_Sunday, April_ 18, _to Thursday, April_ 22, 1880.
WE commenced fresh studies in a rocky ravine beneath Thililit,
where trees nodded over the steep path. These sketches were never
finished to our satisfaction, we were harassed by the sun, and
continual calls to make way for brushwood-bearing peasants, timid
cows, sheep, goats and kids. Much as I delight in goats and kids,
they are truly provoking when they roll down stones upon one’s
picture, or skip into the palette.
Provisions are cheap, twelve fresh eggs for nine sous, for two sous
more dried figs than can be piled in the hands. Every morning a lad
brought us a freshly-baked wheaten loaf, unleavened, in the form
of a round flat cake; we found this sweet and good, and ate it with
honey. The more general bread of the people is made of barley-flour,
but the sweet acorn of the ilex is also much used, and the natives
think this as good as barley-flour, and pay as much for it. The
poor are often reduced to a dinner of herbs; everyday we saw women
washing salads; one in particular we noticed, that looked like
celery, but which really was the midrib of the leaf of a thistle.
One morning a sportsman brought in a fat young boar that he had
shot in the valley beneath, we gave him ten francs for it, an
extravagant price, we learned afterwards. We presented the Fathers
with half the meat, and there remained as much as we could dispose
of. Dominique cooked well for us, but the contempt he entertained
for all things native was sometimes annoying; he professed himself
unable to swallow Kabyle bread, he said it made him ill; we always
therefore supplied him with French bread, from Fort National,
though we never ate it ourselves.
He is a fair specimen of a colonist, and abuses the natives in
unmeasured terms. How would the _colons_ get on without _les cochons
d’indigènes_? The former exist by first getting the Government
to give them a ‘concession’ of cultivated land belonging to the
‘indigène,’ and then employing the ex-proprietor to work for
them. The most flattering expression I ever heard a Frenchman use
towards the Kabyles was, ‘une race capable d’être assimilée.’
He doubtless thought this praise in the highest degree; but the
remark was not altogether free from French conceit, nor true,
except in the sense that a good beefsteak is assimilated when
swallowed by a man of large appetite and strong digestion.
Muirhead had been expecting for some days, a visit from his friend
W. B. R———, who had been spending the winter in Algiers, and
from H. M———, on a holiday trip from Gibraltar. On April 22,
the two appeared, having come from the Fort to reconnoitre before
bringing their tent. They decided to pitch alongside of us, and
shortly started on their way back.
_Friday, April_ 23, 1880.—We went to the market Souk-el-Jemāa, the
largest in the country, being held in the very heart of Kabylia, at
a point central for populous tribes; from one spot, thirty villages
can be counted on the adjacent hills. It was an interesting walk,
and there was again cause for wonder to find gradients so steep
carefully cultivated. The Kabyles
Let no spot of idle earth be found,
But cultivate the genius of the ground.
The ash, plentiful about the summit, is prized by the people,
not for the beauty of the trees, nor for the grateful shade they
cast over the paths, but because their leaves afford forage during
summer heats, when all herbage is parched. The boughs are lopped
to cause a number of small branches to shoot out, and thus increase
the quantity of leaves.
The fig plantations yield a most important harvest, dried figs being
one of the staple foods of the country. The trees were in their most
charming state, the beautiful mystery of silver-tangled stems not
obscured, but enhanced by the golden sprinkling of opening leaves.
In spring, when first the crow
Imprinting, with light step, the sands below,
So many thinly scatter’d leaves are seen
To clothe the fig-tree’s top with tender green.
The first-formed fruit drops off when half grown, to make place
for that which is to arrive at maturity. When at Fort National
last winter, I noticed dried figs hanging by threads from the
branches, I was informed these were wild ones, and that minute
insects escape, aiding the fructification of the plants from which
they are suspended; the Kabyles count thirty-two varieties of this
tree. Ilexes too were in full flower, with green bronze-coloured
tassels hanging in profusion. Not very dissimilar in appearance
were the cork trees, sober but refined in colour, combining a
certain quaintness with elegance of form. Vines everywhere twined
in great serpentine lines amongst the foliage. Lastly, on the lower
slopes were fine groves of olive; a tree which grows with a vigour
unmatched in Italy.
We scrambled down steep paths, and found ourselves at the foot
of the mountain; halting on a grassy slope, we heard the rush of
a torrent in its stony bed, mixed with the hum of voices of many
people, and looking over the edge of the slope, saw the market just
beneath. There, Kabyles were closely packed, like a swarm of bees,
and hundreds of white burnouses jostled among the olives. Rows of
rustic bowers were used as shops. In the centre was a fountain
for men, while the stream served for watering the animals; on
its banks flocks and herds were collected, and many animals had
already been slaughtered for the day’s consumption. In the market
all the commodities that Kabyles have need of were for sale. Here
were great piles of bowls and other utensils in wood; there all
sorts of earthenware vessels; in other quarters, burnouses and
articles of clothing, oil, figs, grain, skins, tobacco leaves,
and many other things. At every step there were varying pictures;
but the heat was great, and in spite of the interest of the scene,
we were soon glad to repose in the shade apart from the throng,
where we lunched, and I spent the rest of the day painting and taking
photographs. Besides supplying ourselves with meat and necessaries,
I bought a woman’s dress of singular design, splashed in a curious
way with patches of red; I also got pieces of cowhide, which were
made up next day into sandals, which are called ercassen. The women
usually do not attend the markets; a few however can sometimes be
seen in a knot by themselves with pottery for sale.
As we returned the Jurjura were almost obscured in mist, a sure sign
of approaching sirocco; the paths were crowded with peasants on
their way home, in good humour, well satisfied with their day’s
bargaining.
Kabyle paths are abrupt and rugged in the extreme; now running
up over masses of rock, a very knife-edge of the mountain; now in
steps passing between deep banks overgrown with ferns and flowers;
one moment darkened by overhanging trees, an instant after they open
upon a grand panorama, to twist again suddenly into some romantic
bower. As we approached our tent at dusk, there by the side of it,
was a second one, an army bell-tent, our friends having arrived
during our absence.
_Saturday, April_ 24 to _Tuesday, May_ 4, 1880.—These were the days
that they remained with us, most unfortunate as regards the weather,
for we were often enveloped in dense cloud, and could see nothing.
Swift gliding mists the dusky hills invade,
To thieves more grateful than the midnight shade;
While scarce the swains their feeding flocks survey,
Lost and confus’d amidst the thicken’d day.
So steamy was the air, that we hardly once saw the summits of the
higher mountains. A furious sirocco was succeeded by a short ominous
stillness, then a storm from the north enveloped us anew in cloud,
and opened the flood-gates of heaven to an accompaniment of thunder
and lightning; then a lull, to be followed by another storm and mist
and drizzle, till everything was saturated. During these doubtful
lulls, with breaks in the clouds as if it meant better things,
we rambled, for the sake of exercise, and to see what we could of
the country.
When th’ embattled clouds, in dark array,
Along the skies their gloomy lines display,
When now the North his boisterous rage has spent,
And peaceful sleeps the liquid element,
The low-hung vapours, motionless and still,
Rest on the summits of the shaded hill
Till the mass scatters as the winds arise,
Dispers’d and broken, through the ruffled skies.
More thunder-storms, more hopeful breaks, when, towards evening,
the sun would sink in golden glory beneath a troubled sea of purple
mountains, and tinge the phalanxed clouds with gorgeous colours.
So when thick clouds enwrap the mountain’s head,
O’er heaven’s expanse like one black ceiling spread;
Sudden the Thunderer, with a flashing ray,
Bursts through the darkness, and lets down the day.
The hills shine out, the rocks in prospect rise,
And streams, and vales, and forests strike the eyes;
The smiling scene wide opens to the sight,
And all th’ immeasur’d ether flames with light.
Thus would the declining sun shed rich gleams over wet grass and
dripping foliage. Near the tents, in a secluded corner, an ilex
on a knoll bent over an elegant ash, and a vine lovingly entwined
among their branches, spangled with its leaves the ilex’s sombre
mass as with gems of translucent green. Hard by, a warning to the
fated trees, a huge vine ungratefully strangled with its coils the
aged ash which had for so many years supported it.
During these days the Kabyles came in numbers to the tents, bringing
dresses and jewellery for sale; there was lively bargaining, and
we made many purchases.
Before the French came, there were no cotton dresses: these have now
become common, but the native woollen cloth is still usually worn.
The men’s dress consists of a woollen tunic, confined at the waist
with a belt, and a burnous; on the head is a close-fitting skull-cap,
much like those worn by monks; added to this, in the summer time,
is a plaited grass hat, very high in the crown, and with a huge brim,
which falls into picturesque lines when the hat is old and battered;
sandals complete the costume, though men often go barefoot as well
as bare-headed. They crop the hair short, for Kabyles are not so
careful about shaving as the Arabs.
The burnous is a white woollen cloak with a hood; it is closely
woven, is durable, and impervious to heat and cold; an admirable
piece of dress, designed with thorough good sense, and suited
perfectly to the habits and requirements of the people. Its make is
shown in the diagram, which supposes the cloak doubled and laid out
flat on the ground. It then forms a quarter of a circle, of which
the radius is the length from the neck to the ankle of the wearer,
_a b_. The width of an ample hood is added along one side, and the
hood itself forms a square in addition. The three strongly marked
lines, A, B, C, show where it is closed. At A, the cloth is doubled,
at B and C it is sewn together. From this it will be understood that
it is a garment woven all in one piece; no stuff has to be cut off,
and thus no labour is wasted in its manufacture.
The tunic or shirt, if doubled and laid out in the same way,
forms simply an oblong figure, with holes for the head and arms,
and open below.
[Illustration]
The burnous is worn in a multitude of ways. One of the ends hanging
down in front is thrown across the breast and over the shoulder;
or both sides are shortened, by being thrown up on the shoulders;
or the cloak, suspended from one shoulder, is passed round the
back, across the breast, and tucked under the armpit. Sometimes
the hood muffles the head, sometimes it is thrown back, or the
seam beneath the chin is put back to the nape of the neck, while
one elbow rests in the hood, which then plays the part of a deep
pocket. The burnous may also be shortened by hitching it up under
the arms, or the corners, knotted together, are slipped up to the
chin, or arranged to come at the back of the neck. Indeed, it is
twisted about according to fancy and convenience. The Kabyles have
one dodge for tucking it up when ploughing; another for making it
into a sort of sack to carry forage. When it is hot they wear it
one way; another when it is cold. As it is impossible to follow
these arrangements by simply watching the people, I got a Kabyle to
come for an afternoon and give me a regular lesson. I took notes,
twisted a burnous about my person in every conceivable fashion,
and felt much impressed with the knottiness of the subject.
The dress of the women is simpler than that of the men; and being
adjusted to the wearer’s person in a definite manner, it is,
luckily for comprehension, not so confusing as the burnous.
These dresses are called Aabans, and are strong and warm. Some are
plain, others have ornamental borders, or broad bands of divers
colours worked in geometric patterns; others again are covered all
over with such patterns; some are red, some an indigo blue.
Their character and style are of great antiquity, yet no two are
quite alike; the individual workwoman, while following a tradition,
reserves liberty for her own ingenuity and taste.
Before long these serviceable and interesting dresses will have
disappeared, and the unfortunate women will then feel the improving
effects of modern civilisation, by having nothing to wear but
villanous coloured pocket-handkerchiefs, and chilly white cotton
goods. Yes, alas! from the draperies of antiquity to dresses of
Manchester printed stuff, intended to be cut into handkerchiefs,
is a too easy and inevitable jump.
The dress, hanging very loosely about the arms, which are bare for
convenience, is sometimes kept closer to the figure, by a red band
which passes in a loop over each shoulder, and crosses at the back,
where it is ornamented with little red tassels. This is called
an Asfifi, and is a pretty feature. When the arms are raised, the
loose drapery hanging through the loops has much the appearance of
the full sleeve of the Italian peasant.
The Asfifi is interesting as explaining the origin of the corset of
the Moorish women, which at the back is only three or four inches in
depth; this is merely an Asfifi solidified. The tiny Moorish corset,
but little enlarged, was to be found in the old costume of Capri,
Procida, and Ischia, in which the corset only reached about half
way to the waist.
Shoulder-pins, called Ifizimen, are made of silver, often enriched
with coral and enamels, the fastening is just an Irish brooch; they
have in addition, triangular ornamented plates of metal attached to
the lower end of the fastening. These pins are sometimes connected
with a chain, to the centre of which is suspended a little metal box,
enamelled, and containing scent.
The girdle, which is called an Argooz, effective in appearance,
consists of a quantity of woollen plaits, the prevailing hue red,
bound together at points about eighteen inches apart, with cross
bindings of bright colours. These ties are sometimes of silk,
and the girdles are from fifteen to twenty feet in length.
On the head is worn a little peaked bonnet, like the French cap
of liberty. This is called a Timhárent. It is made by doubling in
half, lengthway, a broad silk band, and sewing up one side. It is
kept in its place by a second kerchief, bound round, and knotted
behind. These silk Timhárents come from Tunis. Many women allow
their hair to wave free, or confine it simply with a fillet.
A frequent ornament is a round silver brooch called a
‘Táfizimth,’ with an opening in the centre crossed by a
pin. Bosses of coral, as well as knobs of silver, which latter
have a very pearl-like effect, are dotted about it. These are
effective pieces of jewellery, and with the sun shining on them,
they glisten like moons. They are not adopted till a woman becomes
a mother. On the birth of a girl the Táfizimth is worn between the
breasts; on the birth of a boy, it is raised, and gleams above the
forehead. Remarking that many of these brooches offered for sale,
were damaged, a Kabyle gave a frank explanation which was: ‘When
a man’s wife was disobedient, and got beaten, her custom was to
undo the “Táfizimth” and dash it to the ground at his feet.’
There is another head-ornament, handsomer than this. It is called
a ‘Taasubth,’ and consists of a central silver brooch over the
forehead, and side brooches above the temples, enriched in the same
style, and with rows of silver gleaming semispheres completely
encircling the head, and forms a glittering tiara fit for a
princess. The ‘repoussé’ semispheres are about three-quarters
of an inch in diameter. I have seen this same ornament in Pompeian
jewellery.
Bracelets of ‘repoussé’ work, and sometimes silver anklets,
are worn. Necklaces are made of beads and coral, and also of cloves
and sweet-smelling paste, but a handsomer and more characteristic
sort, called a ‘Theslegth,’ is a row of square silver boxes,
containing scents, strung together with pieces of coral.
During the wet weather, I had plenty of time to study my Kabyle
Dictionary and Grammar; the school children also came and gave help
in learning the language; and as Kabyles sat in the tent nearly
all day, I had constant opportunities for trying to speak it, and
made progress. Our friends brought a servant rejoicing in the name
of Zachariah, who spoke Arabic; this was of service, and we called
upon him for help, when mutual ignorance brought conversation to a
dead-lock, as it often did. The Kabyles are such travellers that
in every village some speak Arabic; but there is not a woman in
the country who understands anything but Kabyle.
Zachariah was of a cheerful disposition, and made company for
the melancholy Dominique, who however did not grow more lively in
consequence. The latter used to lecture Zachariah, and give him
the advantages of his experience, describe mysterious and savoury
dishes that he had concocted in cities, and recount the perils to
be endured by colonists living amongst Arabs in the interior. His
chief complaint against Zachariah was, ‘Ce pauvre jeune homme
ne sait pas beaucoup, cependant il ne demande pas de conseil.’
Those were trying days for both men, when they had to cook in
the pouring rain. Dominique also was extremely disgusted at the
freedom with which we let natives sit in the entrance to our tent;
he periodically rushed in a perfect frenzy of rage, at the boys who
chaffed him, and ‘Dominique Marboul’ (Mad Dominique) became a
familiar expression in our ears.
One morning some Kabyles brought two very young boars to the
tents, little brown and yellow striped creatures. Zachariah,
taking a fancy to these genuine ‘cochons sauvages,’ bought
them for pets. Little boars, as they grow up, are said to become
much attached to their masters, nothing delighting them more than
to follow their benefactors incessantly, and by rubbing against
their legs, demonstrate their gratitude and affection. One of
these dear creatures was put out to nurse, given into the charge
of a Kabyle lad to rear, Zachariah undertaking to look after the
other himself. Part of our tent was partitioned off into a room for
Dominique. Zachariah slept there also; and he hid away his pet in the
corner, while Dominique sat opposite, predicting evil for it. The
pig had naturally no intention of remaining in one particular
spot; and on finding itself alone, went squeaking all about the
place, feebly enough, for it was weak and soon grew weaker. On
the second day it was ‘in extremis,’ with a pinched-up look
about the body. Zachariah, anxious about the brother out at nurse,
had it brought back and set by the fire for warmth. He was called
away, and meanwhile the little beast, shivering, toppled into the
glowing embers and was roasted. This tragedy was quickly followed
by the death of the surviving pig. During the night, while nursed
in Zachariah’s bosom, with a few faint squeaks, it closed its
brief and chastened existence.
[Illustration: JEWELLERY.]
_Tuesday, May_ 4, 1880.—H. M.’s leave of absence drew towards
a close. He and his comrade could no longer remain, and we were
obliged to part with their pleasant company. The mules were laden,
and we bade our friends ‘bon voyage.’
The trees were now in fulness of summer leaf, but in spite of
the rich and rapid growth of all vegetation, owing to the wet,
there was not that delicate brilliance which the opening burst of
spring presented.
It was just a month since we left Algiers, and we had completed so
little, that feelings of despair came upon us.
[Illustration: HEWING.
’Tis more by art, than force of numerous strokes,
The dexterous woodman shapes the stubborn oaks.
POPE’S _Iliad_, Book xxiii.]
[Illustration]