over by any means, and I had scarcely got over this first shock when a
bundle was flung through the window, landing upon the mattress by my
side. Shoving it hurriedly off on to the floor, I found it contained
a hissing and squirming mass of snakes, and soon the room was filled
with a score or so of the vipers usually known in the medical world as
“corals”--the only really deadly reptiles in that part of the country,
their bite being often known to kill in thirty minutes.
As I slept some distance from anyone else I did not care to arouse the
household in the middle of the night, so I spent the remaining hours
perched upon a bookcase, out of reach of harm. It is needless to say
that before the slaying of the reptiles was over next morning the
commotion upon the “finca” was at fever-heat and no work was done at
all, the labourers being dispatched in different directions in a vain
effort to find either of the two revengeful youths.
At night, when no trace had been found of either of them, Señor
Eduardo, greatly perturbed, dispatched a note to the nearest Alcalde
for police protection. This, however, could not arrive until the
second day, and in the meanwhile I also took a trip over to the two
plantations in an effort to locate the belligerents and explain matters.
That night nothing out of the ordinary happened, but I took pains to
fasten my room securely, and obtained a good night’s rest. Next day I
again endeavoured to locate Messrs. Roberto and Enrique, but without
success. The following evening I happened to be strolling up and down
the long front veranda with the Señorita Hortensia, who had now become
somewhat reconciled to the new state of affairs. We had stopped to
look at the reflection of the moon upon a lake a mile or so down the
valley, when, without the slightest warning, a figure rose silently
from the shadow of a bush and hurled an immense knife directly at the
young lady. The father and son, who were sitting upon the steps, saw
the movement, and leapt to their feet with yells of alarm. As in the
other cases, however, Providence seemed to be with us, and the dagger
merely pierced the señorita’s dress, though it missed her body only by
a couple of inches.
Seeing that no harm had occurred, we three men sprang forward and
captured the would-be assassin just as he was in the act of flinging
another of his murderous missiles at the fainting girl. It proved to be
Enrique, and he put up a nasty fight before he was finally landed by
the heels. At this stage Hortensia, having recovered from the shock,
took the lead in the affair and immediately appropriated the prisoner
to herself. When we finally got through explaining things to him, he
came round completely and apologized most generously for all that he
had done. That night there was much rejoicing at Las Flores, and the
announcement was made that Enrique and Hortensia were to be married
very shortly.
Everyone seemed to have temporarily forgotten about the Señorita Leonia
and her troubles, but Enrique suddenly remembered them and volunteered
to go immediately and fetch Roberto. An hour later the two young men
returned together, and another reconciliation took place. Don Eduardo,
all smiles now, settled things for the lovers, and the billing and
cooing was quite affecting. Next night a grand “biallie,” or dance, was
held at the “finca,” and the whole countryside was invited. Soon after
the banns were posted for a double wedding, at which, several weeks
later, the girls’ brother and myself acted as “best men.” There is now
a little Enrique and a little Roberto, to say nothing of a young Pablo,
named in my honour, and of whom I am the proud godfather. Master Pablo
little knows, however, what a time his worthy godparent had of it when
he foolishly tried to adjust the love affairs of the aforesaid Master
Pablo’s parents.
[Illustration: “SHOVING IT HURRIEDLY OFF ON TO THE FLOOR, I FOUND IT
CONTAINED A HISSING AND SQUIRMING MASS OF SNAKES.”]
[Illustration: My Experiences in Algeria.
BY THE BARONESS DE BOERIO.]
The Baroness’s husband, an officer in the French army, was
ordered to Algeria, and took his wife and children with him.
There, located at a tiny post far from civilization, in the
midst of fierce and unruly tribes, the authoress met with some
very strange adventures, which she here sets forth in a chatty
and amusing fashion.
III.
We climbed into the regimental brake very gladly, had a good breakfast
at Boghar, and then, at four o’clock in the afternoon, started for
the first caravanserai, Ain Ousera, on the way to Laghouat, where we
ought to have arrived at about half-past seven. However, half-past
nine came, and still no caravanserai was in sight. The night was of an
inky blackness, and we began to suspect that we had lost our way. My
husband accordingly stopped the carriage and questioned the driver, who
acknowledged that he had only been that way once before, and was not
very sure of his route. In this country, where there are no roads, one
always follows the direction of the telegraph posts.
“Where are they?” asked my husband.
The Spahi hung his head abashed.
“I have not seen one since it grew dark,” he confessed.
[Illustration: ARAB WOMEN WASHING IN A STREAM.
_From a Photograph._]
There was no use being angry and abusing him, so my husband set to work
to gain some idea of our position. Happily we met an Arab, who gave us
the indication required, and we set out again at a good pace. Whether
the Arab gave us the wrong direction, or whether the driver deviated,
I cannot say; but we were spinning along, making up for lost time,
when suddenly the horses were flung back on their haunches and a voice
yelled, “Back! Back! _Malheureux_!” The Spahi fortunately obeyed the
command, and my husband jumped out quickly to see what new adventure
had befallen us. This one, however, came very near being our last, for
we had been stopped by the guardian on the very brink of a quarry!
Another few yards and we should have leapt into space and fallen down
a precipice some thirty feet deep. My husband was afraid to trust the
soldier driver any more, so he arranged with the quarry guardian to
guide us, and we ultimately arrived at Ain Ousera towards 2 a.m., tired
out and as hungry as wolves. We woke up the landlord and asked for beds
and food. There was nothing to be had, he said, but bread, potatoes,
and eggs, but we told him that would do if some strong, hot coffee
accompanied it. An hour later we were all snoring.
[Illustration: “THE HORSES WERE FLUNG BACK ON THEIR HAUNCHES AND A
VOICE YELLED, ‘BACK! BACK!’”]
The rest of our journey was less adventurous. At a caravanserai called
Gelt Es Stel we were to send back the regimental brake and continue our
road in a carriage sent by the Bach-Agha of Laghouat. We waited in vain
for the promised vehicle, however, and when, on the second day, the
mail and passenger coach came in, we decided it was better to continue
our journey by that. The _coupé_--a small compartment for three in
the front of the coach--was all that was available, so in we got--my
husband, myself, three children, and four dogs! I shall never forget
that journey. My legs were too long for the space, and the cramp at
last grew unbearable, while the roof was so near my head that I had to
sit perfectly still, with a swanlike curve of the neck which, though
perhaps very graceful, was also excruciatingly uncomfortable. No one
was more devoutly thankful than myself when at last we finally reached
our destination.
Laghouat, or, properly speaking, El-Aghouath, the “Pearl of the South,”
as the Arabs call it, is built on and around two rocks rising out of
the burning plain and cutting the oasis in two, thus giving it the form
of a green horse-shoe. A small canalized stream passes between the two
rocks, watering first the north and then the south oasis.
[Illustration: THE TOWN OF LAGHOUAT, ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT.
_From a Photograph._]
From the top of these rocks the view, to the lover of Sahara beauty, is
magnificent. Away to the south stretches the desert, sterile and naked,
save for the tufts of vegetation here and there, yet the lights and
shades of colour are so variable and rich that it is a pure joy to gaze
over its infinity. On the north the undulating flatness is relieved by
a low line of rocky barren hills, round the top of which is a curious
dark line, which one could swear was a high-water mark. On a hot summer
day these hills rise black as coal out of the flame of golden sand
around them; then, as evening draws nigh, some become pale rose-colour,
others deepest pansy purple, or bright ochre yellow, and all so vivid,
so luminous, that the artist despairs of transferring their colours to
his canvas.
Nearly all the houses at Laghouat are built of mud bricks, mixed with
straw and baked in the sun. As a child I used to be very much perplexed
by the Israelites’ complaint during their Egyptian captivity, “How can
we make bricks, for we have no more straw?” No one could explain the
matter to me satisfactorily, but now I understood. In these parts, when
the earth is not sand, it is clay. This clay is well wetted and patted,
in the way dear to the childish heart, and then mixed and rolled in
very short straw. Afterwards it is put in a square wooden frame, well
patted once more, turned out in rows, and left to bake in the sun for a
fortnight. The bricks are then stacked up ready for use.
Personally, I liked these houses immensely; it was so easy to put nails
in the walls solidly. As a rule, things I nail up fall down suddenly,
without any warning, on some revered head--never on mine, because I
take care not to place myself underneath the work of my own hands. In
the Laghouat houses, however, you can plant a good long nail boldly.
It enters as though into butter, you hang up your picture, or whatever
it is, and then go outside and hang a pot of flowers or a water-pot on
the point which has come through--and there you are, perfectly balanced
on both sides! But these mud houses have one rather serious drawback.
When it rains--fortunately this only occurs at very rare intervals--the
buildings, unless strongly white washed, have a tendency to fall down
and melt away into shapeless mud-heaps. This is all in the day’s work
to the Arab, and does not upset him overmuch, unless a child--or what
is to him worse, a sheep or horse--is buried in the ruins. He just
camps out under a camel hair tent in the highest part of his garden,
or, if he hasn’t a tent, under a carpet--everyone has a carpet. Then,
when it ceases raining, he serenely rebuilds. “Tu cha Allah!” he
says--“It is the will of God.”
The rain-storms, though infrequent, are really terrifying when they
do come. I have seen waves several feet high turning the corner of my
house, and that half an hour after a downpour began. The river of sand,
Oued M’zi, which becomes Oued Djdid farther on, fills with water in
the twinkling of an eye, and is soon a deep, roaring torrent two miles
broad; it is perfectly incredible the rapidity with which the floods
rise.
[Illustration: A LAGHOUT MUD-HOUSE--DURING THE RAIN-STORMS THESE
BUILDINGS HAVE AN AWKWARD HABIT OF MELTING AWAY!
_From a Photograph._]
This Oued M’zi is supposed by the Roman historian Juba to be the real
source of the Nile. It is an uncanny river, disappearing underground
at various points for several days’ march. It finally disappears
altogether at Cholt Melghir, but the Roman historian points out that
after twenty days’ march it reappears as the source of the Nile.
Some seven years before I arrived at Laghouat, I was informed, the M’zi
rose to such a height that it bore all before it on the north side of
the oasis. Men, women, children, tents, and herds were carried away for
many kilometres, and the deaths by drowning numbered several hundred.
I remember once passing a night of anguish when my husband was away
in the south. I had changed my house during his absence and taken a
smaller one, with a huge garden, in the north oasis, some hundred
yards from the river. The autumn rains began, and soon my garden and
outer court were under water. The river came thundering down, and the
mud house seemed to quiver. Towards ten at night the sound of the
swift-rushing flood grew so terrific that my heart almost stood still,
and I remembered the catastrophe of seven years back. “Why, oh, why did
I leave our solid stone house to inhabit this dangerous hole?” I asked
myself.
I tramped across the court, knee-deep in water, to my Arab servant’s
room.
“Mohammed,” I cried, “come with me to see if the pathway to town is
in a good enough state to take the children to the hotel. The water
frightens me; we shall be drowned like rats in a trap.”
We tried to open the garden door giving on the wall-lined pathway along
which the irrigation stream ran, and which was the only road to the
town for the houses or gardens of the northern oasis. The door opened
outward, and fortunately for us the pressure of water against it was so
heavy that our united strength could not move it half an inch.
Mohammed accordingly climbed on the wall and looked down. The water was
nearly six feet deep! He descended hastily, observing calmly, with a
critical look at the wall, “It’s a very old wall. It must be the will
of Allah that it does not fall.”
There was obviously nothing to be done, so I retired indoors and
changed my clothes, for I was soaking wet. The waters thundered and
swirled all about us, and I was thankful indeed when daylight came and
the flood gradually began to subside.
The women of Laghouat never go out by day, and at night are closely
veiled as they journey under escort from one relation’s house to
another; even the lower classes and the dancing women faithfully
observe this custom. Only on two feasts, which last three and seven
days--the “Aid el Srir” and “Aid el Kebir,” the “little” and “great”
Feast of the Sheep, which correspond with the Jewish Passover and
killing of the Paschal lamb--do the latter ladies don their finest
clothes and strut about barefaced.
Their costumes are indeed splendid--silks and brocades of the very best
quality and the most lovely hues, with gold, silver, and gem-studded
embroideries. The veils hanging from their bejewelled head-dresses are
of cloth of silver and gold, their bosoms are covered with precious
stones, and the noise of the numerous bracelets they wear on arms and
legs can be heard some way off.
[Illustration: A SCENE IN THE SAHARA.
_From a Photograph._]
The dancing women of the province of Algiers and Oran are nearly all of
the tribes of the Ouled Najls. The women of these tribes have chosen
dancing as their profession, and when quite young they go forth to earn
their dowry by “tripping on the light fantastic toe.” When they have
earned it they generally return home, marry, and make as good wives and
mothers as the rest of womenkind.
[Illustration: A GROUP OF DANCING GIRLS OF THE OULED NAJL.
_From a Photograph._]
There are now about thirty-eight tribes of Ouled Najls, stretching
from Biskara to the Djebel-Amour, all pastoral, wandering wherever
the blessed rain of heaven falls and grasses grow, without taking any
notice of distance or frontiers. The supreme happiness of a Najl is to
find a quiet corner where the grass is green and abundant, and there to
snooze under the sun’s rays, watching his sheep and camels fatten, and
fattening himself as well, for he lives chiefly on their milk. Later he
exchanges his flocks for corn, dates, and everything necessary for his
existence. Truly these people are still in the age of Abraham.
[Illustration: THE BACH-AGHA OF THE LARBAAS, AN IMPORTANT ARAB CHIEF.
_From a Photograph._]
A fortnight after I arrived at Laghouat the Bach-Agha of the Larbaas
(a tribe of warriors who have always been faithful to France) gave a
“diffa” in our honour. Warned by my experience of painful memory at
Teniet-el-Haad, I did not try to partake of all the twenty-five dishes
which were served in weary succession. After the repast was over we
paid a visit to the chief’s two wives. The favourite, a young woman
of twenty-four, was most beautifully dressed in eau-de Nil brocade.
The costume was that of the Algiers women, full trousers closing in
tightly round the small, silk-socked, golden-slippered feet. Then came
a three-quarter skirt of the same material and a much-embroidered
tight-fitting bodice. The front of this latter garment was so covered
with jewels that the stuff was hardly visible. The head-dress was
composed of silk handkerchiefs and chains of gold and precious stones.
She had two children, a boy of eight and a girl ten years old. She
told me she was very happy, that she had been married to the Bach-Agha
since she was twelve years old, and that he had only beaten her once,
when she had broken one of her pieces of jewellery in a temper. She
showed us the very piece, with much laughter--a big, finely-worked gold
filigree disc.
“You did not laugh so loudly when you felt the _matraque_ on your
shoulders,” said a grim voice behind her.
Without another word she pulled one of her handkerchiefs over her
face and stood motionless. It was now our turn to laugh, which we did
heartily, for we had seen the Bach-Agha come in, and had understood his
sign for us not to betray him.
After teasing her a little the good old man--he was sixty--told her to
unveil, but not to boast too much of her one beating, or he should have
to make it two.
We much admired the beautiful carpets and embroidered cushions on the
marble floor, and the handsome silver and brass jugs, cups, and plates
which adorned the Arab brackets, but we thought the four-poster bed,
with white muslin curtains, which stood in the far corner, rather out
of place.
The young wife’s apartments consisted of two big rooms, about fourteen
yards long by four wide, both leading out into a big square court with
pink marble pillars, where palms and various other exotic plants
flourished. In the centre was a fountain where goldfish glinted.
Then we went to see the other wife, old, like her husband. Her room was
big, her bed comfortable, her clothing good, but everything was of the
simplest. Her only jewel was a tiny gold brooch fastening a drapery
drawn round the head under the chin. She seemed too weary to talk.
“Life is over for me,” she said. “My children are dead; my husband
has not spoken to me for years. I, too, shall soon be gone.” And she
clacked her tongue in her cheek in a dismally resigned fashion. I felt
heavy-hearted as I went out.
“How sad!” I said to Ben Aouda, one of the Bach-Agha’s three grown-up
sons. “I thought she was your mother.”
“My mother and my brothers’ mother has been dead a long time,” he
replied. “That one”--and I distinguished a shade of contempt in his
voice--“only gave my father daughters--feeble creatures who died young.”
If an Arab woman wishes to retain any power she may ever have had over
her husband, she must first be a mother, and, secondly, the mother of
male children, strong and lusty. There are, of course, exceptions; I
knew of one at Laghouat later. The two longed for a family. They made
pilgrimages to all sorts of outlandish places. In accordance with
Arab superstitions, the husband tore the still-throbbing heart out of
countless jackals’ palpitating bodies and devoured it warm, while his
wife wore all sorts of horrible fetishes round her neck and drank the
blood of hyenas. It was all of no avail, but despite the advice and
worrying of his family he refused to divorce her or to take another
wife, as the law allowed him. But he was a very rare exception to the
general rule.
Besides the Bach-Agha’s, I used to visit at the rival house, where
lived descendants of other rulers of Laghouat. Here I was often amused
by the harmless little intrigues I came across. The master of the house
possessed three very pretty and very young wives, ruled and guarded by
his mother--one of the jolliest, gayest old ladies I have ever met. She
was always draped in a spotless fine woollen _melhafa_, bordered with
green.
It was extraordinary, seeing the secluded life they led, how familiar
these young wives were with Laghouat society.
Peeping through their closely-latticed window, looking on to the road,
they would say: “Ah! there goes Lieutenant This, or Captain That,” and
then they would tell me stories concerning these officers that I had no
idea of, and enjoy my surprise.
“We may be shut up, but we know everything that goes on and have plenty
of fun,” they would say. One day when I arrived, however, I found their
harmony disturbed. Zohra, an Algiers Moor, kept apart, silent and
sullen, darting looks of hatred at Aicha, who was happily nursing her
lately-born son.
Hennia, the youngest, following my gaze, whispered: “She is mad with
jealousy because Aicha has a son, and our lord is pleased with Aicha
and angry with Zohra, who has been four years married and has given him
no offspring.”
“And you?” I inquired.
She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It is only six months since he
brought me to his house, and the last wife is never the least until
many moons have waned.”
Worried by Zohra’s look I returned shortly, but she sullenly refused to
speak to me. Then, suddenly, one day as I was leaving, she ran after
me and drew me aside. “I hate her! I hate her!” she panted. “She has
stolen his love from me. Help me, O Roumia, help me, or I shall die.”
“What can I do for you?” I inquired, rather upset by her burning gaze
and passionate whisper.
“Bring me the little white powder,” she breathed, “the dear little
powder, to sweeten her coffee and make her sleep, sleep, sleep!”
She seized my wrists and held me fast, her eyes blazing like those of a
madwoman.
“To do evil that good may come” is not usually one of my principles,
but on this occasion I thought it excusable. So I promised her the
powder, and, what is more, I took her not one, but two! One, for her
rival, was composed of chalk and sugar, and the other, for herself, of
Epsom salts.
“For these powders to have any effect you must take another at the
same time,” I told her, impressively. “If Aicha has really stolen
your share of your lord’s love from you she will surely die; but if
you have accused her wrongly, then you yourself will be the one to
suffer. You will not die, but you will suffer.” She eagerly agreed--and
she certainly suffered, too; but her jealousy was effectually cured,
and my next visit found the trio reunited and full of their usual
light-hearted tittle-tattle. When I told the story to the husband he
laughed as Arabs seldom laugh.
THE END.
[Illustration:
Ways That Are Dark.
Some Records of Roguery.]
BY RALPH STOCK, R. L. C. MORRISON, AND A. E. MACGROTTY.
“For ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,” says Bret
Harte’s famous poem, “the heathen Chinee is peculiar.” The
subjoined examples of clever rascality, however, show that
the Celestial has by no means a monopoly of the gentle art of
living at other people’s expense.
I.--MY ADVENTURES IN ‘FRISCO.
BY RALPH STOCK.
It was on the first anniversary of the great earthquake that I found
myself in San Francisco. The city was a forest of scaffolding and
steam-cranes; huge blocks of stone and concrete hung suspended above
the streets on their way to clothe the towering “quake-proof” steel
frameworks that rose from the _débris_ of former buildings like
gigantic skeletons. Hills of bricks, mortar, and plaster confronted
the pedestrian at every turn, and the dust from these and the streets
generally made the city a blinding, choking wilderness.
The demand for labour in rebuilding had drawn to San Francisco the very
dregs of humanity throughout the Americas, and strikes, street riots,
and robberies with violence were of daily occurrence. The authority
of the police was a sinecure; fat, good-natured giants in white,
uniforms and helmets, with truncheons swinging from their wrists, leant
against hoardings at street corners and smoked cigarettes, or earnestly
requested a striker who became more than usually vociferous to “Cut it
out” or “Go way back and sit down.”