HAD-EL-GARBIA.
A throng of ministers, consuls, dragomans, secretaries, clerks, a great
international embassy, representing six monarchies and two republics,
and composed for the most part of people who had been all over the
world. Among others, there was the Spanish consul, dressed in the
graceful costume of the province of Mercia, with a poignard in his
girdle; the gigantic figure of the United States consul, once a colonel
in a cavalry regiment, towering a whole head above the rest of the
troop, and riding a beautiful Arab horse with Mexican saddle and
accoutrements; the dragoman of the Legation of France, an athletic man,
mounted upon an enormous white horse, with which he presented, in
certain points of view, the image of a centaur; English, Andalusians,
and Germans were there, and as every one spoke in his own tongue,
mingled with laughter, the humming of songs, and the neighing of beasts,
the effect may be imagined. Before us rode the banner-bearer, followed
by two soldiers of the Italian Legation; behind came the escort, led by
the mulatto general, with his rifle erect, one end resting on the
saddle; on either side a crowd of Arabs on foot. All this motley
company, gilded by the rays of the setting sun, presented a spectacle so
splendidly picturesque that each one of us wore an air of complacency at
the thought that we formed part of the picture.
Little by little, those who had accompanied us from Tangiers took their
leave and turned back; only America and Spain remained with us. The road
so far was not bad; my mule seemed the most docile of mules; what
remained for me to desire? But there is no perfect felicity on this
earth. The captain drew near and gave me a most unpleasing piece of
news. The vice-consul, Paolo Grande, our tent companion, was a
somnambulist. The captain himself had met him the night before on the
stairs of the Legation, wrapped in a sheet, with a lamp in one hand and
a pistol in the other. The servants, being questioned, confirmed the
tale. To sleep with him in the same tent was dangerous. The captain
entreated me, as I was more intimate with the vice-consul than he, to
induce him to give up his arms for the night. I promised to do my best
“I leave it in your hands,” said he, as he turned away, “and I speak in
the name of the commandant also.” “Here’s a fine business!” thought I,
as I went in search of the vice-consul. He came to meet me. With one
cautious question and another I succeeded in discovering that he carried
with him a small arsenal, what with fire-arms and cutting weapons,
comprising an ugly Moorish poignard that seemed expressly made for
cutting a hole in my own person. After turning it over in my mind, I
decided to wait until the hour for going to bed arrived, and for the
rest of the way the teasing thought pursued me.
We were moving now in a great curve over an undulating country, green
and solitary. The road, if road it could be called, was formed of a
large number of parallel paths crossing each other here and there,
winding through stones and bushes, and sunken, like the beds of streams.
A few palms and aloes showed their dark outlines upon the golden sky,
which, above our heads, began to glitter with stars. No person was to be
seen far or near. Once we heard some gunshots: it was a group of Arabs
on the top of a hill, saluting the ambassador. After three hours’
travelling it was dark night, and we began to wish for the encampment.
Hunger in some and fatigue in others made us silent. Nothing was heard
but the horses’ feet and the panting breath of the servants running
beside us. Suddenly there was a shout from the caid. On a height to the
right lights were glittering, and we hailed with a unanimous shout our
first encampment.
I cannot express the pleasure I felt in dismounting among the tents. Had
it not been for my dignity as the representative of Italian literature,
I think I should have indulged in a sort of jig. It was a little city,
illuminated, and full of noise and people. Kitchen fires blazed on every
side. Servants, soldiers, cooks, sailors, went to and fro, exchanging
questions in all the tongues of the Tower of Babel. The tents were
arranged in a large circle, with the Italian banner in the midst. Behind
the tents were ranged the horses and mules. The escort had its own small
encampment apart. Every thing was in military order. I recognized at
once my own habitation, and ran to take possession. There were four
camp-beds, mats and carpets, lanterns, candlesticks, small tables,
folding chairs, washbasins striped with the Italian colors, and a great
Indian fan. It was a princely establishment, in which one might
willingly spend a year. Our tent was placed between those of the
ambassador and the artists.
One hour after our arrival we were seated at dinner in the tent
consecrated to Lucullus. I think that was the merriest dinner that ever
took place within the confines of Morocco since the foundation of Fez.
We were sixteen, comprising the American consul with his two sons, and
the Spanish consul, with two _attachés_ from the Legation. The Italian
_cuisine_ carried off a solemn victory. It was the first time, I
believe, that in that desolate country the fumes of macaroni with gravy
and _risotto alla Milanese_ ever rose to the nostrils of Allah. The fat
French cook, come from Tangiers for that night only, was clamorously
called before the footlights. Toasts went off one after the other in
Italian, in Spanish, in verse, in prose, in music. The Spanish consul, a
handsome Castilian of the antique stamp, large-bearded,
broad-shouldered, and deep-hearted, declaimed, with one hand on his
dagger-hilt, the dialogue of Don Juan Tenorio with Don Luis Mendia, in
Zorilla’s famous drama. There were discussions upon the Eastern
Question, upon the eyes of Arab women, upon the Carlist war, upon the
immortality of the soul, and upon the properties of the terrible _cobra
di capello_—the aspic of Cleopatra—which the charlatans of Morocco allow
to bite them with impunity. Some one, in the midst of the clamor of
conversation, whispered in my ear that he would be grateful to me for
life, if I would mention in my future book on Morocco, that he had
killed a lion. I seized the occasion to request my fellow-guests to give
me each a note as to the particular ferocious beast which he had
conquered. The Spanish consul, out of gratitude, improvised a verse in
honor of my mule, and all singing it to a tune from the “Italiana in
Algieri,” we issued forth, and sought our different sleeping-places.
The encampment was immersed in profound slumber. In front of the tent of
the ambassador, who had retired before us, watched the faithful Selam,
first soldier of the Legation. In the distance paced like a shadow,
among the tents, the form of the caid of the escort. The sky was all
sparkling with stars. What a blessed night, if I had not had that thorn
inserted in my pillow!
I had no sooner entered my tent than the captain repeated his advice,
and I determined to attack the subject after we should be in bed. It was
unavoidable, but it was very unpleasant. The vice-consul might take it
badly, and I should be very sorry. He was so agreeable a companion. Like
a true Sicilian, full of fire, he talked of the most insignificant
things with the accent and style of an inspired preacher. He made use of
the most terrible adjectives—immense, divine, and so on—on the slightest
occasion. His quietest and least expressive gesture was to shake his
hands wildly above his head. To see him discuss any question, with his
eyes flying out of his head, and his aquiline nose that seemed to defy
the world, was to judge him an irascible and imperious man, whereas he
was in reality the kindest and gentlest person conceivable.
“Come, courage!” whispered the captain when we were all in bed.
“Signor Grande,” I began, “are you in the habit of getting up in the
night?”
He seemed much astonished at my question. “No,” he answered; “and I
should be very sorry to think that any one had such a habit.”
“That’s queer,” I thought. “Then,” said I, “you recognize that it is a
dangerous habit?”
He looked at me. “Excuse me,” he said, after a moment’s silence; “I
don’t suppose you mean to joke on such a subject?”
“Excuse _me_,” I answered; “I have not the least intention of joking. It
is not my custom to jest on serious subjects.”
“Serious indeed; and it will be for you to guard against the
consequences.”
“Well, this is fine! Do you imagine that I shall go and sleep in the
middle of the camp?”
“Of the two it seems to me that you should go, rather than I.”
“That is an impertinence!” cried I, sitting up in bed with a jump.
“Oh, a new idea!” shouted the vice-consul, bouncing up in his turn; “an
impertinence, not to risk being murdered!”
A shout of laughter from the other two broke up the discussion, and
before they spoke we understood that we had been the victims of a joke.
They had told him that I was in the habit of wandering about in the
night wrapped in a sheet, and with a pistol in my hand.
[Illustration: Peasant Women of the Interior.]
The night passed without disturbance, and I awoke at dawn. The camp was
still immersed in slumber; only among the tents of the escort a few
persons were in motion. The sky in the east was of a brilliant
rose-color. I went out among the tents, and stood in contemplation
before the spectacle that lay in front of me.
The camp was placed on the side of a hill covered with grass, aloes, the
prickly pear, and some flowering shrubs. Near the ambassador’s tent rose
a tall palm-tree, gracefully inclined toward the east. In front of the
hill extended an immense plain, undulating and covered with verdure,
closed in the distance by a chain of dark-green mountains, behind which
appeared other blue heights almost lost in the limpid sky. In all that
space there was no house, nor curl of smoke, nor tent, nor cattle, to be
seen. It was like an immense garden where no living thing was admitted.
A fresh and perfumed breeze rustled the branches of the palm, and made
the only sound that broke the silence. Suddenly, as I turned I beheld
ten dilated eyes fixed on mine. Five Arabs were seated upon a mass of
rock at a few steps from me—laborers from the country, come in in the
night to see the encampment. They seemed sculptured out of the rock on
which they sat. They looked at me without winking, without the least
sign of curiosity, or sympathy, or embarrassment, or malevolence; the
whole five motionless and impassive, their faces half hidden in their
hoods, like personifications of the solitude and silence of the fields.
I put one hand in my pocket, and the ten eyes followed it; I took out a
cigar, and the ten eyes fixed themselves upon it; they followed every
motion that I made. Little by little I discovered other figures farther
off, seated in the grass two by two and three by three, motionless and
hooded, and, like the first, with their eyes fixed on me. They seemed to
have risen from the earth, dead men with their eyes open, appearances
rather than real persons, which would vanish under the first beams of
the sun. A long and tremulous cry, coming from that part of the camp
where the escort lay, disturbed me from my contemplation of these
beings. A Mussulman soldier was announcing to his fellows the first of
the five canonical hours of prayer which every Mussulman must follow.
Some soldiers came out of the tents, spread their mantles on the earth,
and knelt down upon them, their faces toward the east. Three times they
rubbed their hands, arms, head, and feet with a handful of earth, and
then began to recite their prayers in a low voice, kneeling, rising to
their feet, prostrating themselves face downward, lifting their open
hands to a level with their ears, and crouching on their heels. Soon the
commander of the escort issued from his tent, and was followed by his
servants, then the cooks. In a few minutes the greater part of the
population of the camp was afoot. The sun, scarcely above the horizon,
was scorching.
[Illustration: The Arab’s Morning Prayer.]
When I went back to my tent, I made the acquaintance of several odd
personages to whom I shall have frequently to allude.
The first to appear was one of the Italian sailors, orderly to the
captain of the frigate, a Sicilian, born at Porto Empedocle, Ranni by
name,—a young fellow of twenty-five, very tall, and of herculean build
and strength,—good-tempered, grave as a magistrate, and endowed with the
singular virtue of never being astonished at any thing, except perhaps
the astonishment of others. For him, Porto Empedocle, Gibraltar, Africa,
China, the moon itself, had he been in it, were all the same.
“What do you think of this way of living?” asked the captain, while
Ranni helped him to dress.
“What am I to say?” was the response.
“Why the journey, the new country, all this confusion—do they make no
impression upon you?”
He was silent a moment, and then answered ingenuously, “No impression at
all.”
“But the encampment—that at least is new to you.”
“Oh no, Signor Commandant.”
“When did you ever see one before?”
“I saw this one last evening.”
The commandant looked at him, repressing his irritation. Then he said,
“Well, last evening—what impression did it make then?”
“Well,” answered the sailor with candor, “the same impression, you know,
that it made this morning.”
The commandant hung his head with an air of resignation.
Soon after there entered another not less curious personage. He was an
Arab from Tangiers, who was in the vice-consul’s service for the time of
the journey. His name was Ciua; but his master called him Civo, for
greater facility of pronunciation. He was a large and tall young fellow,
rather given to practical joking, but good-natured and willing—a big
ingenuous boy, who laughed and hid his face when you looked at him. He
had no other garment than a long, wide, white shirt, without a girdle,
which floated about him when he walked, and gave him a ridiculous
resemblance to a cherub. He knew about thirty Spanish words, and with
these he managed to make himself understood, when constrained to speak;
but he usually preferred to converse in pantomime. To look at him, you
would judge him to be about five-and-twenty; but it is easy to make a
mistake in an Arab’s age. I asked him how old he was. He covered his
face with one hand, thought a moment, and answered, “_Cuando guerra
España—año y medio._” In the time of the war with Spain, which was in
1860, he was a year and a half old, consequently, he was then seventeen.
The third personage was the ambassador’s cook, who brought us our
coffee—an unadulterated Piedmontese from Turin, who had dropped from the
clouds one day into Tangiers, and had not yet recovered his wits. The
poor man was never tired of exclaiming, “What a country! What a
country!”
I asked him if before leaving Turin they had not told him what sort of a
place Morocco was. He answered, yes, they had told him, “Take care;
Tangiers is not Turin.” And he had thought “_Pazienza!_ it will be like
Genoa or Alexandria”; and instead he had found himself in the midst of
savages. And they had given him two Arab assistants who could not
understand a word he said. And then to make a two months’ journey
through the _deserts of Egypt_! He knew he should never get back alive.
“But at any rate,” I said, “you will have something to tell when you get
back to Turin.”
“Ah!” he answered, turning away with an air of profound depression,
“what can I tell about a country where one cannot find a single leaf of
salad?”
Breakfast over, the ambassador gave the order to break up the
encampment. During that long operation, in which not less than one
hundred persons were concerned, I noticed a singular trait of Arab
character—the insatiable passion for command. There was no need of any
indication to recognize at once in that crowd of figures the head
muleteer, the head porter, the head tent-servant, the chief of the
soldiers of the Legation. Each of these was invested with an authority,
and he made it felt and heard, with hand and voice and eye, with or
without occasion, and with all the strength of his soul and body. Those
who had no authority resorted to all sorts of pretexts for giving
orders, and seeming to be something a little above their fellows. The
most ragged wretch among them gave himself imperious airs. The simplest
operation, such as tying a cord or lifting a box, provoked an exchange
of thundering yells, lightning glances, and gestures worthy of an angry
sultan. Even Civo, the modest Civo, domineered over two country Arabs
who allowed themselves to glance at his master’s trunks from a distance.
At ten in the morning, under a burning sun, the long caravan began
slowly to descend into the plain. The Spanish consul and his two
companions had been left behind; of foreigners none remained with us now
but the American consul and his two sons.
From the place where we had passed the night, called in Arabic
Ain-Dalia, which signifies fountain of wine, because of the vines that
once were there, we were to go that day to Had-el-Garbia, beyond the
mountains that shut in the plain.
For more than an hour we journeyed over a gently undulating plain, among
fields of barley and millet, through winding paths, forming at their
crossings many little islets of grass and flowers. We met no one, and no
figure was visible in the fields. Only once we encountered a long file
of camels led by two Bedouin Arabs, who muttered, as they passed, the
common salutation: “Peace be on your way.”
I felt a great pity for the Arab servants who accompanied us on foot,
loaded with umbrellas, field-glasses, albums, clocks, and a thousand
objects of name and use unknown to them; constrained to follow our mules
with rapid step, suffocated by dust, scorched by the sum half-fed,
half-clothed, subject to every one, possessing nothing in the world but
a ragged shirt and a pair of slippers; running afoot from Fez to
Tangiers, only to go back again; and then, perhaps, to follow some other
caravan from Fez to Morocco, and so to go on throughout their lives,
without other recompense than just not to die of hunger, and to repose
their bones under a tent at night! I thought as I looked at them of
Goethe’s “Pyramid of Existence.” There was among them a boy of thirteen
or fourteen years old, a mulatto, handsome and slender, who constantly
fixed on us his large dark eyes full of a pensive curiosity, seeking to
speak confusedly of many things, and dumbly demanding sympathy. He was a
foundling, the fruit of no one knew what strange amours, who, beginning
this fatiguing life in the Italian Embassy, would probably never cease
until he should fall dying in some ditch. Another, an old man all skin
and bones, ran with his head down, his eyes closed, and his hands
clenched, with a sort of desperate resignation. Some talked and laughed
as they panted on. Suddenly one darted from the ranks, passed before us,
and disappeared. Ten minutes afterward we found him seated under a
fig-tree. He had done a half mile at top speed, in order to gain upon
the caravan and enjoy five minutes’ rest and shade.
Meantime we arrived at the foot of a small mountain, called in Arabic
the Red Mountain, because of the color of its earth; steep, rocky, and
still bristling on its lower part with the remains of a felled wood.
This climb had been announced to us at Tangiers as the most difficult
part of our road. “Mule,” said I to my beast, “I desire you to remember
my contract with my editor,” and I pushed forward in a bold and reckless
manner. The path rose winding among great stones that seemed to have
been placed there on purpose to bring me to grief by some personal
enemy; at every doubtful movement of my mule I felt a whole chapter of
my future book fly away out of my head,—twice the poor beast came down
on her knees, and launched my soul upon the confines of a better
world,—but at last we reached the summit, safe and sound, where to my
amazement I found myself in the presence of the two painters, who had
gone on ahead in order to see the caravan climbing up. The spectacle was
well worth the fatigue of the rapid ascent.
The caravan stretched back for more than a mile from the side of the
mountain into the plain. First came the principal members of the
Embassy, among whom shone conspicuous the plumed hat of the ambassador
and the white turban of Mohammed Ducali, and on either side came a troop
of servants on foot and on horseback, picturesquely scattered among the
rocks and shrubs of the ascent. Behind these, in couples and groups of
three or four, wrapped in their white and blue mantles, and bending
above their scarlet saddles, the horsemen of the Moorish escort looked
like a long procession of maskers; and behind them came the endless file
of mules and horses carrying trunks, furniture, tents, and provisions,
flanked by soldiers and servants, the last of whom appeared like white
and red points among the green of the fields. This many-colored and
glittering procession animated the solitary valley, and presented the
strangest and gayest spectacle that can be imagined. If at that moment I
had had the power to strike it motionless, so that I could contemplate
it at my leisure, I think I could not have resisted the temptation. As I
turned to resume my road, I saw the Atlantic Ocean lying as blue and
tranquil as a lake at a few miles’ distance. There was but one ship in
view, sailing near the coast, and toward the strait. The commandant,
observing her with his glass, discovered her to be Italian. What would
we not have given to have been seen and recognized by her!
From the Red Mountain we descended into another lovely valley, carpeted
with red, white, and lilac flowers. There was not a house, nor tent, nor
human being, to be seen. The ambassador deciding to halt here, we
dismounted and sat down under the shade of some trees, while the
baggage-train went on.
Around us, at the distance of a few steps, the servants were grouped,
each holding a horse or mule. The artists drew forth their sketch-books,
but it was of no use. Scarcely did one of the vagabonds perceive that he
was an object of observation than he hid himself behind a tree, or drew
his hood over his face. Three of them, one after the other, got up and
went grumbling off, to sit down about fifty paces further on, dragging
their quadrupeds with them. They did not even wish the animals to be
sketched. In vain the vexed artists prayed, and coaxed, and offered
money; it was all useless waste of breath. They made signs of no with
their hands, pointing to the sky and smiling cunningly, as if to say,
“We are not such fools as you think us.” Not even the mulatto boy, or
the Legation soldiers, who were familiar with Europeans, and knew the
two artists, would permit their persons to be profaned by a Christian
pencil. The Koran, as we know, prohibits the representation of the human
figure, as well as that of animals, as a beginning of and temptation to
idolatry. One of the soldiers was asked, through the interpreter, why he
would not consent to stand and have his portrait taken. “Because,” he
answered, “in the figure which he will make the artist cannot put a
soul. What is the purpose of his work then? God alone can create living
beings, and it is a sacrilege to pretend to imitate them.” The mulatto
boy answered, laughing, “Have my portrait taken! Yes, when I am asleep:
then it does not matter, and I am not in fault; but never, if I know it,
shall it be done.”
Then Signor Biseo began to draw one who was asleep. All the others,
grouped about, stood turning their eyes, now on the painter, now on
their sleeping companion. Presently the latter awoke, looked about him,
made a gesture of displeasure, and went off grumbling, amid the laughter
of his fellows, who seemed to be saying, “You are done for now.”
After an hour more on the road, we saw the white tents of the
encampment, and a troop of horsemen, sprung from we knew not where, came
toward us, yelling, and firing off their guns. At about ten paces off
they stopped, their chief shook hands with the ambassador, and his men
joined our escort. They proved to be soldiers of a species of _landwehr_
belonging to the place where our camp was pitched, and forming part of
the army of Morocco. Some had turbans, some a red handkerchief bound
round the head, and all wore the white caftan.
The encampment was placed this time upon a barren spot; in the distance
on one side was a chain of blue mountains, on the other verdant hills.
At about half a mile from the tents were two groups of huts built of
stubble, and half hidden among prickly-pear bushes.
We had hardly seated ourselves in the tent when a soldier came running,
and planting himself before the ambassador, said, joyfully, “The
_muna_.” “Let them come in,” said the ambassador, rising. We all rose to
our feet.
A long file of Arabs, accompanied by the chief of the escort, the
soldiers of the Legation, and servants, crossed the encampment, and,
ranging themselves before our tent, deposited at the feet of the
ambassador a great quantity of coal, eggs, sugar, butter, candles,
bread, three dozen of hens, and eight sheep.
This tribute was the _mona_ or _muna_. Besides the heavy tax they pay in
money, the inhabitants of the country are obliged to furnish all
official personages, the soldiers of the Sultan, and all envoys passing
by, with a certain quantity of provisions. The Government fixes the
quantity, but the local authorities demand whatever they please, without
reference to the quantity received, although it may be more than is
required, and it is always a small portion of that which has been
extorted the month before, or will be extorted in the following month
after the presentation.
An old man, who appeared to be the head of the deputation, addressed,
through the interpreter, some obsequious words to the ambassador. The
others, who were all poor peasants clothed in rags, looked at us, our
tents, and their tribute—the fruit of their labor lying at our feet—with
an air of mingled astonishment and depression which betrayed a profound
resignation.
A division having been quickly made of the things, between the
ambassador’s larder and that of the escort, muleteers, and soldiers,
Signor Morteo, who had that morning been named Intendant-General of the
camp, rewarded the old Arab, who made a sign to his companions, and all
silently departed as they had come.
Then began, what was to take place every day from that time forth, a
great squabbling among the servants, muleteers, and soldiers, over the
sharing of the _muna_. It was a most amusing scene. Two or three of them
went up and down with measured steps, carrying each a sheep in his arms,
invoking Allah and the ambassador; others yelled out their discontent
and enforced their reasoning by beating the ground with their fists;
Civo fluttered about in his long white shirt with the profound
conviction that he was very terrible; the sheep baa-d, the hens ran here
and there, the dogs yelped. Suddenly up-rose the ambassador, and all was
still.
The only one who continued to grumble was Selam.
Selam was a great personage. In reality there were two of the Legation
soldiers who bore that name, both belonging to the special service of
the ambassador; but, as when we say Napoleon we mean the first of that
name, so when we said Selam we meant one, and one only.
He was a handsome young fellow, tall and slender, and full of
cleverness. He understood every thing at a glance, did every thing with
all his might, walked in a series of leaps, spoke with a look, and was
in motion from morning until night. Everybody came to him, about the
baggage, the tents, the kitchen, the horses, and he had an answer for
all. He spoke Spanish badly and knew a few words of Italian, but could
have made himself understood in Arabic, so speaking and picturesque was
his pantomime. To indicate a hill, he made the gesture of a fiery
colonel pointing out to his men a battery that is to be assaulted. To
reprove a servant, he fell upon him as if he were about to annihilate
him. He always reminded me of Salvini in “Othello,” or “Oromanes.” In
whatever attitude he presented himself, whether pouring water on the
ambassador’s spine, or galloping by on his chestnut horse, nailed to his
saddle, he was always the same bold, graceful, and elegant figure. The
two painters were never tired of looking at him. He wore a scarlet
caftan and blue drawers, and was easily distinguished from one end of
the camp to another. His name was in every mouth all over the
encampment. When he was angry he was a savage; when he laughed, a child.
_Il Signor Ministro_ was for ever in his mouth and in his heart, for he
placed him after Allah and the Prophet. Ten guns levelled at his breast
would not have paled his cheek, and an undeserved rebuke from the
ambassador made him cry. He was about five-and-twenty.
When he had done grumbling, he came near me and began opening a box. As
he stooped, his fez fell off and I saw a large blood-mark on his head.
In answer to my question, he said that he had been wounded by a loaf of
sugar. “I threw it up in the air,” he said, with gravity, “and it came
down on my head.” I looked amazed, and he explained—“I do it,” he said,
“to harden my head. The first time I fell down insensible, but now it
only draws a little blood. A time will come when it will not break the
skin. All the Arabs do it. My father broke bricks as thick as two
fingers on his head as easily as I would break a loaf of bread. A true
Arab,” he concluded, with a haughty air, striking his head a blow with
his fist, “should have a head of iron.”
The encampment that evening presented a very different aspect from that
of the preceding days. Everybody had fallen into their own habits of
passing the time. The artists had erected their easels and were hard at
work in front of their tent. The captain had gone to observe the ground,
the vice-consul to collect insects, the ex-Spanish minister to shoot
partridges; the ambassador and the commandant were playing chess in the
dining-tent; the servants were playing leap-frog; the soldiers of the
escort conversed sitting in a circle; of the rest some walked about,
some read, some wrote; one would have thought we had been there a month.
If I had had a small printing-press I could have found it in my heart to
edit a newspaper.
The weather was exquisite; we dined with the tent open, and during
dinner the horsemen of Had-el-Garbia shouted, and fired off their guns,
while the sun went down in splendor.
Opposite to me at table sat Mohammed Ducali. For the first time I was
able to observe him attentively. He was a true type of the wealthy
Moor—supple, elegant, and obsequious; I say wealthy, because he
possessed, it was said, more than thirty houses at Tangiers, although at
that time his affairs were supposed to be in some confusion. He might
have been about forty years of age, was tall of stature, with regular
features, fair, and bearded; he wore a small turban, twisted in a _caic_
of the finest of the fabrics of Fez, which fell down over a purple
embroidered caftan; he smiled to show his teeth, spoke Spanish in a
feminine voice, and had the languid air of a young lover. In former days
he had been a merchant; had been in Italy, in Spain, London, and Paris,
and had returned to Morocco with some ideas of European customs. He
drank wine, smoked cigarettes, wore stockings, read romances, and
related his gallant adventures. The principal reason for his going to
Fez was a debt owed him by the Government, which he hoped to get paid
through the good offices of the ambassador. He had brought with him his
own tent, servants, and mules. His glance gave one to understand that he
would have brought his wives also had that been possible, but upon my
hazarding a question in that direction he modestly dropped his eyes, and
made no reply.
After dinner I satisfied a desire which I had nourished ever since
leaving Tangiers, and went out to see the camp at night. I waited until
every one had entered his tent, wrapped myself in a white mantle, and
went out. The sky was studded with stars; the lights were all out,
except the lantern that was attached to the flag-staff; a profound
silence reigned throughout the camp. Very quietly, and avoiding a
stumble over the tent-cords, I moved to the left, and had not made ten
steps when an unexpected sound stopped me short. Some one appeared to be
tuning a guitar, in a closed tent that I had never visited, and which
stood about thirty paces outside of the circle of the camp. I approached
and listened. The guitar accompanied a soft and very sweet voice singing
an Arab ditty full of melancholy. Could there be a woman in this
mysterious tent? It was closed on every side, so I lay down on my face
and tried to peep underneath. Almost at the same moment a soft voice
beside me said, “_Quien es?_” (Who is there?) “Allah protect me!” I
thought, “there _is_ a woman here.” I answered, aloud, “An inquisitive
person,” with the most pathetic voice I could assume at the moment. A
laugh responded, and a male voice said in Spanish, “Bravo! Come in and
take a cup of tea!” It was the voice of Mohammed Ducali. He opened a
little door, and I found myself within the tent, which was hung with
some rich flowered stuff, ornamented with small arched windows, lighted
by a Moorish lantern, and perfumed in a way to do honor to the fairest
odalisque of the Sultan’s harem. And there, luxuriously stretched upon a
Persian carpet, with his head on a rich cushion, lay a young Arab
servant lad, of gentle and pensive aspect, with a guitar in his hands.
In the middle of the tent there was a tea-service, and on one side
smoked a perfume-burner. I explained to Ducali how I came to be so near
his tent, took a cup of tea, listened to an air sung by the Arab
musician, and taking my leave, resumed my wanderings. Avoiding another
tent where more of Ducali’s servants were sleeping, I turned toward that
of the ambassador.
Before the door lay Selam, stretched on his blue mantle, with his sabre
by his side. “If I wake him, and he does not recognize me at once,” I
thought, “it is all over with me! Let me be prudent.” I advanced on
tip-toe, and peeped into the tent. It was divided in the middle by a
rich curtain; on one side was the reception-room, with a table covered
with a cloth, and writing materials, and a few gilded chairs. On the
other side slept the ambassador and his friend, the ex-minister from
Spain. I thought I would leave my card on the table, and advanced a
step, when a low growl arrested me. It was Diana, the ambassador’s dog.
Almost at the same moment the master’s voice called out, “Who’s that?”
“An assassin!” answered I.
He knew my voice, and called out, “Strike!” I explained the motive of my
visit, at which he laughed, and giving me his hand in the darkness,
wished me success in my undertaking. Coming out I stumbled over
something which proved to be a tortoise, and as I struck a match to
examine him, I discovered a monstrous toad sitting looking at me. For a
moment I thought I would give up my enterprise, but curiosity overcoming
disgust, I went on.
I reached the tent of the intendant. As I bent down to listen, a tall,
white figure rose between me and the door, and said in sepulchral
accents, “He sleeps.” I started back as at the apparition of a phantom,
but recovered myself immediately. It was an Arab servant of Morteo’s,
who had been with him for several years, and spoke a little Italian, and
who, in spite of my white hood, had recognized me instantly. Like Selam,
he had been stretched before the door of his master’s tent, with his
sabre by his side. I wished him good-night, and went on my way.
In the next tent were the doctor and Solomon the dragoman. An acute odor
of drugs pervaded the neighborhood, and there was a light inside. The
doctor was seated at his table, reading; the dragoman was asleep, This
physician, young, highly cultivated, and of very gentleman-like manners
and appearance, had a very singular peculiarity. Born in Algeria of
French parents, he had lived many years in Italy, and had married a
Spanish wife. Not only did he speak the languages of the three countries
with equal facility, but he partook of the characteristics of the three
nations, loved all three countries alike, and was, in short, a sort of
Latin three in one, who was equally at home in Rome, in Madrid, and in
Paris. He was, besides, gifted with a most delicate and acute sense of
the ridiculous; so that, without speaking, with one furtive glance, or
slight movement of the lip, he could throw into relief the ridiculous
side of a person or thing in a way to make one burst with laughter. At
the sight of me, he guessed at once the reason of my presence, offered
me a glass of wine, and raising his arm, whispered, “Success to your
expedition!” “With the aid of Allah!” I rejoined, and left him to his
reading.
Passing before the empty dinner-tent, I turned to the left, came out of
the circle of the encampment, walked between two long rows of sleeping
horses, and found myself among the tents of the escort. Listening, I
could hear the breathing of the soldiers as they slept. Guns, sabres,
saddles, shoulder-belts, poniards, were scattered about before the
tents, together with the banner of Mahomet. I looked abroad, across the
country; not a soul was visible. Only the two groups of cabins appeared
like black and formless blots.
I turned back, passed between the American consul’s tent and that of his
servants, both close-shut and silent, crossed a little space of ground
where the kitchen had been planted, and stepping over a barricade of
pots and saucepans, reached the little tent of the cook. With him were
the two Arabs who served him as scullions. All was black within; I put
in my head and called, “_Gioanin!_”
The poor fellow, afflicted by the non-success of an omelet, and perhaps
worried by the neighborhood of his two “savages,” was not asleep. “Is
that you?” he asked. “It is I.”
He was silent a moment, and then turning restlessly on his bed
exclaimed, “_Ah, che pais!_” (Ah, what a country!)
“Courage!” I said; “think that in ten days we shall be before the walls
of the great city of Fez.”
He muttered some confused words in which I could only distinguish the
name of his native city in Italy, and, respecting his grief, I silently
withdrew.
In the adjoining tent were the two sailors—Ranni, the commandant’s
orderly, and Luigi, from the _Dora_, a Neapolitan, and such a kind,
pleasant, handy young fellow, that in two days he had gained the
good-will of all. They had a light, and were busy eating something.
Lending an ear, I could hear some portions of their dialogue, which was
very curious. Luigi inquired for whom were intended the crayon sketches
which the two artists made in their albums. “Why, for the king, of
course,” said Ranni. “What, without any color, like that?” demanded the
other. “Oh no! when they get back to Italy, first they will color them,
and then they will send them.” “Who knows how much the king will pay for
them!” “Oh, a great deal, of course! Perhaps as much as a _scudo_ (five
francs) a leaf. Kings think nothing of money.”
Once more I left the circle of the encampment, and wandered for a minute
or two among long rows of horses and mules, among which I recognized
with emotion the white companion of my journey, apparently sunk in
profound contemplation; and I next found myself before the tent of M.
Vincent, a Frenchman residing at Tangiers, one of those mysterious
personages who have been all over the world, speak all tongues, and
understand all trades—cook, merchant, hunter, interpreter, reader of
ancient inscriptions,—and who, having, with his own tent and horse,
attached himself to the Italian Embassy in the capacity of high director
of the kitchen, was now going to Fez to sell to the Government French
uniforms bought in Algeria.
I looked in at him through a crack. He was seated on a box, in a
meditative attitude, with a great pipe in his mouth, by the light of a
small candle stuck in a bottle. But what a strange figure! He reminded
me of those old alchemists in the Dutch pictures, musing in their
studies, their faces illuminated by the fire of an alembic. Meagre,
bent, and bony, he looked as if every episode of his life had been
written in the wrinkles of his visage and in the angles of his form. Who
knows what he was thinking about? What memories of adventurous journeys,
strange meetings, mad undertakings, and odd personages were mingling in
his head? Perhaps, after all, he was only thinking of the price of a
pair of _Turco_ breeches, or about his scanty provision of tobacco. Just
as I was going to speak he blew out his light with a puff, and vanished
into the darkness like a magician.
A few paces further on were the tents of the commandant of the escort,
that of his first officer, and that of the chief of the horsemen of
Had-el-Garbia. I was in the act of looking into one of these when a
light step came behind me, and a hand of steel closed upon my arm. I
turned, and found myself face to face with the mulatto general. He
withdrew his hand at once, and with a laugh, said, in a tone of apology,
“_Salamu alikum! salimu alikum!_” (Peace be with you!) He had taken me
for a thief. We shook hands in token of amity, and I went on.
In a few moments I saw before me what appeared to be a hooded figure
seated on the ground with musket in hand, and concluded that this must
be a sentinel. About fifty paces further on, there was another, and then
a third; a chain of them all around the encampment. I learned later that
this vigilance was from no fear of violence, but simply to guard the
tents from thieves, who abound there, and are extremely clever at their
trade, having much practice among the tribes who live in tents.
Fortunately the frankness of my movements aroused no suspicion, and I
was allowed to finish my excursion.
I passed by Malek and Saladin, the envoy’s two fiery steeds, stumbled
over another tortoise, and stopped before the tent of the footmen. They
were lying on a little straw, one upon the top of the other, and
sleeping so profoundly that they seemed like a heap of corpses. The boy
with the great black eyes lay with half his body outside of the tent,
and I narrowly missed stepping on his face. I felt so sorry for him
that, wishing to give him a little comfort in the morning when he should
wake, I placed a piece of money in his hand that lay open on the grass,
palm upward, as if begging charity from the spirits of the night.
A murmur of merry voices drew me away to a neighboring tent, where were
the soldiers and servants of the Embassy; they appeared to be eating and
drinking. I perceived the odor of kif, and recognized the voices of
Selam the Second, Abd-el-Rhaman, and others; it was an Arab orgie in
full swing. The poor fellows had well earned a little diversion after
the fatigues of the day, and I passed on without disturbing their
merriment by my presence. In a few moments I reached the artists’ tent,
which completed the circle of the encampment, and my nocturnal excursion
was over.