This was duly attended to. The long fast of Ramadhan might partly account for his state of health. In spite of his faith in Miss Banks, which he would sooner have died than acknowledged, he had unbounded confidence in his own skill as a doctor.

We asked him if he could read.

"Read? No. Why should he read? What was the use of reading? The thing you wanted to do was to _remember_. Now he, if he was doctoring any one, he would try first this herb and then that. This herb no good. Try another.

Another no good. Another no good. He might try twelve herbs, and all no good. And the thirteenth herb would be good. And then he would _remember_ that herb. Why! all his doctoring he taught himself . . ."

A rough sort of doctoring it is too, consisting of two remedies--a violent purge, or else burning with a hot iron. Every sore place is burnt; and for all sorts of illnesses, in cases of rheumatism, etc., etc., the patient is scored, perhaps all over his chest or back--"fired"

like a horse. Sores are always cauterized. Bullets are never extracted.

Wounds are bound up with earth and rags. A serious gunshot wound, means death. Certainly there is a wide field for women doctors in Morocco.

From this house we went on to one where the father, mother, and children were all having a meal--a poverty-stricken family again, where one of the children was wasting away with fever. The rest of the party were sitting round an earthenware pan, which was full of mallow leaves, stewed in native oil, with red pepper and garlic in huge quant.i.ties. They were dipping in their fingers, fishing out the greasy mallow and garlic, and laying it on their brown native bread and eating it. They insisted upon our joining them. It is no excuse to say "I have dined lately," for a Moor eats at any time, when there happens to be food. Miss Banks tasted the stew with a heroism worthy the n.o.blest end.

We went on to the house of a man who has one of the best shops in Tetuan.

It was consequently comfortable, and delightfully fresh-looking. The master of the house was in bed with fever--that is to say, we found him reclining on a divan on the floor, beside a gorgeous bed, with a lily-white turban fresh from the wash-tub wound round his head. We sat down on the divan running round the room, and Miss Banks was glad to hear that her patient had at last consented to take quinine. He was worn-looking, with small black beard and moustache. Moors, like every effete people, are unable to grow a great quant.i.ty of hair on their faces.

After visiting her cases Miss Banks suggested something of a change, and we turned into the best part of Tetuan, to pay a call upon one of the first families in Morocco, the head of which is now dead. B---- was probably the most wealthy and enlightened Moor in the city: he was once employed by Government, and he made his little pile; but he had never married--or, rather, his only marriage had ended in a speedy divorce; and most of his life he had been able to afford to keep a galaxy of slaves, whom he had freed in time, and whose offspring represent the family to-day.

The name of the chief of his slaves, and the mistress of the dead man's house at the present moment, is Fatima. Fatima has a history. B---- possessed twenty white slaves: they were chiefly stolen from villages in the south, and they pa.s.sed into his hands; but his treasures were two beautiful Circa.s.sian women from Turkey, one of whom he sent to the late Sultan (who is the mother of the present Sultan), the other he kept for himself--Fatima. Fatima early showed a disposition far from humble, and B---- spoilt her. At last he made her head of his house and all his slaves. One day she caused two of these women to be beaten in such a manner that one of them died. The other vowed revenge; went to B----, and told him that she had seen Fatima looking through a window at a man in the garden below. Considering that a woman of superior cla.s.s must not look out of her window, though the prospect be an arid yard, the statement was calculated to rouse B----. Brought up on such proverbs as "When the bee hums and the b.u.t.termilk ferments, place, O brother, a halter on thy little daughter," and to consider women "the nearest roads to h.e.l.l," B----took prompt and drastic measures. He chained Fatima up to a pillar for three months, and fed her on bread and water. Her eldest daughter was to be married. Fatima was released and told she might attend the wedding, but only as the equal of the lowest slave, and dressed as such. She said that she had been accustomed to mixing with the first-born of Tetuan as an equal, and she would go among them as nothing else. To break Fatima's pride, B---- married a wife; but the wiles of his old favourite were too strong for him, and he gave her presents, including a gold bracelet. The indignant wife, furious at her husband's attentions to a mere slave, got a divorce and left B----; whereupon he fell into the arms of Fatima, and she graciously consented to become once more head of his house. She is now the proudest woman in Tetuan, inclined to look upon the missionaries and European women in general as dust under her feet.

Her ignorance is unbounded. "India!" she said to Miss Hubbard. "You say all India belongs to you English. You may well wish it did. You've only got one port."

Meanwhile, we had reached the door of this famous lady's house, and were clanging the great knocker. It was superior to any door we had "wakened"

that afternoon--made of pale, cinnamon-coloured wood, and immensely wide, carved up above and brightened with great fork-like hinges and nail-heads as large as pennies. A vastly stout slave, smart in proportion, opened the door, and said something in Arabic to Miss Banks, which, translated, intimated that a large tea party was going on within. She led us along far-reaching, wide pa.s.sages, which at length opened out into an extensive patio, paved with great black and white marble tiles, like a giant chess-board. A double row of finely tiled pillars supported the roof, and a fountain shot up water in the centre of all. The style of the building suggested that the dead man had known how to spend some of his money, and to make for himself a place refined and romantic rather than gorgeous.

Stepping down the cool aisles between the pillars, the slave took us towards a room opening out of the patio; and such a room!--hung with embroideries, surrounded with luxurious divans worked in scarlet and white, carpeted with deep-piled carpets, and yet no more than a mere setting for the fantastic b.u.t.terfly world which seemed let loose inside.

Tetuan's most aristocratic women, scented favourites of Moorish society, kept in lavender and reared on sugar and orange-flower water, are not among those things which one easily forgets. About twelve of them or more--enough to dazzle and not bewilder, furnish to perfection yet avoid a crush--were half reclining on the divans round the room. Fatima was on our immediate left as we entered; a holy Shar[=i]fa on the right; the daughter of another Shar[=i]f sat beyond her. The circle was one of Sanct.i.ty and Rank.

We shook hands with the mistress of the house, and were motioned to take our seats on the divan exactly opposite her.

Fatima was no disappointment. She suggested much, and more than fulfilled the promise of her history. She was pale and dark, with a little head like a snake's, thin sarcastic lips, and eyes full of smouldering devil.

Two silver trays stood in front of her, covered with fragile porcelain cups and thin gilded cut-gla.s.s, with a silver-topped box full of fragrant mint, another quaint box containing fine green tea, an enormous cut-gla.s.s sugar-basin heaped with small rocks of white sugar, two silver embossed and steaming teapots, some scent-sprinklers and incense-burners of silver. At her elbow, on the floor, was the largest silver urn I ever saw, capable of supplying half a dozen school feasts; down the room, in a line, upon the carpets, stood round baskets, three feet in diameter, filled with palest cream-coloured bracelet-shaped loaves of bread, made of too fine and white a flour and too perfectly baked for any but the upper ten to indulge in. The centre basket contained perhaps fifty cakes--nothing on a small scale here--made of thin flaked pastry, iced over with sugar, filled with a confectionery of almonds, and quinces, and raisins, and orange-flower water, and an essence, one drop of which cost five shillings. These take a day to make, and are only met with in an elaborate _menage_. Other tarts, lavishly coated with a snow of white sugar, contained jams and nuts and all the sweet things dear to the Moorish heart.

The movements of Fatima's small hands among the cups, covered with rings, each polished nail just touched with a half-moon of dark red henna, were born of _dolce far niente_, backed by a long line famous for their beauty: her restless black eyes alternately gleamed with cruelty and cunning; flashed with pa.s.sion; grew sad as it is given to few eyes to grow.

Many embroidered b.u.t.tons, as edgings in front, betokened garment within garment, which she wore, all of them at last confined by a broad, richly worked belt; her kaftan was of lemon-yellow, shining with silver borderings; the muslin "overall" was the thinnest atmosphere of white; there were many necklaces, chiefly pearl, round her neck, and, most characteristic of all, a tiny yellow silk handkerchief was knotted once round her throat; on her black head, colour ran riot in silks of all shades, tied and twisted and arranged as only a Moorish hand knows; her feet were wrapped in a soft pale yellow shawl, embroidered. She did not get up when we came in.

Multiply Fatima twelve times, in colours more opulent and more bizarre than her own, instead of her lithe figure, picture stone upon stone of sleek flesh, and some idea of the epicureanism of the scene is arrived at. Sitting on each side of us were two of the fattest women I have ever seen.

[Ill.u.s.tration: A GROUP IN THE FEDDAN, TETUAN.

[_To face p. 236._]

Meanwhile, Fatima signed to a slave to carry across the cups of tea which she had poured out, together with thin china plates; then we were supplied with the fine sweet bread. Miss Banks explained that I was not a _tabiba_ (doctor). Fatima told her I was to ask about anything which I did not understand, and with interpretations we carried on trifling conversation. It was like stepping into "The Arabian Nights" come to life. These women seldom go out of doors, or, if they do, nothing is to be seen of them except a figure in an immense creamy woollen haik from top to toe, heavily veiled: possibly a pair of haunting eyes and beautiful slippers suggest an attractive "beyond." But here were we "i'

the centre of the labyrinth," where mere men can never go; in a maze of hot imperious colour; in a world of ivory-tinted faces, flowing lines, and stately gestures; among _abandon_ such as one little dreams of in a Mohammedan double-locked world.

They lie at the ends of the pole, the women of Morocco: the countrywomen, beasts of burden; the wives of the rich, sumptuously fed and caparisoned lap-dogs.

Amidst such a show of silk and embroidery no English-woman, in the utilitarian coat and skirt best fitted for travel, could feel other than out of place, nor resist the weak desire that the imperious Fatima and her circle should have another impression of our countrywomen made upon their ignorant minds than that given by short skirts and nailed boots--say, Covent Garden one night when the opera has drawn all the diamonds in town.

I remember the Moorish French Consul, in the Tetuan post-office, saw R.

writing a card in there once.

"What a great thing it is," he said to Mr. Bewicke, "that your women can write and can arrange things for themselves. I go away; my wife cannot write to me. Our women are just like animals."

As far as I could gather, a Moorish woman does not think for herself until she is divorced. Her father, mother, or brother marries her to whomsoever he or she chooses; but when once she is divorced, she is free to marry after her own heart, and no one can interfere with her. Divorce was of course allowed by Mohammed. It is so common that no wife is surprised at being divorced a year after marriage, or six months, even a week. If she does not get up in time in the morning, her husband can divorce her, or if she becomes ill, or for a hundred petty reasons.

Therefore upon the marriage-lines is always entered the sum of money which a wife brings her husband; a poor woman will bring from thirty shillings to three pounds, a rich woman from a hundred to three hundred pounds; and whatever the sum be, the husband must refund it to the wife when he divorces her. The actual getting of the divorce is simplicity itself. Man and wife go before the deputy of the governor of the city or province and state their case. The deputy will probably say, "Very well.

Pay the woman such-and-such a sum mentioned in the agreement, and go your several ways."

A man, however, often changes his mind, and marries the woman whom he has divorced; and perhaps they are divorced a second time and married a third time. But he may not marry her the third time unless she has meanwhile been married by another man and divorced from him.

Many of the Moorish husbands leave their wives--the Riffis, for instance, going back into the Riff. If they are away over a year and send no money to the wife, she can claim a divorce: going before the deputy with a witness or two, it is soon arranged; she then probably marries a second husband. Were it not for this arrangement, Tetuan would be full of deserted wives.

It must be most difficult to try to "preach" either to the men or women.

The men would not have it. I knew one missionary who used to sit in their shops and talk to them, but directly he veered round within a point of "religion" that talk was over. The women were less difficult in that respect; they would discuss the point: one woman I heard say something as follows:--

"Why should I turn a Christian? See--I may steal, I may lie, I may commit murder; my sins may reach as high as from earth to heaven, and at the day of my death _G.o.d is merciful_. He will forgive me all, because I witness to Mohammed as his Prophet. Your religion is a narrow little religion; mine covers everything. You go home and go away by yourself and _witness to Mohammed_ as his Prophet, and all your sins will be forgiven."

It is a sign of their being low down in the intellectual scale when the members of society talk for the most part of "persons," just as it is a sign of a higher tone when the conversation runs chiefly upon "ideas."

Among the women at Fatima's tea party there was no sort or kind of exchange of thought of any description, nor was there general conversation. They talked in a desultory way to each other about their children, their clothes, their food, their money, and each other--sometimes they included Miss Banks, but never touched an interesting point.

If a woman unable to read or write only meets women also unable to read or write, and knows but one man, her husband, who feeds her and values her much like a tame doe-rabbit, it is unreasonable to expect to find in her much intelligence and energy. Wives, when asked if they did not wish to do more, would not like to read or write or work, only laughed derisively. The idea was absurd: they could not understand any one wishing to exert herself in a novel and unnecessary way.

On my left, still sat the stoutest woman in the room--the holy Shar[=i]fa. She lost her snuff-box, and roused herself to hunt all over her enormous person for it--a work of time; but a friend had borrowed it, and it was pa.s.sed back to her. She sat on the divan, cross-legged like some gigantic idol of ancient Egypt, many yards in circ.u.mference at the base, her fat little hands folded across the embroideries and gold-worked b.u.t.tons and worked edges of the many gorgeous waistcoats and kaftans, which seemed piled one on top of each other on her immense frame. Her head, the size of two footb.a.l.l.s rolled into one, was swathed in violet and scarlet silk: straight whiskers of hair, dyed jet-black, were combed a few inches down each cheek, and then cut short. The whole "idol" sat very still, speaking but rarely, and then in a harsh croak like some oracular and forbidding bird: "it" had the appearance of being comfortably gorged.

Meanwhile, Fatima signed or murmured to the slaves, and the sweetmeats were carried round, and the fragile cups refilled; and there went up a great aroma of sweet mint tea.

Through the wide doorway the patio and its colonnades of many pillars lay cool and shaded; cages of singing canary-birds hung from the ceiling; the fountain rippled in the middle; a tall girl in green and white sauntered across in her slippered feet, carrying a tray; a gaily dressed slave pa.s.sed silently; and the whole thing might have been a dream. . . .

Past the patio lay the courtyard, all one large garden, with tiled walks and red-gold oranges and heavy foliage set against the blue sky. Broad date-palms, mimosa, and climbing creepers sometimes shook in a breath of wind. The clear tanks, full of ever-running water and lined with maiden-hair fern, moved with gold-fish, which matched the oranges; a pet monkey played amongst the lemons on a lemon-tree; a green parrot nodded to us from a bower of pink almond blossom.

We wandered round the sleepy, silent courtyard, and in and out the chequered greenery, hot with windless, sun-filled air, back through the black-and-white courts, until at last the great outside door shut upon Fatima, her tea party, and the eternal mysticism of the East:--we were without the gates of Paradise, and in an atmosphere of rude realism once more.

Soon after that afternoon of many calls with Miss Banks, a day up in the Anjera Hills, to the north of Tetuan, gave some idea of the strip of country which lay between us, and the sea, and Gibraltar. This country possessed the fascination of being little known. No one troubled to go up there, except its own wild inhabitants. Our own Consul had never been.

The missionaries had not climbed so high, nor so far, this side the river.

Now the Tetuan _sok_ (market) is greatly dependent upon the country people belonging to the Beni Salam tribe, who live up in the Anjeras; and from the flat white roof of our garden-house we had watched through a pair of gla.s.ses on market mornings, strings of women, winding by a precipitous path down the hillside, which is abrupt and mountainous, themselves dropping as it were from an upper world. They scrambled slowly down, one after the other, descending many hundreds upon hundreds of feet; then filed slantwise over the slopes, right into the rocky Mussulman cemetery, across that, and thence into the city by the Bab-el-M'kabar.

The relations of these tribesmen between themselves and the city are more or less friendly, and it is comparatively safe to wander about the mountains as long as the "enemy," as the Moors call the sun, has not set.

We were most anxious to visit the country whence these market-goers came, appearing first upon the crest-line, then against the rough hillside, like a string of industrious white ants crawling down the wall of a house; therefore we engaged a youth with a downy beard and hairy legs and the big grey donkey--the most active of his race--and set off one morning at half-past nine, prepared to climb into a Top World, like Jack of the Beanstalk, by means of a path which was less smooth "going" than his supernatural ladder.

There was a strong north-west wind, and it was hardly an occasion for "aloft"; but there was no haze; the clouds were scudding away to South Australia; it was a day for a view.

Taking the broken road towards the city, we branched off to the right, crossed a stream, and began the ascent. No one could ride at this point.

R. tried a tow by means of the donkey's tail, and met with a remonstrating kick. Certainly, if this could be called "one of the Sultan's highways," it was an odd specimen. We scrambled up the east side of the range of hills, sometimes by a succession of rocky staircases, sometimes sliding (backwards chiefly) on loose shale: how the donkey contrived to look after its four feet must remain a problem, but the Morocco a.s.s is brought up from birth upon stony ground, with nave and simple notions upon the subject of paths.

It was a long time before our heads showed up above the top of Jack's Beanstalk (so to speak), and we met with a gale, at which the donkey's hair stood on end, and which occupied all our attention for a minute. We had seen Tetuan disappear far below us behind the elbow of a hill; the topmost point of the Gib. Rock had loomed into sight; Ceuta looked as if one might have thrown a stone upon it; and the Riff Mountains were next door, clear and blue. We had pa.s.sed some red fritillaries and the bee-orchid, a little wild mauve crocus, and some magnificent clumps of white heath, which smelt of almonds and honey; had seen several pairs of stone-chats with their white collars; had sat down for many "breathers"; and at last were at the top, in a wind which flattened every palmetto-bush plumb against the hillside. It was a breezy spot for riding (and here one _could_ ride, for the grey donkey was on _terra firma_ once more); therefore we cut short a survey of the country below us, hurried off the crest-line, and followed the path which led straight away into the heart of the Anjera country. It was a good track when once the top had been reached, exactly the right width for one individual, and used by thirty or forty every market day--three times a week. At the time when the cave-men lived in England, _single file_ was a standing principle in Morocco, and the practice still holds good.

The path was beaten hard, by bare feet, in the rich dark red soil, and had taken a shiny polish; the wind was held off us by boulders and small hillocks; we got along at a steady pace. On each side mountains and only mountains were to be seen, peak beyond peak, slope after slope, covered with short wind-tossed scrub and sharp, hard rock, except at any great height or in the prevailing wind; there ledge after ledge lay peeled by the weather, blistering in the sun, the scarified faces of the cliffs worn at the summits into pinnacles of gaunt stone. No mark of humanity, except the single red path, suggested that civilization ever troubled these heights, and there was hardly anything worth the notice of a goat in the shape of fodder.

The path rose and fell, skirting now this shoulder and now a gully, but keeping for the most part on high ground, here and there winding upwards across the sharp spine of a ridge, and, by way of some awkward staircase, once more landing us on the level. More often than not, the donkey had only himself to carry; the boy probably thought us mad, but there was no understanding what the other would fain have said. Except for the wind--and even that dropped--a great silence lay on the proud heights; they defied man to interfere with their grizzled _debris_: the birds had forgotten to sing: all around was that certain awed solemnity, always to be found, in the companionship of the everlasting hills. But the air was champagne; the heather was mad in the breeze; the sky where it met the rocks, an intoxicating blue. And how the clouds "travelled"! Though, in spite of that, the hills never spoke: like the Sphinx, whose repose no dance of lizards nor flashes of sunlight can disturb, they are "too great to appease, too high to appal, too far to call." Occasionally a dip in the hollow back of a mountain showed the sea beyond: there are few seas bluer than the blue Mediterranean can be, and this was one of its days.