Part 8

To-day the French are masters, but the Arab in his centuries of decadence has grown used to masters. They come, and pass, and he remains. It is the will of God. The French are lenient and just masters; they provide many material advantages,—security of property, means of communication, avenues of trade. God is good. But the Arab is always waiting for something to turn up; he will be sustained in almost fruitless labour on his barren plot in the hope of finding a treasure; he will waste his scant earnings in buying favourable horoscopes from his sorcerer; and if no treasure is unearthed, and no fortune arrives, he will put it all down to some flaw in the incantations. If all fails he has at any rate said his prayers five times a day and is sure of Paradise.

Yet in his heart he is ever looking for the advent of a Messiah, of a _deus ex machinâ_ who shall overthrow the infidel, and restore the Arab to his own again. Let France be involved in difficulties elsewhere and the events of 1870 may repeat themselves. The preaching of a holy war, the announcement that God’s good time has come—such are the conditions to raise a wave of religious fanaticism strong enough to sweep away all considerations of prudence and self-interest. As long as his religion remains a compelling force, this is his danger and Europe’s. In its present state Arab civilization, greatly fallen from its high condition of culture and learning in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, may be compared with that of Europe in the centuries following the destruction of the Roman Empire. The Arab is now in the Dark Ages. The forms of his faith remain all-powerful, but the spirit is dead. A thousand years separate him from the Europe of to-day. Perhaps the best hope lies for him in a revival of his religion on the spiritual side; from which may spring in turn a germ of those ideals of citizenship, toleration and benevolence which are the basis of our civilization; ideals flowing from the teachings of Christianity, but not confined in their influence to the orthodox of any section of Christendom.

A very cursory view of Tlemçen suggests that those enthusiastic writers who have described it as the equal, or almost the equal, of Granada are somewhat extravagant in their praise. It occupies indeed a fine situation, and it looks down from its height of 2500 feet over a rolling country of hill and vale to the sea thirty miles away. But it has none of Granada’s grandeur and it lacks the noble background of the Sierra Nevada. It has no great building like the Alhambra, although its mosques contain magnificent work, which is unsurpassed and perhaps unequalled elsewhere. Excessive praise which raises expectations destined to be disappointed is to be deplored. Tlemçen has enough of beauty and interest to stand on its own merits. In one respect it has an advantage over the Moorish cities of Spain. It is indeed held by an alien race, but its mosques are still for the most part put to the purpose for which they were built, and the worshippers are the present representatives of those who built them.

The Great Mosque, the most notable building within the walls, was not built all at one time, but grew, like a Gothic cathedral, under the hands of different monarchs and dynasties. These dynasties of Tlemçen were continually changing; their outlandish names cumber the guide-books, but they have less interest for us than the vicissitudes of the Guelphs and Ghibellines. The first stone of the mosque was laid in the year 530 (you must add 605 to bring it to the Christian era), as a contemporary inscription obligingly records. The minaret was built by Yar’morasen, the great Berber monarch who raised Tlemçen to its pitch of power in the thirteenth century; and in the fourteenth various auxiliary buildings, including a hospital for the aged and incurable, were added. The interior of the mosque is impressive, with its forest of pillars— there are seventy-two in all—and its dim religious light. The mihrab, the holy of holies, the shrine which looks towards Mecca, is finely decorated with leaves of acanthus and Arabic inscriptions. The large court is charming; it is surrounded by arcades, and two basins of running water provide for the ablutions of the faithful. The material of the whole was originally onyx, and much remains. It is truly a noble building, and it has escaped any serious restoration.

Unhappily the same cannot be said of the neighbouring mosque, known as the Mosque of Aboul Hassan, an eminent lawyer and saint; a combination which seems unusual. On this delightful little building the hand of the restorer has lain heavy. He has seen fit to plaster it with modern tiles, suggestive of the bath-room; and in order to throw more light into the building, which is now used as a museum, has made several openings in the walls. It is poor comfort to find in a distant land that we English have no monopoly of ecclesiastical vulgarity; even our church restorers could hardly have done worse than this. It is not easy to formulate the ethics of restoration; the right course can only result from intelligent and instructed effort,—but this may be said of almost everything. The ignorance and indiscretion of those who add poor modern ornament to a grand old building passes understanding. It happens that this little mosque, charming otherwise within and without, enshrines a masterpiece, its mihrab. The mosque was erected in A.D. 1298, according to an inscription on one of its arches, and presumably the interior decoration is of the same date. The dates of the world’s few masterpieces are important. The decoration of the mihrab is executed in plaster. I am not competent to describe its details; they follow the conventional scheme of leaves and scrolls, but with quite unusual refinement. This mihrab has been highly praised; but no praise can be too high for it. It has been described as the finest example of Mohammedan art in existence; it is very likely that it is. An eye that has enjoyed any training will see at a glance that it is on a par with the greatest decorative works of man; it exhibits all the characteristics of the finest periods, especially the combination of exuberant fancy with dominating restraint. Its exquisite delicacy and its small size give emphasis to its unique distinction. I cannot refrain from quoting a French writer who fitly appreciates its qualities: “Cette décoration est le comble de la richesse et du goût ornamental. Elle réunit en effet les qualités les plus diverses; homogénéité de l’ensemble, variété infinie du détail, netteté et fantaisie, largeur et minutie dans l’exécution. Elle est empreinte d’une sorte d’_atticisme_ oriental, d’une beauté atteinte sans efforts et naturellement. Capter la lumière sans grands reliefs, l’emprisonner dans les réticules d’une ténuité extrême, la forcer de se jouer dans ses méandres idéalement fins, donner à des murailles toutes unies un vêtement de dentelles; un encadrement de rubans historiés qui les aggrandit et les rend pour ainsi dire immatérielles; entraîner le regard et l’éblouir par la complication, le rassurer par l’ordre et la paix, voilà le problème que d’obscurs ouvriers out résolu à la fin du treizième siècle de notre ère.”[5]

Footnote 5:

Ary Renan, “Paysages historiques.”

Another pleasant little mosque, that of Sidi-el-Haloui, lies outside the walls in a squalid native suburb, which is nevertheless a better frame for it than the banal French houses of the town itself. It has a very fine portal and a pleasant court. It commemorates a very extraordinary character, who from being Cadi of Seville became in disguise a confectioner at Tlemçen. He was put to death apparently for spreading seditious doctrines, but his ghost having given some trouble he was canonized.

It is said that Tlemçen was built on the site of a Roman camp called Pomaria. The name happily expresses the abundance of orchards by which it is surrounded. In February only a few almond trees are in blossom, but the ground is beginning to put forth its wild flowers. A diminutive iris is everywhere, and gives a blue tinge to the wayside, as the bluebells to an English copse. In April, when the trees are bursting into leaf and the whole country-side is full of flowers, Tlemçen must be set in a very bower of delight. And it is in the environs that the most interesting, picturesque and romantic of its antiquities are to be found.

[Illustration: THE WALLS OF MANSOURA]

Just outside the Fez gate of the city lies a great artificial basin or reservoir, now dry, which is said to have been constructed by a king of the fourteenth century to give his wife the pleasure of witnessing miniature sea-fights. It is related that Barbarossa drowned in it the descendants of the ancient kings whom he found at Tlemçen, and watched their struggles with glee. A short distance further on is an arch, ruthlessly restored, which was part of the wall of circumvallation built around Tlemçen by Abou Yakoub, Sultan of Fez, who besieged it from 1299 to 1307 A.D. A little further on are the extremely picturesque walls of Mansoura, the city which during the siege he built for himself. The story of this siege and of the building of Mansoura is very curious. It is told at length by the Arab chroniclers. Perhaps the following abbreviation of their account will suffice.

And it came to pass in the reign of Othman, King of Tlemçen, that Abou Yakoub, King of Fez, gathered all his host together and went up and besieged Tlemçen seven years. And he built towers against it round about, and a wall so strong that the people said one to another that not even a spirit might pass through from within to without the city. And forasmuch as the city was not yielded unto him, but held out against him for seven years, did Yakoub the King of Fez set up for himself in the camping-place of his host a great palace wherein to dwell; and all about the camp he built a great wall with towers so that he made of it a fenced city, and within he built palaces for his wise men and his mighty men of war, and great houses, and fair gardens wherein were streams of water running continually. And he caused to be set apart also a dwelling-place wherein might be tended they that were sick, for that he was moved to compassion of their sickness; and to the strangers he gave inns to lodge therein. Moreover he built a mighty temple with a tower of exceeding height so that it might be seen in all the land; and he bowed himself therein before his God upon the seventh day. And many merchants of that country did gather themselves together in the town which Yakoub the King had builded, and the kings of far countries sent unto him ambassadors with gifts. And Yakoub called the town which he had builded Mansoura, which being interpreted signifieth “The Victorious.”

And in the fifth year of the siege Othman, King of Tlemçen, was gathered to his fathers, and his son Abou-Zeiyan reigned in his stead. And the people of Tlemçen were in sore distress for that no food could be brought into the city by reason of the wall which Yakoub the King had builded round about it. So when the siege had continued for the space of three years more, the King Abou-Zeiyan and Abou-Hammon, the King’s brother, called unto them the captain to whom was given charge over the stores of food in the city and said unto him, “How long may we feed the people with the food which is left?” And he answered, “For the space of three days.” And there came in unto the King Dâd, the servant of the Queen-Mother. And Dâd said unto the King, “Let not, I pray you, the princesses and the women of your house fall into the hands of our enemies, but rather let them be put to death.” And Abou-Hammon, the King’s brother, answered, “What Dâd hath spoken is good counsel.” But the King said, “Nay, we have yet three days, perchance God will come to our aid. And if it be so that we must deliver up the city, then we will cause the Jews and the Christians to kill the princesses and the women of our house, and we ourselves will sally forth and fall upon the host of our enemies.” And the King wept. But lo, while they yet spake, a man of the host of Yakoub the King lifted his hand against him and smote him so that he died. And Yakoub the King’s brethren and his sons, and his son’s sons strove among themselves who should be king in his stead. And the son of one of his sons, who was called Abou-Thabet, obtained the mastery over them. And Abou-Thabet made peace with Abou-Zeiyan, King of Tlemçen, and led back his host to the country of Fez, whence it came. And Tlemçen had peace thirty-three years.

So runs the tale of the Arab chroniclers, and the walls and towers of Mansoura stand to-day in witness that they lied not. Their entrancing story is full of the elements of Oriental romance:—the fairy city springing into being almost in a night; the fearful proposal of the aged servant that the women should be killed; the long years of the siege reaching their tremendous climax in the assassination of the aggressor at the very moment when the besieged were preparing to sell their lives dearly; the struggle of the dead Sultan’s brothers and sons and grandsons for the succession. Such a struggle is a commonplace of Mohammedan politics; we have seen it in our own day in Afghanistan and Morocco; we may see it in Turkey to-morrow. It may plunge the country where it occurs in civil war, but in a South American republic even a change of party groupings will do that. As a system it can claim some merit in that it tends to place on the throne the strongest or the most astute member of the royal house.

[Illustration: THE TOWER OF MANSOURA]

Of the dream city of Mansoura nothing remains but the square of the ramparts enclosing a space of 250 acres, and the great minaret of the mosque. The city itself was destroyed by the Tlemçenites after the departure of the Moroccan army. The walls are about 40 feet high, and the towers 120 feet apart. They are all built of concrete, and though broken in places, are marvellously preserved. Weathered to a delightful tint of rich brown, they contrast admirably with the sombre monotony of the olive trees; and they lend to the pleasant mountain landscape a unique spice of romance.

The minaret, of which the inner portion has fallen while the outer remains standing, is a very noble tower, and the finest architectural work of Moorish times in Algeria; it would be difficult to match it anywhere. It stands about 130 feet high, and is built of hewn stone. Its front was decorated with coloured tiles, of which many are left. Legends have gathered round it. It is said that in his haste Abou Yakoub employed not only Mohammedan but Jewish and Christian masons, and that it is the work of the infidels which has fallen, while that of the faithful survives. It seems to have been also a starting-place for an early experiment in flying. A certain Jew imprisoned therein made himself wings, and setting forth on the occasion of a great service, fell lamentably at a spot called to this day “Le Col du Juif.” Such is the fate of pioneers.

The status of Tlemçen as a holy city, which draws to itself pilgrims not only from the countries of North Africa, but from the very confines of the world of Islam, rests on its connection with the saint Sidi Bou Medine. It has long ceased to be the capital of an African empire; it is no more a university of Mohammedan learning; its very name is almost unknown to the present generation of European men; but in the eyes of the faithful it is ever honoured. It is a little difficult for an unbeliever to comprehend what constitutes peculiar eminence in a Mohammedan saint, and there is nothing in the recorded life of Bou Medine to throw light on the question. It is related that he was born at Seville in A.D. 1126, that he was an ascetic and a mystic, that he travelled through various Mediterranean countries performing miracles, preaching the vanity of earthly things, and emphasizing the beneficence of God and the authority of his prophet. Accused of heresy by the doctors of Tlemçen, he was summoned thither by the reigning monarch from Bougie, then within the boundaries of the Tlemçenian Empire. His failing strength sustained him almost to the city’s gates, when, looking up at the little village of El-Eubbad, with its hanging woods beneath the rugged cliff, and owning at last the charm of the world he had so fiercely disdained, he breathed a wish to be buried in that lovely spot, and expired. And there for seven centuries he has lain, and you may stand beside his tomb, which is decked in the tinsel pomp of Mohammedan finery and surrounded by the offerings of the faithful. It is approached from a little court-yard, in which is an ancient alabaster well-head curiously worn by the chain which draws the bucket.

The mosque which adjoins the tomb was raised shortly after the saint’s death. It is of no great size, but both structurally and decoratively it possesses a charm which is unique. The high portal is a blaze of tiles in the finest style; tiles said to be partly of Moroccan, partly of Spanish, origin; and the doors of cedar wood, covered with bronze, ornamented with a design of arabesque interlacement, are incomparably beautiful. It has been said that they are to Moorish art what the doors of Ghiberti are to Italian; but in their decorative flatness—a quality which becomes doors—they have a distinction which is their own. In the whole realm of Moorish decoration I have seen nothing more charming. The mosque itself does not belie the promise of its entrance. It follows the usual plan, but on a very high level. Its plaster decorations, if somewhat less fine than those of the mihrab of Bel Hassan, are in the best style. The whole building is instinct with the charm of unassailable fitness, and fills the mind with an ineffaceable impress of beauty.

[Illustration: SIDI BOU MEDINE: THE BRONZE DOORS]

From these heights—mountainous and æsthetic—it will probably be the lot of the traveller to descend by easy stages to the town of Oran, which, as a commercial port, is the rival of Algiers. Unless he desires to do deal in olive oil or esparto grass, or intends to become a shipper of fine clarets and burgundies, it will not detain him long. Yet it is pleasant for an hour or two to sit before one of its brilliant cafés and survey the palpitating life of the streets. Oran is more than half Spanish; it is historically almost wholly Spanish. To-day, if you inquire of a stranger your way in French he will very likely reply by asking if you have the Spanish, and if you have it not you must try again. But the Spaniards, great builders in Europe and beyond the seas, built little but fortifications on the African shore. Oran is frankly modern and European in aspect; the most Oriental-looking building is the railway-station. The French have built fortifications too; a picturesque fort crowns a hill to the west, a thousand feet above the town; and there is much show of strength below. And there is an important garrison. Brilliant groups of officers frequent a café at the corner of the Place d’Armes, and get through a most unconscionable amount of hand-shaking. I notice that one of them, apparently a Siamese, who yet sips his _sirop_ as to the manner born, is the object of much attention. With the mass of the café’s frequenters the soldiers appear to have no acquaintance. These men of business are Frenchmen in manner and speech, but there is a prevalence of that Levantine air which pervades the Mediterranean ports;—not quite Greek, not quite Jew, and yet not wholly European.

If there is one institution more characteristically French than another, it is the Café. And, further, it is an institution which no other people, unless it speaks French, as do the Belgians, can reproduce. France has set the mode to Europe for centuries, but it has reserved the café. The other Latin nations are content with bastard imitations; the northern peoples frankly own their failure. Who can conceive a café in Hull or Aberdeen? Not more incongruous was the attempted battle of flowers in a Lancashire town,—the mayor had visited Monte Carlo,—which ended in the choockin’ o’ loomps o’ coal and the military being called out. It is not a matter of climate; Brighton and Worthing have climatic advantages over Boulogne and Dieppe. It is rather a matter of character. The café depends for its existence on French moderation and French civility, in the widest sense. The German in his beer-garden piles empty glass on empty glass; the Englishman lolls at his reeking bar; only the Frenchman can be trusted to sit at his will at his little marble table, and contemplate his little drinks, and play his little games. He does not exceed, he does not quarrel; if he did either, the café were impossible. So is he a free man, while we for our sins must submit to stringent regulations of police.

Oran’s fine old Spanish fort and the ancient walls still speak of the Spanish dominion. It was a penal station to which convicts were sent, and the governors were in the habit of putting their labour to some useful purpose. An inscription records that the citadel was built at no cost to his Catholic Majesty but for the timber and scaffolding. After repeated struggles the town was surrendered to the Turks in 1791, a very convenient arrangement, as things turned out, for the French, who occupied it forty years later. And they have made it what it is. Yet among the lower orders the Spanish element is perhaps still preponderant. To paraphrase the words of a French writer[6]—"the peasants of Valencia and Murcia have only a few hours of sea to cross, and a bad season at home brings them in hundreds. If they find no work in and around Oran as gardeners they betake themselves to the country, and become field-labourers, or harvesters of esparto grass. Sober and industrious, they are especially fitted to the conditions of cultivation in Algeria, which without irrigation is unproductive. They have in their veins the blood of those Moors who taught Spain to husband her waters. Oran is for them almost their own country, the two sides of the Mediterranean have identical characteristics; and in the smallest villages of the province they find themselves at home among their own people."

Footnote 6:

P. Bourde.