A Saint. Fez.A Saint. Fez.
A Saint. Fez.
A Saint. Fez.
The square when we arrived presented an admirablecoup-d’œilIn the middle a throng of generals, masters of ceremonies, magistrates, nobles, officials,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 expressionof 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!
Inner Court of Our House at Fez.Inner Court of Our House at Fez.
Inner Court of Our House at Fez.
Inner Court of Our House at Fez.
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 tenminutes. 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 anodalisque. 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 nobleface, 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 powerfulcountry 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 therewas 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 threescienzati” (men of science).
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,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 ourgibus.
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,where he can get some instruction.”
This naturally meant Turin. Luigi, the sailor, though a Neapolitan, was more laconic. Beingasked 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 ourgibus, 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.
“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:—
May 20th.
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 hadreceived 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 thewaist 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,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, Iset, 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 greatevent,” 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.
On The Terraces, Fez.On The Terraces, Fez.
On The Terraces, Fez.
On The Terraces, Fez.
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.”
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.
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.
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” hisgibushat; 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 thehouse, 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 thecoup de grâcein the following words:
An Interview With The Grand Vizier.An Interview With The Grand Vizier.
An Interview With The Grand Vizier.
An Interview With The Grand Vizier.
“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”——
“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 servantscarrying 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 theGrand 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 seatedhimself; 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,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 certaincube, 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 prostratethemselves 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[6]; 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 thestate, 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.
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.
“Nos espantamos de los Moros.” “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.
“Che!” exclaimed the mother; “she is too old to marry.”
We all thought she was joking. But she repeated, almost astonished at our incredulity, “Ispeak 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 byfour 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 andchildren 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 partakingof 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 letterC, 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 silverponiard 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 thecùscùssù, 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.
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, “Signori, stiano bene!”
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 theescort, 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 themuna. 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 makesus 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 apleasure trip. 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 someone, “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 givingLucia di Lammermoor, and that in eight days we could reach theLoggia deì Lanziat 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!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,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 thatdoghad 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 themfirst. 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—thecommandant, 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 ascudoon 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 thescudowas 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, turnedher 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,cube, towers, and all the verdant shell that holds them; on the left, a long, shining line, the Sebù; to theright 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. Itsounded 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 meex abruptowhy 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: “Isi! Amigi!” At a certain point the officer said, abruptly, “Scut!” ( 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 Mussulmanbelief that exactly at that hour, but no one knows in what year, the Christians will take possession of their country by acoup de main.
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,coram populo, 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 thepatient 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, andknow 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 fivesousa 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 fortysous. 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, renegadessince 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 sinkinto 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, comingout 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, becausethe 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!” Hethrew 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.”