I am so bothered with work that I hate the sight of a pen and ink, even when writing to those I love.
It is getting very hot here. In the shade about 80° (Fahrenheit) at 2 p.m.; but in our rooms, in this thick-walled house, 71°. We are very comfortable.
The Sultan is most gracious and flattering, but he wants to keep me until Dons and Italian Mission have come and gone. If so, we shall be here for a month more. The French Minister went away pleased, and thanked me for aiding him in getting satisfactory answers.
Nothing is decided about the new Convention. I find the greatest opposition to any free trade suggestions; but I hammer away, though I tell them my preachings and warnings have the same effect as the efforts of a man who attempts to fill a bucket which has no bottom, or at least a hole in it.
The Sultan has assembled twenty-five thousand men to go to Sus to open ports, as we advised. Crops and all vegetation have failed there and in other Southern provinces. We passed through stunted crops dried up; no rain. It is most sad; for the Sultan, following my advice, had encouraged agriculture—and in the grand rich province of Shawía, through which we passed, we did not see two acres of land uncultivated. Wheat is far dearer than in England; horses and cattle are dying; misery everywhere. I am trying to dissuade the Sultan from going to Sus, and urging him to await another year and better harvest. His troops will desert him and a revolution will follow if he should be compelled to retreat. Nous verrons the effect of my advice. Everybody, high and low, is begging me to stop the expedition.
I have settled some affairs and others are in progress. This is an Augean stable, and I am tired of sweeping, as filth accumulates ten times faster than I can sweep. I tell the Sultan as much.
The Palace of Dar-Mulai-Ali, in which Sir John was lodged in 1882, has attached to it the following story.
Mulai Ali, the late owner, and uncle of Sultan Mulai Hassan, had been a great favourite of the people of Marákesh. A student, kind and just, he passed his time with the learned men of the city and in the great mosque, the Kutubía; the grounds of the mosque and the beautiful orchard belonging to Mulai Ali being separated only by a wall, some six feet high, having in it a door of communication.
One Friday, not many months before our arrival, the Sultan, his Court and the people of Marákesh were startled by hearing the ‘muddin’ cry from the minaret of the Kutubía—after the usual chant at midday of ‘God is great and Mohammed is his prophet,’—‘Long life to our Sultan Mulai Ali.’ The ‘muddin’ was seized and brought before the Sultan, and though put to the torture, all he would admit was, that God had inspired him and not man—and he was thrown into prison. Mulai Ali was also questioned by his royal nephew, but denied any knowledge of what had taken place—except that he had heard the cry. A few days after the occurrence Mulai Ali died suddenly—the Court said of apoplexy, but the people whispered poison, and the Sultan confiscated his property.
The house was really beautiful, with a great marble court and splashing fountain in the centre. The garden stood right under the shadow of the Kutubía tower, and therefore it was considered a special compliment that a Christian Envoy should be allowed to live there, though of course the door of communication between the mosque and Mulai Ali’s property was kept closed.