THE SPHINX, AND A DISSERTATION ON TOMMY ATKINS
I well remember how sentiment was shocked when it was proposed to
construct a tram-line to the Pyramids of Gizeh: I may also have turned
up the whites of my eyes at the mere thought of such a desecration. It
is now a well-established concern, and we may congratulate ourselves
that neither the Pyramids nor the Sphinx seem much the worse for it.
The line ends just below the plateau on which the Pyramids have been
raised, and by the time these are reached the prosaic tram-cars are
well out of sight. The Antiquities Department holds all the ground
which contains anything here of interest, so we shall be spared the
erection of anything tending to vulgarise it. The tram is in truth a
great boon to many, and not the least to those who, like myself, spend
much time in the bazaars and streets of the old city.
I can look back on nothing more pleasurable, during my last sojourn
in Egypt, than the moonlit evenings quietly spent on the glorious
Pyramid plateau. I put this off until the season was well on the wane
and the first great heat had emptied Cairo of the bulk of its foreign
sightseers. A forty minutes’ run--and, my word, there is no dawdling
here!--along the Gizeh road, blows the heat and the bazaar stuffiness
well out of one’s system, and the pure dry air of the desert, when
the higher level is reached, prepares one to enjoy everything to the
uttermost. Familiarity may have lessened the excitement which a first
gaze at the world’s greatest wonder must produce, but familiarity has
never robbed it of its awful impressiveness.
The rays of the declining sun or the light of the moon may glorify the
most commonplace subjects; but that which is always grand here reaches
the sublime on a fine moonlight night. Let us cross the broad shadow
cast by Kheops’ mighty tomb, and glance up that vast surface, rapidly
receding and lessening, yet more and more clearly defined as it rises
into the deepening background of the star-spangled blue. Its base is
hardly definable from the pale golden sand on which it rests, and the
distance to the further angle is hard to judge. To our left three
shapeless masses stand out dark against the eastern horizon: they are
the ruins of the small pyramids beneath which were laid the Pharaoh’s
daughters. Was Henwetsen young or fair when she found her resting-place
beneath that heap of stones? Had no monument been raised to mark the
spot, the sixty centuries since elapsed might not have disturbed her
sleep.
[Illustration: PERSIAN ALMSHOUSES]
Following a straightish course over the sand-buried necropolis, we
soon see, rising from a hollow in the plateau, a mushroom-shaped rock,
and we know that our objective is in sight. We skirt the depression
in the soil till we are arrested by the huge human profile, which
is now clearly defined against the sky. I leave my companion to his
contemplations; for the supreme moment, when I consider the Sphinx is
to be at his best, has now arrived. I run round the edge of the hollow
to compare a three-quarter view with his full face. He seems too sunk
and dwarfed by the ground behind him, and I descend to the lower level
till his shoulders just appear above the horizon. I feel I can’t better
this view, and I settle down to try and absorb as much as my memory
will hold, with a dim hope of being able to record it on the following
morning.
The moon shines so brightly in these latitudes, that I had looked
forward to being able to paint by its light. That was in my earlier
days, and the muddy-looking mess, which the next morning’s light
revealed, made me abandon any further attempts in that direction. To
take all the notes one can, and to retain as much of the colour as
one’s memory can hold, is the only possible way to battle with this
subject.
There are moments when uncalled-for information might almost justify
homicide. I had flattered myself that, hid away as I was in the shadow
of the shelving slope of the hollow, I might have remained unobserved
by the Pyramid pests who look upon every stranger as their fair prey.
Some broken stones sliding down the slope make me look up, and there to
my horror I find one of these pests taking his seat just above me. ‘Hi,
mister, you take my donkey; Roosevelt best donkey in Egypt; take you to
Mena House for two piastres.’ I tell the man in Arabic to go away and
not to disturb me. He is evidently disappointed in me when he finds I
am not entirely new to the country; possibly this is only a phrase I
may have learnt in a guide-book, so he begins again: ‘Yaas, Roosevelt
best donkey in Egypt; two piastres not much money; you ride my ...’ I
jump up on murder intent, though I am the most peaceable of mortals.
The Arab jumps up also and, throwing himself on Roosevelt’s back, moves
off faster than he came. When my irritation has calmed down, I have to
begin over again to try and impress on my mind the essentials of the
grand subject before me.
I admit that the nuisance of the Pyramid Bedouins has been somewhat
diminished of late; but they are nevertheless a great nuisance still.
The fault lies to a certain extent with the tourists, especially the
ladies, who take far too much notice of them. If the ladies were
aware of what these blackguards say of them, they would perhaps keep
them at a better distance. They have lost all the virtues of the true
Bedouins, and have acquired all the vices of the Fellaheen. They are a
good-looking set of ruffians, which accounts for the way some visitors
spoil them; but this does not excuse the police from stopping their
importunities.
I found on the following morning that a second visit was necessary,
and allowing for the later rising of the moon, I went a second time
accompanied by a sympathetic friend. We managed to shake off the
Pyramid limpets, and my friend kept guard over me while enjoying his
pipe. I think I got what notes I wanted before another distraction
came. Some half-dozen British soldiers were having an evening out,
and were also attracted to the moonlit Sphinx. Their object was also
to get a presentment of the ‘Mysterious One,’ though chiefly as a
background to themselves. The conventional group, which may be seen
here any day during the season, did not satisfy the Tommy with the
camera. He was probably a corporal, for he directed his sitters as
one accustomed to command. ‘Crawl up on to his mug, can’t yer,’ to
two or three who had found a safe seat on the shoulders. ‘Right you
are, Cocky,’ came from an adventurous sitter, who proceeded to climb
the neck and swarm up the wig till he reached a safe position in the
Sphinx’s ear. A more dangerous climb was that of one who worked his way
round the cheek to find a foot-hold in a crack where the nose used to
be. Another proceeded by a northern route and risked his neck to get on
to the lip. Finding this an insecure place he appealed to the artist
below. ‘’Ang on to ’is eyelid and put your foot into ’is norstril,’
came the word of command, as well as plenty of advice from the Arab
spectators. ‘Now--ready--present--fire!’ A dim light from a lucifer
match was all the fire we saw, and loud jeers from the Arabs drowned
what language was addressed to the defective flashlight.
An Arab who had some magnesium wire saw his opportunity to do a
deal. ‘I give you plenty light for one shilling.’ ‘One shilling, you
blighter, for an ’aporth of wire!’ came from the photographic artist,
with comments from the sitters up aloft. The one safely fixed in the
Sphinx’s ear was for holding out, while the one hanging on to the
eyelid proposed coming to terms. ‘We’ll give ye three piastres when
ta job’s feenished,’ bawled out the latter in a strong North British
accent. ‘Me know what them piastres feel like,’ from the Arab, who
had not yet learnt that the word of a Briton is equal to his bond. A
ready-money transaction was clearly indicated, and two piastres down
was finally taken in preference to the promise of three from the Scot
hanging on to the eyelid. A flash of white light and a ‘Hip, hip, hip,
hurrah!’ from the Arab spectators, brought the _séance_ to a close.
The British infantry, when quartered in the East, develop a passion
for riding some beast or another. Donkey-boys fought for its custom,
and the supply being greater than the demand, satisfactory terms were
arranged. One Tommy declaring that the ‘commisairy camuel’ was the
boy for him, camels were soon on the spot. ‘’Ands off, you measly
son of the Proofit, or I’ll give you a clip on the side of the ear,’
was Tommy’s warning to an over-zealous claimant for his custom. The
driver moved off quickly to take his ear out of danger, and a less
presumptuous rival got the fare. We heard, as might be expected, the
well-worn jest about the camel having the hump when the beast showed a
disinclination to rise, and soon after the merry party disappeared in
the shades of the desert.
Times and oft have I heard our occupation of Egypt criticised, not by
foreigners residing there, but by those who could easily clear out if
things looked awkward. It is naturally also a reproach to the native
that his people should not be considered fit to govern themselves,
even when he doubts that fitness himself. But, be this as it may,
the conduct of the British soldier is rarely a cause of complaint.
I will even go further and say that Tommy Atkins is popular with
the very people whom he is called upon to hold in check. He spends
his money--often injudiciously, I admit--more freely than does the
Levantine, and the natives feel sure that the payment of a just debt
can always be enforced. Besides this, he is a jolly fellow, and a bit
of rough fun appeals to the lower orders in Cairo. British military
police patrol the streets at night, and woe betide Tommy if he is
caught in a broil.
How far Cairo is conducive to our soldier’s morals is another matter;
Cairo, however, may be more to blame in this than the men we send
there. The military authorities do their utmost to ensure good
behaviour, but they can’t prevent the men from enjoying themselves
in their own particular way when off duty. Should we be anxious to
know the latest ‘turn’ of the London music-halls, we have but to walk
down some of the streets north of the Esbekiyeh an hour or two before
tattoo, and we will find Tommy giving the ‘turn,’ with suitable action,
to an admiring crowd in the drink-shop. There is also generally one
to play a piano accompaniment, and I have often wondered how and when
this soldier could have found the opportunity to acquire a sufficient
knowledge of his instrument. A concertina _obbligato_ is also of
frequent occurrence. When the Levantine landlord’s raw spirits begin to
tell, the songs do not of necessity become more uproarious, as might
be expected; but a mawkish sentimentality is the chief characteristic.
‘The sailor sighs’ or ‘The soldier dropt a tear’ is then more the type
of song than the livelier ones with rollicking choruses. Donkey-boys
hang about these drink-shops and other less reputable places, and
manage somehow to get the carousers back to barracks before tattoo has
sounded.
Unfortunately, it is those who spend their evenings in the least
profitable manner who are most in evidence. The places where harmless
recreation is provided for the soldiers are not in like manner open to
the street, and the number who use them may well resent being judged by
the samples who frequent the drink-shops.
Let us return to the Sphinx: the very thought of the gaslit streets
near the Esbekiyeh makes the air seem purer and cooler; the expression
of the ‘Mysterious One’ is no more ruffled by his late indignities than
would be the face of a sheykh after having brushed off a few flies. I
had taken the notes I wanted and my companion had been well entertained
by the comic interlude the soldiers had provided. It was a glorious
moonlight night, the Sphinx looked majestic despite his battered
features, the pale warm colouring of the neck and shoulders harmonised
beautifully with the desert shades in which it was partly lost, and the
more sombre lines of the head were relieved against a low-toned blue of
a quality as hopeless to attempt to describe as it seemed hopeless ever
to match with the limitations of the pallet. One leaves such a scene
with much the same sensations as after having witnessed some grand
and solemn function. It is as well that these scenes are not of daily
occurrence, lest the critical eye rob it of its solemnity.
The tram-cars run us back across the five miles of cultivation which
separate the Pyramid plateau from the Nile; they cross by the new
bridge to the island of Rodah, and then, skirting Old Cairo, we are
carried along the east bank of the river till we are put down in the
heart of the modern quarters.