VII. The Sultan in France

IT was on the quay at Rabat, that picturesque old town on the Atlantic coast of Morocco, that the Sultan Mulai Hafid finally handed to General Lyautey, the French Resident-General in Morocco, the documents of his abdication. It had been a long struggle to get them; for although His Majesty was decided that the only course open to him was to cede the throne and leave the country, still he was desirous, and made no concealment of his desire, to bargain to the very last moment. However, at length the question was settled, and as the Sultan stepped on board the launch to proceed to the French cruiser that was to take him as far as Gibraltar, en route to France, the official document of abdication was handed over. In return he received a cheque of £40,000, the last instalment of the agreed sum of money which the new Protectorate Government of Morocco had undertaken to pay him.

The following morning the cruiser, with the ex-Sultan on board, arrived at Gibraltar. I happened to be there, returning from Morocco to England, and was leaving the same day for Plymouth by steamer direct. Desirous, however, of seeing some personal friends who were amongst the ex-Sultan's suite, I proceeded on board the French cruiser to visit them. It was my desire, if possible, to avoid meeting the ex-Sultan, for a few months previously there had been a scene in Fez, in which the unchecked torrents of Sultanate wrath had been poured on my head for having given too much publicity to the barbarous atrocities which His Majesty had been committing, especially in the case of the torturing of the wife of the Governor of Fez, in order to discover an imaginary hidden fortune, and in the wholesale amputations of the feet and hands of certain rebel tribesmen. I had no desire that the discussion as to the necessity or advisability of perpetrating horrors should be continued on the deck of a French warship, and so I took every precaution not to be seen by His Majesty in order to avoid the outpourings of renewed wrath. But in vain. The ex-Sultan caught a glimpse of me as he stepped on board, and, hurrying to meet me, embraced me in the most cordial manner, and then stated that unless I would consent to join the suite and continue the journey with him to France, he (the ex-Sultan) would claim the right of being in British territorial waters, and refuse to proceed an inch farther. The situation was difficult. The Sultan, always neurasthenic, appeared, and undoubtedly was suffering under great nervous tension, evidently not diminished by the sufferings he had undergone during a particularly rough passage on a warship that was renowned for its rolling.

A hurried consultation was held with the French officials who were accompanying the ex-Sultan on his journey to France. My plans were already fixed: it was no easy matter to change them at the last moment; but the Sultan insisted. The French authorities, too, foreseeing real difficulties, begged me to alter these plans and to proceed to France, to which I eventually consented. The Sultan, appeased, offered no more resistance to continuing his journey, and by midday we were en route for Marseilles.

What had influenced the Sultan was this. He was suffering from nerves, and once on board the warship had become convinced that he was under arrest, and was on his way to imprisonment in France. He was particularly desirous of having, therefore, as members of his suite one or two persons of British origin, so that there might be witnesses— or even objectors — in the case of his incarceration. Of course such a thought had never entered the minds of the French Government. The Sultan had abdicated, and for political reasons it was advisable that he should absent himself from Morocco for a short period, so that the proclamation and installation of the new Sovereign might proceed without any hitch; for it was always possible that so long as the ex-Sultan remained in the country there might be some opposition to the elevation of his successor to the throne. Two days later Mulai Hafid landed in Marseilles, where he was officially received. The quay was hung with flags, there was a cavalry escort, and military music enlivened the scene.

At Gibraltar the French cruiser had been abandoned for the greater comforts and more ample space of a P. & 0. On board this steamer, en route to Australia, was a music-hall troupe, and it was their kind thought to give a performance in honour of the Sultan. The sea was calm, the night warm, and after dinner the performance took place — singing, dancing, and some juggling. One item of the show took place in the saloon, where a very attractive and skilful lady-conjurer performed some most astonishing tricks. The Sultan and his suite were much impressed, but their astonishment reached its climax when the charming young lady filled an apparently unlimited number of glasses with an apparently unlimited variety of drinks out of a medium-sized teapot.

As we threaded our way out of the saloon, one of the more influential of the native suite whispered in my ear, " What do you think the lady would take for the teapot? " I naturally replied that probably all the wealth of the world could not purchase so unique a vessel. My friend was disappointed; he would clearly have liked to own a teapot, and to have had it always beside him, which would pour out any beverage he commanded. " It would have been," he added with a sigh, " so useful when one was travelling."

His Majesty's stay at Marseilles was uneventful. Official visits, a gala at the theatre, and excursions to places of interest filled up his days. However, during the dinner — a semi-state ceremony — which was given to His Majesty at the hotel on the evening of his arrival, a little incident occurred. The manager of the hotel, looking very troubled, approached the high official of the police to whom the precautions for the personal security of the Sultan had been entrusted, and whispered in his ear. A few moments later I received a message asking me to leave the table for a moment's conversation in the next room. Here I was informed that, while dinner was proceeding, the Sultan's little black slave boys had found a big bag of five-franc pieces in His Majesty's bedroom, and were amusing themselves by throwing them one by one into the street, to be scrambled for by the N.crowd. The Cannebiere was blocked, all traffic was at a standstill, and various wounded persons had already been taken to the hospital; but the black imps, delighted with their game, persistently refused to abandon so amusing an occupation unless they received the express orders of their lord and master to do so. These orders the writer hastily invented, and, personally visiting the scene, threatened such chastisement that the three or four little black demons slunk away to bed.

During this dinner the news had been published in the local evening papers of a serious battle in Morocco; for, although the French Protectorate had been proclaimed, yet there was still anarchy existing in the remoter parts of the country. Now the ex-Sultan had never been popular in France, perhaps with some reason. He had driven from the throne his brother, whose more friendly feelings toward the French were known and appreciated, and he had succeeded in so doing by a frankly unfriendly programme toward French policy. His tribes, and even his troops, had fought them in the Chaouia Campaign of 1907-8, and during the four years that he had held the throne (1908-12) he had done his utmost to assist German intervention in Morocco. It was therefore not to be wondered at that the people of Marseilles showed no enthusiasm for their guest, and complained of the honours that were being rendered him and the cost the French Government was incurring in his entertainment. Up till now, however, there had always been a show of interest in his movements, and a little crowd to see him wherever he went; and though his reception had been by no means enthusiastic, no hostile demonstration had taken place. The receipt of the news, however, of heavy French losses in this latest Moorish battle, had stirred up some feeling against him. The people felt it was ridiculous that while their troops were being shot in Morocco the originator of the attacks of the tribes should be their honoured guest in France. And so it was that when, after the dinner, the ex-Sultan entered the box that had been reserved and decorated for him in one of the great music-halls of Marseilles, he was met with hoots and whistling.

For a moment no one could explain this hostile demonstration, for the news of the battle had only just been published, and had not reached the dinner at which we had all been present. The manner in which the demonstration was suppressed, and a few moments later changed into a most friendly reception, was admirable, and spoke well for the capabilities of the " Commissaire de Police " attached to the ex-Sultan's suite. It was manoeuvred in a way that was almost unnoticeable. A number of people seemed to be leaving the theatre, but discreetly, as if in the ordinary course of their affairs, and meanwhile their places and every vacant seat, and even the passage, were being filled up. In five minutes the building was full, and then suddenly the band burst out with the " Marseillaise"; the Sultan stood up, and the whole audience, turning toward the royal box, shouted and cheered. It was well done, and had all the appearance of being a spontaneous demonstration.

Although Mulai Hafid was by no means popular in France, his visit received a good deal of attention, and the French public took considerable interest in his personality. He was, in fact, the man of the hour. His portrait appeared in every paper, and all his movements were closely reported and read.

His Majesty, who never minded how dangerously fast he travelled in motor-cars, had a horror of the train, and it had been a little difficult to persuade him to consent to proceed to Vichy by that means. The distance being great, the journey by motor, with his numerous suite of French officers and diplomats and all his native retinue, would have been a difficult one to have organised. So three days after his arrival at Marseilles he entered the carriages that had been specially added to the train that was to convey him to the fashionable health resort. He was unmistakably nervous as we left, and made no secret of it. As the pace increased he wanted the train stopped, and said he would walk to Vichy rather than continue; but the climax was reached when, with a shrill whistle, the train hurled itself into a long tunnel, and apparently into unending darkness.

The Sultan's fear was pitiful to behold. He literally clung to the French officer beside him, with terror staring from his eyes. All he could utter was, " Tell them to stop; why don't you tell them to stop! " The fright of his native retainers was even more marked. They called out and clung to each other in abject fear, except the little black slave boys, who seemed intensely amused. Then the train whirled out of the tunnel into daylight again. The Sultan pulled himself together, and said, with an air of offended majesty, " You will kindly tell them not to do it again."

" I am afraid it will be difficult to avoid."

" Why? "

" Because the line must pass under the hills."

" Then the train must stop and I will walk over the top and join it again on the other side."

" The distance..."

"I do not mind the distance. Anything is better than such suffering as it occasions me."

However, he was persuaded that his proposal was impracticable, and bore the few more tunnels that we passed through with commendable sangfroid and courage, though on each occasion His Majesty expressed his very distinct disapproval of railways and their builders, and more especially the folly of making tunnels.

At Vichy a villa, which formed an annexe to the well-known Hotel Majestic, was placed at his disposal. His Majesty was an early riser, and sometimes he would take an early morning promenade in the gardens and streets of the town. On one of these occasions he bought a little mongrel puppy, which an itinerant dog-seller was hawking at the end of a string. Returning to his villa with his purchase, the antics of the little puppy so amused the ex-Sultan that he called in his slaves, and ordered them to disperse over the town and buy more dogs. One of the dusky servitors ventured to ask how he was to know which dogs were for sale. The Sultan, fresh from his experience of purchasing the puppy, replied that every dog at the end of a string was for sale. As, of course, none of the slaves spoke anything but Arabic, they were ordered to bring dogs and sellers alike to the villa, where the bargains would be completed.

Now the municipal authorities of Vichy had recently issued an order that all dogs were either to be led or muzzled, so when the fashionable world went out to drink its early morning waters, at least half of the ladies had little dogs at the end of a string.

The writer was at breakfast when he was hurriedly summoned to the villa. At an open window on the ground floor, sitting cross-legged on an arm-chair, was His Majesty looking down with a puzzled expression upon the little garden, crowded with excited ladies and little dogs. Some were in tears, others wore expressions of interested curiosity, and a few were evidently trying to look their best, for no social distinctions had been recognised by the slaves who had " rounded them up " in the promenades of Vichy.

" I want to buy," said the ex-Sultan from his window, " all these little dogs, but the sellers do not seem to understand the first principles of trade, and seem to be making a terrible fuss."

The situation was evident and acute. I explained it to the ex-Sultan, who politely apologised for having disturbed the ladies' early walks, but still insisted, without success, in trying to buy the dogs. It required all the writer's tact and diplomacy to put an end to a difficult situation, and to restore equanimity to the indignant ladies.

The ex-Sultan's purchases were often embarrassing. One evening at sunset he visited a farm a few miles from the town, and insisted upon going all over it. In an enclosure were collected from twenty to thirty fine specimens of the beautiful white cattle for which this part of France is so justly famous. The ex-Sultan decided to buy the lot, and gave the farmer his card, saying, " Send them round to-night to this address."

Now the address he gave was the Hotel Majestic, the most fashionable and magnificent of Vichy's palaces. About eleven o'clock that night, when life at the hotel was at its height, the manager sought the writer, and announced the unexpected arrival of twenty-seven enormous cows in the coiirtyard of the hotel. And there, sure enough, meandering in and out of smart motor-cars, lowing gently into the ground-floor windows, were the ex-Sultan's latest purchases. Where they passed the night the writer never knew, but the next day more suitable quarters were found for them.

The Sultan dined in the great dining-room of the Hotel Majestic. His table, a very large one, for there were constant guests, was raised on a dais at one end of the room, which gave him an excellent view of all the diners — and the diners at the Hotel Majestic at Vichy in the height of the season are worth seeing. One night the Sultan appeared " distrait " at dinner, and his eye roved over the crowded room with an anxious and sympathetic expression. He spoke little, and it was difficult to get him to talk. At last he asked to see the manager, and that most amiable and deservedly popular gentleman, the proprietor of the hotel, appeared at once. " These people," said the Sultan, waving his hand toward the crowd at dinner, " are badly distributed. Many are not happy. Let us rearrange them. The old gentleman with the long grey beard has no right to be dining with the beautiful young lady in the big black hat, wearing a pearl necklace. There is a terrible disparity in their ages. She should be dining with the charming young officer over there " — he pointed to another table, — " and the elderly lady, no doubt his mother, should be dining with old greybeard. You should have " — and he addressed the proprietor — " some thought for the happiness of your guests. Now that lady there " — and again he pointed in another direction — " is terribly bored. She has been tapping the edge of her plate with her fork for half an hour. She evidently dislikes extremely the gentleman with whom she is dining — probably her husband, — but I have watched her, and she keeps looking at the young man dining alone with the waxed moustaches. Go and introduce them. Her husband hasn't spoken to her once this evening. He won't miss her — and you will make two people happy; and if the husband is dull, invite that strange lady with the red hair, who is just coming in, to sit down beside him. She will keep him occupied, I expect, to judge by her appearance."

But, alas! interesting as such an experiment would have been, it was impossible.

The first few days of the ex-Sultan's visit were wet and cloudy, but one morning the August sun asserted itself with uncompromising efficiency. The villa reception-rooms faced south-east, and by eight o'clock in the morning were insufferably hot, for the Sultan refused to close the outside shutters, as he liked to see and to be seen. Half an hour later he decided to change his quarters. On the opposite side of the road was a charming villa, in the deepest shade, with a balcony on the first floor wreathed in flowering creepers. Ordering his slaves to follow him, the ex-Sultan strode across the road, entered the villa, and found his way to the upstairs room with the balcony. It was gorgeous but empty. An immense bed, which had evidently been slept in, stood with its head against the wall. A word from His Majesty and the bed was wheeled by the slaves into the window which opened on to the balcony, and, arranging the silk quilt and the lace-fringed pillows, the ex-Sultan seated himself cross-legged, gazing down into the street below.

Now the Russian lady of title who had occupied the bed had retired a few moments previously into her adjacent cabinet de toilette to take her morning bath. Her ablutions completed, but not clad for a reception, she entered her room to find a dusky oriental potentate, with his still more dusky slaves, in possession. The ex-Sultan's politeness was extreme. He bade her welcome, and invited her to sit down beside him.

An overflowing sense of humour on the part of the lady saved a situation which might otherwise have been embarrassing, and when the writer, hastily summoned, arrived, the lady, now more suitably arrayed, and her husband were thoroughly enjoying the novelty of the situation.

Mulai Hafid was often bored with such official functions as his position and his duty necessitated his attending. At a dinner given at a large provincial town within motoring distance of Vichy, he made his first public speech in France. He certainly had great fluency, and spoke well — in Arabic, of course, his words being immediately translated into French. When, with tears in his eyes, he explained his love and gratitude to France — whose policy in Morocco he had all his reign done his best to wreck — he was really immense. Never did words bear a more genuine ring; never was deep affection more apparent in a speaker's voice. But Mulai Hafid must not be misjudged. He had learnt much during his stay in France, and had probably realised long before this episode how much more successful a Sultan of Morocco he would have been had he followed more strictly and more sincerely the advice of his French advisers. But the Germans had been always at hand, with their intrigues and their incentives, with vague promises and much ready money, and with their recommendations to absolutism and to cruelty. On one occasion the Governments of Europe officially, through their Consuls at Fez, protested to Mulai Hafid their abhorrence of the barbarities he had been perpetrating. The German Consul was noticeable by his absence. Berlin deliberately refused to protest, and its representative at Fez was instructed to inform the Sultan that his Government considered that His Majesty had a perfect right to do what he pleased, and advised him to pay no regard to the protest of the Consuls of Great Britain, France, and Spain speaking in the names of their respective Governments and in the interests of civilisation. But, happily, Germany has paid dearly in Morocco for her sins in the past. It is a closed country for her to-day, and her people are rightly looked upon as outcasts and outlaws.

Successful as Mulai Hafid's first public utterances were, these long and ceremonious dinners profoundly bored him. As many as he could he escaped, but some he had to attend. He took the strongest dislike to the " Prefets " — a title that, in the functions of the post, resembles our " Mayor." He always had to sit on the Prefet's right, and he complained that they were pompous and dull.

When the programme of his journey to other parts of France was being drawn up, he was asked what towns he would like to visit. It was one of his " off " days — he was silent and depressed. He said he didn't care where, or when, or how he travelled. No amount of pressing could get a direct answer from him; but the official of the French Home Office could not return to Paris without a reply. Urged finally to give some idea, however vague, of where he would like to go, the ex-Sultan answered wearily, " Anywhere — to any town that has no ' Prefet.' " Many other distinguished travellers must have often felt the same, but few probably ever dared to avow it.

Mulai Hafid was by no means always in low spirits. On one occasion we made a long motor trip to a famous watering-place, and after an official luncheon we ascended a neighbouring peak in a sort of funicular railway. In the railway carriage was a frock-coated and top-hatted gentleman of irreproachable get-up — a typical French fonctionnaire — polite, deferential, and with an official smile that must have taken a long time to acquire. Speaking through an interpreter, he informed Mulai Hafid that he was charged by the French Government to accompany and point out to His Majesty the beauties and spots of interest of the local scenery. Mulai Hand, in an equally polite reply, thanked him, but hinted that he already had in his suite some one who knew the country extremely well, who would be only too pleased to assist in giving the required information, and he suddenly presented the writer to the French official. Needless to say, I had never been within a hundred miles of the place, and had no idea whatever of its beauties, its historical associations, and even less of its geological formation. I appreciated, however, one thing: that Mulai Hafid meant to play a practical joke on the suave and black-gloved functionary.

The train started and began the steep ascent. Mulai Hafid, innocently seated between the French official and the writer, asked, " What are those rocks? " Before the authorised and official guide could reply, the writer had begun, " Those rocks are of the tertiary period, and contain many interesting remains: the skeletons of mammoths have been frequently found there, as well as the household utensils — a corkscrew amongst others — of primitive man." The poor functionary, too polite to protest, scarcely showed his astonishment, except in a furtive look in my direction. " And that wood? " continued the ex-Sultan. " That wood," I went on, " was the scene of the eating by a bear of the children who mocked at Elisha." This time the functionary gave a little start. Farther up the line were the ruins of what had once probably been a wooden shed perched on a high rock. " And that? " asked the Sultan. " That," replied the writer, "is all that remains of Noah's Ark, which came to rest here after the subsiding of the Flood." But the functionary was now only too palpably suffering tortures. He was on an official mission and terribly serious. He could not see that the episode was a joke, and seemed sincerely to believe that Mulai Hafid, the guest of the French Republic, was being purposely deceived. " It may have been," he began politely, " that local tradition at some period claimed this spot as the resting-place of the Ark — of that I know nothing — but historical facts have clearly proved that it was elsewhere that that interesting event took place."

A few nights later a gala performance of Meyerbeer's ' Roma ' was given in the ex-Sultan's honour at the Opera. Now, singing in Morocco is a nasal monotonous repetition of words, with little expression and no gesture. The " basso " in the opera was an extremely corpulent gentleman, with a voice like thunder, accompanied by wild gesticulations. A few bars of recitative by the orchestra, and his great voice burst out and filled the theatre. To the Sultan the effect had nothing in common with music, and all he could imagine was that the performer was suffering intense unbearable pain, more especially as the louder he sang the more he waved his arms about and beat his capacious stomach.

Springing to his feet, His Majesty cried, " Where is Dr V? " (Dr V was his English doctor, who had accompanied him on his visit to France)

— " where is Dr V? Find him quickly, some one. He may be able to save his life "; and with an expression of terrible anxiety the ex-Sultan's eyes alternately gazed fascinated at the singer or sought for the doctor in the gloomy recesses of the royal box. It was not without difficulty that His Majesty was persuaded that the singer was suffering no pain; but that he was actually supposed to be giving pleasure to the audience he entirely refused to believe.

The ex-Sultan was bored, and left the theatre before the end. The following morning he asked me what had taken place in the last act, and on being told of the terrible fate that almost all the characters in the tragedy had suffered, he replied, " I am sorry I did not stay. I should have sent for the manager and insisted that the piece should end happily. The young lady should have married the soldier with the big sword. The blind woman should have had her sight restored by an able doctor, and no one should have been stabbed or built up in a tomb."

It was perhaps as well that he didn't stay till the end, for his amiable intervention might have disturbed the tragic climax of the opera.