[Illustration: 9133]
T would be passing over the most-enjoyable part of our life abroad, if
we omitted all mention of those delightful days, spent on the hill-sides
of Mustapha, on the heights of the Bouzareah, and indeed everywhere in
the neighbourhood of Algiers, sketching in winter time in the open air.
Odours of orange-groves, the aromatic scent of cedars, the sweet breath
of wild flowers, roses, honeysuckles and violets, should pervade this
page; something should be done, which no words can accomplish, to give
the true impression of the scene, to picture the luxuriant wild
growth of the surrounding vegetation (radiant in a sunshine which to a
northerner is unknown), and to realise in any method of description, the
sense of calm enjoyment of living this pure life in a climate neither
too hot nor too cold, neither too enervating nor too exciting; of
watching the serene days decline into sunsets that light up the Kabyle
Hills with crests of gold, and end in sudden twilights that spread a
weird unearthly light across the silver sea. *
* There are effects of light sometimes, towards evening,
especially over the sea, such as we have never seen in any
other part of the world. We know one or two landscape
painters who have filled their note-books with memoranda of
these phases.
We take our knapsacks and walk off merrily enough on the bright.
December mornings, often before the morning gun has fired or the city
is fully awake. If we go out at the eastern gate and keep along near the
sea shore in the direction of the _Maison Carrée_ (a French fort, now
used as a prison), we obtain fine views of the bay, and of the town of
Algiers itself, with its mole and harbour stretching out far into the
sea.
There is plenty to interest us here, if it is only in sketching the
wild palmettos, or in watching the half-wild Arabs who camp in the
neighbourhood, and build mud huts which they affect to call cafés, and
where we can, if we please, obtain rest and shelter from the midday sun,
and a considerable amount of 'stuffiness,' for one sou. But there is
no need to trouble them, as there are plenty of shady valleys and
cactus-hedges to keep off the sun's rays; the only disturbers of our
peace are the dogs who guard the Arab encampments, and have to be
diligently kept off with stones.
Perhaps the best spots for quiet work are the precincts of the
Marabouts' tombs, where we can take refuge unobserved, behind some old
wall and return quietly to the same spot, day after day. And here, as
one experience of sketching from Nature, let us allude to the theory
(laid down pretty confidently by those who have never reduced it to
practice), that one great advantage of this climate is, that you may
work at the same sketch from day to day, and continue it where you left
off! You can do nothing of the kind. * If your drawing is worth
anything, it will at least have recorded something of the varying phases
of light and shade, that really alter every hour.
Let us take an example. About six feet from us, at eight o'clock in the
morning, the sheer white wall of a Moslem tomb is glowing with a white
heat, and across it are cast the shadows of three palm-leaves, which at
a little distance, have the contrasted effect of the blackness of
night. ** Approach a little nearer and examine the real colour of these
photographic leaf-lines, shade off (with the hand) as much as possible
of the wall, the sky, and the reflected light from surrounding leaves,
and these dark shadows become a delicate pearl grey, deepening into
mauve, or partaking sometimes of the tints of the rich earth below them.
They will be deeper yet before noon, and pale again, and uncertain and
fantastic in shape, before sundown. If we sketch these shadows only
each hour, as they pass from left to right upon the wall (laying down a
different wash for the ground each time) and place them side by side
in our note-book, we shall have made some discoveries in light and
transparent shadow tone, which will be very valuable in after time.
No two days or two hours, are under precisely the same atmospheric
conditions; the gradations and changes are extraordinary, and would
scarcely be believed in by anyone who had not watched them.
* We are speaking, of course, of colour and effect, not of
details that may be put in at any time.
** Under some conditions of the atmosphere we have obtained
more perfect outlines of the leaves of the aloe, with their
curiously indented edges and spear-points, _from their
shadows_, rather than from the leaves themselves.
Thus, although we cannot continue a sketch once left off, to any
purpose, we may obtain an infinite and overwhelming variety of work in
one day, in the space of a few yards by the side of some old well or
Marabout's tomb.
We seldom returned from a day in the country, without putting up for an
hour or two at one of the numerous cafés, or caravanserai, built near
some celebrated spring, with seats, placed invitingly by the roadside,
under the shade of trees. There were generally a number of Arabs and
French soldiers collected in the middle of the day, drinking coffee,
playing at dominoes, or taking a siesta on the mats under the cool
arcades, and often some Arab musicians, who hummed and droned monotonous
airs; there were always plenty of beggars to improve the occasion, and
perhaps, a group of half-naked boys, who would get up an imitation of
the 'Beni Zouzoug Arabs,' and go through hideous contortions, inflicting
all kinds of torments on each other for a few sous.
[Illustration: 8139]
It is pleasant to put up at one of these cafés during the heat of the
day, and to be able to walk in and take our places quietly amongst the
Arabs and Moors, without any particular notice or remark; and delightful
(oh! how delightful) to yield to the combined influences of the coffee,
the hachshish, the tomtom and the heat, and fall asleep and dream--dream
that the world is standing still, that politics and Fenianism are things
of the past, and that all the people in a hurry are dead. Pleasant, and
not a little perplexing too, when waking, for the eye to rest on the
delicate outline of a little window in the wall above, which, with its
spiral columns and graceful proportions, seems the very counterpart in
miniature of some Gothic cathedral screen.
If we examine it, it is old and Moorish (these buildings date back
several hundred years), and yet so perfect is its similarity to later
work, that our ideas on orders of architecture become confused and
vague. We may not attempt to discover the cause of the similarity, or
indeed to go deeply into questions of 'style,' but we may be tempted to
explore further, and if we examine such cafés (as, for instance, those
at El Biar, or Birkadem), we shall find the walls ornamented with
Arabesques, sometimes half-concealed under whitewash, and the arcades
and conical-domed roofs and doorways covered with curious patterns.
In this way we pass the day, often lingering about one spot in most
vagrant fashion, till nightfall, when the last diligence comes crashing
in, and stops to change its wretched horses. We take our places quickly
in the _intérieur_, and are wedged in between little soft white figures
with black eyes and stained finger-nails, who stare at us with a fixed
and stony stare, all the way back to Algiers. Another day we spend in
the _Jardin d'Essai_, (the garden of acclimatisation), where we may
wander in December, amidst groves of summer flowers, and where every
variety of tree and shrub is brought together for study and comparison.
Through the kindness of the director we are enabled to make studies of
some rare and curious tropical plants; but there is a little too much
formality and an artificial atmosphere about the place, that spoils it
for sketching; although nothing can control, or render formal, the wild
strength of the gigantic aloes, or make the palm-trees grow in line.
From the 'Garden of Marengo,' just outside the western gates, we
may obtain good subjects for sketching, including both mosques and
palm-trees, such as we have indicated on our title-page; and from the
heights behind the Casbah, some beautiful distant views across the
plain of the Mitidja. Of one of these an artistic traveller thus speaks:
'Standing on a ridge of the Sahel, far beneath lies the Bay of Algiers,
from this particular point thrown into a curve so exquisite and subtle
as to be well nigh inimitable by art, the value of the curve being
enhanced by the long level line of the Mitidja plain immediately behind,
furnishing the horizontal line of repose so indispensable to calm beauty
of landscape; whilst in the background the faintly indicated serrated
summits of the Atlas chain preserve the whole picture from monotony.
The curve of shore, the horizontal bar of plain, the scarcely more than
suggested angles of the mountains, form a combination of contrasting yet
harmonising lines of infinite loveliness, which Nature would ever paint
anew for us in the fresh tints of the morning, with a brush dipped in
golden sunshine and soft filmy mist, and with a broad sweep of cool blue
shadow over the foreground.'
But our favourite rendezvous, our principal 'Champ de Mars,' was a
little Arab cemetery, about six miles from Algiers; on the heights
westward, in the direction of Sidi Ferruch, and near to a little Arab
village called the 'Bouzareah.' This spot combined a wondrous view both
of sea and land, with a foreground of beauty not easy to depict. It was
a half-deserted cemetery, with tombs of Marabout priests over which the
palm-trees waved, and little gravestones here and there surmounted
with crescents. Sheltered from the sun's rays, hidden from the sight of
passers-by, surrounded with a profusion of aloes, palms, cacti; and
an infinite variety of shrubs and flowers peeping out between the
palmettos, that spread their leaves like fans upon the ground--it
combined everything that could be desired.
Here we worked, sitting close to one of the tombs for its shade, with
the hush of the breeze, the distant sighing sound of the sea, the voices
of bees, and butterflies, the flutter of leaves, and one other sound
that intermingled with strange monotony of effect close to our ears,
which puzzled us sorely to account for at first. It turned out to be a
snore; the custodian of one of the tombs was sleeping inside with his
fathers, little dreaming of our proximity. We struck up an acquaintance
with him, after a few days of coyness on his part, and finally made him
a friend. For a few sous a day he acted as outpost for us, to keep off
Arab boys and any other intruders; and before we left, was induced to
sit and be included in a sketch. He winced a little at this, and we
confess to an inward reproach for having thus degraded him. He did not
like it, but he sat it out and had his portrait taken like any Christian
dog; he took money for his sin, and finally, by way of expiation let us
hope, drank up our palette water at the end of the day!
If there is one spot in all Algeria most dear to a Mussulman's heart,
most sacred, to a Marabout's memory, it must surely be this peaceful
garden of aloes and palms, where flowers ever grow, where the sun shines
from the moment of its rising until it sinks beneath the western sea;
where, if anywhere on this earth, the faithful will be the first to know
of the Prophet's coming, and where they will always be ready to meet
him.
But if it be dear to a Mussulman's heart, it is also dear to a
Christian's, for it has taught us more in a few weeks than we can
unlearn in years. We cannot sit here day by day without learning several
truths, more forcibly than by any teaching of our schools; taking in, as
it were, the mysteries of light and shade, and the various phases of the
atmosphere--taking them all to heart, so that they influence our work
for years to come.
How often have we, at the Uffizi, or at the Louvre, envied the power and
skill of a master, whose work we have vainly endeavoured to imitate; and
what would we not have given in those days, to achieve something that
seemed to approach, ever so little, to the power and beauty of colour,
of a Titian or a Paul Veronese. *
* And have we not, generally, imbibed more of the trick or
method of colour, of the master, than of his inspiration--
more, in short, of the real than the ideal?
Is it mere heresy in art, or is it a brighter light dawning upon us
here, that seems to say, that we have learned and achieved more, in
studying the glowing limbs of an Arab child as it plays amongst these
wild palmettos--because we worked with a background of such sea and sky
as we never saw in any picture of the 'Finding of Moses;' and because in
the painting of the child, we had not perforce to learn any 'master's'
trick of colour, nor to follow conventional lines?
And do we not, amongst other things, learn to distinguish between the
true and conventional rendering of the form, colour and character, of
palm-trees, aloes and cacti?
First of the palm. Do we not soon discover how much more of beauty,
of suggested strength, of grace, lightness and variety of colour and
texture, there is in this one stem, that we vainly try to depict in
a wood engraving, than we had previously any conception of; and how
opposed to facts are the conventional methods of drawing palm-trees
(often with a straight stem and uniform leaves looking like a feather
broom on a straight stick), which we may find in almost any illustrated
book representing Eastern scenes, from Constantinople to the Sea of
Galilee.
[Illustration: 8147]
Take, for instance, as a proof of variety in colour and grandeur of
aspect, this group of palm-trees * that have stood guard over the
Maho-medan tombs for perhaps a hundred years; stained with time, and
shattered with their fierce battle with the storms that sweep over the
promontory with terrible force. ** Look at the beauty of their lines, at
the glorious colour of their young leaves, and the deep orange of those
they have shed, like the plumage of some gigantic bird; one of
their number has fallen from age, and lies crossways on the ground,
half-concealed in the long grass and shrubs, and it has lain there to
our knowledge, undisturbed for years. To paint the sun setting on these
glowing stems, and to catch the shadows of their sharp pointed leaves,
as they are traced at one period of the day on the white walls of the
tombs, is worth long waiting to be able to note down; and to hit the
right tint to depict such shadows truly, is an exciting triumph to us.
* The palm-stem we have sketched is of a different variety
and less formal in character than those generally seen in
the East; nevertheless, there is endless variety in the
forms and leaves of any one of them, if we judge from
photographs.
** We had prepared a drawing of these palm-trees in
sunlight; but perhaps Mr. Severn's view of them in a storm,
will be thought more characteristic.
Second of the aloe; and here we make as great a discovery as with the
palm. Have we not been taught (in paintings) from our youth up, that the
aloe puts forth its blue riband-like leaves in uniform fashion, like
so many starched pennants, which painters often express with one or two
strokes of the brush; and are we not told by botanists that it flowers
but once in a hundred years?
Look at that aloe hedgerow a little distance from us that stretches
across the country, like a long blue rippling wave on a calm sea, and
which, as we approach it, seems thrown up fantastically and irregularly
by breakers to a height of six or eight feet, and which (like the
sea), on a nearer view changes its opaque cold blue tint, to a rich
transparent green and gold. Approach them closely, walk under their
colossal leaves, avoid their sharp spear-points and touch their soft
pulpy stems. What wonderful variety there is in their forms, what
transparent beauty of colour, what eccentric shadows they cast upon each
other, and with what a grand spiral sweep some of the young shoots rear
upwards! So tender and pliable are they, that in some positions a child
might snap their leaves, and yet so wonderful is the distribution of
strength, that they would resist at spear-point the approach of a lion,
and almost turn a charge of cavalry. If we snap off the point of one of
the leaves it is a needle, and a thread clings to it which we may
peel off down the stem a yard long--needle and thread--nature-pointed,
nature-threaded! Should not artists see these things? Should not poets
read of them?
Here we are inclined to ask, if the aloe flowers but once in a hundred
years, how is it that everywhere in Algeria, we see plants of all ages
with their long flowering stems, some ten or twelve feet high? Have they
combined this year to flower, or are botanists at fault?
Of the cactus, which also grows in wild profusion, we could say almost
as much as of the palms and aloes, but it might seem like repetition.
Suffice it, that our studies of their separate leaves were the minutest
and most rewarding labour we achieved, and that until we had painted the
cactus and the palmetto growing together, we had never understood the
meaning of 'tropical vegetation.'
[Illustration: 0151]
Many other subjects we obtain at the Bouzareah; simple perhaps, and
apparently not worth recording, but of immense value to a student of
Nature. Is it nothing, for instance, for a painter to have springing up
before him in this clear atmosphere, delicate stems of grass, six feet
high, falling over in spray of golden leaves against a background of
blue sea; darting upward, sheer, bright, and transparent from a
bank covered with the prickly pear, that looks by contrast, like the
rock-work from which a fountain springs? Is it nothing to see amongst
all this wondrous overgrowth of gigantic leaves, and amongst the tender
creepers and the flowers, the curious knotted and twisted stem of the
vine, trailing serpent-like on the ground, its surface worn smooth with
time? Is it nothing for an artist to learn practically, what 'white
heat' means?
It is well worth coming to North Africa in winter, if only to see the
flowers, but of these we cannot trust ourselves to speak--they _must_ be
seen and painted.
It is difficult to tear ourselves away from this spot, and especially
tempting to dwell upon these details, because they have seldom been
treated of before; but perhaps the question may occur to some--are
such subjects as we have depicted worth painting, or, indeed, of any
prolonged or separate study? Let us endeavour to answer it by another
question. Are the waves worth painting, by themselves? Has it not
occurred to one or two artists (not to many, we admit) that the waves of
the sea have never yet been adequately painted; and have never had their
due, so to speak, because it has always been considered necessary to
introduce something else into the composition, be it only a rope, a
spar, or a deserted ship? Has it not been discovered (though only of
late years) that there is scope for imagination and poetry, and all the
elements of a great and enthralling picture, in the drawing of waves
alone; and should there not be, if nobly treated, interest enough in
a group of colossal vegetation in a brilliant atmosphere, without the
usual conventional adjuncts of figures and buildings?
So far, whilst sketching at the Bouzareah, we have spoken only of the
foreground; but we have been all the time in the presence of the most
wonderful panorama of sea and land, and have watched so many changing
aspects from these heights, that we might fill a chapter in describing
them alone.
The view northward over the Mediterranean, westward towards Sidi
Ferruch, southward across the plains to the Atlas, eastward towards
Algiers and the mountains of Kabylia beyond; each point so distant from
the other that, according to the wind or time of day, it partook of
quite distinct aspects, fill up so many pictures in our mind's eye
that a book might be written, called 'The Bouzareah,' as seen under the
different phases of sunshine and storm.
It has often been objected to these Eastern scenes, that they have 'no
atmosphere,' and no gradation of middle distance; that there is not
enough repose about them, that they lack mystery and are altogether
wanting in the poetry of cloudland.
But there are clouds. We have seen, for the last few mornings (looking
through the arched windows of the great aloe-leaves) little companies of
small white clouds, casting clearly-defined shadows across the distant
sea, and breaking up the horizon line with their soft white folds,=
```'They come like shadows, so depart.'=
--reappearing and disappearing by some mysterious law, but seldom
culminating in rain.
Yes, there are clouds. Look this time far away towards the horizon line
across the bay, and watch that rolling sea which looks like foam, that
rises higher and higher as we watch it, darkening the sky, and soon
enveloping us in a kin of sea fog, through which the sun gleams dimly
red, whilst the white walls of the tombs appear cold and grey against a
leaden sky. See it all pass away again across the plain of the Mitidja,
and disappear in the shadows of the lesser Atlas. There is a hush in the
breeze and all is bright again, but a storm is coming.
[Illustration: 0157]
Take shelter, if you have courage, _inside_ one of the Marabouts' tombs
(there is plenty of space), whilst a tempest rages that should wake the
dead before Mahomet's coming. Sit and wait in there, perhaps an hour,
whilst one or two strong gusts of wind pass over, and then all is still
again; and so dark that we can see nothing inside but the light of a
pipe in one corner. We get impatient, thinking that it is passing off.
But it comes at last. It breaks over the tombs, and tears through the
plantation, with a tremendous surging sound, putting to flight the Arabs
on guard, who wrap their bournouses about them and hurry off to the
village, with the cry of 'Allah il Allah;' leaving the care of the tombs
to the palms, that have stood guard over them so long. Oh, how they
fight and struggle in the wind! how they creak, and moan, and strike
against one another, like human creatures in the thick of battle!
How they rally side by side, and wrestle with the wind--crashing down
suddenly against the walls of the tomb, and scattering their leaves over
us; then rallying again, and fighting the storm with human energy and
persistence!
It is a fearful sight--the rain falling in masses, but nearly
horizontally, and with such density that we can see but a few yards from
our place of shelter--and it is a fearful sound, to hear the palm-trees
shriek in the wind.
There was one part of the scene we could not describe, one which no
other than Dante's pen, or Doré's pencil, could give any idea of; we
could not depict the confused muttering sound and grinding clatter (if
we may call it so), that the battered and wounded aloes made amongst
themselves, like maimed and dying combatants trodden under foot. Many
scenes in nature have been compared to a battle-field; we have seen
sheaves of corn blown about by the wind, looking like the tents of a
routed host; but this scene was beyond parallel--the hideous contortion,
the melancholy aspect of destruction, the disfigured limbs in hopeless
wreck, the weird and ghastly forms that writhed and groaned aloud, as
the storm made havoc with them.
And they made havoc with each other. What would the reader say, if
he saw the wounds inflicted by some of the young leaves on the parent
stems--how they pierce and transfix, and sometimes _saw_ into each
other, with their sharp serrated edges, as they sway backwards and
forwards in the wind. He would say perhaps that no sea monster or
devil-fish, could seem more horrible, and we wish him no wilder vision
than to be near them at night, when disturbed by the wind.
We have scarcely alluded to the palmetto-leaves and branches that filled
the air, to the sound of rushing water, to the distant roar of the sea,
nor to many other aspects of the storm. It lasted, not much more than
an hour, but the water covered the floor of our little temple before
the rain subsided, and the ground a few feet off where we had sat, was
completely under water. Everything was steaming with vapour, but the
land was refreshed, and the dark earth was richer than we had seen it
for months--there would be no dust in Algiers until to-morrow.
[Illustration: 0163]