We sat down at the entrance of a dark smoky room. He spoke to a woman, who rose from her seat behind a loom; she went out and brought in milk and figs; resuming her work, the busy fingers were alone distinct, the threads of the loom forming a thin veil before her figure. This humble-minded artist was weaving a dress with elaborate patterns; yet she had no design before her to help, and moreover had to manufacture her own machine and arrange the threads. I was astonished at the simplicity of the loom; the warp was fixed in an upright frame made out of canes; she used no shuttle, but passed the woof from side to side with her fingers, and jammed it home tight with a metal handcomb, a most laborious method of weaving. But because the mechanical means were rude, let not the reader imagine that the work was so, for exactly the reverse is the truth. She brought an old dress made some years before, much used, but most beautiful in workmanship, design, and colour—indeed, as a piece of colour it excelled all other woven cloths that we saw in that part of the country. I made her understand that I had bought some dresses, and that I should like to possess that one, but she seemed loath to part with it. ‘Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.’ ‘She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with double garments.’ She was past middle age, and strength and sight seemed to be failing; she had lost the sight of one eye, sitting ever working in that smoky atmosphere. A young and comely woman, probably her daughter, tended a sleeping babe, gently swinging its cradle slung from a beam in the roof.
So from her babe, when slumber seals his eye,
The watchful mother wafts th’ envenom’d fly.
As I watched the figure of the weaver, distinct or half lost according as it approached or receded from the web before it, while the busy fingers peeped out now here, now there, moving ceaselessly, I was reminded of the description of the handmaids in the Palace of Alcinous:
Some ply the loom; their busy fingers move
Like poplar leaves when Zephyr fans the grove.
I could not help contrasting her with those ladies at home who take part in the movement for Art needlework. I also unsuccessfully attempted to learn the nature of the dyes employed, and was shown some mysterious gummy substances. I could not understand a word of what the good woman said, but am under the impression that she must have been explaining that they were ‘Art colours.’
Let it be here remarked, that the women’s dresses are not dresses at all in the sense of being garments made up, or cut out; they are simply pieces of drapery disposed about the body, fastened beneath the shoulders with brooches, and confined at the waist with a girdle; but for the girdle and the overlapping of the edges of the cloth, the wearer’s person would be disclosed on one side. The width of the loom is the same as the measure from the chin to the ground. This given, weaving is continued until the cloth is completed; the length usually being twice the width; but sometimes they are made twice as long, giving a double thickness when worn. Shorter pieces are also woven, an extra protection for the back; these are fastened to the shoulder-pins, and confined by the girdle, but show the underdress about the bosom, and for a few inches above the ankles. When the wearer sits down, this extra piece is seen enveloping the thighs and knees, while the underdress droops through below, in the way so often represented in Greek statues and bas-reliefs. Formerly I used to regard this arrangement as simply an agreeable artistic device, for allowing the folds of the outer garment to contrast with those below; it was not until I visited Kabylia, that I perceived that its true raison d’être was protection for the back. Before returning, we went to watch the women draw water at the fountain. There were groups of fine women showing well-rounded arms and necks, as they walked in a stately way with Greek-looking vases on their heads.
The liquid crystal fills their polish’d urns;
Each nymph exulting to the town returns.