Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

Sid-Moussa has no title; he is simply called Sid-Moussa; he was born a slave, and emancipated by the Sultan, who can to-morrow despoil him of all his property, cast him into prison, or hang his head over the gate of Fez, without being called to account for it. But he is the minister of ministers, the soul of the government, the mind which embraces and moves all things all over the empire, and, after the Sultan, the most famous man in Morocco. Our curiosity may be imagined, therefore, on the morning when, surrounded as usual by an armed guard, accompanied by the caid and interpreters, and followed by a tail of people, we went to his house in new Fez.

We were received at the door by a crowd of Arabs and blacks, and entered a garden enclosed by high walls, at the end of which, under a little portico, stood Sid-Moussa, dressed all in white, and surrounded by his officials.

The famous minister gave both hands with much heartiness to the Ambassador, bowed smilingly to us, and preceded us into a small room on the ground-floor, where we sat down.

What a strange figure! A man of about sixty, a dark mulatto, of middle height, with an immense oblong head, two fiery eyes of a most astute expression, a great flat nose, a monstrous mouth, two rows of big teeth, and an immeasurable chin; yet in spite of these hideous features, an affable smile, an expression of benignity, and voice and manners of the utmost courtesy. But there are no people more deceptive in their aspect than the Moors. Not into the soul, but into the brain of that man would I have liked to peep! Certainly I should have found no great erudition. Perhaps no more than a few pages of the Koran, some periods of the imperial history, some vague geographical notions of the first States of Europe, some idea of astronomy, some rules of arithmetic. But instead, what profound knowledge of the human heart, what quickness of perception, what subtlety of craft, what intricate plottings and contrivings far from our own habits of mind, what curious secrets of government, and who knows what strange medley of memories of loves, and sufferings, and intrigues, and vicissitudes! The chamber, for a Moorish room, was sumptuously furnished, for it contained a small sofa, a table, a mirror, and a few chairs. The walls were hung with red and green carpets, the ceiling painted, the pavement in mosaic. Nothing extraordinary, however, for the house of a rich personage like Sid-Moussa.

After an exchange of the usual compliments, we were conducted into the dining-room, which was on the other side of the garden.

Sid-Moussa, according to custom, did not come with us. The dining-room was hung, like the other, with red and green carpets. In one corner was an armoire, with its two old bunches of artificial flowers under glass shades; and near it one of those little mirrors with a frame painted with flowers that are found in every village inn. On the table there were about twenty dishes containing big white sugar-plums in the form of balls and carobs; the silver and china very elegant; numerous bottles of water; and not a drop of wine. We seated ourselves, and were served at once. Twenty-eight dishes, without counting the sweets! Twenty-eight enormous dishes, every one of which would have been enough for twenty people, of all forms, odors, and flavors; monstrous pieces of mutton on the spit, chickens (with pomatum), game (with cold cream), fish (with cosmetics), livers, puddings, vegetables, eggs, salads, all with the same dreadful combinations suggestive of the barber’s shop; sweet-meats, every mouthful of which was enough to purge a man of any crime he had ever committed; and with all this, large glasses of water, into which we squeezed lemons that we had brought in our pockets; then a cup of tea sweetened to syrup; and finally an irruption of servants, who deluged the table, the walls, and ourselves with rose-water. Such was the breakfast of Sid-Moussa.

When we rose from table, there entered an official to announce to the Ambassador that Sid-Moussa was at prayers, and that as soon as he had finished he would have great pleasure in conferring with him. Immediately after there came in a tottering old man, supported between two Moors, who seized the Ambassador’s hands and pressed them with great energy, exclaiming with emotion, “Welcome! welcome! Welcome to the Ambassador of the King of Italy! Welcome among us! It is a great day for us!”

He was the grand Scherif Bacalì, one of the most powerful personages of the court, and one of the richest proprietors of the empire, confidant of the Sultan, possessor of many wives, and a two years’ invalid from dyspepsia. We were told that he relieved the ennui of his lord with witty words and comic action; a thing which would certainly never have been guessed from his ferocious face and impetuous gesture. After him appeared the two sons of Sid-Moussa, one of whom made his obeisance and vanished immediately; the other was an extremely handsome young man of twenty-five, private secretary to the Sultan: with the face of a woman, and two large brown eyes of indescribable softness; gay, graceful, and nervous, continually pulling with his hand at the folds of his ample orange-colored caftan.

Bacalì and the Ambassador having gone out, we remained, with some officials seated on the floor, and the Sultan’s secretary on a chair, in honor of us.

He immediately began a conversation through Mohammed Ducali. Fixing his eyes on Ussi, he asked who he was.