We pass many hours in watching the painters work. Ussi has made a fine

sketch of the great reception, in which the figure of the Sultan is

wonderfully well done; Biseo, an excellent painter of Oriental

architecture, is copying the façade of the small house in the garden. It

is worth while, for diversion, to hear the soldiers and shopkeepers of

Fez who come to see that picture. They come on tiptoe behind the

painter, and look over his shoulder, making a telescope of their hand,

and then they all begin to laugh, as if they had discovered something

very odd. The great oddity is that in the drawing the second arch of the

façade is smaller than the first, and the third smaller than the second.

Devoid as they are of any idea of perspective, they believe that this

inequality is an error, and they say that the walls are crooked, that

the house totters, that the door is out of place, and they are much

astonished, and go away saying the artist is a donkey. Ussi is more

esteemed, since it is known that he has been at Cairo, and that he has

painted the departure of the caravan for Mecca by the order of the

Viceroy, who paid him fifteen thousand scudi. They say, however, that

the Viceroy was mad to pay such a sum for a work on which the artist had

expended perhaps about a hundred francs for colors. A merchant asked

Morteo if Ussi could paint furniture also. But the best story is about

Biseo, who goes every morning in New Fez to paint a mosque. He goes, of

course, escorted by five or six soldiers armed with sticks. Before he

has set up his easel, he is surrounded by about three hundred people,

and the soldiers are obliged to yell furiously and make play with their

sticks to keep enough space open for him to see the mosque. At every

stroke of the brush, a blow with a stick; but they let themselves be

beaten, and do worse. Every little while a saint appears with

threatening gestures, and the soldiers keep him off. There are also some

progressive Moors, who come up with friendly aspect, look, approve, and

retire with signs of encouragement. The greater part of these

progressionists, however, admire a great deal more the structure of the

easel and the portable seat, than they do the picture. One day a

savage-looking Moor shook his fist at the painter, and then, turning to

the crowd, made a long speech with excited voice and gestures. An

interpreter explained that he was exciting the people against Biseo,

saying that that _dog_ had been sent by the king of his country to copy

the finest mosques in Fez, so that when the Christian army came to

bombard the place, they could recognize and attack them first. Yesterday

(I was present), a ragged old Moor, a good-natured old rascal, accosted

him, appearing to have a great deal to say, and, bringing out his words

with much difficulty, he exclaimed, with emotion, “France! London!

Madrid! Rome!” We were much astonished, as may be supposed, and asked

him if he knew how to speak French, Italian, or Spanish. He made signs

that he could. “Speak, then,” I said. He scratched his forehead, sighed,

stamped his foot, and again exclaimed “France! London! Madrid! Rome!”

and pointed toward the horizon. He wanted to tell us that he had seen

those countries, and perhaps that once he knew how to make himself

understood in our tongues; but he had forgotten them all. We put other

questions to him, but could draw nothing from him but those four names.

And he went away repeating “Madrid! Rome! France! London!” as long as we

could see him, and saluting us affectionately with his hand.

“We find all sorts of people here,” said Biseo, provoked; “even

originals who wish us well and like us, but not a single dog that will

let me paint him.”

It is true that up to this moment the utmost efforts of the artists in

that direction had failed. Even our faithful Selam refused.

“Are you afraid of the devil?” demanded Ussi.

“No,” he answered, with solemnity; “I am afraid of God.”

We have been up on the top of Mount Zalag—the commandant, Ussi, and

I—guided by Captain de Boccard, a charming young fellow, equally

admirable for the activity of his body, the strength of his soul, and

the acumen of his intelligence. We were accompanied by an officer of the

escort, three foot-soldiers, three cavalry soldiers, and three servants.

At the foot of the mountain, which is about an hour and a half from the

northeast of the city, we stopped to breakfast: after which the captain

stuck an apple on a stick, put a _scudo_ on the apple, and made the

soldiers and servants fire at it with his revolver. The prize was

tempting—they all fired with much care; but as it was the first time

they had ever had a revolver in their hands, everybody missed, and the

_scudo_ was given to the officer to be divided between them. It was

laughable to see the attitudes they took when taking aim. One threw his

head back, one bent forward, one put his chin quite over the trigger,

and one stood on guard as if fencing with a sabre. Accustomed as they

were to terrible attitudes not one knew how to adapt himself to the

quiet, easy position which the captain tried to teach them. A soldier

came to ask if we would give something to a country-woman who had

brought us some milk. We said, Yes, on condition that the woman came

herself to get it. She came. She was a black, deformed creature, about

thirty years of age, covered with rags, and in every way repulsive. She

came toward us slowly, covering her face with one hand; and when about

five paces from us, turned her back and extended the other hand. The

commandant was disgusted. “Be easy,” he called out; “I am not in love. I

shall not lose my head; I can still control myself. Good gracious, what

frightful modesty!”

We put some money in her hand; she picked up her milk-jug, ran off

toward her hut, and at the door smashed the profaned vessel against a

stone.

We began the ascent on foot, accompanied by a part of the escort. The

mountain is about one thousand feet above the level of the sea—steep,

rocky, and without paths. In a few minutes the captain disappeared among

the rocks; but for the commandant, Ussi, and I, it was one of the twelve

labors of Hercules. We had each an Arab at our side, who told us where

to place our feet; and at some points we were obliged to climb like

cats, clinging to bushes and grass, slipping on the rocks, stumbling,

and seizing the arms of our guides as drowning men seize a saving plank.

Here and there we see a goat, seemingly suspended above our heads, so

steep is the ascent; and the stones scarcely touched roll to the very

bottom of the mountain. With God’s help, in an hour’s time we are on the

top of the mountain, exhausted, but with whole bones. What a lovely

view! At the bottom, the city, a little white spot in the form of an

eight, surrounded by black walls, cemeteries, gardens, _cube_, towers,

and all the verdant shell that holds them; on the left, a long, shining

line, the Sebù; to the right the great plain of Fez, streaked with

silver by the Pearl River and the River of the Azure Fountain; to the

south, the blue peaks of the great Atlas chain; to the north, the

mountains of the Rif; to the east, the vast undulating plain where is

the fortress of Teza, which closes the pass between the basin of the

Sebù and that of the Mulaia; below us, great waves of ground yellow with

grain and barley, marked by innumerable paths and long files of gigantic

aloes; a grandeur of lines, a magnificence of verdure, a limpidity of

sky, a silence and peace that steeped the soul in paradise. Who would

guess that in that terrestrial paradise dwelt and dosed a decrepit

people, chained on a heap of ruins. The mountain that, seen from the

city, appeared a cone, has an elongated form, and is rocky on the top.

The captain mounted to the highest point; we three, more careful of our

lives, scattered ourselves about among the rocks below, and went out of

sight of each other. I had made but a few steps, when at the entrance of

a little gorge I met an Arab. I stopped; he stopped also, and looked

much amazed at my appearance and my being alone. He was a man of about

fifty, of a truculent aspect, and armed with a big stick. For a moment I

suspected that he might attack me and take my purse; but to my great

astonishment, instead of assailing me, he saluted me, smiled, and taking

hold of his own beard with one hand, pointed to mine with the other, and

said something, repeating it two or three times. It sounded like a

question, to which he desired an answer. Moved by curiosity, I called

for the officer of the guard, who knew a little Spanish, and begged him

to tell me what the man wanted. Who would ever have guessed it? He

wanted to pay me a compliment, and had asked me _ex abrupto_ why I did

not let my beard grow, when it would be more beautiful than his own!

The soldiers of the escort were following us all three at about twenty

paces’ distance, and as we frequently called to each other in a loud

voice, and it was the first time that they had heard our names, they

found them strange, laughing and repeating them with their Moorish

accent in the oddest way: “_Isi! Amigi!_” At a certain point the officer

said, abruptly, “_Scut!_” ( Silence!) and they all were silent. The sun

was high, the rocks were scorching; even the captain, accustomed to the

heats of Tunis felt the need of shade; we gave a last look at the peaks

of Atlas, scrambled down the mountain, and hastily getting into our

crimson saddles, took the way back to Fez, where we had an agreeable

surprise. The gate of El Ghisa, where we were to enter the city, was

closed! “Let us go in by another,” said the commandant. “They are all

closed,” answered the officer of the guard; and seeing us open our eyes,

he explained the mystery, saying that on all festivals (this was

Friday), from twelve o’clock to one, which is the hour of prayer, all

the city gates are closed, because it is a Mussulman belief that exactly

at that hour, but no one knows in what year, the Christians will take

possession of their country by a _coup de main_.

We had, then, to wait for the opening of the gates; and when at last we

got in, we were received with a flowery compliment. An old woman shook

her fist at us, and muttered something which the officer refused to

translate; but we insisting, he finally consented, with a smile, and an

assurance that she was an old fool, and her words could do us no harm.

What she said was this: “The Jews to the hook (to be boiled), the

Christians to the spit!”

The doctor has performed the operation for cataract, _coram populo_, in

the garden of the palace. There was a crowd of relations and friends,

soldiers and servants, part disposed in a circle around the patient,

part ranged in a long file from the spot where the operation was being

done to the gate of the street, where another crowd stood waiting. The

patient was an old Moor who had been quite blind for three years. At the

moment of taking his seat, he stopped as if frightened; then sat down

with a resolute air, and gave no further sign of weakness. Whilst the

doctor operated, the people stood as if petrified. The children clung to

their mothers’ gowns, and the latter embraced each other in attitudes of

terror, as if they were looking on at an execution. Not a breath could

be heard. We also, on account of the “diplomatic” importance of the

operation, were in great anxiety. All at once the patient gave a cry of

joy, and threw himself on his knees. He had seen the first ray of light.

All the people in the garden saluted the doctor with a yell, to which

another yell responded from those in the street. The soldiers

immediately made everybody, except the patient, go out from the

precincts of the palace, and in a short time the news of the marvellous

operation was all over Fez. Fortunate doctor! He had his reward that

very evening, when he was called upon to visit the harem of the Grand

Scherif Bacalì, where the loveliest ladies showed themselves to him with

uncovered faces, and in all the pomp of their splendid attire, and

talked languidly of their pains and aches....

From time to time some renegade Spaniards come to see Señor Patxot.

There are said to be about three hundred of these unfortunate men in the

empire. Most of them are Spaniards, condemned for some common crimes,

fugitives from the galleys of the coast; others, partly French

deserters, are fugitives from Algeria; and the rest are rascals from all

parts of Europe. In other times they rose to high positions in the court

and army, formed special military corps, and received large pay. But now

their condition is much changed. When they arrive, they abjure the

Christian religion, and embrace Islamism, without circumcision or other

ceremony, merely pronouncing a formula. No one cares whether they fulfil

their religious duties or not; the greater part of them never enter a

mosque, and know no form of prayer. In order to bind them to the

country, the Sultan exacts that they shall marry. He gives to whoever

wants her one of his black women; the others can marry an Arab free

woman or a Moor, and the Sultan pays the expenses of the wedding. They

must all be enrolled in the army; but they can, at the same time,

exercise a trade. They generally enter the artillery, and some belong to

the bands of music, the head of which is a Spaniard. The soldiers

receive five _sous_ a day, and the officers twenty-five to thirty; if

any one has a special talent, he can make as much as two francs a day.

Lately, for instance, they were talking of a German renegade, endowed

with a certain talent for mechanics, who had made for himself an

enviable position. This man, for some reason unknown, had fled from

Algeria in '73, and had gone to Tafilet, on the confines of the desert;

there he stayed two years, learned Arabic, and came to Fez, entered the

army, and in a few days, with some tools that he had, constructed a

revolver. The event made a noise; the revolver passed from hand to hand,

and reached the Minister of War; the Minister told the Sultan, who sent

for the soldier, encouraged him, gave him ten francs, and raised his

daily pay to forty _sous_. But such good fortune is rare. Almost all of

them live wretched lives, and their state of mind is such, that although

they are known to be stained with serious crimes, they inspire pity

rather than horror. Yesterday two presented themselves, renegades since

two years, with wives, and children born at Fez. One was thirty, the

other fifty years old, both Spaniards, fugitives from Ceuta. The younger

one did not speak. The elder said that he had been condemned to hard

labor for life for having killed a man who was beating his son to death.

He was pale, and spoke in a broken voice, tearing his handkerchief with

trembling hands.

“If they would promise to keep me only ten years in the galleys,” he

said, “I would go back. I am fifty, I should come out at sixty, and

might still live a few years in my own country. But it is the thought of

dying with the brand of the galleys upon me that frightens me. I would

go back at any rate, if I were sure of dying a free man in Spain. This

is not living, this existence that we have here. It is like being in a

desert. It is frightful. Every one despises us. Our own family is not

our own, because our children are taught to hate us. And then, we never

forget the religion in which we were born, the church where our mothers

used to take us to pray, the counsels they gave us; and those

memories—we are renegades, we are galley-slaves, it is true, but still

we are men—those memories tear our hearts!” and he wept as he spoke.

The rain which has been pouring down for three days has reduced Fez to

an indescribable and incredible condition. It is no longer a city; it is

a sewer. The streets are gutters; the crossings, lakes; the squares,

seas; the people on foot sink into the mud up to their knees; the houses

are plastered with it above the doors; men, horses, and mules look as if

they had been rolling in mud; and as for the dogs, they were at the

outset plastered in such a way that they have not a hair visible. Few

people are to be seen, and those mostly on horseback; not an umbrella,

or even a person hastening to escape the rain. Outside the quarters of

the bazaars all is depressingly dark and deserted. Water is running and

rushing everywhere, carrying with it every sort of putridity, and no

voice or other human sound breaks the monotony of its deafening noise.

It looks like a city abandoned by its inhabitants after an inundation.

After an hour’s turn I came home in a most melancholy mood, and passed

the time with my face pressed against the window-bars, watching the

dripping trees, and thinking of the poor courier, who perhaps at that

very moment was swimming a flooded river at the risk of his life

carrying in his teeth the bag that contained my letters from home.

It is said, and denied, that there has been within a few days a capital

execution before one of the gates of Fez. No head has appeared upon the

walls, however, and I prefer to think the news is false. The

description, which I once read, of an execution done at Tangiers, some

years ago, deprived me of the barbarous curiosity that I formerly had to

be present at one of these spectacles.

An Englishman, Mr. Drummond Hay, coming out one morning at one of the

gates of Tangiers, saw a company of soldiers dragging along two

prisoners with their arms bound to their sides. One was a mountaineer

from the Rif, formerly gardener to a European resident at Tangiers; the

other, a handsome young fellow, tall, and with an open and attractive

countenance.

The Englishman asked the officer in command what crime these two

unfortunate men had committed.

“The Sultan,” was the answer,—“may God prolong his days!—has ordered

their heads to be cut off because they have been engaged in contraband

trade, on the coast of the Rif, with infidel Spaniards.”

“It is a very severe punishment for such a fault,” observed the

Englishman; “and if it is to serve as a warning and example to the

inhabitants of Tangiers, why are they not allowed to be present at it?”

(The gates of the city had been closed, and Mr. Drummond Hay had caused

one to be opened for him by giving some money to the guard.)

“Do not argue with me, Nazarene!” responded the officer; “I have

received an order, and must obey.”

The decapitation was to take place in the Hebrew slaughter-house. A Moor

of vulgar and hideous aspect, dressed like a butcher, was there awaiting

the condemned. He had in his hand a small knife, about six inches long.

He was a stranger in the city, and had offered himself as executioner,

because the Mohammedan butchers of Tangiers, who usually fill that

office, had all taken refuge in a mosque.

An altercation now broke out between the soldiers and the executioner

about the reward promised for the decapitation of the two poor

creatures, who stood by and listened to the dispute over the

blood-money. The executioner insisted, declaring that he had been

promised twenty francs a head, and must have forty for the two. The

officer at last agreed, but with a very ill grace. Then the butcher

seized one of the condemned men, already half dead with terror, threw

him on the ground, kneeled on his chest, and put the knife to his

throat. The Englishman turned away his face. He heard the sounds of a

violent struggle. The executioner cried out: “Give me another knife;

mine does not cut!” Another knife was brought, and the head separated

from the body.

The soldiers cried, in a faint voice, “God prolong the life of our lord

and master!” But many of them were stupefied with terror.

Then came the other victim: the handsome and amiable-looking young man.

Again they wrangled over his blood. The officer, denying his promise,

declared he would give but twenty francs for both heads. The butcher was

forced to yield. The condemned man asked that his hands might be

unbound. Being loosed, he took his cloak and gave it to the soldier who

had unbound him, saying: “Accept this; we shall meet in a better world!”

He threw his turban to another, who had been looking at him with

compassion, and stepping to the place where lay the bloody corpse of his

companion, he said, in a clear, firm voice, “There is no God but God,

and Mahomet is His prophet!” Then taking off his belt he gave it to the

executioner, saying: “Take it; but for the love of God cut my head off

more quickly than you did my brother’s.” He stretched himself on the

earth, in the blood, and the executioner kneeled upon his chest.

“A reprieve! Stop!” cried the Englishman. A horseman came galloping

toward them. The executioner held his knife suspended.

“It is only the governor’s son,” said a soldier. “He is coming to see

the execution. Wait for him.”

So it was, indeed. A few minutes after two bleeding heads were held up

by the soldiers. Then the gates of the city were opened, and there came

forth a crowd of boys, who pursued the executioner with stones for three

miles, when he fell fainting to the ground, covered with wounds. The

next day it was known that he had been shot by a relation of one of the

victims, and buried where he fell. The authorities of Tangiers

apparently did not trouble themselves about the matter, since the

assassin came back into the city and remained unmolested.

After having been exposed three days, the heads were sent to the Sultan

in order that his Imperial Majesty might recognize the promptitude with

which his orders had been fulfilled. The soldiers who were carrying them

met on their way a courier, bearing a pardon, who had been detained by

the sudden flooding of a river.

I frequently find merchants of Fez who have been in Italy. Forty or

fifty of them go there every year, and many have Moorish or Arab agents

in our cities. They go particularly to Upper Italy, where they buy raw

silks, damasks, corals, velvets, threads, porcelain, pearls, Venice

glass, Genoa playing-cards, and Leghorn muslin. In exchange they carry

nothing but wax and wool, for trade in Morocco is much restricted; and

it may be said that stuffs, arms, hides, and earthen-ware or pottery are

their only productions which attract a European’s attention. The stuffs

are made chiefly in Fez and Morocco. There are _caics_ for women, lordly

turbans, sashes, _foulards_ of silk delicately woven with gold and

silver, generally in stripes of soft and harmonious colors, very pretty

at first sight, but unequal when examined, full of gum, and not wearing

well. The red caps, on the contrary, which take the name from Fez, are

very fine and durable, and the carpets made at Rabat, Casa Bianca,

Morocco, Sciadma, and Sciania are admirable for solidity and richness of

color. From Tetuan come in great part the damascened muskets, inlaid

with ivory and silver, carved, and set with precious stones, of light

and elegant form; and Mechinez, and Fez, and the province of Sus make

the swords and daggers which are sometimes of such admirable

workmanship.

Hides, the principal source of gain for the country, are well prepared

in various provinces, and the scarlet leather of Fez, the yellow of

Morocco, and the green of Tafilet, are still worthy of their ancient

reputation. In Fez they boast particularly of their enamelled pottery,

but it is rare to find the noble purity of form of the antique vase; and

their chief merit is a brilliancy of color, and a certain barbaric

originality of design which attract the eye but do not satisfy it. There

are also in Fez a great number of jewellers and goldsmiths, who make

some simple things in very good taste, but few, and of little variety,

because the Amalechite rite proscribes the display of precious

ornaments, as contrary to Mahometan austerity. More notable than the

jewelery is the furniture which comes from Tetuan: book-shelves,

clothes-pegs, and little polygonal tea-tables, arched, arabesqued, and

painted in many colors; copper vessels also, chased in complicated

designs and ornamented with green, red, and blue enamel; and, above all,

the mosaics of the pavements and walls, composed in exquisite taste by

clever workmen, who form the designs with marvellous precision.

There is no doubt that these people are endowed with admirable

faculties, and that their industries would increase immensely, as also

their agriculture, which was once so flourishing, if commerce could make

them live; but commerce is hampered with a thousand prohibitions,

restrictions, monopolies, excessive tariffs, continual modifications and

the non-observance of treaties; and, although the European governments

have obtained many privileges of late years, these are but small in

comparison with what might be brought about, thanks to the wealth and

geographical position of the country, under a civil government. The

principal trade is that with England, after which come France and Spain,

who give cereals, metals, sugar, tea, coffee, raw silk, woollen and

cotton cloths, and take wool, hides, fruit, leeches, gum, wax, and a

great part of the products of Central Africa. The trade which is carried

on by Fez, Taza, and Udjda (and it is not of small importance, though

less than that which the neighborhood of the two countries should

produce) comprehends, besides carpets, the cloths, belts, thick cords,

and all the parts of the Arab and Moorish dress, bracelets and anklets

of silver and gold, vases from Fez, mosaics, perfumes, incense, antimony

for the eyes, _henna_ for the nails, and all the other cosmetics used by

the fair sex of Africa. Of more importance, more ancient, and more

regular, is the commerce with the interior of Africa, for which place

every year great caravans go forth, carrying stuffs from Fez, English

cloths, Venetian glass, Italian corals, powder, arms, tobacco, sugar,

small mirrors from Germany, feathers from Holland, little boxes from the

Tyrol, hardware from England and France, and salt, which they get on

their way in the Sahara; and their journey is like a travelling fair,

where their own merchandise is exchanged for black slaves, gold dust,

ostrich feathers, white gum from Senegal, gold ornaments from Nigritia,

which are afterward sent to Europe and the East; black stuffs which are

worn on the heads of Moorish women; _bezoar_, which preserves the Arabs

from poison and illness; and many drugs which have been abandoned in

Europe, but preserve their ancient value in Africa. Here is, for Europe,

the chief importance of Morocco: it is the principal gate of Nigritia;

where, being open, the commerce of Europe and that of Central Africa

will meet. Meanwhile, civilization and barbarism contend upon the

threshold.

The Ambassador has frequent conferences with Sid-Moussa. His principal

intent is to obtain from the government of the scherifs certain

concessions in trade by which Italy shall be the gainer: more I may not

say. These conferences last more than two hours; but the conversation

turns but briefly upon the real question in discussion, because the

Minister, following a custom which seems traditional in the policy of

the government of Morocco, never comes to the point until he has

wandered over a hundred extraneous subjects, and when he is dragged to

it by force. “Let us talk a little about something entertaining,” he

says, in almost a beseeching tone. The weather, health, the water of

Fez, the properties of certain tissues, some historical anecdotes, some

proverbs, what may be the population of certain states of Europe: all

these are more agreeable subjects than the one which is the purpose of

the interview. “What do you say of Fez?” he asked one day; and being

answered that it was beautiful, he added: “And it has another merit; it

is clean!” Another day he wished to know what was the population of

Morocco. But at last, the business must come; and then there are long

phrases, hesitations, reticences, silences, a putting forth of doubts

when consent is already decided upon, a pretended denial of

condescension, a slipping through the fingers, a constant dropping of

the subject just as the knot is about to be tightened, and then the

eternal expedient “to-morrow.”

The next day, recapitulation of things said the day before, new doubts,

restrictions, recognition of equivocations, regrets for not having

understood, and for not having been understood, and exhaustion of the

interpreter charged with the duty of making things clear. And then it is

necessary to wait for the return of the couriers from Tangiers and

Tafilet, who have been sent to obtain information—information of little

consequence, but which serves to put off the solution of the question

for ten days longer. And in fine, three great obstacles to every thing:

the fanaticism of the people, the obstinacy of the Ulemas, and the

necessity of proceeding cautiously, not exciting attention, with a

slowness that looks like immobility. Under these conditions, Job himself

might be expected to cry out; but then come the warm pressures of the

hand, the sweet smiles, the demonstrations of an irresistible sympathy,

and an affection that will only end in death. The most difficult affair

is that of the big Moor Schellal, and they say that the fate of his

whole life depends upon it; consequently he is for ever at the palace,

wrapped in his ample caic, anxious, thoughtful, sometimes with tears in

his eyes, and he keeps them fixed upon the Ambassador with a

supplicating look, like that of one condemned to death and begging for

reprieve. Mohammed Ducali, on the contrary, whose sails are swelled by

favoring gales, is gay and sprightly, perfumes himself, smokes, changes

his caftan every day, and strews on all sides his soft words, and jests,

and smiles. Ah! if it were not for Italian influence, how soon those

smiles would be changed into tears of blood!

We are experiencing in these days the truth of what was told us at

Tangiers with regard to the effects of the air of Fez. Are these effects

produced by the air or by the water? or by the rascally oil; or by the

infamous butter; or by all these things together; However it may be, it

is a fact that we are all ill. Languor, loss of appetite, prostration of

strength, and heaviness of head. And with all these ill-feelings there

is a weariness, an irritability, a sort of horror, that in a few days

has changed the face of the whole house. Every one longs for departure.

We have reached that point, inevitable in all long journeys, at which

curiosity is dulled; every thing seems faded: memories of home rise up

in crowds; all the longings, kept down at first, are alive and in

tumult; and our own country is ever before our eyes. We have had enough

of turbans, and black faces, and mosques; we are tired of being stared

at by a thousand eyes; bored by this immense masquerade in white at

which we have been looking for two months. What would we not give to see

pass by, even at a distance, a European lady! to hear the sound of a

bell! to see on a wall a printed play-bill! Oh, sweetest memories!

I have discovered among the soldiers of the guard one who has lost his

right ear, and am told that it was legally cut off, in presence of

witnesses, by another soldier whose ear the first one had mutilated some

time before. Such is the _lex talionis_ as it exists in Morocco. Not

only has any relation of a person killed the right to kill the assassin

on the same day of the week, at the same hour and place where the victim

fell, using the same weapon, and striking in the same part of the body;

but whoever has been deprived of a limb has the right to deprive his

assailant of the same limb. A fact of this nature, accompanied by very

singular circumstances, happened some years ago at Mogador, and was

related to me by a member of the French Consulate, who knew one of the

victims. An English merchant of Mogador was returning to the city on the

evening of a market-day, at the moment when the gate by which he was

entering was encumbered with a crowd of country people driving camels

and asses. Although the Englishman called out as loud as he could,

“_Bal-ak! bal-ak!_” (Make way!) an old woman was struck by his horse and

knocked down, falling with her face upon a stone. Ill fortune would have

it that in the fall she broke the two last of her front teeth. She was

stunned for an instant, and then rose convulsed with rage, and broke out

into insults and ferocious maledictions, following the Englishman to his

own door. She then went before the caid, and demanded that in virtue of

the law of talion he should order the English merchant’s two front teeth

to be broken. The caid tried to pacify her, and advised her to pardon

the injury; but she would listen to nothing, and he sent her away with a

promise that she should have justice, hoping that when her anger should

be exhausted she would herself desist from her pursuit. But, three days

having passed, the old woman came back more furious than ever, demanded

justice, and insisted that a formal sentence should be pronounced

against the Christian.

“Remember,” said she to the caid, “thou didst promise me!”

“_Che!_” responded the caid. “Dost thou take me for a Christian, that I

should be the slave of my word?”

Every day for a month the old woman, athirst for vengeance, presented

herself at the door of the citadel, and yelled, and cursed, and made

such a noise, that the caid, to be rid of her, was obliged to consent.

He sent for the merchant, explained the case, the right which the law

gave the woman, the duty imposed upon himself, and begged him to put an

end to the matter by allowing two of his teeth to be removed, any two,

although in strict justice they should be two incisors. The Englishman

refused absolutely to part with incisors, or eye-teeth, or molars; and

the caid was constrained to send the old woman packing, ordering the

guard not to let her put her foot in the Casba again.

“Very well,” said she; “since there are none but degenerate Mussulmans

here, since justice is refused to a Mussulman woman, mother of scherifs,

against an infidel dog, I will go to the Sultan, and we shall see

whether the prince of the faithful will deny the law of the Prophet.”

True to her determination, she started on her journey alone, with an

amulet in her bosom, a stick in her hand, and a bag around her neck, and

made on foot the hundred leagues which separate Mogador from the sacred

city of the empire. Arrived at Fez, she sought and obtained audience of

the Sultan, laid her case before him, and demanded the right accorded by

the Koran, the application of the law of retaliation. The Sultan

exhorted her to forgive; she insisted. All the serious difficulties

which opposed themselves to the satisfaction of her petition were laid

before her; she remained inexorable. A sum of money was offered her,

with which she could live in comfort for the rest of her days; she

refused it.

“What do I want with your money?” said she; “I am old, and accustomed to

live in poverty; what I want is the two teeth of the Christian; I want

them, I demand them in the name of the Koran; and the Sultan, prince of

the faithful, head of Islamism, father of his subjects, cannot refuse

justice to a true believer.”

Her obstinacy put the Sultan in a most embarrassing position; the law

was formal, and her right incontestable; and the ferment of the

populace, stirred up by the woman’s fanatical declamations, rendered

refusal perilous. The Sultan, who was Abd-er-Rhaman, wrote to the

English consul, asking as a favor that he would induce his countryman to

allow two of his teeth to be broken. The merchant answered the consul

that he would never consent. Then the Sultan wrote again, saying that if

he would consent he would grant him, as a recompense, any commercial

privilege that he chose to ask. This time, touched in his purse, the

merchant yielded. The old woman left Fez, blessing the name of the pious

Abd-er-Rhaman, and went back to Mogador, where, in the presence of many

people, the two teeth of the Nazarene were broken. When she saw them

fall to the ground she gave a yell of triumph, and picked them up with a

fierce joy. The merchant, thanks to the privileges that had been

accorded him, made in the two following years so handsome a fortune that

he went back to England, toothless, but happy.

[Illustration: Negro Slave Of Fez.]

The more I study these Moors, the more I am inclined to believe that the

judgment unanimously passed upon them by travellers is not far from the

truth, and that they are a race of vipers and foxes—false,

pusillanimous, cringing to the powerful, insolent to the weak, gnawed by

avarice, devoured by egotism, and burning with the basest passions of

which the human heart is capable. How could they be otherwise? The

nature of the government and the state of society permit them no manly

ambition. They traffic and bargain, but they have no knowledge of the

labor that begets fatigue of body and serenity of mind; they are

completely ignorant of any pleasure that is derived from the exercise of

the intelligence; they take no care for the education of their sons;

they have no high aims in life; therefore they give themselves up, with

all their souls, and for their whole lives, to the amassing of money;

and the time that is left to them from this pursuit they divide between

a sleepy indolence that enervates, and sensual pleasures that brutalize

them. In this life of effeminacy they naturally become vain, small,

malignant, tattling creatures; lacerating each other’s reputation with

spiteful rage; lying by habit with an incredible impudence; affecting

charitable and pious sentiments, and sacrificing a friend for a scudo;

despising knowledge, and accepting the most puerile superstitions;

bathing every day, and keeping masses of filth in the recesses of their

houses; and adding to all this a satanic pride, concealed, when

convenient, under a manner both dignified and humble, which seems the

index of an honorable mind. They deceived me in this way at first; but

now I am persuaded that the very least of them believes, in the bottom

of his heart, that he is infinitely superior to us all. The nomadic Arab

preserves at least the austere simplicity of his antique customs, and

the Berber, savage as he is, has a warlike spirit, courage, and love of

independence. Only these Moors have within them a combination of

barbarism, depravity, and pride, and are the most powerful of the

populations of the empire. From them come the merchants, the _ulemas_,

the _tholbas_, the caids, the pashas; they possess the rich palaces, the

great harems, beautiful women, and hidden treasures. They are

recognizable by their fat, their fair complexions, their cunning eyes,

their big turbans, their majestic walk, their arrogance, and their

perfumes.

We have been to take tea at the house of the Moor Schellal. We entered

by a narrow corridor into a small dark court, but beautiful—beautiful

and filthy as the filthiest house in the ghetto of Alkazar. Except the

mosaics of the pavement and pilasters, every thing was black, encrusted,

sticky with dirt. There were two little dark rooms on the ground-floor;

round the first-floor ran a light gallery, and on the top was the

parapet of the terrace. The big Moor made us sit down before the door of

his sleeping-room, gave us tea and sweetmeats, burned aloes, sprinkled

us with rose-water, and presented his children to us—two pretty boys,

who came to us white with terror, trembling like leaves under our

caresses. On the opposite side of the court there was a black slave-girl

of about fifteen, having on only a sort of chemise, which was open at

the side as far up as the hip, and confined round the waist with a

girdle, the slenderest, the most elegant, the most seductive female

creature (I attest it on the head of Ussi) that I had seen in all

Morocco. She was leaning against a pilaster with her arms crossed on her

bosom, looking at us with an air of supreme indifference. Presently

there came out of a small door another black woman, of about thirty

years of age, tall in stature, of an austere countenance, and robust

figure, straight as a palm-tree; who, as it seemed, must have been a

favorite with her master, for she advanced familiarly, whispered some

words in his ear, pulled out a small bit of straw that was stuck in his

beard, and pressed her hand upon his lips with an action at once

listless and caressing that made the Moor smile. Looking up, we saw the

gallery on the first-floor and the parapet of the terrace fringed with

women’s heads, which instantly disappeared. It was impossible for them

all to belong to that house. The visit of the Christians had no doubt

been announced in the neighborhood, and friends from other terraces had

come over to Schellal’s terrace. Just as we were gazing upward, three

ghost-like forms passed by us, their heads entirely concealed, and

vanished through the small door. They were three friends, who, not being

able to come by the terraces, had been forced to resign themselves to

enter by the door; and a moment after, their heads appeared above the

railing of the gallery. The house, in short, had been converted into a

theatre, and we were the spectacle. The veiled spectators prattled, and

with much low laughter, popped up their heads, and withdrew them again

as if they had flown away. Each one of our movements produced a slight

murmur; every time one of us raised his head there was a great tumult in

the first row of boxes. It was evident that they were much entertained,

that they were gathering material for a month’s conversation, and that

they could scarcely contain themselves for delight at finding themselves

so unexpectedly in the enjoyment of so strange and rare a spectacle! And

we complacently obliged them for about an hour—silent, however, and much

bored, an effect produced, after a time, by every Moorish house, however

courteous its hospitality.

And then, after you have admired the beautiful mosaics, the handsome

slaves, and pretty children, you look about instinctively for the person

who is the incarnation of domestic life, who represents the courtesy and

honorability of the house, who puts the seal on its hospitality, who

gives its tone to the conversations, who represents to your mind the

altar of the lares,—you seek, in short, the pearl for this shell; and

seeing no one but women who have their master’s embraces without his

affection, and children of unknown mothers, and the whole house

personified in one being only, its hospitality becomes a mere empty

ceremony; and in your host, instead of the sympathetic features of an

honored friend, you see only the aspect of a sensual and odious egotist.

There is no doubt that these people, if they do not hate us absolutely,

at least cannot endure us, and they are not without some good reasons.

Being among the descendants of the Moors of Spain, many of them still

preserve the keys of cities in Andalusia, and titles to the possession

of lands and houses in Seville and Granada, and their aversion to

Spaniards is peculiarly acrid, their fathers having been despoiled and

driven out by them. All the others nourish a general hatred to all

Christians, not only because this hatred is instilled into them in their

schools and mosques from their earliest infancy, with the purpose of

rendering any commerce with civilized races odious to them, commerce

which, scattering ignorance and superstition, would undermine the

foundations of the empire; but because they all have in the bottom of

their souls a vague suspicion of an expansive, growing, threatening

force in the states of Europe, by which, sooner or later, they will be

crushed. They hear the rising murmur of the French upon their eastern

frontier; they see the Spaniards fortified on their Mediterranean coast;

Tangiers is occupied by an advanced guard of Christians; the cities of

the west are guarded by a line of European merchants, stretching along

the Atlantic coast like a chain of sentinels; ambassadors come into the

country from different directions, apparently, to bring gifts to the

Sultan, but, in reality, as they believe, to look, and scrutinize, and

pry, and corrupt, and prepare the ground; they hear, in short, a

perpetual threat of invasion, and imagine this invasion accompanied by

all the horrors of hatred and revenge, persuaded as they are, that

Christians nourish against Moors the same sentiments which the latter

feel toward us. How can they change this aversion into sympathy when

they see us, in our tight, immodest costume, dressed in gloomy colors,

loaded with note-books, telescopes, mysterious instruments which we

direct at every thing, noting all things, measuring all things, wishing

to know all things; we, who are always laughing, and never pray; we, who

are restless, chattering, drinking, smoking, full of pretentions and

meanness, with only one wife, and never a slave in the whole country!

And they form a dark idea of Europe, as of immense congeries of

turbulent people, where there reigns a feverish life, full of ardent

ambitions, unbridled vices, audacious enterprises, and tumult, a dizzy

whirl, a confusion as of Babel, displeasing to God and man.

To-day great confusion in the palace, because of the first and unique

attempt at amorous conquest made by a Christian among the lower

personages of the Embassy. This excellent young man, upon whom, as it

would seem, the diplomatic austerity of our lives for the last forty

days had begun to weigh rather heavily, having seen, I know not whence,

a lovely Moor walking in a garden, thought (we all have our weaknesses)

that she would never be able to resist the attractions of his fine

person; and without a thought of the danger, insinuated himself through

some hole in the wall into the forbidden precincts. If, when arrived in

the presence of his nymph, he made a declaration of love, or whether he

attempted to suppress any preamble, whether the nymph lent a favorable

ear, or fled shrieking from the spot, no one knows; for in this country

all is mystery. It is known, however, that there suddenly issued from

behind the bushes four Moors armed with daggers, two of whom sprang upon

them on one side, and two on the other; and that the unfortunate young

man would either never have issued from the garden, or would have done

so with some holes in his person, if the Caid Hamed-Ben-Kasen Buhammei

had not suddenly appeared upon the scene, and with an imperious gesture

arrested the four assailants, and given the fugitive time to get back to

the palace with a whole skin. The news of the event flew about: there

was great excitement, and the culprit received a solemn admonition in

the presence of us all, while the commandant, always witty, added on his

own account a little sermon which produced a profound impression. “The

wives of others,” said he, “and more especially the wives of Mussulmans,

must be let alone; and when one is with a European Embassy in Morocco,

one must make up one’s mind not to be a man. For, in Mahometan

countries, these woman questions speedily become political questions. It

would indeed be a fine responsibility, that of an honest young fellow,

who, not having been able to resist an inconsiderate impulse, should

drag his country into a war, the consequences of which could not be

foreseen.” At this solemn discourse, the poor young man, who already saw

the Italian fleet with a hundred thousand fighting men sailing toward

Morocco because of him, showed himself so overwhelmed with the sense of

his guilt that no further castigation was considered necessary.

I should much like to know what conception these people have of their

own military power, and their own valor in war, with respect to the

power and bravery of Europeans. But I dare not question them directly on

the subject, because they are very ready to take offence, and I fear

that my questions might be mistaken for irony or brag. I have succeeded,

however, touching lightly and with caution, in picking up something. As

to the superiority of our military power they have no doubts; for, if

any doubts remained in their minds thirty years since, when they had not

yet met with any severe reverses from European armies, the wars with

France and Spain, and principally the two famous battles of Isly and

Tetuan, would have dissipated them for ever. But with regard to bravery,

it seems to me that they still think themselves much superior to

Europeans, whose victories they attribute to their artillery, to

discipline, and to what with them takes the place of strategy and

tactics, namely, craft; but not at all to their valor. It appears that

they do not consider victories gained by these means as real victories,

nobly obtained. The common people also add to these the alliance with

evil spirits, without which neither artillery nor craft would avail to

conquer the Mussulman armies. Certain it is that to the pure-blooded

Arabs and to the Berbers, who are the warlike majority in Morocco,

bravery cannot be denied, or even the recognition of it restricted to

that common and indeterminate courage which in Europe is considered,

with chivalric reciprocity, the property of all armies. For even taking

into account the nature of the ground and the secret aid of England, the

army of Morocco, scattered, badly commanded, badly armed, badly

provisioned, could not have confronted, as it did, for nearly a year,

with a tenacity unexpected in Europe, the Spanish troops, highly

disciplined, and furnished with all the newest offensive weapons, unless

they had possessed great bravery in compensation for the military power

that they lacked. We may deny the name of true courage to that

fanaticism which sends one man against ten, seeking a death that shall

open for him the gates of paradise; or to the savage fury which induces

a soldier to dash his own brains out against a rock rather than fall

into the enemy’s hands; or to the wild rage of a wounded man, who tears

the bandages from his wounds and frees himself at once from life and a

prison; or to the contempt of pain, the blind audacity, the brutal

obstinacy, that seek death without any purpose to serve; but we must

admit at least that these are elements of courage, and it is

incontestable that this people gave many such tremendous examples to

Spain. After two months of warfare the Spanish army had taken but two

prisoners, an Arab from the province of Oran, and a lunatic who had

presented himself at the outposts; and at the sanguinary battle of

Castillejos five men only, and those five wounded, fell into the hands

of the victors. Their traditional tactics are to advance _en masse_

against the enemy, to extend themselves rapidly, rush in, fire, and

retreat precipitately to reload. In great battles they dispose

themselves in half-moon shape, artillery and infantry in the centre, and

cavalry at the wings, which seeks to envelop the enemy and catch him

between two fires. The supreme head gives a general order, but every

inferior chief returns to the assault or retreats when he thinks fit,

and the army easily escapes from the control of the head. Indefatigable

horsemen, dexterous marksmen, unflinching at a defence, easily thrown

into confusion in open ground, they glide like serpents, climb like

squirrels, run like goats, pass rapidly from a bold assault to a

precipitous flight, and give an exaltation of courage that seems like

furious madness, to a confusion and disorder without name. There are

still in Morocco men who went mad with terror at the battle of Isly; and

it is known that when Marshall Bugeaud began his cannonade, Sultan

Abd-er-Rhaman cried out, “My horse! my horse!” and leaping into the

saddle fled precipitately, leaving in the camp his musicians, his

necromancers, his hunting dogs, the sacred standard, the parasol, and

his tea, which the French soldiers found still boiling hot.

I meet so many negroes in the streets of Fez that I sometimes seem to

find myself in the city of the Sôudan, and feel vaguely between me and

Europe the immensity of the desert of Sahara. From the Sôudan, in fact,

the greater part of them come—a little less than three thousand in a

year, many of whom are said to die in a short time from homesickness.

They are generally brought at the age of eight or ten years. The

merchants, before exposing them for sale, fatten them with balls of

_cùscùssù_, try to cure them, with music, of their homesickness, and

teach them a few Arabic words; which last augments their price, which is

generally thirty francs for a boy, sixty for a girl, about four hundred

for a young woman of seventeen or eighteen who is handsome, and knows

how to speak, and has not yet had a child, and fifty or sixty for an old

man. The emperor takes five per cent. on the imported material, and has

a right to the first choice. The others are sold in the markets of Fez,

Mogador, and Morocco, and separately, at auction, in the other cities.

They all, without difficulty, embrace the Mohammedan religion,

preserving, however, many of their own strange superstitions, and the

queer festivals of their native country, consisting of grotesque balls,

which last three days and three nights consecutively, accompanied by

diabolical music. They serve generally in the houses, are treated with

kindness, are for the most part freed in reward for their service, and

the way is open for them to the highest offices of state. Here, as

elsewhere, it is said that they are now feverishly industrious, now

torpidly lazy, sensual as monkeys, astute as foxes, ferocious as tigers,

but content with their condition, and in general faithful and grateful

to their masters; which, it would seem, is not the case where slavery is

harder, as at Cuba, and where the liberty that they enjoy is excessive,

as in Europe. The Arab and Moorish women refuse to accept them, and it

is rare that a negro marries another than one of his own color; but the

men, especially the Moors, not only seek them eagerly as concubines, but

marry them as frequently as white women; from which cause comes the

great number of mulattoes of all shades who are seen in the streets of

Morocco. What strange chances! The poor negro of ten years old, sold in

the confines of the Sahara for a sack of sugar and a piece of cloth,

may—and the case can be cited—discuss thirty years afterward, as

Minister of Morocco, a treaty of commerce with the English Ambassador;

and still more possibly, the black girl baby, born in a filthy den, and

exchanged in the shade of an oasis for a skin of brandy, may come to be

covered with gems, and fragrant with perfumes, and clasped in the arms

of the Sultan.

For some days, walking about Fez, there presents itself to my mind with

obstinate persistence, the image of a great American city, to which

people from all parts of the world hasten; one of those cities which

represent almost the type of that to which all new cities are slowly

conforming themselves, and whose life is, perhaps, an example of that

which, in another century, will be the life of all; a city whose image

cannot present itself to any European side by side with that of Fez,

without exciting a smile of pity, so enormous is the difference which

separates them in the road of human progress; and yet, the more I fix my

thoughts upon that city, the more I feel conscious of a doubt that

saddens me. I see those broad, straight, endless streets, with their

long perspectives of gigantic telegraph poles. “It is the hour for

closing the workshops and warehouses. Torrents of workmen, workwomen,

and children pass on foot, in omni-buses, in tramway cars, almost all

following the same direction, toward a distant quarter of the town; and

all have the same anxious, melancholy aspect, and seem worn out with

fatigue. Dense clouds of coal smoke pour from the innumerable chimneys

of the factories, descend into the streets, throw their black shadows

over the splendid shop-windows, and the gilded lettering of the signs

that cover the houses up to the roofs, and the crowd that, with bent

heads and rapid step, swinging their arms, fly silently from the places

where all day long they have labored. From time to time the sun parts

the dismal veil which industry has spread over the capital of labor; but

these sudden and fugitive beams, instead of making it more cheerful,

only illuminate the sadness of the scene. All the faces have the same

expression. Everybody is in haste to reach home in order to 'economize’

his few hours of repose, after having drawn the largest possible

advantage from the long hours of work. Every one seems to suspect a

rival in his neighbor. Every one bears the stamp of isolation. The moral

atmosphere in which these people live is not charity, it is rivalry. A

great number of families live in the hotels, a life which condemns the

wife to solitude and idleness. All day long the husband attends to his

business out of the house, coming in only at the hour for dinner, which

he swallows with the avidity of a famished man. Then he returns to his

galley. Boys, at the age of five or six years, are sent to school, they

go and come alone, and pass the rest of their time as they please, in

the enjoyment of perfect liberty. The paternal authority is almost

_nil_. The sons receive no other education than that of the common

school, arrive quickly at maturity, and from infancy are prepared for

the fatigues and struggles of the over-excited, strained, and

adventurous life which is before them. The existence of the man is

merely one long and single _campaign_, an uninterrupted succession of

combats, marches, and countermarches. The sweetness, the intimacy of the

domestic hearth have but a small part in his feverish and militant life.

Is he happy? Judging by his sad, wearied, anxious countenance, often

delicate and unhealthy, it is to be doubted. The excess of continued

work breaks down his strength, forbids him the pleasures of the

intellect, and prevents him from communing with his own soul. And the

woman suffers even more. She sees her husband but once a day, for half

an hour at most, and in the evening, when he returns tired out, and goes

to bed; and she cannot lighten the burden which he carries, nor

participate in his labors, cares, and pains, because she does not know

them; for there is no time for an interchange of thought and feeling

between the couple.”

The city is Chicago, and the writer who describes it is the Baron de

Hubner, a great admirer of America. Now my doubt is this: I do not know

which of the two cities, Fez or Chicago, to compassionate most. I feel,

however, that if I were a Moor of Fez, and a Christian should take me

into one of these great civilized cities and ask me if I did not envy

him, I should laugh in his face.

This morning Selam told me, in his own fashion, the famous history of

the bandit Arusi; one of the many tales that go about from mouth to

mouth from the sea to the desert; founded, however, on a real and recent

fact, many witnesses to which are still living.

A short time after the war with France, Sultan Abd-er-Rhaman sent an

army to punish the inhabitants of the Rif, who had burned a French

vessel. Among the various sheiks who were ordered to denounce the

culprits was one named Sid-Mohammed Abd-el-Djebar, already advanced in

years, who, being jealous of a certain Arusi, a bold and handsome youth,

placed him, though innocent, in the hands of the general, who sent him

to be incarcerated at Fez. But he only remained about a year in prison.

After his release he went to Tangiers, remained there some time, and

then suddenly disappeared, and for a while no one knew what had become

of him. But shortly after his disappearance, there were rumors all over

the province of Garb of a band of robbers and assassins which infested

the country between Rabat and Laracce. Caravans were attacked, merchants

robbed, caids maltreated, the Sultan’s soldiers poniarded; no one dared

any more to cross that part of the country, and the few who had escaped

alive from the hands of the bandits came back to the town stupefied with

terror.

Things remained in this state for a good while, and no one had been able

to discover who was the chief of the band, when a merchant from the Rif,

attacked one night by moonlight, recognized among the robbers the young

Arusi, and brought the news to Tangiers, whence it spread rapidly about

the province. Arusi was the chief. Many others recognized him. He

appeared in the _duars_ and villages, by day as well as by night,

dressed as a soldier, as a caid, as a Jew, as a Christian, as a woman,

as a _ulema_, killing, robbing, vanishing, pursued from every quarter,

but never taken, always unexpected in his approach, always under a new

disguise, capricious, fierce, and indefatigable; and he never went very

far away from the neighborhood of the citadel El Mamora; a fact which no

one could understand. The reason was this: the caid of the citadel El

Mamora was no other than the old sheik, Sid-Mohammed Abd-el-Djebar, who

had placed Arusi in the hands of the Sultan’s general.

At that very time Sid-Mohammed had just given his daughter in marriage,

a girl of marvellous beauty, named Rahmana, to the son of the pashà of

Salè, who was called Sid-Ali, The nuptial feasts were celebrated with

great pomp, in the presence of all the rich young men of the province,

who came on horseback, armed, and dressed in their best, to the citadel

El Mamora; and Sid-Ali was to conduct his bride to Salè, to his father’s

house. The cortege issued from the citadel at night. It had to pass

through a narrow defile formed by two chains of wooded hills and downs.

First went an escort of thirty horsemen; behind these, Rahmana, on a

mule, between her husband and her brother; behind her, her father, the

caid, and a crowd of relations and friends.

They entered the defile. The night was serene, the bridegroom held

Rahmana by the hand, the old caid smoothed his beard; all was cheerful

and unsuspecting.

Suddenly there burst upon the stillness of the night a formidable voice,

which cried:—

“Arusi salutes thee, O Sheik Sid-Mohammed Abd-el-Djebar!”

At the same moment, from the top of the hill, thirty muskets flashed,

and thirty shots rang out. Horses, soldiers, friends and relations fell

wounded or dead, or took to flight; and before the caid and Sid-Ali, who

were untouched, could recover from their bewilderment, a man, a fury, a

demon, Arusi himself, had seized Rahmana, placed her before him on his

horse, and fled with the speed of the wind toward the forest of Mamora.

The caid and Sid-Ali, both resolute men, instead of giving way to a vain

despair, took a solemn oath never to shave their heads until they had

been fearfully avenged. They demanded and obtained soldiers from the

Sultan, and began to give chase to Arusi, who had taken refuge with his

band in the great forest of Mamora, It was a most fatiguing warfare,

carried on by _coups de main_, ambuscades, nocturnal assaults, feints,

and ferocious combats, and went on for more than a year, driving, little

by little, the band of marauders into the centre of the forest. The

circle grew closer and closer. Many of Arusi’s men were already dead

with hunger, many had fled, many had been killed fighting. The caid and

Sid-Ali, as their vengeance seemed to draw near, became more ferocious

in its pursuit; they rested neither night nor day, they breathed only

for revenge. But of Arusi and Rahmana they could learn nothing. Some

said they were dead, some that they had fled, some that the bandit had

first killed the woman and then himself. The caid and Sid-Ali began to

despair, because the further they advanced into the forest, and the

thicker the trees, higher and more intricate became the bushes, the

vines, the brambles, and the junipers; so that the horses and dogs could

no longer force a passage through them. At last one day, when the two

were walking in the forest almost discouraged, an Arab came toward them

and said that he had seen Arusi hidden in the reeds, on the river-bank

at the extremity of the wood. The caid hastily called his men together,

and dividing them into two companies, sent one to the right and the

other to the left, toward the river. After some time, the caid was the

first to see, rising from the midst of the reeds, a phantom, a man of

tall stature and terrible aspect—Arusi. Everybody rushed toward that

point, they searched in vain, Arusi was not there. “He has crossed the

river!” shouted the caid. They threw themselves into the stream, and

gained the opposite bank. There they found some footprints, and followed

them, but after a little, they failed. Suddenly the horsemen broke into

a gallop along the river brink. At the same moment the attention of the

caid was drawn to three of his dogs, who had stopped, searching, near a

clump of reeds. Sid-Ali was the first to run to the spot, and he found

near the reeds a large ditch, at the bottom of which were some holes.

Jumping into the ditch, he introduced his musket into one of the holes,

felt it pushed back, and fired; then calling the caid and the soldiers,

they searched here and there, and found a small round aperture in the

steep bank just above the water. Arusi must have entered by that

opening. “Dig!” shouted the caid. The soldiers ran for picks and shovels

to a neighboring village, and digging, presently came upon a sort of

arch in the earth, and under it a cave.

At the bottom of the cave was Arusi, erect, motionless, pale as death.

They seized him; he made no resistance. They dragged him out; he had

lost his left eye. He was bound, carried to a tent, laid on the ground,

and as a first taste of vengeance, Sid-Ali cut off one by one all the

toes of his feet, and threw them in his face. This done, six soldiers

were set to guard him, and Sid-Ali and the caid withdrew to another

tent, there to arrange what tortures they should inflict before cutting

off his head. The discussion was prolonged; for each one tried to

propose some more painful torture, and nothing seemed horrible enough;

the evening came, and nothing was decided. The decision was put off

until the next morning, and they separated.

An hour afterward the caid and Ali were asleep, each in his tent; the

night was very dark, there was not a breath of wind, not a leaf moving;

nothing was heard but the murmur of the river, and the breathing of the

sleeping men. Suddenly a formidable voice broke the silence of the

night:—

“Arusi salutes thee, O Sheik Sid-Mohammed Abd-el-Djebar!”

The old caid sprang to his feet and heard the rapid beat of a horse’s

feet departing. He called his soldiers, who came in haste, and shouted,

“My horse! my horse!” They sought his horse, the most superb animal in

the whole of Garb; it was gone. They ran to the tent of Sid-Ali: he was

stretched to the ground, dead, with a poniard stuck in his left eye. The

caid burst into tears; the soldiers went off on the track of the

fugitive. They saw him for an instant, like a shadow; then lost him;

again saw him; but he sped like the lightning, and vanished not to be

seen again. Nevertheless they continued to follow, all the night, until

they reached a thick wood where they halted to await the dawn. When

daylight appeared they saw far off the caid’s horse approaching, tired

out and all bloody, filling the air with lamentable neighings. Thinking

that Arusi must be in the wood, they loosed the dogs and advanced sword

in hand. In a few minutes they discovered a dilapidated house

half-hidden among the trees. The dogs stopped there. The soldiers came

to the door, and levelling their muskets let them fall with a cry of

amazement. Within the four ruined walls lay the corpse of Arusi, and

beside it, a lovely woman, splendidly dressed, with her hair loose on

her shoulders, was binding up his bleeding feet, sobbing, laughing, and

murmuring words of despair and love. It was Rahmana. They took her to

her father’s house, where she remained three days without speaking one

word, and then disappeared. She was found some time afterward in the

ruined house in the wood, scratching up the earth with her hands, and

calling on Arusi. And there she stayed. “God,” said the Arabs, “had

called her reason back to Himself, and she was a saint.” Whether she is

still living or not, no one knows. She was certainly living twenty years

ago, and was seen in her hermitage by M. Narcisse Cotte, attached to the

Consulate of France at Tangiers, who told her story.

There is not now a corner of Fez that is unknown to us; and yet it seems

as if we had only arrived yesterday, so varied is the aspect of the

place, so much does every object revive in us the sense of our solitude,

so little do we become habituated to the curiosity that we create. And

this curiosity is in no wise lessened, although by this time we have

been seen over and over again by every native of Fez. Timidity, on the

other hand, is lessened, and antipathy, perhaps, a little; the children

come nearer and touch our garments, to feel what they are made of; the

women look at us with forbidding glances, but they no longer turn back

when they see us coming; curses are more rare, the soldiers do not use

their sticks so much, and the blows that Ussi received were, it is to be

hoped, the first and last blows with a fist that I shall have to report

in Italy. And although, in our walks through the city, we are followed

and preceded by a crowd, I think we could now go out alone without

danger of death. Already the people, according to the soldier’s

testimony, have given each of us a name, according to Moorish custom:

the doctor is “the man with the spectacles”; the vice-consul is “the man

with the flat nose”; the captain is “the man with the black boots”; Ussi

is “the man with the white handkerchief”; the commandant, “the man with

the short legs”; Biseo, “the man with the red hair”; Morteo, “the velvet

man,” because he is dressed in velvet; and myself, “the man with the

broken shoe,” because a pain in my foot obliged me to make a cut in my

boot. They comment much upon our doings, it appears, and say that we are

all ugly, not one accepted, not even the cook, who received this

intelligence with a laugh of scorn, and clapped his hand on a pocket in

his vest, where he had a letter from his sweetheart. And it seems to me

that they find us, or pretend to find us ridiculous, because, in the

streets, they laugh with a certain ostentation every time that one of us

slips, or hits his head against a branch of a tree, or loses his hat.

Nevertheless, and despite the variety of the landscape, this population

all of one color, and without apparent distinction of rank, this silence

broken only by an eternal rustle of slippers and mantles, these veiled

women, these blind, mute houses, this mysterious life,—all end by

producing a dreadful tedium. We must be within doors at sunset, and may

not go out again. With the daylight ceases all trade, every movement,

every sign of life; Fez is no more than a vast necropolis, where if

perchance a human voice is heard, it is the howl of a madman, or the

shriek of one who is being murdered; and he who insists upon going about

at any cost, must be accompanied by a patrol with loaded muskets, and a

company of carpenters who at every three hundred paces must knock down a

gate that stops the way. In the daytime the city supplies no news beyond

some woman found in the street with a dagger in her heart, or the

departure of a caravan, or the arrival of a governor or vice-governor of

some province who has been thrown into prison, the bastinado

administered to some dignitary, a festival in honor of some saint, or

other things of the same character brought to us in general by Mohammed

Ducali or Schellal, who are our two perambulating journals. And these

events, with what I daily see, and the singular life I lead, give me at

night such strangely intricate dreams of severed heads, and deserts, of

harems, prisons, Fez, Timbuctoo, and Turin, that when I wake in the

morning, it takes me some minutes to find out what world I am in.

How many beautiful, grotesque, horrible, absurd, and strange figures

will live in my memory for ever! My head is full of them, and when I am

alone I make them pass before me one by one, like the figures in a magic

lantern, with inexpressible pleasure. There is Sid-Buker, the mysterious

being who comes three times every day, wrapped in a great mantle, with

head down, half-closed eyes, pale as death, stealthy as a spectre, to

confer secretly with the Ambassador, and vanishes like a figure in a

phantasmagoria, without any one observing him. There is the favorite

Sid-Moussa, a handsome young mulatto, graceful as a girl, elegant as a

prince, fresh and smiling, who goes leaping up and down the stairs, and

salutes you with a sort of coquetry, bowing profoundly and extending his

hand as if he were throwing kisses. There is a soldier of the guard, a

Berber, born in the Atlas Mountains, a countenance that one cannot see

without a shudder, and who fixes upon me a cold, perfidious, immovable

glance, as if he meant to kill me; and the more I try to avoid him the

more I meet him, and he seems to divine the dread with which he inspires

me, and to take a satanic pleasure in it. There is a decrepit old woman,

whom I saw in the door of a mosque, naked as she was born, except for a

formless rag about her hips, with her head as bald as the palm of my

hand, and a body so deformed that I made an exclamation of horror, and

was disturbed for some time by the sight of her. There is the

mischievous Moorish woman, who, entering her house as we were passing

by, threw off in furious haste the _caic_ that covered her, and giving

us a glimpse of her handsome, straight, and well-made figure, and a

sparkling glance, shut the door. There is the very old shopkeeper, with

a face at once ridiculous and frightful, so bent over that when he

stands in the back of his dark niche he seems almost to touch his toes

with his chin; he keeps only one eye open, and that is hardly visible;

and every time I pass his shop, and look in at him, that eye opens large

and round, and shines with a sort of mocking smile that gives me a kind

of anxious feeling. There is the beautiful little Moorish girl of ten

years old, with her hair loose about her shoulders, dressed in a chemise

bound round the waist with a green scarf, who, in attempting to jump

from one terrace to another lower one, got caught by her chemise upon

the corner of a brick, and was held dangling; and she, knowing that she

was seen from the palace of the Embassy, and unable to get up or down,

raised the most despairing shrieks, and all the women in the house came,

shaking with laughter, to her assistance. There is the gigantic mulatto,

a madman, who, pursued by the fixed idea that the Sultan’s soldiers are

seeking him to cut his hand off, flies through the streets like some

wild thing held in chase, convulsively shaking his right arm as if it

were already mutilated, and giving the most frightful yells, which can

be heard from one end of the city to the other. There are many, many

more; but the one who rises oftenest before my memory is a negro, of

about fifty years of age, a servant of the palace, a little more than a

yard high, and a little less than a yard wide, a contented spirit, who

is always smiling and twisting his mouth toward his right ear; the most

grotesque, the most absurdly ridiculous figure that ever appeared under

the vault of heaven; and it is of no use for me to bite my fingers, and

tell myself that it is ignoble to laugh at human deformity, and shame

myself in many ways, the laugh breaks out in spite of me—there must be

in it some mysterious intention of Providence—it must break out. And—I

really cannot help it—the idea presents itself, what a capital pipe-bowl

he would make!

[Illustration: Slave Of The Sultan.]

As the day of departure draws near, the merchants come in crowds to the

palace, and buying goes on with fury. The rooms, the court, and the

gallery have taken the aspect of a bazaar. Everywhere long rows of

vases, embroidered slippers, cushions, carpets, caics. Every thing in

Fez that is most gilded, most arabesqued, most dear in price, is passed

before our eyes. And it is worth while to see how they sell, these

people, without a word, without a flitting smile, only making the sign

of yes or no with the head, and going away, having sold or not having

sold, with the same automaton faces that they brought. Above all, the

painters’ room is fine, converted into a great _bric-à-brac_ shop, full

of saddles, stirrups, guns, caftans, ragged scarfs, pottery, barbaric

ornaments, old girdles of women, come from heaven knows where, that have

perhaps felt the pressure of the Sultan’s arms, and next year will

appear in some grand picture at Naples or New York. One kind of thing

only is wanting, namely, antique objects, records of the various peoples

who have conquered and colonized Morocco; and although it is known that

such are often found underground and among the ruins, it is not possible

to get them, because every object so found has to be carried to the

authorities, and whoever finds one hides it; and the authorities,

ignorant of their value, destroy or sell as useless material the little

that finds its way to them. In this way, a few years ago, a bronze horse

and some small bronze statues, which were found in a well near the

remains of an aqueduct, were broken up and sold for old copper to a Jew

dealer in second-hand goods.

To-day I had a warm discussion with a merchant of Fez, with the

intention of finding out what opinion the Moors held of European

civilization; and for that reason I did not trouble myself to refute his

arguments, except when it was necessary to give him line. He is a

handsome man of forty, of an honest and severe countenance, who has

visited, in his commerce, the principal cities of Western Europe, and

who lived a good while at Tangiers, where he learned some Spanish. I had

exchanged a few words with him some days ago, _à propos_ of a small

piece of stuff woven of silk and gold, which he pretended to be worth

ten _marenghi_. But to-day, attacking him upon the subject of his

travels, a conversation ensued which his companions listened to with

astonishment, although they could not understand it. I asked him then

what impression the great cities of Europe had made upon him; not

expecting, however, to hear any great expression of admiration, because

I knew, as everybody knows, that of the four or five hundred merchants

of Morocco who go every year to Europe the greater part return to their

own country more stupidly fanatical than at first, when they do not

return more rascally and vicious; and that if they were all amazed at

the splendor of our cities, and at the marvels of our industries, not

one of them would be touched in the soul, moved in the mind, spurred on

to imitate, to attempt; not one persuaded of the complex inferiority of

his own country; and certainly not one, even if he experienced such

sentiments, who would be ready to express them, and still less to

diffuse them, through the fear of calling down upon himself the

accusation of being a renegade Mussulman and an enemy to his country.

“What have you to say,” I asked, “of our great cities?”

He looked fixedly at me, and answered coldly: “Large streets, fine

shops, handsome palaces, fine offices—and all clean.”

With this he appeared to think that he had said all that could be said

in our honor.

“Did you see nothing else that was handsome and good?” I asked.

He looked at me as if to inquire what I supposed he was likely to have

found.

“Is it possible” (I insisted) “that a reasonable man like yourself, who

has seen countries so wonderfully different and superior to his own,

does not speak of them at least with astonishment, at least with the

vivacity with which a boy from a _duar_ would speak of a pashà’s palace?

What does astonish you then in the world? What kind of people are you?

Who can comprehend you?”

“_Perdóne Usted_,” he answered, coldly; “in my turn I do not understand

you. When I have told you every thing in which I think you superior to

us, what do you wish more? Do you wish me to say what I do not think? I

tell you that your streets are wider than ours, your shops finer, your

palaces richer; it seems to me that I have said all. I will say one

thing more: that you know more than we do, because you have books and

read.”

I made a gesture of impatience.

“Do not be impatient, _caballero_,” he went on quietly; “you will

acknowledge that the first duty of a man, the first thing which renders

him estimable, and that in which it is of the utmost importance that a

country should be superior to other countries, is honesty; will you not?

Very well, in the matter of honesty I do not at all believe that you are

superior to us. And that is one thing.”

“Gently. Explain first what you mean by honesty.”

“Honesty in trade, _caballero_. The Moors, for example, in trade

sometimes deceive the Europeans, but you Europeans deceive us Moors much

more often.”

“The cases are rare,” I answered, for the sake of saying something.

“Cases rare!” he exclaimed, warmly. “Cases of every-day occurrence” (and

here I would like to report exactly his broken, concise, and childish

language). “Proof! Proof! I at Marseilles. I am at Marseilles. I buy

cotton. I choose the thread, thick like this. I say: this number, this

stamp, this quantity, send. I pay, I depart, arrive at Morocco, receive

cotton, open, look, same number, same stamp—thread three times smaller!

good for nothing! loss, thousands of francs! I run to Consulate—nothing.

_Otro_, another. Merchant of Fez orders blue cloth in Europe, so many

pieces, so wide, so long, agreed, paid. Receives cloth, opens, measures:

first pieces right; under, shorter; last, half a yard shorter! not good

for cloaks, merchant ruined. _Otro, otro._ Merchant of Morocco orders in

Europe, thousand yards gold galloon for officers, and sends money.

Galloon comes, cut, sewed, worn—copper! _Y otros, y otros, y otros!_”

With this he lifted his face to the sky, and then turning abruptly to

me: “More honest you?”

I repeated that these could only be exceptional cases. He made no reply.

“More religious you?” he asked then, shortly. “No!” and after a moment:

“No! Enough to go once into one of your mosques.”

“You say,” he went on, encouraged by my silence, “in your country there

are fewer _matamientos_ (murders)?” Here I should have been embarrassed

to answer. What would he have said if I had confessed that in Italy

alone there are committed three thousand homicides a year, and that

there are ninety thousand prisoners on trial and condemned?

“I do not believe it,” he said, reading my answer in my eyes. Not

feeling myself secure upon this ground, I attacked him with the usual

arguments against polygamy.

He jumped as if I had burnt him.

“Always that!” he cried, turning red to his very ears. “Always that! as

if you had one woman only! and you want to make us believe it! One wife

is really yours, but there are those of _los otros_, and those who are

_de todos y de nadie_, of everybody and nobody. Paris! London! Cafés

full, streets full, theatres full. _Verguenza!_ and you reproach the

Moors!”

So saying, he pulled the beads of his rosary through his trembling

fingers, and turned from time to time with a faint smile to make me

understand that his anger was not against me, but against Europe.

Seeing that he took this question rather too much to heart, I changed

the subject, and asked him if he did not recognize greater convenience

in our manner of living. Here he was very comic. He had his arguments

all ready.

“It is true,” he answered, with an ironical accent; “it is true. Sun?

Parasol. Rain? Umbrella. Dust? Gloves. To walk? A stick. To look? An

eye-glass. To take the air? A carriage. To sit down? Elastic cushions.

To eat? Music. A scratch? The doctor. Death? A statue: _Eh!_ how many

things you have need of! What men, _por Dios_! What children!”

In short, he would not leave me any thing. He even laughed at our

architecture.

“_Che! che!_” said he, when I talked of the comfort of our houses.

“There are three hundred of you living in one house, all a-top of one

another, and then you go up, and up, and up—and there is no air, and no

light, and no garden!”

Then I spoke of laws, of government, of liberty, and the like; and as he

was a man of intelligence, I think I succeeded, if not in making him

understand all the differences in these respects between his country and

ours, at least, in introducing some gleams of light into his mind.

Seeing that he could not meet me on this ground, he suddenly changed the

subject, and looking at me from head to foot, said, smiling, “_Mal

vestidos_” (badly dressed).

I replied that dress was of small importance, and asked him if he did

not recognize our superiority in this, that instead of sitting for hours

idly, with our legs crossed on a mattress, we employed our time in many

useful and amusing ways.

He gave me a more subtle answer than I had expected. He said that it did

not appear to him a good sign to have need of so many ways of passing

the time. Life alone, then, was for us a punishment that we could not

rest an hour doing nothing, without amusement, without wearing ourselves

out in the search for entertainment? Were we afraid of ourselves? Had we

something in us which tormented us?

“But see,” I said, “what a dull spectacle your city presents, what

solitude, what silence, what misery. You have been in Paris. Compare the

streets of Paris with the streets of Fez.”

Here he was sublime. He sprang to his feet laughing, and, more in

gesture than in words, gave a jesting description of the spectacle which

is presented by our city streets: “Come, go, run; carts here,

wheelbarrows there; a deafening noise; drunken men staggering along;

gentlemen buttoning up their coats to save their purses; at every step a

guard, who looks as if at every step he saw a thief; old people and

children who are in constant danger of being crushed by the carriages of

the rich; impudent women, and even girls, horror! who give provoking

glances, and even nudge the young men with their elbows; everybody with

a cigar in his mouth; on every side people going into shops, to eat, to

drink, to have their hair dressed, to look in mirrors, to put on gloves;

and dandies planted before the doors of the cafés to whisper in the ears

of other people’s wives who are passing; and that ridiculous manner of

saluting, and walking on the toes, and swinging and jumping about; and

then, good heavens, what womanish curiosity!” And touching this point he

grew warm, and told how one day, in an Italian city, having gone out in

his Moorish dress, in a moment there had gathered a crowd, who ran

before and behind him, shouting and laughing, and would scarcely let him

walk, so that he had to go back to his hotel and change his dress. “And

that is the way they act in your country!” he went on. “That they do so

here is not surprising, for they never see a Christian; but in your

country, where they know how we are dressed, because they have pictures

of us, and send their painters here with machines to take our portraits;

among you who know so much, do you think that such things ought to

happen?”

After which he smiled courteously, as if to say, “All this is no reason

why we should not be friends.”

Then the conversation turned upon European manufactures, railways,

telegraphs, and great works of public utility; and of these he allowed

me to talk without interruption, assenting from time to time with a nod.

When I had finished, however, he sighed and said, “After all, what are

all these things worth if we must all die?”

“Finally,” I concluded, “you would not change your condition for ours?”

He stood a moment thoughtful, and replied: “No, because you are no

longer-lived than we are, nor are you more healthy, nor better, nor more

religious, nor more contented. Leave us, then, in peace. Do not insist

that everybody should live as you do, and be happy according to your

ideas. Let us all stay in the circle where Allah has placed us. For some

good purpose Allah stretched the sea between Europe and Africa. Let us

respect His decree.”

“And do you believe,” I demanded, “that you will always remain as you

are; that little by little we shall not make you change?”

“I do not know,” he answered. “You have the strength, you will do what

you please. All that is to happen is already written. But whatever

happens Allah will not abandon His faithful people.”

With this he took my hand, pressed it to his heart, and went

majestically away.

This morning at sunrise I went to see the review which the Sultan holds

three times a week in the square where he received the Embassy.

As I went out at the gate of the Nicchia del Burro, I had a first taste

of the manœuvres of the artillery. A troop of soldiers, old,

middle-aged, and boys, all dressed in red, were running behind a small

cannon drawn by one mule. It was one of the twelve guns presented by the

Spanish government to Sultan Sid-Mohammed after the war of 1860. Every

now and then the mule slipped, or turned aside, or stopped, and the

whole band began to yell and to strike at her, dancing and giggling, as

if it was a carnival car they were conducting. In a distance of about a

hundred paces they stopped ten times. Now the little bucket fell off,

now the rammer, now something else; for every thing was hung on the

carriage. The mule zig-zagged along at her own caprice, or rather

wherever the cannon pushed her in coming down over the inequalities of

the ground; everybody gave orders which no one obeyed; the big ones

cuffed the small ones, the small ones cuffed the smaller ones, and they

all cuffed each other; and the cannon remained pretty much in the same

place. It was a scene to have thrown General La Marmora into a tertian

fever.

On the left bank of the river there were about two thousand

foot-soldiers, some lying on the ground, some standing about in groups.

In the square enclosed between the walls and the river, the artillery;

four guns were firing at a mark; behind the guns stood some soldiers,

and a tall figure in white—the Sultan. From the place where I stood,

however, I could scarcely distinguish his outline. He seemed from time

to time to speak to the artillerymen, as if he were directing them. On

the opposite side of the square, near the bridge, there was a crowd of

Moors, Arabs, and blacks, men and women, people from the city and

country-people, gentlemen and peasants, all assembled together, and

waiting, I was told, to be called one by one before the Sultan, from

whom they wished favor or justice; for the Sultan gives audience three

times a week to whosoever wishes to speak with him. Some of these poor

people had, perhaps, come from distant places to complain of the

exactions of the governor, or to beg for pardon for their relatives in

prison. There were ragged women and tottering old men; all the faces

were weary and sad, and upon them could be read both impatient desire

and dread to appear before the prince of true believers, the supreme

judge, who in a few minutes, with few words, would perhaps decide the

fate of their whole lives. I could not see that they had any thing at

their feet or in their hands, and for this reason I believe that the

reigning Sultan has discontinued the custom, which formerly existed, of

accompanying every petition with a present, which was never refused,

however small, and consisted sometimes of a pair of fowls or a dozen of

eggs. I walked about among the soldiers. The boys were divided into

companies of thirty or forty each, and were amusing themselves by

running after one another and playing a sort of leap-frog. In some of

these groups, however, the diversion consisted in a sort of pantomime,

which, when I understood its meaning, made me shudder. They were

representing the amputation of the hands, decapitation, and other kinds

of punishment, which they had doubtless often witnessed. One boy

represented the caid, another the victim, and a third the executioner;

the victim, when his hand was cut off, made believe to plunge the stump

into a vessel of pitch; another pretended to pick up the hand and throw

it to the dogs; and the spectators all laughed.

The gallows-bird faces of the greater part of these youthful soldiers

are not to be described. They were of all shades of color, from ebony

black to orange yellow; and not one of them, even among the youngest,

had preserved the ingenuous expression of childhood. All had something

hard, impudent, cynical, in their eyes, that inspired pity rather than

anger. No great perspicacity is necessary to understand that they could

not be otherwise. Of the men, the greater part of them were dozing,

stretched out on the ground; others were dancing negro dances in the

midst of a circle of spectators, and making all sorts of jokes and

grimaces; others, again, fencing with sabres, in the same way as at

Tangiers, springing about with the action of rope-dancers. The officers,

among them many renegades, who were to be recognized by their faces,

their pipes, and a certain something of superior care in their dress,

walked about apart, and when I met them, turned their eyes away. Beyond

the bridge, in a place apart, about twenty men, muffled in white

mantles, were lying on the ground, one beside the other, motionless as

statues. I drew near, and saw that they all wore heavy chains on wrist

and ankle. They were persons condemned for common offences, who were

dragged about by the army, and thus pilloried in the sight of all. As I

approached they all turned, and fixed upon me a look that made me

retreat at once.

I left the soldiers, and went to rest myself under the shade of a

palm-tree, on a rising ground, whence I could command the whole plain. I

had been there but a few minutes, when I saw an officer detach himself

from a group, and come slowly toward me, looking carelessly about him,

and humming a tune, as if to avoid notice. He was a short, stout man of

about forty, wearing a sort of Zouave dress, with a fez, and without

arms.

When I saw him near, I had a sensation of disgust. Never have I seen

outside of the assize court a more perfidious countenance. I would have

sworn to his having at least ten murders on his conscience, accompanied

by assaults on the person.

He stopped at a couple of paces from me, fixed two glassy eyes upon me,

and said, coldly, “_Bon jour, monsieur_.”

I asked him if he were a Frenchman. “Yes,” he replied. “I am from

Algiers. I have been here seven years. I am a captain in the army of

Morocco.”

Not being able to compliment him on his position, I kept silence.

“_C´est comme ça_,” he continued, speaking quickly. “I came away from

Algiers because I could not bear the sight of it any more. _J´étais

obligé de vivre dans un cercle trop étroit_” (he meant, perhaps, the

halter). “European life did not suit my tastes. I felt the need of

change.”

“And are you more contented now?” I inquired.

“Most content,” he answered, with affectation. “The country is lovely,

Muley-el-Hassan is the best of sultans, the people are kind, I am a

captain, I have a little shop, I exercise a small trade, I hunt, I fish,

I make excursions into the mountains, I enjoy complete liberty. I would

not go back to Europe, you see, for all the gold in the world.”

“Do you not wish to see your own country again? Have you forgotten even

France?”

“What is France to me!” he replied. “For me France has no existence.

Morocco is my country.” And he shrugged his shoulders.

His cynicism revolted me; I could scarcely believe it; I had the

curiosity to probe him a little more deeply.

“Since you left Algeria,” I asked, “have you had no news of events in

Europe?”

“_Pas un mot_,” he answered. “Here nobody knows any thing, and I am very

glad not to know any thing.”

“You do not know, then, that there has been a great war between France

and Prussia?”

He started. “_Qui a vaincu?_” he asked, quickly, fixing his eyes upon

me.

“Prussia,” I replied.

He made a gesture of surprise. I told him in a few words of the

disasters that had befallen France,—the invasion, the taking of Paris,

the loss of the two provinces. He listened with his head bent down and

his eyebrows knit; then he roused himself and said, with a kind of

effort, “_C´est égal_—I have no country, it is no affair of mine,” and

he bent his head again. I observed him steadily, and he saw it. “Adieu,

Monsieur,” he said, abruptly, in an altered voice, and walked quickly

away.

“All is not dead within him yet!” I thought, and was glad.

Meantime the artillery had ceased its fire, the Sultan had retired under

a white pavilion at the foot of a tower, and the soldiers began to

defile before him, unarmed, and one by one, at about twenty paces one

from the other. As there was not beside the Sultan, or in front of the

pavilion any officer to read the names, as with us, in order to certify

the existence of every soldier on the rolls (and I am told there are no

rolls in the army of Morocco), I could not understand the purpose of the

review, unless it was for the Sultan’s amusement; and I was tempted to

laugh. But, upon second thoughts, the primitive and poetic idea in the

sight of that African monarch, high-priest, an absolute prince, young,

gentle, and in all simplicity standing three hours alone in the shadow

of his tent, and three times in every week seeing his soldiers passing

before him one by one, and listening to the prayers and lamentations of

his unhappy subjects inspired me instead with a feeling of respect. And

since it was the last time that I should see him, I felt a sudden rush

of sympathy toward him as I turned away. “Farewell,” I thought,

“handsome and noble prince!” and as his gracious white figure

disappeared for ever from my eyes, I felt a sensation in my breast as

if, in that moment, it had been stamped upon my heart.

The ninth of June: the last day of the sojourn of the Italian Embassy at

Fez. All the Ambassador’s demands have been conceded, the affairs of

Ducali and Schellal arranged, visits of leave-taking made, the last

dinner of Sid-Moussa submitted to, the usual presents from the Sultan

received: a fine black horse, with an enormous green velvet saddle

embroidered with gold for the Ambassador; gilded and damascened sabres

to the officials of the Embassy; a mule to the second dragoman. The

tents and boxes were sent forward this morning, the rooms are empty, the

mules are ready, the escort awaits us at the gate of Nicchia del Burro,

my companions are walking up and down the court, expecting the signal

for departure, and I, seated for the last time upon the edge of my

imperial bed, note down in a book upon my knee my last impressions of

Fez. What are they? What is left at last at the bottom of my soul by the

spectacle of this people, this city, this state of things? If my thought

penetrates at all under the pleasing impressions of wonder and gratified

curiosity, I find a mingling of diverse sentiments, which leave my mind

uncertain. There is a feeling of pity for the decay, the debasement, the

agony of a warlike and knightly race, who left so luminous a track in

the history of science and art, and now have not even the consciousness

of their past glory. There is admiration for what remains in them of the

strong and beautiful, for the virile and gracious majesty of their

aspect, dress, demeanor, and ceremonies; for every thing that their sad

and silent life retains of its antique dignity and simplicity. There is

displeasure at the sight of so much barbarism at so short a distance

from civilization, and that this civilization should have so

disproportionate a force in rising and expanding, that in so many

centuries, and always growing on its own ground, it has been unable to

cross two hundred miles of sea. There is anger at the thought that, to

the great interest of the barbarism of this part of Africa, the

civilized states prefer their own small local and mercantile interests;

and diminishing thus in the minds of this people, by the spectacle of

their mean jealousies, their own authority and that of the civilization

which they desire to spread, render the undertaking always more

difficult and slow. Finally, there is a sentiment of vivid pleasure,

when I think that in this country another little world has been formed

in my brain, populous, animated, full of new personages who will live

forever there, whom I can evoke at will, and can converse with them, and

live again in Africa. But with this glad feeling comes another which is

sad, the inevitable sentiment that throws a shadow over all our serene

hours and drops a drop of bitterness into all our pleasures—that which

the Moorish merchant expressed when he demonstrated the vanity of the

great efforts of civilized people to study, to seek, to discover; and

then this beautiful journey seems to me only the rapid passage of a fine

scene in the spectacle of an hour, which is life; and my pencil drops

from my hand, and a dark discouragement takes possession of me. Ah! the

voice of Selam calls me! We must go, then. To return to the tent, to the

warlike manœuvres, the wide plains, the great light, the joyous and

wholesome life of the encampment. Farewell, Fez! Farewell, sadness! My

little African world is again illuminated with rose color.