VI. The Sultan at Home

IN 1912-1913 the modern palace which the latest of the abdicated Sultans, Mulai Hafid, has built himself at Tangier, and which covers several acres of ground with its immense blocks of buildings and its courtyards, was still rising from the level of the soil, and His Majesty was temporarily housed, with all his retinue, in the old Kasbah at the top of the town. It is a spacious, uncomfortable, out-of-date, and out-of-repair old castle, and it formed by no means a satisfactory place of residence, for it was not easy to install 168 people within its crumbling walls with any comfort or pleasure. When, too, it is taken into account that many of these 168 people were royal ladies with royal prerogatives as to their apartments — to say nothing of their pretensions to the " most favoured ladies' ' ' treatment — it can be realised that the solution was not easy. Even in the most luxurious of quarters the ladies of the palace are said to give considerable trouble, for jealousy is rife; and if one of them receives more attentions — personal or in presents — than the rest, there are often disturbing scenes — and rumour says that the " Arifas " — the elderly housekeepers charged with keeping order — not unseldom make use of the equivalent of the " birch rod " — a knotted cord.

The royal ladies completely filled all the available accommodation in the Kasbah, and the Sultan was able to reserve for his private use only a couple of very shabby rooms over the entrance. Here he would, apologetically, receive his guests until the purchase of the large garden in which he constructed his new palace furnished him with more convenient apartments; for there was a villa in the garden which had been erected by its former owner, a wealthy and respected Israelite, who had for years filled the post of Belgian Vice-Consul. This villa, which still exists, is an astounding example of extraordinary taste — a pseudo-moresque \ copy of a toy -house, over which plaster and paint of every colour had been poured in amazing profusion. Plaster lions guard its entrance, more like great diseased pug-dogs than the king of beasts, and to add to their attractions they were then painted all over with red spots. A scalloped archway crowned the front door, and the former owner had once pointed out to the writer that each of the thirty-two scallops was painted a different colour, which was quite evident. Inside, decoration had run riot in the wildest way. The ceilings dripped with plaster protuberances in reds and gold. Mouldings pursued their strange courses all over the parti-coloured walls, enclosing oddshaped panels painted with views of lakes and mountains and impossible fishing-boats — designed and executed by some local genius. Chandeliers of coloured glass hung suspended from the ceilings, and the windows were fitted with panes of green and purple. The Sultan was in ecstasies, and furnished these astounding apartments with chairs and sofas covered in red plush trimmed with blue and yellow fringes, and studded with blue and yellow buttons. On the walls he hung promiscuously a score of clocks of all sizes and shapes; he littered tables with mechanical toys; he piled up musical-boxes in every corner; he hung cages of canaries in every window, and adorned the chimneypiece with baskets of paper-flowers — and then he sat down, happy, to enjoy civilisation.

Amongst many mechanical toys which Mulai Hafid possessed was one which in its absurdity surpassed any toy I have ever seen. It was — or had been — a parrot, life-sized, seated on a high brass stand which contained music. Moth and rust had corrupted, and there was little left of the gorgeous bird except a wash-leather body the shape of an inflated sausage, with the two black bead eyes still more or less in place, and a crooked and paralysed-looking beak. The legs had given way, and the cushion of a body had sunk depressedly on to the brass perch. One long red tail-feather shot out at an angle, and round its neck and sparsely distributed over its body were the remains of other plumes, of which little but the quills remained. On either side were the foundations of what had once been its wings, consisting of mechanical appliances in wood and wire. Anything more pitiful than this relic of parrotry could not be imagined.

Every now and then, apparently for no reason, this strange toy came to life. The sausage-like body wriggled, the broken beak opened, the tailfeather shot out at a new angle, and the framework of the wings extended itself and closed again with a click; and then after a mighty effort, which ^,0 gave one the impression that the ghost of a bird was going to be sea-sick, the whistling pipes concealed in the brass stand began to play. The music was at a par with the bird — notes were missing, and the whole scale had sunk or risen into tones and demi-tones of unimaginable composition. To recognise the tune was an impossibility, but the thrill of the performance was undeniable. It seemed as though there was a race between the bird and the pipes to reach the climax first. Both grew more and more excited, until suddenly there was a long wheeze and longer chromatic scale from high to low, and, with an appealing shake of its palsied head, the parrot collapsed once more into its state of petrified despair.

Mulai Hand was completely content. He realised that at last, after the sombre pomp of the palace at Fez, he had settled down to modern life and refinement, and had attained " taste." It was his custom to arrive early in the morning and spend his days there, riding down from the Kasbah on a fat saddle-mule caparisoned in purple or pale blue or yellow, accompanied by men on horseback, and with his black slaves running beside him. Two old women — one a negress, the other a white Berber woman — nearly always accompanied him, poised upon fine saddle-mules and closely veiled. The negress was his old nurse, the Berber woman a soothsayer already mentioned. Arrived in the garden, the usual series of mishaps began. One of his old ladies would fall off her frisky mule, or the key of the empty house was lost, and an entry had to be made by forcing a window after every one had fussed about pretending to look for the key for half an hour or so. Then a carpenter would be sent for to mend the broken window, and a slave would suddenly remember that for fear of losing the key he had tied it round his neck on a string, where it still hung heavily on his chest. Then breakfast would arrive, carried down from the Kasbah on the heads of black slaves — great trays of fresh bread, bowls of milk, sodden half-warm cakes smothered in butter and honey, excellent native crumpets, and a host of dishes of fruits and pastry and sweets, and tea and coffee on immense silver trays. It was a sort of promiscuous meal, partaken of first of all by the Sultan and his particular friends, then passed on to the " courtiers," and finally handed out of the windows to the slaves, gardeners, and retainers, who completely finished what was left, however great the quantity.

By this time the workmen had begun building operations on the great palace a hundred yards or so away, and the ex-Sultan would visit the site, taking a very intelligent interest in every detail. Then back to the villa, where native visitors would be received and literary and religious questions discussed. Mulai Hafid himself is no mean author, and his Arabic verses would, if published at that time, have gained him much praise and many enemies. To-day there is no reason to remain silent. Circumstances have changed. Was it not he who wrote of Tangier? —

" In the last day the people of Tangier came to the judgment - seat of God; and the Supreme Judge said, ' Surely you are the least and worst of all people. Under what circumstances did you live?'

" And they replied, ' We have sinned; we have sinned; but our Government was international: we were ruled by the representatives of Europe.'

" And the Supreme Judge said, ' Surely you have been sufficiently punished: enter into Paradise.' '

By any one who knew and experienced the international Government of Tangier these verses cannot fail to be appreciated.

Did he not also write the following in his days of contention with the French Government? —

" Is not the wisdom of God manifest? Has He not given intelligence even to the dog? A little less, it is true, than to the elephant, But a little more than He bestowed upon the French Administration."

When Mulai Hafid purchased the property of Ravensrock at Tangier, which had for many years been the country residence of the late Sir John Drummond-Hay, he began at once to fell the beautiful trees for which the place was famous. Most people of Arab race have a dislike for trees, which is no doubt one of the reasons why Morocco is so treeless. One after the other the great pines and eucalyptus disappeared; but though numbers of men were employed, the work did not progress fast enough to satisfy his ex-Majesty.

One day some one proposed to him that dynamite would do the work more quickly, so he promptly despatched one of the workmen to town to buy dynamite cartridges from the Spanish fishermen, who used them for killing fish at sea. I was with the ex-Sultan when the messenger returned. He stood before us, and, turning the hood of his jelab inside out, let fall on the ground at our feet a couple of dozen of these highlyexplosive cartridges. Fortunately none exploded. A few minutes later the work had begun. Holes were quickly drilled in the trees near the roots, and the cartridges placed in position. Fuses were lit, and one saw scurrying groups of men bolting out of reach. Then there was a crash, and some giant of the mountain came crumbling down to earth, to the intense delight of Mulai Hafid. It was reckless destruction of what had taken years of care and attention to create, but nothing would persuade the ex-Sultan to allow these beautiful woods to remain. By dint of very special pleading a few of the finest trees were spared, but only a few. This wholesale destruction was carried out principally because Mulai Hafid feared assassination, and wished to eliminate from his surroundings any covert in which the would-be assassin could conceal himself.

The ex-Sultan took assiduously to bridge, and played whenever he got the chance. One of these chances was with his dentist. His relations with his own particular Spanish dentist having been very strained on the question of the price of a live lion, he was forced to apply elsewhere for such dental repairs as he required from time to time; and fortune favoured him, for he discovered an excellent American dentist who had lately arrived. A close friendship sprang up between the ex-Sultan and the dentist, and, as often as not, bridge took the place of dentistry. The American would arrive with his timid ladyassistant and all his implements of torture, only to be invited to sit down at the table and play cards. The lady-assistant was very young and very shy, and was more accustomed to play children's games than bridge. A fourth player would be found, and the ill-assorted party completed. The ex -Sultan enjoyed himself immensely. He generally won, perhaps a little by never permitting the trembling lady-assistant to be his partner. In this manner the whole afternoon would be passed, and Mulai Hafid in the evening would show the few francs he had won with great joy. The points were one franc a hundred, so no very serious damage could be done; but rich as the Sultan was, he rejoiced more in his humble winnings at bridge than over his many thousands in the banks. Not a little of this enjoyment was owing to the fact that he felt that he was " doing " the dentist. " He comes," the ex-Sultan would say, " to mend my teeth and to take my gold, and in the end I win his francs." Weeks went by. Now and again there was an afternoon for real dentistry, but there were many more for bridge, and every time the Sultan won. But one day the climax came. The teeth were excellently repaired — the work was of the best, — there was no more to be done — but to pay the bill; and the bill very naturally and rightly included all the bridge hours — at so much per hour. It was the most expensive bridge Mulai Hafid ever played.

The ex-Sultan's bridge was peculiar. It would not for a moment be hinted that the irregularities that occurred in the game were due to anything but accident, but these little accidents were very frequent. The ex-Sultan, who all his life had been accustomed to sit cross-legged on a divan, soon tired of sitting upright on a chair. He would become restless, and tuck his legs underneath him. Now ordinary chairs are not intended to be sat in cross-legged, especially by bulky people; and as generally an arm-chair had been placed for His Majesty to sit in, he would constantly be changing his position, and wriggling to make himself more comfortable and to find more room for his capacious legs. These wriggles occasioned at times a decided movement to right or left, and if the players did not hold their cards well up it was their own fault. Sometimes he would drop his cards, and his long sleeve at the same time would sweep the tricks already won on to the floor, and there was confusion in sorting them. Once or twice an ace unexpectedly appeared for the second time in the game, picked up by accident from the floor, no doubt, — and as to revokes — but with a plaintive voice he would say, " I am only a beginner." When he won he was in the highest spirits; when he lost he sulked — but he didn't very often lose.

It is a characteristic of the Moors that they hate to lose a game, no matter what they are playing. I have seen the most exciting games of chess, skilfully and quickly played, where the loser has insisted on going on playing game after game till sometimes in pure desperation his adversary allows him to win. Mulai Abdul Aziz, Mulai Hafid's predecessor on the throne, had a unique manner of scoring at cricket. When he was Sultan we used to play cricket in the palace at Fez, generally four on each side. The score was carefully kept, but no names were entered. When the game was finished the Sultan himself placed the names against the score, always, of course, putting his own in front of the largest. Then the name of the player he liked best on that particular afternoon had the second best score, and so on, and the lowest being reserved for the person most out of favour. The score-book was religiously kept, and often referred to by the Sultan, who would say, " That was a great afternoon. I made 61 runs and Harris made 48. X. played abominably, and only made 2." While as a matter of fact His Majesty himself had made 2 and Harris perhaps none; while the unfortunate man who was down in the book as having scored 2 was probably the excellent batsman who had made the 61 that the Sultan claimed. If one is an autocratic monarch one can do anything — even poach your neighbour's cricketing score. I remember well the first game of bridge I ever played with Mulai Abdul Aziz. It was in my own house after a dinner — the first European dinner the Sultan ever attended. There were present the British and French Ministers, and the staffs of the two Legations. It was all rather formal. The Sultan sat at the head of the table, and ate very little; he was then not at ease with knives and forks. After dinner we sat down to bridge. The Sultan and Sir Reginald Lister, who then represented Great Britain in Morocco, played against a member of the staff of the French Legation and myself. We cut for deal, and I drew the lowest card. The Sultan was seated on my left. I dealt, and declared " Hearts." " I can't play hearts," burst out His Majesty petulantly. " I haven't got any. You must give me your cards "; and I was obliged to pass him over the excellent " Heart " hand on which I had declared in exchange for his barren thirteen cards, containing only one small trump. But " Hearts " we had to play, and played, and my partner and I went down five tricks, much to the Sultan's delight. Luckily we were not playing for money.

That was not the only amusing episode that happened at that dinner. There had been a long diplomatic discussion as to the etiquette to be observed with the ex-Sultan, as this was the first European dinner he had ever attended and would form a precedent. It was decided that the guests should arrive at my house punctually at 8, and the Sultan at 8.15. I was to meet the Sultan at the door and conduct him into the drawing-room, where I was to present to him the Ministers of Great Britain and France, who in turn would present their suites. This was all very well on paper, but Mulai Abdul Aziz, taking an intelligent interest in dinner parties, thought he would like to see what went on before the guests came, and instead of arriving at 8.15 he came at 5 in the afternoon. He apologised for being a little before the time, and expressed his desire to see the preparations. Two minutes later he was in the kitchen, where his august and highly-saintly presence— for he was a direct descendant of the Prophet, and to his countrymen " the Commander of the Faithful" — somewhat upset the tranquillity of my native cooks and servants. But ovens had to be opened and saucepans uncovered, spoons introduced into them, and the contents exhibited; the ice-machine to be thoroughly explained, and a thousand and one questions answered. Then the pantry occupied for some time His Majesty's attention. Nor was he less interested in the floral decorations of the table and the distribution of the plate. While I dressed for dinner he sat and talked to my native servants — the Sultan never losing his dignity nor my men their respect — and all concerned were completely at their ease. The Moor has nearly always the perfect manners of a gentleman, no matter what his position, and the sentiment of the country is essentially democratic. It was a common incident at the many dinners I have since given for the two ex-Sultans, that they would appeal to the men who served the table for confirmation of some statement, or for the generally accepted opinion of the Moorish people on some subject under discussion.

At 8 o'clock the guests arrived, and Mulai Abdul Aziz, being already in the house, instead of arriving at 8.15 as by the programme he should have done, had to be concealed in a room upstairs. Punctually at 8.15 he descended the stairs, crossed the hall, and entered the drawing-room. He was dressed in his fine long white flowing garments, and all my guests expressed to me afterwards their appreciation of his dignity and carriage as he made his formal entry and during the presentation of the guests. Nor were they less struck by the undoubted charm of his manners, the gentleness of his voice, and his intelligence, which render Mulai Abdul Aziz perhaps the most attractive figure in Morocco of to-day.

When the moment arrived for the ex-Sultan to take his departure, he called me aside and said that he had a kitchen-range in his palace, but had never used it. He was pleased to say that the excellence of my dinner had convinced him that his own range must be set to work at once — and had I a sack of coal, as he had none, for in his kitchens only wood and charcoal were burned? In a few minutes my servants, in their smartest liveries, were filling a sack with coal in the back premises. When it was ready the Sultan left. The guests rose to their feet, the Sultan shook hands with them all, and I conducted him to the door. A magnificently caparisoned riding -mule awaited him, and mounted slaves were at the gate. On a second mule was an officer of his household, beautifully dressed in white clothes, struggling to balance across the front of his crimson saddle the almost bursting sack of coal.

It was always my great desire to bring about a reconciliation between the two ex-Sultans, Mulai Abdul Aziz and Mulai Hafid, but I never succeeded. Mulai Hafid had driven his brother, Mulai Abdul Aziz, from the throne, and naturally his brother had no reason to be grateful to him. At the same time, Mulai Hafid always blamed Mulai Abdul Aziz for having ruined Morocco, and of having sown the seed of the loss of Moroccan independence. There was also the question of precedence. Mulai Abdul Aziz had been Sultan first, and claimed the first place. Mulai Hafid equally claimed it, because he had been Sultan last. After many unsuccessful endeavours, I persuaded both to agree that if they met by chance on the road they would salute each other and embrace. For months they did not meet, but one day, turning a sudden corner, their riding-mules collided. So taken aback were their two Majesties that they entirely forgot their agreement, and rode away in opposite directions as fast as their mules could carry them.

Immediately after the reconciliation — if such it could be called — between Mulai Hafid and the French authorities, the ex-Sultan gave a dinnerparty to the members of the French Legation and a number of other French officials, in a charming villa he had meanwhile taken on the Marshan, at Tangier. Not sure of whom he ought to invite to this solemn repast, Mulai Hafid had left the choice of his guests to the French Charge^ d' Affaires, who had sent in a list. The hour of dinner arrived, and so did the guests, amongst whom was the very capable and excellent " Commissaire " of the French local police, whom His Majesty had not yet met. The presentations took place, and the Sultan called me aside — I was in attendance — and asked who certain of the guests, whom he didn't know by sight, were. When I informed him that one of them was the French Commissaire de Police, he became a little uneasy, and a shadow passed over his face. " What do you think he has come f or? " asked the ex-Sultan nervously.

Seeing an opportunity for a joke at His Majesty's expense, I hesitated a moment, and then, with many apologies, informed the Sultan that there had been stories current about his manner of playing bridge. No one, I said, believed them, but naturally the French authorities were most desirous that there should be an end to this false rumour, and had therefore decided, very privately of course, to bring the " Commissaire de Police " to watch his play on that particular evening. As soon as they were assured that His Majesty's play was above all suspicion, an official dementi could be given to these disturbing rumours. Mulai Hafid's face wore a look of unusual gravity during the long and sumptuous dinner.

After the guests had adjourned to the drawingroom we sat down to bridge. The " Commissaire," who was not a player, was purposely invited, without the Sultan's knowledge, to seat himself at Mulai Hafid's side. The game began. His Majesty was terribly nervous. Every time he wriggled in his chair and leant either to right or left, he would pull himself together and fix his eyes upon his own cards. Not once did he let his " hand " fall on the floor. Not once did his long sleeves sweep the tricks off the table. Not once did he revoke. He lost game after game, and his distress became painfully manifest.

Between two " deals " a guest approached and politely asked, " Is Your Majesty winning? "

1 Winning! " cried the now thoroughly upset monarch, " winning! How can I possibly win with this horror of a policeman watching every card I play? " And the writer had to explain to the assembled company the whole plot.

Mulai Hafid was an excellent host, and was never happier than when entertaining. His dinners were well served and always amusing, and his guests, European and native, suitably chosen. On one occasion some charming and aristocratic French ladies were visiting Morocco. Amongst a series of fetes given by the Diplomatic Corps and others for their entertainment was a banquet at the residence of the Moorish ex-Minister of War, Sid Mehdi el-Menebhi, G.C.M.G. At this banquet the ex-Sultan presided. The distinguished lady guests had been purchasing Moorish costumes, and it was arranged that they should come to this feast arrayed in all their recently-acquired magnificence. The result was charming — so charming that it was decided to send for a photographer and have the group taken. On his arrival the guests were posed, Mulai Hafid seated on a cushioned divan surrounded by the ladies in their Moorish dresses. The men stood behind.

The photograph was a great success, but its indirect results almost a tragedy, for Mulai Hafid placed a large copy of the group on the mantelpiece of the drawing-room of his villa. The ladies of his household never left the Kasbah, but on one occasion he sent an old Berber lady, before mentioned, and an aged slave, who had been his nurse, to visit the villa, and the eagle eyes of this venerable dame discovered the photograph. In their minds no clearer evidence of Mulai Hafid' s wickedness could be imagined, for here was the ex-Sultan seated in a bevy of apparently s very attractive native ladies, surrounded by European men. No combination of facts could to their eyes be more shocking. Not only was it clear that Mulai Hafid had been enjoying the society of ladies other than his wives, but he had even not hesitated to do so in the presence of " Christian " men. So the photograph was conveyed in their voluminous raiment to the Kasbah, where it was presented to the gaze of the Sultan's outraged wives. Mulai Hafid was out hunting that day, and it was he himself who recounted to the writer what occurred on his return. None of his ladies were in the courtyard to meet him; no one, except a slave or two, was visible. Not a word of welcome, not a question as to the sport he had enjoyed! Seeking the apartments of one of the royal wives, the Sultan had the mortification to see her go out of one door as he entered by the other. He called to her, but she paid no attention. He sought consolation elsewhere, with no better results. He was shunned and in exile — not one of the ladies would speak to him. He knew, of course, nothing of the reason, and could obtain no explanation. He slept in his little receptionroom over the entrance of the Kasbah, and hoped for a brighter situation in the morning, but things were no better.

Then the two old women who had found the photograph and given it to the Sultan's ladies grew alarmed, and confessed, but the many wives were difficult to convince, and it was only when the writer was called in and explained to some invisible persons, concealed behind a thick curtain drawn across an archway, that peace and calm were restored in the Shereefian harem. As the Sultan said afterwards, " There are some institutions in Europe which are in a way preferable to ours. Monogamy has its advantage. When a man ever quarrels he has only one wife to quarrel with, whereas we! ''

The ex-Sultan had a very numerous family of young children, to whom he was really devoted, and with some of whom he would play for long hours together. They were — and are to-day — exceedingly well brought up, nice-mannered, and beautifully dressed, and now that they are a little older are being well educated. I sometimes was taken to see them in a garden in the Kasbah. There would be a few black slave women, and from ten to twenty children, all probably under seven years of age, and varying in colour from very dark to very fair. Once I mentioned to Mulai Hafid that they seemed to be many. He laughed, and replied that they were not all there: none of the younger ones were present, and that in all there were twenty-six under six or seven years of age. He was certainly a devoted father to his numerous offspring. During the whole period of the War he has been separated from them. In 1914 he went to Spain, where his relations with the German Embassy caused him to be suspected of instigating intrigues in Morocco. His pension was cancelled, and he remains to-day an exile. Any one who has known him in his family life and witnessed his devotion to his children cannot help desiring, if his actions in Spain have not been more than follies, that he may be permitted once more to return to his home.