We both of us marvelled greatly at the wonderfully meagre preparation he had made for his personal comfort. He carried with him nothing but a striped cloth, and a very thin green cardboard box, done up with string. To the last, the contents of this package were a mystery to us, but we believe that it contained a shirt-front, and one or two collars.
Such unpreparedness, such despising of all worldly comfort, should, we thought, be surely viewed from above by the saints with approving smiles, and Saint Joseph especially should have regarded with favour this extreme scantiness of scrip, which, judging from pictures, should have reminded him of his own ‘Flight into Egypt.’
Friday, April 9, 1880.—We paid an early call at the school-house, and saw the three Fathers. I found the Superior, Père Gerboin, to be a friend. Two years previously, I had spent a week at his house; he was then conducting a school in the tribe of the Zouardia, and I was indebted to his hospitality for the opportunity of seeing something of the tribes away from French settlements. He is a most excellent, kindly man, devoted to his calling. One would take him rather for an Italian than a Frenchman; short but strongly built, he has a handsome head, with a deep brow, and a flowing black beard, his bronzed features are set off by his white dress, which is something between that of a Carmelite friar and a Kabyle burnous.
The second, Père Voisin by name, whom I had not met, is almost a giant, over six feet in height, and fair; a true Norman, from Calvados, a jolly, lively fellow, his face a picture of good nature, and he speaks Kabyle with the ease of a native.
Père Gerboin teaches the elder boys; Père Voisin takes in hand a class of quite little fellows. About thirty scholars attend regularly, but the numbers are increasing.
The third, Père Mousallier, we had spoken to on our arrival; he is called by the natives Père Baba. He was busy making up and distributing medicines, for he said there was much disease and sickness about—not to be wondered at, considering the lack of doctors, and the hard life led by many of the people. He spends a good deal of his time in gardening, but does not take part in the teaching.
Our visit was but short, for we started on a walk of exploration, first directing our steps towards the highest point, at the back of the school-house, where there are two villages, separated by a small open piece of flat land. These are named Ouarzin and Taourirt en Taïdith, meaning the Ogre, and the Mount of the Dog. They are of the usual quaint character, narrow alleys, running irregularly up and down, innocent of paving, though rich in stones; in wet weather almost impassably muddy. The stone walls of the houses, on either side of these alleys, are only pierced here and there, with the smallest of windows, and the entrances. The wooden doors are often ornamented with rough notchings and carvings. In walking through these villages, attention is chiefly occupied in looking out for dogs, which are apt to come dashing out of the houses, barking in a most vicious manner, looking very much as if they would relish a piece out of one’s leg. Taourirt boasts of a Jamâ or Mosque. Its tower crowns the highest point of the mountain, and forms an effective feature in the landscape, though it is a modest structure both in size and style; moreover, the building is greatly out of repair and falling to pieces, being little used, for the Kabyles are not a mosque-going people; in this, as in other respects, their character presents a strong contrast to that of the bigoted Arabs.
I once asked a Kabyle why their mosques were abandoned. He replied that, before they were conquered by the French, they used to attend them very regularly, and that if Allah had cared about their conduct, and paid attention to it, He would not have allowed them to receive the kicks and cuffs of a too hard fate, such as they had been subject to ever since. This man was clearly of a practical bent of mind, and his God was the God of Battles. This is a proof of ancient and respectable theological views, that have the merit of being intelligible; their scientific notions seem to be equally primitive.
On one occasion a group of Kabyles was standing round, when I abruptly left off working, and began gathering my painting traps together, for, said I, ‘I see the wind is blowing the clouds in this direction, it will rain.’ ‘The wind does not push the clouds,’ said one, ‘you can see them moving in different directions at the same time.’ ‘But surely,’ said I, ‘you can perceive any day that it is the wind that moves them.’ ‘Does the wind move the sun?’ said he. ‘No, of course it doesn’t.’ ‘God said to the sun, Move always in one direction, and to the clouds He said, Move about as you please.’ ‘Is that not so?’ said he, appealing to his companions. They nodded gravely, and clicked assent without speaking. This clicking with the tongue, the same peculiar noise that a coachman makes to urge his horse, is a habit with the Kabyles; it seems to be a sign of assent. For instance, when painting, some men would come to see what I was about. One would say, ‘See, he paints the cows!’—click! would go all the others, like so many pistols being cocked. ‘See, he paints the houses also!’—click! they went, all round again, but no report followed—a feeble style of criticism.[1]
I have often noticed that in asking some simple question concerning the weather—for instance, whether it was likely to turn fine, or be wet—they seem to consider it presumptuous to hazard an opinion on such a subject, that we should leave such matters alone, and not think about them, they being no concern of ours, but God’s. Their manner implies that we should bear ourselves with a composed spirit, above a petty, fretful, unmanly prying into the works of the Lord. I have immediately dropped my eyes from the clouds to the earth, feeling quite abashed and inclined to say, ‘Bless my soul! why, so it is, now you mention it, I will not meddle with the subject any more, and never, oh, never look at telegrams in the “Times” concerning the wind, whence it cometh or whither it goeth.’