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diff --git a/23411.txt b/23411.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c6d021 --- /dev/null +++ b/23411.txt @@ -0,0 +1,815 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Smain; 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: Smain; and Safti's Summer Day + 1905 + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: November 8, 2007 [EBook #23411] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMAIN; AND SAFTI'S SUMMER DAY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + + +SMAIN; and SAFTI'S SUMMER DAY. + +By Robert Hichens + +Frederick A. Stokes Company Publishers + +Copyright, 1905 + + + "_When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe._" + + Sahara Saying. + + + + +SMAIN + + +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. + +I stopped to listen, and looked round, searching the vistas between the +palms. + +"Where does it come from?" I asked of Safti. + +His one eye blinked languidly. + +"From some gardener among the trees. All who dwell in Sidi-Matou are +gardeners." + +The persistent flute gave forth a shower of notes that were like drops +of water flung softly in our faces. + +"He is in love," added Safti with a slight yawn. + +"How do you know?" + +"When the African is in love he plays upon the pipe. That is what they +say in the Sahara." + +"And you think he is alone under some palm-tree playing for himself?" + +"Yes; he is quite alone. If he is much in love he will play all day, +and, perhaps, all night too." + +"But she cannot hear him." + +"That does not matter. He plays for his own heart, and his own heart can +hear." + +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. + +"It is coming nearer," I said. + +"Yes. Ah, it is Smain!" + +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. + +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 Smain had never wandered far. + +"What does he say?" I asked of Safti. + +"I tell him we shall be at Touggourt tomorrow night, and shall stay +there a week. He answers that his heart is there with Oreida." + +"What! Does his lady-love live at Touggourt?" + +"Yes; she is a dancer." + +Smain 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. + +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 Oreida drawing near over the sands. + +Smain was but sixteen, tall and slim as a reed, with a poetic face and +lustrous, languid eyes. I imagined Oreida 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 Smain +in the pale yellow twilight I knew that Oreida 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. + +All this I knew from the sound of Smain's flute. I told it to Safti, and +bade him ask Smain if it were not true. + +Smain's reply was:-- + +"She is more beautiful than that; she is like the young gazelle, and +like the first day after the fast of Ramadan." + +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: + +"He would like to come with us to Touggourt and to die there at +Oreida's feet, but his father, Said-ben-Kouidar, wishes him to remain at +Sidi-Matou and to pack dates. He is young, and must obey. Therefore he +is sad." + +The smoke rose up in a cloud round Smain 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 Smain 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 Oreida through the +magical stillness of the night. + +The next day we reached Touggourt, and in the evening I went with Safti +and the Caid of the Nomads to the great cafe 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 cafe 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. + +"Tell me when Oreida comes," I said to Safti, while the Caid spread +forth his ample skirts, and turned a cigarette in his immense black +fingers. + +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 Smain 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. + +"There is Oreida, Sidi." + +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." + +"That is not Oreida," I said to Safti, smiling at his absurd mistake. +For this was the oldest and ugliest dancer of them all. + +"Indeed, Sidi, it is. Ask the Caid." + +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 +"Smain." 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. + +"Smain loves that!" I said to Safti. + +"Yes, Sidi. Oreida is famous, and very rich. She has houses and many +palm-trees, and she is much respected by the other dancers." + +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. + +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. + +"It is Smain," I said to Safti. + +"Yes, Sidi. He will play all night alone among the palms. He is in +love." + +"But with Oreida! Is it possible?" + +"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." + +The flute went on and on, and I said to myself and to the moon, as I had +often said before: + +"He that is born in the Sahara is an impenetrable mystery." + + + + + +SAFTI'S SUMMER DAY. + +By Robert Hichens + + +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 Caid'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 _dejeuner_ +out to the yellow sand dunes, and we sip our coffee among the keef +smokers in Hadj's painted cafe. 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 +"_Bonne nuit!_" and his ghostly figure is lost in the black shadows of +the palm-trees. + +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." + +"Ah yes, Sidi; I am already thirty-two, alas!" + +He was thirty-five when I first met him; but he is as clever at +subtraction as a London beauty. + +"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." + +Safti raised his one dark eye piously towards Allah's dwelling. + +"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." + +"Your holiday! But is it long enough?" + +"It lasts for only five months, Sidi; but it is enough for me. I am +strong as the lion." + +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: + +"And now, Safti, tell me how you pass your little holiday." + +Safti smiled gently in his beard. He was glad to have this moment of +repose. + +"Each day is like its brother, Sidi," he responded, gazing out through +the low doorway to the shimmering Sahara. + +"Then tell me how you pass a summer day." + +The coffee nerved him to this stubborn exertion, and he spoke. + +"_Sahah_ Sidi." + +"_Merci_." + +We sipped. + +"A day in summer, Sidi, when the great heats begin in June? Well, at +five in the morning I get up----' + +"And light the fire," I murmured mechanically. + +The one eye stared in blank amazement. + +"Proceed, Safti. You get up at five. That is very early." + +"The sun rises at a quarter to five." + +"To call you. Well?" + +"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." + +"That is half-an-hour's exercise?" + +"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 cafe at the corner--" + +"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." + +"A black room?" + +"We fear the flies." + +"I see." + +"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 Cafe +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." + +"How intrusive! Always at seven?" + +"Always at seven. I then walk very quietly with my friends to the end of +the oasis." + +"To the Tombuctou road?" + +"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 cafe and play ronda till one o'clock." + +"One o'clock at night?" + +"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." + +"What's lagmi?" + +"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." + +"And you do this for five months?" + +"For five months, Sidi." + +"And--and your wife, Safti?" + +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. + +"My wife, Sidi?" + +"What does she do all the time?" + +"She remains quietly in my house." + +"She never goes out?" + +"Never, except upon the roof to take a little air." + +"Doesn't she get rather bor----" + +The one eye began to look remarkably vague. + +"And you find five months of this life a sufficient rest in the course +of the year?" + +Safti smiled at me with resignation. + +"I cannot take more, Sidi; I am not a rich Englishman." + +"Well, Safti, you must make the best of your fate. It is the will of +Allah that you should toil." + +"_Shal-lah!_ I will take another coffee, Sidi." + +"Larbi!" + +I called the Kabyle boy. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Smain; and Safti's Summer Day, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SMAIN; AND SAFTI'S SUMMER DAY *** + +***** This file should be named 23411.txt or 23411.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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