THE SPHINX, AND A DISSERTATION ON TOMMY ATKINS

I WELL remember how sentiment was shocked when it was proposed to construct a tram-line to the Pyramids of Gizeh: I may also have turned up the whites of my eyes at the mere thought of such a desecration. It is now a well-established concern, and we may congratulate ourselves that neither the Pyramids nor the Sphinx seem much the worse for it. The line ends just below the plateau on which the Pyramids have been raised, and by the time these are reached the prosaic tram-cars are well out of sight. The Antiquities Department holds all the ground which contains anything here of interest, so we shall be spared the erection of anything tending to vulgarise it. The tram is in truth a great boon to many, and not the least to those who, like myself, spend much time in the bazaars and streets of the old city.

I can look back on nothing more pleasurable, during my last sojourn in Egypt, than the moonlit evenings quietly spent on the glorious Pyramid plateau. I put this off until the season was well on the wane and the first great heat had emptied Cairo of the bulk of its foreign sightseers. A forty minutes’ run—and, my word, there is no dawdling here!—along the Gizeh128 road, blows the heat and the bazaar stuffiness well out of one’s system, and the pure dry air of the desert, when the higher level is reached, prepares one to enjoy everything to the uttermost. Familiarity may have lessened the excitement which a first gaze at the world’s greatest wonder must produce, but familiarity has never robbed it of its awful impressiveness.

The rays of the declining sun or the light of the moon may glorify the most commonplace subjects; but that which is always grand here reaches the sublime on a fine moonlight night. Let us cross the broad shadow cast by Kheops’ mighty tomb, and glance up that vast surface, rapidly receding and lessening, yet more and more clearly defined as it rises into the deepening background of the star-spangled blue. Its base is hardly definable from the pale golden sand on which it rests, and the distance to the further angle is hard to judge. To our left three shapeless masses stand out dark against the eastern horizon: they are the ruins of the small pyramids beneath which were laid the Pharaoh’s daughters. Was Henwetsen young or fair when she found her resting-place beneath that heap of stones? Had no monument been raised to mark the spot, the sixty centuries since elapsed might not have disturbed her sleep.
Page 128
PERSIAN ALMSHOUSES
View larger image

129 Following a straightish course over the sand-buried necropolis, we soon see, rising from a hollow in the plateau, a mushroom-shaped rock, and we know that our objective is in sight. We skirt the depression in the soil till we are arrested by the huge human profile, which is now clearly defined against the sky. I leave my companion to his contemplations; for the supreme moment, when I consider the Sphinx is to be at his best, has now arrived. I run round the edge of the hollow to compare a three-quarter view with his full face. He seems too sunk and dwarfed by the ground behind him, and I descend to the lower level till his shoulders just appear above the horizon. I feel I can’t better this view, and I settle down to try and absorb as much as my memory will hold, with a dim hope of being able to record it on the following morning.

The moon shines so brightly in these latitudes, that I had looked forward to being able to paint by its light. That was in my earlier days, and the muddy-looking mess, which the next morning’s light revealed, made me abandon any further attempts in that direction. To take all the notes one can, and to retain as much of the colour as one’s memory can hold, is the only possible way to battle with this subject.

There are moments when uncalled-for information might almost justify homicide. I had flattered myself that, hid away as I was in the shadow of the shelving slope of the hollow, I might have remained unobserved by the Pyramid pests who look upon every stranger as their fair prey. Some broken stones sliding down the slope make me look up, and there to my horror I find one of these pests taking his seat just above me. ‘Hi, mister, you take my donkey; Roosevelt best donkey in Egypt; take you to Mena House for two piastres.’ I tell the man in Arabic to go away and not to disturb me. He is evidently disappointed in me when he finds I am not entirely new to the country; possibly this is130 only a phrase I may have learnt in a guide-book, so he begins again: ‘Yaas, Roosevelt best donkey in Egypt; two piastres not much money; you ride my ...’ I jump up on murder intent, though I am the most peaceable of mortals. The Arab jumps up also and, throwing himself on Roosevelt’s back, moves off faster than he came. When my irritation has calmed down, I have to begin over again to try and impress on my mind the essentials of the grand subject before me.

I admit that the nuisance of the Pyramid Bedouins has been somewhat diminished of late; but they are nevertheless a great nuisance still. The fault lies to a certain extent with the tourists, especially the ladies, who take far too much notice of them. If the ladies were aware of what these blackguards say of them, they would perhaps keep them at a better distance. They have lost all the virtues of the true Bedouins, and have acquired all the vices of the Fellaheen. They are a good-looking set of ruffians, which accounts for the way some visitors spoil them; but this does not excuse the police from stopping their importunities.

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. Their131 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. &ls............