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.dt The Project Gutenberg eBook of Morocco, Its People and Places, by Edmondo De Amicis
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<xxl>Morocco, Its People and Places</xxl>
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Transcriber’s Note:

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<xxl><B>Morocco, Its People And Places</B></xxl>

<s><B>By</B></s>

<xxl><B>Edmondo De Amicis</B></xxl>
<l><B>Translated by C. Rollin-Tilton</B></l>


New York
G. P. Butnam's Sons
27 & 29 West 23d Street

1882
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.il fn=frontis.png w=100% id=i006 alt='General View of Tangiers.'
.ca General View Of Tangiers.
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[Illustration: General View of Tangiers.]
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CONTENTS.
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<th>CHAPTER                        |        PAGE
I TANGIERS                     |      #1:chap01#
II HAD-EL-GARBIA               |      #70:chap02#
III TLETA DE REISSANA          |      #101:chap03#
IV ALKAZAR-EL-KEBIR            |      #114:chap04#
V BEN-AUDA                     |      #126:chap05#
VI KARIA-EL-ABBASSI            |      #138:chap06#
VII BENI-HASSAN                |      #153:chap07#
VIII SIDI-HASSEM               |      #167:chap08#
IX ZEGUTA                      |      #175:chap09#
X FROM ZEGUTA TO SAGAT         |      #186:chap10#
XI FEZ                         |      #192:chap11#
XII MECHINEZ                   |      #329:chap12#
XIII ON THE SEBÙ               |      #347:chap13#
XIV ARZILLA                    |      #362:chap14#
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ILLUSTRATIONS.
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<th>                               |        PAGE
GENERAL VIEW OF TANGIERS       |       #6:i006#
FESTIVAL OF THE CIRCUMCISION   |       #24:i024#
MAHOMET                        |       #34:i034#
MARRIAGE PROCESSION IN TANGIERS |      #36:i036#
MOORISH HUSBANDMAN             |       #54:i054#
LOADING THE CAMELS             |       #66:i066#
PEASANT WOMEN OF THE INTERIOR  |       #76:i076#
THE ARAB’S MORNING PRAYER      |       #78:i078#
PEOPLE OF ALKAZAR              |       #122:i122#
THE GOVERNOR ABD-ALLA          |       #138:i138#
TAKING TEA WITH THE GOVERNOR OF KARIA-EL-ABBASSI |     #142:i142#
A CENTIPEDE                    |      #146:i146#
THE CAMEL CONVEYANCE           |      #174:i174#
SHOE SHOP, FEZ                 |      #202:i202#
MOOR OF FEZ                    |      #216:i216#
A SAINT, FEZ                   |      #224:i224#
INNER COURT OF OUR HOUSE AT FEZ |     #226:i226#
ON THE TERRACES, FEZ           |      #238:i238#
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE GRAND VIZIER |    #242:i242#
NEGRO SLAVE OF FEZ             |      #284:i284#
SLAVE OF THE SULTAN            |      #310:i310#
GATEWAY AT MECHINEZ            |      #336:i336#
PALACE OF THE GOVERNOR OF MECHINEZ |     #340:i340#
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CHAPTER I. | TANGIERS.
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There are no two countries in the world more
entirely different from each other than the
two which are separated by the Straits of Gibraltar;
and this diversity is peculiarly apparent to the traveller
who approaches Tangiers from Gibraltar, where
he has left the hurried, noisy, splendid life of a European
city. At only three hours’ journey from
thence the very name of our continent seems unknown;
the word “Christian” signifies enemy; our
civilization is ignored, or feared, or derided; all
things, from the very foundations of social life to its
most insignificant particulars, are changed, and every
indication of the neighborhood of Europe has disappeared.
You are in an unknown country, having no
bonds of interest in it, and every thing to learn.
From its shore the European coast can still be seen,
but the heart feels itself at an immeasurable distance,
as if that narrow tract of sea were an ocean, and
.pn +1
those blue mountains an illusion. Within three
hours a wonderful transformation has taken place
around you.

The emotion, however, which one naturally feels
on first setting foot on that immense and mysterious
continent, which has moved the imagination since
one’s childhood, is disturbed by the manner of disembarkation.
Just as we began to see distinctly
from the vessel the first white houses of Tangiers, a
Spanish lady behind us cried out, in a voice of alarm,
“What can all those people want?” I looked, and
beheld behind the boats that were coming to take
off the passengers, a crowd of half-naked, ragged
Arabs, standing up to their hips in the water, and
pointing out the ship with eager gestures, like a band
of brigands rejoicing over their approaching prey.
Not knowing who they were, or what they wanted,
I descended with an anxious mind into the boat
with the other passengers. When we had come
to within twenty paces of the shore all this brick-colored
crew swarmed into our boat and laid
hands upon us, vociferating in Spanish and Arabic,
and making us understand that the water being
too low for us to land from the boats, we were to be
transported upon their shoulders; which information
dissipated our fears of robbery, and imposed in their
stead the dread of vermin. The ladies were borne
off in triumph upon stools, and I made my entrance
into Africa upon the back of an old mulatto, with
my chin resting upon his bare skull, and the tips of
my toes in the water.
.pn +1

The mulatto, upon reaching the shore, unloaded
me into the hands of an Arab porter, who, passing
through one of the city gates, led me at a run
through a deserted alley to an inn not far off,
whence I almost immediately issued again with a
guide, and proceeded to the more frequented streets.

I was struck at once, and more forcibly than I can
express, with the aspect of the population. They
all wear a kind of long white cloak of wool or linen,
with a large pointed hood standing upright on the
head, so that the city has the aspect of a vast convent
of Dominican friars. Of all this cloaked company
some are moving slowly, gravely, and silently about,
as if they wished to pass unobserved; others are
seated or crouched against the walls, in front of the
shops, in corners of the houses, motionless and with
fixed gaze, like the petrified populations of their legends.
The walk, the attitude, the look, all are new
and strange to me, revealing an order of sentiment
and habit quite different from our own, another manner
of considering time and life. These people do
not seem to be occupied in any way, nor are they
thinking of the place they are in, or of what is going
on about them. All the faces wear a deep and
dreamy expression, as if they were dominated by
some fixed idea, or thinking of far-distant times and
places, or dreaming with their eyes open. I had
hardly entered the crowd when I was aware of a
peculiar odor, one quite unknown to me among Europeans;
it was not agreeable, and yet I began to
.pn +1
inhale it with a vivid curiosity, as if it might explain
some things to me. As I went on, the crowd, which
at a distance had seemed uniform, presented many
varieties. There passed before me faces white,
black, yellow, and bronze; heads ornamented with
long tresses of hair, and bare skulls as shining
as metallic balls; men as dry as mummies; horrible
old men; women with the face and entire
person wrapped in formless rags; children with long
braids pendant from the crown of the otherwise bare
head; faces of sultans, savages, necromancers, anchorites,
bandits; people oppressed by an immense
sadness or a mortal weariness; none smiling, but
moving one behind the other with slow and silent
steps, like a procession of spectres in a cemetery.
I passed through other streets, and saw that the
city corresponded in every way to the population.
It is a labyrinth of crooked lanes, or rather corridors,
bordered by little square houses of dazzling whiteness,
without windows, and with little doors through
which one person can pass with difficulty,—houses
which seem made to hide in rather than live in, with
a mixed aspect of convent and prison. In many of
the streets there is nothing to be seen save the white
walls and the blue sky; here and there some small
Moorish arch, some arabesque window, some strip
of red at the base of a wall, some figure of a hand
painted in black beside a door, to keep off evil influences.
Almost all the streets are encumbered with
rotten vegetables, feathers, rags, bones, and in some
.pn +1
places dead dogs and cats, infecting the air. For
long distances you meet no one but a group of Arab
boys in pointed hoods, playing together, or chanting
in nasal tones some verses from the Koran; or a
crouching beggar, a Moor riding on a mule, an
overloaded ass with bleeding back, driven by a
half-naked Arab; some tailless mangy dog, or cat
of fabulous meagreness. Transient odors of garlic,
fish, or burning aloes salute you as you pass; and
so you make the circuit of the city, finding everywhere
the same dazzling whiteness, the same air of
mystery, sadness, and <i><lang=fr>ennui</lang></i>.

Coming out upon the only square that Tangiers
can boast, which is cut by one long street that begins
at the shore and crosses the whole town, you see a
rectangular place, surrounded by shops that would be
mean in the poorest of our villages. On one side
there is a fountain constantly surrounded by blacks
and Arabs drawing water in jars and gourds; on
the other side sit all day long on the ground eight
or ten muffled women selling bread. Around this
square are the very modest houses of the different
Legations, which rise like palaces from the midst of
the confused multitude of Moorish huts. Here in
this spot is concentrated all the life of Tangiers,—the
life of a large village. The one tobacconist is
here, the one apothecary, the one <lang=fr'><i>café</i></lang>,—a dirty
room with a billiard-table,—and the one solitary
corner where a printed notice may be sometimes
seen. Here gather the half-naked street-boys, the
.pn +1
rich and idle Moorish gentlemen, Jews talking about
their business, Arab porters awaiting the arrival of
the steamer, <lang=fr><i>attachés</i></lang> of the Legations expecting the
dinner-hour, travellers just arrived, interpreters, and
impostors of various kinds. The courier arriving
from Fez or Morocco with orders from the Sultan is
to be met here; and the servant coming from the
post, with his hands full of journals from London
and Paris; the beauty of the harem and the wife of
the minister; the Bedouin’s camel and the lady’s
lapdog; the turban and the chimney-pot hat; and
the sound of a piano from the windows of a consulate
mingles with the lamentation chant from the
door of a mosque. It is the point where the last
wave of European civilization is lost in the great
dead sea of African barbarism.

From the square we went up the main street, and
passing by two old gates, came out at twilight beyond
the walls of the town, and found ourselves in
an open space on the side of a hill called Soc-de-Barra,
or exterior market, because a market is held
there every Sunday and Thursday. Of all the
places that I saw in Morocco this is perhaps the one
that impressed me most deeply with the character of
the country. It is a tract of bare ground rough and
irregular, with the tumble-down tomb of a saint,
composed of four white walls, in the midst. Upon
the top there is a cemetery, with a few aloes and
Indian figs growing here and there; below are the
turreted walls of the town. Near the gate, on the
.pn +1
ground, sat a group of Arab women, with heaps of
green-stuff before them; a long file of camels
crouched about the saint’s tomb; farther on were
some black tents, and a circle of Arabs seated
around an old man erect in their midst, who was
telling a story; horses and cows here and there;
and above, among the stones and mounds of the
cemetery, other Arabs, motionless as statues, their
faces turned toward the city, their whole person in
shadow, and the points of their hoods standing out
against the golden twilight sky. A sad and silent
peacefulness seemed to brood over the scene, such
as cannot be described in words, but ought rather
to be distilled into the ear drop by drop, like a
solemn secret.

The guide awoke me from my reverie and re-conducted
me to my inn, where my discomfiture at finding
myself among strangers was much mitigated
when I discovered that they were all Europeans and
Christians, dressed like myself. There were about
twenty persons at table, men and women, of different
nationalities, presenting a fine picture of that
crossing of races and interlacing of interests which
go on in that country. Here was a Frenchman born
in Algiers married to an Englishwoman from Gibraltar;
there, a Spaniard of Gibraltar married to the
sister of the Portuguese Consul; here again, an old
Englishman with a daughter born in Tangiers and a
niece native of Algiers; families wandering from
one continent to the other, or sprinkled along the
.pn +1
coast, speaking five languages, and living partly like
Arabs, partly like Europeans. All through dinner
a lively conversation went on, now in French, now
in Spanish, studded with Arabic words, upon subjects
quite strange to the ordinary talk of Europeans:
such as the price of a camel; the salary of a pasha;
whether the sultan were white or mulatto; if it were
true that there had been brought to Fez twenty
heads from the revolted province of Garet; when
those religious fanatics who eat a live sheep were
likely to come to Tangiers; and other things of the
same kind that aroused within my soul the greatest
curiosity. Then the talk ran upon European politics,
with that odd disconnectedness that is always
perceptible in the discussions of people of different
nations—those big, empty phrases which they use in
talking of the politics of distant countries, imagining
absurd alliances and impossible wars. And then
came the inevitable subject of Gibraltar—the great
Gibraltar, the centre of attraction for all the Europeans
along the coast, where their sons are sent
to study, where they go to buy clothes, to order a
piece of furniture, to hear an opera, to breathe a
mouthful of the air of Europe. Finally came up the
subject of the departure of the Italian embassy for
Fez, and I had the pleasure of hearing that the
event was of far greater importance than I had supposed;
that it was discussed at Gibraltar, at Algeziras,
Cadiz, and Malaga, and that the caravan would
be a mile long; that there were several Italian
.pn +1
painters with the embassy, and that perhaps there
might even be a representative of the press—at
which intelligence I rose modestly from the table,
and walked away with majestic steps.

I wandered about Tangiers at a late hour that
night. There was not a single light in street or
window, nor did the faintest radiance stream through
any loop-hole; the city seemed uninhabited, the
white houses lay under the starlight like tombs, and
the tops of the minarets and palm-trees stood out
clear against the cloudless sky. The gates of the
city were closed, and every thing was mute and
lifeless. Two or three times my feet entangled
themselves in something like a bundle of rags, which
proved to be a sleeping Arab. I trod with disgust
upon bones that cracked under my feet, and knew
them for the carcase of a dog or cat; a hooded figure
glided like a spectre close to the wall; another
gleamed white for one instant at the bottom of an
alley; and at a turning I heard a sudden rush and
scamper, as if I had unwittingly disturbed some consultation.
My own footstep when I moved, my own
breathing when I stood still, were the only sounds
that broke the stillness. It seemed as if all the life
in Tangiers were concentrated in myself, and that if
I were to give a sudden cry it would resound from
one end of the city to the other like the blast of a
trumpet. Meantime the moon rose, and shone upon
the white walls with the splendor of an electric light.
In a dark alley I met a man with a lantern, who
.pn +1
stood aside to let me pass, murmuring some words
that I did not understand. Suddenly a loud laugh
made my blood run cold for an instant, and two
young men in European dress went by in conversation;
probably two <lang=fr><i>attachés</i></lang> to the Legations. In a
corner of the great square, behind the looped-up
curtain of a dark little shop, a dim light betrayed a
heap of whitish rags, from which issued the faint
tinkle of a guitar, and a thin, tremulous, lamentable
voice, that seemed brought by the wind from a great
distance. I went back to my inn, feeling like a man
who finds himself transported into some other
planet.

The next morning I went to present myself to
our <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang>, Commendatore Stefano Scovasso.
He could not accuse me of not being punctual.
On the 8th of April, at Turin, I received the
invitation, with the announcement that the caravan
would leave Tangiers on the 19th. On the morning
of the 18th I was at the Legation. I did not know
Signor Scovasso personally, but I knew something
about him which inspired me with a great desire to
make his acquaintance. From one of his friends
whom I had seen before leaving Turin, I had heard
that he was a man capable of riding from Tangiers
to Timbuctoo without any other companions than a
pair of pistols. Another friend had blamed his
inveterate habit of risking his life to save the lives
of others. When I arrived at the Legation I found
him standing at the gate in the midst of a crowd of
.pn +1
Arabs, all motionless, in attitudes of profound respect,
seemingly awaiting his orders. Presenting
myself, and being at once made a guest at head-quarters,
I learned that our departure was deferred
till the 1st of May, because there was an English
embassy at Fez, and our horses, camels, mules, and
a cavalry escort for the journey, were all to be sent
from there. A transport-ship of our military marine,
the <i>Dora</i>, then anchored at Gibraltar, had already
carried to Larrace, on the Atlantic coast, the presents
which King Victor Emanuel had sent to the
Emperor of Morocco. The principal scope of our
journey for the <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> was to present
credentials to the young Sultan, Muley el Hassen,
who had ascended the throne in September, 1873.
No Italian embassy had ever been at Fez, and the
banner of United Italy had never before been
carried into the interior of Morocco. Consequently,
the embassy was to be received with extraordinary
solemnities.

My first occupation when I found myself alone
was to take observations of the house where I was
to be a guest; and truly it was well worthy of
notice. Not that the building itself was at all remarkable.
White and bare without, it had a garden
in front, and an interior court, with four columns supporting
a covered gallery that ran all around the first
floor. It was like a gentleman’s house at Cadiz or
Seville. But the people and their manner of life in
this house were all new to me. Housekeeper and
.pn +1
cook were Piedmontese; there was a Moorish
woman-servant of Tangiers, and a Negress from the
Soudan with bare feet; there were Arab waiters and
grooms dressed in white shirts; consular guards in fez,
red caftan, and poignard; and all these people were
in perpetual motion all day long. At certain hours
there was a coming and going of black porters, interpreters,
soldiers of the pasha, and Moors in the
service of the Legation. The court was full of
boxes, camp-beds, carpets, lanterns. Hammers and
saws were in full cry, and the strange names of
Fatima, Racma, Selam, Mohammed, Abd-er-Rhaman
flew from mouth to mouth. And what a hash
of languages! A Moor would bring a message in
Arabic to another Moor, who transmitted it in
Spanish to the housekeeper, who repeated it in
Piedmontese to the cook, and so on. There was a
constant succession of translations, comments, mistakes,
doubts, mingled with Italian, Spanish, and
Arabic exclamations. In the street, a procession of
horses and mules; before the door, a permanent
group of curious lookers-on, or poor wretches, Arabs
and Jews, patient aspirants for the protection of the
Legation. From time to time came a minister or a
consul, before whom all the turbans and fezes
bowed themselves. Every moment some mysterious
messenger, some unknown and strange costume,
some remarkable face, appeared. It seemed
like a theatrical representation, with the scene laid
in the East.
.pn +1

My next thought was to take possession of some
book of my host’s that should teach me something
of the country I was in, before beginning to study
costume. This country, shut in by the Mediterranean,
Algeria, the desert of Sahara, and the ocean,
crossed by the great chain of the Atlas, bathed by
wide rivers, opening into immense plains, with
every variety of climate, endowed with inestimable
riches in all the three kingdoms of nature, destined
by its position to be the great commercial high-road
between Europe and Central Africa, is now occupied
by about 8,000,000 of inhabitants—Berbers, Moors,
Arabs, Jews, Negroes, and Europeans—sprinkled
over a vaster extent of country than that of
France. The Berbers, who form the basis of the
indigenous population—a savage, turbulent, and indomitable
race—live on the inaccessible mountains
of the Atlas, in almost complete independence of
the imperial authority. The Arabs, the conquering
race, occupy the plains—a nomadic and pastoral
people, not entirely degenerated from their ancient
haughty character. The Moors, corrupted and
crossed by Arab blood, are in great part descended
from the Moors of Spain, and, inhabiting the cities,
hold in their hands the wealth, trade, and commerce
of the country. The blacks, about 500,000, originally
from the Soudan, are generally servants,
laborers, and soldiers. The Jews, almost equal in
number to the blacks, descend, for the most part,
from those who were exiled from Europe in the
.pn +1
Middle Ages, and are oppressed, hated, degraded,
and persecuted here more than in any other country
in the world. They exercise various arts and trades,
and in a thousand ways display the ingenuity,
pliability, and tenacity of their race, finding in the
possession of money torn from their oppressors a
recompense for all their woes. The Europeans
whom Mussulman intolerance has, little by little,
driven from the interior of the empire toward the
coast, number less than 2,000 in all Morocco, the
greater part inhabiting Tangiers, and living under
the protection of the consular flags. This heterogeneous,
dispersed, and irreconcilable population is
oppressed rather than protected by a military government
that, like a monstrous leech, sucks out all
the vital juices from the State. The tribes and
boroughs, or suburbs, obey their sheiks; the cities
and provinces the cadi; the greater provinces the
pasha; and the pasha obeys the Sultan—grand
schereef, high priest, supreme judge, executor of the
laws emanating from himself, free to change at his
caprice money, taxes, weights and measures; master
of the possessions and lives of his subjects.
Under the weight of this government, and within
the inflexible circle of the Mussulman religion,
unmoved by European influences, and full of a savage
fanaticism, everything that in other countries
moves and progresses, here remains motionless or
falls into ruin.

Commerce is choked by monopolies, by prohibitions
.pn +1
upon exports and imports, and by the capricious
mutability of the laws. Manufactures, restricted
by the bonds laid upon commerce, have
remained as they were at the time of the expulsion
of the Moors from Spain, with the same primitive
tools and methods. Agriculture, loaded heavily
with taxes, hampered in exportation of produce,
and only exercised from sheer necessity, has fallen
so low as no longer to merit the name. Science,
suffocated by the Koran, and contaminated by
superstition, is reduced to a few elements in the
higher schools, such as were taught in the Middle
Ages. There are no printing-presses, no books,
no journals, no geographical maps; the language
itself, a corruption of the Arabic, and represented
only by an imperfect and variable written character,
is becoming yearly more debased; in the general
decadence the national character is corrupted; all
the ancient Mussulman civilization is disappearing.
Morocco, the last western bulwark of Islamism, once
the seat of a monarchy that ruled from the Ebro to
the Soudan, and from the Niger to the Balearic
Isles, glorious with flourishing universities, with
immense libraries, with men famous for their learning,
with formidable fleets and armies, is now
nothing but a small and almost unknown state, full of
wretchedness and ruin, resisting with its last remaining
strength the advance of European civilization,
seated upon its foundations still, but confronted by
the reciprocal jealousies of civilized states.
.pn +1

As for Tangiers, the ancient Tingis, which gave
its name to Tingistanian Mauritania, it passed successively
from the hands of the Romans into those
of the Vandals, Greeks, Visigoths, Arabs, Portugese,
and English, and is now a city of about 15,000 inhabitants,
considered by its sister cities as having
been “prostituted to the Christians,” although there
are no traces of the churches and monasteries
founded by the Portugese, and the Christian religion
boasts there but one small chapel, hidden
away among the legations.

I made in the streets of Tangiers a few notes, in
preparation for my journey, and they are given here,
because, having been written down under the impression
of the moment, they are perhaps more effective
than a more elaborate description.

I am ashamed when I pass a handsome Moor in
gala dress. I compare my ugly hat with his large
muslin turban, my short jacket with his ample white
or rose-colored caftan—the meanness, in short, of
my black and gray garments with the whiteness,
the amplitude, the graceful dignified simplicity of
his—and it seems to me that I look like a black
beetle beside a butterfly. I stand sometimes at my
window in contemplation before a portion of a pair
of crimson drawers and a gold-colored slipper, appearing
from behind a column in the square below,
and find so much pleasure in it that I cannot cease
from gazing. More than any thing else I admire
and envy the <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>, that long piece of snow-white
.pn +1
wool or silk with transparent stripes which is twisted
round the turban, falls down between the shoulders,
is passed round the waist, and thrown up over one
shoulder, whence it descends to the feet, softly veiling
the rich colors of the dress beneath, and at every
breath of wind swelling, quivering, floating, seeming
to glow in the sun’s rays, and giving to the whole
person a vaporous and visionary aspect.

No one who has not seen it can imagine to what
a point the Arab carries the art of lying down. In
corners where we should be embarrassed to place a
bag of rags or a bundle of straw, he disposes of himself
as upon a bed of down. He adapts himself to
the protuberances, fills up the cavities, spreads himself
upon the wall like a bas-relief, and flattens himself
out upon the ground until he looks like a sheet
spread out to dry. He will assume the form of a
ball, a cube, or a monster without arms, legs, or
head; so that the streets and squares look like
battle-fields strewn with corpses and mutilated
trunks of men.

The greater part have nothing on but a simple
white mantle; but what a variety there is among
them! Some wear it open, some closed, some
drawn on one side, some folded over the shoulder,
some tightly wrapped, some loosely floating, but
always with an air; varied by picturesque folds,
falling in easy but severe lines, as if they were
posing for an artist. Every one of them might pass
for a Roman senator. This very morning our
.pn +1
artist discovered a marvellous Marcus Brutus in the
midst of a group of Bedouins. But if one is not
accustomed to wear it, the face is not sufficient to
ennoble the folds of the mantle. Some of us bought
them for the journey, and tried them on, and we
looked like so many convalescents wrapped in
bathing-sheets.

I have not yet seen among the Arabs a hunchback,
or a lame man, or a rickety man, but many without
a nose and without an eye, one or both, and the
greater part of these with the empty orbit—a sight
which made me shiver when I thought that possibly
the globe had been torn out in virtue of the <lang=la><i>lex
talionis</i></lang>, which is in vigor in the empire. But there
is no ridiculous ugliness among these strange and
terrible figures. The flowing ample vesture conceals
all small defects, as the common gravity and
the dark, bronzed skin conceals the difference of age.
In consequence of this one encounters at every step
men of indefinable age, of whom one cannot guess
whether they are old or young; and if you judge
them old, a lightning smile reveals their youth; and
if you think them young, the hood falls back and
betrays the gray locks of age.

The Jews of this country have the same features
as those of our own, but their taller stature, darker
complexion, and, above all, their picturesque attire,
make them appear quite different. They wear a
dress in form very like a dressing-gown, of various
colors, generally dark, bound round the waist with a
.pn +1
red girdle; a black cap, wide trousers that come a
little below the skirts of the coat, and yellow slippers.
It is curious to see what a number of dandies
there are among them dressed in fine stuffs, with
embroidered shirts, silken sashes, and rings and
chains of gold; but they are handsome, dignified-looking
men, always excepting those who have
adopted the black frock-coat and chimney-pot hat.
There are some pretty faces among the boys, but
the sort of dressing-gown in which they are wrapped
is not generally becoming at their age. It seems to
me that there is no exaggeration in the reports of
the beauty of the Jewesses of Morocco, which has a
character of its own unknown in other countries. It
is an opulent and splendid beauty, with large black
eyes, broad low forehead, full red lips, and statuesque
form,—a theatrical beauty that looks well
from a distance, and produces applause rather than
sighs in the beholder. The Hebrew women of
Tangiers do not wear in public their rich national
costume; they are dressed almost like Europeans,
but in such glaring colors—blue, carmine, sulphur
yellow, and grass-green—that they look like women
wrapped in the flags of all nations. On the Saturdays,
when they are in all their glory, the Jewish
quarter presents a marked contrast to the austere
solitude of the other streets.

The little Arab boys amuse me. Even those
small ones who can scarcely walk are robed in the
white mantle, and with their high-pointed hoods
.pn +1
they look like perambulating extinguishers. The
greater part of them have their heads shaven as
bare as your hand, except a braided lock about a
foot long pendent from the crown which looks as if
it were left on purpose to hang them up by on nails,
like puppets. Some few have the lock behind one
ear or over the temple, with a bit of hair cut in a
square or triangular form, the distinctive mark of
the last born in the family. In general they have
pretty, pale little faces, erect, slender bodies, and an
expression of precocious intelligence. In the more
frequented parts of the city they take no notice of
Europeans; in the other parts they content themselves
with looking intently at them with an air
which says, “I do not like you.” Here and there is
one who would like to be impertinent; it glitters in
his eye and quivers on his lip; but rarely does he
allow it to escape, not so much out of respect for
the Nazarene as out of fear of his father, who stands
in awe of the Legations. In any case the sight of a
small coin will quiet them. But it will not do to
pull their braided tails. I indulged myself once in
giving a little pluck at a small image about a foot
high, and he turned upon me in a fury, spluttering
out some words which my guide told me meant,
“May God roast your grandfather, accursed Christian!”

I have at last seen two saints,—that is to say,
idiots or lunatics, because throughout all North
Africa that man from whom God, in sign of predilection,
.pn +1
has withdrawn his reason to keep it a prisoner
in heaven, is venerated as a saint. The first
one was in the main street, in front of a shop. I
saw him from a distance and stayed my steps, for I
knew that all things are allowed to saints, and had
no desire to be struck on the back of the neck with
a stick, like M. Sourdeau, the French consul, or to
have the saint spit in my face, as happened to Mr.
Drummond Hay. But the interpreter who was
with me assured me that there was no danger now,
for the saints of Tangiers had learned a lesson since
the Legations had made some examples, and in any
case the Arabs themselves would serve me as a
shield, since they did not wish the saint to get into
trouble. So I went on and passed before the scarecrow,
observing him attentively. He was an old
man, all face, very fat, with very long white hair, a
beard descending on his breast, a paper crown upon
his head, a ragged red mantle on his shoulders, and
in his hand a small lance with gilded point. He sat
on the ground with crossed legs, his back against a
wall, looking at the passers-by with a discontented
expression. I stopped before him; he looked at me.
“Now,” thought I, “he will throw his lance.” But
the lance remained quiet, and I was astonished at
the tranquil and intelligent look in his eyes, and a
cunning smile that seemed to gleam within them.
They said, “Ah! you think I am going to make a
fool of myself by attacking you, do you?” He was
certainly one of those impostors who, having all
.pn +1
their reason, feign madness in order to enjoy saintly
privileges. I threw him some money, which he
picked up with an air of affected indifference, and
going on my way presently met another. This was
a real saint. He was a mulatto, almost entirely
naked, and less than human in visage, covered with
filth from head to foot, and so thin that he seemed
a walking skeleton. He was moving slowly along,
carrying with difficulty a great white banner, which
the street-boys ran to kiss, and accompanied by
another poor wretch who begged from shop to
shop, and two noisy rascals with drum and trumpet.
As I passed near him he showed me the white of
his eye, and stopped. I thought he seemed to be
preparing something in his mouth, and stepped
nimbly aside. “You were right,” said the interpreter;
“because if he had spat on you, the only
consolation you would have got from the Arabs
would have been, 'Do not wipe it off, fortunate
Christian! Thou art blessed that the saint has spat
in thy face! Do not put away the sign of God’s
benevolence!’”

This evening I have for the first time really heard
Arab music. In the perpetual repetition of the same
notes, always of a melancholy cast, there is something
that gradually touches the soul. It is a kind
of monotonous lamentation that finally takes possession
of the thoughts, like the murmur of a fountain,
the cricket’s chirp, and the beat of hammers upon
anvils, such as one hears in the evening when passing
.pn +1
near a village. I feel compelled to meditate
upon it, and find out the signification of those
eternal words for ever sounding in my ears. It is a
barbaric music, full of simplicity and sweetness, that
carries me back to primitive conditions, revives my
infantile memories of the Bible, recalls to mind forgotten
dreams, fills me with curiosity about countries
and peoples unknown, transports me to great distances
amid groves of strange trees, with a group
of aged priests bending about a golden idol; or in
boundless plains, in solemn solitudes, behind weary
caravans of travellers that question with their eyes
the burning horizon, and with drooping heads commend
themselves to God. Nothing about me so
fills me with a yearning desire to see my own
country and my people as these few notes of a weak
voice and tuneless guitar.

The oddest things in the world are the Moorish
shops. They are one and all a sort of alcove about
a yard high, with an opening to the street, where
the buyer stands as at a window, leaning against the
wall. The shopman is within, seated cross-legged;
with a portion of his merchandise before him, and
the rest on little shelves behind. The effect of these
bearded old Moors, motionless as images in their
dark holes, is very strange. It seems themselves,
and not their goods, that are on exhibition, like the
“living phenomena” of country fairs. Are they
alive, or made of wood; and where is the handle to
set them in motion? The air of solitude, weariness,
.pn +1
and sadness, that hangs about them is indescribable.
Every shop seems a tomb, where the
occupant, already separated from the living world,
silently awaits his death.

I have seen two children led in triumph after the
solemn ceremony of circumcision. One was about
six, and the other five years old. They were both
seated upon a white mule, and were dressed in red,
green, and yellow garments, embroidered with gold,
and covered with ribbons and flowers, from which
their little pallid faces looked forth, still wearing an
expression of terror and amazement. Before the
mule, which was gaily caparisoned and hung with
garlands, went three drummers, a piper, and a
cornet-player, making all the noise they could; to
the right and left walked friends and parents, one of
whom held the little ones firm in the saddle, while
others gave them sweetmeats and caresses, and
others, again, fired off guns, and leaped and shouted.
If I had not already known what it meant, I should
have thought that the two poor babies were victims
being carried to the sacrifice; and yet the spectacle
was not without a certain picturesqueness.

.if h
.il fn=i024.png w=100% id=i024 alt='Festival Of The Circumcision.'
.ca Festival Of The Circumcision.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Festival Of The Circumcision.]
.if-

This evening I have been present at a singular
metamorphosis of Racma, the minister’s black slave.
Her companion came to call me, and conducted me
on tip-toe to a door, which she suddenly threw open,
exclaiming, “Behold Racma!” I could scarcely believe
my eyes, for there stood the negress, whom I
had been accustomed to see only in her common
.pn 25
working dress, arrayed like the Queen of Timbuctoo,
or a princess from some unknown African realm,
brought thither on the miraculous carpet of Bisnagar.
As I saw her only for a moment, I cannot say exactly
how she was dressed. There was a gleam of
snowy white, a glow of purple and crimson, and a
shine of gold, under a large transparent veil, which,
together with her ebony blackness of visage, composed
a whole of barbaric magnificence and the
richest harmony of color. As I drew near to observe
more closely, all the pomp and splendor vanished
under the gloomy Mohammedan sheet-like
mantle, and the queen, transformed into a spectre,
glided away, leaving behind her a nauseous odor of
black savage which destroyed all my illusions.

Hearing a great outcry in the square, I looked
out of my window and saw passing by a negro,
naked to the waist and seated upon an ass, accompanied
by some Arabs armed with sticks, and
followed by a troop of yelling boys. At first I
thought it some frolic, and took my opera-glass to
look; but I turned away with a shudder. The
white drawers of the negro were all stained with
blood that dropped from his back, and the Arabs
were soldiers who were beating him with sticks.
He had stolen a hen. “Lucky fellow,” said my
informant; “it appears they will let him off without
cutting off his right hand.”

I have been seven days at Tangiers, and have not
yet seen an Arab woman’s face, I seem to be in
.pn +1
some monstrous masquerade, where all the women
represent ghosts, wrapped in sepulchral sheets or
shrouds. They walk with long, slow steps, a little
bent forward, covering their faces with the end of a
sort of linen mantle, under which they have nothing
but a long chemise with wide sleeves, bound round
the waist by a cord like a friar’s frock. Nothing of
them is visible but the eyes, the hand that covers the
face, the fingers tinted with henna, and the bare
feet, the toes also tinted, in large yellow slippers.
The greater part of them display only one eye,
which is dark, and a small bit of yellowish-white
forehead. Meeting a European in a narrow street,
some of them cover the whole face with a rapid,
awkward movement, and shrink close to the wall;
others venture a timid glance of curiosity; and now
and then one will launch a provoking look, and drop
her eyes smiling. But in general they wear a sad,
weary, and oppressed aspect. The little girls, who
are not of an age to be veiled, are pretty, with black
eyes, full faces, pale complexions, red lips, and small
hands and feet. But at twenty they are faded, at
thirty old, and at fifty decrepit.

I know now who are those fair-haired men, with ill-omened
visages, who pass me sometimes in the streets,
and look at me with such threatening eyes. They
are those Rifans, Berbers by race, who have no law
beyond their guns, and recognize no authority.
Audacious pirates, sanguinary bandits, eternal rebels,
who inhabit the mountains of the coast of Tetuan,
.pn +1
on the Algerian frontier, whom neither the cannon
of European ships nor the armies of the Sultan
have ever been able to dislodge; the population, in
short, of that famous Rif, where no foreigner may
dare to set his foot, unless under the protection of
the saints and the sheikhs; about whom all sorts of
terrible legends are rife; and the neighboring peoples
speak vaguely of their country, as of one far
distant and unknown. They are often seen in Tangiers.
They are tall and robust men, dressed in
dark mantles, bordered with various colors. Some
have their faces ornamented with yellow arabesques.
All are armed with very long guns, whose red cases
they twist about their heads like turbans; and they
go in companies, speaking low, and looking about
them from under their brows, like bravoes in search
of a victim. In comparison with them, the wildest
Arab seems a life-long friend.

We were at dinner in the evening, when some
gunshots were heard from the square. Everybody
ran to see, and from the distance a strange spectacle
was visible. The street leading to the Soc-de-Barra
was lighted up by a number of torches carried above
the heads of a crowd that surrounded a large box or
trunk, borne on the back of a horse. This enigmatical
procession went slowly onward, accompanied
by melancholy music, and a sort of nasal
chant, piercing yells, the barking of dogs, and the
discharge of muskets. I speculated for a moment
as to whether the box contained a corpse, or a man
.pn +1
condemned to death, or a monster, or some animal
destined for the sacrifice, and then turned away with
a sense of repugnance, when my friends, coming in,
gave me the explanation of the enigma. It was a
wedding procession, and the bride was in the box,
being carried to her husband’s house.

A throng of Arabs, men and women, have just
gone by, preceded by six old men carrying large
banners of various colors, and all together singing
in high shrill voices a sort of prayer, with woful
faces and supplicating tones. In answer to my
question, I am told that they are entreating Allah to
send the grace of rain. I followed them to the principal
mosque, and not being then aware that Christians
are prohibited from entering a mosque, was
about to do so, when an old Arab suddenly flew at
me, and saying in breathless accents something
equivalent to, “What would you do, unhappy
wretch?” pushed me back against the wall, with the
action of one who removes a child from the edge of
a precipice. I was obliged to content myself with
looking at the outside only of the sacred edifice, not
much grieved, since I had seen the splendid and
gigantic mosques of Constantinople, to be excluded
from those of Tangiers, which, with the exception
of the minarets, are without any architectural merit.
Whilst I stood there, a woman behind the fountain
in the court made a gesture at me. I might record
that she blew me a kiss, but truth compels me to
state that she shook her fist at me.
.pn +1

I have been up to the Casba, or castle, posted
upon a hill that dominates Tangiers. It is a cluster
of small buildings, encircled by old walls, where the
authorities, with some soldiers, and prisoners are
housed. We found no one but two drowsy sentinels
seated before the gate, at the end of a deserted
square, and some beggars stretched on the ground,
scorched by the sun, and devoured by flies. From
hence the eye embraces the whole of Tangiers,
which extends from the foot of the hill of the Casba,
and runs up the flanks of another hill. The sight
is almost dazzled by so much snowy whiteness, relieved
only here and there by the green of a fig-tree
imprisoned between wall and wall. One can see the
terraces of all the houses, the minarets of the
mosques, the flags of the Legations, the battlements
of the walls, the solitary beach, the deserted bay,
the mountains of the coast—a vast, silent, and
splendid spectacle, which would relieve the sting of
the heaviest homesickness. Whilst I stood in contemplation,
a voice, coming from above, struck upon
my ear, acute and tremulous, and with a strange intonation.
It was not until after some minutes’ search
that I discovered upon the minaret of the mosque of
the Casba, a small black spot, the <lang=ar><i>muezzin</i></lang>, who was
calling the faithful to prayer, and throwing out to
the four winds of heaven the names of Allah and
Mahomet. Then the melancholy silence reigned
once more.

It is a calamity to have to change money in this
.pn +1
country. I gave a French franc to a tobacconist, who
was to give me back ten sous in change. The ferocious
Moor opened a box and began to throw out
handfuls of black, shapeless coins, until there was a
heap big enough for an ordinary porter, counted it
all quickly over, and waited for me to put it in my
pocket. “Excuse me,” said I, trying to get back
my franc, “I am not strong enough to buy any thing
in your shop.” However, we arranged matters by
my taking more cigars, and carrying off a pocketful
of that horrible money. It appears that it is called
<i>flu</i>, and is made of copper, worth one <i>centime</i>
apiece now, and sinking every day in value. Morocco
is inundated with it, and one need not inquire
further when one knows that the Government pays
with this money, but receives nothing but gold and
silver. But every evil has its good side they say,
and these <i>flu</i>, bane of commerce as they are, have
the inestimable virtue of preserving the people of
Morocco from the evil eye, thanks to the so-called
rings of Solomon, a six-pointed star engraven on
one side—an image of the real ring buried in the
tomb of the great king, who, with it, commanded
the good and evil genii.

There is but one public promenade, and that is
the beach, which extends from the city to Cape
Malabat, a beach covered with shells and refuse
thrown up by the sea, and having numerous large
pieces of water, difficult to guard against at high
tide. Here are the Champs Elysées and the Cascine
.pn +1
of Tangiers. The hour for walking is the evening
toward sunset. At that time there are generally
about fifty Europeans, in groups and couples, scattered
at a hundred paces’ distance from each other,
so that from the walls of the city individuals are
easily recognized. I can see from my stand-point an
English lady on horseback, accompanied by a
guide; beyond, two Moors from the country; then
come the Spanish Consul and his wife, and after
them a saint; then a French nurse-maid with two
children; then a number of Arab women wading
through a pool, and uncovering their knees—the
better to cover their faces; and further on, at intervals,
a tall hat, a white hood, a <lang=fr><i>chignon</i></lang>, and some
one who must be the secretary of the Portuguese
Legation, wearing the light trowsers that came yesterday
from Gibraltar—for in this small European
colony the smallest events are public property. If
it were not disrespectful, I should say that they look
like a company of condemned criminals out for a
regulation walk, or hostages held by the pirates of a
savage island, on the lookout for the vessel that is
to bring their ransom.

It is infinitely easier to find your way in
London than among this handful of houses that
could all be put in one corner of Hyde Park. All
these lanes, and alleys, and little squares, where one
has scarcely room to pass, are so exactly like each
other that nothing short of the minutest observation
can enable you to distinguish one from the other.
.pn +1
At present, I lose myself the very instant that I
leave the main street and the principal square. In
one of these silent corridors, in full daylight, two
Arabs could bind and gag me, and cause me to vanish
for ever from the face of the earth, without any
one, save themselves, being the wiser. And yet a
Christian can wander alone through this labyrinth,
among these barbarians, with greater security than
in our cities. A few European flags erected over a
terrace, like the menacing index finger of a hidden
hand, are sufficient to obtain that which a legion of
armed men cannot obtain among us. What a difference
between London and Tangiers! But each
city has its own advantages. There, there are great
palaces and underground railways, here, you can go
into a crowd with your overcoat unbuttoned.

There is not in all Tangiers either cart or carriage;
you hear no clang of bell, nor cry of itinerant
vendor, nor sound of busy occupation; you see no
hasty movement of persons or of things; even Europeans,
not knowing what to do with themselves,
stay for hours motionless in the square; every thing
reposes and invites to repose. I myself, who have
been here only a few days, begin to feel the influence
of this soft and somnolent existence. Getting
as far as the Soc-de-Barra, I am irresistibly impelled
homeward; I read ten pages, and the book falls
from my hand; if once I let my head fall back upon
the easy chair, it is all over with me, and the very
thought of care or occupation is sufficient to fatigue
.pn +1
me. This sky, for ever blue, and this snow-white
city form an image of unalterable peace, which, even
with its monotony, becomes, little by little, the supreme
end of life to all who inhabit this country.

.if h
.il fn=i034.png w=50% id=i034 alt='Mahomet.'
.ca Mahomet.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Mahomet.]
.if-

Among the numerous figures that buzzed about
the doors of the Legation, there was a young Moor
who had from the first attracted my eye; one of the
handsomest men whom I saw in Morocco; tall and
slender, with dark, melancholy eyes, and the sweetest
of smiles; the face of an enamoured Sultan,
whom Danas, the malign genius of the “Arabian
Nights,” might have placed beside the Princess Badoura,
instead of Prince Camaralzaman, sure that
she would have made no objection to the change.
He was called Mahomet, was eighteen years of age,
and the son of a well-to-do Moor of Tangiers, a big
and honest Mussulman protected by the Italian Legation,
who, having been for some time menaced
with death by the hand of an enemy, came every
day with a frightened visage to claim the protection
of the Minister. This Mahomet spoke a little Spanish,
after the Moorish fashion, with all the verbs in the
infinitive, and had thereby made acquaintance with
my companions. He had been married only a few
days. His father had given him a child of fifteen for
a wife, who was as beautiful as he. But matrimony
had not changed his habits; he remained, as we
say, a Moor <i>of the future</i>—that is to say, he drank
wine under the rose, smoked cigars, was tired of
Tangiers, frequented the society of Europeans, and
.pn +1
looked forward to a voyage to Spain. In these days,
however, what drew him toward us was the desire
of obtaining, through our intervention, permission to
join the caravan, to go and see Fez, the great metropolis,
his Rome, the dream of his childhood; and
with this end he expended salutations, smiles, and
grasps of the hand, with a prodigality and grace that
would have seduced the entire imperial harem. Like
most young Moors of his condition, he killed time in
lounging from street to street, and from corner to
corner, talking about the Minister’s new horses, or
the departure of a friend for Gibraltar, or the arrival
of a ship, or any topic that came uppermost; or else
he stood like a statue, silent and motionless, in a
corner of the market-place, with his thoughts no one
knows where. With this handsome idler are bound
up my recollections of the first Moorish house in
which I put my foot, and the first Arab dinner at
which I risked my palate. His father one day invited
me to dinner, thus fulfilling an old wish of
mine. Late one evening, guided by an interpreter,
and accompanied by four servants of the Legation,
I found myself at an arabesque door, which opened
as if by enchantment at our approach; and crossing
a white and empty chamber, we entered the court of
the house. The first impression produced was that
of a great confusion of people, a strange light and a
marvellous pomp of color. We were received by
the master of the house and his sons and relations,
all crowned with large white turbans; behind them
.pn 35
were some hooded servants; beyond, in the dark
corners, and peeping through door-ways, the curious
faces of women and children; and despite the number
of persons, a profound silence. I thought myself
in a room, until raising my eyes, I saw the stars,
and found that we were in a central court, upon
either side of which opened two long and lofty
chambers without windows, each having a great
arched door-way closed only by a curtain. The external
walls were white as snow, the arches of the
doors dentellated, the pavements in mosaic; here
and there a window, and a niche for slippers. The
house had been decorated for our coming; carpets
covered the pavement; great chandeliers stood on
either side of the doors, with red, yellow and green
candles; on the tables were flowers and mirrors.
The effect was very strange. There was something
of the air of church decorations, and something of
the ballroom and the theatre; artificial, but very
pretty and graceful, and the distribution of light and
arrangement of colors were very effective.

.if h
.il fn=i036.png w=100% id=i036 alt='Marriage Procession in Tangiers.'
.ca Marriage Procession in Tangiers.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Marriage Procession in Tangiers.]
.if-

Some moments were spent in salutations and
vigorous grasps of the hand, and we were then invited
to visit the bridal chamber. It was a long,
narrow, and lofty room, opening on the court. At
the end, on either side, stood the two beds, decorated
with a rich, dark red stuff, with coverlets of
lace; thick carpets covered the pavement, and hangings
of red and yellow concealed the walls. Between
the two beds was suspended the wife’s wardrobe:
.pn +1
bodices, petticoats, drawers, gowns of unknown
form, in all the colors of the rainbow, in wool,
silk, and velvet, bordered and starred with gold and
silver; the trousseau of a royal doll; a sight to turn
the head of a ballet-dancer, and make a columbine
die with envy. From thence we passed into the
dining-room. Here also were carpets and hangings,
flowers, tall chandeliers standing on the floor, cushions
and pillows of all colors spread against the
walls, and two gorgeous beds, for this was the nuptial
chamber of the parents. The table stood all
prepared near one of the beds, contrary to the Arab
custom, which is to put the dishes on the floor and
eat with the fingers; and upon it glittered an array
of bottles, charged, to remind us, in the midst of a
Moorish banquet, that Christians existed. Before
taking our places at table, we seated ourselves
cross-legged on the carpets, around the master’s
secretary, who prepared tea before us, and made us
take, according to custom, three cups a-piece, excessively
sweetened, and flavored with mint; and
between each cup we caressed the shaven head and
braided tail of a pretty four-year-old boy, Mahomet’s
youngest brother, who furtively counted the fingers
on our hands, in order to make sure that we
had the same number as a Mussulman, and no more.
After tea we took our seats at table, and the master,
being entreated, seated himself also; and then the
Arab dishes, objects of our intense curiosity, began
to circulate. I tasted the first with simple faith.
.pn 37
Great heaven! My first impulse was to attack the
cook. All the contractions that can be produced
upon the face of a man who is suddenly assailed by
an acute colic, or who hears the news of his banker’s
failure, were, I think, visible on mine. I understood
in one moment how it was that a people who ate in
that way should believe in another God, and take
other views of human life than ours. I cannot express
what I felt otherwise than by likening myself
to some unhappy wretch who is forced to satisfy his
appetite upon the pomatum pots of his barber.
There were flavors of soaps, pomades, wax, dyes,
cosmetics—every thing that is least proper to be put
in a human mouth. At each dish we exchanged
glances of wonder and dismay. No doubt the original
material was good enough—chickens, mutton,
game, fish; large dishes of a very fine appearance,
but all swimming in most abominable sauces, and so
flavored and perfumed that it would have seemed
more natural to attack them with a comb rather than
with a fork. However, we were in duty bound to
swallow something, and the only eatable thing
seemed to be mutton on a spit. Not even the famous
<i>cùscùssù</i>, the national Moorish dish, which bore a
perfidious resemblance to our Milanese <lang=it><i>risotto</i></lang>, could
we get down without a pang. There was one
among us who managed to taste of all; a consolatory
fact which shows that there are still great men
in Italy. At every mouthful our host humbly interrogated
us by a look; and we, opening our eyes
.pn +1
very wide, answered in chorus, “Excellent! exquisite!”
and hastened to swallow a glass of wine to
revive our drooping courage. At a certain moment
there burst out in the court-yard a gust of strange
music that made us all spring to our feet. There
were three musicians come, according to Moorish
custom, to enliven the banquet: three large-eyed
Arabs, dressed in white and red; one with a theorbo,
another with a mandolin, and a third with a small
drum. All three were seated on the ground in the
court-yard, near a niche where their slippers were
deposited. Little by little, our libations, the odor of
the flowers, and that of aloes burning in carved perfume-burners
of Fez, and that strange Arab music,
which, by dint of repetition, takes possession of the
fancy with its mysterious lament, all overcame us
with a sort of taciturn and fantastic dreaminess, under
the influence of which we felt our heads crowned
with turbans, and visions of sultanas floated before
our eyes.

The dinner over, all rose and spread themselves
about the room, the court, or the vestibule, looking
into every corner with childlike curiosity. At every
dark angle stood an Arab wrapped in his white mantle
like a statue. The door of the bridal chamber
had been closed by a curtain, and through the interstices
a great movement of veiled heads could be
seen. Lights appeared and disappeared at the upper
windows, and low voices and the rustle of garments
were heard on all sides. About and above us
.pn +1
fermented an invisible life, bearing witness that
though within the walls we were without the household;
that beauty, love, the family soul, had taken
refuge in the penetralia; that we were the spectacle
while the house remained a mystery. At a certain
moment the Minister’s housekeeper came out of a
small door, where she had been visiting the bride,
and, passing by us, murmured, “Ah, if you could see
her! What a rosebud! What a creature of paradise!”
And the sad lamenting music went on, and
the perfumed aloe smoke arose, and our fancies
grew more and more active, more so than ever, when
we issued forth from that air filled with light and
perfume, and plunged into a dark and solitary alley,
lighted only by one lantern, and surrounded by profoundest
silence.

One evening we received the not unexpected intelligence
that the next day the <i>Aissawa</i> would enter
the city. The <i>Aissawa</i> are one of the principal
religious confraternities of Morocco, founded, like
the others, under the inspiration of God, by a saint
called Sidi-Mohammed-ben-Aissa, born at Mekïnez
two centuries ago. His life is a long and confused
legend of miracles and fabulous events, variously
related. The <i>Aissawa</i> propose to themselves to obtain
the special protection of heaven, praying continually,
exercising certain practices peculiar to
themselves, and keeping alive in their hearts a certain
religious fever, a divine fury, which breaks out
in extravagant and ferocious manifestations. They
.pn +1
have a great mosque at Fez, which is the central
house of the order, and from thence they spread
themselves every year over the provinces of the
empire, gathering together as they go those members
of the brotherhood who are in the towns and
villages. Their rites, similar to those of the howling
and whirling Dervishes of the East, consist in a species
of frantic dances, interspersed with leaps, yells, and
contortions, in the practice of which they grow ever
more furious and ferocious, until, losing the light of
reason, they crush wood and iron with their teeth,
burn their flesh with glowing coals, wound themselves
with knives, swallow mud and stones, brain
animals and devour them alive and dripping with
blood, and finally fall to the ground insensible. The
<i>Aissawa</i> whom I saw at Tangiers did not go to quite
such extremities, and probably they seldom do, but
they did quite enough to leave an indelible impression
on my memory.

The Belgian Minister invited us to see the spectacle
from the terrace of his house, which looked over
the principal street of Tangiers, where the <i>Aissawa</i>
generally passed on their way to their mosque.
They were to pass at ten o’clock in the morning,
coming in at the Soc-de-Barra. At nine the street
was already full of people, and the tops of the
houses crowded with Arab and Jewish women in all
the colors of the rainbow, giving to the white terraces
the look of great baskets of flowers. At the
given hour all eyes were turned toward the gate at
.pn +1
the end of the street, and in a few minutes the leaders
of the procession appeared. The street was so
thronged with people that for some time nothing
could be seen but a waving mass of hooded heads,
amid which shone out a few shaven skulls. Above
them floated here and there a banner; and now and
then a cry as of many voices broke forth. The
crowd moved forward slowly. Little by little a certain
order and regularity in the movement of all
these heads became visible. The first formed a
circle; others beyond a double file; others again
beyond another circle; then the first in their turn
broke into a double line, the second formed in a
circle, and so on. But I am not very sure of what
I say, because in the eager curiosity which possessed
me to observe single figures it is possible that the
precise laws of the general movement escaped me.
My first impression as they arrived below our terrace
was one of pity and horror combined. There
were two lines of men, facing each other, wrapped
in mantles and long white shirts, holding each other
by the hands, arms, or shoulders, and, with a rocking
swaying motion, stepping in cadence, throwing
their heads backward and forward, and keeping up
a low eager murmur, broken by groans, and sighs,
and sobs of rage and terror. Only “The Possessed,”
by Rubens, “The Dead Alive,” by Goya, and “The
Dead Man Magnetized” of Edgar Poe, could give
an idea of those figures. There were faces livid and
convulsed, with eyes starting from the sockets, and
.pn +1
foaming mouths; faces of the fever-stricken and the
epileptic; some illuminated by an unearthly smile,
some showing only the whites of their eyes, others
contracted as by atrocious spasms, or pallid and
rigid, like corpses. From time to time, making a
strange gesture with their outstretched arms, they
all burst out together in a shrill and painful cry, as
of men in mortal agony; then the dance forward
began again, with its accompaniment of groans and
sobs, while hoods and mantles, wide sleeves and
long disordered hair, streamed on the wind, and
whirled about them with snake-like undulations.
Some rushed from one side to the other, staggering
like drunken men, or beating themselves against
walls and doors; others, as if rapt in ecstasy, moved
along, stiff and rigid, with head thrown back, eyes
half closed, and arms swinging; and some, quite
exhausted, unable any longer to yell, or to keep on
their feet, were held up under the arms by their
companions, and dragged along with the crowd.
The dance became every moment more frantic, and
the noise more deafening, while a nauseous smell
came up from all those bodies like the odor of a
menagerie of wild beasts. Here and there a convulsed
visage turned upward toward our terrace, and
a pair of staring eyes were fixed on mine, constraining
me to turn away my face. The spectacle affected
me in different ways. Now it seemed a great masquerade,
and tempted me to laugh; then it was a
procession of madmen, of creatures in the delirium
.pn +1
of fever, of drunken wretches, or those condemned
to death and striving to deaden their own terror,
and my heart swelled with compassion; and again,
the savage grandeur of the picture pleased my artistic
sense. But gradually my mind accepted the
inner meaning of the rite, and I comprehended what
all of us have more or less experienced—the spasms
of the human soul under the dread pressure of the
Infinite; and unconsciously my thoughts explained
the mystery: Yes; I feel Thee, mysterious and
tremendous Power; I struggle in the grasp of the
invisible hand; the sense of Thee oppresses me, I
cannot contain it; my heart is dismayed, my reason
is lost, my garment of clay is rent. And still they
went by, a pallid and dishevelled mass, raising voices
of pain and supplication, and seeming in their last
agony. One old man, an image of distracted Lear,
broke from the ranks, and tried to dash his head
against a wall, his companions holding him back. A
youth fell head foremost to the ground, and remained
there insensible. Another, with streaming hair and
face hidden in his hands, went by with long steps,
his body bent almost to the earth, like one accursed
of God. Bedouins were among them, Berbers,
blacks, mummies, giants, satyrs, cannibal faces, faces
of saints, of birds of prey, of Indian idols, furies,
fauns, devils. There were between three and four
hundred, and in half an hour they had all gone by.
The last were two women (for they also belong to
the order), looking as if they had been buried alive,
.pn +1
and had escaped from their tomb,—two animated
skeletons dressed in white, with hair streaming over
their faces, straining eyes, and mouths white with
foam, exhausted, but still moving along with the
unconscious action of machines; and between them
marched a gigantic old man, like an aged sorcerer.
Dressed in a long white shirt, and stretching out two
bony arms, he placed his hands now on one head,
now on the other, with a gesture of protection, and
helped them to rise when they fell. Behind these
three spectres came a throng of armed Arabs, women,
beggars, and children; and all the mass of barbarism
and horrid human misery broke into the
square, and was dispersed in a few minutes about the
city.

Another fine spectacle that we had at Tangiers
was that of the festival of the birth of Mahomet; and
it made the greater impression upon me that I saw
it unexpectedly. Returning from a walk on the sea-shore,
I heard some shots in the direction of the
Soc-de-Barra. I turned my steps in that direction,
and at first found it difficult to recognize the place.
The Soc-de-Barra was transfigured. From the walls
of the city up to the summit of the hill swarmed a
crowd of white-robed Arabs, all in the highest state
of animation. There might have been about three
thousand persons, but so scattered and grouped that
they appeared innumerable. It was a most singular
optical illusion. On all the heights around, as upon
so many balconies, were groups seated in Oriental
.pn +1
fashion, motionless, and turned toward the lower
part of the Soc, where the crowd—divided into two
portions—left a large space free for the evolutions
of a company of cavalry, who, ranged in a line, galloped
about, discharging their long guns in the air.
On the other side an immense circle of Arab men
and women were looking on at the games of ball-players,
fencers, serpent-charmers, dancers, singers
and musicians, and soldiers. Upon the top of the
hill, under a conical tent open in front, could be discerned
the enormous white turban of the Vice-Governor
of Tangiers, who presided at the festival,
seated on the ground in the midst of a circle of
Moors. From above could be seen in the crowd
the soldiers of the Legations, dressed in their showy
red caftans, a few tall hats, and European parasols,
and one or two artists, sketch-book in hand, while
Tangiers and the sea formed a background to the
whole. The discharge of musketry, the yells of the
cavalry, the tinkle of the water-sellers’ bells, the joyful
cries of the women, the noise of pipes, horns, and
drums, made up a fitting accompaniment to the
strange and savage spectacle, bathed in the burning
noon-day light.

My curiosity impelled me to look everywhere at
once, but a sudden scream of admiration from a
group of women made me turn to the horsemen.
There were twelve of them, all of tall stature, with
pointed red caps, white mantles, and blue, orange,
and red caftans, and among them was a youth,
.pn +1
dressed with feminine elegance, the son of the Governor
of Rif. They drew up in a line against the
wall of the city, with faces toward the open country.
The son of the Governor, in the middle, raised his
hand, and all started in full career. At first there
was a slight hesitation and confusion, but in a moment
the twelve horsemen formed but one solid serried
line, and skimmed over the ground like a
twelve-headed and many-colored monster devouring
the way.

Nailed to their saddles, with heads erect, and white
mantles streaming in the wind of their career, they
lifted their guns above their heads, and, pressing
them against their shoulders, discharged them all together,
with a yell of triumph, and then vanished in
a cloud of smoke and dust. A few moments
after they came back slowly and in disorder—the
horses covered with foam and blood, their riders
bearing themselves proudly, and then they began
again. At every new discharge, the Arab women,
like ladies at a tourney, saluted them with a peculiar
cry, that is a rapid repetition of the monosyllable <i>Jù</i>
(or in English <i>yù</i>) like a sort of joyous trill.

We went to look at the ball-players. About fifteen
Arab boys and men—some of the latter with
white beards—some with sabres, some with guns
slung across their shoulders, were tossing a leathern
ball about as big as an orange. One would take it,
let it fall, and send it into the air with a blow of his
foot; all the others rushed to catch it before it fell.
.pn +1
The one who caught it repeated the action of the
first; and so the group of players, always following
the ball, were in constant movement from one point
to another. The curious part of it was that there
was not a word, nor a cry, nor a smile among them.
Old men and boys, all were equally serious and intent
upon the game, as upon some necessary labor,
and only their panting breath and the sound of their
feet could be heard.

At a few paces farther on, within another circle of
spectators, some negroes were dancing to the sound
of a pipe and a small conical drum, beaten with a
stick in the shape of a half moon. There were eight
of them—big, black, and shining like ebony, with
nothing on them but a long white shirt, bound round
the waist by a thick green cord. Seven of them
held each other’s hand in a ring, while the eighth
was in the middle, and all danced together, or rather
accompanied the music, without moving from their
places, but with a certain indescribable movement of
the hips, and that satyr-like grin, that expression of
stupid beatitude and bestial voluptuousness, which is
peculiar to the black race. Whilst I stood looking
on at this scene, two boys, about ten years of age,
among the spectators, gave me a taste of the ferocity
of Arab blood. They suddenly—and for some unknown
reason—fell upon each other, and clinging
together like a couple of young tigers, bit, clawed,
and scratched, with a fury that was horrible to see.
Two strong men had as much as they could do to
.pn +1
separate them, and they were borne off all bloody
and torn, and struggling to attack each other again.

The fencers made me laugh. They were four,
fencing in couples, with sticks. The extravagance
and awkwardness of this performance are not to be
described, In other cities in Morocco I afterward
saw the same thing, so it is evidently the native
<i>school</i> of fencing. The leaps, contortions, attitudes,
and waving of arms, were beyond words, and all
done with a self-satisfied air that was enough to
make one fall upon them with their own sticks and
send them flying. The Arab spectators, however,
stood about with open mouths, and frequently
glanced at me, as if to enjoy my wonder and admiration,
while I, willing to content them, affected to be
much delighted. Then some of them drew aside
that I might see them better, and I presently found
myself surrounded and pressed on all sides by the
Arabs, and was able to satisfy in full my desire to
study the race in all its more intimate peculiarities.
A soldier of the Italian Legation, seeing me in these
straits, and thinking me an involuntary prisoner, came
to my rescue, rather against my will, with fist and
elbows.

The circle of the story-teller was the most interesting,
though the smallest of all. I arrived just at
the moment when he had finished the usual inaugural
prayer, and was beginning his narrative. He
was a man of about fifty, almost black, with a jet-black
beard and gleaming eyes, wearing, like all
.pn +1
of his profession in Morocco, an ample white robe,
bound round the waist with a camel’s-hair girdle,
giving him the majestic air of an antique priest. He
spoke in a high voice, and slowly, standing erect
within the circle of listeners, while two musicians
with drum and hautboy kept up a low accompaniment.
I could not understand a word, but his face,
voice, and gestures, were so expressive that I managed
to gather something of the meaning of his
story. He seemed to be relating a tale of a journey.
Now he imitated the action of a tired horse, and
pointed to a distant and immense horizon; then he
seemed to seek about for a drop of water, and his
arms and head dropped as if in complete exhaustion.
Suddenly he discovers something at a distance, appears
uncertain, believes, and doubts the evidence
of his senses—again believes, is re-animated, hastens
his flagging steps, arrives, gives thanks to Heaven,
and throws himself on the earth with a long breath
of satisfaction, smiling with pleasure in the shade of
a delightful oasis. The audience meanwhile stood
without breath or motion, suspended on the lips of
the orator, and reflecting in their faces his every
word and gesture. The ingenuousness and freshness
of feeling that are hidden under their hard and
savage exterior became plainly visible. As the story-teller
became more fervent in his narrative, and
raised his voice, the two musicians blew and beat
with increasing fury, and the listeners drew closer
together in the intensity of their interest, until, finally,
.pn +1
the whole culminated in one grand burst; the
musicians threw their instruments into the air, and
the crowd dispersed, and gave place to another
circle.

There were three performers who had drawn a
large audience about them. One played on a sort
of bagpipes, another on a tambourine with bells, and
the third on an extraordinary instrument compounded
of a clarionet and two horns, which gave forth
most discordant sounds. All three men were bandy-legged,
tall, and with backs bent into a curve.
Wrapped in a few rags, they stood side by side close
together as if they had been bound one to the other,
and, playing an air which they had probably played
for fifty years or more, they marched around the
square. Their movement was peculiar—something
between walking and dancing,—and their gestures so
extraordinary, made as they were with mechanical
regularity and all together, that I imagine them to
have expressed some idea founded in some characteristic
peculiarity of the Arab people. Those three,
streaming with heat from every pore, played and
marched about for more than an hour in the
fashion I have described, with unalterable gravity,
while a hundred or so of lookers-on stood, with the
sun in their eyes, giving no outward sign either of
pleasure or of weariness.

The noisiest circle was that of the soldiers. There
were twelve, old and young, some with white caftans,
some in shirts only, one with a fez, another in a
.pn +1
hood, and all armed with flint muskets as long as
lances, into which they put the powder loose,
like all their fellows in Morocco, where the cartridge
is not in use. An old man directed the manœuvres.
They ranged themselves in two rows of six each,
facing one another. At a signal, all changed places
with each other, running and putting one knee to
the ground. Then one of them struck up, in a
shrill falsetto voice, a sort of chant, full of trills and
warblings, which lasted a few minutes, and was listened
to in perfect silence. Then suddenly they all
bounded to their feet in a circle, and with an immense
leap and a shout of joy, fired off their guns
muzzle downward. The rapidity, the fury, and
something madly festive and diabolically cheerful in
the performance, are not to be described. Among
the spectators near me was a little Arab girl about
ten years old, not yet veiled, one of the prettiest
little faces I saw in Tangiers, of a delicate pale
bronze in color, who, with her large blue eyes full of
wonder, gazed at a spectacle much more marvellous
to her than that of the soldiers’ dance: she saw me
take off my gloves, which Arab boys believe to be a
sort of second skin that Christians have on their
hands, and can remove at pleasure without inconvenience
or pain.

I hesitated about going to see the serpent-charmers,
but curiosity overcame repugnance. These so-called
magicians belong to the confraternity of the
Aissawa, and pretend to have received from their
.pn +1
patron, Ben Aissa, the privilege of enduring uninjured
the bite of the most venomous beasts. Many
travellers, in fact, most worthy of belief, assert that
they have seen these men bitten severely, until the
blood flowed, by serpents that a moment before had
shown the fatal effect of their venom upon some animal.
The Aissawa whom I saw gave a horrible but
bloodless spectacle. He was a little fellow, muscular,
with a cadaverous and stern countenance, the
air of a Merovingian king, and dressed in a sort of
blue shirt that came down to his heels. When I
drew near he was engaged in jumping grotesquely
about a goat-skin spread on the ground, upon
which was a sack containing the serpents; and as
he jumped he sang, to the accompaniment of a flute,
a melancholy song that was perhaps an invocation
to his saint. The song finished, he chattered and
gesticulated for some time, trying to get some
money thrown to him, and then kneeling down before
the goat-skin, he thrust his arm into the sack
and drew out a long greenish snake, extremely
lively, and carried it round, handling it very carefully,
for the spectators to see. This done, he began
to twist it about in all directions, and generally
use it as if it had been a rope. He seized it by the
neck, he suspended it by the tail, he bound it round
his head like a fillet, he hid it in his bosom, he made
it pass through the holes in the edge of a tambourine,
he threw it on the ground and set his foot upon,
it, he stuck it under his arm. The horrible beast
.pn +1
erected its head, darted out its tongue, twisted itself
about with those flexible, odious, abject movements
that seem the expression of perfidious baseness;
and all the rage that burned in its body seemed to
shoot in sparkles from its small eyes; but I could
not see that it ever once attempted to bite the hand
that held it. After this, the Aissawa seized the serpent
by the neck, and fixed a small bit of iron in its
mouth, so as to keep it open and display the
fangs to the spectators; and then taking its tail between
his teeth, he proceeded to bite it, while the
beast went through violent contortions; and I left
the place in horror and disgust.

At that moment our <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> appeared
in the Soc. The Vice-Governor beheld him from
the hill, ran to meet him, and conducted him under
the tent, where all the members of the future caravan,
myself included, speedily assembled. Then
came soldiers and musicians, and an immense semi-circle
of Arabs formed itself in front of the tent, the
men in front, the gentle sex in groups behind; and
then began a wild concert of songs, dances, yells,
and gunshots, which lasted for more than an hour,
in the midst of dense clouds of smoke, the sounds of
barbaric music, the enthusiastic shouts of the women
and children, the paternal satisfaction of the Vice-Governor,
and our great amusement. Before it was
over, the <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> put some coins into the
hand of an Arab soldier, to be given to the director
of the spectacle, and the soldier presently returning,
.pn +1
delivered the following odd form of thanks,
translated into Spanish:—“The Italian Ambassador
has done a good action; may Allah bless every hair
of his beard!”

The strange festival lasted until sunset. Three
water-sellers were sufficient to satisfy the needs of
all that crowd, exposed all day to the rays of the
sun of Africa. One <lang=ar><i>marengo</i></lang> was perhaps the utmost
of the sum that circulated in that concourse
of people. Their only pleasures were to see and
hear. There was no love-making, no drunkenness,
no knife-play,—nothing in common with the holidays
of civilization.

.if h
.il fn=i054.png w=100% id=i054 alt='Moorish Husbandman.'
.ca Moorish Husbandman.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Moorish Husbandman.]
.if-

The country about Tangiers is not less curious to
see than the city. Around the walls extends a girdle
of gardens, belonging for the most part to the
ministers and consuls, and rather neglected, but rich
in luxuriant vegetation. There may be seen long
files of aloes, like gigantic lances bound up in
sheaves of enormous curved dagger blades, for such
is the shape of their leaves. The points, with the
fibre attached, are used by the Arabs to sew up
wounds. There is the Indian fig—in the Moorish
tongue, <i>kermus del Inde</i>—very tall, with leaves an
inch in thickness, and growing so thickly as to obstruct
the paths; the common fig, under whose
shadow ten tents could be erected; oaks, acacias,
oleanders, and shrubs of every sort, that interlace
their branches with those of the highest trees, and
with the ivy, the vine, the cane, and the thorn, form
.pn 55
a tangled mass of verdure under which ditch and
footpath are entirely concealed. In some places one
has to grope one’s way, and pass from one enclosure
to another through thick, thorny hedges, over
prostrate fences, in the midst of grass and flowers
as high as one’s waist, and no living creature to be
seen. A small white house, and a well, with a
wheel by means of which the water is sent flowing
through little trenches dug for the purpose, are the
only objects which indicate the presence of poverty
and labor. Sometimes, if the captain of the staff,
who was a clever guide, had not been with me, I
should have lost my way in the midst of that wild
vegetation; and we often had to call out, as in a
labyrinth, to prevent our losing each other. It was
a pleasure to me to swim amid the greenery,
opening the way with hands and feet, with the joyous
excitement of a savage returned from slavery
to his native forest.

Beyond this girdle of gardens there are no trees,
or houses, or hedges, or any indication of boundaries;
there are only hills, green valleys, and undulating
plains, with an occasional herd of cattle pasturing
and without any visible herdsman, or a horse
turned loose. Once only did I see any tilling of
the ground. An Arab was driving an ass and a goat,
harnessed to a very small plough, of a strange
shape, such as might have been in use four thousand
years ago, and which turned up a scarcely visible
furrow in the stony, weedy earth. I have been assured
.pn +1
that it is not unusual to see a donkey and a
woman ploughing in company, and this will give an
idea of the state of agriculture in Morocco. The
only attempt at manuring is to burn the straw left
after the grain is gathered; and the only care taken
not to exhaust the earth, is to leave it every third
year to grow grass for pasture, after having grown
grain, and buckwheat or maize, in the two preceding
years. In spite of this, however, the ground becomes
impoverished after a few years, and then the
husbandman leaves it, and seeks another field, returning,
after a time, to the old one; and so but a
very small part of the arable land is under cultivation
at one time, whereas if it were even badly cultivated,
it would return a hundred-fold the seed
thrown in it.

The prettiest excursion we made was that to Cape
Spartel, the <i>Ampelusium</i> of the ancients, which
forms the north-western extremity of the African
continent, a mountain of gray stone, about three
hundred mètres in height, rising abruptly from the
sea, and opening underneath into vast caverns, the
larger of which were consecrated to Hercules: <i>Specus
Herculi sacer</i>. Upon the summit of this mountain
stands the famous lighthouse erected a few years
ago, and maintained by contributions from most of
the European States. We climbed to the top of
the tower, where the great lantern sends its beneficent
rays to a distance of five-and-twenty miles.
From thence the eye embraces two seas and two
.pn +1
continents. There can be seen the last waters of the
Mediterranean and the horizon of the Atlantic—the
sea of darkness, <i>Bar-el-Dolma</i>, as the Arabs call it—beating
at the foot of the rock; the Spanish coast,
from Cape Trafalgar to Cape Algesiras; the African
coast, from the Mediterranean to the mountains of
Ceuta, the <lang=la><i>septem fratres</i></lang> of the Romans; and far in
the distance, faintly outlined, the enormous rock of
Gibraltar—eternal sentinel of that port of the old
continent, mysterious terminus of the antique world,
become the “<lang=it><i>Favola vila ai naviganti industri</i></lang>.”

In this expedition we encountered but few persons,
for the most part Arabs on foot, who passed
almost without looking at us, and sometimes a Moor
on horseback, some personage important either for
his wealth or his office, accompanied by a troop of
armed followers, who looked contemptuously at us
as they passed. The women muffled their faces
even more carefully than in the city, some muttering,
and others turning their backs abruptly upon us.
Here and there an Arab would stop before us, look
fixedly at us, murmur a few words that sounded as
if he were asking a favor, and then go on his way
without looking back. At first we did not understand,
but it was explained that they were asking us
to pray to God for some favor for them. It seems
that there is a superstition much in vogue among
the Arabs, that the prayers of a Mussulman being
very grateful to God, He generally delays granting
what they ask for, in order that He may prolong
.pn +1
the pleasure of hearing the prayer; whilst the
prayer of an infidel dog, like a Hebrew or a Christian,
is so hateful to Him, that He grants it at once,
<lang=la><i>ipso facto</i></lang>, in order to be rid of it. The only
friendly faces we saw were those of some Jewish
boys who were scampering about on donkeys, and
who threw us a cheerful “<lang=es><i>Buenos dias, Caballeros!</i></lang>”
as they galloped by.

In spite, however, of the new and varied character
of our life at Tangiers, we were all impatience
to leave it, in order to get back in the month of
June, before the great heats began. The <lang=fr><i>chargé
d’affaires</i></lang> had sent a messenger to Fez to announce
that the embassy was ready; but ten days at least
must pass before he could return. Private notices
informed us that the escort was on its way, others
that it had not yet started. Uncertain and contradictory
rumors prevailed, as if the longed-for Fez were
distant two thousand miles from the coast, instead
of about one hundred and forty miles; and this,
from one point of view, was rather agreeable, because
our fifteen days’ journey thus assumed in our
fancy the proportions of a long and adventurous
voyage, and Fez seemed mysteriously attractive.
The strange things, too, which were related by those
who had been there with former embassies, about
the city, its people, and the dangers of the expedition,
all combined to excite our expectations. They
told how they had been surrounded by thousands
of horsemen, who saluted them with a tempest of
.pn +1
shots, so near as almost to scorch their skins and
blind them, and that they could hear the balls whistle
by their ears; that in all probability some of us
Italians would be shot in the head by mistake by
some ball directed against the white cross in our
flag, which would no doubt seem an insult to Mahomet
in Arab eyes. They talked of scorpions,
serpents, tarantulas, of clouds of grasshoppers and
locusts, of spiders and toads of gigantic size that
were found on the road and under the tents. They
described in dismal colors the entrance of the embassy
into Fez, in the midst of a hostile crowd,
through tortuous, dark streets, encumbered with ruins
and the carcases of animals; they prophesied a
mountain of trouble for us during our stay at Fez—mortal
languors, furious dysenteries and rheumatisms,
musquitoes of monstrous size and ferocity
compared with which those of our country were
agreeable companions, and, finally, homesickness;
apropos of which, they told us of a young Belgian
painter who had gone to Fez with the embassy
from Brussels, and who, after a week’s stay, was
seized with such a desperate melancholy, that the
ambassador was obliged to send him back to Tangiers
by forced marches, that he might not see him
die under his eyes; and it was true. But all this
only increased our impatience to be off, and our delight
can easily be imagined when Signor Soloman
Affalo, the second dragoman of the Legation, one
day presented himself at the door of the dining-room,
.pn +1
and announced, in a sonorous voice—“The
escort from Fez has arrived.”

With it came horses, mules, camels, grooms,
tents, the route laid down for us by the Sultan, and
his permission to start at once. Some days, however,
had to be allowed for men and beasts to take a
little rest.

The animals were sheltered at the Casba. The
next day we went to see them. There were forty-five
horses, including those of the escort, about
twenty mules for the saddle, and more than fifty for
baggage, to which were afterward added others hired
at Tangiers; the horses small and light, like all
Morocco horses, and the mules robust; the saddles
and packs covered with scarlet cloth; the stirrups
formed of a large plate of iron bent upward at the
two sides, so as to support and enclose the whole
foot, and serving also as spurs, as well as defences.
The poor beasts were almost all lying down, exhausted
more from hunger than from fatigue, a large
part of their food having, according to custom, found
its way, in the shape of coin, into the pockets of the
drivers. Some of the soldiers of the escort were
there, who came about us, and made us understand
by signs and words that the journey had been a very
fatiguing one, with much suffering from heat and
thirst, but that, thanks to Allah, they had arrived
safe and sound. They were blacks and mulattoes,
wrapped in their white capotes, tall, powerful men,
with bold features, sharp white teeth, and flashing
.pn +1
eyes, that made us consider whether it would not
be well to have a second escort placed between
them and ourselves in case of necessity. Whilst my
companions conversed in gestures, I sought among
the mules one with a mild expression of generosity
and gentleness in its eyes, and found it in a white
mule with a crupper adorned with arabesques. To
this creature I decided to confide my life and fortunes,
and from that moment until our return the
hope of Italian literature in Morocco was bound to
her saddle.

From the Casba we proceeded to the Soc-de-Barra,
where the principal tents had been placed. It
was a great pleasure to us to see these canvas houses
where we were to sleep for thirty nights in the midst
of unknown solitudes, and see and hear so many
strange things: one of us preparing his geographical
maps, another his official report, another his
book, a fourth his picture; forming altogether a small
Italy in pilgrimage across the empire of the
Schariffs. The tents were of a cylindrical conical
form, some large enough to contain about twenty
persons, all very high, and made of double canvas
bordered with blue, and ornamented on the top
with a large metal ball. Most of them belonged
to the Sultan; and who knows how often the
beauties of the seraglio had slept under them on
their journeys from Fez to Meckinez and Morocco!
In one corner of the encampment was a group of
foot-soldiers of the escort, and in front of them a
.pn +1
personage unknown, who was awaiting the arrival of
the Minister. He was a man of about thirty-five,
of a dignified appearance, a mulatto, and corpulent,
with a great white turban, a blue capote, red
drawers, and a sabre in a leathern sheath with
a hilt of rhinoceros-horn. The Minister, arriving
in a few moments, presented this gentleman to us as
the commandant of the escort, a general of the
imperial army, by name Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei,
who was to accompany us to and from Fez
back to Tangiers, and whose head answered to the
Sultan for the safety of ours. He shook hands
with us with much grace and ease of manner, and
his visage and air reassured me completely with regard
to the eyes and teeth of the soldiers whom I
had seen at the Casba. He was not handsome, but
his countenance expressed mildness and intelligence.
He must know how to read, write, and cipher—be,
in fact, one of the most cultured generals in the
army—since he had been chosen by the Minister
of War for this delicate mission. The distribution
of tents was now made in his presence. One was
assigned to painting; among the largest, after that
of the ambassador, was the one taken possession of
by the commander of the frigate, the captain of the
staff, the vice-consul, and myself, which afterward
became the noisiest tent in the encampment. Another
very large one was set aside as a dining-room; and
then came those of the doctor, the interpreters,
cooks, servants, and soldiers of the Legation. The
.pn +1
commander of the escort and his soldiers had their
tents apart. Other tents were to be added on the
day of departure. In short, I foresaw that we should
have a beautiful encampment, and already felt within
me the beginnings of descriptive frenzy.

On the following day the <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> went
with the commander of the frigate and the captain
to pay a visit to the representative of the imperial
Government, Sidi-Bargas, who exercises what may
be called the office of Minister of Foreign Affairs in
Tangiers. I begged permission to accompany them,
being very curious to see a Minister of Foreign
Affairs who, if his salary has not been increased
within the last twenty years (which is not probable),
receives from his Government the sum of seventy-five
francs, or fifteen dollars, a month, which includes
the fund for the expenses of representation; a magnificent
stipend, nevertheless, compared with that of
the governors, who receive only fifty francs. And
it is not to be said that their charge is a sinecure,
and may be entrusted to the first comer. The famous
Sultan Abd-er-Rahman, for instance, who
reigned from 1822 to 1859, could find no man so
well adapted for it as one Sidi-Mohammed el Khatïb,
merchant in coffee and sugar, who continued while
he was Minister to traffic regularly between Tangiers
and Gibraltar. The instructions which this
Minister received from his Government, although
very simple, are such as to embarrass the most subtle
of European diplomatists. A French consul
.pn +1
has set them down for us with much precision—viz.,
to respond to all demands of the consuls with promises;
to defer to the very latest moment the fulfilment
of these promises; to gain time; to raise
difficulties of every kind against complaint; to act in
such a way that the complainants will get tired, and
desist; to yield, if threatened, as little as possible;
if cannon are introduced, to yield, but not until the
latest moment. But it must be acknowledged that
after the war with Spain, and especially under the
reign of Muley-el-Hassan, things have very much
changed.

We went up to the Casba where the Minister lives;
a line of soldiers kept guard before the door. We
crossed a garden and entered a spacious hall, where
the Minister and the Governor of Tangiers came
to meet us. At the bottom of the hall was a recess
or alcove, with a sofa and some chairs; in one corner,
a modest bed; under the bed, a coffee-service; the
walls white and bare; the floor covered with matting.
We seated ourselves in the alcove.

The two personages before us formed an admirable
contrast. One, Sidi-Bargas, the Minister, was
a handsome old man, with a white beard and a clear
complexion, eyes of extraordinary vivacity, and a
large smiling mouth, displaying two rows of ivory-white
teeth; a countenance which revealed the
finesse and marvellous flexibility demanded of him
by the very nature of his office. His eye-glasses
and snuff-box, together with certain ceremonious airs
.pn +1
of head and hands, gave him something of the look
of a European diplomatist. Plainly a man accustomed
to deal with Christians; superior, perhaps, to
many of the prejudices and superstitions of his
people; a Mussulman of large views; a Moor varnished
with civilization. The other, the Caid Misfiui,
seemed the incarnation of Morocco. He was
about fifty years of age, with black beard and bronze
complexion, muscular, sombre, and taciturn; a face
that looked as if it had never smiled. He held his
head down, his eyes fixed on the ground, his brow
bent; his expression was one of strong repugnance.
Both men wore large muslin turbans and long ample
robes of transparent stuff.

The <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> presented to these two personages,
through the interpreter, the commandant of
the frigate and the captain. They were two officials,
and their introduction required no comment. But
when I was presented, a few words of explanation
as to the office I filled was necessary; and the
<lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> expressed himself in rather hyperbolical
terms. Sidi-Bargas stood a moment silent,
and then said a few words to the interpreter, who
translated—

“His Excellency demands why you have such
ability with your hand. Your lordship wears it covered;
your lordship will please remove your glove
that the hand may be seen.”

The compliment was so new to me that I was at a
loss for a reply.

.pn +1

“It is not necessary,” observed the <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang>,
“because the faculty resides in his mind, and
not in his hand.”

One would have thought this settled the question;
but when a Moor gets hold of a metaphor, he does
not leave it so easily.

“True,” replied his Excellency, through the interpreter;
“but the hand being the instrument is also
the symbol of the faculties of the mind.”

The discussion was prolonged for a few minutes.
“It is a gift of Allah,” finally concluded Sidi-Bargas.

.if h
.il fn=i066.png w=100% id=i066 alt='Loading The Camels.'
.ca Loading The Camels.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Loading The Camels.]
.if-

The conversation continued for some time, and
the journey was discussed. There was a long citation
of names of governors, of provinces, of rivers,
valleys, mountains, and plains, that we should find
upon our route; names that resounded in my ear as
so many promises of adventure, and set my fancy to
work. What was the Red Mountain? What should
we find on the banks of Pearl River? What sort of
a man could that Governor be who was called “Son
of the Mare?” Our <lang=fr><i>chargé</i></lang> made numerous inquiries
as to distances, water, and shade. Sidi-Bargas had
it all at the points of his fingers, and in this direction
was certainly greatly beyond Visconti Venosta, who
could not for his life have given information to a foreign
ambassador as to how many springs of water and how
many groups of trees there were between Rome and
Naples. Finally, he wished us a pleasant journey,
with the following formula: “May peace be in your
path!” and accompanying the ambassador to the entrance,
.pn 67
shook hands with us all with an air of great
cordiality. The Caid Misfiui, always mute, put out
the tips of his fingers, without raising his eyes.
“My hand—yes,” I thought, as I gave it, “but not
my head!”

“Start on Monday!” called out Sidi-Bargas, as we
took leave.

The ambassador asked why Monday rather than
Sunday. “Because it is a day of good omen,” he
answered, with gravity; and with another deep salutation,
he left us.

I learned later that Caid-Misfiui is accounted a man
of great learning among the Moors: he was tutor to the
reigning Sultan, and is, as his face shows, a fanatical
Mussulman. Sidi-Bargas enjoys the more amiable
reputation of being a very fine chess-player.

Three days before our departure the street before
the Legation was thronged with curious lookers-on.
Ten tall camels, which were to carry to Fez, in advance
of us, a part of our provision of wine, came one
after the other, kneeled down to receive their load,
and departed with their guard of soldiers and servants.
Within the house all was bustle, and the
servants who had come from Fez were added to
those already on the spot. Provisions arrived at
every hour in the day. It was feared, at one
moment, that we should not be able to get off on the
appointed day. But on the Sunday evening, 3d of
May, every thing was ready, including the lofty mast
of an immense tricolored flag which was to float in
.pn +1
the midst of our encampment; and in the night the
baggage mules were loaded so that they should start
early on Monday morning, several hours before us,
and arrive in the evening in time to have every thing
ready for us at the encampment.

I shall always remember with a pleasant emotion
those last moments passed in the court of the Legation
just before our departure. We were all there.
An old friend of the <lang=fr><i>chargé d’affaires</i></lang> had arrived
the evening before to join us, Signor Patot, formerly
Minister from Spain to Tangiers, and also Signor
Morteo, a Genoese, and consular agent for Italy to
Mazagan. There was the doctor of the caravan,
Miguerez, a native of Algiers; a rich Moor, Mohammed
Ducali, an Italian subject, who accompanied
the embassy in the quality of writer; the second
dragoman of the Legation, Solomon Affalo; two
Italian sailors, one orderly to Commander Cassone,
and the other belonging to the <i>Dora</i>; the soldiers
of the Legation in holiday dress; cooks, workmen,
and servants, all persons unknown to me, whom two
months of life in common in the interior of Morocco
were to render familiar to me, and whom I
prepared myself to study from that moment, one
by one, and to make move and speak in a book that
I had in my head. Every one of them had some
peculiarity of dress, which gave the whole a singularly
picturesque appearance. There were plumed
caps, white mantles, gaiters, veils, wallets, and
blankets of every color. There were enough pistols,
.pn +1
barometers, quadrants, albums, and field-glasses to
have set up a bazaar. We might have been setting
off on an expedition to the Cape of Good Hope, and
every one of us was quivering with impatience, curiosity,
and pleasant anticipation. To crown all, the
weather was exquisite, and a delightful sea-breeze
was blowing. Mahomet was with Italy.

At five o’clock exactly the ambassador mounted
his horse, and the flags on the terrace of the Legation
rose in salute. Preoccupied as I was with my
white mule, and in all the confusion and uproar of
departure I remember but little of the crowd that
encumbered the street, the handsome Jewish women
peering from their terraces, and an Arab boy, who
exclaimed with a strange accent, as we issued from
the gate of the Soc-de-Barra, “<i>Italia!</i>”

At the Soc we were joined by the representatives
of the other Legations, who were to accompany us,
according to custom, a few miles beyond Tangiers;
and we took the road to Fez, a numerous and noisy
cavalcade, before which waved the green folds of the
banner of the Prophet.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap02
CHAPTER II. | HAD-EL-GARBIA.
.sp 2
A throng of ministers, consuls, dragomans,
secretaries, clerks, a great international embassy,
representing six monarchies and two republics,
and composed for the most part of people who
had been all over the world. Among others, there
was the Spanish consul, dressed in the graceful costume
of the province of Mercia, with a poignard in
his girdle; the gigantic figure of the United States
consul, once a colonel in a cavalry regiment, towering
a whole head above the rest of the troop, and
riding a beautiful Arab horse with Mexican saddle
and accoutrements; the dragoman of the Legation
of France, an athletic man, mounted upon an enormous
white horse, with which he presented, in certain
points of view, the image of a centaur; English,
Andalusians, and Germans were there, and as every
one spoke in his own tongue, mingled with laughter,
the humming of songs, and the neighing of beasts,
the effect may be imagined. Before us rode the
banner-bearer, followed by two soldiers of the Italian
Legation; behind came the escort, led by the
.pn +1
mulatto general, with his rifle erect, one end resting
on the saddle; on either side a crowd of Arabs on
foot. All this motley company, gilded by the rays
of the setting sun, presented a spectacle so splendidly
picturesque that each one of us wore an air of
complacency at the thought that we formed part of
the picture.

Little by little, those who had accompanied us
from Tangiers took their leave and turned back;
only America and Spain remained with us. The
road so far was not bad; my mule seemed the most
docile of mules; what remained for me to desire?
But there is no perfect felicity on this earth. The
captain drew near and gave me a most unpleasing
piece of news. The vice-consul, Paolo Grande, our
tent companion, was a somnambulist. The captain
himself had met him the night before on the stairs
of the Legation, wrapped in a sheet, with a lamp in
one hand and a pistol in the other. The servants,
being questioned, confirmed the tale. To sleep
with him in the same tent was dangerous. The
captain entreated me, as I was more intimate with
the vice-consul than he, to induce him to give up
his arms for the night. I promised to do my best
“I leave it in your hands,” said he, as he turned
away, “and I speak in the name of the commandant
also.” “Here’s a fine business!” thought I, as I
went in search of the vice-consul. He came to
meet me. With one cautious question and another
I succeeded in discovering that he carried with him
.pn +1
a small arsenal, what with fire-arms and cutting
weapons, comprising an ugly Moorish poignard that
seemed expressly made for cutting a hole in my
own person. After turning it over in my mind, I
decided to wait until the hour for going to bed arrived,
and for the rest of the way the teasing
thought pursued me.

We were moving now in a great curve over an
undulating country, green and solitary. The road, if
road it could be called, was formed of a large number
of parallel paths crossing each other here and there,
winding through stones and bushes, and sunken,
like the beds of streams. A few palms and aloes
showed their dark outlines upon the golden sky,
which, above our heads, began to glitter with stars.
No person was to be seen far or near. Once we
heard some gunshots: it was a group of Arabs on
the top of a hill, saluting the ambassador. After
three hours’ travelling it was dark night, and we began
to wish for the encampment. Hunger in some
and fatigue in others made us silent. Nothing was
heard but the horses’ feet and the panting breath of
the servants running beside us. Suddenly there
was a shout from the caid. On a height to the
right lights were glittering, and we hailed with a
unanimous shout our first encampment.

I cannot express the pleasure I felt in dismounting
among the tents. Had it not been for my dignity
as the representative of Italian literature, I
think I should have indulged in a sort of jig. It
.pn +1
was a little city, illuminated, and full of noise and
people. Kitchen fires blazed on every side. Servants,
soldiers, cooks, sailors, went to and fro, exchanging
questions in all the tongues of the Tower
of Babel. The tents were arranged in a large circle,
with the Italian banner in the midst. Behind
the tents were ranged the horses and mules. The
escort had its own small encampment apart. Every
thing was in military order. I recognized at once
my own habitation, and ran to take possession.
There were four camp-beds, mats and carpets, lanterns,
candlesticks, small tables, folding chairs, washbasins
striped with the Italian colors, and a great
Indian fan. It was a princely establishment, in
which one might willingly spend a year. Our tent
was placed between those of the ambassador and
the artists.

One hour after our arrival we were seated at dinner
in the tent consecrated to Lucullus. I think that
was the merriest dinner that ever took place within
the confines of Morocco since the foundation of Fez.
We were sixteen, comprising the American consul
with his two sons, and the Spanish consul, with two
<lang=fr><i>attachés</i></lang> from the Legation. The Italian <lang=fr><i>cuisine</i></lang> carried
off a solemn victory. It was the first time, I
believe, that in that desolate country the fumes of
macaroni with gravy and <lang=it><i>risotto alla Milanese</i></lang> ever
rose to the nostrils of Allah. The fat French cook,
come from Tangiers for that night only, was clamorously
called before the footlights. Toasts went off
.pn +1
one after the other in Italian, in Spanish, in verse, in
prose, in music. The Spanish consul, a handsome
Castilian of the antique stamp, large-bearded, broad-shouldered,
and deep-hearted, declaimed, with one
hand on his dagger-hilt, the dialogue of Don Juan
Tenorio with Don Luis Mendia, in Zorilla’s famous
drama. There were discussions upon the Eastern
Question, upon the eyes of Arab women, upon the
Carlist war, upon the immortality of the soul, and
upon the properties of the terrible <i>cobra di capello</i>—the
aspic of Cleopatra—which the charlatans of
Morocco allow to bite them with impunity. Some
one, in the midst of the clamor of conversation,
whispered in my ear that he would be grateful to me
for life, if I would mention in my future book on
Morocco, that he had killed a lion. I seized the
occasion to request my fellow-guests to give me
each a note as to the particular ferocious beast
which he had conquered. The Spanish consul, out
of gratitude, improvised a verse in honor of my mule,
and all singing it to a tune from the “Italiana in
Algieri,” we issued forth, and sought our different
sleeping-places.

The encampment was immersed in profound slumber.
In front of the tent of the ambassador, who
had retired before us, watched the faithful Selam,
first soldier of the Legation. In the distance paced
like a shadow, among the tents, the form of the caid
of the escort. The sky was all sparkling with stars.
What a blessed night, if I had not had that thorn inserted
in my pillow!

.pn +1

I had no sooner entered my tent than the captain
repeated his advice, and I determined to attack
the subject after we should be in bed. It was unavoidable,
but it was very unpleasant. The vice-consul
might take it badly, and I should be very
sorry. He was so agreeable a companion. Like a
true Sicilian, full of fire, he talked of the most insignificant
things with the accent and style of an inspired
preacher. He made use of the most terrible
adjectives—immense, divine, and so on—on the
slightest occasion. His quietest and least expressive
gesture was to shake his hands wildly above
his head. To see him discuss any question, with
his eyes flying out of his head, and his aquiline
nose that seemed to defy the world, was to judge
him an irascible and imperious man, whereas he
was in reality the kindest and gentlest person conceivable.

“Come, courage!” whispered the captain when
we were all in bed.

“Signor Grande,” I began, “are you in the habit
of getting up in the night?”

He seemed much astonished at my question.
“No,” he answered; “and I should be very sorry
to think that any one had such a habit.”

“That’s queer,” I thought. “Then,” said I, “you
recognize that it is a dangerous habit?”

He looked at me. “Excuse me,” he said, after a
moment’s silence; “I don’t suppose you mean to
joke on such a subject?”

.pn +1

“Excuse <i>me</i>,” I answered; “I have not the least
intention of joking. It is not my custom to jest on
serious subjects.”

“Serious indeed; and it will be for you to guard
against the consequences.”

“Well, this is fine! Do you imagine that I
shall go and sleep in the middle of the camp?”

“Of the two it seems to me that you should go,
rather than I.”

“That is an impertinence!” cried I, sitting up in
bed with a jump.

“Oh, a new idea!” shouted the vice-consul,
bouncing up in his turn; “an impertinence, not to
risk being murdered!”

A shout of laughter from the other two broke up
the discussion, and before they spoke we understood
that we had been the victims of a joke. They had
told him that I was in the habit of wandering about
in the night wrapped in a sheet, and with a pistol in
my hand.

.if h
.il fn=i076.png w=60% id=i076 alt='Peasant Women of the Interior.'
.ca Peasant Women of the Interior.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Peasant Women of the Interior.]
.if-

The night passed without disturbance, and I
awoke at dawn. The camp was still immersed in
slumber; only among the tents of the escort a few
persons were in motion. The sky in the east was
of a brilliant rose-color. I went out among the
tents, and stood in contemplation before the spectacle
that lay in front of me.

The camp was placed on the side of a hill covered
with grass, aloes, the prickly pear, and some flowering
shrubs. Near the ambassador’s tent rose a tall
.pn 77
palm-tree, gracefully inclined toward the east. In
front of the hill extended an immense plain, undulating
and covered with verdure, closed in the distance
by a chain of dark-green mountains, behind
which appeared other blue heights almost lost in
the limpid sky. In all that space there was no
house, nor curl of smoke, nor tent, nor cattle, to be
seen. It was like an immense garden where no living
thing was admitted. A fresh and perfumed
breeze rustled the branches of the palm, and made
the only sound that broke the silence. Suddenly,
as I turned I beheld ten dilated eyes fixed on mine.
Five Arabs were seated upon a mass of rock at a few
steps from me—laborers from the country, come
in in the night to see the encampment. They
seemed sculptured out of the rock on which they
sat. They looked at me without winking, without
the least sign of curiosity, or sympathy, or embarrassment,
or malevolence; the whole five motionless
and impassive, their faces half hidden in their
hoods, like personifications of the solitude and
silence of the fields. I put one hand in my pocket,
and the ten eyes followed it; I took out a cigar, and
the ten eyes fixed themselves upon it; they followed
every motion that I made. Little by little I discovered
other figures farther off, seated in the grass
two by two and three by three, motionless and
hooded, and, like the first, with their eyes fixed on
me. They seemed to have risen from the earth,
dead men with their eyes open, appearances rather
.pn +1
than real persons, which would vanish under the
first beams of the sun. A long and tremulous cry,
coming from that part of the camp where the escort
lay, disturbed me from my contemplation of
these beings. A Mussulman soldier was announcing
to his fellows the first of the five canonical hours
of prayer which every Mussulman must follow.
Some soldiers came out of the tents, spread their
mantles on the earth, and knelt down upon them,
their faces toward the east. Three times they
rubbed their hands, arms, head, and feet with a
handful of earth, and then began to recite their
prayers in a low voice, kneeling, rising to their feet,
prostrating themselves face downward, lifting their
open hands to a level with their ears, and crouching
on their heels. Soon the commander of the
escort issued from his tent, and was followed by his
servants, then the cooks. In a few minutes the
greater part of the population of the camp was
afoot. The sun, scarcely above the horizon, was
scorching.

.if h
.il fn=i078.png w=60% id=i078 alt='The Arab Morning Prayer.'
.ca The Arab’s Morning Prayer.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Arab’s Morning Prayer.]
.if-

When I went back to my tent, I made the acquaintance
of several odd personages to whom I
shall have frequently to allude.

The first to appear was one of the Italian sailors,
orderly to the captain of the frigate, a Sicilian, born
at Porto Empedocle, Ranni by name,—a young fellow
of twenty-five, very tall, and of herculean build
and strength,—good-tempered, grave as a magistrate,
and endowed with the singular virtue of
.pn 79
never being astonished at any thing, except perhaps
the astonishment of others. For him, Porto Empedocle,
Gibraltar, Africa, China, the moon itself,
had he been in it, were all the same.

“What do you think of this way of living?”
asked the captain, while Ranni helped him to dress.

“What am I to say?” was the response.

“Why the journey, the new country, all this confusion—do
they make no impression upon you?”

He was silent a moment, and then answered ingenuously,
“No impression at all.”

“But the encampment—that at least is new to
you.”

“Oh no, Signor Commandant.”

“When did you ever see one before?”

“I saw this one last evening.”

The commandant looked at him, repressing his
irritation. Then he said, “Well, last evening—what
impression did it make then?”

“Well,” answered the sailor with candor, “the
same impression, you know, that it made this morning.”

The commandant hung his head with an air of resignation.

Soon after there entered another not less curious
personage. He was an Arab from Tangiers, who
was in the vice-consul’s service for the time of the
journey. His name was Ciua; but his master
called him Civo, for greater facility of pronunciation.
He was a large and tall young fellow, rather given
.pn +1
to practical joking, but good-natured and willing—a
big ingenuous boy, who laughed and hid his face
when you looked at him. He had no other garment
than a long, wide, white shirt, without a girdle,
which floated about him when he walked, and gave
him a ridiculous resemblance to a cherub. He knew
about thirty Spanish words, and with these he managed
to make himself understood, when constrained
to speak; but he usually preferred to converse in
pantomime. To look at him, you would judge him
to be about five-and-twenty; but it is easy to make
a mistake in an Arab’s age. I asked him how old
he was. He covered his face with one hand, thought
a moment, and answered, “<lang=es><i>Cuando guerra España—año
y medio.</i></lang>” In the time of the war with Spain,
which was in 1860, he was a year and a half old,
consequently, he was then seventeen.

The third personage was the ambassador’s cook,
who brought us our coffee—an unadulterated Piedmontese
from Turin, who had dropped from the
clouds one day into Tangiers, and had not yet recovered
his wits. The poor man was never tired of
exclaiming, “What a country! What a country!”

I asked him if before leaving Turin they had not
told him what sort of a place Morocco was. He answered,
yes, they had told him, “Take care; Tangiers
is not Turin.” And he had thought “<i>Pazienza!</i>
it will be like Genoa or Alexandria”; and instead
he had found himself in the midst of savages.
And they had given him two Arab assistants who
.pn +1
could not understand a word he said. And then to
make a two months’ journey through the <i>deserts of
Egypt</i>! He knew he should never get back alive.

“But at any rate,” I said, “you will have something
to tell when you get back to Turin.”

“Ah!” he answered, turning away with an air of
profound depression, “what can I tell about a country
where one cannot find a single leaf of salad?”

Breakfast over, the ambassador gave the order to
break up the encampment. During that long operation,
in which not less than one hundred persons
were concerned, I noticed a singular trait of Arab
character—the insatiable passion for command.
There was no need of any indication to recognize at
once in that crowd of figures the head muleteer, the
head porter, the head tent-servant, the chief of the
soldiers of the Legation. Each of these was invested
with an authority, and he made it felt and heard,
with hand and voice and eye, with or without occasion,
and with all the strength of his soul and body.
Those who had no authority resorted to all sorts of
pretexts for giving orders, and seeming to be something
a little above their fellows. The most ragged
wretch among them gave himself imperious airs.
The simplest operation, such as tying a cord or lifting
a box, provoked an exchange of thundering yells,
lightning glances, and gestures worthy of an angry
sultan. Even Civo, the modest Civo, domineered
over two country Arabs who allowed themselves to
glance at his master’s trunks from a distance.

.pn +1
At ten in the morning, under a burning sun, the
long caravan began slowly to descend into the plain.
The Spanish consul and his two companions had
been left behind; of foreigners none remained with
us now but the American consul and his two sons.

From the place where we had passed the night,
called in Arabic Ain-Dalia, which signifies fountain
of wine, because of the vines that once were there,
we were to go that day to Had-el-Garbia, beyond
the mountains that shut in the plain.

For more than an hour we journeyed over a
gently undulating plain, among fields of barley and
millet, through winding paths, forming at their crossings
many little islets of grass and flowers. We
met no one, and no figure was visible in the fields.
Only once we encountered a long file of camels led
by two Bedouin Arabs, who muttered, as they passed,
the common salutation: “Peace be on your way.”

I felt a great pity for the Arab servants who accompanied
us on foot, loaded with umbrellas, field-glasses,
albums, clocks, and a thousand objects of
name and use unknown to them; constrained to follow
our mules with rapid step, suffocated by dust,
scorched by the sum half-fed, half-clothed, subject to
every one, possessing nothing in the world but a
ragged shirt and a pair of slippers; running afoot
from Fez to Tangiers, only to go back again; and
then, perhaps, to follow some other caravan from
Fez to Morocco, and so to go on throughout their
lives, without other recompense than just not to die
.pn +1
of hunger, and to repose their bones under a tent
at night! I thought as I looked at them of Goethe’s
“Pyramid of Existence.” There was among them a
boy of thirteen or fourteen years old, a mulatto,
handsome and slender, who constantly fixed on us
his large dark eyes full of a pensive curiosity, seeking
to speak confusedly of many things, and dumbly
demanding sympathy. He was a foundling, the
fruit of no one knew what strange amours, who,
beginning this fatiguing life in the Italian Embassy,
would probably never cease until he should fall dying
in some ditch. Another, an old man all skin
and bones, ran with his head down, his eyes
closed, and his hands clenched, with a sort of desperate
resignation. Some talked and laughed as
they panted on. Suddenly one darted from the
ranks, passed before us, and disappeared. Ten minutes
afterward we found him seated under a fig-tree.
He had done a half mile at top speed, in order
to gain upon the caravan and enjoy five minutes’
rest and shade.

Meantime we arrived at the foot of a small mountain,
called in Arabic the Red Mountain, because of
the color of its earth; steep, rocky, and still bristling
on its lower part with the remains of a felled wood.
This climb had been announced to us at Tangiers as
the most difficult part of our road. “Mule,” said I
to my beast, “I desire you to remember my contract
with my editor,” and I pushed forward in a bold and
reckless manner. The path rose winding among
.pn +1
great stones that seemed to have been placed there
on purpose to bring me to grief by some personal
enemy; at every doubtful movement of my mule I
felt a whole chapter of my future book fly away out
of my head,—twice the poor beast came down on
her knees, and launched my soul upon the confines of
a better world,—but at last we reached the summit,
safe and sound, where to my amazement I found
myself in the presence of the two painters, who had
gone on ahead in order to see the caravan climbing
up. The spectacle was well worth the fatigue of the
rapid ascent.

The caravan stretched back for more than a mile
from the side of the mountain into the plain. First
came the principal members of the Embassy, among
whom shone conspicuous the plumed hat of the ambassador
and the white turban of Mohammed Ducali,
and on either side came a troop of servants on foot
and on horseback, picturesquely scattered among
the rocks and shrubs of the ascent. Behind these,
in couples and groups of three or four, wrapped in
their white and blue mantles, and bending above
their scarlet saddles, the horsemen of the Moorish
escort looked like a long procession of maskers; and
behind them came the endless file of mules and
horses carrying trunks, furniture, tents, and provisions,
flanked by soldiers and servants, the last of
whom appeared like white and red points among the
green of the fields. This many-colored and glittering
procession animated the solitary valley, and
.pn +1
presented the strangest and gayest spectacle that can
be imagined. If at that moment I had had the
power to strike it motionless, so that I could contemplate
it at my leisure, I think I could not have
resisted the temptation. As I turned to resume my
road, I saw the Atlantic Ocean lying as blue and
tranquil as a lake at a few miles’ distance. There
was but one ship in view, sailing near the coast, and
toward the strait. The commandant, observing her
with his glass, discovered her to be Italian. What
would we not have given to have been seen and
recognized by her!

From the Red Mountain we descended into another
lovely valley, carpeted with red, white, and
lilac flowers. There was not a house, nor tent, nor
human being, to be seen. The ambassador deciding
to halt here, we dismounted and sat down under the
shade of some trees, while the baggage-train went
on.

Around us, at the distance of a few steps, the servants
were grouped, each holding a horse or mule.
The artists drew forth their sketch-books, but it was of
no use. Scarcely did one of the vagabonds perceive
that he was an object of observation than he hid
himself behind a tree, or drew his hood over his
face. Three of them, one after the other, got up and
went grumbling off, to sit down about fifty paces
further on, dragging their quadrupeds with them.
They did not even wish the animals to be sketched.
In vain the vexed artists prayed, and coaxed, and
.pn +1
offered money; it was all useless waste of breath.
They made signs of no with their hands, pointing to
the sky and smiling cunningly, as if to say, “We are
not such fools as you think us.” Not even the
mulatto boy, or the Legation soldiers, who were
familiar with Europeans, and knew the two artists,
would permit their persons to be profaned by a
Christian pencil. The Koran, as we know, prohibits
the representation of the human figure, as well as
that of animals, as a beginning of and temptation to
idolatry. One of the soldiers was asked, through
the interpreter, why he would not consent to stand
and have his portrait taken. “Because,” he answered,
“in the figure which he will make the artist
cannot put a soul. What is the purpose of his work
then? God alone can create living beings, and it is
a sacrilege to pretend to imitate them.” The
mulatto boy answered, laughing, “Have my portrait
taken! Yes, when I am asleep: then it does not
matter, and I am not in fault; but never, if I know
it, shall it be done.”

Then Signor Biseo began to draw one who was
asleep. All the others, grouped about, stood turning
their eyes, now on the painter, now on their
sleeping companion. Presently the latter awoke,
looked about him, made a gesture of displeasure,
and went off grumbling, amid the laughter of his fellows,
who seemed to be saying, “You are done for
now.”

After an hour more on the road, we saw the white
.pn +1
tents of the encampment, and a troop of horsemen,
sprung from we knew not where, came toward us,
yelling, and firing off their guns. At about ten
paces off they stopped, their chief shook hands with
the ambassador, and his men joined our escort.
They proved to be soldiers of a species of <lang=de><i>landwehr</i></lang>
belonging to the place where our camp was pitched,
and forming part of the army of Morocco. Some
had turbans, some a red handkerchief bound round
the head, and all wore the white caftan.

The encampment was placed this time upon a
barren spot; in the distance on one side was a chain
of blue mountains, on the other verdant hills. At
about half a mile from the tents were two groups of
huts built of stubble, and half hidden among prickly-pear
bushes.

We had hardly seated ourselves in the tent when
a soldier came running, and planting himself before
the ambassador, said, joyfully, “The <i>muna</i>.” “Let
them come in,” said the ambassador, rising. We all
rose to our feet.

A long file of Arabs, accompanied by the chief of
the escort, the soldiers of the Legation, and servants,
crossed the encampment, and, ranging themselves
before our tent, deposited at the feet of the ambassador
a great quantity of coal, eggs, sugar, butter,
candles, bread, three dozen of hens, and eight
sheep.

This tribute was the <i>mona</i> or <i>muna</i>. Besides the
heavy tax they pay in money, the inhabitants of the
.pn +1
country are obliged to furnish all official personages,
the soldiers of the Sultan, and all envoys passing by,
with a certain quantity of provisions. The Government
fixes the quantity, but the local authorities demand
whatever they please, without reference to
the quantity received, although it may be more than
is required, and it is always a small portion of that
which has been extorted the month before, or will be
extorted in the following month after the presentation.

An old man, who appeared to be the head of the
deputation, addressed, through the interpreter, some
obsequious words to the ambassador. The others,
who were all poor peasants clothed in rags, looked
at us, our tents, and their tribute—the fruit of their
labor lying at our feet—with an air of mingled astonishment
and depression which betrayed a profound
resignation.

A division having been quickly made of the
things, between the ambassador’s larder and that of
the escort, muleteers, and soldiers, Signor Morteo,
who had that morning been named Intendant-General
of the camp, rewarded the old Arab, who made
a sign to his companions, and all silently departed
as they had come.

Then began, what was to take place every day
from that time forth, a great squabbling among the
servants, muleteers, and soldiers, over the sharing of
the <i>muna</i>. It was a most amusing scene. Two or
three of them went up and down with measured
.pn +1
steps, carrying each a sheep in his arms, invoking
Allah and the ambassador; others yelled out their
discontent and enforced their reasoning by beating
the ground with their fists; Civo fluttered about in
his long white shirt with the profound conviction
that he was very terrible; the sheep baa-d, the hens
ran here and there, the dogs yelped. Suddenly up-rose
the ambassador, and all was still.

The only one who continued to grumble was
Selam.

Selam was a great personage. In reality there
were two of the Legation soldiers who bore that
name, both belonging to the special service of the
ambassador; but, as when we say Napoleon we
mean the first of that name, so when we said Selam
we meant one, and one only.

He was a handsome young fellow, tall and slender,
and full of cleverness. He understood every
thing at a glance, did every thing with all his might,
walked in a series of leaps, spoke with a look, and
was in motion from morning until night. Everybody
came to him, about the baggage, the tents, the
kitchen, the horses, and he had an answer for all.
He spoke Spanish badly and knew a few words of
Italian, but could have made himself understood in
Arabic, so speaking and picturesque was his pantomime.
To indicate a hill, he made the gesture of a
fiery colonel pointing out to his men a battery that
is to be assaulted. To reprove a servant, he fell
upon him as if he were about to annihilate him. He
.pn +1
always reminded me of Salvini in “Othello,” or
“Oromanes.” In whatever attitude he presented
himself, whether pouring water on the ambassador’s
spine, or galloping by on his chestnut horse, nailed
to his saddle, he was always the same bold, graceful,
and elegant figure. The two painters were
never tired of looking at him. He wore a scarlet
caftan and blue drawers, and was easily distinguished
from one end of the camp to another. His name
was in every mouth all over the encampment.
When he was angry he was a savage; when he
laughed, a child. <lang=it><i>Il Signor Ministro</i></lang> was for ever
in his mouth and in his heart, for he placed
him after Allah and the Prophet. Ten guns levelled
at his breast would not have paled his cheek, and
an undeserved rebuke from the ambassador made
him cry. He was about five-and-twenty.

When he had done grumbling, he came near me
and began opening a box. As he stooped, his fez
fell off and I saw a large blood-mark on his head.
In answer to my question, he said that he had been
wounded by a loaf of sugar. “I threw it up in the
air,” he said, with gravity, “and it came down on
my head.” I looked amazed, and he explained—“I
do it,” he said, “to harden my head. The first
time I fell down insensible, but now it only draws a
little blood. A time will come when it will not
break the skin. All the Arabs do it. My father
broke bricks as thick as two fingers on his head as
easily as I would break a loaf of bread. A true
.pn +1
Arab,” he concluded, with a haughty air, striking
his head a blow with his fist, “should have a head
of iron.”

The encampment that evening presented a very
different aspect from that of the preceding days.
Everybody had fallen into their own habits of passing
the time. The artists had erected their easels
and were hard at work in front of their tent. The
captain had gone to observe the ground, the vice-consul
to collect insects, the ex-Spanish minister to
shoot partridges; the ambassador and the commandant
were playing chess in the dining-tent; the
servants were playing leap-frog; the soldiers of the
escort conversed sitting in a circle; of the rest
some walked about, some read, some wrote; one
would have thought we had been there a month.
If I had had a small printing-press I could have found
it in my heart to edit a newspaper.

The weather was exquisite; we dined with the
tent open, and during dinner the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia
shouted, and fired off their guns, while
the sun went down in splendor.

Opposite to me at table sat Mohammed Ducali.
For the first time I was able to observe him attentively.
He was a true type of the wealthy Moor—supple,
elegant, and obsequious; I say wealthy, because
he possessed, it was said, more than thirty
houses at Tangiers, although at that time his affairs
were supposed to be in some confusion. He
might have been about forty years of age, was tall
.pn +1
of stature, with regular features, fair, and bearded;
he wore a small turban, twisted in a <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang> of the
finest of the fabrics of Fez, which fell down over a
purple embroidered caftan; he smiled to show his
teeth, spoke Spanish in a feminine voice, and had
the languid air of a young lover. In former days
he had been a merchant; had been in Italy, in
Spain, London, and Paris, and had returned to Morocco
with some ideas of European customs. He
drank wine, smoked cigarettes, wore stockings, read
romances, and related his gallant adventures. The
principal reason for his going to Fez was a debt
owed him by the Government, which he hoped to
get paid through the good offices of the ambassador.
He had brought with him his own tent, servants,
and mules. His glance gave one to understand
that he would have brought his wives also
had that been possible, but upon my hazarding a
question in that direction he modestly dropped his
eyes, and made no reply.

After dinner I satisfied a desire which I had
nourished ever since leaving Tangiers, and went
out to see the camp at night. I waited until every
one had entered his tent, wrapped myself in a white
mantle, and went out. The sky was studded with
stars; the lights were all out, except the lantern
that was attached to the flag-staff; a profound silence
reigned throughout the camp. Very quietly,
and avoiding a stumble over the tent-cords, I moved
to the left, and had not made ten steps when an unexpected
.pn +1
sound stopped me short. Some one appeared
to be tuning a guitar, in a closed tent that I
had never visited, and which stood about thirty
paces outside of the circle of the camp. I approached
and listened. The guitar accompanied a
soft and very sweet voice singing an Arab ditty full
of melancholy. Could there be a woman in this
mysterious tent? It was closed on every side, so I
lay down on my face and tried to peep underneath.
Almost at the same moment a soft voice beside
me said, “<i>Quien es?</i>” (Who is there?) “Allah
protect me!” I thought, “there <i>is</i> a woman here.”
I answered, aloud, “An inquisitive person,” with
the most pathetic voice I could assume at the
moment. A laugh responded, and a male voice
said in Spanish, “Bravo! Come in and take a cup
of tea!” It was the voice of Mohammed Ducali.
He opened a little door, and I found myself within
the tent, which was hung with some rich flowered
stuff, ornamented with small arched windows,
lighted by a Moorish lantern, and perfumed in a
way to do honor to the fairest odalisque of the Sultan’s
harem. And there, luxuriously stretched upon
a Persian carpet, with his head on a rich cushion,
lay a young Arab servant lad, of gentle and pensive
aspect, with a guitar in his hands. In the middle of
the tent there was a tea-service, and on one side
smoked a perfume-burner. I explained to Ducali
how I came to be so near his tent, took a cup of
tea, listened to an air sung by the Arab musician,
.pn +1
and taking my leave, resumed my wanderings.
Avoiding another tent where more of Ducali’s servants
were sleeping, I turned toward that of the ambassador.

Before the door lay Selam, stretched on his blue
mantle, with his sabre by his side. “If I wake him,
and he does not recognize me at once,” I thought,
“it is all over with me! Let me be prudent.” I
advanced on tip-toe, and peeped into the tent. It
was divided in the middle by a rich curtain; on one
side was the reception-room, with a table covered
with a cloth, and writing materials, and a few gilded
chairs. On the other side slept the ambassador and
his friend, the ex-minister from Spain. I thought I
would leave my card on the table, and advanced a
step, when a low growl arrested me. It was Diana,
the ambassador’s dog. Almost at the same moment
the master’s voice called out, “Who’s that?”

“An assassin!” answered I.

He knew my voice, and called out, “Strike!” I
explained the motive of my visit, at which he laughed,
and giving me his hand in the darkness, wished me
success in my undertaking. Coming out I stumbled
over something which proved to be a tortoise, and
as I struck a match to examine him, I discovered a
monstrous toad sitting looking at me. For a moment
I thought I would give up my enterprise, but
curiosity overcoming disgust, I went on.

I reached the tent of the intendant. As I bent
down to listen, a tall, white figure rose between me
.pn +1
and the door, and said in sepulchral accents, “He
sleeps.” I started back as at the apparition of a
phantom, but recovered myself immediately. It was
an Arab servant of Morteo’s, who had been with him
for several years, and spoke a little Italian, and who,
in spite of my white hood, had recognized me instantly.
Like Selam, he had been stretched before
the door of his master’s tent, with his sabre by his
side. I wished him good-night, and went on my
way.

In the next tent were the doctor and Solomon the
dragoman. An acute odor of drugs pervaded the
neighborhood, and there was a light inside. The
doctor was seated at his table, reading; the dragoman
was asleep, This physician, young, highly cultivated,
and of very gentleman-like manners and appearance,
had a very singular peculiarity. Born in
Algeria of French parents, he had lived many years
in Italy, and had married a Spanish wife. Not only
did he speak the languages of the three countries
with equal facility, but he partook of the characteristics
of the three nations, loved all three countries
alike, and was, in short, a sort of Latin three in one,
who was equally at home in Rome, in Madrid, and
in Paris. He was, besides, gifted with a most delicate
and acute sense of the ridiculous; so that,
without speaking, with one furtive glance, or slight
movement of the lip, he could throw into relief the
ridiculous side of a person or thing in a way to make
one burst with laughter. At the sight of me, he
.pn +1
guessed at once the reason of my presence, offered
me a glass of wine, and raising his arm, whispered,
“Success to your expedition!” “With the aid of
Allah!” I rejoined, and left him to his reading.

Passing before the empty dinner-tent, I turned to
the left, came out of the circle of the encampment,
walked between two long rows of sleeping
horses, and found myself among the tents of the
escort. Listening, I could hear the breathing of the
soldiers as they slept. Guns, sabres, saddles, shoulder-belts,
poniards, were scattered about before
the tents, together with the banner of Mahomet.
I looked abroad, across the country; not a soul was
visible. Only the two groups of cabins appeared like
black and formless blots.

I turned back, passed between the American consul’s
tent and that of his servants, both close-shut
and silent, crossed a little space of ground where
the kitchen had been planted, and stepping over a
barricade of pots and saucepans, reached the little
tent of the cook. With him were the two Arabs
who served him as scullions. All was black within;
I put in my head and called, “<i>Gioanin!</i>”

The poor fellow, afflicted by the non-success of an
omelet, and perhaps worried by the neighborhood
of his two “savages,” was not asleep. “Is that
you?” he asked. “It is I.”

He was silent a moment, and then turning restlessly
on his bed exclaimed, “<i>Ah, che pais!</i>” (Ah,
what a country!)

.pn +1
“Courage!” I said; “think that in ten days we
shall be before the walls of the great city of Fez.”

He muttered some confused words in which I
could only distinguish the name of his native city in
Italy, and, respecting his grief, I silently withdrew.

In the adjoining tent were the two sailors—Ranni,
the commandant’s orderly, and Luigi, from the <i>Dora</i>,
a Neapolitan, and such a kind, pleasant, handy young
fellow, that in two days he had gained the good-will
of all. They had a light, and were busy eating
something. Lending an ear, I could hear some portions
of their dialogue, which was very curious.
Luigi inquired for whom were intended the crayon
sketches which the two artists made in their albums.
“Why, for the king, of course,” said Ranni. “What,
without any color, like that?” demanded the other.
“Oh no! when they get back to Italy, first they will
color them, and then they will send them.” “Who
knows how much the king will pay for them!” “Oh,
a great deal, of course! Perhaps as much as a <i>scudo</i>
(five francs) a leaf. Kings think nothing of
money.”

Once more I left the circle of the encampment,
and wandered for a minute or two among long rows
of horses and mules, among which I recognized with
emotion the white companion of my journey, apparently
sunk in profound contemplation; and I next
found myself before the tent of M. Vincent, a Frenchman
residing at Tangiers, one of those mysterious personages
who have been all over the world, speak all
.pn +1
tongues, and understand all trades—cook, merchant,
hunter, interpreter, reader of ancient inscriptions,—and
who, having, with his own tent and horse, attached
himself to the Italian Embassy in the capacity
of high director of the kitchen, was now going to
Fez to sell to the Government French uniforms
bought in Algeria.

I looked in at him through a crack. He was
seated on a box, in a meditative attitude, with a
great pipe in his mouth, by the light of a small candle
stuck in a bottle. But what a strange figure!
He reminded me of those old alchemists in the
Dutch pictures, musing in their studies, their faces
illuminated by the fire of an alembic. Meagre, bent,
and bony, he looked as if every episode of his life
had been written in the wrinkles of his visage and
in the angles of his form. Who knows what he was
thinking about? What memories of adventurous
journeys, strange meetings, mad undertakings, and
odd personages were mingling in his head? Perhaps,
after all, he was only thinking of the price of
a pair of <i>Turco</i> breeches, or about his scanty provision
of tobacco. Just as I was going to speak he
blew out his light with a puff, and vanished into the
darkness like a magician.

A few paces further on were the tents of the commandant
of the escort, that of his first officer, and
that of the chief of the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia.
I was in the act of looking into one of these when a
light step came behind me, and a hand of steel closed
.pn +1
upon my arm. I turned, and found myself face to
face with the mulatto general. He withdrew his
hand at once, and with a laugh, said, in a tone of
apology, “<lang=ar><i>Salamu alikum! salimu alikum!</i></lang>”
(Peace be with you!) He had taken me for a thief.
We shook hands in token of amity, and I went on.

In a few moments I saw before me what appeared
to be a hooded figure seated on the ground with
musket in hand, and concluded that this must be a
sentinel. About fifty paces further on, there was
another, and then a third; a chain of them all around
the encampment. I learned later that this vigilance
was from no fear of violence, but simply to guard
the tents from thieves, who abound there, and are
extremely clever at their trade, having much practice
among the tribes who live in tents. Fortunately the
frankness of my movements aroused no suspicion,
and I was allowed to finish my excursion.

I passed by Malek and Saladin, the envoy’s two
fiery steeds, stumbled over another tortoise, and stopped
before the tent of the footmen. They were lying
on a little straw, one upon the top of the other,
and sleeping so profoundly that they seemed like a
heap of corpses. The boy with the great black eyes
lay with half his body outside of the tent, and I
narrowly missed stepping on his face. I felt so sorry
for him that, wishing to give him a little comfort in
the morning when he should wake, I placed a piece
of money in his hand that lay open on the grass,
palm upward, as if begging charity from the spirits
of the night.
.pn +1

A murmur of merry voices drew me away to a
neighboring tent, where were the soldiers and servants
of the Embassy; they appeared to be eating
and drinking. I perceived the odor of kif, and recognized
the voices of Selam the Second, Abd-el-Rhaman,
and others; it was an Arab orgie in full
swing. The poor fellows had well earned a little
diversion after the fatigues of the day, and I passed
on without disturbing their merriment by my presence.
In a few moments I reached the artists’ tent,
which completed the circle of the encampment, and
my nocturnal excursion was over.
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap03
CHAPTER III. | TLETA DE REISSANA.
.sp 2
The next morning we started before sunrise in
a thick wet fog, which chilled us to the bone
and hid us from each other. The horsemen of the
escort had their cowls over their heads, and their
guns slung across their shoulders. We were all
wrapped in cloaks and mantles; it seemed like autumn
in the Low Countries. In front of me I could
discern nothing distinctly save the white turban and
blue cloak of the Caid; all the others were confused
shadows lost in the gray mist. We went onward in
silence over the rough ground covered with dwarf
palms, broom and wild plums, and fennel, in groups
compact or scattered according to the crossing or
forking of the road. The sun, appearing in the
horizon, gilded our left side a moment, and again
vanished. The mist presently grew thinner, and we
could catch glimpses of the country. It was a succession
of green valleys, into which we descended
and came up again almost unconsciously, so gradual
were the slopes. The banks were covered with the
aloe and the wild olive. The olive which grows
.pn +1
prodigiously here is left almost everywhere in its
wild state, and the inhabitants use the fruit of the
<i>argan</i> for light and food. We saw no signs of habitation,
neither houses nor tents. We seemed to be
travelling through a virgin country. From valley to
valley, from solitude to solitude, after about three
hours’ journeying we finally reached a point where
the larger trees and wider paths, and a few scattered
cattle here and there, gave token of an inhabited
place. One after the other our mounted escort spurred
their horses and galloped away over a height,
others darted off in another direction, the rest arranged
themselves in close order. Presently we
found ourselves in front of the opening of a gorge
formed by low hills, upon which stood some huts. A
few ragged Arabs of both sexes looked curiously at
us from behind the hedge. As we rode into the
gorge the sun shone out, and, turning an abrupt angle,
we found ourselves in front of a wonderful spectacle.

Three hundred horsemen, dressed in all the colors
of the rainbow, and scattered in a sort of grand disorder,
came toward us at full speed, with their muskets
held aloft, as if they were rushing to the assault.
It was the escort from the province of Laracce,
preceded by the governor and his officials,
coming to relieve the escort of Had-el-Garbia, which
was to leave us on the confines of the province of
Tangiers, a point that we had now reached.

The governor of Laracce, a dignified old man
.pn +1
with a great white beard, stopped the advance of
his horsemen with a sign of his hand, saluted the
envoy, and then, turning to the troop, who seemed
boiling over with impatience, made a vigorous gesture
as if to say, “Break loose!” Then began one
of the most splendid <i>lab-el-baroda</i> (or powder-plays)
that could be desired.

They charged in couples, by tens, one by one, in
the bottom of the valley, on the hills, in front and at
the sides of the caravan, forward and backward, firing
and yelling without cessation. In a few minutes
the valley was as full of the smoke and smell of
powder as a battle-field. On every side horses
pranced, arms glittered, mantles floated, and red,
yellow, green, blue, and orange caftans mingled with
the shine of sabres and poniards. One by one
they darted by, like winged phantoms, old and
young, men of colossal proportions, strange and terrible
figures, erect in their stirrups, with heads
thrown back, hair streaming in the wind, and muskets
held aloft; and each as he discharged his piece
gave a savage cry, which the interpreter translated
for us:—“Have a care!” “Oh, my mother!” “In
the name of God!” “I kill thee!” “Thou art
dead!” “I am avenged!” Some dedicated the
shot to a special purpose or person: “To my master!”
“To my horse!” “To my dead!” “To my
sweetheart!” They fired up and down, and behind,
bending and twisting as though they had been tied
to the saddle. Here and there one would lose his
.pn +1
turban or his mantle, and he would turn in full career
and pick it up with the point of his musket. Some
threw their guns up in the air and caught them as
they fell. Their looks and gestures were like those
of men mad with drink, and risking their lives in a
sort of joyful fury. Most of the horses dripped
blood from their bellies, and the feet and stirrups,
and extremities of the mantles of the riders, were
all bloody. Some faces in that multitude impressed
themselves upon my memory from the first. Among
others, a young man with a Cyclopean head and an
immense pair of shoulders, dressed in a rose-colored
caftan, and who emitted a succession of roars like
those of a wounded lion; a lad of fifteen, handsome,
bareheaded, and all in white, who passed three times,
crying, “My God! my God!” a long, bony old
man, with a most ill-omened visage, who flew by
with half-shut eyes and a satanic grin upon his face,
as if he carried the plague behind him; a black, all
eyes and teeth, with a monstrous scar across his
forehead, who writhed furiously about in his saddle,
as if to free himself from the clutch of some invisible
hand.

In this fashion they accompanied the march of the
caravan, ascending and descending the heights,
forming groups, dissolving and re-forming, with
every combination of color, till they seemed like the
fluttering of a myriad of banners.

At a short distance from the end of the gorge the
ambassador stopped, and we all dismounted to enjoy
.pn +1
a little repose and refreshment under the shade of a
group of olive-trees, but the escort from Laracce
continued to exercise before us. The baggage-train
went on toward the spot selected for the camp.

We had reached the <i>Cuba</i> of Sidi-Liamani.

In Morocco they give the name of <i>Cuba</i> (or cupola)
to a small square chapel, with a low dome, in
which a saint lies buried. These <i>Cube</i>, very frequent
in the southern part of the empire, placed in general
near a spring and a palm-tree, and visible by their
snowy whiteness from a great distance, serve as
guides to the traveller, are visited by the faithful,
and are for the most part in charge of a descendant
of the saint, heir to his sanctity, who inhabits a
hut close by, and lives by the alms of pious pilgrims.
The <i>Cuba</i> of Sidi-Liamani was posted upon
a little eminence at a few paces distant from us.
Some Arabs were seated before the door. Behind
them protruded the head of a decrepit old man—the
saint—who looked at us with stupid wonder.

In a few minutes our kitchen fires were lighted,
and we were breakfasting; while an empty sardine
box, thrown away by the cook, and picked up by
the Arabs, was carried to the <i>Cuba</i> for examination,
and made the object of a long and animated discussion.
Meantime, the <i>lab-el-baroda</i> being over, the
horsemen had dismounted, and were scattered all
about the valley; some of them were resting, some
pasturing their horses, while others, seated in their
saddles, remained to keep watch as sentinels upon
the heights.
.pn +1

As I walked about with the captain, I then for the
first time observed the horses of Morocco. They
are all small, so much so, that upon my return to
Europe, after having become accustomed to them,
even middle-sized horses seemed at first enormous
to me. They have brilliant eyes, the forehead a
little flattened, very wide nostrils, the cheek-bone
very prominent, the whole head beautiful; the shin-bone
and tibia slightly curved, which gives a peculiar
elasticity of movement; the crupper very sloping,
rendering them more able to gallop than to
trot, indeed, I do not remember ever to have seen a
horse trot in Morocco. Seen in repose or merely
walking past, even the finest of them make no
show; but put to a gallop, they are quite changed,
and become superb. Although they have much less
food, and are more heavily caparisoned than ours,
they bear fatigue much better. Also the manner of
riding is different. The stirrups are very short, and
the reins very long. The rider sits with his knees
almost at a right angle, and the saddle, extremely
high before and behind, holds him in a way that
makes it almost impossible for him to be thrown.
The horsemen wear heelless boots of yellow leather.
Most of them have no spurs, but use instead of them
the angle of the stirrup; some wear a small iron
point in the shape of a dagger, fastened to the heel
by a metal band and chain. Wonderful things are
told of the great love of an Arab for his horse, the
animal of the Prophet’s predilection; he is said to
.pn +1
consider him as a sacred being; that every morning
at sunrise he places his hand upon his steed’s head,
and murmurs <lang=ar><i>Bismillah!</i></lang> (in the name of God), and
then kisses the hand, which has been sanctified by
the touch; and that he is prodigal of cares and
caresses. It may be all true. But as far as I could
see, the Arab’s great affection for his horse did not
prevent him from lacerating his sides in a quite unnecessary
way, or from leaving him in the sun when
he could have put him in the shade, or from taking
him a long distance to drink, with his legs hobbled,
or from exposing him a dozen times a day to the
danger of breaking his limbs, out of pure mischief,
or, finally, from neglecting his trappings in a way
that would put him in prison for six months if he belonged
to a European cavalry regiment.

The heat being very great we remained some
hours at our resting-place, but no one could sleep by
reason of the insects. It was the first warning of
the great battle that was to be waged, growing hotter
every day, until the end of the journey. Hardly
had we stretched ourselves upon the ground when
we were assaulted, stung, and tormented on every
side, as if we had chosen a bed of nettles. Caterpillars,
spiders, monstrous ants, hornets, and grasshoppers,
big, impudent, and determined, swarmed
about us. The commandant, who had taken upon
himself to raise our spirits by always exaggerating
the perils of the way, now assured us that these
creatures might be considered microscopic compared
.pn +1
with the insects that we should encounter at Fez
and later in the summer; and he declared that so
little would be left of us upon our return to Italy
that our best friends would not know us. The cook
listened to these remarks with a forced smile, and
became pensive. Close by there was a monstrous
spider’s web, spread over some bushes like a sheet
hung out to dry. The commandant exclaimed that
every thing in that country was gigantic, formidable,
miraculous! and insisted that the spider which had
made that web <i>must</i> be as large as a horse. But we
could not discover him. The only ones of us who
slept were the Arabs, curled up in the burning sun
with a procession of creeping things marching over
them. The two artists tried to sketch, surrounded
by a cloud of ferocious flies, which drew from Ussi
a whole rich litany of Florentine oaths.

The heat becoming less, the escort from Had-el-Garbia,
the American Consul, and the Vice-Governor
of Tangiers, took leave of the ambassador
and turned back, while we pursued our way, accompanied
by the three hundred horsemen from Laracce.

Vast undulating plains, covered here with corn
and there with barley, further on with yellow stubble
or with grass and flowers; here a few black tents
and the tomb of a saint; now and then a palm-tree;
from mile to mile three or four horsemen coming to
join our escort; an immense solitude, a sky of perfect
purity, a burning sun: such are the notes I find
in my note-book as to the march of May 5th.
.pn +1

The encampment was at Tleta de Reissana. We
found the tents pitched as usual in a circle, in a deep
and shell-shaped gorge so overgrown with tall grass
and flowers that they almost impeded our steps. It
seemed like a great garden. Beds and boxes in the
tents were almost hidden by tall flowers of every
form and color. Close to the tent of the two painters
rose two enormous aloes in blossom.

The Italian Consular Agent from Laracce met us
here. He was Signor G——, an old Genoese merchant,
who had lived for forty years on the Atlantic
coast, jealously preserving the accent of his native
town; and toward evening arrived, from no one
knew where, an Arab who wished to consult the
doctor of the Embassy.

He was a poor old man, lame and bent; Signor
Miguerez, who spoke Arabic, questioned him
about his ailments, and searched in the portable
medicine chest for a remedy. Not finding the right
one, he sent for Mohammed Ducali, and made him
write down a prescription in Arabic, by means of
which the sick man was to be treated when he got
back to his family and friends. It was a medicine
much in use among the Arabs. Whilst Ducali
wrote, the old man muttered prayers; and when it
was ready, the paper was handed to him.

Instantly, before there was time to say one word,
he crammed it into his mouth with both hands. The
doctor called out: “No! no! spit it out! spit it out!”
But it was of no use. The poor old fellow chewed
.pn +1
the paper with the avidity of a starving creature,
swallowed it, thanked the doctor, and turned to go
away. They had all the pains in the world to persuade
him that the virtue of the medicine did not
reside in the paper, and that another prescription
must be written.

The incident cannot surprise any one who knows
what the science of medicine is in Morocco. It is
almost exclusively exercised by quacks, necromancers,
and “saints.” Some juices of herbs, blood-letting,
sarsaparilla for certain diseases, the dry skin
of a serpent or chameleon for intermittent fevers, a
hot iron for wounds, certain verses from the Koran
written upon the medicine bottles, or on bits of paper
worn round the sick man’s neck; these are the principal
remedies. The study of anatomy being forbidden
by their religion, it is easy to imagine to
what a pass surgery is reduced. Amputation is held
in abhorrence. The few Arabs who are within
reach of the aid of European surgeons would prefer
to die in atrocious spasms rather than submit to
the cut that would save their lives. It follows that
though cases of injury to a limb are frequent in Morocco,
especially from the explosion of fire-arms,
there are very few mutilated persons; and those few
are for the most part poor wretches whose hands
have been cut off by the executioner with a dull
knife, and the hemorrhage stopped by the application
of boiling pitch. These violent remedies, however,
especially the red-hot iron, sometimes obtain
.pn +1
admirable effects; and they apply them themselves
brutally, boldly, without any aid. Either by
reason of small nervous sensibility, or from their
souls having been hardened in a fatalistic faith, they
resist the most horrible pain with tremendous force
of will. They go through the operation of cupping
with an earthen pot and enough fire to roast the
spine; they open boils with their daggers, driving
them in at the risk of cutting an artery; and they
will apply fire to an open wound on their own arm,
blowing away the smoke of the frizzling flesh without
a groan. The maladies that are most prevalent
are fevers, ophthalmia, scald-head, elephantiasis, and
dropsy; but the most common of all is syphilis,
handed down from generation to generation, altered
and reproduced in strange and horrid forms, with
which whole tribes are infected, and of which a
large proportion die; and the mortality would no
doubt be even greater but for their extreme sobriety
in eating, to which both their poverty and the
exigencies of the climate compel them. European
physicians there are none excepting in the cities of
the coast; in Fez itself there are none, unless some
renegade quack who has fled from Algeria or the
Spanish garrisons may be counted such. When the
Emperor, or a Minister, or a rich Moor falls ill, he
sends for a European doctor from the coast. But
this is never done except in cases of extremity, and
they hide their infirmities for years, so that when
the physician does arrive, it is often only to see his
.pn +1
patient die. They have great faith in the skill of
European doctors; the sight of the drugs, the chemical
preparations, the surgical instruments, give them
an immense idea of the power of science; they
promise themselves prodigies, following the first prescriptions
with the docility and cheerfulness of people
quite certain of a prompt cure. But if the cure
is not immediate, they lose all faith, and go back to
their quacks.

The evening passed without any event worth noting,
beyond the discovery of a monstrous scorpion
of preternatural blackness on the pillow of my bed.
I was seized with a momentary terror, and carefully
threw the light upon him as I approached with cautious
steps; whereupon I was able to read upon his
back the following reassuring inscription: “<i>Ceasar
Biseo made it—May 5th, 1875.</i>”

At dawn in the morning we left for the city of
Alkazar. The weather was dark. The gorgeous
colors of the soldiers of our escort shone out with
marvellous force against the gray sky and the dark
green of the country. Hamed Ben Kasen Buhamei
planted himself upon a height above the road and
looked complacently down upon the brilliant cavalcade
as they filed by in close order, silent, grave, with eyes
fixed upon the horizon, like the advance guard of an
army on the morning of a battle. For some time
we rode among olive-trees and high bushes; then
we entered a vast plain all covered with flowers,
violet and yellow, where the escort scattered to go
.pn +1
through the <i>lab-el-barode</i>. It would be impossible
to convey an idea of the strange beauty of the spectacle
upon that flowery plain, under the threatening
sky. I can scarcely believe that they had any rule
by which they grouped themselves and dissolved
again to form new combinations, but that morning I
fancied it. One would have sworn that their movements
were directed by a ballet-master. In the
midst of a group of blue mantles there would appear,
as if sent on purpose, one in a white cloak;
and a company of white caftans surrounded a figure
in brilliant rose-color, looking as if made by the
stroke of an artist’s brush. Harmonious colors followed,
met, and mingled for the space of a moment,
and then dissolved to form new harmonies. The
three hundred seemed multiplied into an army; they
were everywhere wheeling and swooping like a flock
of birds; and the two painters were driven to despair
by them.

“Ah, <i>canaglie</i>!”—exclaimed one,—“if I only had
you in my clutch at Florence!”
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap04
CHAPTER IV. | ALKAZAR-EL-KEBIR.
.sp 2
At a certain point the ambassador made a sign
to the caid, and the escort came to a stand,
while we, accompanied by a few soldiers, went a
short distance beyond to visit the ruins of a bridge.
The place was worthy of the silent respect with
which we stood and viewed the little that remained
of what was once a bridge. Three hundred years
ago, on the fourth of August, over those flowery
fields, fifty cannon and forty thousand horsemen
thundered and charged under the command of one
of the greatest captains of Africa, and the youngest,
the most adventurous, the most unfortunate of European
monarchs. On the shores of that river were
put to death—by the implacable scimitars of Arabs,
Turks, and Berbers—the flower of the Portuguese
nobility, courtiers, bishops, Spanish soldiers, and
soldiers of William of Orange, Italian, German, and
French adventurers. Six thousand Christians fell
that day. We stood upon the field of that terrible
battle of Alkazar, which spread consternation
throughout Europe, and sent a shout of joy from
.pn +1
Fez to Constantinople. Over that bridge passed at
that time the road to Alkazar. Near it was the
camp of Muley Moluk, Sultan of Morocco. Muley
Moluk came from Alkazar, the King of Portugal
from Arzilla. The battle was fought upon that plain,
and along the shores of the river. Beyond the ruins
of the bridge there was not a stone or a sign to record
it. From which side had the cavalry of the
Duke of Riveiro made its first victorious charge?
Where had Muley Ahmed fought the brother of the
Sultan, the future conqueror of the Soudan, a captain
suspected of cowardice in the morning, a victorious
monarch in the evening? At what point on the
river was drowned Mohammed the Black, the dis-crowned
fratricide and provoker of the war? At
what angle of the field had King Sebastian received
those death-wounds that killed with him the independence
of Portugal and the last hopes of Camoens?
And where stood the litter of Sultan Moluk
when he expired among his officers, with his finger
on his lip? Whilst these thoughts were passing
through our minds, the escort stood afar off, motionless
on that famous field, like a handful of Muley
Ahmed’s cavalry brought to life by the noise of our
passage. And yet very likely not one among those
soldiers knew that this had been the battlefield of
three kings, the glory of their ancestors; and when
we resumed our march, they glanced about with curious
eyes, as if seeking among the grass and flowers
for the reason of our halt.
.pn +1

We crossed the Mkhacem and the Uarrur, two
small affluents of the Kus, or Lukkos, the <i>Lixos</i> of
the ancients, which from the mountains of the Rif
where it is born, throws itself into the Atlantic at
Laracce; and continued our way toward Alkazar
over a succession of arid hills, meeting only an occasional
camel with his driver.

At last, we thought as we rode along, we shall arrive
at a city! It was three days since we had seen
a house, and every one felt a wish to get away for a
day from the monotony of desert life. Besides, Alkazar
was the first of the towns of the interior that
we should reach, and our curiosity was very lively.
The escort fell into order as we approached the
place. We almost unconsciously ranged ourselves
in two ranks, with the ambassador in front flanked
by his two interpreters. The weather had cleared
up, and a cheerful impatience animated the whole
caravan.

Suddenly, from the top of a hill, we saw in the
plain below, surrounded by gardens, the city of Alkazar,
crowned with towers, minarets, and palms,
and at the same moment there burst forth the cracking
of musketry and the sound of a most infernal
din of music.

It was the governor coming to meet us with his
staff, a company of foot-soldiers, and a band of music.
In a few minutes we met.

Ah! He who has not seen the Alkazar band, with
its ten pipers, and horn-players, old men of a hundred
.pn +1
years and boys of ten, all mounted on donkeys
about as large as dogs, ragged and half naked, with
their shaven heads, their satyr-like gestures, their
mummy faces, has not seen, I think, the most sadly
comic spectacle that can be witnessed under the wide
sky.

Whilst the aged governor was giving welcome to
our chief, the soldiers fired their muskets in the air,
and the band continued to play. We advanced to
within half a mile of the city, to an arid field where
the tents were to be pitched.

The band accompanied us, still playing. The dinner
tent was pitched and made ready, and we entered
it while the escort fired their muskets.

Meanwhile the band, ranged before the tent, continued
to blow with increasing ferocity, but a supplicating
gesture from the ambassador silenced it at
last. Then we assisted at a curious scene.

Almost at the same moment there presented themselves
to the ambassador, one on the right and the
other on the left, a black man and an Arab. The
black, handsomely dressed in a white turban and a
blue caftan, deposited at his feet a jar of milk, a basket
of oranges, and a dish of <lang=ar><i>cùcùssù</i></lang>; the Arab,
poorly attired in the usual burnouse, placed before
him a sheep. This done, the two darted lightning
glances at each other. They were two mortal
enemies. The ambassador, who knew them and
expected them, called the interpreter, sat down, and
began to question them.
.pn +1

They had come to ask for justice. The black was
a sort of factor or steward of the old Grand Scherif
Bacali, one of the most powerful personages at the
court of Fez, proprietor of much land in the neighborhood
of Alkazar. The Arab was a countryman.
Their dispute had been going on for some time.
The black, strong in the protection of his master,
had several times imprisoned and fined the Arab,
accusing him, and supporting his accusation with
many proofs, of having stolen horses, cattle, and
goods. The Arab, who insisted that he was innocent,
finding no one willing to take up his defence
against his persecutor, had abandoned his village
one fine day, and going to Tangiers, had there enquired
who among the foreign ambassadors was
most just and generous. Being told that it was the
Minister from Italy, he had cut the throat of a sheep
before the gate of the Legation, asking in this sacred
form, to which no refusal was possible, for protection
and justice. The ambassador had listened to his
story, had intervened through the agent at Laracce,
and had called upon the authorities at Alkazar to see
to it; but his own distance, the intrigues of the black,
and the weakness of the authorities, had all combined
to put the poor Arab in a worse condition than at
first; and he was indeed again accused and subjected
to new persecutions. Now the presence of the ambassador
was to undo the knot. Both individuals
were admitted to tell each his own story; the interpreters
rapidly translating.
.pn +1

Nothing more dramatic can be imagined than the
contrast between the figures and the language of the
two men.

The Arab, a man of about thirty years of age, of a
sickly and suffering aspect, spoke with irresistible
fervor, trembling, shivering, invoking God, striking
the earth with his fists, covering his face with his
hands with a gesture of despair, fulminating at his
enemy with glances that no words can describe. He
declared that the other had suborned witnesses, intimidated
the authorities, that he had imprisoned
him, the speaker, solely to extort money, that he had
cast many others into prison in order to possess their
wives, that he had sworn his death, that he was the
scourge of the country, an accursed of God, an infamous
being; and, as he spoke, he showed the marks
of the fetters upon his naked limbs, and his voice
was choked with anguish. The black, whose every
feature confirmed one, at least, of these accusations,
listened without looking, answered quietly, smiled
slightly with the edge of his lip, impassive and sinister
as a statue of Perfidy.

The discussion had lasted for some time, and
seemed yet far from a conclusion, when the ambassador
cut it short by a decision that was received
favorably by both parties. He called Selim, who
appeared upon the instant with his great black eyes
shining, and ordered him to mount his horse and
gallop to the Arab’s village, distant an hour and a
half from Alkazar, and there gather from the inhabitants
.pn +1
information concerning the persons and
the facts. The black thought:—“They are afraid
of me; they will either be silent, or speak in my
favor.” The Arab thought, and he was quite right,
that interrogated by a soldier of the embassy, they
would have courage to speak the truth.

Selim darted off like an arrow; the two disputants
vanished and were seen no more. We heard afterward
that the village people had all testified in favor
of the Arab, and that the black had been condemned,
through the intervention of the ambassador, to restore
to his victim the money he had extorted from
him.

Meantime the tents had been pitched, the usual
poor wretches had brought the usual <i>muna</i>, and a
few of the inhabitants of the city had come into the
encampment.

As soon as it began to grow cooler, we proceeded
toward Alkazar on foot, preceded, flanked, and followed
by an armed force.

We saw from a distance, in passing, a singular
edifice, between the camp and the town, all arches
and cupolas, with a court in the midst, like a cemetery.
It proved to be one of those <i>zania</i>, now
fallen into disuse, which, when Moorish civilization
flourished, contained a library, a school of letters
and sciences, a hospital for the poor, an inn for
travellers, besides a mosque and a sepulchral chapel;
they belonged, and belong still in general, to the
religious orders.
.pn +1

.if h
.il fn=i122.png w=60% id=i122 alt='People Of Alkazar.'
.ca People Of Alkazar.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: People Of Alkazar.]
.if-

We approached the gates of the city. It is surrounded
by old battlemented walls; near the gate
by which we entered were some tombs of saints surmounted
by green domes. Hearing a great noise
over our heads we looked up, and found it proceeded
from some large storks, erect upon the roofs
of the houses, which were clattering their bills together,
as if to give warning of our coming. We
entered a street; the women rushed into their
houses; the children took to flight. The houses
are small, unplastered, without windows, and divided
by dark and dirty alleys. The streets look
like the beds of torrents. At some of the corners
lie entire carcases of donkeys and dogs. We trudge
through the dirt, among great stones, and deep
holes, stumbling and jumping. The inhabitants
begin to gather upon our track, looking at us with
amazement. The soldiers make way for us with
their fists and the butts of their muskets, with a zeal
which the ambassador hastens to restrain. A
throng of people now follow and precede us. When
one of us turns suddenly round, all stop, some run
away, and others hide themselves. Here and there
a woman slams her door in our faces, and a child
utters a yell of terror. The women look like bundles
of dirty rags; the children are in general quite
naked; boys of ten or twelve have nothing on but
a shirt tied round the waist with a cord. Little by
little the people about us grow bolder. They look
curiously at our trousers and boots. Some boys
.pn +1
venture to touch the skirts of our coats. The general
expression of the faces is far from benevolent.
A woman, in full flight, throws some words at the
ambassador which the interpreter translates:—“God
confound thy race!” A young man cries out:—“God
grant us a good day of victory over these!”
We reach a small square, so steep and stony that
we can with difficulty climb it, and pass a line of
horrible old women almost completely naked, seated
on the ground, with bread and other matters before
them which they appear to be selling. In the streets
through which we pass there is at every hundred
paces a great arched door, which is closed at night.
The houses are everywhere naked, cracked, gloomy.
We enter a bazaar, roofed with canes and branches
of trees that are falling down on every side. The
shops are mere niches; the shopmen, wax figures;
the merchandise, rubbish offered in joke and hopeless
of a purchaser. In every corner are crouched
sad, sleepy, stupid-looking figures; children with
scald-heads; old women with no semblance of
humanity. We seem to be wandering in the halls
of a hospital. The air is full of aromatic odors.
Not a voice is heard. The crowd accompanies us
in spectral silence. We come out of the bazaar.
We meet Moors on horseback, camels with their
burthens, a fury who shakes her fist at the ambassador,
an old saint crowned with a laurel wreath,
who laughs in our faces. At a certain point we
began to see men dressed in black, with long hair,
.pn 123
their heads covered with a blue handkerchief, who
looked smilingly at us, and made humble salutations.
One of these, a ceremonious old gentleman,
presently came forward and invited the ambassador
to visit the <i>Mellà</i>, or Jews’ quarter, called by the
Arabs by that insulting name, which signifies accursed
ground. The ambassador accepting, we
passed under a vaulted door or gateway, and engaged
in a labyrinth of alleys more hideous, more
wretched, and more fetid than those of the Arab
city, between houses that seemed mere dens, across
small squares like stable-yards, from which could be
seen courts like sewers; and from every side of this
dirt-heap emerged beautiful women and girls, smiling
and murmuring:—<lang=es><i>Buenos dias!</i></lang>—<lang=es><i>Buenos dias!</i></lang>
In some places we were obliged to stop our noses
and pick our way on the tips of our toes. The ambassador
was indignant. “How is it possible,” said
he to the old Jew, “that you can live in such filth?”

“It is the custom of the country,” he replied.

“The custom of the country! It is shameful!
And you ask the protection of the Legations, talk of
civilization, call the Moors savages! You, who live
worse than they, and have the face to pride yourselves
upon it!” The Hebrew hung his head and
smiled, as if he thought:—“What strange ideas!”

As we came out of the Mellà the crowd again
surrounded us. The vice-consul patted a child on
the head, and there were signs of astonishment; a
favorable murmur arose; the soldiers were obliged
.pn +1
to drive back the boys who crowded in upon us.
We went with quickened pace up a deserted street,
leaving the crowd gradually behind us, and coming
outside the walls into a road bordered by enormous
cactus and tall palm trees, felt with a long breath of
relief that we were free of the city and its people.

Such is the city of Alkazar, commonly called
Alkazar-el-Kebir, which signifies—the great Palace.
Tradition says that it was founded in the twelfth century
by that Abou-Yussuf Yacoub-el-Mansur, of
the dynasty of the Almoadi, who conquered Alonzo
IX of Castile at the battle of Alarcos, and who
built the famous tower of the <i>Giralda</i> at Seville.
It is related that one evening he lost his way while
hunting, and that a fisherman sheltered him in his
hut. The Caliph in gratitude built for him on the
same spot a great palace with some other houses,
around which clustered gradually the city. It was
once a flourishing and populous place; now it has
about five thousand inhabitants, between Moors and
Jews, and is very poor, although it draws some advantages
from being on the road of the caravans
that traverse the empire from north to south.

Passing near one of the gates we saw an Arab
boy of about twelve years old walking stiffly and
with difficulty, with his legs wide apart in the most
awkward attitude. Other boys were following him.
When he came near we saw that he had a great bar
of iron about a foot in length fixed between his legs
by two rings around his ankles. He was a lean
.pn +1
and dirty lad, with an ill-favored countenance. The
ambassador questioned him through the interpreter:

“Who put that bar upon you?”

“My father,” answered the boy, boldly.

“For what reason?”

“Because I will not learn to read.”

We did not believe him, but a town Arab who
was present confirmed what he had said.

“Have you worn it long?”

“Three years,” he answered, smiling bitterly.

We thought it all a lie. But the Arab again confirmed
it, adding that the boy slept with the bar
upon him, and that all Alkazar knew him. Then
the ambassador, moved with compassion, made him
a little speech, exhorting him to study, to get rid of
that shame and torture, and not to dishonor his
family; and when the interpreter had repeated it,
he was asked what his answer was.

“My answer is this,” replied the boy, “that I will
wear the iron all my life, but that I will never learn
to read, and that I will die before I yield.”

The ambassador looked fixedly at him, but he
sustained his glance with unflinching eye.

“Gentlemen,” said the ambassador, turning to us,
“our mission is over.” We returned to the camp,
and the boy with his iron bar re-entered the city.

“A few years more,” said a soldier, “and there
will be another head over the Alkazar gate.”
.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap05
CHAPTER V. | BEN-AUDA.
.sp 2
The next morning, at sunrise, we forded the
river Kus, on the right bank of which the city
of Alkazar is situated, and again advanced over an
undulating, flowery, solitary country, whose confines
stretched beyond our sight. The escort was scattered
in a number of detached groups, looking like
so many little <lang=fr><i>cortéges</i></lang> of a Sultan. The artists galloped
here and there, sketch-book in hand, sketching
horses and riders. The rest of the members of
the embassy talked of the invasion of the Goths, of
commerce, of scorpions, of philosophy, eagerly listened
to by the mounted servants who came behind.
Civo lent particular attention to a philosophic discussion;
Hamed listened to his master, who was
telling about a wild-boar hunt, in which he had
risked his life. This Hamed was, after Selim, the
most notable personage in the whole category of
servants, soldiers, and grooms. He was an Arab of
about thirty years old, very tall, bronzed, muscular,
strong as a bull; but he had also a beardless face,
the softest dark eyes, a voice, a smile, a grace in all
.pn +1
his movements, which made the most marked contrast
with his powerful person. He wore a white
turban, a blue jacket, and Zouave trousers; spoke
Spanish, knew how to do every thing, and pleased
everybody, so that the vain-glorious Selim was
jealous of him. The others also were all more or
less handsome young fellows, attentive, and full of
obsequious solicitude. When one of us looked
back, he encountered their big eyes asking whether
he needed any thing. “What a pity,” thought I,
“that we should not be attacked by a band of robbers,
so that we might see all these nimble fellows
put to the proof!”

We had ridden about two hours when we began
to meet people. The first was a black horseman,
who held in his hand one of those little sticks with
an inscription in Arabic, called <lang=ar><i>herrez</i></lang>, which the
monks give to travellers to preserve them from robbers
and illness. Then came some ragged old
women bearing great bundles of wood upon their
shoulders. Oh, power of fanaticism! Bent as they
were, tired, breathless, they still found strength to
launch a curse at us. One murmured, “God curse
these infidels!” Another, “God keep us from the
evil spirit!” About an hour later we met a courier,
a poor lean Arab, bearing letters in a leathern bag
slung about his neck. He stopped to say that he
came from Fez, and was going to Tangiers. The
ambassador gave him a letter for Tangiers, and he
hastened on his way.
.pn +1

Such, and no other, is the postal service of Morocco,
and nothing can be more wretched than the
lives of these couriers. They eat nothing on their
journey but a little bread and a few figs; they stop
only at night for a few hours to sleep, with a cord
tied to the foot, to which they set fire before going
to sleep, and which wakens them within a certain
time; they travel whole days without seeing a tree
or a drop of water; they cross forests infested with
wild boar, climb mountains inaccessible to mules,
swim rivers, sometimes walk, sometimes run, sometimes
roll down declivities, or climb ascents on feet
and hands, under the August sun, under the drenching
autumn rains, under the burning desert wind,
taking four days from Tangiers to Fez, a week from
Tangiers to Morocco, from one extremity of the
empire to the other, alone, barefooted, half-naked;
and when they have reached their journey’s end,
they go back! And this they do for a few francs.

At about half-way from Alkazar to our destination
the road began to ascend very gradually until we
reached a height from whence we saw another immense
plain covered with vast tracts of yellow, red,
and white flowers, looking like stretches of snow,
striped with gold and crimson. Over this plain
there came galloping to meet us some two hundred
horsemen, with muskets resting on their saddle, led
by a figure all in white, which Mohammed Ducali
recognized and announced in a loud voice to be the
governor of Ben-Auda.
.pn +1

We had reached the confines of the province of
Seffian, called also Ben-Auda, from the family name
of the governor, which signifies <i>son of a mare</i>; a
name which had taken my fancy before leaving
Tangiers.

We descended into the plain, and the two hundred
of Seffian having drawn up in a line with the
three hundred of Laracce, the governor Ben-Auda
presented himself to our chief.

If I live to be a hundred years old I shall never
forget that countenance. He was a lean old man,
with savage eyes, a forked nose,[#] a lipless mouth
cut in the form of a semicircle turned downward.
Arrogance, superstition, Venus, <i>kif</i>, idleness, and
satiety were written upon his visage. A big turban
covered his forehead and ears. A curved dagger
hung from his girdle.

.fn #
<lang=it><i>Naso forcuto</i></lang>, a favorite expression with the author.
.fn-

The ambassador dismissed the commander of the
escort from Laracce, who at once withdrew with his
horsemen at a gallop; and we went on with the new
escort, and the usual accompaniment of charging and
firing.

Their faces were blacker, their robes more gaudy,
their horses finer, their yells more extraordinary,
their charges and manœuvres more wildly impetuous
than any we had yet seen. The further we advanced,
the more apparent became the local color of
all things.

In all that multitude twelve horsemen, dressed
.pn +1
with unusual elegance and mounted on beautiful
horses, were conspicuous, even in the eyes of the
Arabs. Five of them were colossal young men,
who appeared to be brothers; all had pale bronzed
faces and great black brilliant eyes under enormous
turbans, These five were the sons, and the other
seven, nephews of the governor Ben-Auda.

The firing and charging went on for about an
hour, at which time we reached a garden belonging
to the governor, where we dismounted to rest and
refresh ourselves.

It was a grove of orange and lemon trees, planted
in parallel rows, and so thickly as to form an intricate
green roof, under which one enjoyed the coolness,
shade, and perfume of paradise.

The governor dismounted with us, and presented
his sons,—five as handsome, dignified, and amiable
faces as are often to be seen. One after the other
pressed our hands, with a slight bow, casting down
his eyes with an air of boyish shyness.

We were all presently seated in the garden, upon
a beautiful carpet from Rabat, where we were served
with breakfast. The governor of Ben-Auda sat
upon a mat at twenty paces from us, and also breakfasted,
waited upon by his slaves. Then ensued a
curious exchange of courtesies between him and the
ambassador. First, Ben-Auda sent a vase of milk
as an offering: the ambassador returned it with a
beefsteak. The milk was followed by butter, the
beefsteak by an omelet; the butter by a sweet dish,
.pn +1
the omelet by a box of sardines; the whole accompanied
by a thousand coldly ceremonious gestures—hands
clasped upon the breast, and eyes turned
up to heaven with a comical expression of gastronomic
enthusiasm. The sweet dish, by the way,
was a species of tart made of honey, eggs, butter,
and sugar, of which the Arabs are extremely fond,
and about which they have an odd superstition—that
if while the woman is cooking it a man should
happen to enter the room, the tart goes wrong, and
even if it could be eaten it would not be prudent to
do so. “And wine?” some one asked; “should
we not offer him some wine?” There was some
discussion. It was asserted that governor Ben-Auda
was in secret devoted to the bottle; but how
could he drink in the presence of his soldiers? It
was decided not to send any. To me, however, it
seemed that he cast very soft glances at the bottles,
much softer than those with which he favored us.
During the whole time that he sat there on his mat,
except when he was giving thanks for gifts, he
maintained a frowning expression of pride and anger
that made me wish to have under my orders our
forty companies of <lang=it><i>bersaglieri</i></lang>,[#] that I might parade
them under his nose.

.fn #
<lang=it><i>Bersaglieri</i></lang>, Italian riflemen.
.fn-

Mohammed Ducali meantime was relating to me
a notable episode in the history of Ben-Auda, in
which family the government of Seffian has been
for ages. The people of this province are brave
.pn +1
and turbulent; and they are said to have given
proof of their valor in the late war with Spain,
when, at the battle of Vad-Ras, in March, 1861,
Sidi Absalam Ben-Abd-el-Krim Ben-Auda, then
governor of the whole province of Garb, was killed.
To this Absalam succeeded his eldest son, Sidi Abd-el-Krim.
He was a violent and dissipated man,
who despoiled his people by taxation and tormented
them with a capricious ferocity. One day he intimated
to one Gileli Ruqui that he desired a large
sum of money. The man excused himself on the
plea of poverty. He was loaded with chains and
cast into prison, The family and friends of the prisoner
sold all they had and brought the desired sum
to Sidi Abd-el-Krim. Gileli came out of prison,
and having assembled all his friends, they took a
solemn oath to kill the governor. His house was
situated at about two hours’ ride from the garden
where we were. The conspirators attacked it
in the night in force. They killed the sentinels,
broke into the hall, strangled and poniarded Sidi
Abd-el-Krim, his wives, children, servants, and
slaves; sacked and burned the house, and then
threw themselves into the open country, raising the
cry of revolt. The relatives and partisans of Ben-Auda
gathered themselves together and marched
against the rebels; the rebels dispersed them, and
rebellion broke out all over the Garb. Then the
Sultan sent an army; the revolt, after a furious resistance,
was put down, and the heads of the leaders
.pn +1
hung from the gates of Fez and Morocco; the land
of the <i>Benimalek</i> was divided from the province;
the house of Ben-Auda was rebuilt; and Sidi-Mohammed
Ben-Auda, brother of the murdered man,
and guest of the Italian embassy, assumed the government
of the land of his fathers. It was a passing
victory of desperation over tyranny, followed by a
harder tyranny than before; in these words may be
summed up the history of every province of the
empire, and, perhaps, at that very moment there was
a predestined Gileli Ruqui for Sidi-Mohammed Ben-Auda.

Before sunset we reached our encampment, which
was not very far off, on a solitary plain, at the foot
of a small eminence on which was a <i>Cuba</i> flanked
by a palm tree.

The ambassador had hardly arrived, when the
<i>mona</i> was brought and deposited as usual before his
tent, in the presence of the intendant, the caid, the
soldiers, and servants. Whilst they were busy making
the division, I saw, as I raised my eyes toward
the <i>Cuba</i>, a man of tall stature and strange aspect
coming down with long strides toward the encampment.
There was no doubt about it: here was the
hermit, the saint, coming to make a disturbance. I
said not a word, but waited. He skirted the camp
on the outside so as to appear suddenly before the
ambassador’s tent. He moved on the tips of his
toes; a sepulchral figure, covered with black rags,
disgusting to behold. All at once he broke into a
.pn +1
run, dashed into the midst of us; and, recognizing
our chief by his dress, rushed upon him with the
howl of one possessed. But he had scarcely time to
howl. With lightning rapidity the caid seized him
by the throat, and dragged him furiously into the
midst of the soldiery, who in a second had him out
of the camp, stifling his roars with a mantle. The
interpreter translated his invectives as follows: “Let
us exterminate all these accursed Christian dogs,
who go to the Sultan and do what they please, while
we are dying with hunger!”

A little after the presentation of the customary
<i>mona</i>, there arrived at the camp about fifty Arabs
and blacks, bearing in single file great round boxes,
with high conical covers of straw, and containing
eggs, chickens, tarts, sweets, roast meats, <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang>,
salads, etc., enough to satisfy an entire tribe. It
was a second <i>mona</i>, spontaneously offered to the
ambassador by Sidi-Mohammed Ben-Auda, perhaps
to do away with the effect of his threatening visage
in the morning.

That personage himself presently appeared on
horseback, accompanied by his five sons and a
crowd of servants. The ambassador received them
in his tent, and conversed with them through the
interpreters. He asked one of his sons if he had
ever heard of Italy. The young man answered that
he had heard it mentioned several times. One of
them asked whether England or Italy was farthest
from Morocco; how many cannons we had, what
.pn +1
was the name of our chief city, and how the king
was dressed. As they spoke, they all examined
curiously our neckties and our watch-chains. The
ambassador then asked the governor some questions
about the extent and population of his province.
Either he knew nothing, or did not choose to tell;
any how, it was not possible to get any information
out of him. I remember he said that the exact
number of the population could not be known.
“But about what number?” was asked. Not even
about the number could be known. Then he questioned
us again. “How did we like the city of
Alkazar? Should we like to stay in Morocco?
Why had we not brought our wives?” They
drank tea with us, and after many salutations and
genuflexions, remounted their horses, and spurred
away, or rather disappeared; for as there was not a
village or a house within eyeshot, all those who
came and went made the effect of people who had
risen out of the ground, or vanished into thin air.

This, like every other day, closed with a splendid
sunset, and a noisy, merry dinner. But the night
was one of the most disturbed that we had had
throughout the journey; perhaps because it was
necessary in the land of Seffian that the ambassador
should be more carefully guarded than in other
places, the night sentinels kept each other awake by
singing, every quarter of an hour, a verse from the
Koran. One intoned the words, and all the others
responded in chorus, in loud voices, accompanied by
.pn +1
the neighing of steeds and the barking of dogs. We
had hardly dropped asleep when we were aroused
again, and could not succeed in closing an eye. By
way of addition, a little after midnight, in one of the
intervals of silence, a wild, harsh voice arose out in
the fields, and never ceased until dawn. Sometimes
it approached, then seemed to recede, then approached
again very near, taking a tone of menace,
or lamenting, despairing, and bursting out now and
then in piercing cries or yells of laughter that chilled
one’s bones. It was the saint wandering about the
confines of the camp, and calling down God’s malediction
on our heads. In the morning when we
issued forth from our tents, there he was erect, like
a spectre in front of his solitary <i>Cuba</i>, bathed in the
first rose tints of dawn, and pouring out curses in a
harsh voice, waving his skeleton arms above his
head.

I went in search of the cook to see what he
thought of this awful personage. But I found him
so busy making coffee for an impatient crowd who
were all attacking him at once, that I had not the
heart to torment him. Some were talking Arabic,
Ranni spoke Sicilian, the <i>Calefato</i> Neapolitan,
Hamed Spanish, and M. Vincent French.

“<i>Ma</i>, I can’t understand a word you say, gallows-birds
that you are!” screamed the cook in despair.

“<i>Ma</i>, this is Babylon! Let me breathe! Do
you want to see me die? <lang=it><i>Oh che pais, mi povr’om!</i></lang>
Oh, what a country for a poor man to be in! They
.pn +1
all talk together, and no one understands the
other!”

When he had recovered his breath a little, I
pointed out the howling saint, and asked him,
“Well, what do you think of that piece of impudence?”

He raised his eyes to the <i>Cuba</i>, looked steadily
at the saint for a few moments, and then with a
gesture of profound contempt answered in Piedmontese
accent, “<lang=it><i>Guardo e passi!</i></lang>”[#] and withdrew
with dignity into his tent.

.fn #
“<lang=it><i>Non ragionam di lor, ma guarda e passa.</i></lang>”—<i>Dante.</i>
.fn-

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap06
CHAPTER VI. | KARIA-EL-ABBASSI.
.sp 2

We struck our camp and moved on in the
usual order, amid the cries and musket-shots
of the escort, arriving in two hours’ time at a
small watercourse which marked the confines of
Seffian. Here we were met by a large company of
horsemen, led by the governor of the province which
extends from Seffian to the large river Sebù. The
escort from Ben-Auda turned and disappeared; we
forded the stream, and were instantly surrounded by
the new-comers.

.if h
.il fn=i138.png w=60% id=i138 alt='The Governor Abd-Alla.'
.ca The Governor Abd-Alla.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Governor Abd-Alla.]
.if-

Bu-Bekr-Ben-el-Abbassi, an elegant and graceful
personage, pressed warmly the hand of our chief,
saluted amicably Ducali, his former school companion,
and welcomed the rest with a dignified and
graceful gesture. We rode on, and for some time
not one of us could take our eyes off the new-comer.
He was the most interesting of all the governors
we had seen. Of middle height, and slender
figure, dark, with soft penetrating eyes, aquiline
nose, and a full black beard, through which, when
he smiled, gleamed two rows of beautiful teeth. He
.pn 139
was wrapped in a fine snow-white mantle, with the
hood drawn over his turban, and mounted on a jet-black
horse with sky-blue housings. He looked
like a generous, beloved, and happy man. Either
my fancy misled me, or the aspect of the two hundred
horsemen from Karia-el-Abbassi reflected the
benignity of the governor. They appeared to me
to have the open and contented expression of men
who had for years enjoyed the miraculous grace of
a humane government.

This appearance, together with the huts, that began
to be more frequent in the country, and the
serene weather, refreshed by a perfumed breeze,
gave me for a time the delusion that the province
was an oasis of prosperity and peace in the midst of
the miserable empire of the Scherifs.

We passed through a village composed of two
rows of camel-skin tents, held together with canes
and sticks; every tent having a tiny enclosure surrounded
by a cactus hedge. Beyond the tents cows
and horses were feeding; in front, upon our road,
were some groups of half-naked children come to
look at us; ragged men and women peeped at us
over the hedges. No one shook his fist at us, no
one cursed us. Hardly had we passed the village
when they all came out of their huts, and we beheld
a crowd of some hundreds of black, hideous, famine-stricken
wretches, who might have risen from some
graveyard. Some ran behind us for a while; others
vanished among the irregularities of the ground.
.pn +1

The configuration of the country through which
we were passing gave rise to a wonderful variety of
picturesque effects as the escort and caravan proceeded.
It was a succession of deep valleys, parallel
to each other, formed by great earth waves, and all
covered with flowers like a garden. Passing from
one valley to another we would lose sight of the escort
for a moment; then on the top of the height
behind us would appear, first the muzzles of the muskets,
then fezes and turbans, then faces, and finally
the figures of men and horses, rising apparently out
of the earth. Looking back from a height we could
see the two hundred scattered along the valley amid
the smoke and re-echoing noises of their shots, and
far along behind, the servants, soldiers, horses, and
mules, appearing for an instant, and then plunging
into the depths and lost to sight. Seen in that way
the caravan appeared interminable, and presented
the grandiose aspect of an expeditionary army or an
emigrating people.

Karia-el-Abbassi was made up of the governor’s
house and a group of huts shaded by a few fig and
wild olive trees. We accepted the governor’s invitation
to rest at his house, and the caravan went
on to the spot selected for the camp.

Crossing two or three courts, enclosed between
bare white walls, we entered a garden, upon which
opened the principal gate of the mansion; a little
white house, windowless, and silent as a convent.
A few mulatto slaves showed us into a small ground-floor
.pn +1
room, also white, with no aperture except the
door by which we entered, and another little door in
a corner. There were two alcoves, three white mattresses
on the mosaic floor, and some embroidered
cushions. It was the first time we had been within
four walls since our departure from Tangiers; we
stretched ourselves voluptuously in the alcoves,
and awaited with curiosity the continuation of the
spectacle.

The governor came in wrapped in a snowy <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>
that reached from his turban to his feet. He threw
off his yellow slippers, and sat down barefooted on
the mattress between Ducali and the ambassador.
Slaves brought jars of milk and plates of sweetmeats,
and Ben-el-Abbassi himself made the tea, and poured
it out into beautiful little cups of Chinese porcelain,
which his favorite servant, a young mulatto with his
face tattooed in arabesque, carried round. The grace
and dignity of our host in all that he did are not to
be described, and seemed amazing in a man who was
probably very ignorant, who governed a few thousands
of tented Arabs, and never in all his life perhaps
had seen fifty civilized persons. In the most
aristocratic <lang=fr><i>salon</i></lang> in Europe not the least fault could
have been found in his manners. His dress was
fresh, neat, and fragrant as that of an odalisque just
come from the bath. As he moved, his <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang> showed
beneath gleams of the splendid and varied colors of
his costume, inspiring in the spectator an ardent
wish to tear off the veil and see what was hidden
.pn +1
under it. He spoke in quiet tones and without the
slightest appearance of curiosity, as if he had seen
us the day before. He had never been out of Morocco,
and said that he should like much to see our
railways and our great palaces; and he knew that
there were in Italy three cities which were called
Genoa, Rome, and Venice. As he conversed, the
little door opened behind him, and the head of a
pretty little mulatto girl was thrust out, which rolled
around two large astonished and startled eyes, and
vanished. She was the governor’s daughter by a
black woman. He was aware of the apparition, and
smiled. There followed a long interval of silence.
In the middle of the chamber rose the fumes of burning
aloes from the perfume burners; before the door
stood a group of curious slaves; behind the slaves
were palm trees; and over all smiled the clear blue
sky of Africa. It all seemed so unreal that I found
myself thinking of my little room in Turin, and of its
sometime occupant, as of another person.

On our way to the encampment, which was about
half a mile from the governor’s house, upon a high
plain covered with dry grass, we for the first time
felt the scorching power of the sun. It was only
the 8th of May; and we were not a hundred miles
from the Mediterranean coast, and we had yet to
cross the great plain of the Sebù.

.if h
.il fn=i142.png w=100% id=i142 alt='Taking Tea With The Governor Of Karia-El-Abbassi.'
.ca Taking Tea With The Governor Of Karia-El-Abbassi.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Taking Tea With The Governor Of Karia-El-Abbassi.]
.if-

Notwithstanding the heat our camp was enlivened
toward evening by an unusual concourse of
people. On one side a long row of Arabs seated
.pn 143
on the ground, watched the manœuvres of the cavalry
escort; on the other, some were playing ball;
a little farther on a group of women huddled in their
coarse <lang=ar><i>caics</i></lang> observed us with gestures of astonishment,
and a throng of children ran about everywhere.
The population seemed really less savage
than those we had left behind.

Biseo and I went to look at the ball-players, who
immediately left off, but after some consulting
glances resumed their game. There were fifteen or
twenty of them, tall fellows, big and athletic, with
nothing on but shirts bound round the waist, and a
kind of mantle made of coarse and dirty stuff,
wound round the body like a <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>. Their play was
different from that at Tangiers. One struck the
ball into the air with his foot; all the others rushed
to catch it as it fell, leaping up into the air as if they
were about to fly; and the one who caught it struck
it up again in his turn. Often in the mêlée, one
would fall, and others falling over him, and others
again on them, the whole would roll about together
kicking and screaming, and with small regard for
modesty. More than one thus turned upside down
displayed a curved dagger at his girdle, or a little
purse hung from his neck, containing probably some
verses from the Koran as a charm against illness.
Once the ball fell at my feet, and I seized it, placed
it on my open palm, made some necromantic gestures
over it, and launched it into the air. For a
few moments not one of the players dared to touch
.pn +1
it. They came near it, looked at it, touched it with
a foot timidly; and it was not until they saw me
laugh and make signs that it was a joke, that they
ventured to pick it up and go on with their play.

Meantime nearly all the boys who were running
about had gathered around us. There might have
been fifty of them, and all the clothing they possessed
among them would not have brought ten-pence
at the ragshop. Some were very handsome,
some had scald-heads, most of them were coffee-colored,
and the rest had a greenish-yellow tint as if
they were plastered over with some vegetable substance.
A few had tails like the Chinese. At first
they stood about ten paces off, looking suspiciously
at us and exchanging observations in whispers.
Then seeing that we did nothing hostile, they came
a little nearer and began to get upon tiptoe, and
bend themselves about in order to see us on every
side, as we do in looking at statues. We stood immovable.
One of them touched my shoe with the
tip of his finger, and snatched it away as if it had
burnt him; another smelled at my sleeve. We
were surrounded, and smelt all sorts of exotic odors;
we felt as if they were plotting something. “Come,”
said Biseo, “it is time to free ourselves; I have an
infallible method”; and he pulled out sketch-book
and pencil, and made as if he were about to copy
one of their faces. In a moment they were all gone,
like a flight of birds.

A little later some women approached. “Wonderful!”
.pn +1
said we. “It is to be hoped that they are
not coming to give us a dagger-thrust, in the name
of Mahomet!” But they were only poor sick
people, who had scarcely strength to walk, or hold
up their arms to cover their faces; among them
there was a young girl whose groans moved our
compassion, and who showed only one blue eye full
of tears. We understood that they were seeking
the doctor, and pointed out his tent. One, helping
her words with gestures, asked if there would be
any thing to pay. We said no, and they tottered
toward the doctor’s quarters. We followed to assist
at the consultation. “What do you feel?” asked
Signor Miguerez, in Arabic, of the first one. “A
great pain here,” pointing to her shoulder, “I
must see it,” said the physician; “take off your
mantle a moment.” The woman did not move.
This is the great point! Not one of them, not even
a woman of ninety will let herself be seen, and all
pretend that the doctor can divine what is the matter.
“Come, will you or will you not unveil yourself?”
said Miguerez. No reply. “Well, let me
hear the others,” and he questioned them, while the
first withdrew, sadly enough. The others had no
need to unveil, and the doctor distributed pills and
potions, and sent them away “with God.” Poor
creatures! Not one of them was more than thirty
years old, and already youth was over for them,
and with its departure had come the fatigue, brutal
treatment, and contempt, which make an Arab
.pn +1
woman’s old age horrible; instruments for man’s
pleasure up to twenty, beasts of burthen until death.

.if h
.il fn=i146.png w=100% id=i146 alt='A Centipede.'
.ca A Centipede.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: A Centipede.]
.if-

The dinner was made gay by a visit from Ben-el-Abbassi,
and the night was disturbed by a frightful
invasion of insects. Already during the heat of the
day I had foreseen the coming terrors in the unusual
buzzing and swarming which was apparent
among the grass. The ants were making long black
lines, beetles were in bunches, and grasshoppers as
thick as flies; and with them a great number of
other insects unseen until now, which did not inspire
me with confidence. Captain de Boccard, the
professor of entomology, named them for me.
There, among others, was the <i>Cicindela campestris</i>,
a living trap, which closes the opening of its den
with its own large head, and drops down into the
depths the incautious insects that pass over it; there
was the <i>Pheropsophus Africanus</i>, which darts at its
pursuing enemy a puff of corrosive vapor from its
tail; the <i>Meloe majalis</i>, dragging along its enormous
dropsical belly swollen with grass and eggs;
the <i>Carabus rugosus</i>, the <i>Pimelia scabrosa</i>, the <i>Cetonia
opaca</i>, the <i>Cossyphus Hoffmannseghi</i>, animated
leaf, of which Victor Hugo gives a fanciful description
enough to chill one’s blood. And a great number
of big lizards, enormous spiders, centipedes six
inches long, crickets as big as my thumb, and green
bugs as big as pennies, that came and went as if
they were preparing by common accord some warlike
expedition. As if these were not enough, I had
.pn 147
scarcely seated myself at table and stretched out my
hand to take my glass, when there appeared over
the edge of it the head of a monstrous locust, which
instead of flying away at my threatening gesture,
continued to look at me with the utmost impudence.
And finally, by way of climax, Hamed appeared
with the face of one who has escaped a great
danger, and laid before us, stuck in a cleft stick,
nothing less than a tarantula, a <i>Lycosa tarantula</i>,
the terrible spider, that “<i>cuando pica á un hombre</i>,
when it stings a man,” said he, “Allah help him!
The unfortunate one begins to laugh and cry,
and sing and dance, and nothing but good music,
very good music! the music of the Sultan’s band,
can save him.” The reader can imagine with
what courage I went to my bed. Nevertheless
my three companions and I had been in bed for
some little time, the lights were out, and silence prevailed,
when suddenly the commandant sprang into
a sitting position, and cried out:—“I am populated!”
(<i>Io mi sento popolato!</i>) Then we too began
to feel something. For a time there were furtive touches,
timid punctures, ticklings and slight
provocations of explorers and advanced sentinels
that were not worthy of notice. But soon the big
patrols began to arrive, and a vigorous offensive resistance
became necessary. The struggle was ferocious.
The more we fought the hotter grew the
attack. They came from the head, from the foot,
and dropped from the curtains of the bed. They
.pn +1
seemed to be carrying on the assault under the direction
of some great insect of genius. It was evidently
a religious war. Briefly, we could resist no
longer. “Lights!” roared the vice-consul. We all
jumped out of bed, lighted our candles, and prepared
for strategy. The common soldiers were slaughtered
on the spot; the leaders, the big bugs, first
classified by the captain, and sentenced by the commandant,
were roasted by the vice-consul, and I
composed a funeral eulogium in prose and verse
which will be published after my death. In a few
minutes the ground was strewn with wings and
claws, legs and heads; the survivors dispersed, and
we, weary of carnage, reciprocally named each
other knights of various orders, and retired once
more to bed.

The following morning at sunrise Governor Ben-el-Abbassi
presented himself to escort us to the confines
of his province. We descended from the high
table-land on which our tents were pitched, and saw
spread before our eyes the immense horizon of the
plain of the Sebù.

This river, one of the largest in the Magreb, descends
from the western flank of the mountain chain
that stretches from the upper Atlas toward the
Straits of Gibraltar, and in a course of about two
hundred and forty kilomètres, swelled by many
affluents, goes in a vast curve to throw itself into the
Atlantic Ocean, near Mehedia, where the accumulation
of sand, common to the mouths of all the rivers
.pn 149
of Morocco on that side, prevents the entrance of
vessels, and produces great inundations at certain
seasons. The valley of the Sebù, which embraces
at its commencement all the space lying between
the two cities of Laracce and Salé, and touches at
its upper extremity the high basin of the Muluia
(the great river which marks the eastern boundary
of Morocco), opens to Europeans, by the shore and
by Teza, the way to the city of Fez; comprising,
besides Fez, the large city of Mechinez, the third
capital; which gathers to itself, it may be said, all
the political life of the empire, and is the principal
seat of the wealth and power of the Scher. The
Sebù, it may be noted, marks in the north the confines
which the Sultan never oversteps, except in
case of war, the three cities, Fez, Morocco, and
Mechinez, lying south of the river. In these three
cities he sojourns alternately. There is also the
double city of Salé-Rabatt, through which he passes
in going from Fez to Morocco. He takes this road
in order not to have to cross the mountains that
shut in the valley of the Sebù to the south, their
slopes being inhabited by the Zairi, a mixed Berber
race, who have the reputation of being, with Benimitir,
the most turbulent and indomitable of the
tribes of those mountains.

The Sebù reminded me of the Tiber in the Roman
Campagna. At the point where we struck it, it is
about a hundred yards in width, of a muddy color,
turbulent and rapid, shut in between two high arid
.pn +1
banks, which are almost vertical, and at whose feet
extend two zones of miry ground.

Two antediluvian barks, rowed by eight or ten
Arabs, approached the shore. These boats alone,
if there were nothing else, would suffice to show
what Morocco is. For hundreds of years sultans,
pashas, caravans, and embassies, have crossed the
river on such hulks as these, with their feet in mud
and water, sometimes in danger of drowning; and
when the hulks—as often happens—are full of holes,
caravan and embassy, sultan and pasha, wait on the
shore while the boatmen stop the holes with mud or
something else, sometimes for several hours in rain
or scorching sun; and for hundreds of years horses,
mules, and camels, for want of a piece of plank a
couple of yards long, run the risk of breaking their
legs, and do break them, in jumping from the shore
into the boats; and no one has ever conceived the
idea of constructing a bridge of boats, and no one
has ever thought of bringing down a piece of plank
two yards long; and if any one reproves them for
these things, they look at him with an air of stupefaction
as if he had suggested a prodigy.

In many places they cross the rivers upon rafts
made of cane, and their armies cross on floating
bridges made of skins blown up with air and covered
with earth and branches.

We dismounted, and went down a steep pathway
to the river, when we Italians crossed in the first
boat, and then looked on from the opposite shore at
.pn +1
the passage of the caravan. What a picture it was!
In the middle of the river came a great boat filled
with the Moors and camels of a caravan of merchandise,
and a little beyond, another bringing the horses
and men of the escort from Fez, from the midst of
which floated the banner of the Prophet, and shone
the black visage and snowy turban of the caid. On
the opposite shore, in the midst of a great confusion
of horses, mules, servants, and baggage, which encumbered
the bank for a long distance, appeared
the white and gracious figure of the governor Ben-el-Abbassi,
seated upon a rising ground, his officers
grouped behind him, and his fine horse with its sky-blue
trappings standing near. Upon the top of the
bank, which rose like the wall of a fortress, and upon
which sat a long row of country Arabs with dangling
legs, were ranged the two hundred horsemen of
the governor, who, seen thus against the blue background
of the sky, looked like giants. Some black
servants, as naked as they were born, were plunging
and re-plunging into the river, screaming and shouting.
A few Arabs, according to Moorish custom,
washed their rags, bobbing up and down over them
like so many puppets; and some crossed the river
swimming. Above our heads passed flights of
storks; far away on the shore rose the smoke from
a group of Bedouin tents; the boatmen chanted in
chorus a prayer to the Prophet for the good result
of the enterprise; the water sent up golden sparkles
in the sun, and Selam, standing at a little distance
.pn +1
in his famous caftan, made in the midst of this barbaric
and festive picture the most harmonious red
point that could be imagined by a painter.

The passage occupied several hours, and as each
party reached the shore, it resumed its march with
the caravan.

When the last horse had crossed, Governor Ben-el-Abbassi
mounted and joined his soldiers in the
heights opposite. The ambassador and his suite all
raised their hands in salute. The escort of Karia-el-Abbassi
answered with a storm of musket-shots,
and vanished; but for a moment or two the fine
white figure of the governor was visible amid the
smoke, with his arm stretched toward us in token of
amity and farewell.

Accompanied only by our Fez escort, we now entered
upon the sadly famous territory of the Beni-Hassan.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap07
CHAPTER VII. | BENI-HASSAN.
.sp 2

For more than an hour we travelled through
fields of barley, from which showed here and
there a black tent, the head of a camel, or a cloud
of smoke. In the paths we traversed, scorpions,
lizards, and snakes were numerous. Our saddles
were so heated by the sun that we could scarcely
hold our hands upon them. The light blinded our
eyes, the dust choked us, and every thing around
was still as death. The plain which stretched before
us like an ocean seemed awful to me, as if the caravan
were doomed to go on forever. But at the
same time my curiosity to see the proud Beni-Hassan,
of whom I had heard so much, kept up my
drooping spirits. “What kind of people are they?”
I asked of the interpreter. “Thieves and murderers,”
answered he; “faces from the other world; the
worst crew in Morocco.” And I scanned the horizon
with anxiety.

The faces from another world were not long in
coming. We saw in advance a great cloud of dust,
and in a few minutes were surrounded by a throng
.pn +1
of three hundred mounted savages, in green, yellow,
white, violet, and scarlet, ragged, dishevelled, and
panting, as if they had just come out of a fray. In
the midst of the thick dust they raised, we could discern
their governor, a long-haired, black-bearded
giant, who, followed by two hoary vice-governors,
all armed with muskets, approached the ambassador,
pressed his hand, and then disappeared. Immediately
the usual charging, firing, and yelling began.
They seemed frantic. They fired between the legs
of our mules, over our heads, and close to our
shoulders. Seen from a distance they must have
looked like a band of assassins assailing us. There
were formidable old men, with long white beards,
all skin and bone, but looking as if they might live
for centuries; and young men with long locks of
black hair flying like manes. Many had their
chests, arms, and legs bare, turbans in tatters, and
red rags twisted round the head; <lang=ar><i>caics</i></lang> torn, saddles
broken, bridles made of cord, old sabres and poniards
of strange forms. And such faces! “It is
absurd,” said the commandant, “to suppose that
these people will be capable of the self-sacrifice of
not killing us.” Every one of those faces told a
story of blood. They looked at us, as they passed,
out of the corner of their eyes, as if to hide the expression
of their glance. One hundred came on the
right, one hundred on the left, one hundred behind
us, stretched out in open order. This guard on the
flank was new to us; but we were not long in perceiving
.pn +1
its necessity. As we advanced, the tents
became more frequent in the open country, so that
we finally passed through real villages surrounded
by cactus and aloe hedges. From all these tents
came Arabs running, dressed in a single garment or
shirt, in groups, on foot, on horseback, on the
cruppers of donkeys—two, and sometimes three on
the same animal; women with children hung to
their shoulders, old men supported by boys, all
breathless, wild to see us, and perhaps not to see us
only. Gradually a veritable people had gathered
about us. Then the soldiers of the escort began to
disperse them. They darted among them at a
gallop, here and there and everywhere, yelling,
striking, overturning beast and rider, and raising a
tempest of cries and curses. But the scattered
groups formed again, and continued to accompany
us at a run. Through the smoke and powder,
broken by the lightning of the shots, we saw over
those vast fields, in the distance, tents, horses,
camels, droves of cattle, groups of aloes, columns of
smoke, crowds of people turned toward us, motionless,
in an attitude of amazement. We had at last
reached an inhabited land! It did exist then, and
was not a fable, this blessed population of Morocco!
After an hour’s rapid riding we were again in the
solitude of the country, with no one save our escort,
and soon came to our camp, which was pitched
upon the bank of the Sebù a thick chain of sentinels,
on foot and armed with muskets, being extended
.pn +1
all around the encampment. The country
then was really dangerous! If I had been able to
doubt it, I should have been more than persuaded
by what I afterward heard.

The Beni-Hassi are the most turbulent, the most
audacious, the most quarrelsome, and the most
thievish tribe in all the valley of the Sebù. Their
last performance was a sanguinary revolt which
broke out in the summer of 1873 (when the reigning
Sultan came to the throne), which began with the
sack of the governor’s house, and the carrying off
of his women. Theft is their principal profession.
They gather together in bands, armed and mounted,
and make raids beyond the Sebù, or in other neighboring
lands, stealing all that they can drag or carry
off, and killing, by way of precaution, all persons
whom they encounter. They have their chiefs,
their statutes, discipline, and rights recognized, in a
certain sense, even by the government, which sometimes
makes use of them to get back stolen property.
They rob in the way of forced imposts. The
people who are despoiled by them, instead of losing
their time in seeking their property, protect what is
left to them by paying a certain stipulated sum to
the chief of the robbers. As for the boys especially,
it is admitted as a most natural thing that they
should all steal. If they get a ball in the back, or a
skull fractured by a stone, so much the worse for
them; no one will be robbed if he can help it; and
there is no rose without its thorn. Their fathers say
.pn +1
ingenuously—a boy of eight years old makes little,
one of twelve much more, one of sixteen a great
deal. Every thief has his own peculiar branch of
the profession: there is the corn thief, the cattle
thief, the horse thief, the merchandise thief, the thief
of the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> (or Arab encampment), the street thief.
In the streets they assault particularly the Jews, who
are forbidden to carry arms. But the commonest
kind of larceny is that at the expense of the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>.
In this they are incomparable artists, not only
among the Beni-Hassan, but all over Morocco. In
stealing on horseback the great art consists in the
lightning-like rapidity with which they act; they
pass, seize, and disappear before any one can recognize
them. They rob also on foot, and in a masterly
manner. They creep into the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> naked, because
dogs will not bark at a naked man; they soap themselves
all over so as to be able to slip out of the
hands of any one who might seize them; and carry
a branch in their arms, so that horses, taking them
for bushes, may not be frightened. Horses are the
most coveted prey. They seize them round the
neck, stretch their legs under the belly, and away
like an arrow. Their audacity is incredible. There
is no encampment of a caravan, be it that of a pasha
or ambassador, where they will not penetrate in
spite of the strictest watch. They glide upon the
ground like snakes, covered with grass, with straw,
with leaves, dressed in sheepskin, disguised as
beggars, as madmen, as saints, as soldiers. They
.pn +1
will risk their lives for a chicken, and go ten miles
for a dollar. They will even steal a bag of money
from under the head of a sleeping man. And that
very night, in spite of the chain of sentinels, they
stole a sheep that was tied to the cook’s bed, who,
when he discovered his loss the next morning,
stood half an hour motionless, with folded arms,
before the door of his tent, his eyes fixed upon the
horizon, exclaiming ever and anon: “Ah! holy
Madonna! what a country!—what a country!—what
a country!”

I have spoken of the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>: Morocco cannot be
understood without a description of them, and with
what I saw, and what Signor Morteo, who has lived
twenty years among them, told me, I can venture
to describe them.

The <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> is in general made up of ten, fifteen, or
twenty families, who are related to each other, and
each family has a tent. The tents are disposed in
two parallel rows, distant from each other about
thirty paces, forming thus a sort of square open at
both ends. The tents are almost all of equal size,
and consist of one great piece of black or chocolate-brown
stuff, woven of the fibre of the dwarf palm,
and of camels’ and goats’ hair which is sustained
by two poles or thick canes upholding a cross-piece
of wood. Their shape is still that of the habitations
of Jugurtha’s Numidians, which Sallust compares to
a boat with its keel in the air. In the winter and
autumn the cloth is stretched to the ground and
.pn +1
securely fastened by cords and pegs, so that wind
and water cannot enter. In summer, a large aperture
is left all round for the circulation of air, protected
by a little hedge of reeds, canes, and dried
brambles. By these means the tents are cooler in
summer, and better closed against the rain and
wind than even the Moorish houses in the cities,
which have neither doors nor windows. The
greatest height of a tent is two metres and a half,
the greatest length ten metres; those that exceed
these measurements belong to some opulent sheik,
and are rare. A reed partition divides the tent into
two parts, in one of which the father and mother
sleep, while the other is occupied by the children
and the rest of the family.

One or two straw mats; a gaily painted and
arabesqued wooden chest for clothes; a little round
mirror from Trieste or Venice; a high tripod made
of cane, which is covered with a <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>, under which
they wash themselves; two large stones for grinding
grain; a weavers loom, such as was in use in
Abraham’s time; a rusty tin lamp, a few earthen
jars, a goat-skin or two, a plate or two, a distaff, a
saddle, a musket, a poniard, comprise the furniture
of such a tent. In a corner there is generally a hen
with her brood of chickens; in front of the tent
door, an oven composed of two bricks; on one side
a little kitchen garden beyond, two or three round
pits lined with stones and cement, in which they
keep their corn.
.pn +1

In almost all the great <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang> there is a tent appropriated
to the school-master, who receives from
the community five francs a month and his food.
All the little boys are sent to him to recite a hundred
thousand times the same verses from the
Koran, and to write them, when they know them
by heart, upon a wooden tablet. The greater part
of them leave school before they know how to read,
to go and work for their parents, forgetting in a
short time the little they have learned. The few
who have the will and power to study, continue
until twenty years of age, after which they go to
some city to complete their studies, and become
<lang=ar><i>taleb</i></lang>, which signifies notary or scrivener, and is
equivalent to being a priest, because among the
Mahometans the civil and religious law is identical.
Life in the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> is of the utmost simplicity. Everybody
rises at dawn; they say their prayers, feed the
cows, make the butter, and drink the buttermilk
that remains. For drinking vessels they make use
of shells and <i>patelle</i> which they buy from the people
of the coast. Then the men go to labor in the
fields and do not return until evening. The women
fetch wood and water, grind the corn, weave the
coarse stuffs of their own and their husbands’ dress,
twist cords for the tents out of the fibre of the dwarf
palm, send food to their husbands, and prepare the
<lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang> for the evening meal. The <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang> is a
mixture of beans, squash, onions, and other green
stuff; sometimes it is sweetened, peppered, and
.pn +1
flavored with the juice of meat; on feast days it is
eaten with meat. When the men come home there
is supper, and in general bed at sundown. Sometimes
after supper an old man will tell a story in the
midst of a circle of listeners. During the night the
<lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> remains immersed in silence and darkness;
here and there a family will keep a small lamp burning
before the tent to serve as a guide to wandering
travelers. The dress of the men and women
consists of a cotton shirt, a mantle, and a coarse
<lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>. The mantles and <lang=ar><i>caics</i></lang> are only washed two
or three times a year, on the occasion of solemn
festivals, and in consequence they are generally of
the same color as the wearer’s skin and often
blacker. The cleanliness of the body is better cared
for, since without the ablutions prescribed by the
Koran, no one can pray. The women for the most
part wash all over every morning, hiding themselves
under the tripod covered by a <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang>. But working
as they do, and sleeping as they sleep, they are
always dirty more or less, even although, for a
wonder, they make use of soap. In their leisure
hours many play at cards, and when not playing,
one great amusement of the men is to lie on the
ground and play with their children; for whom,
however, they care less when they get older. Many
of these children of the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> arrive at the age of ten
or fourteen years without ever having seen a house,
and it is curious to hear an account of their behavior
when taken into the service of Moors or Europeans
.pn +1
in the cities; how they feel the walls, stamp
on the floors, and with what intense emotion they
look out of a window, or run down a staircase.
The principal event in these wandering villages is a
marriage. The parents and friends of the bride,
with a great noise of firing of muskets and shouting,
bring her seated on a camel to the husband’s <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>.
She is wrapped in a white or blue mantle, perfumed,
with her nails tinted with henna and her eyebrows
blackened with burnt cork, and is generally fattened
for the occasion by the use of an herb called <i>ebba</i>,
much in vogue among young girls. The husband’s
<lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> meantime has invited the neighboring <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang>
to the festival, and from a hundred to two hundred
men, mounted and armed, respond to the invitation.
The bride dismounts from her camel before the door
of her husband’s tent, and seated on a seat decorated
with flowers and fringes, looks on at the festival;
whilst the men go through the <i>powder play</i>, the
women and girls, disposed in a circle before her,
dance to the music of a fife and drum, around a
cloth spread upon the ground, into which every
guest in passing throws a coin for the newly married
pair, and a sort of crier announces the amount of
the offering in a loud voice, with good wishes for
the donor. Toward evening, the dancing and firing
over, every one sits down on the ground, and great
dishes of <lang=ar><i>cûscûssù</i></lang>, roast chickens, sheep on the spit,
tea, sweetmeats, and fruits are carried round; the
supper being prolonged up to midnight. The next
.pn +1
day, the bride, dressed in white, with a red scarf
bound over her mouth and a hood upon her head,
goes, accompanied by her friends and relations, to
the neighboring <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang> to collect more money. This
done, the husband goes back to his labor, the wife
to hers, and love takes to flight. When any one
dies, the dances are repeated. The relations nearest
to the defunct record his virtues; the rest, crowd
about him, dance with gestures and attitudes of
grief, cover themselves with dust, tear their hair,
and scratch their faces. After which they wash the
corpse, wrap it in a piece of new cloth, carry it on a
bier to the cemetery, and bury it, lying on the right
side, with its face turned to the east. These are
their customs and usages, as one may say, patent to
all the world; but who knows their more private
doings? Who can follow the clue by which life in
a <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> is ordered? Who can say how first love
speaks, how slander is disseminated, in what strange
forms, by what strange accidents, adultery, jealousy,
envy are produced; what virtues shine, what sacrifices
are consummated, what abominable and perverted
passions are rife under the shadow of those
tents? Who can trace the origin of their monstrous
superstitions? Who can clear up the odd
mingling of Pagan and Christian traditions in their
religious rites; the sign of the cross made on the
skin, the vague belief in satyrs where forked elm
trees are found, the image carried in triumph at the
budding of the grain, the name of Mary invoked for
.pn +1
the help of women in childbirth, the circular dances
resembling those of the worshippers of the sun?
One thing only is certain and manifest: their poverty.
They live on the scant produce of ill-cultivated
ground, borne down by heavy and often
changing taxes, collected by the sheik or head of
the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>, elected by themselves, but directly under
the orders of the governor of the province. They
pay the governor, in money or produce, the tenth
part of the harvest, and one franc a head for cattle.
One hundred francs a year is paid for every tract of
land corresponding to the labor of a yoke of oxen.
The Sultan, at the principal festivals of the year,
exacts a “present” equivalent to five francs per
tent. They pay money or furnish provisions at the
order of the governors whenever the Sultan, or a
pasha, or an ambassador, or a body of soldiers
passes by.

Besides this, any one who has money is exposed
to the extortions of the governor, veiled or excused
by no pretext whatever, but practised with insolence
and violence. To be esteemed rich is a misfortune.
Whoever has a small sum laid by, buries it, spends
in secret, feigns poverty and hunger. No one
accepts a blackened coin in payment, even when he
knows it to be good, because it may look as if it had
been buried in the ground, and cause the suspicion
of hidden treasure. When a rich man dies, the
heirs, in order to avoid ruin, offer a present to the
governor. Presents are offered to secure justice, to
.pn +1
prevent persecution, to avoid being reduced to die
of hunger. And when at last hunger has them by
the throat and despair blinds them, they strike their
tents, seize their muskets, and raise the signal of revolt.
What happens then? The Sultan unchains
three thousand mounted fiends and sows death
throughout the rebellious district. His soldiers cut
off heads, lift cattle, carry off women, burn grain
fields, reduce the land to a desert and strew it with
ashes slaked in blood, and then return to announce
the extinction of the rebellion. If the rebellion extends,
and the armies and arts of the government
are vain, what advantage do the rebels gain beyond
a few short days of warlike liberty, bought by thousands
of lives? They can elect another Sultan, and
provoke a dynastic war between province and province,
behind which lurks a worse despotism than
before; and so it goes on from century to century.

On the morning of the tenth the caravan resumed
its march, escorted by the three hundred of Beni-Hassan
and their chief Abd-Allah—<i>servant of God</i>.

All that morning we travelled over a plain covered
with fields of barley, wheat, and buck-wheat, interspersed
with large tracts of wild fennel and flowers,
and dotted with groups of trees and black tents,
which last resembled in the distance those heaps of
charcoal that are seen on the Tuscan <i>maremma</i>. We
met more cattle, horses, camels, and Arabs than on
the preceding days. Far away in front extended a
mountain chain of a most delicate gray tint, and in
.pn +1
the middle distance glimmered two white <i>cube</i>—the
first illuminated by the sun, the second hardly visible.
They were the tombs of the saints Sidi-Ghedar and
Sidi-Hassem, between which lie the confines of the
land of Beni-Hassan. Our camp was to be pitched
near the latter.

Some time, however, before arriving at that point,
Governor Sidi-Abd-Allah, who from the moment of
our departure had seemed anxious and thoughtful,
drew near to the ambassador, and signified his wish
to speak. Mohammed Ducali came up quickly.
“The ambassador from Italy will pardon me,” said
the haughty chief, “if I venture to ask permission
to turn back with my men.”

The ambassador demanded why.

“Because,” answered Sidi-Abd-Allah, contracting
his black brows, “my own house is not secure.”

Is that all? thought we. Only two miles away
too! What an agreeable existence must be that of
a governor of Beni-Hassan!

The ambassador consented; the chief took his
hand, and pressed it to his breast with an energetic
expression of gratitude. This done, he turned his
horse, and in a few minutes the many-colored, ragged,
and terrible crew was nothing but a cloud of
dust upon the horizon.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap08
CHAPTER VIII. | SIDI-HASSEM.
.sp 2

The province we were about to enter was a
kind of colony divided into farms among a
large number of soldiers’ families, in each of which
military service is obligatory for all the sons; thus,
every boy is born a soldier, serves, as he can, from
his very infancy, and receives a fixed pay before he
is able to handle a musket. These military families
are also exempt from taxes, and their property is inalienable
as long as male descendants exist. They
thus constitute a regular militia, disciplined and
faithful, by means of which the government can <i>devour</i>,
according to the popular expression, any rebellious
province, without fear that the tool will fly off
the handle. They may be called a militia of collectors
of revenue, paying the government more
than they cost, for in Morocco the army is a servant
of the finances, and the principal tool of the administrative
machine is the sword.

We had scarcely passed the boundaries of Beni-Hassan
when we saw in the distance a troop of
horsemen galloping toward us, preceded by a great
.pn +1
banner. Contrary to custom, they were spread out
in two long lines, one behind the other, with their
officers in front.

At about twenty paces off they stopped abruptly.
Their commandant, a big old man with a white
beard, a benevolent aspect, and a lofty turban, came
forward and took the Ambassadors hand, saying,
“You are welcome! you are welcome!” And then
to us, “Welcome! welcome! welcome!”

We resumed our march. The new horsemen,
were very different from the Beni-Hassan. They
had clean garments and shining arms; almost all
wore yellow boots embroidered with red; their
sabres had handles of rhinoceros hide, their mantles
were blue, their caftans white, with green girdles.
Many of them were old—those petrified old men
for whom eternity seems to have begun; some
were very young—two in particular not more than
ten years old, handsome and full of life, looking at
us with a smiling air, as though they were thinking,
“Come, you are not such scarecrows as we had expected
to see.” There was one black old man of
such tall stature that if he had taken his feet out of
the stirrups they would have touched the ground.
One of the officers wore stockings.

In about half an hour we met another company
with a red banner, commanded by an old <lang=ar><i>caid</i></lang>, who
joined themselves to the first; and from time to time
other groups of four, eight, fifteen horsemen, each
with its banner, who came to swell our escort.
.pn +1
When all had arrived, the usual firing and charging
went on.

It was evident that they were regular soldiers;
they manœuvred with more regularity and order
than any we had seen. They had a new play. One
would dart forward at full speed, another behind
him, <lang=fr><i>ventre à terre</i></lang>. Suddenly the first would rise in
his stirrups, turn and fire right into the chest of his
pursuer, who at the same instant discharged his
musket into the first one’s side; so that had they
been firing with ball both would have fallen dead at
the same moment. The horse of one who was flying
in full career fell, and threw his rider to such a
distance that we thought he must be killed. But in
a moment he was up and in the saddle, and rushing
about with more fury than ever. Each one had his
cry. “Take care!—take care! Bear witness all!
It is I! Here comes death! Place for the barber!”
(he was the soldiers’ barber). And one shouted, to
the manifest amusement of his companions, “<i>Alla
mia depinta!</i>” The interpreters explained that he
meant, “To my lady, who is as beautiful as a picture,”
odd enough for one of a people who have portraiture
in horror, and who cannot even have a clear
idea of it. The two little lads fired and shouted together,
“Place for the brothers!” pointing their
muskets downward, and bending to the saddle-bow.

In this manner we arrived near the <i>cuba</i> of Sidi-Hassem,
where our camp was to be pitched.

Poor Hamed Ben-Kasen Buhammei! Until now
.pn +1
I have but glanced at him; but remembering how I
saw him that morning, he, general of the armies of
the Scherif, helping to plant the supports of the
Ambassador’s tent, I feel the need of expressing my
admiration and gratitude toward him. What a good
fellow of a general! From the moment of our departure
he had not bastinadoed soldier or servant;
had never shown ill temper; always the first to rise,
and the last to go to bed; never had allowed to
transpire, even to the most prying eye, that his stipend
of forty francs a month might seem a trifle
scanty; had not a particle of self-conceit; helped us
to mount, saw that our saddles were secure, gave a
passing blow with his stick to our restive mules; was
always ready for every thing and everybody; rested,
crouched like a humble mule-driver near our tents;
smiled when we smiled; offered us <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang>; sprang
to his feet at a sign from the Ambassador, like a
puppet on wires; prayed, like a good Mussulman,
five times a day; counted the eggs of the <i>muna</i>,
presided at the killing of sheep, looked over the artists’
sketch-books without blenching; was, in short,
<i>the</i> man of all others whom his Imperial Majesty should
have chosen for that mission among all the crew of
barefooted generals. Hamed Ben-Kasen often related
with pride that his father had been a general in
the war with Spain, and sometimes spoke of his sons
who were with their mother at Mechinez, his native
city. “It is three months,” he would say, with a
sigh, “since I have seen them.”
.pn +1

That day, after having witnessed the presentation
of the <i>muna</i>, when there was a monstrous dish of
<lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang> that took five men to carry it, we took
refuge, as usual, in our tents, to endure, also as
usual, the forty degrees centigrade which lasted from
noon until four o’clock, during which time the camp
was immersed in profound silence. At four life woke
again. The artists took their brushes, the doctor
received the sick, one went to bathe, another to fire
at a mark, another to hunt, another to walk, another
to visit a friend in his tent, to see the escort charge,
to visit the cook in his struggle with Africa, to go to
the nearest <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>, and thus, every one at dinner-time
had something to tell, and conversation burst forth
like a firework.

At sunset I went with the commandant to see the
escort at their usual exercises, in a vast field near
the camp. There we found about a hundred Arabs
sitting in a row along the edge of a ditch looking
on. As soon as they discovered us they rose and
came in groups to follow us. We pretended not to
see them. For a few minutes not one of them
spoke; then one said something that set the others
laughing. Then another, and a third spoke, and
everybody laughed as before. They were evidently
laughing at us, and we were not long in discovering
that their laughter corresponded with our movements
and the inflections of our voices. It was the
most natural thing in the world; to them we were
ridiculous. We were curious to know what they
.pn +1
were saying, and as one of the interpreters was passing,
made a secret sign for him to come and translate,
which he did.

Presently one made an observation which was received
with a burst of laughter. “He says,” said
Morteo, “that he does not know what the skirts of
your coats are for, unless to hide your tails.” Again,
“He says that the parting up the back of your head
is the road where certain insects make the <i>lab-el-baroda</i>.”
A third speech, and a third shout of laughter.
“He says that these Christians are strange
creatures; that in their ambition to seem tall they
put vases on their heads and two props under their
heels.”

At this point a dog from the camp came and lay
down at our feet. There was a remark and a loud
yell of laughter. “This is rather too much!” said
Morteo; “he says that a dog has come to lie down
with the other dogs. I will teach them——” As
he spoke, he turned abruptly to the Arabs and said
something in a tone of menace. It was like a flash
of lightning. In one instant they had all vanished.

Poor fellows, let us be just! they were not so far
wrong after all! Ten times a day, while they skirmished
about us on their superb horses, we remarked
to each other: “Yes, we are civilized, we are the
representatives of a great nation, we have more
science in our heads, we ten men, than exists in the
whole empire of the Scherifs; but planted on our
mules, dressed in these clothes, with these hats, in
.pn +1
these colors, among them, goodness knows, we are
hideous!” And it was true. The least among those
ragged figures on horseback was more noble, more
dignified, handsomer, more worthy of a lady’s glance,
than all the dandies of Europe in a bunch.

At table that evening there was another curious
little scene. The two oldest of the caids of the
escort came in and sat down, one on each side of
the Ambassador. He asked them whether they had
ever heard of Italy. Both together, eagerly making
the sign of “no” with the hand, replied, in the tone
of those who wish to dissipate a suspicion, “Never!
never!” The Ambassador, with the patience of a
master, gave them some geographical and political
information respecting our mysterious country.
They listened with wide-open eyes and gaping
mouths, like children.

“And how many people live in your country?”
one asked.

“Twenty-five millions,” answered the Ambassador.

They gave a sign of astonishment. “And Morocco,”
asked the other, “how many millions has
it?”

“Four,” replied the Ambassador, feeling his
ground.

“Only four!” they exclaimed ingenuously, looking
at each other. Evidently these two brave generals
knew no more about Morocco than they did
about Italy; and perhaps as little about their own
province in Morocco.
.pn +1

Signor Morteo showed them a photograph of his
wife, saying, “Allow me to present my wife.”

They looked and looked at it with much complacency,
and then asked in one voice, “And the
others?” Either they did not know, or had forgotten,
that we unhappy Christians are limited to one.

That night there was no possibility of sleep. The
hens clucked, the dogs barked, the sheep bleated,
the horses neighed, the sentinels sang, the water-sellers
tinkled their bells, the soldiers quarrelled over
the <i>muna</i>, the servants tumbled over the tent cords;
the camp was like a market-place. But we had only
four more days to travel, and—a magic word of consolation—Fez!

.if h
.il fn=i174.png w=70% id=i174 alt='The Camel Conveyance.'
.ca The Camel Conveyance.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: The Camel Conveyance.]
.if-

.pn 175
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap09
CHAPTER IX. | ZEGUTA.
.sp 2

We started for Zeguta at an early hour in the
morning, cheered by the thought that that
day we should see the mountains of Fez. A light
autumnal breeze was blowing, and a slight mist veiled
the prospect. A throng of Arabs muffled in their
mantles looked on as we left the camp; the soldiers
of the escort kept together in a compact body; the
children of the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> watched us with sleepy eyes
over the hedges and from the tents. But soon the
sun shone out, the horsemen scattered, the air resounded
with shots and yells, every thing became
full of color, light, and animation, and immediately,
as happens in that country, to the chill of autumn
succeeded the ardent heat of summer.

Among my notes of that morning I find one which
says, laconically, “Locusts.” I remember to have
noticed a distant field which appeared to be moving,
and perceived that the appearance was produced by
a vast number of green grasshoppers which were
advancing toward us in great jumps. Selim, who
was riding at my side, gave me an admirably picturesque
.pn +1
description of the invasion of these formidable
insects, and I remember it word for word;
but I cannot render the effect of his gesture, voice,
and look, which were more expressive than his
words. “It is a terrible thing, sir! They come
from there (pointing toward the south). A black
cloud. You can hear the noise from afar off. They
advance and advance, and they have their Sultan,
the Sultan Jeraad, who guides them. They cover
roads and fields, houses, <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang>, and woods. The
cloud grows and grows, and comes and comes
and comes, and eats and eats and eats, passes
rivers, passes walls, passes fires; destroys grass,
flowers, leaves, fruit, grain, bark of trees, and
goes and goes. Nothing stays it, neither the tribe
with fire, nor the Sultan with all his army, nor all
the people of Morocco gathered together. Heaps
of locusts dead; forward the living locusts! Ten
die, a hundred are born! A hundred die, a thousand
are born! Roads covered, gardens covered,
sea-shore covered; all green, all in motion, alive,
dead, smell, plague, famine, the 'curse of heaven!’”
So indeed it is. The horrid smell that emanates
from myriads of dead locusts sometimes produces
contagious fevers, and, to cite one example, the terrible
pestilence that depopulated in 1799 the cities
and country of Barbary broke out after one of their
invasions. When the advanced guard of their devastating
army appears, the Arabs go to meet it in
squads of four or five hundred with sticks and fire;
.pn +1
but they succeed only in turning it a little from its
road, and it often happens that one tribe turning it
aside toward the territory of another, war against
the locusts is suddenly turned into civil war. The
only force that can liberate the country from this
scourge is a favorable wind which drives them into the
sea, where they are drowned, and are thrown afterward
in heaps upon the coast; and the only comfort
the inhabitants can take when the favorable wind is
wanting, is to eat their enemies, which they do, before
they have deposited their eggs, boiled, and seasoned
with salt, pepper, and vinegar. They have
the flavor of shrimps, and as many as four hundred
can be eaten in a day.

At about two miles from the camp we rejoined a
part of the caravan that was carrying to Fez the
presents from Victor Emanuel.[#] There were camels
in pairs, one behind the other, with two long poles
suspended from the crupper, on which the cases
were carried. Some Arabs on foot, and mounted
soldiers, accompanied them. At the head of the
caravan was a cart drawn by two bullocks; the first
cart we saw in Morocco! It was made at Laracce
on purpose, after the pattern, I believe, of the first
vehicle that ever appeared on the earth—a heavy
deformed body, upon two wheels all of one piece,
without spokes; the strangest and most ridiculous
affair that can be imagined. But to the natives, the
most of whom had never seen a cart, it was a wonder.
.pn +1
They came from all sides to see it, pointed it
out to one another, followed and preceded it, and
talked about it with excited gestures. Meantime
our mules, unused to such an object, gave signs of
surprise, and planting themselves on their four legs
refused to pass it. Selim himself regarded it with
complacency, as if he said to himself, “It was made
in our country.” And he was excusable, since in
all Morocco there exist about as many carts as pianofortes,
which latter, if I may believe the assertion of
the French Consul, are about a dozen; and also it
seems that there is in that country a national antipathy
against every kind of vehicle. The authorities
of Tangiers, for example, prohibited Prince
Frederic of Hesse Darmstadt, who was in that city
in 1839, from going out in a carriage. The Prince
wrote to the Sultan, offering to pave the principal
street at his own expense, if he would permit what
the authorities denied him. “I permit it,” answered
the Sultan, “and willingly; but on one condition,
that the carriage shall be without wheels; because,
being protector of the faithful, I cannot expose my
subjects to be crushed by a Christian.” And the
prince, in order to make the thing ridiculous, availed
himself of the permission with the conditions, and
there are still at Tangiers persons who remember
having seen him going about the city in a carriage
without wheels, suspended between two mules.

.fn #
The then king of Italy. Died in 1878.
.fn-

We arrived at last at those blessed hills which we
had been looking forward to for three days with impatient
.pn +1
longing. After a long climb we entered a
narrow gorge, called in Arabic Ben-Tinca, where
we were obliged to pass one by one, and came out
upon a beautiful flowery valley, quite solitary, where
the escort scattered gaily, filling the air with songs
and cries of joy.

At the bottom of the valley we met another escort
from the territory of the military colonies, which
took the place of the former one.

They were about one hundred horsemen, some
very old and some very young, black, and hairy;
some were mounted on stupendous horses, caparisoned
with great pomp. The caid, Abu-Ben-Gileli,
was a robust old man, of severe aspect and reserved
manners.

At a certain moment the Ambassador and the
captain, accompanied by Hamed Ben-Kasen and a
few soldiers, left the caravan to ascend a mountain
called Selfat, a few miles distant; the rest of us continued
on the regular route.

A short time after their departure there came
toward us an Arab boy of sixteen or eighteen years
of age, and almost naked, driving before him with a
stick two unwilling oxen.

The caid, Abu-Ben-Gileli, stopped his horse, and
called him. We learned afterward that this boy was
to attach his oxen to the cart that we had seen, and
was several hours behind his time.

The poor lad, all trembling, presented himself before
the caid. The latter asked some questions, to
.pn +1
which the boy replied, stammering, and pale as a
corpse.

Then the caid turned toward the soldiers, and
said, coldly, “Fifty <i>bastonate</i>.”

Three robust men sprang from their horses. The
poor young fellow, without a word, without even
lifting his eyes to the face of his judge, threw himself
face downward on the ground, according to the
custom, with arms and legs stretched out.

It all happened in a moment. The stick was yet
in the air, when the Commandant and others had
sprung forward, and declared that the brutal punishment
could not be permitted. The caid bowed his
head. The lad rose from the ground, pale and convulsed,
looking with an expression of astonishment
and terror from his preservers to the caid.

“Go,” said the interpreter; “you are free!”

“Oh!” he cried, with an indescribable accent,
and vanished. We resumed our march. I have
seen a man killed, but never have I experienced so
profound a feeling of horror as that which assailed
me at the sight of that half-naked boy stretched on
the ground to receive his fifty blows with a stick.
And after the horror, my blood rushed to my face
with indignation against the caid, the Sultan, Morocco,
and barbarism. But it is true that second
thoughts are best. After a moment, I thought—and
we, how many years is it since we abolished
the stick? How many since it was in use in Austria,
in Prussia, and in others of the European
.pn +1
States? This reflection calmed my anger, and left
me only a sentiment of bitterness. If any one wants
to know in what fashion the bastinado is carried on
in Morocco, it is enough to say that sometimes, the
operation over, the victim is carried to the cemetery.

From thence to Zeguta the caravan passed from
hill to hill, from valley to valley, through fields of
grain and barley, and verdant plains surrounded by
aloes, cactus, wild olive, dwarf oaks, arbutus, myrtle,
and other flowering shrubs. We saw no living
soul nor any tents. The country was solitary, silent,
and all overgrown, like an enchanted garden.
Coming to a rising ground we saw the blue summits
of the mountains of Fez suddenly appearing, as if
they had thrust up their heads to look at us; and at
the hottest time in the day we reached Zeguta.

It proved to be one of the most beautiful of the
places we had yet seen. The tents were pitched on
the slope of a hill in a large rocky cavity, in the form
of an amphitheatre, around the sides of which the
accidents of the ground and the passage of men
and animals had formed something resembling rows
of seats or steps, which at that time were swarming
with Arabs seated in a semicircle as if looking on
at a spectacle. In front a broad valley of shell-like
form opened with all its lovely variety of color, according
to the cultivation, in squares of green, yellow,
red, violet, and white, like a great chess-board
made of silk and velvet. With the glass could be
.pn +1
seen, on the more distant hills, here a string of tents,
there a white <i>cuba</i> among the aloe plants; beyond,
a camel, a crouching Arab, cattle, a group of women—a
life so still and scattered that it threw into relief
the profound peacefulness of the scene better than
complete solitude could have done. And over all
this beauty was spread a white and burning sky that
dazzled the eyes and obliged one to stand with drooping
head.

But I remember the encampment at Zeguta less
for its beauty than for an experiment we made there
with the famous <i>kif</i>.

Kif, for those who do not know it, is the leaf of a
kind of hemp, called <i>hashish</i>, known all over the
East for its intoxicating quality. It is much in use
in Morocco, and it may be said that all those Moors
and Arabs who are met in the streets of the cities,
dragging themselves about, and looking with a dull,
stupefied expression, like men who have just had a
blow on the head, are victims of this deleterious
drug. The greater part of them smoke it, mixed
with a little tobacco, in small clay pipes; others eat
it in the form of a sweetmeat called <i>madjun</i>, made
of butter, honey, nutmeg, and cloves. The effects
of it are most curious. Doctor Miguerez, who had
tried it, often told me about it, saying, among other
things, that he had been seized with a fit of irresistible
laughter, and that he imagined himself to be lifted
from the ground, so that passing under a lofty archway,
he had stooped his head for fear of striking it.
.pn +1
Stimulated by curiosity, I had more than once asked
him to give me a dose of <i>madjun</i>—a little, not
enough to make me lose my wits, but enough to let
me experience at least one or two of the wonders
that he related. The good doctor at first excused
himself, declaring that it was better to try it at Fez;
but he yielded at last to my entreaties, and the experiment
was made at Zeguta, where, much against
his will, he finally presented me with the wished-for
morsel on a small plate. We were at table, and, if I
am not mistaken, the two artists shared it with me,
but I do not remember how it affected them. It was
a soft paste of a violet color, and smelt like pomatum.
For about half an hour, from the soup to the
fruit, I felt nothing, and chaffed the doctor for his
timidity. But he only said, “Wait a bit!” and
smiled. Presently I was conscious of a feeling of
great hilarity, and knew that I was talking very
quickly. Then I laughed at every thing that others
said, or that I said myself; every word seemed to
me the purest wit and humor; I laughed at the servants,
at my companions, at the figures on the plates,
at the forms of the bottles, at the color of the cheese
I was eating. Suddenly I was aware that my wits
were wandering, and I tried to fix my thoughts upon
something serious. I thought of the boy who was
to have been bastinadoed in the morning. Poor
boy! I was moved with compassion. I should have
liked to take him to Italy, educate him, give him a
career. I loved him like a son. And the caid,
.pn +1
too, Abu-Ben-Gileli, poor old man! I loved the
caid like a father. And the soldiers of the escort!—all
good fellows, ready to defend me, to risk their
lives for me. I loved them like brothers. I loved
the Algerines also, and why not? I thought; are
they not of the same race?—and what a race! We
are all brothers; we ought to love each other; and
I threw my arms round the neck of the doctor, who
was laughing. From this delight I suddenly fell
into a deep and vague melancholy. I remembered
the persons whom I had offended, the pain I had
inflicted on those who loved me, and was oppressed
by poignant remorse and regret; I seemed to hear
voices in my ears speaking in tones of loving reproach;
I repented, I asked pardon, I furtively
wiped away big tears that were in my eyes. Then
there rose in my mind a crowd of strange and contrasted
images that vanished as quickly as they
came; forgotten friends of my childhood, words of
a dialect unused for twenty years, faces of women,
my old regiment, William the Silent, Paris, my publisher
Barbera, a beaver hat that I had when I was
a boy, the Acropolis at Athens, the bill of an innkeeper
at Seville, and a thousand other absurdities.
I remember confusedly the amused looks of my
companions at table. From time to time I closed
my eyes, and opened them again, unconscious of
the passage of time, and ignorant whether I had
slept or not. My thoughts sparkled and went out
like fire-flies, intricate and inextricable. At one moment
.pn +1
I saw Ussi with his face lengthened like a reflection
in a convex mirror; the vice-consul, with
his visage a foot in breadth; all the others attenuated,
swollen, contorted, like fantastic caricatures,
making the most impossible grimaces; and I laughed,
and wagged my head, and dreamed, and thought
that they were all crazy, that we were in another
world, that what I saw was not true, that I was ill,
that I could not understand what had happened, that
I did not know where I was. Then all was darkness
and silence. When I came to myself I was in
my tent, stretched on the bed, and the doctor, standing
beside me with a candle in his hand, was saying,
with a smile, “It is over; but let it be the last, as it
was the first.”

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap10
CHAPTER X. | FROM ZEGUTA TO SAGAT.
.sp 2

Whilst I was running here and there in
search of my mule—which, I do not know
how or why, was at last found among the baggage—the
members of the embassy departed. I still
had time to come up with them, but in leaving the
camp and going down a rocky path, my mule stumbled,
the saddle slipped, and literature, as represented
in my person, was precipitated to the ground.
It took half an hour to set matters straight again, and
meantime, adieu to the embassy! I had to make
the journey alone, followed afar off by a limping servitor,
who could hardly arrive in time, in case of an
assault, to see me breathe my last breath. May the
will of Allah be done! The country is deserted,
and the sky cloudy. From time to time I can see,
on the summit of distant heights, a gay cavalcade,
among which I recognize the Ambassador’s white
horse, and Selim’s red caftan; and then I do not
feel so much alone; but the cavalcade vanishes, and
solitude once more oppresses my heart. In an
hour’s time I rejoin the rear-guard of twelve horsemen,
.pn +1
led by old Abu-Ben-Gileli, the caid, who gives
me a terrible glance that I feel all down my spine.
I smile with humility and pass on. Coming out of
the lovely valley on which our encampment looked,
I enter another spacious valley, flanked by steep
hills clothed with aloe and olive, forming two great
green walls to the right and left of a broad straight
road, closed at the end by a curtain of blue mountains.
I meet a few Arabs, who stop and look
amazed at seeing me without an escort. Will they
attack me, or no? One goes to a tree, and hastily
tearing off a branch, runs toward me with it. It has
come! I stop my mule and grasp my pistol. He
laughs, and hands me the branch, explaining that it
is to beat my lazy mule with. At that moment two
soldiers of the escort come galloping to meet me;
my hour is not yet come. The two soldiers place
themselves one on either side, and drive forward my
quadruped with blows from the butts of their muskets,
saying: <i>Embasceador! Embasceador!</i> The
Ambassador has sent them back to see what has
become of me. They deserve a reward. I stop
and offer them a small bottle of wine which I take
from my pocket. They say neither yes nor no, but
look smiling at each other, and then sign to me that
they have never drunk wine. “Try it,” I say with
a gesture. One takes the bottle, pours a few
drops in the palm of his hand, licks it up, and
remains thoughtful for a moment. The other
does the same. Then they laugh, look at each
.pn +1
other, and make signs that it is good. “Drink,
then.” One empties half the bottle at a gulp; the
other finishes it; then they each place a hand on
their stomach, and turn up their eyes to heaven.
We resume our road. We meet Arabs, men,
women, and children, who all look at me with surprise.
One of them says something, which is answered
by the soldiers with an emphatic negative.
He said, “Here is a Christian who has been robbing
the Ambassador.”

We saw some white villages on the top of the
rising ground that bordered the valley; <i>cube</i>, palms,
fruit-trees, flowering oleanders, and rose gardens
were visible; the country was brilliantly green, and
began to show here and there traces of division into
farms. At last we entered a narrow, rocky gorge,
and issuing thence found ourselves at the camp. We
are upon the banks of the Miches, an affluent of
the Sebù, near a little bridge built of masonry, and
in a semicircle of rocky hills. The gray sky, like a
leaden roof, sends down a pale dull light; the thermometer
marks forty degrees centigrade; we are
constrained to remain seven hours motionless in our
tents. The air is heavy and burning. No sound is
heard but the grasshopper’s chirp and Ducali’s
guitar. A profound ennui broods over the entire
encampment. But toward evening there is a change.
A light shower refreshes the air; a shaft of rays,
darting like a stream of electric light through the
opening of the gorge, gilds one half the camp;
.pn +1
couriers arrive from Tangiers and Fez, and Arabs
from the villages. Two thirds of the caravan are
in the river; and the dinner is enlivened by the apparition
of a new personage, come from the great
city of the Scherifs; the Moor Schellah, another
of the protégés of the Legation who has a suit
pending with the Sultan’s government; the most
voluminous turban, the most rotund visage, the most
comfortable and unctuous of fat Moors that we have
seen between this and Tangiers. The next morning
at dawn we resumed our march without other escort
than the forty soldiers commanded by Hamed Ben-Kasen.
A revolt had broken out in the confines of
Algiers, and all the cavalry in Fez had been sent
against the rebels. “We shall see many heads
hanging over the gates of Fez,” said Ducali. After
two hours’ journey among the broom-clad hills, we
came out upon the vast table-land of Fez, encircled
by mountains and hills, golden with grain, sprinkled
with large <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>, watered by the river of the Azure
Fountain, which empties into the Miches, and by
the Pearl river, affluent of the Sebù, which divides
into two parts the sacred city of the empire. Flocks
of cranes, wild geese, doves, pheasants, and heron,
flew over it, and the luxuriant vegetation, full of
smiling peace and light, made it like one vast garden.
We encamped on the bank of the Azure
Fountain river. The day flew by with lightning
speed, what with visiting, hunting, the <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>, Jews
coming from Fez to relate the great preparations
.pn +1
that were being made, and messengers from the
court bringing the Sultan’s salutations. Arabs
came, fording the river in families, first the camel,
then the men, then the women with their children
on their backs, then the boys and girls, then the
dogs swimming. Caravans passed, crowds of curious
lookers-on appeared; the sunset was exquisite,
and the night more luminous than our eyes had ever
beheld. In the morning at daybreak we were again
on the march. We re-entered the hilly region,
turned to descend into the plain, and threaded a
winding road between two banks that hid the horizon.

A sonorous voice cried out “Behold Fez!”
Everybody stopped. Straight before us, at a few
miles’ distance, at the foot of the mountains, lay a
forest of towers, minarets, and palms, veiled by a
light mist. A joyful shout of “Here we are!”
broke from every lip, in Italian, in Spanish, in
French, Arabic, Genoese, Sicilian, and Neapolitan;
and to the first brief silence of astonishment succeeded
a buzz of conversation. We encamped for
the last time at the foot of Mount Tagat on the
shore of the Pearl river, at about one hour and a
half from Fez.

Here throughout the day there was a coming and
going and a bustle that made it seem like the general
head-quarters of an army in time of war. Messengers
from the Sultan, from the prime minister,
from the grand chamberlain, from the governor,
.pn +1
officers, major-domos, merchants, relatives of the
Moors of the caravan, all well-dressed people, neat,
ceremonious, surrounded by the air of a court and
a metropolis, speaking with grave voices and dignified
gesture, and telling of the formidable army, the
immense crowd, the delicious palace that awaited
us. Our entrance into Fez was fixed for eight
o’clock the next morning. At daydawn we were all
afoot. There was great use of razors, brushes,
combs, and curry-combs, and an excitement of spirits
that made up for all the tedium of the journey.
The Ambassador put on his gilded cap; Hamed
Ben-Kasen his dress sabre, Selim his red caftan,
Civo a green handkerchief on his head, a sign of
high solemnity; the servants came out in white
mantles; the soldiers’ arms shone in the sun; the
Italians put on the best they had in their trunks.
We were about a hundred in all, and it may be affirmed
that Italy never had an embassy more oddly
composed, more gorgeous in color, more joyously
impatient, or more eagerly expected than this one.
The weather is splendid, the horses prance, robes
float out in the morning breeze, every face is animated,
every eye is fixed upon the Ambassador,
who counts the minutes on his watch. It is eight
o’clock—a sign—every one is in the saddle—and we
advance with hearts beating high in expectation.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap11
CHAPTER XI. | FEZ.
.sp 2

We had not advanced half a mile toward the
city when we were surrounded by a throng
of Moors and Arabs come from Fez and from the
country round, on foot and on horseback, on mules
and on donkeys, two and two like the ancient Numidians,
so eager to see us that the soldiers of our
escort are obliged to make use of the butt end of
their muskets to keep them from pressing upon us.
The ground being low, the city, whose castellated
walls we had seen from the camp, remains for some
time hidden. Then all at once it reappears, and between
us and the walls we can see an immense
white and crimson mass, like a myriad of lilies and
roses trembling in the breeze. The city vanishes
again, and again appears, but much nearer this
time; and between us and it, the people, the army,
the court, and a pomp and splendor and oddity that
are beyond my powers of description.

A company of officers on horseback came galloping
to meet us, and dividing in the middle, pass to
the rear and join themselves to our escort. Behind
.pn +1
them comes a troop of horsemen splendidly attired
and mounted on superb horses, preceded by a Moor
of tall stature, with a white turban and a rose-colored
caftan. He is the grand chamberlain, Hadji
Mohammed Ben-Aissa, accompanied by his suite,
who, having welcomed the Ambassador in the Sultan’s
name, joins the escort.

We advance between two rows of infantry soldiers,
who with difficulty keep back the crowd.
What soldiers they are! There are old men and
mature men, and boys of fifteen, twelve, and even
nine years of age, dressed in scarlet, with bare legs
and yellow slippers, ranged along in single file without
regard to height, with their captains in front.
Each one presents in his own fashion his rusty musket
and his crooked bayonet. Some stand with one
foot foremost, some with legs apart, some with their
heads on their shoulders, some with their chins on
their breasts. Some have put their red jackets on
their heads to shelter them from the sun. Here
and there is a tambourine, a trumpet, five or six
banners, one beside the other—red, yellow, green,
orange,—carried as crosses are carried in a procession.
There seems to be no division into squadrons
or companies. They look like paper soldiers stuck
up in a row by boys. There are blacks, mulattoes,
whites, and faces of an indefinable color; men of
gigantic stature beside boys who are scarcely old
enough to hold a gun; bent old men with long
white beards, leaning on their neighbors; savage
.pn +1
faces, making the effect, in that uniform, of dressed-up
monkeys. They all look at us with open eyes
and mouth, and their line stretches farther than we
can see.

A second troop of horsemen advances on the
left. It is the old governor, Gilali Ben-Amù, followed
by eighteen chiefs of inferior degree and by
the flower of the aristocracy of Fez, all dressed in
white from head to foot, like a company of priests—austere
visages, black beards, silken caics, gilded
housings. Saluting us, they circle round, and join
our cortege.

We go forward, still between two lines of soldiers,
behind whom presses a white and hooded crowd
who devour us with their eyes. They are always
the same soldiers, for the most part boys, wearing
the fez, with red jackets and bare legs. They have
blue, white, or green drawers. Some are in their
shirt sleeves; some hold their muskets on their
shoulder, some rest them on the ground; some
press forward, some hang back. The officers are
dressed according to their fancy—zouaves, Turcos,
Greeks, Albanians, Turks—with arabesque embroidery
of gold and silver, with scimitars, swords,
curved poniards, horse pistols. Some wear the
boots of a groom, and some yellow boots without
heels; some are all in crimson, some all in white;
some in green, and looking like masquerade devils.
Here and there among them may be seen a European face,
looking at us sadly and with sympathy.
.pn +1
As many as ten banners are ranged in a row together.
The trumpets sound as we pass. A
woman’s arm protrudes itself between the soldiers’
heads, and threatens us with clenched fist. The
walls of the city seem to recede before us, and the
two lines of soldiers to extend interminably.

Another troop of cavaliers, more splendid than
the first, comes to meet us. It is the aged Minister
of War, Sid-Abd-Alla Ben-Hamed, black, mounted
on a white horse with sky-blue trappings; and with
him are the military governors of provinces, the
commandant of the garrison, and a numerous staff
of officers crowned with snowy turbans, and wearing
caftans of every known color.

It is now more than half an hour that we have
been proceeding between the two lines of soldiers,
and some one has counted more than four thousand.
On one side is drawn out the cavalry; on the other
a nameless and heterogeneous mass of men and
boys, dressed in divers uniforms, or rather fragments
of uniforms, some with arms and some without,
cloaked and uncloaked, with uncovered heads, or
heads bound with a shapeless rag, shirtless for the
most part; faces from the desert, from the coast,
from the mountains; shaven heads, and heads ornamented
with long braids; giants and dwarfs—people
gathered from heaven knows where, to
make a show and inspire terror. And behind them
on the rising ground that borders the way, an innumerable
throng of veiled women, screaming and
.pn +1
gesticulating, in wonder, anger, or pleasure, and
holding up their children to see us.

We approach the walls at a point where there is
a venerable gate crowned with battlements. A band
bursts into music, and at the same moment all the
drums and trumpets rend the air with a mighty
crash. Then our ranks are broken up, and there is
a general rush and confusion of magistrates, courtiers,
ministers, generals, officials, and slaves; our
escort is scattered, our servants dispersed, and we
ourselves divided from each other. There is a torrent
of turbans and horses rolling and twisting about
us with irresistible impetus; a confusion of colors, a
phantasmagoria of faces, a noise of harsh voices, a
grandeur and savagery that at once delight and bewilder.
Passing in at the gate, we expect to see
the houses of the city, but are still between castellated
walls and towers; to the left is a tomb, or
<i>cuba</i>, with a green dome shaded by two palms; people
about the cuba, upon the walls, everywhere.
We pass another gate, and find ourselves at last in
a street with houses on each side.

My memory here becomes confused, for I had as
much as I could do to save my neck, going as we
were over great stones, in the midst of a crowd of
plunging horses; it would have been all up with any
one who had fallen. We passed, I remember,
through some deserted streets bordered by tall
houses, suffocated by dust, and deafened by the
noise of the horses’ hoofs; and in about half an hour,
.pn +1
after threading a labyrinth of steep and narrow
alleys, where we were obliged to go in single file, we
reached a little door, where some scarlet soldiers
presented arms, and we entered our own house. It
was a delicious sensation.

The house was a princely mansion in the purely
Moorish style, with a small garden shaded by parallel
rows of orange and lemon trees. From the garden
you entered the interior court by a low door,
and thence into a corridor large enough only for one
person to pass. Around the court were twelve
white pilasters, joined by as many arches of a horse-shoe
form, which supported an arched gallery furnished
with a wooden balustrade. The pavement
of the court, gallery, and chambers was one splendid
mosaic of little squares of enamel of brilliant colors;
the arches were painted in arabesque; the balustrade
carved in delicate open work; the whole
building designed with a grace and harmony worthy
of the architects of the Alhambra. In the middle of
the court there was a fountain; and another one,
with three jets of water, was in a carved and ornamented
niche in the wall. A large Moorish lantern
depended from every arch. One wing of the edifice
extended along one side of the garden, and had a
graceful façade of three arches, painted in arabesque,
in front of which a third fountain sparkled. There
were other little courts, and corridors, and chambers,
and the innumerable recesses of an Oriental house.
Some iron beds, without sheets or coverlets, a few
.pn +1
clocks, one mirror in the court, two chairs and a
table for the Ambassador, and half a dozen basins and
jugs, completed the furniture of the house. In the
principal rooms the walls were hung with gold-embroidered
carpets, and some white mattresses lay on
the floors, and, except in the Ambassador’s room,
there was neither chair, nor table, nor wardrobe.
We had to send to the camp for some furniture.
But, by way of compensation, there was everywhere
coolness, shade, the gurgle of water, fragrance, and
something deliciously soft and voluptuous in the
lines of the building, in the air, in the light. The
whole edifice was encircled by a lofty wall, and surrounded
by a labyrinth of deserted alleys.

We had scarcely arrived in the court-yard when
there began a coming and going of ministers and
other high personages, each one of whom had a few
minutes’ conversation with the Ambassador. The
Minister of Finance was the one who attracted my
attention most. He was a Moor of about fifty years
of age, of a severe aspect, beardless, and dressed
all in white, with an immense turban. An interpreter
told me that he was very clever, and adduced
as proof of the same, that he one day had brought
to him one of those little arithmetical machines, and
both he and the machine had done the same sum in
the same time, and with the same results. It was
worth while to see the expression of sacred respect
with which Selim, Ali, Civo, and the rest, regarded
those personages, who, after the Sultan, represented
.pn +1
in their eyes the highest grade of science, power,
and glory which could be attained on this earth.

Those visits over, we took possession of our abode.
The two painters, the doctor, and myself occupied
the rooms looking on the garden; the rest, those
opening on the court. Interpreters, cooks, sailors,
servants, soldiers, all found their place, and in a few
hours the aspect of the house was changed.

The first to go out and visit the city were Ussi
and Biseo, the two artists; and then the commandant
and the captain. I preferred to wait until the
following morning. They went out in couples, each
encircled, like malefactors, by an infantry guard
armed with muskets and sticks. After an hour
they returned, covered with dust, and all dripping
from the heat; and their first words were, “Great
city—great crowd—immense mosques—naked saints—curses—sticks—wonderful
things!” But Ussi had
had the most interesting adventure. In one of the
most frequented streets, in spite of the soldiers, a
girl of fifteen or thereabouts had sprung upon his
shoulders like a fury, and had inflicted a vigorous
pummeling, crying out, “Accursed Christians!
There is not a corner in Morocco where they do not
push themselves!” Such was the first welcome
given to Italian art within the walls of Fez.

Late in the night I made a tour through the house.
On all the landing-places of the stairs, before the
chamber doors, in the garden, were soldiers lying
wrapped in their mantles, and sound asleep. Before
.pn +1
the little door of the court-yard, the faithful Hamed
Ben-Kasen, with his sabre by his side, snored in the
open air. The dim light of the lanterns, touching
the mosaic pavements here and there, made them
look as if set with pearls, and gave an air of mysterious
splendor to the place. The sky was thickly
set with stars, and a light breeze moved the branches
of the orange trees in the garden. The murmur of
the Pearl River could be distinctly heard; the gurgle
of the fountains, the ticking of the clocks, and
now and then the shrill voices of the sentinels answering
one another at the outer doors of the palace
with their chanted prayer.

In the morning we went out, four or five of us together,
accompanied by an interpreter, and escorted
by ten foot-soldiers, one of whom wore buttons
with the effigy of Queen Victoria—for many of
these red coats are bought at Gibraltar from soldiers
of the English army. Two of these placed themselves
in front, two behind, and three on each side
of us—the first armed with muskets, the others with
sticks and knotted cords. They were such a rascally-looking
set, that when I think of them I bless
the ship that brought me back to Europe.

The interpreter asked what we wished to see.
“All Fez” was the answer.

.if h
.il fn=i202.png w=80% id=i202 alt='Shoe Shop, Fez.'
.ca Shoe Shop, Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Shoe Shop, Fez.]
.if-

We directed our steps first toward the centre of
the city. Here I ought to exclaim, “<lang=it><i>Chi mi darà
la voce e le parole!</i></lang>”[#] How shall I express the wonder,
.pn +1
the pity, the sadness that overcame me at that
grand and dismal spectacle? The first impression
is that of an immense city fallen into decrepitude
and slowly decaying. Tall houses, which seemed
formed of houses piled one upon the other, all falling
to pieces, cracked from roof to base, propped up
on every side, with no opening save some loophole
in the shape of a cross; long stretches of street,
flanked by two high bare walls like the walls of a
fortress; streets running up hill and down, encumbered
with stones and the ruins of fallen buildings,
twisting and turning at every thirty paces; every
now and then a long covered passage, dark as a cellar,
where you have to feel your way; blind alleys,
recesses, dens full of bones, dead animals, and heaps
of putrid matter—the whole steeped in a dim and
melancholy twilight. In some places the ground is
so broken, the dust so thick, the smell so horrible,
the flies are so numerous, that we have to stop to
take breath. In half an hour we have made so many
turns that if our road could be drawn it would form
an arabesque as intricate as any in the Alhambra.
Here and there we hear the noise of a mill, a murmur
of water, the click of a weaver’s loom, a chanting
of nasal voices, which we are told come from a
school of children; but we see nothing and no one
anywhere. We approach the centre of the city;
people become more numerous; the men stop to
let us pass, and stare astonished; the women turn
back, or hide themselves; the children scream and
.pn +1
run; the larger boys growl and shake their fists at
a distance, mindful of the soldiers and their sticks.
We see fountains richly ornamented with mosaics,
arabesque doors, arched courts, some few remains
of Arab architecture in decay. Every moment we
find ourselves in darkness, entering one of the many
covered passages. We come to one of the principal
streets, about six feet wide, and full of people, who
crowd about us. The soldiers shout, and push, and
strike in vain, and at last make a sort of bulwark of
their bodies by forming a circle around us and clasping
hands, face outward. There are a thousand eyes
upon us; we can scarcely breathe in the press and
heat, and move slowly on, stopping every moment
to give passage to a Moor on horseback, or a veiled
lady on a camel, or an ass with a load of bleeding
sheep’s heads. To the right and left are crowded
bazaars; inn court-yards encumbered with merchandise;
doors of mosques, through which we catch
glimpses of arcades in perspective, and figures prostrate
in prayer. All along the street there is nothing
to be seen but silent forms in white hoods, moving
like spectres. The air is impregnated with an acute
and mingled odor of aloes, spices, incense, and kif;
we seem to be walking in an immense drug-shop.
Groups of boys go by with scarred and scabby
heads; horrible old women, perfectly bald and with
naked breasts, making their way by dint of furious
imprecations against us; naked, or almost naked, madmen,
crowned with flowers and feathers, bearing a
.pn 203
branch in their hands, laughing and singing and cutting
capers before the soldiers, who drive them away
with blows. Turning into another street, we meet
a saint, an enormously fat old fellow, as naked as he
was born, leaning upon a lance bound with strips of
red cloth. He squints at us, and mutters something
as we pass. Further on come four soldiers dragging
along some poor unfortunate, all bleeding and torn,
who has been taken in the act of thieving; and after
them come a troop of boys calling out, “Cut off his
hand! cut off his hand!” Next come two men carrying
an uncovered bier, upon which is stretched a
corpse, dry as a mummy, wrapped in a white linen
sack tied round the neck, waist, and knees. I ask
myself where I am, and whether I am awake or
asleep, and whether Fez and Paris are in the same
planet! We go into the bazaar. The crowd is
everywhere. The shops, as in Tangiers, are mere
dens opened in the wall. The money-changers are
seated on the ground, with heaps of black coin before
them. We cross, jostled by the crowd, the
cloth-bazaar, that of slippers, that of earthenware,
that of metal ornaments, which all together form a
labyrinth of alleys roofed with canes and branches
of trees. Passing through a vegetable market,
thronged with women who lift their arms and scream
curses at us, we come out into the centre of the city.
There it is the same experience as before, and we
finally get out at a gate, and take a turn outside the
walls.

.fn #
“Oh, for a voice and words!”
.fn-
.pn +1

The city stands in the form of a monstrous figure
of eight between two hills, upon which still tower
the ruins of two ancient fortifications. Beyond the
hills there is a chain of mountains. The Pearl
River divides the town in two—modern Fez on the
left bank, ancient Fez on the right—and a girdle of
old castellated walls and towers, dark and falling
into ruin, binds the whole together. From the
heights the eye takes in the whole city—a myriad
of white, flat-roofed houses, among which rise tall
minarets ornamented with mosaics, gigantic palm-trees,
tufts of verdure, green domes, and castellated
towers. The grandeur of the ancient city can be
divined from what is left, though it is but a skeleton.
Near the gates, and upon the hills for a long distance,
the country is covered with monuments and
ruins, tombs and houses of saints, arches of aqueducts,
sepulchres, <i>zanie</i>, and foundations that seem
like the remains of a city destroyed by cannon and
devoured by flames. Between the wall and the
highest of the two hills that flank the city it is all
one garden, a thick and intricate grove of mulberry-trees,
olives, palms, fruit-trees, and tall poplars,
clothed with ivy and grape-vines; little streams
run through it, fountains gush and sparkle, and
canals intersect it between high green banks. The
opposite bank is crowned with aloes twice the
height of a man. Along the walls are great fissures
and deep ditches filled with vegetation, rude remains
of bastions and broken towers,—a grand and
.pn +1
severe disorder of ruin and greenery, recalling the
more picturesque parts of the walls of Constantinople.
We passed by the Gate of Ghisa, the Iron
Gate, the Gate of the <i>Padre delle Cuoia</i>, the New Gate,
the Burned Gate, the Gate that Opens, the Gate of
Lions, the Gate of Sidi Busida, the Gate of the Father
of Utility, and re-entered new Fez by the Gate of
the Niche of Butter. Here are large gardens, vast
open spaces, large squares, surrounded by battlemented
walls, beyond which can be seen other
squares and other walls, arched gate-ways and
towers, and beautiful prospects of hills and mountains.
Some of the doors are very lofty, and are
covered with iron plates studded with large nails.
Approaching the Pearl River, we come upon the
decaying carcase of a horse, lying in the middle of
the street. Along the wall about a hundred Arabs
are washing and jumping upon the linen piled upon
the shore. We meet patrols of soldiers, personages
of the court on horseback, small caravans of camels,
groups of women from the country with their children
tied on their backs, who cover their faces at
our approach. And at last we see some faces that
smile upon us. We enter the Mella, the Hebrew
quarter,—truly a triumphal entrance. They run to
their windows and terraces, down into the street,
calling to one another. The men, with long hair
covered by a handkerchief tied under the chin like
women, bow with ceremonious smiles. The women,
comely and plump, dressed in red and green
.pn +1
garments embroidered and braided with gold, wish
us <lang=es><i>buenos dias</i></lang>, and say a thousand charming things
with their brilliant dark eyes. Some of the children
come and kiss our hands. To escape from this
ovation, and from the filth of the streets, we take a
cross street, and passing through the Jewish cemetery,
get back at last to the palace of the embassy,
tired out and with bewildered minds.

“O Fez!” says an Arabian historian, “all the
beauty of the earth is concentrated in thee!” He
adds that Fez has always been the seat of wisdom,
science, peace, and religion; the mother and the
queen of all the cities of the Magreb; that its inhabitants
have a finer and deeper intelligence than
that of the other inhabitants of Morocco; that all
that is in it and around it is blessed of God, even to
the waters of the Pearl River, which cure the stone,
soften the skin, perfume the clothes, destroy insects,
render sweeter (if drunk fasting) the pleasures of
the senses, and contain precious stones of inestimable
value. Not less poetically is related by the
Arabian writers the story of the foundation of Fez.
When the Abassidi, toward the end of the eighth
century, were divided into two factions, one of the
princes of the vanquished faction, Edris-ebn-Abdallah,
took refuge in the Magreb, a short distance
from the place where Fez now stands; and here he
lived in solitude, in prayer and meditation, until, by
reason of his illustrious origin, as well as because of
his holy life, having acquired great fame among the
.pn +1
Berbers of that region, they elected him their chief.
Gradually, by his arms, and by his high authority as
a descendant of Ali and Fatima, he extended his
sovereignty over a large extent of country, converting
by force to Islamism idolaters, Christians, and
Hebrews; and reached such a height of power that
the Caliph of the East, Haroun-el-Reschid, jealous
of his fame, caused him to be poisoned by a pretended
physician, in order to destroy with him his
growing empire. But the Berbers gave solemn
sepulture to Edris, and recognized as Caliph his
posthumous son, Edris-ebn-Edris, who ascended the
throne at twelve years of age, consolidated and extended
his father’s work, and may be said to have
been the true founder of the empire of Morocco,
which remained until the end of the tenth century
in the hands of his dynasty. It was this same Edris
who laid the foundation of Fez, on the 3d of February
of the year 808, “in a valley placed between
two high hills covered with rich groves, and irrigated
by a thousand streams, on the right bank of the
River of Pearls.”

Tradition explains in several ways the origin of
the name. In digging for the foundations, they
found in the earth a great hatchet (called in Arabic
<lang=ar><i>Fez</i></lang>), which weighed sixty pounds, and this gave its
name to the city.

Edris himself, says another legend, worked at the
foundations among his laborers, who, in gratitude,
offered him a hatchet made of gold and silver; and
.pn +1
he chose to perpetuate, in the name of the city, the
memory of their homage. According to another
account, the secretary of Edris had asked one day
of his lord what name he meant to give the city.
“The name,” answered the prince, “of the first
person we shall meet.” A man passed by, who,
being questioned, said his name was Farés; but he
stammered and pronounced it Fez. Another account
says that there was an ancient city called <i>Zef</i>,
on the Pearl River, which existed eighteen hundred
years, and was destroyed before Islam shone upon
the world; and Edris imposed upon his metropolis
the name of the old city reversed. However it
may be, the new city grew rapidly, and already at
the beginning of the tenth century rivalled Bagdad
in splendor; held within its walls the mosque of
El-Caruin and that of Edris, still existant, one the
largest and the other the most venerated in Africa;
and was called the Mecca of the West. Toward
the middle of the eleventh century Gregory IX
established there a bishopric. Under the dynasty
of the Almoadi it had thirty suburbs, eight hundred
mosques, ninety thousand houses, ten thousand
shops, eighty-six gates, vast hospitals, magnificent
baths, a great and rich library of precious manuscripts
in Greek and Latin; also schools of philosophy,
of physics, of astronomy, and languages, to
which came all the learned and lettered men of
Europe and the Levant. It was called the Athens
of Africa, and was at one time the seat of a perpetual
.pn +1
fair, into which flowed the products of three
continents; and European commerce had there its
bazaar and its inns; and there—between Moors,
Arabs, Berbers, Jews, Negroes, Turks, Christians,
and renegades—five hundred thousand people lived
and prospered. And now, what a change! Almost
all traces of gardens have vanished; the greater
part of the mosques are in ruins; of the great library,
only a few worm-eaten volumes remain; the
schools are dead; commerce languishes; its edifices
are falling into ruin; and the population is reduced
to less than a fifth of the former number. Fez is no
more than an enormous carcase of a metropolis
abandoned in the midst of the vast cemetery called
Morocco.

Our greatest desire, after our first walk about
Fez, was to visit the two famous mosques of El-Caruin
and Muley-Edris; but as Christians are not
permitted to put a foot in them, we were obliged to
content ourselves with what we could see from the
street: the Mosaic doors, the arched courts, the
long low aisles, divided by a forest of columns, and
lighted by a dim, mysterious light. It must not be
imagined, however, that these mosques are now
what they were in the time of their fame; since,
already in the fifteenth century, the celebrated historian
Abd-er-Rhaman-ebn-Kaldun, describing that
of El-Caruin (may God exalt it more and more, as
he says), speaks of various ornaments that were no
longer in existence in his time. The first foundations
.pn +1
of this enormous mosque were laid on the first
Saturday of Ramadan, in the year 859 of Jesus
Christ, at the expense of a pious woman of Kairuan.
It was at the beginning a small mosque of four
naves; but, little by little, governors, emirs, and
sultans embellished and enlarged it. Upon the
point of the minaret built by the Imaum Ahmed
ben Aby-Beker glittered a golden ball studded with
pearls and precious stones, on which was represented
the sword of Edris-ebn-Edris, the founder of
Fez. On the interior walls were suspended talismans
which protected the mosque against rats, scorpions,
and serpents, The Mirab, or niche turned
toward Mecca, was so splendid that the Imaum had
it painted white, that it might no longer distract the
faithful from their prayers. There was a pulpit of
ebony, inlaid with ivory and gems. There were
two hundred and seventy columns, forming sixteen
naves of twenty-one arches in each, fifteen great
doors of entrance for the men, and two small ones
for the women, and seventeen hundred hanging
lamps, which, in the season of Ramadan, consumed
three quintals and a half of oil. All which particulars
the historian Kaldun relates with exclamations
of wonder and delight, adding that the mosque could
contain twenty-two thousand and seven hundred
persons, and that the court alone had in its pavement
fifty-two thousand bricks. “Glory to Allah,
Lord of the world, immensely merciful, and king of
the day of the last judgment!”
.pn +1

Expecting that the Sultan would fix a day for the
solemn reception of the embassy, we took several
turns about the city, in one of which I had an entirely
new sensation. We were approaching the
Burned Gate, <i>Bab-el-Maroc</i>, to re-enter the city,
when the vice-consul made an exclamation—“Two
heads!” Lifting my eyes far enough along the
wall to see two long streams of blood, my courage
failed me to see more. But I was told that the two
heads were suspended by the hair over the gate;
one appeared to be that of a boy of not more than
fifteen, and the other a man of twenty-five or thirty;
both Moors. We learned afterward that they
were heads of rebels from the confines of Algeria,
which had been brought to Fez the day before; but
the fresh blood made it probable that they had been
cut off in the city, perhaps before that very gate.
However that may be, we were informed on this
same occasion that heads of rebels are always
brought and presented to the Sultan; after which
the imperial soldiers catch the first Jew whom they
happen to encounter, and make him take out the
brain, fill the skull with tow and salt, and hang it
over one of the city gates. It is removed from one
gate to another, and from one town to another, until
it is destroyed. It does not appear, however, that
this was done with the two heads of Bab-el-Maroc,
for a day or two after, asking an Arab servant what
had become of them, he answered with a gesture,
“Buried,” and then hastened to add, by way of consolation,
“But there are plenty more coming.”
.pn +1

Two days before the solemn reception, we were
invited to breakfast by Sid-Moussa.

Sid-Moussa has no title; he is simply called Sid-Moussa;
he was born a slave, and emancipated by
the Sultan, who can to-morrow despoil him of all
his property, cast him into prison, or hang his head
over the gate of Fez, without being called to account
for it. But he is the minister of ministers, the soul
of the government, the mind which embraces and
moves all things all over the empire, and, after the
Sultan, the most famous man in Morocco. Our
curiosity may be imagined, therefore, on the morning
when, surrounded as usual by an armed guard,
accompanied by the caid and interpreters, and followed
by a tail of people, we went to his house in
new Fez.

We were received at the door by a crowd of
Arabs and blacks, and entered a garden enclosed
by high walls, at the end of which, under a little
portico, stood Sid-Moussa, dressed all in white, and
surrounded by his officials.

The famous minister gave both hands with much
heartiness to the Ambassador, bowed smilingly to
us, and preceded us into a small room on the
ground-floor, where we sat down.

What a strange figure! A man of about sixty, a
dark mulatto, of middle height, with an immense
oblong head, two fiery eyes of a most astute expression,
a great flat nose, a monstrous mouth, two rows
of big teeth, and an immeasurable chin; yet in spite
.pn +1
of these hideous features, an affable smile, an expression
of benignity, and voice and manners of the
utmost courtesy. But there are no people more
deceptive in their aspect than the Moors. Not into
the soul, but into the brain of that man would I
have liked to peep! Certainly I should have found
no great erudition. Perhaps no more than a few
pages of the Koran, some periods of the imperial
history, some vague geographical notions of the first
States of Europe, some idea of astronomy, some
rules of arithmetic. But instead, what profound
knowledge of the human heart, what quickness of
perception, what subtlety of craft, what intricate
plottings and contrivings far from our own habits of
mind, what curious secrets of government, and who
knows what strange medley of memories of loves,
and sufferings, and intrigues, and vicissitudes! The
chamber, for a Moorish room, was sumptuously furnished,
for it contained a small sofa, a table, a mirror,
and a few chairs. The walls were hung with
red and green carpets, the ceiling painted, the pavement
in mosaic. Nothing extraordinary, however,
for the house of a rich personage like Sid-Moussa.

After an exchange of the usual compliments, we
were conducted into the dining-room, which was on
the other side of the garden.

Sid-Moussa, according to custom, did not come
with us. The dining-room was hung, like the
other, with red and green carpets. In one corner
was an armoire, with its two old bunches of artificial
.pn +1
flowers under glass shades; and near it one of
those little mirrors with a frame painted with flowers
that are found in every village inn. On the table
there were about twenty dishes containing big white
sugar-plums in the form of balls and carobs; the
silver and china very elegant; numerous bottles of
water; and not a drop of wine. We seated ourselves,
and were served at once. Twenty-eight
dishes, without counting the sweets! Twenty-eight
enormous dishes, every one of which would have
been enough for twenty people, of all forms, odors,
and flavors; monstrous pieces of mutton on the
spit, chickens (with pomatum), game (with cold
cream), fish (with cosmetics), livers, puddings, vegetables,
eggs, salads, all with the same dreadful combinations
suggestive of the barber’s shop; sweet-meats,
every mouthful of which was enough to
purge a man of any crime he had ever committed;
and with all this, large glasses of water, into which
we squeezed lemons that we had brought in our
pockets; then a cup of tea sweetened to syrup;
and finally an irruption of servants, who deluged
the table, the walls, and ourselves with rose-water.
Such was the breakfast of Sid-Moussa.

When we rose from table, there entered an official
to announce to the Ambassador that Sid-Moussa
was at prayers, and that as soon as he had
finished he would have great pleasure in conferring
with him. Immediately after there came in a tottering
old man, supported between two Moors, who
.pn +1
seized the Ambassador’s hands and pressed them
with great energy, exclaiming with emotion, “Welcome!
welcome! Welcome to the Ambassador of
the King of Italy! Welcome among us! It is a
great day for us!”

He was the grand Scherif Bacalì, one of the
most powerful personages of the court, and one of
the richest proprietors of the empire, confidant of
the Sultan, possessor of many wives, and a two
years’ invalid from dyspepsia. We were told that
he relieved the ennui of his lord with witty words
and comic action; a thing which would certainly
never have been guessed from his ferocious face
and impetuous gesture. After him appeared the two
sons of Sid-Moussa, one of whom made his obeisance
and vanished immediately; the other was an
extremely handsome young man of twenty-five,
private secretary to the Sultan: with the face of a
woman, and two large brown eyes of indescribable
softness; gay, graceful, and nervous, continually
pulling with his hand at the folds of his ample
orange-colored caftan.

Bacalì and the Ambassador having gone out, we
remained, with some officials seated on the floor,
and the Sultan’s secretary on a chair, in honor of us.

He immediately began a conversation through
Mohammed Ducali. Fixing his eyes on Ussi, he
asked who he was.

“It is Signor Ussi,” answered Ducali; “a distinguished
painter.”
.pn +1

“Does he paint with the machine?” asked the
young man. He meant the photographic instrument.

“No, Signore,” replied the interpreter; “he
paints with his hand.”

He seemed to say to himself, “What a pity!”
and remained a moment thoughtful. Then he said,
“I asked, because with the machine the work is
more precise.”

The commandant begged Ducali to ask him
whereabouts in Fez was the fountain called Ghalù,
after a robber whom Edris, the founder of the city,
had caused to be nailed to a tree near by. The
young secretary was excessively astonished that the
commandant should know this particular story, and
asked how he came to know it.

“I read it in Kaldun’s history,” answered the
commandant.

“In Kaldun’s history!” exclaimed the other.
“Have you read Kaldun? Then you understand
Arabic? And where did you find Kaldun’s
history?”

The commandant replied that the book was to be
found in all our cities; that it was perfectly well
known in Europe, and that it had been translated
into English, French, and German.

.if h
.il fn=i216.png w=80% id=i216 alt='Moor Of Fez.'
.ca Moor Of Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Moor Of Fez.]
.if-

“Really!” exclaimed the ingenuous young fellow.
“You have all read it! and you know all these
things! I never should have imagined it!”

Gradually the conversation became general, the
.pn 217
officials also joining in it, and we heard some singular
things. The English Ambassador had presented
to the Sultan two telegraphic machines, and had
taught some of the court people how to use them;
and they were used, not publicly, because the sight
of those mysterious wires in the city would cause
disturbance, but in the interior of the palace; and
words could not express the astonishment they excited.
Not, however, to the point that we might
suppose, because, from what they had first heard,
they all, including the Sultan, had conceived a much
more wonderful idea of it; for they believed that
the transmission of the thought was not effected by
means of letters and words, but at once, instantaneously,
so that a touch was sufficient to express
and transmit any speech. They recognized, however,
that the instrument was ingenious and might
be very useful in our countries where there were
many people and much traffic, and where every
thing had to be done in a hurry. All of which signified
in plain words: what should we do with a
telegraph? And to what would the policy of our
government be reduced if to the demands of the
representatives of European States we were obliged
to reply at once and in few words, and renounce
the great excuse of delays, and the eternal pretext
of lost letters, thanks to which we can protract for
two months, questions that could be answered in
two days? We learned also, or rather we were
given to understand, that the Sultan is a man of a
.pn +1
mild disposition and a kind heart, who lives austerely,
who loves one woman only, who eats without a
fork, like all his subjects, and seated on the floor,
but with the dishes placed upon a little gilded table
about a foot high; that before coming to the throne
he drilled with the soldiers, and was one of the most
active among them; that he likes to work, and
often does himself what ought to be done by his
servants, even to packing his own things when he
goes away; and that the people love him, but also
fear him, because they know that should a great
revolt break out, he would be the first to spring on
horseback and draw his sabre against the rebels.

But with what grace they told us all these things!
with what smiles and elegant gestures! What a
pity not to be able to understand their language, all
color and imagery, and read and search at will in
the ingenuous ignorance of their minds!

In about two hours’ time the Ambassador came
back, with Sid-Moussa, the grand Scherif, and the
officials; and there was such an interchange of
hand-pressings, and smiles, and bows, and salutations,
that we seemed to be engaged in some dance
of ceremony; and finally we departed between two
long rows of astonished servants. As we went out
we saw at a large grated window on the ground-floor
about ten faces of women, black, white, and
mulatto, all be-jewelled and be-diademed; who, beholding
us, instantly vanished with a great noise of
flapping slippers and trailing skirts.
.pn +1

From the first day of our journey, the Sultan,
Muley-el-Hassan, was, as may be imagined, the
principal object of our curiosity. It was, then, a festival
for us all when at last the Ambassador announced
the reception for the following morning.
I never in my life unfolded my dress-coat, or touched
the spring of my <i>gibus</i>, with more profound complacency
than on this occasion.

This great curiosity was produced, in part, by the
history of his dynasty. There was the wish to look
in the face of one of that terrible family of the
Scherifs Fileli, to whom history assigns pre-eminence
in fanaticism, ferocity, and crime, over all
the dynasties that have ever reigned in Morocco.
At the beginning of the seventeenth century some
inhabitants of Tafilet, a province of the empire on
the confines of the desert, the Scherifs of which
take the name of Fileli, brought from Mecca into
their country a Scherif named Ali, a native of
Jambo, and a descendant of Mahomet, by Hassen,
the second son of Ali and Fatima. The climate of
the province of Tafilet, a little after his arrival,
resumed a mildness that it had for some time lost;
dates grew in great abundance; the merit was
attributed to Ali; Ali was elected king under the
name of Muley-Scherif; his descendants gradually,
by their arms, extended the kingdom of their ancestor;
they took possession of Morocco and Fez,
drove out the dynasty of the Saadini Scherifs, and
have reigned up to our day over the whole country
.pn +1
comprised between the Muluia, the desert, and
the sea. Sidi-Mohammed, son of Muley-Scherif,
reigned with wise clemency; but after him the
throne was steeped in blood. El Reschid governed
by terror, usurped the office of executioner, and
lacerated with his own hands the breasts of women,
in order to force them to reveal the hiding-places of
their husbands’ treasure. Muley-Ismail, the luxurious
prince, the lover of eight thousand women,
and father of twelve hundred sons, the founder
of the famous corps of black guards, the gallant
Sultan who asked in marriage of Louis XIV the
daughter of the Duchess de la Vallière, and stuck
ten thousand heads over the battlements of Morocco
and Fez. Muley Ahmed el Dehebi, avaricious and
a debauchee, stole the jewels of his father’s women,
stupefied himself with wine, pulled out the teeth of
his own wives, and cut off the head of a slave who
had pressed the tobacco too much down into his
pipe. Muley-Abdallah, vanquished by the Berbers,
cut the throats of the inhabitants of Mechinez to
satisfy his rage, aided the executioner in decapitating
the officers of his brave but vanquished army,
and invented the horrible torture of cooking a man
alive inside a disembowelled bull, that the two
might putrify together. The best of the race appears
to have been Sidi-Mohammed, his son who
surrounded himself with renegade Christians, tried
to live at peace, and brought Morocco nearer to
Europe. Then came Muley-Yezid, a cruel and violent
.pn +1
fanatic, who, in order to pay his soldiers, gave
them leave to sack and pillage the Hebrew quarters
in all the cities of the empire; Muley-Hescham,
who, after a reign of a few days, went into sanctuary
to die; Muley-Soliman, who destroyed piracy, and
made a show of friendship to Europe, but with artful
cunning separated Morocco from all civilized
states, and caused to be brought to the foot of his
throne the heads of all renegade Jews from whom
had escaped a word of regret for their forced abjuration;
Abd-er-Raman, the conqueror of Isly, who
built up conspirators alive into the walls of Fez;
and, finally, Sidi-Mohammed, the victor of Tetuan,
who, in order to inculcate respect and devotion in
his people, sent the heads of his enemies to the
<lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang> and cities, stuck upon his soldiers’ muskets.
Nor are these the worst calamities that afflicted the
empire under the fatal dynasty of the Fileli. There
are wars with Spain, Portugal, Holland, England,
France, and the Turks of Algiers; ferocious insurrections
of Berbers, disastrous expeditions into the
Soudan, revolts of fanatical tribes, mutinies of the
black guard, persecutions of the Christians; furious
wars of succession between father and son, uncle
and nephew, brother and brother; the empire by
turns dismembered and rejoined; sultans five times
discrowned and five times reinstated; unnatural vengeance
of princes of the same blood, jealousies and
horrid crimes and monstrous suffering, and precipitate
decline into antique barbarism; and at all times
.pn +1
one principle is triumphant: that not being able to
admit European civilization unless upon the ruins
of the entire political and religious edifice of the
Prophet, ignorance is the best bulwark of the
empire, and barbarism an element necessary to its
life.

With these recollections surrounding him, the
Sultan became an object of special interest, and we
were impatient to appear before him.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the Ambassador,
the vice-consul, Signor Morteo, the commandant,
and the captain, dressed in their best uniforms,
were assembled in the court-yard, with a throng of
soldiers, among whom the caid appeared in great
pomp. We—that is to say, the two artists, the
doctor, and myself, all four appeared in dress-coats,
<i>gibus</i> hats, and white cravats—dared not issue from
our rooms in the fear that our strange costume,
perhaps never before seen in Fez, might draw upon
us the laughter of the public. “You go first.”—“No,
you.”—“No, you,”—thus for a quarter of an
hour, one trying to push the other out at the door.
Finally, after a sage observation from the doctor
that union made strength, we all came out together
in a group, with our heads down and hats pulled
over our eyes. Our appearance in the court-yard
produced amazement among the soldiers and servants
of the palace, some of whom hid themselves
behind the pillars to laugh at their ease. But it
was another thing in the city. We mounted our
.pn +1
horses, and proceeded toward the gate of the <i>Nicchia
del Burro</i>, with a company of the red division
of infantry leading the way, followed by all the
soldiers of the Legation, and flanked by officials, interpreters,
masters of ceremony, and horsemen of
the escort of Ben-Kasen-Buhammei. It was a fine
spectacle, that mingling of tall hats and white turbans,
diplomatic uniforms and red caftans, gold-mounted
swords and barbaric sabres, yellow gloves
and black hands, gilded pantaloons and bare legs;
and the figure that we four made, in evening dress,
mounted on mules, upon scarlet saddles as high as
thrones, covered with dust and perspiration, may be
left to the imagination. The streets were full of
people; at our appearance they all stopped and
formed into two lines. They looked at the plumed
hat of the Ambassador, the gold cord of the captain,
the medals of the commandant, and gave no
sign of wonder; but when we four passed by, who
were the last, there was an opening of eyes and an
exhilaration of countenance that was truly trying.
Mohammed-Ducali rode near us, and we begged
him to translate for us some of the observations
which he caught in passing. A Moor standing with
a number of others said something to which the rest
seemed to assent. Ducali laughed, and told us
they took us for executioners. Some—perhaps
because black is odious to the Moors—looked at us
almost with anger and disdain; others shook their
heads with a look of commiseration.
.pn +1

“Signori,” said the doctor, “if we do not make
ourselves respected it is our own fault. We have
arms; let us use them. I will set the example.”

Thus speaking, he took off his <i>gibus</i> hat, shut
down the spring, and passing before a group of
smiling Moors, suddenly sprung it at them. The
wonder and agitation of them at the sight cannot be
expressed. Three or four sprang backward, and
threw a glance of profound suspicion upon the diabolical
hat. The artists and I, encouraged by the
example, imitated him; and thus, by dint of our
<i>gibus</i>, we arrived, respected and feared, at the
city walls.

Outside the gate of the <i>Nicchia del Burro</i> were
ranged two rows of infantry soldiers, in great part
boys, who presented arms in their usual fashion, one
after the other, and when we had passed, put their
uniforms over their heads to shelter them from the
sun. We crossed the Pearl River by a small bridge,
and found ourselves in the place destined for the
reception, where we all dismounted.

It was a vast square, closed on three sides by
high battlemented walls with large towers. On the
fourth side ran the River of Pearls. In the corner
furthest from us opened a narrow road bordered by
white walls, which led to the gardens and houses of
the Sultan, completely concealed by bastions.

.if h
.il fn=i224.png w=80% id=i224 alt='A Saint. Fez.'
.ca A Saint. Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: A Saint. Fez.]
.if-

The square when we arrived presented an admirable
<i>coup-d’œil</i> In the middle a throng of generals,
masters of ceremonies, magistrates, nobles, officials,
.pn 225
and slaves, Arab and black, all dressed in white,
were divided into two great ranks, opposite each
other, and distant about thirty paces. Behind one
of these ranks, toward the river, were disposed in
files all the Sultan’s horses, large and beautiful creatures,
with trappings of velvet embroidered with
gold; each one held by an armed groom. At the
end of the files of horses stood a small gilded carriage,
which the Queen of England had given to the
Sultan, who always displays it at every reception.
Behind the horses, and behind the other rank of
court personages, were drawn up in interminable
lines the imperial guard, dressed in white.

All around the square, at the foot of the wall and
along the river bank, three thousand foot-soldiers
looked like four long lines of flaming red; and on the
other bank of the river was an immense crowd of
people all in white. In the middle of the place were
arranged the cases containing the presents from the
King of Italy—a portrait of the king himself,
mirrors, pictures in mosaic, candelabra, and arm-chairs.

We placed ourselves near to the two ranks of
personages, so as to form with them a square open
toward that part of the place where the Sultan was
to come. Behind us were the cases; behind the
cases, all the soldiers of the embassy. On one side
Mohammed Ducali, the commandant of the escort,
Solomon Affalo, and the sailors in uniform.

A master of ceremonies, with a very crabbed expression
.pn +1
of countenance, and armed with a knotty
stick, placed us in two rows,—in front, the commandant,
the captain, and the vice-consul; behind,
the doctor, the two painters, and myself. The
Ambassador stood five or six paces in advance of
us, with Signor Morteo, who was to interpret.

At one moment we seven advanced a few paces
unconsciously. The master of ceremonies before
mentioned made us all go back, and pointed out
with his stick the exact place where we were to remain.
This proceeding made a great impression on
us, the more that we fancied we saw the gleam of
an astute smile in his eye. At the same moment a
great buzz and murmur arose from above. We
looked up, and saw at a certain height beyond the
bastions four or five windows, closed with green
curtains, behind which a quantity of heads seemed
to be in movement. They were women’s heads—the
buzz came from them; the windows belonged
to a kind of balcony, which communicated by a
long corridor with the Sultan’s harem; and the
master of ceremonies had made us stand in that
position by express order of the Sultan himself, who
had promised his ladies that they should see the
Christians. What a pity that we were not near
enough to hear their observations upon our high
hats and our swallow-tailed coats!

.if h
.il fn=i226.png w=50% id=i226 alt='Inner Court of Our House at Fez.'
.ca Inner Court of Our House at Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Inner Court Of Our House At Fez.]
.if-

The sun was burning hot; a profound silence
reigned in the vast square; every eye was turned
toward the same point. We waited for about ten
.pn 227
minutes. Suddenly a shiver seemed to run through
the soldiers; there was a burst of music, the
trumpets sounded; the court personages bowed
profoundly; the guards, grooms, and soldiers put
one knee to the ground; and from every mouth
came one prolonged and thundering shout—“God
protect the Sultan!”

He was on horseback, followed by a throng of
courtiers on foot, one of whom held over his head an
immense parasol. At a few paces from the Ambassador
he stopped his horse, a portion of his suite
closed the square, the rest grouped themselves
about him.

The master of ceremonies with the knotty stick
shouted in a loud voice:—“The Ambassador from
Italy!”

The Ambassador, accompanied by his interpreter,
advanced with uncovered head. The Sultan said in
Arabic, “Welcome! welcome! welcome!” Then
he asked if he had had a good journey, and if he
were content with the service of the escort, and
with the reception of the governors. But of all
this we heard nothing. We were fascinated. The
Sultan, whom our imagination had represented to
us under the aspect of a cruel and savage despot,
was the handsomest and most charming young fellow
that had ever excited the fancy of an <i>odalisque</i>.
He is tall and slender, with large soft eyes, a fine
aquiline nose, and his dark visage is of a perfect
oval, encircled by a short black beard; a noble
.pn +1
face, full of sadness and gentleness. A mantle of
snowy whiteness fell from his head to his feet; his
turban was covered by a tall hood; his feet were
bare, except for yellow slippers; his horse was
large and white, with trappings of green and gold,
and golden stirrups. All this whiteness and amplitude
of his garments gave him a priestly air, which,
with a certain majestic grace and affability, corresponded
admirably with the expression of his face.
The parasol, sign of command, which a courtier held
a little inclined behind him—a great round parasol,
three metres in height, lined with blue silk embroidered
with gold, and covered on the outside
with amaranth, topped by a great golden ball, added
to the dignity of his appearance. His graceful
action, his smiling and pensive expression, his low
voice, sweet and monotonous as the murmur of a
stream; his whole person and manners had something
ingenuous and feminine, and at the same time
solemn, that inspired irresistible sympathy and profound
respect. He looked about thirty-two or
thirty-three years of age.

“I am rejoiced,” he said, “that the King of Italy
has sent an Ambassador to draw more tightly the
bands of our ancient friendship. The House of
Savoy has never made war on Morocco. I love
the House of Savoy, and have followed with pleasure
and admiration the events which have succeeded
each other under its auspices in Italy. In the time
of ancient Rome Italy was the most powerful
.pn +1
country in the world. Then it was divided into
seven states. My ancestors were friendly to all the
seven states. And I, now that all are reunited into
one, have concentrated upon it all the friendship
that my ancestors had for the seven.”

He spoke these words slowly, with pauses, as if
he had studied them first, and was trying to remember
them.

Among other things the Ambassador told him
that the King of Italy had sent him his portrait.

“It is a precious gift,” he replied, “and I will
have it placed in the room where I sleep, opposite
a mirror, so that it shall be the first object on which
my eyes fall when I wake; and so every morning I
shall see the image of the King of Italy reflected,
and will think of him.” A little while afterward, he
added: “I am content, and I hope that you will stay
long in Fez, and that it will be a pleasant memory
when you shall have returned to your beautiful
country.”

While he spoke he kept his eyes fixed almost
constantly upon his horse’s head. At times he
seemed about to smile; but immediately bent his
brows and resumed the gravity proper to the Imperial
countenance. He was curious—it was evident—to
see what sort of beings were these seven
ranged at ten paces from his horse; but not wishing
to look directly at us, he turned his eyes little by
little, and then with one rapid glance took in the
whole seven together, and at that moment there
.pn +1
was in his eye a certain indefinable expression of
childish amusement, that made a pleasant contrast
with the majesty of his person. The numerous
suite that were gathered behind and about him appeared
to be petrified. All eyes were fixed upon
him; not a breath could be heard, and nothing was
seen but immovable faces and attitudes of profound
veneration. Two Moors with trembling
hands drove away the flies from his feet; another
from time to time passed his hand over the skirt of
his white mantle as if to purify it from contact with
the air; a fourth, with an action of sacred respect,
caressed the crupper of the horse; the one who
held the parasol stood with downcast eyes, motionless
as a statue, almost as if he were confused and
bewildered by the solemnity of his office. All
things about him expressed his enormous power,—the
immense distance that separated him from
everybody, a measureless submission, a fanatic devotion,
a savage, passionate affection that seemed to
offer its blood for proof. He seemed not a monarch,
but a god.

The Ambassador presented his credentials, and
then introduced the commandant, the captain, and
the vice-consul, who advanced one after the other,
and stood for a moment bowing low. The Sultan
looked with particular attention at the commandant’s
decorations.

“The physician”—then said the Ambassador,
pointing us out—“and three <lang=it><i>scienzati</i></lang>” (men of
science).
.pn +1

My eyes encountered the eyes of the god, and
all the periods, already conceived, of this description
confounded themselves in my mind.

The Sultan asked with curiosity which was the
physician. “He to the right,” answered the interpreter.

He looked attentively at the doctor. Then accompanying
his words with a graceful wave of his
right hand, he said, “Peace be with you! Peace
be with you! Peace be with you!” and turned his
horse.

The band burst out, the trumpets sounded, the
courtiers bent to the ground, guards, soldiers, and
servants knelt on one knee, and once more the loud
and prolonged shout arose:—“God protect our
Sultan!”

The Sultan gone, the two ranks of high personages
met and mingled, and there came toward us
Sid-Moussa, with his sons, his officers, the Minister
of War, the Minister of Finance, the Grand Scherif
Bacali, the Grand Master of Ceremonies, all the
great ones of the court, smiling, talking, and waving
their hands in sign of festivity. A little later, Sid-Moussa
having invited the Ambassador to rest in a
garden of the Sultan’s, we mounted, crossed the
square to the mysterious little road, and entered the
august precincts of the Imperial residence.

Alleys bordered by high walls, small squares,
courts, ruined houses and houses in course of construction,
arched doors, corridors, little gardens,
.pn +1
little mosques, a labyrinth to make one lose one’s
way, and everywhere busy workmen, lines of servants,
armed sentinels, and some faces of slave women
behind the grated windows or at the openings
in the doors: this was all. Not a single handsome
edifice, nor any thing, beyond the guard, to indicate
the residence of the sovereign. We entered a vast
uncultivated garden, with shaded walks crossing
each other at right angles, and shut in by high
walls like the garden of a convent, and from thence,
after a short rest, returned home, spreading by the
way—the doctor, the painters, and myself—hilarity
with our swallow-tails and terror with our <i>gibus</i>.

All that day we talked of nothing but the Sultan.
We were all in love with him. Ussi tried a hundred
times to sketch his face, and threw away his
pencil in despair. We proclaimed him the handsomest
and the most amiable of Mohammedan
monarchs; and in order that the proclamation might
be truly a national one, we sought the suffrages of
the cook and the two sailors.

The cook, from whom all the spectacles seen between
Tangiers and Fez had never drawn any thing
but a smile of commiseration, showed himself generous
to the Sultan:—

“He is a fine man—there is no doubt about that—a
handsome man; but he ought to travel, <i>where
he can get some instruction</i>.”

This naturally meant Turin. Luigi, the sailor,
though a Neapolitan, was more laconic. Being
.pn +1
asked what he had remarked in the Sultan, he
thought a moment and answered, smiling, “I remarked
that in this country even the kings do not
wear stockings.”

The most comical of all was Ranni. “How did
the Sultan strike you?” asked the commandant.

“It struck me,” he answered, frankly and with
perfect gravity, “that he was afraid.”

“Afraid!” exclaimed the commandant. “Of
whom?”

“Of us. Did you not see how pale he grew, and
he spoke as if he had lost his breath?”

“You are crazy! Do you think that he, in the
midst of his army, and surrounded by his guard,
could be afraid of us?”

“It seemed so to me,” said Ranni, imperturbably.

The commandant looked fixedly at him, and then
took his head in both hands, like a profoundly discouraged
man.

That same evening there came to the palace,
conducted by Selim, two Moors, who, having heard
marvels of our <i>gibus</i>, desired to see them. I went
and got mine and opened it under their noses.
Both of them looked into it with great curiosity, and
appeared much astonished. They probably expected
to find some complicated mechanism of
wheels and springs, and seeing nothing were confirmed
in the belief that exists among the Moorish
vulgar, that in all Christian objects there is something
diabolical.
.pn +1

“Why, there is nothing!” they exclaimed with
one voice.

“But it is precisely in that,” I answered through
Selim, “that the wonder of these supernatural hats
appears; that they do what they do without any
wheels or springs!”

Selim laughed, suspecting the trick, and I then
tried to explain the mechanism of the thing to them;
but they seemed to understand but little.

They asked also, as they took leave, whether
Christians put such things in their hats “for amusement.”

“And you,” I said to Selim, “what is your opinion
of these contrivances?”

“My opinion is,” he answered with haughty contempt,
placing his finger on the offending hat, “that
if I had to live a hundred years in your country,
perhaps, little by little, I might adopt your manner
of dressing—your shoes, your cravats, and even the
hideous colors that please you; but that horrible
black thing—ah! God is my witness, that I would
rather die!”

At this point I begin my journal at Fez, which
embraces all the time that transpired between our
reception by the Sultan, and our departure for
Mechinez:—

<i>May 20th.</i>

To-day the chief custodian of the palace gave me
secretly the key of the terrace, warmly recommending
us to observe prudence. It appears that he had
.pn +1
received orders not to refuse the keys, but to give
them only if urgently asked for; and this because
the terraces at Fez, as in other cities of Morocco,
belong to the women, and are considered almost as
appendages of the harem. We went up to the
terrace, which is very spacious, and completely surrounded
by a wall higher than a man, having a few
loop-holes for windows. The palace being very
high, and built on a height, hundreds of white terraces
could be seen from thence, as well as the hills
which surround the city, and the distant mountains;
and below, another small garden, from the midst of
which rose a palm-tree so tall as to overtop the
building by almost one third of its own stature.
Looking through those loop-hole windows, we
seemed to see into another world. Upon the terraces
far and near were many women, the greater
part of them, judging by their dress, in easy circumstances,—ladies,
if that title can be given to Moorish
women. A few were seated upon the parapets,
some walking about, some jumping with the agility
of squirrels from one terrace to the other, hiding,
re-appearing, and throwing water in each other’s
faces, laughing merrily. There were old women
and young, little girls of eight or ten, all dressed in
the strangest garments, and of the most brilliant
colors. Most of them had their hair falling over
their shoulders, a red or green silk handkerchief
tied round the head in a band; a sort of caftan of
different colors, with wide sleeves, bound round the
.pn +1
waist with a blue or crimson sash; a velvet jacket
open at the breast; wide trousers, yellow slippers,
and large silver rings above the ankle. The slaves
and children had nothing on but a chemise. One
only of these ladies was near enough for us to see
her features. She was a woman of about thirty,
dressed in gala dress, and standing on a terrace a
cat’s jump below our own. She was looking down
into a garden, leaning her head upon her hand.
We looked at her with a glass. Heavens, what a
picture! Eyes darkened with antimony, cheeks
painted red, throat painted white, nails stained with
henna: she was a perfect painter’s palette; but
handsome, despite her thirty years, with a full face,
and almond-shaped eyes, languid, and veiled by
long black lashes; the nose a little turned up; a
small round mouth, as the Moorish poet says, like a
ring; and a sylph-like figure, whose soft and curving
lines were shown by the thin texture of her
dress. She seemed sad. Perhaps some fourth
bride of fourteen had lately entered the harem and
stolen her husband’s caresses. From time to time
she glanced at her hand, her arm, a tress of hair
that fell over her bosom, and sighed. The sound of
our voices suddenly roused her; she looked up, saw
that we were observing her, jumped over the parapet
of the terrace with the dexterity of an acrobat,
and vanished. To see better, we sent for a chair,
and drew lots which should mount it first. The lot
falling to me, I placed the chair against the wall,
.pn +1
and succeeded in raising my head and shoulders
above it. It was like the apparition of a new star in
the sky of Fez, if I may be excused the audacity of
the simile. I was seen at once from the nearer
houses, the occupants of which at once took to
flight, then turned to look, and announced the event
to those on the more distant terraces. In a few
minutes the news had spread from terrace to terrace
over half the city; curious eyes appeared
everywhere, and I found myself in a sort of pillory.
But the beauty of the spectacle held me to my post.
There were hundreds of women and children, on
the parapets, on the little towers, on the outer staircases,
all turned toward me, all in flaming colors,
from those nearer ones whose features I could discern,
to those more distant, who were mere white,
green, or vermilion points to my eye; some of the
terraces were so full that they seemed like baskets
of flowers; and everywhere there was a buzz, and
hurry, and gesticulation, as if they were all looking
on at some celestial phenomenon. Not to put the
entire city in commotion, I <i>set</i>, or rather descended
from my chair, and for a moment no one went up.
Then Biseo rose, and he also was the mark for
thousands of eyes, when, suddenly, upon a distant
terrace, all the women turned the other way, and
ran to look in the opposite direction, and, in a moment,
those on the other houses did the same. We
could not at first imagine what had happened, until
the vice-consul made a happy guess. “A great
.pn +1
event,” he said; “the commandant and the captain
are passing through the streets of Fez”; and in
fact, after a little time, we saw the red uniforms of
the escort appear upon the heights that overlook
the city, and with the glass could recognize the
commandant and captain on horseback. Another
sudden turn about of the women on some of the
terraces gave notice of the passage of another
Italian party; and in about ten minutes we beheld
upon the opposite hills the white Egyptian head-dress
of Ussi, and Morteo’s English hat. After
this the universal attention was once more turned
to us, and we stayed a moment to enjoy it; but
upon a neighboring terrace there appeared five or
six brats of slave-girls, of about thirteen or fourteen
years of age, who looked at us and giggled in such
an insolent manner, that we were constrained, in
Christian decorum, to deprive the metropolitan fair
sex of our shining presence.

.if h
.il fn=i238.png w=80% id=i238 alt='On The Terraces, Fez.'
.ca On The Terraces, Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: On The Terraces, Fez.]
.if-

Yesterday we dined with the Grand Vizier, Taib
Ben-Jamani, surnamed Boascherin, which signifies,
according to some, victor at the game of ball, and
according to others, father of twenty children;—Grand
Vizier, however, by courtesy only, his father
having filled that office under the late Sultan. The
messenger bearing the invitation was received by
the Ambassador in our presence.

“The Grand Vizier, Taib Ben-Jamani Boascherin,”
said he, with much gravity, “prays the Ambassador
of Italy and his suite to dine to-day at his house.”

.pn 239

The Ambassador expressed his thanks.

“The Grand Vizier, Taib Ben-Jamani Boascherin,”
he continued, with the same gravity, “prays the
Ambassador and his suite to bring with them their
knives and forks, and also their servants to wait on
them at table.”

We went toward evening, in dress-coats and
white cravats, mounted, and with an armed guard
as before. I do not remember in what part of the
city the house was situated, so many were the turns
and twists we made, the ups and downs, through
covered ways gloomy and sinister, holding up the
mules from slipping, and stooping our heads not to
strike them against the low damp vaults of those
interminable galleries. We dismounted in a dark
passage, and entered a square court, paved in
mosaic, and surrounded by tall white pilasters,
which upheld little arches painted green and ornamented
with arabesques in stucco—a strange
Moorish-Babylonian sort of architecture, both pleasing
and peculiar. In the middle of the court seven
jets of water shot up from as many vases of white
marble, making a noise as of a heavy rain. All
around were little half-closed doors and double
windows. At the two shorter sides two great doors
stood open, giving access to two halls. On the
threshold of one of these doors was the Grand
Vizier, standing; behind him two old Moors, relations
of his; to the right and left, two wings of
male and female slaves.
.pn +1

After the usual salutations, the Grand Vizier
seated himself upon a divan which ran along the
wall, crossed his legs, hugged to his stomach, with
both his hands, a large round cushion—his habitual
and peculiar attitude—and never moved again for
the rest of the evening.

He was a man of about forty-five years of age,
vigorous, and with regular features, but with a certain
false light shining in his eyes. He wore a
white turban and caftan. He spoke with much
vivacity, and laughed loud and long at his own
words and those of others, throwing back his head
while he did so, and keeping his mouth open long
after he had done laughing.

On the walls hung some small pictures with
inscriptions from the Koran in gold letters; in the
middle of the room there were a common wooden
table and some rustic chairs; all about lay white
mattresses, on which we threw our hats.

Sidi-Ben-Jamani began a vivacious conversation
with the Ambassador, asking if he were married,
and why he did not marry. He said that if he had
been married he might have brought his wife to
dinner; that the English Ambassador had brought
his daughter, and that she had been much diverted
by what she saw there; that all the ambassadors
ought to marry, expressly to conduct their wives to
Fez, and dine with him; together with other talk of
the same kind, all of it interspersed with loud
laughter.
.pn +1

Whilst the Grand Vizier was talking, the two
painters and I, seated in the doorway, were looking
out of the corners of our eyes at the slave women,
who, little by little, and encouraged by our air of
benign curiosity, had drawn near, unseen by the
Grand Vizier, so that they could almost touch us;
and there they stood, looking and being looked at,
with a certain complacency. There were eight of
them, fine girls of from fifteen to twenty years of
age, some mulatto, some black, with large eyes,
dilated nostrils, and full bosoms; all dressed in
white, with very broad embroidered girdles, arms
and feet bare, bracelets on their wrists, great silver
rings in their ears, thick silver anklets. It seemed
as if they would not scruple very much to have their
cheeks pinched by a Christian hand. Ussi pointed
out to Biseo the beautiful foot of one of them; she
noticed it, and began to examine her own foot with
much curiosity. All the others did the same, comparing
their own feet with hers. Ussi “fired off”
his <i>gibus</i> hat; they drew back, then smiled, and
came near again. The Grand Vizier’s voice, ordering
the table to be prepared, sent them flying.

The table was laid by our own soldiers. A servant
of the house placed upon it, in the middle,
three thick waxen torches of different colors. The
china-ware belonged to the Grand Vizier, and there
were not two plates alike; but they were big and
little, white and colored, fine and common, plenty
and to spare. The napkins also belonged to the
.pn +1
house, and consisted of sundry square pieces of cotton
cloth, of different sizes, unhemmed, and evidently
just cut off in a hurry for the occasion.

It was night when we sat down. The Grand
Vizier sat on his mattress, hugging his cushion, and
talking and laughing with his two relatives.

I will not describe the dinner, I do not wish to
recall painful memories. Enough to say that there
were thirty dishes, or rather thirty unpleasant things,
without counting the smaller annoyances of the
sweets.

At the fifteenth dish, it becoming impossible to continue
the struggle without the aid of wine, the Ambassador
begged Morteo to ask the Grand Vizier if
it would be displeasing to him to have some champagne
sent for.

Morteo whispered to Selam, and Selam repeated
the request in the ear of his Excellency. His Excellency
made a long reply in a low voice, and we
anxiously watched his face out of the corners of our
eyes. But we found small hope there.

Selam rose with a mortified air, and repeated the
answer into the ear of the intendant, who gave us
the <lang=fr><i>coup de grâce</i></lang> in the following words:

.if h
.il fn=i242.png w=100% id=i242 alt='An Interview With The Grand Vizier.'
.ca An Interview With The Grand Vizier.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: An Interview With The Grand Vizier.]
.if-

“The Grand Vizier says that there would be no
difficulty, that he would consent willingly, but that it
would be an impropriety, and the glasses would be
soiled, and perhaps the table; and that in any case
the sight, the odor, and then the novelty of the
thing”——

.pn 243

“I understand,” answered the Ambassador; “we
will say no more about it.”

Our complexions all assumed a slight shade of
green.

The dinner over, the Ambassador remained in
conversation with the Grand Vizier, and the rest of
us issued forth into the rain and darkness of the
court. In the room at the other end of it, lighted
by a torch, and seated on the ground, our caid, his
officers, and the secretaries of our host were dining.
At all the little windows in the walls, lighted from
within, women’s and children’s heads could be seen,
their dark outlines showing against the light. A
half-open door showed a splendidly illuminated hall,
where seated, lounging in a circle, and gorgeously
arrayed, were the wives and concubines of the Grand
Vizier, dimly seen through the smoke of burning
perfumes that rose from tripods at their feet. Slave-women
and servants came and went continually;
there must have been at least fifty persons moving
about, but there was no sound of voice, or step, or
rustle of garment. It was like a phantasmagoria, at
which we gazed for a long time, silent, and hidden in
the darkness.

As we were going away we saw, attached to a pillar
in the court, a thick leathern thong with knots in
it. The interpreter asked one of the men what it
was for. “To beat us with,” he answered.

We mounted and turned our faces homeward,
accompanied by a troop of the Grand Vizier’s servants
.pn +1
carrying lanterns. It was very dark and raining
heavily. The strange effect of that long cavalcade
cannot be imagined, with the lanterns, the
crowd of armed and hooded figures, the deafening
noise of the horses’ feet, the sound of savage exclamations,
in that labyrinth of narrow streets and covered
passages, in the midst of the silence of the
sleeping city. It seemed like a funeral procession
winding along under ground, or a party of soldiers
advancing through subterranean ways to surprise a
fortress. Suddenly the procession halted; there was
a sepulchral silence, broken by a voice saying angrily
in Arabic, “The road is closed!” A moment
after there was a great noise of blows. The soldiers
of the escort were trying to beat down with the butts
of their muskets one of the thousand gates that during
the night prevent circulation through the streets
of Fez. The work took some time; it thundered
and lightened, and the rain poured in torrents; the
soldiers and servants ran about with lanterns, throwing
their long shadows on the walls; the caid,
standing in his stirrups, threatened the invisible inhabitants
of the surrounding houses; and we enjoyed
the fine Rembrandt picture with infinite delight.
Finally the door came down with a great
noise, and we passed on. A little before we reached
our house, under an arched passage, six foot-soldiers
presented arms with one hand, the other holding
a lighted taper; and this was the last scene of
the fantastic drama, entitled, “A Dinner with the
.pn +1
Grand Vizier.” But, no; the last scene of all was
when we, hardly in our own court-yard, precipitated
ourselves upon sardines of Nantes, and bottles of
Bordeaux, and Ussi, lifting his glass above our heads,
exclaimed in solemn accents, “To Sidi Ben-Jamani,
Grand Vizier of Morocco, our most gracious host, I,
Stefano Ussi, with Christian forgiveness, consecrate
this cup!”

The Sultan has received the Ambassador in
private audience. The reception-hall is as big, as
bare, and as white as a prison. There are no other
ornaments but a great number of clocks of all
forms and dimensions, of which some are on the
floor, ranged along the walls, and some are huddled
together on the table in the middle of the
room. Clocks, it may be remembered, are very
great objects of admiration and amusement among
the Moors. The Sultan was seated cross-legged, in
a little alcove, upon a wooden platform about a yard
high. He wore, at his public reception, a white
mantle, with a hood over his head; his feet were
bare, his yellow slippers in a corner, and a green
cord crossed his breast, to which a poniard was
probably suspended. In this way the emperors of
Morocco have always received ambassadors. Their
throne, as Sultan Abd-er-Rhaman said, is the horse,
and their pavilion the sky. The Ambassador, having
first made known his wish to Sid-Moussa,
found before the imperial platform a modest chair,
upon which, at a sign from the Sultan, he seated
.pn +1
himself; Signor Morteo, the interpreter, remained
standing. His Majesty, Muley-el-Hassan, spoke for
a long time, without ever raising his hands from beneath
his mantle, without making a movement with
his head, without altering by a single accent the
habitual monotony of his soft, deep voice. He
spoke of the needs of his empire, of commerce, of
industry, of treaties; going into minute particulars,
with much order and method, and great simplicity
of language. He asked many questions, listening
to the answers with great attention, and concluded
by saying, with a slight expression of sadness: “It is
true; but we are constrained to proceed slowly”—strange
and admirable words on the lips of an emperor
of Morocco. Seeing that he gave no sign,
even in the intervals of silence, to break off the interview,
the Ambassador thought it his duty to rise.

“Stay yet a while,” said the Sultan, with a certain
expression of ingenuousness; “it gives me
pleasure to converse with you.” When the Ambassador
took leave, bowing for the last time on the
threshold of the door, he slightly bent his head, and
remained motionless, like an idol in his deserted
temple.

A company of Hebrew women have been here
presenting I know not what petition to the Ambassador.
No one could shelter his hands from the
shower of their kisses. They were the wives,
daughters, and relations of two rich merchants;
beautiful women, with brilliant black eyes, fair skins,
.pn +1
scarlet lips, and very small hands. The two mothers,
already old, had not a single white hair, and the
fire of youth still burned in their eyes. Their dress
was splendid and picturesque—a handkerchief of
gorgeous colors bound about the forehead; a jacket
of red cloth, trimmed with heavy gold braid; a sort
of waistcoat all of gold embroidery; a short, narrow
petticoat of green cloth, also bordered with gold;
and a sash of red or blue silk around the waist.
They looked like so many Asiatic princesses, and
their splendor of attire contrasted oddly with their
servile and obsequious manners. They all spoke
Spanish. It was not until after some minutes that
we observed that they had bare feet, and carried
their yellow slippers under their arms.

“Why do you not wear your shoes?” I asked of
one of the old women.

“What!” she said, in astonishment. “Do you
not know that we Israelites must not wear shoes
except in the Mellà, and that when we enter a
Moorish city we must go barefoot?”

Reassured by the Ambassador, they all put on
their slippers. Such is the fact. They are not absolutely
obliged to go always with bare feet; but as
they must take off their shoes in passing through
certain streets, before certain mosques, near certain
<i>cube</i>, it becomes the same thing in the end. And
this is not the only vexation to which they are subjected,
nor the most humiliating one. They cannot
bear witness before a judge, and must prostrate
.pn +1
themselves on the ground before any tribunal; they
cannot possess lands or houses outside of their own
quarter; they must not raise their hands against a
Mussulman, even in self-defence, except in the case
of being assaulted under their own roof; they can
only wear dark colors[#]; they must carry their dead
to the cemetery at a run; they must ask the Sultan’s
leave to marry; they must be within their
own quarter at sunset; they must pay the Moorish
guard who stands sentinel at the gates of the Mellà;
and they must present rich gifts to the Sultan on the
four great festivals of Islamism, and on every occasion
of birth or matrimony in the imperial family.
Their condition was still worse before the time of
Sultan Abd-er-Rhaman, who at least prevented
their blood from being shed. Even if they would,
the sultans could not much ameliorate their condition,
without exposing this unfortunate people to an
even worse fate than the horrible slavery they now
endure, so fanatical and ferocious is the hatred of
the Moors against them. Thus, Sultan Soliman
having decreed that they might wear their shoes, so
many of them were killed in open day in the streets
of Fez that they themselves petitioned the revocation
of the decree. Nevertheless, they remain in
the country, and being willing to run the risks, they
serve as intermediaries between the commerce of
Europe and that of Africa; and the government,
aware of their importance to the prosperity of the
.pn +1
state, opposes an almost insurmountable barrier to
emigration, prohibiting the departure of any Jewish
woman from Morocco. They serve, they tremble,
and grovel in the dust; but they would not give, to
acquire the dignity of men and the liberty of citizens,
the heaps of gold which they keep hidden in
their gloomy habitations.

.fn #
Apparently the women are exempt from this law.—<i>Trans.</i>
.fn-

There are about eight thousand of them living in
Fez, divided into synagogues, and directed by
rabbis who enjoy high authority.

These poor women showed us a number of large
bracelets of chased silver, some rings set with jewels,
and some gold ear-rings, which they kept hidden
in their bosoms. We asked why they concealed
them.

“<lang=es><i>Nos espantamos de los Moros.</i></lang>” “We are afraid
of the Moors,” they said, in a low voice, looking timidly
about them. They were suspicious, too, of the
soldiers of the Legation.

Among them there were several children, dressed
with the same splendor as the women. One of them
stood close to her mother, seeming more timid than
the rest. The Ambassador asked how old she was.
“Twelve years old,” the mother said.

“She will soon be married,” remarked the Ambassador.

“<i>Che!</i>” exclaimed the mother; “she is too old
to marry.”

We all thought she was joking. But she repeated,
almost astonished at our incredulity, “I
.pn +1
speak the truth; look here at this one”—and she
pointed to a smaller child. “She will be ten years
old in six months, and she has already been married
one year.”

The child held down her head. We were still
incredulous.

“What can I say?” continued the woman. “If
you will not believe my word, do me the honor to
come to my house on Saturday, so that we may receive
you worthily, and you will see the husband
and the witnesses of the marriage.”

“And how old is the husband?” I asked.

“Ten years old, Signore.”

Seeing that we still doubted, the other women all
asserted the same, adding that it was quite rare for
a girl to marry after twelve years of age; that the
greater part of them are married at ten, many at
eight, and some even at seven, to boys of about
their own age; and that, naturally, while they are
so young, they live with their parents, who continue
to treat them like children, feed, clothe, and
correct them, without the least regard to their
marital dignity; but they are always together, and
the wife is submissive to the husband.

To us all this seemed news from another world
than ours, and we listened with open mouths,
divided between a desire to laugh, pity, and anger.

A breakfast at the house of the Minister of
War.

We were received in a narrow court, enclosed by
.pn +1
four high walls, and as dark as a well. On one side
there was a door about three feet in height, on the
other a great doorway without doors, and a bare
room, with a mattress on the floor, and some sheets
of paper strung on a string and hanging on one of
the walls: the daily correspondence, I imagine, of
his Excellency.

He is called Sid-Abd-Alla Ben Hamed, is the
elder brother of Sid-Moussa, is about sixty years
old, black, small, lean, infirm on his legs, trembling
and decrepit. He speaks little, shuts his eyes often,
and smiles courteously, bowing his head, which is
almost concealed in an immense turban. Nevertheless,
his appearance and manners are agreeable.

After the exchange of a few words, we were invited
into the dining-hall. The Ambassador first,
and then all the others one by one, stooping almost
to a right angle, passed the little low door, and came
out into another court, spacious, surrounded by an
elegant arcade, and covered with splendid and various
ornaments in mosaic. It is a palace which was
presented to Sid-Abd-Alla by the Sultan. He himself
gives us this information, bowing his head and
closing his eyes with an air of religious veneration.

In one corner of the court there was a group of
officials in white turbans and robes; on the other
side a troop of servants, among whom towered a
very handsome young giant, dressed all in blue,
with a long pistol at his belt. At all the little doors
and windows in the four walls heads of women and
.pn +1
children of various shades of complexion appeared
and disappeared, and on every side was heard the
voice of infancy.

We sat down around a small table, in a little room
encumbered by two enormous beds. The Minister
placed himself next to, but a little behind, the
Ambassador, and sat there all the time of the
breakfast, vigorously rubbing his bare black foot,
which he had planted on his knee; so that the ministerial
toes appeared just above the edge of the
table, at a few inches from the commandant’s plate.
The soldiers of the Legation waited at table. Close
to it stood the young blue giant, with his hand on
his pistol.

Sid-Abd-Alla was very polite to the Ambassador.

“I like you very much,” he said, without preamble,
through the interpreter.

The Ambassador replied that he experienced the
same sentiment toward him.

“I had scarcely seen you,” continued the Minister,
“when my heart was all yours.”

The Ambassador returned the compliment.

“The heart,” concluded Sid-Abd-Alla, “cannot
be resisted; and when it commands you to love a
person, even without knowing the reason, you must
obey.”

The Ambassador gave him his hand, which be
pressed to his breast.

Eighteen dishes were served. I speak not of
them. Enough to say that I hope that my partaking
.pn +1
of them will some day be counted in my favor.
By way of variety the water was flavored with
musk, the table-cloth of many colors, and the chairs
tottering on their legs. But these little calamities,
instead of putting us into an ill humor, only excited
our comic vein, so that seldom were we so full of
mischievous frolic as on that occasion. If Sid-Abd-Alla
could only have heard us! But Sid-Abd-Alla
was entirely absorbed in the Ambassador. Signor
Morteo alarmed us for an instant by whispering to
us that the blue giant, who was from Tunis, might
possibly understand a few words of Italian. But
observing him attentively when certain jokes were
made, and seeing him always impassible as a statue,
we were reassured, and went on without minding
him. How many apt and unexpected similes did
we find, and with what clamorously comic effect,
but unfortunately not to be repeated, for those
ragoûts and sauces!

The breakfast over, we all went out into the
court, where the Minister presented to the Ambassador
one of the highest officers of the army. He
was the commander-in-chief of the artillery: a
little old man, dry, and bent like the letter <i>C</i>, with
an enormous hooked nose and two round eyes;
the face of a bird of prey; overwhelmed, rather
than covered, by an immeasurable yellow turban of
a spherical form, and dressed in a sort of Zouave
dress, all blue, with a white mantle on his shoulders.
He wore at his side a long sabre, and had a silver
.pn +1
poniard in his belt. The Ambassador inquired to
what rank in a European army his own corresponded.
He seemed embarrassed by the question.
He hesitated a moment, and then answered,
stammering, “General”; then he thought again,
and said, “No; colonel,” and was confused. He
said he was a native of Algeria. I had a suspicion
that he was a renegade. Who knows by what
strange vicissitudes he has come to be colonel in
Morocco?

The other officers, meantime, were breakfasting
in a room opening on the court, all sitting in a circle
on the floor, with the dishes in the midst. Seeing
them eat, I understood how it was that the Moors
could do without knives and forks. The neatness
and dexterity, the precision with which they pulled
chickens, mutton, game, and fish to pieces cannot
be described. With a few rapid movements of the
hands, without the least discomposure, each one
took his exact portion. They seemed to have nails
as sharp as razors. They dipped their fingers in the
saucers, made balls of the <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang>, ate salad by the
handful, and not a morsel or crumb fell from the
dish; and when they rose, we saw that their caftans
were immaculate. Every now and then a servant
carried round a basin and a towel; they gave themselves
a wash, and then all together plunged their
paws into the next dish. No one spoke, no one
raised his eyes, no one seemed to notice that we
were looking on.
.pn +1

What officers they were, whether of the staff, or
adjutants, or chiefs of division, or what, it is impossible
to know in Morocco. The army is the most
mysterious of all their mysteries. They say, for
example, that in case of a holy war, when the
Djehad law shall be proclaimed, which calls every
man under arms who is capable of bearing them,
the Sultan can raise two hundred thousand soldiers;
but if they do not know even approximately the
number of the population of the empire, on what do
they base their calculations? And the standing
army, who knows how large it is? And how can
any thing be known, not only of the numbers, but
of the regulations, if, except the chiefs, no one
knows any thing, and these latter either will not
answer, or do not tell the truth, and cannot make
themselves understood?

Sid-Abd-Alla, the most courteous of hosts, made
us write all our names in his pocket-book, and took
leave of us, pressing our hands one by one to his
heart.

At the door we were joined by the blue giant,
who, looking at us with a cunning grin, said, in
good Italian, though with a Moorish accent, “<lang=it><i>Signori,
stiano bene!</i></lang>”

Our jesting talk at table flashed on our minds,
and we were all struck dumb. Finally, “Ah, dog!”
cried Ussi. But the dog had already vanished.

Our every movement out-of-doors is a military expedition;
we must warn the caid, get together the
.pn +1
escort, send for the interpreters, order horses and
mules, and an hour at least is spent in preparation.
Consequently we stay a great part of the day within.
But the spectacle there largely rewards us for
our imprisonment. There is a continual procession
of red soldiers, black servants, messengers from the
court, city traders, sick Moors in search of the doctor,
Jewish rabbins coming to do homage to the Ambassador,
other Jews with bunches of flowers, couriers
with letters from Tangiers, porters bringing
the <i>muna</i>. In the court are some workers in mosaic,
working for Visconti Venosta; on the terrace,
masons; in the kitchens, a coming and going of
cooks; in the gardens are merchants spreading
out their stuffs, and Signor Vincent his uniforms;
the doctor is swinging in a hammock slung between
two trees; the artists are painting before the door of
their chamber; soldiers and servants are jumping
and shouting in the neighboring alleys; all the fountains
spout and trickle with a noise of heavy rain,
and hundreds of birds are warbling among the orange
and lemon-trees. The day passes between ball-playing
and Kaldun’s history; the evening with
chess, and singing directed by the commandant, first
tenor of Fez. My nights would be better passed if it
were not for the continual flitting to and fro, like so
many phantoms, of Mohammed Ducali’s black servants,
who are in a little room adjoining mine. The
doctor also sleeps in my room, and between us we
have a poor wretch of an Arab servant, who makes
.pn +1
us die with laughter. They say that he belongs to
a family who, if not rich, are in easy circumstances,
and that he joined the caravan as a servant at Tangiers,
in order to make a <i>pleasure trip</i>.  We had
hardly reached Fez, the half of his pleasure trip,
when for some trifling fault he caught a beating.
After that he did his service with furious zeal. He
understands nothing, not even gestures; and always
looks like one frightened to death; if we ask for the
chess-board, he brings a spittoon; and yesterday
when the doctor wanted bread, he brought him a
crust that he had picked up in the garden. We may
try our best to reassure him; he is afraid of us, tries
to mollify us with all sorts of strange unnecessary
services, such as changing the water in our basins
three times before we rise in the morning. Moreover,
in order to do a pleasing thing, he waits every
morning erect in the middle of the room with a cup
of coffee in his hand for the doctor or me to awake,
and the first one that gives signs of life he precipitates
himself upon, and thrusts the cup under his
nose with the fury of one who is administering an
antidote. Another delightful personage is the washerwoman,
a big woman with a veiled face, a green
petticoat, and red trousers, who comes to get our
linen, destined, alas! to be trampled by Moors. It
is superfluous to say that they iron nothing; in all
Fez there does not exist a smoothing-iron, and we
put on our linen exactly as it comes from under the
hoofs of the washermen. “Perhaps,” said some
.pn +1
one, “there might be an iron in the Mellà?” There
might be, but the difficulty is to find it. There is a
carriage, but it belongs to the Sultan. It is said
that there is also a piano-forte; it was seen to come
into the city some years ago, but it is not known
who possesses it. It is amusing also to send to buy
something in the shops. “A candle?”—“There
are none,” is the answer; “but, we will make some
presently.” “A yard of ribbon?”—“It will be
ready by to-morrow evening.” “Cigars?”—“We
have the tobacco, and will have them ready in an
hour.” The vice-consul spent several days looking
for an old Arabic book, and all the Moors he
questioned looked at each other and said: “A book?
Who has books in Fez? There were some once;
if we are not mistaken, so and so had them; but he
is dead, and we do not know who are his heirs.”
“And Arabic journals, or other journals, could we
have them?”—“One single journal, printed in
Arabic in Algiers, arrives regularly at Fez, but it is
addressed to the Sultan.”

Yet, I have an idea that we are less than two
hundred miles from Gibraltar, where probably this
evening they are giving <i>Lucia di Lammermoor</i>, and
that in eight days we could reach the <i>Loggia deì
Lanzi</i> at Florence. But in spite of this conviction
I feel a sentiment of immense remoteness. It is not
miles but things and people that divide us most from
our country. With what pleasure we tear off the
bands of our journals, and break open our letters!
.pn +1
Poor letters, that fly from the hands of the Carlists
in Spain, pass through the midst of the brigands of
the Sierra-Morena, overpass the peaks of the red
mountain, swim, clasped in the hands of a Bedouin,
the waters of the Kus, the Sebù, the Mechez, and
the River of the Azure Fountain, and bring us a loving
word in this land of reproaches and maledictions.

We pass many hours in watching the painters
work. Ussi has made a fine sketch of the great reception,
in which the figure of the Sultan is wonderfully
well done; Biseo, an excellent painter of Oriental
architecture, is copying the façade of the small
house in the garden. It is worth while, for diversion,
to hear the soldiers and shopkeepers of Fez
who come to see that picture. They come on tiptoe
behind the painter, and look over his shoulder, making
a telescope of their hand, and then they all begin
to laugh, as if they had discovered something
very odd. The great oddity is that in the drawing
the second arch of the façade is smaller than the
first, and the third smaller than the second. Devoid
as they are of any idea of perspective, they believe
that this inequality is an error, and they say that the
walls are crooked, that the house totters, that the
door is out of place, and they are much astonished,
and go away saying the artist is a donkey. Ussi is
more esteemed, since it is known that he has been
at Cairo, and that he has painted the departure of
the caravan for Mecca by the order of the Viceroy,
.pn +1
who paid him fifteen thousand scudi. They say,
however, that the Viceroy was mad to pay such a
sum for a work on which the artist had expended
perhaps about a hundred francs for colors. A merchant
asked Morteo if Ussi could paint furniture
also. But the best story is about Biseo, who goes
every morning in New Fez to paint a mosque. He
goes, of course, escorted by five or six soldiers
armed with sticks. Before he has set up his easel,
he is surrounded by about three hundred people, and
the soldiers are obliged to yell furiously and make
play with their sticks to keep enough space open for
him to see the mosque. At every stroke of the
brush, a blow with a stick; but they let themselves
be beaten, and do worse. Every little while a saint
appears with threatening gestures, and the soldiers
keep him off. There are also some progressive Moors,
who come up with friendly aspect, look, approve,
and retire with signs of encouragement. The greater
part of these progressionists, however, admire a
great deal more the structure of the easel and the
portable seat, than they do the picture. One day a
savage-looking Moor shook his fist at the painter,
and then, turning to the crowd, made a long speech
with excited voice and gestures. An interpreter
explained that he was exciting the people against
Biseo, saying that that <i>dog</i> had been sent by the
king of his country to copy the finest mosques in
Fez, so that when the Christian army came to bombard
the place, they could recognize and attack them
.pn +1
first. Yesterday (I was present), a ragged old
Moor, a good-natured old rascal, accosted him, appearing
to have a great deal to say, and, bringing
out his words with much difficulty, he exclaimed,
with emotion, “France! London! Madrid! Rome!”
We were much astonished, as may be supposed, and
asked him if he knew how to speak French, Italian,
or Spanish. He made signs that he could. “Speak,
then,” I said. He scratched his forehead, sighed,
stamped his foot, and again exclaimed “France!
London! Madrid! Rome!” and pointed toward the
horizon. He wanted to tell us that he had seen
those countries, and perhaps that once he knew how
to make himself understood in our tongues; but he
had forgotten them all. We put other questions to
him, but could draw nothing from him but those four
names. And he went away repeating “Madrid!
Rome! France! London!” as long as we could see
him, and saluting us affectionately with his hand.

“We find all sorts of people here,” said Biseo,
provoked; “even originals who wish us well and
like us, but not a single dog that will let me paint
him.”

It is true that up to this moment the utmost efforts
of the artists in that direction had failed. Even our
faithful Selam refused.

“Are you afraid of the devil?” demanded Ussi.

“No,” he answered, with solemnity; “I am
afraid of God.”

We have been up on the top of Mount Zalag—the
.pn +1
commandant, Ussi, and I—guided by Captain de
Boccard, a charming young fellow, equally admirable
for the activity of his body, the strength of his soul,
and the acumen of his intelligence. We were accompanied
by an officer of the escort, three foot-soldiers,
three cavalry soldiers, and three servants.
At the foot of the mountain, which is about an hour
and a half from the northeast of the city, we stopped
to breakfast: after which the captain stuck an apple
on a stick, put a <i>scudo</i> on the apple, and made
the soldiers and servants fire at it with his revolver.
The prize was tempting—they all fired with much
care; but as it was the first time they had ever had
a revolver in their hands, everybody missed, and
the <i>scudo</i> was given to the officer to be divided between
them. It was laughable to see the attitudes
they took when taking aim. One threw his head
back, one bent forward, one put his chin quite over
the trigger, and one stood on guard as if fencing
with a sabre. Accustomed as they were to terrible
attitudes not one knew how to adapt himself to the
quiet, easy position which the captain tried to teach
them. A soldier came to ask if we would give
something to a country-woman who had brought us
some milk. We said, Yes, on condition that the
woman came herself to get it. She came. She was
a black, deformed creature, about thirty years of age,
covered with rags, and in every way repulsive. She
came toward us slowly, covering her face with one
hand; and when about five paces from us, turned
.pn +1
her back and extended the other hand. The commandant
was disgusted. “Be easy,” he called out;
“I am not in love. I shall not lose my head; I can
still control myself. Good gracious, what frightful
modesty!”

We put some money in her hand; she picked up
her milk-jug, ran off toward her hut, and at the
door smashed the profaned vessel against a stone.

We began the ascent on foot, accompanied by a
part of the escort. The mountain is about one
thousand feet above the level of the sea—steep,
rocky, and without paths. In a few minutes the
captain disappeared among the rocks; but for the
commandant, Ussi, and I, it was one of the twelve
labors of Hercules. We had each an Arab at our
side, who told us where to place our feet; and at
some points we were obliged to climb like cats,
clinging to bushes and grass, slipping on the rocks,
stumbling, and seizing the arms of our guides as
drowning men seize a saving plank. Here and
there we see a goat, seemingly suspended above our
heads, so steep is the ascent; and the stones scarcely
touched roll to the very bottom of the mountain.
With God’s help, in an hour’s time we are on the
top of the mountain, exhausted, but with whole
bones. What a lovely view! At the bottom, the
city, a little white spot in the form of an eight, surrounded
by black walls, cemeteries, gardens, <i>cube</i>,
towers, and all the verdant shell that holds them;
on the left, a long, shining line, the Sebù; to the
.pn +1
right the great plain of Fez, streaked with silver by
the Pearl River and the River of the Azure Fountain;
to the south, the blue peaks of the great Atlas chain;
to the north, the mountains of the Rif; to the east,
the vast undulating plain where is the fortress of
Teza, which closes the pass between the basin of the
Sebù and that of the Mulaia; below us, great waves
of ground yellow with grain and barley, marked
by innumerable paths and long files of gigantic
aloes; a grandeur of lines, a magnificence of verdure,
a limpidity of sky, a silence and peace that
steeped the soul in paradise. Who would guess that
in that terrestrial paradise dwelt and dosed a decrepit
people, chained on a heap of ruins. The
mountain that, seen from the city, appeared a cone,
has an elongated form, and is rocky on the top. The
captain mounted to the highest point; we three,
more careful of our lives, scattered ourselves about
among the rocks below, and went out of sight of
each other. I had made but a few steps, when at
the entrance of a little gorge I met an Arab. I
stopped; he stopped also, and looked much amazed
at my appearance and my being alone. He was a
man of about fifty, of a truculent aspect, and armed
with a big stick. For a moment I suspected that he
might attack me and take my purse; but to my
great astonishment, instead of assailing me, he
saluted me, smiled, and taking hold of his own beard
with one hand, pointed to mine with the other, and
said something, repeating it two or three times. It
.pn +1
sounded like a question, to which he desired an answer.
Moved by curiosity, I called for the officer of
the guard, who knew a little Spanish, and begged
him to tell me what the man wanted. Who would
ever have guessed it? He wanted to pay me a compliment,
and had asked me <i>ex abrupto</i> why I did not
let my beard grow, when it would be more beautiful
than his own!

The soldiers of the escort were following us all
three at about twenty paces’ distance, and as we
frequently called to each other in a loud voice, and
it was the first time that they had heard our names,
they found them strange, laughing and repeating
them with their Moorish accent in the oddest way:
“<i>Isi! Amigi!</i>” At a certain point the officer
said, abruptly, “<i>Scut!</i>” ( Silence!) and they all
were silent. The sun was high, the rocks were
scorching; even the captain, accustomed to the
heats of Tunis felt the need of shade; we gave a
last look at the peaks of Atlas, scrambled down the
mountain, and hastily getting into our crimson saddles,
took the way back to Fez, where we had an
agreeable surprise. The gate of El Ghisa, where
we were to enter the city, was closed! “Let us go
in by another,” said the commandant. “They are
all closed,” answered the officer of the guard; and
seeing us open our eyes, he explained the mystery,
saying that on all festivals (this was Friday), from
twelve o’clock to one, which is the hour of prayer,
all the city gates are closed, because it is a Mussulman
.pn +1
belief that exactly at that hour, but no one
knows in what year, the Christians will take possession
of their country by a <i>coup de main</i>.

We had, then, to wait for the opening of the gates;
and when at last we got in, we were received with
a flowery compliment. An old woman shook her
fist at us, and muttered something which the officer
refused to translate; but we insisting, he finally
consented, with a smile, and an assurance that she
was an old fool, and her words could do us no
harm. What she said was this: “The Jews to the
hook (to be boiled), the Christians to the spit!”

The doctor has performed the operation for cataract,
<i>coram populo</i>, in the garden of the palace.
There was a crowd of relations and friends, soldiers
and servants, part disposed in a circle around the
patient, part ranged in a long file from the spot
where the operation was being done to the gate of
the street, where another crowd stood waiting. The
patient was an old Moor who had been quite blind
for three years. At the moment of taking his seat,
he stopped as if frightened; then sat down with a
resolute air, and gave no further sign of weakness.
Whilst the doctor operated, the people stood as if
petrified. The children clung to their mothers’
gowns, and the latter embraced each other in attitudes
of terror, as if they were looking on at an
execution. Not a breath could be heard. We also,
on account of the “diplomatic” importance of the
operation, were in great anxiety. All at once the
.pn +1
patient gave a cry of joy, and threw himself on his
knees. He had seen the first ray of light. All
the people in the garden saluted the doctor with a
yell, to which another yell responded from those in
the street. The soldiers immediately made everybody,
except the patient, go out from the precincts
of the palace, and in a short time the news of the
marvellous operation was all over Fez. Fortunate
doctor! He had his reward that very evening,
when he was called upon to visit the harem of the
Grand Scherif Bacalì, where the loveliest ladies
showed themselves to him with uncovered faces,
and in all the pomp of their splendid attire, and
talked languidly of their pains and aches....

From time to time some renegade Spaniards come
to see Señor Patxot. There are said to be about
three hundred of these unfortunate men in the empire.
Most of them are Spaniards, condemned for
some common crimes, fugitives from the galleys of
the coast; others, partly French deserters, are fugitives
from Algeria; and the rest are rascals from all
parts of Europe. In other times they rose to high
positions in the court and army, formed special military
corps, and received large pay. But now their
condition is much changed. When they arrive,
they abjure the Christian religion, and embrace
Islamism, without circumcision or other ceremony,
merely pronouncing a formula. No one cares
whether they fulfil their religious duties or not;
the greater part of them never enter a mosque, and
.pn +1
know no form of prayer. In order to bind them to
the country, the Sultan exacts that they shall marry.
He gives to whoever wants her one of his black
women; the others can marry an Arab free woman
or a Moor, and the Sultan pays the expenses of the
wedding. They must all be enrolled in the army;
but they can, at the same time, exercise a trade.
They generally enter the artillery, and some belong
to the bands of music, the head of which is a Spaniard.
The soldiers receive five <lang=fr><i>sous</i></lang> a day, and the
officers twenty-five to thirty; if any one has a
special talent, he can make as much as two francs a
day. Lately, for instance, they were talking of a
German renegade, endowed with a certain talent for
mechanics, who had made for himself an enviable
position. This man, for some reason unknown, had
fled from Algeria in '73, and had gone to Tafilet, on
the confines of the desert; there he stayed two
years, learned Arabic, and came to Fez, entered the
army, and in a few days, with some tools that he
had, constructed a revolver. The event made a
noise; the revolver passed from hand to hand, and
reached the Minister of War; the Minister told the
Sultan, who sent for the soldier, encouraged him,
gave him ten francs, and raised his daily pay to forty
<lang=fr><i>sous</i></lang>. But such good fortune is rare. Almost all
of them live wretched lives, and their state of mind
is such, that although they are known to be stained
with serious crimes, they inspire pity rather than
horror. Yesterday two presented themselves, renegades
.pn +1
since two years, with wives, and children
born at Fez. One was thirty, the other fifty years
old, both Spaniards, fugitives from Ceuta. The
younger one did not speak. The elder said that he
had been condemned to hard labor for life for having
killed a man who was beating his son to death.
He was pale, and spoke in a broken voice, tearing
his handkerchief with trembling hands.

“If they would promise to keep me only ten
years in the galleys,” he said, “I would go back.
I am fifty, I should come out at sixty, and might
still live a few years in my own country. But it is
the thought of dying with the brand of the galleys
upon me that frightens me. I would go back at any
rate, if I were sure of dying a free man in Spain.
This is not living, this existence that we have here.
It is like being in a desert. It is frightful. Every
one despises us. Our own family is not our own,
because our children are taught to hate us. And
then, we never forget the religion in which we were
born, the church where our mothers used to take us
to pray, the counsels they gave us; and those
memories—we are renegades, we are galley-slaves,
it is true, but still we are men—those memories
tear our hearts!” and he wept as he spoke.

The rain which has been pouring down for three
days has reduced Fez to an indescribable and incredible
condition. It is no longer a city; it is a
sewer. The streets are gutters; the crossings,
lakes; the squares, seas; the people on foot sink
.pn +1
into the mud up to their knees; the houses are
plastered with it above the doors; men, horses, and
mules look as if they had been rolling in mud; and
as for the dogs, they were at the outset plastered in
such a way that they have not a hair visible. Few
people are to be seen, and those mostly on horseback;
not an umbrella, or even a person hastening
to escape the rain. Outside the quarters of the
bazaars all is depressingly dark and deserted. Water
is running and rushing everywhere, carrying with it
every sort of putridity, and no voice or other human
sound breaks the monotony of its deafening noise.
It looks like a city abandoned by its inhabitants
after an inundation. After an hour’s turn I came
home in a most melancholy mood, and passed the
time with my face pressed against the window-bars,
watching the dripping trees, and thinking of the
poor courier, who perhaps at that very moment was
swimming a flooded river at the risk of his life carrying
in his teeth the bag that contained my letters
from home.

It is said, and denied, that there has been within
a few days a capital execution before one of the
gates of Fez. No head has appeared upon the
walls, however, and I prefer to think the news is
false. The description, which I once read, of an
execution done at Tangiers, some years ago, deprived
me of the barbarous curiosity that I formerly
had to be present at one of these spectacles.

An Englishman, Mr. Drummond Hay, coming
.pn +1
out one morning at one of the gates of Tangiers,
saw a company of soldiers dragging along two
prisoners with their arms bound to their sides. One
was a mountaineer from the Rif, formerly gardener
to a European resident at Tangiers; the other, a
handsome young fellow, tall, and with an open and
attractive countenance.

The Englishman asked the officer in command
what crime these two unfortunate men had committed.

“The Sultan,” was the answer,—“may God prolong
his days!—has ordered their heads to be cut
off because they have been engaged in contraband
trade, on the coast of the Rif, with infidel Spaniards.”

“It is a very severe punishment for such a fault,”
observed the Englishman; “and if it is to serve as
a warning and example to the inhabitants of Tangiers,
why are they not allowed to be present at it?”

(The gates of the city had been closed, and Mr.
Drummond Hay had caused one to be opened for
him by giving some money to the guard.)

“Do not argue with me, Nazarene!” responded
the officer; “I have received an order, and must
obey.”

The decapitation was to take place in the Hebrew
slaughter-house. A Moor of vulgar and hideous
aspect, dressed like a butcher, was there awaiting
the condemned. He had in his hand a small knife,
about six inches long. He was a stranger in the
city, and had offered himself as executioner, because
.pn +1
the Mohammedan butchers of Tangiers, who usually
fill that office, had all taken refuge in a mosque.

An altercation now broke out between the soldiers
and the executioner about the reward promised
for the decapitation of the two poor creatures,
who stood by and listened to the dispute over the
blood-money. The executioner insisted, declaring
that he had been promised twenty francs a head, and
must have forty for the two. The officer at last
agreed, but with a very ill grace. Then the butcher
seized one of the condemned men, already half dead
with terror, threw him on the ground, kneeled on his
chest, and put the knife to his throat. The Englishman
turned away his face. He heard the sounds
of a violent struggle. The executioner cried out:
“Give me another knife; mine does not cut!”
Another knife was brought, and the head separated
from the body.

The soldiers cried, in a faint voice, “God prolong
the life of our lord and master!” But many of them
were stupefied with terror.

Then came the other victim: the handsome and
amiable-looking young man. Again they wrangled
over his blood. The officer, denying his promise,
declared he would give but twenty francs for both
heads. The butcher was forced to yield. The condemned
man asked that his hands might be unbound.
Being loosed, he took his cloak and gave it
to the soldier who had unbound him, saying: “Accept
this; we shall meet in a better world!” He
.pn +1
threw his turban to another, who had been looking
at him with compassion, and stepping to the place
where lay the bloody corpse of his companion, he
said, in a clear, firm voice, “There is no God but
God, and Mahomet is His prophet!” Then taking
off his belt he gave it to the executioner, saying:
“Take it; but for the love of God cut my head off
more quickly than you did my brother’s.” He
stretched himself on the earth, in the blood, and the
executioner kneeled upon his chest.

“A reprieve! Stop!” cried the Englishman. A
horseman came galloping toward them. The executioner
held his knife suspended.

“It is only the governor’s son,” said a soldier.
“He is coming to see the execution. Wait for
him.”

So it was, indeed. A few minutes after two
bleeding heads were held up by the soldiers. Then
the gates of the city were opened, and there came
forth a crowd of boys, who pursued the executioner
with stones for three miles, when he fell fainting to
the ground, covered with wounds. The next day it
was known that he had been shot by a relation of
one of the victims, and buried where he fell. The
authorities of Tangiers apparently did not trouble
themselves about the matter, since the assassin came
back into the city and remained unmolested.

After having been exposed three days, the heads
were sent to the Sultan in order that his Imperial
Majesty might recognize the promptitude with which
.pn +1
his orders had been fulfilled. The soldiers who were
carrying them met on their way a courier, bearing a
pardon, who had been detained by the sudden
flooding of a river.

I frequently find merchants of Fez who have been
in Italy. Forty or fifty of them go there every
year, and many have Moorish or Arab agents in
our cities. They go particularly to Upper Italy,
where they buy raw silks, damasks, corals, velvets,
threads, porcelain, pearls, Venice glass, Genoa playing-cards,
and Leghorn muslin. In exchange they
carry nothing but wax and wool, for trade in Morocco
is much restricted; and it may be said that stuffs,
arms, hides, and earthen-ware or pottery are their
only productions which attract a European’s attention.
The stuffs are made chiefly in Fez and Morocco.
There are <lang=ar><i>caics</i></lang> for women, lordly turbans,
sashes, <i>foulards</i> of silk delicately woven with gold
and silver, generally in stripes of soft and harmonious
colors, very pretty at first sight, but unequal
when examined, full of gum, and not wearing well.
The red caps, on the contrary, which take the name
from Fez, are very fine and durable, and the carpets
made at Rabat, Casa Bianca, Morocco, Sciadma, and
Sciania are admirable for solidity and richness of
color. From Tetuan come in great part the damascened
muskets, inlaid with ivory and silver, carved,
and set with precious stones, of light and elegant
form; and Mechinez, and Fez, and the province of
Sus make the swords and daggers which are sometimes
of such admirable workmanship.
.pn +1

Hides, the principal source of gain for the country,
are well prepared in various provinces, and the
scarlet leather of Fez, the yellow of Morocco, and
the green of Tafilet, are still worthy of their ancient
reputation. In Fez they boast particularly of their
enamelled pottery, but it is rare to find the noble
purity of form of the antique vase; and their chief
merit is a brilliancy of color, and a certain barbaric
originality of design which attract the eye but do
not satisfy it. There are also in Fez a great number
of jewellers and goldsmiths, who make some
simple things in very good taste, but few, and of little
variety, because the Amalechite rite proscribes
the display of precious ornaments, as contrary to
Mahometan austerity. More notable than the jewelery
is the furniture which comes from Tetuan:
book-shelves, clothes-pegs, and little polygonal tea-tables,
arched, arabesqued, and painted in many
colors; copper vessels also, chased in complicated
designs and ornamented with green, red, and blue
enamel; and, above all, the mosaics of the pavements
and walls, composed in exquisite taste by
clever workmen, who form the designs with marvellous
precision.

There is no doubt that these people are endowed
with admirable faculties, and that their industries
would increase immensely, as also their agriculture,
which was once so flourishing, if commerce could
make them live; but commerce is hampered with a
thousand prohibitions, restrictions, monopolies, excessive
.pn +1
tariffs, continual modifications and the non-observance
of treaties; and, although the European
governments have obtained many privileges of late
years, these are but small in comparison with what
might be brought about, thanks to the wealth and
geographical position of the country, under a civil government.
The principal trade is that with England,
after which come France and Spain, who give cereals,
metals, sugar, tea, coffee, raw silk, woollen and cotton
cloths, and take wool, hides, fruit, leeches, gum,
wax, and a great part of the products of Central
Africa. The trade which is carried on by Fez, Taza,
and Udjda (and it is not of small importance, though
less than that which the neighborhood of the two
countries should produce) comprehends, besides
carpets, the cloths, belts, thick cords, and all the
parts of the Arab and Moorish dress, bracelets and
anklets of silver and gold, vases from Fez, mosaics,
perfumes, incense, antimony for the eyes, <i>henna</i> for
the nails, and all the other cosmetics used by the
fair sex of Africa. Of more importance, more ancient,
and more regular, is the commerce with the
interior of Africa, for which place every year great
caravans go forth, carrying stuffs from Fez, English
cloths, Venetian glass, Italian corals, powder, arms,
tobacco, sugar, small mirrors from Germany, feathers
from Holland, little boxes from the Tyrol, hardware
from England and France, and salt, which they
get on their way in the Sahara; and their journey
is like a travelling fair, where their own merchandise
.pn +1
is exchanged for black slaves, gold dust, ostrich
feathers, white gum from Senegal, gold ornaments
from Nigritia, which are afterward sent to Europe
and the East; black stuffs which are worn on the
heads of Moorish women; <i>bezoar</i>, which preserves
the Arabs from poison and illness; and many drugs
which have been abandoned in Europe, but preserve
their ancient value in Africa. Here is, for Europe,
the chief importance of Morocco: it is the principal
gate of Nigritia; where, being open, the commerce
of Europe and that of Central Africa will meet.
Meanwhile, civilization and barbarism contend upon
the threshold.

The Ambassador has frequent conferences with
Sid-Moussa. His principal intent is to obtain from
the government of the scherifs certain concessions
in trade by which Italy shall be the gainer:
more I may not say. These conferences last more
than two hours; but the conversation turns but
briefly upon the real question in discussion, because
the Minister, following a custom which seems traditional
in the policy of the government of Morocco,
never comes to the point until he has wandered
over a hundred extraneous subjects, and when he is
dragged to it by force. “Let us talk a little about
something entertaining,” he says, in almost a beseeching
tone. The weather, health, the water of
Fez, the properties of certain tissues, some historical
anecdotes, some proverbs, what may be the population
of certain states of Europe: all these are
.pn +1
more agreeable subjects than the one which is the
purpose of the interview. “What do you say of
Fez?” he asked one day; and being answered that
it was beautiful, he added: “And it has another
merit; it is clean!” Another day he wished to
know what was the population of Morocco. But at
last, the business must come; and then there are
long phrases, hesitations, reticences, silences, a putting
forth of doubts when consent is already decided
upon, a pretended denial of condescension, a
slipping through the fingers, a constant dropping of
the subject just as the knot is about to be tightened,
and then the eternal expedient “to-morrow.”

The next day, recapitulation of things said the
day before, new doubts, restrictions, recognition of
equivocations, regrets for not having understood,
and for not having been understood, and exhaustion
of the interpreter charged with the duty of
making things clear. And then it is necessary to
wait for the return of the couriers from Tangiers
and Tafilet, who have been sent to obtain information—information
of little consequence, but which
serves to put off the solution of the question for ten
days longer. And in fine, three great obstacles to
every thing: the fanaticism of the people, the obstinacy
of the Ulemas, and the necessity of proceeding
cautiously, not exciting attention, with a
slowness that looks like immobility. Under these
conditions, Job himself might be expected to cry
out; but then come the warm pressures of the
.pn +1
hand, the sweet smiles, the demonstrations of an irresistible
sympathy, and an affection that will only
end in death. The most difficult affair is that of
the big Moor Schellal, and they say that the fate of
his whole life depends upon it; consequently he is
for ever at the palace, wrapped in his ample caic,
anxious, thoughtful, sometimes with tears in his
eyes, and he keeps them fixed upon the Ambassador
with a supplicating look, like that of one condemned
to death and begging for reprieve. Mohammed
Ducali, on the contrary, whose sails are
swelled by favoring gales, is gay and sprightly, perfumes
himself, smokes, changes his caftan every
day, and strews on all sides his soft words, and
jests, and smiles. Ah! if it were not for Italian
influence, how soon those smiles would be changed
into tears of blood!

We are experiencing in these days the truth of
what was told us at Tangiers with regard to the effects
of the air of Fez. Are these effects produced
by the air or by the water? or by the rascally oil;
or by the infamous butter; or by all these things
together; However it may be, it is a fact that we
are all ill. Languor, loss of appetite, prostration of
strength, and heaviness of head. And with all
these ill-feelings there is a weariness, an irritability,
a sort of horror, that in a few days has changed
the face of the whole house. Every one longs for
departure. We have reached that point, inevitable
in all long journeys, at which curiosity is dulled;
.pn +1
every thing seems faded: memories of home rise up
in crowds; all the longings, kept down at first, are
alive and in tumult; and our own country is ever
before our eyes. We have had enough of turbans,
and black faces, and mosques; we are tired of being
stared at by a thousand eyes; bored by this
immense masquerade in white at which we have
been looking for two months. What would we not
give to see pass by, even at a distance, a European
lady! to hear the sound of a bell! to see on a wall
a printed play-bill! Oh, sweetest memories!

I have discovered among the soldiers of the guard
one who has lost his right ear, and am told that it
was legally cut off, in presence of witnesses, by
another soldier whose ear the first one had mutilated
some time before. Such is the <lang=la><i>lex talionis</i></lang> as
it exists in Morocco. Not only has any relation of
a person killed the right to kill the assassin on the
same day of the week, at the same hour and place
where the victim fell, using the same weapon, and
striking in the same part of the body; but whoever
has been deprived of a limb has the right to deprive
his assailant of the same limb. A fact of this
nature, accompanied by very singular circumstances,
happened some years ago at Mogador, and was
related to me by a member of the French Consulate,
who knew one of the victims. An English
merchant of Mogador was returning to the city on
the evening of a market-day, at the moment when
the gate by which he was entering was encumbered
.pn +1
with a crowd of country people driving camels and
asses. Although the Englishman called out as loud
as he could, “<i>Bal-ak! bal-ak!</i>” (Make way!) an
old woman was struck by his horse and knocked
down, falling with her face upon a stone. Ill
fortune would have it that in the fall she broke the
two last of her front teeth. She was stunned for an
instant, and then rose convulsed with rage, and
broke out into insults and ferocious maledictions,
following the Englishman to his own door. She
then went before the caid, and demanded that in
virtue of the law of talion he should order the English
merchant’s two front teeth to be broken. The
caid tried to pacify her, and advised her to pardon
the injury; but she would listen to nothing, and he
sent her away with a promise that she should have
justice, hoping that when her anger should be exhausted
she would herself desist from her pursuit.
But, three days having passed, the old woman came
back more furious than ever, demanded justice, and
insisted that a formal sentence should be pronounced
against the Christian.

“Remember,” said she to the caid, “thou didst
promise me!”

“<i>Che!</i>” responded the caid. “Dost thou take me
for a Christian, that I should be the slave of my word?”

Every day for a month the old woman, athirst for
vengeance, presented herself at the door of the
citadel, and yelled, and cursed, and made such a
noise, that the caid, to be rid of her, was obliged to
.pn +1
consent. He sent for the merchant, explained the
case, the right which the law gave the woman, the
duty imposed upon himself, and begged him to put
an end to the matter by allowing two of his teeth
to be removed, any two, although in strict justice
they should be two incisors. The Englishman refused
absolutely to part with incisors, or eye-teeth,
or molars; and the caid was constrained to send
the old woman packing, ordering the guard not to
let her put her foot in the Casba again.

“Very well,” said she; “since there are none but
degenerate Mussulmans here, since justice is refused
to a Mussulman woman, mother of scherifs,
against an infidel dog, I will go to the Sultan, and
we shall see whether the prince of the faithful will
deny the law of the Prophet.”

True to her determination, she started on her
journey alone, with an amulet in her bosom, a stick
in her hand, and a bag around her neck, and made
on foot the hundred leagues which separate Mogador
from the sacred city of the empire. Arrived at
Fez, she sought and obtained audience of the Sultan,
laid her case before him, and demanded the right
accorded by the Koran, the application of the law
of retaliation. The Sultan exhorted her to forgive;
she insisted. All the serious difficulties which opposed
themselves to the satisfaction of her petition
were laid before her; she remained inexorable. A
sum of money was offered her, with which she could
live in comfort for the rest of her days; she refused
it.
.pn +1

“What do I want with your money?” said she;
“I am old, and accustomed to live in poverty; what
I want is the two teeth of the Christian; I want
them, I demand them in the name of the Koran;
and the Sultan, prince of the faithful, head of Islamism,
father of his subjects, cannot refuse justice to a
true believer.”

Her obstinacy put the Sultan in a most embarrassing
position; the law was formal, and her right incontestable;
and the ferment of the populace, stirred
up by the woman’s fanatical declamations, rendered
refusal perilous. The Sultan, who was Abd-er-Rhaman,
wrote to the English consul, asking as a
favor that he would induce his countryman to allow
two of his teeth to be broken. The merchant answered
the consul that he would never consent.
Then the Sultan wrote again, saying that if he
would consent he would grant him, as a recompense,
any commercial privilege that he chose to ask. This
time, touched in his purse, the merchant yielded.
The old woman left Fez, blessing the name of the
pious Abd-er-Rhaman, and went back to Mogador,
where, in the presence of many people, the two
teeth of the Nazarene were broken. When she saw
them fall to the ground she gave a yell of triumph,
and picked them up with a fierce joy. The merchant,
thanks to the privileges that had been accorded
him, made in the two following years so
handsome a fortune that he went back to England,
toothless, but happy.
.pn +1

.if h
.il fn=i284.png w=60% id=i284 alt='Negro Slave Of Fez.'
.ca Negro Slave Of Fez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Negro Slave Of Fez.]
.if-

The more I study these Moors, the more I am inclined
to believe that the judgment unanimously
passed upon them by travellers is not far from the
truth, and that they are a race of vipers and foxes—false,
pusillanimous, cringing to the powerful, insolent
to the weak, gnawed by avarice, devoured by
egotism, and burning with the basest passions of
which the human heart is capable. How could they
be otherwise? The nature of the government and
the state of society permit them no manly ambition.
They traffic and bargain, but they have no knowledge
of the labor that begets fatigue of body and serenity
of mind; they are completely ignorant of any
pleasure that is derived from the exercise of the intelligence;
they take no care for the education of
their sons; they have no high aims in life; therefore
they give themselves up, with all their souls,
and for their whole lives, to the amassing of money;
and the time that is left to them from this pursuit
they divide between a sleepy indolence that enervates,
and sensual pleasures that brutalize them. In
this life of effeminacy they naturally become vain,
small, malignant, tattling creatures; lacerating each
other’s reputation with spiteful rage; lying by habit
with an incredible impudence; affecting charitable
and pious sentiments, and sacrificing a friend for a
scudo; despising knowledge, and accepting the
most puerile superstitions; bathing every day, and
keeping masses of filth in the recesses of their
houses; and adding to all this a satanic pride, concealed,
.pn 285
when convenient, under a manner both dignified
and humble, which seems the index of an honorable
mind. They deceived me in this way at first;
but now I am persuaded that the very least of them
believes, in the bottom of his heart, that he is infinitely
superior to us all. The nomadic Arab preserves
at least the austere simplicity of his antique
customs, and the Berber, savage as he is, has a warlike
spirit, courage, and love of independence. Only
these Moors have within them a combination of barbarism,
depravity, and pride, and are the most powerful
of the populations of the empire. From them
come the merchants, the <i>ulemas</i>, the <i>tholbas</i>, the
caids, the pashas; they possess the rich palaces, the
great harems, beautiful women, and hidden treasures.
They are recognizable by their fat, their fair
complexions, their cunning eyes, their big turbans,
their majestic walk, their arrogance, and their perfumes.

We have been to take tea at the house of the
Moor Schellal. We entered by a narrow corridor
into a small dark court, but beautiful—beautiful and
filthy as the filthiest house in the ghetto of Alkazar.
Except the mosaics of the pavement and pilasters,
every thing was black, encrusted, sticky with dirt.
There were two little dark rooms on the ground-floor;
round the first-floor ran a light gallery, and
on the top was the parapet of the terrace. The big
Moor made us sit down before the door of his sleeping-room,
gave us tea and sweetmeats, burned
.pn +1
aloes, sprinkled us with rose-water, and presented
his children to us—two pretty boys, who came to us
white with terror, trembling like leaves under our
caresses. On the opposite side of the court there
was a black slave-girl of about fifteen, having on only
a sort of chemise, which was open at the side as far
up as the hip, and confined round the waist with a
girdle, the slenderest, the most elegant, the most seductive
female creature (I attest it on the head of
Ussi) that I had seen in all Morocco. She was
leaning against a pilaster with her arms crossed on
her bosom, looking at us with an air of supreme indifference.
Presently there came out of a small
door another black woman, of about thirty years of
age, tall in stature, of an austere countenance, and
robust figure, straight as a palm-tree; who, as it
seemed, must have been a favorite with her master,
for she advanced familiarly, whispered some words
in his ear, pulled out a small bit of straw that was
stuck in his beard, and pressed her hand upon his
lips with an action at once listless and caressing that
made the Moor smile. Looking up, we saw the
gallery on the first-floor and the parapet of the terrace
fringed with women’s heads, which instantly
disappeared. It was impossible for them all to belong
to that house. The visit of the Christians had
no doubt been announced in the neighborhood, and
friends from other terraces had come over to Schellal’s
terrace. Just as we were gazing upward, three
ghost-like forms passed by us, their heads entirely
.pn +1
concealed, and vanished through the small door. They
were three friends, who, not being able to come by
the terraces, had been forced to resign themselves to
enter by the door; and a moment after, their heads
appeared above the railing of the gallery. The
house, in short, had been converted into a theatre,
and we were the spectacle. The veiled spectators
prattled, and with much low laughter, popped up
their heads, and withdrew them again as if they had
flown away. Each one of our movements produced
a slight murmur; every time one of us raised his
head there was a great tumult in the first row of
boxes. It was evident that they were much entertained,
that they were gathering material for a
month’s conversation, and that they could scarcely
contain themselves for delight at finding themselves
so unexpectedly in the enjoyment of so strange and
rare a spectacle! And we complacently obliged
them for about an hour—silent, however, and much
bored, an effect produced, after a time, by every
Moorish house, however courteous its hospitality.

And then, after you have admired the beautiful
mosaics, the handsome slaves, and pretty children,
you look about instinctively for the person who is
the incarnation of domestic life, who represents the
courtesy and honorability of the house, who puts the
seal on its hospitality, who gives its tone to the conversations,
who represents to your mind the altar of
the lares,—you seek, in short, the pearl for this
shell; and seeing no one but women who have
.pn +1
their master’s embraces without his affection, and
children of unknown mothers, and the whole house
personified in one being only, its hospitality becomes
a mere empty ceremony; and in your host,
instead of the sympathetic features of an honored
friend, you see only the aspect of a sensual and
odious egotist.

There is no doubt that these people, if they do not
hate us absolutely, at least cannot endure us, and
they are not without some good reasons. Being
among the descendants of the Moors of Spain, many
of them still preserve the keys of cities in Andalusia,
and titles to the possession of lands and houses
in Seville and Granada, and their aversion to Spaniards
is peculiarly acrid, their fathers having been
despoiled and driven out by them. All the others
nourish a general hatred to all Christians, not only
because this hatred is instilled into them in their
schools and mosques from their earliest infancy, with
the purpose of rendering any commerce with civilized
races odious to them, commerce which, scattering
ignorance and superstition, would undermine
the foundations of the empire; but because they all
have in the bottom of their souls a vague suspicion
of an expansive, growing, threatening force in the
states of Europe, by which, sooner or later, they
will be crushed. They hear the rising murmur of
the French upon their eastern frontier; they see the
Spaniards fortified on their Mediterranean coast;
Tangiers is occupied by an advanced guard of Christians;
.pn +1
the cities of the west are guarded by a line of
European merchants, stretching along the Atlantic
coast like a chain of sentinels; ambassadors come
into the country from different directions, apparently,
to bring gifts to the Sultan, but, in reality, as they
believe, to look, and scrutinize, and pry, and corrupt,
and prepare the ground; they hear, in short, a perpetual
threat of invasion, and imagine this invasion
accompanied by all the horrors of hatred and revenge,
persuaded as they are, that Christians nourish
against Moors the same sentiments which the
latter feel toward us. How can they change this
aversion into sympathy when they see us, in our
tight, immodest costume, dressed in gloomy colors,
loaded with note-books, telescopes, mysterious instruments
which we direct at every thing, noting all
things, measuring all things, wishing to know all
things; we, who are always laughing, and never
pray; we, who are restless, chattering, drinking,
smoking, full of pretentions and meanness, with only
one wife, and never a slave in the whole country!
And they form a dark idea of Europe, as of immense
congeries of turbulent people, where there
reigns a feverish life, full of ardent ambitions, unbridled
vices, audacious enterprises, and tumult, a
dizzy whirl, a confusion as of Babel, displeasing to
God and man.

To-day great confusion in the palace, because of
the first and unique attempt at amorous conquest
made by a Christian among the lower personages of
.pn +1
the Embassy. This excellent young man, upon
whom, as it would seem, the diplomatic austerity of
our lives for the last forty days had begun to weigh
rather heavily, having seen, I know not whence, a
lovely Moor walking in a garden, thought (we all
have our weaknesses) that she would never be able
to resist the attractions of his fine person; and without
a thought of the danger, insinuated himself
through some hole in the wall into the forbidden
precincts. If, when arrived in the presence of his
nymph, he made a declaration of love, or whether
he attempted to suppress any preamble, whether the
nymph lent a favorable ear, or fled shrieking from
the spot, no one knows; for in this country all is
mystery. It is known, however, that there suddenly
issued from behind the bushes four Moors armed
with daggers, two of whom sprang upon them on
one side, and two on the other; and that the unfortunate
young man would either never have issued
from the garden, or would have done so with some
holes in his person, if the Caid Hamed-Ben-Kasen
Buhammei had not suddenly appeared upon the
scene, and with an imperious gesture arrested the
four assailants, and given the fugitive time to get
back to the palace with a whole skin. The news of
the event flew about: there was great excitement, and
the culprit received a solemn admonition in the
presence of us all, while the commandant, always
witty, added on his own account a little sermon
which produced a profound impression. “The wives
.pn +1
of others,” said he, “and more especially the wives
of Mussulmans, must be let alone; and when one
is with a European Embassy in Morocco, one must
make up one’s mind not to be a man. For, in Mahometan
countries, these woman questions speedily
become political questions. It would indeed be
a fine responsibility, that of an honest young fellow,
who, not having been able to resist an inconsiderate
impulse, should drag his country into a war, the consequences
of which could not be foreseen.” At this
solemn discourse, the poor young man, who already
saw the Italian fleet with a hundred thousand fighting
men sailing toward Morocco because of him,
showed himself so overwhelmed with the sense of
his guilt that no further castigation was considered
necessary.

I should much like to know what conception these
people have of their own military power, and their
own valor in war, with respect to the power and
bravery of Europeans. But I dare not question
them directly on the subject, because they are very
ready to take offence, and I fear that my questions
might be mistaken for irony or brag. I have succeeded,
however, touching lightly and with caution,
in picking up something. As to the superiority of
our military power they have no doubts; for, if any
doubts remained in their minds thirty years since,
when they had not yet met with any severe reverses
from European armies, the wars with France
and Spain, and principally the two famous battles of
.pn +1
Isly and Tetuan, would have dissipated them for
ever. But with regard to bravery, it seems to me
that they still think themselves much superior to
Europeans, whose victories they attribute to their
artillery, to discipline, and to what with them takes
the place of strategy and tactics, namely, craft; but
not at all to their valor.  It appears that they do
not consider victories gained by these means as real
victories, nobly obtained. The common people also
add to these the alliance with evil spirits, without
which neither artillery nor craft would avail to conquer
the Mussulman armies. Certain it is that to
the pure-blooded Arabs and to the Berbers, who are
the warlike majority in Morocco, bravery cannot be
denied, or even the recognition of it restricted to
that common and indeterminate courage which in
Europe is considered, with chivalric reciprocity, the
property of all armies. For even taking into account
the nature of the ground and the secret aid
of England, the army of Morocco, scattered, badly
commanded, badly armed, badly provisioned, could
not have confronted, as it did, for nearly a year,
with a tenacity unexpected in Europe, the Spanish
troops, highly disciplined, and furnished with all the
newest offensive weapons, unless they had possessed
great bravery in compensation for the military
power that they lacked. We may deny the
name of true courage to that fanaticism which sends
one man against ten, seeking a death that shall open
for him the gates of paradise; or to the savage
.pn +1
fury which induces a soldier to dash his own brains
out against a rock rather than fall into the enemy’s
hands; or to the wild rage of a wounded man, who
tears the bandages from his wounds and frees himself
at once from life and a prison; or to the contempt
of pain, the blind audacity, the brutal obstinacy,
that seek death without any purpose to serve;
but we must admit at least that these are elements
of courage, and it is incontestable that this people
gave many such tremendous examples to Spain.
After two months of warfare the Spanish army had
taken but two prisoners, an Arab from the province
of Oran, and a lunatic who had presented himself
at the outposts; and at the sanguinary battle of
Castillejos five men only, and those five wounded,
fell into the hands of the victors. Their traditional
tactics are to advance <i>en masse</i> against the enemy,
to extend themselves rapidly, rush in, fire, and retreat
precipitately to reload. In great battles they
dispose themselves in half-moon shape, artillery and
infantry in the centre, and cavalry at the wings,
which seeks to envelop the enemy and catch him
between two fires. The supreme head gives a general
order, but every inferior chief returns to the
assault or retreats when he thinks fit, and the army
easily escapes from the control of the head. Indefatigable
horsemen, dexterous marksmen, unflinching
at a defence, easily thrown into confusion in
open ground, they glide like serpents, climb like
squirrels, run like goats, pass rapidly from a bold
.pn +1
assault to a precipitous flight, and give an exaltation
of courage that seems like furious madness, to
a confusion and disorder without name. There are
still in Morocco men who went mad with terror at
the battle of Isly; and it is known that when
Marshall Bugeaud began his cannonade, Sultan
Abd-er-Rhaman cried out, “My horse! my horse!”
and leaping into the saddle fled precipitately, leaving
in the camp his musicians, his necromancers,
his hunting dogs, the sacred standard, the parasol,
and his tea, which the French soldiers found still
boiling hot.

I meet so many negroes in the streets of Fez
that I sometimes seem to find myself in the city of
the Sôudan, and feel vaguely between me and Europe
the immensity of the desert of Sahara. From the
Sôudan, in fact, the greater part of them come—a
little less than three thousand in a year, many of
whom are said to die in a short time from homesickness.
They are generally brought at the age of
eight or ten years. The merchants, before exposing
them for sale, fatten them with balls of <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang>,
try to cure them, with music, of their homesickness,
and teach them a few Arabic words; which
last augments their price, which is generally thirty
francs for a boy, sixty for a girl, about four hundred
for a young woman of seventeen or eighteen
who is handsome, and knows how to speak, and has
not yet had a child, and fifty or sixty for an old
man. The emperor takes five per cent. on the imported
.pn +1
material, and has a right to the first choice.
The others are sold in the markets of Fez, Mogador,
and Morocco, and separately, at auction, in the
other cities. They all, without difficulty, embrace
the Mohammedan religion, preserving, however,
many of their own strange superstitions, and the
queer festivals of their native country, consisting
of grotesque balls, which last three days and three
nights consecutively, accompanied by diabolical
music. They serve generally in the houses, are
treated with kindness, are for the most part freed in
reward for their service, and the way is open for
them to the highest offices of state. Here, as elsewhere,
it is said that they are now feverishly industrious,
now torpidly lazy, sensual as monkeys, astute
as foxes, ferocious as tigers, but content with their
condition, and in general faithful and grateful to
their masters; which, it would seem, is not the case
where slavery is harder, as at Cuba, and where the
liberty that they enjoy is excessive, as in Europe.
The Arab and Moorish women refuse to accept
them, and it is rare that a negro marries another
than one of his own color; but the men, especially
the Moors, not only seek them eagerly as concubines,
but marry them as frequently as white
women; from which cause comes the great number
of mulattoes of all shades who are seen in the
streets of Morocco. What strange chances! The
poor negro of ten years old, sold in the confines of
the Sahara for a sack of sugar and a piece of cloth,
.pn +1
may—and the case can be cited—discuss thirty
years afterward, as Minister of Morocco, a
treaty of commerce with the English Ambassador;
and still more possibly, the black girl baby, born in
a filthy den, and exchanged in the shade of an oasis
for a skin of brandy, may come to be covered with
gems, and fragrant with perfumes, and clasped in
the arms of the Sultan.

For some days, walking about Fez, there presents
itself to my mind with obstinate persistence, the
image of a great American city, to which people
from all parts of the world hasten; one of those
cities which represent almost the type of that to
which all new cities are slowly conforming themselves,
and whose life is, perhaps, an example of
that which, in another century, will be the life of
all; a city whose image cannot present itself to
any European side by side with that of Fez, without
exciting a smile of pity, so enormous is the
difference which separates them in the road of human
progress; and yet, the more I fix my thoughts
upon that city, the more I feel conscious of a doubt
that saddens me. I see those broad, straight, endless
streets, with their long perspectives of gigantic
telegraph poles. “It is the hour for closing the
workshops and warehouses. Torrents of workmen,
workwomen, and children pass on foot, in omni-buses,
in tramway cars, almost all following the
same direction, toward a distant quarter of the
town; and all have the same anxious, melancholy
.pn +1
aspect, and seem worn out with fatigue. Dense
clouds of coal smoke pour from the innumerable
chimneys of the factories, descend into the streets,
throw their black shadows over the splendid shop-windows,
and the gilded lettering of the signs that
cover the houses up to the roofs, and the crowd
that, with bent heads and rapid step, swinging their
arms, fly silently from the places where all day long
they have labored. From time to time the sun
parts the dismal veil which industry has spread over
the capital of labor; but these sudden and fugitive
beams, instead of making it more cheerful, only illuminate
the sadness of the scene. All the faces
have the same expression. Everybody is in haste
to reach home in order to 'economize’ his few
hours of repose, after having drawn the largest
possible advantage from the long hours of work.
Every one seems to suspect a rival in his neighbor.
Every one bears the stamp of isolation. The moral
atmosphere in which these people live is not charity,
it is rivalry. A great number of families live in
the hotels, a life which condemns the wife to solitude
and idleness. All day long the husband attends to
his business out of the house, coming in only at the
hour for dinner, which he swallows with the avidity
of a famished man. Then he returns to his galley.
Boys, at the age of five or six years, are sent to
school, they go and come alone, and pass the rest
of their time as they please, in the enjoyment of
perfect liberty. The paternal authority is almost
.pn +1
<i>nil</i>. The sons receive no other education than that
of the common school, arrive quickly at maturity,
and from infancy are prepared for the fatigues and
struggles of the over-excited, strained, and adventurous
life which is before them. The existence of
the man is merely one long and single <i>campaign</i>, an
uninterrupted succession of combats, marches, and
countermarches. The sweetness, the intimacy of
the domestic hearth have but a small part in his
feverish and militant life. Is he happy? Judging
by his sad, wearied, anxious countenance, often delicate
and unhealthy, it is to be doubted. The excess
of continued work breaks down his strength,
forbids him the pleasures of the intellect, and prevents
him from communing with his own soul. And
the woman suffers even more. She sees her husband
but once a day, for half an hour at most, and
in the evening, when he returns tired out, and goes
to bed; and she cannot lighten the burden which
he carries, nor participate in his labors, cares, and
pains, because she does not know them; for there is
no time for an interchange of thought and feeling
between the couple.”

The city is Chicago, and the writer who describes
it is the Baron de Hubner, a great admirer of
America. Now my doubt is this: I do not know
which of the two cities, Fez or Chicago, to compassionate
most. I feel, however, that if I were a
Moor of Fez, and a Christian should take me into
one of these great civilized cities and ask me if I
did not envy him, I should laugh in his face.
.pn +1

This morning Selam told me, in his own fashion,
the famous history of the bandit Arusi; one of the
many tales that go about from mouth to mouth
from the sea to the desert; founded, however,
on a real and recent fact, many witnesses to which
are still living.

A short time after the war with France, Sultan
Abd-er-Rhaman sent an army to punish the inhabitants
of the Rif, who had burned a French vessel.
Among the various sheiks who were ordered to denounce
the culprits was one named Sid-Mohammed
Abd-el-Djebar, already advanced in years, who, being
jealous of a certain Arusi, a bold and handsome
youth, placed him, though innocent, in the hands of
the general, who sent him to be incarcerated at
Fez. But he only remained about a year in prison.
After his release he went to Tangiers, remained
there some time, and then suddenly disappeared,
and for a while no one knew what had become of
him. But shortly after his disappearance, there were
rumors all over the province of Garb of a band of
robbers and assassins which infested the country between
Rabat and Laracce. Caravans were attacked,
merchants robbed, caids maltreated, the Sultan’s
soldiers poniarded; no one dared any more to cross
that part of the country, and the few who had escaped
alive from the hands of the bandits came back
to the town stupefied with terror.

Things remained in this state for a good while,
and no one had been able to discover who was the
.pn +1
chief of the band, when a merchant from the Rif,
attacked one night by moonlight, recognized among
the robbers the young Arusi, and brought the news
to Tangiers, whence it spread rapidly about the
province. Arusi was the chief. Many others recognized
him. He appeared in the <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang> and villages,
by day as well as by night, dressed as a soldier,
as a caid, as a Jew, as a Christian, as a woman,
as a <i>ulema</i>, killing, robbing, vanishing, pursued from
every quarter, but never taken, always unexpected
in his approach, always under a new disguise, capricious,
fierce, and indefatigable; and he never
went very far away from the neighborhood of the
citadel El Mamora; a fact which no one could understand.
The reason was this: the caid of the
citadel El Mamora was no other than the old
sheik, Sid-Mohammed Abd-el-Djebar, who had
placed Arusi in the hands of the Sultan’s general.

At that very time Sid-Mohammed had just given
his daughter in marriage, a girl of marvellous
beauty, named Rahmana, to the son of the pashà of
Salè, who was called Sid-Ali, The nuptial feasts
were celebrated with great pomp, in the presence
of all the rich young men of the province, who
came on horseback, armed, and dressed in their
best, to the citadel El Mamora; and Sid-Ali was
to conduct his bride to Salè, to his father’s house.
The cortege issued from the citadel at night. It
had to pass through a narrow defile formed by two
chains of wooded hills and downs. First went an
.pn +1
escort of thirty horsemen; behind these, Rahmana,
on a mule, between her husband and her brother;
behind her, her father, the caid, and a crowd of
relations and friends.

They entered the defile. The night was serene,
the bridegroom held Rahmana by the hand, the
old caid smoothed his beard; all was cheerful and
unsuspecting.

Suddenly there burst upon the stillness of the
night a formidable voice, which cried:—

“Arusi salutes thee, O Sheik Sid-Mohammed
Abd-el-Djebar!”

At the same moment, from the top of the hill,
thirty muskets flashed, and thirty shots rang out.
Horses, soldiers, friends and relations fell wounded
or dead, or took to flight; and before the caid
and Sid-Ali, who were untouched, could recover
from their bewilderment, a man, a fury, a demon,
Arusi himself, had seized Rahmana, placed her before
him on his horse, and fled with the speed of
the wind toward the forest of Mamora.

The caid and Sid-Ali, both resolute men, instead
of giving way to a vain despair, took a solemn oath
never to shave their heads until they had been fearfully
avenged. They demanded and obtained soldiers
from the Sultan, and began to give chase to
Arusi, who had taken refuge with his band in the
great forest of Mamora, It was a most fatiguing
warfare, carried on by <i>coups de main</i>, ambuscades,
nocturnal assaults, feints, and ferocious combats, and
.pn +1
went on for more than a year, driving, little by little,
the band of marauders into the centre of the forest.
The circle grew closer and closer. Many of Arusi’s
men were already dead with hunger, many had fled,
many had been killed fighting. The caid and Sid-Ali,
as their vengeance seemed to draw near, became
more ferocious in its pursuit; they rested
neither night nor day, they breathed only for revenge.
But of Arusi and Rahmana they could learn
nothing. Some said they were dead, some that
they had fled, some that the bandit had first killed
the woman and then himself. The caid and Sid-Ali
began to despair, because the further they advanced
into the forest, and the thicker the trees,
higher and more intricate became the bushes, the
vines, the brambles, and the junipers; so that the
horses and dogs could no longer force a passage
through them. At last one day, when the two were
walking in the forest almost discouraged, an Arab
came toward them and said that he had seen Arusi
hidden in the reeds, on the river-bank at the extremity
of the wood. The caid hastily called his
men together, and dividing them into two companies,
sent one to the right and the other to the left,
toward the river. After some time, the caid was
the first to see, rising from the midst of the reeds, a
phantom, a man of tall stature and terrible aspect—Arusi.
Everybody rushed toward that point, they
searched in vain, Arusi was not there. “He has
crossed the river!” shouted the caid. They threw
.pn +1
themselves into the stream, and gained the opposite
bank. There they found some footprints, and followed
them, but after a little, they failed. Suddenly
the horsemen broke into a gallop along the
river brink. At the same moment the attention
of the caid was drawn to three of his dogs, who
had stopped, searching, near a clump of reeds.
Sid-Ali was the first to run to the spot, and he
found near the reeds a large ditch, at the bottom
of which were some holes. Jumping into the
ditch, he introduced his musket into one of the
holes, felt it pushed back, and fired; then calling
the caid and the soldiers, they searched here and
there, and found a small round aperture in the
steep bank just above the water. Arusi must
have entered by that opening. “Dig!” shouted
the caid. The soldiers ran for picks and shovels
to a neighboring village, and digging, presently
came upon a sort of arch in the earth, and under it
a cave.

At the bottom of the cave was Arusi, erect, motionless,
pale as death. They seized him; he made
no resistance. They dragged him out; he had lost
his left eye. He was bound, carried to a tent, laid
on the ground, and as a first taste of vengeance,
Sid-Ali cut off one by one all the toes of his feet,
and threw them in his face. This done, six soldiers
were set to guard him, and Sid-Ali and the caid
withdrew to another tent, there to arrange what tortures
they should inflict before cutting off his head.
.pn +1
The discussion was prolonged; for each one tried
to propose some more painful torture, and nothing
seemed horrible enough; the evening came, and
nothing was decided. The decision was put off until
the next morning, and they separated.

An hour afterward the caid and Ali were asleep,
each in his tent; the night was very dark, there was
not a breath of wind, not a leaf moving; nothing was
heard but the murmur of the river, and the breathing
of the sleeping men. Suddenly a formidable
voice broke the silence of the night:—

“Arusi salutes thee, O Sheik Sid-Mohammed
Abd-el-Djebar!”

The old caid sprang to his feet and heard the
rapid beat of a horse’s feet departing. He called
his soldiers, who came in haste, and shouted, “My
horse! my horse!” They sought his horse, the
most superb animal in the whole of Garb; it was
gone. They ran to the tent of Sid-Ali: he was
stretched to the ground, dead, with a poniard stuck
in his left eye. The caid burst into tears; the
soldiers went off on the track of the fugitive. They
saw him for an instant, like a shadow; then lost
him; again saw him; but he sped like the lightning,
and vanished not to be seen again. Nevertheless
they continued to follow, all the night, until
they reached a thick wood where they halted to
await the dawn. When daylight appeared they
saw far off the caid’s horse approaching, tired out
and all bloody, filling the air with lamentable neighings.
.pn +1
Thinking that Arusi must be in the wood,
they loosed the dogs and advanced sword in hand.
In a few minutes they discovered a dilapidated
house half-hidden among the trees. The dogs
stopped there. The soldiers came to the door, and
levelling their muskets let them fall with a cry of
amazement. Within the four ruined walls lay the
corpse of Arusi, and beside it, a lovely woman,
splendidly dressed, with her hair loose on her
shoulders, was binding up his bleeding feet, sobbing,
laughing, and murmuring words of despair and love.
It was Rahmana. They took her to her father’s
house, where she remained three days without
speaking one word, and then disappeared. She was
found some time afterward in the ruined house in
the wood, scratching up the earth with her hands,
and calling on Arusi. And there she stayed.
“God,” said the Arabs, “had called her reason back
to Himself, and she was a saint.” Whether she is
still living or not, no one knows. She was certainly
living twenty years ago, and was seen in her
hermitage by M. Narcisse Cotte, attached to the
Consulate of France at Tangiers, who told her
story.

There is not now a corner of Fez that is unknown
to us; and yet it seems as if we had only arrived
yesterday, so varied is the aspect of the place, so
much does every object revive in us the sense of
our solitude, so little do we become habituated to
the curiosity that we create. And this curiosity is
.pn +1
in no wise lessened, although by this time we have
been seen over and over again by every native of
Fez. Timidity, on the other hand, is lessened, and
antipathy, perhaps, a little; the children come
nearer and touch our garments, to feel what they
are made of; the women look at us with forbidding
glances, but they no longer turn back when they
see us coming; curses are more rare, the soldiers
do not use their sticks so much, and the blows that
Ussi received were, it is to be hoped, the first and
last blows with a fist that I shall have to report in
Italy. And although, in our walks through the
city, we are followed and preceded by a crowd, I
think we could now go out alone without danger
of death. Already the people, according to the soldier’s
testimony, have given each of us a name, according
to Moorish custom: the doctor is “the
man with the spectacles”; the vice-consul is “the
man with the flat nose”; the captain is “the man
with the black boots”; Ussi is “the man with the
white handkerchief”; the commandant, “the man
with the short legs”; Biseo, “the man with the red
hair”; Morteo, “the velvet man,” because he is
dressed in velvet; and myself, “the man with the
broken shoe,” because a pain in my foot obliged me
to make a cut in my boot. They comment much upon
our doings, it appears, and say that we are all ugly,
not one accepted, not even the cook, who received
this intelligence with a laugh of scorn, and clapped
his hand on a pocket in his vest, where he had a
.pn +1
letter from his sweetheart. And it seems to me
that they find us, or pretend to find us ridiculous,
because, in the streets, they laugh with a certain ostentation
every time that one of us slips, or hits his
head against a branch of a tree, or loses his hat.
Nevertheless, and despite the variety of the landscape,
this population all of one color, and without
apparent distinction of rank, this silence broken
only by an eternal rustle of slippers and mantles,
these veiled women, these blind, mute houses, this
mysterious life,—all end by producing a dreadful
tedium. We must be within doors at sunset, and
may not go out again. With the daylight ceases
all trade, every movement, every sign of life; Fez is
no more than a vast necropolis, where if perchance
a human voice is heard, it is the howl of a madman,
or the shriek of one who is being murdered; and
he who insists upon going about at any cost, must
be accompanied by a patrol with loaded muskets,
and a company of carpenters who at every three
hundred paces must knock down a gate that stops
the way. In the daytime the city supplies no news
beyond some woman found in the street with a
dagger in her heart, or the departure of a caravan,
or the arrival of a governor or vice-governor of
some province who has been thrown into prison, the
bastinado administered to some dignitary, a festival
in honor of some saint, or other things of the same
character brought to us in general by Mohammed
Ducali or Schellal, who are our two perambulating
.pn +1
journals. And these events, with what I daily see,
and the singular life I lead, give me at night such
strangely intricate dreams of severed heads, and
deserts, of harems, prisons, Fez, Timbuctoo, and
Turin, that when I wake in the morning, it takes me
some minutes to find out what world I am in.

How many beautiful, grotesque, horrible, absurd,
and strange figures will live in my memory for ever!
My head is full of them, and when I am alone I
make them pass before me one by one, like the figures
in a magic lantern, with inexpressible pleasure.
There is Sid-Buker, the mysterious being who comes
three times every day, wrapped in a great mantle,
with head down, half-closed eyes, pale as death,
stealthy as a spectre, to confer secretly with the
Ambassador, and vanishes like a figure in a phantasmagoria,
without any one observing him. There is
the favorite Sid-Moussa, a handsome young mulatto,
graceful as a girl, elegant as a prince, fresh and smiling,
who goes leaping up and down the stairs, and
salutes you with a sort of coquetry, bowing profoundly
and extending his hand as if he were throwing
kisses. There is a soldier of the guard, a Berber,
born in the Atlas Mountains, a countenance that one
cannot see without a shudder, and who fixes upon
me a cold, perfidious, immovable glance, as if he
meant to kill me; and the more I try to avoid him
the more I meet him, and he seems to divine the
dread with which he inspires me, and to take a
satanic pleasure in it. There is a decrepit old
.pn +1
woman, whom I saw in the door of a mosque, naked
as she was born, except for a formless rag about her
hips, with her head as bald as the palm of my hand,
and a body so deformed that I made an exclamation
of horror, and was disturbed for some time by the
sight of her. There is the mischievous Moorish
woman, who, entering her house as we were passing
by, threw off in furious haste the <lang=ar><i>caic</i></lang> that covered
her, and giving us a glimpse of her handsome,
straight, and well-made figure, and a sparkling
glance, shut the door. There is the very old shopkeeper,
with a face at once ridiculous and frightful,
so bent over that when he stands in the back of his
dark niche he seems almost to touch his toes with
his chin; he keeps only one eye open, and that is
hardly visible; and every time I pass his shop, and
look in at him, that eye opens large and round, and
shines with a sort of mocking smile that gives me a
kind of anxious feeling. There is the beautiful little
Moorish girl of ten years old, with her hair loose
about her shoulders, dressed in a chemise bound
round the waist with a green scarf, who, in attempting
to jump from one terrace to another lower one,
got caught by her chemise upon the corner of a
brick, and was held dangling; and she, knowing that
she was seen from the palace of the Embassy, and
unable to get up or down, raised the most despairing
shrieks, and all the women in the house came, shaking
with laughter, to her assistance. There is the
gigantic mulatto, a madman, who, pursued by the
.pn +1
fixed idea that the Sultan’s soldiers are seeking him
to cut his hand off, flies through the streets like some
wild thing held in chase, convulsively shaking his
right arm as if it were already mutilated, and giving
the most frightful yells, which can be heard from one
end of the city to the other. There are many,
many more; but the one who rises oftenest before
my memory is a negro, of about fifty years of
age, a servant of the palace, a little more than a yard
high, and a little less than a yard wide, a contented
spirit, who is always smiling and twisting his mouth
toward his right ear; the most grotesque, the most
absurdly ridiculous figure that ever appeared under
the vault of heaven; and it is of no use for me to bite
my fingers, and tell myself that it is ignoble to laugh
at human deformity, and shame myself in many
ways, the laugh breaks out in spite of me—there
must be in it some mysterious intention of Providence—it
must break out. And—I really cannot
help it—the idea presents itself, what a capital pipe-bowl
he would make!

.if h
.il fn=i310.png w=60% id=i310 alt='Slave Of The Sultan.'
.ca Slave Of The Sultan.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Slave Of The Sultan.]
.if-

As the day of departure draws near, the merchants
come in crowds to the palace, and buying goes on
with fury. The rooms, the court, and the gallery
have taken the aspect of a bazaar. Everywhere
long rows of vases, embroidered slippers, cushions,
carpets, caics. Every thing in Fez that is most
gilded, most arabesqued, most dear in price, is
passed before our eyes. And it is worth while to
see how they sell, these people, without a word,
.pn 311
without a flitting smile, only making the sign of yes
or no with the head, and going away, having sold or
not having sold, with the same automaton faces that
they brought. Above all, the painters’ room is fine,
converted into a great <i>bric-à-brac</i> shop, full of saddles,
stirrups, guns, caftans, ragged scarfs, pottery,
barbaric ornaments, old girdles of women, come
from heaven knows where, that have perhaps felt
the pressure of the Sultan’s arms, and next year will
appear in some grand picture at Naples or New York.
One kind of thing only is wanting, namely, antique
objects, records of the various peoples who have conquered
and colonized Morocco; and although it is
known that such are often found underground and
among the ruins, it is not possible to get them, because
every object so found has to be carried to the
authorities, and whoever finds one hides it; and the
authorities, ignorant of their value, destroy or sell as
useless material the little that finds its way to them.
In this way, a few years ago, a bronze horse and
some small bronze statues, which were found in a
well near the remains of an aqueduct, were broken
up and sold for old copper to a Jew dealer in second-hand
goods.

To-day I had a warm discussion with a merchant
of Fez, with the intention of finding out what opinion
the Moors held of European civilization; and for
that reason I did not trouble myself to refute his
arguments, except when it was necessary to give
him line. He is a handsome man of forty, of an
.pn +1
honest and severe countenance, who has visited, in
his commerce, the principal cities of Western Europe,
and who lived a good while at Tangiers, where
he learned some Spanish. I had exchanged a few
words with him some days ago, <lang=fr><i>à propos</i></lang> of a small
piece of stuff woven of silk and gold, which he pretended
to be worth ten <i>marenghi</i>. But to-day,
attacking him upon the subject of his travels, a conversation
ensued which his companions listened to
with astonishment, although they could not understand
it. I asked him then what impression the
great cities of Europe had made upon him; not expecting,
however, to hear any great expression of
admiration, because I knew, as everybody knows,
that of the four or five hundred merchants of Morocco
who go every year to Europe the greater part
return to their own country more stupidly fanatical
than at first, when they do not return more rascally
and vicious; and that if they were all amazed at the
splendor of our cities, and at the marvels of our industries,
not one of them would be touched in the
soul, moved in the mind, spurred on to imitate, to
attempt; not one persuaded of the complex inferiority
of his own country; and certainly not one, even
if he experienced such sentiments, who would be
ready to express them, and still less to diffuse them,
through the fear of calling down upon himself the
accusation of being a renegade Mussulman and an
enemy to his country.

“What have you to say,” I asked, “of our great
cities?”
.pn +1

He looked fixedly at me, and answered coldly:
“Large streets, fine shops, handsome palaces, fine
offices—and all clean.”

With this he appeared to think that he had said
all that could be said in our honor.

“Did you see nothing else that was handsome and
good?” I asked.

He looked at me as if to inquire what I supposed
he was likely to have found.

“Is it possible” (I insisted) “that a reasonable
man like yourself, who has seen countries so wonderfully
different and superior to his own, does not
speak of them at least with astonishment, at least
with the vivacity with which a boy from a <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>
would speak of a pashà’s palace? What does astonish
you then in the world? What kind of people
are you? Who can comprehend you?”

“<lang=es><i>Perdóne Usted</i></lang>,” he answered, coldly; “in my
turn I do not understand you. When I have told
you every thing in which I think you superior to us,
what do you wish more? Do you wish me to say
what I do not think? I tell you that your streets
are wider than ours, your shops finer, your palaces
richer; it seems to me that I have said all. I will
say one thing more: that you know more than we
do, because you have books and read.”

I made a gesture of impatience.

“Do not be impatient, <lang=es><i>caballero</i></lang>,” he went on
quietly; “you will acknowledge that the first duty
of a man, the first thing which renders him estimable,
.pn +1
and that in which it is of the utmost importance that
a country should be superior to other countries, is
honesty; will you not? Very well, in the matter of
honesty I do not at all believe that you are superior
to us. And that is one thing.”

“Gently. Explain first what you mean by honesty.”

“Honesty in trade, <lang=es><i>caballero</i></lang>. The Moors, for example,
in trade sometimes deceive the Europeans,
but you Europeans deceive us Moors much more
often.”

“The cases are rare,” I answered, for the sake of
saying something.

“Cases rare!” he exclaimed, warmly. “Cases of
every-day occurrence” (and here I would like to report
exactly his broken, concise, and childish language).
“Proof! Proof! I at Marseilles. I am
at Marseilles. I buy cotton. I choose the thread,
thick like this. I say: this number, this stamp, this
quantity, send. I pay, I depart, arrive at Morocco,
receive cotton, open, look, same number, same stamp—thread
three times smaller! good for nothing!
loss, thousands of francs! I run to Consulate—nothing.
<i>Otro</i>, another. Merchant of Fez orders
blue cloth in Europe, so many pieces, so wide, so
long, agreed, paid. Receives cloth, opens, measures:
first pieces right; under, shorter; last, half a
yard shorter! not good for cloaks, merchant ruined.
<i>Otro, otro.</i> Merchant of Morocco orders in Europe,
thousand yards gold galloon for officers, and sends
.pn +1
money. Galloon comes, cut, sewed, worn—copper!
<i>Y otros, y otros, y otros!</i>” With this he lifted his
face to the sky, and then turning abruptly to me:
“More honest you?”

I repeated that these could only be exceptional
cases. He made no reply.

“More religious you?” he asked then, shortly.
“No!” and after a moment: “No! Enough to go
once into one of your mosques.”

“You say,” he went on, encouraged by my silence,
“in your country there are fewer <i>matamientos</i> (murders)?”
Here I should have been embarrassed to
answer. What would he have said if I had confessed
that in Italy alone there are committed three
thousand homicides a year, and that there are ninety
thousand prisoners on trial and condemned?

“I do not believe it,” he said, reading my answer
in my eyes. Not feeling myself secure upon
this ground, I attacked him with the usual arguments
against polygamy.

He jumped as if I had burnt him.

“Always that!” he cried, turning red to his very
ears. “Always that! as if you had one woman
only! and you want to make us believe it! One
wife is really yours, but there are those of <i>los otros</i>,
and those who are <i>de todos y de nadie</i>, of everybody
and nobody. Paris! London! Cafés full, streets
full, theatres full. <i>Verguenza!</i> and you reproach
the Moors!”

So saying, he pulled the beads of his rosary
.pn +1
through his trembling fingers, and turned from time
to time with a faint smile to make me understand
that his anger was not against me, but against Europe.

Seeing that he took this question rather too much
to heart, I changed the subject, and asked him if he
did not recognize greater convenience in our manner
of living. Here he was very comic. He had his
arguments all ready.

“It is true,” he answered, with an ironical accent;
“it is true. Sun? Parasol. Rain? Umbrella.
Dust? Gloves. To walk? A stick. To look?
An eye-glass. To take the air? A carriage. To
sit down? Elastic cushions. To eat? Music. A
scratch? The doctor. Death? A statue: <i>Eh!</i>
how many things you have need of! What men,
<i>por Dios</i>! What children!”

In short, he would not leave me any thing. He
even laughed at our architecture.

“<i>Che! che!</i>” said he, when I talked of the comfort
of our houses. “There are three hundred of
you living in one house, all a-top of one another,
and then you go up, and up, and up—and there is
no air, and no light, and no garden!”

Then I spoke of laws, of government, of liberty,
and the like; and as he was a man of intelligence,
I think I succeeded, if not in making him understand
all the differences in these respects between his
country and ours, at least, in introducing some
gleams of light into his mind. Seeing that he could
.pn +1
not meet me on this ground, he suddenly changed
the subject, and looking at me from head to foot,
said, smiling, “<i>Mal vestidos</i>” (badly dressed).

I replied that dress was of small importance, and
asked him if he did not recognize our superiority in
this, that instead of sitting for hours idly, with our
legs crossed on a mattress, we employed our time in
many useful and amusing ways.

He gave me a more subtle answer than I had expected.
He said that it did not appear to him a
good sign to have need of so many ways of passing
the time. Life alone, then, was for us a punishment
that we could not rest an hour doing nothing, without
amusement, without wearing ourselves out in the
search for entertainment? Were we afraid of ourselves?
Had we something in us which tormented
us?

“But see,” I said, “what a dull spectacle your
city presents, what solitude, what silence, what
misery. You have been in Paris. Compare the
streets of Paris with the streets of Fez.”

Here he was sublime. He sprang to his feet
laughing, and, more in gesture than in words, gave
a jesting description of the spectacle which is presented
by our city streets: “Come, go, run; carts
here, wheelbarrows there; a deafening noise;
drunken men staggering along; gentlemen buttoning
up their coats to save their purses; at every step
a guard, who looks as if at every step he saw a
thief; old people and children who are in constant
.pn +1
danger of being crushed by the carriages of the rich;
impudent women, and even girls, horror! who give
provoking glances, and even nudge the young men
with their elbows; everybody with a cigar in his
mouth; on every side people going into shops, to
eat, to drink, to have their hair dressed, to look in
mirrors, to put on gloves; and dandies planted before
the doors of the cafés to whisper in the ears of
other people’s wives who are passing; and that
ridiculous manner of saluting, and walking on the
toes, and swinging and jumping about; and then,
good heavens, what womanish curiosity!” And
touching this point he grew warm, and told how one
day, in an Italian city, having gone out in his Moorish
dress, in a moment there had gathered a crowd,
who ran before and behind him, shouting and laughing,
and would scarcely let him walk, so that he had
to go back to his hotel and change his dress. “And
that is the way they act in your country!” he went
on. “That they do so here is not surprising, for
they never see a Christian; but in your country,
where they know how we are dressed, because they
have pictures of us, and send their painters here
with machines to take our portraits; among you who
know so much, do you think that such things ought
to happen?”

After which he smiled courteously, as if to say,
“All this is no reason why we should not be
friends.”

Then the conversation turned upon European
.pn +1
manufactures, railways, telegraphs, and great works
of public utility; and of these he allowed me to
talk without interruption, assenting from time to time
with a nod.

When I had finished, however, he sighed and said,
“After all, what are all these things worth if we
must all die?”

“Finally,” I concluded, “you would not change
your condition for ours?”

He stood a moment thoughtful, and replied: “No,
because you are no longer-lived than we are, nor are
you more healthy, nor better, nor more religious,
nor more contented. Leave us, then, in peace. Do
not insist that everybody should live as you do, and
be happy according to your ideas. Let us all stay
in the circle where Allah has placed us. For some
good purpose Allah stretched the sea between Europe
and Africa. Let us respect His decree.”

“And do you believe,” I demanded, “that you will
always remain as you are; that little by little we shall
not make you change?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “You have the
strength, you will do what you please. All that
is to happen is already written. But whatever happens
Allah will not abandon His faithful people.”

With this he took my hand, pressed it to his heart,
and went majestically away.

This morning at sunrise I went to see the review
which the Sultan holds three times a week in the
square where he received the Embassy.
.pn +1

As I went out at the gate of the Nicchia del
Burro, I had a first taste of the manœuvres of the
artillery. A troop of soldiers, old, middle-aged, and
boys, all dressed in red, were running behind a
small cannon drawn by one mule. It was one of
the twelve guns presented by the Spanish government
to Sultan Sid-Mohammed after the war of
1860. Every now and then the mule slipped, or
turned aside, or stopped, and the whole band began
to yell and to strike at her, dancing and giggling, as
if it was a carnival car they were conducting. In a
distance of about a hundred paces they stopped ten
times. Now the little bucket fell off, now the rammer,
now something else; for every thing was hung
on the carriage. The mule zig-zagged along at her
own caprice, or rather wherever the cannon pushed
her in coming down over the inequalities of the
ground; everybody gave orders which no one
obeyed; the big ones cuffed the small ones, the
small ones cuffed the smaller ones, and they all
cuffed each other; and the cannon remained pretty
much in the same place. It was a scene to have
thrown General La Marmora into a tertian fever.

On the left bank of the river there were about
two thousand foot-soldiers, some lying on the
ground, some standing about in groups. In the
square enclosed between the walls and the river, the
artillery; four guns were firing at a mark; behind
the guns stood some soldiers, and a tall figure in
white—the Sultan. From the place where I stood,
.pn +1
however, I could scarcely distinguish his outline.
He seemed from time to time to speak to the artillerymen,
as if he were directing them. On the opposite
side of the square, near the bridge, there was
a crowd of Moors, Arabs, and blacks, men and
women, people from the city and country-people,
gentlemen and peasants, all assembled together, and
waiting, I was told, to be called one by one before
the Sultan, from whom they wished favor or justice;
for the Sultan gives audience three times a
week to whosoever wishes to speak with him.
Some of these poor people had, perhaps, come from
distant places to complain of the exactions of the
governor, or to beg for pardon for their relatives
in prison. There were ragged women and tottering
old men; all the faces were weary and sad, and
upon them could be read both impatient desire and
dread to appear before the prince of true believers,
the supreme judge, who in a few minutes, with few
words, would perhaps decide the fate of their whole
lives. I could not see that they had any thing at
their feet or in their hands, and for this reason I
believe that the reigning Sultan has discontinued
the custom, which formerly existed, of accompanying
every petition with a present, which was never
refused, however small, and consisted sometimes of
a pair of fowls or a dozen of eggs. I walked
about among the soldiers. The boys were divided
into companies of thirty or forty each, and were
amusing themselves by running after one another
.pn +1
and playing a sort of leap-frog. In some of these
groups, however, the diversion consisted in a sort
of pantomime, which, when I understood its meaning,
made me shudder. They were representing
the amputation of the hands, decapitation, and other
kinds of punishment, which they had doubtless often
witnessed. One boy represented the caid, another
the victim, and a third the executioner; the victim,
when his hand was cut off, made believe to plunge
the stump into a vessel of pitch; another pretended
to pick up the hand and throw it to the dogs; and
the spectators all laughed.

The gallows-bird faces of the greater part of
these youthful soldiers are not to be described.
They were of all shades of color, from ebony black
to orange yellow; and not one of them, even among
the youngest, had preserved the ingenuous expression
of childhood. All had something hard, impudent,
cynical, in their eyes, that inspired pity rather
than anger. No great perspicacity is necessary to
understand that they could not be otherwise. Of
the men, the greater part of them were dozing,
stretched out on the ground; others were dancing
negro dances in the midst of a circle of spectators,
and making all sorts of jokes and grimaces; others,
again, fencing with sabres, in the same way as at
Tangiers, springing about with the action of rope-dancers.
The officers, among them many renegades,
who were to be recognized by their faces,
their pipes, and a certain something of superior care
.pn +1
in their dress, walked about apart, and when I met
them, turned their eyes away. Beyond the bridge,
in a place apart, about twenty men, muffled in
white mantles, were lying on the ground, one beside
the other, motionless as statues. I drew near, and
saw that they all wore heavy chains on wrist and
ankle. They were persons condemned for common
offences, who were dragged about by the army, and
thus pilloried in the sight of all. As I approached
they all turned, and fixed upon me a look that made
me retreat at once.

I left the soldiers, and went to rest myself under
the shade of a palm-tree, on a rising ground, whence
I could command the whole plain. I had been
there but a few minutes, when I saw an officer detach
himself from a group, and come slowly toward
me, looking carelessly about him, and humming a
tune, as if to avoid notice. He was a short, stout man of
about forty, wearing a sort of Zouave dress, with a
fez, and without arms.

When I saw him near, I had a sensation of disgust.
Never have I seen outside of the assize court
a more perfidious countenance. I would have
sworn to his having at least ten murders on his conscience,
accompanied by assaults on the person.

He stopped at a couple of paces from me, fixed
two glassy eyes upon me, and said, coldly, “<lang=fr><i>Bon
jour, monsieur</i></lang>.”

I asked him if he were a Frenchman. “Yes,” he
replied. “I am from Algiers. I have been here
.pn +1
seven years. I am a captain in the army of Morocco.”

Not being able to compliment him on his position,
I kept silence.

“<lang=fr><i>C´est comme ça</i></lang>,” he continued, speaking quickly.
“I came away from Algiers because I could not bear
the sight of it any more. <lang=fr><i>J´étais obligé de vivre
dans un cercle trop étroit</i></lang>” (he meant, perhaps, the
halter). “European life did not suit my tastes. I
felt the need of change.”

“And are you more contented now?” I inquired.

“Most content,” he answered, with affectation.
“The country is lovely, Muley-el-Hassan is the best
of sultans, the people are kind, I am a captain, I
have a little shop, I exercise a small trade, I hunt, I
fish, I make excursions into the mountains, I enjoy
complete liberty. I would not go back to Europe,
you see, for all the gold in the world.”

“Do you not wish to see your own country again?
Have you forgotten even France?”

“What is France to me!” he replied. “For me
France has no existence. Morocco is my country.”
And he shrugged his shoulders.

His cynicism revolted me; I could scarcely believe
it; I had the curiosity to probe him a little more
deeply.

“Since you left Algeria,” I asked, “have you had
no news of events in Europe?”

“<lang=fr><i>Pas un mot</i></lang>,” he answered. “Here nobody
knows any thing, and I am very glad not to know
any thing.”
.pn +1

“You do not know, then, that there has been a
great war between France and Prussia?”

He started. “<lang=fr><i>Qui a vaincu?</i></lang>” he asked, quickly,
fixing his eyes upon me.

“Prussia,” I replied.

He made a gesture of surprise. I told him in a
few words of the disasters that had befallen France,—the
invasion, the taking of Paris, the loss of the two
provinces. He listened with his head bent down
and his eyebrows knit; then he roused himself and
said, with a kind of effort, “<lang=fr><i>C´est égal</i></lang>—I have no
country, it is no affair of mine,” and he bent his
head again. I observed him steadily, and he saw it.
“Adieu, Monsieur,” he said, abruptly, in an altered
voice, and walked quickly away.

“All is not dead within him yet!” I thought, and
was glad.

Meantime the artillery had ceased its fire, the Sultan
had retired under a white pavilion at the foot of
a tower, and the soldiers began to defile before him,
unarmed, and one by one, at about twenty paces one
from the other. As there was not beside the Sultan,
or in front of the pavilion any officer to read the
names, as with us, in order to certify the existence of
every soldier on the rolls (and I am told there are no
rolls in the army of Morocco), I could not understand
the purpose of the review, unless it was for the
Sultan’s amusement; and I was tempted to laugh.
But, upon second thoughts, the primitive and poetic
idea in the sight of that African monarch, high-priest,
.pn +1
an absolute prince, young, gentle, and in all simplicity
standing three hours alone in the shadow of
his tent, and three times in every week seeing his
soldiers passing before him one by one, and listening
to the prayers and lamentations of his unhappy subjects
inspired me instead with a feeling of respect.
And since it was the last time that I should see him,
I felt a sudden rush of sympathy toward him as I
turned away. “Farewell,” I thought, “handsome
and noble prince!” and as his gracious white figure
disappeared for ever from my eyes, I felt a sensation
in my breast as if, in that moment, it had been
stamped upon my heart.

The ninth of June: the last day of the sojourn of
the Italian Embassy at Fez. All the Ambassador’s
demands have been conceded, the affairs of Ducali
and Schellal arranged, visits of leave-taking made,
the last dinner of Sid-Moussa submitted to, the
usual presents from the Sultan received: a fine black
horse, with an enormous green velvet saddle embroidered
with gold for the Ambassador; gilded and
damascened sabres to the officials of the Embassy;
a mule to the second dragoman. The tents and
boxes were sent forward this morning, the rooms
are empty, the mules are ready, the escort awaits us
at the gate of Nicchia del Burro, my companions
are walking up and down the court, expecting the
signal for departure, and I, seated for the last time
upon the edge of my imperial bed, note down in a
book upon my knee my last impressions of Fez.
.pn +1
What are they? What is left at last at the bottom
of my soul by the spectacle of this people, this city,
this state of things? If my thought penetrates at
all under the pleasing impressions of wonder and
gratified curiosity, I find a mingling of diverse sentiments,
which leave my mind uncertain. There is a
feeling of pity for the decay, the debasement, the
agony of a warlike and knightly race, who left so
luminous a track in the history of science and art,
and now have not even the consciousness of their
past glory. There is admiration for what remains
in them of the strong and beautiful, for the virile
and gracious majesty of their aspect, dress, demeanor,
and ceremonies; for every thing that their
sad and silent life retains of its antique dignity and
simplicity. There is displeasure at the sight of so
much barbarism at so short a distance from civilization,
and that this civilization should have so disproportionate
a force in rising and expanding, that in so
many centuries, and always growing on its own
ground, it has been unable to cross two hundred
miles of sea. There is anger at the thought that,
to the great interest of the barbarism of this part of
Africa, the civilized states prefer their own small
local and mercantile interests; and diminishing thus
in the minds of this people, by the spectacle of their
mean jealousies, their own authority and that of the
civilization which they desire to spread, render the
undertaking always more difficult and slow.
Finally, there is a sentiment of vivid pleasure, when
.pn +1
I think that in this country another little world has
been formed in my brain, populous, animated, full of
new personages who will live forever there, whom
I can evoke at will, and can converse with them, and
live again in Africa. But with this glad feeling
comes another which is sad, the inevitable sentiment
that throws a shadow over all our serene hours and
drops a drop of bitterness into all our pleasures—that
which the Moorish merchant expressed when
he demonstrated the vanity of the great efforts of
civilized people to study, to seek, to discover; and
then this beautiful journey seems to me only the
rapid passage of a fine scene in the spectacle of an
hour, which is life; and my pencil drops from my
hand, and a dark discouragement takes possession
of me. Ah! the voice of Selam calls me! We
must go, then. To return to the tent, to the warlike
manœuvres, the wide plains, the great light, the
joyous and wholesome life of the encampment.
Farewell, Fez! Farewell, sadness! My little African
world is again illuminated with rose color.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap12
CHAPTER XII. | MECHINEZ.
.sp 2

After twenty-four days of city life the caravan
impressed me as a new spectacle. And yet
nothing was changed, except that beside Mohamed
Ducali rode the Moor, Schellal, who although
his business had been amicably settled, thought it
more prudent to return to Tangiers under the wing
of the Ambassador than to remain in Fez under
that of his government. An acute observer might
also have observed upon our faces, if he were a
pessimist, a certain annoyance; if an optimist, a
calm serenity, which was derived from a profound
consciousness in all, that we had left behind in the
imperial capital no pining beauty, no offended husband,
no distracted family. On all our faces also
shone the thought of return—that is, on as much
as could be seen of them under the umbrellas, veils,
handkerchiefs, with which most of us had concealed
our heads for shelter against the ardent sun and
suffocating dust. Alas! here was the great change.
The sun of May was changed into the sun of June,
the thermometer marked forty-two degrees (centigrade)
.pn +1
at the moment of departure, and before us
lay two hundred miles of African soil.

To return to Tangiers we had to go to Mechinez,
from thence to Laracce, then along the shores of the
sea to Arzilla, and from Arzilla to Ain-Dalia, where
we had first encamped.

We took three days to go to Mechinez, distant
from Fez about fifty kilometres.

The country did not present any marked differences
to that which we had traversed in going to
Fez: always the same fields of grain and barley, in
some of which they were beginning to reap; the
same black <lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang>, the same vast spaces covered
with dwarf palms and lentiscus, those grand undulations
of the land, rocky hills, dry beds of torrents,
solitary palms, white tombs of saints, splendidly
peaceful and infinitely sad. But because of the
neighborhood of the two great cities, we met more
people than on the way between Tangiers and Fez:
caravans of camels, droves of cattle, merchants
bringing troops of beautiful horses to the markets
of Fez, saints preaching in the desert, couriers on
foot and on horseback, groups of Arabs armed
with reaping-hooks, and some rich Moorish families
going to Fez with their servants and chattels.
One of these—the family of a wealthy merchant
known to Ducali—formed a long caravan. First
came two servants armed with muskets; and behind
them the head of the family, a handsome man
of a stern countenance, with a black beard and a white
.pn +1
turban, riding a richly caparisoned mule; with one
hand he held the reins, and sustained a child of two
or three years old, seated before him in the saddle;
with the other he clasped the hand of a woman
completely veiled—perhaps his favorite wife—who
rode behind him astride of the mule’s crupper, and
who held him round the waist as if she meant to
suffocate him, perhaps in fear of us. Other women,
all with veiled faces, came riding on other mules
behind the master; armed relations, boys, black
servants; women with babies in their arms; Arab
servants with muskets on their shoulders; mules
and asses laden with mattresses, pillows, coverings,
plates, and other matters; and, finally, more servants
on foot, bearing cages full of canary-birds and parrots.

The women, as they passed us, wrapped their
veils more closely about them, the merchant did not
look at us, the relations gave us a timid glance, and
two of the children began to cry.

From these spectacles we were diverted on the
third day by a sad event. Poor Doctor Miguerez,
attacked at our second resting-place by the atrocious
pain of sciatica, had to be transported to Mechinez
in a litter, hastily made of a hammock and two curtain-poles,
and suspended between two mules; and
this depressed us all. The caravan was divided into
two parts. I cannot express how painful it became
to see, as we often did, that litter appear behind us
on the top of a hill and slowly descend into the
.pn +1
valley, surrounded by soldiers on horseback, muleteers,
servants, and friends, all grave and silent as a
funeral cortége, and now and then stopping to bend
over the sick man, and then going on, signing to us
from afar that our poor friend was growing worse.
It was a painful spectacle, but a fine one also, giving
to the caravan the air of the afflicted escort of a
wounded sultan.

On the first day we encamped still in the plain of
Fez; on the second, on the right bank of the
Mduma River, at about five hours from Mechinez.
Here we had a very pleasant adventure. Toward
evening we all went down to the bank of the river,
about half a mile from the camp, near a large <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>,
from which all the inhabitants came out to meet us.
There was a bridge there of masonry; one single
arch, of Arab construction, and old, but still entire
and solid; and beside it the remains of another
bridge, partly embedded in the high rocky bank,
and partly fallen into the bed of the river. On the
opposite shore, at about fifty paces from the bridge,
there was a dilapidated wall, some traces of foundations,
and a few big hewn stones that seemed to
have once belonged to an important building. The
country all about was deserted. The ruins, we were
told, were those of an Arabian city, called Mduma,
built upon the remains of another city anterior to
the Mussulman invasion. We set to work to search
among the stones for any traces of Roman construction;
but we found or recognized none, to the manifest
.pn +1
satisfaction of the Arabs, who doubtless believed
that we were seeking, on the faith of some of
our diabolical books, some hidden treasures of the
<i>Rumli</i> (Romans), from whom, according to them, all
Christians are direct descendants.

Captain de Boccard, however, recrossing the
bridge to return to the camp, saw down in the river,
on the top of an enormous fragment of almost pyramidal
form, some small square stones, which looked
to him as if they had characters engraved upon
them; and the fact that they were there, as if placed
there on purpose to be seen from the bridge,
made the supposition of value. The Captain manifested
his intention of going to see what they were.
Everybody advised him not to. The river banks
were very steep, the bottom encumbered with
pointed rocks, scattered at some distance from each
other, the current strong and rapid, the fragment of
ruin on which the stones lay was very high, and
either impossible or very dangerous of access. But
Captain de Boccard is one of those persons who are
impossible to move when once their purpose is
fixed: they will do it, or die. We had not yet done
dissuading him, when he was already down the
bank, just as he was, with his horseman’s boots and
spurs. A hundred Arabs were looking on, some
fringed along the river banks, some leaning over
the parapet of the bridge. As soon as they understood
what the Captain was going to do, the enterprise
appeared to them so desperate, that they began
.pn +1
to laugh. When they saw him stop on the
edge of the water and look about as if seeking a
passage, they imagined that his courage had failed,
and all burst out into insolently sonorous laughter.
“Not one of us,” one cried, in a loud voice, “has
ever succeeded in climbing up there; we shall see
whether a Nazarene can do it.”

And certainly no other of us Italians could have
done it. But he who attempted it was, as it happened,
the most active personage in the Embassy.
The laughter of the Arabs gave him the final impulse.
He gave a spring, disappeared into the midst
of the bushes, reappeared upon a rock, vanished
again, and so from rock to rock, springing like a cat,
clinging, and climbing, and slipping, over and over
again risking a fall into the river, or the breaking of
his bones, came to the foot of the piece of ruin, and
without taking breath, clinging to every root and
every projection, he reached the top, and stood erect
upon it like a statue. We all drew a long breath,
the Arabs were amazed, and Italian honor was safe.
The Captain, like a noble victor, deigned not even a
glance at his crestfallen adversaries, and as soon as
he had satisfied himself that the supposed engraved
stones were nothing but fragments of mortar that had
fallen from the bridge, came down by the other side,
and with a few jumps gained the shore, where he
was received with the honors of a triumph.

The transit from Mduma to Mechinez was a
succession of optical illusions of so singular a character,
.pn +1
that if it had not been for the suffocating
heat, we should have been immensely amused by
them. At about two hours from the encampment,
we saw, vaguely gleaming afar off in a vast naked
plain, the white minarets of Mechinez, and rejoiced
that we were so near our journey’s end. But
what had seemed to us a plain was in reality an
interminable succession of parallel valleys, separated
by large waves of land all of equal height, which
presented the aspect of one continued surface; so
that as we went forward the city was perpetually
hidden and again revealed, as if it were peeping at
us; and besides that, the valleys being broken, rocky,
and traversed only by winding and difficult paths, our
road yet to be accomplished was at least double in
distance to what it appeared to be; and it seemed as
if the city withdrew as we advanced; at every valley
our hearts opened to hope, and at every hill we despaired
again, and voices weak and high were heard,
and lamentable sighs, and angry propositions to renounce
any future voyage to Africa, for whatever
purpose or under whatever conditions; when suddenly,
as we came out of a grove of wild olives, the
city rose before us, and all our lamentations were
lost in exclamations of wonder.

Mechinez, spread upon a long hill, surrounded by
gardens, bounded by three ranges of battlemented
walls, crowned with minarets and palms, gay and
majestic, like a suburb of Constantinople, presented
herself to our eyes, with her thousand terraces
.pn +1
drawn white against the azure of the sky. Not a
cloud of smoke issued from all that multitude of
houses; there was not a living soul to be seen, either
on the terraces or before the walls; nor was there a
sound to be heard: it seemed a deserted city, or a
scene in a theatre.

The dinner tent was pitched in a bare field, at two
hundred paces from one of the fifteen gates of the
city, and in a few minutes we sat down to satisfy, as
some elegant prose writer remarks, “our natural talent
for food and drink.”

We were scarcely seated, when there issued from
the city gate, and advanced toward the encampment,
a company of horsemen superbly dressed and preceded
by foot-soldiers.

It was the governor of Mechinez, with his relatives
and officials. At about twenty paces off they
dismounted from their horses, which were covered
with trappings in all the colors of the rainbow, and
rushed toward us shouting all together in one voice,
“Welcome! welcome! welcome!”

.if h
.il fn=i336.png w=60% id=i336 alt='Gateway At Mechinez.'
.ca Gateway At Mechinez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Gateway At Mechinez.]
.if-

The governor was a young man of a mild countenance,
with black eyes and blacker beard; all the
others, men of forty or fifty, were tall, bearded,
dressed in white, and as neat and perfumed as if
they had come out of a box. They all pressed our
hands, passing round the table with a tripping step,
and smiling graciously, and then took their places
behind the governor. One of them, seeing a bit of
bread on the ground, picked it up and put it on the
.pn 337
table, saying something which probably meant: “Excuse
me; the Koran forbids the wasting of bread; I
am doing my duty as a good Mussulman.” The
governor offered us the hospitality of his house,
which was accepted. Only the two artists and I remained
in the camp, and waited until it should be
cool before going into the city.

Selam kept us company, and related to us the
wonders of Mechinez.

“At Mechinez are the most beautiful women in
Morocco, the finest gardens in Africa, and the most
beautiful imperial palace in the world.” Thus he
began; and in fact Mechinez does enjoy such fame
in the empire. To be a native of Mechinez is,
for a woman, to be beautiful, and for a man, to be
jealous. The imperial palace, founded by Muley-Imael,
which in 1703 had in it four thousand women
and eight hundred and sixty-seven children, had an
extent of two miles of circuit, and was ornamented
with marble columns, brought partly from the ruins
of the city of Pharaoh, near Mechinez, and partly
from Leghorn and Marseilles. There was a great
hall, or alkazar, where the most precious European
tissues were sold; a vast market, joined to the city
by a road ornamented with a hundred fountains; a
park of immense olive-trees; seven large mosques;
a formidable garrison with artillery, that held the
Berbers of the mountains in check; an imperial
treasure of five hundred millions of francs; and a
population of fifty thousand inhabitants, who were
.pn +1
considered as the most cultured and the most hospitable
in the empire.

Selam described in a low voice and with mysterious
gestures the place where the treasure was kept,
the amount of which no one knows; but it must
have been much decreased in the last wars, if even
it is still worthy of the name of treasure. “Within
the palace,” he said, “there is another palace all of
stone, which receives the light from above, and is
surrounded by three ranges of walls. It is entered
by an iron door, and within there is another, and yet
another iron door. After these three doors there is
a dark, low passage, where lights are necessary, and
the pavement, walls, and roof are all of black marble,
and the air smells like that of a sepulchre. At the
end of the corridor, there is a great hall, and in the
middle of it an opening which leads to a deep subterranean
place, where three hundred negroes, four
times a year, shovel in the gold and silver money
which the Sultan sends. The Sultan looks on while
this is done. The negroes are shut up for life in the
palace, and never come out until they are carried out
dead. And around the great hall there are ten
earthen jars which contain the heads of ten slaves
who once tried to steal. Muley Soliman cut off all
their heads as soon as the money was in its place.
And no man ever came out of that palace alive except
our lord the Sultan.”

He related these horrors without the least sign of
disapproval, even with an admiring accent, as if
.pn +1
they were superhuman and fatal events, which a
man must not judge, nor feel any other sentiment
concerning them save one of mysterious respect.

“There was once a king of Mechinez,” he resumed,
with unalterable gravity, standing erect before
our tent, with his hand on the hilt of his sabre,
“who wished to make a road from Mechinez to Morocco,
bordered by two high walls, so that even the
blind could go from one place to the other without a
guide. And this perverse and cruel king had a ring
by whose power he could call all the demons to his
service. And he called them and made them work
at the road. There were thousands and thousands
of them, and every one of them carried stones that
a hundred men could not have moved an inch, and
those who would not work, the king had them built
up alive in the wall, and their bones can still be
seen.” (They can still be seen, indeed, but they are
the bones of Christian slaves, which are also found
in the walls of Sallè and Rabat.)

“And the wall was built for the length of a day’s
journey, and everybody rejoiced, thinking that it
would soon be finished. But that king was displeasing
to Allah, and Allah did not choose that the wall
should be finished. One day when he was riding
along, a poor country-woman stopped him, and said,
'Where, O audacious king, is this road to end?’
'In hell,’ answered the king, in a rage.  'Go down
there, then!’ cried the woman. At these words the
king fell from his horse dead, the walls crumbled
.pn +1
away, the demons scattered the stones over the
country, and the road remains to this day unfinished
forever.”

“And do you believe that all this is true, Selam?”
I asked.

“Certainly,” he answered, astonished at my doubt.

“Do you believe in demons?”

“Of course I believe in them! I should like to
see the time when we would not believe in them!”

“But have you ever seen one?”

“Never! And for that reason I believe that there
are no more of them on earth, and when I hear any
one say, 'Take care how you pass at night through
such or such a place, because there are demons
there,’ I go at once, and go in first myself, because I
know that the demons are men, and with a good
horse between my knees, and a good musket in my
hand, I am afraid of nobody.”

“And why, in your opinion, are there no more
demons now, if there were some once?”

“Why, because the world was not always the
same as it is now. I might as well ask you why
men were once taller, and the days longer than they
are now, and why beasts could talk.” And he went
off shaking his head with a compassionate air.

.if h
.il fn=i340.png w=100% id=i340 alt='Palace Of The Governor Of Mechinez.'
.ca Palace Of The Governor Of Mechinez.
.if-
.if t
[Illustration: Palace Of The Governor Of Mechinez.]
.if-

On that day, as the Ambassador was dining in
the city, Selam and the others did nothing but gallop
between the town and the tents, to the great
amusement of the artists and myself, because the
contrast between the majesty of their aspect and the
.pn 341
humility of their office had never struck us before.
There, for instance, was Hamed, mounted on a superb
black horse, coming out at a gallop from the
battlemented gate of Mechinez, and darting off at
full speed across the country. His tall turban
gleamed in the sun with the whiteness of snow; his
large blue mantle floated on the wind like a royal
garment; his poniard glittered; the whole of his
martial and gracious figure presented the dignity of
a prince and the boldness of a warrior. What romantic
fancies are excited in the mind by the vision
of that handsome Mussulman cavalier flying like a
phantom under the walls of a mediæval city!
Whither goes he? To carry off the loveliest daughter
of the Pashà of Faraone; to defy the valorous
Caid of Uazzan, betrothed to the lady of his love;
to pour out his griefs into the bosom of the aged
saint who has prayed for eighty years on the top
of Mount Zerhun, in the sacred <i>zania</i> of Muley-Edris?

Nothing of the sort; he is coming back to camp
to get a plate of fried potatoes for the Ambassador.

Toward sunset the two painters and myself,
mounted on mules, and escorted by four foot-soldiers
of the governor of Mechinez, set out for the city,
our guard having put away their muskets, and being
armed only with sticks and knotted cords. Before
starting, however, we arranged with them, through
interpreter Hamed, that whenever we all should clap
our hands thrice, in whatever quarter of the city we
.pn +1
might be, they were to conduct us at once back to
the encampment.

Passing two outside gates, divided by a steep ascent,
we found ourselves in the centre of the city.
The first impression was one of agreeable surprise.
Mechinez, which we had fancied as more melancholy
than Fez, was, on the contrary, a gay city, full
of verdure, traversed by many winding streets, but
broad, and bordered by low houses and garden
walls that allowed the tops of the beautiful hills
around to be seen. On every side there rose above
the houses a minaret, a palm, a battlemented wall; at
every step a fountain or an arabesqued door appeared;
there were oaks and leafy fig-trees in the
streets and squares, and everywhere air, and light,
and the odor of the fields, and a certain gentle
peacefulness, as of a princely city, fallen, but not
dead. After many turns, we came out in a vast
square, opposite the monumental palace of the governor,
resplendent with many-colored mosaics of
great beauty; and, at that moment, the level rays of
the setting sun striking full upon it, it glittered like
the pearl-encrusted palaces of the Oriental legends.
A few soldiers were going through the powder-play
(<lang=it><i>guioco della polvere</i></lang>); about fifty servants and guards
were sitting on the ground before the door; the
piazza was deserted. It was a fine spectacle. That
illuminated façade, those horsemen, the towers, the
solitude, and the sunset formed altogether a picture
so completely Moorish, breathed so vivid an air of
.pn +1
other times, presented in one frame so many stories,
so much poetry, so many dreams, that we stood
rapt before it. From thence the soldiers led us to
see a great exterior gate of noble design, covered
from top to bottom with delicate and many-colored
mosaics, which glowed in the sun like jewels set in
ivory; and the painters sketched it in all haste before
we returned to the city. Until now, the people
we met by the way had shown themselves only curious,
and it seemed to us that they even regarded
us with more benevolent eyes than the population of
Fez. But suddenly, without a shadow of reason,
their humor changed. Some old women began to
show us the whites of their eyes, then some boys
threw stones at our mules’ legs, and then a troop of
ragamuffins began to run beside us and behind us,
making the most infernal noise. The soldiers, meantime,
were in no humor for compliments. Two
placed themselves in front and two behind us, and
they began a real combat with the rabble, striking
the nearest with their sticks, throwing stones at those
far away, and chasing the most insolent. But it was
all labor thrown away. Not daring to retort with
stones, the rabble began to throw rotten oranges, bits
of lemon-peel, dry sticks, and the shower became so
heavy, that it seemed to us more prudent to advise
the soldiers to desist from further provocation. But
the soldiers were provoked, and either did not or
would not hear us, and continued the battle with increasing
fury. Indignant at their brutality, we
.pn +1
warned them with imperative gestures to desist.
But the wretches thought we were reproving them
for too much mildness, and went on worse than
ever. By way of addition, two boys of ten and
twelve years old now joined us—possibly relations
of the soldiers—and armed with sticks; they too
began to distribute the most desperate blows to men,
women, asses, mules, near and far, until even the
soldiers themselves counselled moderation. And at
every blow they turned and looked at us, as if to
ask us to take note of their zeal in our defence; and
as we were in fits of laughter, they were encouraged
and went on worse than ever. Now what will
happen? we said to each other. A scandal! A revolution!
Already the beaten ones grumbled, and
some raised their hands against the boys; we must
get out of the city as soon as may be. But Biseo
still hesitated, when a stone struck my mule on the
head, and a carrot alighted on the back of Ussi’s
neck. Then we decided to clap our hands as agreed
upon. But even this innocent signal provoked a
tumult. The soldiers, to show that they understood,
responded by clapping their own hands; the people
in the square, thinking that they were being made
game of, clapped theirs, and the oranges and lemons
continued to rain upon us, together with curses loud
and deep; and when at last we reached the gate,
and rode down toward the camp, they still yelled
after us from the walls: “Accursed be thy father!
May thy race be exterminated! May God roast thy
great-grandfather!”
.pn +1

Thus did Mechinez receive us, and fortunate for
us it was that she is the “most hospitable city in the
empire.”

On the following morning there was brought to
the camp a litter for the doctor, made in twenty-four
hours by the best carpenters in Mechinez, who
would certainly have taken twenty-four days in its
construction, if the governor had not used certain
arguments to which there was great risk in being
deaf. It was a heavy and badly made machine,
which looked more like a cage for the transportation
of wild beasts than a litter for a sick man; much
better made, however, than any thing we could contrive;
and the workmen who completed it under
our eyes were so proud of it, and so sure of our admiration,
that they trembled with emotion at their
work, and at every word from us sent flashes from
their eyes. When Morteo put the money in their
hands they thanked him gravely, and went away
with a triumphant smile, which meant—“Ignorant
proud ones, we have let you see what we can
do!”

Toward evening we left Mechinez, and travelled
for two hours over the loveliest country that was
ever seen in his dreams by an enamored painter.
I see, I feel still the divine grace of those verdant
hills, sprinkled with rose-trees, myrtles, oleanders,
flowering aloes; the splendor of that city gilded by
the sun, hiding from our sight minaret by minaret,
palm-tree by palm-tree, terrace by terrace, and
.pn +1
the air impregnated with inebriating perfume, and
the waters reflecting the thousand colors of the
escort, and the infinite melancholy of that rosy sky.
I still see and feel all this, and know not how to describe
it.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap13
CHAPTER XIII. | ON THE SEBÙ.
.sp 2

It was noon of the fifth day after our departure
from Fez, when, after a five hours’ ride through
a succession of deserted valleys, we passed once
more through the gorge of Beb-el-Tinca, and saw
again before us the vast plain of the Sebù inundated
by a white, ardent, implacable light, of which the
memory alone makes my face glow. All, except
the Ambassador and the captain, who participated
in the fabled virtue of the salamander, that lives in
fire without being burned, covered their heads like
brethren of the Misericordia, wrapped themselves
in their mantles and cloaks, and without a word,
with heads down, and eyes half closed, descended
into the terrible plain, confiding in the clemency of
God. Once the voice of the commandant was
heard announcing that a horse was dead <i>already</i>.
One of the baggage-horses had fallen dead. No
one made any comment. “Horses,” added the
commandant, spitefully, “always die <i>first</i>.” These
words also were received in mortal silence. In
about half an hour another faint voice was heard,
.pn +1
asking Ussi to whom he had <i>bequeathed</i> his picture
of Bianca Cappello. Throughout the journey these
were the only words heard. The heat oppressed all.
Even the soldiers were silent. The caid, Hamed
Ben-Kasen, in spite of the great turban that shaded
his visage, was dripping with sweat. Poor general!
That very morning he had shown me an attention
that I shall remember all my life. Noticing that I
lagged behind, he came up, and banged my mule
with such heartfelt zeal, that in a few moments
I was carried at a gallop in front of all the others,
bouncing in my saddle like an india-rubber automaton,
and reached the camp five minutes in advance
of them all, with my inside upside down, and my
heart full of gratitude.

That day no one came out of his tent until the
dinner hour, and the dinner was silent, as if all were
still oppressed by the heat of the day. One event
alone aroused some excitement in the camp. We
were at dessert, when we heard a sound of lamentation
proceeding from the escort’s quarters, and at
the same time the noise of regular blows, as of some
one being whipped. Thinking it to be some joke
of the servants and soldiers, we took, at first, no
notice of it. But suddenly the cries become excruciating,
and we heard distinctly, in an accent of supplicating
invocation, the name of the founder of Fez—“Muley-Edris!
Muley-Edris! Muley-Edris!”

We all rose at once from the table, and running
to the quarter whence the noise proceeded, arrived
.pn +1
in time to see a sad spectacle. Two soldiers held
suspended between them, one by the shoulders, the
other by the feet, an Arab servant; a third was furiously
flogging him with a whip; a fourth held up
a lantern; the rest stood round in a circle, and the
caid looked on with folded arms.

The Ambassador ordered the instant release of
the victim, who went off sobbing and crying, and
asked the caid what this meant. “Oh, nothing,
nothing,” he answered; “only a little correction.”
He then added that the man was punished because
he had persisted in throwing little balls of <lang=ar><i>cùscùssù</i></lang>
at his companions, a grave offence, in a Mussulman
a sacrilege, because he is commanded to respect
every kind of aliment produced by the earth as a
gift of God. As he spoke, the poor caid, a kind
man at heart, did not succeed in concealing, however
he might wish to do so, the pain and pity that
he felt at being forced to inflict the castigation;
and this sufficed to restore him to his place in my
heart.

In the night we were awakened by a burning hot
wind from the east, which drove us panting from our
tents, in search of air that we could breathe; and at
dawn we resumed our journey under a sky that announced
a hotter day than the preceding one. The
heavens were covered with clouds, on one side all
on fire with the rising sun, and broken here and
there by dazzling beams of light; on the opposite
side all was black, striped by oblique streaks of rain.
.pn +1
From this troubled sky there fell a strange light,
which seemed to have passed through a yellow veil,
and tinted the stubble fields with an angry sulphurous
color that offended the eye. Far off the wind
raised and whirled about with furious rapidity immense
clouds of dust. The country was solitary, the
air heavy, the horizon hidden by a veil of leaden-colored
vapor. Without ever having seen the Sahara,
I imagined that it might sometimes present
that same aspect, and was about to say so, when
Ussi, who has been in Egypt, stopping suddenly, exclaimed
in wonder: “This is the desert!”

After four hours’ journey we arrived upon the
bank of the Sebù, where we were met by twenty
horsemen of the Beni-Hassen, led by a handsome
boy of twelve, the son of the governor, Sid-Abdallah.
They came to meet us at a gallop, with the
usual shouts and discharges of musketry.

The camp was pitched in all haste near the river,
on a bare piece of ground, full of deep gullies;
and having breakfasted quickly, we withdrew to our
tents.

This was the hottest day of the journey.

I will try to give a distant idea of our torments.
Let the gentle reader prepare his or her heart to feel
profound compassion. I wipe my dripping brows,
and begin.

At ten o’clock in the morning, when my two companions
and I withdrew to our tents, the thermometer
marked forty-two degrees centigrade in the
.pn +1
shade (about 107-1/2° Fahrenheit). For about an
hour the conversation continued animated. After
that we began to find a certain difficulty in
terminating our periods, and were reduced to
simple propositions. Then, as it cost too much
fatigue to put subject, verb, and attribute together,
we stopped talking and tried to sleep. It was useless.
The hot beds, the flies, thirst, and restlessness,
would not let us close an eye. After much fretting
and fuming, we resigned ourselves to stay awake,
and tried to cheat the weary time in some occupation.
But it could not be done. Cigars, pipes,
books, maps, all dropped from our nerveless hands.
I tried to write: at the third line the page was
bathed in the perspiration that streamed from my
forehead like water from a squeezed sponge. I felt
my whole body traversed by innumerable springs,
which intersected, followed, joined each other, forming
confluents and streams, running down my arms
and hands, and watering the ink in the point of my
pen. In a few minutes, handkerchiefs, towels, veils,
every thing that could serve the purpose, were as
wet as if they had been dipped in a bucket. We
had a barrel full of water; we tried to drink, it was
boiling. We poured it out; it had hardly touched
the earth when no trace of it could be seen. At
noon the thermometer marked forty-four and a half
degrees. The tent was an oven. Every thing we
touched scorched us. I put my hand on my head,
and it felt like a stove. The beds heated us so that
.pn +1
we could not lie down. I tried to put my foot outside
the tent, and the ground was scorching. No
one spoke any more. Only now and then was heard
a languid exclamation: “It is death.” “I cannot
bear this.” “I shall go mad.” Ussi put his head
out of the tent for an instant, his eyes starting out of
his head, murmured in a suffocated voice, “I shall
die,” and disappeared. Diana, the poor dog, lying
down near the commandant’s bed, panted as if she
were at her last gasp. Outside of the tent no human
voice was heard, no human being was visible,
the camp seemed deserted. The horses neighed in
a lamentable manner. The doctor’s litter, standing
near our tent, cracked as if it were splitting in pieces.
Suddenly we heard the voice of Selam running by,
and calling out, “One of the dogs is dead.”

“One!” answered the faint voice of the commandant,
facetious to the last.

At one o’clock the thermometer marked forty-six
and a half degrees. Then even complaints
ceased. The commandant, the vice-consul, and I
lay stretched on the ground motionless, like dead
bodies. In the whole camp the Ambassador and the
captain were perhaps the only Christians who still
gave signs of life. I do not remember how long this
condition lasted. I was steeped in a sort of stupor,
dreaming with my eyes open, and a thousand confused
images of cool spots and frozen objects chased
each other through my brain: I was springing from
a rock into a lake, I was putting the back of my neck
.pn +1
against the spout of a pump, I was building a house
of ice, I was devouring all the ices in Naples, and
the more I sprinkled myself with water and drank
cool drinks, the hotter, the thirstier, the wilder I became.
At last the captain exclaimed in a sepulchral
voice: “Forty-seven!”[#] It was the last voice I remember
to have heard.

.fn #
About 116-1/2° Fahrenheit.
.fn-

Toward evening the son of the governor of the
Beni-Hassen, the boy whom we had seen in the
morning, came to visit the Ambassador in the name of
his father, who was ill. He entered the camp on
horseback, accompanied by an officer and two soldiers,
who took him in their arms when he dismounted,
and advanced with solemn step toward the
Ambassador, trailing his long blue mantle like a
robe, with his left hand upon the hilt of a sabre
longer than himself, and his right extended in salutation.

In the morning, seen on horseback, he had seemed
a handsome boy; and he had indeed beautiful pensive
eyes and a small pallid oval face; but on foot,
we saw that he was ricketty and deformed. From
this no doubt came his melancholy looks. In all the
time he remained with us, no smile moved his lip,
his face never brightened for a moment. He looked
at us all with a profound attention, and answered the
Ambassador’s questions with short sentences, spoken
in low tones. Once only a gleam of pleasure came
into his eyes; it was when the Ambassador told him
.pn +1
that he had admired, in the morning, his bold and
graceful riding; but it was only a gleam.

Although all our eyes were upon him, and this
was probably the first time that he had appeared in
an official capacity before a European embassy, he
showed no shadow of embarrassment. He slowly
drunk his tea, ate some sweetmeats, whispered in
the ear of his officer, settled two or three times his
little turban on his head, looked attentively at our
boots, and showed that he was a little bored; then,
in taking leave, he pressed the Ambassador’s hand
to his breast, and returned to his horse with the
same royal gravity with which he had approached
the tent.

Lifted into the saddle by his attendants, he said
once more, “Peace be with you!” and galloped off,
followed by his small and hooded staff.

That same evening several sick people came to
consult the doctor, who, with the dragoman Solomon
and a company of soldiers, had started a little earlier
for Tangiers, by the way of Alkazar. Among the
rest came a poor half-naked boy, lean, and with his
eyes in such a state that he could see with difficulty,
while he seemed exhausted with fatigue. “What
do you want?” asked Morteo. “I seek the Christian
physician,” he answered in a trembling voice.
When he heard that he was gone, he stood a moment
as if stunned, and then cried out in despair:
“Am I to lose my sight then! I have come eight
miles to be cured by the Christian physician! I
.pn +1
must see him!” and he broke out into sobs and
tears. Morteo put some money into his hand, which
he received with indifference, and pointing out the
way which the doctor had taken, told him that if he
walked quickly he might perhaps overtake him.
The boy stood a moment uncertain, looking with
eyes full of tears, and then slowly limped away.

The sun went down that evening under an immense
pavilion of gold and flame color, and striking
across the plains his last blood-colored beams, set
behind the straight line of the horizon like a monstrous
glowing disk that was sinking into the bowels
of the earth.

And the night was almost cold!

In the morning at sunrise, we were on the left
bank of the Sebù, at the same point where we had
crossed coming from Tangiers; and we had hardly
reached it before we saw appear upon the opposite
bank, with his officers and soldiers, the governor,
Sid-Bekr-el-Abbassi, with the same white vesture,
and the same black horse caparisoned in sky blue,
with which he had the first time appeared.

But the passage of the river presented this time an
unforeseen difficulty.

Of the two boats on which we were to cross, one
was in pieces; the other broken in more than one
place, and half sunk in the mud of the shore. The
little <lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang> inhabited by the boatmen’s families was
deserted; the river was dangerous to ford, and no
other boat to be had except at a distance of a day’s
.pn +1
journey. How were we to cross, and what was to
be done? A soldier swam across and carried the
notice to the governor, who sent another soldier by
the same road to explain. The boatmen had been
notified the night before to hold themselves in readiness
for the passage of the Ambassador and his
suite, who would arrive in the morning; but finding
the boats in an unserviceable condition, and not being
capable, or not choosing to endure the fatigue
of mending them, they had fled during the night,
heaven knows where, with their families and animals,
to avoid punishment by the governor. There was
nothing to be done but to try and mend the least
broken of the two boats, and this we did. The soldiers
went off to get men from the neighboring
<lang=ar><i>duars</i></lang>, and the work was begun under the direction
of Luigi, one of the two sailors, who on that, to him
memorable occasion, gloriously sustained the honor
of the Italian marine. It was good to see how
the Arabs and Moors labored. Ten of them together,
yelling and flying about, did not do in half
an hour the work that Luigi and Ranni, in military
silence, did in five minutes. Everybody gave orders,
everybody criticized, everybody got angry,
everybody cut the air with imperious gestures, until
they all seemed like so many admirals, and not one
of them accomplished any thing. Meantime the
governor and the caid conversed in loud voices
across the river; the soldiers careered about at a
gallop seeking the fugitives along the banks; the
.pn +1
sumpter beasts forded the river in a long file with
water up to their necks; the workmen chanted the
praises of the Prophet, and on the opposite shore
arose a great blue tent under which the slaves of
Sid-Bekr-el-Abbassi were busy in preparing an exquisite
collation of figs, sweetmeats, and tea, which
we watched through our glasses, humming the while
a chorus from a semi-serious opera, composed during
our sojourn at Fez, and called “<i>Gl’ Italiani nel
Marôcco</i>.”

With the aid of the Prophet, the boat was ready
within two hours; Ranni took us on his shoulders,
and deposited us one by one on the prow, and we
reached the other side, with our feet up to the ankles
in water, that came in on every side, but without
having been forced to swim for it; a good fortune,
of which we were not sure at our departure.

The governor, Sid-Bekr-el-Abbassi, who had
heard of the praises which the Ambassador had bestowed
upon him to the Sultan, was more amiable
and fascinating to us than ever. After a little rest,
we went on to Karia-el-Abbassi, which we reached
about noon, and were received and passed the hot
hours in the same white chamber in which thirty-five
days before we had seen the pretty little daughter
of our host peep at us from behind the paternal
turban.

Here Sid-Bekr-el-Abbassi presented to the Ambassador,
among other people, a Moor of about
fifty years of age, of a noble aspect and agreeable
.pn +1
manners, whom none of us, I think, have since forgotten,
because of the strange things we were told
about his family. He was the brother of one Sid-Bomedi,
formerly governor of the province of
Ducalla, who languished for eight years in the dungeons
of Fez. A tyrant and a prodigal, after having
bled his people, he contracted ruinous loans with
European merchants, accumulated debt upon debt,
brought the wrath of God within and without his
house, was arrested and taken to Fez by order of the
Sultan, who, believing him to be the possessor of
hidden treasures, had his house pulled down and
search made among the ruins and under the foundations,
and banished from the province, under pain
of death, all his family, in the fear that they, knowing
the hiding-place, would get possession of the
money. But, nothing being found—perhaps because
there was nothing—and the Sultan still persisting in
his belief in a treasure which the prisoner knew and
refused to reveal, the latter had never more beheld
the light of the sun, and was, perhaps, condemned
to die in prison. And the case of Sid-Bomedi is
not rare among the governors of Morocco, who,
being all more or less enriched at the expense of
their people, furnish the government that wishes to
get possession of their wealth, the advantage of
doing so under color of punishing a guilty man.

The governor, or the pashà upon whom the governor
has set his eye, is called in a friendly manner
to Fez, or to Morocco, or perhaps arrested suddenly
.pn +1
in the night by a company of the imperial soldiers,
who take him by forced marches to the capital, tied
on the crupper of a mule, with his head hanging
down and his face turned to the sun. As soon as
he arrives he is loaded with chains and thrown into
a dungeon. If he reveals the hiding-place of his
wealth, he is sent back with honor to his province,
where in a little while, by worse exactions than before,
he can make up again that which has been
taken from him. If he will not reveal it, he is left
to rot in his prison, and bastinadoed every day until
the blood comes, until, reduced to extremity, he decides
to speak rather than perish in chains. If he
reveals only in part, he is bastinadoed just the same,
until he has made a clean breast of it. Some of the
more astute ones, foreseeing the catastrophe in time,
turn it aside by going in person to the court with a
long caravan of camels and mules laden with precious
gifts; but in order to make these gifts, they are
obliged to spend a large part of their wealth; and
it follows that their safety is scarcely less fatal to the
provinces governed by them than if they were to return
from their prison despoiled of all their treasure.
Some, also, die in prison, and under the stick make
no revelations, in order to leave all they have to
their families, who know where it is concealed; and
others die because they have nothing to reveal. But
these are rare, because in Morocco it is the custom
to hide money, and it is known that the Moors are
masters in the art. They talk of treasures built up under
.pn +1
the sill of the house-door, in the pilasters of the
court, in the stairs, in the windows; of houses demolished
stone by stone to the foundations, without
the discovery of a treasure that was really there; of
slaves killed and secretly buried, after having helped
their masters to conceal it; and the vulgar mix with
these horrible and painful truths their pretty legends
of spirits and prodigies.

The governor, el-Abbassi, accompanied us toward
evening as far as the camp, which was about two
hours distant from his house, in a field full of flowers
and tortoises, between the river Dà, which divides
itself just there into an infinity of canals, and a
beautiful hill crowned by the green cupola of a saint’s
tomb. At a gunshot from our tents was a large
<lang=ar><i>duar</i></lang>, surrounded by aloes and the Indian fig. All
the inhabitants rushed out at sight of us. Then we
saw how much the governor was beloved by his
people. Old men, young men, youths and children,
all ran to him to have his hand placed upon their
heads, and then went away content, turning back to
look at him with an expression of affection and
gratitude. The presence, however, of the beloved
governor did not serve to protect us from the usual
bitter glances and the usual reproaches. The women,
half-hidden behind the hedges, with one hand
pushed forward a child to go and be blessed by the
governor, and with the other sent his brother to tell
us that we were dogs. We saw babies about two
feet high, quite naked, and hardly able to stand,
.pn +1
coming tottering toward us, and showing a fist
about as large as a nut, cry, “Accursed be thy
father!” and because they were afraid to come alone
they made groups of seven or eight, so compact that
they might all have been carried on a tray; and advancing
with a threatening air to within ten paces of
us, stammered out their small insolence. How they
amused us! One group among others advanced
against Biseo to wish that some relation or other of
his might be roasted. Biseo raised his pencil; the
two first falling back upon the others, they in their
turn upon those behind, half the army presently lay
with their legs in the air. Even the governor burst
out laughing.

.pn +1
.sp 4
.h2 id=chap14
CHAPTER XIV. | ARZILLA.
.sp 2

After the spectacle of great cities in decadence,
a moribund people, and a lovely but
melancholy landscape; after such sleep, such old
age, and such ruin, here is the work of the eternal
hand, and here is immortal youth; here is the air
that revives the blood, the beauty that refreshes the
heart, the immensity in which the soul expands!
Here is the ocean! With what a thrill of delight
we salute it! The unexpected apparition of a friend
or a brother could not have been dearer to our hearts
than the sight of that distant shining curve that
gleamed before us like an immense sickle, mowing
down Islamism, slavery, barbarism, and bearing our
thoughts direct and free to Italy.

“<i>Bahr-el-Kibir!</i>” exclaimed some soldiers. (The
great sea.) Others said, “<i>Bahr-ed-Dholma!</i>” (The
sea of darkness.) All involuntarily hastened their
steps; conversation, which had begun to languish,
was re-animated; the servants set up sacred songs;
the whole caravan, in a few minutes, assumed an air
of cheer and festivity.
.pn +1

On the evening of June 19th we encamped at
three hours’ distance from Laracce, and the following
morning entered the city, received at the gate by
the son of the governor; by twenty soldiers, without
muskets or breeches, drawn up along the road;
by almost a hundred ragged boys, and by a band
composed of a tambourine and a trumpet, who came
afterward to ask for money—giving us an excruciating
concert in the court of the Italian Consular-Agent.

Upon that coast, sprinkled with dead cities—such
as Salè, Azamor, Safi, Santa Cruz—Laracce still
preserves a little commercial life, which is sufficient
to cause her to be considered as one of the principal
ports of Morocco. Founded by a Berber tribe in
the fifteenth century, fortified at the end of the
same century by Muley-ben-Nassar, abandoned to
Spain in 1610, retaken by Muley-Ismael in 1689,
still flourishing at the beginning of this century, with
a population of about four thousand, between Moors
and Hebrews, it rises upon the incline of a hill to
the left of the mouth of the Kus, the Lixus of the
ancients, which forms for it an ample and secure port,
closed, however, by a sand-bank against the entrance
of large vessels. In the port lie rotting the carcases
of two small gun-boats, the last miserable remnant
of the fleet that once carried the victorious army into
Spain and alarmed European commerce. Behind
the hill there is a large grove of gigantic trees. The
town has nothing notable in it except a market-place,
.pn +1
surrounded by a portico sustained by small stone
columns; but seen from the port, all white upon the
dark-green background of its hills, surrounded by a
circle of high battlemented walls of a dark calcareous
tint, reflected in the azure waters of the river, under
that limpid sky, it presents a dignified aspect, and
despite the vividness of its colors, almost a melancholy
one, as if one felt compassion at the sight of
the picturesque city silent and alone upon that barbarous
coast, by that deserted port, in the face of
that immense sea.

The camp was pitched that evening on the right
bank of the Kus, and raised early the following morning.
We were to go to Arzilla, four hours distant
from Laracce. The baggage was sent on in the
morning; the Embassy left toward evening. I left
with the baggage convoy, in order to see the caravan
under a new aspect; and I was glad I did, for it was
a journey full of adventure.

The laden mules, accompanied by muleteers and
servants, went in groups, at a great distance one
from the other. I went on alone and rode for
nearly an hour over the hills, where I saw only one
mule, driven by an Arab servant, and carrying two
sacks of straw, of which one supported the head and
the other the feet of a groom of the Ambassador’s,
who had been seized by a violent fever, and who
groaned enough to move the very stones with pity.
The poor fellow lay thus across the mule, with his
head hanging down, his body bent, the sun in his
.pn +1
eyes, and in this way had he come all the way from
Karia-el-Abbassi, and was to go to Tangiers! And
in this way are all the sick transported in Morocco
who have no money to hire a litter and two mules,
and fortunate is he who can have a bag of straw!

On the shore I was joined by the cook, Ranni,
and Luigi, who did not leave me again until we
reached Arzilla.

We trotted for an hour over the sands, turning
out here and there from the direct road to avoid a
marsh.

At this time the cook, who for the first time in all
the journey was able to speak freely, opened his
heart to me.

Poor fellow! all the adventures we had had, all
the great things we had seen, had not freed him
from a painful thought which had destroyed his
peace from the first week of his sojourn at Tangiers.
And this thought was an unsuccessful jelly made by
him one day when we were dining with the French
Minister—a jelly which had given the first blow to
his reputation in the mind of the Ambassador, and
whose ill success was due, not to him, but to the bad
Marsala wine. Fez, the court, Mechinez, the Sebù,
the ocean, he had seen and still saw them all through
this medium of jelly. Or rather, he had seen and
saw nothing, because although his body was in Morocco,
his spirit was in Turin. I asked him to tell
me his impressions, and they were these, as nearly
as I can set them down. He could not comprehend
.pn +1
who the beast could have been who had stamped
that country. He related his fatigues, his quarrels
with his two Arab scullions, the difficulties of preparing
food in the desert, and his immense desire to
see Turin again; but he always fell back upon that
deplorable jelly at the French Minister’s. “I do
not know how to cook? Do me the favor when
you are at Turin,” he said, touching my arm to
withdraw me from my contemplation of the ocean,
“go and ask Count so-and-so, Countess such a one,
etc., whom I served for years and years! Go to
General Ricotti, Minister of War, who has been five
years Minister, and who can do just what he pleases;
go and ask him whether or no I can make a jelly!
Do go; give me that satisfaction; it will not take a
moment when you are back in our country!” And
he insisted so, that in order to contemplate the ocean
in peace, I was obliged to promise.

Meanwhile we came up at every hundred paces or
so with two or three laden mules, soldiers on horse-back,
and servants on foot; fragments of the caravan
that stretched along an hour’s journey before us.
Among the soldiers there were some from Laracce,
ragged fellows, with a handkerchief bound round
their heads, and a rusty musket in their hands; and
among the servants, boys of twelve or fourteen years
old, whom I had not seen before, and who had escaped,
I was told, from Mechinez and Karia-el-Abbassi,
and joined the caravan, with nothing on
them but a shirt, to seek their fortune at Tangiers,
living meantime on the charity of the soldiers.
.pn +1

In some of these groups there would be one telling
a story, others singing, and all seemed cheerful.

We stopped half-way, to breakfast in the shadow
of a rock. And here I saw a scene that revealed to
me the nature of the people better than a volume of
psychological dissertation.

Near us there was a soldier seated on the sand,
beyond him another, further on a servant, and about
fifty paces from this last another servant, seated near
a spring, with a jug between his knees. Wishing to
drink, I called to the first soldier, “<i>Elma!</i>” (water),
and pointed to the spring. The soldier answered
with a courteous gesture of acquiescence,
and imperiously ordered the second soldier to go
and get some water. The latter made a gesture of
obedience, and with threats and reproaches, asked
the nearest servant why he had not brought the
water. The servant in question sprang to his feet,
made three hasty steps toward the one seated near
the spring, and called to him to bring water instantly.
The last, observing that I was not paying attention,
did not move. Five minutes passed, and
the water did not come. I turned to the first soldier
and the same scene was enacted over again. Finally,
if I wanted water, I had to shout to the man who
had the jug, who, after a few moments for reflection,
decided to get it, and brought it with about the speed
of a tortoise.

We resumed our journey. A fresh breeze blew,
and a cloud covered the sun, so that the ride was
.pn +1
delicious; but as the tide continued to rise, and restricted
us more and more to the sandy path, upon
which we proceeded in single file, we soon found
ourselves imprisoned between the sea and the rocky
heights which rose almost perpendicularly above our
heads, and obliged to go on among the stones, where
the waves were already breaking. Several times
the mule came to a stand in terror, and I found myself
surrounded by water and wrapped in a cloud of
spray. But our hour, as the cook said, was not yet
come; and after about a mile, we reached a hill up
which we climbed in haste, looking back “<i>a rimirar
lo passo</i>.”

With us there was an old soldier of Laracce, a
little touched in the head, who laughed constantly,
but who knew the road. He made us skirt the hill,
and led us through a thick grove of dwarf oaks,
cork-trees, broom, and shrubs of various kinds; by
a hundred twists and turns; through thorns, and
mud, and water, and darkness; in recesses where no
human creature appeared ever to have penetrated;
and always laughing, brought us, tired and torn, to
the shore again, where we found a strip of sand uninvaded
by the waters.

Here, the caravan not having yet arrived, the
beach was deserted, and we rode for some time seeing
nothing but sea and sky, and the foot of the steep
little hills which, forming so many little harbors, hid
the horizon behind us. We were going on in silence,
one behind the other, over the soft, carpet-like sand,
.pn +1
every one of us occupied with his thoughts miles
away from Morocco, when suddenly there sprang
from behind a rock a spectre, a horrible old man,
half naked, with a crown of yellow flowers on his
head,—a saint,—who began to inveigh against us,
howling like a madman, and making with both hands
the gesture of scratching our faces and tearing our
beards. We stopped to look at him. He became
more ferocious. Ranni, without further ceremony,
advanced to give him the stick; but I stopped him
and threw some money to the saint. The rascal
stopped, picked up the coin, looked at it all over, put
it in his bosom, and began to yell worse than before.
“Ah! this time,” said Ranni, “he shall have a good
beating,” and raised his stick. But the soldier, becoming
serious in a moment, stopped him, and saying
a few words to the saint in accents of profound
respect, induced him to be silent. The horrible old
wretch gave us one fulminating glance, and hid himself
once more among the rocks, where, it appears,
he lives, feeding on roots, with the sole purpose
of cursing the Nazarene ships that pass on the
horizon.

We climbed the hills again, and rode for a long
time through winding paths among rocks and bushes.
At some points, where the path ran along the edge
of the steep precipice, we could see far down the sea
beating upon the rocks, and a long stretch of beach,
with the caravan straggling along, and the immense
horizon of the blue ocean dotted with distant sails.
.pn +1
The mountains where our road lay formed with
their checkered tops a vast waving plain, where there
was no trace of cultivation, nor tomb, nor cabin, nor
human creature, and no sound but the distant murmur
of the sea. “What a country!” exclaimed the
cook, looking about him with an anxious glance.
“I hope we may not meet with any unpleasant adventure.”
As for me, I asked myself whether there
was no danger of lions. Going up and going down,
losing sight of each other, and meeting again among
the bushes, we travelled for two hours through these
mountain solitudes, and began to fear that we had
missed the way, when from a height, we suddenly
discovered the towers of Arzilla, and the whole coast
as far as Cape Spartel, whose blue outline was drawn
sharply against the limpid clearness of the sky.

]t was a delight for all the little caravan, but of
brief duration.

As we descended toward the sea we saw far off a
group of horses and men lying down, who, as soon
as they discovered us, sprang to their feet, and to
their saddles, and came toward us, spreading themselves
out in the form of a half moon, as if they intended
to prevent our advance toward the town.

“Here we are at last!” thought I; “this time we
shall not escape; it is a band,” and I made a sign
for the rest to halt.

“Let the Moor be sent forward!” called out the
cook. The Moorish soldier ran on in advance.

“Give them a shot!” screamed the trembling
cook.
.pn +1

“One moment,” said I; “before we kill them, let
us see whether they mean to kill us.”

I looked attentively at them; they advanced at a
trot; there were ten of them, some in dark colors,
some in white; I could see no muskets; at their
head was an old man with a white beard; I felt
reassured.

“Let us form a square!” cried the cook.

“There is no need.” The old man with the white
beard had uncovered his head, and came toward us
cap in hand.

He was an Israelite. At ten paces off he stopped
with his followers, who were composed of four other
Israelites and five Arab servants, and made signs
that he wished to speak to me.

“<lang=es><i>Hable Usted</i></lang>,” I replied (“Speak!”).

“I am so and so,” he said in Spanish, with a
sweet voice, and bending in an attitude of respect,
“consular-agent for Italy and all the other European
states in the city of Arzilla. Have I the honor to
be in the presence of his Excellency the Italian Ambassador,
returning from Fez, on his way to Tangiers?”

I was amazed. Then I assumed a grave and
courteous air, and glanced round at my followers
who were beaming with delight; and after having
tasted for an instant the honor of an official reception,
I undeceived the old Hebrew, with a sigh, and
told him who I was. He seemed for a moment displeased,
but did not change his manner. He offered
.pn +1
me his house to rest in, and when I declined his
hospitality, he would at any rate accompany me to
the spot destined for the encampment.

We all went on together, skirting the city, toward
the sea-shore. Ah! if Ussi and Biseo could
only have seen me! How picturesque I must have
been, sitting on a mule, with a white scarf round my
head, followed by my staff, composed of a cook in
his shirt sleeves, two sailors armed with sticks, and
a ragged Moor! O Italian Art, what hast thou not
lost!

Arzilla, the Zilia of the Carthagenians, the <i>Julia
Traducta</i> of the Romans, passed from the hands of
the latter into those of the Goths, was sacked by the
English toward the middle of the tenth century, remained
for thirty years a heap of stones, was rebuilt
by Abd-er-Rhaman-ben-Ali, Caliph of Cordova,
taken by the Portuguese, and retaken by Morocco,
and is now nothing but a little town of about one
thousand inhabitants between Moors and Hebrews,
surrounded on the sea and land sides by high battlemented
walls, which are falling into ruin; white
and quiet as a cloister, and imprinted, like all the
small Mahometan towns, with that smiling melancholy
which recalls the last look on the face of the
dying who are glad to die.

In the evening, at sunset, the Ambassador arrived,
and came to the encampment across the city;
and I have still before my eyes the spectacle of that
beautiful cavalcade, full of color and life, issuing out
.pn +1
of a battlemented gate, advancing in picturesque disorder
along the shore, and throwing across the sands
in the rosy sunset light its long black shadows; and
here, in fact, it may be said that our journey came
to an end, since the following morning we encamped
at Ain-Dalia, and two days afterward we
re-entered Tangiers, where the caravan broke up in
that same little market-place where it had formed
two months before.

The commandant, the captain, the two painters,
and I left together for Gibraltar. The Ambassador,
the vice-consul, all the people of the Legation accompanied
us to the shore, and the farewells were
very affectionate. All were moved, even the good
General Hamed-ben-Kasen, who, pressing my hand
against his mighty chest, repeated three times the
only European word he knew—“<i>A Dios!</i>”—with a
voice that came from his heart. We had scarcely
put our foot upon the deck of the ship when, oh!
how distant in space and time seemed all that phantasmagoria
of pashàs, and negroes, and tents, and
mosques, and battlemented towers. It was not a
country, it was an entire world that in a moment
vanished from our eyes, and a world that we should
never see again. A little of Africa accompanied
us on board, however, in the two Selams, Ali,
Hamed, Abd-er-Rhaman, Civo, Morteo’s servants,
and other kind young fellows whom Mussulman superstition
had not prevented from wishing well to
the Nazarenes and serving them with fidelity. And
.pn +1
they also took leave of us with warm demonstrations
of affection and regret, Civo more than the others,
who, causing his long white shirt to float for the last
time before my eyes, threw his arms about my neck,
and planted two kisses in my ear. And when the
steamer moved they saluted us still from a boat,
waving their red fezes, and shouting as long as we
could see them, “Allah be with you! Come back to
Morocco! Farewell, Nazarenes! Farewell, Italians!
<i>A Dios! A Dios!</i>”

.if h
.ce
<l>Footnotes</l>
.fm lz=h rend=no
.if-

.dv class='tnotes'
<target id=endnote>
Transcriber’s Note

The following table provides information on the relatively
few typographical errors, and their resolution.

.ta rt:10 lt:30 lt:25 s='errata'
p.  14 | sh[ie/ei]ks                       | Transposed.
p.  22 | rep[i/e]tition                    | Corrected.
p.  41 | Posses[s]ed                       | Added.
p. 141 | tat[t]ooed                        | Added.
p. 149 | w[h]ere                           | Added.
p. 181 | ma[k/d]e                          | Corrected.
p. 184 | like[d]                           | Removed.
p. 350 | pass[s]ed                         | Removed.
.ta-
.dv-