In Tetuan a wealthy man was building a house. It was at a standstill for want of plaster. The plaster had already come in on the steamer three times, and three times she had gone away without unloading it. The boat we had lost had made a fourth endeavour, and we learnt afterwards that Mr. N——'s ill-fated plaster had formed the cargo in the wave-washed boat of the evening before. Wet through, it set as hard as a stone in the sacks, and was useless: it lay like rocks on the beach. The bar at Martine has been tolerated for unknown ages: there is no reason to think that the Moor will rouse himself into making an effort and trying to facilitate the landing of passengers and cargo.
We left upon our right as we rode along, some hundreds of yards from the sea, the remains of what years upon years ago was a fort, built somewhat as forts will be built in the near future—with a view to concealment. The outside wall facing the Mediterranean was crescent-shaped, and but four feet high at most, the sand sloping up nearly to the top, and overgrown with vegetation, so that little or no fort showed at all. There were a few loop-holes, through which men could shoot from the inside lying down; there was a well in the centre of the fort, and a small bomb-proof building, with an arched roof many feet thick, where powder had been kept. A primitive construction, this harmless-looking little crescent facing the sea—once upon a time bristling with dare-devil Moors and their long guns.
Half-way to Tetuan we passed the cart, the first and last I saw in the place: its antediluvian body was set on two demented wheels, which rolled out of the upright like a tipsy sailor. The cart was Government property: five mules of different sizes, drew it up in a string from the sea to the city, through the quagmire, laden with flour and kerosene oil and stores of all descriptions, a couple of Moors toiling alongside.
R.'s "rat" was not too surefooted, and some of the floods were deep: once it came on its nose, but a second time sat down in a hole in the middle of a sheet of water, leaving nothing for its rider but to slip off and wade out, walking afterwards wherever the track allowed, to raise a little circulation underneath drenched clothes. A certain melancholy possessed the flats as well as our vexed selves that stormy and ill-fortuned morning. In places the tops of the grass-blades alone showed in a green watery waste, except where tall dark rushes made a heavier mass, or where the tufts of red-brown tangle lay in warm lines. The sea behind us was an angry purple; the Riff Mountains were steel-blue; the nearer hills now black, now gold in fitful sun-gleams, now crossed by a rainbow. Only in the north there was a great break, and a light like brass, behind Ape's Hill. Tradition has it that a subterranean passage leads thence underneath the Straits to the Rock of Gibraltar, and is used by the monkeys as a means of transit from Africa to Europe.
Our miserable beasts were several hours toiling up to Tetuan: the rain came on, and with the wind straight off the snows it was as cold a ride as I remember.
The next morning we went to the French Steamship Company's office for the purpose of recovering our passage money from the agent, who had insisted upon our buying tickets beforehand. This fat, greasy Tangier Jew, of no chin, and flabby, suet-pudding face, flatly refused in plausible French to return us our cash, gesticulating, contradicting himself, pretending to misunderstand us, all in the same breath, and needing nothing so much as a good kicking. Since the money would only go into his own pocket, we fought the point, and, after being most insolent, he was obliged to promise that if the French Consular Agent in Tetuan judged it right, he would hand over the money.
To the French Consular Agent we went: a Moor, whose office was in the French Post Office—a solemn, dignified man in a flowing blue jellab, over the same in white, both hoods drawn up over his head, showing a long olive face of the true Arab type, black eyes, black beard and moustache. He wore white socks and yellow slippers—a most courteous individual. On hearing our case, he simply sent for the Steamships Company Agent, and told him to hand over the money. We sat and waited with Mr. Bewicke, who was interpreting for us. Presently a step, and, much out of breath, the plausible Jew himself arrived, in a long great coat and billy-cock. He took a seat, and stated his case in Arabic to the French Consular Agent. There could have been no greater contrast than between the vulgar excited Israelite and the stately Mohammedan. The Moor sat with folded arms: occasionally he raised one hand to emphasize a quiet monosyllable. But alas for the steadfastness of his race! Perhaps he disliked being mixed up in the matter. At any rate, having said that the money was to be refunded, he allowed the Jew to argue the point, and, we gathered, was telling him finally that the whole question had better be referred to the company itself—a dim and visionary Steamships Company on the other side of the Mediterranean: it augured badly for us.
But at this point R. spoke in French, and reminded the Jew that he had promised to refund the money if the French Consul so judged, that the Consul had given judgment, and that if the Jew still refused he was no longer a man of his word. Strange to say, this quickened a dormant conscience underneath all the dishonesty, or it pricked the Jew's pride; at any rate, after a torrent of protestations, from his tight waistcoat-pocket he produced a pile of dollars, and handed them over to us. The money had taken an hour to draw: as far as actual value went it was not worth it.
The French Consular Agent, the dignified Moor, had to all intents and purposes failed us at the critical moment, since he would not exert his lawful authority over a French-protected Jew. But a Moor's faults may be summed up in one word—weak. As in the above instance, refusing to face circumstances or to follow one definite line of action to the end, he invariably acts on the principle of "going roundabout." In the course of time evasion has come to appear to him the best line to pursue, and he has sunk like a stone into a slough of compromise, a tarn of apathy.
Such weakness, incompatible with Moorish fanaticism and courage, is due probably to tyranny.
