Smaïn; and Saftis Summer Day | Page 2

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.
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.
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.
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
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."
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.
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.
"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.
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.
"There is Oreïda, 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 Oreïda," 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 Caïd."
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