A FIRST GLIMPSE OF TUNIS.
An African railway-station — Fellow-countrymen — Mr. Parnell’s
arrest — The “Little Sea” — African scenery — Sketches by
the road-side — Camels, Moors, Bedouins — Tunis — The Grand
Hotel — The Bab el Bahr — Tunisian costumes — The “Grande
Rue de Tunis” — The bazaars — The slave-market.
_Monday, October 17th._—A railway-station in Africa, strange as it
may seem to some persons, is not very much unlike a railway-station
anywhere else. Still it must be confessed that there was a certain
incongruousness between my surroundings in Goletta—the picturesque
Moors, Arabs, and negroes, who abounded in all manner of quaint
and startling costumes—and the high-roofed shed of commonplace
appearance from which the trains start for Tunis. Half-past ten was
the hour fixed for the departure of the train, and shortly before
that time, accompanied by Afrigan, I strolled up to the station,
took a first-class ticket at an ordinary “pigeonhole” for myself
and a third-class for my companion, and then went to take my seat
in the carriage.
My ticket, I observed, was printed in English, whereas Afrigan’s was
in Italian. At first I was disposed to attribute this difference to
the fact well known twenty years ago in Germany, that only princes,
Englishmen, and fools travelled first class. It turned out, however,
that these first-class tickets were a relic of the time when this
Goletta-Tunis railway was in the hands of an English Company. They
were, in fact, part of the stock handed over when the Italians took
possession of the line some years ago. Clearly, there is no very
great demand for first-class railway accommodation in Northern Africa.
But as I was listening to this explanation on the station platform,
a welcome sound fell upon my ear. It was a sound commonplace enough
to stay-at-home people, but one which can never become altogether
commonplace to those who are in the habit of travelling. In
brief, it was the sound of the English language, spoken by
unmistakable Englishmen. Only two or three days had passed since
I had parted with a fellow-countryman at Marseilles; but already
I was prepared to welcome any chance Englishman whom I might meet
as a friend. The gentlemen whose voices attracted my notice at the
Goletta railway-station this morning were three in number. They
had already taken their seats in one of the shady compartments of
the train, and I at once joined them and introduced myself. One
of them was Captain P———, commanding the _Bittern_ gunboat;
another was the unfortunate commander of the _Aristides_, an English
steamer which was wrecked two days ago near Bizerta, and the crew
of which had been rescued by the _Bittern_ at some risk and not a
little trouble; whilst the third was an English gentleman residing
at Goletta and carrying on business at Tunis, Mr. P———. The
first demand of my new friends was for news from England. I produced
last week’s _Punch_ and _World_, and the _Standard_ of Wednesday,
and soon they were busily engaged in mastering their contents. Then I
remembered one little item of news I had learned after leaving home,
and told them of Parnell’s arrest. “What! is he caught at last?”
cried the captain of the _Bittern_; “Hurrah!” and off went his
hat in token of his approval of the new departure in the policy of
the Government. I remembered how General A——— had thrown _his_
hat up in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel at Paris when I told him
the same piece of news, and smiled to myself at the evidence which
was thus afforded of the general agreement of Englishmen all over
the world upon that particular subject.
Outside the carriages on the railway, broad covered balconies run,
upon which in hot weather the passenger can stand and enjoy the
breeze, whilst he gets a full view of the country through which
the line passes. Taking advantage of this arrangement, I enjoyed
my short ride up to Tunis immensely. The day was exceedingly hot,
but here under the balcony-roof one was sheltered from the rays of
the sun. The line runs seemingly upon a dead level all the way from
Goletta to the capital. On one side of it is the lake called by the
natives El Bahira, or the Little Sea, which extends from Goletta
almost to the very walls of Tunis. It is said that this lake is now
little more than an enormous open cesspool, all the sewage of Tunis
being poured into it. This may be the case, but at least it has this
in common with some other unwholesome things, that it is very fair to
look upon. Nothing could be more beautiful, indeed, than the aspect
of this broad sheet of water as the train rolled in leisurely fashion
past it this morning. Its waves were dancing and glittering in the
brilliant sunshine, and the colour of the cloudless blue sky was
reflected upon its surface. Little lateen-sailed fishing-boats were
gliding hither and thither, suggesting strongly by their peculiar
rig the pirate craft which in my earliest days I associated with the
Gulf of Tunis; a strong fort, said to be of Spanish origin, stood
out in the very middle of the lake, rising sheer from the water,
after the manner of the Castle of Chillon; on the bank nearest to
me the reeds grew in forests, enormous flocks of flamingoes and
herons rising from them and sailing lazily away as the train passed;
whilst on the further shore the waves broke against a splendid range
of brown hills and dark grey crags, save where they seemed to wash
against the gleaming white walls of Tunis itself.
It was a new revelation of beauty to me; and I wondered for a moment
that in all that I had seen and read and heard of the picturesque
spots of Europe, I had remained ignorant of the surpassing loveliness
which now gladdened my eye. But I turned to the other side, and
what I saw there served to remind me that I had passed out of the
European range and of the circuit of the ordinary searchers after
the picturesque. A vast yellow plain, on which not a blade of grass
seemed to grow, but which was broken here and there by patches of
olive-forest, the gnarled trunks and dull green leaves only serving
to deepen the general impression of arid desolation which the plain
produced: beyond the plain, ranges of low hills, with now and then
a palm-tree raising its feathery crown against the deep, unbroken
azure of the sky, and here and there a white house standing in the
midst of a thicket of prickly pear. This was what I saw when I turned
away from El Bahira, and looked westwards. I had seen nothing like
this before in any part of the world. This yellow desert of sand,
these groves of olives and palm, these tangles of cactus and prickly
pear, and that marvellous sky with its infinite depth of blue, its
fierce, relentless glare of light and heat, belonged not to Europe,
but to Africa. And to one of the most famous parts of Africa withal;
for this was once the Plain of Carthage, and the great city stretched
hitherwards from the shore of the Gulf, until it almost reached to
Tunis itself.
Alongside the railway straggles the broad, sandy road from Goletta
and the Marsa to Tunis. There was no lack of life upon this road
this morning. Just outside Goletta a French camp is pitched, and
here some hundreds of soldiers were washing or cooking, or trying to
shelter themselves from the cruel sun. All round the camp I noticed
that sentries were placed at very short intervals, and there were
other indications of the fact that the French army finds itself in
an enemy’s country in Tunis. Then, when we got clear of the camp
and the soldiers, what an infinite number of picturesque groups and
“bits” that would have delighted an artist were scattered along
the road! Here was a train of camels plodding along in that grave
and clumsy fashion peculiar to their race. These African camels are
not to be compared in size or beauty—for, strange as it may seem,
even a camel can be beautiful—to those of Asia. Nothing can exceed
the awkwardness of their gait, unless it be the stubbornness of their
tempers. A “rogue” camel is, indeed, anything but a pleasant
customer to encounter in a narrow street. He has a delightful
habit of laying about him with his teeth after the fashion of that
legendary animal the American “snapping turtle,” and with the most
aristocratic unconsciousness of your presence he will squeeze you flat
against the wall by means of the enormous boxes he carries slung like
panniers over his back, and pass on without so much as glancing round
to see what mischief he has done. But at a distance, and with this
background of sandy plain, which harmonizes so well with the colour
of his own hide, he adds not a little to the picturesqueness of the
scene—especially when he is attended by a jet-black negro from the
Soudan, clad in the gay and flaunting colours which are _de rigueur_
in that quarter of the world.
Then we passed a couple of Arabs in loose jebbas of dark-green
hue, bare legs, enormous turbans, and brilliant yellow slippers,
cantering gaily along towards Tunis on a pair of fine mules. Poor
mules! What a burden they had to bear. The lowest part of the load
seemed to consist of enormous sacks stuffed with grain of some kind;
then there were strings of pumpkins, nets filled with pomegranates,
prickly pears, and red gherkins, baskets of unripe dates or olives,
and bottles of oil dangling in a promiscuous way from all parts of the
back; whilst on the top of all sat the owner plying his stick with
vigour. The “seat” of an Arab on horse, mule, or donkey back,
like the ways of the Heathen Chinee, is peculiar. He sits sideways,
not as European ladies do with one leg drawn up in front of the
other, but with both legs dangling side by side, exactly as though
the animal he had mounted was a couch or a bench. The effect produced
by this lazy and ungraceful mode of riding is very ludicrous; but,
judging by all that I saw this morning, the seat is safe enough for
those who are accustomed to it.
A little crowd of tawny Bedouin children, almost naked, flying across
the plain towards the train, their black hair streaming behind them,
and the savage dogs of their camp barking ferociously at their
heels, came by way of welcome interlude to the long procession
of quadrupeds. Then at the foot of a splendid palm-tree a group
were seated, who looked as though they had stepped straight out
of some picture of “The Repose in Egypt.” A woman with veiled
features and graceful form, a man of swarthy complexion and splendid
symmetry of figure, and a beautiful babe! A world-old group this; but
clad in these garments and in the midst of such a scene, strangely
suggestive of the family of Bethlehem. And there were scantily clad
Arabs ploughing in the fields behind two stout heifers, their plough
an instrument so primitive that it can hardly have been changed
in shape since the days when the towers of Carthage dominated this
same plain; and here and there a group of women—all with yashmaks
hiding their faces from the eyes of the curious—were gathered
round a well, in the midst of a little oasis of acacia and prickly
pear; and occasionally a heavily-laden, roughly-built country cart
trundled on towards the city, carrying its burden of vegetables,
or passed in the other direction laden with bags of _couscousoo_,
and gaily-coloured dishes and vessels of native pottery; and once,
a richly dressed Moor, on a splendidly caparisoned Arab, which he
rode in European fashion, galloped past with a speed like that of
the wind. And over all this scene, so strange in all its details,
so picturesque in its general effect, there was the wonderful dome
of cloudless blue sky, like the cupola of some vast furnace.
A very brief run brought us up to the station within the walls of
Tunis. The throng of Arabs, Jews, and Jewesses, in their many-hued
dresses, poured out of the carriages of the train, and passed from the
shade of the station into the dazzling glare of the sunshine beyond
in a brilliant cascade of colour. I parted from my new-found English
friends, and set off with Afrigan to the hotel, a stout negro porter
carrying my portmanteaus, travelling-rugs, and other _impedimenta_
upon his back, in a fashion recalling the hammals of Stamboul.
The first glimpse of Tunis from the railway station is somewhat
disappointing. The place looks too modern and too European for its
reputation. In front of the station there is a broad, unfinished
street, running down to the point at which it is intersected at
right angles by a shady boulevard, the Marina. There is little about
either the street in which the station stands or the Marina to show
that you have left Europe or Algeria behind you. Most of the houses
in these two streets are of a modified French or Italian style of
architecture; so that one wondered at the fact that this was actually
Tunis, the city where “the grateful Turk” of one’s “Sandford
and Merton” days was once Bey, where many another legendary hero of
my boyhood was once a captive, and where Mussulman lust and cruelty,
whether Turkish or Moorish, for centuries indulged in orgies which
make the name of the place still infamous. I have already learned
once more to correct my first impressions, and have found that the
real Tunis surpasses one’s expectations so far as picturesqueness
of appearance is concerned; but it is worth putting on record for
the benefit of future travellers, the disappointment occasioned by
my earliest glimpse at the city.
The Grand Hotel, which is within three minutes’ walk of the station,
is a handsome new building, and, like all the other buildings I have
yet seen in Tunis, it is constructed of white stone or stucco. Indeed,
at the first glance this morning, I was struck by the painful glare of
white pervading the whole place. White walls, white roads, even white
trees, for the fine dust has coated the trunks and leaves thickly,
make the outlook in all directions dazzling in the extreme. A flag
was flying from one of the windows of the hotel; a couple of French
sentries were walking up and down in front of it, and French officers
or orderlies were passing in and out of the open door like bees round
a hive. At a respectful distance a small knot of Arabs were gathered,
watching what was going on with sullen faces; whilst additional
liveliness was imparted to the scene by the constant altercations
between the sentries and a dozen street-boys, in native costume,
who seemed to have all the impudence and a great deal more than the
picturesqueness of the city Arab of London. The French have now been
installed in Tunis for some days. They entered it at the earliest
hour of dawn last Tuesday morning, the inhabitants waking up to find
themselves in the power of a Christian host. Intense excitement and
indignation have since prevailed in the native quarters of the town,
and rumours of an impending rising are commonly current. Many of
the Europeans, I am told, live in a state of perpetual alarm; but
others have confidence in the power of the French to put down any
attempt to overpower the non-Mussulman population. The meaning of the
appearance of the sentries in front of the Grand Hotel is, that it
is the headquarters of General Japy, the French commander of the city.
The room in which I soon found myself installed at the hotel was
big and airy, with tiled floor and walls of hard white cement. The
light was carefully excluded by means of heavy wooden shutters. I
ventured to brave the terrors of the sun, in order that I might
see rather more of my apartment than it was possible to do whilst
these shutters were closed. Perhaps I should have done better if I
had remained in ignorance of the things which were revealed to me
in the glare of the sunshine. Alas! my big, airy room was loaded
with filth. The red tiles of the floor were thickly coated with the
white dust of the broad road outside; whilst each particular corner
had its cobwebs, and its own especial rubbish heap of more or less
abominable dirt. However, a little of Mark Tapley’s philosophy
never comes amiss under circumstances like the present. Having come
to Tunis, it would be absurd to grumble because my bedroom is not
altogether to my liking. One must rather remember that this Grand
Hotel is looked upon by the natives as a marvellous and bewildering
exemplification of the European’s love of luxury. I breakfasted
poorly, the chief portion of my meal being apparently a piece of
goat’s flesh, the flavour of which was decidedly “high;” and
then I went out with Afrigan for a walk through the bazaars.
The walk was a comparatively short one, but it sufficed to open
my eyes to the reality about Tunis, and dispelled any sense of
disappointment I had experienced on my first entrance into the
city. Leaving the Marina, I passed under a fine Moorish archway of
the familiar horse-shoe pattern, into a little square beyond. This
gateway, known as the Bab el Bahr, is of great antiquity, and on
either side of it are sculptured stones bearing long inscriptions
in Arabic; Afrigan, unfortunately, though he speaks Arabic “like a
native,” could not decipher these inscriptions. The miniature square
beyond it is the central point of the old European quarter. On one
side is the fine, massive building, with its immense enclosed balcony,
occupied by the English Consul-General, Mr. Reade. It was a pleasant
sight to see the English flag waving above so many strange and curious
objects. A smaller house, separated from the English Consulate by a
narrow street, is the residence of the German Consul, and I believe
the Austrian Consul also has his dwelling in the square. A couple
of cafés, chiefly frequented by fez-wearing Jews and Maltese;
a station-house for the police, whence every two hours issue, in
Indian file, as melancholy a string of soldiers as Falstaff himself
ever beheld; and one or two shops for the sale of groceries, &c.,
over one of which I saw the words “English stores,” complete
the square. But the houses are nothing compared to the people who
swarm in this little open space. What costumes, what complexions,
what figures, what faces! No kaleidoscope ever yet presented such
a variety of forms and colours as you may see here, whilst you sit
under the shade of an awning in front of one of the two miserable
cafés. How I longed for the pencil of an artist this morning,
for it is only by the graphic method that one can convey even the
faintest idea of the composition of the ever-dissolving groups that
all day long fill this little place of meeting. Very few women are
to be met with in the crowd, and of these not one in twenty is in
European costume, although, as I have said, this is the centre of
the European quarter. But the dresses of the men are sufficiently
picturesque to make up for the lack of female costumes. The Italians
and Maltese, who constitute the greater part of the European element,
wear the fez; but by far the largest number of the people here
are clad in the full Arab costume, consisting of yellow slippers,
a pair of baggy white trousers reaching to the knees, a gay silk
sash, a white shirt, a jebba or burnous of coloured silk or wool,
and a magnificent turban. I can’t say that all the colours of the
rainbow are represented in these dresses; but at least we have blue
and green and red and yellow in profusion. Then the complexions! Here
is a handsome fellow who might pass for a somewhat swarthy Frenchman,
and next to him is a negro from the Soudan, with the jet black
skin and the characteristic features of his race. Between these
extremes one gets every intervening shade. Fine-looking men most of
these Arabs are; though here and there one meets with some beggar,
scarred and mutilated, hideous to behold, the mere sight of whose
ghastly features sends a thrill of horror to one’s very heart.
I could have spent hours in the little square, but Afrigan urged
me forward, and I went up the narrow winding way leading to the
bazaars. This, as my companion informed me, was the “Grande Rue
de Tunis.” I thought last year, when I walked up the Grande Rue of
Pera, that I could never again expect to see so wretched a main street
in a capital. But the thoroughfare through which I passed to-day is
even more narrow, crooked, and wretched than the famous street of
Constantinople. It led me, however, very quickly into the heart of
the Arab quarter. At intervals the street was arched over, the houses
being built right across it, so that one had, as it were, to pass
through a succession of tunnels. At the top of the long thoroughfare
was a small open space, at one side of which was the entrance to the
chief mosque of Tunis. The door was jealously closed. It had been
shut since the entry of the French into the city. No Christian or
Jewish footstep has ever defiled even the outer court of any mosque
in Tunis; and to-day I have been warned that it is not safe even to
pause near one of the mosques in the present excited temper of the
people. So I merely ventured upon a passing glance at the flight of
stairs leading up to the main entrance, upon which half a dozen sullen
Arabs, clad each in a thick white burnous, were lounging in the sun.
It was delightful presently to plunge into the dim, cool arcades of
the bazaar. I entered by the bazaar of the perfumers, and on both
sides of me from the little open shops, similar in style to those
of Stamboul, though still smaller in size, there issued scents more
pungent than agreeable. The henna leaf, by means of which the Arabs
dye their finger and toenails a deep red, seems to be one of the most
important articles in this bazaar. It bears a strong resemblance
to the green tea leaf. Next to the perfumers came the workers in
leather, hundreds of them squatting in their dark little caverns,
busily working at the yellow leather slippers universally worn,
or smoking a tranquil cigarette, or reading some quaint Arabic MS.,
probably an invoice or a letter of advice from the interior. None
of them tried to attract my attention; no one sought to secure my
custom. They looked up at the unwonted sight of my European dress
for a single moment, and then generally turned away with something
like contempt depicted upon their swarthy faces.
I must say that it takes the conceit out of an Englishman to
find himself alone in the midst of such a place as this. He has
a “creepy,” uncomfortable feeling concerning the necessity of
his being upon his best behaviour if he is to succeed in passing
unchallenged. Once somebody gently touched my arm. I looked round. A
hideous hag, with face only half hidden by her black yashmak, implored
my charity. I gave her a _caroub_, and did what I could to conceal
the shudder of disgust occasioned by her appearance. Presently
we came to a little open space, with arched roof and heavy
pillars, in the very middle of the bazaar. This was formerly the
slave-market. The slave-market of Tunis! It was here, then, that
“the grateful Turk” of “Sandford and Merton” discovered his
early benefactor languishing in chains and misery. Thousands upon
thousands of miserable Christians, captured by Turkish and Moorish
pirates, have been exposed here for sale, chained to these pillars
in this dismal vaulted square. Men now living in Tunis can remember
the time when slaves were sold here; it was, indeed, the father,
and the predecessor of the present English Consul, the late Sir
Thomas Reade, who succeeded in putting an end to the abominable
traffic. I was glad to turn away from the bazaar, and to take a
walk with Afrigan through those higher and more aristocratic parts
of Tunis which are reserved for the native population, and in which
no Christian or European is allowed to dwell.