The limited size of the town, the absence of any artificial divisions, the lack of contrast between old town and new, for all is new alike, clean and well-kept, the breadth of the few streets, all unite to make an appropriate stage for nondescript characters to play their part. The casino and the hotels are within a stone’s throw of the market-place, which is the centre of native life. Here the wild freedom of the desert with its few needs and absolute simplicity is in touch with the careful and elaborate luxury which the Western world demands even in its moments of rest and play.
The races mingle and confront each other at every turn, and not the races only, but the different types of each race, seen in strangely new guise by sheer force of contrast under the brilliant African sun; for Biskra is the gathering ground of a curious cosmopolitan crowd, an assemblage so varied that it would be hard to name a nation, however insignificant, without its representative. It is the nameless spell cast by the desert on her sons, and on those who move within her borders, that draws hither this motley multitude. But the spell which fascinates has also power to repel. A few come and go finding no beauty, seeing nothing but the monotony of sand, dust, and palms, and are full of complaints, utterly impervious to the glamour that holds so many in thrall.
The impression of variety and contrast felt in the town is repeated and accentuated in the halls of the hotel, when the French officers entertain the Bach Agha, the Caïds, some important sheik, or an officer of the Spahis. Their imposing figures, stately movements, and courteous manners show to great advantage in that gay scene. The soft folds of their white woollen or silken draperies, and the pure colour of the brilliant red or tender blue of their fine cloth burnouses, tell triumphantly against the subdued tints, the frills and fluffiness of the modern gowns, or the stiff black and white garments worn by their fellow-guests. Uniforms are not so becoming to them. The dome-like turban, bound with camel’s-hair or an embroidered scarf, gives a peculiar pose, almost a stoop, to the head, as it is worn with a white silk haïck tucked into a pale blue zouave coat, while in their ordinary flowing robes they look as upright as darts. Stars and orders, or rows of medals on the outer burnous (they often wear three or four), bear witness to what these men have done already, or could do again. In the days when the fortunes of France were low, her dangers and difficulties great, the Bach Agha of the period stood firm with all the tribes under his banner, no small help at that time. It is for past loyalty as well as for present power that the Chief of to-day holds his proud position.
EVENING ON THE SAHARA
All this gaiety, noise, and confused talking, interesting though they are, become wearisome in the end, and then how good it is to escape to the quiet terrace above. The house stands foursquare, built round a quadrangle, or rather a garden of palms. The east terrace over the arcades is delightful all day long, from the moment when the first gleam of dawn shows behind the dark mountains to that other moment, even more beautiful, when the afterglow has faded and the still brilliance of the moon comes in its stead. Flooded with sunshine in the early morning the shadows soon begin to creep across, and it is left a cool refuge in the heat of the day. The outlook has not quite the effect of indefinite space given by the view from the roof or the top of the minaret, but there is a restful breadth as well as much simplicity of line. Across the road, beyond a strip of vegetable garden bordered by palms, lies a broad stretch of sand, very light in colour, which an occasional gleam or touch of blue reveals as the river-bed. Mud banks on the further side form low cliffs, and from them the plain extends to a curious formation of broken mounds and moraine, to end finally in a mountain range.
Monotonous, serene, ever changing yet always the same, the sea itself has not more varying moods. Each passing hour leaves its own impress on that receptive stillness, which is enhanced but not disturbed by every wind that blows and by each light cloud in the sky.
Towards evening, however, all who wish to feel the enchantment of a sunset in the desert, mount to the roof and pace its broad terrace, or climb the minaret to learn somewhat of the immensity of the Sahara. The town lies in a nest of green, in the midst of a vast, barren, and arid plain, which is surrounded by a horseshoe of mountains, lofty in the north, but diminishing by degrees as the spurs run southward. To the south also lies the oasis with its myriad palms. Beyond, nothing but the waste, across which fall the long blue shadows of evening; stretching still further southward, a dead level, broken here and there by dark bands of green or purple, that mark the distant oasis. The horizon disappears in pale amethyst melting into tender blue, and above a delicate blush vanishing in unclouded light. Magnificent sunsets are not to be seen every night even at Biskra; there are evenings of cloud, grey and misty, days when the sun goes down in wrath. More often the fall of day brings cloudless radiance, pure mellowness of light, which dies gradually away, to be followed after an interval by a golden glow behind the western ridge of mountain peaks, blue with the exquisite blue so characteristic of Algeria. The glow deepens to true orange, sometimes to a burning red, and rays of light radiate from the vanished sun, leaving pathways of delicate green between. Our Northern atmosphere has its own beauties of mist and cloud, but we miss this absolute transparent purity. With us the gold loses itself in greys and purples on the horizon; here the colour is crystal clear, and the jewel-like tints vibrate as they pass imperceptibly from the red of the ruby through all tones of topaz, amber, and palest emerald to deepest amethyst. Spellbound in this calm, self dies; there is no place for earthly trouble under this luminous sky. Something of mystery and sadness there is—a feeling of intense loneliness; but over all there broods—unchanging, immutable—a spirit of destiny, telling that what is written is written. To some it seems a spirit of rest and faith; to the Arabs it may have been the source of fatalism, the silence checking the tendency to anxiety and care.
SUNSET