TUNIS
Through darkness broken by hardly a gleam of light, and silence stirred
by no sound but the throbbing of an overworked engine, in much weariness
and at night, Tunis is reached at last with a suddenness which almost
startles the traveller. The hours that passed so quickly in the morning,
grow in length with the day, and after sundown every minute counts, and
the hours in the dimly lighted carriages seem interminable; for travel
in this part of North Africa is tedious and uncomfortable to a degree
only known in Spain and perhaps sometimes in Italy.
Consequently the first impression of Tunis as one enters it by train is
neither artistic nor Oriental, but rather a mingling of bustle and glare
with much noise, followed by a rattling drive over paved streets, and
the comforting assurance of rest. The arrival by sea has much the same
disadvantages, for the steamer has a way of getting in after nightfall,
so that the new-comer drives from the quay, along brightly lighted
streets, side by side with an electric tram. This may be a blessing in
disguise, as the darkness hides the sordid details, and makes it
possible, with some luck in the choice of a room, to find that a glance
out of window next morning reveals the old Moorish city in the first
blush of the morning light.
Tunis is still the “white city”—still also, in more senses than one, the
“odoriferous bride” of the Arab writers. The other name of El Hadhera,
the green, hardly seems so suitable from this point, for at an early
hour the whiteness is more noticeable. The sunlight falls on the houses
at an angle that suggests pre-arrangement, a scheme without a shadow.
This gives a look of unreality, a curious lack of substance. If the
actual lines were finer the effect would be that of a fairy city built
of pure light, but as it is now, a later moment is more beautiful, when
the shadows creep across the white walls and give value to the graceful
forms of the minarets.
All this pearly whiteness is full of colour, though in the ordinary
sense of the word there is little or none. What there is, however, is
green, as becomes a Moslem stronghold. Far below, as it seems looking
down from the roof, lies a garden full of orange trees and one feathery
palm. This hardly comes into the picture, but a few other trees do, and
one or two lonely palms, and the colour of the foliage is repeated in
the wondrous green of some of the domes. The minarets and two or three
of the mosques have pointed roofs of green tiles, and green also
predominates in the tiles used for decoration; so that even in the heart
of the city there is more than a mere suggestion of green.
[Illustration: TUNIS]
The walls and roofs rise terrace-like one above the other to the Casbah,
which, as usual, is built on the highest point—blank walls mostly, with
few windows (often mere holes), though occasionally a balcony with a
tiled roof, shading a carved window-frame inlaid with bright tiles,
gives a hint of taste or wealth. All these straight lines and plain
surfaces are redeemed from monotony by the curves of domes and the
height and variety of form shown in the minarets. The small fluted domes
of the great mosque are dazzlingly white; the minaret is square, with
delicate Moorish tracery in a yellowish stone; the upper story of marble
is set with coloured tiles, and with an open gallery of horseshoe
arches.
The minarets of Sidi Ben Ziad and Sidi Ben Arous are slender, octagonal
towers of the same warm-hued stone, surmounted by turrets with jutting
balconies quaintly roofed with green tiles, from which the muezzin sings
the call to prayer. Much older, but not so imposing, is the square
minaret of the mosque of the Casbah, said to date from A.D. 1232. Such
is Tunis, a compact mass of white buildings, with no open spaces and no
streets visible.
So old, and yet with such a continuous history, that although founded
before either Utica or Carthage, it is still known by its original name.
This name of Tunis is in Punic characters Tanaïs, and is identical with
the name of the Persian Venus. Probably the city was called after her,
as other towns in Tunisia bore the names of deities. In those days
Astarte, or Ashtaroth, combined the attributes and duties of Venus,
Minerva, Juno, and Ceres, and was not only the goddess of beauty, the
mother of love and queen of joy, but also the protectress of chastity,
of war and of arms, and the patroness of corn and of husbandry. Such a
divinity might well be invoked to take charge of a city, and in this
case she evidently succeeded.
The city shared in the prosperity and also the evil days of Carthage and
Utica, and, as a Roman province, endured all the changes in the life of
Rome down to the fall of the Empire in Rome and Constantinople.
When the Vandals were cast out of Europe in A.D. 430, they devastated
the north coast of Africa till they in their turn were driven by the
Greeks beyond the mountains of the Atlas. Next, the Arab invaders swept
over the land like a torrent, and in A.D. 644-648 took possession of
Tunisia, which was thenceforward governed by Emirs appointed by the
Khalifs.
The later history of Tunis, like that of Algiers, tells of a period of
calm and culture, followed, after the expulsion of the Moors from Spain
under the Christian kings, by a long chronicle of fighting and piracy;
for thus these fugitive Moors vented their rage and avenged their wrongs
on all seafaring people, merely because they were Christians. Slavery
was carried on to the same terrible extent, for in 1535 no fewer than
20,000 Christian slaves escaped from the Casbah to open the city gates
to Charles V.
Amongst other noted captives St. Vincent de Paul spent two years here in
slavery, and in consequence devoted his after life to helping prisoners
and galley slaves. An old house still exists with a fine courtyard,
called even now the house of the Christian, which is said to have been
built by a slave, who was killed by his owner as soon as the work was
complete. The mosque of Sidi Mahrez, with its many domes, is supposed to
have been the design of a French architect captured by the Corsairs.
A great part of the old walls and many of the gates still remain, and
though modern buildings are closing round and gradually replacing the
Moorish dwellings in the outlying quarters of Bab Djazira and Bab
Souika, yet, within the magic circle, Oriental style, manners, and
customs hold their own.
This is one of the many ways in which the French have gained experience
in Algeria and profited by it in Tunisia. The old cities are left
intact, instead of being destroyed to make way for new boulevards, and
the French quarter, its public buildings, theatre, shops and
restaurants, grow up outside the walls. The two races dwell apart, but
both flourish together. Street names, lighting, and cleaning have been
introduced, and the old town itself is incredibly clean for an Eastern
city—cleaner by far than many cities of France and Italy. Though trams
encircle the city and run through the suburbs, all proposals to
disfigure the central quarter, the Medina, have met with a stern
refusal. To walk through its gates is to step into another world—a world
as full of surprises and romance as it is of variety.
The old water-gate, the Porte de France, a simple horse-shoe arch, opens
into a great hive. There, in a little open space, a swarming crowd, busy
and noisy as bees, pushes towards the narrow streets which mount to the
bazaars. At first East and West mingle. Then, step by step, the
half-French, half-Levantine element gives place to the real East. “_Bara
Balek_” (“Take care”) is the continual cry; and one must be watchful, or
pay the penalty. It is true that wheeled traffic almost ceases, for the
few carts generally only succeed in blocking the way, and must take
hours to reach their destination. But strings of tiny donkeys, hardly
larger than dogs, do all the work, helped occasionally by camels, which
shove through the throng regardless of consequences. Then there are the
porters. At first it is startling to see wardrobes, beds, or huge cases
walking apparently on their own feet; but after a time the oddest loads
are taken as a matter of course, a part of the universal strangeness of
things. Yet it is wonderful to see these men in their characteristic
dress, with bare arms and legs, and scarlet kerchief by way of turban,
coolly walk off with a heavy weight that would take two men to lift at
home. If it is so easy to bear a burden on the back by means of a rope
passed round the forehead, why has not this simple method been adopted
in the West? Thus, slowly, and in stately fashion, with all due regard
for each other’s dignity, the crowd presses onwards to the heart of the
city, the great Souks.
[Illustration: SOUK DES ÉTOFFES, TUNIS]
There are no such Souks in all the near East. In Constantinople the men
have discarded their turbans and flowing robes, and the vaulted halls
though fine in form are cold and poor in colour. The bazaars of Cairo
are quaintly informal, but lack architectural style, though the people
are picturesque enough. In Damascus the buildings are modern, and look
outside like railway stations with arched roofs, though within is seen
the true and perfect life of the East, so unspoiled that the passing
stranger feels his European clothes a positive eyesore, and knows that
it is barely possible that the picture will be marred for him by any
other intruder. Here the long vaulted halls, lighted only by rays of
sunshine falling through square holes in the roof, are as fine as in
Constantinople, and, in addition, are full of life and colour. The crowd
is even more picturesque than in Damascus,—though here, alas! it is
twice as difficult to dodge European figures,—whilst Cairo itself cannot
show more quaint corners.
Each of the trades has its own Souk, and each Souk its peculiar
character. Some only contain goods for sale, but most of them are
workshops as well—a far more interesting arrangement. Bewildering, yet
enchanting—a pageant of pure colour, where dusky twilight holds its
restful sway, harmonising the tints, veiling the forms, filling the dark
recesses with mystery.
Hour after hour, day after day, may be spent threading the mazes,
watching and trying to decipher the open book that seems so full of
ideas, some half-remembered, others wholly new, but all subtle and
elusive, so different to our usual life. Bible stories mix themselves
hopelessly with the _Arabian Nights_, and the whirl of thought is as
rapid as the change of colour.
The first day it seems impossible to think of finding one’s way alone
through this intricate network, but gradually the main lines become
clear, and then it is easy enough to wander in and out at will, with the
certainty that confusion, or even total loss of bearings, means nothing
worse than another turn or two, and then the sight of some well-known
landmark.
Such a landmark is the Souk des Etoffes, very formal, absolutely
straight, but decidedly the most distinguished of all. A low archway of
horse-shoe form opens into a hall with three aisles, of which the centre
forms the actual street, and the two others the side walks. Short and
sturdy pillars, roughly but effectively painted in pure scarlet and
green, support the arched roof. Rows of square cells on either side,
dark yet glowing with colour, are packed with piles of silk and
embroideries of every tone and texture, overflowing the narrow space
within. They are hung on the walls and from the pillars in well-arranged
disorder. Persian and Kairouan carpets deck the walls with rich, soft
hues, old brass lamps from the mosques, of fine damascene work, stand
side by side with inlaid furniture, odd-shaped mother-of-pearl caskets,
weapons, and other treasures, all placed by a master hand so as to tempt
customers to the utmost. In each tiny shop the owner sits dreaming over
a cigarette, or entertains a friend or possible purchaser with coffee.
In one corner, bright with coloured tiles, a man whose whole equipment
appears to consist of a charcoal stove, a pan of water, a wee
coffee-pot, and some microscopic cups, does a thriving trade, and trots
up and down the Souk continually to supply this pressing need; for
without coffee nothing could be settled, nor any business done.
Watchful touts with keen eyes lie in wait for the unwary, whom they
inveigle into the shops, whilst in a high-handed fashion they order
about the real owner, who meekly obeys their orders. They pretend to
bargain, but really raise the prices, which are preposterous even for
the East, and of course pocket a large percentage themselves. However,
they are very quick, and never forget a face, so that it is only the
casual visitor who suffers. After a day or two one is free of the
bazaar, and begins to have many kindly acquaintances. Bargaining is the
game of the place, and a most amusing game it is to play. It demands
infinite patience, much diplomacy, some instinct for fun, and, above
all, either a real or a well-feigned indifference. The shopkeeper,
impassive and smiling, has no hesitation in announcing that he will be
ruined and his throat cut if he sells at such low prices. He is sure
that anyone so exceedingly tall must be also extremely rich, or he tells
you that your face speaks of riches. This was said to a very thin woman.
But if the would-be customer answers in the same strain, the prices will
descend by leaps and bounds, and on the conclusion of the bargain the
ruined man implores his victims to come again to-morrow: “For, see, I
have given it to you because I like you; you are my friend.” In
out-of-the-way shops a few words of Arabic are a great help, as the
owner often says, “_Makansch Francees_,” which means, “No French here.”
The language is a dialect, and few of the familiar Egyptian phrases are
of any use. Even to be able to count in Arabic is something, as the
officious person who usually appears to translate invariably doubles the
price. But though the Arabs often talk excellent French it is a terrible
drawback neither to understand nor to talk Arabic easily.
The Arabs declare that under the old régime business in the Souks was
better regulated, and every trade had its own Sheikh, who ruled it with
a rod of iron. He fixed the prices, and woe to the man who charged less
or more, for when convicted the rod descended, and he was beaten then
and there. The value of fruit, meat, and vegetables, etc., was announced
by a crier at night, and next day each shop was bound to obey the order.
This sounds somewhat tyrannical, but they liked it.
[Illustration: SOUK EL ATTARIN, TUNIS]
The Souk el Attarin, or scent bazaar, is the aristocratic quarter, and
the owners of these square cupboards, with huge painted shutters, are,
it is said, nobles, the descendants of the Corsair chiefs, and often
very rich; but, as good Moslems, they do not care to meet in each
other’s houses, for that would upset their harems. Clubs do not exist,
but in the bazaars all the news is to be heard and social life is to be
found. So they spend their days sitting calm and imperturbable each in
his niche, to which they mount with the assistance of a cord suspended
from the ceiling. Enormous candles, gilded and fantastically coloured,
hang like a curtain round them. In the mysterious recesses are jars and
bottles, containing the priceless attar of roses, essence of jasmine,
geranium, or amber, and countless other sweet scents. The whole bazaar
is full of perfume, making it a pleasant place to tarry in. On the
ground are baskets and sacks filled with dried leaves, or piled with
green powder, both preparations of henna. Outside each shop stands a
chair or two, on which grave elders rest and talk. Younger men stroll
about, true types of Moors, their handsome, smooth faces equally calm.
They are great dandies, and wear robes of soft cloth and silk of most
delicate tints. On festivals they place a flower coquettishly between
their turbans and their ears, which gives a curious touch of the
feminine to their appearance. Some also carry a rose or carnation in
their hands “to live up to” in true æsthetic style.
No one bothers about business: they are too dignified for that. Only
once did anyone ask us to buy, and when we said “another day,” we were
adopted as friends, to be greeted placidly and talked to occasionally,
and we found ourselves remembered and on the same footing another year.
The Souk el Blagdia, or the shoe bazaar, is quite different. The street
is narrow, there are no gay pillars, the roof is of wood, the shops are
a trifle larger, and hold one or two men who are ceaselessly at work.
They make the soft yellow and red slippers which the Arabs wear, and
keep on so easily, though they are such a failure when Europeans try
them. Here life is earnest enough, and so it is in the bazaar of the
tailors, where the shops are larger, and divided one from another by the
usual green and red columns. In each shop eight or ten men and boys,
many of them Jews, in the distinctive dark blue turban, squat on the
floor, sewing busily. They stitch, embroider, and decorate most
elaborate outfits, cloaks of every colour in and out of the rainbow, and
of the most perfect shades. You can see them at work upon gandourahs of
deep red silk, embroidered in green, and tiny jackets for boys, of pale
yellow, orange, and red, whilst the finished garments hang as draperies
behind their heads, and the sun peeps through the rough splintered
boards of the roof and sends shafts of light that flicker and change as
they touch the moving crowds. The jewellers dwell in a narrow passage,
and hardly display their goods at all; some silver jewels, mostly hands
of Fathma, and a pair of scales, being perhaps all that is shown, but a
big safe gives promise of hidden treasures. Near by is the old
slave-market, a picturesque hall, dark and lonely, with the usual gay
pillars and but few quiet shops.
The Souk des Femmes, like many others, is a white tunnel lined with
shops. It is very crowded in the early morning, and is almost the only
place where many women are seen together. Some sit on the ground and
sell their own handiwork, others are busy bargaining for veils and
embroideries. All are of the poorer class and heavily veiled, if two
strips of black crépon covering the face like a mould, with half an inch
gap between them for the eyes, can be called a veil. It is quite
hideous, and, as the rest of the dress is white, makes them look like
negresses.
[Illustration: SOUK EL TROUK, TUNIS]
One bazaar is full of terrible compounds of dates and figs, dried fruit
and grain. Another small street is given up to the sieve-makers, who
weave their webs at looms which look like strange musical instruments.
In many places baskets and mats are made. Silk weaving and the making of
belts and scarves are other flourishing industries, and to stand and
watch the long, slim fingers moving quickly at the old-world looms is a
sight that one never tires of watching. Hands and feet come into play
together at the turners and the cabinet-makers in a long street of many
arches. Deft fingers and delicate handling are seen also at the
copper-workers. In fact, at every turn there is something strange or
beautiful, and at the least entirely different to anything we do, or see
at home. The harness-makers rival the tailors in the brilliance of their
goods. Gorgeous saddles there are, with red and gold and silver
decorations, marvellous saddle-bags also, gay with stripes and tassels.
They sell huge hats, at least a yard in diameter, with narrow crowns a
foot high, ornamented with quaintly-cut leather and bright balls of
wool. They make cushions and odd-shaped pouches and money-bags, and
leather amulets to carry the charms without which no one can live, and
round mirrors for the women. Their bazaar is also noted for the tomb of
a Marabout, a gaudily painted sarcophagus which almost blocks up the
narrow gangway.
After this the Souk where the lawyers sit waiting for business, and now
and then writing a few letters which earnest men dictate to them, seems
tame, and the libraries are quiet too; but another turn lands you
amongst truly magnificent boxes painted and inlaid.
So the show goes on, at once grave and gay, from year’s end to year’s
end, always the same, as it has always been, and so may it long
continue.
All the more important Souks have thick roofs, and consequently keep
cool in the hottest weather, so that even when the thermometer stands at
100° in the shade, the bazaars seem quite fresh, almost chilly at first,
as one steps into the dark out of the sunshine.
Some of the small bazaars, however, in the poorer quarters are only
protected by shutters, blinds, awnings, rags, or anything that will keep
the sun away. How strange this sounds to us! Such a street is the Souk
el Belat, a name which is said to mean “a paved street”—hardly a
distinctive title in a town where all the streets are paved. The shops
are queer little places, some full of strange, unknown commodities, and
others full of food of various sorts, which the owners have to protect
by flicking it with fans or whisks, as the flies are so troublesome. The
beauty of this street lies in its windows, which are screened with
ornamental wrought ironwork.
[Illustration: SOUK EL BELAT, TUNIS]
Another constant amusement is to watch the informal sales by auction.
Men walk up and down laden with various goods and chattels,
embroideries, or lengths of silk, shouting a price as they move along.
The bystanders occasionally make a bid, or nod, and in time a bargain is
made. Furniture and carpets are sold in an open space at the end of the
Souk of the tailors, just under the windows of the Bey’s Palace. The
auctioneer usually sits on the object, if it is big enough, and the
bidding goes on in leisurely fashion, but with a deafening noise, for
hours together. It is a grand place for seeing life, for crowds always
collect, especially on the days when the Bey comes to Tunis, and they
stand and watch him as he sits in a gilt chair near a window, resting
after his morning’s work. He has a decided advantage over his subjects,
as they cannot see him properly, whereas he has a series of
peeping-holes in all his principal rooms, and can see and hear all that
goes on in the Souk, without any one guessing at his presence.
A gem of a mosque, that of Sidi Ben Ziad, stands in this street,
catching the sunlight on the characteristic black and white marble
façade, on the splendid green tiles of the roof, and on the most
beautiful minaret in Tunis. When the call to prayer is heard at mid-day
echoing from the gallery, the listening crowd of Arabs set their watches
and disappear, some to prayers, others to dinner, and the noise and
bustle is succeeded by the silent emptiness of a buried city.
In all Tunisia, except at Kairouan, it is a forbidden pleasure to visit
the interior of the mosques. Even furtive peeps are guarded against, by
large green screens in all the open doorways. This is especially
disappointing at the great feasts, though the scene in the bazaars ought
to be compensation enough.
On the 26th of May, the birthday of the Prophet, the Bey goes in state
to the great Mosque, a pilgrimage that he only makes twice in the year.
It is situated in the heart of the Souks: doors open into the court from
every side—one with a flight of steps, a terrace and colonnade; another,
in the Rue des Libraires, with a beautiful porch and green-tiled roof;
the rest with no architectural interest. It is called Djama el Zitouna,
the Mosque of the Olives, and many of its pillars are spoils from
Carthage.
In honour of the occasion, or of the Bey, the Souks are decked with
carpets and wonderful embroideries; every space on the walls is covered
till the whole is aglow with colour. The way to the mosque is packed
with the Faithful in gala dress—men and boys alike in exquisite tints;
for the Tunisians have an innate sense of colour, and blend and combine
hues that would be unthinkable elsewhere, although the result in their
hands is charming. The Arabs say that it is the sunshine that makes the
harmony, and that that is the reason why imitations of Moorish
decoration look so garish under our cold grey skies. On such a day the
flowers behind the ear add a touch of perfection to the radiance on
every face. Each shop in the street of the tailors looks like a
collector’s cabinet of idols, for the master sits cross-legged in the
centre, motionless as an image of Buddha, with his men round him. When
the Bey has passed, the shops are closed and the festivities commence.
As night falls the illuminations begin. All the minarets are outlined in
light, and the square in front of the Palace is a fairyland of
cherry-coloured Chinese lanterns. It is almost impossible to move, and
the gendarmes are already closing the entrances to the Souks, but way is
promptly made for such important people as ourselves, and we walk down
the familiar street with our proud guide and find it all new and
strange.
The details are extraordinary, a true picture of the East, where horrors
in the shape of European novelties are set side by side with treasures
of Oriental art. Here no sort of contrivance for giving light has been
despised. Queer old lanterns and sconces alternate with common lamps,
flambeaux, old lustres, and glittering glass chandeliers. It is all
incongruous—absolutely wrong from a properly artistic point of view, but
that does not matter in the least. Light and an air of festivity are
what is wanted, and, let purists say what they will, the effect, though
amusing, is as delightful as it is unusual, making the colour of the gay
crowd if possible more entrancing than in the morning. From the
dignified shelter of one of the biggest shops we sit and watch the
moving throng, and prepare to receive the Bey. Presently the procession
appears, and adds a last touch of incongruity by its want of order.
Soldiers and guards in a travesty of European uniforms lead the way.
Some look like old watchmen, as they stoop and carry lanterns dating
from the days of Dogberry. The Bey is also in uniform, with stars and
orders, and jewels in his fez, and is followed by his chief officers.
Even for this occasion they abjure native dress, and so the very least
of all his subjects appears with more dignity than himself. The great
man approaches smiling, salutes the owner of our shop, condescends to
enter, drink a cup of coffee, and talk a little, then passes through the
rooms, and every one rises and bows, whilst he with many salutes goes
his way to the mosque. He never fails to pay a yearly visit of ceremony
to this old dealer, or to traverse all the main bazaars, and he
sometimes calls on one or two other merchants. After the service is
over, fireworks wind up the proceedings. Thus do the Tunisians celebrate
the birthday of Mohammed, whom they believe to have been so unlike and
so superior to other men; because, as the legend says, all children are
born with a black spot in their hearts, and when God chose His prophet,
an angel opened his heart and took the natural stain out of it, so that
he alone of all mankind had no taint of original sin.
[Illustration: TUNIS FROM THE BELVEDERE]