“I understand,” answered the Ambassador; “we will say no more about it.”
Our complexions all assumed a slight shade of green.
The dinner over, the Ambassador remained in conversation with the Grand Vizier, and the rest of us issued forth into the rain and darkness of the court. In the room at the other end of it, lighted by a torch, and seated on the ground, our caid, his officers, and the secretaries of our host were dining. At all the little windows in the walls, lighted from within, women’s and children’s heads could be seen, their dark outlines showing against the light. A half-open door showed a splendidly illuminated hall, where seated, lounging in a circle, and gorgeously arrayed, were the wives and concubines of the Grand Vizier, dimly seen through the smoke of burning perfumes that rose from tripods at their feet. Slave-women and servants came and went continually; there must have been at least fifty persons moving about, but there was no sound of voice, or step, or rustle of garment. It was like a phantasmagoria, at which we gazed for a long time, silent, and hidden in the darkness.
As we were going away we saw, attached to a pillar in the court, a thick leathern thong with knots in it. The interpreter asked one of the men what it was for. “To beat us with,” he answered.
We mounted and turned our faces homeward, accompanied by a troop of the Grand Vizier’s servants carrying lanterns. It was very dark and raining heavily. The strange effect of that long cavalcade cannot be imagined, with the lanterns, the crowd of armed and hooded figures, the deafening noise of the horses’ feet, the sound of savage exclamations, in that labyrinth of narrow streets and covered passages, in the midst of the silence of the sleeping city. It seemed like a funeral procession winding along under ground, or a party of soldiers advancing through subterranean ways to surprise a fortress. Suddenly the procession halted; there was a sepulchral silence, broken by a voice saying angrily in Arabic, “The road is closed!” A moment after there was a great noise of blows. The soldiers of the escort were trying to beat down with the butts of their muskets one of the thousand gates that during the night prevent circulation through the streets of Fez. The work took some time; it thundered and lightened, and the rain poured in torrents; the soldiers and servants ran about with lanterns, throwing their long shadows on the walls; the caid, standing in his stirrups, threatened the invisible inhabitants of the surrounding houses; and we enjoyed the fine Rembrandt picture with infinite delight. Finally the door came down with a great noise, and we passed on. A little before we reached our house, under an arched passage, six foot-soldiers presented arms with one hand, the other holding a lighted taper; and this was the last scene of the fantastic drama, entitled, “A Dinner with the Grand Vizier.” But, no; the last scene of all was when we, hardly in our own court-yard, precipitated ourselves upon sardines of Nantes, and bottles of Bordeaux, and Ussi, lifting his glass above our heads, exclaimed in solemn accents, “To Sidi Ben-Jamani, Grand Vizier of Morocco, our most gracious host, I, Stefano Ussi, with Christian forgiveness, consecrate this cup!”
The Sultan has received the Ambassador in private audience. The reception-hall is as big, as bare, and as white as a prison. There are no other ornaments but a great number of clocks of all forms and dimensions, of which some are on the floor, ranged along the walls, and some are huddled together on the table in the middle of the room. Clocks, it may be remembered, are very great objects of admiration and amusement among the Moors. The Sultan was seated cross-legged, in a little alcove, upon a wooden platform about a yard high. He wore, at his public reception, a white mantle, with a hood over his head; his feet were bare, his yellow slippers in a corner, and a green cord crossed his breast, to which a poniard was probably suspended. In this way the emperors of Morocco have always received ambassadors. Their throne, as Sultan Abd-er-Rhaman said, is the horse, and their pavilion the sky. The Ambassador, having first made known his wish to Sid-Moussa, found before the imperial platform a modest chair, upon which, at a sign from the Sultan, he seated himself; Signor Morteo, the interpreter, remained standing. His Majesty, Muley-el-Hassan, spoke for a long time, without ever raising his hands from beneath his mantle, without making a movement with his head, without altering by a single accent the habitual monotony of his soft, deep voice. He spoke of the needs of his empire, of commerce, of industry, of treaties; going into minute particulars, with much order and method, and great simplicity of language. He asked many questions, listening to the answers with great attention, and concluded by saying, with a slight expression of sadness: “It is true; but we are constrained to proceed slowly”—strange and admirable words on the lips of an emperor of Morocco. Seeing that he gave no sign, even in the intervals of silence, to break off the interview, the Ambassador thought it his duty to rise.
“Stay yet a while,” said the Sultan, with a certain expression of ingenuousness; “it gives me pleasure to converse with you.” When the Ambassador took leave, bowing for the last time on the threshold of the door, he slightly bent his head, and remained motionless, like an idol in his deserted temple.
A company of Hebrew women have been here presenting I know not what petition to the Ambassador. No one could shelter his hands from the shower of their kisses. They were the wives, daughters, and relations of two rich merchants; beautiful women, with brilliant black eyes, fair skins, scarlet lips, and very small hands. The two mothers, already old, had not a single white hair, and the fire of youth still burned in their eyes. Their dress was splendid and picturesque—a handkerchief of gorgeous colors bound about the forehead; a jacket of red cloth, trimmed with heavy gold braid; a sort of waistcoat all of gold embroidery; a short, narrow petticoat of green cloth, also bordered with gold; and a sash of red or blue silk around the waist. They looked like so many Asiatic princesses, and their splendor of attire contrasted oddly with their servile and obsequious manners. They all spoke Spanish. It was not until after some minutes that we observed that they had bare feet, and carried their yellow slippers under their arms.
“Why do you not wear your shoes?” I asked of one of the old women.
“What!” she said, in astonishment. “Do you not know that we Israelites must not wear shoes except in the Mellà, and that when we enter a Moorish city we must go barefoot?”