desert as a dead solitude is as erroneous as to call it the home
of lions. It is too poor to support lions, but it is rich enough
for thousands of other animals. And all these are in a high degree
remarkable, for in every respect they prove themselves the true
children of the desert.
It is not merely that their colouring is always most precisely
congruent with the dominant colour of the ground, that is generally
tawny, but the desert animals are marked by their light and delicate
build, by their strikingly large and unusually acute eyes and ears, and
by a behaviour which is as unassuming as it is self-possessed. It is
the lot of all creatures born in the desert to be restless wanderers,
for sufficient food cannot be found all the year round at one place,
and the children of the desert are endowed with incomparable agility,
indefatigable endurance, untiring persistence; their senses are
sharpened so that the pittance which is offered is never overlooked,
and their clothing is adapted to conceal them alike in flight or in
attack. If their life is perhaps somewhat hard, it is certainly not
joyless.
The fact that almost all the desert animals agree in colouring
with their surroundings explains why the traveller, who is not an
experienced observer, often sees, at first at least, but little of the
animal life. Moreover, the desert seems far poorer than it is, since it
is not till dusk that most of its tenants leave their places of rest
and concealment and begin to be lively. Some, however, force themselves
on the attention of the least observant. Even though the traveller may
fail to notice the various species of desert-lark which cross his path
everywhere, and are noteworthy for their likeness to the ground and for
their extraordinarily developed powers of flight, he cannot possibly
overlook the sand-grouse; and though he may ride unobserving over the
burrows of the jerboas, he is sure to observe a gazelle feeding not far
from his path.
[Illustration: Fig. 51.--Gazelles lying near a Mimosa.]
This antelope may be regarded as typically a desert animal. Although
it is proportionate in all its parts, the head and sense-organs seem
almost too large, and the limbs too delicate, in fact almost fragile.
But this head carries a brain of unusual cleverness for a ruminant, and
those limbs are as if made of steel, exceedingly strong and elastic,
admirably suited for agility and untiring endurance. One must not judge
the gazelle of the desert from its appearance in captivity, cooped
up in a narrow space. What activity, adroitness, suppleness, grace,
and spirit, it displays in its native haunts! How well it deserves
to have been chosen alike by the Oriental and by the native of the
desert as the image of feminine beauty. Trusting to its tawny coat, as
well as to its incomparable agility and speed, it gazes with clear,
untroubled eyes at the camels and their riders. Without seeming to be
disturbed by the approaching caravan, it continues to browse. From the
blossoming mimosa it takes a bud or a juicy shoot; between the sharp
alfa leaves it finds a delicate young stem. Nearer and nearer comes the
caravan. The creature raises its head, listens, sniffs the air, gazes
round again, moves a few steps, and browses as before. But suddenly
the elastic hoofs strike the ground, and the gazelle is off, quickly,
lightly, and nimbly, as if its almost unexcelled speed were but play.
Over the sandy plain it skims, quick as thought, leaping over the
larger stones and tamarisk bushes as if it had wings. It seems almost
to have left the earth, so surprisingly beautiful is its flight; it
seems as if a poem of the desert were embodied in it, so fascinating
is its beauty and swiftness. A few minutes of persistent flight carry
it out of reach of any danger with which the travellers can threaten
it, for the best trotter would pursue in vain, and not even a greyhound
could overtake it. Soon it slackens its speed, and in a few moments it
is browsing as before. And if the bloodthirsty traveller begins the
chase in earnest, the sly creature has a tantalizing way of allowing
him to get near it again; a second and a third time it cleverly gets
out of range of his murderous weapons, until at length, becoming
scared, it leaves all danger far behind. The further it gallops the
more slender seem its body and limbs; its outline begins to swim
before the eyes; at length it disappears on the sandy flat, merging
into it and seeming to melt away like a breath of vapour. Its home has
received and concealed the fugitive, removed it, as if magically, from
vision, and left not a trace behind. But if the vision is lost to the
eye it remains in the heart, and even the Western can now understand
why the gazelle has become such a richly-flowering bud in the poesy
of the East, why the Oriental gives it so high a rank among beasts,
why he compares the eyes which kindle fires in his heart to those of
the gazelle, why he likens the neck around which he throws his arms in
love’s secret hour to that of the swiftest of the desert’s children,
why the nomad brings a tame gazelle to the tent of his gladly-expectant
spouse, that she may gaze into its tender eyes and reflect their beauty
on the hoped-for pledge of their wedlock, and why even the sacred poet
finds in the fair creature a visible emblem of his longing after the
Most High. For even he, removed from the world, must have felt a breath
of the passion which has purified the words and made smooth the verses
and rhymes of the fiery songs in praise of the gazelle.
Less attractive, but by no means less interesting, are some other
desert animals. Among the sparsely sprouting alfa there is a numerous
flock of birds about the size of pigeons. Tripping hither and thither,
scratching and scraping with their bills, they seek for food. Without
anxiety they allow the rider to approach within a distance of a hundred
paces. A good field-glass enables one to see not only every movement,
but also the more prominent colours of their plumage. With depressed
head, retracted neck, and body held almost horizontally, they run
about in search of seeds, the few grains which the desert grasses
bear, freshly unfolded panicles, and insects. Some stretch out their
necks from time to time and peer circumspectly around, others, quite
careless, paddle in the sand, preening their feathers, or lie at ease,
half sideways, in the sun. All this one can distinctly see, and one
can count that there are over fifty, perhaps nearly a hundred. What
sportsman would their presence not excite? Sure of his booty, the
inexperienced traveller shuts up his field-glass, gets hold of his
gun, and slowly approaches the gay company. But the birds disappear
before his eyes. None has run or flown, yet none is to be seen. It
seems as if the earth had swallowed them. The fact is that, trusting
to the likeness between their plumage and the ground, they have simply
squatted. In a moment they have become stones and little heaps of sand.
Ignorant of this, the sportsman rides in upon them, and is startled
when they rise with simultaneous suddenness, and loudly calling and
scolding, take wing and fly noisily away. But if he should succeed in
bringing one down, he will not fail to be struck by their colouring and
marking, which is as remarkable as their behaviour. The sand-coloured
upper surface, shading sometimes into gray, sometimes towards bright
yellow, is broken and adorned by broad bands, narrower bars, delicate
lines, by dots, spots, points, streaks, and blurs, so that one might
fancy at first sight that birds so marked must be conspicuous from a
distance. But all this colour-medley is simply the most precise copy of
the ground; every dark and light spot, every little stone, every grain
of sand seems to have its counterpart on the plumage. It is no wonder
then that the earth can, as it were, make the bird part of itself, and
secure its safety, which is further assured by the creature’s strong
wings, which are capable of incomparably swift flight. And so it is
that the poetic feeling of the Arabs has idealized these sand-grouse in
luxuriant fancy and flowery words, for their beauty fascinates the eye,
and their marvellous swiftness awakens longing in the heart of mortals
who are bound to the earth.
All other desert animals display characters like the two which we have
described. Thus there is a lynx, the caracal, leaner and lanker, with
longer ears and larger eyes than the rest of his race, moreover not
striped nor spotted, but sand-coloured all except his black ear-tips,
eye-stripes, and lip-spots. His hue varies slightly, being lighter or
darker, and with more or less red, according to the locality in which
he lives. There is also a desert fox, the fenec, the dwarf of the dog
family, with dun-yellow fur, and extraordinarily large ears. The desert
also harbours a small rodent, the so-called jumping-mouse, the jerboa:
he suggests a miniature kangaroo, and has exceedingly long hind-legs,
diminutive fore-legs, and a tail longer than the body with hairs in two
rows. He is more harmless and good-natured, but also swifter and more
agile than any other rodent.
The birds, the reptiles, and even the insects show the same stamp,
though form and colouring may vary greatly. When any other colour
besides sandy-yellow becomes prominent, if hair, feather, or scale
be marked with black or white, ashy-gray or brown, red or blue, such
decorations occur only in places where they are not noticeable when
looked at from above or from the side. But where a mountain rises in
the midst of the desert, it shows its varied character also in the
animal life. On the gray rocks of the mountains in Arabia the steinbok
clambers, the hyrax has its home, the bearded vultures nest, and not a
few other birds are to be found on the peaks and cliffs, in the chasms
and valleys. But from the dark rocks of more low-lying deserts the only
sound one hears is the loud but tuneful song of the deep-black wheatear.
Thus the desert exhibits harmony in all its parts and in every one of
its creatures, and this fact goes far to strengthen the impression
made on every thoughtful, sensitive, and healthy mind--an impression
received on the first day in the desert, and confirmed on every
succeeding one.
If one would really know the desert and become in any measure at home
there, one must have a vigorous constitution, a receptive mind, and
some poetic feeling. Whoever shrinks from enduring the discomforts
of the journey, whoever fears either sun or sand, should avoid the
desert altogether. Even if the sky be clear, and the atmosphere pure
and bright, even if a cooling breeze come from the north, the day in
the desert is hard to bear. Almost suddenly, with scarce any dawn, the
sun begins to exert his masterful power. It is only near the sea or
large rivers that the dawn is heralded by a purple flush on the eastern
horizon; amid the vast sand-plains the sun appears with the first
reddening in the east. It rises over the flats like a ball of fire,
which seems as if it would burst forth on all sides. The coolness of
the morning is at once past. Directly after sunrise the glowing beams
beat down as if it were already noon. And though the north wind, which
may blow for months at a time and is often refreshing, may prevent the
unequally expanded layers of air from shaping themselves into a mirage,
yet it does not bring sufficient cooling to annul the peculiar heaving
and quivering of the atmosphere which is seen over the sand. Heaven
and earth seem to float in a flood of light, and an indescribable heat
streams from the sun, and is reflected again from the sand. With each
hour the light and heat increase, and from neither is there any escape.
The caravan starts at daybreak and proceeds without a sound. The
baggage-camels step out briskly and their drivers keep pace with
elastic steps; the riding-camels hasten at full trot, urged according
to their strength, and soon leave the burden-bearers far behind. With
unslackened speed they hurry on. All one’s bones seem to crack with the
jerks and jolting caused by the rapid pace of the riding-camels. The
sun beats down, piercing through all the garments with which one tries
to protect oneself. Under the thicker clothing perspiration pours all
over the body, on the more lightly clad arms and legs it evaporates
as it is formed. The tongue cleaves to the roof of the mouth. Water,
water, water! is the one idea left to those unaccustomed to these
discomforts. But the water, instead of being in iron vessels or flasks,
is in the characteristic skin-bags of the country; it has been carried
for days in the full sun on the camel’s back, it is more than lukewarm,
of evil odour, thick, brown in colour, and tastes so vilely of leather
and colocynth varnish that it produces nausea or even vomiting. But it
seems as impossible to improve it as to do without it. Its penetrating
taste and smell baffle all attempts to enjoy it in coffee or tea, or
mixed with wine or brandy. Undiluted wine or brandy simply increase the
burning thirst and oppressive heat. The traveller’s condition becomes
one of torture before the sun reaches the zenith, and his distress is
the greater the worse the water. But it has to be and is endured. And
although the Northerner can never conquer his repugnance to the kind
of water which we have described, he grows used to the heat, at first
so unbearable, and, as he begins to be at home with his steed, other
discomforts are also lessened. In the future he will make sure of water
which is at least clean, and will soon cease to complain of its warmth
or of any other inevitable inconveniences of his journey.
Resting comfortably, though rudely wakened by the loud grumbling of
the baggage-camels, the experienced travellers allow the caravan
to go on ahead while they comfort body and soul with coffee and
tobacco. Thereafter they mount the dromedaries and speed along as
quickly as these trotters will go. Not a word is exchanged, the
only sounds are the crunching of the sand under the elastic hoofs,
the loud breathing, and hollow, deep grunting of the camels. In a
short time the baggage-train is overtaken, and we shoot on ahead. A
gazelle browses near our course and raises hopes of welcome booty.
With spirited movements the graceful creature--image of the desert
poet’s fancy--skips and dances before its pursuers; the gasping,
sharply-spurred camels rush on with gigantic strides. The gazelle seems
careless and allows near approach; the riders act as if they would pass
it, they rein in their beasts and ride more moderately. But one slips
from the saddle to the ground, stops his beast for a moment, and from
under cover of its body fires a deadly shot. In a trice the leader has
sprung from his saddle to make sure of the fallen game; triumphantly he
drags it along, fastens it dexterously to his saddle, and on goes our
cavalcade.
Towards noon a halt is called. If there is a hollow near, it will
probably contain an umbrella-like mimosa, whose thin foliage will
afford some slight shade; but if the sandy plain stretches unbroken on
all sides, all that can be done is to fix four lances in the sand and
stretch a blanket over them. Though the sand on which one must lie is
glowing, and the air one breathes is oppressive, languor and weariness
overpower even the natives, how much more the Northerner. One seeks
rest, but it comes not, and refreshment, but one cannot enjoy it.
Blinded by the overflowing light and the tremulous atmosphere, we shut
our eyes; but, tormented by scorching heat, and tortured by feverish
thirst, we toss about sleepless. The hours go by on leaden feet.
The baggage-train winds slowly past and disappears in a vapourous sea
on whose heaving waves the camels seem to float. Still one lingers, and
continues to suffer the same agonies. The sun has long since passed the
zenith, but his glowing beams are as fierce as ever. It is not till
late in the afternoon that a fresh start is made. And again there is a
rapid ride, whose swiftness seems almost to create a cooling breeze of
air. The baggage-camels come in sight again, and are soon overtaken.
The drivers stride behind them, singing; one leads the song, and the
rest join in at the end of each verse in regular refrain.
When one knows the toilsome labour of the camel-driver in the desert,
one wonders indeed to hear him singing. Before daybreak he loaded his
camel, after he had shared with it a few handfuls of soft-boiled dhurra
grains--the sole food of both; all through the long day he strides
behind his beast, without a bite to eat, with at most an occasional
mouthful of ill-smelling water; the sun scorches his head, the glowing
sand burns his feet, the hot air parches his sweating body; for him
there is no time to pause or rest; he may perhaps have had to change
the loads of some of the beasts, or to catch one or other which had
bolted; and yet he sings! It is the approach of night which inspires
him.
When the sun goes to rest, the limbs of these wizened children of the
desert seem to become supple again; in this, as in all else, they are
like their mother. Like her they are parched at noon, like her they
revive at night. As the sun declines, their poetic gifts weave golden
dreams even in waking hours. The singer praises the well-springs rich
in water, the groups of palms around them, and the dark tents in the
shade; he greets a brown maiden in one of the tents, who hails him
with welcome; he extols her beauty, likens her eyes to those of the
gazelle, and her mouth to a rose, whose fragrance is as her words, and
these as pearls in his ear; for her sake he rejects the sultan’s eldest
daughter, and longs for the hours when fate shall permit him to share
her tent. But his comrades admonish him to seek after higher joys, and
raise his thoughts to the Prophet, “who satisfies all longing”.
Such is the song which falls on the Northerner’s ears, and the songs of
home rise to his lips, and when the last rosy flush of the setting sun
fades away, when night stretches her robe of witchery over the desert,
then it seems to him as if the hardest had been easy, as though he had
suffered no thirst in the heat, nor discomfort by the way. Cheerfully
he leaps from the saddle, and while the drivers unload and tether the
camels, he heaps and smooths the sand for his bed, spreads his carpet
and coverlet, and gives himself over with delight to the rest he had
longed for.
The small camp-fire illumines the plain only for a few paces. Around it
the dark, half-naked sons of the desert move about busily; the flame
casts a weird light on them, and in the half-darkness they look like
shadows. The bales and boxes, saddles and utensils assume strange
shapes; and the camels, lying in a wide circle outside the baggage,
become ghostly figures when their eyes gleam with the reflection of the
firelight. It becomes quieter and quieter in the camp. One driver after
another leaves the camels, with whom he has shared his frugal supper,
wraps himself in his long body-cloth, sinks to the ground, and becomes
one with the sand. The fire flares up for the last time, loses its
glow, and goes out. It is night in the camp.
He who would describe a night in the desert should be, by the grace
of God, a poet. For how can its beauty be described, even by one who
has watched, revelled, and dreamed through it all? After the heat of
the day it comes as the gentle, compensating, reconciling bestower
of unspeakable comfort and inspiration, bringing peace and joy, for
which a man longs as for his beloved who atones to him for his long
waiting. “Leïla”, the starry night of the desert, Leïla is with justice
the Arab’s image of all that is fair and joyous. Leïla he calls his
daughter; with the words, “my starry night”, he embraces his beloved;
“Leïla, O Leïla!” is the musical refrain of his songs. And what a night
it is, which here in the desert, after all the burden and discomfort
of the day, soothes every sense and feeling! In undreamt-of purity and
brightness the stars shine forth from the dark dome of heaven: the
light of the nearest is strong enough to cast slight shadows on the
pale ground. With full chest one breathes the pure, fresh, cooling,
and invigorating air; with delight one gazes from star to star, and
as their light seems to come nearer and nearer, the soul breaks
through the fetters which bind it to the dust and holds converse with
other worlds. Not a sound, not a rustle, not even the chirping of a
grasshopper interrupts the current of thought and feeling. The majesty,
the sublimity of the desert is now for the first time appreciated;
its unutterable peace steals into the traveller’s heart. But what
proud self-consciousness also fills his breast: here, in the midst
of the infinite solitude, so alone, apart from all human society and
help, reliant on himself only, his confidence, courage, and hope are
strengthened. Dream-pictures full of infinite charm pass before his
wakeful eyes, and merge in ever fresh and fascinating combinations,
and as the stars begin to twinkle and tremble, his thoughts become
dreams, and his eyes close in sleep.
After the refreshment which the desert night brings both to body and
soul, the discomforts of the next day seem lighter, however much effort
it may require to drink the water, which becomes more vile every hour.
Perfect rest, unclouded comfort is only to be had at one of the desert
wells. Always menaced by dearth of the most essential necessaries of
life, every desert journey is a ceaseless anxiety, a restless hastening
on; it is therefore entirely devoid of that ease and comfort with which
one would prefer to travel. One day passes like another; each night,
in favourable seasons at least, is like that which I have described.
But in the oasis, the day becomes a holiday, the evening is a joyous
festival, and the night brings perfect rest.
The essential condition for the formation of an oasis is a basin-like
or valley-like depression. Without a gushing spring, without at least
an artificial well, rich vegetation is impossible, and water is found
in the desert only on the lofty mountains or in the deepest hollows.
As the sea of sand is in so many respects the counterpart of the
ocean, so its oases are counterparts of islands, but they do not rise
above the surface, they are sunk beneath it. The water may either rise
in a visible spring, or it may be found at a slight depth below the
surface. Its abundance and its quality determine the character of the
oasis. In the minority the water is pure and cool, but in most cases
it is salt, ferruginous, or sulphurous, and on that account probably
very healthful. But it is by no means always drinkable or conducive
to fertility. Perhaps there is hardly one oasis which produces fresh,
green sward. And it is only in very favourable places that the water is
evident at all; in most cases it collects drop by drop in clefts of the
rock or in shafts which have been dug for it; at times at least it has
to be artificially forced. Even where the water wells up copiously it
would soon lose itself in the sand, if it were not carefully collected
and distributed. At the same time it always evokes a refreshing life,
doubly welcome amid such sterility.
Around the spring, long before men appeared to take possession, a
company of green plants had effected settlement. Who can tell how
they got there? Perhaps the sand-storm sowed the seeds, which first
germinated by the well, and grew into plants, with leaves, flowers, and
another generation of seeds which were scattered through whole valleys.
It is certain, at least, that they were not planted by men, for the
mimosas which form the greater part of the little colony occur also in
springless hollows, where one sees them sometimes singly, sometimes
forming a small thicket of ten or twenty. They alone are able to keep
life awake in the desert; they put forth green leaves, they blossom and
send forth fragrance--how fresh and balmy! In their pleasant shade the
gazelle rests; from their tops resound the songs of the few feathered
songsters of the desert. The sappy leaves, seen amid the stiff masses
of limestone, the cones of black granite, and the dazzling sand, do the
eyes good like a meadow in May; their flowers as well as their shade
refresh the soul.