and importance were surpassed only by that commemorating the birth of the Prophet.
We left the knoll absorbed in its vigil and hurried to the mosque, for Beatrice and I would not be allowed there later on. The vast columned nave was as bright as a ball-room. Great lanterns hung from every arch and the celebrated candalabra, composed of multitudes of glass cups with floating wicks, were glistening pyramids down the central colonnade. On stockinged feet we padded among the smooth and fluted pillars – glorious shafts ransacked from all the empires of antiquity to uphold this great Islamic shrine. Although it was early, worshippers were scattered here and there, fathers sat with their sons, a few small boys were having a merry game of hide-and-seek, old men moved their lips in prayer, a mother swathed in black led in her little ones, off in an arcade a knot of women conversed quietly through their veils.
We were on our way home when the cannon sounded. Like an echo a muffled roar sprang up from the city and lingered for many minutes. Kalipha, who had come to a halt, shouted: ‘Bless ye the Prophet! On Him be the peace!’ We hastened to the main street, where all was noisy and bright and gay as Broadway at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. Everybody was shouting, ‘O blessing! Blessing! Bless ye the Prophet! On Him be the peace!’ ‘O followers of the Best of Creation – fasting! Fasting!’ ‘Fasting tomorrow, ye sons of Islam!’
What a change from the Kairouan we had known all the winter! By nine o’clock, ordinarily, the population had retired within doors and every reminder of vivid, impetuous day had given way to stately silence. The souks were locked, shop fronts dark, street stalls empty. The main street was deserted save perhaps for a little flock of women shuffling home from the baths or a lone man making for the warmth of somefavourite rendezvous. Coffee-houses were snug dens of sociability and in the stygian blackness of by-streets occasional chinks of light hinted of women at their looms, of tea and story telling.
But Ramadan turned winter to summer, night into day! Business hob-nobbed with pleasure in the brilliant corridors of the souks ; in coffee-houses bordering the market-place bedouins sang to their flutes; the main street gleamed with shop lights, flowed with promenaders wearing musk or jasmine over their ears. In sequestered lanes and quarters the women, too, were celebrating – the thump of their little pottery drums, their shrill merriment defying locked shutters and bolted doors. While high on the minarets those tiny flames, which the wind had spared, fluttered valiantly. Long after Beatrice and I went to bed the singing, the clapping, the plaint of mandolines from the coffee-house below mingled with the happy voices of the promenaders.
I have no idea at what hour the revelry subsided, but when, quite suddenly, I found myself awake, Kairouan was deep in sleep. In a dream Munkar and Nekeer had visited me accompanied by a corps of grisly djinns beating drums and blowing upon little goat-skin bagpipes. Even now, and I was positive that I was awake, I could hear the hollow boom-boom of the diabolical skirling. Afar off, but coming nearer, slowly, taking their time, steadily, with fateful certainty. I lay very taut, though reason scoffed at my fear. Supernatural rubbish! About as supernatural as your straw mattress! The strolling drummers are abroad rousing the city for its last meal. Kalipha warned that you would hear them before daybreak. ‘Awaken! Awaken!’ the tom-toms and zukarrahs are saying. ‘Partake of sahoor ! Eat and drink until ye can discern a white thread from a black!’ Now they had turned into Kalipha’s lane and were advancing toward the street. Passed the Bath of the Bey, passed Numéro vingt, where Mohammed, Kalipha, and Fatma lay under the same blanket, passed the public oven – I cowered under the bed-clothes as the lurid racket climbed through the bars of my
We left the knoll absorbed in its vigil and hurried to the mosque, for Beatrice and I would not be allowed there later on. The vast columned nave was as bright as a ball-room. Great lanterns hung from every arch and the celebrated candalabra, composed of multitudes of glass cups with floating wicks, were glistening pyramids down the central colonnade. On stockinged feet we padded among the smooth and fluted pillars – glorious shafts ransacked from all the empires of antiquity to uphold this great Islamic shrine. Although it was early, worshippers were scattered here and there, fathers sat with their sons, a few small boys were having a merry game of hide-and-seek, old men moved their lips in prayer, a mother swathed in black led in her little ones, off in an arcade a knot of women conversed quietly through their veils.
We were on our way home when the cannon sounded. Like an echo a muffled roar sprang up from the city and lingered for many minutes. Kalipha, who had come to a halt, shouted: ‘Bless ye the Prophet! On Him be the peace!’ We hastened to the main street, where all was noisy and bright and gay as Broadway at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. Everybody was shouting, ‘O blessing! Blessing! Bless ye the Prophet! On Him be the peace!’ ‘O followers of the Best of Creation – fasting! Fasting!’ ‘Fasting tomorrow, ye sons of Islam!’
What a change from the Kairouan we had known all the winter! By nine o’clock, ordinarily, the population had retired within doors and every reminder of vivid, impetuous day had given way to stately silence. The souks were locked, shop fronts dark, street stalls empty. The main street was deserted save perhaps for a little flock of women shuffling home from the baths or a lone man making for the warmth of somefavourite rendezvous. Coffee-houses were snug dens of sociability and in the stygian blackness of by-streets occasional chinks of light hinted of women at their looms, of tea and story telling.
But Ramadan turned winter to summer, night into day! Business hob-nobbed with pleasure in the brilliant corridors of the souks ; in coffee-houses bordering the market-place bedouins sang to their flutes; the main street gleamed with shop lights, flowed with promenaders wearing musk or jasmine over their ears. In sequestered lanes and quarters the women, too, were celebrating – the thump of their little pottery drums, their shrill merriment defying locked shutters and bolted doors. While high on the minarets those tiny flames, which the wind had spared, fluttered valiantly. Long after Beatrice and I went to bed the singing, the clapping, the plaint of mandolines from the coffee-house below mingled with the happy voices of the promenaders.
I have no idea at what hour the revelry subsided, but when, quite suddenly, I found myself awake, Kairouan was deep in sleep. In a dream Munkar and Nekeer had visited me accompanied by a corps of grisly djinns beating drums and blowing upon little goat-skin bagpipes. Even now, and I was positive that I was awake, I could hear the hollow boom-boom of the diabolical skirling. Afar off, but coming nearer, slowly, taking their time, steadily, with fateful certainty. I lay very taut, though reason scoffed at my fear. Supernatural rubbish! About as supernatural as your straw mattress! The strolling drummers are abroad rousing the city for its last meal. Kalipha warned that you would hear them before daybreak. ‘Awaken! Awaken!’ the tom-toms and zukarrahs are saying. ‘Partake of sahoor ! Eat and drink until ye can discern a white thread from a black!’ Now they had turned into Kalipha’s lane and were advancing toward the street. Passed the Bath of the Bey, passed Numéro vingt, where Mohammed, Kalipha, and Fatma lay under the same blanket, passed the public oven – I cowered under the bed-clothes as the lurid racket climbed through the bars of my
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