AMONGST the guests who halted at the Villa Victoria, it was my good fortune to make the acquaintance of Mr. Palmer-Jones, an enthusiastic architect who had measured up some of the early Coptic convents, and had also reconstructed on paper dynastic buildings of which little but the plan is at present traceable. He was making preparations for a journey to Wadi Natrun to continue his work at the old convents which are dotted about that valley.

During a stay in Professor Garstang’s camp at Abydos, a few years ago, my interest in what concerns the Copts had been considerably excited, while I painted in the Coptic settlement which is a mile or two distant from Seti’s temple. Although these convents are of recent date compared to far-off pharaonic times, a period of fifteen centuries has nevertheless elapsed since many of them have been built. They also have this, which gives them a human interest above the earlier shrines, and that is their preservation of the uses for which they were founded. Many are now no more than a heap of ruins; but there yet remains a good number still inhabited by monks, and where the Christian liturgy of the early centuries is still repeated in the chapels. When Mr. Jones kindly proposed that I should join him in his expedition, I was not long in making up my mind to do so. His preparations took longer than mine, for he had to procure a camp outfit for a stay in the desert, a good distance from the rest-house where he and I proposed to spend a week together. I could not afford the time to accompany him further afield, and a week of desert air I hoped would suffice to shake off the evil effects of a touch of influenza.

It took over a week to get an answer from the manager of the Salt and Soda Company, in whose rest-house we proposed to stay, although he wrote by return of post telling us we could come. The distance was within a hundred miles from Cairo; but postal arrangements are not expeditious in the desert.

The delay gave me time to paint the street which has been reproduced as an illustration to this book. The noise and dust, as well as the importunities of the inquisitive, made me long for the quiet and the fresh air of the desert. A change of work and of interests now and again is wholesome, and should but little work be the result of my expedition, the interest and the fresh air would compensate me for any loss of time.

We started at midday by a train which runs along the edge of the Libyan desert, just outside the cultivation area, and not far from the western bank of the Rosetta branch of the Nile. This is the Behera line, and if any one could be found with sufficient patience, he could reach Alexandria by one of its trains, and cover rather less ground than by the main route. After a crawl along the fringe of the desert for some seventy miles in a north-westerly direction, the train strikes into the Delta, and joins the main line at Teh el-BarÛd. Fortunately we could leave it after a thirty-mile crawl, at a station called el-Khatatbeh. We were met here by the agent of the Salt and Soda Company, and invited to wait in his house until the steam-tram would take us to the rest-house. This runs twice a week, and carries coal and other necessaries to the works. When the passenger carriage had been coupled on to the trucks, we started on this novel desert journey.

There seemed something sinister in the name of our destination—‘The Valley of Natron.’ It lay in the direction of the reddening sky, and seemed somehow to recall a valley with which Bunyan has made us familiar. The ‘Lacus Asphaltites,’ as classical atlases call the Dead Sea, is a name which in a similar way brought passages of the Pilgrim’s Progress back to me, when years ago I took a journey to Jericho. The engine, which pluckily dragged us into the increasing darkness, breathed sparks of fire into the clouds of smoke. Was it the mystery of the desert that got hold of me? The fire and smoke which snorted from the funnel of the little engine brought Apollyon clearly back to my mind.

I have passed months on end in the desert, and yet that awe which it inspires at sundown never leaves me.

For three hours we continued our course through the dreary waste. A crescent moon revealed an interminable series of low sand-hills; broken flints caught its light and looked like the reflections of the stars on a billowy sea. Though our horizon was not a distant one, the sense that we might have continued in our present direction for more than two thousand miles impressed us with the immensity of the great Sahara.

The quickened pace of our train told us that we had reached the depression where the series of natron lakes lies. Before we came to a standstill my illusions had vanished into thin air. A smell of caustic soda, and the sight of the works, of the coal trucks, the shunting cabin, and as we got nearer, that of the men in greasy overalls, carried me away from the Sahara, and set me down near some north-country manufacturing village.

We were met by the manager of the rest-house, and some natives (who might have hailed from Wednesbury from their get-up) shouldered our luggage while we picked our way to a long one-storied building we could see outlined against the starlit sky.

It had turned very cold, as it often does in the desert, even after a baking hot day. I blessed the whole of the Salt and Soda Company, Limited, for having provided a good stove in the rest-house sitting-room, and I poured more blessings on the Italian manager, who soon announced the dinner. What with our long fast and the keen desert air, we were able to do full justice to the padrone’s efforts. We asked him if he could hire us donkeys to take us to the convents the following morning. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said, ‘and you shall have them at whatever hour you like.’ We decided on half-past seven, and were promised that they should be there to the minute. We were up with the lark, and ready to start at the appointed time; but we might scan the horizon and never a donkey could we see, and the padrone was as invisible as the donkeys he had promised. After waiting an hour, I proposed our walking down to the works to make inquiries. Amongst a number of natives, who all knew nothing about donkeys—never seemed to have heard of such things—I noticed a fellow-countryman. He was stirring a bubbling, oily-looking liquid in a huge caldron. ‘Look out, sir,’ he cried, ‘a drop of this’ll burn right through your clothes, and if you step on it, your boots won’t be worth sixpence.’

The pot being sufficiently stirred and the lid duly adjusted, the man stepped over to where I had retreated, and seemed pleased to be able to talk in his own language again. He was a genial fellow, and was prepared to tell me all I might wish to know about natron. I got on the subject of donkeys as soon as I could, and learnt from him that the only three donkeys (excluding the padrone) which the company possessed, were probably down at the salt-pits. I explained that I did not expect to use the Company’s donkeys, but understood that we could hire some. I then learnt that there were none nearer than el-Khatatbeh.

Later on the manager of the works appeared, and I got Jones to introduce me to him. After thanking him for letting me use the rest-house, I told him my difficulties. All he could do, he kindly told us, would be to send the trolley to the rail-head, and from thence we should have to walk to the convents, as no donkeys were available that day. Ibrahim, my friend’s servant, put our lunch and materials on to the trolley, and as soon as the mule was harnessed, off we went to the rail-head.

A thin black line on my map of Northern Egypt is drawn from the great Sahara, through this part of the Libyan desert, till it reaches Cairo. It then winds along the valleys of the Arabian desert, and disappears out of the map just north of Suez. About the spot where our trolley now runs the map describes this line as Derb el-Hagg el-MeghÂrbe, that is, the ‘Pilgrim’s Way of the Westerns.’ Within a space of twenty miles on this route stand four Christian convents, two of which we then saw outlined against the sky. They stood there before this desert tract was first used by Moslem pilgrims on their way to Mekka; and until the Behera railway was opened, this same track was followed by the monks on their journeyings to and from Cairo.

It was not an unfrequented route even before the early Christians settled here. The mineral alkali, which these marshes produce, was known and used while Memphis was the capital city of Egypt.

Salt, extracted from the poisonous-looking marshes below us, lay in hillocks on each side of the little tramway, as we neared its termination. During the first mile of our tramp to the nearest convent the ground looked as if it were covered with hoar-frost. It crackled under our feet as would thin ice, and I longed to reach the sandy plain on the higher level. The wintry appearance of this uninviting tract of land contrasted strangely with the hot sun which beat down on us. The sandy plain, when we reached it, may have been pleasant to our eyes, but it was infinitely more troublesome to walk over. We sank ankle deep at every step we took, and I now realised why the ‘Pilgrim’s Way’ ran through the plague-stricken-looking stretch which we had crossed.

As we neared our objective, the DÊr Amba-Bishai, it looked more and more like a mediÆval fortress than a retreat for the religious. Its massive outer walls now masked the little domes seen from a greater distance. Hungry Moslem pilgrims journeying to Mekka might have proved unwelcome visitors to the handful of Gubti monks within, and some recent repairs of the walls were probably done more for security than from any sense of tidiness. The gateway was large and imposing; but the door itself was small and sufficiently recessed to be defended through the loopholes in the projecting jambs.

We were glad to rest in the shadow of the walls till we managed to get admitted into the convent. Repeated pulls at the bell-rope seemed to have no effect, though the noise broke violently the stillness of the desert. Ibrahim then picked up a big stone, and using it as a battering-ram against the door, explained that the sound would reach further than that of the bell which hung outside from the wall. His exertions finally had some effect. A shutter was slid back from an iron grating in the door, and a voice called out, ‘Who’s there?’

We explained our errand to the man inside with the persuasiveness of those addressing one in an advantageous position. The stupid face at the grating had no expression but that of suspicion; a slight look of intelligence showed itself when the word baksheesh was whispered, and we were told that the Prior must first be consulted.

The man returned after a while, and we heard him remove a heavy stone from behind the door. Heavy wooden bars had then to be unfastened, and after several attempts to unfasten the lock, the old door creaked back on its rusty hinges. An angular passage, through the square tower of the gateway, led us into a spacious court, in the centre of which stood the church and the monastic dwellings. Most of the latter were in a woeful state of disrepair, and in some cases they had completely fallen in. A well and a fig-tree, as well as some green vegetables, showed that this court might have been made into a garden. This was a proof of the lethargic state of the monks, for the Egyptians as a rule will turn any ground into a garden if only water be available.

We were received by the Prior in a bare and once whitewashed room, with a wooden bench round the walls. After the usual salutations, he ordered coffee, and even produced cigarettes; but argue as long as we liked, he would not give us permission to sketch in the convent. The permission my friend had got, from the Patriarch in Cairo, mentioned the other convents, and not the one we were in; we should be allowed to see the church, but no sketching was to be done.

As Jones had worked here during the previous winter with a permit from the Patriarch, and had required ladders and other help to do his measuring up, he did not think it necessary to get an authorisation merely to make a few sketches at present. I suspected ill-will more than mere stickling about these formalities was the cause of this, so I proposed that we should have a look at the church, and then go off to the neighbouring convent.

The most aggravating part was that the little church was picturesque in the extreme. Its whitewashed walls and vaulted roof emphasised the rich colouring of the primitive altar. I have been in the inner sanctuaries of wellnigh every Egyptian temple, and have entered most of the mosques of Cairo; but never had I been more impressed with the sentiment of any than with that of this rude place of Christian worship. I longed to sit down and paint it; no ‘treatment’ would be required, for the composition was perfect. Should I go back and offer the Prior a baksheesh? I even meditated on how, ‘to save his face,’ I might pretend it was for the upkeep of the chapel. On Jones suggesting that the church in the other convent might suit my purpose as well, we decided to take our departure.

We were told that the coffee was now ready for us, and were asked to return to the parlour. My irritation at not being allowed to paint was increased by the fleas which had got at my ankles, and I neither wished to see the Prior again nor touch his coffee. Though Ibrahim had the Moslem’s poor opinion of the Copts, he implored me not to refuse the coffee, as it would be such an insult to the whole convent. Ibrahim did not want to paint, and he was probably less sensitive than I to the fleas, so he could view the matter in a calmer frame of mind. I saw, however, that he was right, so we went and sipped our coffee, made our salaams to the Prior, tipped the tatterdemalion of a lay-brother who had let us in, and were once more in the outside world.

While writing these lines, and missing the accompanying illustration of the chapel which might have fitted in so well here, I feel mean for having drunk that coffee.

It took us less time to gain admittance to the next convent, which was separated from its neighbour by about a quarter of a mile. Its outward appearance was much the same as the other, it having been built about the same period and under the same conditions. The dwellings and church also formed a group in the centre of the enclosure, and though somewhat different in plan, it had nevertheless much the same character. A spreading sycamore-tree, with a goat and one or two sheep lying in its shade, gave the place a less dead-alive look than had its neighbour, though the same signs of neglect and decay were visible everywhere.

As we turned the angle of the main building, an expression of disgust escaped my friend. What we saw was disgusting enough, but not quite sufficiently so to account for my friend’s expression, as he is the least demonstrative of men. A new erection between two wings of the earlier work had been run up by some builder whose architectural taste was of the cafÉ chantant order. It was already in a state of disrepair, which failed to give it a look of respectable age, but was merely a sign of bad material and still worse workmanship. I told Jones what a pity it was that they had not asked him to design something which would have been in keeping with the rest of the convent, and I was answered that not only had he done so, but that he had also gone carefully into the cost of the building, and had given them his services for nothing. What had been run up during the preceding summer must have cost more than if his designs had been carried out, for workmen must have been got from Cairo to do the tawdry ornamentation.

We were shown into this place, with a certain amount of pride, by the monk who conducted us. The Prior was having his post-prandial sleep, and we were asked to make ourselves at home till he came to receive us. We begged that he might not be disturbed just yet, and asked to be allowed to have our lunch in the meantime. It was now about two o’clock, and our breakfast in the early dawn seemed a long way off. We had a hen and a brood of chicks as company in this new reception-room. The hen seemed to appreciate the samples of our lunch which fell her way, and her clucking brought more poultry to join the company. The monk appeared quite indifferent to the mess they made, and he squatted on the floor and conversed with Ibrahim. He would not join us in our food, but he willingly helped us with a bottle of wine we had brought.

Before we had finished, a very old man shuffled into the room from a neighbouring apartment, and muttered some greeting. We rose to meet him and to explain our errand. Jones tried to recall to his mind the days he had spent there during the previous winter; but whether the old man had any recollection of this or not his blank expression did not reveal. He wore a brown woollen habit, such as the first Christians who settled here would have worn, and a great rent in the garment showed that this was all he had on. He did not wish to see the Patriarch’s authorisation for us to work here; all things pertaining to this world seemed indifferent to him. He gave a shiver as if he felt the air passing through the rent in his garment, and shuffled out to sit on the doorsteps in the sun.

I made signs to Ibrahim to get a spirit-flask from out the basket and offer some to the old man, who mechanically accepted it, and drank it down. This seemed to revive him a little, and he passed the cup to have it refilled. Ibrahim gave him a second dose, and asked him his age. Not getting an answer that we could understand, the second monk told us that he must be more than a hundred years old. The poor old man looked it, and that was probably the only data which the other monk had.

The church was very interesting, and a more important structure than the previous one; but so dimly lighted that we had to wait till our eyes got used to the gloom before we could distinguish anything. Two or three minute windows in the vaulting admitted the only light. As our eyes got used to the gloom, the dilapidated condition of everything became more noticeable; some grease marks on the floor, beneath the few hanging lamps, seemed all the evidence of the place having been used in recent times. I started a drawing of an interesting subject, one which might have consoled me for my disappointment in the other convent had I been able to see more clearly what I was about. The heykel, which corresponds to a chancel, was not here divided from the nave by the wooden screen common to most Coptic churches, but by a wall reaching to the vaulted roof. A high doorway was in the centre surmounted by a wooden grating, through which we could trace the outlines of the Coptic cross, and a curtain, as is usual, hung in the place of the door itself. A massive dresser stood to the left of the doorway, and a lectern slightly to the right. Rude Byzantine paintings hung from the top of the dresser, and an ikon of the Virgin and Child was fixed above the curtain.

The afternoon being far advanced, I hoped I might do better, with more light, on the following morning. It was a long weary tramp we had back to the rest-house, for no trolley awaited us at the rail-head, in spite of the most solemn promises that it should be there. We were more fortunate the next day, as the donkeys were kindly lent us, and we were able to be back at the convent in fairly good time.

Though I was in the church nearly the whole day, I witnessed no service, and remarking on this to Jones, he told me that during the weeks he had worked there he could never remember one having taken place.

What on earth had the eight other monks who resided here to do? They were supplied with corn and beans by the charity of others, and all initiative to do anything for themselves seemed to have left them during their lethargic existence. Possibly, when the dust of the old Prior will have returned to the dust of the desert around him, some one younger and more energetic may put some life into the Sleepy Hollow.