[p.66]In these days who at Cairo without a Shaykh? I thought it right
to conform to popular custom, and accordingly, after having secured a
servant, my efforts were directed to finding a teacher; the pretext
being that as an Indian doctor I wanted to read Arabic works on
medicine, as well as to perfect myself in divinity and
pronunciation.[FN#26] My theological studies were in the Shafe'i school
for two reasons: in the first place, it is the least rigorous of the
Four Orthodox, and, secondly, it most resembles the Shi'ah heresy, with
which long intercourse
[p.67]with Persians had made me familiar.[FN#27] My choice of doctrine,
however, confirmed those around me in their conviction that I was a
rank heretic, for the 'Ajami, taught by his religion to conceal
offensive tenets[FN#28] in lands where the open expression would be
dangerous, always represents himself to be a Shafe'i. This, together
with the original mistake of appearing publicly at Alexandria as a
"Mirza" in a Persian dress, caused me infinite small annoyance at
Cairo, in spite of all precautions and contrivances. And throughout my
journey, even in Arabia, though I drew my knife every time an offensive
hint was thrown out, the ill-fame clung to me like the shirt of Nessus.
It was not long before I happened to hit upon a proper teacher, in the
person of Shaykh Mohammed al-Attar, or the "Druggist." He had known
prosperity, having once been a Khatib (preacher) in one of Mohammed
Ali's mosques. But His Highness the late Pasha had dismissed him, which
disastrous event, with its subsequent train of misfortunes, he dates
from the melancholy day when he took to himself a wife. He talks of her
abroad as a stern and rigid master dealing with a naughty slave,
though, by the look that accompanies his rhodomontade, I am convinced
that at home he is the very model of "managed men." His dismissal was
the reason that compelled him to fall back upon the trade of a
druggist, the refuge for the once wealthy, though now destitute, Sages
of Egypt.
His little shop in the Jamaliyah Quarter is a perfect gem of Nilotic
queerness. A hole, about five feet long
[p.68]and six deep, pierced in the wall of some house, it is divided
into two compartments separated by a thin partition of wood, and
communicating by a kind of arch cut in the boards. The inner box, germ
of a back parlour, acts as store-room, as the pile of empty old baskets
tossed in dusty confusion upon the dirty floor shows. In the front is
displayed the stock in trade, a matting full of Persian tobacco and
pipe-bowls of red clay, a palm-leaf bag containing vile coffee and
large lumps of coarse, whity-brown sugar wrapped up in browner paper.
On the shelves and ledges are rows of well-thumbed wooden boxes,
labelled with the greatest carelessness, pepper for rhubarb, arsenic
for Tafl, or wash-clay, and sulphate of iron where sal-ammoniac should
be.
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