We went over a house belonging to a Jew millionaire, well built, lavishly decorated, as luxurious as money and Morocco would permit, evidently the pride of the whole family. Probably few of them went far outside the city walls: they were born to the Mellah. His success as a trader might have given the head of the house a country place in England, shady lawns, a carriage and pair to drive in: he preferred his own muck-heap. But I cannot conceive upon what he spent his money, other than the glorification of the inside of his house.
The Sultan's palace looked deserted: it is long, however, since he left it, and high time he was in Fez again; for Fez is more in touch with Europe—Fez means a shade more progression and civilization than life in Morocco City. Round the palace lay bales of goods which had been ordered by him and sent out from England—things such as waggons, motor-cars possibly, which are supposed so much to shock his narrow-minded subjects. They imagine that his Sharīfian Majesty wastes vast sums of money; whereas for a great monarch, the ruler of an empire, his private bills are probably absurdly small. He may have fireworks let off every night for ten minutes, horrifying Marrakesh; but the cost of his amusements, considering his position, must be curiously reasonable: so one considered, as one looked at the "parcels" awaiting his return to the capital, which lay in the immense courtyard outside his palace, where "powder play" is held, and where he receives foreign ambassadors, marching through the great gateway which leads to his own private rooms, over which is inscribed in Arabic an odd sentence; it reads literally, "What God wills: there is no power but God."
The days passed, and our time in Marrakesh drew to an end. In spite of all that had been told us in Tangier, of the difficulties and dangers which would attend an expedition into the Atlas Mountains, in spite of the verdict that we should not be given a permit, should be "stopped and not allowed to continue the journey," we found that, once upon the scene of action, there would have been little difficulty in getting at least as far as Glaouia, and in pushing up through one or two other passes.
The ride to Glaouia might take five or six days: there were several other places and a district or two which would have been worth visiting ten times over. The missionaries in Marrakesh were willing to make all arrangements: one of them would have gone with us, and under that escort it would have been possible to travel into the Atlas without risk. We should have gone "privately," without troubling any one, without formality; and in all probability no one would have troubled about us: that, after all, is the only way to travel satisfactorily in Morocco, not with half a dozen soldiers and a vast noise.
But for this year at any rate our travels in Morocco had reached their limit. R. was not strong enough to face more marching: the hot sun, long rides, and general "roughing it" had told upon her, and the responsibility of taking her on farther afield, into remote regions of uncertain climate, was too great.
The River Tensif Outside Marrakesh.
Photo by A. Cavilla, Tangier.
Early one morning we set forth upon our last march, back again to the coast, by the track which leads eventually to Mazagan, a seaport some distance farther north than Mogador. Here we hoped to pick up a steamer, and proceed, viâ Tangier, across to Gibraltar, where it would be possible to get a P. & O. boat and head for home.
The march to Mazagan was easy, and contained little incident. After leaving the plains of Marrakesh and its waving palm-trees, and seeing the tall Kutobea disappear at last, we found ourselves in the "Little Mountains," and along the rough road began to fall in continually with parties of tribesmen, Arab country people, all mounted, who had been commandeered to accompany the Sultan as far as Fez, and who were now coming back to their homes. Splendid bronzed fellows they were, dark brick-dust colour, wrapped in long white cloaks, with the hood of an under garment pulled down over their faces: sometimes a white cloth swathed their heads; their chins were hidden in soft folds which reached up to their hawk-eyes, veiling the face, like true sons of the desert, as a protection against sun and wind. Guns were slung across their shoulders: they wore long yellow riding-boots and spurs, with half a dozen saddle-cloths; and all rode horses, strong little beasts, well groomed, some hog-maned, but usually with great locks of hair sweeping over their necks, and their tails almost touching the ground behind. On grey or white countrybreds as a rule, they wound along the mountain path in single file, these tall white-cloaked horsemen, in nowise differing from their ancestors of a thousand years ago—Arabs of unbroken descent: as they emerged from between the wild hills it would have been hard to find a more picturesque sight.