OUTSIDE TUNIS.
Risks outside the walls — A tantalizing prospect — The gates of
Tunis — The Belvedere hill — The French camp — Typhus — A fine
prospect — A visit to the Marsa — Mr. Reade’s country-house
— A country drive — Taib Bey — The fall of Kairwan — The
Bardo — The suzerainty of the Caliph — A quaint custom.
_Monday, October 24th._—I have spoken of the country outside Tunis,
and of its general characteristics. Excursions to various places of
interest in the neighbourhood of the city have given me a thorough
acquaintance with so much of the locality as it is possible at
present to visit without being exposed to the most serious risk. To
go more than a short distance outside the walls is at this moment
sheer madness. Nothing is more tantalizing than to see open country
roads stretching away into the interior, and to know that they are
absolutely barred against one’s passage by an enemy, invisible,
but still always present, and always ready to take advantage of the
slightest rashness on the part of the stranger. There is a particular
farm-house standing high up on the hills amid a grove of prickly pear
and cactus, some three miles from the white walls of the city which
has often attracted my attention, and which has exercised an almost
uncontrollable fascination over me. If I were once up at that point
I should not only see what life in a Tunisian farm-house is like,
but I should be able to get a far finer view of the country than
it is possible to obtain anywhere nearer to the town. The longing
to visit the place became so intense the other day that I was on
the point of gratifying it, when word was brought to me that this
very farm-house, nestling so peacefully in a gentle indentation of
the great upland slope that rises behind Tunis, had been visited the
previous day by Arab marauders, who had pillaged the house and carried
off the occupants. What the fate of any European who chanced to go
there just now would be, is more easily imagined than described;
but it is quite certain that my curiosity as to the country life
of the Tunisians must remain for the present unsatisfied. Still
there are one or two favourite drives which I have taken on several
occasions. The one that I like best is that to the Belvedere Hill,
lying between Tunis and Carthage, where a French camp is established.
The whole scene on the road to this camp is wonderfully picturesque.
As you pass out of the arched gateway of the city, you find yourself
in a wide open space caused by the meeting of several roads from
different parts of the country. There is a well here, and around it may
always be seen clustered a large group of horses, mules, and camels.
The soldiers from the camp on the hill, the white tents of which are
plainly visible from the city walls, come down here with their horses
to give them water; or a fatigue party will arrive for the purpose of
carrying the precious liquid up to the camp. Ragged and wayworn Bedouins
from the interior are lounging about the fountain, or reclining against
the huge pillars of the city gateway, whilst their mules or camels are
enjoying a brief respite from labour, in the midst of the white and
dusty highway. Women and children are begging alms, or are taking those
deep draughts of water from the well which only the dwellers in “a
thirsty land” are able to appreciate. Occasionally a gaily bedizened
Moor, with brilliant turban, flowing burnous, and glittering array of
knives and pistols, gallops up, scattering the crowd before him, and
urging his splendidly caparisoned horse to the brink of the well. The
city guards meanwhile, with their burnt faces, ragged uniforms, and
deplorable old rifles, are on duty at the gate, and eye the passing
European with vindictive sullenness of expression. Is there any other
spot within so short a distance of Paris or London, where scenes like
these are to be met with; where one can find one’s self not only in the
midst of an actual campaign, but surrounded by the typical sights and
incidents of a purely Oriental life?
Our carriage soon leaves this wonderful gathering-place outside the
city walls behind, and after a sharp tug uphill we find ourselves
nearing the French camp. Here, again, there are picturesque sights in
abundance, though of a different order. No Arabs are to be seen near
the encampment, but the Jews, who in dress so closely resemble them,
abound. Many of them have brought trays of fruit or sweetmeats to
the spot, and are conducting a languid trade with the soldiers. Then
there are French hucksters, whose stock-in-trade seems to be a barrel
of wine or a few bottles of beer or absinthe. They have constructed a
rude shelter for themselves from the sun beneath the wide-spreading
olive-trees, and you may always depend upon finding a few gentlemen
in blue trousers sharing the hospitalities they have to dispense. The
sobriety of the French soldier is evidently not incompatible with
a very plentiful consumption of wine and bad spirits. A sentry now
bars our way. He will listen to no explanation; he will take no
message to the commander of the camp, and when one of us shows a
slight disposition to walk past him, unheeding his stern “_Il est
défendu, monsieur!_” his rifle is instantaneously brought down to
a horizontal position, and his bayonet gleams in unpleasant proximity
to the offender’s breast. But I have a good field-glass with me,
and standing on the little entrenchment thrown up for the defence of
the camp, I can distinctly see every portion of it. Truth to tell,
there is not much to be seen. There are lines of tents—most of
them bell-tents, though here and there the wretched little _tente
d’abri_ is to be seen, and there are long rows of soldiers stretched
in the shade, sleeping peacefully. Here and there an orderly may be
observed, or a fatigue party armed with water-buckets, or an officer,
carelessly dressed, striding about with shiftless gait. You can see,
too, that the camp is not a delectable place of residence—far
from it. Pheugh! As I look there comes to me, borne on the breeze,
an indescribable odour. I have experienced something like it before,
frequently in a travelling menagerie; but only once before did I
actually encounter this horrible and insufferable stench. That was
more than ten years ago, in the gardens at Versailles, when my evil
genius prompted me to look over the balustrades into the Orangerie
below, where the captured Communists were herded together like caged
wild beasts. It is not an odour to be forgotten. It seems to print the
word “Typhus” in big legible letters upon the luminous atmosphere.
I turn away from the camp, and survey the lovely country which is
spread out at my feet like a map—for it is not without reason
that this hill is called the Belvedere. There lies the white city,
with its multitudinous flat roofs, its labyrinth of narrow streets,
its quaint ungainly towers, and its Kasbah, on which flies the French
flag. Beyond it you see the semicircle of forts which at once defend
it and command it. On these also flies the tricolour. Then there
are the great ranges of hill, sweeping away to where the jagged
peaks of the Zaghouan Mountains intercept one’s view, and the lake
immediately below me dotted with the white sails of the fishermen, and
in the distance the amphitheatre where once stood Carthage, and the
blue waters of the Gulf. The whole scene is bathed in the brilliant
sunshine of Africa. One has no wish, after feasting one’s eyes
upon it, to resume one’s study of the interior of the French camp.
One day—that ought to be marked with a red letter in this discursive
journal—I accepted an invitation from Mr. Reade to go with him to
his country house at the Marsa. We travelled together by the mid-day
train from Tunis, B——— and P——— accompanying us. After leaving Goletta
the line turns to the west, and runs forward to the Arab town of Sidi
bou Said. But before we reached the terminus the whistle sounded, and
the train suddenly stopped. I looked out. We were in the middle of a
beautiful and trimly kept garden. There was a platform of gravel, and
in the centre of it a neat summer-house, but no other sign to indicate
that this was an ordinary station. It was, in fact, the private station
alloted to Mr. Reade, and it was his garden in which we had stopped. We
descended from the train and were met by four or five bright English
lads—the sons of Mr. Reade and of one of my companions. How strangely
their talk, the talk of English schoolboys, sounded amid these
unfamiliar scenes! We strolled up a beautiful avenue of cypress,
date-palms, and cactus, to the house. It is a Moorish villa of noble
architecture. Ascending a broad sweep of marble stairs in front, we
found ourselves upon a splendid verandah, with screen of exquisite
Moorish arches, and tiled walls and floor. This lovely covered terrace
was cool and airy in spite of the intense heat of the day; and even
without regarding the fine view which was to be had from it, one could
understand how in the nine months’ summer of Tunis it was the favourite
sitting-room and place of assembly of the family. A door opening from
this verandah gave admittance to a vast and lofty hall, the walls of
which were also lined with tiles; whilst beyond were suites of large
rooms, furnished rather in the Moorish than the European style. Of the
warm and graceful hospitality with which I was received by the lady
of the house this is not the place in which to speak. It may not,
however, be out of place to mention that I now for the first time
had the opportunity of tasting _couscousoo_, the national dish of
the Arabs. Most excellent it is, though it has perhaps the fault of
satisfying one’s appetite rather too quickly. It is a preparation
of semolina, meat, and herbs, and has all the characteristics
of a very fine curry with added excellences that are peculiar to
itself. Perhaps the nearest approach to the dish is the _pilaff_
which you get in Turkey; but between _couscousoo_ and either curry
or _pilaff_ there is one great difference. That is, that in the Arab
dish rice is not an ingredient, semolina, or whole grains of wheat,
prepared in some peculiar fashion, taking its place. My introduction
to _couscousoo_ was of such a character that I became straightway
desirous to renew the acquaintance at the earliest possible moment.
After our mid-day meal—which formed in all respects a delightful
contrast to the dismal and painful experiences in the gastronomic
line which I had been hitherto passing through in Tunis—I went for
a drive with Mr. Reade. In the course of this drive we got a splendid
view of the Gulf and the surrounding country, including the entire
site of Carthage. The dusty lanes lined on either side with hedges of
cactus, prickly pear, and other tropical plants, presented a strange
contrast to the scenery amid which the ordinary afternoon drive of
an Englishman is enjoyed. We passed great numbers of Arabs. None of
them took the slightest notice of Mr. Reade, though all must have
known him, and must have been aware that he had proved himself to
be in many ways their benefactor and protector. Returning to the
house, we lounged on the verandah smoking, chatting, and watching
the boys at their play—the garden ringing with their shouts and
laughter. Then, after a delightful cup of English tea, we started
for the little garden station. It was broad daylight when we left
the house; but before Mr. Reade and I had strolled the length of
the avenue it was almost dark, so swiftly does night fall in these
latitudes. I noticed in the garden a lamp burning amid the thick
boughs of a large tree or shrub, and inquired the meaning of its
appearance there. It seems that the tree on which the lamp is hung
is sacred in the estimation of the Arabs, who believe that a saint
of peculiar holiness is buried beneath it. Accordingly this lamp is
lighted every Thursday night in honour of the pious man, and devout
Mohammedans come and pray beneath the shade of the tree. It is on the
whole well for them that an Englishman happens to be the occupant of
this house and the master of the beautiful garden. The kindliness
which leads Mr. Reade to respect the shrine of which he has thus
accidentally become the possessor, and not only to respect it, but to
allow free access to it on the part of the people of the country, is
somewhat different from the disposition shown by the nation which is
about to add the proud name of Kairwan to the list of its conquests!
The day after my visit to the beautiful country home of the English
Consul-General, I had another opportunity of seeing an interior
at the Marsa. The Marsa, I ought here to explain, is not so much a
village as a circumscribed district in which are gathered together
the villas of many of the wealthiest and most important members both
of the European and native communities. Thus M. Roustan has, like
Mr. Reade, a country house here; and here also are the palaces of
the brothers of the reigning Bey. It was to pay a visit to Taib Bey,
the younger brother of the Bey, that I went to the Marsa on this
occasion. That Taib is mixed up in many of the political intrigues
of which the Regency is at present the scene, and that he would not
be at all sorry to supplant his brother, is, I believe, perfectly
true. The standard of morals prevailing here is—well, I think it
will be better to call it Tunisian; and if all that I have heard,
not only about the Bey and his brothers, but about many other
distinguished people in Tunis, is to be trusted, the world would
not lose much if an earthquake were to bring the whole Regency to
destruction to-morrow. Mr. Levy, the gentleman whose claim to the
Enfida estate is one of the causes that are said to have led up
to the French invasion of the country, acted as my guide in this
visit to Taib Bey, in which the principal part was played by my
friend Mr. B———. Taib, it appears, was anxious to influence
the English public on his behalf; hence his invitation to us. It
was the first time that I had ever been honoured by being received
by the brother of a reigning Sovereign, and perhaps I ought to have
felt more impressed than I did with the greatness of the occasion;
but as a matter of fact it is a little difficult for an Englishman
to enter into all the niceties of Tunisian dignities—almost as
difficult as it is for him to understand the feeling of delight with
which the Frenchmen here, who have been decorated with the Order
of the Bey, display upon their manly bosoms the vast pewter plate
which is the chief of the insignia of that Order.
Mr. Levy’s three horses, harnessed abreast, made comparatively
short work of the journey from Tunis to the Marsa. We found ourselves
precisely at the appointed hour entering the large, rambling Moorish
villa, situated in the midst of a pleasant garden, which is the
residence of the illustrious Taib Bey. Half way up the garden we
were met by the Bey’s secretary, a swarthy Arab, clad in gay
yellow robes, richly embroidered. He conducted us through an inner
court, in the middle of which a fountain was playing, into a small
sitting-room, where the Bey’s son-in-law, a Turk, greeted us in the
most friendly fashion. Here coffee was served in the usual manner,
in delicate porcelain cups, placed in elaborately chased silver
holders. Presently a good-looking boy of twelve or thirteen came
to announce that the Bey awaited us. We were ushered up a narrow
tiled staircase, and through an antechamber into a large apartment,
where we found the Bey seated on a sofa. It would be doing violence
to the truth if I were to say that the appearance of his Highness
was prepossessing. His manners, it is true, were pleasant, and he
was evidently anxious to put himself on friendly terms with us;
nor can it be said that he lacked intelligence. But no one could
mistake the meaning of the flabby chin, the loose and puffy cheeks,
the watery eye, and lean and trembling fingers. The sensuality
which is the curse of these Arab potentates had evidently broken
his manhood. There was, too, a furtive cunning in his glance that
put one instinctively upon one’s guard.
Taib Bey may be, as he professes, a better man than his brother;
but he is not a man in whose mercy I, for one, should care to find
myself. Of his conversation with us, carried on through the medium of
an interpreter, and lasting for some twenty minutes, I need not say
much. It was chiefly directed against the reigning Bey, the ex-Prime
Minister, Mustapha, and M. Roustan. If the truth must be told,
I was more interested in what I saw than in what I heard; and as
Europeans are seldom admitted to the houses of these Arab princes,
I was anxious to make the best use of my time whilst there. All
the rooms which I saw were very poorly furnished, but the curtains,
sofa covers, &c., were of clean and pretty chintz. The ornaments,
even in the large apartment in which we were received, and which was
evidently the chief reception-room of the house, were the tawdriest
paper flowers, placed under common glass shades. The only things
to be seen which were really rare or curious of their kind were two
tall clocks at the foot of each staircase. These were very fine, and
with all the ardour of a bric-à-brac hunter I felt half-inclined to
sound Taib’s secretary as to the possibility of my purchasing one
of them. I managed to resist the inclination, however; and perhaps
it was just as well that I did so, as, unless rumour libels him,
his Highness has a decidedly unpleasant way of making his anger felt
when any one chances to displease him.
_Friday, October 28th._—We received this morning the news of
the entry of the French into the sacred city of Kairwan. Mr. Levy
was the first to bring the intelligence, which was speedily
confirmed. Nothing, however, was known of it among the inhabitants
of Tunis, so that the excitement which may be expected to arise
when it becomes known that “the Sacred City” is in the hands of
the infidel has not yet been shown. I accompanied B——— this
afternoon on one of the most interesting expeditions to be made at
present outside the walls of Tunis—that to the Bardo Palace. The
Bardo is the St. James’s of Tunis—the official palace, that is
to say, where in ordinary times the work of the Government is carried
on; where the Bey administers justice in the primitive fashion still
adhered to in this quarter of the world, where he holds his audiences,
&c. Near to it is his private palace, where he actually lives when
at “the Bardo.” As for the Bardo itself, it is a walled town
rather than a single building or group of buildings. In front is
a wide, open space, in the middle of which a fountain is playing;
whilst a row of rusty cannon, placed along the line of a dry ditch,
are the ostensible defence of the palace. Driving along the road
to the Bardo, which lies between two and three miles from Tunis, we
encountered many trains of laden camels, and scores of Arabs cantering
along on their mules. There were French patrols too passing up and
down the road; for this is the route to Manouba, where the principal
French camp and military hospital are situated. Passing through the
exterior gateway of the palace—after having shown the pass kindly
obtained for me by Mr. Reade—I found myself in a street in which
there were coffee shops, shops for the sale of domestic utensils,
and even a post-office. All the walls were whitewashed somewhat after
the fashion used in English barracks, but everywhere signs of decay
and neglect were visible, even the Bey’s flag which fluttered over
the principal gateway showing an ugly rent.
After passing through two courtyards, in one of which was a fountain
with fine marble columns, we alighted at the foot of the great
staircase, which is guarded by lions in marble. At the top of the
staircase is a large open verandah, with splendid pillars of marble
or porphyry, brought from Carthage; and it was curious to observe
on one of these the emblematic serpent, which carried one’s mind
back to the days of the Phœnicians. From this verandah entrance is
obtained to the central court of the Bardo and to the throne-room,
where every Saturday during the winter the Bey is in the habit, of
hearing the complaints of his subjects and administering justice
in the quaint patriarchal fashion of the East. From the door of
this throne-room, every evening from time immemorial it has been
customary to proclaim the titles of the Sultan in recognition of his
suzerainty as Caliph. Even now, when the French occupy Tunis, and the
last shred of Ottoman authority has disappeared, this custom is kept
up; and this afternoon, before leaving the palace, I was fortunate
enough to witness the quaint and striking ceremony. Before doing so,
however, I inspected the palace itself.
The first room to which I was admitted was a small but gorgeously
decorated private reception-room. Gold was used lavishly in the
adornment of the ceilings and walls; on the floor was stretched
a handsome but somewhat faded Axminster carpet, the gift of the
Queen of England, and the chairs were all in scarlet and gold. This
apartment may be called the business-room of the Bey, that in which
he sees his Ministers, the Consuls, and others who have official work
to transact with him. Adjoining it was a very pleasant chamber, with
a glass window running the whole length of the room, and affording
a fine view of the Manouba road, on which the French patrols could
be seen passing. On the walls some quaint portraits of the former
Sultans of Turkey were hung. Passing up a very ordinary staircase,
I was admitted to the great room of the palace, which in size is
a really magnificent apartment, in this respect rivalling that
ball-room in the palace at Amsterdam which I saw a few weeks ago,
and which was described to me as the finest room in Europe. The
furniture of this great room is very tawdry, and in spite of its size
and the canopied throne which stands at one end, it has a mean and
squalid appearance. There are hundreds of fine chandeliers holding
dirty wax candles at every angle save the right one. The walls are
adorned by life-size portraits of many of the sovereigns of Europe,
presented to the Bey. The Queen of England is merely represented
by a small engraving, and the Bey is said to be very indignant at
her Majesty’s having omitted to send him her portrait in oil. The
finest thing in the room is a wonderful piece of Gobelins tapestry—a
portrait of Louis Philippe. This is really remarkable for colour,
fineness of outline, and general effect. At a short distance it is
impossible to distinguish it from an oil painting.
My visit to the palace, where dirt reigned supreme, and signs
of decay and neglect were everywhere to be met with, would have
been most disappointing if I had not been privileged to see the
ceremony of proclaiming the Sultan’s titles of which I have
spoken. This was a most curious and interesting performance. A
melancholy-looking man in tattered garments, beating a large drum,
like himself considerably the worse for wear, crossed the courtyard,
and, climbing the lion staircase, took up his position in front of
the door of the throne-room. He was followed by a second performer
on a kind of flute, from which he drew forth weird and ear-piercing
strains. The door was thrown open, and two old heralds in scarlet and
gold took their places on either side of it. Then, when the musical
performance, which had lasted some considerable time, had ceased,
one of the heralds, a venerable Turk, proclaimed in Turkish—and
apparently by a series of dismal howls which reverberated through
the corridors and courtyards of the palace—the titles and glories
of the Sultan. It was a curious and memorable incident for one to
witness in the middle of that crumbling building, outside of which
the French troops were passing, all unconscious of what was happening
within. Does M. Gambetta know, I wonder, that this formal declaration
of the Caliph’s suzerainty is still kept up at the Bardo in spite
of the treaties and despatches of the ingenuous M. Saint-Hilare?
[Since I wrote the foregoing account of Taib Bey, he has
undergone a very remarkable change of circumstances. In January
last Taib’s palace was suddenly surrounded by Tunisian cavalry,
and the unfortunate Prince, dragged from his bed, was made captive
and carried off to the Bardo, where they have a very easy way of
getting rid of criminals or of those who happen to be obnoxious to
the authorities. In the meantime Taib’s son, or more probably his
son-in-law, who acted as master of his household, is reported to have
escaped and taken refuge in the country house of Mr. Reade. These
events will show my readers how different life in Tunis is from
life in Europe. The beautiful villa at the Marsa, where I spent a
delightful day last October, is now the sanctuary in which a hunted
man has found a refuge under the shelter of the English flag;
whilst Taib Bey’s palace stands desolate, and its owner is the
occupant of a prison. The real reason for Taib’s arrest is that
he refused to give a bribe of large amount which was demanded by
a friend of M. Roustan, and that he offered to produce documents
proving the criminality of Roustan and his connexion with a notorious
adventuress. For these reasons he has now been made prisoner at
the instigation of M. Roustan, and is in great danger of losing his
life. That he has intrigued against his brother is perfectly true;
but it is equally certain that his brother has not himself been
willing to order his arrest. The information I have received on high
authority from Tunis, since the arrest took place, is to the effect
that the Bey was most unwilling to take any proceedings, and that
it was M. Roustan who forced this particular measure upon him.]