DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.27180#0052
PYRAMID AND TEMPLE
of the caliphs this winter, sang the praises of the mosques in
terms of the highest enthusiasm. He had been invited to say
his piece, and only a tactless fool would ever have dared to
contradict him. Babuschka is to blame. To all appearances
she was in the company of important persons for the first
time in her life, looked quite charming into the bargain, and
never opened her mouth once for the first half-hour. Sud-
denly she was inspired. She threw out some remark that
Rohricht picked up, and caught me a whack on the nose: it
wasn’t exactly rude — merely her usual excess of tolerance:
‘I wish you joy of them!’ What annoyed me was the presence
of three professional Egyptologists, one French and the
other two English, who were prepared to conceal their
calling to the last gasp. Oh, there was nothing like mosques
. . . charming indeed . . . the pyramids were mere observa-
tion-posts compared to the mosque of Mohammed Ali.
I took some time to produce my objections in a concise
form, for there was no denying the atmospheric capacities of
mosques, nor the picturesqueness of their silhouettes either.
I had also to thank the Syrian priest for a glimpse at the
beautiful manuscripts of the Koran in the library. It was a
pity to drag in the Syrian priest, as it involved admitting
that without the kind offices of this excellent person we
should have missed seeing these objects of the first impor-
tance. I praised Arabic calligraphy enthusiastically: its
fantastic ornament, its abundant incident. If it were possible
to reckon as art a purely ornamental manifestation whose
appeal to our way of thinking must needs be somewhat
limited, one might make bold to maintain, etc. In short, I
did everything that a man could do, and blurted out, in
what I hoped was an aside, my regrets that these charms had
not been confined to Arabic writing1.
Rohricht reacted like a father whose daughter had just
been publicly deflowered, but managed somehow to preserve
his mild demeanour.
44
of the caliphs this winter, sang the praises of the mosques in
terms of the highest enthusiasm. He had been invited to say
his piece, and only a tactless fool would ever have dared to
contradict him. Babuschka is to blame. To all appearances
she was in the company of important persons for the first
time in her life, looked quite charming into the bargain, and
never opened her mouth once for the first half-hour. Sud-
denly she was inspired. She threw out some remark that
Rohricht picked up, and caught me a whack on the nose: it
wasn’t exactly rude — merely her usual excess of tolerance:
‘I wish you joy of them!’ What annoyed me was the presence
of three professional Egyptologists, one French and the
other two English, who were prepared to conceal their
calling to the last gasp. Oh, there was nothing like mosques
. . . charming indeed . . . the pyramids were mere observa-
tion-posts compared to the mosque of Mohammed Ali.
I took some time to produce my objections in a concise
form, for there was no denying the atmospheric capacities of
mosques, nor the picturesqueness of their silhouettes either.
I had also to thank the Syrian priest for a glimpse at the
beautiful manuscripts of the Koran in the library. It was a
pity to drag in the Syrian priest, as it involved admitting
that without the kind offices of this excellent person we
should have missed seeing these objects of the first impor-
tance. I praised Arabic calligraphy enthusiastically: its
fantastic ornament, its abundant incident. If it were possible
to reckon as art a purely ornamental manifestation whose
appeal to our way of thinking must needs be somewhat
limited, one might make bold to maintain, etc. In short, I
did everything that a man could do, and blurted out, in
what I hoped was an aside, my regrets that these charms had
not been confined to Arabic writing1.
Rohricht reacted like a father whose daughter had just
been publicly deflowered, but managed somehow to preserve
his mild demeanour.
44