The Philae-lover is the most faithful of
lovers. The hold of his mistress upon him, once it has been felt, is
never relaxed. And in his affection for Philae there is, I think, nearly
always a rainbow strain of romance.
When we love anything, we love to be able to say of the object of our
devotion, "There is nothing like it." Now, in all Egypt, and I suppose
in all the world there is nothing just like Philae. There are temples,
yes; but where else is there a bouquet of gracious buildings such as
these gathered in such a holder as this tiny, raft-like isle? And
where else are just such delicate and, as I have said, light and almost
feminine elegance and charm set in the midst of such severe sterility?
Once, beyond Philae, the great Cataract roared down from the wastes of
Nubia into the green fertility of Upper Egypt. It roars no longer. But
still the masses of the rocks, and still the amber and the yellow sands,
and still the iron-colored hills, keep guard round Philae. And still,
despite the vulgar desecration that has turned Shellal into a workmen's
suburb and dowered it with a railway-station, there is a mystery in
Philae, and the sense of isolation that only an island gives. Even now
one can forget in Philae--forget, after a while, and in certain parts of
its buildings, the presence of the grey disease; forget the threatening
of the altruists, who desire to benefit humanity by clearing as much
beauty out of humanity's abiding-place as possible; forget the fact of
the railway, except when the shriek of the engine floats over the water
to one's ears; forget economic problems, and the destruction that their
solving brings upon the silent world of things whose "use," denied,
unrecognized, or laughed at, to man is in their holy beauty, whose
mission lies not upon the broad highways where tramps the hungry body,
but upon the secret, shadowy byways where glides the hungry soul.
Pages:
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119