III.
We climbed into the regimental brake very gladly, had a good breakfast at Boghar, and then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, started for the first caravanserai, Ain Ousera, on the way to Laghouat, where we ought to have arrived at about half-past seven. However, half-past nine came, and still no caravanserai was in sight. The night was of an inky blackness, and we began to suspect that we had lost our way. My husband accordingly stopped the carriage and questioned the driver, who acknowledged that he had only been that way once before, and was not very sure of his route. In this country, where there are no roads, one always follows the direction of the telegraph posts.
“Where are they?” asked my husband.
The Spahi hung his head abashed.
“I have not seen one since it grew dark,” he confessed.
ARAB WOMEN WASHING IN A STREAM.
From a Photograph.
There was no use being angry and abusing him, so my husband set to work to gain some idea of our position. Happily we met an Arab, who gave us the indication required, and we set out again at a good pace. Whether the Arab gave us the wrong direction, or whether the driver deviated, I cannot say; but we were spinning along, making up for lost time, when suddenly the horses were flung back on their haunches and a voice yelled, “Back! Back! Malheureux!” The Spahi fortunately obeyed the command, and my husband jumped out quickly to see what new adventure had befallen us. This one, however, came very near being our last, for we had been stopped by the guardian on the very brink of a quarry! Another few yards and we should have leapt into space and fallen down a precipice some thirty feet deep. My husband was afraid to trust the soldier driver any more, so he arranged with the quarry guardian to guide us, and we ultimately arrived at Ain Ousera towards 2 a.m., tired out and as hungry as wolves. We woke up the landlord and asked for beds and food. There was nothing to be had, he said, but bread, potatoes, and eggs, but we told him that would do if some strong, hot coffee accompanied it. An hour later we were all snoring.
“THE HORSES WERE FLUNG BACK ON THEIR HAUNCHES AND A VOICE YELLED, ‘BACK! BACK!’”
The rest of our journey was less adventurous. At a caravanserai called Gelt Es Stel we were to send back the regimental brake and continue our road in a carriage sent by the Bach-Agha of Laghouat. We waited in vain for the promised vehicle, however, and when, on the second day, the mail and passenger coach came in, we decided it was better to continue our journey by that. The coupé—a small compartment for three in the front of the coach—was all that was available, so in we got—my husband, myself, three children, and four dogs! I shall never forget that journey. My legs were too long for the space, and the cramp at last grew unbearable, while the roof was so near my head that I had to sit perfectly still, with a swanlike curve of the neck which, though perhaps very graceful, was also excruciatingly uncomfortable. No one was more devoutly thankful than myself when at last we finally reached our destination.
Laghouat, or, properly speaking, El-Aghouath, the “Pearl of the South,” as the Arabs call it, is built on and around two rocks rising out of the burning plain and cutting the oasis in two, thus giving it the form of a green horse-shoe. A small canalized stream passes between the two rocks, watering first the north and then the south oasis.
THE TOWN OF LAGHOUAT, ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT.
From a Photograph.
From the top of these rocks the view, to the lover of Sahara beauty, is magnificent. Away to the south stretches the desert, sterile and naked, save for the tufts of vegetation here and there, yet the lights and shades of colour are so variable and rich that it is a pure joy to gaze over its infinity. On the north the undulating flatness is relieved by a low line of rocky barren hills, round the top of which is a curious dark line, which one could swear was a high-water mark. On a hot summer day these hills rise black as coal out of the flame of golden sand around them; then, as evening draws nigh, some become pale rose-colour, others deepest pansy purple, or bright ochre yellow, and all so vivid, so luminous, that the artist despairs of transferring their colours to his canvas.
Nearly all the houses at Laghouat are built of mud bricks, mixed with straw and baked in the sun. As a child I used to be very much perplexed by the Israelites’ complaint during their Egyptian captivity, “How can we make bricks, for we have no more straw?” No one could explain the matter to me satisfactorily, but now I understood. In these parts, when the earth is not sand, it is clay. This clay is well wetted and patted, in the way dear to the childish heart, and then mixed and rolled in very short straw. Afterwards it is put in a square wooden frame, well patted once more, turned out in rows, and left to bake in the sun for a fortnight. The bricks are then stacked up ready for use.
Personally, I liked these houses immensely; it was so easy to put nails in the walls solidly. As a rule, things I nail up fall down suddenly, without any warning, on some revered head—never on mine, because I take care not to place myself underneath the work of my own hands. In the Laghouat houses, however, you can plant a good long nail boldly. It enters as though into butter, you hang up your picture, or whatever it is, and then go outside and hang a pot of flowers or a water-pot on the point which has come through—and there you are, perfectly balanced on both sides! But these mud houses have one rather serious drawback. When it rains—fortunately this only occurs at very rare intervals—the buildings, unless strongly white washed, have a tendency to fall down and melt away into shapeless mud-heaps. This is all in the day’s work to the Arab, and does not upset him overmuch, unless a child—or what is to him worse, a sheep or horse—is buried in the ruins. He just camps out under a camel hair tent in the highest part of his garden, or, if he hasn’t a tent, under a carpet—everyone has a carpet. Then, when it ceases raining, he serenely rebuilds. “Tu cha Allah!” he says—“It is the will of God.”
The rain-storms, though infrequent, are really terrifying when they do come. I have seen waves several feet high turning the corner of my house, and that half an hour after a downpour began. The river of sand, Oued M’zi, which becomes Oued Djdid farther on, fills with water in the twinkling of an eye, and is soon a deep, roaring torrent two miles broad; it is perfectly incredible the rapidity with which the floods rise.
A LAGHOUT MUD-HOUSE—DURING THE RAIN-STORMS THESE BUILDINGS HAVE AN AWKWARD HABIT OF MELTING AWAY!
From a Photograph.
This Oued M’zi is supposed by the Roman historian Juba to be the real source of the Nile. It is an uncanny river, disappearing underground at various points for several days’ march. It finally disappears altogether at Cholt Melghir, but the Roman historian points out that after twenty days’ march it reappears as the source of the Nile.
Some seven years before I arrived at Laghouat, I was informed, the M’zi rose to such a height that it bore all before it on the north side of the oasis. Men, women, children, tents, and herds were carried away for many kilometres, and the deaths by drowning numbered several hundred.
I remember once passing a night of anguish when my husband was away in the south. I had changed my house during his absence and taken a smaller one, with a huge garden, in the north oasis, some hundred yards from the river. The autumn rains began, and soon my garden and outer court were under water. The river came thundering down, and the mud house seemed to quiver. Towards ten at night the sound of the swift-rushing flood grew so terrific that my heart almost stood still, and I remembered the catastrophe of seven years back. “Why, oh, why did I leave our solid stone house to inhabit this dangerous hole?” I asked myself.
I tramped across the court, knee-deep in water, to my Arab servant’s room.
“Mohammed,” I cried, “come with me to see if the pathway to town is in a good enough state to take the children to the hotel. The water frightens me; we shall be drowned like rats in a trap.”
We tried to open the garden door giving on the wall-lined pathway along which the irrigation stream ran, and which was the only road to the town for the houses or gardens of the northern oasis. The door opened outward, and fortunately for us the pressure of water against it was so heavy that our united strength could not move it half an inch.
Mohammed accordingly climbed on the wall and looked down. The water was nearly six feet deep! He descended hastily, observing calmly, with a critical look at the wall, “It’s a very old wall. It must be the will of Allah that it does not fall.”
There was obviously nothing to be done, so I retired indoors and changed my clothes, for I was soaking wet. The waters thundered and swirled all about us, and I was thankful indeed when daylight came and the flood gradually began to subside.
The women of Laghouat never go out by day, and at night are closely veiled as they journey under escort from one relation’s house to another; even the lower classes and the dancing women faithfully observe this custom. Only on two feasts, which last three and seven days—the “Aid el Srir” and “Aid el Kebir,” the “little” and “great” Feast of the Sheep, which correspond with the Jewish Passover and killing of the Paschal lamb—do the latter ladies don their finest clothes and strut about barefaced.
Their costumes are indeed splendid—silks and brocades of the very best quality and the most lovely hues, with gold, silver, and gem-studded embroideries. The veils hanging from their bejewelled head-dresses are of cloth of silver and gold, their bosoms are covered with precious stones, and the noise of the numerous bracelets they wear on arms and legs can be heard some way off.
A SCENE IN THE SAHARA.
From a Photograph.
The dancing women of the province of Algiers and Oran are nearly all of the tribes of the Ouled Najls. The women of these tribes have chosen dancing as their profession, and when quite young they go forth to earn their dowry by “tripping on the light fantastic toe.” When they have earned it they generally return home, marry, and make as good wives and mothers as the rest of womenkind.
A GROUP OF DANCING GIRLS OF THE OULED NAJL.
From a Photograph.
There are now about thirty-eight tribes of Ouled Najls, stretching from Biskara to the Djebel-Amour, all pastoral, wandering wherever the blessed rain of heaven falls and grasses grow, without taking any notice of distance or frontiers. The supreme happiness of a Najl is to find a quiet corner where the grass is green and abundant, and there to snooze under the sun’s rays, watching his sheep and camels fatten, and fattening himself as well, for he lives chiefly on their milk. Later he exchanges his flocks for corn, dates, and everything necessary for his existence. Truly these people are still in the age of Abraham.
THE BACH-AGHA OF THE LARBAAS, AN IMPORTANT ARAB CHIEF.
From a Photograph.
A fortnight after I arrived at Laghouat the Bach-Agha of the Larbaas (a tribe of warriors who have always been faithful to France) gave a “diffa” in our honour. Warned by my experience of painful memory at Teniet-el-Haad, I did not try to partake of all the twenty-five dishes which were served in weary succession. After the repast was over we paid a visit to the chief’s two wives. The favourite, a young woman of twenty-four, was most beautifully dressed in eau-de Nil brocade. The costume was that of the Algiers women, full trousers closing in tightly round the small, silk-socked, golden-slippered feet. Then came a three-quarter skirt of the same material and a much-embroidered tight-fitting bodice. The front of this latter garment was so covered with jewels that the stuff was hardly visible. The head-dress was composed of silk handkerchiefs and chains of gold and precious stones. She had two children, a boy of eight and a girl ten years old. She told me she was very happy, that she had been married to the Bach-Agha since she was twelve years old, and that he had only beaten her once, when she had broken one of her pieces of jewellery in a temper. She showed us the very piece, with much laughter—a big, finely-worked gold filigree disc.
“You did not laugh so loudly when you felt the matraque on your shoulders,” said a grim voice behind her.
Without another word she pulled one of her handkerchiefs over her face and stood motionless. It was now our turn to laugh, which we did heartily, for we had seen the Bach-Agha come in, and had understood his sign for us not to betray him.
After teasing her a little the good old man—he was sixty—told her to unveil, but not to boast too much of her one beating, or he should have to make it two.
We much admired the beautiful carpets and embroidered cushions on the marble floor, and the handsome silver and brass jugs, cups, and plates which adorned the Arab brackets, but we thought the four-poster bed, with white muslin curtains, which stood in the far corner, rather out of place.
The young wife’s apartments consisted of two big rooms, about fourteen yards long by four wide, both leading out into a big square court with pink marble pillars, where palms and various other exotic plants flourished. In the centre was a fountain where goldfish glinted.
Then we went to see the other wife, old, like her husband. Her room was big, her bed comfortable, her clothing good, but everything was of the simplest. Her only jewel was a tiny gold brooch fastening a drapery drawn round the head under the chin. She seemed too weary to talk.
“Life is over for me,” she said. “My children are dead; my husband has not spoken to me for years. I, too, shall soon be gone.” And she clacked her tongue in her cheek in a dismally resigned fashion. I felt heavy-hearted as I went out.
“How sad!” I said to Ben Aouda, one of the Bach-Agha’s three grown-up sons. “I thought she was your mother.”
“My mother and my brothers’ mother has been dead a long time,” he replied. “That one”—and I distinguished a shade of contempt in his voice—“only gave my father daughters—feeble creatures who died young.”
If an Arab woman wishes to retain any power she may ever have had over her husband, she must first be a mother, and, secondly, the mother of male children, strong and lusty. There are, of course, exceptions; I knew of one at Laghouat later. The two longed for a family. They made pilgrimages to all sorts of outlandish places. In accordance with Arab superstitions, the husband tore the still-throbbing heart out of countless jackals’ palpitating bodies and devoured it warm, while his wife wore all sorts of horrible fetishes round her neck and drank the blood of hyenas. It was all of no avail, but despite the advice and worrying of his family he refused to divorce her or to take another wife, as the law allowed him. But he was a very rare exception to the general rule.
Besides the Bach-Agha’s, I used to visit at the rival house, where lived descendants of other rulers of Laghouat. Here I was often amused by the harmless little intrigues I came across. The master of the house possessed three very pretty and very young wives, ruled and guarded by his mother—one of the jolliest, gayest old ladies I have ever met. She was always draped in a spotless fine woollen melhafa, bordered with green.
It was extraordinary, seeing the secluded life they led, how familiar these young wives were with Laghouat society.
Peeping through their closely-latticed window, looking on to the road, they would say: “Ah! there goes Lieutenant This, or Captain That,” and then they would tell me stories concerning these officers that I had no idea of, and enjoy my surprise.
“We may be shut up, but we know everything that goes on and have plenty of fun,” they would say. One day when I arrived, however, I found their harmony disturbed. Zohra, an Algiers Moor, kept apart, silent and sullen, darting looks of hatred at Aicha, who was happily nursing her lately-born son.
Hennia, the youngest, following my gaze, whispered: “She is mad with jealousy because Aicha has a son, and our lord is pleased with Aicha and angry with Zohra, who has been four years married and has given him no offspring.”
“And you?” I inquired.
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It is only six months since he brought me to his house, and the last wife is never the least until many moons have waned.”
Worried by Zohra’s look I returned shortly, but she sullenly refused to speak to me. Then, suddenly, one day as I was leaving, she ran after me and drew me aside. “I hate her! I hate her!” she panted. “She has stolen his love from me. Help me, O Roumia, help me, or I shall die.”
“What can I do for you?” I inquired, rather upset by her burning gaze and passionate whisper.
“Bring me the little white powder,” she breathed, “the dear little powder, to sweeten her coffee and make her sleep, sleep, sleep!”
She seized my wrists and held me fast, her eyes blazing like those of a madwoman.
“To do evil that good may come” is not usually one of my principles, but on this occasion I thought it excusable. So I promised her the powder, and, what is more, I took her not one, but two! One, for her rival, was composed of chalk and sugar, and the other, for herself, of Epsom salts.
“For these powders to have any effect you must take another at the same time,” I told her, impressively. “If Aicha has really stolen your share of your lord’s love from you she will surely die; but if you have accused her wrongly, then you yourself will be the one to suffer. You will not die, but you will suffer.” She eagerly agreed—and she certainly suffered, too; but her jealousy was effectually cured, and my next visit found the trio reunited and full of their usual light-hearted tittle-tattle. When I told the story to the husband he laughed as Arabs seldom laugh.