Miss Banks and I seated ourselves on a wooden rail, which was part of a manger or a sheep-pen. These Riffis had been forced by famine to abandon their home and come down into Tetuan, where at first they had lived in a cave, on roots principally. The father would go out and hoe when he could get work—every land-owner has hoeing to be done; but lately he had had fever. The boy had an abscess, and could not move. In spite of it he smiled cheerfully, and was delighted with a new red jellab which Miss Banks brought him. Poor little chap! he did not live to wear it. I gave him a trifle to buy food. Beyond the dried beans in course of being ground, and half a lemon, there was no sign of anything to eat. Beans and lemons to fight an abscess!
Straw for Sale.
After Miss Banks had attended to the child, we took our way to the house of a Moorish doctor, who had been unable to cure himself, and had sent in desperation for his European rival.
He was lying on a divan upstairs, himself the colour of oatmeal porridge, with his wife attending to him; and he had a terrible sore on his thigh. This was duly attended to. The long fast of Rámadhan might partly account for his state of health. In spite of his faith in Miss Banks, which he would sooner have died than acknowledged, he had unbounded confidence in his own skill as a doctor.
We asked him if he could read.
"Read? No. Why should he read? What was the use of reading? The thing you wanted to do was to remember. Now he, if he was doctoring any one, he would try first this herb and then that. This herb no good. Try another. Another no good. Another no good. He might try twelve herbs, and all no good. And the thirteenth herb would be good. And then he would remember that herb. Why! all his doctoring he taught himself . . ."
A rough sort of doctoring it is too, consisting of two remedies—a violent purge, or else burning with a hot iron. Every sore place is burnt; and for all sorts of illnesses, in cases of rheumatism, etc., etc., the patient is scored, perhaps all over his chest or back—"fired" like a horse. Sores are always cauterized. Bullets are never extracted. Wounds are bound up with earth and rags. A serious gunshot wound, means death. Certainly there is a wide field for women doctors in Morocco.
From this house we went on to one where the father, mother, and children were all having a meal—a poverty-stricken family again, where one of the children was wasting away with fever. The rest of the party were sitting round an earthenware pan, which was full of mallow leaves, stewed in native oil, with red pepper and garlic in huge quantities. They were dipping in their fingers, fishing out the greasy mallow and garlic, and laying it on their brown native bread and eating it. They insisted upon our joining them. It is no excuse to say "I have dined lately," for a Moor eats at any time, when there happens to be food. Miss Banks tasted the stew with a heroism worthy the noblest end.
We went on to the house of a man who has one of the best shops in Tetuan. It was consequently comfortable, and delightfully fresh-looking. The master of the house was in bed with fever—that is to say, we found him reclining on a divan on the floor, beside a gorgeous bed, with a lily-white turban fresh from the wash-tub wound round his head. We sat down on the divan running round the room, and Miss Banks was glad to hear that her patient had at last consented to take quinine. He was worn-looking, with small black beard and moustache. Moors, like every effete people, are unable to grow a great quantity of hair on their faces.