[Illustration: From a photograph from “France-Maroc"
Women watching a procession from a roof]
The young son of the house led me back across the
court, where the negresses were still shrieking and
scurrying, and passing to and fro like a stage-procession
with the vain paraphernalia of a tea that never came.
Our host still smiled from his cushions, resigned to
Oriental delays. To distract the impatient westerners,
a servant unhooked from the wall the cage of a gently-cooing
dove. It was brought to us, still cooing, and
looked at me with the same resigned and vacant eyes
as the ladies I had just left. As it was being
restored to its hook the slaves lolling about the
entrance scattered respectfully at the approach of
a handsome man of about thirty, with delicate features
and a black beard. Crossing the court, he stooped
to kiss the shoulder of our host, who introduced him
as his eldest son, the husband of one or two of the
little pale wives with whom I had been exchanging platitudes.
From the increasing agitation of the negresses it
became evident that the ceremony of tea-making had
been postponed till his arrival. A metal tray
bearing a Britannia samovar and tea-pot was placed
on the tiles of the court, and squatting beside it
the newcomer gravely proceeded to infuse the mint.
Suddenly the cotton hangings fluttered again, and a
tiny child in the scantest of smocks rushed out and
scampered across the court. Our venerable host,
stretching out rapturous arms, caught the fugitive
to his bosom, where the little boy lay like a squirrel,
watching us with great sidelong eyes. He was the
last-born of the patriarch, and the youngest brother
of the majestic bearded gentleman engaged in tea-making.
While he was still in his father’s arms two more
sons appeared: charming almond-eyed schoolboys
returning from their Koran-class, escorted by their
slaves. All the sons greeted each other affectionately,
and caressed with almost feminine tenderness the dancing
baby so lately added to their ranks; and finally, to
crown this scene of domestic intimacy, the three negresses,
their gigantic effort at last accomplished, passed
about glasses of steaming mint and trays of gazelles’
horns and white sugar-cakes.
IN MARRAKECH
The farther one travels from the Mediterranean and
Europe the closer the curtains of the women’s
quarters are drawn. The only harem in which we
were allowed an interpreter was that of the Sultan
himself, in the private harems of Fez and Rabat a
French-speaking relative transmitted (or professed
to transmit) our remarks; in Marrakech, the great nobleman
and dignitary who kindly invited me to visit his household
was deaf to our hint that the presence of a lady from
one of the French government schools might facilitate
our intercourse.
