Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

It is now more than half an hour that we have been proceeding between the two lines of soldiers, and some one has counted more than four thousand. On one side is drawn out the cavalry; on the other a nameless and heterogeneous mass of men and boys, dressed in divers uniforms, or rather fragments of uniforms, some with arms and some without, cloaked and uncloaked, with uncovered heads, or heads bound with a shapeless rag, shirtless for the most part; faces from the desert, from the coast, from the mountains; shaven heads, and heads ornamented with long braids; giants and dwarfs—people gathered from heaven knows where, to make a show and inspire terror. And behind them on the rising ground that borders the way, an innumerable throng of veiled women, screaming and gesticulating, in wonder, anger, or pleasure, and holding up their children to see us.

We approach the walls at a point where there is a venerable gate crowned with battlements. A band bursts into music, and at the same moment all the drums and trumpets rend the air with a mighty crash. Then our ranks are broken up, and there is a general rush and confusion of magistrates, courtiers, ministers, generals, officials, and slaves; our escort is scattered, our servants dispersed, and we ourselves divided from each other. There is a torrent of turbans and horses rolling and twisting about us with irresistible impetus; a confusion of colors, a phantasmagoria of faces, a noise of harsh voices, a grandeur and savagery that at once delight and bewilder. Passing in at the gate, we expect to see the houses of the city, but are still between castellated walls and towers; to the left is a tomb, or cuba, with a green dome shaded by two palms; people about the cuba, upon the walls, everywhere. We pass another gate, and find ourselves at last in a street with houses on each side.

My memory here becomes confused, for I had as much as I could do to save my neck, going as we were over great stones, in the midst of a crowd of plunging horses; it would have been all up with any one who had fallen. We passed, I remember, through some deserted streets bordered by tall houses, suffocated by dust, and deafened by the noise of the horses’ hoofs; and in about half an hour, after threading a labyrinth of steep and narrow alleys, where we were obliged to go in single file, we reached a little door, where some scarlet soldiers presented arms, and we entered our own house. It was a delicious sensation.

The house was a princely mansion in the purely Moorish style, with a small garden shaded by parallel rows of orange and lemon trees. From the garden you entered the interior court by a low door, and thence into a corridor large enough only for one person to pass. Around the court were twelve white pilasters, joined by as many arches of a horse-shoe form, which supported an arched gallery furnished with a wooden balustrade. The pavement of the court, gallery, and chambers was one splendid mosaic of little squares of enamel of brilliant colors; the arches were painted in arabesque; the balustrade carved in delicate open work; the whole building designed with a grace and harmony worthy of the architects of the Alhambra. In the middle of the court there was a fountain; and another one, with three jets of water, was in a carved and ornamented niche in the wall. A large Moorish lantern depended from every arch. One wing of the edifice extended along one side of the garden, and had a graceful façade of three arches, painted in arabesque, in front of which a third fountain sparkled. There were other little courts, and corridors, and chambers, and the innumerable recesses of an Oriental house. Some iron beds, without sheets or coverlets, a few clocks, one mirror in the court, two chairs and a table for the Ambassador, and half a dozen basins and jugs, completed the furniture of the house. In the principal rooms the walls were hung with gold-embroidered carpets, and some white mattresses lay on the floors, and, except in the Ambassador’s room, there was neither chair, nor table, nor wardrobe. We had to send to the camp for some furniture. But, by way of compensation, there was everywhere coolness, shade, the gurgle of water, fragrance, and something deliciously soft and voluptuous in the lines of the building, in the air, in the light. The whole edifice was encircled by a lofty wall, and surrounded by a labyrinth of deserted alleys.

We had scarcely arrived in the court-yard when there began a coming and going of ministers and other high personages, each one of whom had a few minutes’ conversation with the Ambassador. The Minister of Finance was the one who attracted my attention most. He was a Moor of about fifty years of age, of a severe aspect, beardless, and dressed all in white, with an immense turban. An interpreter told me that he was very clever, and adduced as proof of the same, that he one day had brought to him one of those little arithmetical machines, and both he and the machine had done the same sum in the same time, and with the same results. It was worth while to see the expression of sacred respect with which Selim, Ali, Civo, and the rest, regarded those personages, who, after the Sultan, represented in their eyes the highest grade of science, power, and glory which could be attained on this earth.

Those visits over, we took possession of our abode. The two painters, the doctor, and myself occupied the rooms looking on the garden; the rest, those opening on the court. Interpreters, cooks, sailors, servants, soldiers, all found their place, and in a few hours the aspect of the house was changed.

The first to go out and visit the city were Ussi and Biseo, the two artists; and then the commandant and the captain. I preferred to wait until the following morning. They went out in couples, each encircled, like malefactors, by an infantry guard armed with muskets and sticks. After an hour they returned, covered with dust, and all dripping from the heat; and their first words were, “Great city—great crowd—immense mosques—naked saints—curses—sticks—wonderful things!” But Ussi had had the most interesting adventure. In one of the most frequented streets, in spite of the soldiers, a girl of fifteen or thereabouts had sprung upon his shoulders like a fury, and had inflicted a vigorous pummeling, crying out, “Accursed Christians! There is not a corner in Morocco where they do not push themselves!” Such was the first welcome given to Italian art within the walls of Fez.

Late in the night I made a tour through the house. On all the landing-places of the stairs, before the chamber doors, in the garden, were soldiers lying wrapped in their mantles, and sound asleep. Before the little door of the court-yard, the faithful Hamed Ben-Kasen, with his sabre by his side, snored in the open air. The dim light of the lanterns, touching the mosaic pavements here and there, made them look as if set with pearls, and gave an air of mysterious splendor to the place. The sky was thickly set with stars, and a light breeze moved the branches of the orange trees in the garden. The murmur of the Pearl River could be distinctly heard; the gurgle of the fountains, the ticking of the clocks, and now and then the shrill voices of the sentinels answering one another at the outer doors of the palace with their chanted prayer.

In the morning we went out, four or five of us together, accompanied by an interpreter, and escorted by ten foot-soldiers, one of whom wore buttons with the effigy of Queen Victoria—for many of these red coats are bought at Gibraltar from soldiers of the English army. Two of these placed themselves in front, two behind, and three on each side of us—the first armed with muskets, the others with sticks and knotted cords. They were such a rascally-looking set, that when I think of them I bless the ship that brought me back to Europe.

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