These cisterns of Carthage certainly suffice to give one some idea of what the great city must have been in its prime. Nor are these the only traces of the efforts put forth by the inhabitants to obtain a constant supply of good water. Other cisterns, similar to those I have described, lie at a short distancefrom the shore. They are now, however, occupied by a tribe of Bedouins, and it is dangerous to visit them without an escort. Then, again, for miles across the sandy plain between Carthage and Tunis, a crumbling line of huge blocks of masonry may be seen. These are the remnants of the aqueduct which in later days brought the water from the Zaghouan hills to Carthage. Nowadays the Tunisians are supplied with water from these same hills, and it was but the other day that the Arabs, in order to avenge themselves upon the French, cut the existing aqueduct, and for a time deprived Tunis of one of the great necessaries of life.
Upon one point nobody who has visited Carthage can be in any doubt, and that is as to the surpassing loveliness of its situation. I know of no city, with the exception of Constantinople, that occupies a site which can be compared with this. Even that of Ephesus is inferior in splendour, if not in interest. The great city occupied an amphitheatre sloping gently down to the edge of the gulf. The blue waters of the Mediterranean must have washed against the marble steps of its palaces. Indeed, looking down to-dayfrom the spot where, according to tradition, Dido’s palace once stood, I could distinctly perceive beneath the surface of the sea the vast blocks which once marked out the site of the jetties and quays of the ancient port. Beyond the glorious expanse of sparkling waves, there were the fine masses of the Lead Mountains, encircling the gulf; inland could be seen the silver sheet of the Lake of Tunis, whilst in the dim distance the hoary crests of the ever-present Zaghouan range pierced the cloudless sky. Amid the lassitude produced by the intense heat which everywhere prevailed, both mind and body were refreshed by the exquisite loveliness of the scene, and by the delicious breeze which swept down from the mountains, and came to us laden with the briny odours of the gulf.
Absolutely desolate as is the particular part of the site of Carthage where the principal remains are to be found, it must not be supposed that the entire space once occupied by the great city now lies waste. On the top of the chief hill enclosed within the boundaries of the place stands the College of St. Louis, an establishment conducted by the Jesuits under the protection of the FrenchGovernment, where the children of most of the European residents in the Regency are educated. Down below, on the edge of the shore, are the houses of some Moorish notabilities—beautiful water-palaces, reminding me by their situation and architecture of those which line the Bosphorus. In other directions a few Arab farm-houses are scattered, each enclosed in its impregnable hedge of prickly pear; whilst hanging on the sharp crest of the hill to the west, which once looked down upon Carthage, is the walled Arab town of Sidi-bou-Said, now occupied by men so fanatical that the life of no European who ventured within it would be safe. It was with real regret that I turned away from this beautiful scene—so striking in itself, so interesting in all its associations—and began the long drive back to Tunis. There were many interesting spectacles along the way, one of the most curious being the appearance of the Caid or Judge of Tunis, clad in gorgeous raiment, and riding in a handsome brougham, escorted by Arab outriders. But the effects of the heat and the fatigue I had undergone were too great to be resisted, and before half the distance had been traversedI was sleeping soundly, unconscious even of the terrible jolting of my carriage in the deep ruts of an African highway.
“Adventures,” says Lord Beaconsfield, “are to the adventurous.” I have often consoled myself with the saying when, in the course of my little wanderings, I have met with personal adventures of a trying character. But really I have the strongest objection to being troubled by the adventures of other adventurous people. Like every other properly constituted tourist, I look down with a certain measure of contempt upon all others of my tribe, and am only anxious to give them the widest possible berth. Imagine, then, my feelings when, upon alighting at the Grand Hotel on my return, hot, hungry, dusty, and thirsty, from my trip to Carthage, I was coolly informed by the manager that he had been compelled to turn me out of my big, airy room, in order to make way for somebody else. “You see, monsieur, it was a double-bedded room,” he observed, in answer to my first expostulations. “And where, then, am I to be put?” “Ah well! monsieur, we cannot say at present; but you shall have a room before bed-time.”This was a particularly pleasant announcement to be received by a weary traveller who was anxious to refresh himself by plentiful ablutions. I kept my temper, however, until I had asked another question: “Where are my things?” My “things” were, of course, the contents of my two portmanteaus, which I had left scattered about my apartment in the early morning. In reply, the manager pointed to a heap in a dark corner of the dusty corridor. There were my books, my writing materials, my linen, my coats, my toilette apparatus, all heaped up together, promiscuously. Then—the storm broke. I was convinced that I had been treated in this infamous manner for the benefit of some French general. It was too much to be borne. I had just five minutes of it without interruption in the hall of the Grand Hotel—as good a five minutes of free, unlimited, polyglottic deliverance of one’s mind as I had ever enjoyed in the course of my life. I had, of course, the greatest personal satisfaction when I expressed myself in English; a double satisfaction, because not only had I the fullest command of words in that tongue, but I could use the strongest epithets with impunity,as neither the manager, who stood pale and scowling, receiving my outpouring of wrath with deprecating gestures, nor the attendants understood a syllable of what I said. But I was pleased to find that my French also was admirably adapted to convey some idea of the state of my mind on this occasion; and I chuckled inwardly as I reflected upon the fact that I had not mastered theargotof Paris uselessly.
Suddenly the door of the room from which I had been so summarily expelled was opened; I turned with a frown to see the man by whom I had been supplanted. O, horror! It was no man at all. There stood a woman, middle-aged, gentle, refined, evidently somewhat alarmed, and behind her a pretty young girl of seventeen, who was apparently more amused than frightened by the altercation. What did it mean? From what quarter of the world could this unexpected apparition in Tunis have sprung? The frown disappeared with marvellous rapidity from my face; I took off my hat and began to explain to them volubly that I was delighted to think that they had got such a good room, that I hoped they had not been disturbed by myscolding of the servants, that I should be only too glad to be of service to them, &c., &c. I said anything I could think of, in fact, to cover my shame at having been aroused to a somewhat unusual ebullition of temper by the sacrifice of my comfort to that of a couple of women, whilst at the same time I rejoiced to think that at least they did not understand the English I had been pouring out upon the devoted heads of the people around me. Alas! my confusion was made complete when the elderly lady said to me, “But you are an Englishman, are you not? And we are Englishwomen!”
There was nothing for it but to make an ample apology to them in my native tongue. They received it with the best possible grace, protesting, indeed, that it was they from whom apologies were due. And then the elder lady explained to me how it was that she and her daughter found themselves in Tunis. They were on their way from Genoa to Malta, where they meant to pass the winter, and they thought they would like to take Tunis on the way, “it was such a romantic place.” “But do you not know,madam, that the country is in a state of war? that the Arabs may rise at any moment, that even in Tunis one’s life is not safe?” No; they knew nothing at all upon that subject. They had simply seen that they could get a steamer from Genoa to Tunis, and another after an interval of twenty-four hours from Tunis to Malta. So these two unprotected Englishwomen had coolly come into Tunis, and were quite prepared to go for a walk by themselves into the very midst of the native quarter, if they were not warned of their danger! I enjoined upon them the necessity of taking their meals in their own room, “and a very comfortable room you’ll find it, ma’am,” I said, with the best smile I could summon up for the occasion; and then as I was to dine out by arrangement, at the Hôtel de Paris, to meet B———, M. Camile Pelletan, the French Deputy, and one or two other gentlemen, I lent Afrigan to them for the remainder of the day, warning them that they must upon no account disobey any orders he might give them. It was really wonderful how my righteous wrath had subsided when I found that it was for no Frenchgeneral, but for a couple of English ladies, that I had been turned out of my room. And yet what madness on the part of Englishwomen to come touring in Tunis at this moment!
WALKS ABOUT TUNIS.
The English burial-ground — A sad spot — The author of “Home, sweet Home” — An Arab fortune-teller — On the top of a volcano — The “fanatical quarters” — More eastern than the East — Shopping in the bazaars — Mohamed the shopkeeper — Driving a bargain — Timeversusmoney.
Saturday, October 22nd.—The story of my life from day to day in Tunis might be apt to weary some people if it were told in the fulness of detail which might be used. It is a story of walks and drives in and around this wonderful city; of visits to the quarters inhabited by the most fanatical of the Arabs, of risky trips into the surrounding country, when it has been absolutely necessary to watch closely any chance wayfarer whom one might encounter, in order to be ready to have the first shot in case of need; and of interviews with some of the notabilities of the place. Perhaps I cannot do better than sum up in one general survey the events of the past three or four days, and my experiences during that time. On the morning after myvisit to Carthage I was up betimes, in order to speed the two English ladies who had dispossessed me of my room, on their way to Malta. They were very proud of having made a hurried raid into the bazaar under the guidance of Afrigan on the previous afternoon, and they bore away in triumph a piece of loot in the shape of a large brass salver, curiously engraved in Arabic.
Having seen mother and daughter safely deposited in the train for Goletta, I set off to visit the English burying-ground. I have seen many burial-places in the course of my life, but none by which I have been so much impressed as by this last resting-place of so many of my fellow-countrymen in “a strange land.” It is very small, certainly not more than half an acre in extent, and is entered through a vaulted archway. The gate is kept locked, though I believe that no outrage has ever been committed. Passing out of the crowded streets of the native town into this silent and deserted graveyard, a strange feeling of unreality came over me. Somehow or other, I was reminded of the wonderful passage in “Esmond” in which the hero describes his visit to his mother’s grave in theburying-ground of the Belgian convent. Like Esmond, I seemed, as I moved across that solemn plot of ground, to be walking beneath the sea and treading among the bones of shipwrecked men. But here there were no nuns raising their voices heavenward, nor any chapel into which one of my own faith might creep to meditate and pray. All round were the high walls and barred windows of the Arab houses—a strange, unfriendly outlook from these mouldering graves. The noise of the city penetrated even into the silent place of the dead; but it was a strange and unfamiliar noise, having little in common with the sounds of city life at home. The fierce sun was beating down upon the narrow graveyard; all round me were tombs and flowers.
For nearly two hundred years those of our race who finished their days in this strange country have been buried here, and the rose, the heliotrope, and the myrtle have been left to flower and fade luxuriantly above their dust. Many English Consuls are buried here; some of them having been the representatives of England at the Court of the Bey at the time when Tunis was a nest of pirates, andwhen cruelty and lust such as nowadays it hardly enters into one’s mind to conceive were rampant on this spot. And there are “merchant adventurers” of the last century, who must have had bold hearts when they came hither in search of fortune. All that remains of them now is, here and there, a quaint inscription telling us how they feared God and honoured the King; how they loved their fellow-men, and amid all the temptations of Babylon were true to the faith of their fathers and of their far-off native land. Then there are the graves of women, the wives of the few Englishmen who have from time to time sought fortune here; and—saddest of all—the graves of little children who bore English names and had English blood in their veins, but who were fated never to know the dear mother country and the blessings of home. My heart was too full for utterance, as I moved about among these graves. Only some two or three of my fellow-countrymen were to be met with in the whole Regency among the living; but here among the dead I found myself surrounded by many familiar names, and by inscriptions in the English tongue, which bore texts of Holy Writ thatwere graven as deeply upon my own heart as upon the stones of the burial-ground.
For the first time since I came to Tunis a great wave of home-sickness swept over me. How far off we—I and the silent dead beneath my feet—seemed to be from the land of our birth! And even as this thought was surging through my heart, my eye fell upon one special grave for which I had been searching. There was a plain stone slab, surrounded by a little bed of heliotrope and dwarf roses, and it bore an inscription telling how beneath it lay “Colonel John Howard Payne, a citizen of the United States of America,” and how this monument had been erected by his grateful fellow-countrymen in honour of the author of “Home, sweet Home.” Strange indeed is the irony of Fate. We shape our own destinies in fancy; we plan and plot and labour and contrive; and each one of us for himself has formed his own ideal of the end at which, in due season, in the fulness of his time, he is to arrive: and probably not once, in the whole history of the human race, has that end, when it did come, been in harmony with the visions thus indulged in. But surely, of all the strangefreaks of malicious fortune, there has been none stranger, none sadder, than that which sent the man who wrote “Home, sweet Home” to die an exile on African soil, and which has left him to a grave here among our English dead of Tunis! I cleared away the mass of fallen leaves from that gravestone, and reverently plucked a spray of heliotrope and a few leaves from the rose-trees, and turned and went on my way again, filled with the feeling that, for a brief season, I had been moving in quite another world from that of the living, and that within the narrow boundaries of that pathetic graveyard of my kinsmen in a strange land, I had been holding the most solemn and the most real communion with the dead.
It was on the following day that, returning from a walk with Afrigan through the bazaars, I encountered a curious figure seated at the roadside which instantly attracted my attention. This was an Arab fortune-teller. At the moment when I came up to him he was busy unwinding the long folds of his turban; and like most of the Arabs with whom I came in contact in Tunis, he showed no disposition to court my support.In front of him was a tray on which fine sand was spread. This I need hardly say is the ordinary writing-tablet of the Arab, the slate by means of which he makes his calculations. At the side of this slate were a pile of tattered Arabic books, a dirty pack of cards, and one or two other articles appertaining to the trade of divination. My fortune-teller was a shrewd, elderly Arab, with a quick and sinister eye, but a not unpleasant expression upon his somewhat greasy face. Afrigan acting as interpreter, I explained to him that I wished to consult him. I was told to take acaroub(a penny) in my hand and to think meanwhile of the person or subject on which I wanted information, and then to give the coin to the fortune-teller. This I did accordingly. The Arab looked earnestly for a moment at thecaroub, and then began to count with great rapidity, at the same time marking down various figures upon his tray of sand. When he had arrived at certain results he smoothed the sand, thus wiping out the figures, and began again. This went on for a considerable time, until at last he seemed to have reached his desired end. He gave a last triumphant dash of the hand overhis curious slate, and then turning to me, said, “You are going away soon; you will have a stormy voyage and a long one, but you will travel in safety; those about whom you were thinking just now are quite well, and they are thinking much of you now, when you are absent; more even than they did when you were with them. All is well.” What could be more satisfactory than this, and how could I avoid giving the man an extra fee for his good news?
Strange, indeed, are the workings of the human mind. I knew perfectly well that the cunning old Arab was the veriest charlatan, and that the glib phrases he had uttered were merely the common-places with which he gratified all travellers who came to him for advice, whether they were tawny Bedouins from the Sahara, coal-black negroes from the Soudan, or pale-faced infidels from beyond the seas: yet I declare I positively resumed my walk after my short interview with the rogue in better spirits than I had been in before. After all, was he not probably right? I said to myself; and were there not kind thoughts speeding across land and sea in my direction from those whom I loved at home? Let it benoted in passing that one or two of the fortune-teller’s fellow-countrymen had gathered round whilst he was thus foretelling my lot, and that evident gratification was depicted upon their faces when they found that my fate was to be a favourable one. After all, even in the midst of this seething mass of fanaticism, a great deal of “human nature” is to be found; and so far as my experience of it goes, human nature is, as a rule, very apt to be kindly and lenient in its disposition.
And yet what a volcano is that upon which we are treading here in Tunis! Yesterday afternoon my good friend Mr. B———, who is showing himself most kind and attentive in all possible ways, went with me for a drive through the worst quarters of the town. B——— did not conceal either from himself or from me the fact that there was considerable risk in the expedition. But he believed that it must be undertaken if I were to have any real knowledge of Tunis; and therefore, disregarding the chance of a stray bullet being directed at us by some fanatic, we set off to explore those parts of the city where the natives are most closely packed together, and where theanti-Christian feeling runs highest. Without the aid of a pencil, or rather of a brush glowing with colours of many hues, I cannot pretend to give any adequate idea of the sights that I encountered during that delightful and exciting ride. Very soon after leaving the Marina we found ourselves involved in the midst of a labyrinth of the narrowest, the most tortuous, the most tumble-down lanes and alleys that ever represented the streets of a great town. Very often the carriage grazed the walls on both sides as it passed along. At other times we found ourselves traversing long dark vaulted passages beneath the houses, which in Tunis, as I have already said, are often built over as well as at the side of the thoroughfares. On each side of us for almost the entire distance were shops and Arab coffee-houses. They all looked as though they had been transferred bodily, by some deed of magic, from the pages of the “Arabian Nights.”
There was nothing that I had seen in Stamboul to compare with the orientalism of the scenes that now met my eyes. Every interior was in itself a perfect picture. Herewas a row of small shops occupied by the workers in iron. Each particular smith was squatting on his haunches on the raised floor of the little apartment, hammering some metal vessel into the required shape, or blowing the brazier of glowing charcoal with a pair of bellows of primitive construction. Here again was the quarter occupied by the dealers in earthenware, whose gay stores of Arab pottery offered to the eye a mass of rich and varied colour. But after all it was in the numberless coffee-houses and barbers’ shops that I found the chief attraction; for here the Arabs were at home, and their infinite variety of costume, complexion, and attitude was almost bewildering. As our carriage moved slowly along through these narrow, crowded streets, we passed literally thousands of natives whom our driver warned of our approach by hoarse cries. The women turned away, thickly veiled though they were, as though they were defiled by mere proximity to the hated Christian. As for the men, they regarded us for a moment with scowling faces and sinister eyes, and then ostentatiously averted their heads, evidently for the purpose of marking their resentmentat our presence. I looked back quickly once or twice, and saw these sullen-faced Moors spitting upon the ground over which our carriage had passed, and cursing us in the name of Allah! It was altogether a novel and exciting ride. Once or twice when our carriage was stopped in some particularly narrow thoroughfare my companion showed signs of alarm, and one felt upon the whole glad that a revolver formed part of one’s equipment; but any risk that there might be was more than compensated by the strangeness and picturesqueness of the scenes that everywhere presented themselves in those winding and tortuous streets, with their quaint Moorish houses and their numberless specimens of all those races who are the followers of the Prophet.
I have varied my somewhat monotonous life by frequent visits to the bazaar. Here are to be found not only many specimens of the fine silk and woollen fabrics for which Tunis is famed, but some of the beautiful carpets made at Kairwan by the chief ladies of the holy city, as well as a great number of swords, knives, and fire-arms of antique make. Oriental bazaars are all very muchalike, and the same may be said of the bazaar-keepers; though here the apathy shown by the dealers as the European, who is a possible customer, passes, is somewhat strange. No attempt is made to attract the custom of the infidel, and it would almost appear as though the shopkeepers would rather not have his money, even if it were to be offered to them. This is not, however, the case with my friend Mohamed, who is the chief dealer in curiosities and carpets, and with whom I have already had many transactions. Mohamed is a very handsome and intelligent Arab, whose frank and friendly manner affords a pleasing contrast to that of most of his fellow-shopkeepers. I suppose that from the nature of his occupation as a dealer in curios and antiquities he has been brought into closer contact with Europeans than most of the Tunisian merchants. At all events, he always looks pleased to see me, and more than once, through the medium of Afrigan, I have had an interesting political discussion with him.
I do not go to Mohamed’s, however, to talk politics, but to endeavour to add to the small store of objects of interest that I haveat home; and in doing this I have to pass through some very amusing experiences. In the first place, I find that it takes a long time to buy anything in Tunis. If one is in a hurry, then farewell to any idea of securing a bargain. A week or ten days may be easily spent in the purchase of a single article. In the next place, although Mohamed is undoubtedly a very honest fellow, you must understand that he considers it not only his right but his duty to cheat you if he can. He is there to sell his goods to the best advantage, and if he can induce you to pay for them three or four times their value, so much the better for himself. As for your share in a transaction of this kind, Mohamed will console himself with the reflection that you are in all probability rich enough to afford to give sixty francs where you ought only to have given twenty. Both of these considerations must be borne in mind by the purchaser if he does not wish to rue his dealings with Mohamed. By keeping them steadily in view he will probably find that he is able to get what he wants from that worthy individual at a comparatively moderate price. For let it be understood thatTunis has not yet, happily, been altogether spoiled by the globe-trotter or the bric-à-brac hunter. You may still pick up bargains here if you understand how to do it, as well as gain possession of articles that are really rare and curious.
The process of purchasing anything at Mohamed’s is, it will be gathered from what I have said, a somewhat prolonged and complicated one. After writing my letters and making my usual morning calls upon Mr. Reade and Messrs. B——— and P———, from whom I learn the latest news as to the proceedings of the French, I set off for the bazaar, generally accompanied by Afrigan. Nobody takes any notice of me as I thread my way through the narrow and crowded alleys of this great place of merchandise, until I turn into the particular street where Mohamed has his place of business. Then, however, a signal of some kind seems to be passed along from shop to shop until it reaches the spot where my friend conducts his transactions; for either Mohamed himself will at once come forth to meet me, or the smart Arab youth who acts as his assistant will dart away in search of him. Ineither case I shall very soon find myself seated on a carpet in the narrow entrance to the shop, surrounded by obsequious Arabs, whining beggars, and curious children who have come to see the infidel cheated.
At this point it may perhaps be desirable to explain that the shop of the chief dealer in carpets, silks, and curios in Tunis is not exactly such a place as is conjured up by the mention of the name in the mind of the ordinary untravelled Briton. The “shop” is nothing more than a closet with an open horse-shoe archway facing the bazaar, through which light is admitted, and ingress or egress afforded. The closet itself is possibly ten feet in depth and eight in width: and these, for the bazaar of Tunis, are rather extravagant dimensions. In front of the horse-shoe archway which serves both as door and window, are a couple of seats, on which Mohamed and the customer for the moment can sit cross-legged whilst they are engaged in the operation of bargaining. Within the shop the walls are covered with shelving, upon which is packed, in apparently hopeless confusion, the various fabrics and articles in which the merchant deals. Noattempt is made to preserve these articles from injury during the time they are in Mohamed’s possession. They are simply stuffed pell-mell into the shelves—scarves, jebbas, carpets, rugs, turban cloths, curtains, burnouses, being all squeezed together as closely as possible; whilst knives, pistols, and rifles are pushed in wherever a vacant corner shows itself. Probably the stock is worth many thousand pounds; yet the outward show which is made by it is considerably less than that of a very ordinary marine-store dealer’s shop in Whitechapel. The tradesmen of Tunis have not yet, it is evident, learned to appreciate the value of plate-glass and “dressed” windows. But though they may be behind their brethren of Europe in some respects, they could teach them a great deal in certain other matters, notably in the way of conducting a bargain.
I shake hands cordially with Mohamed, and squat down upon the carpet-covered bench opposite to him. Cigarettes are produced and lighted; steaming hot coffee—coffee so fragrant and delicious that gold could not buy anything like it within the limits of the British Isles—is brought to usin wonderful little cups, and we sip it and smoke meditatively, whilst I answer the questions Mohamed puts to me concerning the state of my health, my movements since I saw him last, and my present opinion respecting M. Roustan, Madame Elias, and the other delectable people who represent in Tunis the honour of France and the incorruptibility of M. Gambetta. Then at last we proceed to business. Mohamed produces a number of particularly worthless articles—swords, flint-lock guns, inferior silks, &c. I toss them from me with unconcealed contempt, and prepare to depart. Mohamed orders more coffee, implores me to resume my seat, and brings forth from some hidden recess a beautiful curved Moorish knife, of great antiquity, in a fine sheath covered with arabesque work in silver. I puff a huge volume of smoke from my cigarette to hide, if possible, the sudden lighting up of my face at the sight of this rare and curious article, and say indifferently, “Well, what do you want for this?” “Ten pounds sterling,” is the immediate reply. I laugh with the greatest goodhumour, return the knife to Mohamed, and depart at once, tellinghim I shall come back again when he has recovered his senses.
The next day, perhaps, I reappear upon the scene; Mohamed rushes out to meet me, but I pass him with a mere nod, and go on to the inner bazaar where the goldsmiths are at work in hovels no bigger, and not much cleaner, than an ordinary pig-sty. In returning, Mohamed waylays me and insists upon my drinking coffee. Again we talk on all manner of indifferent subjects; again we look over the commoner articles of his stock; but nothing is said about the knife till I am on the point of leaving. “Have you sold that knife yet, Mohamed?” I say when I have risen. “No; it is here for your honour still.” “Well, I’ll give you one pound for it.” It is Mohamed’s turn to laugh now. He holds his hands up in pious horror, and shouting out, “Ten pounds, not a penny less, for it cost me more than nine pounds,” he leaves me to go on my way. Another day passes, and again I find myself squatting on that familiar carpet, discussing local politics with my worthy friend. I have been buying from him some of the pretty Tunisian scarfs, embroidered in gold, and we are in the bestof humours with each other. Presently I say to him, “Now, Mohamed, what is your lowest price for that knife?” “Ten pounds, your honour, as I told you yesterday.” “Look here, Mohamed, I’m tired of talking to you about that knife. I shall either buy it now or not at all. If you have nothing else to say, let us say good-bye, and I’ll go somewhere else.” “Well, I am a poor man; but I would not like to offend your honour. You shall have it for six—no, for five pounds: and by the beard of the prophet! that is less than I gave for it myself.” “Mohamed, I’ll give you thirty shillings for it, and not one farthing more.” “Oh, Allah! was ever such a sum named as that? I shall be a ruined man if I take it. My own sons will mock at me.” I hand my coffee-cup to an attendant and prepare to go, merely repeating, “Thirty shillings; not one farthing more.” “Four pounds,” shrieks Mohamed; “four pounds; and by the beard of the prophet not one farthing less.” “Good-bye, then, Mohamed; I shall come here no more; may you prosper without me,” and I step into the ill-paved alley. A bland smile breaks over Mohamed’s face; he grasps myhand and retains me. “What, and do I really suppose that for such a small matter as this Mohamed would allow the light of his eyes to depart in anger? The knife is mine, and a rarer or a finer one he never sold.” The coveted article is handed over to Afrigan, who slings it round his neck with a matter-of-fact air; Mohamed and I interchange the friendliest of salutations, and we part, mutually satisfied, doubtless, with our respective shares in this comedy in three acts.
OUTSIDE TUNIS.
Risks outside the walls — A tantalizing prospect — The gates of Tunis — The Belvedere hill — The French camp — Typhus — A fine prospect — A visit to the Marsa — Mr. Reade’s country-house — A country drive — Taib Bey — The fall of Kairwan — The Bardo — The suzerainty of the Caliph — A quaint custom.
Monday, October 24th.—I have spoken of the country outside Tunis, and of its general characteristics. Excursions to various places of interest in the neighbourhood of the city have given me a thorough acquaintance with so much of the locality as it is possible at present to visit without being exposed to the most serious risk. To go more than a short distance outside the walls is at this moment sheer madness. Nothing is more tantalizing than to see open country roads stretching away into the interior, and to know that they are absolutely barred against one’s passage by an enemy, invisible, but still always present, and always ready to take advantage of the slightest rashness on the part of the stranger.There is a particular farm-house standing high up on the hills amid a grove of prickly pear and cactus, some three miles from the white walls of the city which has often attracted my attention, and which has exercised an almost uncontrollable fascination over me. If I were once up at that point I should not only see what life in a Tunisian farm-house is like, but I should be able to get a far finer view of the country than it is possible to obtain anywhere nearer to the town. The longing to visit the place became so intense the other day that I was on the point of gratifying it, when word was brought to me that this very farm-house, nestling so peacefully in a gentle indentation of the great upland slope that rises behind Tunis, had been visited the previous day by Arab marauders, who had pillaged the house and carried off the occupants. What the fate of any European who chanced to go there just now would be, is more easily imagined than described; but it is quite certain that my curiosity as to the country life of the Tunisians must remain for the present unsatisfied. Still there are one or two favourite drives which I have taken on several occasions. Theone that I like best is that to the Belvedere Hill, lying between Tunis and Carthage, where a French camp is established.
The whole scene on the road to this camp is wonderfully picturesque. As you pass out of the arched gateway of the city, you find yourself in a wide open space caused by the meeting of several roads from different parts of the country. There is a well here, and around it may always be seen clustered a large group of horses, mules, and camels. The soldiers from the camp on the hill, the white tents of which are plainly visible from the city walls, come down here with their horses to give them water; or a fatigue party will arrive for the purpose of carrying the precious liquid up to the camp. Ragged and wayworn Bedouins from the interior are lounging about the fountain, or reclining against the huge pillars of the city gateway, whilst their mules or camels are enjoying a brief respite from labour, in the midst of the white and dusty highway. Women and children are begging alms, or are taking those deep draughts of water from the well which only the dwellers in “a thirsty land” are able to appreciate. Occasionally a gaily bedizenedMoor, with brilliant turban, flowing burnous, and glittering array of knives and pistols, gallops up, scattering the crowd before him, and urging his splendidly caparisoned horse to the brink of the well. The city guards meanwhile, with their burnt faces, ragged uniforms, and deplorable old rifles, are on duty at the gate, and eye the passing European with vindictive sullenness of expression. Is there any other spot within so short a distance of Paris or London, where scenes like these are to be met with; where one can find one’s self not only in the midst of an actual campaign, but surrounded by the typical sights and incidents of a purely Oriental life?
Our carriage soon leaves this wonderful gathering-place outside the city walls behind, and after a sharp tug uphill we find ourselves nearing the French camp. Here, again, there are picturesque sights in abundance, though of a different order. No Arabs are to be seen near the encampment, but the Jews, who in dress so closely resemble them, abound. Many of them have brought trays of fruit or sweetmeats to the spot, and are conducting a languid trade with the soldiers.Then there are French hucksters, whose stock-in-trade seems to be a barrel of wine or a few bottles of beer or absinthe. They have constructed a rude shelter for themselves from the sun beneath the wide-spreading olive-trees, and you may always depend upon finding a few gentlemen in blue trousers sharing the hospitalities they have to dispense. The sobriety of the French soldier is evidently not incompatible with a very plentiful consumption of wine and bad spirits. A sentry now bars our way. He will listen to no explanation; he will take no message to the commander of the camp, and when one of us shows a slight disposition to walk past him, unheeding his stern “Il est défendu, monsieur!” his rifle is instantaneously brought down to a horizontal position, and his bayonet gleams in unpleasant proximity to the offender’s breast. But I have a good field-glass with me, and standing on the little entrenchment thrown up for the defence of the camp, I can distinctly see every portion of it. Truth to tell, there is not much to be seen. There are lines of tents—most of them bell-tents, though here and there the wretched littletente d’abriis to be seen, andthere are long rows of soldiers stretched in the shade, sleeping peacefully. Here and there an orderly may be observed, or a fatigue party armed with water-buckets, or an officer, carelessly dressed, striding about with shiftless gait. You can see, too, that the camp is not a delectable place of residence—far from it. Pheugh! As I look there comes to me, borne on the breeze, an indescribable odour. I have experienced something like it before, frequently in a travelling menagerie; but only once before did I actually encounter this horrible and insufferable stench. That was more than ten years ago, in the gardens at Versailles, when my evil genius prompted me to look over the balustrades into the Orangerie below, where the captured Communists were herded together like caged wild beasts. It is not an odour to be forgotten. It seems to print the word “Typhus” in big legible letters upon the luminous atmosphere.
I turn away from the camp, and survey the lovely country which is spread out at my feet like a map—for it is not without reason that this hill is called the Belvedere. There lies the white city, with its multitudinous flat roofs, its labyrinth of narrow streets, itsquaint ungainly towers, and its Kasbah, on which flies the French flag. Beyond it you see the semicircle of forts which at once defend it and command it. On these also flies the tricolour. Then there are the great ranges of hill, sweeping away to where the jagged peaks of the Zaghouan Mountains intercept one’s view, and the lake immediately below me dotted with the white sails of the fishermen, and in the distance the amphitheatre where once stood Carthage, and the blue waters of the Gulf. The whole scene is bathed in the brilliant sunshine of Africa. One has no wish, after feasting one’s eyes upon it, to resume one’s study of the interior of the French camp.
One day—that ought to be marked with a red letter in this discursive journal—I accepted an invitation from Mr. Reade to go with him to his country house at the Marsa. We travelled together by the mid-day train from Tunis, B——— and P——— accompanying us. After leaving Goletta the line turns to the west, and runs forward to the Arab town of Sidi bou Said. But before we reached the terminus the whistle sounded, and the train suddenly stopped. I looked out. We werein the middle of a beautiful and trimly kept garden. There was a platform of gravel, and in the centre of it a neat summer-house, but no other sign to indicate that this was an ordinary station. It was, in fact, the private station alloted to Mr. Reade, and it was his garden in which we had stopped. We descended from the train and were met by four or five bright English lads—the sons of Mr. Reade and of one of my companions. How strangely their talk, the talk of English schoolboys, sounded amid these unfamiliar scenes! We strolled up a beautiful avenue of cypress, date-palms, and cactus, to the house. It is a Moorish villa of noble architecture. Ascending a broad sweep of marble stairs in front, we found ourselves upon a splendid verandah, with screen of exquisite Moorish arches, and tiled walls and floor. This lovely covered terrace was cool and airy in spite of the intense heat of the day; and even without regarding the fine view which was to be had from it, one could understand how in the nine months’ summer of Tunis it was the favourite sitting-room and place of assembly of the family. A door opening from this verandah gave admittance to a vast andlofty hall, the walls of which were also lined with tiles; whilst beyond were suites of large rooms, furnished rather in the Moorish than the European style. Of the warm and graceful hospitality with which I was received by the lady of the house this is not the place in which to speak. It may not, however, be out of place to mention that I now for the first time had the opportunity of tastingcouscousoo, the national dish of the Arabs. Most excellent it is, though it has perhaps the fault of satisfying one’s appetite rather too quickly. It is a preparation of semolina, meat, and herbs, and has all the characteristics of a very fine curry with added excellences that are peculiar to itself. Perhaps the nearest approach to the dish is thepilaffwhich you get in Turkey; but betweencouscousooand either curry orpilaffthere is one great difference. That is, that in the Arab dish rice is not an ingredient, semolina, or whole grains of wheat, prepared in some peculiar fashion, taking its place. My introduction tocouscousoowas of such a character that I became straightway desirous to renew the acquaintance at the earliest possible moment.
After our mid-day meal—which formed in all respects a delightful contrast to the dismal and painful experiences in the gastronomic line which I had been hitherto passing through in Tunis—I went for a drive with Mr. Reade. In the course of this drive we got a splendid view of the Gulf and the surrounding country, including the entire site of Carthage. The dusty lanes lined on either side with hedges of cactus, prickly pear, and other tropical plants, presented a strange contrast to the scenery amid which the ordinary afternoon drive of an Englishman is enjoyed. We passed great numbers of Arabs. None of them took the slightest notice of Mr. Reade, though all must have known him, and must have been aware that he had proved himself to be in many ways their benefactor and protector. Returning to the house, we lounged on the verandah smoking, chatting, and watching the boys at their play—the garden ringing with their shouts and laughter. Then, after a delightful cup of English tea, we started for the little garden station. It was broad daylight when we left the house; but before Mr. Reade and I had strolled the length of the avenue it wasalmost dark, so swiftly does night fall in these latitudes. I noticed in the garden a lamp burning amid the thick boughs of a large tree or shrub, and inquired the meaning of its appearance there. It seems that the tree on which the lamp is hung is sacred in the estimation of the Arabs, who believe that a saint of peculiar holiness is buried beneath it. Accordingly this lamp is lighted every Thursday night in honour of the pious man, and devout Mohammedans come and pray beneath the shade of the tree. It is on the whole well for them that an Englishman happens to be the occupant of this house and the master of the beautiful garden. The kindliness which leads Mr. Reade to respect the shrine of which he has thus accidentally become the possessor, and not only to respect it, but to allow free access to it on the part of the people of the country, is somewhat different from the disposition shown by the nation which is about to add the proud name of Kairwan to the list of its conquests!
The day after my visit to the beautiful country home of the English Consul-General, I had another opportunity of seeing an interiorat the Marsa. The Marsa, I ought here to explain, is not so much a village as a circumscribed district in which are gathered together the villas of many of the wealthiest and most important members both of the European and native communities. Thus M. Roustan has, like Mr. Reade, a country house here; and here also are the palaces of the brothers of the reigning Bey. It was to pay a visit to Taib Bey, the younger brother of the Bey, that I went to the Marsa on this occasion. That Taib is mixed up in many of the political intrigues of which the Regency is at present the scene, and that he would not be at all sorry to supplant his brother, is, I believe, perfectly true. The standard of morals prevailing here is—well, I think it will be better to call it Tunisian; and if all that I have heard, not only about the Bey and his brothers, but about many other distinguished people in Tunis, is to be trusted, the world would not lose much if an earthquake were to bring the whole Regency to destruction to-morrow. Mr. Levy, the gentleman whose claim to the Enfida estate is one of the causes that are said to have led up to the French invasionof the country, acted as my guide in this visit to Taib Bey, in which the principal part was played by my friend Mr. B———. Taib, it appears, was anxious to influence the English public on his behalf; hence his invitation to us. It was the first time that I had ever been honoured by being received by the brother of a reigning Sovereign, and perhaps I ought to have felt more impressed than I did with the greatness of the occasion; but as a matter of fact it is a little difficult for an Englishman to enter into all the niceties of Tunisian dignities—almost as difficult as it is for him to understand the feeling of delight with which the Frenchmen here, who have been decorated with the Order of the Bey, display upon their manly bosoms the vast pewter plate which is the chief of the insignia of that Order.
Mr. Levy’s three horses, harnessed abreast, made comparatively short work of the journey from Tunis to the Marsa. We found ourselves precisely at the appointed hour entering the large, rambling Moorish villa, situated in the midst of a pleasant garden, which is the residence of the illustrious Taib Bey. Half way up the garden we were metby the Bey’s secretary, a swarthy Arab, clad in gay yellow robes, richly embroidered. He conducted us through an inner court, in the middle of which a fountain was playing, into a small sitting-room, where the Bey’s son-in-law, a Turk, greeted us in the most friendly fashion. Here coffee was served in the usual manner, in delicate porcelain cups, placed in elaborately chased silver holders. Presently a good-looking boy of twelve or thirteen came to announce that the Bey awaited us. We were ushered up a narrow tiled staircase, and through an antechamber into a large apartment, where we found the Bey seated on a sofa. It would be doing violence to the truth if I were to say that the appearance of his Highness was prepossessing. His manners, it is true, were pleasant, and he was evidently anxious to put himself on friendly terms with us; nor can it be said that he lacked intelligence. But no one could mistake the meaning of the flabby chin, the loose and puffy cheeks, the watery eye, and lean and trembling fingers. The sensuality which is the curse of these Arab potentates had evidently broken his manhood. There was,too, a furtive cunning in his glance that put one instinctively upon one’s guard.
Taib Bey may be, as he professes, a better man than his brother; but he is not a man in whose mercy I, for one, should care to find myself. Of his conversation with us, carried on through the medium of an interpreter, and lasting for some twenty minutes, I need not say much. It was chiefly directed against the reigning Bey, the ex-Prime Minister, Mustapha, and M. Roustan. If the truth must be told, I was more interested in what I saw than in what I heard; and as Europeans are seldom admitted to the houses of these Arab princes, I was anxious to make the best use of my time whilst there. All the rooms which I saw were very poorly furnished, but the curtains, sofa covers, &c., were of clean and pretty chintz. The ornaments, even in the large apartment in which we were received, and which was evidently the chief reception-room of the house, were the tawdriest paper flowers, placed under common glass shades. The only things to be seen which were really rare or curious of their kind were two tall clocks at the foot of each staircase. Thesewere very fine, and with all the ardour of a bric-à-brac hunter I felt half-inclined to sound Taib’s secretary as to the possibility of my purchasing one of them. I managed to resist the inclination, however; and perhaps it was just as well that I did so, as, unless rumour libels him, his Highness has a decidedly unpleasant way of making his anger felt when any one chances to displease him.
Friday, October 28th.—We received this morning the news of the entry of the French into the sacred city of Kairwan. Mr. Levy was the first to bring the intelligence, which was speedily confirmed. Nothing, however, was known of it among the inhabitants of Tunis, so that the excitement which may be expected to arise when it becomes known that “the Sacred City” is in the hands of the infidel has not yet been shown. I accompanied B——— this afternoon on one of the most interesting expeditions to be made at present outside the walls of Tunis—that to the Bardo Palace. The Bardo is the St. James’s of Tunis—the official palace, that is to say, where in ordinary times the work of the Government is carried on; where theBey administers justice in the primitive fashion still adhered to in this quarter of the world, where he holds his audiences, &c. Near to it is his private palace, where he actually lives when at “the Bardo.” As for the Bardo itself, it is a walled town rather than a single building or group of buildings. In front is a wide, open space, in the middle of which a fountain is playing; whilst a row of rusty cannon, placed along the line of a dry ditch, are the ostensible defence of the palace. Driving along the road to the Bardo, which lies between two and three miles from Tunis, we encountered many trains of laden camels, and scores of Arabs cantering along on their mules. There were French patrols too passing up and down the road; for this is the route to Manouba, where the principal French camp and military hospital are situated. Passing through the exterior gateway of the palace—after having shown the pass kindly obtained for me by Mr. Reade—I found myself in a street in which there were coffee shops, shops for the sale of domestic utensils, and even a post-office. All the walls were whitewashed somewhat after the fashion used in Englishbarracks, but everywhere signs of decay and neglect were visible, even the Bey’s flag which fluttered over the principal gateway showing an ugly rent.
After passing through two courtyards, in one of which was a fountain with fine marble columns, we alighted at the foot of the great staircase, which is guarded by lions in marble. At the top of the staircase is a large open verandah, with splendid pillars of marble or porphyry, brought from Carthage; and it was curious to observe on one of these the emblematic serpent, which carried one’s mind back to the days of the Phœnicians. From this verandah entrance is obtained to the central court of the Bardo and to the throne-room, where every Saturday during the winter the Bey is in the habit, of hearing the complaints of his subjects and administering justice in the quaint patriarchal fashion of the East. From the door of this throne-room, every evening from time immemorial it has been customary to proclaim the titles of the Sultan in recognition of his suzerainty as Caliph. Even now, when the French occupy Tunis, and the last shred of Ottoman authority has disappeared,this custom is kept up; and this afternoon, before leaving the palace, I was fortunate enough to witness the quaint and striking ceremony. Before doing so, however, I inspected the palace itself.
The first room to which I was admitted was a small but gorgeously decorated private reception-room. Gold was used lavishly in the adornment of the ceilings and walls; on the floor was stretched a handsome but somewhat faded Axminster carpet, the gift of the Queen of England, and the chairs were all in scarlet and gold. This apartment may be called the business-room of the Bey, that in which he sees his Ministers, the Consuls, and others who have official work to transact with him. Adjoining it was a very pleasant chamber, with a glass window running the whole length of the room, and affording a fine view of the Manouba road, on which the French patrols could be seen passing. On the walls some quaint portraits of the former Sultans of Turkey were hung. Passing up a very ordinary staircase, I was admitted to the great room of the palace, which in size is a really magnificent apartment, in this respect rivalling that ball-roomin the palace at Amsterdam which I saw a few weeks ago, and which was described to me as the finest room in Europe. The furniture of this great room is very tawdry, and in spite of its size and the canopied throne which stands at one end, it has a mean and squalid appearance. There are hundreds of fine chandeliers holding dirty wax candles at every angle save the right one. The walls are adorned by life-size portraits of many of the sovereigns of Europe, presented to the Bey. The Queen of England is merely represented by a small engraving, and the Bey is said to be very indignant at her Majesty’s having omitted to send him her portrait in oil. The finest thing in the room is a wonderful piece of Gobelins tapestry—a portrait of Louis Philippe. This is really remarkable for colour, fineness of outline, and general effect. At a short distance it is impossible to distinguish it from an oil painting.
My visit to the palace, where dirt reigned supreme, and signs of decay and neglect were everywhere to be met with, would have been most disappointing if I had not been privileged to see the ceremony of proclaiming the Sultan’s titles of which I have spoken. Thiswas a most curious and interesting performance. A melancholy-looking man in tattered garments, beating a large drum, like himself considerably the worse for wear, crossed the courtyard, and, climbing the lion staircase, took up his position in front of the door of the throne-room. He was followed by a second performer on a kind of flute, from which he drew forth weird and ear-piercing strains. The door was thrown open, and two old heralds in scarlet and gold took their places on either side of it. Then, when the musical performance, which had lasted some considerable time, had ceased, one of the heralds, a venerable Turk, proclaimed in Turkish—and apparently by a series of dismal howls which reverberated through the corridors and courtyards of the palace—the titles and glories of the Sultan. It was a curious and memorable incident for one to witness in the middle of that crumbling building, outside of which the French troops were passing, all unconscious of what was happening within. Does M. Gambetta know, I wonder, that this formal declaration of the Caliph’s suzerainty is still kept up at the Bardo in spite of the treaties and despatches of the ingenuous M. Saint-Hilare?
[Since I wrote the foregoing account of Taib Bey, he has undergone a very remarkable change of circumstances. In January last Taib’s palace was suddenly surrounded by Tunisian cavalry, and the unfortunate Prince, dragged from his bed, was made captive and carried off to the Bardo, where they have a very easy way of getting rid of criminals or of those who happen to be obnoxious to the authorities. In the meantime Taib’s son, or more probably his son-in-law, who acted as master of his household, is reported to have escaped and taken refuge in the country house of Mr. Reade. These events will show my readers how different life in Tunis is from life in Europe. The beautiful villa at the Marsa, where I spent a delightful day last October, is now the sanctuary in which a hunted man has found a refuge under the shelter of the English flag; whilst Taib Bey’s palace stands desolate, and its owner is the occupant of a prison. The real reason for Taib’s arrest is that he refused to give a bribe of large amount which was demanded by a friend of M. Roustan, and that he offered to produce documents proving the criminality of Roustan and his connexion with a notorious adventuress. For these reasons he has now been made prisoner at the instigation of M. Roustan, and is in great danger of losing his life. That he has intrigued against his brother is perfectly true; but it is equally certain that his brother has not himself been willing to order his arrest. The information I have received on high authority from Tunis, since the arrest took place, is to the effect that the Bey was most unwilling to take any proceedings, and that it was M. Roustan who forced this particular measure upon him.]
ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.
The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan — A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm — Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway — The English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A new servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf of Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower.
Susa, Tuesday, November 1st.—The story of a failure is not the most pleasant reading in the world; and alas! the history of my attempt to get to Kairwan is the history of a failure. I found myself within less than forty miles of the famous Sacred City, “the Mecca of the West,”—I wasnearlythere; and I was beaten back by the force of circumstances over which I had no control. Still the account of my journey towards Kairwan is one which contains sufficient elements of interest to be worth repeating here. For some days I had been hanging on at Tunis, waiting for the moment when news should come that the French had reached Kairwan.Until they had done so, it would, of course, have been sheer madness to attempt a journey to the place. On Friday, October 28th, however, the news that the French columns had reached Kairwan and that the tricolour had been hoisted on the tower of the great Mosque reached Tunis, and I immediately prepared to start. It was amusing to listen to the dismal prophecies uttered on all sides regarding the certain fate of those who ventured to tread in the footsteps of the French army. My friend Mohamed in the bazaar shook his head dolefully when he heard I was going, and declared that even he would not be safe in Kairwan. The fanatics of that holy city were so intensely excited against all who had bowed the knee to the infidel, that they were prepared to fall upon any of the Arabs of Tunis, and to slay them for having permitted their venerable city, “the Burnous of the Prophet,” to be defiled by a foreign occupation.
I suggested to Mohamed that inasmuch as the Kairwan people now lay under the same condemnation, they might perhaps look more leniently upon the offences of himself and his brethren. But he shook his head in adoleful fashion, and pressing my hand warmly, commended me to the protection of Allah, as one who was about to go through a den of wild beasts. My next difficulty was with Afrigan. He had served me so faithfully and diligently hitherto, that I felt loth to part from him. “Will you go to Kairwan with me?” I demanded of him as we sat and smoked our cigarettes under the delicious sky of an African night, in front of a little café of which I had become a frequenter. “Well, you see, sir,” said he, with Scotch indirectness, “I have a wife.” “But what of that? I may have one also, and yet I am going.” “Ah, sir, youmayhave a wife,” said Afrigan, in a tone which implied the profoundest incredulity upon the point; “but she’s a long way off, so it doesn’t matter. You see, sir, my wife is in Tunis.” “And you won’t go, then?” “Well, sir, I am afraid she would not let me.” After this, argument of course was useless. I confined myself to inviting him to accompany me at least as far as Susa, whither I was to proceed by sea. Now, even at Susa, life is by no means safe. Indeed, constant reports had reached Tunis during my sojourn thereof the shooting of Europeans in the streets of the town; and it was notorious that Arab raiders had cleared the country up to the very walls of the city. Afrigan, however, was quite ready to go with me to Susa; and forthwith I despatched him to pack a small portmanteau, whilst I made a few farewell calls upon French and English friends.
The next day there was a great disappointment. It was the day on which I ought to have started, and I had taken passages for myself and my servant. Suddenly news was brought to me that the steamer could not start for another day. It was a bitter termination to my hopes of getting to Kairwan, and it required all my philosophy to get over it. On that particular day, I may here mention, I and my two friends, B——— and P———, found ourselves so sick of the vile hotel fare, that we induced Montellacci, the Italian pastry-cook of the European quarter, to prepare us a meal of tinned soups and meats. It was a welcome change from themenuof the Grand Hotel, for we at least knew what it was that we were eating; and though perhaps Montellacci was a little puzzled by our preferring preserved hare soupand minced collops to the dainties of the table d’hôte, he did his best to satisfy us. We felt quite at home as we ate. How strange, too, is the power of association! As we were lunching in the confectioner’s shop there fell upon our ears the sound of music. Music, it should be understood, is almost the only form of recreation in which the people of Tunis are able to indulge. There is, however, no theatre—it was burnt down some weeks ago—and no concert-room; so that the musicians are compelled to wander from café to café, trusting to the liberality of the frequenters of those places for their reward. On this occasion it was a couple of Neapolitans, with violin and flute, who favoured us with the strains of a gay Neapolitan fisher’s song. Suddenly they passed from this to one more familiar to me; and hackneyed and vulgar though the melody was, it touched me in a curious way to hear the well-known “Grandfather’s Clock” performed there, in the narrow street where the Arabs were walking to and fro, and the innumerable dogs were playing their part as scavengers.
A night’s reflection brought me to the conclusion that I would go to Susa even now, andtake my chance when there of getting on to Kairwan. Accordingly, on the next afternoon, having provided myself with a letter of introduction to the English Vice-Consul at Susa, Mr. Gallia, I set off with Afrigan for Goletta. By five o’clock I was on board a magnificent vessel of the Compagnie Transatlantique, theVille de Naples. This is a sister ship to theCharles Quint, and, like the latter, was built upon the Clyde. It is, however, somewhat larger than theCharles Quint, and, if anything, is even more gorgeously appointed. As I was being rowed off to the place where theVille de Napleslay at anchor, I passed close to the English gunboatFalcon, Captain Selby. The sailors were just being piped to tea, and it was right pleasant to see so many “jolly Jacks” of my own country and to hear once more the strains of an English bugle. Nor was it less pleasant to find oneself again on board a clean and well-appointed French boat, on which one could exchange the filth and bad food of Tunis for something like civilized cookery. There was some delay in making a start, and it was not until long after we had dined that the anchor was weighed. But I shall never forget thatinterval of waiting. All round us were the merchant-vessels and men-of-war gathered together in the safe anchorage of the gulf; whilst in the distance were the low ranges of hills, and the white and spectral towers of Tunis and Goletta. A change had taken place in the weather immediately after sunset. For the first time since my arrival it became, not cold, but cool. And now the most terrific storm of lightning I had ever witnessed suddenly burst around us. This African lightning is at once magnificent and terrible to behold. It played all over the surface of sea and land, in wonderful, tremulous flashes of the most intense violet. There was literally no interval between these flashes; and I saw further inland under their penetrating glare than I could have done in the sunshine. Even after the anchor had been raised and we had got well on our way in the Mediterranean, the lightning seemed to be following us, lighting up the crests of the waves, and throwing the rugged coast-line out in splendid relief.
The next morning, going on deck I found the ship running into the deep gulf at the bottom of which lies Susa. The Zaghouan hills were almost as distinctly visible here asthey had been at Tunis, though it was at the other side of them that I now looked. Presently on the port quarter we sighted Monastir, an important centre of the trade in olive oil; and then Susa was opened up to us right ahead. It would be difficult to imagine a pleasanter-looking town than Susa—when seen at a distance. Built in a parallelogram, with high white walls running completely round it, and a huge kasbah or citadel dominating it in the background, it presents a most pleasing aspect from the sea. The country is much more fertile here than it is in the neighbourhood of Tunis; a rich belt of olive forest running along the seacoast, and many handsome Moorish villas and farm-houses nestling between the trees and the shore of the bay. Looking beyond the town inland, I saw ranges of sandhills of curious shape. Beyond these sandhills stretches a marshy desert reaching far into the interior. Riding at anchor in the harbour were two French ships of war, an Italian gunboat, and my old friend theCharles Quint! After breakfasting on board—a most “happy thought,” as I subsequently discovered—I landed under the walls of the town. Thesewalls, it ought to be explained, run right along the beach as well as on the other sides of the city, so that the latter is completely closed in. How necessary such defence is, may be gathered from the fact that within the past six weeks every villa or farm-house outside the walls, including even those which are only a few hundred yards from the gates, has been pillaged by the insurgent Arabs. So near have these gentlemen ventured to the town that—as I subsequently found by unpleasant experience—it is dangerous even to walk or ride fifty yards beyond the walls.
Susa being the starting-point of one of the columns which has marched upon Kairwan, and being also the base of supply for the whole French army in that part of the country, is at this moment the scene of immense activity. No one landing here can fail to perceive that he is in a country in which an active campaign is being carried on. On the beach enormous quantities ofmatérielof all kinds are gathered, and the big flat-bottomed boats are ever bringing fresh supplies from the ships in the harbour. Arab labourers and French soldiers, mingled together in a picturesque crowd, are all talking wildly, rushinghither and thither, and generally doing the best they can to obstruct one another. It is amusing to contrast the shrill tones of the French with that extraordinary guttural sound which represents spoken Arabic, and which has for all the world so strong a similarity to the “gobble-gobble” of an infuriated turkey. The Arabs in Susa, or rather, here on the beach in the midst of the French transport department, seemed to have been roused from their ordinary apathy. I even saw some of them running, and one or two of them were evidently excited. Threading my way through the great mounds of grain and coffee bags, I came upon the starting-point of the little Decauville railway, which is being laid down to serve the army at Kairwan. The last time I saw one of these miniature locomotives was in the Steam Plough Works at Leeds. The railway to Kairwan starts from the beach, or rather from the yard of Messrs. Perry, Bury, and Co., an English firm engaged in the esparto grass trade, for whom Mr. Gallia, our Vice-Consul, acts as agent. It is as yet only completed to a point about twelve miles from Susa, and has to be constantly watched by patrols, in order to prevent its being destroyed by the Arabs.
Passing through a deep vaulted gateway, more like a tunnel than an ordinary entrance gate, and then through a second which was in the occupation of French soldiers in soiled and ragged uniforms, I found myself in the town itself. There was a labyrinth of narrow, ill-paved streets, along which one had to pick one’s way with the utmost care. A few Maltese coffee-houses, where vile adulterated spirits were being sold to the sailors and soldiers, and here and there a melancholy little shop, alone broke in upon the depressing monotony of the blank white walls, which here, as in Tunis, line the streets for the greater part of the way. After feasting one’s eyes upon the fair exterior of the city, it was indeed a disillusionment to enter it. With some little difficulty Afrigan and I found our way to the English Vice-Consulate, where Mr. Gallia, the son of an Italian father and of an English mother, was engaged in transacting business in a vaulted apartment, which would have looked like nothing so much as a stable or a cellar if it had not been for the beautiful tiles with which floor and walls were lined. Here I was received with kindness on the presentation of my letter of introduction. “Is it possible to get toKairwan?” I asked. “Certainly,” was the answer, given with a businesslike promptitude to which I was quite unaccustomed in the Regency. “A French convoy will leave here at three o’clock this afternoon; you must get a pass and go with it, and you will be there in three days.”
I was delighted to find how the dangers, of which I had heard so much when in Tunis, seemed to have vanished as I approached them, and instantly prepared to go. But there was still much to be done before I could consider myself equipped for a journey which, counting the return journey, would last at least a week, and during the whole of which I should have to be entirely dependent upon my own resources both for food and for shelter. A thick Arab burnous, and a splendid fez, orsheshia, as it is called here, were procured for me by Afrigan; the English hat I wore being wholly unsuited to the climate. I may say here that no greater mistake than that of taking a very light hat into such a country as Africa can be committed. The head must have sufficient covering to protect it from the fierce rays of the sun. It was curious indeed to observe that when the heat was greatest inTunis, the Arabs seemed to wear their thickest clothes and biggest turbans. After attending to these necessaries of dress, I engaged, on Gallia’s recommendation, a servant to replace Afrigan. A glance at the man showed that I had made a change for the worse. He was a Maltese, who spoke Arabic, Italian, and a little English, and was described to me by the faithful Consul as “not quite right in his head, and given to drink, but fairly honest.” He was, however, the only man who seemed willing to risk his life in a journey to Kairwan, so I was compelled to put up with him. Then a mule and a donkey had to be hired, and some sixty francs’ worth of tinned meats and bread bought, whilst knives, pannikins, a lantern, and some candles completed my outfit.
It was no light matter to have to rush about the streets of Susa making these purchases under the blazing mid-day sun. Afrigan, whose heart was evidently heavy at parting from me, did his best, and his dull successor was quite willing to suggest the most incredible purchases of meat for the journey. I saw his eyes glisten as each successive tin was added to the store I was collecting, and I thought ruefully of the share which he wouldundoubtedly claim for himself when the moment to divide these good things should arrive.
At last, panting and exhausted, I returned to the Vice-Consul’s to report the completion of my equipment. Alas! the first words that greeted me were an announcement that Mr. Gallia had been mistaken, and that the convoy had started at one instead of three o’clock. I suggested that I might easily overtake it, as it consisted of some hundreds of laden camels. He laughed at the notion. Even the half-hour’s start it had obtained was fatal to my chance of joining it. To go without armed escort beyond the city walls was to court attack. I did not credit this alarming statement at the moment; but a few hours later, when by an unpleasant experience of my own I had ascertained in a practical manner the presence of insurgent Arabs within a few hundred yards of the city gates, in the belt of olive wood outside the walls, I was compelled to give the Vice-Consul credit for having spoken the literal truth.