Part 13

The crudities of the desert have a charm all their own. There is a wild flavor not only in the life but in the nostrils. The strong saltpetre smells, impregnating the air for leagues, the earthy scents of the marsh-like and sodden soil, the odors of cattle, are stimulants; they recall the whiff of salt marshes by the sea, the tarred ropes of wharfs, the sharp fragrance of rolled seaweed on the beaches, aromas of low tide, in days of long ago. They are both prophecies and memories. They wake my boyhood blood and are a renewal of long slumbering appetites. I want salt in my life, an acrid savor. The desert dispenses with unnecessary refinements; all pruderies cease; nature returns. Nature is clean; the wind and the sun are great scavengers; even death is no longer a corruption, but a negligible detail. The skeletons of the camels in the sands have nothing _macabre_; they are there as the tamarisk and the drin are there, objects of the sands, like floating spars at sea, wasting away in the great deep; they show the way that life has gone. Even the dogs, with their paws on the carcass, tearing the flesh, seem ordinary; the brutality ceases in the primeval naturalness of the act in the scene. It is the will of nature that rules there in the wild, and is accepted almost without notice. It is the same, too, with human life. Poverty, hardship, privation, lose half their repugnancy; it is only when men dispense them that they revolt us; humanity accepts necessary suffering with little appeal. The eye hardens, the heart stiffens; the fibre of an older world forms in us. It is a veritable return to nature. Old instincts awake; old powers of endurance come back and bring with them old moods of patience; old indifferences appear. Cruelties of man or nature are incidents. A new resistance is unlocked in the body, in the spirit. It is a strong life. It is the desert world.

It is under these lights that one contemplates the wretched human lot in the wild glory of nature. The grandeur of the natural scene—the miserable life of men—no eye can miss that contrast over all these horizons. The splendid force of nature, visible in all its energies, on a scale of sublimity, triumphant, the master of the world! But life—it is _la misère_. Look at the crouching tent, irregularly striped with brown and white, wool and camel skin, pitched under the crest of the great yellow dunes or in some wrinkle of the rock face of the waste. There are a few sacks of barley and dates, a scanty provision for the future, heaped at the foot of the pole; a wooden plate or two, cups, an earthen pot; ropes, a goatskin of water, mats of alfa or other grass to sleep on. The wife, with a babe on her back and others tumbling about, toils through the day, draws water, boils the pot, weaves, bears the heavy burden. The boys go with the herd, the man to his labor. The night is an uneasy watch. The master sleeps, some weapon near by, his head on the little sack that holds the women’s trinkets of coral or silver, or other trifles of value to them; if there is money, it is buried. The yellow dog with the pointed teeth growls, and howls, and barks—a jackal, a thief. Such is the day and night of the tent, the nomad life, moving from place to place with the seasons, subject to all weathers, threatened by violent winds and sudden torrents, and often flitting day by day and leaving no trace. When a stay is more prolonged a hedge of fagots fends the tent from the wind, and gives a slight protection against nocturnal attacks of other wanderers. One sees the tent; it is a common object, and gives up its bareness at a glance; but one cannot realize its life. It is too near to the soil, to the deprivations and insecurity of animal life. What humility in its joys and pains! What parsimony! What a place for age, which comes rapidly here, and is isolated in its uselessness! Death reaps in it as in a harvest. The weak, the old, the stricken, in this life of continual contingency, go quickly away, and are as quickly forgotten. It is the life. The infant mortality is enormous, like the death-rate of creatures that spawn in order that the race may survive.

The life of the tent is on the outer margin of observation, though it is the nomadic life of the land. Where the natives gather together in villages one sees them more nigh. In a Europeanized place like Biskra, the native quarter of the town—not the village, which lies in the oasis—takes on the look of a ghetto. There, in the street, in the market, one sees the poverty of the Arabs, the slender pittance of their days, wherever the humble wants and lean provision of their life emerge to public view; and Biskra is a place of great prosperity. There are many villages in the Rir country, however, that are quite untouched by the European. They have not the look of dilapidation and misery of the ksour of the Sud-Oranais, scarce distinguishable from the soil, dark and fallen warrens; but they are only a degree removed from that, and their life must be analogous. Arab poverty you may see anywhere in the land, but the full sense of it comes and sinks in only when one has broken the blank wall of the secrecy of such a village, and in some outlying place of their own, in the sand and the sun, gone into their houses. When a poor Arab enters his house it is as when some animal leaves the life of the forest for his hole in the ground.

One day I went up to El Kantara, the station at the mouth of the pass above Biskra, whose superb view, so often described, first gives to the traveller the measureless vision of the warm-toned, sterile lands, an empire worthy of the sun, and unrolls before his eyes for vague leagues the red and yellow earths, spotted by the black of the oasis-green—the desert’s “panther skin,” in the old Roman’s phrase. In the gorge below lies a great palmerai with three villages, and there I wandered all one winter day. I entered one of them—the first I had ever seen—and passed among the low houses through the narrow lanes. They were made of sun-dried mud—a continuous blank wall with rough-boarded entrances. It might have been a low line of rude stables. There was hardly any one in the streets; occasionally a figure came into view, and passed out of sight. There was intense silence—the silence of night—broken perhaps by the sound of a hammer, or a muffled voice in some interior. The streets were slimy and foul. It was desolation—nothing. It was depressing. The bright sun shone upon all; the cold, vivid green of the palmerai lifted its eyebrow masses against the stone of the cliffs and the intense blue of the sky; in the silence it might have been a dead village, a ruin in some abandoned land, like Yucatan. The strange sadness which is here so often felt and seems to exhale from the desert landscape, which is independent of brilliancy or gloom, a feeling so intimate as to be almost physical, like the languor of heat, lay on everything. It was _la tristesse_, which is universal in the desert, the pathos of “something far more deeply interfused” and infinitely sad; it lurked in the air, the silence, the distance, in the light—everywhere.

I went into some of the houses. They were obscure. The shadows, the damp earth smells made them seem like caves in the ground. They were bare, rude, humble beyond description. I would not have believed that a man who had seen the sun could live in such a cellar-like abode. I was not naturalized then, not subdued to the land; it was a shock to my sensibilities; but later I would stand in such a place and, like my soldier-poet, feel glad that it was not Paris or Marseilles. One easily detaches himself from civilization if the desert talks to him long. One room stamped itself upon my memory. It was a dark, bare bedroom; the bed was made of rough timber, the unstripped bark still on its four posts; there was little else in the room. But on the walls there were three or four beautifully written Arab texts—verses of the Koran.

“So near is heaven to our earth,”

I thought, instinctively varying the line to the case; it was an unconsciously bitter jest. It sometimes seems that devotion in races is in proportion to the fewness of the blessings that the lord of heaven and earth gives to his wandering creatures, and this was in my mind. But that bare, earth-walled room with its texts is my most vivid symbol of Arab piety. It is a believing race.

I remember when the reality of their belief first struck home to me. I was driving on the high plains below the peaks of the range on their northern side, returning from Timgad, that magnificent ruin of a Roman city of high civilization which still lifts erect its vistas of columns over the strewn ground of the abandoned plain, and in its vacant desolation brings back to me more vividly than Pompeii, with a greater nobility and dignity, with a finer imperialism, the great Roman world. I had seen it diminish and sink in the low sunlight, and drop behind. Night had long fallen over the uninhabited, long, Colorado-like, starlit slopes where we drove. It was bitter cold, and I had just drawn another sweater over the head of my Arab boy beside me. Suddenly he said with quick and earnest tones: “_Le bon Dieu_ will take care of you.” I was startled by the intensity of the unexpected voice. “_Le bon Dieu_,” I said; “what do you mean?” The boy gazed at me steadily. I could see the gleam of his deep eyes in the starlight. “_Le bon Dieu_,” he said, and nodded up to the sky. That nod was the most convincing act of faith I ever saw. It was plain that he believed in God as he believed in the reality of his own body. I fell silent, thinking in how marvellous ways we are taught; for the boy taught me something. And as the earthen room with its texts is a symbol to me of Arab piety, the boy’s gesture is my symbol of Arab faith—_la foi_.

I emerged from the obscurity into the brilliant silence of the day; but I could not shake off my oppression. The strange sadness, whose nature I have hinted at, which belongs to the desert, was beginning to make itself known to me. It does not come from the land; it is exhaled from the human spirit in contact with its mortal fate. It may be felt anywhere on the earth; but its home is in the desert. It is sometimes more defined amid the ruins of old cities, or where great tragic events of the race have left their traces on the scene or in the memory—_sunt lacrimæ rerum_. Here it is indefinable, a mood—_mentem mortalia tangunt_; something that haunts the brilliancy before the rainless eyes of the race of men who do not lament any particular catastrophe or weep an unusual loss; a half-unconscious sense of the spirit penetrated and impregnated with having lived, with a feeling of its common lot, its universal fate. It marries with the monotony of things, of life. What monotony of life must be here! Who could understand such lives! I felt a darkness under all that I had seen of Arab existence. There is another side, an underworld, beneath what appears on the surface. Read the annals of Arab war, of Arab love, of Arab rule. What cruelty, what baseness, what rapacity! What a power of hate! No pen can tell the horrors of their warfare, their lust for blood and pain, their delight in carnage and savagery. It is the same with the story of their amours—violent, unmeasured, remorseless—explosions of life. The natural happiness of the race is in these things. So they paint the paradise before the French came, when “the true believers divided their time between love, hunting and war, and no one died without having known the drunkenness that an adored mistress or a day of powder gives.” In the race at large, what lower forms does this heritage of the wild take on! One may read the books, hear living tales, share in actual scenes, and so come to stand in the fringes of their experience and temperament; but he does not penetrate into the Arab soul.

I wandered all day in the palmerai and along the river bank, loitered and forded and climbed, and enjoyed sun and wind and prospect; but the echo of the morning sadness did not leave me, nor did it fade from the atmosphere. The desert life had laid its hand upon me. Later, day after day, as I stood in its lights and shadows, and began to understand, the desert moods grew at once more precise and more commingled, and one among them all seemed to absorb the others. It was the feeling of fatality in all things. It is sympathetic with the drift of my own consciousness. In my common days the sphere of our forethought and volition seems small. Our freedom is no more than a child’s leash from the doorstep. We are embedded in an infinite body of law and circumstance; not much is trusted to ourselves alone. Within this narrow range human liberty is a creation of civilization, a partial dethronement of the tyranny of nature without, and of impulse within, a victory of knowledge, invention, and conscience. Submission is written all over the desert world, which is still in touch with the savage state. There man yet remains in large measure the slave and sport of nature and of his own unreasoned vital instincts. It is true that our diminished and shorn personal liberty in the state is a tame wine to the rich vintage of the freedom of the barbarian to kill, to rape, to rob—to eat up his neighbor and all that is his. The barbarian is the true superman, that monster of an all-devouring and irresponsible self-will. The soul of the desert is not barbarous, but emerging from barbarism; it is on the way to some command of nature and to self-rule, and is rich in the ferment of life forces and in personal adventure; but it knows the iron net of necessity in which it is enmeshed. How extraordinary it is to observe that it is from the freedom of desert life that fatalism emerges in its most rigid and thought-vacant form! The first words of the struggling soul in its dim self-consciousness, amid the throes of impotency and defeats of effort, world-wide are: “It is written.” The will of nature, the will of Allah, the will in which is our peace, however the formula be read, is the deepest conviction and last resort of humanity in the stage which it has not yet known, if it shall ever know, to transcend. Fatality stares from the face of the desert, and drops from the lips of its wandering race like leaves from the dying forest. It is the period of all their prayers.

Moods of the desert, which are also scenes and visions! the infinity, the solitude, the monotony; _la misère, la foi, la tristesse_; fate, peace! They are not words, but things; not thoughts, but experiences; not sentiments, but feelings. On the page they are shadows; there they are realities.

ON THE MAT

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VI

ON THE MAT

I

It was afternoon in a small oasis village of the Zibans. I was seated on a straw mat in a little garden-space just outside the café, and dreamily regarding the intense blue sky through the vine leaves trellised overhead, which flecked me with their shadows. An old Arab was praying just in front. Two groups, one on each side of me, were placidly seated on clean, yellow mats—young men, whose dark, sad faces, thin-featured and large-eyed, contrasted with their white robes. They were smoking kif—a translucence of gold in their clear, bronze skin, a languor of light in their immobile gaze, content. The garden made off before me, topped with palmy distance; the silent street, to one side, was out of sight, as if it were not. It was a place of peace. I had finished my coffee and dates. I filled my brier-wood. The May heat was great, intense; and I settled myself to a long smoke, and fell into reverie and recollection.

How simple it all was! That praying Arab—what an immediacy with God! What a nonchalance in the dreamy pleasures of those delicate-featured youths! What a disburdenment was here! I had only to lift my index-finger to heaven dying, to be one of the faithful; and the fact was symbolic, exemplary, of the simplicity of Islam. It makes the minimum demand on the intellect, on the whole nature of man. I had but lately placed the faith in its true perspective, historically. Mohammedanism, the Ishmael of religions, was the elder brother of Protestantism, notwithstanding profound differences of racial temperament between them. The occidental mind is absorbent, conservative, antiseptic. It is not content, like the Mohammedan, to let things lie where they fall, disintegrate, crumble, and sink into oblivion. Western education fills the mind with the tangle-foot of the past. Catholicism was of this racial strain. It had a genius for absorption. It was the melting-pot of the religious past, and what resulted after centuries was an amalgam, rich in dogma, ritual, and institution, full of inheritance. The Reformation was an attempt to simplify religion and disburden the soul of this inheritance in so far as it contained obsolete, harmful, or inessential elements; many things, such as saint’s worship, art, celibacy, were excised. Mohammedanism, ages before and somewhat differently placed, initiating rather than reforming a faith, was an effort of the desert soul to adapt to itself by instinct the Semitic tradition of God that had grown up in it, and to simplify what was received from its neighbors. The founder of Islam was more absolute and radical in exclusion than the reformers in elimination. Islam had a genius for rejection. Mohammed, with the profound monotheistic instinct that was racial in him, affirmed the unity of God with such grandeur and decision that there was no room in the system for that metaphysical scrutiny of the divine nature in which Catholic theology found so great a career; on the other hand, with his positive sense of human reality, which was also racial, he shut out asceticism, in which Catholic conscience worked out its illustrious monastic future. He had achieved a reconciliation between religion and human nature in the sphere of conduct, and he had silenced controversial dogma in its principal field in the sphere of theology.

A creed so single and elementary had no need of a priesthood to preserve and expound it. There was no room for a clergy here, and there was none. The Reformation diminished but did not end the priest; Islam suppressed him; yet there remained much analogy between Mohammedanism and Protestantism in the field of religious phenomena in which the priest is embryonic. Protestantism is the best example in human affairs of the actual working of anarchy; and, in proportion as its sects recede from the authority and organization of the Catholic Church, it presents in an increasing degree, in its individuality of private judgment and freedom of religious impulse, the anarchic ideal of personal life. Islam offers in practice a similar anarchy. I was struck from the beginning with an odd resemblance to my native New England in this regard. It, too, has been a Marabout-breeding country, with its old revivals, transcendentalists, new lights, Holy Ghosters, and venders of Christian Science. Emerson was a great Marabout. The Mormons, who went to Utah and made a paradise in the desert, were not so very different from the Mzabites who planted an oasis-Eden in the Saharan waste. The communities that from time to time have sprung up and died away, or dragged on an unnoticed life in country districts, are analogous, at least, to the zaouias scattered through this world of mountain and sand. In many ways my first contacts with the faith were sympathetic. The faith that had no need of an intellectual subsidy, that placed no interdict on human nature, that interposed no middlemen between the soul and God, woke intelligible responses in my agnostic, pagan, and Puritan instincts; here, too, was great freedom for the religious impulse and toleration of its career; and I saw with novel interest in operation before my eyes the religious instinct of man, simple in idea, direct in practice, free in manifestation, and on the scale of a race. It was the desert soul that was primarily interesting to me—its environment, its comprehension of that, its responses thereto; and, examining it thus, its religion seemed a thing _intime_ and scarcely separable from its natural instincts and notions.

What is it that is borne in on the desert soul, when it wakes in the great silence, the luminosity, the boundless surge of the sands against the sky! Immensity—the feeling of the infinite—nature taking on the cosmic forms of God. The desert is simple. It has few features, but they are all elements of grandeur. It is the mood of the Psalms. Awe is inbred in the desert dweller. There is, too, a harmony between these few elements in their superb singleness and his lowly mind; not much is required of him, and that little is written large for his understanding; he takes things in wholes. His mind is primary, intuitive, not analytical; he does not multiply thought, he beholds; and this vision of the world he lives in, a wonderfully grand and simple world, suffices for a religious intuition as native to him as the palm to the water-source. The palm is a monotheistic tree. Monotheism belongs to the desert. The faith of the desert is a theism of pure nature, unenriched by any theism of humanity, of the human heart in its self-deification; it is a spiritualization of pure nature worship, whereas Christianity, at least under some aspects, is the grafting of a human ideal on an old cosmogony. The God of the desert is an out-of-doors god, like the Great Spirit of the Indians, who had no temples. No mosque can hold him; there is no altar there, no image. He cannot be cloistered; he has no house, no shrine, where one can repair, and abide for a time, and come away, and perhaps leave religion behind in a place of its own. He is in the desert air; and the desert dweller, girt with that immensity, wherever his eye falls can commune with him; five times daily he bows down in prayer to him and has the intimate sense of his being; he does not think about him—he believes.

The desert cradles, nurses, deepens, colors, and confirms this belief. It is a land of monotony, full of solitude and silence. The impression it thus made upon me was profound, and amounted to an annihilation of the past. The freshness of the wilderness, as the discoverer feels it, lay there; it abolished what was left behind; the Old World had rolled down the other side of the mountains. Life in its turmoil and news, its physical clamor and mental clatter, life the distraction, had ceased. It was not that silence had fallen upon it; but the soul had gone out from it and returned to the silence of nature. There is no speech in that rosy ring of mountain walls, in the implacable gold of the sands undulating away to the blue ends of earth, in the immutable sky; they simply are. In the passage of the winds there is stillness. It is not that there are no sounds. The hush is of the soul. Monotonous? Yes. That is its charm. Monotony belongs to the simple soul; and what is monotone to the eyes of the desert dweller is monotone in the ideas and emotions of his psychology. Repetition belongs to Islam; its words and rites, its music and dances are stereotyped, something completely intelligible, identically recurrent, like tales that please children—the same stories in the same words. Prayer and posture, formula and rhythm, endlessly renewing the same idea and the same sensation—they imprint, they intensify; desert moulds, they help the soul to retain its conscious form. The larger mind that discriminates, analyzes, and explores, may tire of this; but it also finds in such a solitude, full of silence and monotony, a place where the soul collects itself, integrates, and has more profoundly the sense of its own being.