UNHAPPY KING

Greymouth Evening Star, 9 October 1928, Page 12

UNHAPPY KING

MOROCCO’S NEW SULTAN. LONDON, August I have just bowed myself out of the presence of the unhappiest monarch in tho world, and spoken to the most joyless boy ever known (said the Paris correspondent of the “Daily Express” recently). It is a sad tale of the East, this story of Sidi Mohammed Ben Youssef the sad-eyed, scared looking, melancholy youth of nineteen, who is Sultan of .Morocco, descendant of the Prophet, sovereign ruler of 8,000,000 tribesmen, fierce warriors as well as men of peace, and a paramount prince of Islam.

The Sultan is the worst possible advertisement for kingship, and dreams of dashing, handsome Arabian Night princes vanish in his presence. He has indeed Oriental handsomeness. He wields the magic wand of power, bequeathed by the caliphs; he rules a great domain of 500,000 square miles; he has armies and generals, grand viziers and wealth untold, and he has a great harem of beauteous favourites, slaves and dancing girls. Yet such sadiiess, such care, such world weariness have been seen on no boy’s countenace, prince or pauper. What tortures the mind of this unhappy young prince? It is whispered that all is not well in the royal harem at Fez, and that behind this quiet visit to France is a sad story of the wiles of women —three hundred of them. Sidi Mohammed, as the ruler of Morocco, has inherited his father’s harem, as is the custom of his country, and he ascended the throne with three hundred of his father’s favourites on his hands.

Each of the three hundred, as well as four official widows, aspire to become the first and official wife of the young monarch, and the possible mother of the heir to the throne. Sidi Mohammed is said to have other ideas and, indeed, as a modern young man, not to favour the custom of his forefathers. The harem, however, has persisted, and all the lures and intrigues of womankind have been set for him, and so he has suddenly fled either to defy custom and tho harem or to seek peace. If that were the only worry of his throne it would be enough to account for the misery of his countenance. “This is the first time I have left my country,” Mohammed Ben Youssef said to me in a timid voice. “I have come to Europe for a little, holiday. It is quite private; it has no political

meaning, but I have also come for instruction—to see and learn what the world has to teach. “Much progress has been made in my country, but there is still much to be done, and I am anxious to learn all that 1 can.” 1 told him that I came from England. Ho gazed wistfully across the Channel, visible from where we stood. I thought I heard him sigh, but his look was quite clear and full of meaning. “I wish I could cross it, away from it all,” it said. I accompanied him to the races later.

He sat with his suite in majesty. Crowds stared and gaped at him, but he seemed to see nothing. He gazed into space, far away, I am sure he was thinking of escape. A few moments later, after only about fifteen minutes’ stay, and after seeing only one race, he suddenly rose and he was gone. Ho had escaped.