IN RED MARRAKESH
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai,
Whose portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his pomp
Abode his destined hour and went his way.
_The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám._
There are certain cities that cannot be approached for the first time by
any sympathetic traveller without a sense of solemnity and reverence that
is not far removed from awe. Athens, Rome, Constantinople, Damascus, and
Jerusalem may be cited as examples; each in its turn has filled me with
great wonder and deep joy. But all of these are to be reached nowadays by
the railway, that great modern purge of sensibility. Even Jerusalem is not
exempt. A single line stretches from Jaffa by the sea to the very gates of
the Holy City, playing hide-and-seek among the mountains of Judæa by the
way, because the Turk was too poor to tunnel a direct path.
In Morocco, on the other hand, the railway is still unknown. He who seeks
any of the country's inland cities must take horse or mule, camel or
donkey, or, as a last resource, be content with a staff to aid him, and
walk. Whether he fare to Fez, the city of Mulai Idrees, in which, an old
writer assures us, "all the beauties of the earth are united"; or to
Mequinez, where great Mulai Ismail kept a stream of human blood flowing
constantly from his palace that all might know he ruled; or to Red
Marrakesh, which Yusuf ibn Tachfin built nine hundred years ago,--his own
exertion must convoy him. There must be days and nights of scant fare and
small comfort, with all those hundred and one happenings of the road that
make for pleasant memories. So far as I have been able to gather in the
nine years that have passed since I first visited Morocco, one road is
like another road, unless you have the Moghrebbin Arabic at your command
and can go off the beaten track in Moorish dress. Walter Harris, the
resourceful traveller and _Times_ correspondent, did this when he sought
the oases of Tafilalt, so also, in his fashion, did R.B. Cunninghame
Graham when he tried in vain to reach Tarudant, and set out the record of
his failure in one of the most fascinating travel books published since
_Eothen_.[17]
For the rank and file of us the Government roads and the harmless
necessary soldier must suffice, until the Gordian knot of Morocco's future
has been untied or cut. Then perhaps, as a result of French pacific
penetration, flying railway trains loaded with tourists, guide-book in
hand and camera at the ready, will pierce the secret places of the land,
and men will speak of "doing" Morocco, as they "do" other countries in
their rush across the world, seeing all the stereotyped sights and
appreciating none. For the present, by Allah's grace, matters are quite
otherwise.
Marrakesh unfolded its beauties to us slowly and one by one as we pushed
horses and mules into a canter over the level plains of Hillreeli. Forests
of date-palm took definite shape; certain mosques, those of Sidi ben Yusuf
and Bab Dukala, stood out clearly before us without the aid of glasses,
but the Library mosque dominated the landscape by reason of the Kutubia
tower by its side. The Atlas Mountains came out of the clouds and revealed
the snows that would soon melt and set every southern river aflood, and
then the town began to show limits to the east and west where, at first,
there was nothing but haze. One or two caravans passed us, northward
bound, their leaders hoping against hope that the Pretender, the
"dog-descended," as a Susi trader called him, would not stand between them
and the Sultan's camp, where the profits of the journey lay. By this time
we could see the old grey wall of Marrakesh more plainly, with towers here
and there, ruinous as the wall itself, and storks' nests on the
battlements, their red-legged inhabitants fulfilling the duty of sentries.
To the right, beyond the town, the great rock of Djebel Geelez suggested
infinite possibilities in days to come, when some conqueror armed with
modern weapons and a pacific mission should wish to bombard the walls in
the sacred cause of civilisation. Then the view was lost in the date-palm
forest, through which tiny tributaries of the Tensift run babbling over
the red earth, while the kingfisher or dragon-fly, "a ray of living
light," flashes over the shallow water, and young storks take their first
lessons in the art of looking after themselves.
When a Moor has amassed wealth he praises God, builds a palace, and plants
a garden; or, is suspected, accused--despotic authority is not
particular--and cast into prison! In and round Marrakesh many Moors have
gained riches and some have held them. The gardens stretch for miles.
There are the far-spreading Augdal plantations of the Sultans of Morocco,
in part public and elsewhere so private that to intrude would be to court
death. The name signifies "the Maze," and they are said to justify it. In
the outer or public grounds of this vast pleasaunce the fruit is sold by
auction to the merchants of the city in late spring, when blossoming time
is over, and, after the sale, buyers must watch and guard the trees until
harvest brings them their reward.
[Illustration: ON THE ROAD TO MARRAKESH]
We rode past the low-walled gardens, where pomegranate and apricot trees
were flowering, and strange birds I did not know sang in the deep shade.
Doves flitted from branch to branch, bee-eaters darted about among
mulberry and almond trees. There was an overpowering fragrance from the
orange groves, where blossom and unplucked fruit showed side by side; the
jessamine bushes were scarcely less fragrant. Spreading fig-trees called
every passer to enjoy their shade, and the little rivulets, born of the
Tensift's winter floods to sparkle through the spring and die in June,
were fringed with willows. It was delightful to draw rein and listen to
the plashing of water and the cooing of doves, while trying in vain to
recognise the most exquisite among many sweet scents.
Under one of the fig-trees in a garden three Moors sat at tea. A carpet
was spread, and I caught a glimpse of the copper kettle, the squat
charcoal brazier tended by a slave, the quaint little coffer filled no
doubt with fine green tea, the porcelain dish of cakes. It was a quite
pleasing picture, at which, had courtesy permitted, I would have enjoyed
more than a brief glance.
The claim of the Moors upon our sympathy and admiration is made greater by
reason of their love for gardens. As a matter of fact, their devotion may
be due in part to the profit yielded by the fruit, but one could afford to
forget that fact for the time being, when Nature seemed to be giving
praise to the Master of all seasons for the goodly gifts of the spring.
We crossed the Tensift by the bridge, one of the very few to be found in
Southern Morocco. It has nearly thirty arches, all dilapidated as the city
walls themselves, yet possessing their curious gift of endurance. Even the
natives realise that their bridge is crumbling into uselessness, after
nearly eight centuries of service, but they do no more than shrug their
shoulders, as though to cast off the burden of responsibility and give it
to destiny. On the outskirts of the town, where gardens end and open
market-squares lead to the gates, a small group of children gathered to
watch the strangers with an interest in which fear played its part. We
waited now to see the baggage animals before us, and then M'Barak led the
way past the mosque at the side of the Bab el Khamees and through the
brass-covered doors that were brought by the Moors from Spain. Within the
Khamees gate, narrow streets with windowless walls frowning on either side
shut out all view, save that which lay immediately before us.
[Illustration: A MINSTREL]
No untrained eye can follow the winding maze of streets in Marrakesh, and
it is from the Moors we learn that the town, like ancient Gaul of Cæsar's
_Commentaries_, has three well defined divisions. The Kasbah is the
official quarter, where the soldiers and governing officials have their
home, and the prison called Hib Misbah receives all evil-doers, and men
whose luck is ill. The Madinah is the general Moorish quarter, and
embraces the Kaisariyah or bazaar district, where the streets are
parallel, well cleaned, thatched with palm and palmetto against the light,
and barred with a chain at either end to keep the animals from entering.
The Mellah (literally "salted place") is the third great division of
Marrakesh, and is the Jewish quarter. In this district, or just beyond it,
are a few streets that seem reserved to the descendants of Mulai Ismail's
black guards, from whom our word "blackguard" should have come to us, but
did not. Within these divisions streets, irregular and without a name,
turn and twist in manner most bewildering, until none save old residents
may hope to know their way about. Pavements are unknown, drainage is in
its most dangerous infancy, the rainy season piles mud in every
direction, and, as though to test the principle embodied in the
homoeopathic theory, the Marrakshis heap rubbish and refuse in every
street, where it decomposes until the enlightened authorities who dwell in
the Kasbah think to give orders for its removal. Then certain men set out
with donkeys and carry the sweepings of the gutters beyond the gates.[18]
This work is taken seriously in the Madinah, but in the Mellah it is
shamefully neglected, and I have ridden through whole streets in the
last-named quarter searching vainly for a place clean enough to permit of
dismounting. Happily, or unhappily, as you will, the inhabitants are
inured from birth to a state of things that must cause the weaklings to
pay heavy toll to Death, the Lord who rules even Sultans.
I had little thought to spare for such matters as we rode into Marrakesh
for the first time. The spell of the city was overmastering. It is
certainly the most African city in Morocco to-day, almost the last
survivor of the changes that began in the latter half of the nineteenth
century, and have brought the Dark Continent from end to end within the
sphere of European influence. Fez and Mequinez are cities of fair men,
while here on every side one recognised the influence of the Soudan and
the country beyond the great desert. Not only have the wives and
concubines brought from beyond the great sand sea darkened the skin of the
present generation of the Marrakshis, but they have given to most if not
to all a suggestion of relationship to the negro races that is not to be
seen in any other Moorish city I have visited. It is not a suggestion of
fanaticism or intolerance. By their action as well as their appearance one
knew most of the passers for friends rather than enemies. They would
gratify their curiosity at our expense as we gratified ours at theirs,
convinced that all Europeans are harmless, uncivilised folk from a far
land, where people smoke tobacco, drink wine, suffer their women-folk to
go unveiled, and live without the True Faith.
Marrakesh, like all other inland cities of Morocco, has neither hotel nor
guest-house. It boasts some large fandaks, notably that of Hadj Larbi,
where the caravans from the desert send their merchandise and chief
merchants, but no sane European will choose to seek shelter in a fandak in
Morocco unless there is no better place available. There are clean fandaks
in Sunset Land, but they are few and you must travel far to find them. I
had letters to the chief civilian resident of Marrakesh, Sidi Boubikir,
British Political Agent, millionaire, land-owner, financier, builder of
palaces, politician, statesman, and friend of all Englishmen who are well
recommended to his care. I had heard much of the clever old Moor, who was
born in very poor surroundings, started life as a camel driver, and is now
the wealthiest and most powerful unofficial resident in Southern Morocco,
if not in all the Moghreb, so I bade M'Barak find him without delay. The
first person questioned directed us to one of Boubikir's fandaks, and by
its gate, in a narrow lane, where camels jostled the camp-mules until they
nearly foundered in the underlying filth, we found the celebrated man
sitting within the porch, on an old packing-case.
He looked up for a brief moment when the kaid dismounted and handed him my
letter, and I saw a long, closely-shaven face, lighted by a pair of grey
eyes that seemed much younger than the head in which they were set, and
perfectly inscrutable. He read the letter, which was in Arabic, from end
to end, and then gave me stately greeting.
"You are very welcome," he said. "My house and all it holds are yours."
I replied that we wanted nothing more than a modest shelter for the days
of our sojourn in the city. He nodded.
"Had you advised me of your visit in time," he said, "my best house should
have been prepared. Now I will send with you my steward, who has the keys
of all my houses. Choose which you will have." I thanked him, the steward
appeared, a stout, well-favoured man, whose djellaba was finer than his
master's. Sidi Boubikir pointed to certain keys, and at a word several
servants gathered about us. The old man said that he rejoiced to serve the
friend of his friends, and would look forward to seeing me during our
stay. Then we followed into an ill-seeming lane, now growing dark with the
fall of evening.
We turned down an alley more muddy than the one just left behind, passed
under an arch by a fruit stall with a covering of tattered palmetto,
caught a brief glimpse of a mosque minaret, and heard the mueddin calling
the Faithful to evening prayer. In the shadow of the mosque, at the corner
of the high-walled lane, there was a heavy metal-studded door. The steward
thrust a key into its lock, turned it, and we passed down a passage into
an open patio. It was a silent place, beyond the reach of the street
echoes; there were four rooms built round the patio on the ground floor,
and three or four above. One side of the tower of the minaret was visible
from the courtyard, but apart from that the place was nowhere overlooked.
To be sure, it was very dirty, but I had an idea that the steward had
brought his men out for business, not for an evening stroll, so I bade
Salam assure him that this place, known to the Marrakshis as Dar al
Kasdir,[19] would serve our purposes.
A thundering knock at the gate announced a visitor, one of Sidi Boubikir's
elder sons, a civil, kindly-looking Moor, whose face inspired confidence.
Advised of our choice he suggested we should take a stroll while the men
cleaned and prepared the patio and the rooms opening upon it. Then the
mules, resting for the time in his father's fandak, would bring their
burdens home, and we could enjoy our well-earned rest.
[Illustration: ONE OF THE CITY GATES]
We took this good counsel, and on our return an hour later, a very
complete transformation had been effected. Palmetto brooms, and water
brought from an adjacent well, had made the floor look clean and clear.
The warmth of the air had dried everything, the pack-mules had been
relieved of their load and sent back to the stable. Two little earthen
braziers full of charcoal were glowing merrily under the influence of the
bellows that M'Barak wielded skilfully, and two earthen jars of water with
palm leaves for corks had been brought in by our host's servants. In
another hour the camp beds were unpacked and made up, a rug was set on the
bedroom floor, and the little table and chairs were put in the middle of
the patio. From the alcove where Salam squatted behind the twin fires came
the pleasant scent of supper; M'Barak, his well-beloved gun at his side,
sat silent and thoughtful in another corner, and the tiny clay bowl of the
Maalem's long wooden kief pipe was comfortably aglow.
There was a timid knock at the door, the soldier opened it and admitted
the shareef. I do not know his name nor whence he came, but he walked up
to Salam, greeted him affectionately, and offered his services while we
were in the city. Twenty years old perhaps, at an outside estimate, very
tall and thin and poorly clad, the shareef was not the least interesting
figure I met in Marrakesh. A shareef is a saint in Morocco as in every
other country of Islam, and his title implies descent from Mohammed. He
may be very poor indeed, but he is more or less holy, devout men kiss the
hem of his djellaba, no matter how dirty or ragged it may be, and none may
curse a shareef's ancestors, for the Prophet was one of them. His youthful
holiness had known Salam in Fez, and had caught sight of him by Boubikir's
fandak in the early afternoon. Salam, himself a chief in his own land,
though fallen on evil days then and on worse ones since, welcomed the
newcomer and brought his offer to me, adding the significant information
that the young shareef, who was too proud to beg, had not tasted food in
the past forty-eight hours. He had then owed a meal to some Moor, who,
following a well-known custom, had set a bowl of food outside his house to
conciliate devils. I accepted the proffered service, and had no occasion
to regret my action. The young Moor was never in the way and never out of
the way, he went cheerfully on errands to all parts of the city, fetched
and carried without complaint, and yet never lost the splendid dignity
that seemed to justify his claim to saintship.
So we took our ease in the open patio, and the shareef's long fast was
broken, and the stars came to the aid of our lanterns, and when supper was
over I was well content to sit and smoke, while Salam, M'Barak, the
Maalem, and the shareef sat silent round the glowing charcoal, perhaps too
tired to talk. It was very pleasant to feel at home after two or three
weeks under canvas below Mediunah and along the southern road.
The Maalem rose at last, somewhat unsteadily after his debauch of kief. He
moved to where our provisions were stocked and took oil and bread from the
store. Then he sought the corner of the wall by the doorway and poured out
a little oil and scattered crumbs, repeating the performance at the far
end of the patio. This duty done, he bade Salam tell me that it was a
peace-offering to the souls of the departed who had inhabited this house
before we came to it. I apprehend they might have resented the presence of
the Infidel had they not been soothed by the Maalem's little attention. He
was ever a firm believer in djinoon, and exorcised them with unfailing
regularity. The abuse he heaped on Satan must have added largely to the
burden of sorrows under which we are assured the fallen angel carries out
his appointed work. He had been profuse in his prayers and curses when we
entered the barren pathway of the Little Hills behind the plains of
Hillreeli, and there were times when I had felt quite sorry for Satan.
Oblation offered to the house spirits, the Maalem asked for his money, the
half due at the journey's end, sober enough, despite the kief, to count
the dollars carefully, and make his farewell with courteous eloquence. I
parted with him with no little regret, and look forward with keen pleasure
to the day when I shall summon him once again from the bakehouse of
Djedida to bring his mules and guide me over the open road, perchance to
some destination more remote. I think he will come willingly, and that the
journey will be a happy one. The shareef drew the heavy bolt behind the
Maalem, and we sought our beds.
It was a brief night's rest. The voice of the mueddin, chanting the call
to prayer and the Shehad,[20] roused me again, refreshed. The night was
passing; even as the sonorous voice of the unseen chanted his inspiring
"Allah Akbar," it was yielding place to the moments when "the
Wolf-tail[21] sweeps the paling east."
I looked out of my little room that opened on to the patio. The arch of
heaven was swept and garnished, and from "depths blown clear of cloud"
great stars were shining whitely. The breeze of early morning stirred,
penetrating our barred outer gates, and bringing a subtle fragrance from
the beflowered groves that lie beyond the city. It had a freshness that
demanded from one, in tones too seductive for denial, prompt action.
Moreover, we had been rising before daylight for some days past in order
that we might cover a respectable distance before the Enemy should begin
to blaze intolerably above our heads, commanding us to seek the shade of
some chance fig-tree or saint's tomb.
So I roused Salam, and together we drew the creaking bolts, bringing the
kaid to his feet with a jump. There was plenty of time for explanation,
because he always carried his gun, at best a harmless weapon, in the old
flannel case secured by half a dozen pieces of string, with knots that
defied haste. He warned us not to go out, since the djinoon were always
abroad in the streets before daylight; but, seeing our minds set, he
bolted the door upon us, as though to keep them from the Dar al Kasdir,
and probably returned to his slumbers.
[Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR]
Beyond the house, in a faint glow that was already paling the stars, the
African city, well-nigh a thousand years old, assumed its most mysterious
aspect. The high walls on either side of the roads, innocent of casements
as of glass, seemed, in the uncertain light, to be tinted with violet amid
their dull grey. The silence was complete and weird. Never a cry from
man or beast removed the first impression that this was a city of the
dead. The entrances of the bazaars in the Kaisariyah, to which we turned,
were barred and bolted, their guardians sat motionless, covered in white
djellabas, that looked like shrouds. The city's seven gates were fast
closed, though doubtless there were long files of camels and market men
waiting patiently without. The great mansions of the wazeers and the
green-tiled palace of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz--Our Victorious Master the
Sultan--seemed unsubstantial as one of those cities that the mirage had
set before us in the heart of the R'hamna plains. Salam, the untutored man
from the far Riff country, felt the spell of the silent morning hour. It
was a primitive appeal, to which he responded instantly, moving quietly by
my side without a word.
"O my masters, give charity; Allah helps helpers!" A blind beggar, sitting
by the gate, like Bartimæus of old, thrust his withered hand before me.
Lightly though we had walked, his keen ear had known the difference in
sound between the native slipper and the European boot. It had roused him
from his slumbers, and he had calculated the distance so nicely that the
hand, suddenly shot out, was well within reach of mine. Salam, my almoner,
gave him a handful of the copper money, called _floos_, of which a score
may be worth a penny, and he sank back in his uneasy seat with voluble
thanks, not to us, but to Allah the One, who had been pleased to move us
to work his will. To me no thanks were due. I was no more than Allah's
unworthy medium, condemned to burn in fires seven times heated, for
unbelief.
From their home on the flat house-tops two storks rose suddenly, as though
to herald the dawn; the sun became visible above the city's time-worn
walls, and turned their colouring from violet to gold. We heard the guards
drawing the bars of the gate that is called Bab al Khamees, and knew that
the daily life of Marrakesh had begun. The great birds might have given
the signal that woke the town to activity.
Straightway men and beasts made their way through the narrow cobbled
lanes. Sneering camels, so bulked out by their burdens that a
foot-passenger must shrink against the wall to avoid a bad bruising;
well-fed horses, carrying some early-rising Moor of rank on the top of
seven saddle-cloths; half-starved donkeys, all sores and bruises; one
encountered every variety of Moorish traffic here, and the thoroughfare,
that had been deserted a moment before, was soon thronged. In addition to
the Moors and Susi traders, there were many slaves, black as coal, brought
in times past from the Soudan. From garden and orchard beyond the city the
fruit and flowers and vegetables were being carried into their respective
markets, and as they passed the air grew suddenly fragrant with a scent
that was almost intoxicating. The garbage that lay strewn over the cobbles
had no more power to offend, and the fresh scents added in some queer
fashion of their own to the unreality of the whole scene.
To avoid the crush we turned to another quarter of the city, noting that
the gates of the bazaars were opened, and that only the chains were left
across the entrance. But the tiny shops, mere overgrown packing-cases,
were still locked up; the merchants, who are of higher rank than the
dealers in food-stuffs, seldom appear before the day is aired, and their
busiest hours are in the afternoon, when the auction is held. "Custom is
from Allah," they say, and, strong in this belief, they hold that time is
only valuable as leisure. And, God wot, they may well be wiser herein than
we are.
A demented countryman, respected as a saint by reason of his madness, a
thing of rags and tatters and woefully unkempt hair, a quite wild
creature, more than six feet high, and gaunt as a lightning-smitten pine,
came down the deserted bazaar of the brass-workers. He carried a long
staff in one hand, a bright tin bowl in the other. The sight of a European
heightened his usual frenzy--
Across his sea of mind
A thought came streaming like a blazing ship
Upon a mighty wind.
I saw the sinews stand out on the bare arm that gripped the staff, and his
bright eyes were soon fixed upon me. "You do not say words to him, sir,"
whispered Salam; "he do'n know what he do--he very holy man."
The madman spat on my shadow, and cursed profoundly, while his passion was
mastering him. I noted with interest in that uncomfortable moment the
clear signs of his epileptic tendencies, the twitching of the thumb that
grasped the stick, the rigidity of the body, the curious working of
certain facial muscles. I stood perfectly still, though my right hand
involuntarily sought the pocket of my coat where my revolver lay, the use
of which save in direst necessity had been a mad and wicked act; and then
two peace-loving Moors, whose blue selhams of fine Manchester cloth
proclaimed their wealth and station, came forward and drew the frenzied
creature away, very gently and persuasively. He, poor wretch, did not know
what was taking place, but moved helplessly to the door of the bazaar and
then fell, his fit upon him. I hurried on. Moors are kindly, as well as
respectful, to those afflicted of Allah.
We passed on our way to the Bab Dukala, the gate that opens out upon
Elhara, the leper quarter. There we caught our morning view of the forest
of date-palm that girdles the town. Moors say that in centuries long past
Marrakesh was besieged by the men of Tafilalt, who brought dates for food,
and cast the stones on the ground. The rain buried them, the Tensift
nourished them, and to-day they crowd round Ibn Tachfin's ruinous city,
'their feet in water and their heads in fire.' 'Tis an agreeable legend.
[Illustration: A WANDERING MINSTREL]
Market men, half naked and very lean, were coming in from Tamsloht and
Amsmiz, guiding their heavy-laden donkeys past the crumbling walls and the
steep valley that separates Elhara from the town. Some scores of lepers
had left their quarters, a few hiding terrible disfigurement under
great straw hats, others quite careless of their deplorable disease.
Beggars all, they were going on their daily journey to the shrine of Sidi
bel Abbas, patron of the destitute, to sit there beneath the zowia's ample
walls, hide their heads in their rags, and cry upon the passers to
remember them for the sake of the saint who had their welfare so much at
heart. And with the closing of the day they would be driven out of the
city, and back into walled Elhara, to such of the mud huts as they called
home. Long acquaintance with misery had made them careless of it. They
shuffled along as though they were going to work, but from my shaded
corner, where I could see without being seen, I noted no sign of converse
between them, and every face that could be studied was stamped with the
impress of unending misery.
The scene around us was exquisite. Far away one saw the snow-capped peaks
of the Atlas; hawks and swallows sailed to and from Elhara's walls; doves
were cooing in the orchards, bee-eaters flitted lightly amid the palms. I
found myself wondering if the lepers ever thought to contrast their lives
with their surroundings, and I trusted they did not. Some few, probably,
had not been lepers, but criminals, who preferred the horrid liberty of
Elhara to the chance of detection and the living death of the Hib Misbah.
Other beggars were not really lepers, but suffered from one or other of
the kindred diseases that waste Morocco. In Marrakesh the native doctors
are not on any terms with skilled diagnosis, and once a man ventures into
Elhara, he acquires a reputation for leprosy that serves his purpose. I
remember inquiring of a Moorish doctor the treatment of a certain native's
case. "Who shall arrest Allah's decree?" he began modestly. And he went on
to say that the best way to treat an open wound was to put powdered
sulphur upon it, and apply a light.[22] Horrible as this remedy seems, the
worthy doctor believed in it, and had sent many a True Believer
to--Paradise, I hope--by treating him on these lines. Meanwhile his
profound confidence in himself, together with his knowledge and free use
of the Koran, kept hostile criticism at bay.[23]
We turned back into the city, to see it in another aspect. The rapid rise
of the sun had called the poorer workers to their daily tasks; buyers were
congregating round the market stalls of the dealers in meat, bread,
vegetables, and fruit. With perpetual grace to Allah for his gift of
custom, the stall-keepers were parting with their wares at prices far
below anything that rules even in the coast towns of the Sultan's country.
The absence of my Lord Abd-el-Aziz and his court had tended to lower rates
considerably. It was hard to realise that, while food cost so little,
there were hundreds of men, women, and children within the city to whom
one good meal a day was something almost unknown. Yet this was certainly
the case.
Towering above the other buyers were the trusted slaves of the wazeers in
residence--tall negroes from the far South for the most part--hideous men,
whose black faces were made the more black by contrast with their white
robes. They moved with a certain sense of dignity and pride through the
ranks of the hungry freemen round them; clearly they were well contented
with their lot--a curious commentary upon the European notions of
slavery--based, to be sure, upon European methods in regard to it. The
whole formed a marvellous picture, and how the pink roses, the fresh,
green mint and thyme, the orange flowers and other blossoms, sweetened the
narrow ways, garbage-strewn under foot and roofed overhead with dried
leaves of the palm!
FOOTNOTES:
[17] "Moghreb-al-Acksa."
[18] Street cleaners are paid out of the proceeds of a tax derived from
the slaughter of cattle, and the tax is known to Moorish butchers by a
term signifying "_floos_ of the throat."
[19] _I.e._ The Tin House.
[20] Declaration of Faith.
[21] The false dawn.
[22] The Sultan Mulaz-Abd-el-Aziz was once treated for persistent headache
by a Moorish practitioner. The wise man's medicine exploded suddenly, and
His Majesty had a narrow escape. I do not know whether the practitioner
was equally fortunate.
[23] The doctors and magicians of Morocco have always been famous
throughout the East. Nearly all the medicine men of the _Thousand Nights
and a Night_ including the uncle of Aladdin, are from the Moghreb.
ROUND ABOUT MARRAKESH
[Illustration: THE ROOFS OF MARRAKESH]