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how associate anything so precise and occidental a

publish 2022-11-21,browse 15
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how associate anything so precise and occidental as years or centuries with these visions of frail splendor seen through cypresses and roses? the cadis in their multiple muslins, who received us in secret doorways and led us by many passages into the sudden wonder of gardens and fountains; the brightearringed negresses peering down from painted balconies; the pilgrims and clients dozing in the sun against hot walls; the deserted halls with plaster lacework and gold pendentives in tiled niches; the venetian chandeliers and tawdry rococo beds; the terraces from which pigeons whirled up in a white cloud while we walked on a carpet of their featherswere all these the ghosts of vanished state, or the actual setting of the life of some rich merchant with business connections in liverpool and lyons, or some government official at that very moment speeding to meknez or casablanca in his sixty h.p.motor? [illustration: _from a photograph from the service des beauxarts au maroc_ fez eldjid (the upper city)] we visited old palaces and new, inhabited and abandoned, and over all lay the same fine dust of oblivion, like the silvery mould on an overripe fruit.overripeness is indeed the characteristic of this rich and stagnant civilization.buildings, people, customs, seem all about to crumble and fall of their own weight: the present is a perpetually prolonged past.to touch the past with ones hands is realized only in dreams; and in morocco the dreamfeeling envelopes one at every step.one trembles continually lest the person from porlock should step in.he is undoubtedly on the way; but fez had not heard of him when we rode out that morning.fez eldjid, the new fez of palaces and government buildings, was founded in the fourteenth century by the merinid princes, and probably looks much as it did then.the palaces in their overgrown gardens, with palegreen trellises dividing the rosebeds from the blueandwhite tiled paths, and fountains in fluted basins of italian marble, all had the same drowsy charm; yet the oldest were built not more than a century or two ago, others within the last fifty years; and at marrakech, later in our journey, we were to visit a sumptuous dwelling where plastercutters and ceramists from fez were actually repeating with wonderful skill and spontaneity, the old ornamentation of which the threads run back to rome and damascus.of really old private dwellings, palaces or rich mens houses, there are surprisingly few in morocco.it is hard to guess the age of some of the featureless houses propping each others flanks in old fez or old salé; but people rich enough to rebuild have always done so, and the passion for building seems allied, in this country of inconsequences, to the supine indifference that lets existing constructions crumble back to clay.dust to dust should have been the motto of the moroccan palacebuilders.fez possesses one old secular building, a fine fondak of the fifteenth century; but in morocco, as a rule, only mosques and the tombs of saints are preservednone too carefullyand even the strong stone buildings of the almohads have been allowed to fall to ruin, as at chella and rabat.this indifference to the completed objectwhich is like a kind of collective exaggeration of the artists indifference to his completed workhas resulted in the total disappearance of the furniture and works of art which must have filled the beautiful buildings of the merinid period.neither pottery nor brasswork nor enamels nor fine hangings survive; there is no parallel in morocco to the textiles of syria, the potteries of persia, the byzantine ivories or enamels.it has been said that the moroccan is always a nomad, who lives in his house as if it were a tent; but this is not a conclusive answer to any one who knows the passion of the modern moroccan for european furniture.when one reads the list of the treasures contained in the palaces of the mediæval sultans of egypt one feels sure that, if artists were lacking in morocco, the princes and merchants who brought skilled craftsmen across the desert to build their cities must also have imported treasures to adorn them.yet, as far as is known, the famous fourteenthcentury bronze chandelier of tetuan, and the fine old ritual furniture reported to be contained in certain mosques, are the only important works of art in morocco later in date than the roman _sloughi_ of volubilis.iii fez elbali the distances in fez are so great and the streets so narrow, and in some quarters so crowded, that all but saints or humble folk go about on muleback.in the afternoon, accordingly, the pink mules came again, and we set out for the long tunnellike street that leads down the hill to the fez elbali.look outware heads! our leader would call back at every turn, as our way shrank to a black passage under a house bestriding the street, or a caravan of donkeys laden with obstructive reeds or branches of dates made the passersby flatten themselves against the walls.on each side of the street the houses hung over us like fortresses, leaning across the narrow strip of blue and throwing out great beams and buttresses to prop each others bulging sides.windows there were none on the lower floors; only here and there an ironbarred slit stuffed with rags and immemorial filth, from which a lean cat would suddenly spring out, and scuttle off under an archway like a witchs familiar.[illustration: _from a photograph from the service des beauxarts au maroc_ feza reedroofed street] some of these descending lanes were packed with people, others as deserted as a cemetery; and it was strange to pass from the thronged streets leading to the bazaars to the profound and secretive silence of a quarter of welltodo dwellinghouses, where only a few veiled women attended by negro slaves moved noiselessly over the clean cobblestones, and the sound of fountains and runnels came from hidden courtyards and over gardenwalls.this noise of water is as characteristic of fez as of damascus.the oued fez rushes through the heart of the town, bridged, canalized, built over, and ever and again bursting out into tumultuous falls and pools shadowed with foliage.the central artery of the city is not a street but a waterfall; and tales are told of the dark uses to which, even now, the underground currents are put by some of the dwellers behind the blank walls and scented gardens of those highly respectable streets.the crowd in oriental cities is made up of many elements, and in morocco turks, jews and infidels, berbers of the mountains, fanatics of the confraternities, soudanese blacks and haggard blue men of the souss, jostle the merchants and government officials with that democratic familiarity which goes side by side with abject servility in this land of perpetual contradictions.but fez is above all the city of wealth and learning, of universities and countinghouses, and the merchant and the _oulama_[11]the sedentary and luxurious typesprevail.the slippered fazi merchant, wrapped in white muslins and securely mounted on a broad velvet saddlecloth anchored to the back of a broad mule, is as unlike the arab horseman of the desert as mr.tracy tupman was unlike the musketeers of dumas.ease, music, moneymaking, the affairs of his harem and the bringingup of his children, are his chief interests, and his plump pale face with longlashed hazel eyes, his curling beard and fat womanish hands, recall the portly potentates of hindu miniatures, dreaming among houris beside lotustanks.these personages, when they ride abroad, are preceded by a swarthy footman, who keeps his hand on the embroidered bridle; and the government officers and dignitaries of the _makhzen_[12] are usually escorted by several mounted officers of their household, with a servant to each mule.the cry of the runners scatters the crowd, and even the panniered donkeys and perpetually astonished camels somehow contrive to become twodimensional while the white procession goes by.then the populace closes in again, so quickly and densely that it seems impossible it could ever have been parted, and negro watercarriers, muffled women, beggars streaming with sores, sinewy and greasy saints, soudanese sorcerers hung with amulets made of sardineboxes and haresfeet, longlashed boys of the chleuh in clean embroidered caftans, jews in black robes and skullcaps, university students carrying their prayercarpets, bangled and spangled black women, scrofulous children with gazelle eyes and mangy skulls, and blind men tapping along with linked arms and howling out verses of the koran, surge together in a mass drawn by irresistible suction to the point where the bazaars converge about the mosques of moulay idriss and el kairouiyin.seen from a terrace of the upper town, the long thatched roofing of el attarine, the central bazaar of fez, promises fantastic revelations of native life; but the duncolored crowds moving through its checkered twilight, the lack of carved shopfronts and gaily adorned coffeehouses, and the absence of the painted coffers and vivid embroideries of tunis, remind one that morocco is a melancholy country, and fez a profoundly melancholy city._dust and ashes, dust and ashes_, echoes from the gray walls, the mouldering thatch of the _souks_, the long lamentable song of the blind beggars sitting in rows under the feet of the camels and asses.no young men stroll through the bazaar in bright caftans, with roses and jasmine behind their ears, no pedlars offer lemonade and sweetmeats and golden fritters, no flowersellers pursue one with tight bunches of orangeblossom and little pink roses.the welltodo ride by in white, and the rest of the population goes mournfully in earthcolor.but gradually one falls under the spell of another influencethe influence of the atlas and the desert.unknown africa seems much nearer to morocco than to the white towns of tunis and the smiling oases of south algeria.one feels the nearness of marrakech at fez, and at marrakech that of timbuctoo.fez is sombre, and the bazaars clustered about its holiest sanctuaries form its most sombre quarter.dusk falls there early, and oillanterns twinkle in the merchants niches while the clear african daylight still lies on the gardens of upper fez.this twilight adds to the mystery of the _souks_, making them, in spite of profane noise and crowding and filth, an impressive approach to the sacred places.until a year or two ago, the precincts around moulay idriss and el kairouiyin were _horm_, that is, cut off from the unbeliever.heavy beams of wood barred the end of each _souk_, shutting off the sanctuaries, and the christian could only conjecture what lay beyond.now he knows in part; for, though the beams have not been lowered, all comers may pass under them to the lanes about the mosques, and even pause a moment in their open doorways.farther one may not go, for the shrines of morocco are still closed to unbelievers; but whoever knows cordova, or has stood under the arches of the great mosque of kairouan, can reconstruct something of the hidden beauties of its namesake, the mosque kairouan of western africa

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