Artists and Arabs; Or, Sketching in Sunshine

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.

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.

CHAPTER VII. BLIDAH – MEDEAH – THE ATLAS MOUNTAINS

HE Atlas Mountains, of which we have spoken so often, are almost separated from the hills of the Sahel on which the town of Algiers is built, by the broad plain of the Mitidja, averaging between twenty and thirty miles across; and at the inland extremity of this plain, nestling close under the shadow of the lesser Atlas, is situated the town of Blidah, half Arab, half French, with its little population of European colonists and traders; its orange-groves and its orange-merchants, who here pass their monotonous, semi-successful lives – varied by occasional earthquakes and Arab émeutes.

It was not particularly to see Blidah, but because it was on the high road to the Atlas Mountains, and to Medeah, a strongly fortified town situated 2900 feet above the sea-level – approached by a military road cut through the celebrated gorge of 'La Chiffa' – that two of our party left Algiers on horseback, on the 14th of December, on a sketching expedition.

We made other interesting tours at different times; but it will be sufficient for our purpose to speak of two expeditions – the one to Medeah; the other, to the celebrated 'Fort Napoléon,' on the Kabyle Hills.

It seems to say something for the peculiarly invigorating character of the climate that, at an average temperature of 70° Fahrenheit, our little horses did their thirty or forty miles a day, laden with our well-stored saddle-bags and sketching paraphernalia; and it speaks volumes for the security with which travellers can move about from town to town, that we were merely by chance provided with firearms, and that we started without any guide or escort.[25 - At the time we speak of, journeys into the interior were much less frequent than they are now; when there is a railway to Blidah, and a diligence to the Fort Napoléon.]

We pass through the eastern gate before sunrise, and winding up the hills behind Mustapha Supérieure (keeping to the road) we begin to descend on the southern side and have the broad plain of the Mitidja before us, just as the day is breaking. As we come down towards the plain, we pass several farms of the French colonists; and here and there, a tobacco plantation where both Arabs and French are employed. At Birkadem, which is in the midst of a farming district, we halt to breakfast, and run considerable risk of getting into a controversy on French colonization, with some friendly and pleasant, but rather desponding agriculturists.

But, happily for ourselves and for our readers, we do not attempt to master the subject, and with a sketch of the little Moorish café with its marble columns and arcades, we continue our journey; over a wide waste – half moorland, half desert – passing at intervals little oases of cultivation, with houses, shrubs and gardens surrounding. Straight before us, apparently only a few miles off, but in reality twenty, stretches the chain of the lesser Atlas; the dark shadows here and there, pointing out the approaches to a higher range beyond.

At the foot of the mountains we can distinctly see with our glasses, the white Moorish houses and villas that are built near Blidah, and the thick clusters of trees that shelter them. Our way across the plain for the next two or three hours is rather solitary, and although we keep up a steady pace, we seem to get no nearer to our destination. We pass a number of Arabs leading camels, and overtake a troop of twenty or thirty donkeys, laden with goods and ridden by their owners (who sit upon the top of their piles), shambling along almost as fast as a horse can trot. They beat us hollow before noon, because they never stop, and reach Bouffarik, the midday resting-place, long before us.

At Bouffarik we are again amongst the colonists, and hear the peculiar French dialect of Provence and Languedoc, with occasional snatches of German and Maltese. We rest until about two hours of sunset, and become thoroughly imbued with the idea that we must be again in the south of France; so completely have the French realised, in the midst of an African plain, the dull uniformity of a poor French town, with its 'place,' its one street of cobble-stones, and its two rows of trees. Here we can obtain bad coffee, just as we can in France, and read the 'Moniteur' but four days old. It is altogether French, and when the white Arab mare belonging to one of our party turns restive at starting again, and proceeds through the village on its hind legs; it is just in time to remind us that it was here that Horace Vernet worked, and painted those rampant white steeds that we know so well, in the centre of his battle pictures. The war horse, (with the light upon him) was more to Horace Vernet perhaps, than the glory of the whole plain of the Mitidja; but how he could have lived in Algeria so long, and have been so little influenced by the scene around him, it is hard to tell.

It is tempting (indeed it is almost impossible to avoid) at Bouffarik, going a little into the question of colonization, and speaking from personal observation, of the progress made during the last few years. But as English people care little or nothing for the prospects of Algeria, we will merely remark en passant, that the insurmountable evil of Algeria being too near the home country, seems to blight its prospects even here, and that the want of confidence displayed by private capitalists retards all progress. Nearly all the capital employed by the colonists at Bouffarik and Blidah has been raised by a paternal government; but, notwithstanding help from the home country, the tide of wealth neither flows nor ebbs, with great rapidity.

At Bouffarik we see the Arabs calmly settled under French rule, and learning the arts of peace; taking to husbandry and steam ploughs, and otherwise progressing in a scientific and peaceful direction. We see them in the evening, sitting by their cottages with their half-naked children, looking prosperous and happy enough, and hear them droning to them in that monotonous 'singsong' that is so irritating to the ear.

There is a musician at the door of our hostelry now, who is as great a nuisance as any Italian organ grinder in Mayfair; he taps on a little piece of stretched parchment, and howls without ceasing. It is given to the inhabitants of some countries, who have what is commonly called 'no ear for music' to hum and to drone in more sensitive ears to the point of distraction, and it seems to be the special attribute of the Arab to fill the air with monotonous sounds; when he is on a journey or resting from it, it is the same – he hums and moans like a creature in torment. In contact with Europeans we perhaps see him at his worst; for however orderly and useful a member of society he may be, however neat and clean, there is something cringing and artificial in him at the best. But we must hasten on to Blidah.

Again we cross a wide plain, again do we overtake and are overtaken by, the tribe of donkeys; and just as the sun goes down we enter the city gates together, dismounting in the principal square, which is filled with idlers, chiefly French soldiers and poor Arabs who have learned to beg. We had chosen the time for this journey when the moon was nearly full, and our first near view of the town was by moonlight. Nothing can be conceived more beautiful than Blidah by night, with its little white domes and towers, and the mountains looming indistinctly in the background. In the Moorish quarter, the tower of the principal Mosque stands out clearly defined in the moonlight, whilst all around it cluster the little flat-roofed houses, set in masses of dark foliage – the olives and the date-trees, and the sharp-pointed spires of the cypresses, just tinged with a silver light.

So peaceful, so beautiful does it look at night, so complete the repose with which we have always associated Blidah, that it is a rude disenchantment to learn that but a few years ago, this city was upheaved and tossed about, like the waves of the sea. In 1825, eight or nine thousand people perished from an earthquake; and in 1866, a lady who was staying at our hotel, thus wrote home to her friends:[26 - 'Last Winter in Algeria,' by Mrs. H. Lloyd Evans.'I was roused from sleep by a sound as of some one beating the floor above, and the walls on every side. It increased rapidly in violence, till the whole house shook and rocked and seemed giving way beneath our feet. I saw the wall in the corner of the room split open, and immediately afterwards masses of plaster fell from the ceiling and walls, bringing clouds of dust and a darkness as of night.'On the Place it was a fearful scene, people came tearing down the neighbouring streets, women and children ran aimlessly hither and thither, shrieking wildly, men uttering hoarse sounds of terror, whilst the ground heaved and trembled beneath our feet, and we gazed at the surrounding houses in expectant horror; it seemed as if they must fall like a pack of cards. The young trees rocked and swayed, the flagstaff waved backwards and forwards – the wind moaning, the rain pouring down, whilst above all rose, ever and anon, the sound of cavalry trumpets and the rolling of the drum, calling on the troops to quit their tottering barracks.'The Arabs alone stalked about unmoved, shrugging their shoulders and muttering "It is destiny!"']

The air is delightful at Blidah, and the little country houses, with their groves of orange-trees, their gardens and vineyards, have been pointed out by travellers, as some of the most desirable spots on earth. The extract above may tend to qualify the longings of some people; but we think we might 'take our chance' at Blidah, as the Neapolitans do near Vesuvius – there are so many compensations.

Early in the morning we are again on our way, and as we leave the western gate, the donkeys, with their dirty drivers, scramble out with us and again play the game of the tortoise and the hare.

The gorge of La Chiffa is one of the principal approaches to the mountains, through which a military road is cut to Medeah. The first part is wild and rocky, the road passing between almost perpendicular cliffs, carried sometimes by masonry over a chasm at a height of several thousand feet. We ride for miles through a valley of most solitary grandeur, with no sounds but the rushing of the torrent and the occasional cries of monkeys. We pass by one celebrated waterfall called 'Ruisseau des Singes,' and are otherwise reminded of the presence of monkeys, by their pelting us with large stones, which they dislodge from their hiding-places above our heads.

We are at times so shut in by the rocks, that we can scarcely discover any outlet, but after a few hours' ascent, we come suddenly upon quite a different scene. What is it that delights the eye and that thrills us with pleasurable emotions, calling up memories of green lanes and England, pastoral?'Tis the plash of water, and the trickling, tinkling play of a running stream, winding and winding down to the swollen torrent that we crossed just now.

Here under the shadow and shelter of the mountains – refreshed by rains that they in the plains know not of, and where the heat of a midday sun can scarcely approach – we find a cottage, a little farm, green pastures, cattle grazing, trees, flowers and children; the stream flowing through all, bright, deep, and sparkling, with green banks, bullrushes and lilies of the valley of the Atlas. A few poor emigrants have settled down in this corner of the world, as quietly, and we may add as securely, as if a sandy plain did not divide them from everything kindred and civilized.

We make our midday halt under the shade of chesnut-trees, and sketch; one great defect of our drawings being, that they are far too pastoral – they would not be admitted by judges, to represent Africa at all! Nothing in this land of strong contrasts could equal the change from Nature, untilled, unfruitful, stern and forbidding; to this little farm-house, as it might be in Wales, surrounded by trees and watered by a sparkling stream.

Continuing our journey up the gorge, walking, riding, clambering, and resting, by turns, we do not reach Medeah until after dark. During the last few miles our horses are troublesome, and will not be persuaded to pass close to any rock or brushwood, being evidently nervous of some sudden attack, or surprise; and so we creep along silently and in single file, trusting chiefly to our horses to keep to the path.

At last the long-looked-for lights of Medeah appear, and in a quarter of an hour afterwards we are inside the fortifications; and with a 'Voyageurs, monsieur' to the sentinel at the gate, we pass under the dark arches of a Roman aqueduct – casting a deep shadow over the town as the moon shines out, now obscured again by a passing cloud – like some solemn dissolving view of Roman power, or phantom monument of the past.

At Medeah, we find everything much the same as at Blidah; a little rougher and poorer perhaps, but the same mixture of French and Moorish buildings. Fine old mosques, courtyards after the style of the Alhambra, and carved doorways of very early date; but brick fortifications, young French soldiers, estaminéts, and a 'Place' with half-dead trees, are more prominent features; and here, at a height of nearly 3000 feet above the sea, set deep in the heart of the Atlas, civilization may again be seen, doing its work – the Arabs indulging in absinthe freely, and playing at cards with their conquerors.

The beautiful mountain scenery south of Medeah led us to spend some time in sketching and in exploring the country. In spite of its wildness and solitariness we could wander about with perfect security, within a day or two's journey of the French outposts. The crisp keen air at this altitude tempted us on and on, through the most deserted region that can be imagined. The mountain-ranges to the south were like an undulating sea, divided from us by lesser hills and little plains, with here and there valleys, green and cultivated; but the prevailing character of the scenery was rocky and barren. The great beauty was in the clouds that passed over at intervals, spreading a grateful shade, and casting wonderful shadows on the rocks. The rain would fall heavily through them sometimes for three or four minutes, like summer showers, and the little dried-up torrent beds would trickle for a while; the Arabs would collect a few drops, and then all would be gone – the clouds, the rivulets, and every sign of moisture on the ground – and the mountains would stand out sharp and clear against the sky, with that curious pinky hue, so well portrayed in the background of Lewis's picture of 'A camp on Mount Sinai.' Here we could pitch our tent in the deepest solitude, and romance as much as we pleased without fear of interruption. The only variation to the almost death-like silence that prevailed, would be the distant cry of a jackal, which disturbed us for a moment, or the moaning of the wind in some far-off valley, for the air seemed never still on these heights. A stray monkey or two, would come and furtively peep at our proceedings, but would be off again in an instant, and there were no birds; indeed, since we left Blidah we had scarcely heard their voices. The few Arab tribes that cultivated the valleys, seldom came near us; so that we sometimes heard no voices but our own, from morning till night.

One day proved an exception. We had been making a drawing of the prospect due south, in order to get the effect of the sun's rays upon a sandy plateau that stretched between us and the next range of mountains: it was little more than a study of colour and effect, for there was not much to break the monotony of the subject – a sand-plain bounded by barren rocks. We had nearly finished our work, when two dark specks appeared suddenly on the sky-line, and quickly descending the rocks, began to cross the plain towards us. With our telescope, we soon made out that they were horsemen at full gallop, and we could tell this, not by the figures themselves, but by the long shadows that the afternoon sun cast from them upon the plain. In a few minutes they rode up to our tent. They were not, as our porters had insisted, some Arabs on a reconnoitering expedition, but two American gentlemen on hired horses from Algiers, who were scampering about the country without any guide or escort. They had come from Milianah that day, they would be at Blidah to-morrow, and at Algiers the next day, in time to 'catch the boat for Europe!'

There was an end to all romance about desert scenes and being 'alone with Nature we could not get rid of the western world, we were tourists and nothing more.

But it was pleasant to hear the English language spoken, and delightful to record that these gentlemen neither bragged of their exploits nor favoured us with what are called 'Americanisms.' In short, we are able to speak of our interview (they came back with us as far as Medeah) without repeating any of those bits of smart conversation, that seem inseparable from the record of such rencontres. These gentlemen had taken a glance at a great deal, in four or five days, and had been (perhaps it did not much matter) once or twice, into a little danger; they had seen the cedar forests, the 'Fort Napoléon,' and the principal sights, and were now on their way home. They had, however, done one thing, in which they evidently felt unmixed satisfaction, though they did not express it in so many words – they had been rather farther into the interior, than any of their countrymen.

Before leaving the mountains, we should answer a question that we have been asked repeatedly, 'What of the African lion, so celebrated by Jules Gérard?' We answer, that we did not penetrate far enough for 'sport,' of this kind; indeed we scarcely ever heard of any lions. Once only our horses stopped and trembled violently, and would not pass a thicket without a long detour; and once (only once) we heard the lion's roar, not far off. It is a sound that carries a dread with it not soon forgotten, and the solemnity of which, when echoed from the mountains, it is not easy to describe. Perhaps the only person who was ever flippant in speaking of lions, was Gordon Cumming, but then he used to go amongst them (according to his own account), single-handed, to 'select specimens' before firing!

But in the solitude of these mountain wanderings, we have had opportunities of seeing one phase of Arab life that we had really come out to see, and which was alone worth the journey.

We had started early one morning from Blidah, but not so early, that in deference to the wishes of some of our companions, we had first attended service in a chapel, dedicated to 'Our Lady of Succour.' We went into the little building, which, like some rare exotic, was flourishing alone, surrounded by the most discordant elements – situated hard by a mosque and close to some noisy Arab dwellings. Service was being performed in the usual manner, the priests were bowing before a tinsel cross, and praying (in a language of their own) to a coloured print of 'Our Lady,' in a gilt frame. There were the customary chauntings, the swinging of censers, the creaking of chairs, the interchanging of glances, and the paying of sous. Sins were confessed through a hole in the wall, and holy water was administered to the faithful, with a brush. Everything was conducted with perfect decorum, and was (as it seemed to an eyewitness) the most materialistic expression of devotion it were possible to devise.

Before the evening of the same day, we make a halt amongst the mountains. A few yards from us we see in the evening light a promontory; upon it some figures, motionless, and nearly the same colour as the rocks – Arabs watching the setting sun. The twilight has faded so rapidly into darkness, that we have soon to put by our work, and can see no objects, distinctly, excepting this promontory; on which the sun still shines through some unseen valley, and lights up the figures as they kneel in prayer. The solemnity of the scene could hardly be conveyed to the mind of the reader in words, its picturesqueness we should altogether fail to do justice to; but its beauty and suggestiveness, set us upon a train of thought, which, in connection with the ceremony of the morning, we may be pardoned for dwelling upon in a few words.

It was not the first nor the last time, that we had witnessed the Arabs at prayer, and had studied with a painter's eye their attitudes of devotion, the religious fervour in their faces, and their perfect abandon. The charm of the scene was in its primitive aspect, and in the absence of all the accessories, which Europeans are taught from their youth up, to connect in some way, with every act of public worship; and who could help being struck by the sight of all this earnestness – at these heartfelt prayers? What does the Arab see, in this mystery of beauty, in its daily recurring 'splendour and decline? Shall we say that the rising and the setting of the sun behind the hills, may not (to the rude souls of men who have learned their all from Nature), point out the entrance of that Paradise, which their simple faith has taught them, they shall one day enter and possess?

If it were possible in these days, when religious art assumes the most fantastic forms, to create ever so slight a re-action against a school which has perhaps held its own too long – if it were not heresy to set forth as the noblest aim for a painter, that he should depict the deepest emotion, the simplest faith, the most heartfelt devotion, without the accessories of purple and fine linen, without marble columns or gilded shrines, without furniture, without Madonnas and without paste – then we might point confidently to the picture before us to aid our words.

What if the heaven prayed for, and the prophet worshipped, seem to a Christian unorthodox and worse – there is sincerity here, there is faith, devotion, ecstasy, adoration. What more, indeed, does the painter hope for – what does he seek; and what more has he ever found in the noblest work of Christian art?

If he lack enthusiasm, still, before a scene so strange, let him think for a moment what manner of worship this, of the Arabs is; and contrast their system with that of the Vatican. The religion of the Arabs is a very striking thing, and its position and influence on their lives might put many professing Christians to the blush. An honest, earnest faith is theirs, be it right or wrong. If we examine it at all, we find it something more than a silly superstition; we find that it has been 'a firm belief and hope amongst twelve millions of men in Arabia alone, holding its place in their hearts for more than twelve hundred years.' It is a religion of Duty, an acting up to certain fixed principles and defined laws of life, untrammelled by many ceremonies, unshaken by doubts; a following out to the letter, the written law, as laid down for them by Mahomet, as the rule and principle of their lives.