At five o’clock exactly the ambassador mounted his horse, and the flags on the terrace of the Legation rose in salute. Preoccupied as I was with my white mule, and in all the confusion and uproar of departure I remember but little of the crowd that encumbered the street, the handsome Jewish women peering from their terraces, and an Arab boy, who exclaimed with a strange accent, as we issued from the gate of the Soc-de-Barra, “Italia!”
At the Soc we were joined by the representatives of the other Legations, who were to accompany us, according to custom, a few miles beyond Tangiers; and we took the road to Fez, a numerous and noisy cavalcade, before which waved the green folds of the banner of the Prophet.
CHAPTER II.
HAD-EL-GARBIA.
A throng of ministers, consuls, dragomans, secretaries, clerks, a great international embassy, representing six monarchies and two republics, and composed for the most part of people who had been all over the world. Among others, there was the Spanish consul, dressed in the graceful costume of the province of Mercia, with a poignard in his girdle; the gigantic figure of the United States consul, once a colonel in a cavalry regiment, towering a whole head above the rest of the troop, and riding a beautiful Arab horse with Mexican saddle and accoutrements; the dragoman of the Legation of France, an athletic man, mounted upon an enormous white horse, with which he presented, in certain points of view, the image of a centaur; English, Andalusians, and Germans were there, and as every one spoke in his own tongue, mingled with laughter, the humming of songs, and the neighing of beasts, the effect may be imagined. Before us rode the banner-bearer, followed by two soldiers of the Italian Legation; behind came the escort, led by the mulatto general, with his rifle erect, one end resting on the saddle; on either side a crowd of Arabs on foot. All this motley company, gilded by the rays of the setting sun, presented a spectacle so splendidly picturesque that each one of us wore an air of complacency at the thought that we formed part of the picture.
Little by little, those who had accompanied us from Tangiers took their leave and turned back; only America and Spain remained with us. The road so far was not bad; my mule seemed the most docile of mules; what remained for me to desire? But there is no perfect felicity on this earth. The captain drew near and gave me a most unpleasing piece of news. The vice-consul, Paolo Grande, our tent companion, was a somnambulist. The captain himself had met him the night before on the stairs of the Legation, wrapped in a sheet, with a lamp in one hand and a pistol in the other. The servants, being questioned, confirmed the tale. To sleep with him in the same tent was dangerous. The captain entreated me, as I was more intimate with the vice-consul than he, to induce him to give up his arms for the night. I promised to do my best “I leave it in your hands,” said he, as he turned away, “and I speak in the name of the commandant also.” “Here’s a fine business!” thought I, as I went in search of the vice-consul. He came to meet me. With one cautious question and another I succeeded in discovering that he carried with him a small arsenal, what with fire-arms and cutting weapons, comprising an ugly Moorish poignard that seemed expressly made for cutting a hole in my own person. After turning it over in my mind, I decided to wait until the hour for going to bed arrived, and for the rest of the way the teasing thought pursued me.
We were moving now in a great curve over an undulating country, green and solitary. The road, if road it could be called, was formed of a large number of parallel paths crossing each other here and there, winding through stones and bushes, and sunken, like the beds of streams. A few palms and aloes showed their dark outlines upon the golden sky, which, above our heads, began to glitter with stars. No person was to be seen far or near. Once we heard some gunshots: it was a group of Arabs on the top of a hill, saluting the ambassador. After three hours’ travelling it was dark night, and we began to wish for the encampment. Hunger in some and fatigue in others made us silent. Nothing was heard but the horses’ feet and the panting breath of the servants running beside us. Suddenly there was a shout from the caid. On a height to the right lights were glittering, and we hailed with a unanimous shout our first encampment.
I cannot express the pleasure I felt in dismounting among the tents. Had it not been for my dignity as the representative of Italian literature, I think I should have indulged in a sort of jig. It was a little city, illuminated, and full of noise and people. Kitchen fires blazed on every side. Servants, soldiers, cooks, sailors, went to and fro, exchanging questions in all the tongues of the Tower of Babel. The tents were arranged in a large circle, with the Italian banner in the midst. Behind the tents were ranged the horses and mules. The escort had its own small encampment apart. Every thing was in military order. I recognized at once my own habitation, and ran to take possession. There were four camp-beds, mats and carpets, lanterns, candlesticks, small tables, folding chairs, washbasins striped with the Italian colors, and a great Indian fan. It was a princely establishment, in which one might willingly spend a year. Our tent was placed between those of the ambassador and the artists.
One hour after our arrival we were seated at dinner in the tent consecrated to Lucullus. I think that was the merriest dinner that ever took place within the confines of Morocco since the foundation of Fez. We were sixteen, comprising the American consul with his two sons, and the Spanish consul, with two attachés from the Legation. The Italian cuisine carried off a solemn victory. It was the first time, I believe, that in that desolate country the fumes of macaroni with gravy and risotto alla Milanese ever rose to the nostrils of Allah. The fat French cook, come from Tangiers for that night only, was clamorously called before the footlights. Toasts went off one after the other in Italian, in Spanish, in verse, in prose, in music. The Spanish consul, a handsome Castilian of the antique stamp, large-bearded, broad-shouldered, and deep-hearted, declaimed, with one hand on his dagger-hilt, the dialogue of Don Juan Tenorio with Don Luis Mendia, in Zorilla’s famous drama. There were discussions upon the Eastern Question, upon the eyes of Arab women, upon the Carlist war, upon the immortality of the soul, and upon the properties of the terrible cobra di capello—the aspic of Cleopatra—which the charlatans of Morocco allow to bite them with impunity. Some one, in the midst of the clamor of conversation, whispered in my ear that he would be grateful to me for life, if I would mention in my future book on Morocco, that he had killed a lion. I seized the occasion to request my fellow-guests to give me each a note as to the particular ferocious beast which he had conquered. The Spanish consul, out of gratitude, improvised a verse in honor of my mule, and all singing it to a tune from the “Italiana in Algieri,” we issued forth, and sought our different sleeping-places.
The encampment was immersed in profound slumber. In front of the tent of the ambassador, who had retired before us, watched the faithful Selam, first soldier of the Legation. In the distance paced like a shadow, among the tents, the form of the caid of the escort. The sky was all sparkling with stars. What a blessed night, if I had not had that thorn inserted in my pillow!
I had no sooner entered my tent than the captain repeated his advice, and I determined to attack the subject after we should be in bed. It was unavoidable, but it was very unpleasant. The vice-consul might take it badly, and I should be very sorry. He was so agreeable a companion. Like a true Sicilian, full of fire, he talked of the most insignificant things with the accent and style of an inspired preacher. He made use of the most terrible adjectives—immense, divine, and so on—on the slightest occasion. His quietest and least expressive gesture was to shake his hands wildly above his head. To see him discuss any question, with his eyes flying out of his head, and his aquiline nose that seemed to defy the world, was to judge him an irascible and imperious man, whereas he was in reality the kindest and gentlest person conceivable.