A VERSAILLES UNDER ATLAS SNOWS
"LET us pay a visit to one more paradise," proposed Monsieur Delarue. "I shall take you to Menar."
As we wound through the palm-forest, we passed the tents of the Sahara nomads who come here to ply their trade of smiths and their less regular vocation of quacks and sorcerers. They are not much liked, these men in dark-blue bournouses and these unveiled and much-tattooed women who so readily display their arms and necks. Besides shoeing horses, these smiths bleed men, compound medicines and perform incantations which are connected with the ancient iron-magic, that was born when the caveman first saw in the fire a trickle of metal flowing from the stone and heard an unknown voice from somewhere whisper:
"This belongs to you; take it, be powerful through it and rule over everything!"
The mysterious Hephaestus, Pluto, Beelzebub, gods and spirits of smiths, fire and iron; a horseshoe, talisman of happiness; iron crowns of kings, iron crosses—all this was born of iron-magic and in all this the smith had a hand. He was respected but at the same time feared as a man having relations with unknown and evil sources of strength and with invisible and dangerous beings. In time contempt arose and became so pronounced that smiths among all the nations were obliged to form a separate caste, marrying only within it and passing down their art from one generation to another. Gradually it came about that they practiced as doctors, especially for bleeding and for cauterizing with hot irons the bites of snakes.
Here in the south of Morocco most of these natives of the Sahara or those camping along its borders are smiths and, as such, are despised as pariahs, with whom a Berber will not sit at table, nor can a Berber or Arab fight one of them without injury to the honor and traditions of his family. When a Berber wants to offend and insult some one, he flings at him:
"Haddad ben Haddad (You smith, son of a smith)!"
Leaving behind us the black tents of the smiths, the old crones and the younger damsels of the blazing desert, we were soon out upon and across the open plain beyond which lay the olive-groves of Menar. The neglect at once evident among the olives and other greenery made it plain that the place would not have been worth a visit after the excursion to Aguedal, were it not for a nook that was filled with romance, even though it struck a melancholy note. Over a low wall branches of old fruit-trees hung, and between them one could see a solitary pavilion, roofed in gleaming green tiles. As a native responded to the call of our siren and opened the gate for us, we entered and stopped in bewilderment at the sight of a large lake, framed in stone and reflecting the rays of the sun like a polished mirror. In its silence it seemed dead or sleeping. No fish broke the glassy surface; no birds touched it with their feathered breasts.
Memory once more assumed her sway over me and bore me on her magic carpet to the shores of Black Lake in Siberia, which lay before me in the blaze of the sun's bright shafts of light and was also framed in a white band—of evaporated salt. Standing before the silent and motionless sheen of the surface one is afraid the specter of forgetfulness or death may be imprisoned there. A dead silence holds everything around in its grip, the silence of death or of agony, of some dumb curse or of non-existence; and suddenly out of it a voice, from far away a long-drawn, uncanny call to nothingness, to the brink of a bottomless precipice. My eyes searched the distance for the creator of these sounds that had such power to travel far and waken fright. For a long time I could not find their source, but finally I made out, on the naked crag of a towering gray mountain, the dark silhouette of a wolf, which stood with raised head and straining neck, howling hopelessly, dully and in despair. …
"This is the palace pavilion," said Monsieur Delarue, snapping the train of my Siberian thoughts. The pavilion was small, of two stories, with colored glass windows and a broad terrace extending out and dominating the tragically silent lake. Near by, between the emeraldgreen pomegranate-trees with their reddish-golden fruit, two dark cypresses towered over all and emphasized the sepulchral character of the scene.
What occurred here? For whose solitary life was all this prepared? Who was it that dreamed, suffered, loved or hated here? The literature on the region is unsatisfactory, stating only that Menar already existed in the seventeenth century and that the pavilion was built by order of Sultan Abd er-Rahman. But this was no answer to my thoughts and queries, which found satisfaction only in the tale brought me through my accidental friendship with one Ali ben Hassan. How much of it had its foundation in fact and how much was the creation of the fancy of my genial friend I have no way of knowing; yet I found it so satisfying that I give it in the same spirit in which it came from him.
"No one knows the exact truth about Menar and this forsaken pavilion, but a legend exists among sad and lonely women, which runs thus: The Grand Vizier of the terrible Mulay Ismail brought him from France gifts from the powerful king, Louis XIV, and something which proved to be more dear and more cherished than all the rest. This was the picture of the King's daughter, a beautiful woman who had lost her husband. When Mulay Ismail saw the beauty of the princess, he sprang into the saddle and coursed the plains, where only bushes and trees knew him that day. Returning to the palace at evening, he summoned the vizier and commanded him:
"'To you and to you only will my words be spoken, and no other living man is to know them. You are to go to the capital of France and to ask for the hand of the princess, who is like unto the morning star, the messenger of Allah. Do you understand?'
"'You have spoken, oh my Lord!'
"When the Grand Vizier returned from France, he was immediately closeted with the sultan in the most secret room of the palace and reported:
"'The answer given to your request, conferring such honor upon France, was evasive.'
"'And what said the princess, when she heard my wishes?'
"'She raised to me her eyes, as beautiful as two stars, and looked at me for a long time in silence. Afterwards one of her ladies-in-waiting, laughing and alluring, came to me and whispered that the beautiful Princess Conti would consent to be your wife when you would erect for her in Maghreb a replica of one of the palaces at Versailles. I ordered a plan of this palace to be made and have brought it to my Lord.'
"'You are wise, faithful and devoted. Show it to me.'
"It was not many days thereafter before thousands of slaves were already digging out the lake, artisans were building the pavilion and other slaves bringing great trees from the Atlas, from the neighborhood of Meknes and Fez and from the forests of Mamora and Shiadma to plant about it. The sultan himself directed the work and, seeing it advancing quickly, he looked upon the picture of the beautiful woman from the kingly house of France and whispered:
"'Soon, it will be soon, thou Morning Star, upon whom the grace of Allah has fallen!'
"Then near Marrakesh grew up a corner of Versailles with a palace set among cool trees and pampered lawns, upon which the glaciers of the Atlas looked down with astonishment. A flock of swans dotted the lake with their white plumage, and scores of brightly dressed serving-folk ran everywhere.
"The Grand Vizier journeyed to Paris to conduct the Princess Conti back to the foot of the sky-challenging ranges of snow and the palace beside the lovely lake. Meanwhile the sultan awaited his would-be-bride in his Marrakesh palace, where he filled his impatient hours with watching fights between lions or tigers and the strongest of his slaves armed only with curved kumias. One night a messenger brought to the sultan a script from his Grand Vizier in which his representative made it known to him that the Princess Conti had deigned to mock the great monarch. For the first time in his life the white spot on the Sultan's cheek turned as black as a piece of coal. He gave a knife-thrust at the messenger who could dare to bring him such tidings, jumped on his horse and rode for the mountains. For five days no one saw, or at least lived to tell of having seen, Mulay Ismail, for he killed every man he met upon his way.
"When the vizier' arrived during these days of the sultan's absence, he immediately set out and finally found his master through discovering his horse outside a mountain cave. After they had talked long within the cavern's fastnesses, the sultan returned to Marrakesh and ordered two mourning cypresses planted near the pavilion on the bank of the lake as above a tomb, the tomb of his flouted love. He never went again to Menar, where the park was soon overrun by grass and weeds, the walls began to crumble and the palace ultimately fell in ruins, the swans flew away or died and men feared to enter the accursèd grounds.
"After the death of Mulay Ismail other sultans partly reconstructed Menar, Abd er-Rahman finishing the work. Yet over it all the two black cypresses ever stood out as mourners for the flouted love of the despot. Ah, sir, what would have happened if the anger and despair of the sultan had not been appeased by his Grand Vizier finding for him the beautiful and gentle Lalla Aziza, the Morning Sun of his life, who knew how to speak to the heart and soul of the cruel monarch as to an equal? The lake of Menar would not have held the blood that would have been shed; but with her coming the heart of the master knew appeasement and sometimes even mercy."
All this was told me and was firmly believed by the passionate young Ali ben Hassan, whom I accidentally met in Marrakesh and from whom I heard much more of the legend and life of the people.
It was the evening following our visit to Menar that Ali came to me and rather apologetically proposed a walk through the town.
"But do not think, please, that I seek to gain money from you, for I only want to show you some features of the city which you would otherwise never see."
With once more a native who spoke fluent French for a guide I felt fortunate and prepared for some interesting experiences. As we set out and soon lost ourselves in the narrow streets, the night was dark, in fact quite black, mild and gently caressing. Under occasional street lamps crowds of men sauntered in the idle pleasure of evening or strode past on some belated business, with the shoes of their mules or donkeys clattering on the stones or the padded feet of their camels mushing mysteriously along.
Crossing the Jemaa el-Fna, habitat of market vendors and snake-charmers, we penetrated the labyrinth of the narrow streets of the Medina and made our way to an inn where Ali informed me I could buy a bournous and babooshes to win me entrance where my European costume could not go. As soon as we had entered the court of the inn, Ali helped me to pick out a very good bournous of fine wool, a yellow robe such as is usually worn under the mantle, an old velvet belt and a mountaineer's knife, or rather poignard, with a long, straight blade. We ordered some coffee and grapes and feasted the owner of the inn, who was a bit worried by my transformation. As we passed out of the innkeeper's room into the court, no one paid any attention to me, for I had become but one drop in the sea of Berbers. With my European clothes entirely hidden by the yellow robe and the folds of the bournous and with the cowl thrown over my head, I was not too unlike the natives around us, inasmuch as I am naturally dark and had been burned nut-brown by the sun and wind during our trip from Oran.
Once in the court, Ali ordered a table and cushions and some coffee, which gave me the opportunity to look around and observe that this was not an ordinary fonduk with its incessant stream of camels and donkeys, their drivers and caravan leaders, beggars, petty merchants and smiths. Here it was otherwise, for instead of the ordinary crowd and bustle of a caravanserai we found the patrons of this fonduk sitting about in separate and quite distinct groups, eyeing one another with badly concealed hostility. Just near us sat a tall Berber, as thin and smoky-looking as a dried herring, who, to add dramatic interest to his part, stroked and fondled a cat with an adorable family of kittens that tumbled about in his lap, while a goat rubbed against his side. He was expounding something to the youths who surrounded him and who were apparently listening in rapt attention.
"Ja Sidi Heddi (In the name of Sidi Heddi)," frequently punctuated the words of the tall Berber, as he preached with very evident earnestness and conviction.
"He is a messenger of the Haddawa sect, who is preaching to win members for this fraternity. These Haddawas never marry, wander continually from place to place, are great collectors and carriers of news and gossip, smoke kif, a sort of hashish, are ardent lovers of cats and almost always have a goat as a companion in their travels. The sultans and Mahdis make use of these men for the rapid dissemination of news throughout the country, be it a proclamation of war, a revolt or a great pilgrimage to Mecca. This sect, founded by Sidi Heddi of the Beni Arus tribe, is held in contempt and dislike by the mullahs of the mosque … But see, a quarrel is brewing."
Over in another group an old man with a gray beard had risen to his feet and was gesticulating and delivering himself of a strong tirade against the heretical Berber. Ali bent close and whispered:
"He is the meokkhadem of another sect, the Derkawa, the most numerous and independent of all the religious fraternities and possessing not only their chapels in Morocco, where their members gather for prayer and deliberation, but also their mosques in Mecca and Medina."
One of the statements of my companion to the effect that the Haddawas were used for political purposes aroused my curiosity and my determination to burrow into the matter in detail. The opportunity to do this soon came to me and revealed some rather interesting facts. Shortly after the introduction of Islam into Morocco by the bloody Sidi Okba ben Nafi there sprang up some heretic sects, a fact which is easily explained by the ethnical differences in the tribes, by the presence of pagan, Jewish and Christian influences, by the acceptance and currency of various religious rituals like that of the Indian mystics and, especially, by the reverence felt for the local prophets and saints, who came to hold as high a place in the admiration and respect of the people as did Mahomet himself. Finally the whole population broke up into various fraternities and sects, having each its own zaouias and tombs of its revered saints and acknowledging the governmental power of its living Marabouts.
These fraternities have become very numerous. Some are persecuted, while others, such as the Tijania group, are liked and favored at the sultan's court. Some among them are very strange, as, for example, those founded by the patron saints of the camel-drivers and brick-kiln workers, or, as a further instance, by Sidi ou Musa, who is looked up to as the patron of jugglers, snake-charmers and dancers. The sultans have had many troubles with these various groups, which have often revolted and intrigued against the dynasty. On the other hand the monarchs have frequently made use of this disaccord between the sects, while the French authorities in Algeria and Morocco often feel the influence of these irregular religious organizations throughout the territories—currents which are often hostile and difficult to deal with. Though the name "fraternity" is in accepted use, I feel that they should rather be designated by the word "sect," as each of them believes basically in Islam and simply adds its own modifications or restrictions.
There in the court of the inn, as Ali whispered to me something of all this, the quarrel developed hot and violent, as religious quarrels are apt to do. The dispute became so passionate that the thin Haddawa began to jump and whirl around, until finally he raised his thin hand and shouted:
"Ama el-Hakk (I am Truth)!" by which words the tall fanatic declared himself to be God. A hush fell on the whole court, and after a moment the natives, covering their faces with their bournouses, pressed together in one corner of the courtyard and engaged in earnest deliberation.
"Let us go," whispered Ali, "for knives will soon be coming into play."
Not anxious to have to try the temper of my new blade so soon, I willingly left this fonduk where these men of warring sects had gathered by accident or intent.
At a short distance down the street Ali stopped and knocked at the door of a small inn, or rather a house of furnished rooms, if one agrees to accept as furniture a dirty carpet with two greasy cushions thrown in. Several rooms of this ilk opened on tire four sides of a paved court with a tree in the center of it. We made a round of these dens and saw that their inhabitants were for the most part sorcerers, who were busy making talismans of every description. Each had his whole laboratory in one of these small places, where herbs, the bark of different trees, henna, the gall of birds, bats and cats, the dried hearts and eyes of jackals, cats and cocks, wisps of hair, bones, feathers of birds, the skin of different animals, fragments of colored glass and stone filled corners and shelves in motley array.
One of these peculiar craftsmen wrote something on bits of skin or paper, wrapped and tied them round diminutive packets with a mysterious knot, whispered incantations and took care to see that his assistant, who was dumb, did not interrupt him in the course of turning out one of these precious bundles. When we were told the composition of some of these amulets, I recalled the strange recipes given by Pliny in his Natural History and I realized at once that nothing had changed in this realm since the time of the great scientist. I observed that the talismans and the signs inscribed upon them closely resembled those which I had seen in the "land of demons," Mongolia and Djungaria. I would not go so far as to say that they had come to Maghreb from the prairies and mountains of Asia, but I have a feeling that all these talismans are of the same extraction and are older than Mongolia and Berbers, that is, that they came from Assyria, India, Egypt or, perhaps, even from Atlantis.
In one of the rooms in this court of the sorcerers Ali showed me a great artist, who was seated on the floor near a little table, bending over a small, smoking oil-lamp and painting with diminutive brushes the script of holy verses from the Koran in a little parchment book, bound in beautiful leather, illuminating the text with the brilliant colors of the ancient Arabian manuscripts. He worked with enthusiasm and devotion, forgetting everything else, though the hour was late and an untouched bowl of quite cold kouskous stood at his side.
Returning to the street after our visit to this most unusual of factories, we were interrupted in our discussion of it by the sight of a fleeing native, running as though his life depended upon it. Nor was the figure wrong, for he was followed after a very short interval by a second, carrying a knife and pressing hard the pursuit, which continued in a grim, ominous silence until the trail took them from our sight.
"A blood-revenge," was all that Ali said, as he shrugged his shoulders.
I understood then more clearly the place of the poignard in an ordinary costume and returned to the hotel after midnight, feeling a little of the friendship and confidence which this element of my disguise instilled.