Of the miseries of the enforced sojourn at Susa which I had now to face I shall not say much. I parted with Afrigan, who went on board theVille de Naples, which had beenappointed to return to Tunis the same evening. Mr. Gallia had informed me that Susa had lately been blessed with a luxury, a “real Parisian hotel,” and thither I went to take up my quarters until the convoy for Kairwan should start, an event which we understood would take place on the following day. A real Parisian hotel! It was situated in an old Arab house, opposite the great mosque of Susa, an extraordinary building, of which I shall have something more to say presently. I subsequently found that this house was the property of Mr. Levy of the Enfida, who had let it recently to an enterprising Frenchwoman from Marseilles, who had come to Susa in the wake of the French army. The filth left behind by the last Arab occupants of the place apparently still remained undisturbed. A few articles of European furniture, a long wooden table, and a dozen cane-bottomed chairs had been put into one of the rooms, which by the process had been converted into asalle-à-manger. I asked to see a bedroom, and was led up a slippery outside staircase to a gallery from which the various sleeping apartments were entered. The furniture of that into which Iwas shown consisted of an old iron bedstead on which a bag stuffed with shavings was placed, a small table, and a three-legged stool. The tiled floor was thick with filth, and the heavily barred windows refused to open. However, there was shelter here from the sun, and though I had my suspicions as to the contents of that bag of shavings, it was at least possible to rest one’s weary legs upon it, whilst I covered all the native odours of the apartment with the grateful fumes of tobacco. After a while, too, I got a basin containing some water, so that I was fain to confess that civilization had indeed achieved a triumph in Susa when this “Grand Hôtel de France” was set up there.
I had invited the Vice-Consul to dine with me, and I scraped up an acquaintance with the landlady in order to secure her interest on the side of a good dinner. I knew the dinner would be the reverse of good; I knew that in such a place it must be detestably, execrably bad, but I was in hopes that there might be a little good wine in the house. Well, there was wine—champagne at fifteen and Bordeaux at ten francs a bottle. I hoped that my guest, if he could not eat thefood, would at least be able to drink. Then, having done my best in preparation for dinner, I went for a walk—or rather a ride—to the outskirts of the town. It was then that I discovered that the Arabs were somewhat closer to the walls than I had anticipated. Nothing but an ignominious flight sufficed to save me from a fate which would have prevented any pages of this diary ever seeing the light of day. My little adventure satisfied me upon one point, and that was as to the thorough untrustworthiness of my new domestic. As soon as he saw me approaching danger, he simply turned and fled without a word of warning, leaving me to face the consequences for myself. And very unpleasant those consequences might have been! However, I got back safely into the town, and once more went to see Mr. Gallia. He took me for a walk through the streets into the little bazaar—a very bad copy of that of Tunis, though arranged upon the same plan, with the slipper-makers in one street, the perfumers in another, the vendors of linen in a third, &c. A curious crowd of Arabs followed us, and watched all my proceedings with the liveliest interest.
Then we strolled down to the beach and to the office of the harbour-master, where we sat drinking the hottest of coffee, and looking out upon the beautiful bay, so tranquil and lovely in the light of the setting sun. Suddenly the clouds overcast the sky, and the dust began to rise in volumes so dense as to make it almost impossible to breathe. Then, almost in an instant, the temperature fell many degrees, the rain began to fall in heavy drops, and a cold wind blew round us. We hastened back to the miserable shelter of my hotel; stumbling along the streets where the patient camels were sheltering themselves against the walls, and their drivers with their robes wrapped about their faces were endeavouring to screen themselves from the blinding dust. As we strode onward, no very lively feelings animating my breast, I heard a well-known voice behind me, and looked round. It was Afrigan! The faithful fellow had ascertained that his steamer would not start that night, and although I had now set him at liberty, he had returned from the comfortable vessel to share the miseries of a sojourn in Susa with me. With his aidmy bedroom at the “Grand Hotel” was made at least a little cleaner than when I took possession of it.
In due time the dinner-hour arrived, and with it my guest. The dinner was even worse than I had anticipated; and I made haste to draw Mr. Gallia’s attention to the wine, hoping thus to divert it from the viands. Alas! he assured me that he had been a teetotaler from his birth. “And have you then no vices?” I asked. “Ah, yes; I have two very serious ones. I drink too much coffee, and that you know is thought quite as bad here as drinking too much wine; and I am always smoking cigars—when I can get them.” The latter statement was reassuring. I had just secured, before leaving theVille de Naples, a packet of five-and-twenty Algerian cigars. I hastily drew them from my pocket, and almost before the keenest pangs of hunger had been satisfied, we pushed away our plates and began to smoke. I am afraid to say how many of those cigars were left when, after a most interesting talk respecting affairs in Tunis, my friend left me shortly before midnight.
A GALE OFF CAPE BON.
A night of misery — No chance of seeing Kairwan — The Great Mosque of Susa — The Vice-Consul’s house — An English captive in Susa — Arab revolvers — Old friends — On board theVille de Naples— A disturbed meal — Running for shelter — Rounding Cape Bon — Glasgow for ever!
November 3rd.—I have passed some miserable nights in the course of my life, but not many to be compared in absolute wretchedness with that which it was my lot to spend under the roof of the French hotel of Susa. Perhaps some of those nights that I passed some years ago in the detestable gasthof of the detestable town of Mohacs, Lower Hungary, may have been as bad as this; but distance lends enchantment to the view, and from my quarters at Susa I looked with longing eyes even towards the mud huts on the swampy banks of the Danube, where I had once sojourned in wretchedness. It was bitterly cold, so that as I lay upon a bed of shavings, wrappedclosely in my camel’s hair burnous, I was chilled to the very marrow. The wind was howling round the corners of the house, and shrieking across the great open roof of the adjoining mosque, and the rain was beating heavily upon the window. As I lay there and thought of the six or seven nights I must spend in the open, with no better shelter than my cloak, whilst I made the journey to Kairwan, I confess that I did not feel in a particularly cheerful frame of mind. But far worse than wind or rain or gloomy thoughts was the Egyptian plague which tormented me within the walls of my chamber. Mosquitoes boomed about my devoted head all night long; and from the bag of shavings on which I lay came forth an army of creeping things to prey upon my flesh. How I longed for morning! When at last it came I rose quite unrefreshed, and performed my ablutions as well as I was able in the small basin of water which I had managed to secure on the previous evening. The room, I need hardly say, was innocent of such an article as a looking-glass; so that my toilette was completed under difficulties. There were two windows to the apartment,and both were heavily barred by means of that curiously curved grating which is one of the distinguishing features of Tunisian houses. From one of them, however, I was able to obtain a good view of the Great Mosque of Susa.
This building is of immense dimensions, and bears distinct traces of its Roman origin. Occupying a site in the heart of the town, its high walls, enclosing it in the form of an octagon, are the most marked architectural feature of the place. No Christian has, of course, ever been allowed to enter it; but by craning my neck from my bedroom window I was able to see probably as much of its interior as was ever beheld by infidel eyes. There was a great courtyard surrounded by a colonnade, the roof of which was supported by many graceful columns. In the centre of this courtyard there was a fountain, round which trees were growing. The mosque itself has not a domed roof such as is common among the mosques of Turkey; but a flat roof, from which rises a rectangular tower. The vast dimensions of the building, its curious architecture, and the mystery which attends itsorigin, make it a structure of great interest to the traveller, and I was unfeignedly sorry that I could not gather further information respecting it.
Afrigan made his appearance even whilst I was studying the mosque. His face bore a strange resemblance to a plum-pudding. “Oh, sir, the mosquitoes were awful all night,” said he, in lugubrious tones. “Better come on to Kairwan with me, then?” I responded blithely. “Well, you see, sir, my wife—” “Oh, butyourwife is a long way off now; so what does it matter what she thinks?” said I, adroitly turning the tables upon him. Afrigan smiled as well as he was able with his swollen face, and he shook his head mournfully. Almost at the same moment there was a knock at the door, and my second domestic, the Maltese gentleman, entered. He was laden with some huge lumps of cheese, with half a dozen loaves, and with a ponderous lantern. Having added these to the store of provisions already accumulated, he proceeded to inform me, with great coolness, that we should not be starting for Kairwan that day. “What do you mean?” I asked, in amazement.“Well, honourable gentleman, the French Colonel says the convoy won’t go to-day, and he cannot tell when one will start.” This was pleasant news. I rushed forth breakfastless in search of Mr. Gallia. He confirmed the intelligence. Whether the Colonel had no wish to be burdened by the presence of an Englishman of an inquiring turn of mind, whether some good-natured friend had quietly put a spoke in my wheel, or whether the case was really as stated, I cannot pretend to say. What is certain is that I was solemnly told that I could not leave Susa that day, and that nothing could be said as to when I could leave. A convoy, it was true, was starting that morning. The Colonel could hardly deny this, inasmuch as I could see for myself some hundreds of laden camels, defiling through the narrow streets for the rendezvous at the Kairwan Gate; but it was only going as far as Wad Loya, the first station on the road, and I could not be allowed to go with it.
Thus once more my hopes of seeing Kairwan vanished, and on this occasion finally. My leave of absence was drawing to an end,and I could not hang on for an indefinite period at Susa. If I were not permitted to start at once, I must give up all hope of going at all. To this painful conclusion I was presently brought. So, after all, the tinned meats, the pickles, the cheese, the bread, the candles, had all to be returned to their vendor. Never in my life had I a harder task than that of inducing this gentleman to take back his corned beef and sardines. After a struggle, which lasted nearly an hour, he finally, as a great favour, consented to do so at a reduction of fifty per cent. upon the price I had paid him for the same things the day before. It was almost as difficult to get rid of my Maltese friend of the villainous countenance. I paid him handsomely for the very small services he had rendered me; and he went away cursing me audibly. “I think, sir,” said Afrigan, “that is an impudent man, and you might do a worse thing than to kick him.” I agreed with Afrigan from the bottom of my heart. As for Afrigan himself, he was in the seventh heaven of delight when he found that the expedition to Kairwan was abandoned. “Oh, sir, that is better. I could not bearto think of a gentleman like you sleeping among the soldiers on the open ground for a whole week in weather like this. I lay awake all last night—I could not sleep for thinking about you.” “Come, come, Afrigan: no humbug, if you please! You know it was the mosquitoes that kept you awake.” “Well, sir, the mosquitoes were very bad; that is quite true; but it was worse when I thought of you lying out in all that rain. But now we’ll go home and say nothing at all to our wives about Kairwan. I shan’t say anything to mine about Susa either.” And then Afrigan lighted a cigarette, and strolled off in search of a coffee-house, humming a gay Arab tune.
I went to breakfast with Mr. Gallia at his house. Nowhere in the world, I imagine, is a man’s house so entirely his castle as it is in these semi-savage Arab towns on the north coast of Africa. For the European resident in a place like Susa there is absolutely no attraction outside the walls of his own home. He has no society; such a thing as a dinner-party, or a party of any kind, is absolutely unknown. He cannot frequent the miserable Arab cafés or the still moremiserable Maltese dram-shops: he cannot enjoy that unfailing resource of the Englishman who finds himself stranded in a dull place, a walk out into the country. My friend Mr. Gallia goes down once or twice a day to the office of the old Turkish harbour-master of Susa, and sits there for half an hour, smoking, drinking steaming hot coffee, and looking out upon the beautiful bay, whilst he listens to the gossip of the port. But these visits to the shore form the only variety in his monotonous life. All the other hours of the day must be spent within the walls of his own home, and the only society he meets with is that of his own family. It will be seen, then, of what importance the house is in a town like Susa. The exteriors of the houses here, like those in the Arab quarter of Tunis, are miserable in the extreme. The residences of even the wealthiest merchants bear a strong outward resemblance to stables or barns. But it does not do in this part of the world to judge by outward appearances; and just as the fairest features that ever adorned one of thehourisof Paradise may be concealed under the hideous yashmak, so the most luxurious ofabodes may be found within these rough whitewashed walls.
One peculiarity all the houses have in common, and that is that they are capable of being easily defended from attack. The house is generally built in the form of a hollow square. The ground story is occupied with cellars and offices; and one narrow flight of stairs gives access to the living apartments. All the windows being heavily barricaded, it is only necessary to defend the staircase in order to make the house secure; and as the precaution adopted in mediæval castles is used here, and the wells are carried up through thick stone walls to the first floor of the houses, there is every convenience for withstanding a siege. Mr. Gallia’s house presents all these characteristics of the local architecture. It has, besides, an historic interest. A hundred years ago Susa shared with Tunis and Algiers the distinction of being a favourite haunt of those seawolves the Turkish and Arab pirates of the Mediterranean, and at that time the house now occupied by the Vice-Consul of England was the home of the most notorious of the pirate chiefs. As I walked through the lofty,comfortable rooms, I could not help wondering whether any hapless fellow-countryman of mine had found himself here in servitude to his barbarous captor; and even as I thought of English captives in Susa, I found myself face to face with one. She was a willing captive, it is true; for she was the mother of Mr. Gallia. A fine-looking Englishwoman, with pleasant features and a kindly smile, she was, I need hardly say, a most welcome apparition in such a place. More than forty years before she had left her native town of Dover, in order to come to Africa, and she had never since seen England. There were no railways in her part of the country when she quitted it; for more than two-score years Time had been doing its work, and a thousand great changes had been wrought in the condition of English society. But she knew nothing of them. As the wife of an Italian gentleman, as the mother of a numerous family, she had lived her placid, uneventful life in this dull city, hardly venturing to quit the shelter of her own home, whilst the busy world outside was going on its own way. Mrs. Gallia had still a good command of the English language,and seemed not a little pleased to meet with one of her fellow-countrymen, the first whom she had seen for many months. After breakfast I inspected some of the chief objects of interest in the house. Among these were some of the magnificent carpets of Kairwan, the work of the chief ladies of that holy city. Still more interesting, however, was the large collection of arms which Mr. Gallia has formed. This collection is, I believe, unique in north Africa, and is well worth a detailed description. All manner of Moorish, Arab, and Negro weapons are represented here, as well as shields and headpieces. But perhaps the most interesting of all the specimens in the collection are a sword found at Gabes, which there is every reason to believe was a relic of the Crusades, and a remarkable Arab rifle withrevolvingbarrels! Truly, there is nothing new under the sun. Here in Susa, in the old house of a Turkish pirate, I found a rusty time-worn weapon, certainly more than a hundred years old, in which the idea of that modern invention the revolver, was not only distinctly foreshadowed, but carried out in almost all its details.
And now the time came for me to saygood-bye to Susa. I first made an expedition to the bazaar in order to purchase, if possible, a Kairwan carpet; but none were to be had. The war had for the moment put an end to the manufacture, or at least to the sale, of these carpets. Then I went down through the narrow, muddy streets, to the beach. The sky was gloriously blue; a strong wind was blowing, which tempered the heat of the sun; but still the warmth was quite as great as that of an English July, and one found it difficult to realize the fact that this was a November day. I had decided to return to Tunis with Afrigan by theVille de Naples. It was disappointing, and even humiliating, to go back without having seen Kairwan; but there was no help for it. Susa, I must say, I was unreservedly glad to leave. Beautiful as is the situation in which it stands, and fair as is its outward appearance, it is, upon the whole, the most unpleasant place of temporary residence in which I ever found myself stranded.
The water in the bay was very rough, and when I stepped on board the little boat that was to take me to the shipwhich lay at the distance of half a mile from the shore, I told the men to get me on board as quickly as possible. They asked if they might wait for two gentlemen who were going to another vessel, and, somewhat reluctantly, I consented. What was my surprise and pleasure to find that these gentlemen were the purser and the surgeon of theCharles Quint, the “Corsican brothers” of my journey from Marseilles to Tunis. They came smartly along the wharf, arm-in-arm as usual, and with that look of sobriety, not to say solemnity, on their young faces which contrasted so curiously with their years. I think their pleasure at our meeting equalled my own. We shook hands warmly, and exchanged notes about Susa, of which we had formed precisely similar opinions. A very nervous twenty minutes was that which followed, as our little boat shipped sea after sea, and danced about in the most eccentric fashion on the top of the waves. At last, however, we reached theVille de Naples, the side of which rose like a vast wall from the sea. I made a desperate jump and landed on the ladder, waved my adieux to my friends of theCharles Quint, and climbing tothe deck, congratulated myself upon the fact that this splendid ship was far too huge in its dimensions to be disturbed by any sea she would be likely to encounter in the Mediterranean.
Alas! for my inexperience. I was now about to encounter the worst storm I had ever met with in any part of the world. The sole passengers on board besides myself were Afrigan and a young German, who was the agent of a Marseilles wine and sardine firm. The latter shared the saloon with me. About noon we sailed; the wind freshened immediately afterwards, and we soon found ourselves in the midst of a gale, whilst the motion of the vessel was so great that it became almost impossible to keep one’s feet. I had looked forward eagerly to the dinner-hour, remembering the privations of Susa. When it came I was surprised to find myself the only person at the table. Neither my fellow-passenger nor the ship’s officers appeared upon the scene; and the crash of the crockery on the table almost drowned the roar of the tempest outside. But we are creatures of habit. I sat in my comfortable arm-chair and enjoyed the good things spreadbefore me without thinking of the storm, or of the somewhat white faces of the stewards who waited upon me. The sense of having escaped from the miseries of the hotel of Susa seemed to drown all thought upon other subjects.
It was whilst I was thus enjoying myself that the captain appeared, with a somewhat perturbed face, to inform me that he did not like the look of things; that the gale was increasing, and that theVille de Naplesbeing without cargo was not easily manageable. He had determined, therefore, to run into Kalybia Bay for shelter, provided he could obtain the assent of the passengers to his doing so. Now, I wished particularly to get back to Tunis as speedily as possible, in order that I might catch a boat that I knew was to start on the following day for Malta. Moreover I did not believe in the danger of which the captain spoke. No English captain, I thought, would have spoken of running for shelter under the circumstances. However, as any man who has travelled much must be aware, there is one golden rule from which the wise traveller never departs. That is, to leave the captains of ships and the drivers ofcarriages to manage their own business. So with unfeigned reluctance I expressed my assent to his proposal, and an hour later we found ourselves at anchor in smooth water under the lee of Kalybia Point. There were no fewer than five other vessels riding at anchor here, sheltering from the gale. One of these was a man-of-war. How strange it was, as I retired to rest, to look from my port at the lights of these vessels, which were so near to us, and yet of which I knew so little! We had all found shelter for a night in this little bay; all having run from a common danger. To-morrow we should be speeding each on his own path, and every trace of our meeting would have vanished.
Amid a very heavy gale from the south-east we started again for Tunis, about six o’clock in the morning. No sooner had we left the shelter of the bay than we found ourselves in the midst of a tremendous sea. Huge green waves, topped with foam, were sweeping down upon us with a force and might that was almost majestic; and the great ship rolled and tossed upon the troubled waters as if she had been no bigger or heavier than a cork. We came round Cape Bon atthe very height of the storm, and a grander sight than that which was then presented to me I never beheld. I had been lashed upon the hurricane deck for safety, and as I sat there, at times almost losing my breath when the ship dipped suddenly, and at other times looking up in wonder upon the huge mass of the hull which seemed to be reared above my head as it mounted the waves, I felt like one who was looking on at the most glorious and exciting of contests. How our noble ship fought with those angry seas; and how resolute they seemed to be in their determination to overcome her! One wave after another came on in endless succession. There seemed no chance for the vessel; yet she met each successive foe with dauntless breast. The shriek of the wind through the rigging drowned all other sounds. The din was indeed appalling. The great rocky buttresses of Cape Bon, which I had seen a year ago bathed in summer sunshine, stood out as bulwarks against the raging sea, which broke upon every point in columns of spray that rose hundreds of feet in height. The motion of the ship, the splendour of the scene around me, the glorious freshness ofthe battling winds which buffeted my cheeks and almost tore my coat from my back, filled me with a strange sense of exultation. I could have shouted aloud with delight, as we rode royally over the billows, and resisted the tremendous pressure of the tempest, which strove furiously to drive us to our doom upon Cape Bon. Thoughts coursed through my mind even more quickly than the spray flew through the air around me, and my brain was quickened, my blood warmed, in a way of which I had known nothing for months. But all the time one knew how near we were to death. A break-down of any kind in the engine-room, nay, a momentary error on the bridge, would have been fatal to every soul on board.
Whilst I thus revelled in the “violent delights” of the storm, heedless of the “violent ends” to which they might be the precursors, poor Afrigan and my other fellow-traveller were in truly doleful state. There must be something demoralizing about sea-sickness, or rather about the freedom from it. How otherwise can one account for the fact that even the most amiable of men, if he were to find himself exempt from that malady whilsteverybody else around him suffered from it, would feel puffed up with a sense of his own superiority, as though, forsooth, it was a matter of personal credit to himself that his stomach happened to be rather more like that of an ostrich than the stomachs of his fellow-passengers? Breakfast was not served until we had left Cape Bon far behind us and were running into the Gulf of Tunis. My forlorn fellow-passenger, the captain, first and second lieutenants, purser, and doctor came to the table when the meal began; but long before it was finished I and the first lieutenant found ourselves in sole possession of the board. The extraordinary motion of the ship had driven everybody else, including even the captain, away. My companion and I were busily discussing the beauties of Glasgow, when at last the ship was brought to anchor off Goletta. He was the only man I ever met with who declared that Glasgow was infinitely to be preferred as a place of residence to London! And he was no Glaswegian, but a sunburnt native of Marseilles.
LAST DAYS AT TUNIS.
A retrospect — The captain of theAristides— A curious meeting — Tunis again — Farewell visits — Rich shopkeepers — A last tussle with Mohamed — A real Arab gentleman — The Jewellers’ Bazaar — A visit to the Jewish quarter — An Arabian Night’s Entertainment — Dining, drinking, dancing.
Thursday, November 3rd.—My last day on the shores of Africa has arrived; but before I say “good-bye” to my faithful Afrigan, to B——— and P———, and Mr. Reade, and to the wonderful streets of Tunis, I must indulge in a retrospect, and put together some notes from those pages of my journal which I have been compelled to skip in the course of this narrative. First of all, let me tell how, when theVille de Naplescast anchor in the gulf yesterday, I was reassured by seeing the Italian steamer for Malta still lying at her moorings. The weather was far too rough to permit of her sailing; the consequence of this is that I shall, after all, be able to reach Malta before the close of this week. Even in thegulf, and within half a mile of the little breakwater of Goletta, the sea was so high that theFalcongunboat was rolling in a fashion the mere sight of which might have made any squeamish spectator on shore feel sick. Six sturdy Arabs rowed me ashore from theVille de Naples—a long and somewhat dangerous operation, for which, despite the remonstrances of the economical Afrigan, I felt compelled to pay double the usual fee.
The rain of the past night had converted the main street of Goletta into a swamp; but how gay and delightful the whole place looked after the wretchedness of Susa! Strange indeed is the extent to which our sense of comfort is relative merely. When I sat down under the trees in front of the wretched Italian café of Goletta, I felt almost as much pleased as though I had found myself in the Grand Café at Paris. There were French officers all round me, smoking, gossiping, drinking coffee, and reading the latest number ofFigaro, which was being hawked about by a bright little Jew. Presently up came my old friend the captain of theAristides, the English steamer which was wrecked off Bizerta two days before I first landed inTunis. He has been kept here ever since, but with British impassiveness seems quite at home at Goletta, and well able to rub along comfortably, in spite of the fact that he speaks no word of any language save his own. We hob-nobbed together over our coffee, and the captain being, like all men in his line of life, a little of a doctor, began to prescribe for Afrigan. He, poor fellow, was in dismal plight. The gale had completed the work which the mosquitoes had begun, and I do not think that anybody could have recognized in this forlorn wreck the gay and lively Afrigan of a week before. But not a word of murmuring escaped his lips. His prevailing feeling seemed to be one of profound thankfulness at having survived the storm and reached land in safety. I expressed my regret for having induced him to go with me to Susa, seeing he had suffered so much from the journey. “Well, sir, you see, it is a good thing I did go. I always have said that I am the best sailor in Tunis, and that nothing would make me ill; but I know now that I did tell a lie when I said so.” And Afrigan shook his melancholy head, and declining to partake of any refreshment on the plea thatall Goletta seemed to his dizzy brain to be dancing around, relapsed into silence and a cigarette.
For the first and only time during our acquaintance I was compelled to look after my baggage myself. A sturdy Arab porter was called, and hoisting my portmanteau and a long white waterproof coat upon his shoulders, he set off for the station. Presently, in a moment of carelessness, he let the portmanteau fall into the mud, thus making necessary the slight application of my stick to his back. As we were settling this little difficulty, I heard the voice of an unmistakable Englishman shouting “Bravo! bravo!” and looked round. The face of the speaker was strange to me, but I saw at once that he was a fellow-countryman. “An Englishman, I see,” I remarked casually. “Yes, sir; and you are Mr. Reid, I suppose. I knew it must be you as soon as I saw that English waterproof, for Mr. B——— told me of your being in the Regency. May I ask, sir, if that waterproof coat came from Leeds?” “Certainly,” I answered, feeling rather surprised at the question; “it came from Leeds, and so did I. But what do you know about Leeds?” “Why,I was born there, sir.” And then my newly found friend explained all about himself, and I discovered that his paternal home waswithin two hundred yards of my own housein a suburb of Leeds. The world is small, indeed; is it not? I have had so many experiences of the fact that I have almost ceased to be surprised at incidents of this kind; but I confess it seemed more than ordinarily strange thus to meet on the shores of North Africa a man to whom the sound of the Headingley Church bells was as familiar as it is to myself. It turned out that he was the locomotive superintendent on the line between Goletta and Tunis, and that he lived in Goletta with his wife and her mother.
Once more I found myself walking along the Marina of Tunis, and entering the Grand Hotel. Little as I liked the place, it almost seemed as though I were getting home again when I entered the familiar doorway and made my bow to Madame. Then I posted off to see B———, who started up in surprise when he saw me, believing that I must have got inside Kairwan by this time. A farewell visit to Mr. and Mrs. Reade, who have now come up to their house in Tunis for thewinter, was the next duty I had to discharge. I found a pleasant, youthful-looking man taking afternoon tea with them in the closed verandah of the Consulate, through the Venetian blinds of which you may catch a glimpse of the busy scene in the square below. This gentleman proved to be Captain Selby of theFalcon, and we chatted for some time together, chiefly about the prospects of sport for the captain during the coming winter. He hopes to get some partridge-shooting in Albania, and looks forward to it as a delightful relief to the monotony of sea-life. Then Mr. Reade gave us an account of howhevisited Kairwan some thirty years ago, and of the tremendous excitement of the populace when he went to the baths, from which the natives were rigorously excluded on the occasion of his visit. And then I said “good-bye.” May the genial Consul-General and his gracious wife long continue to prosper! So long as England is represented at Tunis by Mr. Reade, the best traditions not only of English hospitality but of English diplomacy are certain to be maintained. One other task still remained to be performed before I could join B——— at a farewell dinner. Soonce more I toiled up the narrow, winding street which leads to the Bazaar, passing all the well-known shops, where the same well-known figures, clad in their brilliant garments, were seated cross-legged on the little divans, amid the piles of candles, herbs, slippers, silk stuffs, and Manchester goods. Many of these shops it is notorious are not what they seem to be. Their owners have no wish to sell. A good many of them, indeed, could afford to buy up the richest of the visitors from abroad who occasionally come to pester them with their custom. They have simply opened these shops in the Bazaar in order to divert the attention of the Bey’s officials from their accumulated wealth. If they were to give up the pretence of business everybody would know that they had made money, and presently, under one pretext or another, a means of making them disgorge part of their wealth would be found. But as it is, so long as they sit here, in one of the quaint little caverns which are called shops in the Bazaar, they manage to go free from all except the collective extortion to which the whole community is at times compelled to submit. Moreover, the Bazaarfurnishes the only source of amusement open to the Tunisian. It is here that he learns all the gossip of the day, and perhaps takes his share in inventing it. He knows nothing of the kind of hospitality which is familiar to us in England. The house of his dearest friend is closed against him, unless it be upon the occasion of a wedding or a funeral; but the Bazaar is his club, his exchange, his coffee-house, his news-rooms, and the chief pleasure of life would be gone if he were no longer permitted to frequent it. I picked my way over the broken pavement of the narrow darkened alleys of the Bazaar until I came to Mohamed’s. He was not in his shop; but his assistant at once ran to fetch him, whilst the inevitable cup of fragrant coffee was served for my benefit. Mohamed seemed much pleased at my return, but his face fell when I told him that I was about to leave for good. This fact, however, did not interfere with a very smart tussle between us over the price of a silkjebba—the principal garment worn by the town Arabs—which I was anxious to possess. I had sent Afrigan home because of his melancholy plight, so I was compelled to rely exclusively upon myselfin conducting this bargain. I had, however, a very simple and efficient method of handling Mohamed. I allowed him to ask all manner of enormous sums for thejebba, simply contenting myself with repeating in a monotonous voice “Thirty francs”—that being just ten francs less than the sum I meant to pay.
Never was Mohamed more eloquent than upon this occasion. He had summoned an old Turk who spoke a few words of French to his aid, and this worthy expatiated as well as he could upon the beauties of the particularjebbaupon which I had fixed my attention; its colour, its texture, its workmanship were all perfect, and it was worth at the very least 100 francs. When I thought that a sufficient amount of time had been spent in this way I rose, and shaking my head blandly, held out my hand to Mohamed saying as I did so, “Forty francs, and not a caroub more.” The good merchant seized my hand with the utmost cordiality, and the bargain was struck in an instant. Then he made a desperate attempt to induce me to buy some carpets, some of the curious inlaid Moorish tables, and similararticles, of which he possessed a large quantity. Finding, however, that I had now completed my transactions with him, and that no more money was to be made out of me, his whole demeanour changed. But it changed not in the way familiar to me in Constantinople, in Vienna, in Paris, aye and even in civilized London, where the cringing subserviency of the vendor too often turns to rank insolence when he discovers that he has extracted the last sou from the pocket of his customer. This Arab shopkeeper of the Bazaar of Tunis, despite those characteristic failings of which I have spoken, is a noble-minded gentleman; and as soon as he discovered that I had ceased to be his customer, he began to treat me as a guest.
More coffee was brought, cigarettes were lighted, and by the aid of the disreputable old Turk we struck up a friendly conversation, in which a great deal was said about Tunis, about England, and about the French. Mohamed is an Anglomaniac. He believes that the banner of St. George will yet bring freedom to the Arabs of Northern Africa, and he prays morning and evening for the hour when the deliverance of his country shall be effectedby means of English courage. “Tell them when you cross the seas, illustrious Englishman, that the Arabs are waiting for your countrymen, and will welcome them with all their hearts; tell them that all that we have is theirs, and that we love them and long for them, because we know we can trust them to do us justice!” One could not look at that handsome, grave, beautiful face, which the picturesque turban set off to such advantage, without feeling that this merchant of the Bazaar was a true aristocrat, and that the race which could boast of such men could not be regarded as altogether effete. Then Mohamed when the time came for me to leave him, begged that I would stay yet a little longer; and presently he produced from some dark recess a small Tunisian purse in scarlet leather, richly embroidered with silver, and asked me to accept the trifle in remembrance of the man whom I had honoured with my patronage. So finally we shook hands once again, and “I went on my way and saw him no more.”
I still had one additional experience to encounter in the Bazaar, however, before I finally quitted it. I was anxious to obtainsome of the silver coffee-cup holders which are used by the wealthy Tunisians, and for this purpose I had to visit the jewellers’ quarter. My readers will accuse me of exaggeration if I attempt to give them an exact description of this part of the Bazaar. I regretted whilst I was there that I had not provided myself with a measuring-tape, in order to ascertain the precise dimensions of the streets through which I passed, and of the shops and houses I saw. I seemed to have entered a sort of Lilliput Land; where, however, the inhabitants were of normal size, though all their surroundings were extraordinarily narrow and minute. The little unpaved alleys were in no instance more than three feet wide, and at certain places they were little more than half that width, so that two persons found it difficult to pass each other. The houses were of the size of ordinary English pig-sties, and I am afraid I must say that size was not the only matter in which the resemblance was to be found. Under the guidance of an astute Jew, I threaded my way through a labyrinth of these wonderful passages. On all sides of me were the shops where the workers insilver and gold were hammering the precious metals on tiny anvils, or melting them in little charcoal stoves. At last my conductor, stooping low, entered one of these shops, in which two workmen were busy. Passing them with a nod and a murmured word, he led me into a somewhat larger apartment at the back of the shop. I should think it was about seven feet square. Here, in a glass case, were the objects which I wanted. I bid him a price, but found that my rude method of bargaining was not effectual here. There is a fixed price for the precious metals; and even these delicate silver cups are sold by weight. I bought two of them for a sum which, if not literally “an old song,” was yet hardly more in the figurative sense.
This visit to the Jewellers’ Bazaar, where the business is chiefly carried on by Jews, reminds me of one of the most interesting incidents of my stay in Tunis—the visit I paid in the company of Mr. Levy to the Jews’ quarter of the city. It was one Saturday afternoon when Mr. Levy invited me to accompany him on a walk through the wonderful maze of narrow streets in which theJews live. Saturday had, of course, been selected because it is the day on which the Jews are in the habit of showing themselves most freely, and also the day upon which the women put on their most gorgeous dresses. During the other days of the week the short silk chemise or jacket and cotton tights form the principal articles of their attire. On the Sabbath, however, instead of the cotton tights being worn, their shapely limbs are encased in glittering breeches, richly adorned with gold and silver embroidery; the silk jackets are of the gayest colours, and a quaint conical cap is worn on the back of the head—something after the style of the head-dress of Englishwomen in the days of the Plantagenets. The young men, too, wear on Saturday their newest and smartest burnouses, white, blue, and a pale olive green being their favourite colours. It is easy to conceive that a crowd of men and women thus attired wear a strange appearance in the eyes of the Europeans. Not a black coat or an ordinary bonnet is to be seen in such a crowd, but everywhere the most brilliant hues and the most graceful forms of drapery are mingled in a confusedmass, the component parts of which it is almost impossible for the eye to distinguish. It was a wonderful network of narrow streets through which Mr. Levy led me. Few were more than five feet wide, many of them being still narrower; and everywhere the architecture showed that the Jew’s house in Tunis is of necessity his fortress also. Every window was heavily barred, the grating generally being of the curious curved shape which is one of the distinguishing features of street scenery in the Regency. The doors of stout oak were studded with heavy iron bolts, and secured by ponderous locks and bars. As in other parts of Tunis, the streets often run under a kind of tunnel, the houses being built over them for a considerable distance. In these places it was necessary to tread very carefully, for the thoroughfare was wrapped in darkness, and the pavement was always atrociously bad.
On this particular Sabbath all the doors of the houses seemed to be thrown open, and through them one caught glimpses of cool airy courtyards, where the children were playing, and the women in their quaint and—according to European notions—indecentattire, were gossiping together; the men of each particular family being squatted apart, solemnly smoking, or wagging their beards in grave conversation. Hundreds of young men and women—the faces of both sexes being strikingly beautiful—were promenading up and down the narrow winding lanes, but there was no love-making visible, and no intermingling of the sexes such as we are accustomed to in Europe. It is not the fashion here for a pair of lovers, even of the humblest class, to “walk out” together. Yet, even in Tunis, and in this dark and crowded ghetto, love asserts its rights, and women are true to their inborn nature. From a hundred grated windows bright black eyes flashed down upon me as I walked through the gloomy labyrinth of filthy lanes, and many faces dusky of hue yet beautiful of feature were to be seen; and once, as I passed one of the jealously barred windows, I noticed that the lattice was open, and I heard a musical “Bon soir! monsieur!” fall upon my ears like a benediction.
It was under Mr. Levy’s guidance that on one evening during my stay in Tunis I had the pleasure of enjoying an experiencethat I may well call unique—a real Arabian Night’s Entertainment. I had met at the house of Mr. Reade a Tunisian gentleman of high family and enormous wealth, General Ben Ayad by name. This gentleman is justly regarded as being the finest specimen of the Moorish aristocracy now living in Tunis. Strange to say, he is an English subject by birth; his grandfather having some fifty years ago got himself enrolled as a subject of the King of England in order the better to secure his property from the rapacity of the French, who, even at that time, had begun to cast covetous eyes upon Tunis. The possessor not only of splendid estates in the country, but of many fine palaces in and about Tunis, General Ben Ayad takes pleasure in showing hospitality to all English visitors to the Regency. He made many apologies to me for being unable to offer me any sport, explaining that the disturbed state of the country prevented his visiting his sporting estates. Learning, however, that I had not seen one of the characteristic native dances, he kindly sent me an invitation to an entertainment at his house, which was got up entirely in my honour. Mr.Levy acted as my conductor, and I was accompanied by two of my English friends resident in the Regency. The hour fixed for our arrival was half-past seven in the evening, and shortly before that time we started from the hotel. A walk of twenty minutes through the most wonderful network of narrow lanes with blank, whitewashed walls on either side, here and there diversified by a door opening into a dismal-looking vaulted apartment, or a long, low archway spanning the path, brought us at last to a little courtyard surrounded by buildings apparently of the utmost squalor. All was dark and silent, and not a creature was to be met with. Levy pushed open a door, and cautiously sounding the pavement with his iron-shod staff, led the way up a large staircase with oaken balustrade, marble steps, and tiled walls. Still no one appeared. A solitary oil-lamp cast a flickering light over the staircase, but we seemed to have entered a deserted house.
Suddenly a door was thrown open, and, as if by magic, the scene changed. We saw before us a vast and brilliantly lighted apartment, the extreme length of which couldnot have been less than sixty feet, nor its breadth less than forty. Brilliantly illuminated both by gas jets and countless candles, its richly tiled walls and gaily painted ceiling fairly glittered with light. It was furnished with huge looking-glasses, set in swinging frames like those used by ladies in their dressing-rooms, and wardrobes and cabinets of large size. The woodwork of all these was of the most brilliant vermilion red, lavishly picked out with gold, and the general effect of this barbaric splendour was so grand that I was filled with surprise as I found myself in this noble hall, and felt fairly dazzled by the magnificence of the scene. Couches and settees in glowing colours, besides many chairs, small tables, &c., were scattered about the floor of the apartment, and on the walls were hung many fine old engravings, including, strange to say, a portrait of the late Pope—a rather curious object to find in the house of a Mahometan. Ben Ayad, his eldest son, and several relatives and domestics, were awaiting us in this apartment, and the tall and stately Arab general gave me the warmest of welcomes. He apologized at the same time fornot being able to entertain me properly. His household, it seemed, was still at his country mansion at Sidi bou Said, and in consequence he could only invite me to sup with himen garçon. With this explanation he pointed smilingly to a great round table, on which was laid out a repast that promised well for the satisfaction of our creature comforts. Then he led me into a second drawing-room, an apartment still more beautiful than the first.
This room was forty feet square. On all sides of it were doors and windows with rich hangings; splendid couches and chairs in crimson and gold were placed round it, except on one side, where there was an enormous settee, at least twenty-five feet in length. On marble console tables stood valuable vases of Sèvres, and two beautiful ormolu clocks, the gift of Louis Philippe to Ben Ayad’s grandfather. But the finest feature of this room was the lovely arabesque ceiling—one of the most perfect specimens of Moorish decoration I ever saw. How it would have gladdened the heart of Owen Jones! An enormous crystal chandelier was pendant from this ceiling, but it was notused, the room being lighted by gas and oil lamps. I confess that for a time I was completely bewildered by the sudden change from the squalor and darkness of the streets outside to the brilliant interior in which I now found myself.
After I had talked a little time with Ben Ayed, and had partaken of coffee, served in beautiful silver holders by servants in graceful Arab dress, the musicians and dancers who were to entertain us entered. These were Jews and Jewesses—in their national costume. They squatted down on cushions arranged on the floor, and after being supplied with refreshments presently began to play. Their instruments were a violin, a mandolin, a tambourine, and a tabouka, or native drum, the barrel of which is made of earthenware, and which is struck with the points of the fingers. They played a long, plaintive Arab melody, quaint and even weird, and strikingly unlike anything I have heard before, except in Turkey and from the gipsies in Roumania. This music, which was a sort of prelude to the entertainment, having ceased, we went to dinner. It was a really sumptuous repast, nearly all thedishes, however, being Arab. We began with delicious couscousoo; then came, as a relish, potarga, the dried roe of the red mullet. This delicacy, which is made at Bizerta, bears some resemblance to caviare, though without the oiliness of that article. Olives, radishes, &c., were also eaten with this course. Next another Arab dish was served, which, however, was not quite so palatable—it consisted of hot and rather greasy fritters, enclosing meat and eggs; cold chicken served with a kind of egg paste, very light and dainty; excellent roast mutton;foie gras en aspic, and a most wonderful assortment of pastry and sweets completed this part of the repast. I ought to say that the sweets and pastry were of Arab not Italian cookery, and were most deliciously flavoured with pistachio. Melons, pomegranates, and other exquisite fruits were served after the meal, which was accompanied by capital Bordeaux, very fine Malaga, and excellent champagne, ice being plentifully supplied with the wine. We all drank to each other, to the prosperity of Tunis, &c., and many very polite speeches were made by the host and the rest of us. Returningto the drawing-room at the close of this meal, we listened to a song given by all the musicians and dancers. No words can convey any idea of the peculiar melody, or rather, to my uncultivated ears, want of melody, which characterized this production. It was melancholy in the extreme,—a long wail, accompanied by sudden bursts of discord. It was, however, said to be the favourite love-song of Tunis.
The youngest and best-looking of the dancers having left the room for a few minutes, reappeared in Greek costume. She clapped her hands loudly to keep time to the music and began to dance, the figure bearing some resemblance to the Highland Fling, the motions being grotesque rather than graceful. Sometimes she hopped round the room on one leg, sometimes she jumped like a frog; at times she bounded from the floor, waving gay silken scarfs above her head. Then the peculiar part of the dance began—and here I must stay my pen. Though there was nothing coarse in the performance, the woman herself being decently clad, no one could mistake the indelicacy of themotif. The long dance at anend, coffee, cigars, and liqueurs were served to us by the retinue of servants. Ben Ayad had sent to procure some of the best Arab dancers to add to our amusement; but his retainers had returned unsuccessful. They had procured the women, it appeared; but when it was found that they were to be asked to dance before a Christian, their neighbours rose in a mass, stoned the unfortunate domestics, and rescued the women! It was not until long after midnight that I left the hospitable roof of my Arab friend, five of his servants escorting me through the streets with lanterns and arms to the door of my hotel.
GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.
An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab el Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage — Italian greed — TheSicilia— Sea-sick Arabs.
Thursday, November 3rd.—This last morning of my stay in Tunis broke in cloudless splendour. The weather, which has been so unsettled for some days, seems suddenly to have improved, and we appear to be entering upon another summer. The heat is intense; and as I laboured in the courtyard of the hotel at the troublesome task of marking the various boxes containing my purchases, the perspiration literally streamed off my face, and again and again I had to sit down exhausted. At half-past nine I sent off Afrigan to Goletta with the whole of myimpedimenta, which he is to see safely on board theSicilia, the Rubattino boat in which I go to Malta. Then I went out for a last walk in Tunis. To-day is one of the great festivals of theArabs—the Feast of the Bairam. Hitherto the eve of the feast has always been marked by a fair held on a vacant space of ground within the walls, close to the Kasbah. I went up to this place yesterday evening in order to see this festivity, but found to my regret that the fair is not being held this year—another token of the way in which the natives regard the French occupation and the “protection” of M. Roustan. This morning, however, there were evident signs that the day was a holiday. All the Arabs were dressed in their smartest attire, and those of them who possess the Order of the Bey wore it proudly. Bands of music, the strains they poured forth being of the most unmelodious character, were passing through the streets, and a score of fine carriages dashed past the hotel on the way to the Bardo, where the Bey to-day holds a state reception.
I have, by the way, lost a chance of making the acquaintance of this high and mighty potentate. Mr. Reade kindly asked me to accompany him to the Palace, in order that he might present me to his Highness. But I subsequently learned that a dress coat wasde rigueuron such occasions: and alas!when I packed my portmanteaus before leaving home I tossed out of them the dress suit which they originally contained, not thinking that I should require it during my stay in Africa. The Consul-General thought that the Bey might stretch a point in my favour, in consideration of my being merely a passing tourist. But his Highness is at this moment in sore trouble and humiliation, and it would have been improper under the circumstances to present oneself in a manner which might be construed into a want of respect for the fallen potentate. So I lost the opportunity of making the acquaintance of the ruler of this curious land. If I could not see the Bey this morning, however, there was nothing to prevent my seeing his people. This Feast of the Bairam is the nearest approach to our English Christmas which the Arabs know. It is a festival of friendship and goodwill. Accordingly, every Arab who meets an acquaintance in the streets this morning stops and gives him a kiss of brotherly love. It was curious indeed to see these solemn, bearded old gentlemen engaged in this operation. Not a word was spoken either by the kisser or the kissed: but handswere touched, and the lips of the one pressed to the cheek of the other. I noticed, however, that where there was a great social distance between the two, as in the case of my friend General Ben Ayad and one of the ordinary Moors of the town, it was only the rich man’s hand, and not his cheek, that was kissed. These good Tunisians are not the only people in the world, however, who keep up forms and ceremonies long after the life has gone out of them.
For the last time I took my stand on the steps of the Grand Hotel, and surveyed that wonderful panorama which is for ever being displayed in the Marina. Over the way was the coffee-house of the colonnade where, under the shade of the arches, I have drunk so many glasses of lemonade and vermouth. It was crowded to-day with the usual throng of French officers—all of them wearing full uniform in honour of the Bairam—and special correspondents for the Paris Press, each fingering the red rosette in his button-hole with that air of intense satisfaction which only a decorated Frenchman can assume. To my right, beyond the palm-trees in the little garden, rose the fine Moorish gatewaywhich gives admission to the square of the Consulate. To-day, as on all days, it appeared the centre of the life of Tunis. A hundred vendors of cakes, sweetmeats, fruits, matches, trinkets, were pushing hither and thither, waving their feather brushes to drive away the clouds of flies, and filling the air with a clamour which reminded one of Whitechapel on a Saturday evening. The drivers of mules and camels were raising hoarse cries of warning as the animals in their charge unceremoniously pushed their way through the throng: squatting at the feet of the pillars of the gateway were hideous figures veiled in black yashmaks. They might be the fairest of virgins, or the ugliest and vilest of crones; it was all one to the spectator who saw them, sitting in patience, beside the loaves of bread which it is their business to sell. Half-a-dozen of the city guards passed under the gate in Indian file, their rusty muskets carried at all possible angles; their bared feet and ragged raiment proving to what straits the national exchequer has been reduced. Then a couple of Frenchgens-d’armesemerged from the throng, neat, clean and well dressed, with their hands on thebutts of their revolvers. The smiling ruddy face of my friend B———, who seems tall of stature even in this land peopled by the sons of Anak, showed itself above the white and blue turbans, as he strode towards me, waving aloft the latest message from Kairwan, and followed by a knot of children, Jews and Arabs, all alike bent upon extracting a caroub from his pocket. Turning from this scene of bustle and excitement, I saw the broad street immediately in front of the hotel filled by troops of Moors of the better class, patrolling up and down in their brilliant robes, deeply engaged in conversation with each other; and presently an open landau dashed past, and I recognized the somewhat insignificant features and figure of M. Roustan, the Mephistopheles of Tunis, who was returning from his formal visit to the Bardo. And over all this brilliant varied scene there was the intensely blue and cloudless sky of Africa. It was hard to tear oneself away from the spot. As I said at the outset of my narrative, the eye at least may always enjoy a perpetual feast in Tunis. My ideas of the picturesque were not small before I came here; and I had seen something of the Eastand of Eastern life before ever I set foot on African soil. But what I have seen in Tunis has given me altogether new ideas of the really picturesque. How I have longed for the faculty of the artist, so that I might convey some faint idea to those at a distance of the glories and wonders of this place—the glories and wonders of the sky, of the vegetation, of the hills, of the cities, of the people. Poor indeed are words, even at the best, to convey any real idea of natural scenery or of unfamiliar forms; and I believe that even the author of the “Princess of Thule” would find himself baffled in the attempt to bring home to readers in England that infinite variety of colour and shape, that endless succession of picturesque groups and still more picturesque interiors by which the eye is greeted on every side in Tunis. If I could but bring before the mind’s eye of my reader, I will not say the view from the Grand Hotel of which I have been speaking, but a correct and vivid idea of the inside of a single Arab coffee-shop, I should feel that I had not written altogether in vain.
But the moment of departure had arrived, and B——— reminded me that even in Africatrains started with tolerable punctuality. So I said good-bye to the waiters of the Grand Hotel, and presently found myself in the train bound for Goletta. There was in the train with me the eldest nephew of the Bey, and the heir-expectant to his throne. As he stood on the little gangway outside the carriage in the Tunis station, most of the Arabs as they passed him stopped to kiss his hand or the skirt of his frock-coat. He is a rather good-looking young man, with a face not quite so sensual as those of most of the Moors of the upper classes are. There was, however, no sign of strength of will or vigour in his countenance, nor anything to make one hope that under his sway Tunis would be happier than it has been under the rule of his uncle. In a third-class carriage adjoining that in which the young Prince rode, I recognized the business man of the unlucky Taib Bey. When he saw me he came out upon the gangway, and as the train was whirled onwards towards Goletta he shouted to me in French an energetic appeal on behalf of his master, “An honest man, monsieur! an intelligent man! The only man who can save Tunis! Tell the English allthat, I beg of you.” If all Taib’s servants are as faithful and zealous as this Arab is, he is not after all so unlucky as he might seem to be.
There was yet another acquaintance of mine in the train. This was once more the Captain of theAristides. He had a wonderful tale to tell of the pluck of the third mate of that unfortunate vessel. This man, whose name, I am sorry to say, I cannot give, was sent by sea to Bizerta last week in order to look after the wreck. Having fulfilled his duty there, he was anxious to return to Goletta as quickly as possible, but found that no steamer would call off the port for several days. Thereupon, with the foolhardy valour of an English tar, he set off by land! Seeing that the whole country in that direction is swarming with insurgent Arabs, and that hitherto they have murdered without remorse every single Christian who has fallen into their hands, the risks of such a journey can be well understood. Nevertheless the man, who was accompanied by a native guide, got through in safety. Perhaps this was due in part to the fact that the poor fellow had no money in his possession, as, like the rest of the crew of theAristides, he is living at presenton the somewhat meagre allowance provided for “distressed British seamen” by the Vice-Consul. It appears that he was stopped six times between Bizerta and Tunis by parties of armed Arabs. On each occasion the first order given to him was to turn out his pockets. It may be imagined how much the pockets contained after the last of these operations! Then when the robbers had satisfied themselves that there was nothing to be got from their victim, they invariably put one question to his guide—“Is he a Frenchman?” The answer was, of course, in the negative. What the poor creature’s fate would have been if it had been otherwise, could be plainly guessed by himself, as the Arabs drew their long broad-bladed swords each time that they made this inquiry, and were evidently prepared to cut him into pieces without delay if he proved to be a fellow-countryman of M. Roustan. Even as it was, and when it had been made known that he was an Englishman, there were long consultations and sometimes warm disputes before he was allowed to pass. Not many men living have enjoyed (!) such a journey as that was; but the hero of the adventure looked perfectly unconcerned whenI saw him at Goletta, and was evidently quite unconscious of the fact that he had performed an extraordinary feat. His chief subject of conversation was, “the greediness of them ’ere h’Arabs, sir. Why bless you, they didn’t leave me as much as a piece of baccy after they’d turned me over the first time.”
It was after reaching Goletta that I discovered that there is even greater greed than that of the Arabs. I had taken my passage to Malta by the Rubattino boatSiciliaon the previous day, and for the short trip of twenty-one hours had paid the respectable sum of forty-five francs. I now learned to my disgust that even this exorbitant fare does not include food, which must be paid for extra! With not a little regret I stepped off the shore at Goletta, and found myself once more on board one of the broad-beamed port boats. We were a motley company. Steamers were also starting at the same time as theSiciliafor Bone and Marseilles, and for Susa and Tripoli. So we had on board with us an unkempt and not particularly clean Frenchwoman, who was somewhat disconsolately making her way back to her native land, not having found Tunis, so far as she herselfwas concerned, quite the field of promise that she had been led to believe it was; a smart-looking commercial traveller bound for Marseilles; half a dozen Arabs going down the Gulf of Hammamet laden with merchandise wrapped in filthy carpets; a couple of Maltese bound for their island home, and carrying with them some huge cages filled with canaries; a very venerable-looking Jew, who was creeping back to Sfax to see what was left of his property after the sack of the place by the French; and one or two others. Afrigan seemed to know everybody in the boat, and kept up a lively conversation with all of them, whilst he maintained at the same time a running description of the various personages on board for my benefit.
We first went to the steamer for Susa, and here fully half an hour was spent in a terrific contest between the boatmen on the one hand and the Arabs and Jews on the other as to the amount to be paid for the passage from the shore. Such shrieking, such gestures, such bursts of guttural passion, were surely never heard or seen before outside of Bedlam! The boatmen had followed the defaulting passengers on deck, and werepursuing them all over the steamer, making the air ring with their curses and lamentations. After half an hour of this performance I became impatient, and having won over the two Maltese to my side, I cast loose the rope by which we were fastened to the ladder of the steamer, and proposed that we should row ourselves to theSicilia. Then indeed there was an exhibition on board the Susa boat! When the ruffianly boatmen, who had treated all our expostulations with contempt, saw that we had mutinied and were going off without them, they were for a moment silent with horror: only for a moment, however; for no sooner had they realized the situation than they raised a yell which would have done credit to the lungs of a band of Indians on the war-path. Running like cats along the deck of the steamer, they climbed into the chains at the bow, and swung themselves dexterously into the boat as it passed. There were six of them, and they were all big fellows, so I thought it prudent not to apply my stick to their shoulders; and satisfied with having compelled them to resume their journey, I willingly gave up my oar to the ringleader, a coal-black negro from the Soudan.
TheSiciliais a wretched little boat of some five or six hundred tons, and my first glance at it showed me how greatly inferior it was to the noble French steamers, in which I had hitherto been sailing. Nobody on board spoke a word of either French or English; and from the captain downwards the officers seemed a slovenly and not over clean set of fellows. They had, however, that English look about them which often distinguishes Italian sailors; and if in their want of politeness they furnished a great contrast to the officers of theVille de NaplesandCharles Quint, they were, at least so far as appearances went, bluff, good-natured men. I said good-bye to Afrigan—a final good-bye this time—with a somewhat heavy heart; for I have travelled far enough in the journey of life to have learned the value of honesty, faithfulness, kindliness, and personal devotion—and all these qualities I had found in this worthy fellow. “Won’t you come as far as Malta with me, Afrigan, just for a change?” The tears had been standing in his eyes for some minutes. He had not been saying much about our separation, but he had been deeply engaged in enlightening the officersof theSiciliaas to the importance of the passenger whom they were now privileged to carry, and had given me a personal character so flattering that I was thankful that none of my friends at home could hear it. It was his last and most anxious wish that I should be comfortable and well cared for, even after his own connexion with me had ceased. Now, however, when I uttered these words, a rueful smile broke over his face. “Dear sir,” he said, “you see, I have a wife, and she—” “Yes, yes, Afrigan; I’ve heard that before. Well, good-bye, and God bless you!” “Good-bye, sir; and if ever you come to Tunis again you will find me waiting for you. There is no gentleman I would serve sooner than yourself.” And then he ran down the ladder, and waving his hand, and shouting his last words of farewell and thanks, he presently faded away into the glowing distance on the sunlit waters.
The afternoon was lovely, and my last look at Tunis and the beautiful gulf was delightful. There were the white houses of Goletta, with the Bey’s curious water-palace, built on piles, standing out boldly from the others. It is here that for years he has led his somewhatlonely life, in the company of his prime favourite Mustapha, the barber’s boy, who by stages of truly Oriental advancement rose, before he was thirty years of age, to the chief position in the Regency. It is here also that he has been living, sad and sick and solitary, since the claws of the French eagle were plunged into the heart of Tunis, and his beloved Mustapha was torn from him and sent into exile. One cannot but feel sorry for this fallen ruler. Great faults, grave vices, he undoubtedly has; but he has always meant well by his country, and has done his best for her, according to his lights. He has been kindly in his judgments, administering justice so far as he could with honesty and straightforwardness, and shrinking from the resort to the death-penalty as much as the Emperor of Germany himself does. Above all, he has been blameless in his conduct towards the French, and yet it is the French by whom he has now been attacked and ruined. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I looked on that plain white building, flooded with the afternoon sunshine, against which the golden waves of the gulf were now gently lapping. It is not always easy to realize thepersonal tragedies which are involved in the great political movements of the world—the private woes which must ever accompany the development of a State policy. But nobody can have been in Tunis during the last three months without being able to realize all this.
Away to the right of the palace was the barren desolate site of Carthage; and still further to the right was the Arab town of Sidi bou Said, where my friend Ben Ayad has his favourite residence. Its white walls glittered in the sunshine, and its grand situation and imposing appearance almost led one to believe, in spite of all the experience I have acquired recently, that it must be a desirable place of residence. The centre of the picture on which I looked from the deck of theSiciliawas the harbour of Goletta, with the broad sheet of the Lake of Tunis behind it, and in the dim distance the towers and roofs of Tunis itself. To the left were the high and precipitous ranges of the Lead Mountains, and far away I could dimly discern the sharp peaks of the blue Zaghouan Hills. How deeply one felt now regret at not having been able to explore the beautifulcountry which lies everywhere around the city of Tunis. What noble vistas of smiling valleys, rocky gorges, and billowy uplands were everywhere visible! Yet all had been a closed book to me during my stay in the Regency. Some day, however, I may come again to see Tunis more thoroughly and under happier auspices. Close at hand, in the bay, there were many stately vessels, including theVille de Naples. How gladly I would have exchanged my present position as sole cabin passenger on board theSiciliafor a berth on board the noble French steamer, even although I had been called upon to face another storm like that off Cape Bon!
At three o’clock we weighed anchor, and started with a fresh breeze in our favour. There was comparatively little sea, but the vessel pitched horribly, and with the “usual consequences,” so far as my fellow-passengers in the fore-cabin were concerned. Whilst I was down below arranging my luggage, I heard a terrific noise on deck, accompanied by yells of “Allah! Allah!” I thought that at least a Mussulman mutiny had broken out, and rushed up the companion way to see what was the matter. It was only a couple ofArabs settling accounts with the Mediterranean, and piously invoking Allah in concert between the throes of sickness! Dinner was served at half-past four, and as the sole first-class passenger I had for my companions at table only the ship’s officers. The meal was rather better than I had expected, though oil and garlic were as usual too plentiful in all the dishes. Wrapped in a warm camel’s-hair burnous, I lay on the deck enjoying the fresh breeze and the brilliant starlight, and smoking innumerable cigarettes, until at last I dropped off to sleep. Fortunately for my comfort, my suffering fellow-passengers had all gone below, so that I was free from the gruesome sights and sounds that had abounded so long as they had remained on deck. I awoke, shivering, at midnight. The old boat was still tumbling along like a porpoise over the bright waters. I went below, but found that the vile little hole allotted to me as a state-room smelt so horribly that it was absolutely impossible to sleep in it, so I lay down in the saloon, and was soon lulled into the profoundest slumber by the thumping of the screw.