LAST DAYS AT TUNIS.
A retrospect — The captain of the _Aristides_ — 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 the _Ville de
Naples_ cast 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 the gulf, and within half a mile of the little breakwater
of Goletta, the sea was so high that the _Falcon_ gunboat 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 the
_Ville 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 of _Figaro_, which
was being hawked about by a bright little Jew. Presently up came my
old friend the captain of the _Aristides_, the English steamer which
was wrecked off Bizerta two days before I first landed in Tunis. 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 that all 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 was _within
two hundred yards of my own house_ in 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 the winter, 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 the _Falcon_,
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 how _he_ visited 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. So once 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 Bazaar furnishes 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 silk _jebba_—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 myself in 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 the _jebba_, 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
particular _jebba_ upon 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 similar articles, 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 effected by 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 obtain some 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 in
silver 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 the Jews 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 confused mass,
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—indecent attire,
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 experience that 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 could not 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 for not
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 him _en 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 not used, 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 the dishes, 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. Returning to 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
the _motif_. The long dance at an end, 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.