An Artist in Egypt

by Walter Tyndale

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.