The Passing of Morocco

by Frederick Ferdinand Moore

But why Abdul Aziz brought with him any of his wives is a question. Perhaps they had more to do with it than had he; and perhaps it was for political reasons. At any rate (I have it from the Englishman quoted before) his harem bores him; to the songs and dances of all his beauties he much prefers the conversation of a single European who can tell him how a field gun works, what it is that makes the French—or any other—war balloon rise, and explain to him the pictures in the French and English weeklies to which he subscribes. He has here a motor-boat, which he keeps high and dry in a room in the palace, and the German engineer who makes its wheel go round is a frequent companion.

It is said in Morocco that while other Sultans visited their wives all in turn, showing favouritism to none, the present youthful High Shereef has cut off all but half a score, and never sees the mass of them except en masse. And it is said, too—among the many current stories regarding his European tendencies—that for these ten ladies he has spent thousands of pounds on Paris gowns and Paris hats to dress them in and see what European women look like. It naturally suggests itself that the poor fellow is hopelessly puzzled, and on a point that would of course catch his scientific mind: while the women of Paris are apparently built in two parts and pivoted together, those of his own dominions are constructed the other way. According to the ideas of the Orient the waist should be the place of largest circumference.

CHAPTER XIV
GOD SAVE THE SULTAN!

The principal cause of the Moorish revolution, which threatens to terminate the reign of Abdul Aziz, was his tendency—up to a few months ago—to defy the religious prejudices which a long line of terrible predecessors had carefully nurtured in his people. The incident of the mosque of Mulai Idris at Fez was his culminating offence. To the uttermost corners of the Empire went the news that the young Sultan had defiled the most holy tomb of the country through causing to be taken by force from its sacred protection and murdered one of the Faithful who had slain a Christian dog. To the punishing wrath of the dishonoured saint and of the Almighty has been put down every calamity that has since befallen either the Sultan or the Empire; and the Moors will tell you that by this act has come the ruin of Morocco. It was in dramatic fashion that the feeling Driss, our man, stopped abruptly in the street when I mentioned the affair. We were nearing a picturesque little mosque with a leaning palm towering above it, and good old Driss was urging me to turn away and not to pass it—because he was a friend of mine and did not want me stoned. ‘Driss,’ said I, ‘they would not dare; the Sultan is here and they know that even a mosque won’t save them if they harm a European now.’ Driss stopped short and turned upon me. ‘You know that, Mr. Moore,’ he said with emphasis, ‘that about the Mulai Idris! That was the finish of Morocco!’

While with such breaches of the Moslem law Abdul Aziz has roused among the people a superstitious fear of consequences, he has also, by lesser defiances of recognised Moorish customs, sorely aggravated them. His many European toys—the billiard table, the costly photographic apparatus, the several bicycles, and the extravagant displays of fireworks—while harmless enough, were regarded by the Moors with no good grace. But worst of all these trivial things was, to the Moors, the young man’s evident lack of dignity. At times he would ride out alone and with Christians (who were his favourite companions), whereas the Sultans before him were hardly known to appear in public without the shade of the authoritative red umbrella.

An Englishman who knows Abdul Aziz and has for years advised him, tells me of a ride they took together accompanied only by their private servants, when the Court was formerly at Rabat, five years ago. The Sultan left the palace grounds with the hood of his jeleba drawn well down over his face, his servant likewise thoroughly covered in the garment that levels all Moors, men and women, to the same ghost-like appearance. Sultan and man met the Englishman outside the town walls at the ruins of Shella, a secluded place grown over with cactus bushes, and rode with him on into the country fifteen miles or more. On the way back they encountered a storm of rain, and drenched to the skin, their horses floundering in the slipping clay, they drew up at the back walls of the palace and tried to get an entrance by a gate always barred.

‘What shall we do?’ asked the Sultan.

‘Get your servant to climb the wall,’ said the Englishman.

‘No; you get yours,’ said Abdul Aziz, always contrary.

So the Englishman’s servant climbed the wall, dropped on the other side, and made his way to the palace, where he was promptly arrested and flogged for a lying thief, no one taking the trouble to go to see if his tale was true. After the Sultan and the Englishman had waited for some time, they rode round to another gate and entered. Then the unfortunate servant of the Christian was set free and given five dollars Hassani to heal his welted skin.