Just here and there, sweetly almost as the pink blossoms of the wild
oleander, which I have seen from Sicilian seas lifting their heads from
the crevices of sea rocks, the amber and rosy sands of Nubia smiled down
over grit, stone, and granite.
The setting of Philae is severe. Even in bright sunshine it has an iron
look. On a grey or stormy day it would be forbidding or even terrible.
In the old winters and springs one loved Philae the more because of
the contrast of its setting with its own lyrical beauty, its curious
tenderness of charm--a charm in which the isle itself was mingled with
its buildings. But now, and before my boat had touched the quay, I saw
that the island must be ignored--if possible.
The water with which it is entirely covered during a great part of the
year seems to have cast a blight upon it. The very few palms have a
drooping and tragic air. The ground has a gangrened appearance, and much
of it shows a crawling mass of unwholesome-looking plants, which seem
crouching down as if ashamed of their brutal exposure by the receded
river, and of harsh and yellow-green grass, unattractive to the eyes. As
I stepped on shore I felt as if I were stepping on disease. But at least
there were the buildings undisturbed by any outrage. Again I turned
toward "Pharaoh's Bed," toward the temple standing apart from it, which
already I had seen from the desert, near Shellal, gleaming with its
gracious sand-yellow, lifting its series of straight lines of masonry
above the river and the rocks, looking, from a distance, very simple,
with a simplicity like that of clear water, but as enticing as the light
on the first real day of spring.
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