MOULAY IDRISS
We lingered under the pergolas of Volubilis till the
heat grew less intolerable, and then our companions
suggested a visit to Moulay Idriss.
[Illustration: From a photograph from the
Service des Beaux-Arts au Maroc
Volubilis—the western portico of the basilica
of Antonius Pius]
Such a possibility had not occurred to us, and even
Captain de M. seemed to doubt whether the expedition
were advisable. Moulay Idriss was still said
to be resentful of Christian intrusion: it was
only a year before that the first French officers
had entered it.
But M. Chatelain was confident that there would be
no opposition to our visit, and with the piled-up
terraces and towers of the Sacred City growing golden
in the afternoon light across the valley it was impossible
to hesitate.
We drove down through an olive-wood as ancient as
those of Mitylene and Corfu, and then along the narrowing
valley, between gardens luxuriant even in the parched
Moroccan autumn. Presently the motor began to
climb the steep road to the town, and at a gateway
we got out and were met by the native chief of police.
Instantly at the high windows of mysterious houses
veiled heads appeared and sidelong eyes cautiously
inspected us. But the quarter was deserted, and
we walked on without meeting any one to the Street
of the Weavers, a silent narrow way between low whitewashed
niches like the cubicles in a convent. In each
niche sat a grave white-robed youth, forming a great
amphora-shaped grain-basket out of closely plaited
straw. Vine-leaves and tendrils hung through the
reed roofing overhead, and grape-clusters cast their
classic shadow at our feet. It was like walking
on the unrolled frieze of a white Etruscan vase patterned
with black vine garlands.
The silence and emptiness of the place began to strike
us: there was no sign of the Oriental crowd that
usually springs out of the dust at the approach of
strangers. But suddenly we heard close by the
lament of the rekka (a kind of long fife),
accompanied by a wild thrum-thrum of earthenware drums
and a curious excited chanting of men’s voices.
I had heard such a chant before, at the other end
of North Africa, in Kairouan, one of the other great
Sanctuaries of Islam, where the sect of the Aissaouas
celebrate their sanguinary rites in the Zaouia[A]
of their confraternity. Yet it seemed incredible
that if the Aissaouas of Moulay Idriss were performing
their ceremonies that day the chief of police should
be placidly leading us through the streets in the very
direction from which the chant was coming. The
Moroccan, though he has no desire to get into trouble
with the Christian, prefers to be left alone on feast-days,
especially in such a stronghold of the faith as Moulay
Idriss.
[Footnote A: Sacred college.]
[Illustration: From a photograph from the
Service des Beaux-Arts au Maroc
