CHAPTER VII

POETRY, MUSIC, AND DANCING

The Arab is not wholly a silent, morose individual. He has his joys and sorrows, and his own proper means of expressing them like the rest of us. Here in Mediterranean Africa he has kept his traditions alight, and the darkness of the historic past is only relative, even though the Arab does belong to the unprogressive school.

The Arab countries, as the French, the only real masters the Arab has ever had, know them, are a broad belt bordering upon the eastern and southern shores of the Mediterranean, from the Dardanelles to the Straits of Gibraltar; and comprise Arabia proper, the Holy Land, Egypt, Tripoli, Tunisia, Algeria and Morocco. Throughout this region the influence is wholly French, whatever may be the destinies of the various political divisions. Turkey holds the custom-house arrangements, but the language spoken with the outsider is French. Egypt is garrisoned by the English, and its prosperity of to-day was, it is true, born of Lord Cromer's English administration, but for all that the whole complexion is French, the great Suez Canal, the railways and the hotels. Tripoli in Barbary is Turkish, but the trading steamships, the hotels and most of the merchants, are French. Tunisia and Algeria are French through and through, and Morocco may yet become French.

All these Arab lands are peopled with natives of the same tongue, speech and sentiments, though they belong to widely differing tribes.

First of all, be it understood that the Arab of North Africa is no wild, savage, untamed manner of man, but virtually a highly civilized one, so far as tradition goes, whether he be Berber, Kabyle or Nomad. The Arabs' popular literature, their tales, their legends, their proverbs and their songs, are known to be many and great by all who have studied the folk-lore of the ancients. Furthermore they occupy a field which has been but slightly explored save in the "Thousand and One Nights" and certain other works more speculative than popular.

It was Solomon who said that speech was a passing wind, and that to harness it one must know how to write. The Arab writes from right to left, and uses no capitals nor punctuation. The Arab knows two forms of writing: _neskhi_, that belonging to the common people; and the _diouani_, of officialdom. The Arabs and Moors of Spain of other days wrote with a beauty and elegance which to-day has sadly degenerated among all the tribes.

A good handwriting is greatly in honour among the Arabs. "Fine writing augments one's reputation for truth," says Qalqachandi. The Arab writes with a sort of bamboo or rose-tree switch, which he cuts into a point, and he has never yet heard of a steel or gold pen, nor suspected that a goose-quill would answer. For ink he burns sheep's wool, adds gum-water to the cinders, and makes a concoction which, for his purpose, answers well enough. We who are rather particular about such things will not care for its colour or quality.

The Arab, as a matter of fact, writes but little, and composes his letters after traditional types and forms. Formalities have a prominent place. He "begs to intimate" and "has the honour to be" all through the list, until one doubts if he ever can get the kernel out of the nut, and the subject-matter is treated in cyclopædic form.

If the Arab who writes is "classy," and if he occupies a sufficiently high social position, he seals his letter with a cachet, as did our own forefathers, and he also imprints a mark or cipher for a signature; otherwise he signs himself "Ali-Ben something or other, the poor-devil-of-a-sheep-herder-in-the-mountains-of-the far-away-never-never-land." According to the briefness of the signature you are thus enabled to judge of the importance of a letter without reading it through.

This doesn't matter to the Arab, for he has a very poor idea of the value of time or even of the passing of time. His notions with regard to many things may only be described as vague. If he is ill, he goes to a doctor, perhaps even a French one, if he lives near the towns, but immediately the practitioner begins interrogating him he asks: "Why is it, you, who are a savant, do not know what is the matter with me without asking all these questions?" Many of us have thought the same about our own doctors!

The Arabs have a sort of "Jo Miller Joke Book," or "Old Farmer's Almanac," containing many antiquated sayings. Here is an example:

A man asked confidingly of another, "Will you lend me fifty piastres?"

"But I don't know you," was the reply.

"It is for that reason that I ask," said the seeker after unearned wealth.

Pretty bad, even in the translation; but our own comic almanacs and Sunday supplements do considerably worse sometimes.

The Arab's proverbs, or sayings, have become classic, and he has perverted or perhaps simplified many of the sayings of other tongues:

"All is not water that flows down-hill."

"Not every roof is a heaven."

"Not every house is a House of God."

The sentiments expressed by the above are not possible of being misunderstood, and our own similar sayings are not improvements. Chief among Arab tales and proverbs are those concerning horses and mules. "The fortresses of the Arabs are their horses and guns."

The folk-lore and tales, current mostly by word of mouth, of the Arab of the Sahara is apparently very abundant. Each tribe, nay, each encampment, one meets on the march has its Tusitala or teller of tales, as do the South Sea Island communities. Tales, legends, traditions, fables and even accounts of travel make up the repertory of the Arab story-teller; besides which there are songs and chants, religious and profane, many of them perhaps dating back before the days of Mohammed.

The mule has ever been the butt of Arab proverb and legend. There is a story of a wood-cutter of the forests of Kabylie who, having left his mule tied to a tree in a half-hidden spot, found it gone when he went to look for it after finishing his day's work. Two robbers--just plain horse-thieves--had come up previously, and one had made away with the mule, leaving its bridle and saddle harnessed on the other fellow who remained behind.

"Who are you?" asked the wood-chopper, "and where is my mule?" as he came up.

"I was your mule, good master; years ago I insulted my parents and God turned me into a mule."

The wood-chopper, astonished, knew not what to say or do.

"But I will stay with you always," said the thieving rascal, merely to gain time.

"Well, I don't want you; you are free," the woodman replied generously.

Three days later, in the public market-place, he saw and recognized his mule in the hands of a trader. He did not dare claim him, or rather he could not make his claim good, so he tweaked the mule's ears and shouted at him: "So you've been insulting your parents again, have you? Well, to serve you right, may you find a harsher master than I."

Another favourite subject of Arab story and proverb makers is that of the farmer and his crops. The following is a fair sample:--

Satan appeared one day before an Arab sowing his fields, introduced himself and said that half the world belonged to him, and that he claimed half the coming crop.

"Very well," said the labourer, "which half? That which is above ground or that which is below?"

The Devil was no agriculturist, he could not tell pumpkin seeds from turnip seeds, so he said simply that he wouldn't be put off with the roots. That what he wanted was that which grew above ground. On the day of the harvest the Devil came around for his share--and got it, turnip tops, good for greens, if boiled, but otherwise food for cattle.

The next sowing time he came again. This time he claimed that which was below ground--and got it. The Arab had sown buckwheat, of which all Arabs are very fond.

Furious and speechless with anger, the Devil took flight and vowed he would have no more to do with the race. This tale bears some resemblance to the European legend of St. Crepin and the Devil, which the peasant of Mid-France tells regularly to his family twice each year, once at the sowing and once at the reaping. It is a classic. Query: Did the Arab steal his tale from the Auvergnat, or did the latter appropriate it from the former?

The native music of all African tribes is of slight importance. It never reaches a great height. It is simply a piercing, dismal wail, and since it is invariably produced by instruments which look as if they could produce nothing else, this is not to be wondered at.

There is method in the native musician's effort, however, whether he hails from Kabylie, the Soudan or the Congo.

Chiefly their instruments are of the appearance and value of penny whistles, toy drums and home-made fiddles.

It may be true that the soul of a people manifests itself in musical expression, but if so the African's soul is a very minor thing in his make-up.

The vibrating chant of the Bedouin Arab, accompanied by the music of his crude

instruments, reminds one of Théophile Gautier's phrase: "The making of music was a troublesome, noisy amusement." Coming out from beneath one of the "Great Tents" of an encampment, or from behind a sand-dune of the desert, it is suggestive of an exotic mystery. But when one comes actually to face "La musique Arabe," one calls it simply idiotic, and nothing else. This even though the stolid Berber affirms that it _is_ an expression of his very soul. Musical intuition is one thing and musical education quite another.

The real king of an Arab orchestra is the _bendir_ player. His is the most violent exercises of all the players. The _bendir_ is a drum, a sort of a cross between a tambourine and a flour-sieve. There may be a whole battery of accompanying musical instruments, or there may be only a supporting pipe or flute. The pipe may be played alone, but the _bendir_ never. These two instruments are the invariable accompaniment of the serpent charmer and the man who eats scorpions for the delectation of tourists, at a franc a time. He doesn't really eat them--but that is another story.

Seriously, those who have delved into the subject pretend to have discovered method in the music of the Arab; but the "Hymne Khédivial," which charms Mediterranean tourists on the terrace of Shepheard's Hotel at Cairo is nothing Arab at all. On the other hand, the "Marche Hamidiè," which one hears at Tangier, is banal enough to be pure Arab, and "La Musique Beylicale" at Tunis sounds more like the blows of a pick-axe on a water-pipe than anything else.

When it comes to the street music of the big towns, that of the dancers, and of the followers of marriage and funeral processions, there is a repetition of the same dreary wail; a mild imitation of the Scotch pibroch or the _binou_ one hears in Brittany.

Arab music possesses, however, we learn, a certain formal notation which is seemingly too complicated to admit of setting forth here.

The composition of an Arab orchestra is not always the same; there are divers combinations. There is always a _bendir_, and there are _tabellas_ and _chekacheks_ or pipes; and again more pipes or flutes, smaller in size; and a _gambri_ and perhaps a _mejoued_, the latter practically imitations of European mandolines and violas. With these crazily mixed elements are given the concerts that one hears so often in the open air or in the Moorish cafés. The music, if music it is, rises and falls in erratic

cadences, sometimes brutal and sometimes soft; but never melodious and always shrill and brassy.

Whether or no Arab music is great music is no part of the writer of this book to attempt to explain. The following anecdote of the late Bey of Tunis, who died in 1906, has some bearing on the question of native taste in that line.

About fifty years ago, before the legions of France invaded the country, the Mussulman sovereigns of the period regularly bought European slaves, brought to them by pirate ships cruising in the Mediterranean. One of these unfortunate captives, brought before the Bey of Tunis and questioned as to his capabilities, admitted in a rash moment that he was the leader of an orchestra.

"Just what I want," said the Bey. "I always wished to have a band."

The prisoner began to feel uncomfortable. He saw the grave danger which menaced him. There were no instruments, and to his Majesty he explained that he must have a big drum, several little ones, large and small flutes, violins and violoncellos, trombones and cymbals.

"I have more than enough to pay for all you want," was the answer of the Bey. And he gave an order to buy the instruments.

"But the musicians?" queried the prisoner in alarm.

"Musicians! I will give you fifty negroes."

"But," asked the orchestra leader, in despair, "do the negroes know music?"

"That," answered the Bey, "is your affair, and if in a month they cannot play an air before me, you will be impaled, that's all."

The captive turned away, feeling that he had only one more month to live. But he thought he would see what the negroes could do. So he began to teach them, and for fourteen hours a day he made them practise on their instruments, giving them--as he was a Frenchman--a simple air, "_Maman, les p'tits bateaux--qui vont sur l'eau--ont-ils des jambes?_" But his efforts only plunged him in a deeper despair. One of the flute-players managed to repeat more or less accurately four or five measures, but the violinists could never get more than one note from their instruments. The trombones produced a series of most melancholy sounds. Only the big drum rose to the height of the occasion. When the fatal date arrived, the Bey summoned the leader of the orchestra before him.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Your Majesty--" began the trembling musician.

"Then play!" was the imperative command.

The fifty negroes commenced to tune up their instruments. But no two of them ever got the same key, and the discord they made was indescribable. However, when they seemed to have reached some semblance of unison, the leader gave the signal to commence, and the dusky orchestra attacked "_Les p'tits bateaux_." The result was heartrending, and as the ear-splitting torture proceeded the leader said to himself: "In another ten minutes I shall be impaled."

The concert finally came to an end unexpectedly with a solo on the big drum. The Bey kept silence for a minute, while the leader's knees quaked against each other.

"It is not bad," said his Majesty, slowly, "but I liked the first air best."

The first air was the discordant attempt made by the negroes to tune their instruments. The leader of the orchestra began to breathe again. And from that time he gave concerts every day, and grew old and wealthy in the service of the court of the Bey of Tunis.

If one had only ears with which to hear, and no eyes with which to see, this music could readily be likened to that which accompanied the dancers of the King of Cambodia. This, at any rate, is the impression given the writer; he has heard both kinds, and there is no choice between them.

Dancing among the Arabs is a profession abandoned to the lower classes of women, and to slaves. There are two schools, as one might say: those who go around to the houses of the rich and dance for the edification of their employers and their guests, like the entertainers, the "lady-whistlers" and unsuccessful opera stars of other lands; and a less recherché class who are to all intents and purposes mere street dancers of a morality several shades removed from Esmeralda.

These latter, the "_anâlem publiques_," as they are designated in the Frenchified towns of the littoral, are known otherwise as _ghaouâzy_, and by supposedly blasé travellers as _almas_, which indeed they are not, any more than are they houris. A musician of questionable talent usually accompanies these street dancers, and picks out a monotonous minor twang to which the "dancers" jerk and twist and shrug, and then come around for a collection if they don't "dance" themselves into a state of coma--in which case they take up the collection first.

The _danseuses_ of Biskra, Tunis and Constantine are daring, dusky beauties whose lives at any rate are more wholesome than those lived by the same class in the dance halls of Europe. There is a savagery about them and their dress that makes for a suggestion of another world; and if they are immoral it is because the strangers who have come among them have made them so. "It wasn't so before the white man came," is the plaint of many an exotic race. The Gringo complains of the American and his innovations, the Hindu wails loudly against the Englishman, and the Arab protests against the Latin and the Turk.