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The diary of a Russian lady

Chapter 97: CHAPTER XCV PORT SAÏD
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About This Book

A woman records personal recollections and travel memoirs that move from early childhood and society life through marriage and wartime episodes to long tours across Europe, the Caucasus, Siberia, North America and East and Southeast Asia. The narrative prioritizes vivid impressions of places, social scenes, and notable persons, offering character sketches and descriptive travel writing rather than political analysis. Interwoven are accounts of colonial outposts, frontier life along the Amur, and the demands of public service, all presented with candid, observant detail and a charitable impulse behind publication.

CHAPTER XCV
PORT SAÏD

June 26th.—At dawn the African coast, scorched by the sun, came into view. We enter the port and stop opposite the Russian Consulate. Our boat will enter the Suez Canal only at night, and we shall have time to make a short trip to Cairo. When we arrived at the railway station we saw the tail end of the Cairo express passing before our noses. As the next train left only at six o’clock, we had to put off Egypt, and were glad to find shelter in a cool little bar surrounded by a tiny garden, where we sat in the shade and sipped iced drinks, after which we returned on board. Our boat was loading coal, and all the portholes had to be closed in order not to get black. I ventured on deck and was instantly transformed into a negress.

At ten o’clock in the evening we entered the Suez Canal. On our right, spread as far as the eye could see, Lake Monzaleh. The railway runs along the shore, separated from the canal by a narrow embankment. We only make five knots an hour, nevertheless we get before a French warship, from which they shouted to us, “Vive la Russie!” Our captain gave order to hoist the French flag, whilst our recruits shouted loud hurrahs. Here comes another steamer with the flag of Britain above it; her funnels are covered with salt. The ship has surely been a good deal tossed about in the Indian Ocean. It does not promise us a smooth passage.

June 27th.—We are on Lake Timsah. The railway runs along the shore as far as Ismailia, to continue its way to Cairo. Flocks of odd white birds swim on the surface of the lake and chase the fish. On the coast, a little Arab, completely nude, raced us for a short distance, begging baksheesh. The recruits, having nothing better, throw him crusts of black bread. On the opposite bank we see pilgrims going to Mecca, and a caravan of camels off to Suez across the desert, resting under the shade of a gigantic fig-tree. Egyptian policemen, on camel-back, keep watch on the banks of the canal here and there. This morning, whilst we took our breakfast, Sergy was informed that a vessel, bearing the Italian flag, was approaching us. The ship is returning from Masowah, bringing back to Europe hollow-cheeked and worn-out looking soldiers, mere shadows of human beings, covered with parchment skin.