It was a cheering sight to see at last a little light far away in the

valley where our house lay--the only light visible. R. had left the

curtains undrawn. In good time we reached the garden-house. I took Tahara

straight into the bedroom, S`lam going to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

The little bottle in its wrappings was immediately replaced in its niche,

and Tahara ate some food which we brought her. S`lam, as usual, waited on

us: he was oddly obsequious and deprecating in his manner, and I could

not quite understand it.

The night passed quietly. Early next morning Maman appeared, which

neither of us liked, but she had come ostensibly to ask after Tahara, who

had quite recovered. I walked into the city, and went to the Mission

House to see Miss Z----. The chicken was quite as well as Tahara, and the

liquid which at least one of them had taken was probably water. Even so,

the mystery was not cleared up. If it was water, why did S`lam keep it

wrapped up, and why did Tahara think it was poison? It was half empty. If

Tahara had ever seen it full, somebody must have drunk a dose. Of course

S`lam's old master had not left a bottle of prussic acid about, and then

not missed it. He probably emptied the bottle and then threw it away; it

might have had a drop or two left in it, and the bottle may have been

filled up with water; but that was pure conjecture.

The poisons Moors so easily get, and which S`lam or his mother could

supply themselves with, are generally in a powder form. I do not know how

they would mix with water: they are generally slow in working, sometimes

weeks in taking effect. There was no reason why Tahara should not be

poisoned by such a drug, and yet feel no ill effects for the present.

Thus we argued. Poisoning in Morocco is such an every-day occurrence that

it was a most ordinary suspicion on Tahara's part. After all, there might

be nothing in it, but merely a fear grounded on all sorts of reasons and

assumptions. It is only a matter of sitting down and thinking to conjure

up plenty of fears in Morocco.

Feeling that it was not pleasant to have a bottle marked "Poison" in the

house, and not to be positive as to its contents, I resolved to empty and

wash it out, sending the so-called "water" to an analyst at Tangier, and

refilling the bottle with _bonâ-fide_ water before replacing it. The

chicken test was not thoroughly satisfactory. As matters stood, Miss

Z---- decided to come out that afternoon to our house, while S`lam should

be sent away on an errand, in order that Tahara might be interrogated and

the thing ended.

[Illustration: CHARMING SNAKES.

[_To face p. 214._]

Arrived home, I found that S`lam had been dispatched to the city to

market, and that Maman had gone with him. Alas! the little bottle had

disappeared; it was no longer in the niche which could be seen every time

the door was passed. Miss Z---- arrived in the afternoon. By that time

some other occult influence had come to work in Tahara's mind, and

directly Miss Z---- spoke to her it was evident that she was hedging. As

long as she was terrified and had lost her head she blurted out the

truth; but given time to think the matter over, a thousand side-issues

weighed with her, and she was no more inclined to trust us than she would

have been to trust a Moorish woman, who is brought up to lies, intrigue,

and diplomacy, and fed upon such axioms as "When you have nothing else to

tell, tell the truth." _The bottle_, she said, _had been taken away by

S`lam and his mother. It belonged to his mother. It was poison to poison

people in the Riff._ A little later on she said _it had nothing whatever

to do with S`lam, and that it had only water in it--that S`lam had told

her so. That she had never seen him put anything into her food. That he

was "good." That she only had a bad pain last night. That she did not

know why the bottle had been brought there._ And so on. Her one prayer

was that the signoritas would forget all that had happened. But for days

she would not let us: by creeping up when S`lam was out of the way and

putting her finger on her lips, by anxious questionings and

gesticulations, the thing was never allowed to rest. She felt, probably,

that she was past one danger--there was no more to fear in that

direction for the present; but that if her Riffi husband ever suspected

she had "given him away," he would soon dispose of so troublesome an

incubus.

And so we found the matter had come to a deadlock: more we shall not

know. It was typical of the Moors and their ways. It was, I cannot help

thinking, rather a shady business. Taking into consideration S`lam's

manner towards us for days after, added to those intuitions which one has

and cannot put into words, it struck us that S`lam himself did not think

the bottle had only water in it.

Ask no questions in this strange land. Lies are the portion meted out to

the inquirer: it is not well to know too much. "Knowledge and virtue and

a horse's mouth should not pass through too many hands," and "If you

question knowledge, it falls from its estate"--thus the Moors.

I shall hear from Miss Z---- of Tahara's future welfare, unless she is

moved from Tetuan. If she comes to an untimely end within the next year

or so, our suspicions were not groundless. For the present we "forget,"

of course. For the whole affair--

Oh no, we never mention it;

Its feet are never heard!

CHAPTER VIII

MISSIONARIES AT TETUAN--POISONING IN MOROCCO--FATIMA'S

RECEPTION--DIVORCE--AN EXPEDITION INTO THE ANJERAS--AN EMERALD OASIS.

CHAPTER VIII

"_The friendship of man is like the shade of the acacia. Yet

while the friendship lives, it lives. When God wills it to die,

it dies!_" mused Dicky, with a significant smile. "Friendship

walks on thin ice in the East."

THREE times a week, from ten o'clock to twelve o'clock in the morning,

the lady missionaries opened their dispensary, which, as there was no man

missionary in Tetuan, was in women's hands alone, Miss Banks at the head.

Though, unfortunately, she was not an M.D. nor a qualified surgeon, the

good which she and her staff did was incalculable. The first day on which

the dispensary was open after Rámadhan over sixty Moors came to be

doctored. The day I went, there were forty-four; and the two rooms--one

for men, one for women--were as full as they would hold, while a large

surplus stood waiting their turn outside. Most of them were of the lower

class of Moors: the better class of women would ask Miss Banks to visit

them in their own houses; the better class of men would not go to lady

missionaries.

The patients sat round the rooms in a circle. Miss Banks went to each in

turn, and made a note of the case in a book. This over, she retired to an

inner room; and, among scales, and glass measures, and drugs, and tins,

and bottles by the score, proceeded to make up all the various medicines.

Meanwhile, two others of the staff took up positions in the middle of

the circles of men and women, and read the Bible to them in Arabic and

talked to them. They seemed to listen attentively, and one or two nodded

occasionally in agreement with what was said.

Thus, though everybody was doctored and provided with medicine gratis,

they had to sit and listen for a certain time to Christian views, _nolens

volens_; and this is the chief opportunity which missionaries have of

preaching to the Mohammedan world.

Many of the patients who had been before brought medicine-bottles and

ointment-boxes to be refilled. If not, the bottles had to be paid for. In

the first instance they were given in with the medicine; but bottles are

things of great value to the labouring Moor, and it was found that the

people came purely for the sake of getting them--once outside the house,

the medicine was thrown away.

One woman paid for her bottle in kind--four eggs. Some of the bottles

were absurdly small; others the reverse, for one woman appeared carrying

a great earthenware water-pot standing three feet high.

"My daughter," she said to Miss Banks, "I want medicine."

"Yes, but I cannot give you medicine in such a huge pot."

"My daughter, I have been three days on the road, and I want _much_

medicine."

Another woman, who looked old and decrepit, begged and prayed that a

bottle might be given her. Miss Banks was adamant. The woman whined and

entreated from ten till half-past eleven: "I am too poor to buy one. Look

at me; I am ill," and so on--until at last one of the other missionaries

begged Miss Banks to give her a bottle and send her away. Still she

refused to break her rule. The last patient got up to go. It was twelve

o'clock. The old woman thrust her hand into the rag round her waist,

pulled out a bottle, and handed it to Miss Banks to be filled.

The cases we saw were numerous. A mother with two little boys whose heads

had to be examined: they were dispatched with a box of ointment (sulphur

and oil) and a bottle of medicine. A boy with swelled glands had them

painted. A woman had her chest painted, a man various parts of him.

Pills, ointment, powders, etc., were distributed, with manifold

instructions, repeated again and again, until the patient's clod-like

brain had been penetrated and set in motion. Even then one would turn

round at the door and say, "Then I am to eat this ointment?"

A woman was given some salts wrapped in paper, to be mixed with water and

taken the next morning fasting. She did not come again for a month, and

she brought with her a large earthen pot half full of water and paper.

She had mixed the salts in this with their wrapping, and had been

drinking a mouthful daily, but felt no better.

Miss Banks gave a woman in good circumstances a bottle of medicine which

was to last her eight days, and be taken after food; also some liniment

for external use. An urgent summons came two days later: the woman was

dying. "I thought it did me so much good that last night I took all the

rest, and then I drank the liniment," she said. She recovered.

A man did the same with pills--was so much pleased with the effect of one

that he devoured the rest all at once. They invariably ate the paper in

which pills or powders were wrapped.

On one occasion Miss Banks went to see a girl whom she was attending, and

who seemed worse. The answer, when asked if she was having her medicine

regularly, was, "Oh no! she's so ill just now. When she's a little

better, we shall give it to her."

Supposing that a patient dies, or a man who has once been a patient dies,

the people have no hesitation in saying to the missionaries when they

meet them in the street, "Oh! So-and-so's taken your medicine, and it's

killed him."

It is impossible to trust Moors with medicines which could damage them;

this seriously handicaps a doctor: in extreme cases the dose must be

administered by the doctor personally.

Besides the dispensary, the missionaries had day schools for the

children, night schools for boys, and mothers' meetings for women. Here,

again, the mothers who attended the meetings were given the material of

the clothes which they made for nothing; but they were obliged to sit

down and listen to a Bible lesson first. It was one way, it was an

opportunity, of bringing Christianity before Mohammedans.

[Illustration: MOORS AT HOME.

[_To face p. 222._]

Thus through the meetings and the schools and the dispensary the

missionaries knew many of the women in Tetuan, and there were few houses

into which they had not been at one time or another. Sometimes it was

possible to read to the people in their homes, sometimes to talk. But

with the men they seldom came in contact. Never with an educated Moor. He

would despise women in general, despise Christianity past words, and

decline to argue on such a point with a man.

People are apt to forget that Mohammedanism is a faith to which many

millions of earnest and intelligent men and women have pinned their

salvation. To talk and argue with these--it is almost a truism to say--a

missionary must be "up" in that subject which they have at their

finger-tips--namely, their religion. This means that he or she must have

a complete knowledge of the Kor[=a]n; must know the traditions relating

to Mohammed and his companions; must be able to converse about the

divinity and the innumerable saints of Islam; must have read various

religious treatises; and, above and beyond all, must understand to the

smallest point the habits of the Mohammedan himself, know his life, be

able to follow his thoughts, understand his actions, and be in sympathy

with his recreations as well as with his work, otherwise the missionary

treads on the Mohammedan's toes fifty times a day, and provokes

amusement, mingled with contempt, of which resentment is born.

Needless to say, few missionaries in Morocco, except at the end of their

life's work, possess these qualifications. Only a limited number know the

Arabic language: they speak it colloquially of course, but the immense

difficulties, which a thorough knowledge of it entails, debar most of

them from satisfactory study. After years upon years of hard work, an

Arabian scholar frankly avowed to me that he had but skimmed the surface

of the depths of the Arabic language.

As far as the old idea of missionary work goes--of preaching to an

attentive throng of Mohammedans and baptizing converts--Morocco ranks

nowhere. The missionary who comes out to El Moghreb does incalculable

good in curing the hereditary disease and taint with which an Eastern

nation is rife, and many influence the surrounding people by the example

of a good life and contact with a civilized mind: he or she is to be

profoundly admired for the determination with which one end and one aim

are held in view from first to last, and to the furtherance of which the

whole of life is made subservient; and yet the shadows of disappointment

must darken that missionary's path sometimes, unless he or she is a

philosopher. For we met with none who could point us out a single

convert, openly declaring himself to be one. In Tetuan, after twelve

years' work, there was not one. Two women there were, who acknowledged to

the missionaries, that they preferred Christianity to Mohammedanism, and

who in private make use of Christian forms of prayer, but they would not

"declare" their belief.

It is said, and no doubt truly, that there would be many converts to

Christianity in Morocco among the lowest class, if it were not for the

persecution of the Government, and the strong anti-Christian feeling

which exists amongst those in authority. The religion and the Government

are one; the Sultan is the religious head, a direct descendant from

Mohammed; consequently Mohammedanism is _enforced_. A woman who declared

herself a Christian would have her children taken from her; a man would

be flogged round the city and boycotted, if he was not killed. Thus the

prospects of the would-be convert are not happy: all which the

missionaries have to offer him is, on the one hand martyrdom, on the

other a miserable line of compromise--a life, that is to say, of

concealment and deceit towards those nearest him, for though Christian at

heart, he must yet remain Mohammedan to the world. This latter course of

compromise is the line which is followed, and it is the course which is

tacitly inculcated by the missionaries. I heard of no martyrs, nor

Christian Moors openly declared, living in Morocco at peace with mankind.

There is a hitch somewhere. Christianity is in danger of being dragged in

the dust. If it were possible for missionaries to make their doctrines

appeal to the powerful and more enlightened class among the Moors,

influencing the country to such an extent that it should adopt

Christianity of its own accord, this could never be so. But it is not

possible. In the present state of Morocco the idea is laughable. It is

hardly to be expected that the most fanatical and conservative nation

ever evolved, will cast its religion, like a snake its skin, at the

bidding of a body of despised Europeans. Before such a revolution could

take place, the character of such a nation must entirely change; the Moor

must be broadened and given a scientific training, if he is ever to

become of a "progressive" turn of mind, desiring other ideals than those

of his forefathers.

At the same time the missionary must be adequately equipped for the fray,

must be a "strong man," must possess some of the qualifications of a

leader.

The first point is the all-important one: that more knowledge should be

given to Mohammedans--scientific knowledge; that they should be fired to

improve their own condition and that of their country, making themselves

capable of mixing as equals with men who stand for the highest products

of civilization the world so far knows.

Then, educated and self-educating, their creed, whatever it is, will be

the outcome of their secular training. It matters little what the belief,

so long as the individual is free as air to adopt it or not at his own

discretion.

It would appear, then, that Morocco needs schools, colleges, and men of

unusual calibre to deal with them. The doctor-missionaries do a vast

amount of good; but it would seem that effort directed in fresh channels

should meet with better results, and that so far there has been a

tendency to "begin at the wrong end."

It is easy to sit down and criticise; it is easy to map out new paths,

the difficulties connected with which, few critics can realize. While we

see that many of the old by-ways are tortuous and lead to error, and that

many of them only result in waste of energy, let us at the same time not

forget to give all honour to those who set out to dig them, for even

"defeat, is great."

One afternoon I walked round with Miss Banks, visiting patients. We

started from the Mission House with a basket of medicines, ointment,

thermometer, paint-brush, etc., and dived into the little, narrow,

crowded streets of countless windowless houses. The first call we paid

was at the house of a Moor in the capacity of "gentleman farmer": of

course he was out. Miss Banks knocked; there was a movement on the other

side, but no answer. She called through the keyhole, "Anna. Tabiba" (I.

Doctor); and a discreet slave, trained by a jealous and distrustful

master, opened at the sound of her voice. We walked into a

three-cornered, tiled patio: the lady of the house came to meet us in a

pink jellab, shook Miss Banks's hand and kissed her own, shook mine and

again carried hers to her lips; then led us into a room opening on to the

courtyard, with divans, in white, all round upon the tiled floor next the

wall.

We all three sat down cross-legged on the cushions, and our hostess

related her symptoms to Miss Banks. She had a bad cough, and seemed glad

to have her chest painted with iodine. She was the daughter of her

husband's cowman; and if, according to English ideas, somewhat below him

in rank, was no worse educated than the first lady in the land. It is odd

that, while Moors are gentlemen born, their woman-kind, narrowed and

degraded, are in no sense aristocratic. They will stand upstairs and

shout "Come!" to any one who is calling upon them and waiting below.

"Sit down," they will say imperatively: it is always the imperative. If

they are asked to show anything, they will bring it and almost throw it

at the visitor's head. They have no "breeding."

Our hostess was thin, and not at all typical of a Moorish wife; for a

Moor likes a waist which he can barely clasp with both arms, and women,

when they desire to attract, fatten themselves at once. A woman who is

engaged, is crammed with sweet fattening pills and farinaceous food.

At one end of the room we sat in, was a gorgeous four-poster bed, hung

with scarlet, and covered with embroideries, the posts painted bright

green, and a great gilt crown on the top of all. When no furniture is

bought except divans and a bed, all the dollars can be piled on the bed.

We left a bottle of mixture out of the basket and a doll for the only

child, which would be treasured, for a bunch of rags is the nearest

Moorish approach to a doll.

From this house we went on to our hostess' old home, where her father,

the cowman, lived. The patio there was cold and bare, and seemed the

general living-room; some wood was stacked in one corner; there was a

well in another; there was an overpowering smell of "drains" everywhere;

while in the third corner a poor, miserable little girl sat huddled up,

with frightened eyes. Several families lived together in this small

house, and no fewer than six women crowded round the girl to explain her

symptoms to Miss Banks. It was only too apparent what was wrong, when she

uncovered her neck. Syphilis, hereditary--a terrible evil, to be found

all over Morocco, the result of Mohammedan customs and bad food.

Considering that women are divorced and remarried over and over again,

and that the conditions under which they live are so unhealthy, it is

small wonder if disease in some form or other does not show itself.

Examples are to be met with in almost any street--the features of the

face obliterated, and so on.

The poor child, whom Miss Banks was treating, had been married. Now that

this disease had broken out, her husband would probably divorce her. If

she were cured, she might marry again. Her friends had brought her all

the way from Shesaw[=a]n to Tetuan to be cured, and a Jew doctor had

offered to put her right for the sum of £4.

"But," said her friends, "suppose she dies? What shall we get for our

money then?"

So they sent to the English tabiba, who cures for nothing.

Miss Banks left ointment and medicine. Cases can be cured if the patient

will persevere long enough with the medicine; but many of them are too

far gone when they first come.

An old man upstairs in the same house, but of a different family, claimed

her attention next. Three weeks ago he was perfectly well. He went to a

café one evening, drank a cup of coffee, came home, was seized with pain,

and became completely paralyzed. It pointed to poison, but he had no

enemies.

Mercury is very largely used as a poison, and is given in different

forms. Little is thought of ending life by this means, unless there

happen to be influential relations who object to their relatives being in

this summary manner "put out of the way."

There is a girl now in Tetuan who keeps a shop. Her father and mother

kept it before her, but she said that they were both so old, had lived so

long, and had had their day, that she felt something must be done to

secure her own turn, and that speedily. Therefore she gave them both some

poison. There was a funeral. She took over the shop.

Another woman was anxious to poison her husband because he was about to

take a second wife. She prepared him the dish with the poisoned pieces.

Suddenly she saw her child run into the house and join his father at the

meal. Careless of betraying herself, she rushed to her Benjamin with

cries of alarm,--too late; he had eaten, and he succumbed that night. The

husband died at the end of a year from the effects of the same poison.

Some of the drugs which Moors use take even longer to destroy life, but

it is only a matter of time. The woman was put in prison, but she came

out after twelve months, and another man has taken her to wife.

Some missionary and poisoning experiences are amusing. People often came

and asked for poison to administer to somebody who happened to annoy

them.

A slave appeared once and said, "I have a mistress: she's very old, isn't

she?"

"Yes," said the missionary.

"She doesn't enjoy life now much, does she?"

"No, I don't think she does much."

"Would she enjoy being with the Lord much more than living on like this?"

"Yes," said the missionary, "she would be far happier with the Lord."

"Then," said the slave, "give me some poison to send her to Him."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Miss Banks looked at her patient, who might or might not have

had his life tampered with; but there was little she could do then. We

left that house and walked on into the poorest part of the city, down a

little alley which was hard to find, in search of a certain door which

was still harder. After two or three mistakes, we hit upon the right one,

and knocked at an old, battered, rat-eaten entrance falling to pieces.

"Anna. Tabiba," called Miss Banks; and the door was opened by a

countryman, a Riffi, rough-looking, only a coarse jellab over him, but

with a kind expression on his face. The space inside was something like a

chicken-pen. We stooped under a very low doorway in the farther wall, and

went into a little shed-like lean-to, where the inhabitants evidently

lived entirely. A boy of thirteen was lying on the ground, covered with a

piece of sacking. The father squatted down beside him. Two girls were

grinding beans close to them in a hand-mill--the old mill of . . . "the

one shall be taken, and the other left."

Miss Banks and I seated ourselves on a wooden rail, which was part of a

manger or a sheep-pen. These Riffis had been forced by famine to abandon

their home and come down into Tetuan, where at first they had lived in a

cave, on roots principally. The father would go out and hoe when he could

get work--every land-owner has hoeing to be done; but lately he had had

fever. The boy had an abscess, and could not move. In spite of it he

smiled cheerfully, and was delighted with a new red jellab which Miss

Banks brought him. Poor little chap! he did not live to wear it. I gave

him a trifle to buy food. Beyond the dried beans in course of being

ground, and half a lemon, there was no sign of anything to eat. Beans and

lemons to fight an abscess!

[Illustration: STRAW FOR SALE.

[_To face p. 230._]

After Miss Banks had attended to the child, we took our way to the house

of a Moorish doctor, who had been unable to cure himself, and had sent

in desperation for his European rival.

He was lying on a divan upstairs, himself the colour of oatmeal porridge,

with his wife attending to him; and he had a terrible sore on his thigh.

This was duly attended to. The long fast of Rámadhan might partly account

for his state of health. In spite of his faith in Miss Banks, which he

would sooner have died than acknowledged, he had unbounded confidence in

his own skill as a doctor.

We asked him if he could read.

"Read? No. Why should he read? What was the use of reading? The thing you

wanted to do was to _remember_. Now he, if he was doctoring any one, he

would try first this herb and then that. This herb no good. Try another.

Another no good. Another no good. He might try twelve herbs, and all no

good. And the thirteenth herb would be good. And then he would _remember_

that herb. Why! all his doctoring he taught himself . . ."

A rough sort of doctoring it is too, consisting of two remedies--a

violent purge, or else burning with a hot iron. Every sore place is

burnt; and for all sorts of illnesses, in cases of rheumatism, etc.,

etc., the patient is scored, perhaps all over his chest or back--"fired"

like a horse. Sores are always cauterized. Bullets are never extracted.

Wounds are bound up with earth and rags. A serious gunshot wound, means

death. Certainly there is a wide field for women doctors in Morocco.

From this house we went on to one where the father, mother, and children

were all having a meal--a poverty-stricken family again, where one of the

children was wasting away with fever. The rest of the party were sitting

round an earthenware pan, which was full of mallow leaves, stewed in

native oil, with red pepper and garlic in huge quantities. They were

dipping in their fingers, fishing out the greasy mallow and garlic, and

laying it on their brown native bread and eating it. They insisted upon

our joining them. It is no excuse to say "I have dined lately," for a

Moor eats at any time, when there happens to be food. Miss Banks tasted

the stew with a heroism worthy the noblest end.

We went on to the house of a man who has one of the best shops in Tetuan.

It was consequently comfortable, and delightfully fresh-looking. The

master of the house was in bed with fever--that is to say, we found him

reclining on a divan on the floor, beside a gorgeous bed, with a

lily-white turban fresh from the wash-tub wound round his head. We sat

down on the divan running round the room, and Miss Banks was glad to hear

that her patient had at last consented to take quinine. He was

worn-looking, with small black beard and moustache. Moors, like every

effete people, are unable to grow a great quantity of hair on their

faces.

After visiting her cases Miss Banks suggested something of a change, and

we turned into the best part of Tetuan, to pay a call upon one of the

first families in Morocco, the head of which is now dead. B---- was

probably the most wealthy and enlightened Moor in the city: he was once

employed by Government, and he made his little pile; but he had never

married--or, rather, his only marriage had ended in a speedy divorce; and

most of his life he had been able to afford to keep a galaxy of slaves,

whom he had freed in time, and whose offspring represent the family

to-day.

The name of the chief of his slaves, and the mistress of the dead man's

house at the present moment, is Fatima. Fatima has a history. B----

possessed twenty white slaves: they were chiefly stolen from villages in

the south, and they passed into his hands; but his treasures were two

beautiful Circassian women from Turkey, one of whom he sent to the late

Sultan (who is the mother of the present Sultan), the other he kept for

himself--Fatima. Fatima early showed a disposition far from humble, and

B---- spoilt her. At last he made her head of his house and all his

slaves. One day she caused two of these women to be beaten in such a

manner that one of them died. The other vowed revenge; went to B----, and

told him that she had seen Fatima looking through a window at a man in

the garden below. Considering that a woman of superior class must not

look out of her window, though the prospect be an arid yard, the

statement was calculated to rouse B----. Brought up on such proverbs as

"When the bee hums and the buttermilk ferments, place, O brother, a

halter on thy little daughter," and to consider women "the nearest roads

to hell," B----took prompt and drastic measures. He chained Fatima up to

a pillar for three months, and fed her on bread and water. Her eldest

daughter was to be married. Fatima was released and told she might attend

the wedding, but only as the equal of the lowest slave, and dressed as

such. She said that she had been accustomed to mixing with the first-born

of Tetuan as an equal, and she would go among them as nothing else. To

break Fatima's pride, B---- married a wife; but the wiles of his old

favourite were too strong for him, and he gave her presents, including a

gold bracelet. The indignant wife, furious at her husband's attentions to

a mere slave, got a divorce and left B----; whereupon he fell into the

arms of Fatima, and she graciously consented to become once more head of

his house. She is now the proudest woman in Tetuan, inclined to look upon

the missionaries and European women in general as dust under her feet.

Her ignorance is unbounded. "India!" she said to Miss Hubbard. "You say

all India belongs to you English. You may well wish it did. You've only

got one port."

Meanwhile, we had reached the door of this famous lady's house, and were

clanging the great knocker. It was superior to any door we had "wakened"

that afternoon--made of pale, cinnamon-coloured wood, and immensely wide,

carved up above and brightened with great fork-like hinges and nail-heads

as large as pennies. A vastly stout slave, smart in proportion, opened

the door, and said something in Arabic to Miss Banks, which, translated,

intimated that a large tea party was going on within. She led us along

far-reaching, wide passages, which at length opened out into an extensive

patio, paved with great black and white marble tiles, like a giant

chess-board. A double row of finely tiled pillars supported the roof, and

a fountain shot up water in the centre of all. The style of the building

suggested that the dead man had known how to spend some of his money, and

to make for himself a place refined and romantic rather than gorgeous.

Stepping down the cool aisles between the pillars, the slave took us

towards a room opening out of the patio; and such a room!--hung with

embroideries, surrounded with luxurious divans worked in scarlet and

white, carpeted with deep-piled carpets, and yet no more than a mere

setting for the fantastic butterfly world which seemed let loose inside.

Tetuan's most aristocratic women, scented favourites of Moorish society,

kept in lavender and reared on sugar and orange-flower water, are not

among those things which one easily forgets. About twelve of them or

more--enough to dazzle and not bewilder, furnish to perfection yet avoid

a crush--were half reclining on the divans round the room. Fatima was on

our immediate left as we entered; a holy Shar[=i]fa on the right; the

daughter of another Shar[=i]f sat beyond her. The circle was one of

Sanctity and Rank.

We shook hands with the mistress of the house, and were motioned to take

our seats on the divan exactly opposite her.

Fatima was no disappointment. She suggested much, and more than fulfilled

the promise of her history. She was pale and dark, with a little head

like a snake's, thin sarcastic lips, and eyes full of smouldering devil.

Two silver trays stood in front of her, covered with fragile porcelain

cups and thin gilded cut-glass, with a silver-topped box full of fragrant

mint, another quaint box containing fine green tea, an enormous cut-glass

sugar-basin heaped with small rocks of white sugar, two silver embossed

and steaming teapots, some scent-sprinklers and incense-burners of

silver. At her elbow, on the floor, was the largest silver urn I ever

saw, capable of supplying half a dozen school feasts; down the room, in a

line, upon the carpets, stood round baskets, three feet in diameter,

filled with palest cream-coloured bracelet-shaped loaves of bread, made

of too fine and white a flour and too perfectly baked for any but the

upper ten to indulge in. The centre basket contained perhaps fifty

cakes--nothing on a small scale here--made of thin flaked pastry, iced

over with sugar, filled with a confectionery of almonds, and quinces, and

raisins, and orange-flower water, and an essence, one drop of which cost

five shillings. These take a day to make, and are only met with in an

elaborate _ménage_. Other tarts, lavishly coated with a snow of white

sugar, contained jams and nuts and all the sweet things dear to the

Moorish heart.

The movements of Fatima's small hands among the cups, covered with rings,

each polished nail just touched with a half-moon of dark red henna, were

born of _dolce far niente_, backed by a long line famous for their

beauty: her restless black eyes alternately gleamed with cruelty and

cunning; flashed with passion; grew sad as it is given to few eyes to

grow.

Many embroidered buttons, as edgings in front, betokened garment within

garment, which she wore, all of them at last confined by a broad, richly

worked belt; her kaftan was of lemon-yellow, shining with silver

borderings; the muslin "overall" was the thinnest atmosphere of white;

there were many necklaces, chiefly pearl, round her neck, and, most

characteristic of all, a tiny yellow silk handkerchief was knotted once

round her throat; on her black head, colour ran riot in silks of all

shades, tied and twisted and arranged as only a Moorish hand knows; her

feet were wrapped in a soft pale yellow shawl, embroidered. She did not

get up when we came in.

Multiply Fatima twelve times, in colours more opulent and more bizarre

than her own, instead of her lithe figure, picture stone upon stone of

sleek flesh, and some idea of the epicureanism of the scene is arrived

at. Sitting on each side of us were two of the fattest women I have ever

seen.

[Illustration: A GROUP IN THE FEDDAN, TETUAN.

[_To face p. 236._]

Meanwhile, Fatima signed to a slave to carry across the cups of tea which

she had poured out, together with thin china plates; then we were

supplied with the fine sweet bread. Miss Banks explained that I was not a

_tabiba_ (doctor). Fatima told her I was to ask about anything which I

did not understand, and with interpretations we carried on trifling

conversation. It was like stepping into "The Arabian Nights" come to

life. These women seldom go out of doors, or, if they do, nothing is to

be seen of them except a figure in an immense creamy woollen haik from

top to toe, heavily veiled: possibly a pair of haunting eyes and

beautiful slippers suggest an attractive "beyond." But here were we "i'

the centre of the labyrinth," where mere men can never go; in a maze of

hot imperious colour; in a world of ivory-tinted faces, flowing lines,

and stately gestures; among _abandon_ such as one little dreams of in a

Mohammedan double-locked world.

They lie at the ends of the pole, the women of Morocco: the countrywomen,

beasts of burden; the wives of the rich, sumptuously fed and caparisoned

lap-dogs.

Amidst such a show of silk and embroidery no English-woman, in the

utilitarian coat and skirt best fitted for travel, could feel other than

out of place, nor resist the weak desire that the imperious Fatima and

her circle should have another impression of our countrywomen made upon

their ignorant minds than that given by short skirts and nailed

boots--say, Covent Garden one night when the opera has drawn all the

diamonds in town.

I remember the Moorish French Consul, in the Tetuan post-office, saw R.

writing a card in there once.

"What a great thing it is," he said to Mr. Bewicke, "that your women can

write and can arrange things for themselves. I go away; my wife cannot

write to me. Our women are just like animals."

As far as I could gather, a Moorish woman does not think for herself

until she is divorced. Her father, mother, or brother marries her to

whomsoever he or she chooses; but when once she is divorced, she is free

to marry after her own heart, and no one can interfere with her. Divorce

was of course allowed by Mohammed. It is so common that no wife is

surprised at being divorced a year after marriage, or six months, even a

week. If she does not get up in time in the morning, her husband can

divorce her, or if she becomes ill, or for a hundred petty reasons.

Therefore upon the marriage-lines is always entered the sum of money

which a wife brings her husband; a poor woman will bring from thirty

shillings to three pounds, a rich woman from a hundred to three hundred

pounds; and whatever the sum be, the husband must refund it to the wife

when he divorces her. The actual getting of the divorce is simplicity

itself. Man and wife go before the deputy of the governor of the city or

province and state their case. The deputy will probably say, "Very well.

Pay the woman such-and-such a sum mentioned in the agreement, and go your

several ways."

A man, however, often changes his mind, and marries the woman whom he has

divorced; and perhaps they are divorced a second time and married a third

time. But he may not marry her the third time unless she has meanwhile

been married by another man and divorced from him.

Many of the Moorish husbands leave their wives--the Riffis, for instance,

going back into the Riff. If they are away over a year and send no money

to the wife, she can claim a divorce: going before the deputy with a

witness or two, it is soon arranged; she then probably marries a second

husband. Were it not for this arrangement, Tetuan would be full of

deserted wives.

It must be most difficult to try to "preach" either to the men or women.

The men would not have it. I knew one missionary who used to sit in their

shops and talk to them, but directly he veered round within a point of

"religion" that talk was over. The women were less difficult in that

respect; they would discuss the point: one woman I heard say something as

follows:--

"Why should I turn a Christian? See--I may steal, I may lie, I may commit

murder; my sins may reach as high as from earth to heaven, and at the day

of my death _God is merciful_. He will forgive me all, because I witness

to Mohammed as his Prophet. Your religion is a narrow little religion;

mine covers everything. You go home and go away by yourself and _witness

to Mohammed_ as his Prophet, and all your sins will be forgiven."

It is a sign of their being low down in the intellectual scale when the

members of society talk for the most part of "persons," just as it is a

sign of a higher tone when the conversation runs chiefly upon "ideas."

Among the women at Fatima's tea party there was no sort or kind of

exchange of thought of any description, nor was there general

conversation. They talked in a desultory way to each other about their

children, their clothes, their food, their money, and each

other--sometimes they included Miss Banks, but never touched an

interesting point.

If a woman unable to read or write only meets women also unable to read

or write, and knows but one man, her husband, who feeds her and values

her much like a tame doe-rabbit, it is unreasonable to expect to find in

her much intelligence and energy. Wives, when asked if they did not wish

to do more, would not like to read or write or work, only laughed

derisively. The idea was absurd: they could not understand any one

wishing to exert herself in a novel and unnecessary way.

On my left, still sat the stoutest woman in the room--the holy

Shar[=i]fa. She lost her snuff-box, and roused herself to hunt all over

her enormous person for it--a work of time; but a friend had borrowed it,

and it was passed back to her. She sat on the divan, cross-legged like

some gigantic idol of ancient Egypt, many yards in circumference at the

base, her fat little hands folded across the embroideries and gold-worked

buttons and worked edges of the many gorgeous waistcoats and kaftans,

which seemed piled one on top of each other on her immense frame. Her

head, the size of two footballs rolled into one, was swathed in violet

and scarlet silk: straight whiskers of hair, dyed jet-black, were combed

a few inches down each cheek, and then cut short. The whole "idol" sat

very still, speaking but rarely, and then in a harsh croak like some

oracular and forbidding bird: "it" had the appearance of being

comfortably gorged.

Meanwhile, Fatima signed or murmured to the slaves, and the sweetmeats

were carried round, and the fragile cups refilled; and there went up a

great aroma of sweet mint tea.

Through the wide doorway the patio and its colonnades of many pillars lay

cool and shaded; cages of singing canary-birds hung from the ceiling; the

fountain rippled in the middle; a tall girl in green and white sauntered

across in her slippered feet, carrying a tray; a gaily dressed slave

passed silently; and the whole thing might have been a dream. . . .

Past the patio lay the courtyard, all one large garden, with tiled walks

and red-gold oranges and heavy foliage set against the blue sky. Broad

date-palms, mimosa, and climbing creepers sometimes shook in a breath of

wind. The clear tanks, full of ever-running water and lined with

maiden-hair fern, moved with gold-fish, which matched the oranges; a pet

monkey played amongst the lemons on a lemon-tree; a green parrot nodded

to us from a bower of pink almond blossom.

We wandered round the sleepy, silent courtyard, and in and out the

chequered greenery, hot with windless, sun-filled air, back through the

black-and-white courts, until at last the great outside door shut upon

Fatima, her tea party, and the eternal mysticism of the East:--we were

without the gates of Paradise, and in an atmosphere of rude realism once

more.

Soon after that afternoon of many calls with Miss Banks, a day up in the

Anjera Hills, to the north of Tetuan, gave some idea of the strip of

country which lay between us, and the sea, and Gibraltar. This country

possessed the fascination of being little known. No one troubled to go up

there, except its own wild inhabitants. Our own Consul had never been.

The missionaries had not climbed so high, nor so far, this side the

river.

Now the Tetuan _sok_ (market) is greatly dependent upon the country

people belonging to the Beni Salam tribe, who live up in the Anjeras; and

from the flat white roof of our garden-house we had watched through a

pair of glasses on market mornings, strings of women, winding by a

precipitous path down the hillside, which is abrupt and mountainous,

themselves dropping as it were from an upper world. They scrambled slowly

down, one after the other, descending many hundreds upon hundreds of

feet; then filed slantwise over the slopes, right into the rocky

Mussulman cemetery, across that, and thence into the city by the

Báb-el-M`kabar.

The relations of these tribesmen between themselves and the city are more

or less friendly, and it is comparatively safe to wander about the

mountains as long as the "enemy," as the Moors call the sun, has not set.

We were most anxious to visit the country whence these market-goers came,

appearing first upon the crest-line, then against the rough hillside,

like a string of industrious white ants crawling down the wall of a

house; therefore we engaged a youth with a downy beard and hairy legs and

the big grey donkey--the most active of his race--and set off one morning

at half-past nine, prepared to climb into a Top World, like Jack of the

Beanstalk, by means of a path which was less smooth "going" than his

supernatural ladder.

There was a strong north-west wind, and it was hardly an occasion for

"aloft"; but there was no haze; the clouds were scudding away to South

Australia; it was a day for a view.

Taking the broken road towards the city, we branched off to the right,

crossed a stream, and began the ascent. No one could ride at this point.

R. tried a tow by means of the donkey's tail, and met with a

remonstrating kick. Certainly, if this could be called "one of the

Sultan's highways," it was an odd specimen. We scrambled up the east side

of the range of hills, sometimes by a succession of rocky staircases,

sometimes sliding (backwards chiefly) on loose shale: how the donkey

contrived to look after its four feet must remain a problem, but the

Morocco ass is brought up from birth upon stony ground, with naïve and

simple notions upon the subject of paths.

It was a long time before our heads showed up above the top of Jack's

Beanstalk (so to speak), and we met with a gale, at which the donkey's

hair stood on end, and which occupied all our attention for a minute. We

had seen Tetuan disappear far below us behind the elbow of a hill; the

topmost point of the Gib. Rock had loomed into sight; Ceuta looked as if

one might have thrown a stone upon it; and the Riff Mountains were next

door, clear and blue. We had passed some red fritillaries and the

bee-orchid, a little wild mauve crocus, and some magnificent clumps of

white heath, which smelt of almonds and honey; had seen several pairs of

stone-chats with their white collars; had sat down for many "breathers";

and at last were at the top, in a wind which flattened every

palmetto-bush plumb against the hillside. It was a breezy spot for riding

(and here one _could_ ride, for the grey donkey was on _terra firma_ once

more); therefore we cut short a survey of the country below us, hurried

off the crest-line, and followed the path which led straight away into

the heart of the Anjera country. It was a good track when once the top

had been reached, exactly the right width for one individual, and used by

thirty or forty every market day--three times a week. At the time when

the cave-men lived in England, _single file_ was a standing principle in

Morocco, and the practice still holds good.

The path was beaten hard, by bare feet, in the rich dark red soil, and

had taken a shiny polish; the wind was held off us by boulders and small

hillocks; we got along at a steady pace. On each side mountains and only

mountains were to be seen, peak beyond peak, slope after slope, covered

with short wind-tossed scrub and sharp, hard rock, except at any great

height or in the prevailing wind; there ledge after ledge lay peeled by

the weather, blistering in the sun, the scarified faces of the cliffs

worn at the summits into pinnacles of gaunt stone. No mark of humanity,

except the single red path, suggested that civilization ever troubled

these heights, and there was hardly anything worth the notice of a goat

in the shape of fodder.

The path rose and fell, skirting now this shoulder and now a gully, but

keeping for the most part on high ground, here and there winding upwards

across the sharp spine of a ridge, and, by way of some awkward staircase,

once more landing us on the level. More often than not, the donkey had

only himself to carry; the boy probably thought us mad, but there was no

understanding what the other would fain have said. Except for the

wind--and even that dropped--a great silence lay on the proud heights;

they defied man to interfere with their grizzled _débris_: the birds had

forgotten to sing: all around was that certain awed solemnity, always to

be found, in the companionship of the everlasting hills. But the air was

champagne; the heather was mad in the breeze; the sky where it met the

rocks, an intoxicating blue. And how the clouds "travelled"! Though, in

spite of that, the hills never spoke: like the Sphinx, whose repose no

dance of lizards nor flashes of sunlight can disturb, they are "too great

to appease, too high to appal, too far to call." Occasionally a dip in

the hollow back of a mountain showed the sea beyond: there are few seas

bluer than the blue Mediterranean can be, and this was one of its days.

The polished track led us on: still no sign of a village, nor any

evidences of civilization. At last from the top of a ridge we looked over

and down into a calm green oasis, "a lodge in some vast wilderness,"

secluded, sheltered, where it would have been good to pitch a tent and

camp for many moons. We swung along downwards, dropped under the lee of

the hill, and our path skirted the fringe of the green oasis. It was not

many acres in extent; it was covered with short scant grass; it would

have made an ideal polo-ground.

Water lay over a small corner of it, and beyond a shadow of doubt it had

once been the bottom of a lake; indeed, the Beni Salam tribe believe that

water still lies underneath the turf. Here the first sign of humanity

showed itself: two goatherds drove their flock down to the water, and one

of them carried in the hood of his brown jellab a few hours' old kid;

they soon passed on and disappeared among the boulders and heath.

The long level lines of the green oasis were broken at the edge by

diminutive bones of rock protruding through the grass. Sunk in the hollow

of the hills, there was little or no wind; the sun glowed indolently down

on the green lawn, tempting us to stay; but the foot-prints in the red

soil pointed forward, and we turned our backs upon the flat stretches of

sunny turf and left the waveless tarn behind.

No more emerald oasis, but grey-green scrub and stones on the

mountain-sides: we were up again in a stern and desolate defile, waste

beyond waste strewn with rocks. The distances were oddly deceptive in the

rare, clear air: a saddle between two peaks looked miles away--we were

upon it in half an hour; again, a turret of rock apparently within a

stone's-throw was a weary climb. And still the red trail snaked on before

us. Even the big grey donkey began to lose its interest and to require

"encouragement" from the Moorish boy.

We speculated as to whether we should ever reach a village before it was

time to make tracks for the world below, while the sun was well up. At

last, in front of us, a long low saddle intervened, with rising ground

on each side: this we determined to scale, once mounted on top see all

there was to be seen, and go no farther. And toil brought its unexpected

and exceeding great reward. Standing on the crest-line, shading our eyes

with our hands, mountain beyond mountain lay in the distance--the

Anjeras, the hills of Spain, the Mediterranean, Gibraltar; while in the

foreground clustered four villages, brown mud-coloured huts upon the

brownish slopes, and only picked out of their surroundings by means of

the one little whitewashed spot of a mosque. Below us a river had carved

a gorge in the red soil and tumbled over worn boulders beside the nearest

village, but it was more or less hidden from sight.

Much as we wanted to go on, it was impossible. First, there was not time.

Secondly, the donkey would have had as much as was good for him by the

time he got back. Therefore we chose a warm, sheltered spot, backed by

sun-baked rocks and scented with cropped tussocks of yellow gorse; and

there we lunched, the boy and donkey slipping out of sight, and leaving

us alone, with the hills, and the sound of the wind.

It must be a long tramp into Tetuan, even for hill people born to the

life of the open road,--four hours into the city with heavy loads of

charcoal, faggots, chickens, eggs, butter, vegetables; four hours back

again with oil, sugar, salt, tea, and every sort of necessary which is

not home grown. And three times a week. And only women. We met a string

of them as we set our faces homewards, like "toiling cattle straining

across a thousand hills"; but they all had a word to say and a smile, as

they sloped along at a steady swing.

The sun was setting when we left the good upper world of silence and the

winds; by-and-by the crest-line intervened between ourselves and the

strong serene heights--they were seen no more; and we came "hand over

hand down the Beanstalk" which led to the white city below.

CHAPTER IX

WE LEAVE TETUAN--A WET NIGHT UNDER THE STARS--S`LAM DESERTS US--WE SAIL

FOR MOGADOR--PALM-TREE HOUSE--SUS AND WADNOON COUNTRIES--THE SAHARA--THE

ATLAS MOUNTAINS.

CHAPTER IX

The stream of life runs, ah! so swiftly by,

A gleaming race 'twixt bank and bank--we fly,

Faces alight and little trailing songs,

Then plunge into the gulf, and so good-bye.

ABOUT the month of April, Morocco takes its head from under its wing; the

bad weather turns its back on the country; the tracks dry up and are fit

for travellers to take to once more. The time had come for the sake of

which we had borne with the rains, and we longed to be off, to know

something more of this strange and fascinating land.

May is a better month than April, up in the north, for travelling; April

is often dashed with the tail-end of the rains; but our desire was to go

down into the far south, and May and June in the south are both too hot

to enjoy camping out. April is quite warm enough; indeed, Morocco City

"stokes up" early in April; therefore we made it the middle of March when

we said good-bye to Jinan Dolero and set our faces Tangier-wards, there

to await some steamer which should take us down the coast. The odds and

ends which had furnished us at Tetuan and were not wanted had to be

sold--a very simple matter. The day before we left our white

garden-house, S`lam and some _mesdames_, as in his best French he always

spoke to us of his ragged countrywomen, carried them into the sok, as

they were, on their backs; and they were sold to the highest bidder

among the market-goers.

To transport ourselves and our belongings over to Tangier, a Jew

muleteer was requisitioned, who provided men and mules for the two

days' journey. After long consultations we decided to take S`lam with

us on our travels in the capacity of personal servant and head

cook--partly because he could cook, partly because, in spite of the

Tahara-and-bottle-of-water-or-poison episode, we liked him, and he had

been a good servant according to his lights. After all, he was

probably as trustworthy, and more so, than any man we could pick up in

a hurry down south--at least, everybody warned us that they were a set

of rascals there, of whom we were to beware. Finally, he was used to

us and we were used to him. So S`lam set out with our cavalcade, and

we proposed to keep him while we were at Tangier, take him by boat to

Mogador, and after our march was over return him to Tetuan. But, while

"man proposes----"

I was sorry for Tahara. She was left behind with her old enemy--S`lam's

mother. He left the mother money, but Tahara not one flus. He said, too,

that when he came back from Morocco City he should go straight off to the

Riff and get work there; and Tahara would be left again. Such is the

custom of the country: the husband may go off for a year, at intervals

returning to his wife, whom he leaves generally under some sort of

supervision. So poor little Tahara, who had no voice in her marriage, but

had wept all the way to Tetuan under the escort of her bridegroom and

brother, was left penniless in the old mother's clutches. She had no

relatives near to help her, otherwise I have no doubt that she would have

got a divorce. We could only ask Z---- to keep an eye on her, for

interference in the Moorish domestic hearth on the part of a European

would be a fool's work indeed.

It was March 19 when we began to wander once more, having handed the keys

of Jinan Dolero back to its owner and cleared out the little white house.

Unfortunately we pitched on the _Aid-el-Kebeer_ (the Great Feast),

starting the very day before it was due; and, in consequence of the

Mohammedan-World being upside-down with joyful anticipation, could get no

good mules, nor induce any one but a Jew to leave Tetuan at such a time.

S`lam looked forward to feasting with his brother at Tangier, and started

off with a good grace. A more serious miss than either Moorish servants

or reliable mounts was perhaps a tent. There was none to be had in Tetuan

at just that time, and a night had to be passed upon the way. However,

there was no help for it: we set off as we were, and arrived towards

sunset at the half-way caravanserai, the little white-walled fondâk on

the top of the hills, where we passed such a windy night, on our way over

from Tangier in December, under canvas.

It was a good ride, and our mules travelled badly: saddles and bridles

were tumbling to pieces too. For the last mile or so we both walked and

sent the baggage on ahead. From a bend round the crest of a hill we said

farewell to an uneven white streak set at the foot of the distant

hills--Tetuan--and saw it no more. The fondâk was in front of us, four

lonely walls exposed to every change of weather, and no life stirring

outside. We walked through the arched gateway into the square, which is

surrounded with Norman arches, and found a company of mules and donkeys,

of owners and drivers, taking shelter for the night: our own baggage

animals were already hobbled in a line in front of the arches, under

which the muleteers sit, and drink, and smoke, and sleep the hours away,

till the first streak of dawn.

We scrambled up an uneven stone staircase at the corner of the square,

and investigated the two little rooms at the disposal of travellers. One

look: there were suggestions of the insect world in both. We recrossed

the thresholds and sought further: the flat white roof above the arches

round the square, if windswept, was too airy to be anything but fresh and

wholesome,--it should meet all our demands. Here then, out in the open,

under the sky, our two beds were arranged, in the lee of a few yards of

parapet which had been built to shelter the west corner of the roof.

S`lam had a small pan of charcoal also up on the roof in our corner, over

which to get something hot for us to eat; and as soon as the odd little

meal was finished we turned in.

The precipitous twilight had shadowed down sufficiently to undress in

more or less privacy even upon a housetop; over our beds we spread a thin

woollen carpet to keep off the dew; the moon, which was beginning its

last quarter, faced us full, in a sky picked out with a few stars,

against which the dark outline of the hills was cut clear; there was

hardly a fleck of cloud in that best roof under which a man can sleep.

[Illustration: A BREEZY CAMPING-GROUND ON A ROOF-TOP.

[_To face p. 254._]

Below, down in the square, the picketed mules stamped and munched barley;

the muleteers' voices, back under the arches in the colonnade, arose and

fell, round a fire where green tea was brewing and much kif was in course

of being smoked; occasionally an owl hooted. Waking from time to time,

the moon was always staring down (I shall never forget that moon); but

at each interval it had moved farther round overhead. At last it sank

behind the field of vision, and up "in that inverted bowl we call the

sky" the remote and passionless stars had it all to themselves.

About half-past three in the morning we were awakened suddenly by the

patter of rain on our faces, great single drops, which quickened into a

hurrying shower; while gusts of wind from the south-west rose and swept

round the corner of the low parapet against which we had put the heads of

the beds. One glance showed that the sky was overcast; it was very dark,

most of the stars were hidden, and there was an ominous sound of rain in

the wind. The fondâk is notably a wet resting-place, for it lies on the

top of the watershed which divides the plains of Tetuan and Tangier, and

it draws the clouds like a magnet.

One of us put up a sun-umbrella, which had been useful on the hot ride

the day before; it kept an end of one bed more or less dry, and

fortunately the shower did not last long, while underneath warm bedding

it was possible to keep dry for a time. The wind rose, however, and

forced itself in at every fold of the bedclothes. We had carefully

arranged all our kit under the parapet close to the beds, partly to

prevent its being stolen, which sometimes happens if left out of the

owner's reach, partly to prevent its rolling or blowing off the

unprotected edge of the roof.

The sunset of the night before had not foretold wind; but wind there

began rapidly to be, and by-and-by the lid of one of our cooking-pots

bowled along the roof, fell over the edge, and rattled on the stones in

the square below: a cloth belonging to the cuisine took flight next over

the outer wall, and was seen no more. We lay speculating on what might

follow. Then another shower began; but the clouds were lifting a little,

and it was short if it was sharp; while underneath the blankets there

was not much to complain of.

At four o'clock a sound of life began down below; the muleteers were all

up and stirring in the square. Lights were lit, for since the moon and

stars had been obscured, the night had turned from brilliant light into

one of shadows and blackness. Was there to be more rain? Nothing else

mattered. In this fine interval--for the last shower was stopping--it

seemed wise to get up and dress and have our bedding rolled together:

neither of us was going to move into the rooms. Certainly dressing was a

chilly opportunity. The evening before had been warm; but the rain

freshened the air, and the wind made it still more brisk. It was darker

than ever--too windy to have kept a light going; and clothes, discovered

with some difficulty in the shadows in hiding-places under rugs and

pillows where they had been stowed the evening before to escape the dew,

were hurried into in the dark anyhow and any way, half blown inside-out

in the wind.

At half-past four S`lam came up on to the roof-top with a light (which

was promptly extinguished) and a pail of cold fresh water, in which we

had an acceptable wash. He rolled up our bedding, and brought an

earthenware pan of burning charcoal, which was stowed away in a corner of

the stone stairway out of the wind, and on which the kettle soon began to

boil. At this point two remaining stars were put out by the advancing

dawn--a wan and shivering dawn. Sitting in the lee of the parapet, five

o'clock saw us ready, and supplied with hot tea and eggs. Not long after,

the rain-clouds blew over and the day broke clear.

Meanwhile, the muleteers had loaded up and vanished with the first streak

of daylight, in order to be in Tetuan in time for the great feast that

day; the inner square of the caravanserai was deserted; our own five

mules were all that was left. It was not a long business loading them:

the last rope was knotted, and the muleteers drove them off. We followed,

riding out under the gateway, whereon is written in Arabic a sentence to

the effect that Mulai Abdurrahman built the fondâk in 1256, according to

Mohammedan reckoning of time.

The sky was grey and menacing: too many of the little single clouds

called "wet dogs" drifted across it. Having started at half-past five,

not till three o'clock that afternoon did we reach Tangier; halting once

on the march, at ten o'clock, and that only for half an hour for lunch. A

heavy storm cut that halt short, for the rest of the day the "wet dogs"

were true to themselves, and we were deluged. Vivid lightning flashed and

cracking peals of thunder rolled over the plain; it was one of those

March days which make March no month for camping out in Northern Morocco.

Added to that, the track was in a shocking state--up to the girths in mud

and water and clay of a sticky and treacherous nature. The mules slipped

back at every step. We had many small rivulets to cross, and were obliged

to make great detours in order to circumvent them at all. Even then our

baggage was in the greatest peril, for the mules could barely keep their

feet; and once down in some of the deepest quagmires, there would have

been the utmost difficulty in getting them up again, or in rescuing our

unfortunate kit. And the rain came through everything, bedding and all

being fairly drenched. The mules which carried the baggage were of course

much the best of our beasts: R.'s and my mounts were indeed sorry for

themselves. The last hour was the darkest, during which R.'s mule fell

down for the sixth or seventh time--it was slippery and rough--and we

had the worst piece of country of all to cross, where we found one

unfortunate mule bogged in a sort of mud stream. Though a soaking does

not greatly signify when dry clothes and a roof lie at the journey's end,

nine hours at a foot's pace, through mud and water, wet and weary, will

take the heart out of most people. We tailed into Tangier, a dilapidated,

worn string of bedraggled vagrants, and rode to the Continental. An hour

later, clean and dry, in comfortable chairs, with hot coffee, there was

content.

Meanwhile, S`lam was not at all fulfilling our expectations; and since we

left the fondâk, far from distinguishing himself on the march, he failed

over and over again to rise to the occasion, excellent servant though he

had been in the garden-house near his own city. While the muleteers

walked all the way from Tetuan, driving the baggage-mules and urging on

our own, S`lam by arrangement rode on the top of a light load; and there

he sat, huddled up on the mule, wet and discontented, dawdling behind,

last of all, in the cavalcade, and anything but living up to his

character of soldier-servant and escort. By virtue of his late service in

the Algerian army and his rifle, he should have been admirably adapted to

fill that capacity; but less like a soldier, and more like a whimpering

dog, man never looked. Nor did he look after our things, allowing them to

be badly exposed to the rain, and taking no precautions for protecting

anything. In the face of condemnation he sulked.

Arrived at Tangier, nearly a week elapsed before a Hungarian boat put in,

by which we could sail for Mogador. S`lam was of course due daily at the

hotel to report himself and to execute orders. It was on one of these

occasions, upon the very morning before we were due to start for Mogador,

that he sprung upon us his intention of going straight back to Tetuan.

This announcement came rather like a bolt from the blue. We had

congratulated ourselves upon taking down into the interior a more or less

tried and faithful knave, where knaves of such a description were

proverbially scarce; and now our henchman announced that he had no longer

any wish or any intention of accompanying us to Morocco City.

The reasons or excuses which he gave were: first, that his wages were

insufficient; and, secondly, that "a courier" had been sent over to him

from Tetuan to tell him that his mother and his wife were quarrelling to

such a degree that Tahara had threatened to go back to her native Riff

country with her brother unless S`lam returned, and if she took that step

it would mean a divorce.

His wages had been already raised considerably, because the post he was

now to fill had more duties connected with it: they might have been

further increased. The other excuse may or may not have been true; but as

the two women had never done anything else except quarrel, the situation

was a foregone conclusion. The old mother may have been trying to poison

Tahara again. But would S`lam trouble to prevent that? Whatever his

motive, it was more than annoying that at the last moment he should throw

us over, leaving no time in which to look out for a new man, and a

reliable man, without whom, in a country as lawless as Morocco, it would

be a little rash, on the part of two people only, to travel.

But an unwilling servant is not to be endured. We gave S`lam his release,

stipulating only that he should return the dollars advanced him for his

wife and mother not many days before.

To this he protested that he had no money, not a peseta left--every coin

had either been spent at the feast or had been left at Tetuan.

In this case, the best plan would be, we said, for S`lam to take with him

a letter to the Consul at Tetuan explaining to him what had happened;

then as S`lam earned money, he might pay it into the Consul's hands for

us, until he had made good the sum advanced him. At this S`lam looked

blank: he said such a letter would mean _prison_ for him. We stood firm.

It was a rude shock to our faith when his hand found its way into the

leather bag at his side under his jellab, and he pulled out and threw on

the table two-thirds of the money which had been given him.

It was suggested that he should pay the whole sum.

No! he was penniless.

Then in that case he could sell the new jellab he had just bought.

He scoffed at the idea.

In reply to our order to come to the hotel the first thing the following

morning and see our baggage safely on board the steamer, he said that he

should leave Tangier at daybreak, and that it was quite impossible for

him to attend upon us, evidently expecting that his prepaid wages would

be amicably allowed to slide. But not in the face of this final

desertion. We reiterated the former course--a letter to the Consul at

Tetuan; again he pleaded abject poverty; but meeting only with

inclemency, once more plunged his hand into his bag, and pulled out

dollars amounting exactly to the sum which he had been advanced.

So much for his poverty. We were now, he explained, "quits." "All was

right between us." He "would not like to leave us with a trace of ill

feeling remaining between us and himself."

He _did_ leave us, however, with his tail fairly between his legs, and,

if he had been kicked out of the hotel, could not have gone forth more

sadly.

What motive he had for going back to Tetuan, or what whim seized him in

Tangier, remained a mystery. Impulsive as a child, he had been at first

madly keen, so he said, to go with us to the world's end; then, as the

time approached, in the same ratio his ardour evaporated; until, finally,

he had no more desire left, and on the march over to Tangier grew more

indifferent and morose at every step. While we were in Tangier he was

like a fish out of water. And yet he had been once to Fez and to Morocco

City: he was a travelled man. Possibly he had a more remunerative billet

in view, or was homesick, or jealous about Tahara. After all, whatever

the reason, his line of conduct was only distinctly Moorish, and

characteristic of a race in which, as a whole, no wise man places great

reliance. A Moorish servant will not rob his European master: perquisites

are a _sine qua non_, of course. Probably his lies are no blacker than

those of European servants; but the Moor, in place of that quality of

faithfulness which can ennoble an English rascal, has a cold-blooded

current in his veins. His manners may be charming--he is a plausible

devil; but lean upon him, and he turns out to be as jerry-built as his

own crumbling whitewashed walls.

It is with somewhat of a feeling of banishment into the unknown, that the

passenger by the little coast-steamer takes his departure from Tangier,

and sees first its white houses and yellow sands, and last of all Spartel

lighthouse, disappear as the boat ploughs southwards. Once upon a time

Gibraltar had constituted in our minds the outposts, so to speak, of

civilization; but since we had spent three months in such an unexplored

spot as the Tetuan vale and mountains, without society of the

conventional type, or library, or church, or any other adjuncts, Tangier,

when we came back to it, appeared in the light of a Paris. And now

Tangier was again to be left behind; and on one of the little

coasting-steamers, which deliver cargo at ports on the way, we meant to

travel down to Mogador. To have marched the same distance would have

meant perhaps a month on the road, going by Fez and taking it easily;

therefore we saved much time by taking the steamer. Though by all report

it was not likely to be at all a comfortable journey, it could only last

four days at most; and few travellers but can stand four days'

discomfort.

We did not start without a few warnings and cautions from various

friends, who seemed inclined to think that we were doing an unprecedented

thing in thus setting off alone into the interior without even a reliable

servant, which since the desertion of S`lam was the case. That could not

be helped. We hoped for the best as regarded finding men in Mogador.

[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE WAY WE RODE IN MOROCCO.

[_To face p. 262._]

Sir Arthur Nicolson had provided us with letters of introduction to the

British Consul in Mogador, and to a Moor in Morocco City, where it is

unnecessary to say there are no representatives of the English

Government. I had written to him on the subject of getting up to Glaouia,

in the Atlas Mountains, and had received the following reply:--

"DEAR MISS SAVORY,--

"As the Court is away from Morocco City, I hardly think it would

be wise for you to attempt a visit to Glaouia. Matters are never

very stable when the seat of Government is away, and I do not

think the Government would be disposed to give you a permit at

present. There would, however, be no objection whatever to your

going to Morocco City, and I think you will find the journey

interesting.

"Yours very truly,

"A. NICOLSON."

This letter was a blow. But when we finally reached Morocco City we found

that the thing could be done--that we could get up to Glaouia either

under the protection of the English missionaries or with a certain Jewish

trader who lives in Morocco City. The fact of the matter is, that to

travel "officially," as it were, in Morocco is a fatal mistake. It means

a written permission from the Sultan, an army of followers, a commotion

wherever a halt is made, and a great deal of hospitality. The Sultan does

not encourage Europeans to travel out of the ordinary line of route, on

account of the superstitious and fanatical spirit of his people, which

would be roused to wrath against him, were he to countenance the invasion

of their sacred land by infidels. Consequently, when he gives a permit,

he writes upon the document to the effect that the Christian is committed

to the care of Kaid So-and-so, and Kaid So-and-so is to see that no ill

happens to him.

When the Christian traveller arrives at the district belonging to this

kaid, through which he wishes to pass, he goes to the castle and delivers

the permit. The kaid reads it, and knows what it means: the Sultan only

wishes the Christian to be kept to frequented roads. Therefore the

Christian is offered every hospitality, and the kaid almost weeps as he

explains that it is impossible for the traveller to proceed--the

tribesmen are dangerous, are in revolt along the line the Christian

wishes to go. The traveller says he will take his chance. His servants,

primed by the kaid, refuse to go with him on the score of the danger. If

he manages to get away with one trusty follower, the kaid sends soldiers

after them, fetches them back to the castle--to save their lives, he

says, and his own life, which would be forfeited if a hair of their heads

was injured. The Christian, after his rebellious conduct, may be forced

to return discomforted to the coast towns, or he may be allowed to march

on in another direction, keeping on the beaten track. Thus the Moorish

Government will politely frustrate enterprising spirit on the part of the

infidel. But if the traveller is content with other than a royal

progression through the country, if he will travel quietly and without

ostentation, dressed according to the habits of the people, and be

prepared to "rough it," the chances are, that he may get to places which

he could never have reached while impeded by a Government escort.

But the way above all others to travel in Morocco is to secure the help

of a missionary and to go with him. Medicine is the golden key which

opens every gate; and a Moor will do anything for a _tabiba_ (doctor),

which is what a missionary practically is to him. The missionary arrives

at a remote village, and the countryside flocks to him to have its teeth

pulled out, its sores doctored, its fevers cured; and if the tabiba

wishes to go on farther, by whatever path, who shall gainsay him, while

he carries life and health in his hands? He understands their dialect a

little, he dresses as they do, and he brings no overbearing servants to

eat up their substance. Nor is he a spy, but only some harmless fanatic,

some quaint Nazarene, who thinks to win heaven by thus walking the earth

and doing good.

Thus several missionaries have penetrated to places in Morocco, from

entering which, Europeans are debarred: they have not "advertised"

themselves nor written books upon what they have seen. But the thing has

been done, and not only by men. Women missionaries have been where no

Christian is supposed to be allowed. Indeed, it should be easier for

women, in one way, to travel in forbidden territory than men, because

their sex is not credited with the sense which could do harm; and the

idea of a woman spying, or thinking to exploit the country, discover

mines, and so on, would be absolutely laughable to a Moor. Probably

women, with a large stock of medicines and a knowledge of the country

dialect, could travel in the unknown "Beyond" with comparatively little

risk.

There is one other way for the Englishman to see something of the

less-known districts of Morocco, and that is to travel under the

protection of a holy Shar[=i]f. Shar[=i]fs are, like the Sultan,

descendants of Mohammed, and they possess the holy _baraka_--that is, the

birthright of the Shar[=i]fian line. They are little gods, and they have

immunity from the laws of God and man. Their advice is sought for and

followed by the ordinary country people on every question, and their

decision is invariably accepted as final. There is no such thing as an

aristocratic class or nobility in Morocco; and yet the Shar[=i]fs answer

in a way to the same idea, for they possess a religious authority which

sets them far above their countrymen, and constitutes them, in a sense,

lords over the people. Besides, they act greatly as mediums between the

secular governors and the tribes, and judge upon various matters. It is

possible for a holy Shar[=i]f to sin, but quite impossible for him to be

punished, the obvious argument being that "the fire of hell cannot touch

a saint in whose veins runs the blood of the holy Prophet."

The Shar[=i]fian families form an entire class by themselves. They are

fed and clothed and housed by a convenient system of religious taxation,

and large presents are made them, while after death their tombs become

objects of visit to all devout Mohammedans.

A holy Shar[=i]f generally rides a horse, and he dresses in white, with a

blue cloth cloak, or else a white woollen over-garment. He wears a pair

of yellow slippers, or perhaps riding-boots, called _temag_, buttoned all

up the back with green silk buttons, and embroidered down the side with

silk and silver thread. A scarlet fez and a white turban complete him.

Shar[=i]fs never shave under the chin, since the days when a certain

sultan was being shaved thus by a barber who had it in his mind to cut

the royal throat. But a little boy passing saw the evil design in the

barber's eye. With great presence of mind he rushed into the shop, crying

to the Sultan, "O Most Holy One! the Great Mosque has fallen down!" Both

sultan and barber leapt up and rushed out: the boy explained matters to

the sultan, and the barber was killed.

But neither Shar[=i]f nor missionary-doctor had we any hope of meeting at

Mogador, able and willing to travel into the Atlas Mountains with us. We

started with plenty of chances open in front, but with nothing certain

whereon to rely. Telegraph station and all such vanities were left behind

us at Tangier: letters could not reach us till we ourselves reached

Morocco City, ten or twelve days being the time they would take to arrive

there from Tangier. Our agents--Cook & Son--in the latter place, had

instructions to open all wires, and in an urgent case to forward to us by

a _rekass_ (a runner), who might do the distance in as short a time as

seven or eight days. A wire sent thus, by a rekass, might cost three or

four pounds, according to the time the man took: the faster he did the

journey, the more he should be paid.

In spite of its hotels Tangier does not possess a single shop where

English newspapers or books can be bought. Our literature had by this

time reached a low ebb; and on board the Hungarian boat, at a time when

one generally reads omnivorously because there is nothing else to do, we

had but a couple of standard books to fall back upon--a history of the

country was one, the other a volume of Lecky. The history was fairly

committed to heart before travelling days were done.

On the whole, when at last we got off in the little Hungarian steamer,

she did not leave much to be desired. For three days we had hung on at

the Continental Hotel, waiting for the hourly expected arrival of the

boat, beginning almost to despair of her ever coming in.

Finally, patience was rewarded, and one afternoon, with all our baggage,

we went on board. We had everything wanted for camping out except tents,

and these were to be hired at Mogador. A great wooden kitchen-box held

pots, pans, knives, etc., and a case contained potted meats, soups,

biscuits, and so forth.

R. and myself were the only women on board when we left Tangier: eight

men joined us at dinner that night, at one long table in the small

saloon, and we were said to fill the boat. She was very small, only

eighteen hundred tons, and there was not much room for walking about on

her; but we never went out of sight of the coast, and, sitting on a

couple of chairs, could see through the glasses whatever was going on on

the beach--which, I must add, was little enough, at a time when the

smallest incidents become of importance. The greater part of the _Arpad_

was given up to cargo. We landed green tea in quantities at Mazagan, and

black-wood, cane-seated chairs for the Jews and Spaniards living there,

as well as bales of goods and casks; but we took nothing on board, and

the _Arpad_ became more and more like an empty egg-shell, with a decided

inclination to roll, on the swell which invariably sets down that coast.

The captain, a small dark Hungarian, when we left Tangier, changed into a

thin tweed suit and straw hat: he did not understand English. There was

no stewardess; but the steward, who did all the waiting at table, spoke a

little German. One of our fellow-passengers was an Englishman, born in

Morocco, without any desire to leave it--his horizon Gibraltar: he was

Dutch Consul at Mazagan. Another man was a grain merchant in Mazagan. All

were interesting, and could tell us a great deal about the country.

Certainly the coast-line, as seen from the deck of the _Arpad_, was

monotonous, desolate, uninviting to a degree: a long low shore,

kh[=a]ki-coloured, treeless, without sign of life, did not raise in us

regrets that we had come by sea, especially when told that what we saw,

was a fairly correct sample of most of the country we should have ridden

through.

[Illustration: LIGHTERS LOADING.

[_To face p. 268._]

On the entire six hundred miles' length of coast south of Cape Spartel,

and down which we were steaming, there is not a single lighthouse, bell,

beacon, or buoy to mark a reef or shoal, nor is there any harbour, and no

steamer dares to lie close in-shore off a port at night. Therefore, as

there are several ports at which cargo has generally to be landed or

taken on board, steamers go on the line of steaming all night, and lying

outside a port in the daytime, while boats carry cargo between them and

the shore. Rabat, Casablanca, Mazagan--we stopped at them all, and got

accustomed to the eternal clank of the crane hoisting bales in and out

of the boats; to rolling on to the backs and down into the troughs of

the Atlantic combers.

Finally, we reached Mogador early on the morning of Good Friday, 1902,

and said good-bye to the uneasy _Arpad_ and its primitive _ménage_

without regret: irregular, white-walled Mogador, set in its rock-locked

harbour, lay in front of us. It was the hot south--there was no doubt

about that. The Riviera is called "the sunny south," and Tangier is

warmer than the Riviera; but penetrate inland into Africa, go down as far

as Mogador, and it is another thing altogether. Here there is no _trace_

of Europe, but a great sense of being far away in letter and spirit from

England--farther away than Bombay, and many another place, which

out-distances it in miles again and again.

We saw Mogador first in a grey light: heavy thunder-clouds hung above;

dim and visionary hills lay behind; a regiment of camels paraded the wet

sands in front, and lay in the sun underneath the battlemented walls;

black flags floated from the mosque-tops, for it was the Mussulman

Sunday. For the rest Mogador is a city of sea and sand--sand, sand, and

yet more sand: it takes two hours' riding to get to anything else except

sand.

With the grey waves washing round two sides of it, and two sides blown

and sanded by desert wastes, white-walled Mogador has a somewhat saddened

aspect, as of lifeless bleached bones, apart from the fact that it is so

far removed from the outer world.

And infinitely remote, it certainly is. A telegram takes about a

fortnight to reach England; so that an answer by wire to a wire can be

expected in about a month. A letter sent by a special courier to Tangier

takes eight days--a distance of four hundred miles: by this means a wire

could be sent to England in nine days. The steamers to Mogador are most

irregular, because, in view of there being no safe anchorage, a boat will

not put in in bad weather. Cargo, passengers, and mails are often and

often enough not landed at all, and the inhabitants of the city see but

the stern of the vanished steamer with all their letters on board, not to

return perhaps for a week. When the English Consul married, and his

furniture was sent out from England, the _Forward_ boat, which brought

it, came in sight of Mogador, and, being a rough day, went off to Madeira

and on its round by the Canary Isles, back to London again, without

touching at the sad white city at all. In this way things are apt to be

lost: it has happened with passengers.

A rowing-boat landed us on green seaweedy rocks, and we walked up the old

shell-encrusted water-stairs, and under the arch of the Water-port Gate,

above which is carved in Arabic, "The glorious King, my lord Mohammed,

ordered the building of this gate by his servant Hamed, son of Hammoo,

1184."

Once on a time, Agadir, a city on the coast, much farther south, was the

great port and commercial centre of Southern Morocco; but it was far

removed from the Sultan's grasp, the tax-gatherer could pursue the even

tenor of his ways without interruption, and the kaid afford to be

dictatorial and troublesome. Then the heavy hand fell, and the Sultan's

armies closed the seaport, offering its throng of prosperous merchants

the alternative of going to prison or of taking up their abode in

Mogador. This they did, and Mogador arose; while to work the lighters

(the cargo-boats), and to generally serve the merchants, a company of

Berbers was transported with them from the Sus and Agadir to the new

seaport.

Beyond the Water-port Gate we met a line of heavily laden camels, with a

company of athletic Berber drivers from the Sus, in quaint long tunics of

butcher-blue, and lank black hair: many of the men veiled themselves;

they all looked as wild as hawks, different from any type hitherto seen.

The familiar Hebrew broker, in dark blue or black gabardine and greasy

skull-cap, was strongly _en evidence_; while as to the state of the dogs

we met, of them must the Moorish proverb be written, "If fasting be a

title to Paradise, let the dog walk in first."

Our baggage had all to pass through the Customs House inside the

Water-port Gate; and there we walked, through great white-walled

courtyards, whose vistas, of arch beyond arch, suggested Temple courts.

Donkeys laden with skins were hurrying across them. Now and then a train

of camels swung along, carrying gum or wax or argan oil or almonds. In a

good almond year as many as a thousand camels have sometimes come into

Mogador in one day. The Customs House officer was at breakfast, and we

awaited his coming by our baggage. At last there was a stir among the

many hands who had carried our things up from the boat, and the most

solemn and dignified individual conceivable slowly sailed upon the scene,

way being made for his flowing robes, which were white as a sheet of best

glazed "cream-laid" before the pen marks it. I handed him our pass-paper

from the Customs House officer at Tangier, feeling like a humble subject

laying a petition before a monarch: he slowly unfolded it, and more

slowly searched for and produced a pair of spectacles in a silver case.

Lastly, having read the document and reviewed our pile, he "passed" it

with an impressive wave of his hand. He then took a seat, a Moor minion

on each side: we filed solemnly past him, shaking him by the hand. A

new-born infant has not such a guileless face as that bland Arab.

We took up quarters in the Suera Hotel, managed by a capable Scotchwoman

and her husband, who had once farmed on the veldt. Early next day I rode

to Palm-tree House on a little horse belonging to the hotel: out by the

Beach Gate, we cantered along the sands close to the sea, crossed the

river, left the patron saint-house of Mogador on our left hand, bore

upwards across the sandy dunes, and struck inland over hard calcareous

rock, where, in the teeth of the wind, the sand never lies. It was

blowing, that day, a hot desert wind, which in a naturally hot place only

makes one the hotter: with the wind, came a good deal of fine sand, on a

really windy day making riding almost impossible.

Palm-tree House is a hotel four miles south-east of Mogador, in the

loneliest of situations, with the advantage of a view and an open, wild

country all round: it has none of the drawbacks of the city; it is

breezy, wild, and bare. Having reached the top of the dunes, we struck

off in more or less of a bee-line for Palm-tree House, still riding over

soft sand, where nothing but miles upon miles of _r`tam_ (white broom)

grew, lovely when in flower, of which we were destined to see almost more

than enough before we left Southern Morocco.

The horses ploughed their way through the white track; two or three

butterflies hovered about the r`tam; chameleons scuttled occasionally

over the path; a tortoise crept along. There were not a few locusts about

either, looking like handsome little dragon-flies on the wing.

A last canter along one of the rough rides through the scrub led us up to

the house, planted well on a rising sand-hill, a view of the sea in

front, the hills behind.

There are no palm-trees, and there is no garden, nor is there any water,

I was told, on the spot; but for all that, Palm-tree House might have

been a satisfactory lodge wherein to put up. The stunted bush and the

sand fringed the very walls. It had the country to itself, and there was

nothing _but_ itself which could spoil that country. It was cool and airy

and oddly quiet. Inside, tiles and open patios and big panelled rooms

gave all that could be desired: outside, there was an impression of

simplicity and freedom.

The stables were a great point, and the bobbery pack, which hunt pig for

five months all through the winter, accounted in one season for something

like nineteen full-grown boar, ten tuskers, and nine sows.

Palm-tree House belonged for more than twenty years to a British

merchant, who simply provided accommodation for any sportsman liking to

come out and put up for a week or so outside Mogador: it has still the

air of a shooting-box. The host, in breeches and gaiters and a great felt

wideawake, rode up while we were there, and offered us every

hospitality--a tall wiry man, with good hands and seat.

Had time been of no object, we should have moved on into Palm-tree House.

It would be a spot to visit at any season, for the climate scarcely

varies all the year round: the difference between summer and winter is

not more than five degrees.

Back again in the city and strolling round it that same afternoon, the

conviction was borne in upon us that of all saddening spots Mogador was

possibly the saddest--that is, to the traveller, from an outside point of

view: residents may have another tale to tell. But without vegetation or

cultivation within sight, suggestive of life and change and labour, with

the monotonous roar of the grey breakers beating its seaward walls, and

wastes of blown white sand to landward, Mogador is the picture of a city

which has lost all heart, and settled down into grim apathy, without a

vestige of joy or activity outside its walls. The overcrowding of the

Jews in the Mellah is a shocking evil, already stamping the rising

generation with disease.

Earlier by three-quarters of an hour than Tetuan at the same time of

year, the city gates at Mogador were shut at six o'clock, and picnic

parties of Moorish or European traders were hurried back in broad

daylight. We met the basha gravely pacing the sands on a white mule with

scarlet trappings--of all stout officials, in a country where it is a sin

and a shame on the part of one in office to be thin, the stoutest. His

broad body overshadowed the big mule, and his two little legs might have

been a pair of ninepins below a vast cask draped in white.

To the south of Mogador lies first the Sus country and then Wadnoon,

dividing the Morocco which is partly known to Europeans, from the Sahara,

which nobody knows. The Sus may be said to be practically unknown, and it

is distinctly "forbidden" land, through which only two or three

travellers have ever passed--Oskar Lenz, Gatell, Gerhard Rohlfs, and

possibly a missionary; but they were all disguised and went in terror of

their lives; nor have they left satisfactory records of their

experiences.

[Illustration: AFTER RAIN IN MOGADOR.

[_To face p. 274._]

And yet the Sus is comparatively close to Mogador, with which it

trades; mules from the Sus were always in the Mogador market; camels were

coming in every week with wool, camels' hair, goat-skins, hides, beeswax,

a little gold dust, ostrich feathers, gum-arabic, cattle, and all the

produce of the Sahara; while the Berbers from the Sus were interesting

above any Riffis or tribesmen with whom we had hitherto met.

Their country is supposed to contain rich mines: it is said to be fertile

and thickly populated; it is not loyal--on the contrary, it is

ill-affected to its liege lord, the Sultan; it is fanatical to a degree,

and largely swayed by a form of government best expressed by its

title--Council of Forty. In return for their own goods the Berbers from

the Sus carry back into their country all sorts of Manchester goods,

powder, tea, sugar, cheap German cutlery, and the like.

These same Berbers, of unknown origin, were, so the Kor[=a]n tells us,

packed up by King David, in olden times, in sacks, and carried out of

Syria on camels, since he wished to see them no more. Arrived somewhere

near the Atlas Mountains, their leader called out in the Berber tongue

"Sus!" which means "Let down!" "Empty out!" So the exiles were turned out

of their sacks, and the country in which they settled is called Sus to

this day.

Wadnoon trades to a great extent with the Soudan, and Mogador receives an

immense amount of its ostrich feathers: slaves are the most important

article of commerce in Wadnoon, and Morocco is the chief market for this

traffic in humanity, the slaves being brought chiefly to Morocco City.

But if a fever lays hold of the traveller for penetrating into the

unknown Sus, what must be felt of the great Sahara, that waveless inland

sea of sand, with its eternal stretches of depressionless wastes

reaching on, past horizon after horizon? Perhaps an occasional oasis,

green as young corn; a well; a feathery date-palm; a melon-patch. But

rare are these things, and for the most part the Sahara is an endless

desert which few Europeans could cross and live. Its ancient lore, its

mystic traditions, give it a fascination all its own. Imagine the

ostrich-hunting on its borders; picture the natives riding their

unequalled breed of horses, the _wind-drinkers_, which carry their

masters a hundred miles a day, and which, ridden after the birds up-wind,

gradually tire them down, until they can be knocked on the head with a

bludgeon; the Arabs too, themselves, with the unforgettable manners

possessed by such as Abraham, and handed down from time immemorial; last

of all, Timbuctoo, the Queen of the Desert, the fabled home of the

voracious cassowary,--does not the picture imperiously summon the

traveller "over the hills and far away"? Very far away; for Timbuctoo is

twelve hundred miles from Mogador, and a journey there would mean at

least forty days across the Sahara, through a country belonging to

peoples in no way friendly towards "infidels," where oases are few and

far between.

Some day we may know the Sahara under other conditions, for a scheme was

started years ago with the intention of flooding the great desert by

means of a canal from the Atlantic Ocean, which should carry water on to

El Joof, an immense depression well below sea-level somewhere in the

centre. Thus, where all is now sand, would lie a vast sea: we should

"boat" to Timbuctoo. So far, however, the scheme has begun and ended in

words.

But though the great Sahara is desert pure and simple, it is a mistake

to imagine it devoid of life. Even as there has never yet been found a

collection of aborigines without its totem, neither are there any

extensive parts of the globe where life of some sort does not exist. The

Sahara is little known, chiefly because the oases in the centre are

occupied by intensely hostile and warlike tribes, whose animosity is

chiefly directed towards the French, whom they hate with a deadly hatred.

But the edges of the great desert have been visited, and on the northern

limits two animals are found--the addax antelope, and Loder's gazelle.

The wide-spread hoofs of the addax antelope enable it to travel over sand

at a great pace. It is a large and ungainly beast with spiral horns.

Probably it follows in the wake of the rains wherever they go; but what

happens to it in the dry season is unknown. Similarly with Loder's

gazelle: though more or less a desert animal, it is a mystery how it

remains alive through the long rainless months, in places apparently

without water, and on wastes of rolling, wind-drifted sand.

Of the natural inhabitants of desert country, the Sahara is by no means

devoid: sand-lizards, jumping-mice, sand-grouse, sand-vipers,

desert-larks, and even a family of snakes belonging to the boas, are to

be found. The kh[=a]ki-coloured sand-grouse are most difficult to see on

the yellow face of the country: the sand-rats and sand-moles all take on

the colour of their surroundings, and thus hide and protect themselves:

one and all exist in some marvellous manner where it would seem that

existence could only be miraculous. The skink is met with, beloved of the

Romans, who imported desert-skinks into Rome in Pliny's day, and held

them a valuable remedy for consumption, chopped up into a sort of white

wine: the trade was brisk in 1581. To-day the Arabs consider it a

remedy, and eat it as a food. It acts very much in the same way as do

flat-fish in the bottom of the sea, sinking itself under the sand,

allowing the sand to lie over its back and cover it, like a flounder,

only leaving its sharp eyes out of cover, and sometimes the spines on its

back.

For the maintenance of all this animal life, it is quite possible that

rain may occasionally fall even upon desert, and disappear with

lightning-like rapidity; for on the borders of certain African deserts in

the north a phenomenon very much like the description of the Mosaic manna

occurs when the plains have been wetted with rain. The surface is seen

next morning "covered with little white globes like tiny puff-balls, the

size of a bird-cherry, or spilled globes of some large grain." It is

gathered and eaten by the Arabs, but, like an unsubstantial fungus

growth, melts or rots in the course of a day or two.

Enough of the Sahara. Meeting with men in Mogador who had come straight

from the mysterious country, veiled, untamed, and remotely removed from

European touch, our interest was naturally kindled in that Back of the

Beyond. There is no need for the traveller to penetrate so far as either

the Sahara or the Sus. Long before he reaches them, and in order to do

so, he must cross the Atlas Mountains by one of the wild passes, and the

great chain of the Atlas is still unsurveyed and practically unknown. Sir

Joseph Hooker and Dr. Ball explored a part of its valleys many years ago:

no one since then has made a satisfactory attempt to learn details. The

chain is supposed to be about thirteen thousand feet high, and it is

about twenty miles from Morocco City; but the character of the lawless

chiefs and tribesmen who inhabit it, so far prevents intrusion and

exploration.

In a few days we were to see it--the mighty, solitary wall, on which the

ancients believed the world to rest, described by Pliny, rising abruptly

out of the plains, snowclad, one of the world's finest sights: the Atlas

had largely brought us to Southern Morocco.

CHAPTER X

ON THE MARCH ONCE MORE--BUYING MULES--A BAD ROAD--FIRST

CAMP--ARGAN-TREES--COOS-COOSOO--A TERRIBLE NIGHT--DOCTORING THE

KHAYLIFA--ROUGHING IT UNDER CANVAS.

CHAPTER X

And all this time you (at home) are drinking champagne (well,

most of it, anyway), and sleeping in soft beds with delicious

white sheets, and smoking Turkish cigarettes, and wearing clean

clothes, with nice stiff collars and shirt-cuffs, and having

great warm baths in marble bath-rooms and sweet-smelling soap . . .

and sitting side by side at table, first a man and then a

woman--the same old arrangement, I suppose--knives to the right

and forks to the left, as usual.

THE hot desert wind in Mogador showed no signs of changing: there was no

enlivening sun, and the sad white seaport could only charm in a morbid

manner: to be out under the skies, in the open, away from the city and

sealed houses and the _eyes_, was a thing to be sought after, and that

quickly. Southern Morocco is like the East in that it is all eyes. The

watchful East--it may be lazy, but nothing escapes its eyes. They gleam

between the folds of the veil; they look from out of a smooth face, mild

and yet as little to be read as the deep sea. And who knows what lies at

the bottom of those quiet pools?

There need be no waste of time in Morocco, even as there is no

convention: having decided to start--_start_. The 31st of March saw us

away, leaving Mogador with the intention of marching to _Marrakesh_,

which is the Moorish name for Morocco City, the southern capital of the

empire. In order to see more of the country we marched by a zigzag

route, crossing, but not following, the beaten track; thus we were once

or twice in villages where European women had not been seen: we met no

one, and we camped in odd, out-of-the way corners, objects of huge

interest to the wandering Arabs with whom we fell in.

Mr. Maddon, the British Consul at Mogador, to whom we brought letters of

introduction from Sir Arthur Nicolson, helped us in several ways, and in

his turn provided us with letters to an Arab in Marrakesh. We managed to

buy two mules: one was from the Sus, with a backbone like a sword-fish

and every rib showing, but he was as hard as nails, and would pace along

all day without any trouble; the other was a lazy beast, fat and older;

but they both of them proved useful animals, answering our purpose for

the time being. We meant to sell, when we left the country: hiring is

expensive work. Of course it was "just a dear time to buy": it always is.

The Jew broker, through whom we bought the mules from the Susi to whom

they belonged, asked seven pounds ten for each of them, but came down to

six pounds fifteen. We sold them some weeks later for five guineas each:

hiring would have cost a great deal more. Ordinarily they are to be

bought for five pounds and less in Mogador. No Susi will trade direct

with a European, and every bargain goes through Israel's hands, which

means a big percentage pocketed by the Jew.

[Illustration: WHERE MANCHESTER GOODS ARE SOLD, MOGADOR.

[_To face p. 284._]

Our hotel-keeper, the Scotch lady, provided us with reliable servants,

one of whom turned out to be invaluable. Mulai Omar was, as his name

indicates, a saint by heredity. Algeria was his birthplace. He was

twenty-four years old; and having lived in a French possession, spoke

French, not like S`lam, but perfectly. He was a well-educated little

fellow, enterprising, energetic; interpreted Arabic and Shillah for

us; acted as cook, in which capacity he was first-rate; generally

organized the camp; and was our personal servant. Mulai Omar was quite a

man to know, and a friend to trust. He was unattractive-looking--small,

dark, and dirty; wore a red fez, a short black monkey-jacket, and

immense, full, white cotton drawers. Saïd, our second servant, intended

to look after the mules, was a lazy Arab, who acted the fine gentleman,

and was never without a cigarette in his mouth. He helped Omar more or

less, and was responsible for much loss of temper on our parts, before we

parted. Another saint by heredity, Mulai Ombach, looked after our camel,

which carried the heavy baggage. Our fourth and last man, Mohammed, drove

a donkey, nominally for the purpose of carrying provender for the mules

and camel, but which often as not bore either Mulai Ombach or Mohammed

himself. The two principal servants, Omar and Saïd, rode two mules, which

carried light loads as well.

We hired a couple of Moorish men's saddles for our own use, red-clothed,

high-peaked, and well stuffed; also two big tents--one for the servants,

one for ourselves. Our commissariat was not hard to manage, helped out

with stores we had brought from Tangier; for bearing in mind Napoleon's

truism that "the army marches on its stomach," we had laid in an ample

supply.

Eleven o'clock saw us finally under way on the morning of the 31st. We

had intended to start at nine; but any one who has ever travelled and

camped out knows the difficulty of getting away upon that first

morning--the final wrench between the servants and their old

surroundings, the dozen petty obstacles. In this case one of the mules

hired for baggage turned out to be in a wretched condition when it came

to the hotel, and another had to be found in its place--no easy matter.

The camel was started off at half-past ten with our beds, bedding,

cuisine necessaries, part of the tents, and chairs and table; but, to our

disgust, Mulai Ombach, its driver, stopped short at the bazaar, and there

we found them both when we rode through the city. They were hurried up,

and the whole party seen safely through the city gates; but once outside,

the camel was so slow that we left them behind, R. and myself jogging

ahead with Mulai Omar and Saïd, trusting that the heavy baggage would

catch us up at lunch-time. One more delay--outside the Jewish cemetery

was standing, waiting for us, the wife of Saïd: many tears were flowing,

and sobs to be heard under the haik. Saïd produced some dollars, which

were no doubt intended to last her during her husband's absence: he then

rode on without attempting a farewell, and we were really off at last.

For the first five miles we hugged the coast in a northerly direction,

keeping close to the sea: the tide was high; in one place, where we made

a short cut, resulting in rather a nasty bit of riding, we were actually

in the waves, slipping over black rock, with deep pools on each side. It

was a grey day, not hot, and the hard flat sands, across which we rode

for the most part, were excellent going.

The only wayfarers we met, tramped along behind camels. Untrustworthy

brutes these animals are, especially the bubbling ones, out of whose way

we most cautiously kept; for though a camel seldom bites, when he does it

is serious. He never forgets an injury. A man in Mogador ill-treated one

badly a few years ago: it went into the interior for a year, and came

back to Mogador, and met and knew the man at once, taking him by the

nape of the neck, as is its habit, and tearing the back of his skull off.

The sandy dunes on our right were covered with _r`tam_ (white broom),

slender, waving, silver-green stems, in seed just then. Only r`tam could

grow in such poor soil. When we turned inland we found ourselves amongst

dense undergrowth, a small forest, consisting chiefly of _tugga_ (a sort

of juniper), of myrtle, _sidra_ bushes, and other shrubs, intersected by

narrow paths, along one of which we paced in single file, the limestone

which crops up all over the country making our pace a slow one. It was

the middle of the day when we found ourselves in the thick of this

jungle. Omar pointed out a little sandy clearing, and in amongst the

bushes, out of earshot of the track, we halted for lunch. The mules had

their packs taken off, and rolled themselves in the sand. A carpet was

spread on a bank; and there, with the sea still to be seen behind us, the

thickets echoing with familiar blackbirds, and every space glowing with

thyme, iris, lavender, and other flowers, we spent the first of many lazy

hours of the sort. Alas! our camel was still behind us, and never turned

up: that was a wretched piece of _bundobust_. But long before we quitted

Morocco we vowed never to have a camel for baggage again.

Only half-an-hour's halt we allowed ourselves; then saddled up, and were

off again. Still through "jungle," and by a sandy path the trail led us,

blocked often by stones and rocks, truly one of those

. . . sad highways, left at large

To ruts and stones and lovely Nature's skill,

Who is no pavior.

The flowers became more interesting at every step; but there was little

time to get off and collect specimens, though the path was so narrow

that, riding along, pink climbing convolvulus and tall lavender could

easily be gathered off the bushes. For any unknown specimen some one

dismounted, and it was stowed away in an empty tin kettle for safety.

By-and-by we dropped down into a narrow valley, green and cultivated: a

lonely palm-tree or two stuck up--the "feather duster struck by

lightning" of Mark Twain. A fine crop of beans was growing on our right,

Indian corn and barley to the left: the land looked full of heart, rich,

and unlike even the Tetuan country. We came across a man or two working

in a dirty white tunic in the fields, and left behind some wretched huts

down by a spring. About this time we lost Omar's dog, which was to have

been our guard--a rather lame lurcher, which thought better of footing it

all the way to Marrakesh.

The country was full of magpies--not nearly so smart as our

Warwickshire mags, brownish about the tail, and with less white; yet

they could scarcely have been in bad plumage at that time of year. In

a narrow pathway we stood aside to let a camel pass: since we had left

the coast wayfarers had grown rare for the most part. The place at

which we had halted for lunch was El Faidar, within sight of one of

Morocco's countless little white saint-houses--Sidi Bousuktor. Now,

after a long climb over a ridge, we looked down from the top into a

valley--Ain-el-Hadger; and Omar pointed out in the distance the spot

he suggested we should camp at for the night. Descending the ridge was

the roughest piece of riding on the road to Marrakesh: the shale gave

way under the mules' feet; great rocks projected on the track. None of

us dismounted, however: Tetuan had hardened our hearts and accustomed

us to awkward corners, and the mules were clever. Slowly we slipped

and slid down into the most luxuriant green vale, set in the

scrub-covered hills, carpeted with fields of young corn, olive-trees,

gardens, fruit-trees, and flowers abundantly.

To the north, upon our left, lay the Iron Mountains, no very great

height, somewhere about two thousand feet, and famous for iron in the

days of the Romans and Carthaginians, who both probably worked them. Now

they are mined no more, and only known as the favourite quarters of wild

boar, signs of whose existence we saw for ourselves, in patches of ground

rooted and torn up.

We rode down through these fruitful acres as the sun was getting low:

here and there lay a little white farmer's house; birds were

everywhere--suddenly we heard a cuckoo, then a nightingale.

At a place where three little glens met we passed a tall look-out tower,

standing sentry over each one, from the top of which the Ain-el-Hadger

people could easily see an enemy coming. In England it would have been a

ruin: in Morocco it was in active use,--it is still "the Middle Ages" in

Morocco.