[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.

VI

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.