Egyptian elite, but without much responsibility. He became a trusted man of Said, perhaps as a measure against his brother, the official heir Ahmed Rifaat. Said sent Ismail to Europe in 1855 on “diplomatic missions,” though, according to contemporary Europeans, he spent his time enjoying the luxuries of Paris with Ahmed Rifaat, buying whatever they found.³⁰ At Said’s receptions he was usually present.³¹ His palace was full of “furniture heavy and overloaded, bad French taste.”³² An English servant in 1855 gossiped that “nothing is regular in his household.”³³ In 1856, Ismail was appointed to head the new Majlis al-Aḥkām in Egypt but resigned after a few months.³⁴

And then came a change. In May 1858, his brother Ahmed Rifaat died with another zevat grandee, Hurşid Pasha in a fatal train accident; only Abdülhalim escaped.³⁵ Ismail, who had remained in Alexandria, suddenly found himself the heir of the Egyptian governorship in the Ottoman Empire.³⁶ Rumors remained about Said’s or Ismail’s hand in the accident, but no proof ever surfaced to prove their involvement.

According to the conventional narrative, the young man retired to his countryside estates after this incident. He became le cultivateur modèle,37 “an agriculturalist,”³⁸ so much that even Said mocked him for being a bakkal (“merchant” in Turkish).³⁹ The consul of the Habsburg Empire and an Italian agent also characterized him to their governments as die Oekonomie ist seine Spezialität, his only fault being greed (oikonomia in the original Greek means running a household).⁴⁰ This is how the carefully selected documents of the royalist historians portray him.⁴¹ Said appointed Ismail as regent when he was away on short trips during 1861–1862.⁴² Reconfiguring one’s self as an “innocent” farmer might rather have been a strategy in response to the fear of assassination.

It is possible that some qualities of his dead brother were transferred to Ismail by courtiers and historians. Ahmed’s state salary was certainly transferred to Ismail in 1858.⁴³ As to his half-brother, Mustafa Fazıl looked for imperial advancement in Istanbul and became the Ottoman Minister of Education in December 1862.⁴⁴

Ismail owned land, houses in Cairo and Alexandria, and at least twenty villages between Minya and Manfalut in middle Egypt along the Nile. Europeans and government employees admired the richness and modernity of his estates, which they saw from the distance.⁴⁵ For instance, the poet Ṣāliḥ Majdī (writer of Said’s waṭaniyyāt as we have seen) wrote an Arabic poem celebrating his establishment of a sugar factory in Rawda in 1861.⁴⁶ The state engineer Hekekyan in 1862 watched the charmantes factories on Ismail’s lands around Minya from his boat on the Nile.⁴⁷ From the distance, Ismail seemed to be the ideal model of the Ottoman technocrat.

It was also not clear whether the zevat army leaders in Egypt would accept Ismail. His predecessor, Said was not accepted among all the zevat when Abbas Hilmi was murdered somewhat mysteriously in 1854; and a brief but crucial power struggle occurred.⁵⁰ Finally, upon European and Ottoman intervention, Said became accepted, and he reunited the Turkic elite.⁵¹ This was the second time, after the family strife, when Ismail learned that zevat—that is, military—support was crucial for political survival in Ottoman Egypt.

The first clash occurred immediately. In February 1863, Ismail traveled to Istanbul to receive the customary firman of investiture but he refused the hospitality of his half-brother who, in turn, did not show up to say the traditional good-byes to Ismail upon the latter’s departure back to Egypt.⁵² This was a grave form of public embarassment because Ismail, as the head of the family, was technically the superior of Mustafa Fazıl. It was then “discovered” in Cairo that there was a plan to assassinate Ismail by Mustafa Fazıl,53 or at least some letters “of treasonable nature” were intercepted.⁵⁴

Ismail’s mother Hoşyar became a pivotal political figure at this moment. She was one of the few people whom Ismail trusted.⁵⁵ Traditionally, mothers played an important informal role within Muslim monarchies. Leslie Peirce shows that the valide sultan exercised enormous influence in the affairs of the Ottoman state until the mid-seventeenth century;⁵⁶ in Hoşyar we may find an Ottoman-Egyptian example of harem power in the nineteenth century. The female members of Mehmed Ali’s harem had already established this precedent,⁵⁷ and Said had also been in contact with a lady in the harem of the late Sultan Abdülmecid.⁵⁸ During this period, Hoşyar was not alone in this respect; for instance, in Persia Nāṣir al-Dīn Shah’s mother Mahd-i ʿUlya interfered in appointments to the Persian army in the 1850s.⁵⁹ Pertevniyal, Sultan Abdülaziz’s mother (valide sultan) was similarly invisible but instrumental in politics. With her son becoming governor, Hoşyar’s importance rose accordingly as wālidat al-bāshā (“mother of the pasha,” in the colloquial walda bāshā). Whether or not she was the sister of Pertevniyal, the two mothers cooperated in making a new order in the empire.

Hoşyar did not express her opinion directly in politics; instead, she operated through family members and agents, such as the director of her estates, the powerful and cruel chief eunuch, Khalil Agha.⁶⁰ After Khalil’s death in 1880, Ibrahim Edhem took his place as the main agent.⁶¹

The Ottoman face of Ismail involved the manifestation of Muslim power through his mother Hoşyar. To be just to Ismail, in 1865 he also made a large religious endowment (waqf) for the maintenance of mosques and other religious buildings;⁶² and we shall often see him involving senior ʿulamāʾ in decision making, or at least he made efforts to be seen as counting on their opinions. Of Hoşyar’s projects the largest was the al-Rifāʿī mosque which she ordered in 1869, exactly at the moment when her son would order an opera house. First, the chief eunuch Khalil Agha was in charge of this dynastic mosque (it was finished only in the 1900s).63 Although Hoşyar later also established a special religious endowment (waqf) for the construction, the maintenance of graves, and salaries of the staff,⁶⁴ it appears that in fact Ismail’s own purse financed this symbolic project.⁶⁵

The most effective element in the Ottoman legitimation of Ismail’s position was Sultan Abdülaziz’s unusual visit in April 1863. This was a message to both the zevat and the aʿyān. We have seen that even nonhuman agents (or too human ones) helped Ismail’s position, like rumours that he was “a cousin of the sultan.” Upon her son’s accession, Hoşyar sent gifts to the members of the Ottoman Egyptian elite and the ʿulamāʾ.⁶⁶ At Ismail’s accession, there was a rumor that the new rule would be disadvantageous for the Christians, and there were small atrocities against foreigners, including consuls.⁶⁷ These rumours may have been magnified by the French consul because of Ismail’s intention to renegotiate the terms of the Suez Canal, and the consul indeed explained the injury of French economic interests by religious “fanaticism.”⁶⁸

This was, indeed, a moment of reinforcing Ottoman sovereignty in Egypt and affirming the sultan’s support of Ismail in various fronts. Abdülaziz’s physical presence was an unmistakable sign of Egypt’s status as an imperial province. The Ottoman patriotic strategy of making the body of the sultan the symbol of imperial integrity appeared in Egypt, too.

Apart from the sultan’s speech to the consuls in Alexandria, Abdülaziz also received the zevat, sheikhs, and aʿyān in Cairo. He visited the tomb of Mehmed Ali in the Citadel.⁶⁹ The pilgrimage to Mecca was launched in the presence of both Abdülaziz and Ismail. This must have been a forceful reminder of the Islamic hierarchy for everyone in late Ottoman Egypt. Re-Ottomanization at this moment also meant the invention of tradition: instead of using the new train and then steamboats, as was the case in the previous years during Said’s reign, this time a “traditional” caravan was launched with camels to ʿAqaba.⁷⁰

Before leaving Egypt, Sultan Abdülaziz joined Ismail within his harem for a dinner.⁷³ In an extraordinary move, he also bestowed upon Hoşyar the Grand Cordon of Osmaniye.⁷⁴ (Later in the century sultans sent more decorations for female members of the khedivial family.) Was it a message from Pertevniyal, the most powerful woman of the empire, through her son, to her possible sister, the most powerful woman in Egypt? Be that as it may, when Ismail in the company of all potential heirs (except Mustafa Fazıl)—Abdülhalim, Tusun, and Ismail junior (Mehmed Ali junior’s son)—said farewell to the sultan, Abdülaziz thanked him in public and announced that “I am very satisfied with Egypt and with her noble governor.”⁷⁵

What Mehmed Ali had achieved with his army, Ismail continued with money and the efforts of his mother. The result was the khedivate. The codification of Egypt as a special Ottoman provincial regime was a legal and cultural process during 1866 and 1867. The khedivate was not a simple case of a tributary state. Ismail and Hoşyar reconnected their rule to the sultan’s authority in 1863, and they continued to strengthen Ismail’s power by the Ottoman universe. They reactivated the quest to change the law of succession.⁷⁶ This was to exclude everyone from the dynastic order in favor of Ismail’s eldest son, Tevfik. They achieved the new dynastic order of primogeniture in 1866. As a next step, the khedivate was codified in 1867. Together, the two changes constituted a singular strategy and created the framework of a new political order.

Nur Yalman suggests that the feature responsible for the course of Ottoman history is the succession order, based on seniority in the house of Osman.77 Sultans Abdülmecid and Abdülaziz certainly wanted to change the order of succession.⁷⁸ With regard to Egypt, seniority was a problem and governors wanted to change it to primogeniture. Toledano argues that Ibrahim was “too ill and alienated from Istanbul politics” to gain the privilege for Ahmed Rifaat; Abbas died too early to secure the succession for his son Ilhami (though he had a sort of agreement with the sultan); and Said was not energetic enough to initiate such a negotiation in favor of Tusun (though he discussed this possibility with Napoleon III).⁷⁹

From the moment of the investiture, Ismail and Hoşyar launched a propaganda campaign in Istanbul. As early as February 1863, the sultan’s mother, Pertevniyal, arranged for Ismail to meet with Sultan Abdülaziz in private at her palace.⁸⁰ In the summer of 1864, Hoşyar traveled to Istanbul to help her son. She arrived with the proposed new heir in question (her grandson Tevfik), lots of money, and arguably the most powerful weapon of all: female diplomacy.⁸¹ The greatest attack they launched started in the spring of 1866. The good offices of the valide sultan, Pertevniyal, may have been involved. It was rumored that during these days, Tevhide, the oldest daughter of Ismail, was a guest in the imperial harem and Abdülaziz wanted to marry her.⁸²

Ismail also used the growing Ottoman Arabic public sphere to support his requests. Al-Jawāʾib, a pan-Ottoman Arabic journal published in Istanbul on behalf of the government, lobbied for him. In fact, as early as 1863 the editor Fāris al-Shidyāq read a panegyric in Arabic in front of Ismail during the latter’s visit in Istanbul.⁸³ Shidyāq then received regular financial support from the khedivial governance; for instance, in 1865 together with the editors of the Ottoman Turkish Ceride-i Havadis and the French Galata Courier (later Levant Herald).⁸⁴ French journalists were also in Ismail’s pay;⁸⁵ such as the editor in chief of the journal Derby in Paris,⁸⁶ and the pasha paid more to the staff of the French journal L’Égypte 87 than to staff of the official Egyptian government bulletin al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya.⁸⁸ While Ismail waited for the firman in the spring of 1866 al-Jawāʾib printed Arabic poems of praise from all over the empire: the support of Ottoman Arab poets such as Ḥāmid Efendi Ālūsī from Baghdad,⁸⁹ or Aḥmad Sāmī Efendi from Mosul,⁹⁰ suggests that there was wider Arab attention, or at least, an attempt to create the impression of such attention.

The change of the dynastic order for primogeniture was approved. As we have seen, Ismail received the firman personally from the sultan in May 1866. The issue of al-Jawāʾib printed on June 5, 1866, was almost solely dedicated to Ismail and his firman.⁹¹ As to Mustafa Fazıl, he bitterly started to support the Young Ottoman movement, Muslim constitutionalism, to challenge the sultan and take revenge for his lost positions from Paris.⁹²

In the 1930s, the historian al-Rāfiʿī claimed that the money spent on the 1866 firman had had nothing to do with the benefit of the country.⁹³ This was a shock to monarchist circles at the time. Until then, officially, Ismail’s aim had been interpreted as the “independence” of Egypt from the Ottoman Empire.⁹⁴

The 1866 firmans (soon there was another firman regulating the case of regency) contain much more than the modification of succession order and less than independence. In addition to primogeniture, the sultan gave two Red Sea ports to Ismail, allowed the increase of the army, permitted Egypt’s own currency, gave the right to nominate civil officers according to the Ottoman system up to the saniye (second rank of the first class), and, in return for all of these, set the tribute at 750,000 Ottoman pounds annually. Sultan Abdülaziz justified the privileges as the only means to secure the bonheur of Egypt; at least this is how Ali Pasha, the Ottoman foreign minister, explained the changes in his circular to the ambassadors.95 As compensation Mustafa Fazıl was granted an annuity of 20,000 (British?) pounds.⁹⁶ Ismail’s victory was complete.

The new privileges did represent a degree of independence. They fashioned Egypt as an Ottoman Arab monarchy, similar to the privileges given to the Ottoman United Principalities of Moldavia and Wallachia (later Romania). In the secret letters addressed to Ismail by his agents in Istanbul, the description of the eastern European princes (including the Serbian one) looking for privileges in Istanbul figures prominently at the time.⁹⁷ The sultan invested the Hohenzollern prince Charles, invited by Romanian notables to rule the United Principalities, in October 1866, and he also received the right to his own coinage and army.⁹⁸ The eastern European developments informed the political horizon in the Arab provinces as well and can be understood as competing units for the sultanic agreement. Change in the regime type of Ottoman Egypt occurred, however, through the legal upgrading of its governorship.

Sovereignty and the right to borrowing were important preconditions for the integration of Egypt into the world economy,⁹⁹ and in this regard, the interest of the dynasty and the interest of foreign bankers intersected. An Ottoman Armenian in the service of the Egyptian pashas, Nubar Nubaryan (1825–1899), later three-time prime minister, at the time the highest diplomatic agent, relays that Ismail was so “sorry” that Egypt had to pay for the new dynastic order that he asked Nubar to suggest something that he could demand from the sultan “for the benefit of the country” as a “compensation for the sacrifice that Egypt made.” Nubar suggested the right to Egypt’s own customs agreement, analogous to the one enjoyed by the United Principalities.¹⁰⁰

Although it may seem only vanity on the part of Ismail, the new title was a crucial demand because it meant a new rank within the Ottoman hierarchy. Legally speaking, as a pasha, Ismail had a civil rank; as a vali he held a top position in the provincial hierarchy; and as a general and grand vizier he occupied an (empty) position within the Ottoman military system.¹⁰⁴ A new title encompassing a new rank would effectively maneuver him outside the traditional Ottoman hierarchies and would involve a new etiquette, language, chains of order, and, most important, a further step towards legal sovereignty. Furthermore, the suggested title ʿazīz would have made a close connection between the ruler, Egypt, and religion. Given the Koranic origin, in Egypt this arrangement would have represented an almost “covenantal” type of symbolism.¹⁰⁵ Similar to the increasingly independent European provinces, the governorship of Egypt could have changed into a symbolic recognition of identity between geography and the governor’s power by the title ʿazīz. Despite Ismail’s cautiously emphasizing his determination to remain within the empire,¹⁰⁶ the new designation would have effectively made the governor not a representative of the empire in the province but rather the province’s representative to the empire.

The Ottoman imperial elite understood what is at stake. They also feared that the reigning sultan’s name (ʿAbd al-ʿAzīz, Abdülaziz) could have been read in Arabic as the “servant” (ʿabd) of ʿAzīz Ismail. Grand Vizier Fuad Pasha thus plainly refused the new title in January 1867.

European diplomats and Arab intellectuals helped. Nubar, the negotiator of Ismail, suggested using the foreign ambassadors in Istanbul to bring increasing pressure on the Ottoman leadership.¹⁰⁷ The leading French diplomat, Outrey, supported Ismail’s demands, while the Russian ambassador, Ignatieff, remained neutral (which later paid off in secret negotiations between Russia and Egypt).108 There was again the support of al-Jawāʾib in Arabic. For instance, on February 5, 1867, the title page contained a long ode to Ismail.¹⁰⁹ In Egypt, al-Ṭahṭāwī and others continued to write poems of praise that were reprinted in al-Jawāʾib in March 1867.¹¹⁰ In addition, the imperial administration had to engage with Ismail’s demands because he had helped to crush the revolt of a tribal leader in Arabia,¹¹¹ and had also dispatched Egyptian soldiers to the Cretan War, soldiers the pasha threatened to withdraw in case of further opposition. Finally, the grand vizier offered a number of alternatives, and Nubar chose “khedive.”¹¹² Ismail agreed only at the last moment (perhaps also upon the news about the expected return of Mustafa Fazıl to Istanbul).¹¹³

Khidīwī in Arabic (hidiv in Turkish, khudaywī in Egyptian Arabic)¹¹⁴ is one example of how Arabic used Ottoman terms to address incumbents of power. Khidew is a Persian word meaning “king, lord, great prince,” and was used in the Ottoman hierarchy as a title of ministers (viziers) and the grand vizier among other Persian titles, such as dāwar(ī) (“prince, lord”).¹¹⁵ Nubar should have known that Mehmed Ali’s chancellery was already called dīwān-i khidīwī, his entourage maʿiyya khidīwiyya, and his first official newsletter Jūrnāl-i Khidīwī. This title had also been used publically in the Arabic journals in the 1850s and 1860s.¹¹⁶ Despite the official change, the colloquial Egyptian term for the khedive remained efendīnā (“our master”), while the military and official correspondence still often called the governor with the Ottoman epitaph dhāt-i walā-i walī-niʿmet (“the supreme ruling benefactor”).

The firman dated 8 June 1867, granted the Ottoman title of Hidiv-i Mısır to Ismail officially, and his privileges were reaffirmed in 1873. He and his descendants could exclusively use this title,¹¹⁷ although ʿAzīz Miṣr also remained among the customary salutations of the Egyptian rulers up to the twentieth century. European journalists in Istanbul at the time thought that khedive/khédive, as the word became to be used in English and French, respectively, should be translated as “king.”118 The title also meant the changing of Egypt’s legal status from a vilayet to a “grand khedivate” (in Ottoman Turkish hidiviyet-i celile-i Mısrıye) because it was a new rank (valilik changed to hidivlik). The main body of the firman addressed the further legal changes that the title included: rights to design the internal legislation of Egypt, to make agreements with foreigners (especially contracting loans), in addition to customs, post, and police privileges, but “always observing the treaties of my [Ottoman] empire in their status quo.”¹¹⁹ The khedivate became a distinguished dynastic governorship within the Ottoman Empire.

It is against Ismail’s Ottoman political background that we have to understand the development of patriotism in the province in the 1860s. How did local intellectuals and notables translate and understand the legal changes? What was the khedivate in their eyes? Ismail needed the local elites, too, to support him against the pretenders Mustafa Fazıl and Abdülhalim, to pacify revolting peasants, and to agree to more taxation. In 1864, a huge uprising by bandits and peasants started in Upper Egypt which was cruelly suppressed.¹²⁰ The 1866 and 1867 firmans were advantageous moments for intellectuals and rural men of distinction to reaffirm their loyalty and to attempt bridging zevat and aʿyān worlds by formulating public patriotism. At this moment, their ideology was more “Muslim patriotism” than “Arab”: the Koranic history of Egypt supplied concepts to be mixed with political territoriality and dynastic praise.

In the summer of 1866, there was an official, concentrated effort to frame the change in the succession order as the beginning of a new age in late Ottoman Egypt. The powerful men in the administration, especially provincial governors and inspectors, organized balls, receptions, dinners, celebrations all around the country. During these occasions, Muslim sheikhs, muftis, new efendis, local merchants, aʿyān, and diplomats gave numerous speeches and expressions of praise. In these speeches and poems, Egypt as a homeland was identified with Ismail, and everyone celebrated his “success” in bringing about progress and justice.

A crucial figure in these celebrations was Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, the foster-brother of Ismail, popularly nicknamed al-mufattish because he was the “inspector” of Lower Egypt in the mid-1860s. He had steadily risen through the ranks since the early 1850s, and was trusted by Said; with Ismail as governor he received extra powers and extra gifts of land.¹²³ During the celebrations of 1866, Ṣiddīq invited Egyptian Arab poets, musicians, and female singers, among them the later-legendary female singer Almaẓ (also written as Almāẓ; d. 1879), to celebrate the new regime in the cities of the Delta, especially in Tanta. He also involved the Egyptian local notables. Some of them, such as Sulaymān Abāẓa of the village of Sharīfa, also invited the singer-dancers Almāẓ and Sakīna for entertainment.¹²⁴ Ismāʿīl “al-Mufattish” was the mastermind behind the legitimization of khedivial power in Arabic.

I argue that though the 1866 celebration was an invited contribution, intellectuals and aʿyān did bring their own political vision and vocabulary. The whole book was composed to commemorate what Sheikh Muṣṭafā calls “the Ismailite Kingdom” (al-Mamlaka al-Ismāʿīliyya). More than just a collection of panegyrics, the volume embodied various elements of patriotism. First, its title is a chronogram, a literary tool of establishing the hijrī year of 1283 (1866).¹²⁸ We have already seen this poetical technique in the way Syrian Christians praised Ibrahim in the 1830s. The fact that the title celebrating the new succession order is a year frames that order as a new age.

The book shrewdly depicts the relation of Ismail and the people (ahl al-waṭan) as a relation of joy and mutual responsibility. The poems represent, according to some of the poets, the Egyptians as a people. For instance, Sheikh Khalīl al-ʿAzzāzī¹²⁹ considers himself and his poem as speaking “in the representation of the people in our Sharqiyya province” (bi-l-niyāba ʿan ahl wilāyatinā al-Sharqiyya).130 The translator ʿAlī Fahmī believes that dynastic praise is “a patriotic service” (khidma waṭaniyya).¹³¹ There may have been sceptics such as the translator Muḥammad ʿUthmān [Jalāl], who wrote, with a (perhaps ironic) reference to the de facto absolutist rule, the following:

I have served the homeland for twenty-five years / since I left the School of Languages/

I saw them being concealed in the cautiousness of mannerism [ḥidhr al-takalluf] / and they disappeared in the secret of inappropriate language [or oppression, al-taʿassuf]

but God sent Ismail from the branch of Ibrahim / made him and his family the heir of sovereignty [mulk] generation after generation / . . . and my conditions and compositions improved.¹³²

The panegyrics express loyalty but can be read in other ways. For instance, the poet Sheikh ʿAlī al-Laythī in his rhymed prose repeats that the change was the grace of the caliph and that his politics aimed at the progress of the homeland (taqaddum al-waṭan), possibly meaning the empire.¹³³ This was either a gentle reminder that, despite the privileges, Ismail was still the subject of the sultan, or in fact an acknowledgment that Egypt was still ruled by the empire. The poems of provincial notables, such as (Sulaymān) Abāẓa Bey (later Pasha),¹³⁴ who was at this time an inspector in the private estates of Ismail, formulated the khedivate before its official codification with terms such as al-quṭr al-khidīwī, “the khedivial country.”¹³⁵ These poems expressed (or had to express) both blessings and hope while navigating between Ottoman loyalty and sovereign claims.

While the role of Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq remains unclear in soliciting praise from rural aʿyān, the role of courtiers can be known. For instance, the notables of Upper Egypt submitted a congratulatory letter to Ismail. The first line, in fact, thanks the Ottoman sultan for the privileges. The letter then expresses patriotic statements, such as “our excessive love for our homeland celebrates you” because Ismail “loves the good and useful causes and all of the elite and the ordinary.” Yet the letter was composed by ʿAbd Allāh Fikrī, the personal secretary of Ismail, who was asked by the rural notables to help them.136 In this way, praise circulated: Fikrī wrote in the name of others what he thought the pasha might be pleased with and he may have updated it with his understanding of patriotism. As to Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, he was promoted to the general supervisor of both Lower and Upper Egypt immediately after the celebrations.

This unprecedented Egypt-wide production of loyal patriotic expressions reached back to earlier Muslim traditions of talking to the ruler. In many ways, these “invited” poems, speeches, and banquets, which manipulated power as much as promoted the idea of the homeland, became the representation of a new elite political community.

There were material and legal changes in the status of Egyptian rural notables and bureaucrat-intellectuals in addition to the ideological ones. These mostly included land donations and changes in landowning laws and participation in the administration. Ismail, continuing Said’s practice, donated land not only to the zevat but also to the aʿyān and the few high-ranking efendis, such as ʿAlī Mubārak or al-Ṭahṭāwī, while legal changes also included the participation of civil employees in government-run land sales.¹³⁷ This land policy brought some Egyptians close to the Ottoman zevat, such as the village notable turned district governor Muḥammad Sulṭān, who became very rich.¹³⁸ In fact, in asking for salary raise, Egyptian employees often added in the 1860s that instead they would also accept a few feddans of land.

Law and ideology was institutionalized in an advisory board of legislative functions, the Consultative Chamber of Delegates (Majlis Shūrā al-Nuwwāb), in the autumn of 1866, which is often looked upon as a forerunner of a parliament.¹³⁹ Ismail, in his order to establish this institution, referred to the beneficial function of the parliament (majlis al-shūrā) “in civilized countries.”¹⁴⁰ The Chamber contained locally elected rural notables, ʿumad and aʿyān. Abbas and El-Dessouky consider this representative institution “more like a grant from the khedive to the aʿyān than something gained through struggle.”141 Hunter lists and expands the reasons given for its establishment: to check the influence of the Turkish officials, to control the aʿyān more closely, that Ismail regarded the Chamber as a means to strengthen Egypt’s credit in the eyes of Europeans, to legitimize his land policy, and to help in the administration.¹⁴² It was, I argue, a key political institution of selected local notables and could be regarded as the fulfillment of the negotiation for acknowledgment of the dynastic order and of the new taxes.

Before the establishment of this chamber, possibly encouraged by the celebrations in June 1866 and by Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, a number of petitions arrived from the aʿyān. For example, Ḥasanayn Ḥamza, a village head and merchant from the Buḥayra district, submitted a very long letter in July 1866 asking for “the complete rights of the homeland” (wafī ḥuqūq al-waṭan). He asked for a wholesale reform of Egypt, which he outlined in eight points. He starts with agriculture and suggests that the government should help the peasants in paying their loans; next comes the distribution of lands and workers; then the making and maintenance of canals. Ḥasanayn points out that the engineer and the director of the directorate (both sent from Cairo) do not know what is good for the land—thus the work of cleaning the canals is badly organized; he emphasizes the importance of new agricultural machines; and the establishment of a new state company in which “every subject could participate as a subscriber” (he even makes detailed calculations for the capital needed [rāʾsmāl]). He makes explicit the problem that the peasants invest in gold and silver instead of keeping banknotes in villages. Ḥasanayn also requests the establishment of charity houses for the poor and the better distribution of the yearly charity alms (zakāt). He requests the granting of extra land and mines to his village, and his final and most important demand is a train line. He offers that the village should pay for it.¹⁴³ It should be not a surprise that he was among the first deputies of the Consultative Chamber.

In sum, the change at the imperial level made compromise possible within the province. Along with the festivities, the poems, and the petitions, the Chamber represents a step toward a potential compromise between governor and local elites to share power. One sign of this is that Ismail’s inauguration speech on November 25, 1866, was in Arabic and did not mention the sultan. The Chamber met only three months a year, and there were years without any sessions. It could only proceed in matters assigned by the khedive, although the representatives could propose projects such as the creation of administrative councils in the countryside (which subsequently became the main power base of rural notables).144 Later, for instance, in 1871, the phrase Majlis al-Shūrā al-Waṭaniyya (“National Consultative Chamber”) was used in the (rhyming!) Arabic appointment letters of the “elected” notables, and in these letters particular emphasis was given to the advancement of the homeland.¹⁴⁵ Without a doubt, this institution did not diminish the absolute power of Ismail, but its creation was an important step in making patriotism the ideology of the khedivate.

I propose to call the ideological sum of the above discourses in 1860s Ottoman Egypt “Muslim patriotism.” One may reasonably point out that religious universalism and patriotic particularism exclude each other. Rogers Brubaker, for instance, argues that religion (Islam) and nationalism are incompatible in their twentieth-century forms.¹⁴⁶ Such a logical contradiction, however, was not a problem for Ottoman Arab intellectuals in the nineteenth century.

This ideology was a complex one and occurred as part of Ismail’s absolutist system. Here I proceed to explore the idea of the homeland as it became an organizing principle in al-Ṭahṭāwī’s The Paths of Egyptian Hearts in the Joys of the Contemporary Arts (printed in 1869). Next, I show, through the example of the already quoted saying “the love of the homeland is part of faith,” how Islam and the idea of homeland were made compatible at both the imperial level and in the Egyptian province. These are traces of a much wider process that I will further explore in the Second Part of this book.

The Paths of Egyptian Hearts was held up first by Albert Hourani as a “theory of politics.”¹⁴⁷ However, as Charles Wendell pointedly remarks, it “was not a very veiled eulogy of the Muḥammad ʿAlī dynasty.”¹⁴⁸ Crabbs recognizes that this book is dedicated “in remembrance of this nation” and that al-Ṭahṭāwī quotes “a series of ardently patriotic poems.”149 Cole uses this book to characterize Ottoman constitutionalism and loyalty towards the khedivate, and he also discovers in al-Ṭahṭāwī’s work, somewhat surprisingly, “a labour theory of value.”¹⁵⁰ One must add that while the book is a significant achievement, nothing is known about its readership and reception. Yet the right context is the context of celebrations discussed above.

Al-Ṭahṭāwī uses the patriotic idea for political solidarity. The texts at the opening are presented to prove that patriotism has long been part of the Arabic-Islamic political tradition. The section about ḥubb al-waṭan “the love of the homeland” is a historical catalogue of waṭan in Muslim tradition and Arabic poetry. It starts with what the second caliph, ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb, said about waṭan, continues with classical ʿulamāʾ and unnamed poets (it is easy to identify them, mostly Abbasid ones). Al-Ṭahṭāwī highlights the mountain tribesman’s attachment to his mountains and the settled (ḥāḍir) man’s relation to his land, and then presents a story about the Umayyad caliph Muʿāwiya hearing a Bedouin’s poem about his homeland. Next come poems from emirs, writers, kings, another ʿUmar ibn al-Khaṭṭāb story, a poem about Sicily (with the pointed reminder that it was once under Muslim rule), and the example of the Prophet Muḥammad himself.¹⁵¹

In addition to the poetical waṭan, there is a justification of monarchical power. Al-Ṭahṭāwī merges the sophisticated legacy of Muslim political thinking with French philosophy. He argues that “monarchical power (al-quwa al-mulūkiyya) is the condition of the laws because juridical power itself derives from the monarch (malik).”¹⁵² He continues that “the ruler is the leader of his community” (walī al-amr raʾīs ummatihi)¹⁵³ but “[kings] have obligations for the right of the subjects,” though this is not based on the principle of popular representation: because “one privilege of the king is that he is the representative (khalīfa) of God in his Earth . . . he is not responsible for his action to any of his subjects.”¹⁵⁴ Given that the book was published in the official government press, there is no surprise that rulers have a distinguished place in this patriotic imagination of Muslim power.

The saying also appeared in Ottoman Beirut. The Protestant convert Buṭrus al-Bustānī (1819–1883), in his patriotic circulars during the autumn and winter of 1860 (after the massacres in the summer),¹⁵⁶ tells his readers that this tradition from the Prophet Muḥammad prescribes love as the first requirement of being a patriot (waṭanī).¹⁵⁷ He introduced the idea of patriot (waṭanī) that was to remain a keyword in the next decades in the Arabic press. Al-Bustānī’s goal was to achieve a nonsectarian community whose members were connected with inseparable bonds like a family or the human body.¹⁵⁸ He may have meant by the word “family” the educated communities of Beirut, Mount Lebanon, or whole Ottoman Empire. The Ottoman network of Arabic patriotic neologisms connected al-Bustānī in Beirut and al-Ṭahṭāwī in Cairo. Local nation-ness was conditioned by the imperial context.

Although Lewis dismissed the ḥadīth as invented and, therefore, unimportant,¹⁵⁹ ḥubb al-waṭan min al-īmān had a past. The earliest occurrence is in the thirteenth century, as a fabricated, fictitious (mawḍūʿ) Prophetic tradition.¹⁶⁰ It seems that the ḥadīth was coined somewhere in the eastern, Persianate domains of Islam.¹⁶¹ The origin was perhaps in Persian Sufi circles. For these mystics, waṭan meant “the heavenly kingdom.”162 One can also find a version of this sentence in an early fourteenth-century Arabic poem¹⁶³ and in a fourteenth-century chronicle, where this ḥadīth is uttered by an Ayyubid military commander (amīr) from Syria when he encourages an attack against the Egyptian Mamluks. According to the chronicler in this instance, its use meant “that he chose to enter Egypt in any case”—that is, that he was prepared to die for the waṭan (here possibly meaning glory as related to the notion of the afterlife in the heavenly kingdom).¹⁶⁴

This potential was discovered by al-Ṭahṭāwī in Cairo, al-Bustānī in Beirut, and others in Istanbul and in Paris in the mid-nineteenth century. The organ of the Young Ottoman ideology, Namık Kemal’s Hürriyet also discussed this very same ḥadīth in its first issue in 1868. The Young Ottoman group used vatan in Turkish in the widest, imperial sense.¹⁶⁵ For them, patriotism served the territoriality of the Ottoman Sunni caliphate, connected to the demand for a constitution.¹⁶⁶ In Egypt, ʿAlī Mubārak categorized the “love of the homeland” as the third type of relationship after love of God and obedience to superiors in an 1868 manual. He also quoted the Prophetic saying and explained that “it not only means that the love of the homeland is a portion, that is, a part of faith, but perhaps it is the faith as a whole and Islam in its entirety.”¹⁶⁷

Intellectuals attempted to make Islam and patriotism compatible through this ḥadīth.¹⁶⁸ It became the motto of the Bustānīs’s journal al-Jinān in 1870 and figured in every single title page. In 1872, it was used to praise Ismail Pasha as a patriot.¹⁶⁹ In 1893, a version was used to praise his grandson Abbas Hilmi II, too¹⁷⁰ (see chapter 8). No wonder the eminent intellectual, the hero of the last chapter of this book, Muṣṭafā Kāmil placed ḥubb al-waṭan min al-īmān on the title page of the first issue of his journal al-Liwāʾ in the spring of 1900.¹⁷¹ Even after World War One it became the slogan of the official journal of the short-lived kingdom of the Hijaz (Barīd al-Ḥijāz) in 1924. These occurrences reflect an age-old Muslim technique to bring spiritual agreement into materialist politics by deploying ḥadīth. It exemplifies the cultural function of Islam in the construction of political nation-ness.

The career of ʿAbduh al-Ḥamūlī exemplifies the relationship between Ottoman power and Arab music in Egypt. His life, though never explicitly political, connects the symbols of patriotism in the 1860s with the increasingly nationalist ones of the 1890s. In royalist historiography and scholarship, he was compared to Verdi,176 often put in the general context of the nahḍa,¹⁷⁷ paired with modernizing Arab poets,¹⁷⁸ and held to be one of the main personalities of the so-called musical école khédiviale¹⁷⁹ (the concept itself was derived from the interwar attempt to glorify the memory of Ismail.)¹⁸⁰ Today, ʿAbduh al-Ḥamūlī is often seen as a reformer of Egyptian Arab music, even paralleled with the reformer of Islam, Sheikh Muḥammad ʿAbduh.¹⁸¹ It is striking that the later popularity of al-Ḥamūlī as the patriotic singer of Egypt in the 1880s and 1890s was made possible by cultural Ottomanization.

Al-Ḥamūlī hailed from the Delta, near Tanta, and was supposedly a pious Muslim. During the late 1850s his amazing voice was discovered, and he joined different takhts (Egyptian music ensembles) that performed in Tanta and in Cairo. At the beginning of the 1860s, he sang muwashshaḥāt.¹⁸² His takht became the most famous one in Egypt.¹⁸³ He was summoned by Ismail, who attached him to his entourage. This is a curious event since it has been suggested that this pasha did not appreciate native Egyptian music,¹⁸⁴ yet he liked al-Hamūlī so much that, as an anecdote tells, he allowed him to sing publically only with his written permission.¹⁸⁵ There is no exact date of the singer’s attachment to the circles of the khedive, but it occurred sometime between 1863 and 1869.¹⁸⁶ Since Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq invited Almaẓ in 1866 in Tanta, it is possible that al-Ḥamūlī (later the husband of Almaẓ and from around Tanta)¹⁸⁷ was also discovered through Ṣiddīq’s good offices.

The Ottomanization of al-Ḥamūlī occurred through direct contact with the imperial center. He was sent to Istanbul,¹⁸⁹ perhaps numerous times,¹⁹⁰ and also accompanied Ismail on some of his European travels. According to one anecdote, he performed even in the Conservatory of Vienna.¹⁹¹ The Egyptian singer did not wear an Arab gilbāb anymore, but took on an Ottoman tarbūsh with a European suit.¹⁹² He presumably translated Turkish songs into Arab and specifically Egyptian musical modalities. His Istanbul stays are mysterious because in fact he did not need to go to Istanbul to study Turkish music since Cairo was full of Ottoman musicians.¹⁹³ Al-Ḥamūlī also sang for Abdülhamid II in 1894, but at that occasion, instead of al-Ḥamūlī studying Ottoman music, on the contrary, the sultan ordered one of his own musicians to learn the Egyptian tunes.¹⁹⁴

The singer became known as the “nightingale of weddings” (bulbul al-afrāḥ) in the Arabic press because of his popularity at elite weddings (possibly since Tevhide’s in 1869). He usually sang at the weddings of government-associated zevat and aʿyān’s children.¹⁹⁵ He himself was married first to Almaẓ and, after her death in 1879, he married four more times.¹⁹⁶ His involvement with the khedive, his Ottomanization, made it possible that al-Ḥamūlī was later able to captivate zevat, aʿyān, and the ordinary people in the 1880s and 1890s (see the last section of this book).

Al-Ḥamūlī’s association with the entourage of Ismail is curious since the general soundscape of zevat culture was high Ottoman in the 1860s. The harem listened to Ottoman Turkish art music.197 Said nominated the Ottoman Armenian Aleksan as his official lute player, and another Turkish musician, a certain Ali Bey, was also cherished in the entourage.¹⁹⁸ Even the kānūnci of Sultan Abdülaziz, Nukhla Matarcı, performed in Cairo.¹⁹⁹ Members of the ruling family literally loved Turkish musicians: Ismail’s cousin, Zahra, married the composer Ali Rifaat Catagay, and after his death, the singer Nedim in Istanbul.²⁰⁰ There were non-Ottoman but non-European musicians too, for instance, Said possessed a special band of thirty-eight Sudanese musician-soldiers, in addition to the ninety-six person “European” military music band.²⁰¹

Before concluding, it is worth noting that, according to Nubar, Ismail “did not like to think about his death.”207 This fear remained despite the victory of Ismail’s household. He struck a deal with Mustafa Fazıl in December 1866 to buy all property in Egypt belonging to him, his wife and children, and slaves (mamālīk) for 2,000,8000 “lira sterling.”²⁰⁸ Tevfik later reported that his father had “lived in terror of his life and would never allow a stranger or a native to come near him,” and after 1866 had Tevfik, the new official heir, watched day and night.²⁰⁹

Abdülhalim was now the main challenger in possible cooperation with an important reform-minded zevat pasha, Mustafa Riyaz (1834–1911, see more on him in chapter 5). They were involved in freemasonry in 1860s Egypt. Abdülhalim was the representative (president?) of the English freemason grand lodge of York in Egypt. Encouraged by his new French secretary, the Marquis de Tard (his real name was Antoine August Papon), Abdülhalim designed a plan to unite all lodges in Egypt in a giant lodge under his presidency. He had a conversation with a certain Dauphin, the president of a French lodge Les Pyramides in Alexandria, and Figari Bey, freemason of the Scottish lodge N. 166, and secretary of Ismail, sometime in early 1868 in the gardens of the Shubra Palace. He told them that he wanted to use the freemasons for “awakening the people and to change the government,” as the French consul wrote in his report. Although Dauphin and Figari showed some enthusiasm, both lodges finally declined to give any support.²¹⁰

Abdülhalim wanted to achieve political change through patriotic culture. The son of a close supporter of his, Mehmed Arif (or Arifi) Pasha established a Society for Education (Jamʿiyyat al-Maʿārif) by buying a printing press in 1868 and publishing a number of adab works. Among the society members we find Riyaz, the al-Muwayliḥīs, some members of Shūrā al-Nuwwāb (for instance, Ḥasanayn Ḥamza), and Khalīl Yeğen Pasha. The nominal president was Tevfik, son of Ismail. However, in 1869 the society ceased to work and Arif Pasha had to flee to Istanbul because of his association with Abdülhalim.²¹² One must note that before the establishment of the society, Riyaz had a huge argument with Khedive Ismail about corruption and was dismissed from his government position in February 1868 (only to be reinstated after eight months).²¹³ As we shall see, Riyaz and the Yeğen brothers would remain main supporters of reforms and of the claim by “Prince Halim” to Egypt. While the society is celebrated as a literary milestone,²¹⁴ its connection through Arif Pasha to Abdülhalim’s plans makes it rather a political (and business) enterprise. Ismail finally signed an agreement with Abdülhalim in 1870 in which the latter renounced any claim to the “throne,” in exchange of a yearly 60,000 British pounds, paid for forty years.²¹⁵ Such was the price of Ismail’s khedivate.

The irreconcilable tension was that the khedivate was not an independent monarchy like post-Ottoman Serbia but continued to be part of the imperial system while aesthetically, and increasingly legally, was represented as sovereign for European audiences. This representation, and the role of Europe, are the subject of the next chapter.

¹ Budak et al., eds., Osmanlı Belgerelinde Mısır, 149–151; Letter dated 29 May 1866, from [Ambassador?] to Consul General of France in Alexandria, 166PO/D25/67–68, MEAN.

² Di-Capua, Gatekeepers of the Arab Past, 164–172.

³ Riedler, Opposition and Legitimacy.

⁴ Crabitès, Ismail, 286.

⁵ Muṣṭafā, ʿAlāqāt Miṣr.

⁶ Similar studies using psychological arguments: Tagher, “Psychologie du règne”; Tagher, “Portrait psychologique de Nubar Pacha”; Fahmy, Mehmed Ali; Sālim, Fārūq wa-Suqūṭ al-Malakiyya.

⁷ Quoted in Sāmī, Taqwīm al-Nīl, part 3, vol. 2, 438. The date of 31 December 1830 is mistakenly given in Zananiri, Le Khédive Ismail, 9; al-Rāfiʿī, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1:69. Dating is crucial because a December date would mean that Mustafa Fazıl would have the claim to succession. Sammarco, Le Règne du Khédive, 2.

⁸ Fahmy, All the Pasha’s Men, 88.

⁹ Hunter, Egypt Under the Khedives, 145 mistakenly gives 1821 for the birth date.

¹⁰ ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq al-Mufattish, 59–60.

¹¹ Konrad, Der Hof der Khediven, 138; Douin, Histoire du Règne du Khédive, 1:205; Lott, The English Governess, 167.

¹² Crabitès, Ibrahim, 2.

¹³ Lott, The English Governess, 169.

¹⁴ Al-Ayyūbī, Tārīkh Miṣr, 1:375–376.

¹⁵ Unknown to Joseph Hekekyan Bey, 28 March 1849, Vol. XV., MSS/Additional/ 37462, Hekekyan Papers, BL.

¹⁶ Toledano, State and Society, 100.

¹⁷ Canning to Palmerston, 18 April 1851, FO 424/7A, NA.

¹⁸ Canning to Palmerston, 4 June 1851, FO 424/7A, NA.

¹⁹ Letters dated 12 and 20 Shaʿbān 1267 (12 and 20 June 1851), İ.DH. 236/ 14268; scratch, dated 25 Shaʿbān [1267] (25 June 1851), A.}MKT.MHM. 34/3; and 29 Shaʿbān 1267 (29 June 1851), A.MKT.NZD. 38/22, all in BOA.

²⁰ [Iskandar Fahmī], Mudhakkirāt, 68.

²¹ In a document dated as early as 29 Shawwāl 1267 (27 August 1851) Ismail is mentioned as a pasha. İ. MVL. 00219/7344, BOA.

²² Dated 21 Dhū al-Qaʿda 1267 (17 September 1851), İ.MTZ.(05)TAL, 1/38, BOA.

²³ Meclis-i Vālā-ı Ahkām-ı ʿAdliye. Letter dated ? Shawwāl 1267 (? August 1851), A.}DVN.MHM. 9/19, BOA.

²⁴ Letter from Murray to Palmerston, Cairo, 21 February 1851, FO 424/7A, NA.

²⁵ In 1861, they are mentioned as vezirs. Letter dated ? Shaʿbān 1277 (? December 1861), A.}DVN.MHM. 32/24, BOA.

²⁶ L’Isthme de Suez, 25 December 1856, 202. In general, see Deny, Sommaire des Archives Turques, 35–78.

²⁷ Cevdet, Maʿrūzāt, 7–8.

²⁸ Al-Rāfiʿī says Ismail returned when Abbas died, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1:69. For the investiture ceremony, note dated 20 July 1854 in vol. VII. MSS/Additional/ 37454, Hekekyan Papers, BL.

²⁹ Letter dated 25 November 1854, in De Lesseps, Recollections of Forty Years, 1:190–191.

³⁰ Senior, Conversations, 2:226–228.

³¹ For instance, at a ball on 16 July 1856. L’Isthme de Suez, 10 August 1856, 53.

³² Senior, Conversations, 1:137.

³³ Ibid., 2:227.

³⁴ Sāmī, Taqwīm al-Nīl, part 3, vol. 1:194; his resignation: part 3, vol. 1, 225.

³⁵ Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 181.

³⁶ Despite the obvious suspicion, there is no proof of Ismail or Said’s involvement in the accident. De Leon, The Khedive’s Egypt, 156–158. Ghali, ed. Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 182.

³⁷ Sacré and Outrebon, L’Égypte et Ismaïl Pacha, 11.

³⁸ Leon, “Ismail Pacha of Egypt,” 742.

³⁹ Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 211.

⁴⁰ Quoted in Sammarco, Histoire de l’Égypte Moderne, 3:6–7, n. 2.

⁴¹ It is worth noting that Abdülhalim as an heir second-in-line was also reported to be busy with agriculture. Letter dated 19 September 1865, 166PO/D25/66, MEAN.

⁴² Sāmī, Taqwīm al-Nīl, part 3, vol. 2, 442. It is said that in 1862 Ismail managed to subdue a rebellion in the Sudan without much bloodshed. Al-Rāfiʿī, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1:75; however, Sammarco proves that Ismail did not leave the capital personally. Sammarco, Histoire de l’Égypte Moderne, 3:9, n. 3.

⁴³ Sāmī, Taqwīm al-Nīl, 3:1: 299.

⁴⁴ Kuneralp, Son Dönem Osmanlı, 6.

⁴⁵ Cammas and Lefèvre, La vallée du Nil, 59–64.

⁴⁶ Majdī, Dīwān, 17.

⁴⁷ 20 February 1862, Vol. IX., MSS/Additional/ 37456, Hekekyan Papers, BL.

⁴⁸ List dated 13 Ṣafar 1279 (10 August 1862), PVSE, AK.

⁴⁹ Kuneralp, Son Dönem Osmanlı Erkan, 109.

⁵⁰ Toledano, State and Society, 47.

⁵¹ According to a rumour, Ahmed Rifaat, Ismail, Mustafa Fazıl, and Ilhami (son of Abbas) petitioned the sultan not to appoint their uncle, which resulted in Said’s dislike of his nephews. Senior, Conversations, 2:194.

⁵² Douin, Histoire du Règne du Khédive Ismail, 1:207. McCoan remarks that Ismail was the guest of Mustafa Fazıl for a fortnight and that only after this did their relation deteriorate. McCoan, Egypt under Ismail, 24.

⁵³ Douin, Histoire du Règne du Khédive Ismail, 1:207.

⁵⁴ Letter dated 13 March 1863, FO 78/1754, NA.

⁵⁵ Lott, The English Governess, 81.

⁵⁶ Peirce, The Imperial Harem, Preface.

⁵⁷ For instance, Mehmed Ali sent his daughter-in-law, Fatma (widow of his son Hussain Kamel), to Istanbul in 1837. Tagher, “La mission de Sarim Bey.”

⁵⁸ De Lesseps, Recollections of Forty Years, 1:164.

⁵⁹ Amanat, Pivot of the Universe, 145–146.

⁶⁰ Fahmy, Souvenirs du Khédive Ismaïl, 8; also Rhoné and Herz quoted in Ormos, Max Herz, 2:432–3.

⁶¹ Abkāriyūs, Al-Manāqib al-Ibrāhīmiyya, 131.

⁶² Ghānim, Al-Awqāf, 174–175.

⁶³ Herz, La Mosquée el-Rifaï, 17; Ormos, Max Herz, 2:430–456.

⁶⁴ Ḥujjat al-waqf dated 19 Dhū al-Ḥijja 1296 (4 December 1879), number 1215; in Daftarkhāna, Wizārat al-Awqāf al-Miṣriyya.

⁶⁵ Ormos, Max Herz, 2:431–2.

⁶⁶ Shārūbīm, al-Kāfī, 4:177.

⁶⁷ Cf. letters in February 1863, especially 16 February 1863, FO 78/1754, NA.

⁶⁸ Letter dated 2 February 1863, British consul to Foreign Office, FO 78/1754, NA.

⁶⁹ Gardey, Voyage de Sultan Abd-Ul-Aziz, 75.

⁷⁰ Letter dated 17 April 1863, British consul to Foreign Office, FO 78/1754, NA.

⁷¹ Letter dated 17 April 1863, British consul to Foreign Office, FO 78/1754, NA.

⁷² Shārūbīm, al-Kāfī, Part 4:265.

⁷³ Lott, The English Governess, 127.

⁷⁴ Sammarco, Le Règne du Khédive Ismaïl de 1863 à 1875, 3:42.

⁷⁵ Gardey, Voyage de Sultan Abd-Ul-Aziz, 168.

⁷⁶ Toledano, State and Society, 62–63. Lott, The English Governess, 223.

⁷⁷ Yalman, “The Ottomans and the West,” 352–355.

⁷⁸ Karateke, “Who Is the Next Ottoman Sultan?”

⁷⁹ Toledano, State and Society, 62; 144–145. For Said’s negotiations, cf. Sammarco, Histoire de L’Égypte, 3:24.

⁸⁰ Letter dated 6 Ramaḍān 1279 (25 February 1863), from Valide Sultan to Sultan, PVSE, AK.

⁸¹ Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1:206. Lott, The English Governess, 248.

⁸² Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1:230.

⁸³ Al-Jawāʾib, 19 March 1866, 2.

⁸⁴ Letter dated 13 Rajab ? 1282 (2 December ? 1865), qayd 573, microfilm 99, MST, DWQ.

⁸⁵ ? Shaʿbān 1282 (end of December 1865), (L. Bertrand, editor of Dīrkī?) to Maʿiyya, 186/36, MST, Microfilm 196, DWQ.

⁸⁶ Letter dated 25 Shaʿbān 1283 (2 January 1867), Ismail Ragib to Maʿiyya, 178/40, MST, Microfilm 199, DWQ.

⁸⁷ Letter dated 17 Shawwāl 1283 (22 February 1867), Māliyya to Maʿiyya, 40/318, MST, Microfilm 199, DWQ.

⁸⁸ Table about yearly expenses dated 26 Rabīʿ al-Ākhir 1284 (27 August 1867), 41/313, MST, Microfilm 200, DWQ.

⁸⁹ Al-Jawāʾib, 22 May 1866, 1.

⁹⁰ Al-Jawāʾib, 15 May 1866, 1.

⁹¹ Al-Jawāʾib, 5 June 1866, 1–2.

⁹² Cevdet, Maʿrūzāt, 197.

⁹³ Al-Rāfiʿī, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1:79.

⁹⁴ For example, al-Ayyūbī, Tārīkh Miṣr, 1:375.

⁹⁵ At the suggestion of the French consul, Ismail submitted another request for a detailed regulation in case of a regency (his eldest son Tevfik was fourteen at this moment); thus he received a second firman, dated 15 June 1866. Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1: 218–229.

⁹⁶ McCoan, Egypt under Ismail, 40.

⁹⁷ Regular correspondence from 1865, in 166PO/D25, MEAN.

⁹⁸ Jelavich, The Establishment of the Balkan National States, 123.

⁹⁹ Owen, The Middle East in the World Economy.

¹⁰⁰ Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 263–265.

¹⁰¹ Al-Ayyūbī, Tārīkh Miṣr, 1: 386; Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 2:394; Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 267.

¹⁰² Deny, Sommaire, 77–78.

¹⁰³ Levant Herald, 4 March 1867, 2; 23 April 1867, 3–4.

¹⁰⁴ See the Arabic translation of the firman in al-Jawāʾib, 11 March 1863, 1.

¹⁰⁵ Smith, Chosen Peoples; and idem, The Cultural Foundations of Nations.

¹⁰⁶ Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1:425–426.

¹⁰⁷ Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 269.

¹⁰⁸ Butler, Court Life, 208–209.

¹⁰⁹ Al-Jawāʾib, 5 February 1867, 1–2.

¹¹⁰ Al-Jawāʾib, 26 March 1867, 3.

¹¹¹ Al-Rāfiʿī, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1:203

¹¹² Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar Pacha, 301.

¹¹³ Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1:426–427. Sammarco, Histoire de l’Égypte Moderne, 3: 431–435 (appendix, French translation from the Ottoman Turkish original).

¹¹⁴ Jean Deny suggests that we should make a distinction between the use of “khedive” before and after 1867. Deny, Sommaire, 73.

¹¹⁵ Deny, Sommaire, 69–74. Cf. also Meynard, Dictionnaire Turc-Français, 1:691; Ihsanoğlu and Ṣāliḥ, Al-Thaqāfa al-Turkiyya fī Miṣr, 358. Sammarco says that the sultans were also addressed by this title, Histoire de l’Égypte Moderne, 3:165, n. 2; also Deny, Sommaire, 72. However, such a rank never existed in the Ottoman hierarchy. EI2, s.v. “khidīw” [khedive] (P. J. Vatikiotis).

¹¹⁶ Cf. Ḥadīqat al-Akhbār, and al-Jawāʾib, 8 May 1866, 1. Al-Jawāʾib, 5 February 1867, 1–2.

¹¹⁷ I owe this observation to Khaled Fahmy.

¹¹⁸ Levant Herald, 25 June 1867, 3.

¹¹⁹ I.MTZ (05), 20/839, BOA. The originals are reproduced in Budak et al., eds., Osmanlı Belgerelerinde Mısır, 124–127. The subsequent translations do not give the document in full. Levant Herald, 9 August 1867, 3 gives the first English translation; Douin, Le Khédive Ismaïl, 1:442–443 republishes the French translation of the French embassy in Istanbul; Sammarco, Histoire de l’Égypte Moderne, 3:359–360 (appendix), also provides a French translation.

¹²⁰ Abul-Magd, Imagined Empires, 109–114.

¹²¹ The examples in this section come from a much more detailed analysis in Mestyan, “The Just Prince and the Nation,” under review.

¹²² Letter dated 7 Muḥarram 1283 (22 May 1866) from Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, 38/29, MST, Microfilm 197, DWQ.

¹²³ ʿAbd al-Raḥmān, Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, 66.

¹²⁴ Undated letter (around 21 Muḥarram 1283/ 5 June 1866), from Ismāʿīl Ṣiddīq, 111/38, microfilm 197, MST, DWQ. The two singers later were associated with the court of the Pasha and became legendary. It also seems that there were two Almases (or Almāẓ) in the 1860s; one was the famous singer and the other one a beautiful dancer in Upper Egypt; at least according to [Gallini Fahmī], Mudhakkirāt, 1: 32.

¹²⁵ Salāma, Qiṭʿa min Rawḍ, manuscript 2389 Tārīkh Taymūr, Egyptian National Library. I am in the process of preparing a publication of this manuscript.

¹²⁶ Sadgrove, “The Development of the Arabic Periodical Press,” 72.

¹²⁷ Majdī, Dīwān, 38.

¹²⁸ EI2, s.v. “ʿIlm al-Jummal,” “Taʾrīkh.”

¹²⁹ He was an Azharite sheikh and Sufi leader, Hatina, ʿUlamaʾ, 60; 67.

¹³⁰ [Al-Najjārī], Majmūʿ, 25. One of the seven administrative units in Lower Egypt was Sharqiyya with Zaqāzīq as its capital.

¹³¹ [Al-Najjārī], Majmūʿ, 38.

¹³² [Al-Najjārī], Majmūʿ,18–19.

¹³³ [Al-Najjārī], Majmūʿ, 13–14.

¹³⁴ Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, table 12, 94–95.

¹³⁵ [Al-Najjārī], Majmūʿ, 22.

¹³⁶ Fikrī, ed. Al-Āthār al-Fikriyya, 203–204.

¹³⁷ Abbas and El-Dessouky, The Large Landowning Class, 62–63; 64–68.

¹³⁸ Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, see tables 19 and 20 about positions and landholdings of Sultan Pasha.

¹³⁹ Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, 52.

¹⁴⁰ See the text in Arabic in letter dated 12 Jumādā al-Akhīra 1283 (22 October 1866), to Taftīsh al-Aqālīm, MSA, Microfilm 23, DWQ.

¹⁴¹ Abbas and El-Dessouky, The Large Landowning Class, 142–143.

¹⁴² Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, 53.

¹⁴³ “We pay for the expenses of the train-line” (yakūn takālīf al-sikka ʿalaynā). Letter dated 16 Rabīʿ al-Awwal 1283 (29 July 1866), from Ḥasanayn Ḥamza, 265/38, microfilm 198, MST, DWQ.

¹⁴⁴ Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, 54; Abbas and El-Dessouky, The Large Landowning Class, 143–144.

¹⁴⁵ For instance, appointment letter of Maḥmūd al-Sayyid, ʿumdat nāḥiyat Qāw al-tābiʿa li-mudīriyyat Qanā, dated 26 Rabīʿ al-Awwal 1288 (15 June 1871), 138/48 (later in the film), MST, Microfilm 205, DWQ. ʿAbd Allāh Fikrī wrote the general formula of the appointment letter: Fikrī, ed. Al-Āthār al-Fikriyya, 73.

¹⁴⁶ Brubaker, “Religion and Nationalism.”

¹⁴⁷ Hourani, Arabic Thought in the Liberal Age, 72–83.

¹⁴⁸ Wendell, The Evolution, 129.

¹⁴⁹ Crabbs, The Writing of History, 78.

¹⁵⁰ Cole, Colonialism and Revolution, 39–44.

¹⁵¹ [al-Ṭahṭāwī], Manāhij, 7–11.

¹⁵² [al-Ṭahṭāwī], Manāhij, 232.

¹⁵³ Ibid., 235.

¹⁵⁴ Ibid., 236.

¹⁵⁵ Ibid., 7. Cf. also Crabbs, The Writing of History, 78; and Zachs, The Making of a Syrian Identity, 167–168, n. 44.

¹⁵⁶ Zachs, The Making of a Syrian Identity, 167.

¹⁵⁷ Nafīr Sūriyya, 25 October 1860.

¹⁵⁸ Nafīr Sūriyya, 22 April 1861.

¹⁵⁹ Lewis, “Watan,” 525.

¹⁶⁰ Al-Ṣaghānī, Mawḍūʿāt al-Ṣaghānī, 47.

¹⁶¹ Perhaps the invention of this ḥadīth was connected to shuʿūbiyya, but so far there is no evidence for such a connection.

¹⁶² EI2, s.v. “Qawmiyya,” III. (A.K.S. Lambton). In addition, Bahāʾ al-Dīn al-ʿĀmilī (1547–1621), says that the reader should not understand a city like Damascus or Baghdad by the word waṭan but the return to God. al-ʿĀmilī, Kitāb al-Kashkūl, 110.

¹⁶³ Al-Ṣafadī, Aʿyān al-ʿAṣr, 4:553 (W:832).

¹⁶⁴ Al-Ṣafadī, al-Wāfī bi-l-Wafayāt, 9:264–265 (W: 1325).

¹⁶⁵ Hürriyet, 29 June 1868, 1. Cf. Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 216–219; Campos, Ottoman Brothers; Şiviloğlu, “The Emergence of Public Opinion,” 90–91.

¹⁶⁶ Davison, Reform in the Ottoman Empire, 56 and 195.

¹⁶⁷ Mubārak, Kitāb Ṭarīq al-Hijāʾ, 2: 74.

¹⁶⁸ Deringil, The Well-Protected Domains, 46–50.

¹⁶⁹ Al-Dasūqī, Maqāla Shukriyya, 3.

¹⁷⁰ Yūsuf, Ayyām al-Janāb al-Khidīwī, 2.

¹⁷¹ Al-Liwāʾ, 4 April 1900, 1.

¹⁷² al Faruqi, “Muwashshaḥ.”

¹⁷³ Mishāqa, al-Risāla al-Shihābiyya, 56; also Smith, “A Treatise on Arab Music,” 212; Maalouf, “Mīkhāʾīl Mishāqā: Virtual Founder”; Gran, Islamic Roots of Capitalism, 106–110.

¹⁷⁴ Rizq, Al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:41.

¹⁷⁵ Neubauer, “Arabic Writings on Music,” 382, 369–371. Al-Ḥijāzī, Safīnat al-Mulk (1865; 1309), 7–8. It is likely that it is his book that was also advertised in Beirut under the title Dīwān Shihāb al-Dīn in 1872, or under the title Kitāb al-Muwashshaḥāt al-Andalusiyya. For instance, al-Jinān, back page advertisement “Qāyimat Kutub ṭabʿ Miṣr mawjūda fī-Maṭbaʿat al-Maʿārif,” 17 Āb (August 1872), or 15 Ḥazīrān (June) 1872, back page. Faraj shows that such techniques occurred with poems in the colloquial, too. Farāj, “Al-Binya al-Mūsīqiyya wa-ʿAlāqātuhā bi-l-Naṣṣ al-Shiʿrī,” 95–121.

¹⁷⁶ “Fardī,” al-Muqtaṭaf, 1 March 1901, 193–198, at 197. Cf. Bachmann, “Zwei arabische Verdi-Würdigungen”; Locke, “Beyond the exotic.”

¹⁷⁷ Akel, “Hamouli.”

¹⁷⁸ Lagrange, “Poètes, intellectuels et musiciens.”

¹⁷⁹ Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 64.

¹⁸⁰ Moussali, “L’école khediviale,” 175–185. Rizq, Al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:40–51, the personal testimony of Khalīl Bey Muṭrān in vol. 2, 133–142, an anecdote 166–167, his renewal of Arab music, vol. 3: 137–150, another anecdote, vol. 3: 162, ʿAbduh in Istanbul vol. 3: 170, anecdotes vol. 4: 94–100, his marriage with Almaẓ, 105–108. Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 67–71.

¹⁸¹ Abou Mrad, “L’imam et le chanteur.”

¹⁸² Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 67.

¹⁸³ Ibid., 68.

¹⁸⁴ Farmer, “Egyptian music: Modern Egypt,” quoted in Katz, Henry George Farmer, 104, n. 51.

¹⁸⁵ Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 68.

¹⁸⁶ Ibid., 68; Rizq, Al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:49.

¹⁸⁷ Rizq, Al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:66.

¹⁸⁸ Al-Waqāʾiʿ al-Miṣriyya, 31 March 1869, 2–3 and Wādī al-Nīl, 23 April 1869, 11–12.

¹⁸⁹ ʿAbduh was at the head of a “musicians’” mission to Istanbul, which was put together by Hüseyn Kamel (the future Sultan of Egypt). Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 70. It is not clear if al-Ḥamūlī studied in Istanbul (Akel, “Hamouli,” 80) or entertained the sultan (and if so, which one?).

¹⁹⁰ Lagrange, “Musiciens et poètes,” 70.

¹⁹¹ Ibid., 68.

¹⁹² Ibid., 68. Rizq, Al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:42–43.

¹⁹³ Belleface, “Turāth, classicisme et variétés”; Moussali, “l’école khediviale,” 175–176.

¹⁹⁴ Al-Ahrām, 25 September 1894, 3.

¹⁹⁵ Egyptian Gazette, 22 February 1895, 2.

¹⁹⁶ Several letters from 1879, dated 18 Rabiʿ al-Thānī 1296 (11 April 1879), 3002–004512, DWQ, establish the fact that she died on 11 Muḥarram 1296 which is 5 January 1879. Of their love, a famous fictional Egyptian movie was shot in 1950s.

¹⁹⁷ Under “Ottoman Turkish music,” we have to distinguish between a highly refined tradition usually related to the sultan’s household (“classical Turkish music,” or “Ottoman art music”), religious (Sufi—Mevlevi) music, Ottoman military (janissary, mehter) music, and coffeehouse/gazino/meyhane-music (a secular urban entertainment which often included Italian or French songs too). Bates, Music in Turkey, 31–32; 46–48; Shiloah, Music in the World of Islam, 90–93; Ayangil, “Turkish Music in the Seventeenth Century,” The Turks, 4:79–88. In general, cf. New Grove, s. v. “Turkey,” 19:268–278.

¹⁹⁸ Moussali, “L’école khediviale,” 175–176.

¹⁹⁹ Rizq, al-Mūsīqā al-Sharqiyya, 1:46.

²⁰⁰ Moussali, “L’école khediviale,” 176.

²⁰¹ Jarīdat istiḥqāqāt firqat al-mūzīqa wa- wujāq al-mūzīqiyya al-sūdāniyya tawallī 1863 muwāfiq 1279 (they were also paid in 1862); 2002–003402, DWQ.

²⁰² Shafīq, Mudhakkirātī, 1: 86. During the rule of Ismail, a notable, Muḥammad Sayyid Aḥmad Pasha, owned thirty black and thirty white slave-girls in addition to other male slaves. [Ṣidqī], Mudhakkirāt, 6.

²⁰³ İhsanoğlu, The Turks in Egypt, 74–79.

²⁰⁴ Cf. letters dated 29 Dhū al-Ḥijja 1280 (5 June 1864) (in the catalogue the date 1281 is wrong), 7828 0001–00012, TS. MA.d, BOA.

²⁰⁵ İhsanoğlu, The Turks in Egypt, 74–79.

²⁰⁶ Lott, The English Governess, 79.

²⁰⁷ Ghali, ed., Mémoirs de Nubar, 265.

²⁰⁸ Letter dated ghāyat Rajab 1283 (December 1866), Qayd 1919, p. 88, and pp. 89 and 107 for the text of the contract, Microfilm 27, MSA, DWQ.

²⁰⁹ Butler, Court Life in Egypt, 204–206.

²¹⁰ Letter dated 7 October 1868, from E. Ponjade (consul) to Marquis de Moustier, and undated letter from A. Dobignie (?) to Consul General, and attachments, all in 166PO/D25/70, MEAN.

²¹¹ See the attached copies to the letter of the French consul to the French foreign minister, in a copy addressed to the French ambassador in Istanbul, dated 7 October 1866, 166PO/D25/70, MEAN.

²¹² Al-Rāfiʿī, ʿAṣr Ismāʿīl, 1: 242–244. In another version, he fled from his accumulated debts. Goldziher, “Jelentés,” 28.

²¹³ Hunter, Egypt under the Khedives, 162–163.

²¹⁴ DeYoung, Mahmud Sami al-Barudi, 188.

²¹⁵ Contract dated 11 July 1870 (10 Rabīʿ al-Ākhir 1287), referred to in undated note (possibly 1920s), from Muhammad Emad Eddine, wakīl of Said Halim Pasha, to Votre Altesse (?), in 0069–026857, DWQ. The Law of Liquidation in 1881 changed this arrangement.

²¹⁶ La Presse, 15 June 1867, 2.

²¹⁷ Levant Herald, 9 September 1867, 1.