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diff --git a/old/23411-h.htm.2021-01-25 b/old/23411-h.htm.2021-01-25 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cff0402 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/23411-h.htm.2021-01-25 @@ -0,0 +1,1007 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Smaïn; and Safti's Summer Day, by Robert Hichens + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Smaïn; and Safti's Summer Day, by Robert Hichens + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Smaïn; and Safti's Summer Day + 1905 + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23411] +Last Updated: September 25, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMAÏN; AND SAFTI'S SUMMER DAY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SMAÏN; <br /> <br /> and SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY. + </h1> + <h2> + By Robert Hichens<br /> <br /> + </h2> + <h3> + Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers + </h3> + <h4> + Copyright, 1905 + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> SMAÏN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY. </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SMAÏN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe.</i>” + + Sahara Saying. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + Far away in the desert I heard the sound of a flute, pure sound in the + pure air, delicate, sometimes almost comic with the comicality of a child + who bends women to kisses and to nonsense-words. We had passed through the + sandstorm, Safti and I, over the wastes of saltpetre, and come into a land + of palm gardens where there was almost breathless calm. The feet of the + camels paddled over the soft brown earth of the narrow alleys between the + brown earth walls, and we looked down to right and left into the shady + enclosed spaces, seamed with water rills, dotted with little pools of pale + yellow water, and saw always giant palms, with wrinkled trunks and tufted, + deep green foliage, brooding in their squadrons over the dimness they had + made. The activity of man might be discerned here in the regularity of the + artificial rills, the ordered placing of the trees, each of which, too, + stood on its oval hump. But no man was seen; no flat-roofed huts appeared; + no robe, pale blue or white, fluttered among the shadows; no dog blinked + in the golden patches of the sun—only the sound of the flute came to + us from some hidden place ceaselessly, wild and romantic, full of an odd + coquetry, and of an absurdity that was both uncivilised and touching. + </p> + <p> + I stopped to listen, and looked round, searching the vistas between the + palms. + </p> + <p> + “Where does it come from?” I asked of Safti. + </p> + <p> + His one eye blinked languidly. + </p> + <p> + “From some gardener among the trees. All who dwell in Sidi-Matou are + gardeners.” + </p> + <p> + The persistent flute gave forth a shower of notes that were like drops of + water flung softly in our faces. + </p> + <p> + “He is in love,” added Safti with a slight yawn. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe. That is what they say + in the Sahara.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think he is alone under some palm-tree playing for himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; he is quite alone. If he is much in love he will play all day, and, + perhaps, all night too.” + </p> + <p> + “But she cannot hear him.” + </p> + <p> + “That does not matter. He plays for his own heart, and his own heart can + hear.” + </p> + <p> + I listened. Since Safti had spoken the music meant more to me. I tried to + read the player’s heart in the endless song it made. Trills, twitterings, + grace notes, little runs upward ending in the air—surely it was a + boy’s heart, and not unhappy. + </p> + <p> + “It is coming nearer,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Ah, it is Smaïn!” + </p> + <p> + Safti’s one eye is sharp. I had seen no one. But as he spoke a tall youth + in a single white garment glided into my view, his eyes bent down, his + brown fingers fluttering on a long reed flute covered with red arabesques. + His feet were bare, and he moved slowly. + </p> + <p> + Safti hailed him with the accented violence peculiar to the Arabs. He + stopped playing, looked, and smiled all over his young face. In a moment + he was on our side of the earth wall, and talking busily, staring at me + the while with unabashed curiosity. For few strangers come to Sidi-Amrane, + and Smaïn had never wandered far. + </p> + <p> + “What does he say?” I asked of Safti. + </p> + <p> + “I tell him we shall be at Touggourt tomorrow night, and shall stay there + a week. He answers that his heart is there with Oreïda.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Does his lady-love live at Touggourt?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she is a dancer.” + </p> + <p> + Smaïn smiled. He did not understand French, but he knew we were speaking + of his love affair, and he was not afflicted with shyness. As he + accompanied us to the village he played again, and I read his nature in + the soft sounds of his flute. + </p> + <p> + All that day he stayed with us, and nearly all that day he played. Even + when he guided me through the village, where, between terraced houses, + pretty children—the girls in deep purple, with yellow flowers stuck + in their left nostrils, the boys in white—danced with a boisterous + grace round brushwood fires, his flute was at his lips, and his fingers + fluttered ceaselessly. And as night drew on the music was surely more + amorous, and I seemed to see Oreïda drawing near over the sands. + </p> + <p> + Smaïn was but sixteen, tall and slim as a reed, with a poetic face and + lustrous, languid eyes. I imagined Oreïda a child too—one of those + flowers of the desert that blossom early and fade ere noontide comes. + Sometimes such flowers are very beautiful. As I heard the flute of Smaïn + in the pale yellow twilight I knew that Oreïda was beautiful—with + one of those exquisite, lithe figures, whose movements make a song; with + long, narrow dark eyes, mysterious pools of light and shadow; with thick + hair falling loosely round a low, broad forehead; and perfect little + hands, made for the dance of the hands that the Bedouin loves so well. + </p> + <p> + All this I knew from the sound of Smain’s flute. I told it to Safti, and + bade him ask Smaïn if it were not true. + </p> + <p> + Smain’s reply was:— + </p> + <p> + “She is more beautiful than that; she is like the young gazelle, and like + the first day after the fast of Ramadan.” + </p> + <p> + Then he played once more while the moon rose over the palm gardens, and + Safti, lighting his pipe of keef with tender deliberateness, remarked + placidly: + </p> + <p> + “He would like to come with us to Touggourt and to die there at Oreïda’s + feet, but his father, Said-ben-Kouïdar, wishes him to remain at Sidi-Matou + and to pack dates. He is young, and must obey. Therefore he is sad.” + </p> + <p> + The smoke rose up in a cloud round Smaïn and his flute, and now I thought + that, indeed, there was a wild pathos in the music. The moon went up the + sky, and threw silver on the palms. The gay cries from the village died + down. The gardeners lay upon the earth divans under the palmwood roofs, + and slept. And at last Smaïn bade us good-bye. I saw his white figure + glide across the great open space that the moon made white as it was. And + when the shadows took him I still heard the faint sound of his flute, + calling to his heart and to the distant Oreïda through the magical + stillness of the night. + </p> + <p> + The next day we reached Touggourt, and in the evening I went with Safti + and the Caïd of the Nomads to the great café of the dancers in the + outskirts of the town. At the door Arab soldiers were lounging. The pipes + squealed within like souls in torment. In the square bonfires were blazing + fiercely, and the whole desert seemed to throb with beaten drums. Within + the café was a crowd of Arabs, real nomads, some in rags, some richly + dressed, all gravely attentive to the dancers, who entered from a court on + the left, round which their rooms were built in terraces, and danced in + pairs between the broad divans. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me when Oreïda comes,” I said to Safti, while the Caïd spread forth + his ample skirts, and turned a cigarette in his immense black fingers. + </p> + <p> + The dancers came and went. They were amazing trollops, painted until, like + the picture of Balzac’s madman, they were chaotic, a mere mess of frantic + colours. Not for these, I thought, did Smaïn play his flute. The time wore + on. I grew drowsy in the keef-laden air, despite the incessant uproar of + the pipes. Suddenly I started—Safti had touched me. + </p> + <p> + “There is Oreïda, Sidi.” + </p> + <p> + I looked, and saw a lonely dancer entering from the court, large, weary, + crowned with gold, tufted with feathers, wrinkled, with greedy, fatigued + eyes, and hands painted blood-red. She was like an idol in its dotage. + Over her spreading bosom streamed multitudes of golden coins, and many + jewels shone upon her wrists, her arms, her withered neck. She advanced + slowly, as if bored, until she was in the midst of the crowd. Then she + wriggled, stretched forth her hands, slowly stamped her feet, and + promenaded to and fro, occasionally revolving like a child’s top that is + on the verge of “running down.” + </p> + <p> + “That is not Oreïda,” I said to Safti, smiling at his absurd mistake. For + this was the oldest and ugliest dancer of them all. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, Sidi, it is. Ask the Caïd.” + </p> + <p> + I asked that enormous potentate, who was devouring the withered lady with + his eyes. He wagged his head in assent. Just then the dancer paused before + us, and thrusting forward her greasy forehead, enveloped us with a + sphinx-like smirk. As I hastily pressed a two-franc piece above her + eyebrows Safti addressed her animatedly in Arabic. I caught the word + “Smaïn.” The lady smiled, and made a guttural reply; then, with a + somnolent wink at me, she waddled onward, flapping the blood-red hands and + stamping heavily upon the earthen floor. + </p> + <p> + “Smaïn loves that!” I said to Safti. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sidi. Oreïda is famous, and very rich. She has houses and many + palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers.” + </p> + <p> + A week later Safti and I were again at Sidi-Matou, on our way homeward + through the desert. The moon was at the full now, and when we rode up to + the Bordj the open space in front of it, between us and the village, was + flooded with delicate light. Against it one tree, which looked like + Paderewski grown very old, stood up with tousled branches. In the village + bonfires flared, and the dark figures of skipping children passed and + re-passed before them. We heard youthful cries echoing across the sands. + Soon they faded. The lights went out, and the wonderful silence of night + in the desert came in to its heritage. + </p> + <p> + I sat on the edge of an old stone well before the Bordj, while Safti + smoked his keef. Near midnight, quivering across the sands, came the faint + sound of a flute moving from the village towards the deep obscurity of the + palm gardens. I knew that air, those trills, those little runs, those + grace notes. + </p> + <p> + “It is Smaïn,” I said to Safti. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sidi. He will play all night alone among the palms. He is in love.” + </p> + <p> + “But with Oreïda! Is it possible?” + </p> + <p> + “Did he not say that she was like the first day after the fast of Ramadan? + When an African says that his heart is big with love.” + </p> + <p> + The flute went on and on, and I said to myself and to the moon, as I had + often said before: + </p> + <p> + “He that is born in the Sahara is an impenetrable mystery.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY. + </h2> + <h3> + By Robert Hichens + </h3> + <p> + 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. Byrne, 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 <i>déjeuner</i> 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 “<i>Bonne nuit!</i>” and his ghostly figure is lost in the black + shadows of the palm-trees. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah yes, Sidi; I am already thirty-two, alas!” + </p> + <p> + He was thirty-five when I first met him; but he is as clever at + subtraction as a London beauty. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Safti raised his one dark eye piously towards Allah’s dwelling. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “Your holiday! But is it long enough?” + </p> + <p> + “It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am strong + as the lion.” + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday.” + </p> + <p> + Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of + repose. + </p> + <p> + “Each day is like its brother, Sidi,” he responded, gazing out through the + low doorway to the shimmering Sahara. + </p> + <p> + “Then tell me how you pass a summer day.” + </p> + <p> + The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Sahah</i> Sidi.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Merci</i>.” + </p> + <p> + We sipped. + </p> + <p> + “A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at five + in the morning I get up——’ + </p> + <p> + “And light the fire,” I murmured mechanically. + </p> + <p> + The one eye stared in blank amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early.” + </p> + <p> + “The sun rises at a quarter to five.” + </p> + <p> + “To call you. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “That is half-an-hour’s exercise?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “A black room?” + </p> + <p> + “We fear the flies.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “How intrusive! Always at seven?” + </p> + <p> + “Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end of + the oasis.” + </p> + <p> + “To the Tombuctou road?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “One o’clock at night?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s lagmi?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “And you do this for five months?” + </p> + <p> + “For five months, Sidi.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and your wife, Safti?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “My wife, Sidi?” + </p> + <p> + “What does she do all the time?” + </p> + <p> + “She remains quietly in my house.” + </p> + <p> + “She never goes out?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, except upon the roof to take a little air.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t she get rather bor——” + </p> + <p> + The one eye began to look remarkably vague. + </p> + <p> + “And you find five months of this life a sufficient rest in the course of + the year?” + </p> + <p> + Safti smiled at me with resignation. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot take more, Sidi; I am not a rich Englishman.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Safti, you must make the best of your fate. It is the will of Allah + that you should toil.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Shal-làh!</i> I will take another coffee, Sidi.” + </p> + <p> + “Larbi!” + </p> + <p> + I called the Kabyle boy. + </p> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Smaïn; and Safti’s Summer Day, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMAÏN; AND SAFTI’S SUMMER DAY *** + +***** This file should be named 23411-h.htm or 23411-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/3/4/1/23411/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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