GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.
An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab
el Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage —
Italian greed — The _Sicilia_ — Sea-sick Arabs.
_Thursday, November 3rd._—This last morning of my stay in Tunis
broke in cloudless splendour. The weather, which has been so unsettled
for some days, seems suddenly to have improved, and we appear to
be entering upon another summer. The heat is intense; and as I
laboured in the courtyard of the hotel at the troublesome task of
marking the various boxes containing my purchases, the perspiration
literally streamed off my face, and again and again I had to sit down
exhausted. At half-past nine I sent off Afrigan to Goletta with the
whole of my _impedimenta_, which he is to see safely on board the
_Sicilia_, the Rubattino boat in which I go to Malta. Then I went out
for a last walk in Tunis. To-day is one of the great festivals of
the Arabs—the Feast of the Bairam. Hitherto the eve of the feast
has always been marked by a fair held on a vacant space of ground
within the walls, close to the Kasbah. I went up to this place
yesterday evening in order to see this festivity, but found to my
regret that the fair is not being held this year—another token of
the way in which the natives regard the French occupation and the
“protection” of M. Roustan. This morning, however, there were
evident signs that the day was a holiday. All the Arabs were dressed
in their smartest attire, and those of them who possess the Order
of the Bey wore it proudly. Bands of music, the strains they poured
forth being of the most unmelodious character, were passing through
the streets, and a score of fine carriages dashed past the hotel on
the way to the Bardo, where the Bey to-day holds a state reception.
I have, by the way, lost a chance of making the acquaintance of this
high and mighty potentate. Mr. Reade kindly asked me to accompany him
to the Palace, in order that he might present me to his Highness. But
I subsequently learned that a dress coat was _de rigueur_ on such
occasions: and alas! when I packed my portmanteaus before leaving home
I tossed out of them the dress suit which they originally contained,
not thinking that I should require it during my stay in Africa. The
Consul-General thought that the Bey might stretch a point in my
favour, in consideration of my being merely a passing tourist. But
his Highness is at this moment in sore trouble and humiliation,
and it would have been improper under the circumstances to present
oneself in a manner which might be construed into a want of respect
for the fallen potentate. So I lost the opportunity of making the
acquaintance of the ruler of this curious land. If I could not see
the Bey this morning, however, there was nothing to prevent my seeing
his people. This Feast of the Bairam is the nearest approach to our
English Christmas which the Arabs know. It is a festival of friendship
and goodwill. Accordingly, every Arab who meets an acquaintance in the
streets this morning stops and gives him a kiss of brotherly love. It
was curious indeed to see these solemn, bearded old gentlemen engaged
in this operation. Not a word was spoken either by the kisser or the
kissed: but hands were touched, and the lips of the one pressed to
the cheek of the other. I noticed, however, that where there was a
great social distance between the two, as in the case of my friend
General Ben Ayad and one of the ordinary Moors of the town, it was
only the rich man’s hand, and not his cheek, that was kissed. These
good Tunisians are not the only people in the world, however, who
keep up forms and ceremonies long after the life has gone out of them.
For the last time I took my stand on the steps of the Grand Hotel, and
surveyed that wonderful panorama which is for ever being displayed
in the Marina. Over the way was the coffee-house of the colonnade
where, under the shade of the arches, I have drunk so many glasses
of lemonade and vermouth. It was crowded to-day with the usual
throng of French officers—all of them wearing full uniform in
honour of the Bairam—and special correspondents for the Paris
Press, each fingering the red rosette in his button-hole with that
air of intense satisfaction which only a decorated Frenchman can
assume. To my right, beyond the palm-trees in the little garden,
rose the fine Moorish gateway which gives admission to the square
of the Consulate. To-day, as on all days, it appeared the centre of
the life of Tunis. A hundred vendors of cakes, sweetmeats, fruits,
matches, trinkets, were pushing hither and thither, waving their
feather brushes to drive away the clouds of flies, and filling the
air with a clamour which reminded one of Whitechapel on a Saturday
evening. The drivers of mules and camels were raising hoarse cries of
warning as the animals in their charge unceremoniously pushed their
way through the throng: squatting at the feet of the pillars of the
gateway were hideous figures veiled in black yashmaks. They might be
the fairest of virgins, or the ugliest and vilest of crones; it was
all one to the spectator who saw them, sitting in patience, beside
the loaves of bread which it is their business to sell. Half-a-dozen
of the city guards passed under the gate in Indian file, their
rusty muskets carried at all possible angles; their bared feet
and ragged raiment proving to what straits the national exchequer
has been reduced. Then a couple of French _gens-d’armes_ emerged
from the throng, neat, clean and well dressed, with their hands on
the butts of their revolvers. The smiling ruddy face of my friend
B———, who seems tall of stature even in this land peopled by
the sons of Anak, showed itself above the white and blue turbans, as
he strode towards me, waving aloft the latest message from Kairwan,
and followed by a knot of children, Jews and Arabs, all alike bent
upon extracting a caroub from his pocket. Turning from this scene
of bustle and excitement, I saw the broad street immediately in
front of the hotel filled by troops of Moors of the better class,
patrolling up and down in their brilliant robes, deeply engaged in
conversation with each other; and presently an open landau dashed
past, and I recognized the somewhat insignificant features and figure
of M. Roustan, the Mephistopheles of Tunis, who was returning from
his formal visit to the Bardo. And over all this brilliant varied
scene there was the intensely blue and cloudless sky of Africa. It was
hard to tear oneself away from the spot. As I said at the outset of
my narrative, the eye at least may always enjoy a perpetual feast in
Tunis. My ideas of the picturesque were not small before I came here;
and I had seen something of the East and of Eastern life before ever
I set foot on African soil. But what I have seen in Tunis has given
me altogether new ideas of the really picturesque. How I have longed
for the faculty of the artist, so that I might convey some faint idea
to those at a distance of the glories and wonders of this place—the
glories and wonders of the sky, of the vegetation, of the hills, of
the cities, of the people. Poor indeed are words, even at the best,
to convey any real idea of natural scenery or of unfamiliar forms;
and I believe that even the author of the “Princess of Thule”
would find himself baffled in the attempt to bring home to readers
in England that infinite variety of colour and shape, that endless
succession of picturesque groups and still more picturesque interiors
by which the eye is greeted on every side in Tunis. If I could but
bring before the mind’s eye of my reader, I will not say the view
from the Grand Hotel of which I have been speaking, but a correct
and vivid idea of the inside of a single Arab coffee-shop, I should
feel that I had not written altogether in vain.
But the moment of departure had arrived, and B——— reminded me
that even in Africa trains started with tolerable punctuality. So
I said good-bye to the waiters of the Grand Hotel, and presently
found myself in the train bound for Goletta. There was in the train
with me the eldest nephew of the Bey, and the heir-expectant to his
throne. As he stood on the little gangway outside the carriage in the
Tunis station, most of the Arabs as they passed him stopped to kiss
his hand or the skirt of his frock-coat. He is a rather good-looking
young man, with a face not quite so sensual as those of most of
the Moors of the upper classes are. There was, however, no sign of
strength of will or vigour in his countenance, nor anything to make
one hope that under his sway Tunis would be happier than it has been
under the rule of his uncle. In a third-class carriage adjoining that
in which the young Prince rode, I recognized the business man of
the unlucky Taib Bey. When he saw me he came out upon the gangway,
and as the train was whirled onwards towards Goletta he shouted
to me in French an energetic appeal on behalf of his master, “An
honest man, monsieur! an intelligent man! The only man who can save
Tunis! Tell the English all that, I beg of you.” If all Taib’s
servants are as faithful and zealous as this Arab is, he is not
after all so unlucky as he might seem to be.
There was yet another acquaintance of mine in the train. This
was once more the Captain of the _Aristides_. He had a wonderful
tale to tell of the pluck of the third mate of that unfortunate
vessel. This man, whose name, I am sorry to say, I cannot give,
was sent by sea to Bizerta last week in order to look after the
wreck. Having fulfilled his duty there, he was anxious to return
to Goletta as quickly as possible, but found that no steamer would
call off the port for several days. Thereupon, with the foolhardy
valour of an English tar, he set off by land! Seeing that the
whole country in that direction is swarming with insurgent Arabs,
and that hitherto they have murdered without remorse every single
Christian who has fallen into their hands, the risks of such
a journey can be well understood. Nevertheless the man, who was
accompanied by a native guide, got through in safety. Perhaps this
was due in part to the fact that the poor fellow had no money in
his possession, as, like the rest of the crew of the _Aristides_,
he is living at present on the somewhat meagre allowance provided
for “distressed British seamen” by the Vice-Consul. It appears
that he was stopped six times between Bizerta and Tunis by parties
of armed Arabs. On each occasion the first order given to him was
to turn out his pockets. It may be imagined how much the pockets
contained after the last of these operations! Then when the robbers
had satisfied themselves that there was nothing to be got from their
victim, they invariably put one question to his guide—“Is he a
Frenchman?” The answer was, of course, in the negative. What the
poor creature’s fate would have been if it had been otherwise,
could be plainly guessed by himself, as the Arabs drew their long
broad-bladed swords each time that they made this inquiry, and were
evidently prepared to cut him into pieces without delay if he proved
to be a fellow-countryman of M. Roustan. Even as it was, and when
it had been made known that he was an Englishman, there were long
consultations and sometimes warm disputes before he was allowed to
pass. Not many men living have enjoyed (!) such a journey as that
was; but the hero of the adventure looked perfectly unconcerned when
I saw him at Goletta, and was evidently quite unconscious of the
fact that he had performed an extraordinary feat. His chief subject
of conversation was, “the greediness of them ’ere h’Arabs,
sir. Why bless you, they didn’t leave me as much as a piece of
baccy after they’d turned me over the first time.”
It was after reaching Goletta that I discovered that there is even
greater greed than that of the Arabs. I had taken my passage to Malta
by the Rubattino boat _Sicilia_ on the previous day, and for the short
trip of twenty-one hours had paid the respectable sum of forty-five
francs. I now learned to my disgust that even this exorbitant fare
does not include food, which must be paid for extra! With not a
little regret I stepped off the shore at Goletta, and found myself
once more on board one of the broad-beamed port boats. We were a
motley company. Steamers were also starting at the same time as the
_Sicilia_ for Bone and Marseilles, and for Susa and Tripoli. So we had
on board with us an unkempt and not particularly clean Frenchwoman,
who was somewhat disconsolately making her way back to her native
land, not having found Tunis, so far as she herself was concerned,
quite the field of promise that she had been led to believe it was;
a smart-looking commercial traveller bound for Marseilles; half a
dozen Arabs going down the Gulf of Hammamet laden with merchandise
wrapped in filthy carpets; a couple of Maltese bound for their island
home, and carrying with them some huge cages filled with canaries;
a very venerable-looking Jew, who was creeping back to Sfax to see
what was left of his property after the sack of the place by the
French; and one or two others. Afrigan seemed to know everybody
in the boat, and kept up a lively conversation with all of them,
whilst he maintained at the same time a running description of the
various personages on board for my benefit.
We first went to the steamer for Susa, and here fully half an hour
was spent in a terrific contest between the boatmen on the one hand
and the Arabs and Jews on the other as to the amount to be paid
for the passage from the shore. Such shrieking, such gestures,
such bursts of guttural passion, were surely never heard or seen
before outside of Bedlam! The boatmen had followed the defaulting
passengers on deck, and were pursuing them all over the steamer,
making the air ring with their curses and lamentations. After half
an hour of this performance I became impatient, and having won over
the two Maltese to my side, I cast loose the rope by which we were
fastened to the ladder of the steamer, and proposed that we should
row ourselves to the _Sicilia_. Then indeed there was an exhibition on
board the Susa boat! When the ruffianly boatmen, who had treated all
our expostulations with contempt, saw that we had mutinied and were
going off without them, they were for a moment silent with horror:
only for a moment, however; for no sooner had they realized the
situation than they raised a yell which would have done credit to the
lungs of a band of Indians on the war-path. Running like cats along
the deck of the steamer, they climbed into the chains at the bow,
and swung themselves dexterously into the boat as it passed. There
were six of them, and they were all big fellows, so I thought it
prudent not to apply my stick to their shoulders; and satisfied with
having compelled them to resume their journey, I willingly gave up
my oar to the ringleader, a coal-black negro from the Soudan.
The _Sicilia_ is a wretched little boat of some five or six hundred
tons, and my first glance at it showed me how greatly inferior
it was to the noble French steamers, in which I had hitherto been
sailing. Nobody on board spoke a word of either French or English;
and from the captain downwards the officers seemed a slovenly and
not over clean set of fellows. They had, however, that English
look about them which often distinguishes Italian sailors; and if
in their want of politeness they furnished a great contrast to the
officers of the _Ville de Naples_ and _Charles Quint_, they were,
at least so far as appearances went, bluff, good-natured men. I said
good-bye to Afrigan—a final good-bye this time—with a somewhat
heavy heart; for I have travelled far enough in the journey of life
to have learned the value of honesty, faithfulness, kindliness,
and personal devotion—and all these qualities I had found in this
worthy fellow. “Won’t you come as far as Malta with me, Afrigan,
just for a change?” The tears had been standing in his eyes for
some minutes. He had not been saying much about our separation, but he
had been deeply engaged in enlightening the officers of the _Sicilia_
as to the importance of the passenger whom they were now privileged
to carry, and had given me a personal character so flattering that
I was thankful that none of my friends at home could hear it. It was
his last and most anxious wish that I should be comfortable and well
cared for, even after his own connexion with me had ceased. Now,
however, when I uttered these words, a rueful smile broke over
his face. “Dear sir,” he said, “you see, I have a wife, and she—”
“Yes, yes, Afrigan; I’ve heard that before. Well, good-bye, and God
bless you!” “Good-bye, sir; and if ever you come to Tunis again you will
find me waiting for you. There is no gentleman I would serve sooner
than yourself.” And then he ran down the ladder, and waving his hand,
and shouting his last words of farewell and thanks, he presently faded
away into the glowing distance on the sunlit waters.
The afternoon was lovely, and my last look at Tunis and the beautiful
gulf was delightful. There were the white houses of Goletta, with the
Bey’s curious water-palace, built on piles, standing out boldly
from the others. It is here that for years he has led his somewhat
lonely life, in the company of his prime favourite Mustapha, the
barber’s boy, who by stages of truly Oriental advancement rose,
before he was thirty years of age, to the chief position in the
Regency. It is here also that he has been living, sad and sick and
solitary, since the claws of the French eagle were plunged into the
heart of Tunis, and his beloved Mustapha was torn from him and sent
into exile. One cannot but feel sorry for this fallen ruler. Great
faults, grave vices, he undoubtedly has; but he has always meant
well by his country, and has done his best for her, according to
his lights. He has been kindly in his judgments, administering
justice so far as he could with honesty and straightforwardness,
and shrinking from the resort to the death-penalty as much as the
Emperor of Germany himself does. Above all, he has been blameless in
his conduct towards the French, and yet it is the French by whom he
has now been attacked and ruined. All these thoughts passed through
my mind as I looked on that plain white building, flooded with the
afternoon sunshine, against which the golden waves of the gulf were
now gently lapping. It is not always easy to realize the personal
tragedies which are involved in the great political movements of the
world—the private woes which must ever accompany the development
of a State policy. But nobody can have been in Tunis during the last
three months without being able to realize all this.
Away to the right of the palace was the barren desolate site of
Carthage; and still further to the right was the Arab town of Sidi
bou Said, where my friend Ben Ayad has his favourite residence. Its
white walls glittered in the sunshine, and its grand situation and
imposing appearance almost led one to believe, in spite of all the
experience I have acquired recently, that it must be a desirable
place of residence. The centre of the picture on which I looked
from the deck of the _Sicilia_ was the harbour of Goletta, with the
broad sheet of the Lake of Tunis behind it, and in the dim distance
the towers and roofs of Tunis itself. To the left were the high and
precipitous ranges of the Lead Mountains, and far away I could dimly
discern the sharp peaks of the blue Zaghouan Hills. How deeply one
felt now regret at not having been able to explore the beautiful
country which lies everywhere around the city of Tunis. What noble
vistas of smiling valleys, rocky gorges, and billowy uplands were
everywhere visible! Yet all had been a closed book to me during my
stay in the Regency. Some day, however, I may come again to see
Tunis more thoroughly and under happier auspices. Close at hand,
in the bay, there were many stately vessels, including the _Ville
de Naples_. How gladly I would have exchanged my present position
as sole cabin passenger on board the _Sicilia_ for a berth on board
the noble French steamer, even although I had been called upon to
face another storm like that off Cape Bon!
At three o’clock we weighed anchor, and started with a fresh breeze
in our favour. There was comparatively little sea, but the vessel
pitched horribly, and with the “usual consequences,” so far as
my fellow-passengers in the fore-cabin were concerned. Whilst I was
down below arranging my luggage, I heard a terrific noise on deck,
accompanied by yells of “Allah! Allah!” I thought that at least
a Mussulman mutiny had broken out, and rushed up the companion way
to see what was the matter. It was only a couple of Arabs settling
accounts with the Mediterranean, and piously invoking Allah in concert
between the throes of sickness! Dinner was served at half-past four,
and as the sole first-class passenger I had for my companions at
table only the ship’s officers. The meal was rather better than
I had expected, though oil and garlic were as usual too plentiful
in all the dishes. Wrapped in a warm camel’s-hair burnous, I lay
on the deck enjoying the fresh breeze and the brilliant starlight,
and smoking innumerable cigarettes, until at last I dropped off to
sleep. Fortunately for my comfort, my suffering fellow-passengers had
all gone below, so that I was free from the gruesome sights and sounds
that had abounded so long as they had remained on deck. I awoke,
shivering, at midnight. The old boat was still tumbling along like
a porpoise over the bright waters. I went below, but found that the
vile little hole allotted to me as a state-room smelt so horribly
that it was absolutely impossible to sleep in it, so I lay down in
the saloon, and was soon lulled into the profoundest slumber by the
thumping of the screw.