CHAPTER XI.

FEZ.

We had not advanced half a mile toward the city when we were surrounded

by a throng of Moors and Arabs come from Fez and from the country round,

on foot and on horseback, on mules and on donkeys, two and two like the

ancient Numidians, so eager to see us that the soldiers of our escort

are obliged to make use of the butt end of their muskets to keep them

from pressing upon us. The ground being low, the city, whose castellated

walls we had seen from the camp, remains for some time hidden. Then all

at once it reappears, and between us and the walls we can see an immense

white and crimson mass, like a myriad of lilies and roses trembling in

the breeze. The city vanishes again, and again appears, but much nearer

this time; and between us and it, the people, the army, the court, and a

pomp and splendor and oddity that are beyond my powers of description.

A company of officers on horseback came galloping to meet us, and

dividing in the middle, pass to the rear and join themselves to our

escort. Behind them comes a troop of horsemen splendidly attired and

mounted on superb horses, preceded by a Moor of tall stature, with a

white turban and a rose-colored caftan. He is the grand chamberlain,

Hadji Mohammed Ben-Aissa, accompanied by his suite, who, having welcomed

the Ambassador in the Sultan’s name, joins the escort.

We advance between two rows of infantry soldiers, who with difficulty

keep back the crowd. What soldiers they are! There are old men and

mature men, and boys of fifteen, twelve, and even nine years of age,

dressed in scarlet, with bare legs and yellow slippers, ranged along in

single file without regard to height, with their captains in front. Each

one presents in his own fashion his rusty musket and his crooked

bayonet. Some stand with one foot foremost, some with legs apart, some

with their heads on their shoulders, some with their chins on their

breasts. Some have put their red jackets on their heads to shelter them

from the sun. Here and there is a tambourine, a trumpet, five or six

banners, one beside the other—red, yellow, green, orange,—carried as

crosses are carried in a procession. There seems to be no division into

squadrons or companies. They look like paper soldiers stuck up in a row

by boys. There are blacks, mulattoes, whites, and faces of an

indefinable color; men of gigantic stature beside boys who are scarcely

old enough to hold a gun; bent old men with long white beards, leaning

on their neighbors; savage faces, making the effect, in that uniform, of

dressed-up monkeys. They all look at us with open eyes and mouth, and

their line stretches farther than we can see.

A second troop of horsemen advances on the left. It is the old governor,

Gilali Ben-Amù, followed by eighteen chiefs of inferior degree and by

the flower of the aristocracy of Fez, all dressed in white from head to

foot, like a company of priests—austere visages, black beards, silken

caics, gilded housings. Saluting us, they circle round, and join our

cortege.

We go forward, still between two lines of soldiers, behind whom presses

a white and hooded crowd who devour us with their eyes. They are always

the same soldiers, for the most part boys, wearing the fez, with red

jackets and bare legs. They have blue, white, or green drawers. Some are

in their shirt sleeves; some hold their muskets on their shoulder, some

rest them on the ground; some press forward, some hang back. The

officers are dressed according to their fancy—zouaves, Turcos, Greeks,

Albanians, Turks—with arabesque embroidery of gold and silver, with

scimitars, swords, curved poniards, horse pistols. Some wear the boots

of a groom, and some yellow boots without heels; some are all in

crimson, some all in white; some in green, and looking like masquerade

devils. Here and there among them may be seen a European face, looking

at us sadly and with sympathy. As many as ten banners are ranged in a

row together. The trumpets sound as we pass. A woman’s arm protrudes

itself between the soldiers’ heads, and threatens us with clenched fist.

The walls of the city seem to recede before us, and the two lines of

soldiers to extend interminably.

Another troop of cavaliers, more splendid than the first, comes to meet

us. It is the aged Minister of War, Sid-Abd-Alla Ben-Hamed, black,

mounted on a white horse with sky-blue trappings; and with him are the

military governors of provinces, the commandant of the garrison, and a

numerous staff of officers crowned with snowy turbans, and wearing

caftans of every known color.

It is now more than half an hour that we have been proceeding between

the two lines of soldiers, and some one has counted more than four

thousand. On one side is drawn out the cavalry; on the other a nameless

and heterogeneous mass of men and boys, dressed in divers uniforms, or

rather fragments of uniforms, some with arms and some without, cloaked

and uncloaked, with uncovered heads, or heads bound with a shapeless

rag, shirtless for the most part; faces from the desert, from the coast,

from the mountains; shaven heads, and heads ornamented with long braids;

giants and dwarfs—people gathered from heaven knows where, to make a

show and inspire terror. And behind them on the rising ground that

borders the way, an innumerable throng of veiled women, screaming and

gesticulating, in wonder, anger, or pleasure, and holding up their

children to see us.

We approach the walls at a point where there is a venerable gate crowned

with battlements. A band bursts into music, and at the same moment all

the drums and trumpets rend the air with a mighty crash. Then our ranks

are broken up, and there is a general rush and confusion of magistrates,

courtiers, ministers, generals, officials, and slaves; our escort is

scattered, our servants dispersed, and we ourselves divided from each

other. There is a torrent of turbans and horses rolling and twisting

about us with irresistible impetus; a confusion of colors, a

phantasmagoria of faces, a noise of harsh voices, a grandeur and

savagery that at once delight and bewilder. Passing in at the gate, we

expect to see the houses of the city, but are still between castellated

walls and towers; to the left is a tomb, or _cuba_, with a green dome

shaded by two palms; people about the cuba, upon the walls, everywhere.

We pass another gate, and find ourselves at last in a street with houses

on each side.

My memory here becomes confused, for I had as much as I could do to save

my neck, going as we were over great stones, in the midst of a crowd of

plunging horses; it would have been all up with any one who had fallen.

We passed, I remember, through some deserted streets bordered by tall

houses, suffocated by dust, and deafened by the noise of the horses’

hoofs; and in about half an hour, after threading a labyrinth of steep

and narrow alleys, where we were obliged to go in single file, we

reached a little door, where some scarlet soldiers presented arms, and

we entered our own house. It was a delicious sensation.

The house was a princely mansion in the purely Moorish style, with a

small garden shaded by parallel rows of orange and lemon trees. From the

garden you entered the interior court by a low door, and thence into a

corridor large enough only for one person to pass. Around the court were

twelve white pilasters, joined by as many arches of a horse-shoe form,

which supported an arched gallery furnished with a wooden balustrade.

The pavement of the court, gallery, and chambers was one splendid mosaic

of little squares of enamel of brilliant colors; the arches were painted

in arabesque; the balustrade carved in delicate open work; the whole

building designed with a grace and harmony worthy of the architects of

the Alhambra. In the middle of the court there was a fountain; and

another one, with three jets of water, was in a carved and ornamented

niche in the wall. A large Moorish lantern depended from every arch. One

wing of the edifice extended along one side of the garden, and had a

graceful façade of three arches, painted in arabesque, in front of which

a third fountain sparkled. There were other little courts, and

corridors, and chambers, and the innumerable recesses of an Oriental

house. Some iron beds, without sheets or coverlets, a few clocks, one

mirror in the court, two chairs and a table for the Ambassador, and half

a dozen basins and jugs, completed the furniture of the house. In the

principal rooms the walls were hung with gold-embroidered carpets, and

some white mattresses lay on the floors, and, except in the Ambassador’s

room, there was neither chair, nor table, nor wardrobe. We had to send

to the camp for some furniture. But, by way of compensation, there was

everywhere coolness, shade, the gurgle of water, fragrance, and

something deliciously soft and voluptuous in the lines of the building,

in the air, in the light. The whole edifice was encircled by a lofty

wall, and surrounded by a labyrinth of deserted alleys.

We had scarcely arrived in the court-yard when there began a coming and

going of ministers and other high personages, each one of whom had a few

minutes’ conversation with the Ambassador. The Minister of Finance was

the one who attracted my attention most. He was a Moor of about fifty

years of age, of a severe aspect, beardless, and dressed all in white,

with an immense turban. An interpreter told me that he was very clever,

and adduced as proof of the same, that he one day had brought to him one

of those little arithmetical machines, and both he and the machine had

done the same sum in the same time, and with the same results. It was

worth while to see the expression of sacred respect with which Selim,

Ali, Civo, and the rest, regarded those personages, who, after the

Sultan, represented in their eyes the highest grade of science, power,

and glory which could be attained on this earth.

Those visits over, we took possession of our abode. The two painters,

the doctor, and myself occupied the rooms looking on the garden; the

rest, those opening on the court. Interpreters, cooks, sailors,

servants, soldiers, all found their place, and in a few hours the aspect

of the house was changed.

The first to go out and visit the city were Ussi and Biseo, the two

artists; and then the commandant and the captain. I preferred to wait

until the following morning. They went out in couples, each encircled,

like malefactors, by an infantry guard armed with muskets and sticks.

After an hour they returned, covered with dust, and all dripping from

the heat; and their first words were, “Great city—great crowd—immense

mosques—naked saints—curses—sticks—wonderful things!” But Ussi had had

the most interesting adventure. In one of the most frequented streets,

in spite of the soldiers, a girl of fifteen or thereabouts had sprung

upon his shoulders like a fury, and had inflicted a vigorous pummeling,

crying out, “Accursed Christians! There is not a corner in Morocco where

they do not push themselves!” Such was the first welcome given to

Italian art within the walls of Fez.

Late in the night I made a tour through the house. On all the

landing-places of the stairs, before the chamber doors, in the garden,

were soldiers lying wrapped in their mantles, and sound asleep. Before

the little door of the court-yard, the faithful Hamed Ben-Kasen, with

his sabre by his side, snored in the open air. The dim light of the

lanterns, touching the mosaic pavements here and there, made them look

as if set with pearls, and gave an air of mysterious splendor to the

place. The sky was thickly set with stars, and a light breeze moved the

branches of the orange trees in the garden. The murmur of the Pearl

River could be distinctly heard; the gurgle of the fountains, the

ticking of the clocks, and now and then the shrill voices of the

sentinels answering one another at the outer doors of the palace with

their chanted prayer.

In the morning we went out, four or five of us together, accompanied by

an interpreter, and escorted by ten foot-soldiers, one of whom wore

buttons with the effigy of Queen Victoria—for many of these red coats

are bought at Gibraltar from soldiers of the English army. Two of these

placed themselves in front, two behind, and three on each side of us—the

first armed with muskets, the others with sticks and knotted cords. They

were such a rascally-looking set, that when I think of them I bless the

ship that brought me back to Europe.

The interpreter asked what we wished to see. “All Fez” was the answer.

[Illustration: Shoe Shop, Fez.]

We directed our steps first toward the centre of the city. Here I ought

to exclaim, “_Chi mi darà la voce e le parole!_”[5] How shall I express

the wonder, the pity, the sadness that overcame me at that grand and

dismal spectacle? The first impression is that of an immense city fallen

into decrepitude and slowly decaying. Tall houses, which seemed formed

of houses piled one upon the other, all falling to pieces, cracked from

roof to base, propped up on every side, with no opening save some

loophole in the shape of a cross; long stretches of street, flanked by

two high bare walls like the walls of a fortress; streets running up

hill and down, encumbered with stones and the ruins of fallen buildings,

twisting and turning at every thirty paces; every now and then a long

covered passage, dark as a cellar, where you have to feel your way;

blind alleys, recesses, dens full of bones, dead animals, and heaps of

putrid matter—the whole steeped in a dim and melancholy twilight. In

some places the ground is so broken, the dust so thick, the smell so

horrible, the flies are so numerous, that we have to stop to take

breath. In half an hour we have made so many turns that if our road

could be drawn it would form an arabesque as intricate as any in the

Alhambra. Here and there we hear the noise of a mill, a murmur of water,

the click of a weaver’s loom, a chanting of nasal voices, which we are

told come from a school of children; but we see nothing and no one

anywhere. We approach the centre of the city; people become more

numerous; the men stop to let us pass, and stare astonished; the women

turn back, or hide themselves; the children scream and run; the larger

boys growl and shake their fists at a distance, mindful of the soldiers

and their sticks. We see fountains richly ornamented with mosaics,

arabesque doors, arched courts, some few remains of Arab architecture in

decay. Every moment we find ourselves in darkness, entering one of the

many covered passages. We come to one of the principal streets, about

six feet wide, and full of people, who crowd about us. The soldiers

shout, and push, and strike in vain, and at last make a sort of bulwark

of their bodies by forming a circle around us and clasping hands, face

outward. There are a thousand eyes upon us; we can scarcely breathe in

the press and heat, and move slowly on, stopping every moment to give

passage to a Moor on horseback, or a veiled lady on a camel, or an ass

with a load of bleeding sheep’s heads. To the right and left are crowded

bazaars; inn court-yards encumbered with merchandise; doors of mosques,

through which we catch glimpses of arcades in perspective, and figures

prostrate in prayer. All along the street there is nothing to be seen

but silent forms in white hoods, moving like spectres. The air is

impregnated with an acute and mingled odor of aloes, spices, incense,

and kif; we seem to be walking in an immense drug-shop. Groups of boys

go by with scarred and scabby heads; horrible old women, perfectly bald

and with naked breasts, making their way by dint of furious imprecations

against us; naked, or almost naked, madmen, crowned with flowers and

feathers, bearing a branch in their hands, laughing and singing and

cutting capers before the soldiers, who drive them away with blows.

Turning into another street, we meet a saint, an enormously fat old

fellow, as naked as he was born, leaning upon a lance bound with strips

of red cloth. He squints at us, and mutters something as we pass.

Further on come four soldiers dragging along some poor unfortunate, all

bleeding and torn, who has been taken in the act of thieving; and after

them come a troop of boys calling out, “Cut off his hand! cut off his

hand!” Next come two men carrying an uncovered bier, upon which is

stretched a corpse, dry as a mummy, wrapped in a white linen sack tied

round the neck, waist, and knees. I ask myself where I am, and whether I

am awake or asleep, and whether Fez and Paris are in the same planet! We

go into the bazaar. The crowd is everywhere. The shops, as in Tangiers,

are mere dens opened in the wall. The money-changers are seated on the

ground, with heaps of black coin before them. We cross, jostled by the

crowd, the cloth-bazaar, that of slippers, that of earthenware, that of

metal ornaments, which all together form a labyrinth of alleys roofed

with canes and branches of trees. Passing through a vegetable market,

thronged with women who lift their arms and scream curses at us, we come

out into the centre of the city. There it is the same experience as

before, and we finally get out at a gate, and take a turn outside the

walls.

Footnote 5:

“Oh, for a voice and words!”

The city stands in the form of a monstrous figure of eight between two

hills, upon which still tower the ruins of two ancient fortifications.

Beyond the hills there is a chain of mountains. The Pearl River divides

the town in two—modern Fez on the left bank, ancient Fez on the

right—and a girdle of old castellated walls and towers, dark and falling

into ruin, binds the whole together. From the heights the eye takes in

the whole city—a myriad of white, flat-roofed houses, among which rise

tall minarets ornamented with mosaics, gigantic palm-trees, tufts of

verdure, green domes, and castellated towers. The grandeur of the

ancient city can be divined from what is left, though it is but a

skeleton. Near the gates, and upon the hills for a long distance, the

country is covered with monuments and ruins, tombs and houses of saints,

arches of aqueducts, sepulchres, _zanie_, and foundations that seem like

the remains of a city destroyed by cannon and devoured by flames.

Between the wall and the highest of the two hills that flank the city it

is all one garden, a thick and intricate grove of mulberry-trees,

olives, palms, fruit-trees, and tall poplars, clothed with ivy and

grape-vines; little streams run through it, fountains gush and sparkle,

and canals intersect it between high green banks. The opposite bank is

crowned with aloes twice the height of a man. Along the walls are great

fissures and deep ditches filled with vegetation, rude remains of

bastions and broken towers,—a grand and severe disorder of ruin and

greenery, recalling the more picturesque parts of the walls of

Constantinople. We passed by the Gate of Ghisa, the Iron Gate, the Gate

of the _Padre delle Cuoia_, the New Gate, the Burned Gate, the Gate that

Opens, the Gate of Lions, the Gate of Sidi Busida, the Gate of the

Father of Utility, and re-entered new Fez by the Gate of the Niche of

Butter. Here are large gardens, vast open spaces, large squares,

surrounded by battlemented walls, beyond which can be seen other squares

and other walls, arched gate-ways and towers, and beautiful prospects of

hills and mountains. Some of the doors are very lofty, and are covered

with iron plates studded with large nails. Approaching the Pearl River,

we come upon the decaying carcase of a horse, lying in the middle of the

street. Along the wall about a hundred Arabs are washing and jumping

upon the linen piled upon the shore. We meet patrols of soldiers,

personages of the court on horseback, small caravans of camels, groups

of women from the country with their children tied on their backs, who

cover their faces at our approach. And at last we see some faces that

smile upon us. We enter the Mella, the Hebrew quarter,—truly a triumphal

entrance. They run to their windows and terraces, down into the street,

calling to one another. The men, with long hair covered by a

handkerchief tied under the chin like women, bow with ceremonious

smiles. The women, comely and plump, dressed in red and green garments

embroidered and braided with gold, wish us _buenos dias_, and say a

thousand charming things with their brilliant dark eyes. Some of the

children come and kiss our hands. To escape from this ovation, and from

the filth of the streets, we take a cross street, and passing through

the Jewish cemetery, get back at last to the palace of the embassy,

tired out and with bewildered minds.

“O Fez!” says an Arabian historian, “all the beauty of the earth is

concentrated in thee!” He adds that Fez has always been the seat of

wisdom, science, peace, and religion; the mother and the queen of all

the cities of the Magreb; that its inhabitants have a finer and deeper

intelligence than that of the other inhabitants of Morocco; that all

that is in it and around it is blessed of God, even to the waters of the

Pearl River, which cure the stone, soften the skin, perfume the clothes,

destroy insects, render sweeter (if drunk fasting) the pleasures of the

senses, and contain precious stones of inestimable value. Not less

poetically is related by the Arabian writers the story of the foundation

of Fez. When the Abassidi, toward the end of the eighth century, were

divided into two factions, one of the princes of the vanquished faction,

Edris-ebn-Abdallah, took refuge in the Magreb, a short distance from the

place where Fez now stands; and here he lived in solitude, in prayer and

meditation, until, by reason of his illustrious origin, as well as

because of his holy life, having acquired great fame among the Berbers

of that region, they elected him their chief. Gradually, by his arms,

and by his high authority as a descendant of Ali and Fatima, he extended

his sovereignty over a large extent of country, converting by force to

Islamism idolaters, Christians, and Hebrews; and reached such a height

of power that the Caliph of the East, Haroun-el-Reschid, jealous of his

fame, caused him to be poisoned by a pretended physician, in order to

destroy with him his growing empire. But the Berbers gave solemn

sepulture to Edris, and recognized as Caliph his posthumous son,

Edris-ebn-Edris, who ascended the throne at twelve years of age,

consolidated and extended his father’s work, and may be said to have

been the true founder of the empire of Morocco, which remained until the

end of the tenth century in the hands of his dynasty. It was this same

Edris who laid the foundation of Fez, on the 3d of February of the year

808, “in a valley placed between two high hills covered with rich

groves, and irrigated by a thousand streams, on the right bank of the

River of Pearls.”

Tradition explains in several ways the origin of the name. In digging

for the foundations, they found in the earth a great hatchet (called in

Arabic _Fez_), which weighed sixty pounds, and this gave its name to the

city.

Edris himself, says another legend, worked at the foundations among his

laborers, who, in gratitude, offered him a hatchet made of gold and

silver; and he chose to perpetuate, in the name of the city, the memory

of their homage. According to another account, the secretary of Edris

had asked one day of his lord what name he meant to give the city. “The

name,” answered the prince, “of the first person we shall meet.” A man

passed by, who, being questioned, said his name was Farés; but he

stammered and pronounced it Fez. Another account says that there was an

ancient city called _Zef_, on the Pearl River, which existed eighteen

hundred years, and was destroyed before Islam shone upon the world; and

Edris imposed upon his metropolis the name of the old city reversed.

However it may be, the new city grew rapidly, and already at the

beginning of the tenth century rivalled Bagdad in splendor; held within

its walls the mosque of El-Caruin and that of Edris, still existant, one

the largest and the other the most venerated in Africa; and was called

the Mecca of the West. Toward the middle of the eleventh century Gregory

IX established there a bishopric. Under the dynasty of the Almoadi it

had thirty suburbs, eight hundred mosques, ninety thousand houses, ten

thousand shops, eighty-six gates, vast hospitals, magnificent baths, a

great and rich library of precious manuscripts in Greek and Latin; also

schools of philosophy, of physics, of astronomy, and languages, to which

came all the learned and lettered men of Europe and the Levant. It was

called the Athens of Africa, and was at one time the seat of a perpetual

fair, into which flowed the products of three continents; and European

commerce had there its bazaar and its inns; and there—between Moors,

Arabs, Berbers, Jews, Negroes, Turks, Christians, and renegades—five

hundred thousand people lived and prospered. And now, what a change!

Almost all traces of gardens have vanished; the greater part of the

mosques are in ruins; of the great library, only a few worm-eaten

volumes remain; the schools are dead; commerce languishes; its edifices

are falling into ruin; and the population is reduced to less than a

fifth of the former number. Fez is no more than an enormous carcase of a

metropolis abandoned in the midst of the vast cemetery called Morocco.

Our greatest desire, after our first walk about Fez, was to visit the

two famous mosques of El-Caruin and Muley-Edris; but as Christians are

not permitted to put a foot in them, we were obliged to content

ourselves with what we could see from the street: the Mosaic doors, the

arched courts, the long low aisles, divided by a forest of columns, and

lighted by a dim, mysterious light. It must not be imagined, however,

that these mosques are now what they were in the time of their fame;

since, already in the fifteenth century, the celebrated historian

Abd-er-Rhaman-ebn-Kaldun, describing that of El-Caruin (may God exalt it

more and more, as he says), speaks of various ornaments that were no

longer in existence in his time. The first foundations of this enormous

mosque were laid on the first Saturday of Ramadan, in the year 859 of

Jesus Christ, at the expense of a pious woman of Kairuan. It was at the

beginning a small mosque of four naves; but, little by little,

governors, emirs, and sultans embellished and enlarged it. Upon the

point of the minaret built by the Imaum Ahmed ben Aby-Beker glittered a

golden ball studded with pearls and precious stones, on which was

represented the sword of Edris-ebn-Edris, the founder of Fez. On the

interior walls were suspended talismans which protected the mosque

against rats, scorpions, and serpents, The Mirab, or niche turned toward

Mecca, was so splendid that the Imaum had it painted white, that it

might no longer distract the faithful from their prayers. There was a

pulpit of ebony, inlaid with ivory and gems. There were two hundred and

seventy columns, forming sixteen naves of twenty-one arches in each,

fifteen great doors of entrance for the men, and two small ones for the

women, and seventeen hundred hanging lamps, which, in the season of

Ramadan, consumed three quintals and a half of oil. All which

particulars the historian Kaldun relates with exclamations of wonder and

delight, adding that the mosque could contain twenty-two thousand and

seven hundred persons, and that the court alone had in its pavement

fifty-two thousand bricks. “Glory to Allah, Lord of the world, immensely

merciful, and king of the day of the last judgment!”

Expecting that the Sultan would fix a day for the solemn reception of

the embassy, we took several turns about the city, in one of which I had

an entirely new sensation. We were approaching the Burned Gate,

_Bab-el-Maroc_, to re-enter the city, when the vice-consul made an

exclamation—“Two heads!” Lifting my eyes far enough along the wall to

see two long streams of blood, my courage failed me to see more. But I

was told that the two heads were suspended by the hair over the gate;

one appeared to be that of a boy of not more than fifteen, and the other

a man of twenty-five or thirty; both Moors. We learned afterward that

they were heads of rebels from the confines of Algeria, which had been

brought to Fez the day before; but the fresh blood made it probable that

they had been cut off in the city, perhaps before that very gate.

However that may be, we were informed on this same occasion that heads

of rebels are always brought and presented to the Sultan; after which

the imperial soldiers catch the first Jew whom they happen to encounter,

and make him take out the brain, fill the skull with tow and salt, and

hang it over one of the city gates. It is removed from one gate to

another, and from one town to another, until it is destroyed. It does

not appear, however, that this was done with the two heads of

Bab-el-Maroc, for a day or two after, asking an Arab servant what had

become of them, he answered with a gesture, “Buried,” and then hastened

to add, by way of consolation, “But there are plenty more coming.”

Two days before the solemn reception, we were invited to breakfast by

Sid-Moussa.

Sid-Moussa has no title; he is simply called Sid-Moussa; he was born a

slave, and emancipated by the Sultan, who can to-morrow despoil him of

all his property, cast him into prison, or hang his head over the gate

of Fez, without being called to account for it. But he is the minister

of ministers, the soul of the government, the mind which embraces and

moves all things all over the empire, and, after the Sultan, the most

famous man in Morocco. Our curiosity may be imagined, therefore, on the

morning when, surrounded as usual by an armed guard, accompanied by the

caid and interpreters, and followed by a tail of people, we went to his

house in new Fez.

We were received at the door by a crowd of Arabs and blacks, and entered

a garden enclosed by high walls, at the end of which, under a little

portico, stood Sid-Moussa, dressed all in white, and surrounded by his

officials.

The famous minister gave both hands with much heartiness to the

Ambassador, bowed smilingly to us, and preceded us into a small room on

the ground-floor, where we sat down.

What a strange figure! A man of about sixty, a dark mulatto, of middle

height, with an immense oblong head, two fiery eyes of a most astute

expression, a great flat nose, a monstrous mouth, two rows of big teeth,

and an immeasurable chin; yet in spite of these hideous features, an

affable smile, an expression of benignity, and voice and manners of the

utmost courtesy. But there are no people more deceptive in their aspect

than the Moors. Not into the soul, but into the brain of that man would

I have liked to peep! Certainly I should have found no great erudition.

Perhaps no more than a few pages of the Koran, some periods of the

imperial history, some vague geographical notions of the first States of

Europe, some idea of astronomy, some rules of arithmetic. But instead,

what profound knowledge of the human heart, what quickness of

perception, what subtlety of craft, what intricate plottings and

contrivings far from our own habits of mind, what curious secrets of

government, and who knows what strange medley of memories of loves, and

sufferings, and intrigues, and vicissitudes! The chamber, for a Moorish

room, was sumptuously furnished, for it contained a small sofa, a table,

a mirror, and a few chairs. The walls were hung with red and green

carpets, the ceiling painted, the pavement in mosaic. Nothing

extraordinary, however, for the house of a rich personage like

Sid-Moussa.

After an exchange of the usual compliments, we were conducted into the

dining-room, which was on the other side of the garden.

Sid-Moussa, according to custom, did not come with us. The dining-room

was hung, like the other, with red and green carpets. In one corner was

an armoire, with its two old bunches of artificial flowers under glass

shades; and near it one of those little mirrors with a frame painted

with flowers that are found in every village inn. On the table there

were about twenty dishes containing big white sugar-plums in the form of

balls and carobs; the silver and china very elegant; numerous bottles of

water; and not a drop of wine. We seated ourselves, and were served at

once. Twenty-eight dishes, without counting the sweets! Twenty-eight

enormous dishes, every one of which would have been enough for twenty

people, of all forms, odors, and flavors; monstrous pieces of mutton on

the spit, chickens (with pomatum), game (with cold cream), fish (with

cosmetics), livers, puddings, vegetables, eggs, salads, all with the

same dreadful combinations suggestive of the barber’s shop; sweet-meats,

every mouthful of which was enough to purge a man of any crime he had

ever committed; and with all this, large glasses of water, into which we

squeezed lemons that we had brought in our pockets; then a cup of tea

sweetened to syrup; and finally an irruption of servants, who deluged

the table, the walls, and ourselves with rose-water. Such was the

breakfast of Sid-Moussa.

When we rose from table, there entered an official to announce to the

Ambassador that Sid-Moussa was at prayers, and that as soon as he had

finished he would have great pleasure in conferring with him.

Immediately after there came in a tottering old man, supported between

two Moors, who seized the Ambassador’s hands and pressed them with great

energy, exclaiming with emotion, “Welcome! welcome! Welcome to the

Ambassador of the King of Italy! Welcome among us! It is a great day for

us!”

He was the grand Scherif Bacalì, one of the most powerful personages of

the court, and one of the richest proprietors of the empire, confidant

of the Sultan, possessor of many wives, and a two years’ invalid from

dyspepsia. We were told that he relieved the ennui of his lord with

witty words and comic action; a thing which would certainly never have

been guessed from his ferocious face and impetuous gesture. After him

appeared the two sons of Sid-Moussa, one of whom made his obeisance and

vanished immediately; the other was an extremely handsome young man of

twenty-five, private secretary to the Sultan: with the face of a woman,

and two large brown eyes of indescribable softness; gay, graceful, and

nervous, continually pulling with his hand at the folds of his ample

orange-colored caftan.

Bacalì and the Ambassador having gone out, we remained, with some

officials seated on the floor, and the Sultan’s secretary on a chair, in

honor of us.

He immediately began a conversation through Mohammed Ducali. Fixing his

eyes on Ussi, he asked who he was.

“It is Signor Ussi,” answered Ducali; “a distinguished painter.”

“Does he paint with the machine?” asked the young man. He meant the

photographic instrument.

“No, Signore,” replied the interpreter; “he paints with his hand.”

He seemed to say to himself, “What a pity!” and remained a moment

thoughtful. Then he said, “I asked, because with the machine the work is

more precise.”

The commandant begged Ducali to ask him whereabouts in Fez was the

fountain called Ghalù, after a robber whom Edris, the founder of the

city, had caused to be nailed to a tree near by. The young secretary was

excessively astonished that the commandant should know this particular

story, and asked how he came to know it.

“I read it in Kaldun’s history,” answered the commandant.

“In Kaldun’s history!” exclaimed the other. “Have you read Kaldun? Then

you understand Arabic? And where did you find Kaldun’s history?”

The commandant replied that the book was to be found in all our cities;

that it was perfectly well known in Europe, and that it had been

translated into English, French, and German.

[Illustration: Moor Of Fez.]

“Really!” exclaimed the ingenuous young fellow. “You have all read it!

and you know all these things! I never should have imagined it!”

Gradually the conversation became general, the officials also joining in

it, and we heard some singular things. The English Ambassador had

presented to the Sultan two telegraphic machines, and had taught some of

the court people how to use them; and they were used, not publicly,

because the sight of those mysterious wires in the city would cause

disturbance, but in the interior of the palace; and words could not

express the astonishment they excited. Not, however, to the point that

we might suppose, because, from what they had first heard, they all,

including the Sultan, had conceived a much more wonderful idea of it;

for they believed that the transmission of the thought was not effected

by means of letters and words, but at once, instantaneously, so that a

touch was sufficient to express and transmit any speech. They

recognized, however, that the instrument was ingenious and might be very

useful in our countries where there were many people and much traffic,

and where every thing had to be done in a hurry. All of which signified

in plain words: what should we do with a telegraph? And to what would

the policy of our government be reduced if to the demands of the

representatives of European States we were obliged to reply at once and

in few words, and renounce the great excuse of delays, and the eternal

pretext of lost letters, thanks to which we can protract for two months,

questions that could be answered in two days? We learned also, or rather

we were given to understand, that the Sultan is a man of a mild

disposition and a kind heart, who lives austerely, who loves one woman

only, who eats without a fork, like all his subjects, and seated on the

floor, but with the dishes placed upon a little gilded table about a

foot high; that before coming to the throne he drilled with the

soldiers, and was one of the most active among them; that he likes to

work, and often does himself what ought to be done by his servants, even

to packing his own things when he goes away; and that the people love

him, but also fear him, because they know that should a great revolt

break out, he would be the first to spring on horseback and draw his

sabre against the rebels.

But with what grace they told us all these things! with what smiles and

elegant gestures! What a pity not to be able to understand their

language, all color and imagery, and read and search at will in the

ingenuous ignorance of their minds!

In about two hours’ time the Ambassador came back, with Sid-Moussa, the

grand Scherif, and the officials; and there was such an interchange of

hand-pressings, and smiles, and bows, and salutations, that we seemed to

be engaged in some dance of ceremony; and finally we departed between

two long rows of astonished servants. As we went out we saw at a large

grated window on the ground-floor about ten faces of women, black,

white, and mulatto, all be-jewelled and be-diademed; who, beholding us,

instantly vanished with a great noise of flapping slippers and trailing

skirts.

From the first day of our journey, the Sultan, Muley-el-Hassan, was, as

may be imagined, the principal object of our curiosity. It was, then, a

festival for us all when at last the Ambassador announced the reception

for the following morning. I never in my life unfolded my dress-coat, or

touched the spring of my _gibus_, with more profound complacency than on

this occasion.

This great curiosity was produced, in part, by the history of his

dynasty. There was the wish to look in the face of one of that terrible

family of the Scherifs Fileli, to whom history assigns pre-eminence in

fanaticism, ferocity, and crime, over all the dynasties that have ever

reigned in Morocco. At the beginning of the seventeenth century some

inhabitants of Tafilet, a province of the empire on the confines of the

desert, the Scherifs of which take the name of Fileli, brought from

Mecca into their country a Scherif named Ali, a native of Jambo, and a

descendant of Mahomet, by Hassen, the second son of Ali and Fatima. The

climate of the province of Tafilet, a little after his arrival, resumed

a mildness that it had for some time lost; dates grew in great

abundance; the merit was attributed to Ali; Ali was elected king under

the name of Muley-Scherif; his descendants gradually, by their arms,

extended the kingdom of their ancestor; they took possession of Morocco

and Fez, drove out the dynasty of the Saadini Scherifs, and have reigned

up to our day over the whole country comprised between the Muluia, the

desert, and the sea. Sidi-Mohammed, son of Muley-Scherif, reigned with

wise clemency; but after him the throne was steeped in blood. El Reschid

governed by terror, usurped the office of executioner, and lacerated

with his own hands the breasts of women, in order to force them to

reveal the hiding-places of their husbands’ treasure. Muley-Ismail, the

luxurious prince, the lover of eight thousand women, and father of

twelve hundred sons, the founder of the famous corps of black guards,

the gallant Sultan who asked in marriage of Louis XIV the daughter of

the Duchess de la Vallière, and stuck ten thousand heads over the

battlements of Morocco and Fez. Muley Ahmed el Dehebi, avaricious and a

debauchee, stole the jewels of his father’s women, stupefied himself

with wine, pulled out the teeth of his own wives, and cut off the head

of a slave who had pressed the tobacco too much down into his pipe.

Muley-Abdallah, vanquished by the Berbers, cut the throats of the

inhabitants of Mechinez to satisfy his rage, aided the executioner in

decapitating the officers of his brave but vanquished army, and invented

the horrible torture of cooking a man alive inside a disembowelled bull,

that the two might putrify together. The best of the race appears to

have been Sidi-Mohammed, his son who surrounded himself with renegade

Christians, tried to live at peace, and brought Morocco nearer to

Europe. Then came Muley-Yezid, a cruel and violent fanatic, who, in

order to pay his soldiers, gave them leave to sack and pillage the

Hebrew quarters in all the cities of the empire; Muley-Hescham, who,

after a reign of a few days, went into sanctuary to die; Muley-Soliman,

who destroyed piracy, and made a show of friendship to Europe, but with

artful cunning separated Morocco from all civilized states, and caused

to be brought to the foot of his throne the heads of all renegade Jews

from whom had escaped a word of regret for their forced abjuration;

Abd-er-Raman, the conqueror of Isly, who built up conspirators alive

into the walls of Fez; and, finally, Sidi-Mohammed, the victor of

Tetuan, who, in order to inculcate respect and devotion in his people,

sent the heads of his enemies to the _duars_ and cities, stuck upon his

soldiers’ muskets. Nor are these the worst calamities that afflicted the

empire under the fatal dynasty of the Fileli. There are wars with Spain,

Portugal, Holland, England, France, and the Turks of Algiers; ferocious

insurrections of Berbers, disastrous expeditions into the Soudan,

revolts of fanatical tribes, mutinies of the black guard, persecutions

of the Christians; furious wars of succession between father and son,

uncle and nephew, brother and brother; the empire by turns dismembered

and rejoined; sultans five times discrowned and five times reinstated;

unnatural vengeance of princes of the same blood, jealousies and horrid

crimes and monstrous suffering, and precipitate decline into antique

barbarism; and at all times one principle is triumphant: that not being

able to admit European civilization unless upon the ruins of the entire

political and religious edifice of the Prophet, ignorance is the best

bulwark of the empire, and barbarism an element necessary to its life.

With these recollections surrounding him, the Sultan became an object of

special interest, and we were impatient to appear before him.

At eight o’clock in the morning, the Ambassador, the vice-consul, Signor

Morteo, the commandant, and the captain, dressed in their best uniforms,

were assembled in the court-yard, with a throng of soldiers, among whom

the caid appeared in great pomp. We—that is to say, the two artists, the

doctor, and myself, all four appeared in dress-coats, _gibus_ hats, and

white cravats—dared not issue from our rooms in the fear that our

strange costume, perhaps never before seen in Fez, might draw upon us

the laughter of the public. “You go first.”—“No, you.”—“No, you,”—thus

for a quarter of an hour, one trying to push the other out at the door.

Finally, after a sage observation from the doctor that union made

strength, we all came out together in a group, with our heads down and

hats pulled over our eyes. Our appearance in the court-yard produced

amazement among the soldiers and servants of the palace, some of whom

hid themselves behind the pillars to laugh at their ease. But it was

another thing in the city. We mounted our horses, and proceeded toward

the gate of the _Nicchia del Burro_, with a company of the red division

of infantry leading the way, followed by all the soldiers of the

Legation, and flanked by officials, interpreters, masters of ceremony,

and horsemen of the escort of Ben-Kasen-Buhammei. It was a fine

spectacle, that mingling of tall hats and white turbans, diplomatic

uniforms and red caftans, gold-mounted swords and barbaric sabres,

yellow gloves and black hands, gilded pantaloons and bare legs; and the

figure that we four made, in evening dress, mounted on mules, upon

scarlet saddles as high as thrones, covered with dust and perspiration,

may be left to the imagination. The streets were full of people; at our

appearance they all stopped and formed into two lines. They looked at

the plumed hat of the Ambassador, the gold cord of the captain, the

medals of the commandant, and gave no sign of wonder; but when we four

passed by, who were the last, there was an opening of eyes and an

exhilaration of countenance that was truly trying. Mohammed-Ducali rode

near us, and we begged him to translate for us some of the observations

which he caught in passing. A Moor standing with a number of others said

something to which the rest seemed to assent. Ducali laughed, and told

us they took us for executioners. Some—perhaps because black is odious

to the Moors—looked at us almost with anger and disdain; others shook

their heads with a look of commiseration.

“Signori,” said the doctor, “if we do not make ourselves respected it is

our own fault. We have arms; let us use them. I will set the example.”

Thus speaking, he took off his _gibus_ hat, shut down the spring, and

passing before a group of smiling Moors, suddenly sprung it at them. The

wonder and agitation of them at the sight cannot be expressed. Three or

four sprang backward, and threw a glance of profound suspicion upon the

diabolical hat. The artists and I, encouraged by the example, imitated

him; and thus, by dint of our _gibus_, we arrived, respected and feared,

at the city walls.

Outside the gate of the _Nicchia del Burro_ were ranged two rows of

infantry soldiers, in great part boys, who presented arms in their usual

fashion, one after the other, and when we had passed, put their uniforms

over their heads to shelter them from the sun. We crossed the Pearl

River by a small bridge, and found ourselves in the place destined for

the reception, where we all dismounted.

It was a vast square, closed on three sides by high battlemented walls

with large towers. On the fourth side ran the River of Pearls. In the

corner furthest from us opened a narrow road bordered by white walls,

which led to the gardens and houses of the Sultan, completely concealed

by bastions.

[Illustration: A Saint. Fez.]

The square when we arrived presented an admirable _coup-d’œil_ In 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 expression of countenance,

and armed with a knotty stick, placed us in two rows,—in front, the

commandant, the captain, and the vice-consul; behind, the doctor, the

two painters, and myself. The Ambassador stood five or six paces in

advance of us, with Signor Morteo, who was to interpret.

At one moment we seven advanced a few paces unconsciously. The master of

ceremonies before mentioned made us all go back, and pointed out with

his stick the exact place where we were to remain. This proceeding made

a great impression on us, the more that we fancied we saw the gleam of

an astute smile in his eye. At the same moment a great buzz and murmur

arose from above. We looked up, and saw at a certain height beyond the

bastions four or five windows, closed with green curtains, behind which

a quantity of heads seemed to be in movement. They were women’s

heads—the buzz came from them; the windows belonged to a kind of

balcony, which communicated by a long corridor with the Sultan’s harem;

and the master of ceremonies had made us stand in that position by

express order of the Sultan himself, who had promised his ladies that

they should see the Christians. What a pity that we were not near enough

to hear their observations upon our high hats and our swallow-tailed

coats!

[Illustration: 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 ten

minutes. Suddenly a shiver seemed to run through the soldiers; there was

a burst of music, the trumpets sounded; the court personages bowed

profoundly; the guards, grooms, and soldiers put one knee to the ground;

and from every mouth came one prolonged and thundering shout—“God

protect the Sultan!”

He was on horseback, followed by a throng of courtiers on foot, one of

whom held over his head an immense parasol. At a few paces from the

Ambassador he stopped his horse, a portion of his suite closed the

square, the rest grouped themselves about him.

The master of ceremonies with the knotty stick shouted in a loud

voice:—“The Ambassador from Italy!”

The Ambassador, accompanied by his interpreter, advanced with uncovered

head. The Sultan said in Arabic, “Welcome! welcome! welcome!” Then he

asked if he had had a good journey, and if he were content with the

service of the escort, and with the reception of the governors. But of

all this we heard nothing. We were fascinated. The Sultan, whom our

imagination had represented to us under the aspect of a cruel and savage

despot, was the handsomest and most charming young fellow that had ever

excited the fancy of an _odalisque_. He is tall and slender, with large

soft eyes, a fine aquiline nose, and his dark visage is of a perfect

oval, encircled by a short black beard; a noble face, full of sadness

and gentleness. A mantle of snowy whiteness fell from his head to his

feet; his turban was covered by a tall hood; his feet were bare, except

for yellow slippers; his horse was large and white, with trappings of

green and gold, and golden stirrups. All this whiteness and amplitude of

his garments gave him a priestly air, which, with a certain majestic

grace and affability, corresponded admirably with the expression of his

face. The parasol, sign of command, which a courtier held a little

inclined behind him—a great round parasol, three metres in height, lined

with blue silk embroidered with gold, and covered on the outside with

amaranth, topped by a great golden ball, added to the dignity of his

appearance. His graceful action, his smiling and pensive expression, his

low voice, sweet and monotonous as the murmur of a stream; his whole

person and manners had something ingenuous and feminine, and at the same

time solemn, that inspired irresistible sympathy and profound respect.

He looked about thirty-two or thirty-three years of age.

“I am rejoiced,” he said, “that the King of Italy has sent an Ambassador

to draw more tightly the bands of our ancient friendship. The House of

Savoy has never made war on Morocco. I love the House of Savoy, and have

followed with pleasure and admiration the events which have succeeded

each other under its auspices in Italy. In the time of ancient Rome

Italy was the most powerful country in the world. Then it was divided

into seven states. My ancestors were friendly to all the seven states.

And I, now that all are reunited into one, have concentrated upon it all

the friendship that my ancestors had for the seven.”

He spoke these words slowly, with pauses, as if he had studied them

first, and was trying to remember them.

Among other things the Ambassador told him that the King of Italy had

sent him his portrait.

“It is a precious gift,” he replied, “and I will have it placed in the

room where I sleep, opposite a mirror, so that it shall be the first

object on which my eyes fall when I wake; and so every morning I shall

see the image of the King of Italy reflected, and will think of him.” A

little while afterward, he added: “I am content, and I hope that you

will stay long in Fez, and that it will be a pleasant memory when you

shall have returned to your beautiful country.”

While he spoke he kept his eyes fixed almost constantly upon his horse’s

head. At times he seemed about to smile; but immediately bent his brows

and resumed the gravity proper to the Imperial countenance. He was

curious—it was evident—to see what sort of beings were these seven

ranged at ten paces from his horse; but not wishing to look directly at

us, he turned his eyes little by little, and then with one rapid glance

took in the whole seven together, and at that moment there was in his

eye a certain indefinable expression of childish amusement, that made a

pleasant contrast with the majesty of his person. The numerous suite

that were gathered behind and about him appeared to be petrified. All

eyes were fixed upon him; not a breath could be heard, and nothing was

seen but immovable faces and attitudes of profound veneration. Two Moors

with trembling hands drove away the flies from his feet; another from

time to time passed his hand over the skirt of his white mantle as if to

purify it from contact with the air; a fourth, with an action of sacred

respect, caressed the crupper of the horse; the one who held the parasol

stood with downcast eyes, motionless as a statue, almost as if he were

confused and bewildered by the solemnity of his office. All things about

him expressed his enormous power,—the immense distance that separated

him from everybody, a measureless submission, a fanatic devotion, a

savage, passionate affection that seemed to offer its blood for proof.

He seemed not a monarch, but a god.

The Ambassador presented his credentials, and then introduced the

commandant, the captain, and the vice-consul, who advanced one after the

other, and stood for a moment bowing low. The Sultan looked with

particular attention at the commandant’s decorations.

“The physician”—then said the Ambassador, pointing us out—“and three

_scienzati_” (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 our _gibus_.

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. Being asked what he had remarked in the Sultan, he thought

a moment and answered, smiling, “I remarked that in this country even

the kings do not wear stockings.”

The most comical of all was Ranni. “How did the Sultan strike you?”

asked the commandant.

“It struck me,” he answered, frankly and with perfect gravity, “that he

was afraid.”

“Afraid!” exclaimed the commandant. “Of whom?”

“Of us. Did you not see how pale he grew, and he spoke as if he had lost

his breath?”

“You are crazy! Do you think that he, in the midst of his army, and

surrounded by his guard, could be afraid of us?”

“It seemed so to me,” said Ranni, imperturbably.

The commandant looked fixedly at him, and then took his head in both

hands, like a profoundly discouraged man.

That same evening there came to the palace, conducted by Selim, two

Moors, who, having heard marvels of our _gibus_, 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

had received orders not to refuse the keys, but to give them only if

urgently asked for; and this because the terraces at Fez, as in other

cities of Morocco, belong to the women, and are considered almost as

appendages of the harem. We went up to the terrace, which is very

spacious, and completely surrounded by a wall higher than a man, having

a few loop-holes for windows. The palace being very high, and built on a

height, hundreds of white terraces could be seen from thence, as well as

the hills which surround the city, and the distant mountains; and below,

another small garden, from the midst of which rose a palm-tree so tall

as to overtop the building by almost one third of its own stature.

Looking through those loop-hole windows, we seemed to see into another

world. Upon the terraces far and near were many women, the greater part

of them, judging by their dress, in easy circumstances,—ladies, if that

title can be given to Moorish women. A few were seated upon the

parapets, some walking about, some jumping with the agility of squirrels

from one terrace to the other, hiding, re-appearing, and throwing water

in each other’s faces, laughing merrily. There were old women and young,

little girls of eight or ten, all dressed in the strangest garments, and

of the most brilliant colors. Most of them had their hair falling over

their shoulders, a red or green silk handkerchief tied round the head in

a band; a sort of caftan of different colors, with wide sleeves, bound

round the waist with a blue or crimson sash; a velvet jacket open at the

breast; wide trousers, yellow slippers, and large silver rings above the

ankle. The slaves and children had nothing on but a chemise. One only of

these ladies was near enough for us to see her features. She was a woman

of about thirty, dressed in gala dress, and standing on a terrace a

cat’s jump below our own. She was looking down into a garden, leaning

her head upon her hand. We looked at her with a glass. Heavens, what a

picture! Eyes darkened with antimony, cheeks painted red, throat painted

white, nails stained with henna: she was a perfect painter’s palette;

but handsome, despite her thirty years, with a full face, and

almond-shaped eyes, languid, and veiled by long black lashes; the nose a

little turned up; a small round mouth, as the Moorish poet says, like a

ring; and a sylph-like figure, whose soft and curving lines were shown

by the thin texture of her dress. She seemed sad. Perhaps some fourth

bride of fourteen had lately entered the harem and stolen her husband’s

caresses. From time to time she glanced at her hand, her arm, a tress of

hair that fell over her bosom, and sighed. The sound of our voices

suddenly roused her; she looked up, saw that we were observing her,

jumped over the parapet of the terrace with the dexterity of an acrobat,

and vanished. To see better, we sent for a chair, and drew lots which

should mount it first. The lot falling to me, I placed the chair against

the wall, and succeeded in raising my head and shoulders above it. It

was like the apparition of a new star in the sky of Fez, if I may be

excused the audacity of the simile. I was seen at once from the nearer

houses, the occupants of which at once took to flight, then turned to

look, and announced the event to those on the more distant terraces. In

a few minutes the news had spread from terrace to terrace over half the

city; curious eyes appeared everywhere, and I found myself in a sort of

pillory. But the beauty of the spectacle held me to my post. There were

hundreds of women and children, on the parapets, on the little towers,

on the outer staircases, all turned toward me, all in flaming colors,

from those nearer ones whose features I could discern, to those more

distant, who were mere white, green, or vermilion points to my eye; some

of the terraces were so full that they seemed like baskets of flowers;

and everywhere there was a buzz, and hurry, and gesticulation, as if

they were all looking on at some celestial phenomenon. Not to put the

entire city in commotion, I _set_, or rather descended from my chair,

and for a moment no one went up. Then Biseo rose, and he also was the

mark for thousands of eyes, when, suddenly, upon a distant terrace, all

the women turned the other way, and ran to look in the opposite

direction, and, in a moment, those on the other houses did the same. We

could not at first imagine what had happened, until the vice-consul made

a happy guess. “A great event,” he said; “the commandant and the captain

are passing through the streets of Fez”; and in fact, after a little

time, we saw the red uniforms of the escort appear upon the heights that

overlook the city, and with the glass could recognize the commandant and

captain on horseback. Another sudden turn about of the women on some of

the terraces gave notice of the passage of another Italian party; and in

about ten minutes we beheld upon the opposite hills the white Egyptian

head-dress of Ussi, and Morteo’s English hat. After this the universal

attention was once more turned to us, and we stayed a moment to enjoy

it; but upon a neighboring terrace there appeared five or six brats of

slave-girls, of about thirteen or fourteen years of age, who looked at

us and giggled in such an insolent manner, that we were constrained, in

Christian decorum, to deprive the metropolitan fair sex of our shining

presence.

[Illustration: 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” his _gibus_ hat; they drew back, then

smiled, and came near again. The Grand Vizier’s voice, ordering the

table to be prepared, sent them flying.

The table was laid by our own soldiers. A servant of the house placed

upon it, in the middle, three thick waxen torches of different colors.

The china-ware belonged to the Grand Vizier, and there were not two

plates alike; but they were big and little, white and colored, fine and

common, plenty and to spare. The napkins also belonged to the house, and

consisted of sundry square pieces of cotton cloth, of different sizes,

unhemmed, and evidently just cut off in a hurry for the occasion.

It was night when we sat down. The Grand Vizier sat on his mattress,

hugging his cushion, and talking and laughing with his two relatives.

I will not describe the dinner, I do not wish to recall painful

memories. Enough to say that there were thirty dishes, or rather thirty

unpleasant things, without counting the smaller annoyances of the

sweets.

At the fifteenth dish, it becoming impossible to continue the struggle

without the aid of wine, the Ambassador begged Morteo to ask the Grand

Vizier if it would be displeasing to him to have some champagne sent

for.

Morteo whispered to Selam, and Selam repeated the request in the ear of

his Excellency. His Excellency made a long reply in a low voice, and we

anxiously watched his face out of the corners of our eyes. But we found

small hope there.

Selam rose with a mortified air, and repeated the answer into the ear of

the intendant, who gave us the _coup de grâce_ in the following words:

[Illustration: 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 servants carrying lanterns. It was very dark and raining

heavily. The strange effect of that long cavalcade cannot be imagined,

with the lanterns, the crowd of armed and hooded figures, the deafening

noise of the horses’ feet, the sound of savage exclamations, in that

labyrinth of narrow streets and covered passages, in the midst of the

silence of the sleeping city. It seemed like a funeral procession

winding along under ground, or a party of soldiers advancing through

subterranean ways to surprise a fortress. Suddenly the procession

halted; there was a sepulchral silence, broken by a voice saying angrily

in Arabic, “The road is closed!” A moment after there was a great noise

of blows. The soldiers of the escort were trying to beat down with the

butts of their muskets one of the thousand gates that during the night

prevent circulation through the streets of Fez. The work took some time;

it thundered and lightened, and the rain poured in torrents; the

soldiers and servants ran about with lanterns, throwing their long

shadows on the walls; the caid, standing in his stirrups, threatened the

invisible inhabitants of the surrounding houses; and we enjoyed the fine

Rembrandt picture with infinite delight. Finally the door came down with

a great noise, and we passed on. A little before we reached our house,

under an arched passage, six foot-soldiers presented arms with one hand,

the other holding a lighted taper; and this was the last scene of the

fantastic drama, entitled, “A Dinner with the Grand Vizier.” But, no;

the last scene of all was when we, hardly in our own court-yard,

precipitated ourselves upon sardines of Nantes, and bottles of Bordeaux,

and Ussi, lifting his glass above our heads, exclaimed in solemn

accents, “To Sidi Ben-Jamani, Grand Vizier of Morocco, our most gracious

host, I, Stefano Ussi, with Christian forgiveness, consecrate this cup!”

The Sultan has received the Ambassador in private audience. The

reception-hall is as big, as bare, and as white as a prison. There are

no other ornaments but a great number of clocks of all forms and

dimensions, of which some are on the floor, ranged along the walls, and

some are huddled together on the table in the middle of the room.

Clocks, it may be remembered, are very great objects of admiration and

amusement among the Moors. The Sultan was seated cross-legged, in a

little alcove, upon a wooden platform about a yard high. He wore, at his

public reception, a white mantle, with a hood over his head; his feet

were bare, his yellow slippers in a corner, and a green cord crossed his

breast, to which a poniard was probably suspended. In this way the

emperors of Morocco have always received ambassadors. Their throne, as

Sultan Abd-er-Rhaman said, is the horse, and their pavilion the sky. The

Ambassador, having first made known his wish to Sid-Moussa, found before

the imperial platform a modest chair, upon which, at a sign from the

Sultan, he seated himself; Signor Morteo, the interpreter, remained

standing. His Majesty, Muley-el-Hassan, spoke for a long time, without

ever raising his hands from beneath his mantle, without making a

movement with his head, without altering by a single accent the habitual

monotony of his soft, deep voice. He spoke of the needs of his empire,

of commerce, of industry, of treaties; going into minute particulars,

with much order and method, and great simplicity of language. He asked

many questions, listening to the answers with great attention, and

concluded by saying, with a slight expression of sadness: “It is true;

but we are constrained to proceed slowly”—strange and admirable words on

the lips of an emperor of Morocco. Seeing that he gave no sign, even in

the intervals of silence, to break off the interview, the Ambassador

thought it his duty to rise.

“Stay yet a while,” said the Sultan, with a certain expression of

ingenuousness; “it gives me pleasure to converse with you.” When the

Ambassador took leave, bowing for the last time on the threshold of the

door, he slightly bent his head, and remained motionless, like an idol

in his deserted temple.

A company of Hebrew women have been here presenting I know not what

petition to the Ambassador. No one could shelter his hands from the

shower of their kisses. They were the wives, daughters, and relations of

two rich merchants; beautiful women, with brilliant black eyes, fair

skins, scarlet lips, and very small hands. The two mothers, already old,

had not a single white hair, and the fire of youth still burned in their

eyes. Their dress was splendid and picturesque—a handkerchief of

gorgeous colors bound about the forehead; a jacket of red cloth, trimmed

with heavy gold braid; a sort of waistcoat all of gold embroidery; a

short, narrow petticoat of green cloth, also bordered with gold; and a

sash of red or blue silk around the waist. They looked like so many

Asiatic princesses, and their splendor of attire contrasted oddly with

their servile and obsequious manners. They all spoke Spanish. It was not

until after some minutes that we observed that they had bare feet, and

carried their yellow slippers under their arms.

“Why do you not wear your shoes?” I asked of one of the old women.

“What!” she said, in astonishment. “Do you not know that we Israelites

must not wear shoes except in the Mellà, and that when we enter a

Moorish city we must go barefoot?”

Reassured by the Ambassador, they all put on their slippers. Such is the

fact. They are not absolutely obliged to go always with bare feet; but

as they must take off their shoes in passing through certain streets,

before certain mosques, near certain _cube_, it becomes the same thing

in the end. And this is not the only vexation to which they are

subjected, nor the most humiliating one. They cannot bear witness before

a judge, and must prostrate themselves on the ground before any

tribunal; they cannot possess lands or houses outside of their own

quarter; they must not raise their hands against a Mussulman, even in

self-defence, except in the case of being assaulted under their own

roof; they can only wear dark colors[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 the state, opposes an almost

insurmountable barrier to emigration, prohibiting the departure of any

Jewish woman from Morocco. They serve, they tremble, and grovel in the

dust; but they would not give, to acquire the dignity of men and the

liberty of citizens, the heaps of gold which they keep hidden in their

gloomy habitations.

Footnote 6:

Apparently the women are exempt from this law.—_Trans._

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, “I speak the truth; look here at this one”—and she

pointed to a smaller child. “She will be ten years old in six months,

and she has already been married one year.”

The child held down her head. We were still incredulous.

“What can I say?” continued the woman. “If you will not believe my word,

do me the honor to come to my house on Saturday, so that we may receive

you worthily, and you will see the husband and the witnesses of the

marriage.”

“And how old is the husband?” I asked.

“Ten years old, Signore.”

Seeing that we still doubted, the other women all asserted the same,

adding that it was quite rare for a girl to marry after twelve years of

age; that the greater part of them are married at ten, many at eight,

and some even at seven, to boys of about their own age; and that,

naturally, while they are so young, they live with their parents, who

continue to treat them like children, feed, clothe, and correct them,

without the least regard to their marital dignity; but they are always

together, and the wife is submissive to the husband.

To us all this seemed news from another world than ours, and we listened

with open mouths, divided between a desire to laugh, pity, and anger.

A breakfast at the house of the Minister of War.

We were received in a narrow court, enclosed by four high walls, and as

dark as a well. On one side there was a door about three feet in height,

on the other a great doorway without doors, and a bare room, with a

mattress on the floor, and some sheets of paper strung on a string and

hanging on one of the walls: the daily correspondence, I imagine, of his

Excellency.

He is called Sid-Abd-Alla Ben Hamed, is the elder brother of Sid-Moussa,

is about sixty years old, black, small, lean, infirm on his legs,

trembling and decrepit. He speaks little, shuts his eyes often, and

smiles courteously, bowing his head, which is almost concealed in an

immense turban. Nevertheless, his appearance and manners are agreeable.

After the exchange of a few words, we were invited into the dining-hall.

The Ambassador first, and then all the others one by one, stooping

almost to a right angle, passed the little low door, and came out into

another court, spacious, surrounded by an elegant arcade, and covered

with splendid and various ornaments in mosaic. It is a palace which was

presented to Sid-Abd-Alla by the Sultan. He himself gives us this

information, bowing his head and closing his eyes with an air of

religious veneration.

In one corner of the court there was a group of officials in white

turbans and robes; on the other side a troop of servants, among whom

towered a very handsome young giant, dressed all in blue, with a long

pistol at his belt. At all the little doors and windows in the four

walls heads of women and children of various shades of complexion

appeared and disappeared, and on every side was heard the voice of

infancy.

We sat down around a small table, in a little room encumbered by two

enormous beds. The Minister placed himself next to, but a little behind,

the Ambassador, and sat there all the time of the breakfast, vigorously

rubbing his bare black foot, which he had planted on his knee; so that

the ministerial toes appeared just above the edge of the table, at a few

inches from the commandant’s plate. The soldiers of the Legation waited

at table. Close to it stood the young blue giant, with his hand on his

pistol.

Sid-Abd-Alla was very polite to the Ambassador.

“I like you very much,” he said, without preamble, through the

interpreter.

The Ambassador replied that he experienced the same sentiment toward

him.

“I had scarcely seen you,” continued the Minister, “when my heart was

all yours.”

The Ambassador returned the compliment.

“The heart,” concluded Sid-Abd-Alla, “cannot be resisted; and when it

commands you to love a person, even without knowing the reason, you must

obey.”

The Ambassador gave him his hand, which be pressed to his breast.

Eighteen dishes were served. I speak not of them. Enough to say that I

hope that my partaking of them will some day be counted in my favor. By

way of variety the water was flavored with musk, the table-cloth of many

colors, and the chairs tottering on their legs. But these little

calamities, instead of putting us into an ill humor, only excited our

comic vein, so that seldom were we so full of mischievous frolic as on

that occasion. If Sid-Abd-Alla could only have heard us! But

Sid-Abd-Alla was entirely absorbed in the Ambassador. Signor Morteo

alarmed us for an instant by whispering to us that the blue giant, who

was from Tunis, might possibly understand a few words of Italian. But

observing him attentively when certain jokes were made, and seeing him

always impassible as a statue, we were reassured, and went on without

minding him. How many apt and unexpected similes did we find, and with

what clamorously comic effect, but unfortunately not to be repeated, for

those ragoûts and sauces!

The breakfast over, we all went out into the court, where the Minister

presented to the Ambassador one of the highest officers of the army. He

was the commander-in-chief of the artillery: a little old man, dry, and

bent like the letter _C_, with an enormous hooked nose and two round

eyes; the face of a bird of prey; overwhelmed, rather than covered, by

an immeasurable yellow turban of a spherical form, and dressed in a sort

of Zouave dress, all blue, with a white mantle on his shoulders. He wore

at his side a long sabre, and had a silver poniard in his belt. The

Ambassador inquired to what rank in a European army his own

corresponded. He seemed embarrassed by the question. He hesitated a

moment, and then answered, stammering, “General”; then he thought again,

and said, “No; colonel,” and was confused. He said he was a native of

Algeria. I had a suspicion that he was a renegade. Who knows by what

strange vicissitudes he has come to be colonel in Morocco?

The other officers, meantime, were breakfasting in a room opening on the

court, all sitting in a circle on the floor, with the dishes in the

midst. Seeing them eat, I understood how it was that the Moors could do

without knives and forks. The neatness and dexterity, the precision with

which they pulled chickens, mutton, game, and fish to pieces cannot be

described. With a few rapid movements of the hands, without the least

discomposure, each one took his exact portion. They seemed to have nails

as sharp as razors. They dipped their fingers in the saucers, made balls

of the _cùscùssù_, 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 the escort, send for the interpreters, order

horses and mules, and an hour at least is spent in preparation.

Consequently we stay a great part of the day within. But the spectacle

there largely rewards us for our imprisonment. There is a continual

procession of red soldiers, black servants, messengers from the court,

city traders, sick Moors in search of the doctor, Jewish rabbins coming

to do homage to the Ambassador, other Jews with bunches of flowers,

couriers with letters from Tangiers, porters bringing the _muna_. In the

court are some workers in mosaic, working for Visconti Venosta; on the

terrace, masons; in the kitchens, a coming and going of cooks; in the

gardens are merchants spreading out their stuffs, and Signor Vincent his

uniforms; the doctor is swinging in a hammock slung between two trees;

the artists are painting before the door of their chamber; soldiers and

servants are jumping and shouting in the neighboring alleys; all the

fountains spout and trickle with a noise of heavy rain, and hundreds of

birds are warbling among the orange and lemon-trees. The day passes

between ball-playing and Kaldun’s history; the evening with chess, and

singing directed by the commandant, first tenor of Fez. My nights would

be better passed if it were not for the continual flitting to and fro,

like so many phantoms, of Mohammed Ducali’s black servants, who are in a

little room adjoining mine. The doctor also sleeps in my room, and

between us we have a poor wretch of an Arab servant, who makes us die

with laughter. They say that he belongs to a family who, if not rich,

are in easy circumstances, and that he joined the caravan as a servant

at Tangiers, in order to make a _pleasure 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 some one, “there might

be an iron in the Mellà?” There might be, but the difficulty is to find

it. There is a carriage, but it belongs to the Sultan. It is said that

there is also a piano-forte; it was seen to come into the city some

years ago, but it is not known who possesses it. It is amusing also to

send to buy something in the shops. “A candle?”—“There are none,” is the

answer; “but, we will make some presently.” “A yard of ribbon?”—“It will

be ready by to-morrow evening.” “Cigars?”—“We have the tobacco, and will

have them ready in an hour.” The vice-consul spent several days looking

for an old Arabic book, and all the Moors he questioned looked at each

other and said: “A book? Who has books in Fez? There were some once; if

we are not mistaken, so and so had them; but he is dead, and we do not

know who are his heirs.” “And Arabic journals, or other journals, could

we have them?”—“One single journal, printed in Arabic in Algiers,

arrives regularly at Fez, but it is addressed to the Sultan.”

Yet, I have an idea that we are less than two hundred miles from

Gibraltar, where probably this evening they are giving _Lucia di

Lammermoor_, and that in eight days we could reach the _Loggia deì

Lanzi_ at Florence. But in spite of this conviction I feel a sentiment

of immense remoteness. It is not miles but things and people that divide

us most from our country. With what pleasure we tear off the bands of

our journals, and break open our letters! 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.