Anzac Day came upon us at Serapœum—the first anniversary of the day of that landing which has seized and fired the imagination of the Empire. No doubt there are other empires than the British which marvelled at the impetuousness of that maiden proving of Australian temperament; for it was temperament that carried us up. The world had no sound ground for being surprised at success on the 25th of April, except in so far as the world was ignorant of Australian temperament. Yet surprise contended with adoration in the newspaper headings which announced our success in planting a foot on Turkish ridges. But inaccuracy in a use of terms is a quality not inseparable from journalistic headlines in times of public excitement. The fact is that, notwithstanding the world's expectation of the fatal elaborateness of the Turkish preparation to receive us, there was no call for surprise at the event in people that knew Australian conditions of life and resultant Australian character. And, granting that as known, the fact that we were fleshing virgin swords was no legitimate further ground for surprise, though it was commonly published as such. It should have been anything but that. People knowing Australians would be due to recognise that, in all the circumstances, they would fight better, under the eyes of the world, in a probationary struggle calculated to establish their reputation than would experienced soldiers who knew more than they of what the task exacted and of its possibilities. Ignorance of warfare other than theoretical was in no sense a handicap to men of Australian temperament: to such men it was material aid. In a word, Australians could not help themselves at the Landing. Were it otherwise, our troops would not have overstepped requirements to the extent of unorganised and spasmodic pursuit of the routed enemy. Success at the Landing was the inevitable result of temperament rather than the contrived result of qualities deliberately summoned up on the occasion....
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.
CHAPTER IV
ALEXANDRIA THE THIRD TIME
It's like returning to visit an old friend—rushing towards the sea of masts behind the sea of white towers glittering beside the sea of Mediterranean blue. At the first glimpse of that multitudinous shipping you lose interest in the sea of green delta through which you are rushing; the mud-walled village-islands rising from it lose charm in anticipation of the big city you know so well. You remember it with a sort of yearning for its nobility. For noble it is. There is no nobility in Cairo, except seen from the fringe of the Mokattam Hills as you stand on the Bey's Leap at the Citadel looking down on the busy expanse under its wealth of minarets. Cairo is more interesting, because more truly Oriental; it has the charm of utter strangeness. Alexandria is better built, more stately, less evil-smelling; it's the charm of a well-ordered European city that holds you; and there is always the loveliness of that Mediterranean outlook from the clean, generously-broad esplanade. The sea about Cairo is true desert-sand, unending, which is not lovely, except at the dawn and sundown, when the colour leaps up about the far horizon.
For three hours, since leaving Cairo, you have been scouring the green plain in a train of the Egyptian State railways, which bears comparison well with most other rolling-stock that a limited knowledge of the travelling world has given you. The Delta is unnaturally rich and almost unnaturally green. Many centuries of Old Nile depositing of fat mud have seemed to concentrate within that Nile Valley all the richness that is in the soil of Egypt. Nor is it a green that is ultra-rich by contrast with a desert background, for as far as you see either way there is no sand; you're in the heart of the crops. There's a monotony of level cultivation which tires you in the end, however rich; a monotony broken only by a monotonous succession of out-cropping palm-groves, sleeping canal, white creeping sail, mud-walled village, and dilapidated mosque. You tire of the regularity of recurrence. There is a hankering after the quiet stir and variety of the city of Alexandria quite as strong upon you as Johnson's fervent passion for the atmosphere of London.