LIFE IN TUNIS
Even in the quiet and silent streets of Tunis, where every footstep
echoes between the high white walls, the hum of the distant hive can
still be heard. The streets even of the rich quarter are never straight,
but meander in and out, and are withal so narrow as to fit to a nicety
the lumbering old carriages that convey their stately owners about the
city. No two vehicles can ever attempt to pass each other, but have to
manœuvre down side alleys. Now and then the red blinds are tightly
closed, which means that the ladies of some harem are taking an airing.
But this is rare, for the poor things have a very monotonous life in
Tunis, are never allowed to walk, do not seem, as at Algiers, to picnic
in the cemeteries, and seldom even drive.
Poor women are little seen in the streets, and those of their rich
sisters who have no pretensions to rank are only permitted to walk about
occasionally, and then do so under the surveillance of servants, and
with such heavy silk veils that they must be almost smothered. These
so-called veils are of black silk, with decorative borders and fringed
ends of many colours. The width is considerable, and the length
sufficient to cover the head and fall nearly to the ground on either
side. Exactly in the centre a small square of thinner material is let
in, but the wearer, in order to breathe and see the ground at her feet,
lifts the lower border a few inches with both hands, and then toddles
along in her high-heeled slippers. Over the black veil comes the white
haïck completely covering the whole figure.
[Illustration: A STREET OF ARCHES, TUNIS]
These veiled women, the closed carriages, the elaborate wooden or
wrought-iron screens that mask the windows, and the air of reserve about
the houses, all hint at a strange life within. The very doors open in
such a way as to reveal nothing of the inner court, and the gay flowers
in the windows alone show visible signs of a woman’s care. The closed
doors are the symbol of secrecy as impenetrable as the women’s veils.
When, as occasionally happens, some story of the life of the harem is
allowed to leak out, the tale is always of terror, cruelty, and
persecution. Not that a visit to a harem is at all tragic—quite the
reverse; for though it is no new thing to be amused, it is rather
unusual to find oneself so amusing, to see that no detail escapes
criticism, to hear endless comments, and understand nothing but the
smiles, the gestures, and the stroking of soft fingers. It is all
guesswork from the moment that the beautiful being, who acts as Cavass
to the Consulate, hands over his charges to a smiling woman, with a
great horn on her head, covered by a haïck, the dress of a Jewess, who
is to act as escort. With becks and nods and many smiles, for she knew
only two words of French, she dived down street after street and along
narrow passages, which we could never find again, till at last she stood
at a door and knocked. Almost noiselessly it opened, and we found
ourselves exchanging solemn greetings with our host, who sat on a divan
in the entrance. Having welcomed us, he allowed our guide to lead us
into the covered court filled with a gay throng. Such a hubbub! Music
and singing and long drawn-out trilling cries of joy, for this was a
party after a wedding. A group of women with musical instruments sat on
a mattress in one corner, and sang and played at intervals, while the
rest of the company formed a circle on chairs and divans. As soon as we
entered every one crowded round us, and we were stroked and patted,
given coffee and chairs, before the serious business of examining all
our possessions began. Our first breach of etiquette was that we forgot
to unveil. Our hostesses frowned and pointed till the objectionable bit
of net was removed. Hats were of no consequence, as head-dresses were
worn, handsome kerchiefs of all colours with fringes, and many jewels on
the forehead. The dress consisted of sleeveless embroidered coats over
lace jackets or ordinary low bodices, full trousers of rich brocades and
satins, or, in the case of visitors, of white cotton with stripes of
insertion and ribbon down the front, white stockings and smart shoes.
Beneath all this finery their necks and arms were covered by ugly
striped vests, so, decidedly, the inherent good taste of their lords is
not shared by the ladies of the harem. They were all short and generally
stout, handsome in a rather heavy way, with thick, painted eyebrows,
darkened eyelashes, and henna-stained hands. They peered into our faces
to try and discover paint and powder, took off our gloves to see our
hands, admired some real old lace, and, having got over their first
fear, fell absolutely in love with a fur stole with little tails and
claws. Our simple gold chains and watches and our lack of other
ornaments evidently surprised them, as they were adorned with golden
cables and plaques of gold and brilliant blue enamel. It was most
embarrassing to talk by signs, and our few words of Arabic were soon
exhausted. All their treasures were displayed: the mother-of-pearl
coffers, the great divans, the French bedsteads hidden in alcoves. On
one divan, two pretty imps of children were lying with their faces
buried in the cushions. The women explained that they were in terror at
our great height; they had never seen such monsters. By force of
contrast our slender, dark figures may have appeared gigantic, but what
would they have thought of some of our six-foot friends? Before we left
we had the pleasure of watching some of them dress to go away. Some
changed their socks into commoner ones for the street, then the black
veils went on, and after that, with deft grace and subtle twist, the
haïcks were arranged. Then they were ready to face anyone, even their
host in exile at his own front door.
There was nothing remarkable about the house, but the interior of many
of the old buildings is very fine. The rooms, opening out of the usual
courts, have carved ceilings and delicate stucco work, after the fashion
of the Alhambra. The effect is generally spoilt by European hangings,
carpets and furniture of the worst period of the nineteenth century.
The Bey has some beautiful rooms in his town palace of Dar el Bey, where
fine old work is, with the same want of knowledge, marred by the
addition of gilt clocks, glass chandeliers, and poor carpets, so that it
is a relief to escape to the roof and look out over the city, and try to
trace the whereabouts of streets and bazaars hidden in the mass of
white.
The Bardo, or show palace, in the country suffers even more from the
same want of artistic feeling. Built mostly of marble, an imposing
staircase, flanked by lions couchant, four on each side, leads to an
open loggia and a fine court with horse-shoe arches, slender columns,
and the usual fountain. Other halls and courts, beautiful in Moorish
style, have the exquisite lace-like stucco that is almost a lost art
nowadays, and wonderful ceilings; but each hall contains gilt chairs,
the inevitable clocks, glass chandeliers, terrible portraits, even cheap
lace curtains and Brussels carpets with glaring patterns, for which
there is no possible excuse, as the bazaars are full of splendid native
carpets and hangings of harmonious colourings and suitable designs.
However, the guardians are prouder of the enormities in the way of
portraits than they are of the place itself.
In the rich quarter the only other buildings of note are the many white
domes of the Marabouts, or tombs of the Saints, and the yet more
attractive green domes that cover the burying-places of the Beys. These
can only be admired from the outside, as they share the sacred character
of the mosques. Green tiles also appear as roofs for fountains, and are
sometimes supported by antique columns. Numbers of these columns may be
found all over the city embedded in the walls and covered with
whitewash.
The Hara, the old Jewish quarter, no longer holds the enormous
population. The old rules are things of the past, the gates are no
longer closed at night, so the overflow fills the surrounding streets
and gives its own indescribable touch to the whole district. The old men
still wear the dark turbans and blue or grey clothes, but the younger
imitate the Moors if poor, and if rich the Europeans. Driving is now a
favourite amusement, possibly because formerly those who possessed
donkeys might only ride them outside the city walls, and horses were
entirely forbidden.
Now every peculiarity of Eastern life seems intensified if not doubled.
Twice as many people as in the Arab quarter crowd into still narrower
streets. Noise and confusion never ceases. There are certainly fewer
shops, but the dirt is more than double, and as for the smells, the
variety is greater and twice as strong. Even the name of the main
street, Souk el Hout, or “Fried Fish Street,” suggests this.
[Illustration: THE ZAOUÏA OF THE RUE TOURBET EL BEY, TUNIS]
Women and children abound, so do beautiful faces. This is difficult to
realise, till the first shock caused by seeing so many unwieldy forms
has been got over. All the married women, however young, are moving
mountains of fat. It is considered their greatest adornment, and they
are systematically fed on sweets and fattening foods all day long till
the requisite result is attained. No one ever seems to fail in the
effort!
Before the process begins the girls are lovely and graceful, and their
method of winding a wide piece of striped material round them by way of
a petticoat shows their slender frames to great advantage, whilst the
gay kerchief on their heads contrasts brilliantly with their dark hair
and eyes.
The married women wear a quaint head-dress consisting of a gold
embroidered horn, kept in its place by twisted scarves of black and gold
silk. Out of doors the haïck is draped over it—a fashion said to be a
legacy of Crusading times. The rest of the costume is hideous, and
appears to be designed to accentuate the stoutness as much as possible.
A short and loose coat is worn over white trousers that are also short
but tight; and though the coat of silk in vivid colours is worn over a
lace shirt with full sleeves to the elbow, that does not help matters
much. Out of doors the all-enveloping haïck is useful as a cloak, but
indoors, in one of the big courtyards where countless families live and
work together, these prodigious figures can neither be overlooked nor
ignored.
Going from quarter to quarter sketching is like moving into a different
country. Amongst the Arabs and the Moors, whether rich or poor, the same
courtesy is always to be found. Although an Arab thinks it wrong to draw
any living thing, and believes that an artist in reproducing a man’s
image gains power over his soul, yet he will gravely permit his shop to
be used, and quietly prevent anyone getting in the way. Some Mohammedans
carry this curious belief still further, and imagine that in the next
world a painter will be surrounded not only by the souls he has thus
appropriated, but also by those he has created through the power of
imagination; but in any case, and whatever their creed (though here and
there a saint may frown), the men of Tunis are always considerate and
kindly. As for the boys, they are a marvel—almost too good. The magic
word “_Balek_,” or a wave of the brush, keeps them at a reasonable
distance, and there they will stand quietly watching for hours. The
regular street-urchin with his short striped coat and hood, his ready
basket, and his cry “_Portez, Portez_,” is just as virtuous as the
dainty little gentleman in silks and fine linen.
Only once did a difficulty occur, and that was in the Place Halfaouine,
where the story-tellers draw such crowds. As we walked down the very
untidy picturesque Souk (it is a poor district), an unearthly yell was
heard, as a huge gaunt man leaped up from a divan. His hair was matted,
and he was so filthy that lumps of dirt stood up on his bare legs, so
there could be no doubt that he was a saint. A small sketch-book or a
kodak excited his ire, and he dogged our footsteps, circling round us
like a bird of prey. When we stopped he sat down uttering strange shouts
or yells from time to time. If we looked at anything or moved the camera
the yells became more fierce and insistent. As he was obviously crazy
and an extremely powerful man, it would have been out of the question to
upset his holiness any further. So, as no story-telling was going on, we
turned back. He followed us up the bazaar, under a running fire of
half-jeering remarks from all the shops, which troubled him not at all.
His duty was done: he had succeeded in getting rid of another painter,
and when he reached his own divan he cast himself down with a final howl
of relief, and we were free once more.
[Illustration: SOUK EL HOUT, TUNIS]
One statement often made in the Arab quarter comes with rather a shock
to insular prejudice. Sometimes an Arab, but more often a Maltese,
Indian, or Levantine, in full national costume, says, “You Ingleez? I
Ingleez same as you,” and promptly relapses into French, as those are
the only words he knows of the language which he claims as his own. It
is usually quite true, nevertheless, because even now they gain security
and protection by naturalisation, and formerly it was their only
safeguard.
In the Jewish quarter sketching is by no means so easy as amongst the
Mohammedans. Not from any want of civility or friendliness, but from
over-interest and want of comprehension. Strangers are uncommon and
therefore exciting, a crowd soon gathers, and becomes so dense that the
victims are almost smothered. One day a big smiling fellow came to the
rescue and proceeded to keep order in his own way: first with a stick,
and, when that failed, with splashes of water from a copper pot, which
he replenished continually. Naturally there was a tremendous outcry; the
crowd beat a hasty retreat, only to re-form immediately. It took two men
all their time, with much assistance from gendarmes, to enable us to get
that sketch finished, whereas in the Souks one small boy was ample
protection. Another quarter is called “Little Malta,” and the curious
arrangement in black silk that the women wear, half-hood, half-veil, is
a picturesque addition to the many national costumes seen in Tunis.
The Italians have also their own quarter, which might be a fragment torn
from Naples or Palermo, so identical are the manners and mode of life.
Even the macaroni hanging out to dry is not forgotten. They greatly
outnumber the French, and have been a source of considerable trouble, as
Tunis was the refuge of fugitive criminals from Italy and, indeed, all
parts of the Mediterranean. Although their advent is now forbidden by
law, and murderers are calmly returned to their own countries, yet there
are still enough desperate characters left to make things difficult for
the authorities, who would like to keep up a pose of virtue on behalf of
all Europeans. In sober truth, however, most of the frays and robberies
are the work of the mixed low-class population.
[Illustration: RUE TOURBET EL BEY, TUNIS]
In Mohammedan Tunis, outside the Medina, perhaps the most typical
quarter is that of Bab Souika, of which the Place Halfaouine, already
mentioned, is the centre. Full of cafés, it is the scene of wild
excitement during the month of Rhamadan, the great fast of the
Mohammedans, kept, it is said, because Adam wept for thirty days when he
was driven out of Paradise, before he obtained God’s favour and pardon.
The fast is so strict that from sunrise to sunset no food whatever is
taken, not so much as a cup of coffee, or even a drop of water on the
hottest day, and smoking is also forbidden. Then when the sunset gun is
fired, feasting and revelry begin, and are kept up all night. A certain
gaiety and good humour is visible at all times. There are as many cafés
as in the main street in Damascus, and in the afternoon they are always
full of men smoking, and playing games. A young story-teller with the
face of a monk holds his audience entranced by his dramatic talent. He
not only tells his tales, but lives them. He has an endless flow of
words, and never pauses except for effect. The listeners form a circle
round him, either standing or sitting on the ground, wholly absorbed in
the story. Snake charmers are his only rivals in the afternoon, but at
night dancing goes on in some of the cafés.
Silk weaving and pottery are the industries of the district: one long
bazaar is given up to weavers, and a row of queer, square shops to the
sale of pottery. Porous water-jars, beautiful in form—some plain, others
roughly decorated in dark lines, both wonderful for cooling water by
evaporation—cost only a few sous. Green pottery for ordinary household
use of a more durable kind, designed with a most unusual quaintness, is
also to be had.
Another open space, devoted to snake charmers and a sort of rag fair, is
to be found near Bab Djedid, the finest of the old gates. Old rubbish of
all sorts—brass and iron, rugs, rags, glass and pottery, mostly
broken—is spread out on the ground, and behind each little heap sits its
watchful owner. A few women, usually Bedawin or negresses, bring food
and grain, which they pile up on cloths, laid in the dust. Hither come
all the strangers—men from the country and the desert, and here again
the triumph of Tunis over all the cities of North Africa in the matter
of clothing, of all varieties of shape and colour, is made manifest.
Here is no dull uniformity, no monotony, as in other places. The
well-known white folds of the burnous may be admired once more, but
raiment of camel’s-hair, in tones of warm brown, quite alters the scheme
of colour. It is fashioned into a gandourah—a long, hooded coat or shirt
reaching to the knees. Sometimes, however, the gandourah is hoodless, of
a very dark brown tint and braided with white. Again, it is often
striped in natural colours, or with threads of red and blue, but
occasionally plain dark-blue is seen. Very often the wearers of brown
burnouses might be taken for Franciscans, but when blankets with stripes
and fringes are in question, no one but an Arab could arrange them with
such unconscious art.
[Illustration: RAG FAIR]
Long draperies and floating folds may outshine the Turkish dress of
embroidered coat and vest, gay girdle, and full, short trousers,
supplemented by a cloak, but it is equally popular. The same costume,
without the coat, in white or drab, is worn by pedlars and
fruit-sellers. Their legs are bare and their feet slippered; socks and
shoes are pure luxury. These fruit-sellers are a joy. They own tiny
donkeys, and lade them with huge open panniers of sacking, or queer
double twin-baskets, lined with green, and filled with oranges in
winter, and by the end of April with apricots or almonds. Fruit is both
plentiful, cheap, and varied. The province was once the Roman granary,
and could still do much for Europe in the way of luxuries, as well as
send over great supplies of corn and olives.
The cook-shops have also fascinations. They are all dim and dark,
mysterious with the smoke of ages and the steam of the moment. Dim
figures flit busily to and fro, stirring strange ingredients in huge
pans over their charcoal fires. Coloured tiles give relief and gaiety to
the entrance, cover the stoves, and form a sort of counter. In early
morning the maker of pancakes has it all his own way; at dinner-time he
of the cous-couss does a thriving trade, and at night, and all night
through, it is said there is a great sale for a special kind of peppery
soup.
The walls and gates on this the southern side of Tunis are of great
antiquity, and consist not only of the original walls of the old town,
but also of an outer circle with five gates enclosing the suburb of El
Djazira. Within its boundaries are held horse and cattle markets, which
no doubt account for the variety of tribes and costumes to be seen.
Through the outer gate come caravans from the desert, and camels laden
with fodder and fuel. Men and camels find a lodging in the many
_fonduks_ near the Bab el Fellah—resting-places as primitive and
patriarchal as the caravans themselves.
From the hilltop outside the walls is a superb outlook over the city,
and also across the salt lake to the mountain of Zaghouan, though for
pure charm it is outdone by the view from the park-like grounds of the
Belvedere, some distance out of town through the curious double gate of
El Khadra.
Only a few years ago the barren hillside was skilfully laid out and
planted with trees, and already the ground is carpeted with wild
flowers, and the eucalyptus has reached a respectable height. The
delicate grace of the pepper trees and the silvery grey of the olive
mingle with masses of mimosa and acacia, Judas trees, and many flowering
shrubs, to give their own brightness, and fill the air with perfume. So
once more the country has a chance of returning to its earlier aspect
before the Arabs cut down forests and olive groves for firewood, after
their usual extravagant custom.
It is a pleasant place truly in spring and in summer, and the nearest
refuge from the heat. Here many jaded Tunisians linger in the
comparative freshness till long after midnight, though, being French,
they must needs have a theatre and casino to amuse them. They have also
transplanted and restored two Moorish pavilions that were falling into
ruins, owing to the curious local custom by which no Bey, or
exceptionally rich man, may dwell in the same house in which his
predecessor died, but has to abandon it entirely. Probably a survival of
ancestor worship.
[Illustration: THE FRITTER SHOP, TUNIS]
Whether the Arabs appreciate the ever-changing beauty of their country
or no, their descriptions never vary. Tunis incontestibly merits the
title of the “white” as it stretches across the isthmus dividing the
stagnant lake of El Bahira from the salt lake, Sedjoumi. It certainly
might be “a diamond in an emerald frame,” though a pearl would express
the white wonder amongst the green with more precision. As for the
familiar “burnous with the Casbah as the hood,” surely they might have
invented a new simile, though it is apt enough.
The forts on the hills are no concern of theirs, for, like the aqueduct
in the plain, they are picturesque legacies of Charles V. The harbour
full of shipping is a thing of to-day, and so is the modern town. La
Goulette (Halk el Oued, or the throat of the canal), glittering at the
further side of the lake, is of yesterday; its importance gone with the
new canal, but its Venetian charm happily undimmed. Carthage and La
Marsa, a third lake towards Utica, El Ariana, the village of roses, the
holiday resort of the Jews, are all visible from the gardens, the whole
held tenderly in wide-reaching embrace by the mountains and the sea.
The new town, which starts from the Porte de France in such imposing
fashion, a wide, straight avenue bordered by flowering acacias, reaches
its finest point where the Residency fronts the Cathedral across some
gardens, then gradually diminishes in grandeur till it ends in a
collection of huts, cabarets, and warehouses standing on untidy wharves.
Twenty years ago, so an old officer told us, the land was a desolate
morass, unspeakably dirty. Now it is a flourishing city, and though
fault may be found with the style of the building on account of the want
of shelter from heat and glare, and the unsuitability of such high
houses in case of earthquake, these are minor details. The great need
now is for some system of draining the Bahira, which has received the
filth of ages, and takes its revenge in sending in hot weather and in
certain winds a truly terrible smell to torment the city. It is an
unaccountable fact that some perfect quality in air or soil fights
against this evil and overcomes it, keeping the city free from epidemics
and noted for its general healthiness.
The harbour has as yet a very unfinished appearance. The native boats
with lateen sails are its great attraction, though ships of all nations
and considerable tonnage can now approach the quays. Gay little scenes
occur when the fish comes in, or when timber is being landed by gangs of
Arabs wading in the still water; for all that is evil in this remarkable
lake is hidden by the calm loveliness of a lagoon.
[Illustration: UNLADING WOOD]
What is known to the Tunisians as _les chaleurs_, or real summer heat,
sets in towards the end of May or beginning of June. With the heat come
many changes. The town Moors drop their many cloaks and display the
wealth of silk and embroidery usually hidden. The men from the country
wear yard-wide steeple-crowned hats over their turbans; for if the
burning sun is trying in the city, what must it be in the country, where
no cool shadows offer shelter? The Europeans, soldiers and civilians
alike, appear in white, and the tyranny of the shirt collar is ended
with the coming of sun helmets and umbrellas. Ladies don their thinnest
muslins, and do not venture out before the evening. Everyone seeks the
shade except the Italian women, who will stand bareheaded, idly swinging
their closed parasols, where no Arab would keep them company.
A scirocco or wind from the desert intensifies the heat to an unbearable
degree, night brings no relief, and this burning blast may last three,
five, or nine days; and a nine days’ scirocco is an experience to be
remembered. A resident gave us this warning encouragement: “If you stay
till June and come in for a bad scirocco you will think you will die,
but you won’t.” The sensation of misery could hardly be better
expressed: one gasps for breath, sleep is impossible, and the only
tolerable moments are those passed quite close to an electric fan.
Plants and trees shrivel up, so that the gardens look as if they had
been actually burnt. The country is scarcely cooler than the town, and
at the seaside there is little relief, as four or five degrees’
difference does not help much when the thermometer is once over 100°
Fahrenheit.