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IN MOROCCO

BY

EDITH WHARTON

ILLUSTRATED

1920






[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez Elbah from the ramparts]




[Illustration]



TO GENERAL LYAUTEY

RESIDENT GENERAL OF FRANCE IN MOROCCO AND TO MADAME LYAUTEY

THANKS TO WHOSE KINDNESS THE JOURNEY I HAD SO LONG DREAMED OF SURPASSED
WHAT I HAD DREAMED



PREFACE


I

Having begun my book with the statement that Morocco still lacks a
guide-book, I should have wished to take a first step toward remedying
that deficiency.

But the conditions in which I travelled, though full of unexpected and
picturesque opportunities, were not suited to leisurely study of the
places visited. The time was limited by the approach of the rainy
season, which puts an end to motoring over the treacherous trails of the
Spanish zone. In 1918, owing to the watchfulness of German submarines in
the Straits and along the northwest coast of Africa, the trip by sea
from Marseilles to Casablanca, ordinarily so easy, was not to be made
without much discomfort and loss of time. Once on board the steamer,
passengers were often kept in port (without leave to land) for six or
eight days; therefore for any one bound by a time-limit, as most
war-workers were, it was necessary to travel across country, and to be
back at Tangier before the November rains.

This left me only one month in which to visit Morocco from the
Mediterranean to the High Atlas, and from the Atlantic to Fez, and even
had there been a Djinn's carpet to carry me, the multiplicity of
impressions received would have made precise observation difficult.

The next best thing to a Djinn's carpet, a military motor, was at my
disposal every morning; but war conditions imposed restrictions, and the
wish to use the minimum of petrol often stood in the way of the second
visit which alone makes it possible to carry away a definite and
detailed impression.

These drawbacks were more than offset by the advantage of making my
quick trip at a moment unique in the history of the country; the brief
moment of transition between its virtually complete subjection to
European authority, and the fast approaching hour when it is thrown open
to all the banalities and promiscuities of modern travel.

Morocco is too curious, too beautiful, too rich in landscape and
architecture, and above all too much of a novelty, not to attract one of
the main streams of spring travel as soon as Mediterranean passenger
traffic is resumed. Now that the war is over, only a few months' work on
roads and railways divide it from the great torrent of "tourism"; and
once that deluge is let loose, no eye will ever again see Moulay Idriss
and Fez and Marrakech as I saw them.

In spite of the incessant efforts of the present French administration
to preserve the old monuments of Morocco from injury, and her native
arts and industries from the corruption of European bad taste, the
impression of mystery and remoteness which the country now produces must
inevitably vanish with the approach of the "Circular Ticket." Within a
few years far more will be known of the past of Morocco, but that past
will be far less visible to the traveller than it is to-day. Excavations
will reveal fresh traces of Roman and Phenician occupation; the remote
affinities between Copts and Berbers, between Bagdad and Fez, between
Byzantine art and the architecture of the Souss, will be explored and
elucidated, but, while these successive discoveries are being made, the
strange survival of mediaeval life, of a life contemporary with the
crusaders, with Saladin, even with the great days of the Caliphate of
Bagdad, which now greets the astonished traveller, will gradually
disappear, till at last even the mysterious autocthones of the Atlas
will have folded their tents and silently stolen away.


II

Authoritative utterances on Morocco are not wanting for those who can
read them in French, but they are to be found mainly in large and often
inaccessible books, like M. Doutté's "En Tribu," the Marquis de
Segonzac's remarkable explorations in the Atlas, or Foucauld's classic
(but unobtainable) "Reconnaissance au Maroc", and few, if any, have been
translated into English.

M. Louis Châtelain has dealt with the Roman ruins of Volubilis and M.
Tranchant de Lunel, M. Raymond Koechlin, M. Gaillard, M. Ricard, and
many other French scholars, have written of Moslem architecture and art
in articles published either in "France-Maroc," as introductions to
catalogues of exhibitions, or in the reviews and daily papers. Pierre
Loti and M. André Chevrillon have reflected, with the intensest visual
sensibility, the romantic and ruinous Morocco of yesterday, and in the
volumes of the "Conférences Marocaines," published by the French
government, the experts gathered about the Resident-General have
examined the industrial and agricultural Morocco of tomorrow. Lastly,
one striking book sums up, with the clearness and consecutiveness of
which French scholarship alone possesses the art, the chief things to be
said on all these subjects, save that of art and archaeology. This is M.
Augustin Bernard's volume, "Le Maroc," the one portable and compact yet
full and informing book since Leo Africanus described the bazaars of
Fez. But M. Augustin Bernard deals only with the ethnology, the social,
religious and political history, and the physical properties, of the
country; and this, though "a large order," leaves out the visual and
picturesque side, except in so far as the book touches on the always
picturesque life of the people.

For the use, therefore, of the happy wanderers who may be planning a
Moroccan journey, I have added to the record of my personal impressions
a slight sketch of the history and art of the country. In extenuation of
the attempt I must add that the chief merit of this sketch will be its
absence of originality. Its facts will be chiefly drawn from the pages
of M. Augustin Bernard, M. H. Saladin, and M. Gaston Migeon, and the
rich sources of the "Conférences Marocaines" and the articles of
"France-Maroc." It will also be deeply indebted to information given on
the spot by the brilliant specialists of the French administration, to
the Marquis de Segonzac, with whom I had the good luck to travel from
Rabat to Marrakech and back; to M. Alfred de Tarde, editor of
"France-Maroc"; to M. Tranchant de Lunel, director of the French School
of Fine Arts in Morocco; to M. Goulven, the historian of Portuguese
Mazagan, to M. Louis Châtelain, and to the many other cultivated and
cordial French officials, military and civilian, who, at each stage of
my journey, did their amiable best to answer my questions and open my
eyes.




NOTE


In the writing of proper names and of other Arab words the French
spelling has been followed.

In the case of proper names, and names of cities and districts, this
seems justified by the fact that they occur in a French colony, where
French usage naturally prevails, and to spell _Oudjda_ in the French
way, and _koubba_, for instance, in the English form of _kubba_, would
cause needless confusion as to their respective pronunciation. It seems
therefore simpler, in a book written for the ordinary traveller, to
conform altogether to French usage.




TABLE OF CONTENTS


PREFACE

   I. RABAT AND SALÉ

  II. VOLUBILIS, MOULAY IDRISS AND MEKNEZ

 III. FEZ

  IV. MARRAKECH

   V. HAREMS AND CEREMONIES

  VI. GENERAL LYAUTEY'S WORK IN MOROCCO

 VII. A SKETCH OF MOROCCAN HISTORY

VIII. NOTE ON MOROCCAN ARCHITECTURE

  IX. BOOKS CONSULTED

INDEX




ILLUSTRATIONS


FEZ ELBALI FROM THE RAMPARTS

GENERAL VIEW FROM THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT

INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT

ENTRANCE OF THE MEDERSA--SALÉ

MARKET-PLACE OUTSIDE THE TOWN--SALÉ

CHELLA--RUINS OF MOSQUE--SALÉ

THE WESTERN PORTICO OF THE BASILICA OF ANTONIUS
PIUS--VOLUBILIS

MOULAY IDRISS

THE MARKET-PLACE--MOULAY IDRISS

MARKET-PLACE ON THE DAY OF THE RITUAL DANCE OF
THE HAMADCHAS--MOULAY IDRISS

THE MARKET-PLACE PROCESSION OF THE CONFRATERNITY
OF THE HAMADCHAS--MOULAY IDRISS

GATE: "BAB-MANSOUR"--MEKNEZ

THE RUINS OF THE PALACE OF MOULAY-ISMAEL--MEKNEZ

FEZ ELDJID

A REED-ROOFED STREET--FEZ

THE NEDJARINE FOUNTAIN--FEZ

THE BAZAARS: A VIEW OF THE SOUK EL ATTARINE AND
THE QUAISARYA--FEZ

THE "LITTLE GARDEN" IN BACKGROUND, PALACE OF
THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH

THE GREAT COURT, PALACE OF THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH

APARTMENT OF THE GRAND VIZIER'S FAVORITE, PALACE
OF THE BAHIA--MARRAKECH

A FONDAK--MARRAKECH

MAUSOLEUM OF THE SAADIAN SULTANS SHOWING THE
TOMBS--MARRAKECH

THE SULTAN OF MOROCCO UNDER THE GREEN UMBRELLA

A CLAN OF MOUNTAINEERS AND THEIR CAÏD

THE SULTAN ENTERING MARRAKECH IN STATE

WOMEN WATCHING A PROCESSION FROM A ROOF

A STREET FOUNTAIN--MARRAKECH

GATE OF THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS--RABAT

MEDERSA BOUANYANA--FEZ

THE PRAYING-CHAPEL IN THE MEDERSA EL ATTARINE--FEZ

INTERIOR COURT OF THE MEDERSA--SALÉ

THE GATE OF THE PORTUGUESE--MARRAKECH

MAP

THE PART OF MOROCCO VISITED BY MRS. WHARTON




I


RABAT AND SALÉ


I

LEAVING TANGIER

To step on board a steamer in a Spanish port, and three hours later to
land in _a country without a guide-book_, is a sensation to rouse the
hunger of the repletest sight-seer.

The sensation is attainable by any one who will take the trouble to row
out into the harbour of Algeciras and scramble onto a little black boat
headed across the straits. Hardly has the rock of Gibraltar turned to
cloud when one's foot is on the soil of an almost unknown Africa.
Tangier, indeed, is in the guide-books; but, cuckoo-like, it has had to
lays its eggs in strange nests, and the traveller who wants to find out
about it must acquire a work dealing with some other country--Spain or
Portugal or Algeria. There is no guide-book to Morocco, and no way of
knowing, once one has left Tangier behind, where the long trail over the
Rif is going to land one, in the sense understood by any one accustomed
to European certainties. The air of the unforeseen blows on one from the
roadless passes of the Atlas.

This feeling of adventure is heightened by the contrast between
Tangier--cosmopolitan, frowsy, familiar Tangier, that every tourist has
visited for the last forty years--and the vast unknown just beyond. One
has met, of course, travellers who have been to Fez; but they have gone
there on special missions, under escort, mysteriously, perhaps
perilously; the expedition has seemed, till lately, a considerable
affair. And when one opens the records of Moroccan travellers written
within the last twenty years, how many, even of the most adventurous,
are found to have gone beyond Fez? And what, to this day, do the names
of Meknez and Marrakech, of Mogador, Saffi or Rabat, signify to any but
a few students of political history, a few explorers and naturalists?
Not till within the last year has Morocco been open to travel from
Tangier to the Great Atlas, and from Moulay Idriss to the Atlantic.
Three years ago Christians were being massacred in the streets of Salé,
the pirate town across the river from Rabat, and two years ago no
European had been allowed to enter the Sacred City of Moulay Idriss, the
burial-place of the lawful descendant of Ali, founder of the Idrissite
dynasty. Now, thanks to the energy and the imagination of one of the
greatest of colonial administrators, the country, at least in the French
zone, is as safe and open as the opposite shore of Spain. All that
remains is to tell the traveller how to find his way about it.

Ten years ago there was not a wheeled vehicle in Morocco, now its
thousands of miles of trail, and its hundreds of miles of firm French
roads, are travelled by countless carts, omnibuses and motor-vehicles.
There are light railways from Rabat to Fez in the west, and to a point
about eighty-five kilometres from Marrakech in the south, and it is
possible to say that within a year a regular railway system will connect
eastern Morocco with western Algeria, and the ports of Tangier and
Casablanca with the principal points of the interior.

What, then, prevents the tourist from instantly taking ship at Bordeaux
or Algeciras and letting loose his motor on this new world? Only the
temporary obstacles which the war has everywhere put in the way of
travel. Till these are lifted it will hardly be possible to travel in
Morocco except by favour of the Resident-General; but, normal conditions
once restored, the country will be as accessible, from the straits of
Gibraltar to the Great Atlas, as Algeria or Tunisia.

To see Morocco during the war was therefore to see it in the last phase
of its curiously abrupt transition from remoteness and danger to
security and accessibility; at a moment when its aspect and its customs
were still almost unaffected by European influences, and when the
"Christian" might taste the transient joy of wandering unmolested in
cities of ancient mystery and hostility, whose inhabitants seemed hardly
aware of his intrusion.



II

THE TRAIL TO EL-KSAR

With such opportunities ahead it was impossible, that brilliant morning
of September, 1917, not to be off quickly from Tangier, impossible to do
justice to the pale-blue town piled up within brown walls against the
thickly-foliaged gardens of "the Mountain," to the animation of its
market-place and the secret beauties of its steep Arab streets. For
Tangier swarms with people in European clothes, there are English,
French and Spanish signs above its shops, and cab-stands in its squares;
it belongs, as much as Algiers, to the familiar dog-eared world of
travel--and there, beyond the last dip of "the Mountain," lies the world
of mystery, with the rosy dawn just breaking over it. The motor is at
the door and we are off.

The so-called Spanish zone, which encloses internationalized Tangier in
a wide circuit of territory, extends southward for a distance of about a
hundred and fifteen kilometres. Consequently, when good roads traverse
it, French Morocco will be reached in less than two hours by
motor-travellers bound for the south. But for the present Spanish
enterprise dies out after a few miles of macadam (as it does even
between Madrid and Toledo), and the tourist is committed to the _piste_.
These _pistes_--the old caravan-trails from the south--are more
available to motors in Morocco than in southern Algeria and Tunisia,
since they run mostly over soil which, though sandy in part, is bound
together by a tough dwarf vegetation, and not over pure desert sand.
This, however, is the utmost that can be said of the Spanish _pistes_.
In the French protectorate constant efforts are made to keep the trails
fit for wheeled traffic, but Spain shows no sense of a corresponding
obligation.

After leaving the macadamized road which runs south from Tangier one
seems to have embarked on a petrified ocean in a boat hardly equal to
the adventure. Then, as one leaps and plunges over humps and ruts, down
sheer banks into rivers, and up precipices into sand-pits, one gradually
gains faith in one's conveyance and in one's spinal column; but both
must be sound in every joint to resist the strain of the long miles to
Arbaoua, the frontier post of the French protectorate.

Luckily there are other things to think about. At the first turn out of
Tangier, Europe and the European disappear, and as soon as the motor
begins to dip and rise over the arid little hills beyond the last
gardens one is sure that every figure on the road will be picturesque
instead of prosaic, every garment graceful instead of grotesque. One
knows, too, that there will be no more omnibuses or trams or
motorcyclists, but only long lines of camels rising up in brown friezes
against the sky, little black donkeys trotting across the scrub under
bulging pack-saddles, and noble draped figures walking beside them or
majestically perching on their rumps. And for miles and miles there will
be no more towns--only, at intervals on the naked slopes, circles of
rush-roofed huts in a blue stockade of cactus, or a hundred or two nomad
tents of black camel's hair resting on walls of wattled thorn and
grouped about a terebinth-tree and a well.

[Illustration: map of Morocco]

Between these nomad colonies lies the _bled_, the immense waste of
fallow land and palmetto desert: an earth as void of life as the sky
above it of clouds. The scenery is always the same; but if one has the
love of great emptinesses, and of the play of light on long stretches of
parched earth and rock, the sameness is part of the enchantment. In such
a scene every landmark takes on an extreme value. For miles one watches
the little white dome of a saint's grave rising and disappearing with
the undulations of the trail; at last one is abreast of it, and the
solitary tomb, alone with its fig-tree and its broken well-curb, puts a
meaning into the waste. The same importance, but intensified, marks the
appearance of every human figure. The two white-draped riders passing
single file up the red slope to that ring of tents on the ridge have a
mysterious and inexplicable importance: one follows their progress with
eyes that ache with conjecture. More exciting still is the encounter of
the first veiled woman heading a little cavalcade from the south. All
the mystery that awaits us looks out through the eye-slits in the
grave-clothes muffling her. Where have they come from, where are they
going, all these slow wayfarers out of the unknown? Probably only from
one thatched _douar_[A] to another; but interminable distances unroll
behind them, they breathe of Timbuctoo and the farthest desert. Just
such figures must swarm in the Saharan cities, in the Soudan and
Senegal. There is no break in the links: these wanderers have looked on
at the building of cities that were dust when the Romans pushed their
outposts across the Atlas.

[Footnote A: Village of tents. The village of mud-huts is called a
_nourwal_.]



III

EL-KSAR TO RABAT

A town at last--its nearness announced by the multiplied ruts of the
trail, the cactus hedges, the fig-trees weighed down by dust leaning
over ruinous earthen walls. And here are the first houses of the
European El-Ksar--neat white Spanish houses on the slope outside the old
Arab settlement. Of the Arab town itself, above reed stockades and brown
walls, only a minaret and a few flat roofs are visible. Under the walls
drowse the usual gregarious Lazaruses; others, temporarily resuscitated,
trail their grave-clothes after a line of camels and donkeys toward the
olive-gardens outside the town.

The way to Rabat is long and difficult, and there is no time to visit
El-Ksar, though its minaret beckons so alluringly above the
fruit-orchards; so we stop for luncheon outside the walls, at a canteen
with a corrugated iron roof where skinny Spaniards are serving thick
purple wine and eggs fried in oil to a party of French soldiers. The
heat has suddenly become intolerable, and a flaming wind straight from
the south brings in at the door, with a cloud of blue flies, the smell
of camels and trampled herbs and the strong spices of the bazaars.

Luncheon over, we hurry on between the cactus hedges, and then plunge
back into the waste. Beyond El-Ksar the last hills of the Rif die away,
and there is a stretch of wilderness without an outline till the Lesser
Atlas begins to rise in the east. Once in the French protectorate the
trail improves, but there are still difficult bits; and finally, on a
high plateau, the chauffeur stops in a web of criss-cross trails, throws
up his hands, and confesses that he has lost his way. The heat is mortal
at the moment. For the last hour the red breath of the sirocco has risen
from every hollow into which we dipped, now it hangs about us in the
open, as if we had caught it in our wheels and it had to pause above us
when we paused.

All around is the featureless wild land, palmetto scrub stretching away
into eternity. A few yards off rises the inevitable ruined _koubba_[A]
with its fig-tree: in the shade under its crumbling wall the buzz of the
flies is like the sound of frying. Farther off, we discern a cluster of
huts, and presently some Arab boys and a tall pensive shepherd come
hurrying across the scrub. They are full of good-will, and no doubt of
information; but our chauffeur speaks no Arabic and the talk dies down
into shrugs and head-shakings. The Arabs retire to the shade of the
wall, and we decide to start--for anywhere....

[Footnote A: Saint's tomb. The saint himself is called a _marabout_.]

The chauffeur turns the crank, but there is no responding quiver.
Something has gone wrong; we can't move, and it is not much comfort to
remember that, if we could, we should not know where to go. At least we
should be cooler in motion than sitting still under the blinding sky.

Such an adventure initiates one at the outset into the stern facts of
desert motoring. Every detail of our trip from Tangier to Rabat had been
carefully planned to keep us in unbroken contact with civilization. We
were to "tub" in one European hotel, and to dine in another, with just
enough picnicking between to give a touch of local colour. But let one
little cog slip and the whole plan falls to bits, and we are alone in
the old untamed Moghreb, as remote from Europe as any mediaeval
adventurer. If one lose one's way in Morocco, civilization vanishes as
though it were a magic carpet rolled up by a Djinn.

It is a good thing to begin with such a mishap, not only because it
develops the fatalism necessary to the enjoyment of Africa, but because
it lets one at once into the mysterious heart of the country, a country
so deeply conditioned by its miles and miles of uncitied wilderness that
until one has known the wilderness one cannot begin to understand the
cities.

We came to one at length, after sunset on that first endless day. The
motor, cleverly patched up, had found its way to a real road, and
speeding along between the stunted cork-trees of the forest of Mamora
brought us to a last rise from which we beheld in the dusk a line of
yellow walls backed by the misty blue of the Atlantic. Salé, the fierce
old pirate town, where Robinson Crusoe was so long a slave, lay before
us, snow-white in its cheese-coloured ramparts skirted by fig and olive
gardens. Below its gates a stretch of waste land, endlessly trailed over
by mules and camels, sloped down to the mouth of the Bou-Regreg, the
blue-brown river dividing it from Rabat. The motor stopped at the
landing-stage of the steam-ferry; crowding about it were droves of
donkeys, knots of camels, plump-faced merchants on crimson-saddled
mules, with negro servants at their bridles, bare-legged water-carriers
with hairy goat-skins slung over their shoulders, and Arab women in a
heap of veils, cloaks, mufflings, all of the same ashy white, the
caftans of clutched children peeping through in patches of old rose and
lilac and pale green.

Across the river the native town of Rabat lay piled up on an orange-red
cliff beaten by the Atlantic. Its walls, red too, plunged into the
darkening breakers at the mouth of the river, and behind it, stretching
up to the mighty tower of Hassan, and the ruins of the Great Mosque, the
scattered houses of the European city showed their many lights across
the plain.



IV

THE KASBAH OF THE OUDAYAS

Salé the white and Rabat the red frown at each other over the foaming
bar of the Bou-Regreg, each walled, terraced, minareted, and presenting
a singularly complete picture of the two types of Moroccan town, the
snowy and the tawny. To the gates of both the Atlantic breakers roll in
with the boom of northern seas, and under a misty northern sky. It is
one of the surprises of Morocco to find the familiar African pictures
bathed in this unfamiliar haze. Even the fierce midday sun does not
wholly dispel it--the air remains thick, opalescent, like water slightly
clouded by milk. One is tempted to say that Morocco is Tunisia seen by
moonlight.

The European town of Rabat, a rapidly developing community, lies almost
wholly outside the walls of the old Arab city. The latter, founded in
the twelfth century by the great Almohad conqueror of Spain,
Yacoub-el-Mansour, stretches its mighty walls to the river's mouth.
Thence they climb the cliff to enclose the Kasbah[A] of the Oudayas, a
troublesome tribe whom one of the Almohad Sultans, mistrusting their
good faith, packed up one day, flocks, tents and camels, and carried
across the _bled_ to stow them into these stout walls under his imperial
eye. Great crenellated ramparts, cyclopean, superb, follow the curve of
the cliff. On the landward side they are interrupted by a gate-tower
resting on one of the most nobly decorated of the horseshoe arches that
break the mighty walls of Moroccan cities. Underneath the tower the
vaulted entrance turns, Arab fashion, at right angles, profiling its red
arch against darkness and mystery. This bending of passages, so
characteristic a device of the Moroccan builder, is like an
architectural expression of the tortuous secret soul of the land.

[Footnote A: Citadel.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Rabat--general view from the Kasbah of the Oudayas]

Outside the Kasbah a narrow foot-path is squeezed between the walls and
the edge of the cliff. Toward sunset it looks down on a strange scene.
To the south of the citadel the cliff descends to a long dune sloping to
a sand-beach; and dune and beach are covered with the slanting
headstones of the immense Arab cemetery of El Alou. Acres and acres of
graves fall away from the red ramparts to the grey sea; and breakers
rolling straight from America send their spray across the lowest stones.

There are always things going on toward evening in an Arab cemetery. In
this one, travellers from the _bled_ are camping in one corner, donkeys
grazing (on heaven knows what), a camel dozing under its pack; in
another, about a new-made grave, there are ritual movements of muffled
figures and wailings of a funeral hymn half drowned by the waves. Near
us, on a fallen headstone, a man with a thoughtful face sits chatting
with two friends and hugging to his breast a tiny boy who looks like a
grasshopper in his green caftan; a little way off, a solitary
philosopher, his eye fixed on the sunset, lies on another grave, smoking
his long pipe of kif.

There is infinite sadness in this scene under the fading sky, beside the
cold welter of the Atlantic. One seems to be not in Africa itself, but
in the Africa that northern crusaders may have dreamed of in snow-bound
castles by colder shores of the same ocean. This is what Moghreb must
have looked like to the confused imagination of the Middle Ages, to
Norman knights burning to ransom the Holy Places, or Hansa merchants
devising, in steep-roofed towns, of Barbary and the long caravans
bringing apes and gold-powder from the south.


Inside the gate of the Kasbah one comes on more waste land and on other
walls--for all Moroccan towns are enclosed in circuit within circuit of
battlemented masonry. Then, unexpectedly, a gate in one of the inner
walls lets one into a tiled court enclosed in a traceried cloister and
overlooking an orange-grove that rises out of a carpet of roses. This
peaceful and well-ordered place is the interior of the Medersa (the
college) of the Oudayas. Morocco is full of these colleges, or rather
lodging-houses of the students frequenting the mosques, for all
Mahometan education is given in the mosque itself, only the preparatory
work being done in the colleges. The most beautiful of the Medersas date
from the earlier years of the long Merinid dynasty (1248-1548), the
period at which Moroccan art, freed from too distinctively Spanish and
Arab influences, began to develop a delicate grace of its own as far
removed from the extravagance of Spanish ornament as from the
inheritance of Roman-Byzantine motives that the first Moslem invasion
had brought with it from Syria and Mesopotamia.

These exquisite collegiate buildings, though still in use whenever they
are near a well-known mosque, have all fallen into a state of sordid
disrepair. The Moroccan Arab, though he continues to build--and
fortunately to build in the old tradition, which has never been
lost--has, like all Orientals, an invincible repugnance to repairing and
restoring, and one after another the frail exposed Arab structures, with
their open courts and badly constructed terrace-roofs, are crumbling
into ruin. Happily the French Government has at last been asked to
intervene, and all over Morocco the Medersas are being repaired with
skill and discretion. That of the Oudayas is already completely
restored, and as it had long fallen into disuse it has been transformed
by the Ministry of Fine Arts into a museum of Moroccan art.

The plan of the Medersas is always much the same: the eternal plan of
the Arab house, built about one or more arcaded courts, with long narrow
rooms enclosing them on the ground floor, and several stories above,
reached by narrow stairs, and often opening on finely carved cedar
galleries. The chief difference between the Medersa and the private
house, or even the _fondak_,[A] lies in the use to which the rooms are
put. In the Medersas, one of the ground-floor apartments is always
fitted up as a chapel, and shut off from the court by carved cedar doors
still often touched with old gilding and vermilion. There are always a
few students praying in the chapel, while others sit in the doors of the
upper rooms, their books on their knees, or lean over the carved
galleries chatting with their companions who are washing their feet at
the marble fountain in the court, preparatory to entering the chapel.

[Footnote A: The Moroccan inn or caravanserai.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph by Schmitt, Rabat_

Rabat--interior court of the Medersa of the Oudayas]

In the Medersa of the Oudayas, these native activities have been
replaced by the lifeless hush of a museum. The rooms are furnished with
old rugs, pottery, brasses, the curious embroidered hangings which line
the tents of the chiefs, and other specimens of Arab art. One room
reproduces a barber's shop in the bazaar, its benches covered with fine
matting, the hanging mirror inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the
razor-handles of silver _niello_. The horseshoe arches of the outer
gallery look out on orange-blossoms, roses and the sea. It is all
beautiful, calm and harmonious; and if one is tempted to mourn the
absence of life and local colour, one has only to visit an abandoned
Medersa to see that, but for French intervention, the charming
colonnades and cedar chambers of the college of the Oudayas would by
this time be a heap of undistinguished rubbish--for plaster and rubble
do not "die in beauty" like the firm stones of Rome.



V

ROBINSON CRUSOE'S "SALLEE"

Before Morocco passed under the rule of the great governor who now
administers it, the European colonists made short work of the beauty and
privacy of the old Arab towns in which they established themselves.

On the west coast, especially, where the Mediterranean peoples, from the
Phenicians to the Portuguese, have had trading-posts for over two
thousand years, the harm done to such seaboard towns as Tangier, Rabat
and Casablanca is hard to estimate. The modern European colonist
apparently imagined that to plant his warehouses, _cafés_ and
cinema-palaces within the walls which for so long had fiercely excluded
him was the most impressive way of proclaiming his domination.

Under General Lyautey such views are no longer tolerated. Respect for
native habits, native beliefs and native architecture is the first
principle inculcated in the civil servants attached to his
administration. Not only does he require that the native towns shall be
kept intact, and no European building erected within them; a sense of
beauty not often vouchsafed to Colonial governors causes him to place
the administration buildings so far beyond the walls that the modern
colony grouped around them remains entirely distinct from the old town,
instead of growing out of it like an ugly excrescence.

The Arab quarter of Rabat was already irreparably disfigured when
General Lyautey came to Morocco; but ferocious old Salé, Phenician
counting-house and breeder of Barbary pirates, had been saved from
profanation by its Moslem fanaticism. Few Christian feet had entered its
walls except those of the prisoners who, like Robinson Crusoe, slaved
for the wealthy merchants in its mysterious terraced houses. Not till
two or three years ago was it completely pacified; and when it opened
its gates to the infidel it was still, as it is to-day, the type of the
untouched Moroccan city--so untouched that, with the sunlight
irradiating its cream-coloured walls and the blue-white domes above
them, it rests on its carpet of rich fruit-gardens like some rare
specimen of Arab art on a strip of old Oriental velvet.

Within the walls, the magic persists: which does not always happen when
one penetrates into the mirage-like cities of Arabian Africa. Salé has
the charm of extreme compactness. Crowded between the river-mouth and
the sea, its white and pale-blue houses almost touch across the narrow
streets, and the reed-thatched bazaars seem like miniature reductions of
the great trading labyrinths of Tunis or Fez.

Everything that the reader of the Arabian Nights expects to find is
here: the whitewashed niches wherein pale youths sit weaving the fine
mattings for which the town is still famous; the tunnelled passages
where indolent merchants with bare feet crouch in their little kennels
hung with richly ornamented saddlery and arms, or with slippers of pale
citron leather and bright embroidered _babouches_, the stalls with
fruit, olives, tunny-fish, vague syrupy sweets, candles for saints'
tombs, Mantegnesque garlands of red and green peppers, griddle-cakes
sizzling on red-hot pans, and all the varied wares and cakes and
condiments that the lady in the tale of the Three Calanders went out to
buy, that memorable morning in the market of Bagdad.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Salé--entrance of the Medersa]

Only at Salé all is on a small scale: there is not much of any one
thing, except of the exquisite matting. The tide of commerce has ebbed
from the intractable old city, and one feels, as one watches the
listless purchasers in her little languishing bazaars, that her long
animosity against the intruder has ended by destroying her own life.

The feeling increases when one leaves the bazaar for the streets
adjoining it. An even deeper hush than that which hangs over the
well-to-do quarters of all Arab towns broods over these silent
thoroughfares, with heavy-nailed doors barring half-ruined houses. In a
steep deserted square one of these doors opens its panels of
weather-silvered cedar on the court of the frailest, ghostliest of
Medersas--mere carved and painted shell of a dead house of learning.
Mystic interweavings of endless lines, patient patterns interminably
repeated in wood and stone and clay, all are here, from the tessellated
paving of the court to the honeycombing of the cedar roof through which
a patch of sky shows here and there like an inset of turquoise tiling.

This lovely ruin is in the safe hands of the French Fine Arts
administration, and soon the wood-carvers and stucco-workers of Fez will
have revived its old perfection; but it will never again be more than a
show-Medersa, standing empty and unused beside the mosque behind whose
guarded doors and high walls one guesses that the old religious
fanaticism of Salé is dying also, as her learning and her commerce have
died.

In truth the only life in her is centred in the market-place outside the
walls, where big expanding Rabat goes on certain days to provision
herself. The market of Salé, though typical of all Moroccan markets, has
an animation and picturesqueness of its own. Its rows of white tents
pitched on a dusty square between the outer walls and the fruit-gardens
make it look as though a hostile tribe had sat down to lay siege to the
town, but the army is an army of hucksters, of farmers from the rich
black lands along the river, of swarthy nomads and leather-gaitered
peasant women from the hills, of slaves and servants and tradesmen from
Rabat and Salé; a draped, veiled, turbaned mob shrieking, bargaining,
fist-shaking, call on Allah to witness the monstrous villanies of the
misbegotten miscreants they are trading with, and then, struck with the
mysterious Eastern apathy, sinking down in languid heaps of muslin among
the black figs, purple onions and rosy melons, the fluttering hens, the
tethered goats, the whinnying foals, that are all enclosed in an outer
circle of folded-up camels and of mules dozing under faded crimson
saddles.

[Illustration: _From a photograph by Schmitt, Rabat_

Salé--market-place outside the town]



VI

CHELLA AND THE GREAT MOSQUE

The Merinid Sultans of Rabat had a terribly troublesome neighbour across
the Bou-Regreg, and they built Chella to keep an eye on the pirates of
Salé. But Chella has fallen like a Babylonian city triumphed over by the
prophets; while Salé, sly, fierce and irrepressible, continued till well
on in the nineteenth century to breed pirates and fanatics.

The ruins of Chella lie on the farther side of the plateau above the
native town of Rabat. The mighty wall enclosing them faces the city wall
of Rabat, looking at it across one of those great red powdery wastes
which seem, in this strange land, like death and the desert forever
creeping up to overwhelm the puny works of man.

The red waste is scored by countless trains of donkeys carrying water
from the springs of Chella, by long caravans of mules and camels, and by
the busy motors of the French administration; yet there emanates from it
an impression of solitude and decay which even the prosaic tinkle of the
trams jogging out from the European town to the Exhibition grounds above
the sea cannot long dispel.

Perpetually, even in the new thriving French Morocco, the outline of a
ruin or the look in a pair of eyes shifts the scene, rends the thin veil
of the European Illusion, and confronts one with the old grey Moslem
reality. Passing under the gate of Chella, with its richly carved
corbels and lofty crenellated towers, one feels one's self thus
completely reabsorbed into the past.

Below the gate the ground slopes away, bare and blazing, to a hollow
where a little blue-green minaret gleams through fig-trees, and
fragments of arch and vaulting reveal the outline of a ruined mosque.

Was ever shade so blue-black and delicious as that of the cork-tree near
the spring where the donkey's water-cans are being filled? Under its
branches a black man in a blue shirt lies immovably sleeping in the
dust. Close by women and children splash and chatter about the spring,
and the dome of a saint's tomb shines through lustreless leaves. The
black man, the donkeys, the women and children, the saint's dome, are
all part of the inimitable Eastern scene in which inertia and agitation
are so curiously combined, and a surface of shrill noise flickers over
depths of such unfathomable silence.

The ruins of Chella belong to the purest period of Moroccan art. The
tracery of the broken arches is all carved in stone or in glazed
turquoise tiling, and the fragments of wall and vaulting have the firm
elegance of a classic ruin. But what would even their beauty be without
the leafy setting of the place? The "unimaginable touch of Time" gives
Chella its peculiar charm: the aged fig-tree clamped in uptorn tiles and
thrusting gouty arms between the arches; the garlanding of vines flung
from column to column; the secret pool to which childless women are
brought to bathe, and where the tree springing from a cleft of the steps
is always hung with the bright bits of stuff which are the votive
offerings of Africa.

The shade, the sound of springs, the terraced orange-garden with irises
blooming along channels of running water, all this greenery and coolness
in the hollow of a fierce red hill make Chella seem, to the traveller
new to Africa, the very type and embodiment of its old contrasts of heat
and freshness, of fire and languor. It is like a desert traveller's
dream in his last fever.

Yacoub-el-Mansour was the fourth of the great Almohad Sultans who, in
the twelfth century, drove out the effete Almoravids, and swept their
victorious armies from Marrakech to Tunis and from Tangier to Madrid.
His grandfather, Abd-el-Moumen, had been occupied with conquest and
civic administration. It was said of his rule that "he seized northern
Africa to make order prevail there"; and in fact, out of a welter of
wild tribes confusedly fighting and robbing he drew an empire firmly
seated and securely governed, wherein caravans travelled from the Atlas
to the Straits without fear of attack, and "a soldier wandering through
the fields would not have dared to pluck an ear of wheat."

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Chella--ruins of mosque]

His grandson, the great El-Mansour, was a conqueror too; but where he
conquered he planted the undying seed of beauty. The victor of Alarcos,
the soldier who subdued the north of Spain, dreamed a great dream of
art. His ambition was to bestow on his three capitals, Seville, Rabat
and Marrakech, the three most beautiful towers the world had ever seen;
and if the tower of Rabat had been completed, and that of Seville had
not been injured by Spanish embellishments, his dream would have been
realized.

The "Tower of Hassan," as the Sultan's tower is called, rises from the
plateau above old Rabat, overlooking the steep cliff that drops down to
the last winding of the Bou-Regreg. Truncated at half its height, it
stands on the edge of the cliff, a far-off beacon to travellers by land
and sea. It is one of the world's great monuments, so sufficient in
strength and majesty that until one has seen its fellow, the Koutoubya
of Marrakech, one wonders if the genius of the builder could have
carried such perfect balance of massive wall-spaces and traceried
openings to a triumphant completion.

Near the tower, the red-brown walls and huge piers of the mosque built
at the same time stretch their roofless alignment beneath the sky. This
mosque, before it was destroyed, must have been one of the finest
monuments of Almohad architecture in Morocco: now, with its tumbled red
masses of masonry and vast cisterns overhung by clumps of blue aloes, it
still forms a ruin of Roman grandeur.

The Mosque, the Tower, the citadel of the Oudayas, and the mighty walls
and towers of Chella, compose an architectural group as noble and
complete as that of some mediaeval Tuscan city. All they need to make
the comparison exact is that they should have been compactly massed on a
steep hill, instead of lying scattered over the wide spaces between the
promontory of the Oudayas and the hill-side of Chella.

The founder of Rabat, the great Yacoub-el-Mansour, called it, in memory
of the battle of Alarcos, "The Camp of Victory" (_Ribat-el-Path_), and
the monuments he bestowed on it justified the name in another sense, by
giving it the beauty that lives when battles are forgotten.




II


VOLUBILIS, MOULAY IDRISS AND MEKNEZ


I

VOLUBILIS

One day before sunrise we set out from Rabat for the ruins of Roman
Volubilis.

From the ferry of the Bou-Regreg we looked backward on a last vision of
orange ramparts under a night-blue sky sprinkled with stars; ahead, over
gardens still deep in shadow, the walls of Salé were passing from drab
to peach-colour in the eastern glow. Dawn is the romantic hour in
Africa. Dirt and dilapidation disappear under a pearly haze, and a
breeze from the sea blows away the memory of fetid markets and sordid
heaps of humanity. At that hour the old Moroccan cities look like the
ivory citadels in a Persian miniature, and the fat shopkeepers riding
out to their vegetable-gardens like Princes sallying forth to rescue
captive maidens.

Our way led along the highroad from Rabat to the modern port of Kenitra,
near the ruins of the Phenician colony of Mehedyia. Just north of
Kenitra we struck the trail, branching off eastward to a European
village on the light railway between Rabat and Fez, and beyond the
railway-sheds and flat-roofed stores the wilderness began, stretching
away into clear distances bounded by the hills of the Rarb,[A] above
which the sun was rising.

[Footnote A: The high plateau-and-hill formation between Tangier and
Fez.]

Range after range these translucent hills rose before us, all around the
solitude was complete. Village life, and even tent life, naturally
gathers about a river-bank or a spring; and the waste we were crossing
was of waterless sand bound together by a loose desert growth. Only an
abandoned well-curb here and there cast its blue shadow on the yellow
_bled_, or a saint's tomb hung like a bubble between sky and sand. The
light had the preternatural purity which gives a foretaste of mirage: it
was the light in which magic becomes real, and which helps to understand
how, to people living in such an atmosphere, the boundary between fact
and dream perpetually fluctuates.

The sand was scored with tracks and ruts innumerable, for the road
between Rabat and Fez is travelled not only by French government motors
but by native caravans and trains of pilgrims to and from the sacred
city of Moulay Idriss, the founder of the Idrissite dynasty, whose tomb
is in the Zerhoun, the mountain ridge above Volubilis. To untrained eyes
it was impossible to guess which of the trails one ought to follow; and
without much surprise we suddenly found the motor stopping, while its
wheels spun round vainly in the loose sand.

The military chauffeur was not surprised either; nor was Captain de M.,
the French staff-officer who accompanied us.

"It often happens just here," they admitted philosophically. "When the
General goes to Meknez he is always followed by a number of motors, so
that if his own is stuck he may go on in another."

This was interesting to know, but not particularly helpful, as the
General and his motors were not travelling our way that morning. Nor was
any one else, apparently. It is curious how quickly the _bled_ empties
itself to the horizon if one happens to have an accident in it! But we
had learned our lesson between Tangier and Rabat, and were able to
produce a fair imitation of the fatalistic smile of the country.

The officer remarked cheerfully that somebody might turn up, and we all
sat down in the _bled_.

A Berber woman, cropping up from nowhere, came and sat beside us. She
had the thin suntanned face of her kind, brilliant eyes touched with
_khol_, high cheek-bones, and the exceedingly short upper lip which
gives such charm to the smile of the young nomad women. Her dress was
the usual faded cotton shift, hooked on the shoulders with brass or
silver clasps (still the antique _fibulae_), and wound about with a
vague drapery in whose folds a brown baby wriggled.

The coolness of dawn had vanished and the sun beat down from a fierce
sky. The village on the railway was too far off to be reached on foot,
and there were probably no mules there to spare. Nearer at hand there
was no sign of help, not a fortified farm, or even a circle of nomad
tents. It was the unadulterated desert--and we waited.

Not in vain; for after an hour or two, from far off in the direction of
the hills, there appeared an army with banners. We stared at it
unbelievingly. The _mirage_, of course! We were too sophisticated to
doubt it, and tales of sun-dazed travellers mocked by such visions rose
in our well-stocked memories.

The chauffeur thought otherwise. "Good! That's a pilgrimage from the
mountains. They're going to Salé to pray at the tomb of the _marabout_;
to-day is his feast-day."

And so they were! And as we hung on their approach, and speculated as to
the chances of their stopping to help, I had time to note the beauty of
this long train winding toward us under parti-colored banners. There was
something celestial, almost diaphanous, in the hundreds of figures
turbaned and draped in white, marching slowly through the hot colorless
radiance over the hot colorless sand.

The most part were on foot, or bestriding tiny donkeys, but a stately
Caïd rode alone at the end of the line on a horse saddled with crimson
velvet, and to him our officer appealed.

The Caïd courteously responded, and twenty or thirty pilgrims were
ordered to harness themselves to the motor and haul it back to the
trail, while the rest of the procession moved hieratically onward.

I felt scruples at turning from their path even a fraction of this pious
company; but they fell to with a saintly readiness, and before long the
motor was on the trail. Then rewards were dispensed; and instantly those
holy men became a prey to the darkest passions. Even in this land of
contrasts the transition from pious serenity to rapacious rage can
seldom have been more rapid. The devotees of the _marabout_ fought,
screamed, tore their garments and rolled over each other with sanguinary
gestures in the struggle for our pesetas; then, perceiving our
indifference, they suddenly remembered their religious duties, scrambled
to their feet, tucked up their flying draperies, and raced after the
tail-end of the procession.

Through a golden heat-haze we struggled on to the hills. The country was
fallow, and in great part too sandy for agriculture, but here and there
we came on one of the deep-set Moroccan rivers, with a reddish-yellow
course channelled between perpendicular banks of red earth, and marked
by a thin line of verdure that widened to fruit-gardens wherever a
village had sprung up. We traversed several of these "sedentary"[A]
villages, _nourwals_ of clay houses with thatched conical roofs, in
gardens of fig, apricot and pomegranate that must be so many pink and
white paradises after the winter rains.

[Footnote A: So called to distinguish them from the tent villages of the
less settled groups.]

One of these villages seemed to be inhabited entirely by blacks, big
friendly creatures who came out to tell us by which trail to reach the
bridge over the yellow _oued_. In the _oued_ their womenkind were
washing the variegated family rags. They were handsome blue-bronze
creatures, bare to the waist, with tight black astrakhan curls and
firmly sculptured legs and ankles; and all around them, like a swarm of
gnats, danced countless jolly pickaninnies, naked as lizards, with the
spindle legs and globular stomachs of children fed only on cereals.

Half terrified but wholly interested, these infants buzzed about the
motor while we stopped to photograph them; and as we watched their
antics we wondered whether they were the descendants of the little
Soudanese boys whom the founder of Meknez, the terrible Sultan
Moulay-Ismaël, used to carry off from beyond the Atlas and bring up in
his military camps to form the nucleus of the Black Guard which defended
his frontiers. We were on the line of travel between Meknez and the sea,
and it seemed not unlikely that these _nourwals_ were all that remained
of scattered outposts of Moulay-Ismaël's legionaries.

After a time we left _oueds_ and villages behind us and were in the
mountains of the Rarb, toiling across a high sandy plateau. Far off a
fringe of vegetation showed promise of shade and water, and at last,
against a pale mass of olive-trees, we saw the sight which, at whatever
end of the world one comes upon it, wakes the same sense of awe: the
ruin of a Roman city.

Volubilis (called by the Arabs the Castle of the Pharaohs) is the only
considerable Roman colony so far discovered in Morocco. It stands on the
extreme ledge of a high plateau backed by the mountains of the Zerhoun.
Below the plateau, the land drops down precipitately to a narrow
river-valley green with orchards and gardens, and in the neck of the
valley, where the hills meet again, the conical white town of Moulay
Idriss, the Sacred City of Morocco, rises sharply against a wooded
background.

So the two dominations look at each other across the valley: one, the
lifeless Roman ruin, representing a system, an order, a social
conception that still run through all our modern ways, the other, the
untouched Moslem city, more dead and sucked back into an unintelligible
past than any broken architrave of Greece or Rome.

Volubilis seems to have had the extent and wealth of a great military
outpost, such as Timgad in Algeria; but in the seventeenth century it
was very nearly destroyed by Moulay-Ismaël, the Sultan of the Black
Guard, who carried off its monuments piece-meal to build his new capital
of Meknez, that Mequinez of contemporary travellers which was held to be
one of the wonders of the age.

Little remains to Volubilis in the way of important monuments: only the
fragments of a basilica, part of an arch of triumph erected in honour of
Caracalla, and the fallen columns and architraves which strew the path
of Rome across the world. But its site is magnificent; and as the
excavation of the ruins was interrupted by the war it is possible that
subsequent search may bring forth other treasures comparable to the
beautiful bronze _sloughi_ (the African hound) which is now its
principal possession.

It was delicious, after seven hours of travel under the African sun, to
sit on the shady terrace where the Curator of Volubilis, M. Louis
Châtelain, welcomes his visitors. The French Fine Arts have built a
charming house with gardens and pergolas for the custodian of the ruins,
and have found in M. Châtelain an archaeologist so absorbed in his task
that, as soon as conditions permit, every inch of soil in the
circumference of the city will be made to yield up whatever secrets it
hides.



II

MOULAY IDRISS

We lingered under the pergolas of Volubilis till the heat grew less
intolerable, and then our companions suggested a visit to Moulay Idriss.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Volubilis--the western portico of the basilica of Antonius Pius]

Such a possibility had not occurred to us, and even Captain de M.
seemed to doubt whether the expedition were advisable. Moulay Idriss was
still said to be resentful of Christian intrusion: it was only a year
before that the first French officers had entered it.

But M. Châtelain was confident that there would be no opposition to our
visit, and with the piled-up terraces and towers of the Sacred City
growing golden in the afternoon light across the valley it was
impossible to hesitate.

We drove down through an olive-wood as ancient as those of Mitylene and
Corfu, and then along the narrowing valley, between gardens luxuriant
even in the parched Moroccan autumn. Presently the motor began to climb
the steep road to the town, and at a gateway we got out and were met by
the native chief of police. Instantly at the high windows of mysterious
houses veiled heads appeared and sidelong eyes cautiously inspected us.
But the quarter was deserted, and we walked on without meeting any one
to the Street of the Weavers, a silent narrow way between low
whitewashed niches like the cubicles in a convent. In each niche sat a
grave white-robed youth, forming a great amphora-shaped grain-basket out
of closely plaited straw. Vine-leaves and tendrils hung through the reed
roofing overhead, and grape-clusters cast their classic shadow at our
feet. It was like walking on the unrolled frieze of a white Etruscan
vase patterned with black vine garlands.

The silence and emptiness of the place began to strike us: there was no
sign of the Oriental crowd that usually springs out of the dust at the
approach of strangers. But suddenly we heard close by the lament of the
_rekka_ (a kind of long fife), accompanied by a wild thrum-thrum of
earthenware drums and a curious excited chanting of men's voices. I had
heard such a chant before, at the other end of North Africa, in
Kairouan, one of the other great Sanctuaries of Islam, where the sect of
the Aïssaouas celebrate their sanguinary rites in the _Zaouia_[A] of
their confraternity. Yet it seemed incredible that if the Aïssaouas of
Moulay Idriss were performing their ceremonies that day the chief of
police should be placidly leading us through the streets in the very
direction from which the chant was coming. The Moroccan, though he
has no desire to get into trouble with the Christian, prefers to be left
alone on feast-days, especially in such a stronghold of the faith as
Moulay Idriss.

[Footnote A: Sacred college.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Moulay-Idriss (9,000 inhabitants)]

But "Geschehen ist geschehen" is the sum of Oriental philosophy. For
centuries Moulay Idriss had held out fanatically on its holy steep;
then, suddenly, in 1916, its chiefs saw that the game was up, and
surrendered without a pretense of resistance. Now the whole thing was
over, the new conditions were accepted, and the chief of police assured
us that with the French uniform at our side we should be safe anywhere.

"The Aïssaouas?" he explained. "No, this is another sect, the Hamadchas,
who are performing their ritual dance on the feast-day of their patron,
the _marabout_ Hamadch, whose tomb is in the Zerhoun. The feast is
celebrated publicly in the market-place of Moulay Idriss."

As he spoke we came out into the market-place, and understood why there
had been no crowd at the gate. All the population was in the square and
on the roofs that mount above it, tier by tier, against the wooded
hillside: Moulay Idriss had better to do that day than to gape at a few
tourists in dust-coats.

Short of Sfax, and the other coast cities of eastern Tunisia, there is
surely not another town in North Africa as white as Moulay Idriss. Some
are pale blue and pinky yellow, like the Kasbah of Tangier, or cream and
blue like Salé, but Tangier and Salé, for centuries continuously subject
to European influences, have probably borrowed their colors from Genoa
and the Italian Riviera. In the interior of the country, and especially
in Morocco, where the whole color-scheme is much soberer than in Algeria
and Tunisia, the color of the native houses is always a penitential
shade of mud and ashes.

But Moulay Idriss, that afternoon, was as white as if its arcaded square
had been scooped out of a big cream cheese. The late sunlight lay like
gold-leaf on one side of the square, the other was in pure blue shade,
and above it, the crowded roofs, terraces and balconies packed with
women in bright dresses looked like a flower-field on the edge of a
marble quarry.

The bright dresses were as unusual a sight as the white walls, for the
average Moroccan crowd is the color of its houses. But the occasion
was a special one, for these feasts of the Hamadchas occur only twice a
year, in spring and autumn, and as the ritual dances take place out of
doors, instead of being performed inside the building of the
confraternity, the feminine population seizes the opportunity to burst
into flower on the housetops.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Moulay-Idriss--the market-place]

It is rare, in Morocco, to see in the streets or the bazaars any women
except of the humblest classes, household slaves, servants, peasants
from the country or small tradesmen's wives; and even they (with the
exception of the unveiled Berber women) are wrapped in the prevailing
grave-clothes. The _filles de joie_ and dancing-girls whose brilliant
dresses enliven certain streets of the Algerian and Tunisian towns are
invisible, or at least unnoticeable, in Morocco, where life, on the
whole, seems so much less gay and brightly-tinted; and the women of the
richer classes, mercantile or aristocratic, never leave their harems
except to be married or buried. A throng of women dressed in light
colors is therefore to be seen in public only when some street festival
draws them to the roofs. Even then it is probable that the throng is
mostly composed of slaves, household servants, and women of the lower
_bourgeoisie_; but as they are all dressed in mauve and rose and pale
green, with long earrings and jewelled head-bands flashing through their
parted veils, the illusion, from a little distance, is as complete as
though they were the ladies in waiting of the Queen of Sheba; and that
radiant afternoon at Moulay Idriss, above the vine-garlanded square, and
against the background of piled-up terraces, their vivid groups were in
such contrast to the usual gray assemblages of the East that the scene
seemed like a setting for some extravagantly staged ballet.

For the same reason the spectacle unrolling itself below us took on a
blessed air of unreality. Any normal person who has seen a dance of the
Aïssaouas and watched them swallow thorns and hot coals, slash
themselves with knives, and roll on the floor in epilepsy must have
privately longed, after the first excitement was over, to fly from the
repulsive scene. The Hamadchas are much more savage than Aïssaouas, and
carry much farther their display of cataleptic anaesthesia, and, knowing
this, I had wondered how long I should be able to stand the sight of
what was going on below our terrace. But the beauty of the setting
redeemed the bestial horror. In that unreal golden light the scene
became merely symbolical: it was like one of those strange animal masks
which the Middle Ages brought down from antiquity by way of the
satyr-plays of Greece, and of which the half-human protagonists still
grin and contort themselves among the Christian symbols of Gothic
cathedrals.

[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Captain Henissart of the
French Army_

Moulay-Idriss--market-place on the day of the ritual dance of the
Hamadchas]

At one end of the square the musicians stood on a stone platform above
the dancers. Like the musicians in a bas-relief they were flattened side
by side against a wall, the fife-players with lifted arms and inflated
cheeks, the drummers pounding frantically on long earthenware drums
shaped like enormous hour-glasses and painted in barbaric patterns; and
below, down the length of the market-place, the dance unrolled itself in
a frenzied order that would have filled with envy a Paris or London
impresario.

In its centre an inspired-looking creature whirled about on his axis,
the black ringlets standing out in snaky spirals from his haggard head,
his cheek-muscles convulsively twitching. Around him, but a long way
off, the dancers rocked and circled with long raucous cries dominated
by the sobbing booming music, and in the sunlit space between dancers
and holy man, two or three impish children bobbed about with fixed eyes
and a grimace of comic frenzy, solemnly parodying his contortions.

Meanwhile a tall grave personage in a doge-like cap, the only calm
figure in the tumult, moved gravely here and there, regulating the
dance, stimulating the frenzy, or calming some devotee who had broken
the ranks and lay tossing and foaming on the stones. There was something
far more sinister in this passionless figure, holding his hand on the
key that let loose such crazy forces, than in the poor central whirligig
who merely set the rhythm of the convulsions.

The dancers were all dressed in white caftans or in the blue shirts of
the lowest classes. In the sunlight something that looked like fresh red
paint glistened on their shaved black or yellow skulls and made dark
blotches on their garments. At first these stripes and stains suggested
only a gaudy ritual ornament like the pattern on the drums; then one saw
that the paint, or whatever it was, kept dripping down from the whirling
caftans and forming fresh pools among the stones, that as one of the
pools dried up another formed, redder and more glistening, and that
these pools were fed from great gashes which the dancers hacked in their
own skulls and breasts with hatchets and sharpened stones. The dance was
a blood-rite, a great sacrificial symbol, in which blood flowed so
freely that all the rocking feet were splashed with it.

Gradually, however, it became evident that many of the dancers simply
rocked and howled, without hacking themselves, and that most of the
bleeding skulls and breasts belonged to negroes. Every now and then the
circle widened to let in another figure, black or dark yellow, the
figure of some humble blue-shirted spectator suddenly "getting religion"
and rushing forward to snatch a weapon and baptize himself with his own
blood; and as each new recruit joined the dancers the music shrieked
louder and the devotees howled more wolfishly. And still, in the centre,
the mad _marabout_ spun, and the children bobbed and mimicked him and
rolled their diamond eyes.

Such is the dance of the Hamadchas, of the confraternity of the
_marabout_ Hamadch, a powerful saint of the seventeenth century, whose
tomb is in the Zerhoun above Moulay Idriss. Hamadch, it appears, had a
faithful slave, who, when his master died, killed himself in despair,
and the self-inflicted wounds of the brotherhood are supposed to
symbolize the slave's suicide; though no doubt the origin of the
ceremony might be traced back to the depths of that ensanguined grove
where Mr. Fraser plucked the Golden Bough.

The more naïve interpretation, however, has its advantages, since it
enables the devotees to divide their ritual duties into two classes, the
devotions of the free men being addressed to the saint who died in his
bed, while the slaves belong to the slave, and must therefore simulate
his horrid end. And this is the reason why most of the white caftans
simply rock and writhe, while the humble blue shirts drip with blood.

[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Captain Henissart of the
French Army_

Moulay-Idriss--the market-place. Procession of the confraternity of the
Hamadchas]

The sun was setting when we came down from our terrace above the
market-place. To find a lodging for the night we had to press on to
Meknez, where we were awaited at the French military post; therefore we
were reluctantly obliged to refuse an invitation to take tea with the
Caïd, whose high-perched house commands the whole white amphitheatre
of the town. It was disappointing to leave Moulay Idriss with the
Hamadchas howling their maddest, and so much besides to see; but as we
drove away under the long shadows of the olives we counted ourselves
lucky to have entered the sacred town, and luckier still to have been
there on the day of the dance which, till a year ago, no foreigner had
been allowed to see.

A fine French road runs from Moulay Idriss to Meknez, and we flew on
through the dusk between wooded hills and open stretches on which the
fires of nomad camps put orange splashes in the darkness. Then the moon
rose, and by its light we saw a widening valley, and gardens and
orchards that stretched up to a great walled city outlined against the
stars.



III

MEKNEZ

All that evening, from the garden of the Military Subdivision on the
opposite height, we sat and looked across at the dark tree-clumps and
moonlit walls of Meknez, and listened to its fantastic history.

Meknez was built by the Sultan Moulay-Ismaël, around the nucleus of a
small town of which the site happened to please him, at the very moment
when Louis XIV was creating Versailles. The coincidence of two
contemporary autocrats calling cities out of the wilderness has caused
persons with a taste for analogy to describe Meknez as the Versailles of
Morocco: an epithet which is about as instructive as it would be to call
Phidias the Benvenuto Cellini of Greece.

There is, however, a pretext for the comparison in the fact that the two
sovereigns took a lively interest in each other's affairs. Moulay-Ismaël
sent several embassies to treat with Louis XIV on the eternal question
of piracy and the ransom of Christian captives, and the two rulers were
continually exchanging gifts and compliments.

The governor of Tetouan, who was sent to Paris in 1680, having brought
as presents to the French King a lion, a lioness, a tigress, and four
ostriches, Louis XIV shortly afterward despatched M. de Saint-Amand to
Morocco with two dozen watches, twelve pieces of gold brocade, a cannon
six feet long and other firearms. After this the relations between the
two courts remained friendly till 1693, at which time they were
strained by the refusal of France to return the Moorish captives who
were employed on the king's galleys, and who were probably as much
needed there as the Sultan's Christian slaves for the building of
Moorish palaces.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Meknez--gate: "Bab-Mansour"]

Six years later the Sultan despatched Abdallah-ben-Aïssa to France to
reopen negotiations. The ambassador was as brilliantly received and as
eagerly run after as a modern statesman on an official mission, and his
candidly expressed admiration for the personal charms of the Princesse
de Conti, one of the French monarch's legitimatized children, is
supposed to have been mistaken by the court for an offer of marriage
from the Emperor of Barbary. But he came back without a treaty.

Moulay-Ismaël, whose long reign (1673 to 1727) and extraordinary
exploits make him already a legendary figure, conceived, early in his
career, a passion for Meknez; and through all his troubled rule, with
its alternations of barbaric warfare and far-reaching negotiations,
palace intrigue, crazy bloodshed and great administrative reforms, his
heart perpetually reverted to the wooded slopes on which he dreamed of
building a city more splendid than Fez or Marrakech.

"The Sultan" (writes his chronicler Aboul Kasim-ibn-Ahmad, called
"Ezziani") "loved Meknez, the climate of which had enchanted him, and he
would have liked never to leave it." He left it, indeed, often, left it
perpetually, to fight with revolted tribes in the Atlas, to defeat one
Berber army after another, to carry his arms across the High Atlas into
the Souss, to adorn Fez with the heads of seven hundred vanquished
chiefs, to put down his three rebellious brothers, to strip all the
cities of his empire of their negroes and transport them to Meknez ("so
that not a negro, man, woman or child, slave or free, was left in any
part of the country"); to fight and defeat the Christians (1683), to
take Tangier, to conduct a campaign on the Moulouya, to lead the holy
war against the Spanish (1689), to take Larache, the Spanish commercial
post on the west coast (which furnished eighteen hundred captives for
Meknez); to lay siege to Ceuta, conduct a campaign against the Turks of
Algiers, repress the pillage in his army, subdue more tribes, and build
forts for his Black Legionaries from Oudjda to the Oued Noun. But
almost each year's bloody record ends with the placid phrase: "Then the
Sultan returned to Meknez."

In the year 1701, Ezziani writes, the indomitable old man "deprived his
rebellious sons of their principalities; after which date he consecrated
himself exclusively to the building of his palaces and the planting of
his gardens. And in 1720 (nineteen years later in this long reign!) he
ordered the destruction of the mausoleum of Moulay Idriss for the
purpose of enlarging it. And to gain the necessary space he bought all
the adjacent land, and the workmen did not leave these new labors till
they were entirely completed."

In this same year there was levied on Fez a new tax which was so heavy
that the inhabitants were obliged to abandon the city.

Yet it is written of this terrible old monarch, who devastated whole
districts, and sacrificed uncounted thousands of lives for his ruthless
pleasure, that under his administration of his chaotic and turbulent
empire "the country rejoiced in the most complete security. A Jew or a
woman might travel alone from Oudjda to the Oued Noun without any one's
asking their business. Abundance reigned throughout the land: grain,
food, cattle were to be bought for the lowest prices. Nowhere in the
whole of Morocco was a highwayman or a robber to be found."

And probably both sides of the picture are true.


What, then, was the marvel across the valley, what were the "lordly
pleasure-houses" to whose creation and enlargement Moulay-Ismaël
returned again and again amid the throes and violences of a nearly
centenarian life?

The chronicler continues: "The Sultan caused all the houses near the
Kasbah[A] to be demolished, _and compelled the inhabitants to carry away
the ruins of their dwellings_. All the eastern end of the town was also
torn down, and the ramparts were rebuilt. He also built the Great Mosque
next to the palace of Nasr.... He occupied himself personally with the
construction of his palaces, and before one was finished he caused
another to be begun. He built the mosque of Elakhdar; the walls of the
new town were pierced with twenty fortified gates and surmounted with
platforms for cannon. Within the walls he made a great artificial lake
where one might row in boats. There was also a granary with immense
subterranean reservoirs of water, and a stable _three miles long_ for
the Sultan's horses and mules; twelve thousand horses could be stabled
in it. The flooring rested on vaults in which the grain for the horses
was stored.... He also built the palace of Elmansour, which had twenty
cupolas; from the top of each cupola one could look forth on the plain
and the mountains around Meknez. All about the stables the rarest trees
were planted. Within the walls were fifty palaces, each with its own
mosque and its baths. Never was such a thing known in any country, Arab
or foreign, pagan or Moslem. The guarding of the doors of these palaces
was intrusted to twelve hundred black eunuchs."

[Footnote A: The citadel of old Meknez.]

Such were the wonders that seventeenth century travellers toiled across
the desert to see, and from which they came back dazzled and almost
incredulous, as if half-suspecting that some djinn had deluded them with
the vision of a phantom city. But for the soberer European records, and
the evidence of the ruins themselves (for the whole of the new Meknez is
a ruin), one might indeed be inclined to regard Ezziani's statements as
an Oriental fable; but the briefest glimpse of Moulay-Ismaël's Meknez
makes it easy to believe all his chronicler tells of it, even to the
three miles of stables.

Next morning we drove across the valley and, skirting the old town on
the hill, entered, by one of the twenty gates of Moulay-Ismaël, a long
empty street lined with half-ruined arcades. Beyond was another street
of beaten red earth bordered by high red walls blotched with gray and
mauve. Ahead of us this road stretched out interminably (Meknez, before
Washington, was the "city of magnificent distances"), and down its empty
length only one or two draped figures passed, like shadows on the way to
Shadowland. It was clear that the living held no further traffic with
the Meknez of Moulay-Ismaël.

Here it was at last. Another great gateway let us, under a resplendently
bejewelled arch of turquoise-blue and green, into another walled
emptiness of red clay, a third gate opened into still vaster vacancies,
and at their farther end rose a colossal red ruin, something like the
lower stories of a Roman amphitheatre that should stretch out
indefinitely instead of forming a circle, or like a series of Roman
aqueducts built side by side and joined into one structure. Below this
indescribable ruin the arid ground sloped down to an artificial water
which was surely the lake that the Sultan had made for his
boating-parties; and beyond it more red earth stretched away to more
walls and gates, with glimpses of abandoned palaces and huge crumbling
angle-towers.

The vastness, the silence, the catastrophic desolation of the place,
were all the more impressive because of the relatively recent date of
the buildings. As Moulay-Ismaël had dealt with Volubilis, so time had
dealt with his own Meknez; and the destruction which it had taken
thousands of lash-driven slaves to inflict on the stout walls of the
Roman city, neglect and abandonment had here rapidly accomplished. But
though the sun-baked clay of which the impatient Sultan built his
pleasure-houses will not suffer comparison with the firm stones of
Rome, "the high Roman fashion" is visible in the shape and outline of
these ruins. What they are no one knows. In spite of Ezziani's text
(written when the place was already partly destroyed) archaeologists
disagree as to the uses of the crypt of rose-flushed clay whose twenty
rows of gigantic arches are so like an alignment of Roman aqueducts.
Were these the vaulted granaries, or the subterranean reservoirs under
the three miles of stabling which housed the twelve thousand horses? The
stables, at any rate, were certainly near this spot, for the lake
adjoins the ruins as in the chronicler's description; and between it and
old Meknez, behind walls within walls, lie all that remains of the fifty
palaces with their cupolas, gardens, mosques and baths.

This inner region is less ruined than the mysterious vaulted structure,
and one of the palaces, being still reserved for the present Sultan's
use, cannot be visited; but we wandered unchallenged through desert
courts, gardens of cypress and olive where dried fountains and painted
summer-houses are falling into dust, and barren spaces enclosed in long
empty façades. It was all the work of an eager and imperious old man,
who, to realize his dream quickly, built in perishable materials, but
the design, the dimensions, the whole conception, show that he had not
only heard of Versailles but had looked with his own eyes on Volubilis.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Meknez--the ruins of the palace of Moulay-Ismaël]

To build on such a scale, and finish the work in a single lifetime, even
if the materials be malleable and the life a long one, implies a command
of human labor that the other Sultan at Versailles must have envied. The
imposition of the _corvée_ was of course even simpler in Morocco than in
France, since the material to draw on was unlimited, provided one could
assert one's power over it; and for that purpose Ismaël had his Black
Army, the hundred and fifty thousand disciplined legionaries who enabled
him to enforce his rule over all the wild country from Algiers to
Agadir.

The methods by which this army were raised and increased are worth
recounting in Ezziani's words:

"A _taleb_[A] of Marrakech having shown the Sultan a register containing
the names of the negroes who had formed part of the army of El-Mansour,
Moulay-Ismaël ordered his agents to collect all that remained of these
negroes and their children.... He also sent to the tribes of the
Beni-Hasen, and into the mountains, to purchase all the negroes to be
found there. Thus all that were in the whole of Moghreb were assembled,
from the cities and the countryside, till not one was left, slave or
free.

[Footnote A: Learned man.]

"These negroes were armed and clothed, and sent to Mechra Erremel (north
of Meknez) where they were ordered to build themselves houses, plant
gardens and remain till their children were ten years old. Then the
Sultan caused all the children to be brought to him, both boys and
girls. The boys were apprenticed to masons, carpenters, and other
tradesmen; others were employed to make mortar. The next year they were
taught to drive the mules, the third to make _adobe_ for building; the
fourth year they learned to ride horses bareback, the fifth they were
taught to ride in the saddle while using firearms. At the age of sixteen
these boys became soldiers. They were then married to the young
negresses who had meanwhile been taught cooking and washing in the
Sultan's palaces--except those who were pretty, and these were given a
musical education, after which each one received a wedding-dress and a
marriage settlement, and was handed over to her husband.

"All the children of these couples were in due time destined for the
Black Army, or for domestic service in the palaces. Every year the
Sultan went to the camp at Mechra Erremel and brought back the children.
The Black Army numbered one hundred and fifty thousand men, of whom part
were at Erremel, part at Meknez, and the rest in the seventy-six forts
which the Sultan built for them throughout his domain. May the Lord be
merciful to his memory!"

Such was the army by means of which Ismaël enforced the _corvée_ on his
undisciplined tribes. Many thousands of lives went to the building of
imperial Meknez; but his subjects would scarcely have sufficed if he had
not been able to add to them twenty-five thousand Christian captives.

M. Augustin Bernard, in his admirable book on Morocco, says that the
seventeenth century was "the golden age of piracy" in Morocco; and the
great Ismaël was no doubt one of its chief promoters. One understands
his unwillingness to come to an agreement with his great friend and
competitor, Louis XIV, on the difficult subject of the ransom of
Christian captives when one reads in the admiring Ezziani that it took
fifty-five thousand prisoners and captives to execute his architectural
conceptions.

"These prisoners, by day, were occupied on various tasks; at night they
were locked into subterranean dungeons. Any prisoner who died at his
task was _built into the wall he was building_." (This statement is
confirmed by John Windus, the English traveller who visited the court of
Moulay-Ismaël in the Sultan's old age.) Many Europeans must have
succumbed quickly to the heat and the lash, for the wall-builders were
obliged to make each stroke in time with their neighbors, and were
bastinadoed mercilessly if they broke the rhythm; and there is little
doubt that the expert artisans of France, Italy and Spain were even
dearer to the old architectural madman than the friendship of the
palace-building despot across the sea.

Ezziani's chronicle dates from the first part of the nineteenth century,
and is an Arab's colorless panegyric of a great Arab ruler; but John
Windus, the Englishman who accompanied Commodore Stewart's embassy to
Meknez in 1721, saw the imperial palaces and their builder with his own
eyes, and described them with the vivacity of a foreigner struck by
every contrast.

Moulay-Ismaël was then about eighty-seven years old, "a middle-sized
man, who has the remains of a good face, with nothing of a negro's
features, though his mother was a black. He has a high nose, which is
pretty long from the eyebrows downward, and thin. He has lost all his
teeth, and breathes short, as if his lungs were bad, coughs and spits
pretty often, which never falls to the ground, men being always ready
with handkerchiefs to receive it. His beard is thin and very white, his
eyes seem to have been sparkling, but their vigor decayed through age,
and his cheeks very much sunk in."

Such was the appearance of this extraordinary man, who deceived,
tortured, betrayed, assassinated, terrorized and mocked his slaves, his
subjects, his women and children and his ministers like any other
half-savage Arab despot, but who yet managed through his long reign to
maintain a barbarous empire, to police the wilderness, and give at
least an appearance of prosperity and security where all had before been
chaos.

The English emissaries appear to have been much struck by the
magnificence of his palaces, then in all the splendor of novelty, and
gleaming with marbles brought from Volubilis and Salé. Windus extols in
particular the sunken gardens of cypress, pomegranate and orange trees,
some of them laid out seventy feet below the level of the palace-courts;
the exquisite plaster fretwork; the miles of tessellated walls and
pavement made in the finely patterned mosaic work of Fez; and the long
terrace walk trellised with "vines and other greens" leading from the
palace to the famous stables, and over which it was the Sultan's custom
to drive in a chariot drawn by women and eunuchs.

Moulay-Ismaël received the English ambassador with every show of pomp
and friendship, and immediately "made him a present" of a handful of
young English captives; but just as the negotiations were about to be
concluded Commodore Stewart was privately advised that the Sultan had no
intention of allowing the rest of the English to be ransomed. Luckily a
diplomatically composed letter, addressed by the English envoy to one of
the favorite wives, resulted in Ismaël's changing his mind, and the
captives were finally given up, and departed with their rescuers. As one
stands in the fiery sun, among the monstrous ruins of those tragic
walls, one pictures the other Christian captives pausing for a second,
at the risk of death, in the rhythmic beat of their labor, to watch the
little train of their companions winding away across the desert to
freedom.

On the way back through the long streets that lead to the ruins we
noticed, lying by the roadside, the shafts of fluted columns, blocks of
marble, Roman capitals: fragments of the long loot of Salé and
Volubilis. We asked how they came there, and were told that, according
to a tradition still believed in the country, when the prisoners and
captives who were dragging the building materials toward the palace
under the blistering sun heard of the old Sultan's death, they dropped
their loads with one accord and fled. At the same moment every worker on
the walls flung down his trowel or hod, every slave of the palaces
stopped grinding or scouring or drawing water or carrying faggots or
polishing the miles of tessellated floors, so that, when the tyrant's
heart stopped beating, at that very instant life ceased to circulate in
the huge house he had built, and in all its members it became a carcass
for his carcass.




III


FEZ


I

THE FIRST VISION

Many-walled Fez rose up before us out of the plain toward the end of the
day.

The walls and towers we saw were those of the upper town, Fez Eldjid
(the New), which lies on the edge of the plateau and hides from view Old
Fez tumbling down below it into the ravine of the Oued Fez. Thus
approached, the city presents to view only a long line of ramparts and
fortresses, merging into the wide, tawny plain and framed in barren
mountains. Not a house is visible outside the walls, except, at a
respectful distance, the few unobtrusive buildings of the European
colony, and not a village breaks the desolation of the landscape.

As we drew nearer, the walls towered close over us, and skirting them we
came to a bare space outside a great horseshoe gate, and found
ourselves suddenly in the foreground of a picture by Carpaccio or
Bellini. Where else had one seen just those rows of white-turbaned
majestic figures, squatting in the dust under lofty walls, all the pale
faces ringed in curling beards turned to the story-teller in the centre
of the group? Transform the story-teller into a rapt young Venetian, and
you have the audience and the foreground of Carpaccio's "Preaching of
St. Stephen," even to the camels craning inquisitive necks above the
turbans. Every step of the way in North Africa corroborates the close
observation of the early travellers, whether painters or narrators, and
shows the unchanged character of the Oriental life that the Venetians
pictured, and Leo Africanus and Windus and Charles Cochelet described.

There was time, before sunset, to go up to the hill from which the
ruined tombs of the Merinid Sultans look down over the city they made
glorious. After the savage massacre of foreign residents in 1912 the
French encircled the heights commanding Fez with one of their admirably
engineered military roads, and in a few minutes our motor had climbed
to the point from which the great dynasty of artist-Sultans dreamed of
looking down forever on their capital.

Nothing endures in Islam, except what human inertia has left standing
and its own solidity has preserved from the elements. Or rather, nothing
remains intact, and nothing wholly perishes, but the architecture, like
all else, lingers on half-ruined and half-unchanged. The Merinid tombs,
however, are only hollow shells and broken walls, grown part of the
brown cliff they cling to. No one thinks of them save as an added touch
of picturesqueness where all is picturesque: they survive as the best
point from which to look down at Fez.

There it lies, outspread in golden light, roofs, terraces, and towers
sliding over the plain's edge in a rush dammed here and there by
barriers of cypress and ilex, but growing more precipitous as the ravine
of the Fez narrows downward with the fall of the river. It is as though
some powerful enchanter, after decreeing that the city should be hurled
into the depths, had been moved by its beauty, and with a wave of his
wand held it suspended above destruction.

At first the eye takes in only this impression of a great city over a
green abyss, then the complex scene begins to define itself. All around
are the outer lines of ramparts, walls beyond walls, their crenellations
climbing the heights, their angle fortresses dominating the precipices.
Almost on a level with us lies the upper city, the aristocratic Fez
Eldjid of painted palaces and gardens, then, as the houses close in and
descend more abruptly, terraces, minarets, domes, and long reed-thatched
roofs of the bazaars, all gather around the green-tiled tomb of Moulay
Idriss and the tower of the Almohad mosque of El Kairouiyin, which
adjoin each other in the depths of Fez, and form its central sanctuary.


From the Merinid hill we had noticed a long façade among the cypresses
and fruit-trees of Eldjid. This was Bou-Jeloud, the old summer-palace of
the Sultan's harem, now the house of the Resident-General, where
lodgings had been prepared for us.

The road descended again, crossing the Oued Fez by one of the fine old
single-arch bridges that mark the architectural link between Morocco
and Spain. We skirted high walls, wayside pools, and dripping
mill-wheels; then one of the city gates engulfed us, and we were in the
waste spaces of intramural Fez, formerly the lines of defense of a rich
and perpetually menaced city, now chiefly used for refuse-heaps,
open-air fondaks, and dreaming-places for rows of Lazaruses rolled in
their cerements in the dust.

Through another gate and more walls we came to an arch in the inner line
of defense. Beyond that, the motor paused before a green door, where a
Cadi in a silken caftan received us. Across squares of orange-trees
divided by running water we were led to an arcaded apartment hung with
Moroccan embroideries and lined with wide divans; the hall of reception
of the Resident-General. Through its arches were other tiled distances,
fountains, arcades, beyond, in greener depths, the bright blossoms of a
flower-garden. Such was our first sight of Bou-Jeloud, once the
summer-palace of the wives of Moulay Hafid.

Upstairs, from a room walled and ceiled with cedar, and decorated with
the bold rose-pink embroideries of Salé and the intricate old
needlework of Fez, I looked out over the upper city toward the mauve and
tawny mountains.

Just below the window the flat roofs of a group of little houses
descended like the steps of an irregular staircase. Between them rose a
few cypresses and a green minaret, out of the court of one house an
ancient fig-tree thrust its twisted arms. The sun had set, and one after
another bright figures appeared on the roofs. The children came first,
hung with silver amulets and amber beads, and pursued by negresses in
striped turbans, who bustled up with rugs and matting, then the mothers
followed more indolently, released from their ashy mufflings and
showing, under their light veils, long earrings from the _Mellah_[A] and
caftans of pale green or peach color.

[Footnote A: The Ghetto in African towns. All the jewellers in Morocco
are Jews.]

The houses were humble ones, such as grow up in the cracks of a wealthy
quarter, and their inhabitants doubtless small folk, but in the
enchanted African twilight the terraces blossomed like gardens, and when
the moon rose and the muezzin called from the minaret, the domestic
squabbles and the shrill cries from roof to roof became part of a story
in Bagdad, overheard a thousand years ago by that arch-detective
Haroun-al-Raschid.



II

FEZ ELDJID

It is usual to speak of Fez as very old, and the term seems justified
when one remembers that the palace of Bou-Jeloud stands on the site of
an Almoravid Kasbah of the eleventh century, that when that Kasbah was
erected Fez Elbali had already existed for three hundred years, that El
Kairouiyin is the contemporary of Sant' Ambrogio of Milan, and that the
original mosque of Moulay Idriss II was built over his grave in the
eighth century.

Fez is, in fact, the oldest city in Morocco without a Phenician or a
Roman past, and has preserved more traces than any other of its
architectural flowering-time, yet it would be truer to say of it, as of
all Moroccan cities, that it has no age, since its seemingly immutable
shape is forever crumbling and being renewed on the old lines.

When we rode forth the next day to visit some of the palaces of Eldjid
our pink-saddled mules carried us at once out of the bounds of time. How
associate anything so precise and Occidental as years or centuries with
these visions of frail splendor seen through cypresses and roses? The
Cadis in their multiple muslins, who received us in secret doorways and
led us by many passages into the sudden wonder of gardens and fountains;
the bright-earringed negresses peering down from painted balconies, the
pilgrims and clients dozing in the sun against hot walls, the deserted
halls with plaster lace-work and gold pendentives in tiled niches; the
Venetian chandeliers and tawdry rococo beds, the terraces from which
pigeons whirled up in a white cloud while we walked on a carpet of their
feathers--were all these the ghosts of vanished state, or the actual
setting of the life of some rich merchant with "business connections" in
Liverpool and Lyons, or some government official at that very moment
speeding to Meknez or Casablanca in his sixty h.p. motor?

We visited old palaces and new, inhabited and abandoned, and over all
lay the same fine dust of oblivion, like the silvery mould on an
overripe fruit. Overripeness is indeed the characteristic of this rich
and stagnant civilization. Buildings, people, customs, seem all about to
crumble and fall of their own weight: the present is a perpetually
prolonged past. To touch the past with one's hands is realized only in
dreams, and in Morocco the dream-feeling envelopes one at every step.
One trembles continually lest the "Person from Porlock" should step in.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez Eldjid (the upper city)]

He is undoubtedly on the way, but Fez had not heard of him when we rode
out that morning. Fez Eldjid, the "New Fez" of palaces and government
buildings, was founded in the fourteenth century by the Merinid princes,
and probably looks much as it did then. The palaces in their overgrown
gardens, with pale-green trellises dividing the rose-beds from the
blue-and-white tiled paths, and fountains in fluted basins of Italian
marble, all had the same drowsy charm, yet the oldest were built not
more than a century or two ago, others within the last fifty years; and
at Marrakech, later in our journey, we were to visit a sumptuous
dwelling where plaster-cutters and ceramists from Fez were actually
repeating with wonderful skill and spontaneity, the old ornamentation
of which the threads run back to Rome and Damascus.

Of really old private dwellings, palaces or rich men's houses, there are
surprisingly few in Morocco. It is hard to guess the age of some of the
featureless houses propping each other's flanks in old Fez or old Salé,
but people rich enough to rebuild have always done so, and the passion
for building seems allied, in this country of inconsequences, to the
supine indifference that lets existing constructions crumble back to
clay. "Dust to dust" should have been the motto of the Moroccan
palace-builders.

Fez possesses one old secular building, a fine fondak of the fifteenth
century, but in Morocco, as a rule, only mosques and the tombs of saints
are preserved--none too carefully--and even the strong stone buildings
of the Almohads have been allowed to fall to ruin, as at Chella and
Rabat. This indifference to the completed object--which is like a kind
of collective exaggeration of the artist's indifference to his completed
work--has resulted in the total disappearance of the furniture and works
of art which must have filled the beautiful buildings of the Merinid
period. Neither pottery nor brasswork nor enamels nor fine hangings
survive; there is no parallel in Morocco to the textiles of Syria, the
potteries of Persia, the Byzantine ivories or enamels. It has been said
that the Moroccan is always a nomad, who lives in his house as if it
were a tent; but this is not a conclusive answer to any one who knows
the passion of the modern Moroccan for European furniture. When one
reads the list of the treasures contained in the palaces of the
mediaeval Sultans of Egypt one feels sure that, if artists were lacking
in Morocco, the princes and merchants who brought skilled craftsmen
across the desert to build their cities must also have imported
treasures to adorn them. Yet, as far as is known, the famous
fourteenth-century bronze chandelier of Tetuan, and the fine old ritual
furniture reported to be contained in certain mosques, are the only
important works of art in Morocco later in date than the Roman _sloughi_
of Volubilis.



III

FEZ ELBALI

The distances in Fez are so great and the streets so narrow, and in some
quarters so crowded, that all but saints or humble folk go about on
mule-back.

In the afternoon, accordingly, the pink mules came again, and we set out
for the long tunnel-like street that leads down the hill to the Fez
Elbali.

"Look out--'ware heads!" our leader would call back at every turn, as
our way shrank to a black passage under a house bestriding the street,
or a caravan of donkeys laden with obstructive reeds or branches of
dates made the passers-by flatten themselves against the walls.

On each side of the street the houses hung over us like fortresses,
leaning across the narrow strip of blue and throwing out great beams and
buttresses to prop each other's bulging sides. Windows there were none
on the lower floors; only here and there an iron-barred slit stuffed
with rags and immemorial filth, from which a lean cat would suddenly
spring out, and scuttle off under an archway like a witch's familiar.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez--a reed-roofed street]

Some of these descending lanes were packed with people, others as
deserted as a cemetery; and it was strange to pass from the thronged
streets leading to the bazaars to the profound and secretive silence of
a quarter of well-to-do dwelling-houses, where only a few veiled women
attended by negro slaves moved noiselessly over the clean cobblestones,
and the sound of fountains and runnels came from hidden courtyards and
over garden-walls.

This noise of water is as characteristic of Fez as of Damascus. The Oued
Fez rushes through the heart of the town, bridged, canalized, built
over, and ever and again bursting out into tumultuous falls and pools
shadowed with foliage. The central artery of the city is not a street
but a waterfall, and tales are told of the dark uses to which, even now,
the underground currents are put by some of the dwellers behind the
blank walls and scented gardens of those highly respectable streets.

The crowd in Oriental cities is made up of many elements, and in Morocco
Turks, Jews and infidels, Berbers of the mountains, fanatics of the
confraternities, Soudanese blacks and haggard Blue Men of the Souss,
jostle the merchants and government officials with that democratic
familiarity which goes side by side with abject servility in this land
of perpetual contradictions. But Fez is above all the city of wealth and
learning, of universities and counting-houses, and the merchant and the
_oulama_[A]--the sedentary and luxurious types--prevail.

[Footnote A: Learned man, doctor of the university.]

The slippered Fazi merchant, wrapped in white muslins and securely
mounted on a broad velvet saddle-cloth anchored to the back of a broad
mule, is as unlike the Arab horseman of the desert as Mr. Tracy Tupman
was unlike the Musketeers of Dumas. Ease, music, money-making, the
affairs of his harem and the bringing-up of his children, are his chief
interests, and his plump pale face with long-lashed hazel eyes, his
curling beard and fat womanish hands, recall the portly potentates of
Hindu miniatures, dreaming among houris beside lotus-tanks.

These personages, when they ride abroad, are preceded by a swarthy
footman, who keeps his hand on the embroidered bridle; and the
government officers and dignitaries of the _Makhzen_[A] are usually
escorted by several mounted officers of their household, with a servant
to each mule. The cry of the runners scatters the crowd, and even the
panniered donkeys and perpetually astonished camels somehow contrive to
become two-dimensional while the white procession goes by.

[Footnote A: The Sultan's government.]

Then the populace closes in again, so quickly and densely that it seems
impossible it could ever have been parted, and negro water-carriers,
muffled women, beggars streaming with sores, sinewy and greasy "saints,"
Soudanese sorcerers hung with amulets made of sardine-boxes and
hares'-feet, long-lashed boys of the Chleuh in clean embroidered
caftans, Jews in black robes and skull-caps, university students
carrying their prayer-carpets, bangled and spangled black women,
scrofulous children with gazelle eyes and mangy skulls, and blind men
tapping along with linked arms and howling out verses of the Koran,
surge together in a mass drawn by irresistible suction to the point
where the bazaars converge about the mosques of Moulay Idriss and El
Kairouiyin.

Seen from a terrace of the upper town, the long thatched roofing of El
Attarine, the central bazaar of Fez, promises fantastic revelations of
native life; but the dun-colored crowds moving through its checkered
twilight, the lack of carved shop-fronts and gaily adorned
coffee-houses, and the absence of the painted coffers and vivid
embroideries of Tunis, remind one that Morocco is a melancholy country,
and Fez a profoundly melancholy city.

_Dust and ashes, dust and ashes_, echoes from the gray walls, the
mouldering thatch of the _souks_, the long lamentable song of the blind
beggars sitting in rows under the feet of the camels and asses. No young
men stroll through the bazaar in bright caftans, with roses and jasmine
behind their ears, no pedlars offer lemonade and sweetmeats and
golden-fritters, no flower-sellers pursue one with tight bunches of
orange-blossom and little pink roses. The well-to-do ride by in white,
and the rest of the population goes mournfully in earth-color.

But gradually one falls under the spell of another influence--the
influence of the Atlas and the desert. Unknown Africa seems much nearer
to Morocco than to the white towns of Tunis and the smiling oases of
South Algeria. One feels the nearness of Marrakech at Fez, and at
Marrakech that of Timbuctoo.

Fez is sombre, and the bazaars clustered about its holiest sanctuaries
form its most sombre quarter. Dusk falls there early, and oil-lanterns
twinkle in the merchants' niches while the clear African daylight still
lies on the gardens of upper Fez. This twilight adds to the mystery of
the _souks_, making them, in spite of profane noise and crowding and
filth, an impressive approach to the sacred places.

Until a year or two ago, the precincts around Moulay Idriss and El
Kairouiyin were _horm_, that is, cut off from the unbeliever. Heavy
beams of wood barred the end of each _souk_, shutting off the
sanctuaries, and the Christian could only conjecture what lay beyond.
Now he knows in part; for, though the beams have not been lowered, all
comers may pass under them to the lanes about the mosques, and even
pause a moment in their open doorways. Farther one may not go, for the
shrines of Morocco are still closed to unbelievers; but whoever knows
Cordova, or has stood under the arches of the Great Mosque of Kairouan,
can reconstruct something of the hidden beauties of its namesake, the
"Mosque Kairouan" of western Africa.

Once under the bars, the richness of the old Moorish Fez presses upon
one with unexpected beauty. Here is the graceful tiled fountain of
Nedjarine, glittering with the unapproachable blues and greens of
ceramic mosaics, near it, the courtyard of the Fondak Nedjarine, oldest
and stateliest of Moroccan inns, with triple galleries of sculptured
cedar rising above arcades of stone. A little farther on lights and
incense draw one to a threshold where it is well not to linger unduly.
Under a deep archway, between booths where gay votive candles are sold,
the glimmer of hanging lamps falls on patches of gilding and mosaic, and
on veiled women prostrating themselves before an invisible shrine--for
this is the vestibule of the mosque of Moulay Idriss, where, on certain
days of the week, women are admitted to pray.

Moulay Idriss was not built over the grave of the Fatimite prophet,
first of the name, whose bones lie in the Zerhoun above his sacred town.
The mosque of Fez grew up around the tomb of his posthumous son, Moulay
Idriss II, who, descending from the hills, fell upon a camp of Berbers
on an affluent of the Sebou, and there laid the foundations of Fez, and
of the Moroccan Empire.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez--the Nedjarine fountain]

Of the original monument it is said that little remains. The
_zaouia_[A] which encloses it dates from the reign of Moulay-Ismaël, the
seventeenth-century Sultan of Meknez, and the mosque itself, and the
green minaret shooting up from the very centre of old Fez, were not
built until 1820. But a rich surface of age has already formed on all
these disparate buildings, and the over-gorgeous details of the shrines
and fountains set in their outer walls are blended into harmony by a
film of incense-smoke, and the grease of countless venerating lips and
hands.

[Footnote A: Moslem monastery.]

Featureless walls of mean houses close in again at the next turn; but a
few steps farther another archway reveals another secret scene. This
time it is a corner of the jealously guarded court of ablutions in the
great mosque El Kairouiyin, with the twin green-roofed pavilions that
are so like those of the Alhambra.

Those who have walked around the outer walls of the mosque of the other
Kairouan, and recall the successive doors opening into the forecourt and
into the mosque itself, will be able to guess at the plan of the church
of Fez. The great Almohad sanctuary of Tunisia is singularly free from
parasitic buildings, and may be approached as easily as that of Cordova,
but the approaches of El Kairouiyin are so built up that one never knows
at which turn of the labyrinth one may catch sight of its court of
fountains, or peep down the endless colonnades of which the Arabs say:
"The man who should try to count the columns of Kairouiyin would go
mad."

Marble floors, heavy whitewashed piers, prostrate figures in the
penumbra, rows of yellow slippers outside in the sunlight--out of such
glimpses one must reconstruct a vision of the long vistas of arches, the
blues and golds of the _mirhab_,[A] the lustre of bronze chandeliers,
and the ivory inlaying of the twelfth-century _minbar_[B] of ebony and
sandalwood.

[Footnote A: Niche in the sanctuary of mosques.]

[Footnote B: Movable pulpit.]

No Christian footstep has yet profaned Kairouiyin, but fairly definite
information as to its plan has been gleaned by students of Moroccan art.
The number of its "countless" columns has been counted, and it is known
that, to the right of the _mirhab_, carved cedar doors open into a
mortuary chapel called "the mosque of the dead"--and also that in this
chapel, on Fridays, old books and precious manuscripts are sold by
auction.

This odd association of uses recalls the fact that Kairouiyin is not
only a church but a library, the University of Fez as well as its
cathedral. The beautiful Medersas with which the Merinids adorned the
city are simply the lodging-houses of the students, the classes are all
held in the courts and galleries adjoining the mosque.

El Kairouiyin was originally an oratory built in the ninth century by
Fatmah, whose father had migrated from Kairouan to Fez. Later it was
enlarged, and its cupola was surmounted by the talismans which protect
sacred edifices against rats, scorpions and serpents, but in spite of
these precautions all animal life was not successfully exorcised from
it. In the twelfth century, when the great gate Ech Chemmâin was
building, a well was discovered under its foundations. The mouth of the
well was obstructed by an immense tortoise, but when the workmen
attempted to take the tortoise out she said: "Burn me rather than take
me away from here." They respected her wishes and built her into the
foundations; and since then women who suffer from the back-ache have
only to come and sit on the bench above the well to be cured.

The actual mosque, or "praying-hall," is said to be formed of a
rectangle or double cube of 90 metres by 45, and this vast space is
equally divided by rows of horseshoe arches resting on whitewashed piers
on which the lower part is swathed in finely patterned matting from
Salé. Fifteen monumental doorways lead into the mosque. Their doors are
of cedar, heavily barred and ornamented with wrought iron, and one of
them bears the name of the artisan, and the date 531 of the Hegira (the
first half of the twelfth century). The mosque also contains the two
halls of audience of the Cadi, of which one has a graceful exterior
façade with coupled lights under horseshoe arches; the library, whose
20,000 volumes are reported to have dwindled to about a thousand, the
chapel where the Masters of the Koran recite the sacred text in
fulfilment of pious bequests; the "museum" in the upper part of the
minaret, wherein a remarkable collection of ancient astronomical
instruments is said to be preserved; and the _mestonda_, or raised hall
above the court, where women come to pray.

But the crown of El Kairouiyin is the Merinid court of ablutions. This
inaccessible wonder lies close under the Medersa Attarine, one of the
oldest and most beautiful collegiate buildings of Fez, and through the
kindness of the Director of Fine Arts, who was with us, we were taken up
to the roof of the Medersa and allowed to look down into the enclosure.

It is so closely guarded from below that from our secret coign of
vantage we seemed to be looking down into the heart of forbidden things.
Spacious and serene the great tiled cloister lay beneath us, water
spilling over from a central basin of marble with a cool sound to which
lesser fountains made answer from under the pyramidal green roofs of the
twin pavilions. It was near the prayer-hour, and worshippers were
flocking in, laying off their shoes and burnouses, washing their faces
at the fountains and their feet in the central tank, or stretching
themselves out in the shadow of the enclosing arcade.

This, then, was the famous court "so cool in the great heats that
seated by thy beautiful jet of water I feel the perfection of bliss"--as
the learned doctor Abou Abd Allah el Maghili sang of it, the court in
which the students gather from the adjoining halls after having
committed to memory the principles of grammar in prose and verse, the
"science of the reading of the Koran," the invention, exposition and
ornaments of style, law, medicine, theology, metaphysics and astronomy,
as well as the talismanic numbers, and the art of ascertaining by
calculation the influences of the angels, the spirits and the heavenly
bodies, "the names of the victor and the vanquished, and of the desired
object and the person who desires it."

Such is the twentieth-century curriculum of the University of Fez.
Repetition is the rule of Arab education as it is of Arab ornament. The
teaching of the University is based entirely on the mediaeval principle
of mnemonics, and as there are no examinations, no degrees, no limits to
the duration of any given course, nor is any disgrace attached to
slowness in learning, it is not surprising that many students, coming as
youths, linger by the fountain of Kairouiyin till their hair is gray.
One well-known _oulama_ has lately finished his studies after
twenty-seven years at the University, and is justly proud of the length
of his stay. The life of the scholar is easy, the way of knowledge is
long, the contrast exquisite between the foul lanes and noisy bazaars
outside and this cool heaven of learning. No wonder the students of
Kairouiyin say with the tortoise, "Burn me rather than take me away."



IV

EL ANDALOUS AND THE POTTERS' FIELD

Outside the sacred precincts of Moulay Idriss and Kairouiyin, on the
other side of the Oued Fez, lies El Andalous, the mosque which the
Andalusian Moors built when they settled in Fez in the ninth century.

It stands apart from the bazaars, on higher ground, and though it is not
_horm_ we found it less easy to see than the more famous mosques, since
the Christian loiterer in its doorways is more quickly noticed. The Fazi
are not yet used to seeing unbelievers near their sacred places. It is
only in the tumult and confusion of the _souks_ that one can linger on
the edge of the inner mysteries without becoming aware of attracting
sullen looks, and my only impression of El Andalous is of a magnificent
Almohad door and the rich blur of an interior in which there was no time
to single out the details.

Turning from its forbidden and forbidding threshold we rode on through a
poor quarter which leads to the great gate of Bab F'touh. Beyond the
gate rises a dusty rocky slope extending to the outer walls--one of
those grim intramural deserts that girdle Fez with desolation. This one
is strewn with gravestones, not enclosed, but, as in most Moroccan
cemeteries, simply cropping up like nettles between the rocks and out of
the flaming dust. Here and there among the slabs rises a well-curb or a
crumbling _koubba_. A solitary palm shoots up beside one of the shrines.
And between the crowded graves the caravan trail crosses from the outer
to the inner gate, and perpetual lines of camels and donkeys trample the
dead a little deeper into the dusty earth.

This Bab F'touh cemetery is also a kind of fondak. Poor caravans camp
there under the walls in a mire of offal and chicken-feathers and
stripped date-branches prowled through by wolfish dogs and buzzed over
by fat blue flies. Camel-drivers squat beside iron kettles over heaps of
embers, sorcerers from the Sahara offer their amulets to negro women,
peddlers with portable wooden booths sell greasy cakes that look as if
they had been made out of the garbage of the caravans, and in and out
among the unknown dead and sleeping saints circulates the squalid
indifferent life of the living poor.

A walled lane leads down from Bab F'touh to a lower slope, where the
Fazi potters have their baking-kilns. Under a series of grassy terraces
overgrown with olives we saw the archaic ovens and dripping wheels which
produce the earthenware sold in the _souks_. It is a primitive and
homely ware, still fine in shape, though dull in color and monotonous in
pattern; and stacked on the red earth under the olives, the rows of jars
and cups, in their unglazed and unpainted state, showed their classical
descent more plainly than after they have been decorated.

This green quiet hollow, where turbaned figures were moving attentively
among the primitive ovens, so near to the region of flies and offal we
had just left, woke an old phrase in our memories, and as our mules
stumbled back over the graves of Bab F'touh we understood the grim
meaning of the words: "They carried him out and buried him in the
Potters' Field."



V

MEDERSAS, BAZAARS AND AN OASIS

Fez, for two centuries and more, was in a double sense the capital of
Morocco: the centre of its trade as well as of its culture.

Culture, in fact, came to northwest Africa chiefly through the Merinid
princes. The Almohads had erected great monuments from Rabat to
Marrakech, and had fortified Fez, but their "mighty wasteful empire"
fell apart like those that had preceded it. Stability had to come from
the west; it was not till the Arabs had learned it through the Moors
that Morocco produced a dynasty strong and enlightened enough to carry
out the dream of its founders.

Whichever way the discussion sways as to the priority of eastern or
western influences on Moroccan art--whether it came to her from Syria,
and was thence passed on to Spain, or was first formed in Spain, and
afterward modified by the Moroccan imagination--there can at least be no
doubt that Fazi art and culture, in their prime, are partly the
reflection of European civilization.

Fugitives from Spain came to the new city when Moulay Idriss founded it.
One part of the town was given to them, and the river divided the Elbali
of the Almohads into the two quarters of Kairouiyin and Andalous, which
still retain their old names. But the full intellectual and artistic
flowering of Fez was delayed till the thirteenth and fourteenth
centuries. It seems as though the seeds of the new springtime of art,
blown across the sea from reawakening Europe, had at last given the
weltering tribes of the desert the force to create their own type of
beauty.

Nine Medersas sprang up in Fez, six of them built by the princes who
were also creating the exquisite collegiate buildings of Salé, Rabat and
old Meknez, and the enchanting mosque and minaret of Chella. The power
of these rulers also was in perpetual flux, they were always at war with
the Sultans of Tlemcen, the Christians of Spain, the princes of
northern Algeria and Tunis. But during the fourteenth century they
established a rule wide and firm enough to permit of the great outburst
of art and learning which produced the Medersas of Fez.

Until a year or two ago these collegiate buildings were as inaccessible
as the mosques, but now that the French government has undertaken their
restoration strangers may visit them under the guidance of the Fine Arts
Department.

All are built on the same plan, the plan of Salé and Rabat, which (as M.
Tranchant de Lunel[A] has pointed out) became, with slight
modifications, that of the rich private houses of Morocco. But
interesting as they are in plan and the application of ornament, their
main beauty lies in their details, in the union of chiselled plaster
with the delicate mosaic work of niches and revêtements, the web-like
arabesques of the upper walls and the bold, almost Gothic sculpture of
the cedar architraves and corbels supporting them. And when all these
details are enumerated, and also the fretted panels of cedar, the bronze
doors with their great shield-like bosses, and the honeycombings and
rufflings of the gilded ceilings, there still remains the general tinge
of dry disintegration, as though all were perishing of a desert
fever--that, and the final wonder of seeing before one, in such a
setting, the continuance of the very life that went on there when the
tiles were set and the gold was new on the ceilings.

[Footnote A: In _France-Maroc, No._ 1.]

For these tottering Medersas, already in the hands of the restorers, are
still inhabited. As long as the stairway holds and the balcony has not
rotted from its corbels, the students of the University see no reason
for abandoning their lodgings above the cool fountain and the house of
prayer. The strange men giving incomprehensible orders for unnecessary
repairs need not disturb their meditations, and when the hammering grows
too loud the _oulamas_ have only to pass through the silk market or the
_souk_ of the embroiderers to the mosque of Kairouiyin, and go on
weaving the pattern of their dreams by the fountain of perfect bliss.


One reads of the bazaars of Fez that they have been for centuries the
central market of the country. Here are to be found not only the silks
and pottery, the Jewish goldsmiths' work, the arms and embroidered
saddlery which the city itself produces, but "morocco" from Marrakech,
rugs, tent-hangings and matting from Rabat and Salé, grain baskets from
Moulay Idriss, daggers from the Souss, and whatever European wares the
native markets consume. One looks, on the plan of Fez, at the space
covered by the bazaars, one breasts the swarms that pour through them
from dawn to dusk--and one remains perplexed, disappointed. They are
less "Oriental" than one had expected, if "Oriental" means color and
gaiety.

Sometimes, on occasion, it does mean that: as, for instance, when a
procession passes bearing the gifts for a Jewish wedding. The gray crowd
makes way for a group of musicians in brilliant caftans, and following
them comes a long file of women with uncovered faces and bejewelled
necks, balancing on their heads the dishes the guests have sent to the
feast--_kouskous_, sweet creams and syrups, "gazelles' horns" of sugar
and almonds--in delicately woven baskets, each covered with several
squares of bright gauze edged with gold. Then one remembers the
marketing of the Lady of "The Three Calendars," and Fez again becomes
the Bagdad of Al Raschid.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez--the bazaars. A view of the Souk el Attarine and the Quaisarya (silk
market)]

But when no exceptional events, processions, ceremonies and the like
brighten the underworld of the _souks_, their look is uniformly
melancholy. The gay bazaars, the gaily-painted houses, the flowers and
flute-playing of North Africa, are found in her Mediterranean ports, in
contact with European influences. The farther west she extends, the more
she becomes self-contained, sombre, uninfluenced, a gloomy fanatic with
her back to the walls of the Atlantic and the Atlas. Color and laughter
lie mostly along the trade-routes, where the peoples of the world come
and go in curiosity and rivalry. This ashen crowd swarming gloomily
through the dark tunnels represents the real Moghreb that is close to
the wild tribes of the "hinterland" and the grim feudal fortresses of
the Atlas. How close, one has only to go out to Sefrou on a market-day
to see.

Sefrou is a military outpost in an oasis under the Atlas, about forty
miles south of Fez. To most people the word "oasis" evokes palms and
sand; but though Morocco possesses many oases it has no pure sand and
few palms. I remember it as a considerable event when I discovered one
from my lofty window at Bou-Jeloud.

The _bled_ is made of very different stuff from the sand-ocean of the
Sahara. The light plays few tricks with it. Its monotony is wearisome
rather than impressive, and the fact that it is seldom without some form
of dwarfish vegetation makes the transition less startling when the
alluvial green is finally reached. One had always half expected it, and
it does not spring at a djinn's wave out of sterile gold.

But the fact brings its own compensations. Moroccan oases differ one
from another far more than those of South Algeria and Tunisia. Some have
no palms, others but a few, others are real palm-oases, though even in
the south (at least on the hither side of the great Atlas) none spreads
out a dense uniform roofing of metal-blue fronds like the date-oases of
Biskra or Tozeur. As for Sefrou, which Foucauld called the most
beautiful oasis of Morocco, it is simply an extremely fertile valley
with vineyards and orchards stretching up to a fine background of
mountains. But the fact that it lies just below the Atlas makes it an
important market-place and centre of caravans.

Though so near Fez it is still almost on the disputed border between the
loyal and the "unsubmissive" tribes, those that are _Blad-Makhzen_ (of
the Sultan's government) and those that are against it. Until recently,
therefore, it has been inaccessible to visitors, and even now a strongly
fortified French post dominates the height above the town. Looking down
from the fort, one distinguishes, through masses of many-tinted green, a
suburb of Arab houses in gardens, and below, on the river, Sefrou
itself, a stout little walled town with angle-towers defiantly thrust
forth toward the Atlas. It is just outside these walls that the market
is held.

It was swarming with hill-people the day we were there, and strange was
the contrast between the crowd inside the circle of picketed horses and
the white-robed cockneys from Rabat who fill the market-place of Salé.
Here at last we were in touch with un-Arab Morocco, with Berbers of the
_bled_ and the hills, whose women know no veils and no seclusion, and
who, under a thin surface of Mahometanism, preserve their old stone and
animal worship, and all the gross fetichistic beliefs from which
Mahomet dreamed of freeing Africa.

The men were lean and weather-bitten, some with negroid lips, others
with beaked noses and gaunt cheek-bones, all muscular and
fierce-looking. Some were wrapped in the black cloaks worn by the Blue
Men of the Sahara,[A] with a great orange sun embroidered on the back,
some tunicked like the Egyptian fellah, under a rough striped outer
garment trimmed with bright tufts and tassels of wool. The men of the
Rif had a braided lock on the shoulder, those of the Atlas a ringlet
over each ear, and brown woollen scarfs wound round their temples,
leaving the shaven crown bare.

[Footnote A: So called because of the indigo dye of their tunics, which
leaves a permanent stain on their bodies.]

The women, squatting among their kids and poultry and cheeses, glanced
at us with brilliant hennaed eyes and smiles that lifted their short
upper lips maliciously. Their thin faces were painted in stripes and
patterns of indigo. Silver necklets covered their throats, long earrings
dangled under the wool-embroidered kerchiefs bound about their temples
with a twist of camel's hair, and below the cotton shifts fastened on
their shoulders with silver clasps their legs were bare to the knee, or
covered with leather leggings to protect them from the thorny _bled_.

They seemed abler bargainers than the men, and the play of expression on
their dramatic and intensely feminine faces as they wheedled the price
of a calf out of a fierce hillsman, or haggled over a heap of dates that
a Jew with greasy ringlets was trying to secure for his secret
distillery, showed that they knew their superiority and enjoyed it.

Jews abounded in the market-place and also in the town. Sefrou contains
a large Israelite colony, and after we had wandered through the steep
streets, over gushing waterfalls spanned by "ass-backed" Spanish
bridges, and through a thatched _souk_ smelling strong of camels and the
desert, the French commissioner (the only European in Sefrou) suggested
that it might interest us to visit the _Mellah_.

It was our first sight of a typical Jewish quarter in Africa. The
_Mellah_ of Fez was almost entirely destroyed during the massacres of
1912 (which incidentally included a _pogrom_), and its distinctive
character, happily for the inhabitants, has disappeared in the
rebuilding. North African Jews are still compelled to live in ghettos,
into which they are locked at night, as in France and Germany in the
Middle Ages, and until lately the men have been compelled to go unarmed,
to wear black gabardines and black slippers, to take off their shoes
when they passed near a mosque or a saint's tomb, and in various other
ways to manifest their subjection to the ruling race. Nowhere else do
they live in conditions of such demoralizing promiscuity as in some of
the cities of Morocco. They have so long been subject to unrestricted
extortion on the part of the Moslems that even the wealthy Jews (who are
numerous) have sunk to the habits and appearance of the poorest; and
Sefrou, which has come so recently under French control, offers a good
specimen of a _Mellah_ before foreign sanitation has lighted up its dark
places.

Dark indeed they were. After wandering through narrow and malodorous
lanes, and slipping about in the offal of the _souks_, we were suddenly
led under an arch over which should have been written "All light
abandon--" and which made all we had seen before seem clean and bright
and airy.

The beneficent African sun dries up and purifies the immemorial filth
of Africa, where that sun enters there is none of the foulness of damp.
But into the _Mellah_ of Sefrou it never comes, for the streets form a
sort of subterranean rabbit-warren under the upper stories of a solid
agglomeration of tall houses--a buried city lit even at midday by
oil-lamps hanging in the goldsmiths' shops and under the archways of the
black and reeking staircases.

It was a Jewish feast-day. The Hebrew stalls in the _souks_ were closed,
and the whole population of the _Mellah_ thronged its tunnels in holiday
dress. Hurrying past us were young women with plump white faces and
lovely eyes, turbaned in brilliant gauzes, with draperies of dirty
curtain muslin over tawdry brocaded caftans. Their paler children
swarmed about them, little long-earringed girls like wax dolls dressed
in scraps of old finery, little boys in tattered caftans with
long-lashed eyes and wily smiles, and, waddling in the rear, their
unwieldy grandmothers, huge lumps of tallowy flesh who were probably
still in the thirties.

With them were the men of the family, in black gabardines and
skull-caps, sallow striplings, incalculably aged ancestors,
round-bellied husbands and fathers bumping along like black balloons,
all hastening to the low doorways dressed with lamps and paper garlands
behind which the feast was spread.

One is told that in cities like Fez and Marrakech the Hebrew quarter
conceals flowery patios and gilded rooms with the heavy European
furniture that rich Jews delight in. Perhaps even in the _Mellah_ of
Sefrou, among the ragged figures shuffling past us, there were some few
with bags of gold in their walls and rich stuffs hid away in painted
coffers, but for patios and flowers and daylight there seemed no room in
the dark _bolgia_ they inhabit. No wonder the babies of the Moroccan
ghettos are nursed on date-brandy, and their elders doze away to death
under its consoling spell.



VI

THE LAST GLIMPSE

It is well to bid good-by to Fez at night--a moonlight night for choice.

Then, after dining at the Arab inn of Fez Eldjid--where it might be
inconvenient to lodge, but where it is extremely pleasant to eat
_kouskous_ under a grape-trellis in a tiled and fountained patio--this
pleasure over, one may set out on foot and stray down the lanes toward
Fez Elbali.

Not long ago the gates between the different quarters of the city used
to be locked every night at nine o'clock, and the merchant who went out
to dine in another part of the town had to lodge with his host. Now this
custom has been given up, and one may roam about untroubled through the
old quarters, grown as silent as the grave after the intense life of the
bazaars has ceased at nightfall.

Nobody is in the streets wandering from ghostly passage to passage, one
hears no step but that of the watchman with staff and lantern. Presently
there appears, far off, a light like a low-flying firefly, as it comes
nearer, it is seen to proceed from the _Mellah_ lamp of open-work brass
that a servant carries ahead of two merchants on their way home from
Elbali. The merchants are grave men, they move softly and slowly on
their fat slippered feet, pausing from time to time in confidential
talk. At last they stop before a house wall with a low blue door barred
by heavy hasps of iron. The servant lifts the lamp and knocks. There is
a long delay, then, with infinite caution, the door is opened a few
inches, and another lifted light shines faintly on lustrous tiled walls,
and on the face of a woman slave who quickly veils herself. Evidently
the master is a man of standing, and the house well guarded. The two
merchants touch each other on the right shoulder, one of them passes in,
and his friend goes on through the moonlight, his servant's lantern
dancing ahead.

But here we are in an open space looking down one of the descents to El
Attarine. A misty radiance washes the tall houses, the garden-walls, the
archways, even the moonlight does not whiten Fez, but only turns its
gray to tarnished silver. Overhead in a tower window a single light
twinkles: women's voices rise and fall on the roofs. In a rich man's
doorway slaves are sleeping, huddled on the tiles. A cock crows from
somebody's dunghill, a skeleton dog prowls by for garbage.

Everywhere is the loud rush or the low crooning of water, and over every
wall comes the scent of jasmine and rose. Far off, from the red
purgatory between the walls, sounds the savage thrum-thrum of a negro
orgy, here all is peace and perfume. A minaret springs up between the
roofs like a palm, and from its balcony the little white figure bends
over and drops a blessing on all the loveliness and all the squalor.




IV


MARRAKECH


I

THE WAY THERE

There are countless Arab tales of evil Djinns who take the form of
sandstorms and hot winds to overwhelm exhausted travellers.

In spite of the new French road between Rabat and Marrakech the memory
of such tales rises up insistently from every mile of the level red
earth and the desolate stony stretches of the _bled_. As long as the
road runs in sight of the Atlantic breakers they give the scene
freshness and life, but when it bends inland and stretches away across
the wilderness the sense of the immensity and immobility of Africa
descends on one with an intolerable oppression.

The road traverses no villages, and not even a ring of nomad tents is
visible in the distance on the wide stretches of arable land. At
infrequent intervals our motor passed a train of laden mules, or a group
of peasants about a well, and sometimes, far off, a fortified farm
profiled its thick-set angle-towers against the sky, or a white _koubba_
floated like a mirage above the brush, but these rare signs of life
intensified the solitude of the long miles between.

At midday we were refreshed by the sight of the little oasis around the
military-post of Settat. We lunched there with the commanding officer,
in a cool Arab house about a flowery patio, but that brief interval
over, the fiery plain began again. After Settat the road runs on for
miles across the waste to the gorge of the Oued Ouem, and beyond the
river it climbs to another plain so desperate in its calcined aridity
that the prickly scrub of the wilderness we had left seemed like the
vegetation of an oasis. For fifty kilometres the earth under our wheels
was made up of a kind of glistening red slag covered with pebbles and
stones. Not the scantest and toughest of rock-growths thrust a leaf
through its brassy surface, not a well-head or a darker depression of
the rock gave sign of a trickle of water. Everything around us
glittered with the same unmerciful dryness.

A long way ahead loomed the line of the Djebilets, the Djinn-haunted
mountains guarding Marrakech on the north. When at last we reached them
the wicked glister of their purple flanks seemed like a volcanic
upheaval of the plain. For some time we had watched the clouds gathering
over them, and as we got to the top of the defile rain was falling from
a fringe of thunder to the south. Then the vapours lifted, and we saw
below us another red plain with an island of palms in its centre.
Mysteriously, from the heart of the palms, a tower shot up, as if alone
in the wilderness, behind it stood the sun-streaked cliffs of the Atlas,
with snow summits appearing and vanishing through the storm.

As we drove downward the rock gradually began to turn to red earth
fissured by yellow streams, and stray knots of palms sprang up, lean and
dishevelled, about well-heads where people were watering camels and
donkeys. To the east, dominating the oasis, the twin peaked hills of the
Ghilis, fortified to the crest, mounted guard over invisible Marrakech;
but still, above the palms, we saw only that lonely and triumphant
tower.

Presently we crossed the Oued Tensif on an old bridge built by Moroccan
engineers. Beyond the river were more palms, then olive-orchards, then
the vague sketch of the new European settlement, with a few shops and
cafés on avenues ending suddenly in clay pits, and at last Marrakech
itself appeared to us, in the form of a red wall across a red
wilderness.

We passed through a gate and were confronted by other ramparts. Then we
entered an outskirt of dusty red lanes bordered by clay hovels with
draped figures slinking by like ghosts. After that more walls, more
gates, more endlessly winding lanes, more gates again, more turns, a
dusty open space with donkeys and camels and negroes; a final wall with
a great door under a lofty arch--and suddenly we were in the palace of
the Bahia, among flowers and shadows and falling water.



II

THE BAHIA

Whoever would understand Marrakech must begin by mounting at sunset to
the roof of the Bahia.

Outspread below lies the oasis-city of the south, flat and vast as the
great nomad camp it really is, its low roofs extending on all sides to a
belt of blue palms ringed with desert. Only two or three minarets and a
few noblemen's houses among gardens break the general flatness; but they
are hardly noticeable, so irresistibly is the eye drawn toward two
dominant objects--the white wall of the Atlas and the red tower of the
Koutoubya.

Foursquare, untapering, the great tower lifts its flanks of ruddy stone.
Its large spaces of unornamented wall, its triple tier of clustered
openings, lightening as they rise from the severe rectangular lights of
the first stage to the graceful arcade below the parapet, have the stern
harmony of the noblest architecture. The Koutoubya would be magnificent
anywhere; in this flat desert it is grand enough to face the Atlas.

The Almohad conquerors who built the Koutoubya and embellished
Marrakech dreamed a dream of beauty that extended from the Guadalquivir
to the Sahara; and at its two extremes they placed their watch-towers.
The Giralda watched over civilized enemies in a land of ancient Roman
culture, the Koutoubya stood at the edge of the world, facing the hordes
of the desert.

The Almoravid princes who founded Marrakech came from the black desert
of Senegal, themselves were leaders of wild hordes. In the history of
North Africa the same cycle has perpetually repeated itself. Generation
after generation of chiefs have flowed in from the desert or the
mountains, overthrown their predecessors, massacred, plundered, grown
rich, built sudden palaces, encouraged their great servants to do the
same, then fallen on them, and taken their wealth and their palaces.
Usually some religious fury, some ascetic wrath against the
self-indulgence of the cities, has been the motive of these attacks, but
invariably the same results followed, as they followed when the Germanic
barbarians descended on Italy. The conquerors, infected with luxury and
mad with power, built vaster palaces, planned grander cities, but
Sultans and Viziers camped in their golden houses as if on the march,
and the mud huts of the tribesmen within their walls were but one degree
removed from the mud-walled tents of the _bled_.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Marrakech--The "Little Garden" (with painted doors) in background,
Palace of the Bahia]

This was more especially the case with Marrakech, a city of Berbers and
blacks, and the last outpost against the fierce black world beyond the
Atlas from which its founders came. When one looks at its site, and
considers its history, one can only marvel at the height of civilization
it attained.

The Bahia itself, now the palace of the Resident General, though built
less than a hundred years ago, is typical of the architectural
megalomania of the great southern chiefs. It was built by Ba-Ahmed, the
all-powerful black Vizier of the Sultan Moulay-el-Hassan.[A] Ba-Ahmed
was evidently an artist and an archaeologist. His ambition was to
re-create a Palace of Beauty such as the Moors had built in the prime of
Arab art, and he brought to Marrakech skilled artificers of Fez, the
last surviving masters of the mystery of chiselled plaster and ceramic
mosaics and honeycombing of gilded cedar. They came, they built the
Bahia, and it remains the loveliest and most fantastic of Moroccan
palaces.

[Footnote A: Moulay-el-Hassan reigned from 1873 to 1894.]

Court within court, garden beyond garden, reception halls, private
apartments, slaves' quarters, sunny prophets' chambers on the roofs and
baths in vaulted crypts, the labyrinth of passages and rooms stretches
away over several acres of ground. A long court enclosed in pale-green
trellis-work, where pigeons plume themselves about a great tank and the
dripping tiles glitter with refracted sunlight, leads to the fresh gloom
of a cypress garden, or under jasmine tunnels bordered with running
water; and these again open on arcaded apartments faced with tiles and
stucco-work, where, in a languid twilight, the hours drift by to the
ceaseless music of the fountains.

The beauty of Moroccan palaces is made up of details of ornament and
refinements of sensuous delight too numerous to record, but to get an
idea of their general character it is worth while to cross the Court of
Cypresses at the Bahia and follow a series of low-studded passages that
turn on themselves till they reach the centre of the labyrinth. Here,
passing by a low padlocked door leading to a crypt, and known as the
"Door of the Vizier's Treasure-House," one comes on a painted portal
that opens into a still more secret sanctuary: The apartment of the
Grand Vizier's Favourite.

[Illustration: _From a photograph by Felix, Marrakech_

Marrakech--the great court, Palace of the Bahia]

This lovely prison, from which all sight and sound of the outer world
are excluded, is built about an atrium paved with disks of turquoise and
black and white. Water trickles from a central _vasca_ of alabaster into
an hexagonal mosaic channel in the pavement. The walls, which are at
least twenty-five feet high, are roofed with painted beams resting on
panels of traceried stucco in which is set a clerestory of jewelled
glass. On each side of the atrium are long recessed rooms closed by
vermilion doors painted with gold arabesques and vases of spring
flowers, and into these shadowy inner rooms, spread with rugs and divans
and soft pillows, no light comes except when their doors are opened into
the atrium. In this fabulous place it was my good luck to be lodged
while I was at Marrakech.

In a climate where, after the winter snow has melted from the Atlas,
every breath of air for long months is a flame of fire, these enclosed
rooms in the middle of the palaces are the only places of refuge from
the heat. Even in October the temperature of the favourite's apartment
was deliciously reviving after a morning in the bazaars or the dusty
streets, and I never came back to its wet tiles and perpetual twilight
without the sense of plunging into a deep sea-pool.

From far off, through circuitous corridors, came the scent of
citron-blossom and jasmine, with sometimes a bird's song before dawn,
sometimes a flute's wail at sunset, and always the call of the muezzin
in the night, but no sunlight reached the apartment except in remote
rays through the clerestory, and no air except through one or two broken
panes.

Sometimes, lying on my divan, and looking out through the vermilion
doors, I used to surprise a pair of swallows dropping down from their
nest in the cedar-beams to preen themselves on the fountain's edge or in
the channels of the pavement, for the roof was full of birds who came
and went through the broken panes of the clerestory. Usually they were
my only visitors, but one morning just at daylight I was waked by a soft
tramp of bare feet, and saw, silhouetted against the cream-coloured
walls, a procession of eight tall negroes in linen tunics, who filed
noiselessly across the atrium like a moving frieze of bronze. In that
fantastic setting, and the hush of that twilight hour, the vision was so
like the picture of a "Seraglio Tragedy," some fragment of a Delacroix
or Decamps floating up into the drowsy brain, that I almost fancied I
had seen the ghosts of Ba-Ahmed's executioners revisiting with dagger
and bowstring the scene of an unavenged crime.

[Illustration: _From a photograph taken by Mme. la Marquis de Segonzac_

Marrakech--apartment of the grand vizier's favorite, Palace of the
Bahia]

A cock crew, and they vanished ... and when I made the mistake of asking
what they had been doing in my room at that hour I was told (as though
it were the most natural thing in the world) that they were the
municipal lamp-lighters of Marrakech, whose duty it is to refill every
morning the two hundred acetylene lamps lighting the palace of the
Resident General. Such unforeseen aspects, in this mysterious city, do
the most ordinary domestic functions wear.



III

THE BAZAARS

Passing out of the enchanted circle of the Bahia it is startling to
plunge into the native life about its gates.

Marrakech is the great market of the south, and the south means not only
the Atlas with its feudal chiefs and their wild clansmen, but all that
lies beyond of heat and savagery, the Sahara of the veiled Touaregs,
Dakka, Timbuctoo, Senegal and the Soudan. Here come the camel caravans
from Demnat and Tameslout, from the Moulouya and the Souss, and those
from the Atlantic ports and the confines of Algeria. The population of
this old city of the southern march has always been even more mixed than
that of the northerly Moroccan towns. It is made up of the descendants
of all the peoples conquered by a long line of Sultans who brought their
trains of captives across the sea from Moorish Spain and across the
Sahara from Timbuctoo. Even in the highly cultivated region on the lower
slopes of the Atlas there are groups of varied ethnic origin, the
descendants of tribes transplanted by long-gone rulers and still
preserving many of their original characteristics.

In the bazaars all these peoples meet and mingle: cattle-dealers,
olive-growers, peasants from the Atlas, the Souss and the Draa, Blue Men
of the Sahara, blacks from Senegal and the Soudan, coming in to trade
with the wool-merchants, tanners, leather-merchants, silk-weavers,
armourers, and makers of agricultural implements.

Dark, fierce and fanatical are these narrow _souks_ of Marrakech. They
are mere mud lanes roofed with rushes, as in South Tunisia and
Timbuctoo, and the crowds swarming in them are so dense that it is
hardly possible, at certain hours, to approach the tiny raised kennels
where the merchants sit like idols among their wares. One feels at once
that something more than the thought of bargaining--dear as this is to
the African heart--animates these incessantly moving throngs. The Souks
of Marrakech seem, more than any others, the central organ of a native
life that extends far beyond the city walls into secret clefts of the
mountains and far-off oases where plots are hatched and holy wars
fomented--farther still, to yellow deserts whence negroes are secretly
brought across the Atlas to that inmost recess of the bazaar where the
ancient traffic in flesh and blood still surreptitiously goes on.

All these many threads of the native life, woven of greed and lust, of
fetichism and fear and blind hate of the stranger, form, in the _souks_,
a thick network in which at times one's feet seem literally to stumble.
Fanatics in sheepskins glowering from the guarded thresholds of the
mosques, fierce tribesmen with inlaid arms in their belts and the
fighters' tufts of wiry hair escaping from camel's-hair turbans, mad
negroes standing stark naked in niches of the walls and pouring down
Soudanese incantations upon the fascinated crowd, consumptive Jews with
pathos and cunning in their large eyes and smiling lips, lusty
slave-girls with earthen oil-jars resting against swaying hips,
almond-eyed boys leading fat merchants by the hand, and bare-legged
Berber women, tattooed and insolently gay, trading their striped
blankets, or bags of dried roses and irises, for sugar, tea or
Manchester cottons--from all these hundreds of unknown and unknowable
people, bound together by secret affinities, or intriguing against each
other with secret hate, there emanates an atmosphere of mystery and
menace more stifling than the smell of camels and spices and black
bodies and smoking fry which hangs like a fog under the close roofing of
the _souks_.

And suddenly one leaves the crowd and the turbid air for one of those
quiet corners that are like the back-waters of the bazaars, a small
square where a vine stretches across a shop-front and hangs ripe
clusters of grapes through the reeds. In the patterning of grape-shadows
a very old donkey, tethered to a stone-post, dozes under a pack-saddle
that is never taken off; and near by, in a matted niche, sits a very old
man in white. This is the chief of the Guild of "morocco" workers of
Marrakech, the most accomplished craftsman in Morocco in the preparing
and using of the skins to which the city gives its name. Of these sleek
moroccos, cream-white or dyed with cochineal or pomegranate skins, are
made the rich bags of the Chleuh dancing-boys, the embroidered slippers
for the harem, the belts and harnesses that figure so largely in
Moroccan trade--and of the finest, in old days, were made the
pomegranate-red morocco bindings of European bibliophiles.

From this peaceful corner one passes into the barbaric splendor of a
_souk_ hung with innumerable plumy bunches of floss silk--skeins of
citron yellow, crimson, grasshopper green and pure purple. This is the
silk-spinners' quarter, and next to it comes that of the dyers, with
great seething vats into which the raw silk is plunged, and ropes
overhead where the rainbow masses are hung out to dry.

Another turn leads into the street of the metal-workers and armourers,
where the sunlight through the thatch flames on round flanks of beaten
copper or picks out the silver bosses of ornate powder-flasks and
pistols, and near by is the _souk_ of the plough-shares, crowded with
peasants in rough Chleuh cloaks who are waiting to have their archaic
ploughs repaired, and that of the smiths, in an outer lane of mud huts
where negroes squat in the dust and sinewy naked figures in tattered
loincloths bend over blazing coals. And here ends the maze of the
bazaars.



IV

THE AGDAL

One of the Almohad Sultans who, during their hundred years of empire,
scattered such great monuments from Seville to the Atlas, felt the need
of coolness about his southern capital, and laid out the olive-yards of
the Agdal.

To the south of Marrakech the Agdal extends for many acres between the
outer walls of the city and the edge of the palm-oasis--a continuous
belt of silver foliage traversed by deep red lanes, and enclosing a
wide-spreading summer palace and two immense reservoirs walled with
masonry, and the vision of these serene sheets of water, in which the
olives and palms are motionlessly reflected, is one of the most poetic
impressions in that city of inveterate poetry.

On the edge of one of the reservoirs a sentimental Sultan built in the
last century a little pleasure-house called the Menara. It is composed
of a few rooms with a two-storied loggia looking across the water to the
palm-groves, and surrounded by a garden of cypresses and orange-trees.
The Menara, long since abandoned, is usually uninhabited, but on the
day when we drove through the Agdal we noticed, at the gate, a group of
well-dressed servants holding mules with embroidered saddle-clothes.

The French officer who was with us asked the porter what was going on,
and he replied that the Chief of the Guild of Wool-Merchants had hired
the pavilion for a week and invited a few friends to visit him. They
were now, the porter added, taking tea in the loggia above the lake, and
the host, being informed of our presence, begged that we should do him
and his friends the honour of visiting the pavilion.

In reply to this amiable invitation we crossed an empty saloon
surrounded with divans and passed out onto the loggia where the
wool-merchant and his guests were seated. They were evidently persons of
consequence: large bulky men wrapped in fresh muslins and reclining side
by side on muslin-covered divans and cushions. Black slaves had placed
before them brass trays with pots of mint-tea, glasses in filigree
stands, and dishes of gazelles' horns and sugar-plums, and they sat
serenely absorbing these refreshments and gazing with large calm eyes
upon the motionless water and the reflected trees.

So, we were told, they would probably spend the greater part of their
holiday. The merchant's cooks had taken possession of the kitchens, and
toward sunset a sumptuous repast of many courses would be carried into
the saloon on covered trays, and the guests would squat about it on rugs
of Rabat, tearing with their fingers the tender chicken wings and small
artichokes cooked in oil, plunging their fat white hands to the wrist
into huge mounds of saffron and rice, and washing off the traces of each
course in the brass basin of perfumed water carried about by a young
black slave-girl with hoop-earrings and a green-and-gold scarf about her
hips.

Then the singing-girls would come out from Marrakech, squat round-faced
young women heavily hennaed and bejewelled, accompanied by gaunt
musicians in bright caftans; and for hours they would sing sentimental
or obscene ballads to the persistent maddening twang of violin and flute
and drum. Meanwhile fiery brandy or sweet champagne would probably be
passed around between the steaming glasses of mint-tea which the slaves
perpetually refilled; or perhaps the sultry air, the heavy meal, the
scent of the garden and the vertiginous repetition of the music would
suffice to plunge these sedentary worthies into the delicious coma in
which every festive evening in Morocco ends.

The next day would be spent in the same manner, except that probably the
Chleuh boys with sidelong eyes and clean caftans would come instead of
the singing-girls, and weave the arabesque of their dance in place of
the runic pattern of the singing. But the result would always be the
same: a prolonged state of obese ecstasy culminating in the collapse of
huge heaps of snoring muslin on the divans against the wall. Finally at
the week's end the wool-merchant and his friends would all ride back
with dignity to the bazaar.



V

ON THE ROOFS

"Should you like to see the Chleuh boys dance?" some one asked.

"There they are," another of our companions added, pointing to a dense
ring of spectators on one side of the immense dusty square at the
entrance of the _souks_--the "Square of the Dead" as it is called, in
memory of the executions that used to take place under one of its grim
red gates.

It is the square of the living now, the centre of all the life,
amusement and gossip of Marrakech, and the spectators are so thickly
packed about the story-tellers, snake-charmers and dancers who frequent
it that one can guess what is going on within each circle only by the
wailing monologue or the persistent drum-beat that proceeds from it.

Ah, yes--we should indeed like to see the Chleuh boys dance, we who,
since we had been in Morocco, had seen no dancing, heard no singing,
caught no single glimpse of merry-making! But how were we to get within
sight of them?

On one side of the "Square of the Dead" stands a large house, of
European build, but modelled on Oriental lines: the office of the French
municipal administration. The French Government no longer allows its
offices to be built within the walls of Moroccan towns, and this house
goes back to the epic days of the Caïd Sir Harry Maclean, to whom it was
presented by the fantastic Abd-el-Aziz when the Caïd was his favourite
companion as well as his military adviser.

At the suggestion of the municipal officials we mounted the stairs and
looked down on the packed square. There can be no more Oriental sight
this side of the Atlas and the Sahara. The square is surrounded by low
mud-houses, fondaks, cafés, and the like. In one corner, near the
archway leading into the _souks_, is the fruit-market, where the
red-gold branches of unripe dates[A] for animal fodder are piled up in
great stacks, and dozens of donkeys are coming and going, their panniers
laden with fruits and vegetables which are being heaped on the ground in
gorgeous pyramids: purple egg-plants, melons, cucumbers, bright orange
pumpkins, mauve and pink and violet onions, rusty crimson
pomegranates and the gold grapes of Sefrou and Salé, all mingled with
fresh green sheaves of mint and wormwood.

[Footnote A: Dates do not ripen in Morocco.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_

Marrakech--a fondak]

In the middle of the square sit the story-tellers' turbaned audiences.
Beyond these are the humbler crowds about the wild-ringleted
snake-charmers with their epileptic gestures and hissing incantations,
and farther off, in the densest circle of all, we could just discern the
shaved heads and waving surpliced arms of the dancing-boys. Under an
archway near by an important personage in white muslin, mounted on a
handsome mule and surrounded by his attendants, sat with motionless face
and narrowed eyes gravely following the movements of the dancers.

Suddenly, as we stood watching the extraordinary animation of the scene,
a reddish light overspread it, and one of our companions exclaimed:
"Ah--a dust-storm!"

In that very moment it was upon us: a red cloud rushing across the
square out of nowhere, whirling the date-branches over the heads of the
squatting throngs, tumbling down the stacks of fruits and vegetables,
rooting up the canvas awnings over the lemonade-sellers' stalls and
before the café doors, huddling the blinded donkeys under the walls of
the fondak, and stripping to the hips the black slave-girls scudding
home from the _souks_.

Such a blast would instantly have scattered any western crowd, but "the
patient East" remained undisturbed, rounding its shoulders before the
storm and continuing to follow attentively the motions of the dancers
and the turns of the story-tellers. By and bye, however, the gale grew
too furious, and the spectators were so involved in collapsing tents,
eddying date-branches and stampeding mules that the square began to
clear, save for the listeners about the most popular story-teller, who
continued to sit on unmoved. And then, at the height of the storm, they
too were abruptly scattered by the rush of a cavalcade across the
square. First came a handsomely dressed man, carrying before him on his
peaked saddle a tiny boy in a gold-embroidered orange caftan, in front
of whom he held an open book, and behind them a train of white-draped
men on showily harnessed mules, followed by musicians in bright dresses.
It was only a Circumcision procession on its way to the mosque; but the
dust-enveloped rider in his rich dress, clutching the bewildered child
to his breast, looked like some Oriental prince trying to escape with
his son from the fiery embraces of desert Erl-maidens.

As swiftly as it rose the storm subsided, leaving the fruit-market in
ruins under a sky as clear and innocent as an infant's eye. The Chleuh
boys had vanished with the rest, like marionettes swept into a drawer by
an impatient child, but presently, toward sunset, we were told that we
were to see them after all, and our hosts led us up to the roof of the
Caïd's house.

The city lay stretched before us like one immense terrace circumscribed
by palms. The sky was pure blue, verging to turquoise green where the
Atlas floated above mist; and facing the celestial snows stood the
Koutoubya, red in the sunset.

People were beginning to come out on the roofs: it was the hour of
peace, of ablutions, of family life on the house-tops. Groups of women
in pale tints and floating veils spoke to each other from terrace to
terrace, through the chatter of children and the guttural calls of
bedizened negresses. And presently, on the roof adjoining ours,
appeared the slim dancing-boys with white caftans and hennaed feet.

The three swarthy musicians who accompanied them crossed their lean legs
on the tiles and set up their throb-throb and thrum-thrum, and on a
narrow strip of terrace the youths began their measured steps.

It was a grave static dance, such as David may have performed before the
Ark; untouched by mirth or folly, as beseemed a dance in that sombre
land, and borrowing its magic from its gravity. Even when the pace
quickened with the stress of the music the gestures still continued to
be restrained and hieratic, only when, one by one, the performers
detached themselves from the round and knelt before us for the _peseta_
it is customary to press on their foreheads, did one see, by the
moisture which made the coin adhere, how quick and violent their
movements had been.

The performance, like all things Oriental, like the life, the patterns,
the stories, seemed to have no beginning and no end: it just went
monotonously and indefatigably on till fate snipped its thread by
calling us away to dinner. And so at last we went down into the dust of
the streets refreshed by that vision of white youths dancing on the
house-tops against the gold of a sunset that made them look--in spite of
ankle-bracelets and painted eyes--almost as guileless and happy as the
round of angels on the roof of Fra Angelico's Nativity.



VI

THE SAADIAN TOMBS

On one of the last days of our stay in Marrakech we were told, almost
mysteriously, that permission was to be given us to visit the tombs of
the Saadian Sultans.

Though Marrakech has been in the hands of the French since 1912, the
very existence of these tombs was unknown to the authorities till 1917.
Then the Sultan's government privately informed the Resident General
that an unsuspected treasure of Moroccan art was falling into ruin, and
after some hesitation it was agreed that General Lyautey and the
Director of Fine Arts should be admitted to the mosque containing the
tombs, on the express condition that the French Government undertook to
repair them. While we were at Rabat General Lyautey had described his
visit to us, and it was at his request that the Sultan authorized us to
see the mosque, to which no travellers had as yet been admitted.

With a good deal of ceremony, and after the customary _pourparlers_ with
the great Pasha who controls native affairs at Marrakech, an hour was
fixed for our visit, and we drove through long lanes of mud-huts to a
lost quarter near the walls. At last we came to a deserted square on one
side of which stands the long low mosque of Mansourah with a
turquoise-green minaret embroidered with traceries of sculptured terra
cotta. Opposite the mosque is a gate in a crumbling wall; and at this
gate the Pasha's Cadi was to meet us with the keys of the mausoleum. But
we waited in vain. Oriental dilatoriness, or a last secret reluctance to
admit unbelievers to a holy place, had caused the Cadi to forget his
appointment, and we drove away disappointed.

The delay drove us to wondering about these mysterious Saadian Sultans,
who, though coming so late in the annals of Morocco, had left at least
one monument said to be worthy of the Merinid tradition. And the tale
of the Saadians is worth telling.

They came from Arabia to the Draa (the fruitful country south of the
Great Atlas) early in the fifteenth century, when the Merinid empire was
already near disintegration. Like all previous invaders they preached
the doctrine of a pure Islamism to the polytheistic and indifferent
Berbers, and found a ready hearing because they denounced the evils of a
divided empire, and also because the whole of Morocco was in revolt
against the Christian colonies of Spain and Portugal, which had
encircled the coast from Ceuta to Agadir with a chain of fortified
counting-houses. To _bouter dehors_ the money-making unbeliever was an
object that found adherents from the Rif to the Sahara, and the Saadian
cherifs soon rallied a mighty following to their standard. Islam, though
it never really gave a creed to the Berbers, supplied them with a
war-cry as potent to-day as when it first rang across Barbary.

The history of the Saadians is a foreshortened record of that of all
their predecessors. They overthrew the artistic and luxurious Merinids,
and in their turn became artistic and luxurious. Their greatest Sultan,
Abou-el-Abbas, surnamed "The Golden," after defeating the Merinids and
putting an end to Christian rule in Morocco by the crushing victory of
El-Ksar (1578), bethought him in his turn of enriching himself and
beautifying his capital, and with this object in view turned his
attention to the black kingdoms of the south.

Senegal and the Soudan, which had been Mohammedan since the eleventh
century, had attained in the sixteenth century a high degree of
commercial wealth and artistic civilization. The Sultanate of Timbuctoo
seems in reality to have been a thriving empire, and if Timbuctoo was
not the Claude-like vision of Carthaginian palaces which it became in
the tales of imaginative travellers, it apparently had something of the
magnificence of Fez and Marrakech.

The Saadian army, after a march of four and a half months across the
Sahara, conquered the whole black south. Senegal, the Soudan and Bornou
submitted to Abou-el-Abbas, the Sultan of Timbuctoo was dethroned, and
the celebrated negro jurist Ahmed-Baba was brought a prisoner to
Marrakech, where his chief sorrow appears to have been for the loss of
his library of 1,600 volumes--though he declared that, of all the
numerous members of his family, it was he who possessed the smallest
number of books.

Besides this learned bibliophile, the Sultan Abou-el-Abbas brought back
with him an immense booty, principally of ingots of gold, from which he
took his surname of "The Golden"; and as the result of the expedition
Marrakech was embellished with mosques and palaces for which the Sultan
brought marble from Carrara, paying for it with loaves of sugar from the
sugar-cane that the Saadians grew in the Souss.

In spite of these brilliant beginnings the rule of the dynasty was short
and without subsequent interest. Based on a fanatical antagonism against
the foreigner, and fed by the ever-wakeful hatred of the Moors for their
Spanish conquerors, it raised ever higher the Chinese walls of
exclusiveness which the more enlightened Almohads and Merinids had
sought to overthrow. Henceforward less and less daylight and fresh air
were to penetrate into the _souks_ of Morocco.

The day after our unsuccessful attempt to see the tombs of these
ephemeral rulers we received another message, naming an hour for our
visit; and this time the Pasha's representative was waiting in the
archway. We followed his lead, under the openly mistrustful glances of
the Arabs who hung about the square, and after picking our way through a
twisting land between walls, we came out into a filthy nettle-grown
space against the ramparts. At intervals of about thirty feet splendid
square towers rose from the walls, and facing one of them lay a group of
crumbling buildings masked behind other ruins.

We were led first into a narrow mosque or praying-chapel, like those of
the Medersas, with a coffered cedar ceiling resting on four marble
columns, and traceried walls of unusually beautiful design. From this
chapel we passed into the hall of the tombs, a cube about forty feet
square. Fourteen columns of colored marble sustain a domed ceiling of
gilded cedar, with an exterior deambulatory under a tunnel-vaulting also
roofed with cedar. The walls are, as usual, of chiselled stucco, above
revêtements of ceramic mosaic, and between the columns lie the white
marble cenotaphs of the Saadian Sultans, covered with Arabic
inscriptions in the most delicate low-relief. Beyond this central
mausoleum, and balancing the praying-chapel, lies another long narrow
chamber, gold-ceilinged also, and containing a few tombs.

It is difficult, in describing the architecture of Morocco, to avoid
producing an impression of monotony. The ground-plan of mosques and
Medersas is always practically the same, and the same elements, few in
number and endlessly repeated, make up the materials and the form of the
ornament. The effect upon the eye is not monotonous, for a patient art
has infinitely varied the combinations of pattern and the juxtapositions
of color; while the depth of undercutting of the stucco, and the
treatment of the bronze doors and of the carved cedar corbels,
necessarily varies with the periods which produced them.

But in the Saadian mausoleum a new element has been introduced which
makes this little monument a thing apart. The marble columns supporting
the roof appear to be unique in Moroccan architecture, and they lend
themselves to a new roof-plan which relates the building rather to the
tradition of Venice or Byzantine by way of Kairouan and Cordova.

The late date of the monument precludes any idea of a direct artistic
tradition. The most probable explanation seems to be that the architect
of the mausoleum was familiar with European Renaissance architecture,
and saw the beauty to be derived from using precious marbles not merely
as ornament, but in the Roman and Italian way, as a structural element.
Panels and fountain-basins are ornament, and ornament changes nothing
essential in architecture; but when, for instance, heavy square piers
are replaced by detached columns, a new style results.

It is not only the novelty of its plan that makes the Saadian mausoleum
singular among Moroccan monuments. The details of its ornament are of
the most intricate refinement: it seems as though the last graces of the
expiring Merinid art had been gathered up into this rare blossom. And
the slant of sunlight on lustrous columns, the depths of fretted gold,
the dusky ivory of the walls and the pure white of the cenotaphs, so
classic in spareness of ornament and simplicity of design--this subtle
harmony of form and color gives to the dim rich chapel an air of
dream-like unreality.

[Illustration: _From a photograph by M. André Chevrillon_

Marrakech--Mausoleum of the Saadian Sultans (sixteenth century) showing
the tombs]

And how can it seem other than a dream? Who can have conceived, in the
heart of a savage Saharan camp, the serenity and balance of this hidden
place? And how came such fragile loveliness to survive, preserving,
behind a screen of tumbling walls, of nettles and offal and dead beasts,
every curve of its traceries and every cell of its honeycombing?

Such questions inevitably bring one back to the central riddle of the
mysterious North African civilization: the perpetual flux and the
immovable stability, the barbarous customs and sensuous refinements, the
absence of artistic originality and the gift for regrouping borrowed
motives, the patient and exquisite workmanship and the immediate neglect
and degradation of the thing once made.

Revering the dead and camping on their graves, elaborating exquisite
monuments only to abandon and defile them, venerating scholarship and
wisdom and living in ignorance and grossness, these gifted races,
perpetually struggling to reach some higher level of culture from which
they have always been swept down by a fresh wave of barbarism, are
still only a people in the making.

It may be that the political stability which France is helping them to
acquire will at last give their higher qualities time for fruition; and
when one looks at the mausoleum of Marrakech and the Medersas of Fez one
feels that, were the experiment made on artistic grounds alone, it would
yet be well worth making.




V


HAREMS AND CEREMONIES


I

THE CROWD IN THE STREET

To occidental travellers the most vivid impression produced by a first
contact with the Near East is the surprise of being in a country where
the human element increases instead of diminishing the delight of the
eye.

After all, then, the intimate harmony between nature and architecture
and the human body that is revealed in Greek art was not an artist's
counsel of perfection but an honest rendering of reality: there were,
there still are, privileged scenes where the fall of a green-grocer's
draperies or a milkman's cloak or a beggar's rags are part of the
composition, distinctly related to it in line and colour, and where the
natural unstudied attitudes of the human body are correspondingly
harmonious, however humdrum the acts it is engaged in. The discovery,
to the traveller returning from the East, robs the most romantic scenes
of western Europe of half their charm: in the Piazza of San Marco, in
the market-place of Siena, where at least the robes of the Procurators
or the gay tights of Pinturicchio's striplings once justified man's
presence among his works, one can see, at first, only the outrage
inflicted on beauty by the "plentiful strutting manikins" of the modern
world.

Moroccan crowds are always a feast to the eye. The instinct of skilful
drapery, the sense of colour (subdued by custom, but breaking out in
subtle glimpses under the universal ashy tints) make the humblest
assemblage of donkey-men and water-carriers an ever-renewed delight. But
it is only on rare occasions, and in the court ceremonies to which so
few foreigners have had access, that the hidden sumptuousness of the
native life is revealed. Even then, the term sumptuousness may seem
ill-chosen, since the nomadic nature of African life persists in spite
of palaces and chamberlains and all the elaborate ritual of the Makhzen,
and the most pompous rites are likely to end in a dusty gallop of wild
tribesmen, and the most princely processions to tail off in a string of
half-naked urchins riding bareback on donkeys.

As in all Oriental countries, the contact between prince and beggar,
vizier and serf is disconcertingly free and familiar, and one must see
the highest court officials kissing the hem of the Sultan's robe, and
hear authentic tales of slaves given by one merchant to another at the
end of a convivial evening, to be reminded that nothing is as democratic
in appearance as a society of which the whole structure hangs on the
whim of one man.



II

AÏD-EL-KEBIR

In the verandah of the Residence of Rabat I stood looking out between
posts festooned with gentian-blue ipomeas at the first shimmer of light
on black cypresses and white tobacco-flowers, on the scattered roofs of
the new town, and the plain stretching away to the Sultan's palace above
the sea.

We had been told, late the night before, that the Sultan would allow
Madame Lyautey, with the three ladies of her party, to be present at
the great religious rite of the Aïd-el-Kebir (the Sacrifice of the
Sheep). The honour was an unprecedented one, a favour probably conceded
only at the last moment: for as a rule no women are admitted to these
ceremonies. It was an opportunity not to be missed, and all through the
short stifling night I had lain awake wondering if I should be ready
early enough. Presently the motors assembled, and we set out with the
French officers in attendance on the Governor's wife.

The Sultan's palace, a large modern building on the familiar Arab lines,
lies in a treeless and gardenless waste enclosed by high walls and close
above the blue Atlantic. We motored past the gates, where the Sultan's
Black Guard was drawn up, and out to the _msalla_,[A] a sort of common
adjacent to all the Sultan's residences where public ceremonies are
usually performed. The sun was already beating down on the great plain
thronged with horsemen and with the native population of Rabat on
mule-back and foot. Within an open space in the centre of the crowd a
canvas palissade dyed with a bold black pattern surrounded the Sultan's
tents. The Black Guard, in scarlet tunics and white and green turbans,
were drawn up on the edge of the open space, keeping the spectators at a
distance; but under the guidance of our companions we penetrated to the
edge of the crowd.

[Footnote A: The _msalla_ is used for the performance of religious
ceremonies when the crowd is too great to be contained in the court of
the mosque.]

The palissade was open on one side, and within it we could see moving
about among the snowy-robed officials a group of men in straight narrow
gowns of almond-green, peach-blossom, lilac and pink; they were the
Sultan's musicians, whose coloured dresses always flower out
conspicuously among the white draperies of all the other court
attendants.

In the tent nearest the opening, against a background of embroidered
hangings, a circle of majestic turbaned old men squatted placidly on
Rabat rugs. Presently the circle broke up, there was an agitated coming
and going, and some one said: "The Sultan has gone to the tent at the
back of the enclosure to kill the sheep."

A sense of the impending solemnity ran through the crowd. The mysterious
rumour which is the Voice of the Bazaar rose about us like the wind in
a palm-oasis; the Black Guard fired a salute from an adjoining hillock;
the clouds of red dust flung up by wheeling horsemen thickened and then
parted, and a white-robed rider sprang out from the tent of the
Sacrifice with something red and dripping across his saddle-bow, and
galloped away toward Rabat through the shouting. A little shiver ran
over the group of occidental spectators, who knew that the dripping red
thing was a sheep with its throat so skilfully slit that, if the omen
were favourable, it would live on through the long race to Rabat and
gasp out its agonized life on the tiles of the Mosque.

The Sacrifice of the Sheep, one of the four great Moslem rites, is
simply the annual propitiatory offering made by every Mahometan head of
a family, and by the Sultan as such. It is based not on a Koranic
injunction, but on the "Souna" or record of the Prophet's "custom" or
usages, which forms an authoritative precedent in Moslem ritual. So far
goes the Moslem exegesis. In reality, of course, the Moslem
blood-sacrifice comes, by way of the Semitic ritual, from far beyond and
behind it, and the belief that the Sultan's prosperity for the coming
year depends on the animal's protracted agony seems to relate the
ceremony to the dark magic so deeply rooted in the mysterious tribes
peopling North Africa long ages before the first Phoenician prows had
rounded its coast.

Between the Black Guard and the tents, five or six horses were being led
up and down by muscular grooms in snowy tunics. They were handsome
animals, as Moroccan horses go, and each of a different colour, and on
the bay horse was a red saddle embroidered in gold, on the piebald a
saddle of peach-colour and silver, on the chestnut, grass-green
encrusted with seed-pearls, on the white mare purple housings, and
orange velvet on the grey. The Sultan's band had struck up a shrill
hammering and twanging, the salute of the Black Guard continued at
intervals, and the caparisoned steeds began to rear and snort and drag
back from the cruel Arab bits with their exquisite _niello_
incrustations. Some one whispered that these were His Majesty's
horses--and that it was never known till he appeared which one he would
mount.

Presently the crowd about the tents thickened, and when it divided
again there emerged from it a grey horse bearing a motionless figure
swathed in blinding white. Marching at the horse's bridle, lean brown
grooms in white tunics rhythmically waved long strips of white linen to
keep off the flies from the Imperial Presence, and beside the motionless
rider, in a line with his horse's flank, rode the Imperial
Parasol-bearer, who held above the sovereign's head a great sunshade of
bright green velvet. Slowly the grey horse advanced a few yards before
the tent; behind rode the court dignitaries, followed by the musicians,
who looked, in their bright scant caftans, like the slender music-making
angels of a Florentine fresco.

The Sultan, pausing beneath his velvet dome, waited to receive the
homage of the assembled tribes. An official, riding forward, drew bridle
and called out a name. Instantly there came storming across the plain a
wild cavalcade of tribesmen, with rifles slung across their shoulders,
pistols and cutlasses in their belts, and twists of camel's-hair bound
about their turbans. Within a few feet of the Sultan they drew in, their
leader uttered a cry and sprang forward, bending to the saddle-bow,
and with a great shout the tribe galloped by, each man bowed over his
horse's neck as he flew past the hieratic figure on the grey horse.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_

The Sultan of Morocco under the green umbrella (at Meknez, 1916)]

Again and again this ceremony was repeated, the Sultan advancing a few
feet as each new group thundered toward him. There were more than ten
thousand horsemen and chieftains from the Atlas and the wilderness, and
as the ceremony continued the dust-clouds grew denser and more
fiery-golden, till at last the forward-surging lines showed through them
like blurred images in a tarnished mirror.

As the Sultan advanced we followed, abreast of him and facing the
oncoming squadrons. The contrast between his motionless figure and the
wild waves of cavalry beating against it typified the strange soul of
Islam, with its impetuosity forever culminating in impassiveness. The
sun hung high, a brazen ball in a white sky, darting down metallic
shafts on the dust-enveloped plain and the serene white figure under its
umbrella. The fat man with a soft round beard-fringed face, wrapped in
spirals of pure white, one plump hand on his embroidered bridle, his
yellow-slippered feet thrust heel-down in big velvet-lined stirrups,
became, through sheer immobility, a symbol, a mystery, a God. The human
flux beat against him, dissolved, ebbed away, another spear-crested wave
swept up behind it and dissolved in turn; and he sat on, hour after
hour, under the white-hot sky, unconscious of the heat, the dust, the
tumult, embodying to the wild factious precipitate hordes a long
tradition of serene aloofness.



III

THE IMPERIAL MIRADOR

As the last riders galloped up to do homage we were summoned to our
motors and driven rapidly to the palace. The Sultan had sent word to
Mme. Lyautey that the ladies of the Imperial harem would entertain her
and her guests while his Majesty received the Resident General, and we
had to hasten back in order not to miss the next act of the spectacle.

We walked across a long court lined with the Black Guard, passed under a
gateway, and were met by a shabbily dressed negress. Traversing a hot
dazzle of polychrome tiles we reached another archway guarded by the
chief eunuch, a towering black with the enamelled eyes of a basalt bust.
The eunuch delivered us to other negresses, and we entered a labyrinth
of inner passages and patios, all murmuring and dripping with water.
Passing down long corridors where slaves in dim greyish garments
flattened themselves against the walls, we caught glimpses of great dark
rooms, laundries, pantries, bakeries, kitchens, where savoury things
were brewing and stewing, and where more negresses, abandoning their
pots and pans, came to peep at us from the threshold. In one corner, on
a bench against a wall hung with matting, grey parrots in tall cages
were being fed by a slave.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_

A clan of mountaineers and their caïd]

A narrow staircase mounted to a landing where a princess out of an Arab
fairy-tale awaited us. Stepping softly on her embroidered slippers she
led us to the next landing, where another golden-slippered being smiled
out on us, a little girl this one, blushing and dimpling under a
jewelled diadem and pearl-woven braids. On a third landing a third
damsel appeared, and encircled by the three graces we mounted to the
tall _mirador_ in the central tower from which we were to look down at
the coming ceremony. One by one, our little guides, kicking off their
golden shoes, which a slave laid neatly outside the door, led us on soft
bare feet into the upper chamber of the harem.

It was a large room, enclosed on all sides by a balcony glazed with
panes of brightly-coloured glass. On a gaudy modern Rabat carpet stood
gilt armchairs of florid design and a table bearing a commercial bronze
of the "art goods" variety. Divans with muslin-covered cushions were
ranged against the walls and down an adjoining gallery-like apartment
which was otherwise furnished only with clocks. The passion for clocks
and other mechanical contrivances is common to all unmechanical races,
and every chief's palace in North Africa contains a collection of
time-pieces which might be called striking if so many had not ceased to
go. But those in the Sultan's harem of Rabat are remarkable for the fact
that, while designed on current European models, they are proportioned
in size to the Imperial dignity, so that a Dutch "grandfather" becomes a
wardrobe, and the box-clock of the European mantelpiece a cupboard that
has to be set on the floor. At the end of this avenue of time-pieces a
European double-bed with a bright silk quilt covered with Nottingham
lace stood majestically on a carpeted platform.

But for the enchanting glimpses of sea and plain through the lattices of
the gallery, the apartment of the Sultan's ladies falls far short of
occidental ideas of elegance. But there was hardly time to think of
this, for the door of the _mirador_ was always opening to let in another
fairy-tale figure, till at last we were surrounded by a dozen houris,
laughing, babbling, taking us by the hand, and putting shy questions
while they looked at us with caressing eyes. They were all (our
interpretess whispered) the Sultan's "favourites," round-faced
apricot-tinted girls in their teens, with high cheek-bones, full red
lips, surprised brown eyes between curved-up Asiatic lids, and little
brown hands fluttering out like birds from their brocaded sleeves.

In honour of the ceremony, and of Mme. Lyautey's visit, they had put on
their finest clothes, and their freedom of movement was somewhat
hampered by their narrow sumptuous gowns, with over-draperies of gold
and silver brocade and pale rosy gauze held in by corset-like sashes of
gold tissue of Fez, and the heavy silken cords that looped their
voluminous sleeves. Above their foreheads the hair was shaven like that
of an Italian fourteenth-century beauty, and only a black line as narrow
as a pencilled eyebrow showed through the twist of gauze fastened by a
jewelled clasp above the real eye-brows. Over the forehead-jewel rose
the complicated structure of the headdress. Ropes of black wool were
plaited through the hair, forming, at the back, a double loop that stood
out above the nape like the twin handles of a vase, the upper veiled in
airy shot gauzes and fastened with jewelled bands and ornaments. On each
side of the red cheeks other braids were looped over the ears hung with
broad earrings of filigree set with rough pearls and emeralds, or gold
loops and pendants of coral, and an unexpected tulle ruff, like that of
a Watteau shepherdess, framed the round chin above a torrent of
necklaces, necklaces of amber, coral, baroque pearls, hung with
mysterious barbaric amulets and fetiches. As the young things moved
about us on soft hennaed feet the light played on shifting gleams of
gold and silver, blue and violet and apple-green, all harmonized and
bemisted by clouds of pink and sky-blue, and through the changing group
capered a little black picaninny in a caftan of silver-shot purple with
a sash of raspberry red.

But presently there was a flutter in the aviary. A fresh pair of
_babouches_ clicked on the landing, and a young girl, less brilliantly
dressed and less brilliant of face than the others, came in on bare
painted feet. Her movements were shy and hesitating, her large lips
pale, her eye-brows less vividly dark, her head less jewelled. But all
the little humming-birds gathered about her with respectful rustlings as
she advanced toward us leaning on one of the young girls, and holding
out her ringed hand to Mme. Lyautey's curtsey. It was the young
Princess, the Sultan's legitimate daughter. She examined us with sad
eyes, spoke a few compliments through the interpretess, and seated
herself in silence, letting the others sparkle and chatter.

Conversation with the shy Princess was flagging when one of the
favourites beckoned us to the balcony. We were told we might push open
the painted panes a few inches, but as we did so the butterfly group
drew back lest they should be seen looking out on the forbidden world.

Salutes were crashing out again from the direction of the _msalla_:
puffs of smoke floated over the slopes like thistle-down. Farther off, a
pall of red vapour veiled the gallop of the last horsemen wheeling away
toward Rabat. The vapour subsided, and moving out of it we discerned a
slow procession. First rode a detachment of the Black Guard, mounted on
black horses, and, comically fierce in their British scarlet and Meccan
green, a uniform invented at the beginning of the nineteenth century by
a retired English army officer. After the Guard came the
standard-bearers and the great dignitaries, then the Sultan, still
aloof, immovable, as if rapt in the contemplation of his mystic office.
More court officials followed, then the bright-gowned musicians on foot,
then a confused irrepressible crowd of pilgrims, beggars, saints,
mountebanks, and the other small folk of the Bazaar, ending in a line of
boys jamming their naked heels into the ribs of world-weary donkeys.

The Sultan rode into the court below us, and Vizier and chamberlains,
snowy-white against the scarlet line of the Guards, hurried forward to
kiss his draperies, his shoes, his stirrup. Descending from his velvet
saddle, still entranced, he paced across the tiles between a double line
of white servitors bowing to the ground. White pigeons circled over him
like petals loosed from a great orchard, and he disappeared with his
retinue under the shadowy arcade of the audience chamber at the back of
the court.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from "France-Maroc"_

The Sultan entering Marrakech in state]

At this point one of the favourites called us in from the _mirador_. The
door had just opened to admit an elderly woman preceded by a respectful
group of girls. From the newcomer's round ruddy face, her short round
body, the round hands emerging from her round wrists, an inexplicable
majesty emanated; and though she too was less richly arrayed than the
favourites she carried her headdress of striped gauze like a crown.

This impressive old lady was the Sultan's mother. As she held out her
plump wrinkled hand to Mme. Lyautey and spoke a few words through the
interpretess one felt that at last a painted window of the _mirador_ had
been broken, and a thought let into the vacuum of the harem. What
thought, it would have taken deep insight into the processes of the Arab
mind to discover; but its honesty was manifest in the old Empress's
voice and smile. Here at last was a woman beyond the trivial
dissimulations, the childish cunning, the idle cruelties of the harem.
It was not a surprise to be told that she was her son's most trusted
adviser, and the chief authority in the palace. If such a woman deceived
and intrigued it would be for great purposes and for ends she believed
in; the depth of her soul had air and daylight in it, and she would
never willingly shut them out.

The Empress Mother chatted for a while with Mme. Lyautey, asking about
the Resident General's health, enquiring for news of the war, and
saying, with an emotion perceptible even through the unintelligible
words: "All is well with Morocco as long as all is well with France."
Then she withdrew, and we were summoned again to the _mirador_.

This time it was to see a company of officers in brilliant uniforms
advancing at a trot across the plain from Rabat. At sight of the figure
that headed them, so slim, erect and young on his splendid chestnut,
with a pale blue tunic barred by the wide orange ribbon of the Cherifian
Order, salutes pealed forth again from the slope above the palace and
the Black Guard presented arms. A moment later General Lyautey and his
staff were riding in at the gates below us. On the threshold of the
inner court they dismounted, and moving to the other side of our balcony
we followed the next stage of the ceremony. The Sultan was still seated
in the audience chamber. The court officials still stood drawn up in a
snow-white line against the snow-white walls. The great dignitaries
advanced across the tiles to greet the General, then they fell aside,
and he went forward alone, followed at a little distance by his staff. A
third of the way across the court he paused, in accordance with the
Moroccan court ceremonial, and bowed in the direction of the arcaded
room; a few steps farther he bowed again, and a third time on the
threshold of the room. Then French uniforms and Moroccan draperies
closed in about him, and all vanished into the shadows of the audience
hall.

Our audience too seemed to be over. We had exhausted the limited small
talk of the harem, had learned from the young beauties that, though they
were forbidden to look on at the ceremony, the dancers and singers would
come to entertain them presently, and had begun to take leave when a
negress hurried in to say that his Majesty begged Mme. Lyautey and her
friends to await his arrival. This was the crowning incident of our
visit, and I wondered with what Byzantine ritual the Anointed One fresh
from the exercise of his priestly functions would be received among his
women.

The door opened, and without any announcement or other preliminary
flourish a fat man with a pleasant face, his djellabah stretched over a
portly front, walked in holding a little boy by the hand. Such was his
Majesty the Sultan Moulay Youssef, despoiled of sacramental burnouses
and turban, and shuffling along on bare yellow-slippered feet with the
gait of a stout elderly gentleman who has taken off his boots in the
passage preparatory to a domestic evening.

The little Prince, one of his two legitimate sons, was dressed with
equal simplicity, for silken garments are worn in Morocco only by
musicians, boy-dancers and other hermaphrodite fry. With his ceremonial
raiment the Sultan had put off his air of superhuman majesty, and the
expression of his round pale face corresponded with the plainness of his
dress. The favourites fluttered about him, respectful but by no means
awestruck, and the youngest began to play with the little Prince. We
could well believe the report that his was the happiest harem in
Morocco, as well as the only one into which a breath of the outer world
ever came.

Moulay Youssef greeted Mme. Lyautey with friendly simplicity, made the
proper speeches to her companions, and then, with the air of the
business-man who has forgotten to give an order before leaving his
office, he walked up to a corner of the room, and while the
flower-maidens ruffled about him, and through the windows we saw the
last participants in the mystic rites galloping away toward the
crenellated walls of Rabat, his Majesty the Priest and Emperor of the
Faithful unhooked a small instrument from the wall and applied his
sacred lips to the telephone.



IV

IN OLD RABAT

Before General Lyautey came to Morocco Rabat had been subjected to the
indignity of European "improvements," and one must traverse boulevards
scored with tram-lines, and pass between hotel-terraces and cafés and
cinema-palaces, to reach the surviving nucleus of the once beautiful
native town. Then, at the turn of a commonplace street, one comes upon
it suddenly. The shops and cafés cease, the jingle of trams and the
trumpeting of motor-horns die out, and here, all at once, are silence
and solitude, and the dignified reticence of the windowless Arab
house-fronts.

We were bound for the house of a high government official, a Moroccan
dignitary of the old school, who had invited us to tea, and added a
message to the effect that the ladies of his household would be happy to
receive me.

The house we sought was some distance down the quietest of white-walled
streets. Our companion knocked at a low green door, and we were admitted
to a passage into which a wooden stairway descended. A brother-in-law
of our host was waiting for us; in his wake we mounted the ladder-like
stairs and entered a long room with a florid French carpet and a set of
gilt furniture to match. There were no fretted walls, no painted cedar
doors, no fountains rustling in unseen courts: the house was squeezed in
between others, and such traces of old ornament as it may have possessed
had vanished.

But presently we saw why its inhabitants were indifferent to such
details. Our host, a handsome white-bearded old man, welcomed us in the
doorway, then he led us to a raised oriel window at one end of the room,
and seated us in the gilt armchairs face to face with one of the most
beautiful views in Morocco.

Below us lay the white and blue terrace-roofs of the native town, with
palms and minarets shooting up between them, or the shadows of a
vine-trellis patterning a quiet lane. Beyond, the Atlantic sparkled,
breaking into foam at the mouth of the Bou-Regreg and under the towering
ramparts of the Kasbah of the Oudayas. To the right, the ruins of the
great Mosque rose from their plateau over the river; and, on the
farther side of the troubled flood, old Salé, white and wicked, lay like
a jewel in its gardens. With such a scene beneath their eyes, the
inhabitants of the house could hardly feel its lack of architectural
interest.

After exchanging the usual compliments, and giving us time to enjoy the
view, our host withdrew, taking with him the men of our party. A moment
later he reappeared with a rosy fair-haired girl, dressed in Arab
costume, but evidently of European birth. The brother-in-law explained
that this young woman, who had "studied in Algeria," and whose mother
was French, was the intimate friend of the ladies of the household, and
would act as interpreter. Our host then again left us, joining the men
visitors in another room, and the door opened to admit his wife and
daughters-in-law.

The mistress of the house was a handsome Algerian with sad expressive
eyes, the younger women were pale, fat and amiable. They all wore sober
dresses, in keeping with the simplicity of the house, and but for the
vacuity of their faces the group might have been that of a Professor's
family in an English or American University town, decently costumed for
an Arabian Nights' pageant in the college grounds. I was never more
vividly reminded of the fact that human nature, from one pole to the
other, falls naturally into certain categories, and that Respectability
wears the same face in an Oriental harem as in England or America.

My hostesses received me with the utmost amiability, we seated ourselves
in the oriel facing the view, and the interchange of questions and
compliments began.

Had I any children? (They asked it all at once.)

Alas, no.

"In Islam" (one of the ladies ventured) "a woman without children is
considered the most unhappy being in the world."

I replied that in the western world also childless women were pitied.
(The brother-in-law smiled incredulously.)

Knowing that European fashions are of absorbing interest to the harem I
next enquired: "What do these ladies think of our stiff tailor-dresses?
Don't they find them excessively ugly?"

"Yes, they do;" (it was again the brother-in-law who replied.) "But
they suppose that in your own homes you dress less badly."

"And have they never any desire to travel, or to visit the Bazaars, as
the Turkish ladies do?"

"No, indeed. They are too busy to give such matters a thought. In _our
country_ women of the highest class occupy themselves with their
household and their children, and the rest of their time is devoted to
needlework." (At this statement I gave the brother-in-law a smile as
incredulous as his own.)

All this time the fair-haired interpretess had not been allowed by the
vigilant guardian of the harem to utter a word.

I turned to her with a question.

"So your mother is French, _Mademoiselle_?"

"_Oui, Madame_."

"From what part of France did she come?"

A bewildered pause. Finally, "I don't know . . . from Switzerland, I
think," brought out this shining example of the Higher Education. In
spite of Algerian "advantages" the poor girl could speak only a few
words of her mother's tongue. She had kept the European features and
complexion, but her soul was the soul of Islam. The harem had placed its
powerful imprint upon her, and she looked at me with the same remote and
passive eyes as the daughters of the house.

After struggling for a while longer with a conversation which the
watchful brother-in-law continued to direct as he pleased, I felt my own
lips stiffening into the resigned smile of the harem, and it was a
relief when at last their guardian drove the pale flock away, and the
handsome old gentleman who owned them reappeared on the scene, bringing
back my friends, and followed by slaves and tea.



V

IN FEZ

What thoughts, what speculations, one wonders, go on under the narrow
veiled brows of the little creatures destined to the high honour of
marriage or concubinage in Moroccan palaces?

Some are brought down from mountains and cedar forests, from the free
life of the tents where the nomad women go unveiled. Others come from
harems in the turreted cities beyond the Atlas, where blue palm-groves
beat all night against the stars and date-caravans journey across the
desert from Timbuctoo. Some, born and bred in an airy palace among
pomegranate gardens and white terraces, pass thence to one of the feudal
fortresses near the snows, where for half the year the great chiefs of
the south live in their clan, among fighting men and falconers and packs
of _sloughis_. And still others grow up in a stifling Mellah, trip
unveiled on its blue terraces overlooking the gardens of the great, and,
seen one day at sunset by a fat vizier or his pale young master, are
acquired for a handsome sum and transferred to the painted sepulchre of
the harem.

Worst of all must be the fate of those who go from tents and cedar
forests, or from some sea-blown garden above Rabat, into one of the
houses of Old Fez. They are well-nigh impenetrable, these palaces of
Elbali; the Fazi dignitaries do not welcome the visits of strange women.
On the rare occasions when they are received, a member of the family
(one of the sons, or a brother-in-law who has "studied in Algeria")
usually acts as interpreter; and perhaps it is as well that no one from
the outer world should come to remind these listless creatures that
somewhere the gulls dance on the Atlantic and the wind murmurs through
olive-yards and clatters the metallic fronds of palm-groves.

We had been invited, one day, to visit the harem of one of the chief
dignitaries of the Makhzen at Fez, and these thoughts came to me as I
sat among the pale women in their mouldering prison. The descent through
the steep tunnelled streets gave one the sense of being lowered into the
shaft of a mine. At each step the strip of sky grew narrower, and was
more often obscured by the low vaulted passages into which we plunged.
The noises of the Bazaar had died out, and only the sound of fountains
behind garden walls and the clatter of our mules' hoofs on the stones
went with us. Then fountains and gardens ceased also, the towering
masonry closed in, and we entered an almost subterranean labyrinth which
sun and air never reach. At length our mules turned into a _cul-de-sac_
blocked by a high building. On the right was another building, one of
those blind mysterious house-fronts of Fez that seem like a fragment of
its ancient fortifications. Clients and servants lounged on the stone
benches built into the wall; it was evidently the house of an important
person. A charming youth with intelligent eyes waited on the threshold
to receive us; he was one of the sons of the house, the one who had
"studied in Algeria" and knew how to talk to visitors. We followed him
into a small arcaded _patio_ hemmed in by the high walls of the house.
On the right was the usual long room with archways giving on the court.
Our host, a patriarchal personage, draped in fat as in a toga, came
toward us, a mountain of majestic muslins, his eyes sparkling in a
swarthy silver-bearded face. He seated us on divans and lowered his
voluminous person to a heap of cushions on the step leading into the
court, and the son who had studied in Algeria instructed a negress to
prepare the tea.

Across the _patio_ was another arcade closely hung with unbleached
cotton. From behind it came the sound of chatter, and now and then a
bare brown child in a scant shirt would escape, and be hurriedly pulled
back with soft explosions of laughter, while a black woman came out to
readjust the curtains.

There were three of these negresses, splendid bronze creatures, wearing
white djellabahs over bright-coloured caftans, striped scarves knotted
about their large hips, and gauze turbans on their crinkled hair. Their
wrists clinked with heavy silver bracelets, and big circular earrings
danced in their purple ear-lobes. A languor lay on all the other inmates
of the household, on the servants and hangers-on squatting in the shade
under the arcade, on our monumental host and his smiling son; but the
three negresses, vibrating with activity, rushed continually from the
curtained chamber to the kitchen, and from the kitchen to the master's
reception-room, bearing on their pinky-blue palms trays of Britannia
metal with tall glasses and fresh bunches of mint, shouting orders to
dozing menials, and calling to each other from opposite ends of the
court; and finally the stoutest of the three, disappearing from view,
reappeared suddenly on a pale green balcony overhead, where, profiled
against a square of blue sky, she leaned over in a Veronese attitude and
screamed down to the others like an excited parrot.

In spite of their febrile activity and tropical bird-shrieks, we waited
in vain for tea; and after a while our host suggested to his son that I
might like to visit the ladies of the household. As I had expected, the
young man led me across the _patio_, lifted the cotton hanging and
introduced me into an apartment exactly like the one we had just left.
Divans covered with striped mattress-ticking stood against the white
walls, and on them sat seven or eight passive-looking women over whom a
number of pale children scrambled.

The eldest of the group, and evidently the mistress of the house,
was an Algerian lady, probably of about fifty, with a sad and
delicately-modelled face; the others were daughters, daughters-in-law
and concubines. The latter word evokes to occidental ears images of
sensual seduction which the Moroccan harem seldom realizes. All the
ladies of this dignified official household wore the same look of
somewhat melancholy respectability. In their stuffy curtained apartment
they were like cellar-grown flowers, pale, heavy, fuller but frailer
than the garden sort. Their dresses, rich but sober, the veils and
diadems put on in honour of my visit, had a dignified dowdiness in odd
contrast to the frivolity of the Imperial harem. But what chiefly
struck me was the apathy of the younger women. I asked them if they had
a garden, and they shook their heads wistfully, saying that there were
no gardens in Old Fez. The roof was therefore their only escape: a roof
overlooking acres and acres of other roofs, and closed in by the naked
fortified mountains which stand about Fez like prison-walls.

After a brief exchange of compliments silence fell. Conversing through
interpreters is a benumbing process, and there are few points of contact
between the open-air occidental mind and beings imprisoned in a
conception of sexual and domestic life based on slave-service and
incessant espionage. These languid women on their muslin cushions toil
not, neither do they spin. The Moroccan lady knows little of cooking,
needlework or any household arts. When her child is ill she can only
hang it with amulets and wail over it, the great lady of the Fazi palace
is as ignorant of hygiene as the peasant-woman of the _bled_. And all
these colourless eventless lives depend on the favour of one fat
tyrannical man, bloated with good living and authority, himself almost
as inert and sedentary as his women, and accustomed to impose his whims
on them ever since he ran about the same _patio_ as a little
short-smocked boy.

The redeeming point in this stagnant domesticity is the tenderness of
the parents for their children, and western writers have laid so much
stress on this that one would suppose children could be loved only by
inert and ignorant parents. It is in fact charming to see the heavy eyes
of the Moroccan father light up when a brown grass-hopper baby jumps on
his knee, and the unfeigned tenderness with which the childless women of
the harem caress the babies of their happier rivals. But the
sentimentalist moved by this display of family feeling would do well to
consider the lives of these much-petted children. Ignorance,
unhealthiness and a precocious sexual initiation prevail in all classes.
Education consists in learning by heart endless passages of the Koran,
and amusement in assisting at spectacles that would be unintelligible to
western children, but that the pleasantries of the harem make perfectly
comprehensible to Moroccan infancy. At eight or nine the little girls
are married, at twelve the son of the house is "given his first
negress"; and thereafter, in the rich and leisured class, both sexes
live till old age in an atmosphere of sensuality without seduction.

[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.

When we drove up to his palace, one of the stateliest in Marrakech, the
street was thronged with clansmen and clients. Dignified merchants in
white muslin, whose grooms held white mules saddled with rose-coloured
velvet, warriors from the Atlas wearing the corkscrew ringlets which are
a sign of military prowess, Jewish traders in black gabardines,
leather-gaitered peasant-women with chickens and cheese, and beggars
rolling their blind eyes or exposing their fly-plastered sores, were
gathered in Oriental promiscuity about the great man's door; while under
the archway stood a group of youths and warlike-looking older men who
were evidently of his own clan.

The Caïd's chamberlain, a middle-aged man of dignified appearance,
advanced to meet us between bowing clients and tradesmen. He led us
through cool passages lined with the intricate mosaic-work of Fez, past
beggars who sat on stone benches whining out their blessings, and pale
Fazi craftsmen laying a floor of delicate tiles. The Caïd is a lover of
old Arab architecture. His splendid house, which is not yet finished,
has been planned and decorated on the lines of the old Imperial palaces,
and when a few years of sun and rain and Oriental neglect have worked
their way on its cedar-wood and gilding and ivory stucco it will have
the same faded loveliness as the fairy palaces of Fez.

In a garden where fountains splashed and roses climbed among cypresses,
the Caïd himself awaited us. This great fighter and loyal friend of
France is a magnificent eagle-beaked man, brown, lean and sinewy, with
vigilant eyes looking out under his carefully draped muslin turban, and
negroid lips half-hidden by a close black beard.

Tea was prepared in the familiar setting; a long arcaded room with
painted ceiling and richly stuccoed walls. All around were ranged the
usual mattresses covered with striped ticking and piled with muslin
cushions. A bedstead of brass, imitating a Louis XVI cane bed, and
adorned with brass garlands and bows, throned on the usual platform; and
the only other ornaments were a few clocks and bunches of wax flowers
under glass. Like all Orientals, this hero of the Atlas, who spends half
his life with his fighting clansmen in a mediaeval stronghold among the
snows, and the other half rolling in a 60 h.p. motor over smooth French
roads, seems unaware of any degrees of beauty or appropriateness in
objects of European design, and places against the exquisite mosaics and
traceries of his Fazi craftsmen the tawdriest bric-à-brac of the cheap
department-store.

While tea was being served I noticed a tiny negress, not more than six
or seven years old, who stood motionless in the embrasure of an archway.
Like most of the Moroccan slaves, even in the greatest households, she
was shabbily, almost raggedly, dressed. A dirty _gandourah_ of striped
muslin covered her faded caftan, and a cheap kerchief was wound above
her grave and precocious little face. With preternatural vigilance she
watched each movement of the Caïd, who never spoke to her, looked at
her, or made her the slightest perceptible sign, but whose least wish
she instantly divined, refilling his tea-cup, passing the plates of
sweets, or removing our empty glasses, in obedience to some secret
telegraphy on which her whole being hung.

The Caïd is a great man. He and his famous elder brother, holding the
southern marches of Morocco against alien enemies and internal
rebellion, played a preponderant part in the defence of the French
colonies in North Africa during the long struggle of the war.
Enlightened, cultivated, a friend of the arts, a scholar and
diplomatist, he seems, unlike many Orientals, to have selected the best
in assimilating European influences. Yet when I looked at the tiny
creature watching him with those anxious joyless eyes I felt once more
the abyss that slavery and the seraglio put between the most
Europeanized Mahometan and the western conception of life. The Caïd's
little black slaves are well-known in Morocco, and behind the sad child
leaning in the archway stood all the shadowy evils of the social system
that hangs like a millstone about the neck of Islam.

Presently a handsome tattered negress came across the garden to invite
me to the harem. Captain de S. and his wife, who had accompanied me,
were old friends of the Chief's, and it was owing to this that the
jealously-guarded doors of the women's quarters were opened to Mme. de
S. and myself. We followed the negress to a marble-paved court where
pigeons fluttered and strutted about the central fountain. From under a
trellised arcade hung with linen curtains several ladies came forward.
They greeted my companion with exclamations of delight; then they led us
into the usual commonplace room with divans and whitewashed walls. Even
in the most sumptuous Moroccan palaces little care seems to be expended
on the fittings of the women's quarters: unless, indeed, the room in
which visitors are received corresponds with a boarding-school
"parlour," and the personal touch is reserved for the private
apartments.

The ladies who greeted us were more richly dressed than any I had seen
except the Sultan's favourites, but their faces were more distinguished,
more European in outline, than those of the round-cheeked beauties of
Rabat. My companions had told me that the Caïd's harem was recruited
from Georgia, and that the ladies receiving us had been brought up in
the relative freedom of life in Constantinople; and it was easy to read
in their wistfully smiling eyes memories of a life unknown to the
passive daughters of Morocco.

They appeared to make no secret of their regrets, for presently one of
them, with a smile, called my attention to some faded photographs
hanging over the divan. They represented groups of plump
provincial-looking young women in dowdy European ball-dresses; and it
required an effort of the imagination to believe that the lovely
creatures in velvet caftans, with delicately tattooed temples under
complicated head-dresses, and hennaed feet crossed on muslin cushions,
were the same as the beaming frumps in the photographs. But to the
sumptuously-clad exiles these faded photographs and ugly dresses
represented freedom, happiness, and all they had forfeited when fate
(probably in the shape of an opulent Hebrew couple "travelling with
their daughters") carried them from the Bosphorus to the Atlas.

As in the other harems I had visited, perfect equality seemed to prevail
between the ladies, and while they chatted with Mme. de S. whose few
words of Arabic had loosed their tongues, I tried to guess which was the
favourite, or at least the first in rank. My choice wavered between the
pretty pale creature with a _ferronnière_ across her temples and a
tea-rose caftan veiled in blue gauze, and the nut-brown beauty in red
velvet hung with pearls whose languid attitudes and long-lidded eyes
were so like the Keepsake portraits of Byron's Haidee. Or was it perhaps
the third, less pretty but more vivid and animated, who sat behind the
tea-tray, and mimicked so expressively a soldier shouldering his rifle,
and another falling dead, in her effort to ask us "when the dreadful war
would be over"? Perhaps ... unless, indeed, it were the handsome
octoroon, slightly older than the others, but even more richly dressed,
so free and noble in her movements, and treated by the others with such
friendly deference.

I was struck by the fact that among them all there was not a child; it
was the first harem without babies that I had seen in that prolific
land. Presently one of the ladies asked Mme. de S. about her children,
in reply, she enquired for the Caïd's little boy, the son of his wife
who had died. The ladies' faces lit up wistfully, a slave was given an
order, and presently a large-eyed ghost of a child was brought into the
room.

Instantly all the bracelet-laden arms were held out to the dead woman's
son; and as I watched the weak little body hung with amulets and the
heavy head covered with thin curls pressed against a brocaded bosom, I
was reminded of one of the coral-hung child-Christs of Crivelli,
standing livid and waxen on the knee of a splendidly dressed Madonna.

The poor baby on whom such hopes and ambitions hung stared at us with a
solemn unamused gaze. Would all his pretty mothers, his eyes seemed to
ask, succeed in bringing him to maturity in spite of the parched
summers of the south and the stifling existence of the harem? It was
evident that no precaution had been neglected to protect him from
maleficent influences and the danger that walks by night, for his frail
neck and wrists were hung with innumerable charms: Koranic verses,
Soudanese incantations, and images of forgotten idols in amber and coral
and horn and ambergris. Perhaps they will ward off the powers of evil,
and let him grow up to shoulder the burden of the great Caïds of the
south.




VI


GENERAL LYAUTEY'S WORK IN MOROCCO


I

It is not too much to say that General Lyautey has twice saved Morocco
from destruction: once in 1912, when the inertia and double-dealing of
Abd-el-Hafid abandoned the country to the rebellious tribes who had
attacked him in Fez, and the second time in August, 1914, when Germany
declared war on France.

In 1912, in consequence of the threatening attitude of the dissident
tribes and the generally disturbed condition of the country, the Sultan
Abd-el-Hafid had asked France to establish a protectorate in Morocco.
The agreement entered into, called the "Convention of Fez," stipulated
that a French Resident-General should be sent to Morocco with authority
to act as the Sultan's sole representative in treating with the other
powers. The convention was signed in March, 1912, and a few days
afterward an uprising more serious than any that had gone before took
place in Fez. This sudden outbreak was due in part to purely local and
native difficulties, in part to the intrinsic weakness of the French
situation. The French government had imagined that a native army
commanded by French officers could be counted on to support the Makhzen
and maintain order, but Abd-el-Hafid's growing unpopularity had
estranged his own people from him, and the army turned on the government
and on the French. On the 17th of April, 1912, the Moroccan soldiers
massacred their French officers after inflicting horrible tortures on
them, the population of Fez rose against the European civilians, and for
a fortnight the Oued Fez ran red with the blood of harmless French
colonists. It was then that France appointed General Lyautey
Resident-General in Morocco.

When he reached Fez it was besieged by twenty thousand Berbers. Rebel
tribes were flocking in to their support, to the cry of the Holy War,
and the terrified Sultan, who had already announced his intention of
resigning, warned the French troops who were trying to protect him that
unless they guaranteed to get him safely to Rabat he would turn his
influence against them. Two days afterward the Berbers attacked Fez and
broke in at two gates. The French drove them out and forced them back
twenty miles. The outskirts of the city were rapidly fortified, and a
few weeks later General Gouraud, attacking the rebels in the valley of
the Sebou, completely disengaged Fez.

The military danger overcome. General Lyautey began his great task of
civilian administration. His aim was to support and strengthen the
existing government, to reassure and pacify the distrustful and
antagonistic elements, and to assert French authority without irritating
or discouraging native ambitions.

Meanwhile a new Mahdi (Ahmed-el-Hiba) had risen in the south.
Treacherously supported by Abd-el-Hafid, he was proclaimed Sultan at
Tiznit, and acknowledged by the whole of the Souss. In Marrakech, native
unrest had caused the Europeans to fly to the coast, and in the north a
new group of rebellious tribes menaced Fez.

El-Hiba entered Marrakech in August, 1912, and the French consul and
several other French residents were taken prisoner. El-Hiba's forces
then advanced to a point half way between Marrakech and Mazagan, where
General Mangin, at that time a colonial colonel, met and utterly routed
them. The disorder in the south, and the appeals of the native
population for protection against the savage depredations of the new
Mahdist rebels, made it necessary for the French troops to follow up
their success, and in September Marrakech was taken.

Such were the swift and brilliant results of General Lyautey's
intervention. The first difficulties had been quickly overcome; others,
far more complicated, remained. The military occupation of Morocco had
to be followed up by its civil reorganization. By the Franco-German
treaty of 1911 Germany had finally agreed to recognize the French
protectorate in Morocco; but in spite of an apparently explicit
acknowledgment of this right, Germany, as usual, managed to slip into
the contract certain ambiguities of form that were likely to lead to
future trouble.

To obtain even this incomplete treaty France had had to sacrifice part
of her colonies in equatorial Africa; and in addition to the uncertain
relation with Germany there remained the dead weight of the Spanish
zone and the confused international administration of Tangier. The
disastrously misgoverned Spanish zone has always been a centre for
German intrigue and native conspiracies, as well as a permanent obstacle
to the economic development of Morocco.

Such were the problems that General Lyautey found awaiting him. A long
colonial experience, and an unusual combination of military and
administrative talents, prepared him for the almost impossible task of
dealing with them. Swift and decisive when military action is required,
he has above all the long views and endless patience necessary to the
successful colonial governor. The policy of France in Morocco had been
weak and spasmodic; in his hands it became firm and consecutive. A
sympathetic understanding of the native prejudices, and a real affection
for the native character, made him try to build up an administration
which should be, not an application of French ideas to African
conditions, but a development of the best native aspirations. The
difficulties were immense. The attempt to govern as far as possible
through the Great Chiefs was a wise one, but it was hampered by the
fact that these powerful leaders, however loyal to the Protectorate,
knew no methods of administration but those based on extortion. It was
necessary at once to use them and to educate them; and one of General
Lyautey's greatest achievements has been the successful employment of
native ability in the government of the country.



II

The first thing to do was to create a strong frontier against the
dissident tribes of the Blad-es-Siba. To do this it was necessary that
the French should hold the natural defenses of the country, the
foothills of the Little and of the Great Atlas, and the valley of the
Moulouya, which forms the corridor between western Algeria and Morocco.
This was nearly accomplished in 1914 when war broke out.

At that moment the home government cabled the Resident-General to send
all his available troops to France, abandoning the whole of conquered
territory except the coast towns. To do so would have been to give
France's richest colonies[A] outright to Germany at a moment when what
they could supply--meat and wheat--was exactly what the enemy most
needed.

[Footnote A: The loss of Morocco would inevitably have been followed by
that of the whole of French North Africa.]

General Lyautey took forty-eight hours to consider. He then decided to
"empty the egg without breaking the shell", and the reply he sent was
that of a great patriot and a great general. In effect he said: "I will
give you all the troops you ask, but instead of abandoning the interior
of the country I will hold what we have already taken, and fortify and
enlarge our boundaries." No other military document has so nearly that
ring as Marshal Foch's immortal Marne despatch (written only a few weeks
later): "My centre is broken, my right wing is wavering, the situation
is favorable and I am about to attack."

General Lyautey had framed his answer in a moment of patriotic
exaltation, when the soul of every Frenchman was strung up to a
superhuman pitch. But the pledge once made, it had to be carried out,
and even those who most applauded his decision wondered how he would
meet the almost insuperable difficulties it involved. Morocco, when he
was called there, was already honeycombed by German trading interests
and secret political intrigue, and the fruit seemed ready to fall when
the declaration of war shook the bough. The only way to save the colony
for France was to keep its industrial and agricultural life going, and
give to the famous "business as usual" a really justifiable application.

General Lyautey completely succeeded, and the first impression of all
travellers arriving in Morocco two years later was that of suddenly
returning to a world in normal conditions. There was even, so complete
was the illusion, a first moment of almost painful surprise on entering
an active prosperous community, seemingly absorbed in immediate material
interests to the exclusion of all thought of the awful drama that was
being played out in the mother country, and it was only on reflection
that this absorption in the day's task, and this air of smiling faith in
the future, were seen to be Morocco's truest way of serving France.

For not only was France to be supplied with provisions, but the
confidence in her ultimate triumph was at all costs to be kept up in the
native mind. German influence was as deep-seated as a cancer: to cut it
out required the most drastic of operations. And that operation
consisted precisely in letting it be seen that France was strong and
prosperous enough for her colonies to thrive and expand without fear
while she held at bay on her own frontier the most formidable foe the
world has ever seen. Such was the "policy of the smile," consistently
advocated by General Lyautey from the beginning of the war, and of which
he and his household were the first to set the example.



III

The General had said that he would not "break the egg-shell"; but he
knew that this was not enough, and that he must make it appear
unbreakable if he were to retain the confidence of the natives.

How this was achieved, with the aid of the few covering troops left him,
is still almost incomprehensible. To hold the line was virtually
impossible: therefore he pushed it forward. An anonymous writer in
_L'Afrique Française_ (January, 1917) has thus described the manoeuvre:
"General Henrys was instructed to watch for storm-signals on the front,
to stop up the cracks, to strengthen weak points and to rectify doubtful
lines. Thanks to these operations, which kept the rebels perpetually
harassed by always forestalling their own plans, the occupied territory
was enlarged by a succession of strongly fortified positions." While
this was going on in the north, General Lamothe was extending and
strengthening, by means of pacific negotiations, the influence of the
Great Chiefs in the south, and other agents of the Residency were
engaged in watching and thwarting the incessant German intrigues in the
Spanish zone.

General Lyautey is quoted as having said that "a work-shop is worth a
battalion." This precept he managed to put into action even during the
first dark days of 1914, and the interior development of Morocco
proceeded side by side with the strengthening of its defenses. Germany
had long foreseen what an asset northwest Africa would be during the
war; and General Lyautey was determined to prove how right Germany had
been. He did so by getting the government, to whom he had given nearly
all his troops, to give him in exchange an agricultural and industrial
army, or at least enough specialists to form such an army out of the
available material in the country. For every battle fought a road was
made;[A] for every rebel fortress shelled a factory was built, a harbor
developed, or more miles of fallow land ploughed and sown.

[Footnote A: During the first year of the war roads were built in
Morocco by German prisoners, and it was because Germany was so
thoroughly aware of the economic value of the country, and so anxious
not to have her prestige diminished, that she immediately protested, on
the absurd plea of the unwholesomeness of the climate, and threatened
reprisals unless the prisoners were withdrawn.]

But this economic development did not satisfy the Resident. He wished
Morocco to enlarge her commercial relations with France and the other
allied countries, and with this object in view he organized and carried
out with brilliant success a series of exhibitions at Casablanca, Fez
and Rabat. The result of this bold policy surpassed even its creator's
hopes. The Moroccans of the plain are an industrious and money-loving
people, and the sight of these rapidly improvised exhibitions, where the
industrial and artistic products of France and other European countries
were shown in picturesque buildings grouped about flower-filled gardens,
fascinated their imagination and strengthened their confidence in the
country that could find time for such an effort in the midst of a great
war. The Voice of the Bazaar carried the report to the farthest confines
of Moghreb, and one by one the notabilities of the different tribes
arrived, with delegations from Algeria and Tunisia. It was even said
that several rebel chiefs had submitted to the Makhzen in order not to
miss the Exhibition.

At the same time as the "Miracle of the Marne" another, less famous but
almost as vital to France, was being silently performed at the other end
of her dominions. It will not seem an exaggeration to speak of General
Lyautey's achievement during the first year of the war as the "Miracle
of Morocco" if one considers the immense importance of doing what he did
at the moment when he did it. And to understand this it is only needful
to reckon what Germany could have drawn in supplies and men from a
German North Africa, and what would have been the situation of France
during the war with a powerful German colony in control of the western
Mediterranean.

General Lyautey has always been one of the clear-sighted administrators
who understand that the successful government of a foreign country
depends on many little things, and not least on the administrator's
genuine sympathy with the traditions, habits and tastes of the people. A
keen feeling for beauty had prepared him to appreciate all that was most
exquisite and venerable in the Arab art of Morocco, and even in the
first struggle with political and military problems he found time to
gather about him a group of archaeologists and artists who were charged
with the inspection and preservation of the national monuments and the
revival of the languishing native art-industries. The old pottery,
jewelry, metal-work, rugs and embroideries of the different regions were
carefully collected and classified, schools of decorative art were
founded, skilled artisans sought out, and every effort was made to urge
European residents to follow native models and use native artisans in
building and furnishing.

At the various Exhibitions much space was allotted to these revived
industries, and the matting of Salé, the rugs of Rabat, the embroideries
of Fez and Marrakech have already found a ready market in France,
besides awakening in the educated class of colonists an appreciation of
the old buildings and the old arts of the country that will be its
surest safeguard against the destructive effects of colonial expansion.
It is only necessary to see the havoc wrought in Tunisia and Algeria by
the heavy hand of the colonial government to know what General Lyautey
has achieved in saving Morocco from this form of destruction also.

All this has been accomplished by the Resident-General during five years
of unexampled and incessant difficulty; and probably the true
explanation of the miracle is that which he himself gives when he says,
with the quiet smile that typifies his Moroccan war-policy: "It was easy
to do because I loved the people."



THE WORK OF THE FRENCH PROTECTORATE, 1912-1918

PORTS

Owing to the fact that the neglected and roadless Spanish zone
intervened between the French possessions and Tangier, which is the
natural port of Morocco, one of the first preoccupations of General
Lyautey was to make ports along the inhospitable Atlantic coast, where
there are no natural harbours.

Since 1912, in spite of the immense cost and the difficulty of obtaining
labour, the following has been done:

_Casablanca._ A jetty 1900 metres long has been planned: 824 metres
finished December, 1917.

Small jetty begun 1916, finished 1917--length 330 metres. Small harbour
thus created shelters small boats (150 tons) in all weathers.

Quays 747 metres long already finished.

16 steam-cranes working.

Warehouses and depots covering 41,985 square metres completed.

_Rabat._ Work completed December, 1917.

A quay 200 metres long, to which boats with a draught of three metres
can tie up.

Two groups of warehouses, steam-cranes, etc., covering 22,600 square
metres.

A quay 100 metres long on the Salé side of the river.

_Kenitra._ The port of Kenitra is at the mouth of the Sebou River, and
is capable of becoming a good river port.

The work up to December, 1917, comprises:

A channel 100 metres long and three metres deep, cut through the bar of
the Sebou.

Jetties built on each side of the channel.

Quay 100 metres long.

Building of sheds, depots, warehouses, steam-cranes, etc.

At the ports of Fedalah, Mazagan, Safi, Mogador and Agadir similar plans
are in course of execution.


COMMERCE

COMPARATIVE TABLES

     1912                                1918
Total Commerce                      Total Commerce
Fcs 177,737,723                     Fcs 386,238,618

    Exports                             Exports
Fcs 67,080,383                      Fcs 116,148,081


ROADS BUILT

National roads         2,074 kilometres
Secondary roads          569     "


RAILWAYS BUILT

622 kilometres


LAND CULTIVATED

1915                         1918

Approximate area       Approximate area
21,165 17 hectares    1,681,308 03 hectares



JUSTICE

1. Creation of French courts for French nationals and those under French
protection. These take cognizance of civil cases where both parties, or
even one, are amenable to French jurisdiction.

2. Moroccan law is Moslem, and administered by Moslem magistrates.
Private law, including that of inheritance, is based on the Koran. The
Sultan has maintained the principle whereby real property and
administrative cases fall under native law. These courts are as far as
possible supervised and controlled by the establishment of a Cherifian
Ministry of Justice to which the native Judges are responsible. Special
care is taken to prevent the alienation of property held collectively,
or any similar transactions likely to produce political and economic
disturbances.

3. Criminal jurisdiction is delegated to Pashas and Cadis by the Sultan,
except of offenses committed against, or in conjunction with, French
nationals and those under French protection. Such cases come before the
tribunals of the French Protectorate.



EDUCATION

The object of the Protectorate has been, on the one hand, to give to the
children of French colonists in Morocco the same education as they would
have received at elementary and secondary schools in France; on the
other, to provide the indigenous population with a system of education
that shall give to the young Moroccans an adequate commercial or manual
training, or prepare them for administrative posts, but without
interfering with their native customs or beliefs.

Before 1912 there existed in Morocco only a few small schools supported
by the French Legation at Tangier and by the Alliance Française, and a
group of Hebrew schools in the Mellahs, maintained by the Universal
Israelite Alliance.

1912.  Total number of schools       37
1918.    "     "     "    "         191

1912.  Total number of pupils       3006
1918.     "     "    "    "       21,520

1912.  Total number of teachers      61
1918.    "     "     "    "         668

In addition to the French and indigenous schools, sewing-schools have
been formed for the native girls and have been exceptionally successful.

Moslem colleges have been founded at Rabat and Fez in order to
supplement the native education of young Mahometans of the upper
classes, who intend to take up wholesale business or banking, or prepare
for political, judicial or administrative posts under the Sultan's
government. The course lasts four years and comprises: Arabic, French,
mathematics, history, geography, religious (Mahometan) instruction, and
the law of the Koran.

The "Ecole Supérieure de la langue arabe et des dialectes berbères" at
Rabat receives European and Moroccan students. The courses are Arabic,
the Berber dialects, Arab literature, ethnography, administrative
Moroccan law, Moslem law, Berber customary law.



MEDICAL AID

The Protectorate has established 113 medical centres for the native
population, ranging from simple dispensaries and small native
infirmaries to the important hospitals of Rabat, Fez, Meknez, Marrakech,
and Casablanca.

Mobile sanitary formations supplied with light motor ambulances travel
about the country, vaccinating, making tours of sanitary inspection,
investigating infected areas, and giving general hygienic education
throughout the remoter regions.

Native patients treated in 1916               over    900,000
   "       "      "      " 1917                "    1,220,800

Night-shelters in towns. Every town is provided with a shelter for the
indigent wayfarers so numerous in Morocco. These shelters are used as
disinfection centres, from which suspicious cases are sent to quarantine
camp at the gates of the towns.

_Central Laboratory at Rabat._ This is a kind of Pasteur Institute. In
1917, 210,000 persons were vaccinated throughout the country and 356
patients treated at the Laboratory for rabies.

_Clinics for venereal diseases_ have been established at Casablanca,
Fez, Rabat, and Marrakech.

More than 15,000 cases were treated in 1917.

_Ophthalmic clinics_ in the same cities gave in 1917, 44,600
consultations.

_Radiotherapy._ Clinics have been opened at Fez and Rabat for the
treatment of skin diseases of the head, from which the native children
habitually suffer.

The French Department of Health distributes annually immense quantities
of quinine in the malarial districts.

Madame Lyautey's private charities comprise admirably administered
child-welfare centres in the principal cities, with dispensaries for the
native mothers and children.




VII


A SKETCH OF MOROCCAN HISTORY


[NOTE--In the chapters on Moroccan history and art I have tried to set
down a slight and superficial outline of a large and confused subject.
In extenuation of this summary attempt I hasten to explain that its
chief merit is its lack of originality.

Its facts are chiefly drawn from the books mentioned in the short
bibliography at the end of the volume, in addition to which I am deeply
indebted for information given on the spot to the group of remarkable
specialists attached to the French administration, and to the cultivated
and cordial French officials, military and civilian, who, at each stage
of my rapid journey, did their best to answer my questions and open my
eyes.]



I

THE BERBERS

In the briefest survey of the Moroccan past, account must first of all
be taken of the factor which, from the beginning of recorded events, has
conditioned the whole history of North Africa: the existence, from the
Sahara to the Mediterranean, of a mysterious irreducible indigenous race
with which every successive foreign rule, from Carthage to France, has
had to reckon, and which has but imperfectly and partially assimilated
the language, the religion, and the culture that successive
civilizations have tried to impose upon it.

This race, the race of Berbers, has never, modern explorers tell us,
become really Islamite, any more than it ever really became Phenician,
Roman or Vandal. It has imposed its habits while it appeared to adopt
those of its invaders, and has perpetually represented, outside the
Ismalitic and Hispano-Arabic circle of the Makhzen, the vast tormenting
element of the dissident, the rebellious, the unsubdued tribes of the
Blad-es-Siba.

Who were these indigenous tribes with whom the Phenicians, when they
founded their first counting-houses on the north and west coast of
Africa, exchanged stuffs and pottery and arms for ivory,
ostrich-feathers and slaves?

Historians frankly say they do not know. All sorts of material obstacles
have hitherto hampered the study of Berber origins, but it seems clear
that from the earliest historic times they were a mixed race, and the
ethnologist who attempts to define them is faced by the same problem as
the historian of modern America who should try to find the racial
definition of an "American." For centuries, for ages, North Africa has
been what America now is: the clearing-house of the world. When at
length it occurred to the explorer that the natives of North Africa were
not all Arabs or Moors, he was bewildered by the many vistas of all they
were or might be: so many and tangled were the threads leading up to
them, so interwoven was their pre-Islamite culture with worn-out shreds
of older and richer societies.

M. Saladin, in his "Manuel d'Architecture Musulmane," after attempting
to unravel the influences which went to the making of the mosque of
Kairouan, the walls of Marrakech, the Medersas of Fez--influences that
lead him back to Chaldaean branch-huts, to the walls of Babylon and the
embroideries of Coptic Egypt--somewhat despairingly sums up the result:
"The principal elements contributed to Moslem art by the styles
preceding it may be thus enumerated: from India, floral ornament; from
Persia, the structural principles of the Acheminedes, and the Sassanian
vault. Mesopotamia contributes a system of vaulting, incised ornament,
and proportion; the Copts, ornamental detail in general; Egypt, mass
and unbroken wall-spaces; Spain, construction and Romano-Iberian
ornament; Africa, decorative detail and Romano-Berber traditions (with
Byzantine influences in Persia); Asia Minor, a mixture of Byzantine and
Persian characteristics."

As with the art of North Africa, so with its supposedly indigenous
population. The Berber dialects extend from the Lybian desert to
Senegal. Their language was probably related to Coptic, itself related
to the ancient Egyptian and the non-Semitic dialects of Abyssinia and
Nubia. Yet philologists have discovered what appears to be a far-off
link between the Berber and Semitic languages, and the Chleuhs of the
Draa and the Souss, with their tall slim Egyptian-looking bodies and
hooked noses, may have a strain of Semitic blood. M. Augustin Bernard,
in speaking of the natives of North Africa, ends, much on the same note
as M. Saladin in speaking of Moslem art: "In their blood are the
sediments of many races, Phenician, Punic, Egyptian and Arab."

They were not, like the Arabs, wholly nomadic; but the tent, the flock,
the tribe always entered into their conception of life. M. Augustin
Bernard has pointed out that, in North Africa, the sedentary and nomadic
habit do not imply a permanent difference, but rather a temporary one of
situation and opportunity. The sedentary Berbers are nomadic in certain
conditions, and from the earliest times the invading nomad Berbers
tended to become sedentary when they reached the rich plains north of
the Atlas. But when they built cities it was as their ancestors and
their neighbours pitched tents; and they destroyed or abandoned them as
lightly as their desert forbears packed their camel-bags and moved to
new pastures. Everywhere behind the bristling walls and rock-clamped
towers of old Morocco lurks the shadowy spirit of instability. Every new
Sultan builds himself a new house and lets his predecessors' palaces
fall into decay, and as with the Sultan so with his vassals and
officials. Change is the rule in this apparently unchanged civilization,
where "nought may abide but Mutability."



II

PHENICIANS, ROMANS AND VANDALS

Far to the south of the Anti-Atlas, in the yellow deserts that lead to
Timbuctoo, live the wild Touaregs, the Veiled Men of the south, who ride
to war with their faces covered by linen masks.

These Veiled Men are Berbers, but their alphabet is composed of Lybian
characters, and these are closely related to the signs engraved on
certain vases of the Nile valley that are probably six thousand years
old. Moreover, among the rock-cut images of the African desert is the
likeness of Theban Ammon crowned with the solar disk between serpents,
and the old Berber religion, with its sun and animal worship, has many
points of resemblance with Egyptian beliefs. All this implies trade
contacts far below the horizon of history, and obscure comings and
goings of restless throngs across incredible distances long before the
Phenicians planted their first trading posts on the north African coast
about 1200 B.C.

Five hundred years before Christ, Carthage sent one of her admirals on a
voyage of colonization beyond the Pillars of Hercules. Hannon set out
with sixty fifty-oared galleys carrying thirty thousand people. Some of
them settled at Mehedyia, at the mouth of the Sebou, where Phenician
remains have been found, and apparently the exploration was pushed as
far south as the coast of Guinea, for the inscription recording it
relates that Hannon beheld elephants, hairy men and "savages called
gorillas." At any rate, Carthage founded stable colonies at Melilla,
Larache, Salé and Casablanca.

Then came the Romans, who carried on the business, set up one of their
easy tolerant protectorates over "Tingitanian Mauretania,"[A] and built
one important military outpost, Volubilis in the Zerhoun, which a series
of minor defenses probably connected with Salé on the west coast, thus
guarding the Roman province against the unconquered Berbers to the
south.

[Footnote A: East of the Moulouya, the African protectorate (now west
Algeria and the Sud Oranais) was called the Mauretania of Caesar.]

Tingitanian Mauretania was one of the numerous African granaries of
Rome. She also supplied the Imperial armies with their famous African
cavalry, and among minor articles of exportation were guinea-hens,
snails, honey, euphorbia, wild beasts, horses and pearls. The Roman
dominion ceased at the line drawn between Volubilis and Salé. There was
no interest in pushing farther south, since the ivory and slave trade
with the Soudan was carried on by way of Tripoli. But the spirit of
enterprise never slept in the race, and Pliny records the journey of a
Roman general--Suetonius Paulinus--who appears to have crossed the
Atlas, probably by the pass of Tizi-n-Telremt, which is even now so
beset with difficulties that access by land to the Souss will remain an
arduous undertaking until the way by Imintanout is safe for European
travel.

The Vandals swept away the Romans in the fifth century. The Lower Empire
restored a brief period of civilization; but its authority finally
dwindled to the half-legendary rule of Count Julian, shut up within his
walls of Ceuta. Then Europe vanished from the shores of Africa, and
though Christianity lingered here and there in vague Donatist colonies,
and in the names of Roman bishoprics, its last faint hold went down in
the eighth century before the irresistible cry: "There is no God but
Allah!"



III

THE ARAB CONQUEST

The first Arab invasion of Morocco is said to have reached the Atlantic
coast, but it left no lasting traces, and the real Islamisation of
Barbary did not happen till near the end of the eighth century, when a
descendant of Ali, driven from Mesopotamia by the Caliphate, reached the
mountains above Volubilis and there founded an empire. The Berbers,
though indifferent in religious matters, had always, from a spirit of
independence, tended to heresy and schism. Under the rule of Christian
Rome they had been Donatists, as M. Bernard puts it, "out of opposition
to the Empire"; and so, out of opposition to the Caliphate, they took up
the cause of one Moslem schismatic after another. Their great popular
movements have always had a religious basis, or perhaps it would be
truer to say, a religious pretext, for they have been in reality the
partly moral, partly envious revolt of hungry and ascetic warrior tribes
against the fatness and corruption of the "cities of the plain."

Idriss I became the first national saint and ruler of Morocco. His rule
extended throughout northern Morocco, and his son, Idriss II, attacking
a Berber tribe on the banks of the Oued Fez, routed them, took
possession of their oasis and founded the city of Fez. Thither came
schismatic refugees from Kairouan and Moors from Andalusia. The Islamite
Empire of Morocco was founded, and Idriss II has become the legendary
ancestor of all its subsequent rulers.

The Idrissite rule is a welter of obscure struggles between rapidly
melting groups of adherents. Its chief features are: the founding of
Moulay Idriss and Fez, and the building of the mosques of El Andalous
and Kairouiyin at Fez for the two groups of refugees from Tunisia and
Spain. Meanwhile the Caliphate of Cordova had reached the height of its
power, while that of the Fatimites extended from the Nile to western
Morocco, and the little Idrissite empire, pulverized under the weight of
these expanding powers, became once more a dust of disintegrated tribes.

It was only in the eleventh century that the dust again conglomerated.
Two Arab tribes from the desert of the Hedjaz, suddenly driven westward
by the Fatimites, entered Morocco, not with a small military
expedition, as the Arabs had hitherto done, but with a horde of
emigrants reckoned as high as 200,000 families; and this first
colonizing expedition was doubtless succeeded by others.

To strengthen their hold in Morocco the Arab colonists embraced the
dynastic feuds of the Berbers. They inaugurated a period of general
havoc which destroyed what little prosperity had survived the break-up
of the Idrissite rule, and many Berber tribes took refuge in the
mountains; but others remained and were merged with the invaders,
reforming into new tribes of mixed Berber and Arab blood. This invasion
was almost purely destructive, it marks one of the most desolate periods
in the progress of the "wasteful Empire" of Moghreb.



IV

ALMORAVIDS AND ALMOHADS

While the Hilalian Arabs were conquering and destroying northern Morocco
another but more fruitful invasion was upon her from the south. The
Almoravids, one of the tribes of Veiled Men of the south, driven by the
usual mixture of religious zeal and lust of booty, set out to invade the
rich black kingdoms north of the Sahara. Thence they crossed the Atlas
under their great chief, Youssef-ben-Tachfin, and founded the city of
Marrakech in 1062. From Marrakech they advanced on Idrissite Fez and the
valley of the Moulouya. Fez rose against her conquerors, and Youssef put
all the male inhabitants to death. By 1084 he was master of Tangier and
the Rif, and his rule stretched as far west as Tlemcen, Oran and finally
Algiers.

His ambition drove him across the straits to Spain, where he conquered
one Moslem prince after another and wiped out the luxurious civilization
of Moorish Andalusia. In 1086, at Zallarca, Youssef gave battle to
Alphonso VI of Castile and Leon. The Almoravid army was a strange rabble
of Arabs, Berbers, blacks, wild tribes of the Sahara and Christian
mercenaries. They conquered the Spanish forces, and Youssef left to his
successors an empire extending from the Ebro to Senegal and from the
Atlantic coast of Africa to the borders of Tunisia. But the empire fell
to pieces of its own weight, leaving little record of its brief and
stormy existence. While Youssef was routing the forces of Christianity
at Zallarca in Spain, another schismatic tribe of his own people was
detaching Marrakech and the south from his rule.

The leader of the new invasion was a Mahdi, one of the numerous Saviours
of the World who have carried death and destruction throughout Islam.
His name was Ibn-Toumert, and he had travelled in Egypt, Syria and
Spain, and made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Preaching the doctrine of a
purified monotheism, he called his followers the Almohads or Unitarians,
to distinguish them from the polytheistic Almoravids, whose heresies he
denounced. He fortified the city of Tinmel in the Souss, and built there
a mosque of which the ruins still exist. When he died, in 1128, he
designated as his successor Abd-el-Moumen, the son of a potter, who had
been his disciple.

Abd-el-Moumen carried on the campaign against the Almoravids. He fought
them not only in Morocco but in Spain, taking Cadiz, Cordova, Granada as
well as Tlemcen and Fez. In 1152 his African dominion reached from
Tripoli to the Souss, and he had formed a disciplined army in which
Christian mercenaries from France and Spain fought side by side with
Berbers and Soudanese. This great captain was also a great
administrator, and under his rule Africa was surveyed from the Souss to
Barka, the country was policed, agriculture was protected, and the
caravans journeyed safely over the trade-routes.

Abd-el-Moumen died in 1163 and was followed by his son, who, though he
suffered reverses in Spain, was also a great ruler. He died in 1184, and
his son, Yacoub-el-Mansour, avenged his father's ill-success in Spain by
the great victory of Alarcos and the conquest of Madrid.
Yacoub-el-Mansour was the greatest of Moroccan Sultans. So far did his
fame extend that the illustrious Saladin sent him presents and asked the
help of his fleet. He was a builder as well as a fighter, and the
noblest period of Arab art in Morocco and Spain coincides with his
reign.

After his death, the Almohad empire followed the downward curve to which
all Oriental rule seems destined. In Spain, the Berber forces were
beaten in the great Christian victory of Las-Navas-de Tolosa, and in
Morocco itself the first stirrings of the Beni-Merins (a new tribe from
the Sahara) were preparing the way for a new dynasty.



V

THE MERINIDS

The Beni-Merins or Merinids were nomads who ranged the desert between
Biskra and the Tafilelt. It was not a religious upheaval that drove them
to the conquest of Morocco. The demoralized Almohads called them in as
mercenaries to defend their crumbling empire; and the Merinids came,
drove out the Almohads, and replaced them.

They took Fez, Meknez, Salé, Rabat and Sidjilmassa in the Tafilelt; and
their second Sultan, Abou-Youssef, built New Fez (Eldjid) on the height
above the old Idrissite city. The Merinids renewed the struggle with the
Sultan of Tlemcen, and carried the Holy War once more into Spain. The
conflict with Tlemcen was long and unsuccessful, and one of the Merinid
Sultans died assassinated under its walls. In the fourteenth century the
Sultan Abou Hassan tried to piece together the scattered bits of the
Almohad empire. Tlemcen was finally taken, and the whole of Algeria
annexed. But in the plain of Kairouan, in Tunisia, Abou Hassan was
defeated by the Arabs. Meanwhile one of his brothers had headed a revolt
in Morocco, and the princes of Tlemcen won back their ancient kingdom.
Constantine and Bougie rebelled in turn, and the kingdom of Abou Hassan
vanished like a mirage. His successors struggled vainly to control their
vassals in Morocco, and to keep their possessions beyond its borders.
Before the end of the fourteenth century Morocco from end to end was a
chaos of antagonistic tribes, owning no allegiance, abiding by no laws.
The last of the Merinids, divided, diminished, bound by humiliating
treaties with Christian Spain, kept up a semblance of sovereignty at Fez
and Marrakech, at war with one another and with their neighbours, and
Spain and Portugal seized this moment of internal dissolution to drive
them from Spain, and carry the war into Morocco itself.

The short and stormy passage of the Beni-Merins seems hardly to leave
room for the development of the humaner qualities; yet the flowering of
Moroccan art and culture coincided with those tumultuous years, and it
was under the Merinid Sultans that Fez became the centre of Moroccan
learning and industry, a kind of Oxford with Birmingham annexed.



VI

THE SAADIANS

Meanwhile, behind all the Berber turmoil a secret work of religious
propaganda was going on. The Arab element had been crushed but not
extirpated. The crude idolatrous wealth-loving Berbers apparently
dominated, but whenever there was a new uprising or a new invasion it
was based on the religious discontent perpetually stirred up by
Mahometan agents. The longing for a Mahdi, a Saviour, the craving for
purification combined with an opportunity to murder and rob, always gave
the Moslem apostle a ready opening; and the downfall of the Merinids was
the result of a long series of religious movements to which the European
invasion gave an object and a war-cry.

The Saadians were Cherifian Arabs, newcomers from Arabia, to whom the
lax Berber paganism was abhorrent. They preached a return to the creed
of Mahomet, and proclaimed the Holy War against the hated Portuguese,
who had set up fortified posts all along the west coast of Morocco.

It is a mistake to suppose that hatred of the Christian has always
existed among the North African Moslems. The earlier dynasties, and
especially the great Almohad Sultans, were on friendly terms with the
Catholic powers of Europe, and in the thirteenth century a treaty
assured to Christians in Africa full religious liberty, excepting only
the right to preach their doctrine in public places. There was a
Catholic diocese at Fez, and afterward at Marrakech under Gregory IX,
and there is a letter of the Pope thanking the "Miromilan" (the Emir El
Moumenin) for his kindness to the Bishop and the friars living in his
dominions. Another Bishop was recommended by Innocent IV to the Sultan
of Morocco; the Pope even asked that certain strongholds should be
assigned to the Christians in Morocco as places of refuge in times of
disturbance. But the best proof of the friendly relations between
Christians and infidels is the fact that the Christian armies which
helped the Sultans of Morocco to defeat Spain and subjugate Algeria and
Tunisia were not composed of "renegadoes" or captives, as is generally
supposed, but of Christian mercenaries, French and English, led by
knights and nobles, and fighting for the Sultan of Morocco exactly as
they would have fought for the Duke of Burgundy, the Count of Flanders,
or any other Prince who offered high pay and held out the hope of rich
spoils. Any one who has read Villehardouin and Joinville will own that
there is not much to choose between the motives animating these noble
freebooters and those which caused the Crusaders to loot Constantinople
"on the way" to the Holy Sepulchre. War in those days was regarded as a
lucrative and legitimate form of business, exactly as it was when the
earlier heroes started out to take the rich robber-town of Troy.

The Berbers have never been religious fanatics, and the Vicomte de
Foucauld, when he made his great journey of exploration in the Atlas in
1883, remarked that antagonism to the foreigner was always due to the
fear of military espionage and never to religious motives. This equally
applies to the Berbers of the sixteenth century, when the Holy War
against Catholic Spain and Portugal was preached. The real cause of the
sudden deadly hatred of the foreigner was twofold. The Spaniards were
detested because of the ferocious cruelty with which they had driven the
Moors from Spain under Ferdinand and Isabella, and the Portuguese
because of the arrogance and brutality of their military colonists in
the fortified trading stations of the west coast. And both were feared
as possible conquerors and overlords.

There was a third incentive also: the Moroccans, dealing in black slaves
for the European market, had discovered the value of white slaves in
Moslem markets. The Sultan had his fleet, and each coast-town its
powerful pirate vessels, and from pirate-nests like Salé and Tangier the
raiders continued, till well on into the first half of the nineteenth
century, to seize European ships and carry their passengers to the
slave-markets of Fez and Marrakech.[A] The miseries endured by these
captives, and so poignantly described in John Windus's travels, and in
the "Naufrage du Brick Sophie" by Charles Cochelet,[B] show how savage
the feeling against the foreigner had become.

[Footnote A: The Moroccans being very poor seamen, these corsair-vessels
were usually commanded and manned by Christian renegadoes and Turks.]

[Footnote B: Cochelet was wrecked on the coast near Agadir early in the
nineteenth century and was taken with his fellow-travellers overland to
El-Ksar and Tangier, enduring terrible hardships by the way.]

With the advent of the Cherifian dynasties, which coincided with this
religious reform, and was in fact brought about by it, Morocco became a
closed country, as fiercely guarded as Japan against European
penetration. Cut off from civilizing influences, the Moslems isolated
themselves in a lonely fanaticism, far more racial than religious, and
the history of the country from the fall of the Merinids till the French
annexation is mainly a dull tale of tribal warfare.

The religious movement of the sixteenth century was led and fed by
zealots from the Sahara. One of them took possession of Rabat and
Azemmour, and preached the Holy War; other "feudal fiefs" (as M.
Augustin Bernard has well called them) were founded at Tameslout, Ilegh,
Tamgrout: the tombs of the _marabouts_ who led these revolts are
scattered all along the west coast, and are still objects of popular
veneration. The unorthodox saint worship which marks Moroccan Moslemism,
and is commemorated by the countless white _koubbas_ throughout the
country, grew up chiefly at the time of the religious revival under the
Saadian dynasty, and almost all the "Moulays" and "Sidis" venerated
between Tangier and the Atlas were warrior monks who issued forth from
their fortified _Zaouias_ to drive the Christians out of Africa.

The Saadians were probably rather embarrassed by these fanatics, whom
they found useful to oppose to the Merinids, but troublesome where their
own plans were concerned. They were ambitious and luxury-loving princes,
who invaded the wealthy kingdom of the Soudan, conquered the Sultan of
Timbuctoo, and came back laden with slaves and gold to embellish
Marrakech and spend their treasure in the usual demoralizing orgies.
Their exquisite tombs at Marrakech commemorate in courtly language the
superhuman virtues of a series of rulers whose debaucheries and vices
were usually cut short by assassination. Finally another austere and
fanatical mountain tribe surged down on them, wiped them out, and ruled
in their stead.



VII

THE HASSANIANS

The new rulers came from the Tafilelt, which has always been a
troublesome corner of Morocco. The first two Hassanian Sultans were the
usual tribal chiefs bent on taking advantage of Saadian misrule to loot
and conquer. But the third was the great Moulay-Ismaël, the tale of
whose long and triumphant rule (1672 to 1727) has already been told in
the chapter on Meknez. This savage and enlightened old man once more
drew order out of anarchy, and left, when he died, an organized and
administered empire, as well as a progeny of seven hundred sons and
unnumbered daughters.[A]

[Footnote A: Moulay-Ismaël was a learned theologian and often held
religious discussions with the Fathers of the Order of Mercy and the
Trinitarians. He was scrupulously orthodox in his religious observances,
and wrote a treatise in defense of his faith which he sent to James II
of England, urging him to become a Mahometan. He invented most of the
most exquisite forms of torture which subsequent Sultans have applied to
their victims (see Loti, _Au Maroc_), and was fond of flowers, and
extremely simple and frugal in his personal habits.]

The empire fell apart as usual, and no less quickly than usual, under
his successors; and from his death until the strong hand of General
Lyautey took over the direction of affairs the Hassanian rule in
Morocco was little more than a tumult of incoherent ambitions. The
successors of Moulay-Ismaël inherited his blood-lust and his passion for
dominion without his capacity to govern. In 1757 Sidi-Mohammed, one of
his sons, tried to put order into his kingdom, and drove the last
Portuguese out of Morocco; but under his successors the country remained
isolated and stagnant, making spasmodic efforts to defend itself against
the encroachments of European influence, while its rulers wasted their
energy in a policy of double-dealing and dissimulation. Early in the
nineteenth century the government was compelled by the European powers
to suppress piracy and the trade in Christian slaves; and in 1830 the
French conquest of Algeria broke down the wall of isolation behind which
the country was mouldering away by placing a European power on one of
its frontiers.

At first the conquest of Algeria tended to create a link between France
and Morocco. The Dey of Algiers was a Turk, and, therefore, an
hereditary enemy; and Morocco was disposed to favour the power which had
broken Turkish rule in a neighbouring country. But the Sultan could not
help trying to profit by the general disturbance to seize Tlemcen and
raise insurrections in western Algeria; and presently Morocco was
engaged in a Holy War against France. Abd-el-Kader, the Sultan of
Algeria, had taken refuge in Morocco, and the Sultan of Morocco having
furnished him with supplies and munitions, France sent an official
remonstrance. At the same time Marshal Bugeaud landed at Mers-el-Kebir,
and invited the Makhzen to discuss the situation. The offer was accepted
and General Bedeau and the Caïd El Guennaoui met in an open place.
Behind them their respective troops were drawn up, and almost as soon as
the first salutes were exchanged the Caïd declared the negotiations
broken off. The French troops accordingly withdrew to the coast, but
during their retreat they were attacked by the Moroccans. This put an
end to peaceful negotiations, and Tangier was besieged and taken. The
following August Bugeaud brought his troops up from Oudjda, through the
defile that leads from West Algeria, and routed the Moroccans. He wished
to advance on Fez, but international politics interfered, and he was not
allowed to carry out his plans. England looked unfavourably on the
French penetration of Morocco, and it became necessary to conclude peace
at once to prove that France had no territorial ambitions west of
Oudjda.

Meanwhile a great Sultan was once more to appear in the land.
Moulay-el-Hassan, who ruled from 1873 to 1894, was an able and energetic
administrator. He pieced together his broken empire, asserted his
authority in Fez and Marrakech, and fought the rebellious tribes of the
west. In 1877 he asked the French government to send him a permanent
military mission to assist in organizing his army. He planned an
expedition to the Souss, but the want of food and water in the
wilderness traversed by the army caused the most cruel sufferings.
Moulay-el-Hassan had provisions sent by sea, but the weather was too
stormy to allow of a landing on the exposed Atlantic coast, and the
Sultan, who had never seen the sea, was as surprised and indignant as
Canute to find that the waves would not obey him.

His son Abd-el-Aziz was only thirteen years old when he succeeded to the
throne. For six years he remained under the guardianship of Ba-Ahmed,
the black Vizier of Moulay-el-Hassan, who built the fairy palace of the
Bahia at Marrakech, with its mysterious pale green padlocked door
leading down to the secret vaults where his treasure was hidden. When
the all-powerful Ba-Ahmed died the young Sultan was nineteen. He was
intelligent, charming, and fond of the society of Europeans; but he was
indifferent to religious questions and still more to military affairs,
and thus doubly at the mercy of native mistrust and European intrigue.

Some clumsy attempts at fiscal reform, and a too great leaning toward
European habits and associates, roused the animosity of the people, and
of the conservative party in the upper class. The Sultan's eldest
brother, who had been set aside in his favour, was intriguing against
him; the usual Cherifian Pretender was stirring up the factious tribes
in the mountains; and the European powers were attempting, in the
confusion of an ungoverned country, to assert their respective
ascendencies.

The demoralized condition of the country justified these attempts, and
made European interference inevitable. But the powers were jealously
watching each other, and Germany, already coveting the certain
agricultural resources and the conjectured mineral wealth of Morocco,
was above all determined that a French protectorate should not be set
up.

In 1908 another son of Moulay-Hassan, Abd-el-Hafid, was proclaimed
Sultan by the reactionary Islamite faction, who accused Abd-el-Aziz of
having sold his country to the Christians. Abd-el-Aziz was defeated in a
battle near Marrakech, and retired to Tangier, where he still lives in
futile state. Abd-el-Hafid, proclaimed Sultan at Fez, was recognized by
the whole country, but he found himself unable to cope with the factious
tribes (those outside the Blad-el-Makhzen, or _governed country_). These
rebel tribes besieged Fez, and the Sultan had to ask France for aid.
France sent troops to his relief, but as soon as the dissidents were
routed, and he himself was safe, Abd-el-Hafid refused to give the French
army his support, and in 1912, after the horrible massacres of Fez, he
abdicated in favour of another brother, Moulay Youssef, the actual ruler
of Morocco.




VIII


NOTE ON MOROCCAN ARCHITECTURE


I

M. H. Saladin, whose "Manual of Moslem Architecture" was published in
1907, ends his chapter on Morocco with the words: "It is especially
urgent that we should know, and penetrate into, Morocco as soon as
possible, in order to study its monuments. It is the only country but
Persia where Moslem art actually survives; and the tradition handed down
to the present day will doubtless clear up many things."

M. Saladin's wish has been partly realized. Much has been done since
1912, when General Lyautey was appointed Resident-General, to clear up
and classify the history of Moroccan art; but since 1914, though the
work has never been dropped, it has necessarily been much delayed,
especially as regards its published record; and as yet only a few
monographs and articles have summed up some of the interesting
investigations of the last five years.



II

When I was in Marrakech word was sent to Captain de S., who was with me,
that a Caïd of the Atlas, whose prisoner he had been several years
before, had himself been taken by the Pasha's troops, and was in
Marrakech. Captain de S. was asked to identify several rifles which his
old enemy had taken from him, and on receiving them found that, in the
interval, they had been elaborately ornamented with the Arab niello work
of which the tradition goes back to Damascus.

This little incident is a good example of the degree to which the
mediaeval tradition alluded to by M. Saladin has survived in Moroccan
life. Nowhere else in the world, except among the moribund
fresco-painters of the Greek monasteries, has a formula of art persisted
from the seventh or eighth century to the present day; and in Morocco
the formula is not the mechanical expression of a petrified theology but
the setting of the life of a people who have gone on wearing the same
clothes, observing the same customs, believing in the same fetiches, and
using the same saddles, ploughs, looms, and dye-stuffs as in the days
when the foundations of the first mosque of El Kairouiyin were laid.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Marrakech--a street fountain]

The origin of this tradition is confused and obscure. The Arabs have
never been creative artists, nor are the Berbers known to have been so.
As investigations proceed in Syria and Mesopotamia it seems more and
more probable that the sources of inspiration of pre-Moslem art in North
Africa are to be found in Egypt, Persia, and India. Each new
investigation pushes these sources farther back and farther east; but it
is not of much use to retrace these ancient vestiges, since Moroccan art
has, so far, nothing to show of pre-Islamite art, save what is purely
Phenician or Roman.

In any case, however, it is not in Morocco that the clue to Moroccan art
is to be sought; though interesting hints and mysterious reminiscences
will doubtless be found in such places as Tinmel, in the gorges of the
Atlas, where a ruined mosque of the earliest Almohad period has been
photographed by M. Doutté, and in the curious Algerian towns of Sedrata
and the Kalaa of the Beni Hammads. Both of these latter towns were rich
and prosperous communities in the tenth century and both were destroyed
in the eleventh, so that they survive as mediaeval Pompeiis of a quite
exceptional interest, since their architecture appears to have been
almost unaffected by classic or Byzantine influences.

Traces of a very old indigenous art are found in the designs on the
modern white and black Berber pottery, but this work, specimens of which
are to be seen in the Oriental Department of the Louvre, seems to go
back, by way of Central America, Greece (sixth century B.C.) and Susa
(twelfth century B.C.), to the far-off period before the streams of
human invention had divided, and when the same loops and ripples and
spirals formed on the flowing surface of every current.

It is a disputed question whether Spanish influence was foremost in
developing the peculiarly Moroccan art of the earliest Moslem period, or
whether European influences came by way of Syria and Palestine, and
afterward met and were crossed with those of Moorish Spain. Probably
both things happened, since the Almoravids were in Spain; and no doubt
the currents met and mingled. At any rate, Byzantine, Greece, and the
Palestine and Syria of the Crusaders, contributed as much as Rome and
Greece to the formation of that peculiar Moslem art which, all the way
from India to the Pillars of Hercules, built itself, with minor
variations, out of the same elements.

Arab conquerors always destroy as much as they can of the work of their
predecessors, and nothing remains, as far as is known, of Almoravid
architecture in Morocco. But the great Almohad Sultans covered Spain and
Northwest Africa with their monuments, and no later buildings in Africa
equal them in strength and majesty.

It is no doubt because the Almohads built in stone that so much of what
they made survives. The Merinids took to rubble and a soft tufa, and the
Cherifian dynasties built in clay like the Spaniards in South America.
And so seventeenth century Meknez has perished while the Almohad walls
and towers of the tenth century still stand.

The principal old buildings of Morocco are defensive and religious--and
under the latter term the beautiful collegiate houses (the medersas) of
Fez and Salé may fairly be included, since the educational system of
Islam is essentially and fundamentally theological. Of old secular
buildings, palaces or private houses, virtually none are known to exist;
but their plan and decorations may easily be reconstituted from the
early chronicles, and also from the surviving palaces built in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and even those which the wealthy
nobles of modern Morocco are building to this day.

The whole of civilian Moslem architecture from Persia to Morocco is
based on four unchanging conditions: a hot climate, slavery, polygamy
and the segregation of women. The private house in Mahometan countries
is in fact a fortress, a convent and a temple: a temple of which the god
(as in all ancient religions) frequently descends to visit his
cloistered votaresses. For where slavery and polygamy exist every
house-master is necessarily a god, and the house he inhabits a shrine
built about his divinity.

The first thought of the Moroccan chieftain was always defensive. As
soon as he pitched a camp or founded a city it had to be guarded
against the hungry hordes who encompassed him on every side. Each little
centre of culture and luxury in Moghreb was an islet in a sea of
perpetual storms. The wonder is that, thus incessantly threatened from
without and conspired against from within--with the desert at their
doors, and their slaves on the threshold--these violent men managed to
create about them an atmosphere of luxury and stability that astonished
not only the obsequious native chronicler but travellers and captives
from western Europe.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Rabat--gate of the Kasbah of the Oudayas]

The truth is, as has been often pointed out, that, even until the end of
the seventeenth century, the refinements of civilization were in many
respects no greater in France and England than in North Africa. North
Africa had long been in more direct communication with the old Empires
of immemorial luxury, and was therefore farther advanced in the arts of
living than the Spain and France of the Dark Ages; and this is why, in a
country that to the average modern European seems as savage as Ashantee,
one finds traces of a refinement of life and taste hardly to be matched
by Carlovingian and early Capetian Europe.



III

The brief Almoravid dynasty left no monuments behind it.

Fez had already been founded by the Idrissites, and its first mosques
(Kairouiyin and Les Andalous) existed. Of the Almoravid Fez and
Marrakech the chroniclers relate great things; but the wild Hilalian
invasion and the subsequent descent of the Almohads from the High Atlas
swept away whatever the first dynasties had created.

The Almohads were mighty builders, and their great monuments are all of
stone. The earliest known example of their architecture which has
survived is the ruined mosque of Tinmel, in the High Atlas, discovered
and photographed by M. Doutté. This mosque was built by the inspired
mystic, Ibn-Toumert, who founded the line. Following him came the great
palace-making Sultans whose walled cities of splendid mosques and towers
have Romanesque qualities of mass and proportion, and, as M. Raymond
Koechlin has pointed out, inevitably recall the "robust simplicity of
the master builders who at the very same moment were beginning in
France the construction of the first Gothic cathedrals and the noblest
feudal castles."

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez--Medersa Bouanyana]

In the thirteenth century, with the coming of the Merinids, Moroccan
architecture grew more delicate, more luxurious, and perhaps also more
peculiarly itself. That interaction of Spanish and Arab art which
produced the style known as Moorish reached, on the African side of the
Straits, its greatest completeness in Morocco. It was under the Merinids
that Moorish art grew into full beauty in Spain, and under the Merinids
that Fez rebuilt the mosque Kairouiyin and that of the Andalusians, and
created six of its nine _Medersas_, the most perfect surviving buildings
of that unique moment of sober elegance and dignity.

The Cherifian dynasties brought with them a decline in taste. A crude
desire for immediate effect, and the tendency toward a more barbaric
luxury, resulted in the piling up of frail palaces as impermanent as
tents. Yet a last flower grew from the deformed and dying trunk of the
old Empire. The Saadian Sultan who invaded the Soudan and came back
laden with gold and treasure from the great black city of Timbuctoo
covered Marrakech with hasty monuments of which hardly a trace survives.
But there, in a nettle-grown corner of a ruinous quarter, lay hidden
till yesterday the Chapel of the Tombs: the last emanation of pure
beauty of a mysterious, incomplete, forever retrogressive and yet
forever forward-straining people. The Merinid tombs of Fez have fallen;
but those of their destroyers linger on in precarious grace, like a
flower on the edge of a precipice.



IV

Moroccan architecture, then, is easily divided into four groups: the
fortress, the mosque, the collegiate building and the private house.

The kernel of the mosque is always the _mihrab_, or niche facing toward
the Kasbah of Mecca, where the _imam_[A] stands to say the prayer. This
arrangement, which enabled as many as possible of the faithful to kneel
facing the _mihrab_, results in a ground-plan necessarily consisting of
long aisles parallel with the wall of the _mihrab_, to which more and
more aisles are added as the number of worshippers grows. Where there
was not space to increase these lateral aisles they were lengthened at
each end. This typical plan is modified in the Moroccan mosques by a
wider transverse space, corresponding with the nave of a Christian
church, and extending across the mosque from the praying niche to the
principal door. To the right of the _mihrab_ is the _minbar_, the carved
pulpit (usually of cedar-wood incrusted with mother-of-pearl and ebony)
from which the Koran is read. In some Algerian and Egyptian mosques (and
at Cordova, for instance) the _mihrab_ is enclosed in a sort of screen
called the _maksoura_; but in Morocco this modification of the simpler
plan was apparently not adopted.

[Footnote A: The "deacon" or elder of the Moslem religion, which has no
order of priests.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Fez--the praying-chapel in the Medersa el Attarine]

The interior construction of the mosque was no doubt usually affected by
the nearness of Roman or Byzantine ruins. M. Saladin points out that
there seem to be few instances of the use of columns made by native
builders; but it does not therefore follow that all the columns used in
the early mosques were taken from Roman temples or Christian basilicas.
The Arab invaders brought their architects and engineers with them; and
it is very possible that some of the earlier mosques were built by
prisoners or fortune-hunters from Greece or Italy or Spain.

At any rate, the column on which the arcades of the vaulting rests in
the earlier mosques, as at Tunis and Kairouan, and the mosque El
Kairouiyin at Fez, gives way later to the use of piers, foursquare, or
with flanking engaged pilasters as at Algiers and Tlemcen. The exterior
of the mosques, as a rule, is almost entirely hidden by a mushroom
growth of buildings, lanes and covered bazaars, but where the outer
walls have remained disengaged they show, as at Kairouan and Cordova,
great masses of windowless masonry pierced at intervals with majestic
gateways.

Beyond the mosque, and opening into it by many wide doors of beaten
bronze or carved cedar-wood, lies the Court of the Ablutions. The
openings in the façade were multiplied in order that, on great days, the
faithful who were not able to enter the mosque might hear the prayers
and catch a glimpse of the _mihrab_.

In a corner of the courts stands the minaret. It is the structure on
which Moslem art has played the greatest number of variations, cutting
off its angles, building it on a circular or polygonal plan, and
endlessly modifying the pyramids and pendentives by which the
ground-plan of one story passes into that of the next. These problems of
transition, always fascinating to the architect, led in Persia,
Mesopotamia and Egypt to many different compositions and ways of
treatment, but in Morocco the minaret, till modern times, remained
steadfastly square, and proved that no other plan is so beautiful as
this simplest one of all.

Surrounding the Court of the Ablutions are the school-rooms, libraries
and other dependencies, which grew as the Mahometan religion prospered
and Arab culture developed.

The medersa was a farther extension of the mosque: it was the academy
where the Moslem schoolman prepared his theology and the other branches
of strange learning which, to the present day, make up the curriculum of
the Mahometan university. The medersa is an adaptation of the private
house to religious and educational ends; or, if one prefers another
analogy, it is a _fondak_ built above a miniature mosque. The
ground-plan is always the same: in the centre an arcaded court with a
fountain, on one side the long narrow praying-chapel with the _mihrab_,
on the other a classroom with the same ground-plan, and on the next
story a series of cell-like rooms for the students, opening on carved
cedar-wood balconies. This cloistered plan, where all the effect is
reserved for the interior façades about the court, lends itself to a
delicacy of detail that would be inappropriate on a street-front; and
the medersas of Fez are endlessly varied in their fanciful but never
exuberant decoration.

M. Tranchant de Lunel has pointed out (in "France-Maroc") with what a
sure sense of suitability the Merinid architects adapted this decoration
to the uses of the buildings. On the lower floor, under the cloister, is
a revêtement of marble (often alabaster) or of the almost indestructible
ceramic mosaic.[A] On the floor above, massive cedar-wood corbels ending
in monsters of almost Gothic inspiration support the fretted balconies;
and above rise stucco interfacings, placed too high up to be injured
by man, and guarded from the weather by projecting eaves.

[Footnote A: These Moroccan mosaics are called _zellijes_.]

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Salé--interior court of the Medersa]

The private house, whether merchant's dwelling or chieftain's palace, is
laid out on the same lines, with the addition of the reserved quarters
for women; and what remains in Spain and Sicily of Moorish secular
architecture shows that, in the Merinid period, the play of ornament
must have been--as was natural--even greater than in the medersas.

The Arab chroniclers paint pictures of Merinid palaces, such as the
House of the Favourite at Cordova, which the soberer modern imagination
refused to accept until the medersas of Fez were revealed, and the old
decorative tradition was shown in the eighteenth century Moroccan
palaces. The descriptions given of the palaces of Fez and of Marrakech
in the preceding articles, which make it unnecessary, in so slight a
note as this, to go again into the detail of their planning and
decoration, will serve to show how gracefully the art of the mosque and
the medersa was lightened and domesticated to suit these cool chambers
and flower-filled courts.

With regard to the immense fortifications that are the most picturesque
and noticeable architectural features of Morocco, the first thing to
strike the traveller is the difficulty of discerning any difference in
the probable date of their construction until certain structural
peculiarities are examined, or the ornamental details of the great
gateways are noted. Thus the Almohad portions of the walls of Fez and
Rabat are built of stone, while later parts are of rubble; and the touch
of European influence in certain gateways of Meknez and Fez at once
situate them in the seventeenth century. But the mediaeval outline of
these great piles of masonry, and certain technicalities in their plan,
such as the disposition of the towers, alternating in the inner and
outer walls, continued unchanged throughout the different dynasties,
and this immutability of the Moroccan military architecture enables the
imagination to picture, not only what was the aspect of the fortified
cities which the Greeks built in Palestine and Syria, and the
Crusaders brought back to Europe, but even that of the far-off
Assyrio-Chaldaean strongholds to which the whole fortified architecture
of the Middle Ages in Europe seems to lead back.

[Illustration: _From a photograph from the Service des Beaux-Arts au
Maroc_

Marrakech--the gate of the Portuguese]




IX


BOOKS CONSULTED


Afrique Française (L'). Bulletin Mensuel du Comité de
l'Afrique Française. Paris, 21, rue Cassette.

Bernard, Augustin. Le Maroc. Paris, F. Alcan, 1916.

Budgett-Meakin. The Land of the Moors. London, 1902.

Châtelain, L. Recherches archéologiques au Maroc: Volubilis.
(Published by the Military Command in Morocco).

  Les Fouilles de Volubilis (Extrait du Bulletin Archéologique,
  1916)

Chevrillon, A. Crépuscule d'Islam.

Cochelet, Charles. Le Naufrage du Brick Sophie.

Conférences Marocaines. Paris, Plon-Nourrit.

Doutté, E. En Tribu. Paris, 1914.

Foucauld, Vicomte de. La Reconnaissance au Maroc. Paris, 1888.

France-Maroc. Revue Mensuelle, Paris, 4, rue Chauveau-Lagarde.

Gaillard. Une Ville d'Islam, Fez. Paris, 1909.

Gayet, Al. L'Art Arabe. Paris, 1906.

Houdas, O. Le Maroc de 1631 à 1812. Extrait d'une histoire du Maroc
intitulée "L'Interprète qui s'exprime clairement sur les dynasties de
l'Orient et de l'Occident," par Ezziani. Paris, E. Leroux, 1886.

Koechlin, Raymond. Une Exposition d'Art Marocain. (Gazette
des Beaux-Arts, Juillet-Septembre, 1917).

Leo Africanus, Description of Africa.

Loti, Pierre. Au Maroc.

Migeon, Gaston. Manuel d'Art Musulman, II, Les Arts
Plastiques et Industriels. Paris, A. Picard et Fils, 1907.

Saladin, H. Manuel d'Art Musulman, I, L'Architecture.
Paris, A. Picard et Fils, 1907.

Segonzac, Marquis de. Voyages au Maroc. Paris, 1903.

  Au Coeur de l'Atlas. Paris, 1910.

Tarde, A. de. Les Villes du Maroc: Fez, Marrakech, Rabat. (Journal de
l'Université des Annales, 15 Oct., 1 Nov., 1918).

Windus. A Journey to Mequinez. London, 1721.




INDEX


Abdallah-ben-Aïssa
Abd-el-Aziz
Abd-el-Hafid
Abd-el-Kader
Abd-el-Moumen
Abou-el Abbas ("The Golden")
Abou Hassan
Abou-Youssef
Agdal, olive-yards of the
Ahmed-Baba
Ahmed-el-Hiba
Aïd-el-Kebir, the
Aïssaouas, the, of Kairouan
  dance of
Algeria, French conquest of
Almohads, the, invasion of Morocco by
  architecture of
Almoravids, the, invasion of Morocco by
  destruction of architecture of
Andalusian Moors, the, mosque of
Arabs, conquest of Morocco by
Architecture, Moroccan, four basic conditions of
  four groups of
  of the Almohad dynasty
  of the Cherifian dynasties
  of the Merinid dynasty
  the Saadian mausoleum
  the collegiate building
  the fortress
  the mosque
  the private house
Art, Moroccan, sources of influence on
  disappearance of treasures of
  and Moorish art

Ba-Ahmed, builder of the Bahia
Bab F'touh cemetery, at Fez
Bahia, the, palace of, at Marrakech
  apartment of Grand Vizier's Favourite in
Bazaars, of Fez
  of Marrakech
  of Salé
Beni-Merins _See_ Merinids
Berbers, the attack of, on Fez
  origins of
  dialects of
  nomadic character of
  heresy and schisms of
Bernard, M. Augustin
Black Guard, the Sultan's
  uniform of
  Moulay-Ismaël's method of raising
Blue Men of the Sahara, the
Bou-Jeloud, palace of
Bugeaud, Marshal

Carthage, African colonies of
Casablanca, exhibitions at
  port of
Catholics, in Morocco
Cemetery, El Alou
  Bab F'touh
Châtelain, M. Louis
Chella, ruins of
Cherifian dynasties, the
  architecture of
Children, Moroccan,
  in the harem
  negro
  training of, for Black Guard
Chleuh boys, dance of
Christians, captive, and the building of Meknez
  religious liberty to, in Africa
Clocks, in Sultan's harem at Rabat
Cochelet, Charles, his "Naufrage du Brick Sophie"
Colleges, at Fez
  at Salé
  Moslem
  architecture of Moroccan
Colors, of North African towns
Commerce, Moroccan
Conti, Princesse de
Convention of Fez, the
Courts of Justice, Moroccan
Crowds, Moroccan street
Culture, in North Africa

Dance, of Chleuh boys
  of the Hamadchas
Dawn, in Africa
Djebilets, the
Doutté, M.
Dust-storm, at Marrakech

Education, in Morocco
Elakhdar, mosque of
El Alou, cemetery of
El Andalous, mosque of
Elbah (Old Fez)
  harems of
Eldjid (New Fez)
  palaces of
  founding of
El Kairouiyin, mosque of
  the praying-hall of
  the court of ablutions of
  legend of the tortoise of
El-Ksar
El-Mansour, Yacoub
Elmansour, palace of
Empress Mother, the
English emissaries,
  visit of, to Meknez
Exhibitions, planned by General Lyautey
Ezziani, chronicler of Moulay-Ismaël

Fatimites, the
Fez, the approach to
  unchanged character of
  ruins of Merinid tombs of
  the upper or new
  old summer-palace at
  night in
  antiquity of
  palaces of
  the inns at
  streets of
  a city of wealth
  the merchant of
  bazaars of
  a melancholy city
  twilight in
  the shrines of
  mosque of Moulay Idriss at
  mosque of El Kairouiyinat
  the University of
  Medersas of
  mosque of El Andalous at
  Bab F'touh cemetery of
  the potters of
  art and culture of
  the Mellah of
  harems of Old
  the Convention of
  uprising in
  attack of Berbers on
  exhibitions at
  Moslem college at
  founding of
  Almoravid conquest of
  centre of Moroccan learning
  Catholic diocese at
  massacres at
Fez Elbali
Fez Eldjid
Fondak Nedjanne, the
Fortifications, Moroccan, architecture of
Foucauld, Vicomte de
Franco-German treaty of 1911
French Protectorate in Morocco, work of
French, conquests in Morocco
  at Fez
Furniture, disappearance of Merinid

Ghilis, the
Gouraud, General

Hamadch, tomb of
Hamadchas, the, ritual dance of
Harem
  in old Fez
  an Imperial
  in Marrakech
  in old Rabat
Hassan, Sultan
Hassan, tower of, at Rabat
Hassanians, the, rule of
Holy War, the, against France
  against Spain and Portugal
Hospitals, in Morocco
Houses, Moroccan,
  architecture of
  color of
  plan of
  rich private

Ibn-Toumert
Idriss I
Idriss II
Idrissite empire, the
Inns, Moroccan

Jews, of Sefrou
  treatment of North African

Kairouan, the Aïssaouas of
  Great Mosque of
Kairouiyin, mosque of _See_ El
  Kairouiyin
Kalaa, ruins of
Kenitra, port of
Koechlin, M. Raymond
Koutoubya, tower of the

Lamothe, General
Land, area of cultivated, in Morocco
Louis XIV, and Moulay-Ismaël
Lunel, M. Tranchant de
Lyautey, General
  at Sultan's court
  appointed Resident-General in Morocco
  military occupation of Morocco by
  policy of
  economic development of Morocco achieved by
  summary of work of

Maclean, Sir Harry
Mamora, forest of
Mangin, General
Mansourah, mosque of
Market, of Marrakech
  in Moulay Idriss
  of Salé
  of Sefrou
Marrakech, the road to
  founders of
  tower of the Koutoubya at
  palace of the Bahia at
  the lamp-lighters of
  mixed population of
  bazaars of
  the "morocco" workers of
  olive-yards of
  the Menara of
  a holiday of merchants of
  the Square of the Dead in
  French administration office at
  fruit-market of
  dance of Chleuh boys in
  Saadian tombs of
  a harem in
  taken by the French
  Catholic diocese at
  Chapel of the Tombs at
Medersa, the, of the Oudayas
  Attarine
  at Fez
  at Salé
  architecture of
Mehedyia, Phenician colony of
Meknez, building of
  the Kasbah of
  palaces of
  stables of
  entrance into
  ruins of
  sunken gardens of
  visit of English emissaries to
Mellah, of Fez
  of Sefrou
Menara, the, in the Agdal
Mequinez _See_ Meknez
Merinids, the, tombs of, at Fez
  conquest of Morocco by
  architecture of
Mirador, the Imperial
Moorish art
Mosque, of Elakhador
  of El Andalous
  of El Kairouiyin
  of Kairouan
  of Mansourah
  of Rabat
  of Tinmel
  of Tunisia
  architecture of Moroccan
Moulay Hafid
Moulay-el-Hassan
Moulay Idriss I, rule of
  tomb of
Moulay Idriss II, tomb of
  rule of
Moulay Idriss, Sacred City of
  Street of the Weavers in
  feast of the Hamadchas in
  market-place of
  whiteness of
  founding of
Moulay-Ismaël, and Louis XIV
  exploits of
  mausoleum of Moulay Idriss enlarged by
  Meknez built by
  the Black Guard of
  description of
  palaces of
  and English emissaries
  death of
  rule of
  successors of
Moulay Youssef

Nedjarine, fountain and inn of
Night, in Fez

Oases, Moroccan
  Marrakech
  Sefrou
  Settat
Oudayas, the, Kasbah of
  Medersa of

Palaces, Moroccan, the Bahia
  Bou-Jeloud
  at Fez
  at Meknez
  of Moulay-Ismaël
Phenicians, the, African explorations of
Pilgrimage to Salé, a
Population, Moroccan, varied elements of
Ports, Moroccan
Portugal, the Holy War against
Pottery, Berber
Potters' Field, the

Rabat
  Tower of Hassan at
  ruins of mosque at
  called "Camp of Victory"
  Sacrifice of the Sheep at
  Sultan's harem of
  visit to a harem in old
  exhibitions at
  port of
  Moslem college at
  Central Laboratory at
Railways, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate
Rarb, the
Roads, Moroccan, built by French Protectorate
Romans, the, African explorations of

Saadian Sultans, the, history of
  tombs of
  rule of
Sacrifice of the Sheep, the
Saint-Amand, M. de
Saladin, M. H., his "Manual of Moslem Architecture"
Salé, first view of
  type of untouched Moroccan city
  bazaar of
  Medersas of
  market of
  colors of
Schools, in Morocco
Sedrata, ruins of
Sefrou
  market-place of
  men and women of
  Jewish colony of
Senegal
Settat, oasis of
Sheep, sacrifice of the
Sidi-Mohammed
Slaves, Moroccan
  trade in white
_Sloughi_, bronze, at Volubilis
Soudan
Spain, the Holy War against
Spanish zone, the, German intrigue in
Stables, of Meknez
Stewart, Commodore
Street of the Weavers (Moulay Idriss)
Streets, Moroccan

Tangier
  colors of
  taken by the French
Tetuan, bronze chandelier of
Timbuctoo, the Sultanate of
Tingitanian Mauretania
Tinmel, ruins of mosque at
Tlemcen, the conflict for
Touaregs, the
Tower, of Hassan
  of the Koutoubya
Tunisia, Almohad sanctuary of

Vandals, the, African invasion by
Veiled Men, the
Versailles and Meknez
Villages, "sedentary"
Volubilis, ruins of
  bronze _sloughi_ of
  founded by Romans

Wedding, Jewish, procession bringing gifts for
Windus, John
Women, Moroccan,
  dress of
  of Sefrou
  of the harems
  in Sultan's harem
  in harems of Old Fez
  in harem of Marrakech
  in harem of Rabat
  negro

Yacoub-el-Mansour
Youssef-ben-Tachfin