The supreme charm of the desert resides in her nights. Long purple shadows spread over the sand-tracts before evening. This gives to the sand-sea an appearance of gentle undulation which is virtual only, but none the less grateful for the delusion. The distances are shortened; a crushing blow is dealt by the peace-loving evening to the desert curse of monotony. The Suez hills transform to rich purple masses, splendid in the depth of their colour. The Bitter Lakes sleep in the south. The Canal settles down to gleam stealthily between its amorphous banks. The fir-groves on the shore thicken; the dancing daylight interstices in their meagre ranks are filled by the on-coming darkness until you feel there are acres of thick plantation; they moan quietly in the dusk in relief from the pitilessness of these burning days. The little rivers of water scooped about their roots are filled, and the delicious absorption begins.
Down-stream the coolies are chanting together in response to an improvised wail unerringly consistent with the rhythm of their chorus. You will hear nothing more pathetic than this song removed by distance. The solo comes down the water in the cadences of desolation. It may be the irregularity of the cadence that gives the sense of lamentation; it may be because the enunciation is never full-chested--nor even full-throated. It is as though extorted by a depth of desolation of spirit that cannot stoop beneath the dignity of rhythmic utterance. Near or far, the coolie choruses bear the same import of pathos; and, indeed, there is little happiness amongst the Egyptians: nothing buoyant (their climate forbids it); nothing approaching French vivacity of spirit. There is a profound solemnity in the heart of the Egyptian. It sometimes finds exaggerated vent in an unnatural but curtailed burst of merriment, which quickly repasses into the temperamental sombreness. The folk-songs and chants of a people are a safe index to temperament: nothing more consistently pathetic than this will you hear without travelling far.
The chant ceases as the bow searchlight of a vessel turns out of the Lakes into the Canal channel, and illuminates it like a walled street. There are ships that pass in the night, and they light their own way with a brilliancy that takes no risk of collision. The tiny wind-ridges in the banks are in relief; for a mile ahead the minutest floating object is discovered. The coolies hail her as she passes. The night-gangs at work on the barges that bear supplies from Suez and Port Said interrogate hilariously, out of harmony with the still glory of the night, but consonantly enough with the brilliant illumination. There is not much dialogue. Most of the hailing is from the shore alone.... She moves on. The banks close blackly about her stern. The lanterns swing again about the barges.