"He who believes in G.o.d and in the power of our lord Mohammed ben Asa, say with me a Fatihah," cries the new man, extending his palms turned upwards before him to receive the blessings he asks, and then brings one of the snake-baskets forward, plunging his hand into its sack-like mouth, and sharply drawing it out a time or two, as if afraid of being bitten.

Finally he pulls the head of one of the reptiles through, and leaves it there, darting out its fangs, while he s.n.a.t.c.hes up and wildly beats the tambourine by his side. He now seizes the snake by the neck, and pulls it right out, the people starting back as it coils round in the ring, or uncoils and makes a plunge towards someone. Now he pulls out another, and hangs it round his neck, saying, "I take refuge with the saint who was dead and is alive, with our lord Mohammed son of Asa, and with the most holy Abd el Kader el Jilani, king of land and sea. Now, let every one who believes bear witness with me and say a Fatihah!"

"Say a Fatihah!" echoes one of the still noisy musicians, by way of chorus.

"Now may our lord Abd el Kader see the man who makes a contribution with his eyes."

_Chorus:_ "With his eyes!"

"And may his heart find rest, and our lord Abd er-Rahman protect him!"

_Chorus:_ "Protect him!"

"Now, I call you to witness, I bargain with our lord Abd el Kader for a forfeit!"

_Chorus:_ "For a forfeit!"

A copper is thrown into the ring, and as he picks it up and hands it to the musician, the performer exclaims--

"Take this, see, and at the last day may the giver of it see our lord Abd el Kader before him!"

_Chorus:_ "Before him!"

"May he ever be blessed, whether present or absent!"

_Chorus:_ "Present or absent!"

"Who wishes to have a good conscience and a clean heart? Oh, ye beloved of the Lord! See, take from that dear one" (who has thrown down a copper).

The contributions now apparently sufficing for the present, the performance proceeds, but the crowd having edged a little too close, it is first necessary to increase the s.p.a.ce in the centre by swinging one of the reptiles round by the tail, whereat all start back.

"Ah! you may well be afraid!" exclaims the charmer. "Their fangs mean death, if you only knew it, but for the mercies of my lord, the son of Asa."

"Ameen!" responds the chorus.

Hereupon he proceeds to direct the head of the snake to his mouth, and caressingly invites it to enter. Darting from side to side, it finally makes a plunge down his throat, whereon the strangers shudder, and the _habitues_ look with triumphant awe. Wildly he spins on one foot that all may see, still holding the creature by the neck with one hand, and by the tail with the other. At length, having allowed the greater part of its length to disappear in this uncanny manner, he proceeds to withdraw it, the head emerging with the sound of a cork from a bottle.

The sight has not been pleasant, but the audience, transfixed, gives a sigh of relief as the tambourines strike up again, and the reed chimes in deafeningly.

"Who says they are harmless? Who says their fangs are extracted?"

challenges the performer. "Look here!"

The seemingly angry snake has now fastened on his arm, and is permitted to draw blood, as though in reward for its recent treatment.

"Is any incredulous here? Shall I try it on thee?"

The individual addressed, a poverty-stricken youth whose place was doubtless required for some more promising customer behind, flees in terror, as the gaping jaws approach him. One and another having been similarly dismissed from points of vantage, and a redistribution of front seats effected, the incredulous are once more tauntingly addressed and challenged. This time the challenge is accepted by a foreigner, who hands in a chicken held by its wings.

"So? Blessed be G.o.d! Its doom is sealed if it comes within reach of the snake. See here!"

All eagerly press forward, many rising to their feet, and it is difficult to see over their shoulders the next gruesome act. The reptile, held by the neck in the performer's right hand, is shown the chicken in the other, and annoyed by having it poked in its face, too frightened to perceive what is happening. In a moment the fangs are shot out, and a wound inflicted in the exposed part under the wing.

Blood appears, and the bird is thrown down, being held in place by the performer's foot till in a few minutes its struggles cease. Then, picking the victim up, he holds it aloft by one wing to show its condition, and exultingly calls for a Fatihah.

It is enough: my patience is exhausted, and I rise to make off with stiff knees, content at last with what I have seen and heard of the "charming" of snakes in Morocco.

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Cavilla, Photo., Tangier._

A MOROCCO FANDAK (CARAVANSARAI).]

XIX

IN A MOORISH CAFe

"A little from a friend is much."

_Moorish Proverb._

To the pa.s.ser-by, least of all to the European, there is nothing in its external appearance to recommend old Hashmi's _cafe_. From the street, indeed, it is hardly visible, for it lies within the threshold of a caravansarai or fandak, in which beasts are tethered, goods acc.u.mulated and travellers housed, and of which the general appearance is that of a neglected farm-yard. Round an open court a colonnade supports the balcony by which rooms on the upper story are approached, a narrow staircase in the corner leading right up to the terraced roof. In the daytime the sole occupants of the rooms are women whose partners for the time being have securely locked them in before going to work.

Beside the lofty archway forming the gate of this strange hostelry, is Hashmi's stall, at which green tea or a sweet, pea-soupy preparation of coffee may be had at all hours of the day, but the _cafe_ proper, gloomy by daylight, lies through the door behind. Here, of an evening, the candles lit, his regular customers gather with tiny pipes, indulging in flowing talk. Each has before him his harmless gla.s.s, as he squats or reclines on the rush-matted floor. Nothing of importance occurs in the city but is within a little made known here with as much certainty as if the proprietor subscribed to an evening paper. Any man who has something fresh to tell, who can interest or amuse the company, and by his frequent visits give the house a name, is always welcome, and will find a gla.s.s awaiting him whenever he chooses to come.

Old Hashmi knows his business, and if the evening that I was there may be taken as a sample, he deserves success. That night he was in the best of humours. His house was full and trade brisk. Fattah, a negro, was keeping the house merry, so in view of coming demands, he brewed a fresh pot of real "Mekkan." The surroundings were grimy, and outside the rain came down in torrents: but that was a decided advantage, since it not only drove men indoors, but helped to keep them there.

Mesaod, the one-eyed, had finished an elaborate tuning of his two-stringed banjo, his ginbri--a home-made instrument--and was proceeding to arrive at a convenient pitch of voice for his song. With a strong nasal accent he commenced reciting the loves of Si Marzak and his fair Azizah: how he addressed her in the fondest of language, and how she replied by caresses. When he came to the chorus they all chimed in, for the most part to their own tune and time, as they rocked to and fro, some clapping, some beating their thighs, and all applauding at the end.

The whole ballad would not bear translation--for English ears,--and the scanty portion which may be given has lost its rhythm and cadence by the change, for Arabic is very soft and beautiful to those who understand it. The time has come when Azizah, having quarrelled with Si Marzak in a fit of perhaps too well-founded jealousy, desires to "make it up again," and thus addresses her beloved--

"Oh, how I have followed thy attractiveness, And halted between give and take!

Oh, how I'd from evil have protected thee By my advice, hadst thou but heeded it!

Yet to-day taste, O my master, Of the love that thou hast taught to me!

"Oh, how I have longed for the pleasure of thy visits, And poured out bitter tears for thee; Until at last the sad truth dawned on me That of thy choice thou didst put me aside!

Yet to-day taste, O my master, Of the love that thou hast taught to me!

"Thou wast sweeter than honey to me, But thou hast become more bitter than gall.

Is it thus thou beginnest the world?

Beware lest thou make me thy foe!

Yet to-day taste, O my master, Of the love that thou hast taught to me!

"I have hitherto been but a name to thee, And thou took'st to thy bosom a snake, But to-day I perceive thou'st a fancy for me: O G.o.d, I will not be deceived!

Yes, to-day taste, O my master, Of the love that thou hast taught to me!

"Thou know'st my complaint and my only cure: Why, then, wilt thou heal me not?

Thou canst do so to-day, O my master, And save me from all further woe.

Yes, to-day taste, O my master, Of the love that thou hast taught to me!"

To which the hard-pressed swain replies--