I RETURNED to Cairo little the richer in artistic material, but feeling much the better for the few days of desert air. Though Cairo stands on the fringe of a desert, the three-quarters of a million of its inhabitants are bound to vitiate its air, and they have certainly polluted its soil. No drainage system as yet carries off the sewage from the main part of the native city, where the dust is often laid by the slops emptied on the roadway. It is true that the TanzÍm employs a large number of scavengers; but their efforts are chiefly confined to the modern quarters, where there is some hope of dealing with so difficult a task. The Arab’s ideas as to road-cleaning, when he is left to himself, is to sweep the dust about rather than to clear it away; the scavenger is therefore the greatest nuisance of all the nuisances the sketcher has to contend with. When taken unawares, a sweep from one of these idiots’ brooms may cover with dust your drawing and your pallet before you can stop him or get out of his way. Were it not for the sun, which sterilises this dust, a large population could never have existed here.

Cairo is unpaintable during the few grey days of midwinter, and perhaps this is just as well, for when the Great Germicide does not shine, the place must be very unhealthy. An overcast sky often drove me into the mosques, where I could spend my time in drawing my subject, until the warm reflections from the sunlit court should make me feel instinctively for my pallet.

I flattered myself that few nooks and corners existed in the old city which I had not explored, till I turned up a narrow lane outside the Bab Zaweyla and found myself in the ruinous court of a delightful old mosque. It is extraordinary that I should have overlooked this during the many seasons I have spent in Cairo. The lane is called Haret es-Salih, and the mosque servant informed me that this was the mosque of Salih. Who this Salih might be was more than the servant could tell—he had not been there more than twenty years—should it be a mosque called after the founder of the mameluke dynasty, its date could not be earlier than the middle of the thirteenth century. There is much remaining which suggests an earlier period, both in the plan and in the construction of the arches; the foliated background, to the Kufic lettering which decorates these arches, seemed hardly in keeping with the work of the orthodox Moslems who succeeded the FÁtimid dynasty.

I looked up all the Salihs who crop up in Stanley Lane-Poole’s Story of Cairo—a handy little volume, published by Messrs. Dent and Co., which no visitor to Egypt should fail to get—and I succeeded in placing him as TalÁi ibn-Russik, who on his accession to power styled himself el-Melik es-SÂlih. He was the last but one of the FÁtimid khalifs, and he built this mosque in 1160, the sixth year of his reign.

There is little now remaining of all that was built in the enclosure which Gawhar pegged out as the site of el-Mo’izz’s ‘guarded city’; the small mosque, el-Akmar, happily still exists and enables students to study the less restricted forms of decoration which the Sheea heresy permits. The boundaries of el-Kahira were considerably extended during the two centuries of FÁtimid rule; the three great gates and Hakim’s mosque remain as specimens of the work of that period, and they also mark the limits of the extended city.

It was outside the walls of the Cairo of those days where TalÁi ibn-Russik built his mosque, and it remained for Saladin, who succeeded the FÁtimid khalifs, to yet further enclose and bring this mosque well within the walls of his enlarged capital.

The entrance is through a gateway supporting the minaret, which latter is probably of a later period than the rest of the building. The colonnade, which surrounded three sides of the square court, has almost disappeared, as well as parts of the enclosing wall. The liwÁn, which is the subject of the accompanying illustration, is still intact. Kept sufficiently in repair so as to prevent its falling down, it has never suffered the hand of the renovator to sweep out every trace of the mellowing influence of near eight centuries of use.

An ugly wooden fence enclosed it from the court, but I was able to see enough through the palings to paint it as if this disfigurement were not there. The court is on a higher level to the liwÁn owing to the accumulation of rubbish which has not been cleared away, and this accounts for the high horizon in the picture. It also enabled me to see less of the exasperating fence. Though still used as a place of worship on Fridays, it serves as a school during the rest of the week. The young students squatting on the matting and committing to memory verses of the Koran form picturesque groups, and the little crowd around the rostrum of the teacher centralises the subject.

The scenes are on a smaller scale than those which may be witnessed any day at the Azhar, or University Mosque. The latter has been so over-restored, and not always in a judicious manner, that I have never been tempted to paint there. The students here are mostly lads, and are either preparing for the university or are the children of parents who may not approve of the modernised form of instruction at the Khedivial schools. As in all purely Arab schools, the training is almost entirely confined to exercising the memory rather than the development of the reasoning faculties. It is often quite sufficient qualification for a teacher to know his Koran by heart, so that he can detect any mistakes in the verses which he hears his scholars repeat. As every lad repeats aloud what he tries to learn by heart, the noise is easily imagined. There seems little restraint; the lads nibble at their lunch or buy drinks from the lemonade-seller when it pleases them; those to whom the teacher’s back is turned may indulge their liking for mankalah or any other games easily secreted under their cloaks; and had it not been for the powerful lungs of Mansoor, most of the scholars would have taken up a position around my easel.

When the clouds dispersed and the further angle of the court formed a warm sun pocket, the greater number would leave the liwÁn and repeat their verses in the warmth. Mansoor’s work of keeping the lads away from me then became more arduous. He found an ally in the mosque servant, and when gentle persuasion failed more drastic measures were used. The noise in the court did not in the least seem to disturb the good-natured teacher, and when he left his rostrum he would come and have a look at the work I was doing.

I came here many times, for not only did the drawing and detail of this subject take up several long mornings, but I had a second one on hand of which these lads in the sun made the foreground. That they should be curious to see what I had made of them was natural enough, so I gave them an opportunity of satisfying their curiosity before I packed up to go. In sketching a group of figures which is constantly on the move, the head of one may be suggested on the body of another who may have moved away. This seemed to perplex my spectators considerably. When Ahmed had identified his kuftan or galabieh, Seleem would point out the head as belonging to himself. A good stare at me to see if any signs of the evil one were visible would follow: if some afri’t had not assisted me in this uncanny work, how else was it to be explained.

As mornings begun in sunshine may turn to grey in winter, or the other way about, my having two good subjects in the same place was a great advantage, for though a reflected sunlight improved my liwÁn, I could nevertheless find plenty of detail to draw while the sky was overcast. ‘Good gracious!’ it actually rained one morning, and with my drawings I joined in the rush for shelter under the arches. Volunteers to carry my belongings were numerous, but Mansoor would only allow some privileged youngster to carry my stool. The teacher would drone out the verses of the FÁthah quite regardless of the disturbance.

The profession of a fikee is, I am told, not a lucrative one. A half-piastre, i.e. five farthings, per week per pupil used to be his earnings, though this may have increased slightly with the general increase of wages. If we consider his intellectual equipment and compare it with that of a schoolmaster at home, it is possible that the pay of the fikee may compare very favourably. They often eke out this miserable pittance by reading a chapter of the Koran in the houses of the well-to-do. One recently ‘killed two birds with one stone’ by posing as a model to me, while he also repeated the FÁthah, outside the entrance to a hareem. I am afraid that some giggling, which I could hear through the mushrbiyeh, may have been caused by my attempt at portraiture. I turned my easel towards the wooden grating to satisfy a legitimate curiosity which might possibly have been excited in the ‘prohibited place.’ The giggles developed into loud laughter. I rather fancied my sketch, and, in spite of this unfavourable criticism, I still fail to see anything funny in it. The fikee turned out to be as big a fraud as most of the natives whom I have induced to pose to me. The value of time becomes enormous to any loafer who poses for an hour, and, according to this fikee, it might have been as valuable as that of a Harley Street specialist. Some feminine jeers, heard through the mushrbiyeh, hastened his departure.

According to Lane the schoolmasters in Egypt are mostly persons of very little learning; few are acquainted with any writings except the Koran and certain prayers, which, as well as the contents of the sacred volume, they are hired to recite on particular occasions. It is fair to say that the Egypt of Lane is the Egypt of full seventy years ago. Under the advisership of Mr. Dunlop and his staff of able school-inspectors, a sound education on enlightened lines is now obtainable even in the smallest towns for the children whose parents can or will afford the fees of the Khedivial schools. But the kuttÁb, as the poorer and purely Mohammedan schools are called, seem to have drifted into a backwater, and are little influenced by the stream of enlightenment which flows past them.

The story Lane tells of a fikee of his time might still apply to present-day teachers in some of the villages, and may be worth repeating here: ‘I was lately told of a man who could neither read nor write succeeding to the office of a schoolmaster in my neighbourhood. Being able to recite the whole of the Koran, he could hear the boys repeat their lessons; to write them, he employed the areef (or head-boy and monitor of the school), pretending that his eyes are weak. A few days after he had taken upon himself this office, a poor woman brought a letter for him to read to her from her son, who had gone on pilgrimage. The fikee pretended to read it, but said nothing; and the woman, inferring from his silence that the letter contained bad news, said to him, “Shall I shriek?” He answered, “Yes.” “Shall I tear my clothes?” she asked; he replied, “Yes.” So the poor woman returned to her house, and with her assembled friends performed the lamentation and other ceremonies usual on the occasion of a death. Not many days after this her son arrived, and she asked him what he could mean by causing a letter to be written stating that he was dead? He explained the contents of the letter, and she went to the schoolmaster and begged him to inform her why he had told her to shriek and tear her clothes, since the letter was to inform her that her son was well, and he was now arrived at home. Not at all abashed, he said, “God knows futurity. How could I know that your son would arrive in safety? It is better that you should think him dead than to be led to expect to see him and perhaps be disappointed.” Some persons who were sitting with him praised his wisdom, exclaiming, “Truly, our new fikee is a man of judgment!” and for a little while he found that he had raised his reputation by this blunder.’

I must refrain from quoting from that fund of knowledge, Lane’s Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians, for since it has been so ably edited by Mr. Ernest Rhys, it has been placed within the reach of every one by Messrs. Dent in the ‘Everyman’s Library’ series.

As my view of the mosque is from the court, there was no objection to my painting there during the duhr or midday service on Fridays. I was much tempted to make that my subject, but I refrained from doing so, as I have done that subject once or twice before. The ritual has become more familiar to me, and I was able to follow better what was going on.

The mosque servant, who often helped my man to keep off the boys during the week-days, increased in importance on Fridays (which, I need hardly inform my readers, correspond to our Sundays). Half an hour before noon the mueddin ascends the minaret and chants the selÁm from one of the balconies. This is not the adÁn or ordinary call to prayer, but a salutation to the Prophet, the adÁn being called a little after the noon. The worshippers soon arrive, for there are the ablutions to be performed before they take their seats in the liwÁn. A reader, in the meanwhile, ascends the rostrum facing the prayer-niche or mirhab, and begins reciting the ‘Soorat el-Kahf,’ which is one of the chapters in the Koran. Each worshipper drops his slippers before he steps on to the matting, and places them sole to sole next to where he sits down. He performs two prostrations and then sits patiently till the adÁn is called from the minaret, when the recitation of the soorat ceases. During this call the whole congregation, which faces the prayer-niche, kneels instead of sitting cross-legged as hitherto. On the last syllable of the adÁn every man rises and, holding his hands, palm outwards, close to his ears, he repeats the ‘Allahu Akbar’ which has descended from the minaret. He then makes the various prostrations of the rekah, repeating the same words at each different posture, and concludes with the salutations to the Prophet.

The murakkee (who was no other than the mosque servant and my ally of the courtyard) then proceeded to open the folding-doors of the pulpit, and took a wooden sword from behind them, and holding it with its point to the ground, he also repeated the salutation. From a raised platform (known as the dikkeh, and standing at the entrance to the liwÁn) an officiant now chants the praises of Mohammed. The servant then recites each verse of the adÁn, and they are repeated in a sonorous voice by the man on the dikkeh. During this the khateeb, as the preacher is called, advances to the pulpit, and taking the sword from the murakkee, he slowly ascends the steps, and reaching the top one, he waits till the recital is concluded.

The preacher stands, holding the sword point downwards, and delivers his address in a solemn and effective manner to his congregation, who sit rapt in attention.

No special vestments are worn by those who officiate, and the ordinary robes of a sheykh seem perfectly appropriate. The sword, the only object used in the simple ritual, is to remind the hearers that Islam was spread by the sword and that by its power it should, if necessary, still be maintained. Little outward reverence is shown to the mosque, as such, at ordinary times, for I have seen it used as a convenient place to sleep in during the heat of the day, and the playing amongst its columns of lads during the intervals of their tasks strikes no one as unseemly behaviour. But at the call to prayer the demeanour of all present is strikingly reverent.

I have worked in a great number of mosques and must have seen thousands of men attending the services, but I don’t recall having seen half a dozen worshippers in any other but the native dress. Now that all the youth of the country, who attend the Khedivial schools or have of late years passed through their classes, adopt the European garb; that the numerous employees in the government and other offices have all forsaken the native dress—is it not strange that a trousered Moslem should hardly ever be seen inside a mosque unless he goes there merely as a spectator? The effendi, a title loosely given to every native in European dress and tarbouch, feels, I’m sure, ill at ease amongst his co-religionists when the services of his religion are being held. The devout Moslem views the western garb as ‘a mark of the Beast.’ This is felt so strongly in Morocco, that should a Moor appear in coat and trousers, his co-religionists would tear them off him.

The encouragement given in Egypt to the adoption of western clothes is a fatal mistake. The courteous manners of the oriental seem to leave him with his cast-off kuftÁn; his morals are distinctly worse when the ties of his creed are loosened; and the Christian missionary knows well enough that the westernised Egyptian is not a fertile soil for the Gospel seed. We must not flatter ourselves that our hold on Egypt is in any way strengthened by this silly fashion; we have only to attend a nationalist demonstration to see how the trousered effendi out-numbers the robed Egyptian. Should the sword of the preacher unhappily be held aloft and a holy war proclaimed from every pulpit, this European veneer would vanish like smoke, and the effendi would revert to the garb of the sheykh.

During my first season in Egypt I painted a crowd of young students at the entrance of one of the Khedivial schools. The lads were all robed and turbaned, and whatever their social positions may have been, each individual looked a dignified young gentleman. When next I visited Cairo all this was changed. The kuftÁn and the gibbeh were replaced by sweated tailor goods from some Greek departmental stores. I felt a personal dislike to the whole education department, and especially to the British Adviser. I am glad to add that I have since learnt that our countrymen had nothing to do with it. It was the Egyptian officials who inaugurated the change. Education has made such advances since the British occupation, through the efforts of a hard-working and certainly not overpaid British staff, that I am glad to know that I was not justified in attributing to it so foolish a blunder.