ZEGUTA.
We started for Zeguta at an early hour in the morning, cheered by the
thought that that day we should see the mountains of Fez. A light
autumnal breeze was blowing, and a slight mist veiled the prospect. A
throng of Arabs muffled in their mantles looked on as we left the camp;
the soldiers of the escort kept together in a compact body; the children
of the _duar_ watched us with sleepy eyes over the hedges and from the
tents. But soon the sun shone out, the horsemen scattered, the air
resounded with shots and yells, every thing became full of color, light,
and animation, and immediately, as happens in that country, to the chill
of autumn succeeded the ardent heat of summer.
Among my notes of that morning I find one which says, laconically,
“Locusts.” I remember to have noticed a distant field which appeared to
be moving, and perceived that the appearance was produced by a vast
number of green grasshoppers which were advancing toward us in great
jumps. Selim, who was riding at my side, gave me an admirably
picturesque description of the invasion of these formidable insects, and
I remember it word for word; but I cannot render the effect of his
gesture, voice, and look, which were more expressive than his words. “It
is a terrible thing, sir! They come from there (pointing toward the
south). A black cloud. You can hear the noise from afar off. They
advance and advance, and they have their Sultan, the Sultan Jeraad, who
guides them. They cover roads and fields, houses, _duars_, and woods.
The cloud grows and grows, and comes and comes and comes, and eats and
eats and eats, passes rivers, passes walls, passes fires; destroys
grass, flowers, leaves, fruit, grain, bark of trees, and goes and goes.
Nothing stays it, neither the tribe with fire, nor the Sultan with all
his army, nor all the people of Morocco gathered together. Heaps of
locusts dead; forward the living locusts! Ten die, a hundred are born! A
hundred die, a thousand are born! Roads covered, gardens covered,
sea-shore covered; all green, all in motion, alive, dead, smell, plague,
famine, the 'curse of heaven!’” So indeed it is. The horrid smell that
emanates from myriads of dead locusts sometimes produces contagious
fevers, and, to cite one example, the terrible pestilence that
depopulated in 1799 the cities and country of Barbary broke out after
one of their invasions. When the advanced guard of their devastating
army appears, the Arabs go to meet it in squads of four or five hundred
with sticks and fire; but they succeed only in turning it a little from
its road, and it often happens that one tribe turning it aside toward
the territory of another, war against the locusts is suddenly turned
into civil war. The only force that can liberate the country from this
scourge is a favorable wind which drives them into the sea, where they
are drowned, and are thrown afterward in heaps upon the coast; and the
only comfort the inhabitants can take when the favorable wind is
wanting, is to eat their enemies, which they do, before they have
deposited their eggs, boiled, and seasoned with salt, pepper, and
vinegar. They have the flavor of shrimps, and as many as four hundred
can be eaten in a day.
At about two miles from the camp we rejoined a part of the caravan that
was carrying to Fez the presents from Victor Emanuel.[4] There were
camels in pairs, one behind the other, with two long poles suspended
from the crupper, on which the cases were carried. Some Arabs on foot,
and mounted soldiers, accompanied them. At the head of the caravan was a
cart drawn by two bullocks; the first cart we saw in Morocco! It was
made at Laracce on purpose, after the pattern, I believe, of the first
vehicle that ever appeared on the earth—a heavy deformed body, upon two
wheels all of one piece, without spokes; the strangest and most
ridiculous affair that can be imagined. But to the natives, the most of
whom had never seen a cart, it was a wonder. They came from all sides to
see it, pointed it out to one another, followed and preceded it, and
talked about it with excited gestures. Meantime our mules, unused to
such an object, gave signs of surprise, and planting themselves on their
four legs refused to pass it. Selim himself regarded it with
complacency, as if he said to himself, “It was made in our country.” And
he was excusable, since in all Morocco there exist about as many carts
as pianofortes, which latter, if I may believe the assertion of the
French Consul, are about a dozen; and also it seems that there is in
that country a national antipathy against every kind of vehicle. The
authorities of Tangiers, for example, prohibited Prince Frederic of
Hesse Darmstadt, who was in that city in 1839, from going out in a
carriage. The Prince wrote to the Sultan, offering to pave the principal
street at his own expense, if he would permit what the authorities
denied him. “I permit it,” answered the Sultan, “and willingly; but on
one condition, that the carriage shall be without wheels; because, being
protector of the faithful, I cannot expose my subjects to be crushed by
a Christian.” And the prince, in order to make the thing ridiculous,
availed himself of the permission with the conditions, and there are
still at Tangiers persons who remember having seen him going about the
city in a carriage without wheels, suspended between two mules.
Footnote 4:
The then king of Italy. Died in 1878.
We arrived at last at those blessed hills which we had been looking
forward to for three days with impatient longing. After a long climb we
entered a narrow gorge, called in Arabic Ben-Tinca, where we were
obliged to pass one by one, and came out upon a beautiful flowery
valley, quite solitary, where the escort scattered gaily, filling the
air with songs and cries of joy.
At the bottom of the valley we met another escort from the territory of
the military colonies, which took the place of the former one.
They were about one hundred horsemen, some very old and some very young,
black, and hairy; some were mounted on stupendous horses, caparisoned
with great pomp. The caid, Abu-Ben-Gileli, was a robust old man, of
severe aspect and reserved manners.
At a certain moment the Ambassador and the captain, accompanied by Hamed
Ben-Kasen and a few soldiers, left the caravan to ascend a mountain
called Selfat, a few miles distant; the rest of us continued on the
regular route.
A short time after their departure there came toward us an Arab boy of
sixteen or eighteen years of age, and almost naked, driving before him
with a stick two unwilling oxen.
The caid, Abu-Ben-Gileli, stopped his horse, and called him. We learned
afterward that this boy was to attach his oxen to the cart that we had
seen, and was several hours behind his time.
The poor lad, all trembling, presented himself before the caid. The
latter asked some questions, to which the boy replied, stammering, and
pale as a corpse.
Then the caid turned toward the soldiers, and said, coldly, “Fifty
_bastonate_.”
Three robust men sprang from their horses. The poor young fellow,
without a word, without even lifting his eyes to the face of his judge,
threw himself face downward on the ground, according to the custom, with
arms and legs stretched out.
It all happened in a moment. The stick was yet in the air, when the
Commandant and others had sprung forward, and declared that the brutal
punishment could not be permitted. The caid bowed his head. The lad rose
from the ground, pale and convulsed, looking with an expression of
astonishment and terror from his preservers to the caid.
“Go,” said the interpreter; “you are free!”
“Oh!” he cried, with an indescribable accent, and vanished. We resumed
our march. I have seen a man killed, but never have I experienced so
profound a feeling of horror as that which assailed me at the sight of
that half-naked boy stretched on the ground to receive his fifty blows
with a stick. And after the horror, my blood rushed to my face with
indignation against the caid, the Sultan, Morocco, and barbarism. But it
is true that second thoughts are best. After a moment, I thought—and we,
how many years is it since we abolished the stick? How many since it was
in use in Austria, in Prussia, and in others of the European States?
This reflection calmed my anger, and left me only a sentiment of
bitterness. If any one wants to know in what fashion the bastinado is
carried on in Morocco, it is enough to say that sometimes, the operation
over, the victim is carried to the cemetery.
From thence to Zeguta the caravan passed from hill to hill, from valley
to valley, through fields of grain and barley, and verdant plains
surrounded by aloes, cactus, wild olive, dwarf oaks, arbutus, myrtle,
and other flowering shrubs. We saw no living soul nor any tents. The
country was solitary, silent, and all overgrown, like an enchanted
garden. Coming to a rising ground we saw the blue summits of the
mountains of Fez suddenly appearing, as if they had thrust up their
heads to look at us; and at the hottest time in the day we reached
Zeguta.
It proved to be one of the most beautiful of the places we had yet seen.
The tents were pitched on the slope of a hill in a large rocky cavity,
in the form of an amphitheatre, around the sides of which the accidents
of the ground and the passage of men and animals had formed something
resembling rows of seats or steps, which at that time were swarming with
Arabs seated in a semicircle as if looking on at a spectacle. In front a
broad valley of shell-like form opened with all its lovely variety of
color, according to the cultivation, in squares of green, yellow, red,
violet, and white, like a great chess-board made of silk and velvet.
With the glass could be seen, on the more distant hills, here a string
of tents, there a white _cuba_ among the aloe plants; beyond, a camel, a
crouching Arab, cattle, a group of women—a life so still and scattered
that it threw into relief the profound peacefulness of the scene better
than complete solitude could have done. And over all this beauty was
spread a white and burning sky that dazzled the eyes and obliged one to
stand with drooping head.
But I remember the encampment at Zeguta less for its beauty than for an
experiment we made there with the famous _kif_.
Kif, for those who do not know it, is the leaf of a kind of hemp, called
_hashish_, known all over the East for its intoxicating quality. It is
much in use in Morocco, and it may be said that all those Moors and
Arabs who are met in the streets of the cities, dragging themselves
about, and looking with a dull, stupefied expression, like men who have
just had a blow on the head, are victims of this deleterious drug. The
greater part of them smoke it, mixed with a little tobacco, in small
clay pipes; others eat it in the form of a sweetmeat called _madjun_,
made of butter, honey, nutmeg, and cloves. The effects of it are most
curious. Doctor Miguerez, who had tried it, often told me about it,
saying, among other things, that he had been seized with a fit of
irresistible laughter, and that he imagined himself to be lifted from
the ground, so that passing under a lofty archway, he had stooped his
head for fear of striking it. Stimulated by curiosity, I had more than
once asked him to give me a dose of _madjun_—a little, not enough to
make me lose my wits, but enough to let me experience at least one or
two of the wonders that he related. The good doctor at first excused
himself, declaring that it was better to try it at Fez; but he yielded
at last to my entreaties, and the experiment was made at Zeguta, where,
much against his will, he finally presented me with the wished-for
morsel on a small plate. We were at table, and, if I am not mistaken,
the two artists shared it with me, but I do not remember how it affected
them. It was a soft paste of a violet color, and smelt like pomatum. For
about half an hour, from the soup to the fruit, I felt nothing, and
chaffed the doctor for his timidity. But he only said, “Wait a bit!” and
smiled. Presently I was conscious of a feeling of great hilarity, and
knew that I was talking very quickly. Then I laughed at every thing that
others said, or that I said myself; every word seemed to me the purest
wit and humor; I laughed at the servants, at my companions, at the
figures on the plates, at the forms of the bottles, at the color of the
cheese I was eating. Suddenly I was aware that my wits were wandering,
and I tried to fix my thoughts upon something serious. I thought of the
boy who was to have been bastinadoed in the morning. Poor boy! I was
moved with compassion. I should have liked to take him to Italy, educate
him, give him a career. I loved him like a son. And the caid, too,
Abu-Ben-Gileli, poor old man! I loved the caid like a father. And the
soldiers of the escort!—all good fellows, ready to defend me, to risk
their lives for me. I loved them like brothers. I loved the Algerines
also, and why not? I thought; are they not of the same race?—and what a
race! We are all brothers; we ought to love each other; and I threw my
arms round the neck of the doctor, who was laughing. From this delight I
suddenly fell into a deep and vague melancholy. I remembered the persons
whom I had offended, the pain I had inflicted on those who loved me, and
was oppressed by poignant remorse and regret; I seemed to hear voices in
my ears speaking in tones of loving reproach; I repented, I asked
pardon, I furtively wiped away big tears that were in my eyes. Then
there rose in my mind a crowd of strange and contrasted images that
vanished as quickly as they came; forgotten friends of my childhood,
words of a dialect unused for twenty years, faces of women, my old
regiment, William the Silent, Paris, my publisher Barbera, a beaver hat
that I had when I was a boy, the Acropolis at Athens, the bill of an
innkeeper at Seville, and a thousand other absurdities. I remember
confusedly the amused looks of my companions at table. From time to time
I closed my eyes, and opened them again, unconscious of the passage of
time, and ignorant whether I had slept or not. My thoughts sparkled and
went out like fire-flies, intricate and inextricable. At one moment I
saw Ussi with his face lengthened like a reflection in a convex mirror;
the vice-consul, with his visage a foot in breadth; all the others
attenuated, swollen, contorted, like fantastic caricatures, making the
most impossible grimaces; and I laughed, and wagged my head, and
dreamed, and thought that they were all crazy, that we were in another
world, that what I saw was not true, that I was ill, that I could not
understand what had happened, that I did not know where I was. Then all
was darkness and silence. When I came to myself I was in my tent,
stretched on the bed, and the doctor, standing beside me with a candle
in his hand, was saying, with a smile, “It is over; but let it be the
last, as it was the first.”