After visiting her cases Miss Banks suggested something of a change, and we turned into the best part of Tetuan, to pay a call upon one of the first families in Morocco, the head of which is now dead. B—— was probably the most wealthy and enlightened Moor in the city: he was once employed by Government, and he made his little pile; but he had never married—or, rather, his only marriage had ended in a speedy divorce; and most of his life he had been able to afford to keep a galaxy of slaves, whom he had freed in time, and whose offspring represent the family to-day.
The name of the chief of his slaves, and the mistress of the dead man's house at the present moment, is Fatima. Fatima has a history. B—— possessed twenty white slaves: they were chiefly stolen from villages in the south, and they passed into his hands; but his treasures were two beautiful Circassian women from Turkey, one of whom he sent to the late Sultan (who is the mother of the present Sultan), the other he kept for himself—Fatima. Fatima early showed a disposition far from humble, and B—— spoilt her. At last he made her head of his house and all his slaves. One day she caused two of these women to be beaten in such a manner that one of them died. The other vowed revenge; went to B——, and told him that she had seen Fatima looking through a window at a man in the garden below. Considering that a woman of superior class must not look out of her window, though the prospect be an arid yard, the statement was calculated to rouse B——. Brought up on such proverbs as "When the bee hums and the buttermilk ferments, place, O brother, a halter on thy little daughter," and to consider women "the nearest roads to hell," B—— took prompt and drastic measures. He chained Fatima up to a pillar for three months, and fed her on bread and water. Her eldest daughter was to be married. Fatima was released and told she might attend the wedding, but only as the equal of the lowest slave, and dressed as such. She said that she had been accustomed to mixing with the first-born of Tetuan as an equal, and she would go among them as nothing else. To break Fatima's pride, B—— married a wife; but the wiles of his old favourite were too strong for him, and he gave her presents, including a gold bracelet. The indignant wife, furious at her husband's attentions to a mere slave, got a divorce and left B——; whereupon he fell into the arms of Fatima, and she graciously consented to become once more head of his house. She is now the proudest woman in Tetuan, inclined to look upon the missionaries and European women in general as dust under her feet. Her ignorance is unbounded. "India!" she said to Miss Hubbard. "You say all India belongs to you English. You may well wish it did. You've only got one port."
Meanwhile, we had reached the door of this famous lady's house, and were clanging the great knocker. It was superior to any door we had "wakened" that afternoon—made of pale, cinnamon-coloured wood, and immensely wide, carved up above and brightened with great fork-like hinges and nail-heads as large as pennies. A vastly stout slave, smart in proportion, opened the door, and said something in Arabic to Miss Banks, which, translated, intimated that a large tea party was going on within. She led us along far-reaching, wide passages, which at length opened out into an extensive patio, paved with great black and white marble tiles, like a giant chess-board. A double row of finely tiled pillars supported the roof, and a fountain shot up water in the centre of all. The style of the building suggested that the dead man had known how to spend some of his money, and to make for himself a place refined and romantic rather than gorgeous.
Stepping down the cool aisles between the pillars, the slave took us towards a room opening out of the patio; and such a room!—hung with embroideries, surrounded with luxurious divans worked in scarlet and white, carpeted with deep-piled carpets, and yet no more than a mere setting for the fantastic butterfly world which seemed let loose inside. Tetuan's most aristocratic women, scented favourites of Moorish society, kept in lavender and reared on sugar and orange-flower water, are not among those things which one easily forgets. About twelve of them or more—enough to dazzle and not bewilder, furnish to perfection yet avoid a crush—were half reclining on the divans round the room. Fatima was on our immediate left as we entered; a holy Sharīfa on the right; the daughter of another Sharīf sat beyond her. The circle was one of Sanctity and Rank.
We shook hands with the mistress of the house, and were motioned to take our seats on the divan exactly opposite her.
Fatima was no disappointment. She suggested much, and more than fulfilled the promise of her history. She was pale and dark, with a little head like a snake's, thin sarcastic lips, and eyes full of smouldering devil. Two silver trays stood in front of her, covered with fragile porcelain cups and thin gilded cut-glass, with a silver-topped box full of fragrant mint, another quaint box containing fine green tea, an enormous cut-glass sugar-basin heaped with small rocks of white sugar, two silver embossed and steaming teapots, some scent-sprinklers and incense-burners of silver. At her elbow, on the floor, was the largest silver urn I ever saw, capable of supplying half a dozen school feasts; down the room, in a line, upon the carpets, stood round baskets, three feet in diameter, filled with palest cream-coloured bracelet-shaped loaves of bread, made of too fine and white a flour and too perfectly baked for any but the upper ten to indulge in. The centre basket contained perhaps fifty cakes—nothing on a small scale here—made of thin flaked pastry, iced over with sugar, filled with a confectionery of almonds, and quinces, and raisins, and orange-flower water, and an essence, one drop of which cost five shillings. These take a day to make, and are only met with in an elaborate ménage. Other tarts, lavishly coated with a snow of white sugar, contained jams and nuts and all the sweet things dear to the Moorish heart.
The movements of Fatima's small hands among the cups, covered with rings, each polished nail just touched with a half-moon of dark red henna, were born of dolce far niente, backed by a long line famous for their beauty: her restless black eyes alternately gleamed with cruelty and cunning; flashed with passion; grew sad as it is given to few eyes to grow.
Many embroidered buttons, as edgings in front, betokened garment within garment, which she wore, all of them at last confined by a broad, richly worked belt; her kaftan was of lemon-yellow, shining with silver borderings; the muslin "overall" was the thinnest atmosphere of white; there were many necklaces, chiefly pearl, round her neck, and, most characteristic of all, a tiny yellow silk handkerchief was knotted once round her throat; on her black head, colour ran riot in silks of all shades, tied and twisted and arranged as only a Moorish hand knows; her feet were wrapped in a soft pale yellow shawl, embroidered. She did not get up when we came in.
Multiply Fatima twelve times, in colours more opulent and more bizarre than her own, instead of her lithe figure, picture stone upon stone of sleek flesh, and some idea of the epicureanism of the scene is arrived at. Sitting on each side of us were two of the fattest women I have ever seen.
