GOSSIP OF THE HAREM
There came a day when el Raisuli would not talk. Seated on a slab of
stone in the garden, with his chin sunk between his shoulders and his
eyes downcast, he emitted a series of guttural grunts in answer to all
questions. The mass of flesh, relaxed and shapeless, under the jellaba,
appeared hardly human. Once the intense virility of the eyes was hidden,
the face became expressionless, and there was something monstrous in the
muscular folds which creased round the neck and wrists. Without paying
the slightest attention to remarks made to him, the Sherif began
twisting and tearing a piece of silk. His fingers were very strong, in
spite of their shape, and, as I watched those gross rolls of flesh
destroying the stuff, I realised quite suddenly the ruthlessness of the
man. There was no reason for it. It was an instinctive picture. The
tufts of hair on the knuckles rendered the hands peculiarly coarse, and
they worried the silk as an animal worries the throat of its victim.
With a shiver, I looked at the Sherif’s face, and now I felt it was
blank not so much from indifference as from a tremendous concentration
of will-power. The spirit of the man had withdrawn itself, and somewhere
beyond those creased, moist lids, it was watching and appraising.
“Did you feel he could see us all the time, though his eyes were
closed?” asked the Spaniard when, after unheeded farewells, we walked
back to the end of the compound. “Yes, I did.” Thoughtfully I went into
my tent, feeling that I wanted to talk to someone exceedingly simple and
human.
It was very hot and, as there seemed no possibility of lunch, I lay down
and tried to sleep. The flies rendered this difficult, and, suddenly, I
noticed one of the little slaves peering round the edge of the screen
while he tried to attract my attention. I thought that perhaps the
Sherif wished to speak to me, so I followed him into the yard, but, with
finger on lips, he hurried me out of the main door and into the old
house through a little court adjoining the Qubba. In another moment I
found myself in the women’s quarters.
It was a big room, carpeted with modern rugs and hung with stuffs of
different violent colours. Most of these were embroidered with tinsel to
match the cushions below them, so that the place was like a box of
striped candies tied up with Christmas-tree ribbons. At one end stood an
enormous iron bedstead, canopied, frilled, quilted in the crudest pink,
and covered with what looked like a pair of Nottingham lace curtains.
Huddled in a corner of this erection was a small, pale girl in the dress
of a bride. She did not look up when I came in. Her eyes stared straight
in front of her with an expression of shy dreaminess. The ochre on her
face, her stiff brocade robes, and the jewelry which seemed too heavy
for her fragile figure, accentuated her youth. She had the feet and
hands of a child.
“We have tried to talk to her, but she will not answer,” said a mountain
girl with glossy black ringlets and features reminiscent of a Roman
coin. “Too much thought is bad—the jinns are haunting her.” “Allah
forbid!” broke in an older woman. “What empty words your tongue lets
loose. Have you no work that you can do? Who will make tea for our
guest?” With a good-natured shrug, the girl shuffled away, while the
woman who had rebuked her leant forward, her finger on her lips. “She is
frightened—you understand.” Her eyes wandered to the figure on the bed.
“She is young, and but a few days married. It will pass.”
Other women joined us, and we went through the usual questions and
answers—how old was I, how many children had I, why had I left my
husband. Tea interrupted the embarrassing monotony of the conversation.
One Aysha (almost a generic name in harems) measured the leaves with an
expression of intense mental pain. “We will keep the mint till the last,
and then we will tell stories,” she murmured to her neighbour, who
agreed. So, when the perfume of fresh herbs mingled with the scent of
orange-water, an old black slave was urged to tell something to amuse
the guest. With a cackle from toothless gums, she said, “All stories
here are about our master.” Without more ado I was regaled with a series
of personal anecdotes, all of them quite impossible, and of which,
perhaps fortunately, I only understood about half.
At last the Jebala girl said she knew a story which was very funny. “You
have perhaps seen Ahmed el Hamri,” she began. “Not long ago he was a
very strong man, the swiftest of all, the best shot, the best rider. The
Sherif was pleased with him and asked what he should do to reward him.
Ahmed replied only, ‘Marry me, Sidi, marry me!’ ‘You are too young,’
said the Sherif. ‘Wait a little’—but every day Ahmed came to our master
and said ‘Marry me, Sidi. Marry me!’ At last the Sherif, to gain peace,
searched for a wife for him and found one, young, ardent. No more was
Ahmed seen in the rooms of the Sherif. Men asked for him and were told,
‘He is in camp with his wife.’ Ullah, how he was changed! He shot no
more. He rode no more. All day he sat drooping and quiet, till they
rallied him and said, ‘Where is thy spirit gone?’ but Ahmed would not
answer. Then one day there was a stir in the camp. One of the Sherif’s
stallions had got loose. It was a fine horse and very valuable, so
everyone tried to catch it, but, snorting, plunging, it outdistanced
them all, till it reached the tent where Ahmed sat unmoved, gazing at
the ground. ‘Ya Walad! Don’t you see the horse? Catch it! stop it!’
Ahmed did not exert himself, and the horse disappeared in the distance.
‘What can we do?’ shouted the pursuers. ‘Allah knows the animal is
always doing this.’ ‘Marry it,’ said Ahmed. ‘Marry it. I was once like
that!’”
I think I went to sleep during the murmur of conversation that followed,
for it was hot and stuffy in the women’s quarters and such air as
percolated through the shuttered windows was heavy with scent. When I
looked round again, the bride had not moved. She was like a Neapolitan,
with her smooth olive skin and dark eyes, heavily fringed. Her mouth was
a little open, she gazed fixedly at the nearest wall, and a strong gleam
of sunlight played on the emeralds and rubies which weighted her fingers
and trembled against her young, slim throat.
Most of the other women had withdrawn to the further corner, where there
was a pile of mattresses. One very old dame stayed beside me. She was so
wrinkled and seamed that she appeared to have gone beyond age
altogether. Her voice came in a husky whisper, and her hands fascinated
me, for they were like the claws of a vulture. “Pay no heed to her,” she
said. “In time she will sleep and forget.” “Forget what?” “Her
home—perhaps—her people. And, besides, the Sherif frightens many at
first. It is foolish, because he is very kind, and whatever a woman asks
he will do.” I stared at the old eyes which had seen so much that they
no longer expressed anything at all except weariness.
“There was one, I remember, not so long ago, who cried and cried. When
my lord went to her, she screamed. She had never seen a man like that.
She ran out of the room, and the slaves could not catch her—out of the
house. Everyone searched, and there was much trouble. Then at last they
heard someone crying. It seemed as if it came from the earth, so they
were puzzled, and looked down, and thought perhaps it was the jinns.
But, after a while, they came to a pit where corn was kept, and there
was the girl, buried in the grain and crying, always crying. So they
took her back to my lord, and all the husks were in her hair.”
The woman told the story without emotion or amusement, and, when it was
finished, she said, as if it were part of it, “Ullah, I am tired!” and
began rocking herself to and fro. “She will sleep like that,” said a
slave. “She never lies down. By Allah, she has seen many weddings.”
“Tell me about your weddings in this country. What are they like?” The
black girl showed a row of surprisingly white teeth. “There is much to
tell. It is the mothers who say to each other, ‘My son would be a
suitable husband for thy daughter,’ and ‘Of a truth my daughter would be
a good and pleasing wife to thy son.’ Then on a certain day the father
of the boy visits the parent of the girl, bringing with him one of the
learned men or a Sherif who has the ‘baraka.’ They discuss the matter of
the dowry, which the bridegroom shall pay. One says so much, in dollars
or cows or sheep, but always oil and corn and slippers for the girl and
her family. Another says, ‘No, that is too much!’ but in the end it is
the Sherif who arranges it. Perhaps the girl gets furniture for her
house, a mirror, a carpet and a mattress, with some haiks, very fine and
made of wool. Then the young men come and congratulate the girl’s
father, and he gives them tea and kous-kous.”
“How much does a man pay for his bride?” “The Sherif must pay 200
dollars, perhaps more, and give many presents to the girl’s family, if
she belongs to a tribe, but the poor man pays only ten dollars.” She
looked at the girl on the garish bed. “That was the matter of politics,
so—” She made the gesture of arranging things, smoothing things, with
expressive fingers. “She is a daughter of Sidi Zellal of the Beni
Mesauer, and the Sherif wanted the friendship of the tribe. Zellal is a
friend of the Spaniards, and he is a just man, well loved. They call him
El Kilma—the Word,—for his promise is as his life. If he tells you,
‘Come,’ go, with all your jewels and all your money, and you will be
safe. Our master is of his kin and he would ally himself more strongly
with him.”
[Illustration: Spanish escort in Beni Aras, leaving author on her way to
Tazrut]
[Illustration: Spanish port (Dar Jacobus) opposite Jebel Waja, on top of
which the Arabs say Noah’s daughter is buried]
“Well, what happens when the dowry is settled?” “There is rejoicing.
Guns are fired in the yard; there is a great heap of corn sprinkled with
salt, to keep away the jinns. An egg is buried under the threshold of
the house, that life may be white and without trouble. In the house of
the bridegroom, the night before the wedding, there is music and drums.
In the house of the bride, one who is blessed with many children, who
has the love of her husband, being his only wife, comes to dress the
bride and paint her hands and feet with henna. The next day all the
unmarried girls bring presents of meat and kous-kous, but the bride
weeps and none may stop her. At night the mule comes to her door with a
beautiful box on it. Everybody sings while the bride is carried out to
the box, and she clings to her people and weeps. They try to prevent her
going, but the friends of the bridegroom lead away the mule, and even
her brothers cannot stop her.”
The black girl was evidently visualising many nuptial scenes, for she
began making the quivering, bubbling sound that always haunts an Arab
wedding. “Is it thus that _she_ was married?” I asked, nodding at the
pink couch. “Lady, that is for a first wedding, when a youth has not yet
untied his girdle, but my lord has been married many times, as befits a
Sherif.” “It is an honour and a blessing to be married to my lord,” said
the old woman, flinging back her haik. “The mother of his sons is sure
of paradise.
“Min zamaan—a very long time ago, a girl of the Ait Uriagel ran away
from her family that she might be the servant of the Sherif. She could
not approach his tent, so she hid among the trees till hunger overcame
her, and then it was told to the Sherif that she was there. He gave her
food and presents, and sent her back to her father, who beat her, for
had she not brought dishonour on his family? Three days, four days
afterwards, she came back again and found her way to the women’s tent,
showing the marks on her back. The Sherif ordered that she should be
beaten again, that the example of her father might be upheld.” The
leather of the crone’s face wrinkled into something that might once have
been a smile. “The girl stayed, for she was honoured by the interest of
my master.” “She is here now?” I asked. “She has a daughter, whom you
see there, but she herself has gone.”
Arab women never speak of death, if they can avoid it. They always say,
“He went. The mercy of Allah is upon him.” “How many children has the
Sherif?” I asked. The old woman pointed round the room, which seemed to
have grown more crowded. “There are nine daughters, and the two oldest
you see there, Zahrah and Mariam. None are yet married, for my lord is
busy with war and politics. He has no thoughts for women.” I learned
that there were three boys, of whom the eldest, Mohamed el Khalid, was
the son of a Sherifa of Beni Halima, which house is also descended from
Abid es Salaam; the second, Mohamed Juni, was the son of a slave, and
the youngest, called Hashim, because he was born in Jebel Hashim, was
the child of a Sherifa of Tagzat, who had died about a year ago.
The Sherif had been married five times, but only two of his wives were
living, and I only saw one, the speechless Khadija. It appears that her
father gave her six slaves as a wedding present, for one of whom he paid
about £90, which was considered a very high price. I saw the girl, a
plump Sudanese, rather light-skinned, with better features than is usual
with her race. She was almost as grandly dressed as the bride, in a
purple silk kaftan, with a waistcoat of olive-green edged with silver,
and a white over-garment belted with silver. I understood she was
particularly skilled in the application of henna and in painting the
hands and feet with a delicate tracery that gives the appearance of
lace. Generally female slaves cost about £50, but the small boys can be
bought for 100 douros, approximately £15. “Women are more expensive,”
said Mariam, “because they are always useful. They stay in the house and
serve, but the boys, once they grow up, are dangerous. The Arabs do not
need blacks to fight for them, and what else can men do? So most grown-
up slaves are given their liberty, for they cannot come into the house.”
The conversation languished, and I was thinking of taking my leave, when
the old woman began whispering into my ear. It was difficult to
understand her, but when she mentioned the word “curse,” I made a great
effort to follow her story, and this is what I gathered. “It is said
that my lord shall have no knowledge of love. All other things he has,
but he may not love, for, if so, the person who holds his heart between
his hands shall be killed. That is the curse, and truly my lord does not
love easily. He is kind to all, for his heart is great, but women are as
children to him. He takes care of them and is gentle, but he is a father
to his wives, and one is no more than the other.”
The human remnant looked round her nervously, but no one was listening.
“It happened so long ago,” she said. “None of these saw it, but I was
with the mother of my lord, and I saw many things. It was a time when my
master made war on one of the tribes, before men knew of him, and,
having attacked the house of the Sheikh at night, he killed two of his
sons. For a long time there was war on this account, for there was blood
to avenge, but at last my lord made peace with the men of that tribe,
and the Sheikh gave him a daughter as a bride. It was said that the girl
was unwilling, for much harm had been done to her people, and one of her
brothers who had been killed was born at the same time as herself, of
the same mother. But the men arranged the affair, and she had no choice.
“When she was brought to the house of el Raisuli, she would take no
food. Neither water nor bread passed her lips, nor would she listen to
the musicians, nor take part in any of the festivals. At last my lord
went in to her, and I was one of the servants who stood at the door. She
got up suddenly, and her hand was behind her back. The Sherif spoke to
her with the blessing of Allah, and she answered, ‘There can be no
blessing from thee to me, for we are enemies. There is the blood of my
brothers between us, which there was no _man_ to avenge. I have not
touched thy gifts, but I bring thee a gift—see—” and she drew her hand
from behind her, and in it was a knife. She struck swiftly, but my lord
did not move, and the ‘baraka’ was with him. The blade slipped on the
clasp of his belt, and he was not wounded. The knife fell on the floor
between them, and the other woman who was beside me screamed; but the
Sherif ordered us to be silent. He picked up the knife and gave it to
her, who stood trembling but fierce—she was not like our women. ‘Take
it,’ he said, and her fingers went out to it slowly. ‘You cannot hurt
me. Your aim was bad, but try again, and do not hurry.’
“Then she stood back and cursed him—Allah have mercy on her!—and told
him that the ‘baraka’ would bring him no peace. His life would be
without time for love and without rest, and there would be one person
that he would care for, and he would be killed in his youth. Then, when
I thought she would have struck my master, and I was afraid, she drove
the knife into her own breast, and fell. My lord looked at her, and said
nothing. The poor one! she had lived for so few years, and life had been
hard for her. That is long ago, and it is best that such things are
forgotten, but see now the way the Sherif looks at my master Mohamed. He
would make him into an ‘Alim’ learned in books, but knowing nothing of
war, yet the boy craves for a gun and a horse. Truly he will be a
warrior in his time.”
I wondered much about this story, for I could get no confirmation of it.
Harem women weave the most curious tales—it is their one occupation—and
the life of el Raisuli lends itself to much romantic exaggeration. It
was, of course, impossible to ask the serious councillors if such an
event had happened, for curiosity dies at the door of the harem. They
would not even have mentioned the name of their master’s wife. “Of that
I know nothing,” would have been the answer.
However, because the story haunted me, when Mulai Sadiq and Badr ed Din
joined me in my tent, I turned the conversation to women, and the Sherif
of Tetuan was quite eloquent on the subject. “Of what use are women?” he
said. “If the Sherif had had nine sons, he would have had nine rifles at
his side in battle, but daughters are a misfortune. They eat up a man’s
substance, which is very hard. Sons go with their father wherever he
travels. They serve and defend him; but daughters must always stay in
the house, and a man must leave servants to guard them and provide them
with food and slaves.”
“Don’t you care for your daughters at all?” I asked. The answer was a
most emphatic “No. The only time that a woman is useful is when she
marries and brings a man into the house, and then it is not always
certain whether he will be good or bad.” “Don’t listen to him!” laughed
Badr ed Din. “He married his daughter to a man of Xauen, and he spent
4,000 douros on the wedding. He won’t let his son-in-law leave Tetuan,
for fear that he should do something bad, though the poor man wishes to
return to his own town.” “Ullah! It is not my daughter I protect, but my
honour,” assured Mulai Sadiq. “Men of my race do not like daughters.
Before Islam they were buried alive, as babies . . . a good custom!”
He looked at me with something very like a twinkle in his faded eyes.
Emboldened by this, I asked the old man if he had ever felt affection
for any of the ladies he had married. The negative was scornful this
time. “No! If they are ill, I give them medicine. When they are hungry I
give them food, but no more. We Arabs are savages. I am capable of dying
twenty times for a guest in my house, and no man may touch a woman of my
kin, for that affects my honour; but what is this talk of love?
Intelligent men do not know it. It is only the stupid who indulge in it.
A wise man does not trouble himself with women’s affairs!” “Do not
believe him,” said Badr ed Din. “He is like all Moors. When we desire
one thing, we say just the reverse.” “He is an egoist,” I said. “_Après
moi, le déluge_,” quoted the reprobate unexpectedly. “It is true,” said
Badr ed Din, with an air of reflection, “when I was last in Tetuan, all
the women of his family came to me and said they wished to leave his
house altogether unless they received better treatment.”
After this I put in a few words as to the position of Englishwomen, and
the Sherif el Bakali laughed. “You have investments of your own,” he
said, “so you are free. Our women come to us with nothing but a
futah[77] and the henna on their feet!” “You need not complain,”
retorted Mulai Sadiq. “Marriage is cheap in your tribe.” “That is true.
It costs but a sheaf of grain, a sheep and the pay of the musicians. For
six douros one may be married in the mountains.” At this point someone
told Badr ed Din that he was a great fighter with his tongue, but
expressed some doubt as to his courage with a rifle. The Bakali
chuckled. “The man who follows a lion must be brave,” he said, “and I
have followed el Raisuli for twenty-five years.”
By the time the long-delayed lunch made its appearance, after a
succession of such remarks as “You told me we should eat, but was it
today or tomorrow that you meant?” and “Allah knows if we shall eat
before we go to paradise,” we learned that the Sherif was ill. Mohamed
el Khalid, wearing his petunia jellaba over jade-green waistcoat and
trousers, whispered the news into the secretary’s ear. “It is the will
of Allah,” said the latter. “But does he suffer much?” Another whisper.
“Ullah, they have put a cord from the ceiling, that he may pull on it
and relieve his pain.”[78]
Our lunch was more silent than usual, though there was kous-kous with a
chicken buried in it, mutton cooked with almonds and onions, a fruit
which tasted like stewed wood, reposing upon piles of marrow, and a row
of skewers on each of which were impaled a dozen bits of liver rolled up
in fat. Mulai Sadiq insisted on fasting, as is his habit on Mondays and
Thursdays, and after he had seen us satisfy our appetites, he went and
sat in an isolated corner of the compound, and remained contemplative
and completely immobile for several hours.
Just before sunset the news went round that the Sherif was better, and,
when the last rays were slanting over the hills of Beni Aros, he came
out into the garden, a sky-blue jellaba on top of all his other robes.
It was the feast of Aidh el Fatr, and, for some days, a deputation of
the tribesmen of Guezauia had been waiting to see the Sherif. This tribe
is really in French territory, a three-days’ journey from Tazrut, so
their presence was a witness to the extent of el Raisuli’s influence in
Morocco.
Having seated himself outside the room used as a mosque, the Sherif
suddenly decided to receive the tribesmen. There was much bustle in the
compound, and the little slaves ran about with the agility of monkeys.
Sidi Badr ed Din stood on one side of Raisuli and the Kaid on the other.
The mood of the morning had passed, and the Sherif was smiling. It is a
rare thing, this smile of his, and infinitely charming. Seeing it, one
realises that the essence of the man’s ‘baraka’ is his power of making
friends. “No enemy goes out from the presence of Mulai Ahmed,” say his
people, and it is true. When he talks earnestly, his sincerity is
obvious, and his dignity so impressive that, however long the tribesmen
have waited to see him, however much they have suffered at his hands,
when leaving him they are his warmest partisans.
Hidden behind a tree, I watched a procession of the Guezauia come up the
tiled path, led by Shiekh Ueld el Abudi. The headmen wore white jellabas
with the hoods pulled forward like cowls; their followers were muffled
in earth-brown camel-hair, and each man led a mule or a horse with
bulging panniers—gifts of oil, grain and skins for the Sherif. Live
sheep were tied one on each side of the saddles, and all this tribute of
goodwill was laid before el Raisuli as he sat, reserved and still,
before the scarred walls of the Zawia. Shell-marks and bullet-marks
seamed the plaster above him. His house was in ruins, his people
scattered, but something remained, a force and a patience that was
unconquerable. The Sheikhs bent and kissed his knees, murmuring a
salutation in the name of Allah. The tribesmen pressed their lips to a
fold of his jellaba. There was a little grave talk, and then the Azzan
rang out from the mosque of Sidi Mohamed. One by one the mules clattered
out of the compound. The hooded figures stole swiftly after them. There
was a moment’s peace, broken by the murmur of the hezb from the Zawia.
Then, loud and triumphant from the hillside, pealed the tribesmen’s
prayers. “Haya alla fella, Haya alla sala! There is no God but God! and
God is Great!” The old appeal to warrior Islam stirred the night with
passion, and I imagined the thousand thousand swords that had flashed to
meet the cry in the centuries that are dead.