“That was my little grandson, Muli Hassan, going out for his afternoon’s airing. All those people hanging about were waiting to see him start. To them he is not only a noble, but a sacred person. My husband was of a great family. He was descended from the Prophet,—but I am of the oldest family in the world; I am of the Adam and Eve connection!” Her eyes danced as she said it. “In certain respects, my grandchildren are brought up English fashion, as my children were. When my oldest boy was perhaps twelve days old, my mother, who had come out from England to be with me, thought that it might please my husband’s old nurse to see the baby have his bath; so she called her into my room. My husband was asleep in a neighboring room. Suddenly he was waked by the old nurse, she was past eighty, shaking him by the arm—usually she would not have dared to disturb him—and crying:
“Come, come quickly! The Christians are murdering your son, they are drowning him!”
My husband hurried to my room. “What does this mean?” he cried out. When he found out what it meant, he threw himself down on the divan and laughed till he cried.
When we had finished our tea, my hostess took me into the part of the house where her son’s wife, the mother of Muli Hassan, lives. As she was receiving native visitors in the reception room, the Lady of Tangiers showed me into the bedroom; a large, handsome, airy room with windows opening seawards, and comfortable brass beds. We had not been there long,—I had not had time to take in half the beauty of the outlook from those windows,—when I heard behind me the soft patter of bare feet on the tiled floor, and the daughter-in-law was at my side. She was a pretty woman, with a refined, intelligent face, who received me with a charming Oriental reverence. The nails of her hands and feet were reddened with henna, otherwise she was not painted. She wore a pretty, simple, green tissue robe, with a robe of dotted muslin over it.
“May thy day be white as milk,” was her first greeting. Then, “How is thy health?”
“She is sorry she cannot speak your language,” said the Lady of Tangiers, “you must not think her an uneducated person on that account. She reads and writes Arabic beautifully.”
The young woman was in mourning for a relative: she would wear it for forty days, she told me. Her mourning consisted of not wearing silk or jewels,—the most sensible mourning I ever heard of. She was so fair, except for her melting eyes and coal-black eyebrows, that in European dress she might easily have passed for an Italian. As the other guests were waiting for the daughter-in-law, our visit to her was short.
“Yalla bina,” now let us go, said the elder woman.
“To Allah’s protection,” said the mother of Muli Hassan.
We returned to the English drawing-room, where I stayed as long, perhaps longer, than good manners allowed, while the Lady of Tangiers told me things that I hope she will some day tell the world. While I was listening, entranced, there came the sound of a childish voice crying “Grandmama!” The little Prince Muli Hassan had come back from his ride. I had stayed an unconscionable time, and my visit, the most interesting episode in all those interesting Moroccan days, had to come to an end!