THE ENGLISH CONSULATE.
Mr. Reade — His appointment as Consul-General — Changed
circumstances — The Consul at home — Walls of blue china — The
Consul’s duties — An offensive globe-trotter — A drive round
the city walls — The Spanish aqueduct — The forts of Tunis —
An awkward dilemma — My vivandière in trouble — An English home
in Tunis — A sudden alarm.
_Monday, October 17th._—Returning from my walk with Afrigan,
I changed my dress and made a formal call upon the Consul-General,
Mr. Reade. I have already spoken of the fine building occupied as the
English Consulate in the little square of the _Bab el Bahr_. This
building was erected in the lifetime of Sir Thomas Reade, the
father of the present Consul. Sir Thomas is still remembered in
Tunis, where for very many years he was honoured and trusted as the
representative of no other Power was. The Bey of his time enjoined
upon his successor, when he himself was drawing near to death, that
in any difficulty he must follow the advice of the English Consul:
“he is an honest man, and England means well by Tunis, and has
no secret intrigues to carry on against us.” So when it was made
known a couple of years ago or more that the son of Sir Thomas, born
during his father’s tenure of office here, and therefore a native
of the Regency, had been promoted from the Consulate at Smyrna to
the Consul-Generalship here, there was general rejoicing throughout
the country, and Mr. Reade was welcomed with enthusiasm by all
classes. I well remember how last year in Smyrna I heard on all sides
expressions of regret at the loss which the British community there
had sustained when Mr. Reade was removed: and I can also remember
hearing of his own delight at being sent back to that which is in
reality his native land—a country which was then, just two short
years ago, one of the most prosperous, peaceful, and well-ordered
States in the world. I wondered how I should find Mr. Reade under
the changed circumstances in which he is now placed. The easy and
pleasant life to which he doubtless looked forward when he came to
Tunis is for the present at an end. For the past nine or ten months
he has been living in the midst of a whirl of exciting events, and
has had to keep a clear head and a steady eye in order to avoid a
dangerous collision with one or other of the intriguing factions
which have been at work here. Nor is this all that he has had to
pass through. I have spoken of the enthusiasm his return to Tunis
excited among all classes of the community. On his first arrival he
was received by the Bey with the greatest cordiality, and down to the
month of May last he was consulted by his Highness upon all matters
of importance. Since then all is changed; the French are here in
actual possession of Tunis, M. Roustan is supreme at the palace; and
Mr. Reade has been compelled to sink to a comparatively subordinate
position. One was curious to ascertain how our representative had
borne such a reverse of fortune as all this implies.
Passing through a vaulted hall, in which half a dozen cavasses, some
of whom were unmistakable Turks of venerable aspect, were lounging,
I was ushered up a broad stone staircase to the Consul’s apartment
on the first floor. That which struck me most as I walked up this
staircase was the exquisite effect produced by the Moorish tiles
with which the walls were lined from top to bottom. It was my first
experience of a Tunisian house, and it made a deep impression upon
me. One felt as though one had entered a house built of porcelain. For
cleanliness, coolness, and beauty of appearance there is nothing
in the world that will compare with these old Moorish tiles; and I
think I know one or two friends of mine of the æsthetic persuasion,
who, if they were suddenly to find themselves at the foot of this
staircase as I did this afternoon, would almost be inclined to ascend
it on their knees, out of reverence for the cunning craftsmen who
are responsible for its mural decorations.
Mr. Reade, a middle-aged gentleman of frank and open features and
pleasant smile, received me most kindly. There was nothing in his
manner to indicate that sense of boredom which must, I am certain,
overtake our Consuls and Ambassadors abroad when they are beset
by wandering Englishmen in search of enlightenment. Cigarettes
were produced, he laid aside his work, and plunged into a lively
conversation regarding Tunisian affairs, which afforded me more
information on the subject in a quarter of an hour than I had
been able to get from all my previous reading-up of newspapers and
pamphlets. That he himself felt deeply concerned regarding the events
of the past year was evident; but though quite frank in speaking of
affairs he was judiciously reticent when he alluded to men; and,
strange to say, I actually took part in a conversation on matters
in Tunis in which I heard no scandal, none of the gossip which had
already begun to be poured into my ears from different quarters.
One would like to paint, for the satisfaction of readers at home,
a picture of the position occupied by an English Consul-General
in a city like Tunis. It is no sinecure which he holds. Here he
is to be found day after day seated in his big chair at his big
table, dealing with all manner of documents and applications on
a thousand different subjects. In the outer room are the trusted
clerks of the Consulate, and beyond that room is a little apartment
arranged very much after the fashion of a tiny police-court. In
this place an English judge administers justice for the benefit of
the thousands of English subjects—chiefly Maltese by birth—who
reside here. When I say an English judge, I ought to explain that
Mr. Arpa, the gentleman in question, is not an Englishman, but a
Maltese. He is, of course, subordinate in rank to Mr. Reade; and
it is to the Consul-General, not to the judge, that all matters of
importance are referred. Among these at the present moment the most
pressing is probably the notorious Enfida case, regarding which
the newspapers have been full for months past, and which is said
even to have had some share in bringing about the French expedition
against Tunis. But apart from this great suit—into the merits of
which it would hardly be appropriate to enter here—Mr. Reade has
plenty of occupation in connexion with the daily concerns of the
Consulate. The shipwreck at Bizerta, of which I heard this morning,
is of itself sufficient to supply him with at least a day’s work;
for he must take the depositions of the captain and officers,
provide for the crew as distressed British subjects, and exercise
other functions in connexion with the affair. Then there are endless
matters for investigation in connexion with the French occupation
of Tunis. A British subject rushes in with some complaint that he
has been ill-treated by a French soldier. Perhaps it is a Maltese
cart-driver who has entered into a contract with some officer of
the Commissariat department that he has found to be unprofitable,
and from which he wishes to be released; perhaps it is some poor
fellow who has been really hardly treated by the rather arrogant
Gauls. In either case Mr. Reade’s intervention is sought for,
and will be given.
There is yet another duty which, I am sure, must press hard upon
our Consuls in these parts; though, as I have said, Mr. Reade showed
no sign of feeling the hardship during his interview with me. That
is, the necessity of receiving and entertaining the members of
the “globe-trotting tribe,” to which, I am afraid, I myself
belong. Nothing can be more exigent, nothing more offensive than
the demands which are sometimes made by the globe-trotter in search
of information upon an English Consul. Some months ago a gentleman,
whose sole excuse was to be found in the fact that he was very young
and inexperienced, came to Tunis bent upon sight-seeing. He remained
a week or more in the place. On the day of his departure he called
upon the Consul-General. Mr. Reade happened to be at luncheon at the
moment when he called, and it also happened that he was entertaining
guests. He sent a polite message to the Englishman, who had sent
up his card, stating these facts, and begging him either to wait
a few minutes or to call again. Instead of taking either course,
the young prig went off in a mighty dudgeon, and positively lodged a
complaint at the Foreign Office concerning the incivility to which he
had been subjected! Marvellous indeed are the ways of the travelling
Englishman. Even more marvellous, however, is the fact that in spite
of experiences of this kind our Consuls manage to keep their temper,
and are ready—as the occasion demands—to give a cup of coffee
or a good dinner to the wandering fellow-countryman who comes within
their ken.
My interview with Mr. Reade was not the last experience of this
eventful day. I called upon the gentleman whose acquaintance I had
made in the train in the early morning, Mr. P———, and was by
him introduced to his friend, Mr. B———, who occupies a prominent
place in the very small English community in Tunis. Mr. B——— at
once invited me to go for a drive with him outside the city walls, and
accordingly we started in an open carriage and pair. Passing through
the narrow and crowded streets of the city, we quickly reached one
of the gateways, now guarded by French as well as Tunisian troops,
and passed out into the open country. Away from the city walls
stretches a desolate yellow plain, interspersed with dense hedges
of prickly pear. Running across this plain, in a long ghostly line
of crumbling arches, may be seen the remains of the famous Spanish
aqueduct which once supplied Tunis with water. It is not a work of
very ancient date. Probably its age does not exceed three hundred
years. Yet more than one visitor to Tunis who has afterwards recorded
his impressions of the place in writing, has fallen into the ludicrous
error of confounding this work with the Phœnician or Roman aqueduct
by which Carthage obtained its water-supply.
In one respect the country round Tunis resembles that round
Paris. Almost every height which commands the city is crowned
by a fort. On nearly all these forts to-day the French flag was
flying above that of the Bey. During the course of the ride we
passed close to a large encampment of Bedouins from the interior,
who have flocked in multitudes to the capital since the troubles
began; and who are here, according to my companion, for no good
purpose. Wild, dark-skinned men and women these Bedouins are. The
women go unveiled when outside the city walls, and many of them have a
savage comeliness of feature that affords a striking contrast to the
European standard of good looks. There was no friendliness on their
faces as we drove past them this afternoon. Near to their encampment
is a picturesque little Arab village standing in a hollow by the
wayside. Two days ago a French soldier, tempted by the bright eyes
of a Bedouin girl, ventured into this village in pursuit of her. He
has never been seen since; and no one doubts that he has paid with
his life for his recklessness and folly. Unfortunately, it is not
only the reckless or the foolish who are in danger. At any moment
an Arab fanatic—and the whole race are seething with fanaticism
just now—might take it into his head to secure a short cut to
Paradise by means of despatching an infidel, and woe then to the
first European whom he might encounter! A quick eye, a steady hand,
and a good revolver would alone suffice to save him.
The sun had set, and the southern night had fallen with its usual
rapidity before we got back to the town. We had a fright on finding
the first gate we reached closed; for a night outside the city walls
meant perils which were not lightly to be contemplated. Happily,
we found the gate adjoining the kasbah, or citadel, still open, and
through it we entered the city in safety. Scarcely had we done so
when the heavy gates were closed and locked with a mighty clanging
of iron, not to be opened again until after sunrise to-morrow. It
gives one a curious sensation, that of being locked in—even though
you are locked into a city as big as Tunis. Outside lies the wild,
open country, where no man’s life is safe; where bands of Arab
marauders are constantly wandering from village to village, robbing,
burning, slaying; and where, if any European were to be found after
nightfall, his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase. It may
be a relief to feel that in closing these gates they have shut out
the lawless forces of the desert; but on the other hand there is the
uncomfortable feeling of being a prisoner, and of having for one’s
fellow-prisoners nearly 100,000 men, each one of whom would esteem
it a virtue if he were to kill you, and from whom, under certain
circumstances, you need expect no more mercy than from the Bedouins
of the parched and yellow plains outside.
Through the dark and winding streets we found our way at last
to my hotel, where B——— dined with me, in a room swarming
with French officers, who smoked and expectorated and otherwise
indulged themselves on all sides of us, whilst we struggled through
a distasteful meal. Outside, after dinner, I met with an old friend,
and alas! a friend in trouble. This was my fair vivandière of the
_Charles Quint_. With tear-stained face and broken voice she explained
to me her deplorable situation. Would it be believed that a Frenchman,
and a French general to boot, had been so cruel, so utterly wanting
in gallantry, as to issue an order that she, a woman of reputation,
decorated, celebrated, and devoted to the sacred work of charity,
should put off her uniform? And here her self-command failed utterly,
and she burst into passionate sobs. “But, madam,” I ventured
to urge, “you can nurse just as well in an ordinary dress as
in that you are now wearing.” “Oh, no, monsieur, no! Besides,
_me_ to put on an ordinary dress! and to put off the uniform which
I love—” and here she glanced downwards at that dual garment
which the polite American hesitates to mention in the presence of
ladies. Tears were in her eyes, sobs in her throat, grief in her
heart, and, I regret to say, a strong suspicion of cognac in her
breath. A young officer came up to console her, and she turned away
in haste from the phlegmatic Englishman. The last that I saw of
her was leaning upon the shoulder of her brave fellow-countryman,
and plentifully bedewing his blue uniform with her tears, whilst the
Arab servants in the hall of the hotel looked on in mute amazement.
I accompanied B——— to his house in the town. It lies in a
narrow alley, approached by many windings and turnings from the
Grande Rue. To an Englishman it seems astonishing that any decent
person could live in this contracted and evil-smelling passage;
which in dimensions, cleanliness, and airiness resembles one of
those “fever-haunts of Leeds” with which in former years I had a
painful familiarity. Things are measured by different standards in
the East and the West, however, and this black and ill-paved slum,
decidedly worse in outward aspect than any ordinary London alley,
is looked upon here as a suitable place of residence for an English
gentleman, a barrister, and a man of influence. Once inside the house
itself, of course, I found everything as it ought to be. The house
is built on the true Moorish pattern; that is to say, it is in the
form of a hollow square, the doors and windows of the various rooms
on each floor opening upon an interior gallery. This form of building
is common to hot countries, and it has the great advantage of warding
off the rays of the sun from the various apartments. Indeed, the sun
is here regarded as an enemy, and a fatal drawback to any house would
be the fact that it had unsheltered outside windows. Tiled floors
and walls and wooden ceilings gave a bare and unfinished appearance
to my friend’s home; though there were pictures, bric-à-brac,
couches, and valuable Kairwan carpets in abundance.
B——— is an enthusiast on all Tunisian affairs, and no man
living probably knows more than he does of the disgraceful events
which have led up to the occupation of this city. He it was to whom
the Bey confided the task of drawing up his protest against the
insolent demand of M. Roustan for the signature of the famous or
infamous Treaty of May 12th. That protest was telegraphed to all
the European powers during the few hours of grace which Roustan
allowed to the unfortunate ruler, whilst French troops were being
drawn up round the Bardo Palace in order to compel the Bey’s
final acquiescence. Needless to say, it was intensely interesting
to hear from the lips of one who had been himself an actor in these
transactions the narrative of the struggle against the intrigues of
France. Graphic portraits were sketched by B——— of M. Roustan
and his detestable _entourage_, the most prominent figures in the
picture being a certain M. Elias and his wife, a lady whose career
might well be made the subject of a (French) romance. The military
operations, too, were explained to me by the aid of a map, and
I was bidden to wait for the forthcoming march upon Kairwan. As
for the actual situation in Tunis itself, B——— took the gloomiest
view. The exasperation of the Arabs, he declared, was intense, and
“anything might happen” at any moment. An insult offered by a French
soldier to an Arab woman would suffice to set the city in flames, and
a catastrophe of unexampled magnitude might follow. Indeed, according
to my interlocutor, it was only the presence of the French troops in
the city which prevented a general massacre of the Europeans; and
there was really occasion to apprehend that such a massacre might be
attempted by the more fanatical Arabs at any given moment.
This lively picture of the dangers of the situation, painted
as it was in that quaint, gloomy, cavernous sitting-room in the
strange Moorish house, was rather calculated to try the nerves of a
new-comer, and as B——— depicted to me the dangers attending any
wandering in even the most frequented parts of Tunis after nightfall,
I began most fervently to wish myself safe again in the shelter
of my hotel. Even as I was pondering upon the dark and intricate
passages which I must traverse on my way to my sleeping-place,
a sudden sound startled us both. It was the firing of a rifle in
the street below us. We listened, breathless, for a few seconds;
and then, hearing nothing further, stepped out upon the quaint
curved iron balcony overhanging the doorway. Nothing was to be
seen except a group of cloaked Arabs, moving stealthily away in the
distance. B——— pressed me to remain at his house for the night,
but I thought it better to return to my hotel; and as he sent his
servant—a good-looking young Jew in Arab costume—to show me the
way, the only difficulty I experienced in passing through the unlit
streets was from my constant stumbling over bits of broken ground,
or my occasional encounters with the savage dogs, which are only
less numerous here than they are in Stamboul.