_Saturday, April_ 10, 1880.
THE features of the landscape below Thililit combined so happily
together from many points that, upon a second visit, we agreed
this spot was as choice as the heart of painter could desire,
and provided more subjects than we could grapple with.
On our walk, Uncle Zaïd, a benevolent, white-bearded gentleman,
accosted us, and offered cakes. By and by, we met Père Voisin
reading his breviary, who said there was much talk in the villages
concerning us, and questionings as to what we had come for, why
were we staring, why prying about the country in that way? Did
not the pulling out of paper and pencils mean mischief? Were we
not ‘Géomètres’ come to trace out new roads? and would they,
the Kabyles, be forced to work on them? He told us he had reassured
them, explaining that we were Englishmen, and had nothing to do
with the Government.
_Sunday, April_ 11, 1880.—It blew hard during the night, and there
was a heavy fall of rain, it was cold too, so that the unprepared
Dominique was half-frozen to death, and we, not having more clothes
than were quite necessary for ourselves, were forced to borrow
wraps from the Fathers. On waking, behold, we were in the clouds and
drizzle, unable to see many yards, so we determined to mark Sunday
in the time-honoured fashion, by lying late a-bed. It rained all day,
and we left the tent, only to take a constitutional under umbrellas.
The evening was spent with the Fathers. Père Gerbouin lent us
a pamphlet printed for private circulation, giving an interesting
account of a French missionary expedition to the Equatorial Lakes. A
Brother, whom I had known when staying, two years previously,
in the tribe of the Zouardia, had taken part in this expedition,
and they had just learned the news of his death, at which they
much grieved; nor was he the only victim, for several others
had succumbed to privations and fevers. Père Gerbouin was very
enthusiastic on the subject, and greatly wished to join a fresh
expedition that is to start from Algiers for Lake Victoria. He would
be the right man in the right place; for besides his enthusiasm
he is tough and strong. He thought it a disgrace, at a time when
England and Protestants are making such exertions in this field
of enterprise, that France and the Roman Catholic Church should
lag behind. Evidently the cannibals will shortly be placed in the
delicate position of having to choose between rival sects of the
same religion.
The Père also told us of the privations they had to endure while
their present school-house was being built; how winter had overtaken
them, and they had to live in huts in the snow. They also recounted
many odd stories about our neighbours, and of the hard life led by
the poor.
In Kabyle society, the social unit is the family. The possessions
of a family are held in common, and are administered by the father;
at his death, by the son deemed to be the most capable to manage
affairs. The gains of each member of the family are joined in a
common fund. The exclusion of women to inheritance is the consequence
of this organisation, for, if the daughters inherited like their
brothers, the division of goods would bring about the dispersal of
the family.
Polygamy is lawful, but unusual, for the Kabyles as a rule are too
poor to be able to afford more than one wife. The women all marry
as soon as they arrive at the age of puberty. There is no written
contract at marriage. A Taleb—that is to say, a man knowing how
to read—recites the first and fourth chapters of the Koran, there
is no other religious ceremony. Before parting with his daughter,
the father receives a certain sum, which varies according to her
age, beauty, and her qualifications for making a good housewife,
and according to the means of her intended husband. Sometimes part
of the price is given in a provision of corn and figs. The father
gives his daughter as a marriage portion a girdle and jewellery;
these become her personal property, which no man can take from
her. If the father has received the price of his daughter, and
she should happen to die before the consummation of marriage, he
retains the money. If the husband die, leaving his widow childless,
she returns to her father, who marries her again as he pleases. If
she have children, her father cannot give her in marriage without her
consent; and if she pay him an equivalent to what he would expect
to receive from a man desiring marriage with her, she becomes free
from all paternal restraint. This money is kept in trust for her
children. If she marry, her husband, who has had nothing to pay,
engages to take care of the children, who remain in the house with
their mother. If a woman refuse to live with her husband, she returns
to the paternal roof, when she becomes known as a ‘rebel.’
The husband still has rights, and can forbid her marrying anyone
else; he may allow her to do so, provided the father consent, in
which case the latter receives the supplementary sum to be paid. A
widow can only re-marry after mourning four months and ten days;
a divorced woman must wait three months. A man having repudiated
his wife cannot take her back without paying again, and having the
marriage ceremony re-performed. In case of separation, the children
are brought up by the father.
Conjugal infidelity has to be avenged with blood. In the Beni Ienni
I heard of several cases of savage murder from this cause.
Two brothers, one of twenty, the other fifteen, having constantly
been about the tent since our arrival, we engaged the younger,
who was very anxious to make himself useful, and knew a few words
of French, to do little commissions. Kabyle verbs have an habitual
form. As the elder was an adept in putting into practice the verb
to ‘loaf,’ we nicknamed him the habitual loafer. We now learned
with astonishment that the habitual loafer had just taken to himself
a second wife. Having no ready money, in order to obtain one,
he had offered the parents of the girl to whose hand he aspired,
a patch of land in pledge, until he should be able to pay off the
debt. After two months of troubled married life he sent the girl back
to her parents, I know not upon what plea. These naturally claimed
the field, but the youth’s mother (his father was dead) brought
proof that the land had been given to her. The returned girl got no
recompense, though free to marry again. The late husband began making
fresh advances to another girl. Number two took better precautions;
moreover, the habitual-loafer promised to earn a certain sum of
ready money before marriage, and he started to seek his fortune in
Algiers. After a three months’ absence, he turned up with thirty
sous in his pocket; the young lady however was not _difficile_,
and with an eye perhaps on the land—it could not have been on
her lover—accepted him in spite of his meagre success.
Some of the well-to-do natives engage private instructors to
teach their sons Arabic and the Koran, but this is rare; such a
teacher is living in the village of Thililit, where he conducts a
school. Reclining under the shade of the ilexes, we heard the voices
of the children chanting the Koran, a native by our side, perceiving
how our attention was occupied, pointing in that direction, said,
‘Kief kief Afrouken’ (just like the birds). When Kabyle is
written, the Arabic characters are adopted. Among the Touaregs,
a Berber people more to the south, an indigenous alphabet is in
use. General Hanoteau translates some sentences thus written, which
were inscribed by a woman on the shield of a Touareg chief. The
writing is from right to left, and decipherment is complicated
by the omission of vowels, and of divisions between words. Poor
vowels, they often fare badly. Even in ordinary Arabic writing
they are much snubbed, treated as superfluous luxuries, and
hustled out of the way by self-sufficient consonants, and never
meet with the frank recognition due to their merit. In the Koran
they certainly fare better, everything is as perfect as possible,
and all vowels are introduced, but even then they are poor little
things above and below the line, attendant upon a sturdy row of
consonants. In the cellars of the British Museum are a few ancient
Lybian inscriptions. There is one bilingual stone, Phœnician and
Berber. This ancient Berber writing is almost identical with that
still in use among the Touaregs.
_Monday, April_ 12, 1880.—Another wet morning and dense mist. I
occupied myself with studying Kabyle. Before leaving Algiers,
M. Stora, a Jew, ‘interprète à la cour d’assise,’ gave
me a few lessons, the only man of education I could hear of,
who had knowledge of the language. I paid him about a dozen short
visits, when he kindly gave me all the assistance he could. I also
carried with me a Kabyle grammar, written some years ago by General
M. Hanoteau, and a French and Kabyle dictionary, compiled by the
Jesuits, which proved most useful.
The ignorance of the French concerning the language is remarkable,
considering the large Berber population they have to govern. I
believe there are some half-dozen Europeans at Fort National with
some smattering, but the only Europeans who thoroughly understand
it are the Fathers.
The colonists, forced into contact with the natives, get into the
habit of speaking a debased pidgin language, a mixture of bad Arabic,
French, and Spanish, but sometimes they do not even attain this. For
instance, Mme. Pierre at Fort National has kept an hotel there for
twenty-five years, and has dealings with the natives at all hours;
she does not know a single word of Kabyle, nor can she put together
a single sentence in Arabic. When ‘colons’ cannot make the
natives understand, the ‘cochons d’indigènes’ are in fault
for not learning French. Our man Dominique was a spirit of this
nature; he had roughed it for years amongst an Arab population in
the province of Oran; to the best of my belief, his stock of Arabic
consists in the magic words ‘Goul’ and ‘Jib hadda,’ by which
he means to express ‘take’ and ‘bring that.’ On arrival
among the mountains, he remarked, ‘Ici on parle arabe avec un
dialecte très différent de celui d’Alger.’ I doubt whether,
on leaving the country, he was aware that they spoke a language
altogether distinct from Arabic. As an instance of his incapacity
for picking it up: he took in fresh milk for our breakfast daily
during two months and a half; the last morning he was with me,
after removing to another tribe, when in bed, I was amused to
overhear him vainly striving to express his desire for milk, but
unable to make the puzzled native understand.
The weather gradually cleared; we sallied out in good spirits, and
planted our easels at the foot of the cemetery of Thililit. We
were quickly surrounded by a little crowd, who sat down to
watch our proceedings, and remained the whole afternoon chatting
good-humouredly. Having discovered their mistake in believing
us to be agents of Government come to trouble them in some way,
they now seemed to be very pleased, and kept repeating ‘Inglese
buono,’ ‘Français,’ then they shook their heads, and spoke
earnestly. We in our turn took to shaking our heads, and the Kabyles
seemed disappointed that we could not understand them. In civilised
countries, if curiosity should bring a spectator to a painter’s
side, he would probably say to himself after a while, ‘Now I
must not waste time, I must be off and do something.’ In the
more easy-going south, a Kabyle so placed would more probably say
to himself, ‘Ah! here’s an opportunity for a new occupation,
to watch this man.’
_Tuesday, April_ 13, 1880.—It blew mightily during the night,
the wind roaring in the gulf beneath, and rushing over the crest on
which our tent was pitched, canvas shook and pole trembled; and the
possibility of tent-pegs being drawn, or cords snapping, caused us
unpleasant reflections. On waking in the morning, we found a group
of Kabyles waiting outside. They brought four handsome women’s
garments, and bargaining began, which ended in our buying these
dresses cheaply, considering the labour bestowed upon them. ‘It is
naught, it is naught, saith the buyer; but when he is gone his way,
then he boasteth.’
Besides satisfaction in possessing these cloths as costumes, we
found them serviceable as warm coverlets, and were able to return
the wraps we had borrowed; of this we were glad, thinking that the
Fathers had none too many for themselves.
The Amine or village chief of Taourirt, next made his appearance
with some friends to offer hospitality, saying that, if agreeable,
he would send us a kouskous that evening. We thanked him, and said
we should be very pleased; he had hardly departed when the Amine of
Ouarzin, approaching, offered us the hospitality of his village,
another kouskous for mid-day. We got one of the schoolboys to
explain, if it were agreeable to him, we should like it deferred,
thinking it impossible to eat two mountains of kouskous. The
Ouarzinites were not going to be cut out in that fashion, so we
had to accept; before mid-day the dishes appeared. The company
consisted of the Amine and some of the village counsellors, and three
marabouts; there was a large bowl containing the kouskous well piled
up, a boiled fowl, with a jug of sauce, another full of sour milk,
a dish of boiled eggs, delicious honey, and dried figs. Kouskous
is wheat ground roughly; two women grind it, sitting on the ground
facing each other. The appropriateness of the Biblical saying is then
apparent (‘two women shall be grinding at the mill, the one shall
be taken and the other left’). Water-mills are also constructed
on some of the streams. The flour is slightly moistened, passed
through a sieve, and rolled out with the hand till it takes the
form of little balls about the size of fine shot; this is boiled,
moistened with gravy, and seasoned with pepper. Like macaroni, it
is a wholesome satisfying dish. Placed in the midst of the company,
each guest is served with a round wooden spoon, with which he attacks
the heap, gravy is constantly poured on; in eating the chicken,
he has to make use of his fingers.
The Pères joined in the meal; with their help we were able
to follow the conversation. A discussion arose between the two
principal marabouts, as to whether photography and the painting of
portraits is ‘hareem,’ ‘a thing prohibited;’ the elder,
the more liberal-minded, contended that there was no harm in the
matter, the other declared that there was; the elder, being a Hadj,
was voted to have most authority. The third marabout, a man with
light-coloured hair and dull expression, had nothing to say. I think
kouskous must have got into his head. One of the Amine’s friends
started the opinion that if a man possessed the portrait of another
he also possessed a power to work him mischief; though he could not
say he believed it himself, others did; might there not be some
truth at the bottom of the notion? Was it proved certainly false
that if one man bearing malice were to bury another’s portrait,
the original of the likeness would sicken and die? This belief was
much ridiculed, though they had all heard it before. We expressed
regret at not having our cartes-de-visite to offer, that he might
plant them in his garden.
[Illustration]
When we had finished, the dishes were handed to Dominique, who served
himself, while muttering his disgust at native cookery. The rest then
made a circle, and the remaining provisions were quickly disposed of.
After the feast, we took a walk to Iril Boghni, the last village on
the backbone of the mountain. On the way we had to pass the house
where lived the beautiful girl; we hoped to catch sight of her,
but the door was shut, and she would not come out. A Kabyle was
sitting at the corner carving wooden spoons with an adze; we took the
greatest interest in his occupation, and stood a long time watching;
it was no good, the rude envious door was determined not to change
the direction of its face, and hid the beauty from us. On our way
back I made a great effort to converse in Kabyle with a man who
addressed us. He seemed amused—I dare say with good reason—but
politely invited us to step into his house. I thought he was making
straight for the home of the beautiful girl—how attentive of
him!—no, unluckily it was the next house that he entered.
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.
Many of these handsome girls could not, I think, be distinguished
from Italians, if transported to San Germano or Atina, and dressed
like Italian peasants; but the majority are of course not handsome,
and there is a type of countenance which is peculiar, as though
there might be some admixture of Tartar blood—broad faces with
marked cheek-bones, and thickish lips. Their hair is always of a
raven black; I imagine they sometimes add that which they think
nature lacks, because the men are not all dark-haired. The colour
that warms the cheeks of these brunette beauties is also sometimes
due to feminine art.
The men have good-shaped heads and marked features; before middle
age they are strongly bronzed, furrowed, and rugged; most wear
black moustachios and beards; now and then one will be found
with hair as red as any Scotchman’s. There is undoubtedly more
variety than amongst the Arabs. The Arab has a high prominent nose,
with a droop in the line of the nostril, like Dante’s nose; full
projecting lips and invariable black hair. The Kabyle is wanting
in all this; he is lower of stature, but has more expression of
countenance. Unfortunately, the children have not the delicate
beauty comparable to what one sees in an Arab town like Tlemcen.
At evening came our second kouskous from hospitable Taourirt. When
all was finished, we handed round cups of tea—a beverage the
Kabyles were not acquainted with, and appreciated; at dusk they
took their departure.
The wind during the afternoon had dropped, but the atmosphere
was ominously murky and sultry, the mountains barely visible,
patches of snow on their summits just showing above their shadowy
bodies. When the Kabyles left, the wind was rapidly rising, while
a black dangerous-looking cloud stretched itself from one horizon
to the other, the sky on either side remaining clear.
_Wednesday, April_ 14, 1880.—What a night this was a prelude
to! Soon the wind, straight from the tops of the Jurjura, came
rushing and raging over the abyss below, and shook our tent, as
if it were a leaf on the point of parting from its bough. About
midnight there was a lull; we hoped that the worst was past. No;
we had as yet been treated only to the overture; the winds,
which seemed to have been collecting and gathering evil strength
in the valleys, suddenly rushed onwards again like wild beasts
determined to destroy us, roaring as they swept in fury through the
trees. I never heard such a storm, and we were sorely afraid that
no tent could stand it for long; sleep was out of the question,
we sat up all night ready against any emergency, for we dreaded
a catastrophe every moment. The central support was made of iron
tubing, with a cap at the top; this latter was carried away early
in the evening—a mishap that let in the wind between the canvas
and the lining; some of the attachments gave way, and the lining
flapped in an ungovernable manner. When it became light enough to
examine, we found most of the wooden pegs pulled out of the ground,
and the ropes fastened to gravestones broken; six long irons only,
driven in up to their heads, remained firm and had saved us. Thankful
we were that the tent was standing; it had stuck on bravely to the
mountain, like a limpet to a rock, when the rising waves rush over
it. It was a sirocco not to be forgotten. ‘As whirlwinds in the
south pass through, so it cometh from the desert, from a terrible
land.’ Later in the day, the wind somewhat abated in its fury,
but we remained in the tent, glad to take some repose.
In the afternoon we searched for a fresh camping-ground, as it was
impossible to remain in safety where we were; this was not easy
to find, uncultivated land being restricted, and not sufficiently
level. We concluded that there was only one practicable spot, the
corner of a fallow field, thoroughly protected from the sirocco by
the hill; the next thing was to get permission to camp there.
Père Voisin good-naturedly helped us. The owner of the field was
absent, but the Amine of Ouarzin gave leave, saying no one would
disturb us. This settled, we lost no time; a party of Kabyles
came down to lend help; half-an-hour later all our effects were
transported on their backs to the spot, and as night fell, the tent
was well pitched in its new position, and the fire lit to prepare
our evening meal. On turning into bed, we congratulated ourselves,
for we heard the tempest, howling and raging with renewed fury,
above; but before reaching us its strength was broken and lost in
the surrounding trees, and the tent remained in peace and quiet.
_Thursday, April_ 15, 1880.—Several paths converged at the point
where we now found ourselves, the most frequented being a steep
lane leading to the fountain. It was shaded by trees whose branches
interlaced elegantly with pretty peeps on to the distance; from the
entrance to our tent we looked straight down this lane, towards the
spring about two hundred yards off. The word ‘spring’ would
suggest to most people simply water bubbling up and running off
in a diminutive stream; a better word to use in this instance is
‘fountain,’ the French ‘fontaine,’ which has a different
meaning to ‘spring,’ ‘source’—inasmuch as it implies a
basin, artificial or natural, combined with a natural welling-up
of water. Unfortunately, the word ‘fountain’ is applied also
to contrivances by which water is made to spout, the French ‘jet
d’eau.’ The Kabyle fountain in question is a natural spring
rising in the centre of a basin inclosed in a rude architectural
structure, having a double arched entrance and gabled roof. The water
is thus protected from dirt, dust, and the heat of the sun. By the
side where the women fill their pots is a second structure, much
dilapidated, reserved for the watering of beasts. The overflow is
conducted into a basin where the women wash clothes, and then runs
gurgling down the mountain-side. In an embowered nook, where there
are neat terraced beds of vegetables, little gutters are arranged,
so that at the end of the day the overflow can be conducted there;
when the bed nearest the fountain has been saturated, the water is
blocked off from the first trench with a spadeful of earth, runs
on to refresh the next, and so on till all the garden has drunk its
fill; when the rivulet, having done its work, regains its liberty.
So when a peasant to his garden brings
Soft rills of water from the bubbling springs,
And calls the floods from high to bless his bowers,
And feed with pregnant streams the plants and flowers;
Soon as he clears whate’er their passage stay’d,
And marks the future current with his spade,
Swift o’er the rolling pebbles, down the hills,
Louder and louder purl the falling rills.
I had not to wander far to find a subject for painting, and lost
no time in getting to work in the lane. A bewildering number of
interesting groups kept passing; women and girls bearing pitchers,
classical-looking herdsmen, driving sheep and goats, little kids,
calves, and heifers; and husbandmen would go by with mules and
donkeys, on their way to till the land, or to hew and collect
firewood.
Soon the path was blocked with people declaring that I was in
everybody’s way, and that I could not remain there painting;
for the women said (so I gathered from a man who spoke a few words
of French) that they were afraid to pass, being especially alarmed
at my umbrella. This was too ridiculous; though the umbrella was
certainly large, I considered it too useful to be put on one side,
or indeed to be treated slightingly.
One morning, when passing through the market-place in Algiers, I had
noticed a man selling jewellery under an enormous umbrella; it struck
me that such a one would suit me exactly for painting. Admiring
its noble proportions, I went up and spoke to the owner, who
obligingly left his stall in charge of a friend, and introduced
me to the maker. I forthwith ordered another. It was made to take
to pieces—each rib about four feet long, and practically, it
was more serviceable than a small tent. It had a big iron spike,
which could be rammed into the ground almost anywhere; it could
besides be steadied with guys; it was large enough to shade me and
my work, and it had a cover impervious to light; moreover, I could
unloop the cover from the ends of the rods, and roll it up, so that
without difficulty I could let in light in whatever direction I
pleased. I was determined not to desert such an umbrella for all
the women of Kabylia, so I let the men talk and gesticulate, and
went on painting as if I heard them not.
[Illustration]
When Muirhead returned, I beat an orderly retreat, to
‘déjeuner.’ He too had had his trials, being quite baffled by
the strong wind, which swept over the crest where Uncle Zaïd’s
kouba stands.
When painting under my umbrella, I found the cattle of Kabylia
even more timid than the fair sex. The cows are small but nimble,
the unusual appearance of a European is sufficient to scare them,
and the umbrella added was altogether too much for their nerves;
they would canter off gaily, to the consternation of the herdsmen,
shortly reappearing in order to eye me warily. I stood as close as
possible against the bank, keeping quiet, when suddenly there was
a rush, and the cows scampered by in wild alarm at the frightful
object. Instead of scowling and muttering curses, as I expected
and considered my due, the cowherd always stopped and greeted
me in friendly fashion, sometimes pressing upon me a handful of
figs, as though I had done him a favour. Perhaps he thought that
friendly demeanour made amends for the ridiculous behaviour of
his animals. At first I regretted causing all this trouble, and
tried to express myself to that effect; after a time, discovering
that they did not consider me to be a more obnoxious animal than
the gadflies, which abound, I continued to paint with equanimity,
glad to be looked upon as a natural evil.
After ‘déjeuner,’ two Fathers and a number of Kabyles paid us
a visit. There were complaints of our tent being pitched close to
the road where the women were obliged to pass; and words began to
flow apace.
The Amine of Ouarzin (or the Ogre) having given us permission to
camp there, the Ogres had nothing to say, but the people of the
larger village of Taourirt en Taïdith (the Mount of the Dog)
doggedly objected. They offered even to level a piece of ground,
and transport our tent and luggage free of expense, if we would
only move from the road. Through the good words and banter of
the Fathers, ‘the Dogs’ at last left off barking, smiles
took the place of frowns, ruffled feelings were composed, and a
compromise effected. We remained on the conditions that we would
leave the lane free between the hours of ten and four; and that
we would send a native lad to the fountain in place of Dominique,
who was to go no more at all, either to draw water or wash clothes,
except at a little-used spring pointed out; to our dismay, a mere
duckweed-covered puddle. So the storm was lulled.
_Friday, April_ 16, 1880.—I awoke, hearing the lively chatter of
women. What a chirping there was! They spoke in a very high pitch
of voice, and the language, as pronounced by them, sounded very
different to that of the men. I peeped as discreetly as I could out
of the tent, and behold! the lane was thronged; there were scores
of them going to and fro, each with a pitcher on her head.
Alas! for the weather. The sirocco had been succeeded by a cold wind
from the north, and the air was full of fog, it rained all day,
and resembled more the climate of the Highlands of Scotland than
what we anticipated the climate of North Africa would be.
We occupied ourselves with letter writing, reading, and trying to
learn Kabyle, making persistent and comical attempts at conversation
with natives who came to visit us; they were most inquisitive,
but well-mannered, and anxious to talk. School hours over, the lads
came to see us, pleased to air their stock of French, and equally
eager to teach us words in Kabyle; this was just what we wanted,
and we were soon excellent friends.
_Saturday, April_ 17, 1880.—To-day proved more spring-like. I
remained unmolested in the lane, whilst Muirhead went off to the
Kouba. Uncle Zaïd always behaved to Muirhead as an uncle should,
presenting him every day with clotted milk, hard-boiled eggs,
cakes and figs; he always refused payment, shook his head, smiled
blandly, pointed upwards with his forefinger, turned up his eyes,
and ejaculated ‘Errebbi, Errebbi!’ (God, God!) to indicate that
he acted thus merely to please the Almighty; let us hope that he
behaves as well to all poor folk who cross his picturesque hill. We
retaliated by giving dinner to his son and grandson, who came once
or twice to the tent; but the little chapel received no donation
from us. We continued our painting also at Thililit, and Thililit
vied with Ouarzin and Taourirt in hospitality to the stranger. The
Amine, a fine-looking man, with an agreeable countenance, offered us
a kouskous. We feared it would be hopelessly cold before arriving
at the tent; but it was so well wrapped up, that after a mile long
journey it remained hot. To-day the Kaïd, or President of the
Aïth Ménguellath, came over from Fort National on business. He
called during our absence, and left a message with Dominique, that
if the natives annoyed us, we were to complain to him. After this,
we went where we would without interference.
[Illustration: SOWING.
And naked sow the land,
For lazy winter numbs the lab’ring hand.
DRYDEN’S _Virgil_, Georgic i.]
[Illustration]