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.