“No more have I,” he said. “And I believe it’s a very rare occurrence.
Now mark the mirage that showed itself to mademoiselle on the first
day of the desert journey of the Parisians. She saw it on the northern
verge of the oasis of Sidi-Okba, late in the afternoon. As they
journeyed Tahar, their dragoman—he had applied for the post, and got
it by the desire of mademoiselle, who admired his lithe bearing and
gorgeous aplomb—Tahar suddenly pulled up his mule, pointed with his
brown hand to the horizon, and said in French:
“‘There is mirage! Look! There is the mirage of the great desert!’
“Our Parisians, filled with excitement, gazed above the pointed ears of
their beasts, over the shimmering waste. There, beyond the palms of the
oasis, wrapped in a mysterious haze, lay the mirage. They looked at it
in silence. Then Mademoiselle cried, in her little bird’s clear voice:
“‘Mirage! But surely he’s real?’
“‘What does mademoiselle see?’ asked Tahar quickly.
“‘Why, a sort of faint landscape, through which a man—an Arab, I
suppose—is riding, towards Sidi—what is it?—Sidi-Okba! He’s got
something in front of him, hanging across his saddle.’
“Her relations looked at her in amazement.
“‘I only see houses standing on the edge of water,’ said her sister.
“‘And I!’ cried the husband.
“‘Houses and water,’ assented Tahar. ‘It is always so in the mirage of
Sidi-Okba.’
“‘I see no houses, no water,’ cried mademoiselle, straining her eyes.
‘The Arab rides fast, like the wind. He is in a hurry. One would think
he was being pursued. Why, now he’s gone!’
“She turned to her companions. They saw still the fairy houses of the
mirage standing in the haze on the edge of the fairy water.
“‘But,’ mademoiselle said impatiently, ‘there’s nothing at all now—only
sand.’
“‘Mademoiselle dreams,’ said Tahar. ‘The mirage is always there.’
“They rode forward. That night they camped near Sidi-Okba. At dinner,
while the stars came out, they talked of the mirage, and mademoiselle
still insisted that it was a mirage of a horseman bearing something
before him on his saddle-bow, and riding as if for life. And Tahar said
again:
“‘Mademoiselle dreams!’
“As he spoke he looked at her with a mysterious intentness, which she
noticed. That night, in her little camp-bed, round which the desert
winds blew mildly, she did indeed dream. And her dream was of the magic
forms that ride on magic horses through mirage.
“The next day, at dawn, the caravan of the Parisians went on its way,
winding farther into the desert. In leaving Sidi-Okba they left behind
them the last traces of civilisation—the French man and woman who keep
the auberge in the orange garden there. To-day, as they journeyed,
a sense of deep mystery flowed upon the heart of mademoiselle. She
felt that she was a little cockle-shell of a boat which, accustomed
hitherto only to the Seine, now set sail upon a mighty ocean. The fear
of the Sahara came upon her.”
My companion paused. His face was grave, almost stern.
“And her relations?” I asked. “Did they feel⸺”
“Haven’t an idea what they felt,” he answered curtly.
“But how do you know that mademoiselle⸺”
“You’ll understand at the end of the story. As they journeyed in the
sun across the endless flats—for the mountains had vanished now, and
nothing broke the level of the sand—mademoiselle’s gaiety went from
her. Silent was the lively, chattering tongue that knew the jargon of
cities, the gossip of the Plage. She was oppressed. Tahar rode close
at her side. He seemed to have taken her under his special protection.
Far before them rode the attendants, chanting deep love songs in the
sun. The sound of those songs seemed like the sound of the great desert
singing of its wild and savage love to the heart of mademoiselle. At
first her brother-in-law and sister bantered her on her silence, but
Tahar stopped them, with a curious authority.
“‘The desert speaks to mademoiselle,’ he said in her hearing. ‘Let her
listen.’
“He watched her continually with his huge eyes, and she did not mind
his glance, though she began to feel irritated and restless under the
observation of her relations.
“Towards noon Tahar again described mirage. As he pointed it out he
stared fixedly at mademoiselle.
“The two other Parisians exclaimed that they saw forest trees, a
running stream, a veritable oasis, where they longed to rest and eat
their _déjeuner_.
“‘And mademoiselle?’ said Tahar. ‘What does she see?’
“She was gazing into the distance. Her face was very pale, and for a
moment she did not answer. Then she said:
“‘I see again the Arab bearing the burden before him on the saddle. He
is much clearer than yesterday. I can almost see his face⸺’
“She paused. She was trembling.
“‘But I cannot see what he carries. It seems to float on the wind, like
a robe, or a woman’s dress. Ah! _mon Dieu!_ how fast he rides!’
“She stared before her as if fascinated, and following with her eyes
some rapidly-moving object. Suddenly she shut her eyes.
“‘He’s gone!’ she said.
“‘And now—mademoiselle sees?’ said Tahar.
“She opened her eyes.
“‘Nothing.’
“‘Yet the mirage is still there,’ he said.
“‘Valérie,’ cried her sister, ‘are you mad that you see what no one
else can see, and cannot see what all else see?’
“‘Am I mad, Tahar?’ she said gravely, almost timidly, to the dragoman.
“And the fear of the Sahara came again upon her.
“‘Mademoiselle sees what she must,’ he answered. ‘The desert speaks to
the heart of mademoiselle.’
“That night there was moon. Mademoiselle could not sleep. She lay in
her narrow bed and thought of the figure in the mirage, while the
moonbeams stole in between the tent pegs to keep her company. She
thought of second sight, of phantoms, and of wraiths. Was this riding
Arab, whom she alone could see, a phantom of the Sahara, mysteriously
accompanying the caravan, and revealing himself to her through the
medium of the mirage as if in a magic mirror? She turned restlessly
upon her pillow, saw the naughty moonbeams, got up, and went softly
to the tent door. All the desert was bathed in light. She gazed out
as a mariner gazes out over the sea. She heard jackals yelping in the
distance, peevish in their insomnia, and fancied their voices were
the voices of desert demons. As she stood there she thought of the
figure in the mirage, and wondered if mirage ever rises at night—if,
by chance, she might see it now. And, while she stood wondering, far
away across the sand there floated up a silvery haze, like a veil of
spangled tissue—exquisite for a ball robe, she said long after!—and in
this haze she saw again the phantom Arab galloping upon his horse. But
now he was clear in the moon. Furiously he rode, like a thing demented
in a dream, and as he rode he looked back over his shoulder, as if he
feared pursuit. Mademoiselle could see his fierce eyes, like the eyes
of a desert eagle that stares unwinking at the glaring African sun. He
urged on his fleet horse. She could hear now the ceaseless thud of its
hoofs upon the hard sand as it drew nearer and nearer. She could see
the white foam upon its steaming flanks, and now at last she knew that
the burden which the Arab bore across his saddle and supported with his
arms was a woman. Her robe flew out upon the wind; her dark, loose hair
streamed over the breast of the horseman; her face was hidden against
his heart; but mademoiselle saw his face, uttered a cry, and shrank
back against the canvas of the tent.
“For it was the face of the Spahi who had ridden in the procession of
the Governor—of the Spahi to whom she had thrown the roses from the
balcony of Algiers.
“As she cried out the mirage faded, the Arab vanished, the thud of the
horse’s hoofs died in her ears, and Tahar, the dragoman, glided round
the tent, and stood before her. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight like
ebon jewels.
“‘Hush!’ he whispered, ‘mademoiselle sees the mirage?’
“Mademoiselle could not speak. She stared into the eyes of Tahar, and
hers were dilated with wonder.
“He drew nearer to her.
“‘Mademoiselle has seen again the horseman and his burden.’
“She bowed her head. All things seemed dream-like to her. Tahar’s voice
was low and monotonous, and sounded far away.
“‘It is fate,’ he said. He paused, gazing upon her.
“‘In the tents they all sleep,’ he murmured. ‘Even the watchman sleeps,
for I have given him a powder of hashish, and hashish gives long
dreams—long dreams.’
“From beneath his robe he drew a small box, opened it, and showed to
mademoiselle a dark brown powder, which he shook into a tiny cup of
water.
“‘Mademoiselle shall drink, as the watchman has drunk,’ he said—‘shall
drink and dream.’
“He held the cup to her lips, and she, fascinated by his eyes, as by
the eyes of a mesmerist, could not disobey him. She swallowed the
hashish, swayed, and fell forward into his arms.
“A moment later, across the spaces of the desert, whitened by the moon,
rode the figure mademoiselle had seen in the mirage. Upon his saddle
he bore a dreaming woman. And in the ears of the woman through all the
night beat the thunderous music of a horse’s hoofs spurning the desert
sand. Mademoiselle had taken her place in the vision which she no
longer saw.”
My companion paused. His pipe had gone out. He did not relight it, but
sat looking at me in silence.
“The Spahi?” I asked.
“Had claimed the giver of the roses.”
“And Tahar?”
“The shots he fired after the Spahi missed fire. Yet Tahar was a
notable shot.”
“A strange tale,” I said. “How did you come to hear it?”
“A year ago I penetrated very far into the Sahara on a sporting
expedition. One day I came upon an encampment of nomads. The story
was told me by one of them as we sat in the low doorway of an
earth-coloured tent and watched the sun go down.”
“Told you by an Arab?”
He shook his head.
“By whom, then?”
“By a woman with a clear little bird’s voice, with an angel and a devil
in her dark beauty, a woman with the gesture of Paris—the grace, the
_diablerie_ of Paris.”
Light broke on me.
“By mademoiselle!” I exclaimed.
“Pardon,” he answered; “by madame.”
“She was married?”
“To the figure in the mirage; and she was content.”
“Content!” I cried.
“Content with her two little dark children dancing before her in the
twilight, content when the figure of the mirage galloped at evening
across the plain, shouting an Eastern love song, with a gazelle—instead
of a woman—slung across his saddle-bow. Did I not say that, as the
desert is the strangest thing in nature, so a woman is the strangest
thing in human nature? Which heart is most mysterious?”
“Its heart?” I said.
“Or the heart of mademoiselle?”
“I give the palm to the latter.”
“And I,” he answered, taking off his wide-brimmed hat—“I gave it when
I saluted her as madame before the tent door, out there in the great
desert.”
_SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY_
Safti is a respectable, one-eyed married man who lives in a brown earth
house in the Sahara Desert. He has a wife and five children, and in
winter he works for his living and theirs. When the morning dawns,
and the great red sun rises above the rim of the wide and wonderful
land which is the only land that Safti knows, he wraps his white
burnous around him, pulls his hood up over his closely-shaven head,
rolls and lights his cigarette, and sets forth to his equivalent of
an office. This is the white arcade of a hotel where unbelieving dogs
of travellers come in winter. I am an unbelieving dog of a traveller,
and I come there in winter, and Safti comes there for me. I, in fact,
am Safti’s profession. By me, and others like me, he lives. For a
consideration he shows me round the market, which I knew by heart six
years ago, and takes me up the mosque tower, from which I gazed over
the flying pigeons and the swaying palms when Safti was comparatively
young and frisky. Together we visit the gazelles in their pretty
garden, and the Caïd’s Mill, from which one sees the pink and purple
mountains of the Aures. We ride to the Sulphur Baths, we drive to
Sidi-Okba. We take our _déjeuner_ out to the yellow sand dunes, and we
sip our coffee among the keef smokers in Hadj’s painted café. We listen
to the songs of the negro troubadour, and we smile at Algia’s dancing
when the silver moon comes up and the Kabyle dogs round the nomads’
tents begin their serenades. And then I give Safti five francs and my
blessing, and he bids me “_Bonne nuit!_” and his ghostly figure is lost
in the black shadows of the palm-trees.
Oh, Safti works hard, very hard in winter. The other day I asked him:
“Don’t you get exhausted, Safti, with all this exertion to keep the
Sahara home together? You are getting on in years now.”
“Ah yes, Sidi; I am already thirty-two, alas!”
He was thirty-five when I first met him; but he is as clever at
subtraction as a London beauty.
“Good heavens! So much! But, then, how can you keep up the wear and
tear of this tumultuous life? You must have an iron strength. Such work
as you do would break down an American millionaire.”
Safti raised his one dark eye piously towards Allah’s dwelling.
“Sidi, I must labour for my children. But in the summer, when you and
all the travellers are gone from the Sahara to your fogs and the
darkness of your days, I take my little holiday.”
“Your holiday! But is it long enough?”
“It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am
strong as the lion.”
I gazed at him with an admiration I could not repress. There was,
indeed, something of the hero about this simple-minded Saharaman. We
were at the edge of the oasis, in a remote place looking towards the
quivering mirage which guards dead Okba’s tomb. A tiny earthen house,
with a flat terrace ending in the jagged bank of the Oued Biskra, was
crouched here in the shade. From it emerged a pleasant scent of coffee.
Suddenly Safti’s bare legs began to “give.” I felt it would be cruel
to push on farther. We entered the house, seated ourselves luxuriously
upon a baked divan of mud, set our slippers on a reed mat, rolled our
cigarettes, and commanded our coffee. When a Kabyle boy with a rosebud
stuck under his turban had brought it languidly, I said to Safti:
“And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.”
Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of
repose.
“Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through
the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara.
“Then tell me how you pass a summer day.”
The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke.
“_Sahah_, Sidi.”
“_Merci._”
We sipped.
“A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at
five in the morning I get up⸺”
“And light the fire,” I murmured mechanically.
The one eye stared in blank amazement.
“Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early.”
“The sun rises at a quarter to five.”
“To call you. Well?”
“I eat three fresh figs, and sometimes four. I then mount upon my mule,
and I ride very quietly into Biskra to take coffee with my friends.”
“That is half-an-hour’s exercise?”
“About half-an-hour. After taking coffee with my friends we play at
dominoes. It is forbidden for the Arabs to play at cards in Biskra. I
remain in the café at the corner⸺”
“I know—by the Garden of the Gazelles!”
“—till eleven o’clock, at which time I again mount upon my mule, and
return quietly to my home. When I reach there I eat with my wife and
children sour milk, bread, and dates from my palm-trees which I have
kept from the autumn. At twelve we all go to bed together in a black
room.”
“A black room?”
“We fear the flies.”
“I see.”
“Till four in the afternoon I, my wife, and my children sleep in the
black room. At that hour I rise once more, and go quietly to the Café
Maure in old Biskra, near my house. I play cards there for five coffees
till seven o’clock. At seven the mosquitoes arrive, and prevent us from
playing any more.”
“How intrusive! Always at seven?”
“Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end
of the oasis.”
“To the Tombuctou road?”
“Yes, Sidi; to get the air. We come back by the same road quietly, and
I go to my house, and eat a cold kous-kous with my wife and children.
After this I return to the café and play ronda till one o’clock.”
“One o’clock at night?”
“Yes. At one o’clock I go with my friends very quietly to bathe in the
stream beneath the wall near the mosque. We stay in the water for,
perhaps, an hour, and when we come out we drink lagmi.”
“What’s lagmi?”
“Palm wine. Then at three o’clock I go to my home, mount upon the roof
quietly with my wife and children, and sleep till dawn.”
“And you do this for five months?”
“For five months, Sidi.”
“And—and your wife, Safti?”
I felt that I was very indiscreet; but Safti is good-natured, and has
bought quite a number of palm-trees out of his savings when with me.
“My wife, Sidi?”
“What does she do all the time?”
“She remains quietly in my house.”
“She never goes out?”
“Never, except upon the roof to take a little air.”
“Doesn’t she get rather bor⸺”
The one eye began to look remarkably vague.
“And you find five months of this life a sufficient rest in the course
of the year?”
Safti smiled at me with resignation.
“I cannot take more, Sidi; I am not a rich Englishman.”
“Well, Safti, you must make the best of your fate. It is the will of
Allah that you should toil.”
“_Shal-làh!_ I will take another coffee, Sidi.”
“Larbi!”