Chapter XXVII

FAREWELL

“And that is all.” The Sherif gave a sigh and hitched up his jellaba till the rose-red kaftan[113] showed below it. “Now you know my life as well as I do.” “But not your mind, Sidi.” Dinner and its attendant tea-making were over, and we were sitting outside my tent in the moonlight. A little wind stirred the leaves of the fig-tree. A yellow cat sat in the shadows and regarded me with eyes which had turned into green lamps. “The mind of man is open at this hour,” said Raisuli. “Ask me questions, and I will answer them.”

“Tell me of the future. What is going to happen to Morocco?” “It is in the hands of Allah,” answered the Sherif. “But I am tired, and I would go to Egypt to rest.” “If you go, you take with you the one chance of peace.” “If I go, perhaps Spain will realize that I have been more her friend than her enemy. It is always the same thing. There is no change. What I said to the Spaniards at the beginning, I say to them now—there is only one medicine for Morocco, but they will not administer it. You have seen their forts and their soldiers, and, Ullah, all the country that they have taken is my country and under my influence. Had they gone the way I wanted, they could have occupied it without firing a shot. The people trusted me, and, if I had said to them, ‘This is good,’ they would have made no opposition.” He looked up at the stars, which were so big that it seemed as if one could pick them out of the flower-bed that was the sky.

“If you allied yourself definitely with Spain, would not the people say you had sold yourself to the Christians, in which case you would lose your influence in face of their fanaticism?” I asked. “In any country that is ignorant, there are always ten per cent. who loathe the Nasrani, but the other ninety per cent. are willing to live in peace with him, as long as their laws and their religion are not interfered with. If they find that there are many changes, they join the ten per cent. who are savages.

“France rules for the mass of the people, without making exceptions. If she imposes a tax, it has to be paid without discussion. Spain rules for the individual, and that is good, for she searches how such and such a tax will affect different men, but a foreign rule must be very light. A protectorate should protect those who suffer from an injustice, but not interfere in the customs of the land. This is difficult, unless there is one man who can make things clear between the Government and the people. A tribesman runs from the Qadi, who has punished him justly, to an official who does not understand the matter, and the respect of the Qadi is lessened. In the police posts, an Arab has a grudge against another, so he goes to the officer and says, ‘This man has stolen the goats of So-and-so,’ and how is the Spaniard to know that the accused is his enemy? All ignorant men are liars, and it is only their own ulema who can convict them.”

There was a prolonged silence, and the yellow cat crept up and wound itself round and round the Sherif’s foot. He bent to stroke it. “Civilization must come slowly, and its interpreter must not be an army. The people see soldiers with rifles, and they think that some harm will be done them or that they will lose their lands, so their fingers fly to the trigger, and for them civilization means death. The way must be better prepared.”

“Perhaps the next generation,” I murmured. “They will be worse,” retorted Raisuli, “for they have seen the evil that has been done to their parents. At present you are teaching our sons your knowledge that they may use it against you. Abdul Krim el Khattabi was educated at Madrid and studied to become an expert in the mines.[114] He is low-born, so he found no better use for his learning than destruction.”

“What about the Riff?” I asked. “If you had an agreement with Spain, could you deal with the Riff?” A chuckle came from old Mulai Sadiq, but the Sherif was impassive. “It would be an easy matter, for I have still many friends among the Riff. Abdul Krim is the result of circumstances. When he was a little boy, his father wrote to me and said that he wanted to send his son to Madrid to study. He asked me if I would use my influence with the Spaniards, or if I would take the child into my own house. I answered, ‘Wait until he is older.’ It is the same medicine which is required in the Riff.”

“How would you administer it?” “At present, Abdul Krim makes much politics (propaganda) against me, and I say nothing, for I am waiting; but if there was an agreement with Spain, the Riff would cost few Christian lives. Abdul Krim can raise 30,000 men against the Nasrani, and not one will betray him, for the Riffs are fanatical, though they are not good Moslems. But do you think a quarter or a fifth of the number who would be with me, would fight the Ashraf? When Moslem fights Moslem many of the bullets go wide. In fact, there would be some fighting by my mehallas and much propaganda, but peace would be swift. Yet I think no Christian could rule the Riff—at least not in this generation—but others, well chosen, might do it in the name of Spain.

“It was thus that I thought things would go in the beginning, but there have been mistakes and misunderstandings. When the Spaniards landed it was by my help, and in the towns there were three kinds of men. There were some who bought a European hat and stick, and walked about the streets and thought they were equals of the Pasha. There were others who went into their houses and shut the doors, and said, ‘This is the end, but it is the will of Allah’; and there were some who did not even realise that anything new had happened. Only I looked ahead and hoped for the benefit of the country, for I liked the Spaniards. We have much in common—you see, we are all liars together!! I have fought against strangers, for all the Spaniards whom I met became my friends.”

“And now?” I queried after a silence. “Every man loves his own country, but I have written three times to the Government asking that I may go away, for what is the use of pretence in this land which only strength can control? The force is in my hands. You have seen it. You have felt it. There are posts on all the hills, but only my word keeps them there. The country is waiting and uncertain, but I hold it down—”

Our eyes met, at last, and I knew that the same thought was in both our minds. In a palace at Tetuan the ill-fated Kalipha was struggling with the effects of a poison administered in small doses by a cook who had been bribed by the Grand Vizier, now languishing in chains at Xauen. The doctors had ordered change of air, a journey to Ronda, but it was whispered that Mulai el Mehdi, weak, amiable and high-minded, would soon go on a longer journey. The pretence was wearing very thin.

“Much has been written against me,” said Raisuli, “by men who do not know Africa. There have been many parties in Spain, and each one has followed his own policy, but here in Morocco there is no policy, only strength. Abdul Krim knows this, and he tolerates no dissension and no hesitation among his people. Each day that Spain delays, his power increases. She must choose quickly and finally. Either she can withdraw to the coast towns, and in that case Abdul Krim’s greed will stretch out to the West and yearly more will be lost to her, or she can make use of the weapon I put into her hand at Larache.”

The song of the crickets was persistent and the wind grew cold as it blew over the hills. “The same things I tell you tonight,” said the Sherif, “I told the Spaniards long ago, when I was great and powerful, not as I am now.” “If el Raisuli had but one tent and one mule,” interrupted Mulai Sadiq, “he would still be powerful.” The Sherif did not deny it. “Things do not change in Africa,” he said. “But you,” I asked, “have you changed?” “No,” answered el Raisuli, “I am a friend of Spain and of my own people, which should be the same, for all things come from Allah.” “There is but one God, and God is Great,” murmured Mulai Sadiq.

There were few hours left for sleep that night, for it had been arranged that we should start shortly after sunrise and arrive at Suq el Khemis while it was still moderately cool. Accordingly I got up yawning in the darkness and saw the dawn creep between the hill-tops. The chief of all the slaves, old Ba Salim, came to me, smiling. “Breakfast arrives,” he said, but of course it did not, nor did the mule for my baggage, and the world was very much awake when, at last, the familiar procession appeared.

This time our bowls of soup were reinforced with coffee and bread full of caraway seeds, thickly buttered on all sides. After we had dealt with these luxuries, Ghabah brought an unexpected second course, consisting of very sweet pastry stuffed with rice. “Allah be praised—that is finished,” said Mulai Sadiq, who hated riding in the heat. “Not at all!” I replied woefully, and pointed down the path. Mubarak was approaching leisurely with an enormous platter, on which was a mountain of rice decorated with a chicken or two and some very hard apples. Inwardly groaning, we did our best to destroy the symmetry of the mountain, but, by this time, even the cats were surfeited.

“The Sherif comes,” announced Badr ed Din. “Now you will soon start.” We waited another hour, and it began to get hot. Then one of the small slaves was seen scuttling down the path. He kissed Mulai Sadiq’s sleeve hurriedly and almost choked over his whispered message. It appeared that the Sherif wished to see his English guest in the Zawia. This was a supreme honour, and quite unexpected, for, as long as Raisuli is within his house, no one may approach him or send him a message, and even Moslem visitors are received in the building opposite.

I followed the small messenger to the door, and there he disappeared, curling himself up under a ragged cloth and apparently going peacefully to sleep. After a few minutes the bolts were withdrawn, and Mohamed Khalid came out, took me ceremoniously by the hand and led me across the threshold. Still hand in hand, we went down the length of the porch, to another door, this time bright blue, which was opened by unseen fingers.

The next moment I found myself in the room which had been built round the great tree supposed to be intimately connected with the fortunes of Raisuli. The light was dim, because it filtered through windows of coloured glass. The floor was paved in black-and-white marble, the walls had a wide dado of mosaics, and the ceiling was carved and painted. In the centre, was a quadrangle of Moorish arches, slender, with fretted curves, and, between these, stood the tree. All that was visible was a portion of the trunk, its girth so wide that two men could not span it with outstretched arms, for the rest soared through the roof which had been built around it.

Raisuli stepped out of the shadows to meet me, and I saw a different man. Without losing any of his dignity, he had put aside his reserve. His face was extraordinarily kindly and the size of it seemed to magnify its smile. “I want to show you my family,” he said. “They were very curious about the one European lady who has been to Tazrut.” He took my arm in fatherly fashion and pushed me gently towards a group of women, some of whom I had seen before, though I hardly recognised them in their splendour.

“They are all very shy,” he said, and beamed on them with obvious pride. The little bride kept her lashes down, but she no longer looked frightened. Her black hair was parted in the middle, and smoothed over her ears like silk, and the ends were plaited round a thick purple cord which fell to her feet. This apparently is the fashion on state occasions, for every woman had the same silk rope hanging from her head and caught in a loop at the waist, so that it looked like a tail. The bride, Khadija, was exquisite in gold-embroidered muslin over yellow silk, with a wide belt of brocade that slipped over her slender hips, and a mass of heavy jewellery. There was another wife, Zobeida, who was fair-skinned and plain, with faint pit-marks on her face; and the daughters ranged from the tall Kheizrana in flaming orange, who might have been a Circassian, to a child of four or five, who promptly toddled forward and caught the Sherif’s hand in fearless fingers. Raisuli beamed on her. “This is the smallest of them all,” he said, and patted the mop of red-dyed hair.

I felt myself growing more and more bewildered, while I watched a benignant patriarch smiling on a flock of children, the sort of smile that, in Europe, denotes sweets in a grandfatherly pocket! In the background a group of slaves peered round the edge of the door, their waistcoats of bright purple or scarlet gleaming against the dim background. Twenty pairs of eyes watched me with growing curiosity, but the Sherif’s voice, with its new warm note, brought them expectantly to his face. “They want to give you a present,” he said, “as a remembrance of your visit.”

There was much smiling and whispering. Then Haula, the least shy, pushed something into her father’s hand. “It is not from me, but from them,” added the Sherif, and held out two heavy gold bangles. Vainly I protested. The throng closed round me like eager children, and Raisuli slipped the bracelets over my wrists. “We were afraid they might be too small, for you are taller than any of my family, but they fit well, el Hamdulillah!”

The interview was terminated by my incoherent thanks, while the youngest daughter sat down on the floor and solemnly stroked my riding-boots. As the Sherif passed them, the girls bent to kiss his knees, while he patted them on the shoulder, but, when the bride stooped, he caught her wrist and drew her up with murmured words, which made her fold closer the white shawl that half covered her head.

Out in the portico, with the blue door shut behind us, I looked curiously at Raisuli, and wondered how much of the real man I knew, for here was but a courteous host speeding a guest whom he was anxious to honour.

There was a crowd of servitors at the gate. Mulai Sadiq was already astride his red-saddled mule, his scarlet prayer-rug, the only luggage he had brought with him, laid across the pommel. A one-eyed mountaineer led the Afrit, who was doing his best to upset the composure of the baggage-beast which bore my depleted suit-cases, in panniers obviously designed for grain. Badr ed Din and the Kaid murmured farewells—“Ma Salamah,” With safety—“Let not this be your last visit!” “Allah keep you—may the way be easy.”

Then Ghabah seized my stirrup, and I mounted amidst a chorus of good wishes. “Allah take you in safety to your country, and may your desire bring you back to us,” said the Sherif, and, as he stood framed in the archway, with his people a step or two below him, I caught a last glimpse of the other Raisuli, who could never refuse the prayer of a woman, and who sent three times to the mountain to fetch a half-starved yellow cat. . . .

The expression vanished as he turned to speak to the Kaid. Swiftly we clattered over the cobbles towards the hills of Beni Aros. Mulai Sadiq was determined to make up for lost time. It was not till we were nearing the sanctuary of Sidi Musa that he asked me, “Well, was your visit good? Are you satisfied?” I nodded, remembering, rather wistfully, those days spent in a strange world, wondering how much or how little I had learned in them. “Ullah,” said the old man, peering at me over the edge of his yellow spectacles, “this will not be your last visit, for the Sherif’s ‘baraka’ has affected you already!”