CONSTANTINE
Travellers’ tales and descriptions of Constantine are full of such
boundless admiration that they are really little more than a chorus of
applause and wonder. The consequences are not quite what might be
expected, because it is impossible to believe that all this praise is
justified. Sober truth seems hidden by flights of fancy. So the
sceptical mind prepares itself and fears no disappointment or
disillusion, heedless of the fact that it is the unexpected that always
happens. In this case such wisdom is wasted, for the situation of
Constantine is amazing beyond all expectation, and wholly beautiful.
In former times the city was apparently as picturesque as its site, but
this, alas! can no longer be said. The rage for modern improvements has
destroyed so much, that it is only in nooks and corners that Oriental
architecture still lingers.
The original city of Cirta or Kirta, the capital of the Numidian kings,
has entirely disappeared, and no traces are now left of the splendid
palace of Syphax, or of the fine buildings that Micipsa is said to have
built here. Even the old name, signifying an isolated rock, has been
superseded by the later one of Constantine—a name that even the poetic
attempts at new derivations made by the Arabs, such as Ksar-Tina, the
castle of Queen Tina, the castle of the fig tree, and so on, have failed
to make interesting.
Their own name for the city, as given by El Bekri, namely, _Belad el
Haoua_, sums up its individuality perfectly. The single word _Haoua_
means not only air, but also ravine and passion. The city of air tells
of its height, over 2000 feet above the level of the sea. City of the
ravine is a title that suits it even better, for no other city stands on
a rock encircled on three sides by a chasm instead of a moat; and
history, starting with the tragic tale of fair Sophonisba and her
pathetic speech (ere she drank the cup of poison sent her by Masinissa)
about “dying with more honour had she not wedded at her funeral,” shows
that passion has never been lacking.
Roman rule has left a deeper impress, but soon there will be little of
the flourishing colony of Cirta Sittianorum, founded by Julius Cæsar.
There are many inscriptions, among them one proving that Sallust, who
was once the Governor, possessed a vast domain.
[Illustration: GORGE OF THE ROUMEL, CONSTANTINE]
Of a fine aqueduct, built in the reign of Justinian, only five arches
remain, prettily situated among the trees by the river. As for the ruins
of the old bridge, dating from the time of Constantine the Great, it
would probably be hard to say how much was truly Roman, so often has it
been restored. This bridge was double, and built on the foundation of a
natural arch; the upper part, formed of huge blocks, carried the road,
the lower was purely ornamental. Shaw says it was indeed a masterpiece
of its kind, which makes its end the sadder. A pier of the upper story
gave way in 1857, and as restoration was supposed to be impossible,
heavy artillery was used to batter it down. Now the chasm is spanned by
a useful but ugly iron erection, built exactly above the ruins, and
forming a pitiful contrast between the old style and the new.
Few cities in the world have suffered so many changes, for
notwithstanding its apparently impregnable position, Constantine has
been besieged and taken no less than eighty times—that is, if tradition
can be trusted. It escaped destruction under the Vandals because the
bishop in those days was a Donatist. The victorious Belisarius found
that no harm had been done, and even the Arabs spared the ancient
monuments, so that the strain of these many sieges seems to have worked
less havoc than the fighting which took place during the French
conquest, when both besiegers and besieged showed the greatest heroism.
The old bridge was the scene of the first fierce assault, when the
French were driven back in 1836. The successful attack in the following
year was made on the side of the isthmus, or neck of land, which
connects the rock with the mainland, but even so the French lost
heavily, General Damremont and General Perrégaux being killed in the
breach, and officer after officer falling as he took command.
For many years afterwards the military government took no interest in
preserving antiquities, and so they were broken up, cut through and
destroyed, to make way for new buildings, for roads, and for the
railway. The greatest loss, perhaps, was the splendid triumphal arch,
which was still perfect in 1734; but temples, arcades, vaults, porticoes
and baths were all swept away by the _Genie militaire_ in its thirst for
improvement. The cisterns alone remain. They have been restored, and
still serve to hold the water-supply.
The new roads are worthy of the _Genie_, but the new buildings are
mostly blots on a beautiful landscape. From almost every point hideous,
bare-looking barracks and many-storied modern houses crown the rock, and
stand on the very edge of the precipice, whilst the new suburbs,
springing up on the heights of Mansoura and on the side of Koudiat-Aty
are scarcely more attractive.
And yet, taking all these drawbacks into consideration, the view from
the bridge of El Kantara is astonishing. The grandeur of the gorge
dwarfs all man’s works into insignificance, and the rocks tower with
such majesty over the river which they hide at their feet that the
houses above them pass almost unnoticed.
The ravine is narrow, not more than two hundred feet across, though the
summit of the crags is quite a thousand feet above the river. The river
Roumel comes from the sunny country-side, from the woods and fields, the
poplars and the hedges, and plunges suddenly into the shadow of the huge
vertical cliffs, twisting and winding in the dark depths on its way
round the city, losing itself at times in gloomy caverns and under
natural arches, to emerge joyously beneath the grim Sidi Rached, then to
fling itself thundering over the falls, out of the shadows at last, and
into the lovely valley once more.
From the town it is difficult to peer into the depths, but on the other
side a road follows the course of the ravine for its whole length. The
most picturesque point is just opposite the tanneries, a delightful
jumble of old Moorish houses, with white or pale-blue walls, and
brown-tiled roofs built to withstand the snow and torrential rains, and
very like the roofs of Constantinople in form and colour. The tanneries
are perched on the walls of rock so close to the edge of the precipice
that the Arabs when at work often fall over into the abyss, though it is
said that the devotees of _hachish_ will descend the same precipices, at
the risk of breaking their necks many times ere they reach the bottom,
just to meet together and smoke. It is giddy work to stand on these
heights and look down over the first green slopes where hungry cows and
goats find some foothold in their search for food, in places on the
verge of the cliff where there is nothing but their own agility to
prevent their falling straight into the gulf below. The boys on guard
keep more wisely to the little footpath, and shout their commands to the
straying herds.
The Cornice road runs from the bridge down towards the valley and the
sea, and that is grand with Nature’s dignity alone. As a mountain road
it is fine also, after the Swiss fashion, built round and tunnelled
through the rocks of Mansoura, following their curves, half-built out on
supports, half-blasted out of the living rock.
Opposite the tanneries the road runs on the top of the cliffs, and the
city stands on the same level on the other side of the chasm; but here
the road, though it is still a considerable height above the river, is
itself shut in by walls of rock, so grim and forbidding that if tales of
dreadful deeds did not already abound, legends must have been invented
in their stead; for there is something about the precipices of Sidi
Rached which suggest and invite horrors. So perhaps it is no wonder that
the Moors in barbarous times thought it a suitable place for getting rid
of criminals, or of the wives of whom they were weary. It is, however,
hard to believe that men were ever cruel enough, not only to fling a
beautiful woman over a cliff by the Bey’s orders, but also, when she had
been saved as by a miracle by her clothes catching midway on the rocks,
to rescue her and then kill her deliberately by some other form of
torture.
At the French conquest the defenders retired, fighting, to the Casbah,
and there as a last resource tried to fly from the hated infidel by
means of ropes. But the numbers were too great, the ropes broke, and
hundreds perished in the attempt, though it is thought that a few may
have escaped.
[Illustration: A GAME OF DRAUGHTS]
The _Chemin des touristes_ is a path through the ravine, winding up and
down, and cut out of the rock, or built upon it. It is a path full of
surprises and fascination, formed for a great part of staircases, and in
most places a strong railing is necessary. Near the bridge are seemingly
endless steps, and little bridges descend in uncanny gloom into a huge
cavern, where the path becomes a balcony of wood over the river. Giddy
steps, slippery with damp, lead through the cave, a true _orrido_, and
then come wonderful effects of light and shade. The light falls from
above through four natural arches whose height is over four hundred
feet. From the bottom of the gulf the sky seems far away, the city hides
itself, whilst the rocks appear more imposing than ever. Artists might
spend their days here, for subjects are endless, but they must be
impervious to chills, and have no sense of smell or any fear of typhoid.
Even in winter to walk through the gorge and wonder at its beauty is a
penance for the nose, for it receives the drainage of the tanneries and
the town; but in late spring or summer, when it would be a cool retreat,
the inhabitants say that the air is even more deadly.
Within the walls a superficial observer sees nothing but steep and dirty
French streets, and it is easy to walk all over the town without ever
finding the Arab quarters. This does not mean that the whole place is
not crowded with _indigènes_—far from it, for it is a busy centre, in
which the province of Constantine does its shopping. No town in Algeria
is so laborious and active, the chief trade being in shoes, saddlery,
and burnouses. Town Moors are in the minority, the streets being mostly
thronged by white-robed countrymen, of a rather dirty type. The Arab
women wear dismal grey haïcks, and the young girls and Jewesses, who are
strikingly handsome, wear a coquettish cap, a cone of coloured velvet
embroidered in gold. Sometimes it is covered by a cunningly tied
kerchief, but is often set like a flower on the wearer’s dark locks,
very much on one side of the head. Arab chains of round, flat links,
very large and heavy, are used by the rich to keep on this cap, and big
ear-rings are also worn. The rest of the dress is usually commonplace,
though on Saturdays gay shawls and gorgeous gowns of velvet and plush
are popular.
What is left of the Arab town concealed behind the modern houses is
something like old Algiers. The streets are even narrower and often as
steep, but instead of the cedar beams, the upper stories are built out
on inverted steps till they almost touch each other. Pillars and
capitals from Roman buildings fill corners, form gateways, and have been
used to build the mosques, which are neither very important nor
interesting. Up a few steps on a small vine-covered terrace is the tomb
of a famous saint from Morocco, built partly of fragments of Roman work.
But the individual buildings are nothing. It is the life, the bustle and
confusion in the streets, the tiled roofs, the pale-blue colour on the
walls, the odd-looking shops, the scarlet and blue hanging up in the
streets of the dyers, the glitter of the silver as men crouch over their
tiny fires making rough jewels, the more delicate tones and rhythmic
movements of those who weave silks or belts, or twist soft yellow floss
round enormous winders—small details these, like fine threads weaving
one magic spell—the spell of the East.
Unconsciously this hovers over everything, giving distinction to the
Cathedral, once a mosque with the poetic title of Market of the
Gazelles, by the old tiles and the fine carving of the _mimbar_, or
pulpit. Even the Palace of the last Bey, really so new, built so quickly
by the simple method of pulling down other houses to provide beautiful
carving and richly coloured tiles, and by stealing columns and capitals
from temples, gains its originality in the same way—the singularly naïve
paintings of battles and ships that decorate the walls helping to give
the last touch of apparent age and orientalism to the many courts filled
with orange and lemon trees.
Late in the spring Constantine should be delightful, but, owing to its
elevated situation in a mountainous district, it is often too cold in
the early part of the year for those who come from the warmth and glow
of the desert. It is wintry, though the sun is bright and the air clear,
so that sketching in the chill shade of the streets is out of the
question. It is scarcely warm enough even to enjoy drives, beautiful as
is the countryside and the views from the heights over hill and valley.
There are woods and charming dells, with here and there a Roman ruin as
an object for a walk, such as the aqueduct or the baths of Sidi Meçid.
This bracing mountain air makes the climate splendid for the colonists,
for the extremes of heat and cold are much the same as in their own
beloved France, and to cheer them on their way the Romans have left
inscriptions showing that many centenarians flourished here, and though
the women only managed to live a hundred years, one man, Ælius by name,
reached the age of one hundred and five. Could anyone want more?