S.L. Bensusan - Morocco

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So we took our ease in the open patio, and the shareef's long fast was
broken, and the stars came to the aid of our lanterns, and when supper was
over I was well content to sit and smoke, while Salam, M'Barak, the
Maalem, and the shareef sat silent round the glowing charcoal, perhaps too
tired to talk. It was very pleasant to feel at home after two or three
weeks under canvas below Mediunah and along the southern road.

The Maalem rose at last, somewhat unsteadily after his debauch of kief. He
moved to where our provisions were stocked and took oil and bread from the
store. Then he sought the corner of the wall by the doorway and poured out
a little oil and scattered crumbs, repeating the performance at the far
end of the patio. This duty done, he bade Salam tell me that it was a
peace-offering to the souls of the departed who had inhabited this house
before we came to it. I apprehend they might have resented the presence of
the Infidel had they not been soothed by the Maalem's little attention. He
was ever a firm believer in djinoon, and exorcised them with unfailing
regularity. The abuse he heaped on Satan must have added largely to the
burden of sorrows under which we are assured the fallen angel carries out
his appointed work. He had been profuse in his prayers and curses when we
entered the barren pathway of the Little Hills behind the plains of
Hillreeli, and there were times when I had felt quite sorry for Satan.
Oblation offered to the house spirits, the Maalem asked for his money, the
half due at the journey's end, sober enough, despite the kief, to count
the dollars carefully, and make his farewell with courteous eloquence. I
parted with him with no little regret, and look forward with keen pleasure
to the day when I shall summon him once again from the bakehouse of
Djedida to bring his mules and guide me over the open road, perchance to
some destination more remote. I think he will come willingly, and that the
journey will be a happy one. The shareef drew the heavy bolt behind the
Maalem, and we sought our beds.

It was a brief night's rest. The voice of the mueddin, chanting the call
to prayer and the Shehad,[20] roused me again, refreshed. The night was
passing; even as the sonorous voice of the unseen chanted his inspiring
"Allah Akbar," it was yielding place to the moments when "the
Wolf-tail[21] sweeps the paling east."

I looked out of my little room that opened on to the patio. The arch of
heaven was swept and garnished, and from "depths blown clear of cloud"
great stars were shining whitely. The breeze of early morning stirred,
penetrating our barred outer gates, and bringing a subtle fragrance from
the beflowered groves that lie beyond the city. It had a freshness that
demanded from one, in tones too seductive for denial, prompt action.
Moreover, we had been rising before daylight for some days past in order
that we might cover a respectable distance before the Enemy should begin
to blaze intolerably above our heads, commanding us to seek the shade of
some chance fig-tree or saint's tomb.

So I roused Salam, and together we drew the creaking bolts, bringing the
kaid to his feet with a jump. There was plenty of time for explanation,
because he always carried his gun, at best a harmless weapon, in the old
flannel case secured by half a dozen pieces of string, with knots that
defied haste. He warned us not to go out, since the djinoon were always
abroad in the streets before daylight; but, seeing our minds set, he
bolted the door upon us, as though to keep them from the Dar al Kasdir,
and probably returned to his slumbers.

[Illustration: A BLIND BEGGAR]

Beyond the house, in a faint glow that was already paling the stars, the
African city, well-nigh a thousand years old, assumed its most mysterious
aspect. The high walls on either side of the roads, innocent of casements
as of glass, seemed, in the uncertain light, to be tinted with violet amid
their dull grey. The silence was complete and weird. Never a cry from
man or beast removed the first impression that this was a city of the
dead. The entrances of the bazaars in the Kaisariyah, to which we turned,
were barred and bolted, their guardians sat motionless, covered in white
djellabas, that looked like shrouds. The city's seven gates were fast
closed, though doubtless there were long files of camels and market men
waiting patiently without. The great mansions of the wazeers and the
green-tiled palace of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz--Our Victorious Master the
Sultan--seemed unsubstantial as one of those cities that the mirage had
set before us in the heart of the R'hamna plains. Salam, the untutored man
from the far Riff country, felt the spell of the silent morning hour. It
was a primitive appeal, to which he responded instantly, moving quietly by
my side without a word.

"O my masters, give charity; Allah helps helpers!" A blind beggar, sitting
by the gate, like Bartimaeus of old, thrust his withered hand before me.
Lightly though we had walked, his keen ear had known the difference in
sound between the native slipper and the European boot. It had roused him
from his slumbers, and he had calculated the distance so nicely that the
hand, suddenly shot out, was well within reach of mine. Salam, my almoner,
gave him a handful of the copper money, called _floos_, of which a score
may be worth a penny, and he sank back in his uneasy seat with voluble
thanks, not to us, but to Allah the One, who had been pleased to move us
to work his will. To me no thanks were due. I was no more than Allah's
unworthy medium, condemned to burn in fires seven times heated, for
unbelief.

From their home on the flat house-tops two storks rose suddenly, as though
to herald the dawn; the sun became visible above the city's time-worn
walls, and turned their colouring from violet to gold. We heard the guards
drawing the bars of the gate that is called Bab al Khamees, and knew that
the daily life of Marrakesh had begun. The great birds might have given
the signal that woke the town to activity.

Straightway men and beasts made their way through the narrow cobbled
lanes. Sneering camels, so bulked out by their burdens that a
foot-passenger must shrink against the wall to avoid a bad bruising;
well-fed horses, carrying some early-rising Moor of rank on the top of
seven saddle-cloths; half-starved donkeys, all sores and bruises; one
encountered every variety of Moorish traffic here, and the thoroughfare,
that had been deserted a moment before, was soon thronged. In addition to
the Moors and Susi traders, there were many slaves, black as coal, brought
in times past from the Soudan. From garden and orchard beyond the city the
fruit and flowers and vegetables were being carried into their respective
markets, and as they passed the air grew suddenly fragrant with a scent
that was almost intoxicating. The garbage that lay strewn over the cobbles
had no more power to offend, and the fresh scents added in some queer
fashion of their own to the unreality of the whole scene.

To avoid the crush we turned to another quarter of the city, noting that
the gates of the bazaars were opened, and that only the chains were left
across the entrance. But the tiny shops, mere overgrown packing-cases,
were still locked up; the merchants, who are of higher rank than the
dealers in food-stuffs, seldom appear before the day is aired, and their
busiest hours are in the afternoon, when the auction is held. "Custom is
from Allah," they say, and, strong in this belief, they hold that time is
only valuable as leisure. And, God wot, they may well be wiser herein than
we are.

A demented countryman, respected as a saint by reason of his madness, a
thing of rags and tatters and woefully unkempt hair, a quite wild
creature, more than six feet high, and gaunt as a lightning-smitten pine,
came down the deserted bazaar of the brass-workers. He carried a long
staff in one hand, a bright tin bowl in the other. The sight of a European
heightened his usual frenzy--

Across his sea of mind
A thought came streaming like a blazing ship
Upon a mighty wind.

I saw the sinews stand out on the bare arm that gripped the staff, and his
bright eyes were soon fixed upon me. "You do not say words to him, sir,"
whispered Salam; "he do'n know what he do--he very holy man."

The madman spat on my shadow, and cursed profoundly, while his passion was
mastering him. I noted with interest in that uncomfortable moment the
clear signs of his epileptic tendencies, the twitching of the thumb that
grasped the stick, the rigidity of the body, the curious working of
certain facial muscles. I stood perfectly still, though my right hand
involuntarily sought the pocket of my coat where my revolver lay, the use
of which save in direst necessity had been a mad and wicked act; and then
two peace-loving Moors, whose blue selhams of fine Manchester cloth
proclaimed their wealth and station, came forward and drew the frenzied
creature away, very gently and persuasively. He, poor wretch, did not know
what was taking place, but moved helplessly to the door of the bazaar and
then fell, his fit upon him. I hurried on. Moors are kindly, as well as
respectful, to those afflicted of Allah.

We passed on our way to the Bab Dukala, the gate that opens out upon
Elhara, the leper quarter. There we caught our morning view of the forest
of date-palm that girdles the town. Moors say that in centuries long past
Marrakesh was besieged by the men of Tafilalt, who brought dates for food,
and cast the stones on the ground. The rain buried them, the Tensift
nourished them, and to-day they crowd round Ibn Tachfin's ruinous city,
'their feet in water and their heads in fire.' 'Tis an agreeable legend.

[Illustration: A WANDERING MINSTREL]

Market men, half naked and very lean, were coming in from Tamsloht and
Amsmiz, guiding their heavy-laden donkeys past the crumbling walls and the
steep valley that separates Elhara from the town. Some scores of lepers
had left their quarters, a few hiding terrible disfigurement under
great straw hats, others quite careless of their deplorable disease.
Beggars all, they were going on their daily journey to the shrine of Sidi
bel Abbas, patron of the destitute, to sit there beneath the zowia's ample
walls, hide their heads in their rags, and cry upon the passers to
remember them for the sake of the saint who had their welfare so much at
heart. And with the closing of the day they would be driven out of the
city, and back into walled Elhara, to such of the mud huts as they called
home. Long acquaintance with misery had made them careless of it. They
shuffled along as though they were going to work, but from my shaded
corner, where I could see without being seen, I noted no sign of converse
between them, and every face that could be studied was stamped with the
impress of unending misery.

The scene around us was exquisite. Far away one saw the snow-capped peaks
of the Atlas; hawks and swallows sailed to and from Elhara's walls; doves
were cooing in the orchards, bee-eaters flitted lightly amid the palms. I
found myself wondering if the lepers ever thought to contrast their lives
with their surroundings, and I trusted they did not. Some few, probably,
had not been lepers, but criminals, who preferred the horrid liberty of
Elhara to the chance of detection and the living death of the Hib Misbah.
Other beggars were not really lepers, but suffered from one or other of
the kindred diseases that waste Morocco. In Marrakesh the native doctors
are not on any terms with skilled diagnosis, and once a man ventures into
Elhara, he acquires a reputation for leprosy that serves his purpose. I
remember inquiring of a Moorish doctor the treatment of a certain native's
case. "Who shall arrest Allah's decree?" he began modestly. And he went on
to say that the best way to treat an open wound was to put powdered
sulphur upon it, and apply a light.[22] Horrible as this remedy seems, the
worthy doctor believed in it, and had sent many a True Believer
to--Paradise, I hope--by treating him on these lines. Meanwhile his
profound confidence in himself, together with his knowledge and free use
of the Koran, kept hostile criticism at bay.[23]

We turned back into the city, to see it in another aspect. The rapid rise
of the sun had called the poorer workers to their daily tasks; buyers were
congregating round the market stalls of the dealers in meat, bread,
vegetables, and fruit. With perpetual grace to Allah for his gift of
custom, the stall-keepers were parting with their wares at prices far
below anything that rules even in the coast towns of the Sultan's country.
The absence of my Lord Abd-el-Aziz and his court had tended to lower rates
considerably. It was hard to realise that, while food cost so little,
there were hundreds of men, women, and children within the city to whom
one good meal a day was something almost unknown. Yet this was certainly
the case.

Towering above the other buyers were the trusted slaves of the wazeers in
residence--tall negroes from the far South for the most part--hideous men,
whose black faces were made the more black by contrast with their white
robes. They moved with a certain sense of dignity and pride through the
ranks of the hungry freemen round them; clearly they were well contented
with their lot--a curious commentary upon the European notions of
slavery--based, to be sure, upon European methods in regard to it. The
whole formed a marvellous picture, and how the pink roses, the fresh,
green mint and thyme, the orange flowers and other blossoms, sweetened the
narrow ways, garbage-strewn under foot and roofed overhead with dried
leaves of the palm!

FOOTNOTES:

[17] "Moghreb-al-Acksa."

[18] Street cleaners are paid out of the proceeds of a tax derived from
the slaughter of cattle, and the tax is known to Moorish butchers by a
term signifying "_floos_ of the throat."

[19] _I.e._ The Tin House.

[20] Declaration of Faith.

[21] The false dawn.

[22] The Sultan Mulaz-Abd-el-Aziz was once treated for persistent headache
by a Moorish practitioner. The wise man's medicine exploded suddenly, and
His Majesty had a narrow escape. I do not know whether the practitioner
was equally fortunate.

[23] The doctors and magicians of Morocco have always been famous
throughout the East. Nearly all the medicine men of the _Thousand Nights
and a Night_ including the uncle of Aladdin, are from the Moghreb.

ROUND ABOUT MARRAKESH

[Illustration: THE ROOFS OF MARRAKESH]

CHAPTER VI

ROUND ABOUT MARRAKESH

"Speaking of thee comforts me, and thinking of thee makes me glad."

--_Raod el Kartas._

The charm of Marrakesh comes slowly to the traveller, but it stays with
him always, and colours his impressions of such other cities as may
attract his wandering footsteps. So soon as he has left the plains behind
on his way to the coast, the town's defects are relegated to the
background of the picture his memory paints. He forgets the dirty lanes
that serve for roads, the heaps of refuse at every corner, the pariah curs
that howled or snapped at his horse's heels when he rode abroad, the
roughness and discomfort of the accommodation, the poverty and disease
that everywhere went hand in hand around him.

But he remembers and always will remember the city in its picturesque
aspects. How can he forget Moorish hospitality, so lavishly exercised in
patios where the hands of architect and gardener meet--those delightful
gatherings of friends whose surroundings are recalled when he sees, even
in the world of the West--

Groups under the dreaming garden trees,
And the full moon, and the white evening star.

He will never forget the Kutubia tower flanking the mosque of the Library,
with its three glittering balls that are solid gold, if you care to
believe the Moors (and who should know better!), though the European
authorities declare they are but gilded copper. He will hear, across all
intervening sea and lands, the sonorous voices of the three blind mueddins
who call True Believers to prayer from the adjacent minarets. By the side
of the tower, that is a landmark almost from R'hamna's far corner to the
Atlas Mountains, Yusuf ibn Tachfin, who built Marrakesh, enjoys his long,
last sleep in a grave unnoticed and unhonoured by the crowds of men from
strange, far-off lands, who pass it every day. Yet, if the conqueror of
Fez and troubler of Spain could rise from nine centuries of rest, he would
find but little change in the city he set on the red plain in the shadow
of the mountains. The walls of his creation remain: even the broken bridge
over the river dates, men say, from his time, and certainly the faith and
works of the people have not altered greatly. Caravans still fetch and
carry from Fez in the north to Timbuctoo and the banks of the Niger, or
reach the Bab-er-rubb with gold and ivory and slaves from the eastern
oases, that France has almost sealed up. The saints' houses are there
still, though the old have yielded to the new. Storks are privileged, as
from earliest times, to build on the flat roofs of the city houses, and,
therefore, are still besought by amorous natives to carry love's greeting
to the women who take their airing on the house-tops in the afternoon.
Berber from the highlands; black man from the Draa; wiry, lean, enduring
trader from Tarudant and other cities of the Sus; patient frugal Saharowi
from the sea of sand,--no one of them has altered greatly since the days
of the renowned Yusuf. And who but he among the men who built great cities
in days before Saxon and Norman had met at Senlac, could look to find his
work so little scarred by time, or disguised by change? Twelve miles of
rampart surround the city still, if we include the walls that guard the
Sultan's maze garden, and seven of the many gates Ibn Tachfin knew are
swung open to the dawn of each day now.

After the Library mosque, with its commanding tower and modest yet
memorable tomb, the traveller remembers the Sultan's palace, white-walled,
green-tiled, vast, imposing; and the lesser mosque of Sidi bel Abbas, to
whom the beggars pray, for it is said of him that he knew God. The city's
hospital stands beside this good man's grave. And here one pays tribute
also to great Mulai Abd el Kader Ijjilalli, yet another saint whose name
is very piously invoked among the poor. The mosque by the Dukala gate is
worthy of note, and earns the salutation of all who come by way of R'hamna
to Marrakesh. The Kaisariyah lingers in the memory, and on hot days in the
plains, when shade is far to seek, one recalls a fine fountain with the
legend "drink and admire," where the water-carriers fill their goat-skins
and all beggars congregate during the hours of fire.

The Mellah, in which the town Jews live, is reached by way of the Olive
Garden. It is the dirtiest part of Marrakesh, and, all things considered,
the least interesting. The lanes that run between its high walls are full
of indescribable filth; comparison with them makes the streets of Madinah
and Kasbah almost clean. One result of the dirt is seen in the prevalence
of a very virulent ophthalmia, from which three out of four of the
Mellah's inhabitants seem to suffer, slightly or seriously. Few adults
appear to take exercise, unless they are called abroad to trade, and when
business is in a bad way the misery is very real indeed. A skilled workman
is pleased to earn the native equivalent of fourteenpence for a day's
labour, beginning at sunrise, and on this miserable pittance he can
support a wife and family. Low wages and poor living, added to centuries
of oppression, have made the Morocco Jew of the towns a pitiable creature;
but on the hills, particularly among the Atlas villages, the People of the
Book are healthy, athletic, and resourceful, able to use hands as well as
head, and the trusted intermediary between Berber hillman and town Moor.

[Illustration: A GATEWAY, MARRAKESH]

Being of the ancient race myself, I was received in several of the
show-houses of the Mellah--places whose splendid interiors were not at all
suggested by the squalid surroundings in which they were set. This is
typical to some extent of all houses in Morocco, even in the coast towns,
and greatly misleads the globe-trotter. There was a fine carving and
colouring in many rooms, but the European furniture was, for the most
part, wrongly used, and at best grotesquely out of place. Hygiene has
not passed within the Mellah's walls, but a certain amount of Western
tawdriness has. Patriarchal Jews of good stature and commanding presence
had their dignity hopelessly spoilt by the big blue spotted handkerchief
worn over the head and tied under the chin; Jewesses in rich apparel
seemed quite content with the fineness within their houses, and
indifferent to the mire of the streets.

I visited three synagogues, one in a private house. The approaches were in
every case disgusting, but the synagogues themselves were well kept, very
old, and decorated with rare and curious memorial lamps, kept alight for
the dead through the year of mourning. The benches were of wood, with
straw mats for cover; there was no place for women, and the seats
themselves seemed to be set down without attempt at arrangement. The
brasswork was old and fine, the scrolls of the Law were very ancient, but
there was no sign of wealth, and little decoration. In the courtyard of
the chief synagogue I found school-work in progress. Half a hundred
intelligent youngsters were repeating the master's words, just as
Mohammedan boys were doing in the Madinah, but even among these little
ones ophthalmia was playing havoc, and doubtless the disease would pass
from the unsound to the sound. Cleanliness would stamp out this trouble in
a very little time, and preserve healthy children from infection.
Unfortunately, the administration of this Mellah is exceedingly bad, and
there is no reason to believe that it will improve.

When the Elevated Court is at Marrakesh the demand for work helps the
Jewish quarter to thrive, but since the Sultan went to Fez the heads of
the Mellah seem to be reluctant to lay out even a few shillings daily to
have the place kept clean. There are no statistics to tell the price that
is paid in human life for this shocking neglect of the elementary
decencies, but it must be a heavy one.

Business premises seem clean enough, though the approach to them could
hardly be less inviting. You enter a big courtyard, and, if wise, remain
on your horse until well clear of the street. The courtyard is wide and
cared for, an enlarged edition of a patio, with big store-rooms on either
side and stabling or a granary. Here also is a bureau, in which the master
sits in receipt of custom, and deals in green tea that has come from India
via England, and white sugar in big loaves, and coffee and other
merchandise. He is buyer and seller at once, now dealing with a native who
wants tea, and now with an Atlas Jew who has an ouadad skin or a rug to
sell; now talking Shilha, the language of the Berbers, now the Moghrebbin
Arabic of the Moors, and again debased Spanish or Hebrew with his own
brethren. He has a watchful eye for all the developments that the day may
bring, and while attending to buyer or seller can take note of all his
servants are doing at the stores, and what is going out or coming in. Your
merchant of the better class has commercial relations with Manchester or
Liverpool; he has visited England and France; perhaps some olive-skinned,
black-eyed boy of his has been sent to an English school to get the wider
views of life and faith, and return to the Mellah to shock his father with
both, and to be shocked in turn by much in the home life that passed
uncriticised before. These things lead to domestic tragedies at times, and
yet neither son nor father is quite to blame.

The best class of Jew in the Mellah has ideas and ideals, but outside the
conduct of his business he lacks initiative. He believes most firmly in
the future of the Jewish race, the ultimate return to Palestine, the
advent of the Messiah. Immersed in these beliefs, he does not see dirt
collecting in the streets and killing little children with the diseases it
engenders. Gradually the grime settles on his faith too, and he loses
sight of everything save commercial ends and the observances that
orthodoxy demands. His, one fears, is a quite hopeless case. The attention
of philanthropy might well turn to the little ones, however. For their
sake some of the material benefits of modern knowledge should be brought
to Jewry in Marrakesh. Schools are excellent, but children cannot live by
school learning alone.

Going from the Mellah one morning I saw a strange sight. By the entrance
to the salted place there is a piece of bare ground stretching to the
wall. Here sundry young Jews in black djellabas sat at their ease, their
long hair curled over their ears, and black caps on their heads in place
of the handkerchiefs favoured by the elders of the community. One or two
women were coming from the Jewish market, their bright dresses and
uncovered faces a pleasing contrast to the white robes and featureless
aspect of the Moorish women. A little Moorish boy, seeing me regard them
with interest, remarked solemnly, "There go those who will never look upon
the face of God's prophet," and then a shareef, whose portion in Paradise
was of course reserved to him by reason of his high descent, rode into the
open ground from the Madinah. I regret to record the fact that the holy
man was drunk, whether upon haschisch or the strong waters of the infidel,
I know not, and to all outward seeming his holiness alone sufficed to keep
him on the back of the spirited horse he bestrode. He went very near to
upsetting a store of fresh vegetables belonging to a True Believer, and
then nearly crushed an old man against the wall. He raised his voice, but
not to pray, and the people round him were in sore perplexity. He was too
holy to remove by force and too drunk to persuade, so the crowd, realising
that he was divinely directed, raised a sudden shout. This served. The
hot-blooded Barb made a rush for the arcade leading to the Madinah and
carried the drunken saint with him, cursing at the top of his voice, but
sticking to his unwieldy saddle in manner that was admirable and truly
Moorish. If he had not been holy he would have been torn from his horse,
and, in native speech, would have "eaten the stick," for drunkenness is a
grave offence in orthodox Morocco.

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