FROM A FASI HOUSETOP
On passing from one country into another, one instinctively expects the
change in sovereignty to be signalized by some distinctive and dramatic
landmark, natural or artificial, such as the Statue of Liberty, the
International Bridge across the Rio Grande, the Iron Gates on the Danube,
the Simplon Tunnel, the Pass of Roncesvalles, or, at the very least,
the black and yellow posts bearing the sign of the double eagle which
marked the Muscovite frontiers in the days of the czars. But there is
nothing distinctive or dramatic about entering Morocco. A few miles after
leaving Lalla Maghnia we saw a red-white-and-blue striped sentry-box,
and, just beyond it, a small, low, whitewashed building over which flew
an unfamiliar flag, a green triangle on a scarlet ground. Tomine brought
the car to a halt; a native official wearing a voluminous cape and a fez
scrutinized our passports, glanced perfunctorily at our luggage, then
waved us on, and we shot across a surveyor’s line into the Shereefian
Empire.
Nine miles more brought us into Oujda, an important garrison town because
it guards Morocco’s eastern gate. Like most frontier cities it is clean,
drab, and quite uninteresting, architecturally at least, for those who
dwell in close proximity to international boundary lines seldom indulge
in buildings of much magnificence, on the theory, I suppose, that
boundaries can be moved by bayonets and that to-morrow they may find
themselves in another country and under another rule. As history shows,
this certainly holds true of Oujda, which, during the long series of
wars between the sultans of Fez and Tlemcen, changed hands many times.
Still, it is a well kept place, with broad, tree-planted thoroughfares
and substantial public buildings, which makes on the visitor a favorable
if not a very lasting impression. The Riffian campaign was in progress
when we were there, and the town was so packed with troops that my memory
harked back to the days of the Great War, the rumble of cannon-wheels and
the measured tramp of troops sounding beneath our windows all night long.
From Oujda onward to Taourirt, Taza, and Fez the road was chock-a-block
with soldiery—cloaked and turbaned spahis perched above their wiry
little ponies in high-peaked saddles of red leather; _tirailleurs_ in
dust-brown khaki (did you happen to know that _khaki_ is the Hindustani
word for dust?); _infanterie coloniale_, bearing on their collars the
anchor which is the distinguishing badge of the corps; tall, slim
riflemen from Senegal, with the thinnest legs in the world, their black
faces smiling cheerily under their high tarbooshes at the prospect of
fighting; a battalion of the _IIme Etranger_, swinging along beneath
their heavy packs at a steady three miles an hour, the sun-bronzed men
lustily roaring the chorus of “La Casquette du Père Bugeaud”; _chasseurs
d’Afrique_, their small, active horses laden with pretty much everything
save the kitchen stove; battery after battery of field-artillery, the
muzzles of the lean _soixante-quinze_ hooded with canvas against the
day when they should speak to the Riffi with the voice of France;
machine-gun companies, guns and ammunition neatly packed on sturdy little
mules; _génie_ with picks and shovels strapped to their knapsacks, ready
to build roads, to construct bridges, or to dig trenches; creaking
pontoon-wagons hauled each by a dozen horses; field-kitchens, steam
rising from the caldrons of soup and coffee; gray staff-cars filled with
officers in pale-blue uniforms and gold-laced képis; ambulances with
staring red crosses painted on their canvas sides—all these told us
that the torrential winter rains were over and that the big spring push
against the _harkas_ of Abd-el-Krim was about to begin. Though of this
war I was but a spectator, and an unofficial one at that, it was good to
see once more the slanting lines of steel, to sniff again the smell of
sweat-soaked leather, to hear the bugles go. For he who has once marched
with armies never fully recovers from their spell.
After Oujda the road was paralleled, a little way off, by the line of
narrow-gage railway which links the standard-gage Algerian system with
Fez. The miniature trains were jammed with troops, and it was noticeable
that the fortified stations were in a state of defense, with sentries
posted at their gates and the muzzles of machine-guns peering from the
loopholes in their walls. If one is willing to put up with delays and
discomforts, it is now feasible to travel by rail right across Morocco,
from the Algerian frontier to Fez and Casablanca and thence southward to
Marrákesh. But it is not a form of transportation which I should advise
at present. We met two Americans who were traveling in a Rolls-Royce
_en prince_, sending their maid and valet ahead by rail so that in each
town at which they stopped everything might be ready for them on their
arrival, their tea waiting, their baths prepared, and fresh clothes
laid out. For the employers it was a most comfortable, nay, luxurious
arrangement, but it was scarcely so enjoyable for the employed. I asked
the valet, an Englishman, how he had found railway travel in Morocco.
He said that, barring the slowness of the trains, which average about
twelve miles an hour; the crowded condition of the carriages, in which
Moroccans, Algerians, Arabs, Sudanese, Jews, and Europeans are packed
indiscriminately; and such minor discomforts as poor ventilation,
suffocating dust, clouds of cinders from the engine, and swarms of fleas,
it was no worse than the London tubes on a bank holiday.
Now that the trouble in the Riff is at an end, however, the French are
making rapid strides in the improvement of the Moroccan railway service,
and before this book is off the press most of the main lines probably
will have been broadened to standard gage, thus permitting the operation
of through trains between points in Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco. The
distance by rail from the Algerian frontier to Marrákesh is 614 miles,
and at present the journey occupies about four days, as the trains do not
run at night. But during the summer of 1925 a service of well equipped
_rapides_ was established between Rabat, the seat of government, and
Casablanca, and steps were being taken to extend it to Marrákesh, the
southern capital. The pacification of the Spanish zone will also permit
the completion of the line to Tangier, which, while providing another
means of access to Morocco, will have the effect of decreasing very
materially the large number of visitors who now enter the country through
Casablanca.
The highway system of Morocco, which is due wholly to French initiative,
though not as extensive as that of Algeria, is on the whole admirable.
Great trunk roads connect Oujda with Fez, Mequinez, Rabat, Casablanca,
and Marrákesh; and from Marrákesh secondary roads radiate to the coast
towns of Mazagan, Safi, and Mogador, and across the Atlas to Agadir,
the seaport and _chef-lieu_ of the Sus. From Mequinez a comparatively
little used highway runs south through Azrou to Timhadit, on the Middle
Atlas plateau, where begins the ancient Imperial Road to Tafilalt, the
ancestral home of the shereefian sultans. There is also a road, none too
good, from Mequinez to Tangier, but that part of it lying within the
Spanish zone has hitherto been none too safe because of the danger of
attack by Riffian tribesmen. The trunk roads of Morocco are paved with
round-headed stones, known as _têtes-du-chat_, which, while somewhat
rough, obviate the danger of slipping in wet weather; but the _pistes
aménagées_, a network of which covers the country, are little better
than trails. I have spoken elsewhere, I believe, of the novel road-signs
in Morocco. These are really sections of whitewashed wall, nearly ten
feet in height and quite indestructible, the names of the towns, the
distances, and direction-signs being visible at a great distance.
Taza, seventy-five miles to the east of Fez, is a considerable
trading-center and a military post of vital importance, because it
commands the broad pass, through which run both road and railway, which
forms the only entrance from Algeria to the Land of the Farthest West.
It has been a bone of contention between rival dynasties and factions
for centuries. On the north side of the pass the terrain runs back in
steadily rising foot-hills which thirty miles away merge into the great
range of the Riff; on the south it rises more abruptly, in a series of
terraces which form the buttresses of the Ghiata mountain group, the home
of a warlike Berber tribe which has long been a source of trouble and
anxiety to the French. This explains why Taza bristles with guns and
bayonets, for once let the fierce Ghiatas swarm down from their mountain
fastnesses to join hands across the pass with their fellow-Berbers of the
Riff and Morocco’s doorway on the east would be closed.
Built on a series of terraces, which rise to a height of two thousand
feet or more, Taza occupies a peculiarly picturesque and romantic
situation. On a narrow shelf above the valley, through which run the
road, the railway, and the River Innaouene, is the fortified camp of the
French garrison, with numerous large barracks for the housing of the
troops. Two hundred and fifty feet above this first shelf rises another,
its edges bordered by sheer cliffs, on which is built the native town, a
dirty, ill kept place of narrow tortuous streets and mud-walled houses,
while high above all, dominating town, camp, and pass alike, is the great
citadel built in the sixteenth century by one of the Abbaside sultans.
Taza is one of the last places on earth where one would expect to find a
good hotel, so imagine our astonishment when Tomine swung the car sharply
between the gate-posts of a white-walled compound, swept up a winding
drive, and came to a halt before the door of one of the most charming
little hostelries that we found in all North Africa. Another example of
the Transatlantique’s enterprise, of course. Though the luncheon hour
was long since past, for we had been delayed by a stretch of atrociously
bad road near Taourirt, we were expected, it seemed, for word of our
impending arrival had been telephoned on from Oujda, and a delicious
_déjeuner_ was on the table. Curious, is it not, how one remembers a
good meal, particularly when it is unexpected, long after more important
things have been forgotten?
Like many other Oriental cities, Fez from a distance appears more
attractive than it really is. It is beautifully situated in a deep and
winding valley, through which meanders the little stream known as the
Wad Fas, dividing the city into two parts: El Bali, the old town, and
El Djadid, the new. Up and down the opposing hill-slopes, which form a
natural amphitheater, run massive, crumbling, pink-brown walls, hoary
with antiquity, broken at frequent intervals by lofty towers and pierced
by numerous imposing gates. Though the grandeur of certain other Eastern
cities is wholly lacking, there is something undeniably impressive in
the sight of that vast expanse of white-walled, flat-roofed habitations,
broken here and there by the tile-incrusted domes and graceful minarets
of the mosques and bordered by a broad fringe of vivid verdure. In fact,
the whole city is embowered in foliage—a diamond set in jade—for the
flanks of the hills which surround it on all sides save the south are
covered with the bright green foliage of orange-groves and the gray green
of the olive-gardens.
By reason of its peculiar situation, rather than of any attempt at
sanitation on the part of its inhabitants, Fez has a drainage system
superior to that of most Moroccan towns. When the accumulations of filth
become intolerable, when the stench of garbage grows overpowering, the
lids of the conduits are opened and the ordinary exits closed, so that
the overflowing waters sweep down the steep streets in a miniature flood
and cleanse the pavements. With that utter disregard of the principles
of hygiene so characteristic of Orientals, the Fasis drink the muddy and
contaminated water of the river in preference to that of the pure springs
which abound in certain quarters of the town. That they do not perish by
the thousands from epidemics is due, I suppose, to the fact that they
have become immune to zymotic diseases by having defied for generations
the elementary principles of hygiene. The town is by no means free from
malaria and typhoid, however, as is betokened by the unhealthy pallor of
its inhabitants, but sallowness is considered a mark of distinction by
the Fasis, as small moles are by Frenchwomen, a ruddy complexion being a
sign that its possessor is not of the ancient aristocracy of Fez.
[Illustration: THE PANORAMA OF THE EAST
Slips by in Fez as on a motion-picture screen. One of the busiest marts
in Barbary, and with one of the most fanatic populations, its steep and
narrow thoroughfares are a kaleidoscope of colors, a bedlam of confusion,
a chaos of sights, smells, and sounds]
The first stone of the city is supposed to have been laid in 808 by the
son of Mulai Idris, the founder of Moslem Morocco, whose sacred banners
are preserved in the Great Mosque, whence they are brought out and their
folds reverently kissed by the sultan on the occasion of great religious
festivals. Though the city has a turbulent and bloody history, having
been besieged no less than eight times in the first five centuries of its
existence, it only once knew foreign masters—when the Turks held it for
a short time in 1554—until the coming of the French. The population is
probably not greatly in excess of seventy-five thousand, of whom perhaps
five per cent are Europeans, though it appears much larger. It is one of
the four capitals of the empire—the others are Mequinez, Marrákesh, and
Rabat—and the sultan usually passes some months there each year.
Fez, or, more properly, Fas, which is the correct spelling and
pronunciation, means “hoe” in Arabic, but it has also given its name to
the round red cap worn by millions of Mohammedans, of whose manufacture
the city had, until quite recent years, a virtual monopoly; for it was
supposed that the dye which imparts to these head-coverings their dull
crimson color could be obtained nowhere else. The dye is obtained from
a berry which grows in profusion in the vicinity, and is also used in
coloring the red Moroccan leather for which the city is famous.
Tomine, as I have already remarked, had no head for direction, and we
circled the whole city three times before he succeeded in finding the
city gate nearest to the Palais Jamaï, the magnificent palace, formerly
the residence of a rich native dignitary, which the Transatlantique
people have transformed into a most picturesque and luxurious hotel.
The Palais Jamaï is superbly situated, its gorgeously painted and
tiled façade rising above a bewilderment of marble-paved terraces and
orange-planted courtyards from the steep hill-slope at the extreme
eastern end of the winding valley in which nestles the town. It is at
some distance from the _souks_ and other points of interest, however,
and somewhat difficult of access; and the other Transatlantique hotel,
situated in the very heart of the city, though far less attractive, would
perhaps be more convenient for those whose visit is limited to a few days.
Because of the narrow and tortuous character of the streets, it is
impossible to reach the Palais Jamaï by car, which must stop outside
the nearest city gate, nearly a quarter of a mile away, whence the
guest perforce makes his way to the hotel on foot through a bewildering
labyrinth of high-walled, roughly paved, foul-smelling lanes, courtyards,
and passages, followed by a throng of whining beggars and shrieking
children, while a small army of bare-legged porters descend upon the
traveler’s luggage, over which they wrangle like pirates over booty,
each man eventually bearing a single piece, no matter how small, off
to the hotel on his head. The hotel, while modernly furnished, is not
particularly comfortable as European hostelries go, for the interior
arrangements of a Moorish palace are not adapted to the requirements of
Americans, who demand an amplitude of bath-rooms, closet space, heat,
air, and light. We, however, being old travelers, gave scant heed
to such minor inconveniences particularly as we found that the rooms
reserved for us had been those formerly occupied by the pasha’s favorite
wife, the door opening upon a fascinating little walled garden, where
all day long the waters of a marble fountain splashed pleasantly amid
masses of pink and crimson roses and orange-trees heavy with their golden
fruit. In such surroundings, with a bevy of comely damsels in diaphanous
garments to help while away the hours and negro slaves to supply every
want, one could remain in Fez indefinitely, “the world forgetting and by
the world forgot.”
* * * * *
As this makes no pretensions to be a guide-book, I have no intention of
enumerating at any length the various sights of Fez, but there are two or
three which should on no account be overlooked. The city’s most important
building is, of course, the Karueein, celebrated as the largest mosque
in Africa, though it is by no means the most magnificent. As in the case
of all the mosques of Morocco, its sacred precincts may not be profaned
by the feet of unbelievers, even when slipper-shod, but, by refraining
from conspicuousness and by the judicious bestowal of bakshish, one may
obtain glimpses of portions of its interior from the roofs of adjoining
buildings. Because of the vast area which it covers, the roof, supported
by 366 stone pillars, appears very low. The enormous chandelier which
hangs above the central nave is said to weigh more than three quarters of
a ton and to have upward of half a thousand lights, though they are very
seldom lit, as they require a dozen gallons of oil for a single filling.
Attached to the Karueein mosque is a _mederseh_, or college, attended
by theological students who come hither from all parts of North Africa,
though in steadily decreasing numbers. They pay no tuition nor rent,
but buy the keys of the tiny rooms in which they sleep from the last
occupants, selling them again on leaving.
In the early days of Moslem rule in Morocco, Fez was the seat of
learning and the empire’s pride. Its schools of theology, philosophy,
and astronomy enjoyed an enviable reputation not only throughout the
world of Islam but in southern Europe as well, and were even attended
by Christians. On the expulsion of the Moors from Spain at the close of
the fifteenth century, thousands of refugees flocked to Fez, bringing
with them some knowledge of the arts, sciences, and industries which had
been developed in the peninsula, and thither also went large numbers of
students to make use of the extensive libraries, which were surpassed in
Africa only by those of Cairo. But its glories were not of long duration,
and though still “the university town” of Morocco, Fez retains but a
shadow of its one-time greatness.
The mosque of Mulai Idris, built by the founder of Fez about 810, is
considered so sacrosanct that before the coming of the French the streets
which approach its entrance were forbidden to Christians, Jews, or
four-footed beasts, all three being included in the same category. This
prohibition is no longer in force, but the sanctity of the shrine still
draws great crowds of the faithful, whose fanaticism makes it highly
inadvisable for an unbeliever to linger in the immediate vicinity over
long. Across the way is a home for friendless or impoverished _sherifas_,
as the female descendants of the Prophet are called.
[Illustration: FORBIDDEN TO ALL SAVE THE FAITHFUL
Built upward of eleven hundred years ago, and famous throughout North
Africa for the beauty of its tiles and carvings, the mosque of Mulai
Idris, in Fez, is considered so sacred that, until the French came,
Christians, Jews, and four-footed animals were not even permitted to use
the streets which approach its entrance]
Three minutes walk from the Hôtel Transatlantique—the one in the town,
I mean—is the museum, established by the French in a former palace. It
contains the usual collection of antiquities, wood-carvings, faiences,
plaster-work, illuminated manuscripts, embroideries, carpets, saddlery,
and arms, and in the courtyard a number of ancient cannon of all kinds
and calibers, Spanish, Portuguese, and corsair. But the most interesting
object in the museum, to my way of thinking at least, is a stoutly built
cage, about four feet square, of wood and iron. In this cage, scarcely
large enough to contain a good-sized dog, was confined for a year the
pretender, Bou Hamara—“the man on a she-ass”—or El Roghi, as he was
commonly known. Miss Sophie Denison, an English medical missionary who
has lived in Fez for more than a third of a century, told me that she
witnessed the entry into the city of the captive atop a swaying camel—a
miserable, long-haired, unkempt, half-starved creature clinging to
the bars of his cage. After being exhibited for weeks in the public
market-place, the wretched man was shot by order of Mulai Hafid and his
body thrown to the sultan’s lions, which, however, refused to touch it.
Of Bou Hamara’s followers, twenty-four had their hands and feet cut off
by butchers, the occasion being celebrated as a public holiday. Though
the stumps were plunged in boiling fat to check the bleeding, only one
of the victims gratified the cruelty of the sultan by surviving. You may
see him for yourself, almost any day—a miserable creature, half-man,
half-beast, shambling through the narrow streets or crouching beside the
door of a mosque pleading for alms. All this, you will bear in mind, was
not back in the Dark Ages, when such tortures were commonplaces, but only
a few years ago—in 1909, to be exact—when William H. Taft sat in the
White House and Andrew Carnegie was preaching the doctrine of universal
peace and brotherhood. That Bou Hamara’s cage should now be an object
of curiosity in a museum of the very city where it filled its dreadful
purpose less than two decades ago, in itself provides convincing proof
of what the French have done to bring justice and decency to Morocco.
The _souks_ of Fez, though not so extensive as those of Tunis or
Marrákesh, are places of endless variety, interest, and delight. Shopping
or sight-seeing in the native city is tiring work, however, for the
majority of the streets are much too narrow to permit the use of cars or
carriages and hence can be visited only afoot or astride a mule. As the
houses are high and in many cases all but meet above the narrow footways,
the latter are often not much more than damp and gloomy tunnels; but the
bazaar streets are usually shaded by awnings, canopies of palm-leaves,
or growing vines, through which the sunlight sifts to dapple with
ever-changing patterns the worn stone pavement and the walls of the old,
old houses. Most of the buildings in Fez are built of wooden beams, rough
stone, and plaster, so that the city as a whole does not present that
ruined, half-decayed appearance so common in other Moorish towns where a
sort of stucco made from mud is the material principally employed.
As is the case in all Oriental cities, the _souks_ of Fez consist of
a labyrinth of exceedingly narrow lanes and passageways, lined on
either side by hole-in-the-wall shops, most of which are so small that
there is no room for customers, who have to do their bargaining from
outside. Though improved means of communication have deprived the city
of the eminence it once held as the greatest center of the caravan
trade in western Barbary and as a market for Oriental goods of all
kinds, it is still noted for the manufacture of certain characteristic
wares, including _haiks_ of wool and silk, women’s embroidered sashes,
handkerchiefs of silk and cotton, silk cords and braids, curved knives
with hilts of gold or silver and beautifully damascened blades,
long-barreled Moorish rifles, their stocks inlaid with ivory or set with
semiprecious stones, native musical instruments, rude painted pottery,
hammered brassware, which, however, cannot compare with that produced in
Damascus, the glazed tiles so universally used in Moorish architecture,
and, of course, innumerable articles—slippers, book-covers, belts,
pouches, saddlery—made from the celebrated Moroccan leather. This leather
is dyed in every color, though the most satisfactory tints are yellow,
pomegranate, and a gorgeous vermilion, but in purchasing articles made
from it one should be careful to see that he gets the genuine goatskin
instead of split cowhide. During my stay in Morocco it amused me to buy
a leather cushion-cover in every city which I visited, all different in
color and each bearing in silk embroidery a design characteristic of the
town from which it came. Few visitors leave Fez without purchasing a pair
or more of the heelless Moorish slippers, but it should be remembered
that only the yellow ones are worn by men, those in other colors and
often gorgeously embroidered in gold or silver thread being intended for
women’s use. Perhaps the most attractive articles to buy in Fez, and
not to be found elsewhere in Morocco, are the exquisitely hand-tooled
portfolios and book-covers, which in richness of design and delicacy of
workmanship compare very favorably with the finest work of the Florentine
craftsman. Really fine examples are expensive, it is true, but they are
generally worth the prices demanded, which can, moreover, generally be
reduced if one has the patience and knows how to bargain. I remember with
regret one superb portfolio for which the maker demanded the equivalent
of twenty dollars. Some months later I saw the same portfolio, or one
identically like it, in Washington, where it was priced at exactly five
times the sum for which I could have bought it in Fez.
* * * * *
When we were in Fez in 1924, and again in 1925, we were made to feel very
much at home by the warm welcome which we received from the commander
of the French troops, General Vicomte de Chambrun, a grandson of the
Marquis de Lafayette, and from the general’s American wife, who is a
sister of Nicholas Longworth, speaker of the House of Representatives.
They occupy a charming Moorish palace, surrounded by lovely gardens; and
some of my pleasantest recollections are of the luncheons and dinners
which we had there, the long table lined by beautifully gowned women and
by officers whose rows of campaign ribbons showed that they had lived
more stories than Kipling or Conrad could invent. After dinner we would
sit on the terrace beneath the stars, enveloped in the fragrance of the
soft African night, the momentary flare of a match as some one struck a
cigarette serving to light up the pale-blue uniforms of the men and the
white shoulders of the women. The conversation was more fascinating than
any book of fiction—narratives of adventure in the world’s dark corners,
of skirmishes with the masked Touareg of the Sahara, of the secret
plans of the great Senussi Brotherhood, of lion-hunts in Somaliland and
tiger-hunts in Cambodia, of life in the penal colonies of New Caledonia
and Devil’s Island, of encounters with slave-traders and gun-runners, of
the plots of German spies and Moorish rebels and Syrian malcontents and
Islamic emissaries, of broken noblemen who had found refuge in the Legion
and of erring women who had found their way into Mohammedan harems, of
little wars all over the world which had never found their way into the
history-books, story succeeding story, “Now I remember” following “That
reminds me of,” until the crescent moon swung low to the morn, and the
soldier servants brought our wraps, and we made our way to the hotel
through dark deserted ways which echoed noisily our footsteps.
[Illustration: IN THE CITY WHICH GAVE THE FEZ ITS NAME
In Fez, high on the wall of an old, old building, is a row of great
bronze gongs whose reverberating tones tell the hours to the people of
the ancient city. One of the most curious clocks in the world
The _souks_ of Fez are covered with strips of matting, or canopies of
palm-leaves, or trellises of vines, through which the sunlight, sifted
and softened, falls in patterns of lace-like delicacy upon the uneven
pavements]
Smoking a last cigar at night on the terrace of the Palais Jamaï, my
curiosity was aroused by the shrill, quavering cries, half-calls,
half-chants, which rose at regular intervals from the sleeping city.
At first I assumed that they came from night-watchmen, making their
lonely rounds, or from a muezzin summoning the faithful to some form of
midnight prayer, but I found on inquiry that they were the voices of the
Companions of the Sick, a most curious and interesting organization.
Long years ago, it seemed, a pious and wealthy resident of Fez left upon
his death an enormous diamond with a provision in his will that it be
disposed of and the income from the proceeds used to employ a number of
readers with good voices, who, it was specified, were to chant _suras_
from the Koran at half-hour intervals throughout the night from the
_mederseh_ so that the sick might have the consolation of religion.
Though I rather imagine that the income from the sale of the great
diamond has long since been exhausted, the custom has been continued for
many years, and all through the night the voices of the unseen readers
rise from the darkness to remind the ill and wakeful that they shall
attain paradise who believe in Allah and follow the teachings of his
Prophet.
The Companions of the Sick are in reality a Moorish version of the
radio-sets which our Western civilization has placed in so many hospitals
and sick-rooms. It is true that they refer to God as Allah, and that
instead of praising Christ they extol Mohammed, but the message of
consolation, whether it be chanted from Moroccan housetops or broadcast
from American pulpits, is much the same: “In the name of God the
compassionate! Praise be to God, the Lord of the worlds, the Sovereign of
the day of judgment! Thee do we worship and of Thee do we beg assistance.
Direct us in the right way; in the way of those to whom Thou hast been
gracious, on whom there is no wrath, and who go not astray....”
The Palace of Bou Djeloud, in which Sultan Mulai Hafid signed the treaty
accepting a French protectorate over his country—the room is marked with
a tablet suitably inscribed—is now occupied by the resident-general on
his periodic visits to Fez. It is a low, rambling structure, not at all
imposing; but the carved and gilded ceilings and the polychrome Moorish
decorations of some of the apartments are very lovely, and the gardens,
filled with trees and flowers and dotted with marble fountains, are
places of walled delight. Like all Moorish dwellings, however, it is
inadequately heated and must be very cold and damp in winter, when the
streets of Fez are sometimes white with snow. Climatically, Fez is a city
of extremes, the mercury often dropping to far below freezing during the
winter months and in summer occasionally rising to one hundred or even
more. I remember one night in late May when the thermometer showed a
temperature of ninety-three degrees in our room.
In Fez, as in most Eastern cities, the houses have flat roofs, which,
when the heat of the day has passed, are favorite gathering-places for
the women, this being, indeed, the only hour of the twenty-four when they
are permitted to appear in the open air unveiled. In consequence of this
custom, the roof is virtually taboo to the male members of a household,
for the dwellings are so close together that a man could easily see the
face of his neighbor’s wife—a breach of Moslem etiquette not readily
forgiven. In the event that necessary repairs have to be made to a roof,
one of the female members of the family invariably ascends first and
warns her neighbors, whereupon they disappear from sight until the work
is completed and the man has taken his departure.
To this rule, however, the Palais Jamaï, whose lofty roofs command an
unrivaled view of the town, is for some reason an exception, presumably
on the ground that if its European guests take it into their heads to go
up on the roof they will probably do it anyway, and that there is no use
in making objections. We always made it a point, therefore, to ascend
to the top of the battlemented tower which forms a portion of the hotel
in order to enjoy the magnificent panorama to be viewed from there at
close of day, when the last rays of the westering sun turn the square,
dazzlingly white buildings into cubes of pearl gray faintly tinged with
rose. At this hour every housetop has its little group of women, all clad
in their best and gayest gowns, the splotches of inconceivably vivid
colors—pink, magenta, scarlet, crimson, bright purple, pomegranate, burnt
umber, pale yellow, apple green, turquoise blue, white and silver, black
and gold—when seen against the background of plastered walls and roofs,
looking like gorgeous nosegays tossed here and there upon a vast white
sheet.
From the shelter afforded by the battlements—for it did not seem wise
to defy Moslem prejudices by displaying myself in the open—I could see
the features of the women on the adjoining housetops with the aid of my
field-glasses quite distinctly, very much as though I were looking down
from the balcony of a theater at the chorus assembled on the stage.
Most of the women, it must be confessed, were quite unattractive, and
I approved of their wearing veils when on the street, but some of the
younger girls were really lovely, with peaches-and-cream complexions and
great languishing eyes. There was one in particular, I remember, a slim
and most alluring creature with a creamy skin and masses of blue-black
hair. With her I carried on a long-distance flirtation for several
evenings running, and there even came a time when she grew bold enough
to beckon to me, but her husband must have become suspicious, for I saw
a man suddenly appear upon the roof and, seizing her by the wrist, drag
her from my sight. I never caught another glimpse of her. Romance would
suggest that she died by poisoned coffee or the bowstring, but the truth
of the matter probably is that she got off with a sound spanking. For
most Moorish husbands would heartily applaud the sentiments expressed in
the ancient ditty:
A woman, a dog, and a hickory-tree—
The more you beat them the better they be.
Rising above the sea of housetops are scores of lofty square towers—the
minarets of the mosques—the ancient rose-brown brick of which they are
constructed being incrusted with lustrous tiles in the marvelous “lost”
shade of peacock blue. Five minutes before sunset a large white flag
is broken out from the flag-staff which rises like a gallows from the
summit of each of the minarets as a signal to the waiting faithful that
the mosque is open for worship, so that for a brief period it looks as
though the whole city were flying flags of truce. Just as the upper arc
of the sun disappears in crimson glory behind the western hills, there
reverberates across the city the sullen boom of the sunset-gun, whereupon
white-robed muezzins appear as though by magic on the balconies of the
minarets, like the carven figures which pop out of cuckoo-clocks, and
intone in a high, clear key the “_Haya alla Salat! Haya alla Falah!_”
which is the Moslems’ church-bell.
[Illustration: MOROCCAN VAUDEVILLE
One member of the team entertains his audience by swallowing living
serpents—
While his companion awes the credulous onlookers by setting tinder aflame
with his breath]
Adjoining the Palais Jamaï was the residence of a wealthy Moorish pasha,
whose numerous wives, daughters, and concubines always strolled amid
the flowers and orange-trees of the high-walled garden as evening drew
near. From the vantage-point afforded by the roof of the hotel we could
look directly down upon them. Upon sighting me, or any of the other male
guests, they would disappear into the shrubbery like startled fawns, but
when my daughter waved to them they timidly waved back, the wordless
acquaintance thus begun culminating by their beckoning her to come down
and join them. The following afternoon she disappeared and did not return
until just before the dinner-hour, when she burst into the room, her arms
filled with flowers, native sweetmeats, and embroideries.
“Where on earth have you been?” Mrs. Powell demanded.
“I’ve been to tea in a Moorish harem,” was the casual reply, “and I’ve
had a wonderful time. The pasha himself made green mint tea for me, and
his wives—at least, I suppose that they are his wives, for they seemed
very affectionate with him—gave me these embroideries which they had made
themselves, and the cutest little negro slave-girls passed some sort of
perfumed sherbet and all kinds of sticky candies on big brass trays, and
I’m invited to take tea with them again to-morrow, and to bring you with
me, mother.”
“What did they say about me?” I inquired. “Am I not invited to the party?”
“You are not,” my daughter replied firmly. “I couldn’t quite make out
what the pasha said about you, because his French isn’t very good, but he
pointed up to the roof of the hotel and then drew his finger across his
throat, which I interpreted as meaning that you had better keep out of
sight while his wives are walking in the garden.”
Nearly every one who has remained for any length of time in Fez will
doubtless recall having seen in the streets of the native city a slight,
sweet-faced European woman clad in the snowy _keffieh_ and burnous of a
high-caste Moslem woman. This is Miss Sophie Denison, an English medical
missionary who has lived in Fez for five-and-thirty years. In her little
home in the crowded districts of the old city she has a clinic and a
dispensary where she treats hundreds of the poor without charge, and, in
cases of serious illness, visits them in their homes. She is _persona
gratissima_ in every home, be it palace or hovel, in Fez, and she is
probably more closely in touch with native life than any other European,
not even excepting the agents of the French intelligence service; for,
being a woman, she is permitted to enter the harems, to which male
physicians are refused admittance save in cases of the very gravest
illness, and not always then.
One evening Miss Denison dined with us at the hotel, and so intensely
interesting was her conversation that midnight had come and gone before
we would permit her to take her departure. Naturally I insisted on
accompanying her home, but she would not hear of it.
“I am perfectly safe in the streets at night,” she explained, “because
every one knows me, but the native city is not a healthy place for a
stranger to be wandering about alone after nightfall. Besides, as you do
not speak Arabic, you could never find your way back alone through these
tangled alleyways.”
So I accompanied her only to the compound gate and watched her until her
white burnous had become a mere blur amid the purple shadows cast by the
high, mysterious walls. Such as she, and not the fighting-men, are the
real advance-guards of civilization.
* * * * *
A mile or so without the walls of the Moorish city the French, as is
their custom in all their African possessions, are building a modern
town, so that the two races may live apart, thus avoiding the unfortunate
incidents which are certain to arise when Europeans and natives live in
close proximity, as, for example, in Cairo. Here, in the _ville moderne_
as it is called, the civil government is engaged in laying out broad,
tree-planted boulevards, in erecting blocks of buildings for business
purposes and rows of pleasant little villas, and in installing systems of
drainage, light, and water. They do such things well, the French—not on
such a lavish scale, perhaps, as we have done them in the Philippines,
the Canal Zone, and elsewhere, but certainly better than anything I have
seen in the British colonies.
A short distance beyond the _ville moderne_ is the great French military
camp, and, beyond that in turn, the broad expanse of the aviation field,
which, when we were there the last time, was crowded with pursuit and
bombing planes assembled for the campaign in the Riff, Abd-el-Krim’s
advanced-posts being at that time barely twenty-five miles from the
city. Had the Riffian leader succeeded in reaching Fez—and he came much
nearer to doing so than the French like to admit—there is no telling
what would have happened, for a certain fanatic element, stirred up
by secret emissaries from the Riff, was ripe for trouble, and the wild
mountain tribes on the east were eagerly awaiting an opportunity to
sweep down upon the town, as they had done a dozen years before. We were
reminded daily of our proximity to the actual battle-line by the bombing
planes which were constantly flying over the city. Regularly, as we were
sitting down to _déjeuner_ on the terrace of the hotel, a squadron of
bombers, their noses pointed toward the north, their gray wings gleaming
like silver in the sunlight, would go booming overhead to drop the steel
calling-cards of France on Abd-el-Krim, and, before the salad had been
served, we would sight them again, black specks against the vault of
blue, hastening back for more.
* * * * *
It was our great good fortune to arrive at Fez in time to witness the
remarkable religious ceremony known as the Great Prayer, which marks the
close of the fasting month of Ramadan. It was held on a broad and grassy
plain a few miles without the walls of the town, which was crowded with
pious and picturesque pilgrims who had come hither for the occasion from
every part of Morocco. Day broke to reveal gathered on the plain such
an assemblage, at least in point of color, as I have seldom seen. Here
were men representative of every district within the empire, of every
class and condition: fierce-looking tribesmen who had come down from the
hills on horses and others who had come up from the desert astride of
camels; portly townsmen and horny-handed, sun-bronzed peasants; mullahs
in snowy turbans and hadjis with the green scarfs which show that their
wearers have made the pilgrimage to Mecca; pashas on curveting chargers,
nomad sheikhs on _méhari_ racing camels, wealthy merchants on richly
caparisoned mules, villagers on donkeys so diminutive that the riders’
feet all but touched the ground, closely veiled women and children in
screaming calicoes crowded into creaking carts drawn by plodding oxen;
and thousands upon thousands of the poor but pious plodding along on foot.
[Illustration: THE GREAT PRAYER OUTSIDE OF FEZ
Their faces turned toward Mecca, thousands of pious pilgrims prostrate
themselves in prayer
With Nubian slaves to hold his stirrup, the Khalifa mounts his horse]
In the center of the plain had been erected of whitewashed bricks a sort
of pulpit, its _mihrab_ carefully oriented toward Mecca. This was the
focus of the gathering, for from it the faithful were to be addressed
by the khalifa, the sultan’s brother, and toward it, as though drawn
by a magnet, the dusty thousands made their way, to seat themselves
cross-legged on the acres of grass matting which had been provided for
the purpose, and to await the opening of the ceremony with true Eastern
patience.
After an hour’s wait in the pleasant morning sunshine—a delay which
passed quickly because of the curious and colorful types to be seen on
every hand—there emerged from the nearest of the city gates a long and
glittering procession, its stately advance across the plain heralded by a
fanfare of trumpets and the boom of cannon. It was headed by a squadron
of _chasseurs d’Afrique_ resplendent in their sky-blue and scarlet
uniforms, for the French are past masters in the art of flattering their
Moslem subjects by showing their respect for the Mohammedan religion.
After these came a cavalcade of high religious dignitaries, grave-faced,
bearded, patriarchal men in snowy garments and turbans bound about with
green, astride splendid black mules of the Andalusian breed, which are
smoother of gait and far more costly than horses. Then a large group of
caïds, emirs, sheikhs, and other native chieftains, their restive, wiry
horses magnificently caparisoned, the bridles of scarlet leather heavy
with gold and silver, the velvet saddle-cloths in some cases sweeping
the ground. Each chieftain was accompanied by a retainer bearing aloft
a great religious banner, the folds of green or scarlet silk embroidered
in gold with _suras_ from the Koran. A little interval ensued, and
then, between double files of shereefian foot-guards in zouave uniforms
of blue, red, and yellow, came the khalifa himself, brother and
representative of the sultan—a sallow-skinned man with a thin fringe of
beard along the chin, muffled in a hooded burnous of pale-blue broadcloth
and mounted on a cream-colored Arab stallion. Negro slaves walked, or
trotted rather, at his stirrups, and behind rode a brilliant entourage of
religious and civil functionaries, caïds, pashas, emirs, sheikhs, cadis,
and courtiers, wearing costumes bewildering in their variety and color.
As the cortège debouched upon the plain, a great horde of tribal
horsemen, who had been massed upon the flanks of the encircling hills,
suddenly set spurs to their horses and came thundering down the slopes
in a torrent of barbaric color, standing in their stirrups, brandishing
naked simitars and long-barreled rifles, their standards flapping in
the breeze and their burnouses floating out behind them. As they rode
they shouted the resonant, deep-throated battle-cry of their faith,
“_Ul-ul-ul-ul-ul-ullah Akbar-r-r!_” which came to our ears like the
growing roar of an advancing sea. It was intended as a purely peaceful
demonstration, a greeting to the head of their church and state
as represented by his khalifa, but there was something peculiarly
significant and subtly menacing about it to our little group of
Europeans, a mere islet of unbelievers lost in a Moslem sea.
Arriving at the pulpit-shrine which had been erected in the center of
the plain, the khalifa, assisted by his negro slaves, dismounted, as
did the other chiefs and dignitaries, while the horsemen bearing the
standards ranged themselves in a vast semicircle in the rear, their
green and scarlet _bairags_, surmounted by the golden crescent, forming
a fitting background for the amazing scene. The services consisted of an
interminable and impassioned sermon by some high dignitary of the church,
corresponding, I presume, to the Turkish Sheikh-ul-Islam, and a rather
brief address by the khalifa. Then, at a given signal, the whole vast
assemblage—Berbers, Arabs, and Moors, men who had come from regions as
far apart as the Riff and the Sus, the shores of the Atlantic and the
edges of the Great Sahara, men of many tribes and speaking many tongues,
but all bound together by the ties of a common religion—rose as one,
and, with their faces turned toward the Holy City, intoned in chorus
the tremendously impressive _shehada_, the stanzas which constitute the
Moslem’s confession of his faith.... _Ash hadu illa illaha ill Allah!
Wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasool Allah!_ As the white-clad thousands
prostrated themselves in prayer, and rose, and knelt again, their voices
rising in deep-throated supplication, it seemed as though I were looking
down the tossing billows of a mighty sea. And, in fact, I was, for this
mighty concourse represented an arm of that Islamic ocean which has all
but overspread two great continents and broken upon the shores of a third.