An Artist in Egypt

by Walter Tyndale

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.