OF THE OLD AND THE NEW CAIRO, AND OF A VISIT TO THE SHEYKH AMMIN SAHEIME
It is unfortunate that an artist, residing in Cairo for the purpose of
painting its people and its buildings, cannot live in the city where
his chief interests lie. For there are at present two Cairos: the one
an old oriental city, the other a nondescript modern European town,
placed, as it were by accident, between the Nile and its more venerable
neighbour. The foreigner who speaks of Cairo alludes to the great
blocks of buildings and the palatial hotels which form this modern
town, and he usually terms those other parts which he has scarcely
seen--the native quarters. The true Cairo, and the one of which we
speak, lies in a rough parallelogram between the walls running from the
Citadel to the Bab el-Futouh at the eastern extremity and the Khaleeg,
or the old canal now filled in, on the west. The northern and southern
extremities end at the mosques of Hakim and of Ibn Tulún respectively.
Two outlying bits still remain north and south of the new quarters, and
are known as Bulak and Old Cairo. There are remains here and there of a
yet older Cairo, which stood on the south-west of the present city.
I should dearly love to live in that part spoken of as the native
quarters, instead of having to live at some distance and amongst
surroundings which do not lend themselves to pictorial treatment.
I had the opportunity to live in a beautiful old house which has
been carefully restored under the superintendence of Herz Bey, and
which stands in the very heart of the old town. The inconvenience of
housekeeping, the putting in of necessary furniture, and, above all,
the insanitary condition of its immediate neighbourhood, decided me
not to avail myself of this opportunity. There would also have been
the fear of fire. The beautiful _mushrbiyeh_ work which encloses all
the windows, and is as dry as touchwood, might at any moment be set on
fire through the action of a careless servant. The house is a perfect
specimen of an old Cairene dwelling, and it has been wisely repaired
and is kept in order at the expense of the Wakfs administration.
Possibly restrictions as to the lighting of fires would have been
imposed on me, which would have necessitated a journey to the European
quarters whenever I wished for a hot meal.
No, one cannot live here surrounded with what one loves to paint; one
may remain a lifetime in Cairo and not be of it.
The joy of having bright sunny weather in midwinter is very great,
and it is also a pleasure to meet friends at the club or hotels, and
for those inclined that way balls and parties can be attended on most
evenings during the season. Personally I would forego most of these
things to live more in touch with the life of the old city. As an
illustration of how little the inhabitants of the European quarters
are concerned with what takes place in Cairo proper, I will give the
following:--
While I was painting in the Suk es-Selah, or the gun-makers’ bazaar,
an old house fell in not many paces from where I was sitting. As the
house was inhabited, willing hands were soon on the spot to assist in
excavating those who might be buried under the ruins. Help was also
soon available from official quarters, and during the course of the
day five dead bodies were unearthed. I did not expect this to be given
as important a space in the newspapers--edited and circulating in the
modern quarters--as an account of the last ball at Shepheard’s would
have received; but I thought a line describing an event which cost the
lives of five people might have appeared amongst the smaller items
of news. There was no mention of it in any of them. When I remarked
on this to some European residents, I was casually told that a house
felling down was of constant occurrence, and a lady remarked on hearing
of the five Arabs who had been killed, ‘Il en reste encore bien assez.’
From the little interest shown, one might have supposed that this event
had taken place somewhere in China, instead of within a couple of miles
from the hotel we were in.
I witnessed the funeral procession of a noted Sheykh of Islam this last
winter. The cortège was more than a mile in length, and thousands of
people crowded the streets to pay their last respects to so eminent
a coreligionist. A roar of voices, repeating the profession of the
Mohammedan faith, rose from every quarter of the Arab city. I looked
for some information in the Cairo papers, but not a mention of it did
I find. The Arabic papers were doubtless full of the event; but as few
Europeans, though they may speak the colloquial language fluently, can
read the written Arabic, the news of the old town rarely spreads to the
new.
The older residents are seldom seen in the old parts of the city, and
that is easy to understand, for familiarity with things eastern breeds
an indifference with the majority, even if it does not descend to
contempt. The surprise is that so few are met there of the thousands
of people who flock to Egypt for a short season. A drive down the
Mousky--one of Cairo’s least interesting streets--a visit to the
Khan Khalil, then a walk round three or four mosques and a view from
the citadel. After this a feeling of satisfaction that the ‘native
quarters’ have been thoroughly done. The fear of smells seems to haunt
them, for the hands not carrying a kodak or fly-whisp often hold a
handkerchief near their noses. Bad smells are to be found for those who
seek them, though not as many as in most old European towns.
These might be removed to advantage. But how much would Cairo not lose
of its charm if, deprived of the sense of smell, one wandered through
its bazaars or loitered about its market-places? I cannot think of the
coffee-stalls without their aroma of moka and of latakiyeh. The spice
bazaar recalls the warm land breezes from some tropic isle. Would the
colour of the fruit-stalls charm the eye equally, were the scent gone
from their piles of russet and gold? Even the smell of tan seems to
enhance the sight of the brilliantly hued skins in the leather-workers’
bazaar.
Though each sense may occasionally be shocked, each plays its part
in the enjoyment of all things. To any one keenly interested in this
mediæval city, and who has studied its buildings, the eye is unhappily
more often now shocked than the nose. Uglinesses which are hardly
noticeable in the European quarters are slowly invading the old parts
of the city. I have seen many a beautiful latticed window replaced by
ready-made imported sashes, or where the seclusion of the hareem is
necessary, an ugly fretwork in lieu of the turned _mushrbiyeh_ which
gave so much character to the Cairene dwelling. Streets formerly
covered in with rafters and matting are now exposed to the baking
sun, so as to allow more light on the cheap European goods behind the
plate-glass windows. The official mind is obsessed with the idea that
official work needs trousers, and all aspirants to official billets don
these ugly garments and abandon the graceful _kuftân_ and the flowing
_gibbeh_. The same thing has occurred in the government schools.
Trousered policemen tread their beat by day, while the night watch is
allowed to go its rounds in the native costume; presumably because
it is less seen. The metal _fanus_ which swing before the mosque
entrances are being replaced by ugly petroleum lamps. The water-carrier
will disappear as each stand-pipe is erected; this doubtless has its
hygienic advantages. But had the well-to-do still the same pride
in their city as had their forefathers, the water would have been
conducted to the beautiful fountains which are now allowed to fall into
decay.
Fortunately Cairo is large, and some years may yet elapse before
ugliness will have crept into its innermost recesses.
Round and about the Tumbakiyeh--where the coarse Persian tobacco is
retailed to the smokers of the _nárgeeleh_ and the _sheesheh_--the
old-world look seems still stern enough to frighten off any shoddy
European accessories. Massive doors, nail-studded and heavily hinged,
close in the _Wekálehs_ where the _tumbak_ is stored. More or less
dilapidated gateways lead into spacious Khans where formerly caravans
from Syria and Arabia unloaded their merchandise. The convent mosque
of Beybars, the Taster, dominates this district. From its pepper-box
minaret one can look down on extensive warehouses now partitioned
into tenements of the very poor; houses of erstwhile merchant princes
are now falling into decay, and their gardens used as rope-walks or
bleaching-grounds. The mueddin’s call to prayer sounds like the funeral
dirge of the departed glories of the Tumbakiyeh. The main street, known
as the Gamalieh, has all the dignity of age; it is too poor a district,
and too far from the present business centres, to be rejuvenated with
the lack of taste which has ruined the Mousky.
Down a narrow lane leading out of the Gamalieh, a fine old doorway and
some well-preserved oriel windows gave every promise that this was the
back of a fine old Cairene house, still inhabited by its owner, and
not allowed to fall into the ruinous state of most of its neighbours.
My man Mohammed was with me when I made the discovery. I asked him to
inquire to whom it belonged, and to try to find out if the interior was
at all in keeping with what we saw from the lane.
[Illustration: SUK ES-SELAH, CAIRO]
Mohammed is a man of great resource. After considering his mode of
procedure for a moment, he pushed open the door, which stood ajar, and
we could see the _bowab_, or doorkeeper, asleep on the stone seat at
the angle of the passage. Mohammed stepped lightly along this passage,
evidently in hopes of getting round the angle and obtaining a peep into
the courtyard, without awaking the sleeper. Not succeeding in this, and
being asked what he wanted, he started inquiries after an imaginary
relative who surely was once a servant in this household. ‘Is this
not, then, the house of so-and-so?’ giving the name of an imaginary
owner. ‘Then who does live here?’ The real name of the owner was then
given by the doorkeeper. By a few more leading questions, it was found
out that the owner was in his country place, and would not return
till the cooler weather set in. Mohammed had in the meanwhile got his
peep into the court, and had seen quite enough to feel satisfied that
here was what I wanted. As the hareem was in the country, there would
be no objection to the _ghawaga_ also having a peep into the court,
especially as a _baksheesh_ might follow on the peep.
I was then allowed in, and here was a court similar in plan to many
ruinous ones I had seen; but in a perfect state of preservation, and
suggesting many beautiful things in the house which overlooked it. I
had never painted in the interior of a fine Cairene house, still kept
up as in the days before Ismael Pasha uttered his boast--‘L’Egypte
fait partie de l’Europe.’ I made inquiries amongst Egyptian as well as
European friends regarding the owner, and whether it would be possible
to get an introduction to him. I was told that he was one of the old
school, lived as his forebears had done, and did not frequent the
modern quarters. The more inaccessible this gentleman seemed to be, the
more I longed for an _entrée_ into his house. Years went by, and this
court remained in my memory as a beautiful picture which Lewis only
could have adequately painted.
Towards the latter part of my last season in Cairo, I mentioned to my
friend, Mr. Bowden Smith, how difficult it was to obtain permission to
paint in the few, yet remaining, genuine old Cairene houses. His work,
connected with the ministry of finance, had brought him in contact with
many of the upper class Egyptians, and he named several houses he could
take me to see. ‘Have you seen the house of the Sheykh Saheime near the
Gamalieh?’ he asked, and described the very place which years since had
made so lasting an impression on me.
We went there the very next day, and were fortunate in finding the
Sheykh at home. We were received in the _takhtabosh_, a spacious recess
opening on to the court, and under the principal guest-chamber, which
latter is supported by a handsome granite column. A row of carved
wooden benches line the three walls of the recess, and rest on a paved
floor a few inches higher than the open court. Cushions were placed for
our accommodation, and we were courteously asked to sit down. Here we
took our coffee and conversed with our host.
I told him how glad I was to meet one who still had a pride in the
beautiful things his country had produced, and who preferred keeping
up the home of his ancestors to living _à l’Européenne_ in the modern
quarters. He could not foretell what his sons might do; but as far as
he was concerned, he would keep to the dress of his forebears and end
his days in the dwelling-places which they had built. ‘Should I better
myself,’ he asked, ‘if I left this house for one at Kasrel-Aine, or in
the Ismaelieh quarter?’ A vision of the pretentious villas ‘en style
Arabe,’ ‘en style Egyptien,’ or, worse yet, the Levantine’s conception
of ‘l’art nouveau,’ rose up before me, and by contrast made more
beautiful the court we overlooked. The gentle cooing of the doves, and
the sound of running water amidst the flowering shrubs, would never
here ill-tune with the hooting of a motor. The roses, which garlanded
the trellised windows, seemed more beautiful than those which try to
hide the cast-iron balconies of modern Cairo. No sound from the outside
world penetrated here till the solemn call to prayer from Beybar’s
mosque recalled the hour of day.
We made a move, thinking that our host might wish to attend the _Asr_.
To our delight, however, he asked if we would care to go over the house
with him. Nothing suiting us better, he conducted us across the court
to a door and passage leading to the _mandarah_ or guest-room. The
anteroom we passed through suggested a good subject, and I threw out
some hints that I should like to do a sketch of it. Whether our host
understood what I was driving at or purposely passed on to another
subject, I could not quite make out; but a wink from my friend that he
would have another try later on reassured me. The room was sparsely
furnished, as is generally the case in oriental houses. High wooden
benches lined the walls, and if we add to these a few cushions, some
rugs, and one or two hanging lamps, we shall have described about all
this anteroom contained. The light trickling through the latticed
windows showed up the design of the _mushrbiyeh_, and it is not
appreciable how decorative these turned wooden gratings are until they
are seen from the inside. The wall surfaces were quite plain, and gave
a value to the ornamentation surrounding the lintels of the three doors
which opened into the room. On each lintel was a Koranic text in raised
lettering and relieved on a blue ground.
The simplicity of the anteroom served to enhance the rich decoration of
the guest-room itself. The _durkááh_, which is that part of the floor
nearest to the entrance, had a beautiful tesselated pavement. In the
centre stood a double-basined marble fountain sending up several jets
of water, which were caught in a shallow well around its base. It is in
the _durkááh_ that the guest drops his slippers before ascending to the
_liwán_, which is raised a few inches above the pavement and occupies
about one-third of the apartment. Handsomely covered mattresses with
heavy cushions line the three enclosing walls and form the _diwaan_
or divan, as we call it. In this instance the ceiling of the _liwán_
was several feet lower than the roof of the _durkááh_, and with its
retaining arch bore much the same relation to the rest of the apartment
as does that of the chancel to a one-aisled church. The intricate
pattern of the _mushrbiyeh_ occupied the place of an east window.
Cupboards with minute panels of varying arabesque designs, and shelves
with bowls and dishes of Rhodian or Egyptian ware, furnished the walls
above the divan. The geometrical patterns on the ceiling and the vivid
colours with which they were defined would have been disturbing to the
eye, were it not for the subdued light, in which the decoration was
partially lost.
Everything was harmonious, all seemed exactly right. I would fain have
lingered on the divan and heard our host relate of deeds which may have
been done within these walls. But there was more to see. Leaving this
beautiful guest-chamber and crossing the anteroom, we were taken up a
winding staircase to the _hammám_. Our Turkish baths are modelled on
a similar plan, but as this one was only for private use, it was on a
smaller scale than a public one, and marble floors and seats here took
the place of more ordinary materials. From thence we were taken through
a corridor and into another guest-chamber.
A slight smile on the face of our host seemed to express a question as
to what we should say about this room, having exhausted our terms of
admiration on the one below. Here was the place where he wished us to
linger and sip our coffee until the mueddin once more called to prayer
at the close of the day.
Some of the features of the _mandarah_--as the guest-room below is
called--were here: the two levels of the floor defining the limits of
the _durkááh_ and that of the _liwán_; the tesselated pavement and
marble fountain in the one and the mattressed and cushioned divan
of the other; the _mushrbiyeh_ also split up the light in a pattern
suggesting the interlacing of strings of beads, and the panelling of
the doors and ceiling were as rich in arabesque design as that which we
had seen below. The one apartment was as truly Egyptian as the other,
yet it left a distinctly different impression.
The more subdued light of the _mandarah_, as well as the chancel-like
appearance of the _liwán_, had an impressiveness which was not here;
but it might easily have appeared gloomy had we visited this lighter
and more highly coloured room first.
We were now in what was probably the _Káá_, or principal apartment of
the hareem of former days. I have learnt since that the Sheykh’s family
is a small one, so the rooms overlooking the garden and in a wing of
the house--which we were of course not shown--would be amply sufficient
for the women-folk of his household.
The hareem, or harem, as it is often miscalled in England, is also
often misunderstood. Its true meaning is the ‘prohibited,’ that is
‘sacred’ to the master of the house. It is that portion of the house
which is confined to the women and children, and is not necessarily a
kind of luxurious prison for a number of wives, which many unacquainted
with the East often suppose. The ‘selamlik’ is that part of the house
used by the male portion of the household. As the great majority of
Egyptians have only one wife at a time, the hareem generally occupies
less of the house than the ‘selamlik.’ The term ‘el hareem’ also
applies to women collectively.
It would not have been proper to ask if the beautiful apartment we were
in had ever been used as the _Káá_, for one must be on very intimate
terms with a Moslem before alluding in any way to what concerns his
women-folk. A feminine touch of lightness absent in the selamlik
convinced me that we were being entertained in what at one time formed
a part of the hareem.
The chief attraction was the grand display of beautiful old tiles which
covered the walls. The design showed a Persian influence, and was not
confined to the geometrical patterns of the more orthodox Saracenic
work, and pretty as this is, it is the colour which gives it its great
charm. Blues tending to green played with blues of a violet shade,
touches of puce and emerald green joined in the revelry of colour. No
ornaments were hung or bracketed on these wall spaces, for were they
not ornament sufficient in themselves? The mattresses and cushions of
the divan had richer coverings, were more elegant in pattern, and less
sombre in hue than those of the divan we had first seen.
What a studio this would have made for any one desirous to paint
eastern subjects! Better that it remain as it is--a dignified setting
to a worthy Egyptian gentleman.
As the sun got more round to the west, the shadow of the _mushrbiyeh_
patterned the floor, and gem-like touches of light crept slowly up the
wall facing the great window. Above the turned wooden grating, which
showed its design so beautifully in the shadow it cast, a second window
admitted the light through numerous pieces of coloured glass set in
deep mouldings of old plaster work.
Mr. Bowden Smith chatted with the Sheykh about mutual acquaintances
and of affairs pertaining to the present day; but whether it was
my insufficient knowledge of Arabic or whether my surroundings had
carried my thoughts elsewhere, I lost the thread of their conversation.
When appealed to about some point, I had, before I could answer, to
disentangle my thoughts from ‘The story of the Humpback’ which I had
pictured Shahrazad rehearsing to her sister in anticipation of one of
the thousand and one nights. The two daughters of the Vizir had hardly
settled the point as to the working of this story into the one of ‘Noor
ed-Deen and Enees el Jelees,’ when the deep wail ‘Alláhu Akbar!’ from
Beybar’s minaret announced the _maghrib_.
The patterned shadow had left the floor, and the touches of light from
the stained glass, intensified in colour by the declining sun, crept
from wall to ceiling as we rose to depart.
[Illustration: ENTRANCE TO THE HAREEM]