WALKS ABOUT TUNIS.
The English burial-ground — A sad spot — The author of “Home,
sweet Home” — An Arab fortune-teller — On the top of a volcano
— The “fanatical quarters” — More eastern than the East —
Shopping in the bazaars — Mohamed the shopkeeper — Driving a
bargain — Time _versus_ money.
_Saturday, October 22nd._—The story of my life from day to day in
Tunis might be apt to weary some people if it were told in the fulness
of detail which might be used. It is a story of walks and drives in
and around this wonderful city; of visits to the quarters inhabited by
the most fanatical of the Arabs, of risky trips into the surrounding
country, when it has been absolutely necessary to watch closely any
chance wayfarer whom one might encounter, in order to be ready to
have the first shot in case of need; and of interviews with some of
the notabilities of the place. Perhaps I cannot do better than sum
up in one general survey the events of the past three or four days,
and my experiences during that time. On the morning after my visit to
Carthage I was up betimes, in order to speed the two English ladies
who had dispossessed me of my room, on their way to Malta. They were
very proud of having made a hurried raid into the bazaar under the
guidance of Afrigan on the previous afternoon, and they bore away
in triumph a piece of loot in the shape of a large brass salver,
curiously engraved in Arabic.
Having seen mother and daughter safely deposited in the train for
Goletta, I set off to visit the English burying-ground. I have seen
many burial-places in the course of my life, but none by which I
have been so much impressed as by this last resting-place of so many
of my fellow-countrymen in “a strange land.” It is very small,
certainly not more than half an acre in extent, and is entered
through a vaulted archway. The gate is kept locked, though I believe
that no outrage has ever been committed. Passing out of the crowded
streets of the native town into this silent and deserted graveyard,
a strange feeling of unreality came over me. Somehow or other, I was
reminded of the wonderful passage in “Esmond” in which the hero
describes his visit to his mother’s grave in the burying-ground of
the Belgian convent. Like Esmond, I seemed, as I moved across that
solemn plot of ground, to be walking beneath the sea and treading
among the bones of shipwrecked men. But here there were no nuns
raising their voices heavenward, nor any chapel into which one
of my own faith might creep to meditate and pray. All round were
the high walls and barred windows of the Arab houses—a strange,
unfriendly outlook from these mouldering graves. The noise of the
city penetrated even into the silent place of the dead; but it was
a strange and unfamiliar noise, having little in common with the
sounds of city life at home. The fierce sun was beating down upon
the narrow graveyard; all round me were tombs and flowers.
For nearly two hundred years those of our race who finished their
days in this strange country have been buried here, and the rose,
the heliotrope, and the myrtle have been left to flower and fade
luxuriantly above their dust. Many English Consuls are buried here;
some of them having been the representatives of England at the Court
of the Bey at the time when Tunis was a nest of pirates, and when
cruelty and lust such as nowadays it hardly enters into one’s mind
to conceive were rampant on this spot. And there are “merchant
adventurers” of the last century, who must have had bold hearts
when they came hither in search of fortune. All that remains of them
now is, here and there, a quaint inscription telling us how they
feared God and honoured the King; how they loved their fellow-men,
and amid all the temptations of Babylon were true to the faith of
their fathers and of their far-off native land. Then there are the
graves of women, the wives of the few Englishmen who have from time
to time sought fortune here; and—saddest of all—the graves of
little children who bore English names and had English blood in their
veins, but who were fated never to know the dear mother country
and the blessings of home. My heart was too full for utterance,
as I moved about among these graves. Only some two or three of my
fellow-countrymen were to be met with in the whole Regency among
the living; but here among the dead I found myself surrounded by
many familiar names, and by inscriptions in the English tongue,
which bore texts of Holy Writ that were graven as deeply upon my
own heart as upon the stones of the burial-ground.
For the first time since I came to Tunis a great wave of home-sickness
swept over me. How far off we—I and the silent dead beneath my
feet—seemed to be from the land of our birth! And even as this
thought was surging through my heart, my eye fell upon one special
grave for which I had been searching. There was a plain stone slab,
surrounded by a little bed of heliotrope and dwarf roses, and it
bore an inscription telling how beneath it lay “Colonel John
Howard Payne, a citizen of the United States of America,” and how
this monument had been erected by his grateful fellow-countrymen in
honour of the author of “Home, sweet Home.” Strange indeed is the
irony of Fate. We shape our own destinies in fancy; we plan and plot
and labour and contrive; and each one of us for himself has formed
his own ideal of the end at which, in due season, in the fulness
of his time, he is to arrive: and probably not once, in the whole
history of the human race, has that end, when it did come, been in
harmony with the visions thus indulged in. But surely, of all the
strange freaks of malicious fortune, there has been none stranger,
none sadder, than that which sent the man who wrote “Home, sweet
Home” to die an exile on African soil, and which has left him to a
grave here among our English dead of Tunis! I cleared away the mass of
fallen leaves from that gravestone, and reverently plucked a spray of
heliotrope and a few leaves from the rose-trees, and turned and went
on my way again, filled with the feeling that, for a brief season,
I had been moving in quite another world from that of the living,
and that within the narrow boundaries of that pathetic graveyard
of my kinsmen in a strange land, I had been holding the most solemn
and the most real communion with the dead.
It was on the following day that, returning from a walk with Afrigan
through the bazaars, I encountered a curious figure seated at the
roadside which instantly attracted my attention. This was an Arab
fortune-teller. At the moment when I came up to him he was busy
unwinding the long folds of his turban; and like most of the Arabs
with whom I came in contact in Tunis, he showed no disposition to
court my support. In front of him was a tray on which fine sand was
spread. This I need hardly say is the ordinary writing-tablet of the
Arab, the slate by means of which he makes his calculations. At the
side of this slate were a pile of tattered Arabic books, a dirty
pack of cards, and one or two other articles appertaining to the
trade of divination. My fortune-teller was a shrewd, elderly Arab,
with a quick and sinister eye, but a not unpleasant expression upon
his somewhat greasy face. Afrigan acting as interpreter, I explained
to him that I wished to consult him. I was told to take a _caroub_
(a penny) in my hand and to think meanwhile of the person or subject
on which I wanted information, and then to give the coin to the
fortune-teller. This I did accordingly. The Arab looked earnestly
for a moment at the _caroub_, and then began to count with great
rapidity, at the same time marking down various figures upon his
tray of sand. When he had arrived at certain results he smoothed
the sand, thus wiping out the figures, and began again. This went
on for a considerable time, until at last he seemed to have reached
his desired end. He gave a last triumphant dash of the hand over his
curious slate, and then turning to me, said, “You are going away
soon; you will have a stormy voyage and a long one, but you will
travel in safety; those about whom you were thinking just now are
quite well, and they are thinking much of you now, when you are
absent; more even than they did when you were with them. All is
well.” What could be more satisfactory than this, and how could
I avoid giving the man an extra fee for his good news?
Strange, indeed, are the workings of the human mind. I knew perfectly
well that the cunning old Arab was the veriest charlatan, and
that the glib phrases he had uttered were merely the common-places
with which he gratified all travellers who came to him for advice,
whether they were tawny Bedouins from the Sahara, coal-black negroes
from the Soudan, or pale-faced infidels from beyond the seas: yet I
declare I positively resumed my walk after my short interview with
the rogue in better spirits than I had been in before. After all,
was he not probably right? I said to myself; and were there not kind
thoughts speeding across land and sea in my direction from those
whom I loved at home? Let it be noted in passing that one or two of
the fortune-teller’s fellow-countrymen had gathered round whilst
he was thus foretelling my lot, and that evident gratification was
depicted upon their faces when they found that my fate was to be a
favourable one. After all, even in the midst of this seething mass
of fanaticism, a great deal of “human nature” is to be found;
and so far as my experience of it goes, human nature is, as a rule,
very apt to be kindly and lenient in its disposition.
And yet what a volcano is that upon which we are treading here in
Tunis! Yesterday afternoon my good friend Mr. B———, who is
showing himself most kind and attentive in all possible ways, went
with me for a drive through the worst quarters of the town. B———
did not conceal either from himself or from me the fact that there
was considerable risk in the expedition. But he believed that it
must be undertaken if I were to have any real knowledge of Tunis; and
therefore, disregarding the chance of a stray bullet being directed
at us by some fanatic, we set off to explore those parts of the city
where the natives are most closely packed together, and where the
anti-Christian feeling runs highest. Without the aid of a pencil, or
rather of a brush glowing with colours of many hues, I cannot pretend
to give any adequate idea of the sights that I encountered during that
delightful and exciting ride. Very soon after leaving the Marina we
found ourselves involved in the midst of a labyrinth of the narrowest,
the most tortuous, the most tumble-down lanes and alleys that ever
represented the streets of a great town. Very often the carriage
grazed the walls on both sides as it passed along. At other times
we found ourselves traversing long dark vaulted passages beneath the
houses, which in Tunis, as I have already said, are often built over
as well as at the side of the thoroughfares. On each side of us for
almost the entire distance were shops and Arab coffee-houses. They
all looked as though they had been transferred bodily, by some deed
of magic, from the pages of the “Arabian Nights.”
There was nothing that I had seen in Stamboul to compare with the
orientalism of the scenes that now met my eyes. Every interior was
in itself a perfect picture. Here was a row of small shops occupied
by the workers in iron. Each particular smith was squatting
on his haunches on the raised floor of the little apartment,
hammering some metal vessel into the required shape, or blowing
the brazier of glowing charcoal with a pair of bellows of primitive
construction. Here again was the quarter occupied by the dealers in
earthenware, whose gay stores of Arab pottery offered to the eye a
mass of rich and varied colour. But after all it was in the numberless
coffee-houses and barbers’ shops that I found the chief attraction;
for here the Arabs were at home, and their infinite variety of
costume, complexion, and attitude was almost bewildering. As our
carriage moved slowly along through these narrow, crowded streets,
we passed literally thousands of natives whom our driver warned of
our approach by hoarse cries. The women turned away, thickly veiled
though they were, as though they were defiled by mere proximity to the
hated Christian. As for the men, they regarded us for a moment with
scowling faces and sinister eyes, and then ostentatiously averted
their heads, evidently for the purpose of marking their resentment
at our presence. I looked back quickly once or twice, and saw these
sullen-faced Moors spitting upon the ground over which our carriage
had passed, and cursing us in the name of Allah! It was altogether a
novel and exciting ride. Once or twice when our carriage was stopped
in some particularly narrow thoroughfare my companion showed signs of
alarm, and one felt upon the whole glad that a revolver formed part
of one’s equipment; but any risk that there might be was more than
compensated by the strangeness and picturesqueness of the scenes that
everywhere presented themselves in those winding and tortuous streets,
with their quaint Moorish houses and their numberless specimens of
all those races who are the followers of the Prophet.
I have varied my somewhat monotonous life by frequent visits to the
bazaar. Here are to be found not only many specimens of the fine
silk and woollen fabrics for which Tunis is famed, but some of the
beautiful carpets made at Kairwan by the chief ladies of the holy
city, as well as a great number of swords, knives, and fire-arms
of antique make. Oriental bazaars are all very much alike, and the
same may be said of the bazaar-keepers; though here the apathy shown
by the dealers as the European, who is a possible customer, passes,
is somewhat strange. No attempt is made to attract the custom of the
infidel, and it would almost appear as though the shopkeepers would
rather not have his money, even if it were to be offered to them. This
is not, however, the case with my friend Mohamed, who is the chief
dealer in curiosities and carpets, and with whom I have already had
many transactions. Mohamed is a very handsome and intelligent Arab,
whose frank and friendly manner affords a pleasing contrast to that
of most of his fellow-shopkeepers. I suppose that from the nature
of his occupation as a dealer in curios and antiquities he has been
brought into closer contact with Europeans than most of the Tunisian
merchants. At all events, he always looks pleased to see me, and more
than once, through the medium of Afrigan, I have had an interesting
political discussion with him.
I do not go to Mohamed’s, however, to talk politics, but to
endeavour to add to the small store of objects of interest that I have
at home; and in doing this I have to pass through some very amusing
experiences. In the first place, I find that it takes a long time to
buy anything in Tunis. If one is in a hurry, then farewell to any
idea of securing a bargain. A week or ten days may be easily spent
in the purchase of a single article. In the next place, although
Mohamed is undoubtedly a very honest fellow, you must understand
that he considers it not only his right but his duty to cheat you if
he can. He is there to sell his goods to the best advantage, and if
he can induce you to pay for them three or four times their value,
so much the better for himself. As for your share in a transaction
of this kind, Mohamed will console himself with the reflection that
you are in all probability rich enough to afford to give sixty
francs where you ought only to have given twenty. Both of these
considerations must be borne in mind by the purchaser if he does not
wish to rue his dealings with Mohamed. By keeping them steadily in
view he will probably find that he is able to get what he wants from
that worthy individual at a comparatively moderate price. For let
it be understood that Tunis has not yet, happily, been altogether
spoiled by the globe-trotter or the bric-à-brac hunter. You may
still pick up bargains here if you understand how to do it, as well
as gain possession of articles that are really rare and curious.
The process of purchasing anything at Mohamed’s is, it will be
gathered from what I have said, a somewhat prolonged and complicated
one. After writing my letters and making my usual morning calls upon
Mr. Reade and Messrs. B——— and P———, from whom I learn the latest news
as to the proceedings of the French, I set off for the bazaar, generally
accompanied by Afrigan. Nobody takes any notice of me as I thread my way
through the narrow and crowded alleys of this great place of
merchandise, until I turn into the particular street where Mohamed has
his place of business. Then, however, a signal of some kind seems to be
passed along from shop to shop until it reaches the spot where my friend
conducts his transactions; for either Mohamed himself will at once come
forth to meet me, or the smart Arab youth who acts as his assistant will
dart away in search of him. In either case I shall very soon find myself
seated on a carpet in the narrow entrance to the shop, surrounded by
obsequious Arabs, whining beggars, and curious children who have come
to see the infidel cheated.
At this point it may perhaps be desirable to explain that the shop
of the chief dealer in carpets, silks, and curios in Tunis is not
exactly such a place as is conjured up by the mention of the name in
the mind of the ordinary untravelled Briton. The “shop” is nothing
more than a closet with an open horse-shoe archway facing the bazaar,
through which light is admitted, and ingress or egress afforded. The
closet itself is possibly ten feet in depth and eight in width: and
these, for the bazaar of Tunis, are rather extravagant dimensions. In
front of the horse-shoe archway which serves both as door and window,
are a couple of seats, on which Mohamed and the customer for the
moment can sit cross-legged whilst they are engaged in the operation
of bargaining. Within the shop the walls are covered with shelving,
upon which is packed, in apparently hopeless confusion, the various
fabrics and articles in which the merchant deals. No attempt is made
to preserve these articles from injury during the time they are in
Mohamed’s possession. They are simply stuffed pell-mell into the
shelves—scarves, jebbas, carpets, rugs, turban cloths, curtains,
burnouses, being all squeezed together as closely as possible;
whilst knives, pistols, and rifles are pushed in wherever a vacant
corner shows itself. Probably the stock is worth many thousand
pounds; yet the outward show which is made by it is considerably
less than that of a very ordinary marine-store dealer’s shop in
Whitechapel. The tradesmen of Tunis have not yet, it is evident,
learned to appreciate the value of plate-glass and “dressed”
windows. But though they may be behind their brethren of Europe in
some respects, they could teach them a great deal in certain other
matters, notably in the way of conducting a bargain.
I shake hands cordially with Mohamed, and squat down upon the
carpet-covered bench opposite to him. Cigarettes are produced and
lighted; steaming hot coffee—coffee so fragrant and delicious that
gold could not buy anything like it within the limits of the British
Isles—is brought to us in wonderful little cups, and we sip it and
smoke meditatively, whilst I answer the questions Mohamed puts to
me concerning the state of my health, my movements since I saw him
last, and my present opinion respecting M. Roustan, Madame Elias,
and the other delectable people who represent in Tunis the honour
of France and the incorruptibility of M. Gambetta. Then at last
we proceed to business. Mohamed produces a number of particularly
worthless articles—swords, flint-lock guns, inferior silks,
&c. I toss them from me with unconcealed contempt, and prepare to
depart. Mohamed orders more coffee, implores me to resume my seat,
and brings forth from some hidden recess a beautiful curved Moorish
knife, of great antiquity, in a fine sheath covered with arabesque
work in silver. I puff a huge volume of smoke from my cigarette to
hide, if possible, the sudden lighting up of my face at the sight
of this rare and curious article, and say indifferently, “Well,
what do you want for this?” “Ten pounds sterling,” is the
immediate reply. I laugh with the greatest goodhumour, return the
knife to Mohamed, and depart at once, telling him I shall come back
again when he has recovered his senses.
The next day, perhaps, I reappear upon the scene; Mohamed rushes out
to meet me, but I pass him with a mere nod, and go on to the inner
bazaar where the goldsmiths are at work in hovels no bigger, and not
much cleaner, than an ordinary pig-sty. In returning, Mohamed waylays
me and insists upon my drinking coffee. Again we talk on all manner
of indifferent subjects; again we look over the commoner articles
of his stock; but nothing is said about the knife till I am on the
point of leaving. “Have you sold that knife yet, Mohamed?” I
say when I have risen. “No; it is here for your honour still.”
“Well, I’ll give you one pound for it.” It is Mohamed’s turn
to laugh now. He holds his hands up in pious horror, and shouting
out, “Ten pounds, not a penny less, for it cost me more than nine
pounds,” he leaves me to go on my way. Another day passes, and
again I find myself squatting on that familiar carpet, discussing
local politics with my worthy friend. I have been buying from him
some of the pretty Tunisian scarfs, embroidered in gold, and we are in
the best of humours with each other. Presently I say to him, “Now,
Mohamed, what is your lowest price for that knife?” “Ten pounds,
your honour, as I told you yesterday.” “Look here, Mohamed, I’m
tired of talking to you about that knife. I shall either buy it now
or not at all. If you have nothing else to say, let us say good-bye,
and I’ll go somewhere else.” “Well, I am a poor man; but I would
not like to offend your honour. You shall have it for six—no, for
five pounds: and by the beard of the prophet! that is less than I gave
for it myself.” “Mohamed, I’ll give you thirty shillings for it,
and not one farthing more.” “Oh, Allah! was ever such a sum named
as that? I shall be a ruined man if I take it. My own sons will mock
at me.” I hand my coffee-cup to an attendant and prepare to go,
merely repeating, “Thirty shillings; not one farthing more.”
“Four pounds,” shrieks Mohamed; “four pounds; and by the beard
of the prophet not one farthing less.” “Good-bye, then, Mohamed;
I shall come here no more; may you prosper without me,” and I step
into the ill-paved alley. A bland smile breaks over Mohamed’s face;
he grasps my hand and retains me. “What, and do I really suppose
that for such a small matter as this Mohamed would allow the light
of his eyes to depart in anger? The knife is mine, and a rarer or a
finer one he never sold.” The coveted article is handed over to
Afrigan, who slings it round his neck with a matter-of-fact air;
Mohamed and I interchange the friendliest of salutations, and we
part, mutually satisfied, doubtless, with our respective shares in
this comedy in three acts.