Chapter IV: A First Glimpse of Tunis

An African railway-station — Fellow-countrymen — Mr. Parnell’s arrest — The “Little Sea” — African scenery — Sketches by the road-side — Camels, Moors, Bedouins — Tunis — The Grand Hotel — The Bab el Bahr — Tunisian costumes — The “Grande Rue de Tunis” — The bazaars — The slave-market.

_Monday, October 17th._—A railway-station in Africa, strange as it may seem to some persons, is not very much unlike a railway-station anywhere else. Still it must be confessed that there was a certain incongruousness between my surroundings in Goletta—the picturesque Moors, Arabs, and negroes, who abounded in all manner of quaint and startling costumes—and the high-roofed shed of commonplace appearance from which the trains start for Tunis. Half-past ten was the hour fixed for the departure of the train, and shortly before that time, accompanied by Afrigan, I strolled up to the station, took a first-class ticket at an ordinary “pigeonhole” for myself and a third-class for my companion, and then went to take my seat in the carriage.

My ticket, I observed, was printed in English, whereas Afrigan’s was in Italian. At first I was disposed to attribute this difference to the fact well known twenty years ago in Germany, that only princes, Englishmen, and fools travelled first class. It turned out, however, that these first-class tickets were a relic of the time when this Goletta-Tunis railway was in the hands of an English Company. They were, in fact, part of the stock handed over when the Italians took possession of the line some years ago. Clearly, there is no very great demand for first-class railway accommodation in Northern Africa.

But as I was listening to this explanation on the station platform, a welcome sound fell upon my ear. It was a sound commonplace enough to stay-at-home people, but one which can never become altogether commonplace to those who are in the habit of travelling. In brief, it was the sound of the English language, spoken by unmistakable Englishmen. Only two or three days had passed since I had parted with a fellow-countryman at Marseilles; but already I was prepared to welcome any chance Englishman whom I might meet as a friend. The gentlemen whose voices attracted my notice at the Goletta railway-station this morning were three in number. They had already taken their seats in one of the shady compartments of the train, and I at once joined them and introduced myself. One of them was Captain P———, commanding the _Bittern_ gunboat; another was the unfortunate commander of the _Aristides_, an English steamer which was wrecked two days ago near Bizerta, and the crew of which had been rescued by the _Bittern_ at some risk and not a little trouble; whilst the third was an English gentleman residing at Goletta and carrying on business at Tunis, Mr. P———. The first demand of my new friends was for news from England. I produced last week’s _Punch_ and _World_, and the _Standard_ of Wednesday, and soon they were busily engaged in mastering their contents. Then I remembered one little item of news I had learned after leaving home, and told them of Parnell’s arrest. “What! is he caught at last?” cried the captain of the _Bittern_; “Hurrah!” and off went his hat in token of his approval of the new departure in the policy of the Government. I remembered how General A——— had thrown _his_ hat up in the courtyard of the Grand Hotel at Paris when I told him the same piece of news, and smiled to myself at the evidence which was thus afforded of the general agreement of Englishmen all over the world upon that particular subject.

Outside the carriages on the railway, broad covered balconies run, upon which in hot weather the passenger can stand and enjoy the breeze, whilst he gets a full view of the country through which the line passes. Taking advantage of this arrangement, I enjoyed my short ride up to Tunis immensely. The day was exceedingly hot, but here under the balcony-roof one was sheltered from the rays of the sun. The line runs seemingly upon a dead level all the way from Goletta to the capital. On one side of it is the lake called by the natives El Bahira, or the Little Sea, which extends from Goletta almost to the very walls of Tunis. It is said that this lake is now little more than an enormous open cesspool, all the sewage of Tunis being poured into it. This may be the case, but at least it has this in common with some other unwholesome things, that it is very fair to look upon. Nothing could be more beautiful, indeed, than the aspect of this broad sheet of water as the train rolled in leisurely fashion past it this morning. Its waves were dancing and glittering in the brilliant sunshine, and the colour of the cloudless blue sky was reflected upon its surface. Little lateen-sailed fishing-boats were gliding hither and thither, suggesting strongly by their peculiar rig the pirate craft which in my earliest days I associated with the Gulf of Tunis; a strong fort, said to be of Spanish origin, stood out in the very middle of the lake, rising sheer from the water, after the manner of the Castle of Chillon; on the bank nearest to me the reeds grew in forests, enormous flocks of flamingoes and herons rising from them and sailing lazily away as the train passed; whilst on the further shore the waves broke against a splendid range of brown hills and dark grey crags, save where they seemed to wash against the gleaming white walls of Tunis itself.

It was a new revelation of beauty to me; and I wondered for a moment that in all that I had seen and read and heard of the picturesque spots of Europe, I had remained ignorant of the surpassing loveliness which now gladdened my eye. But I turned to the other side, and what I saw there served to remind me that I had passed out of the European range and of the circuit of the ordinary searchers after the picturesque. A vast yellow plain, on which not a blade of grass seemed to grow, but which was broken here and there by patches of olive-forest, the gnarled trunks and dull green leaves only serving to deepen the general impression of arid desolation which the plain produced: beyond the plain, ranges of low hills, with now and then a palm-tree raising its feathery crown against the deep, unbroken azure of the sky, and here and there a white house standing in the midst of a thicket of prickly pear. This was what I saw when I turned away from El Bahira, and looked westwards. I had seen nothing like this before in any part of the world. This yellow desert of sand, these groves of olives and palm, these tangles of cactus and prickly pear, and that marvellous sky with its infinite depth of blue, its fierce, relentless glare of light and heat, belonged not to Europe, but to Africa. And to one of the most famous parts of Africa withal; for this was once the Plain of Carthage, and the great city stretched hitherwards from the shore of the Gulf, until it almost reached to Tunis itself.

Alongside the railway straggles the broad, sandy road from Goletta and the Marsa to Tunis. There was no lack of life upon this road this morning. Just outside Goletta a French camp is pitched, and here some hundreds of soldiers were washing or cooking, or trying to shelter themselves from the cruel sun. All round the camp I noticed that sentries were placed at very short intervals, and there were other indications of the fact that the French army finds itself in an enemy’s country in Tunis. Then, when we got clear of the camp and the soldiers, what an infinite number of picturesque groups and “bits” that would have delighted an artist were scattered along the road! Here was a train of camels plodding along in that grave and clumsy fashion peculiar to their race. These African camels are not to be compared in size or beauty—for, strange as it may seem, even a camel can be beautiful—to those of Asia. Nothing can exceed the awkwardness of their gait, unless it be the stubbornness of their tempers. A “rogue” camel is, indeed, anything but a pleasant customer to encounter in a narrow street. He has a delightful habit of laying about him with his teeth after the fashion of that legendary animal the American “snapping turtle,” and with the most aristocratic unconsciousness of your presence he will squeeze you flat against the wall by means of the enormous boxes he carries slung like panniers over his back, and pass on without so much as glancing round to see what mischief he has done. But at a distance, and with this background of sandy plain, which harmonizes so well with the colour of his own hide, he adds not a little to the picturesqueness of the scene—especially when he is attended by a jet-black negro from the Soudan, clad in the gay and flaunting colours which are _de rigueur_ in that quarter of the world.

Then we passed a couple of Arabs in loose jebbas of dark-green hue, bare legs, enormous turbans, and brilliant yellow slippers, cantering gaily along towards Tunis on a pair of fine mules. Poor mules! What a burden they had to bear. The lowest part of the load seemed to consist of enormous sacks stuffed with grain of some kind; then there were strings of pumpkins, nets filled with pomegranates, prickly pears, and red gherkins, baskets of unripe dates or olives, and bottles of oil dangling in a promiscuous way from all parts of the back; whilst on the top of all sat the owner plying his stick with vigour. The “seat” of an Arab on horse, mule, or donkey back, like the ways of the Heathen Chinee, is peculiar. He sits sideways, not as European ladies do with one leg drawn up in front of the other, but with both legs dangling side by side, exactly as though the animal he had mounted was a couch or a bench. The effect produced by this lazy and ungraceful mode of riding is very ludicrous; but, judging by all that I saw this morning, the seat is safe enough for those who are accustomed to it.

A little crowd of tawny Bedouin children, almost naked, flying across the plain towards the train, their black hair streaming behind them, and the savage dogs of their camp barking ferociously at their heels, came by way of welcome interlude to the long procession of quadrupeds. Then at the foot of a splendid palm-tree a group were seated, who looked as though they had stepped straight out of some picture of “The Repose in Egypt.” A woman with veiled features and graceful form, a man of swarthy complexion and splendid symmetry of figure, and a beautiful babe! A world-old group this; but clad in these garments and in the midst of such a scene, strangely suggestive of the family of Bethlehem. And there were scantily clad Arabs ploughing in the fields behind two stout heifers, their plough an instrument so primitive that it can hardly have been changed in shape since the days when the towers of Carthage dominated this same plain; and here and there a group of women—all with yashmaks hiding their faces from the eyes of the curious—were gathered round a well, in the midst of a little oasis of acacia and prickly pear; and occasionally a heavily-laden, roughly-built country cart trundled on towards the city, carrying its burden of vegetables, or passed in the other direction laden with bags of _couscousoo_, and gaily-coloured dishes and vessels of native pottery; and once, a richly dressed Moor, on a splendidly caparisoned Arab, which he rode in European fashion, galloped past with a speed like that of the wind. And over all this scene, so strange in all its details, so picturesque in its general effect, there was the wonderful dome of cloudless blue sky, like the cupola of some vast furnace.

A very brief run brought us up to the station within the walls of Tunis. The throng of Arabs, Jews, and Jewesses, in their many-hued dresses, poured out of the carriages of the train, and passed from the shade of the station into the dazzling glare of the sunshine beyond in a brilliant cascade of colour. I parted from my new-found English friends, and set off with Afrigan to the hotel, a stout negro porter carrying my portmanteaus, travelling-rugs, and other _impedimenta_ upon his back, in a fashion recalling the hammals of Stamboul.

The first glimpse of Tunis from the railway station is somewhat disappointing. The place looks too modern and too European for its reputation. In front of the station there is a broad, unfinished street, running down to the point at which it is intersected at right angles by a shady boulevard, the Marina. There is little about either the street in which the station stands or the Marina to show that you have left Europe or Algeria behind you. Most of the houses in these two streets are of a modified French or Italian style of architecture; so that one wondered at the fact that this was actually Tunis, the city where “the grateful Turk” of one’s “Sandford and Merton” days was once Bey, where many another legendary hero of my boyhood was once a captive, and where Mussulman lust and cruelty, whether Turkish or Moorish, for centuries indulged in orgies which make the name of the place still infamous. I have already learned once more to correct my first impressions, and have found that the real Tunis surpasses one’s expectations so far as picturesqueness of appearance is concerned; but it is worth putting on record for the benefit of future travellers, the disappointment occasioned by my earliest glimpse at the city.

The Grand Hotel, which is within three minutes’ walk of the station, is a handsome new building, and, like all the other buildings I have yet seen in Tunis, it is constructed of white stone or stucco. Indeed, at the first glance this morning, I was struck by the painful glare of white pervading the whole place. White walls, white roads, even white trees, for the fine dust has coated the trunks and leaves thickly, make the outlook in all directions dazzling in the extreme. A flag was flying from one of the windows of the hotel; a couple of French sentries were walking up and down in front of it, and French officers or orderlies were passing in and out of the open door like bees round a hive. At a respectful distance a small knot of Arabs were gathered, watching what was going on with sullen faces; whilst additional liveliness was imparted to the scene by the constant altercations between the sentries and a dozen street-boys, in native costume, who seemed to have all the impudence and a great deal more than the picturesqueness of the city Arab of London. The French have now been installed in Tunis for some days. They entered it at the earliest hour of dawn last Tuesday morning, the inhabitants waking up to find themselves in the power of a Christian host. Intense excitement and indignation have since prevailed in the native quarters of the town, and rumours of an impending rising are commonly current. Many of the Europeans, I am told, live in a state of perpetual alarm; but others have confidence in the power of the French to put down any attempt to overpower the non-Mussulman population. The meaning of the appearance of the sentries in front of the Grand Hotel is, that it is the headquarters of General Japy, the French commander of the city.

The room in which I soon found myself installed at the hotel was big and airy, with tiled floor and walls of hard white cement. The light was carefully excluded by means of heavy wooden shutters. I ventured to brave the terrors of the sun, in order that I might see rather more of my apartment than it was possible to do whilst these shutters were closed. Perhaps I should have done better if I had remained in ignorance of the things which were revealed to me in the glare of the sunshine. Alas! my big, airy room was loaded with filth. The red tiles of the floor were thickly coated with the white dust of the broad road outside; whilst each particular corner had its cobwebs, and its own especial rubbish heap of more or less abominable dirt. However, a little of Mark Tapley’s philosophy never comes amiss under circumstances like the present. Having come to Tunis, it would be absurd to grumble because my bedroom is not altogether to my liking. One must rather remember that this Grand Hotel is looked upon by the natives as a marvellous and bewildering exemplification of the European’s love of luxury. I breakfasted poorly, the chief portion of my meal being apparently a piece of goat’s flesh, the flavour of which was decidedly “high;” and then I went out with Afrigan for a walk through the bazaars.

The walk was a comparatively short one, but it sufficed to open my eyes to the reality about Tunis, and dispelled any sense of disappointment I had experienced on my first entrance into the city. Leaving the Marina, I passed under a fine Moorish archway of the familiar horse-shoe pattern, into a little square beyond. This gateway, known as the Bab el Bahr, is of great antiquity, and on either side of it are sculptured stones bearing long inscriptions in Arabic; Afrigan, unfortunately, though he speaks Arabic “like a native,” could not decipher these inscriptions. The miniature square beyond it is the central point of the old European quarter. On one side is the fine, massive building, with its immense enclosed balcony, occupied by the English Consul-General, Mr. Reade. It was a pleasant sight to see the English flag waving above so many strange and curious objects. A smaller house, separated from the English Consulate by a narrow street, is the residence of the German Consul, and I believe the Austrian Consul also has his dwelling in the square. A couple of cafés, chiefly frequented by fez-wearing Jews and Maltese; a station-house for the police, whence every two hours issue, in Indian file, as melancholy a string of soldiers as Falstaff himself ever beheld; and one or two shops for the sale of groceries, &c., over one of which I saw the words “English stores,” complete the square. But the houses are nothing compared to the people who swarm in this little open space. What costumes, what complexions, what figures, what faces! No kaleidoscope ever yet presented such a variety of forms and colours as you may see here, whilst you sit under the shade of an awning in front of one of the two miserable cafés. How I longed for the pencil of an artist this morning, for it is only by the graphic method that one can convey even the faintest idea of the composition of the ever-dissolving groups that all day long fill this little place of meeting. Very few women are to be met with in the crowd, and of these not one in twenty is in European costume, although, as I have said, this is the centre of the European quarter. But the dresses of the men are sufficiently picturesque to make up for the lack of female costumes. The Italians and Maltese, who constitute the greater part of the European element, wear the fez; but by far the largest number of the people here are clad in the full Arab costume, consisting of yellow slippers, a pair of baggy white trousers reaching to the knees, a gay silk sash, a white shirt, a jebba or burnous of coloured silk or wool, and a magnificent turban. I can’t say that all the colours of the rainbow are represented in these dresses; but at least we have blue and green and red and yellow in profusion. Then the complexions! Here is a handsome fellow who might pass for a somewhat swarthy Frenchman, and next to him is a negro from the Soudan, with the jet black skin and the characteristic features of his race. Between these extremes one gets every intervening shade. Fine-looking men most of these Arabs are; though here and there one meets with some beggar, scarred and mutilated, hideous to behold, the mere sight of whose ghastly features sends a thrill of horror to one’s very heart.

I could have spent hours in the little square, but Afrigan urged me forward, and I went up the narrow winding way leading to the bazaars. This, as my companion informed me, was the “Grande Rue de Tunis.” I thought last year, when I walked up the Grande Rue of Pera, that I could never again expect to see so wretched a main street in a capital. But the thoroughfare through which I passed to-day is even more narrow, crooked, and wretched than the famous street of Constantinople. It led me, however, very quickly into the heart of the Arab quarter. At intervals the street was arched over, the houses being built right across it, so that one had, as it were, to pass through a succession of tunnels. At the top of the long thoroughfare was a small open space, at one side of which was the entrance to the chief mosque of Tunis. The door was jealously closed. It had been shut since the entry of the French into the city. No Christian or Jewish footstep has ever defiled even the outer court of any mosque in Tunis; and to-day I have been warned that it is not safe even to pause near one of the mosques in the present excited temper of the people. So I merely ventured upon a passing glance at the flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance, upon which half a dozen sullen Arabs, clad each in a thick white burnous, were lounging in the sun.

It was delightful presently to plunge into the dim, cool arcades of the bazaar. I entered by the bazaar of the perfumers, and on both sides of me from the little open shops, similar in style to those of Stamboul, though still smaller in size, there issued scents more pungent than agreeable. The henna leaf, by means of which the Arabs dye their finger and toenails a deep red, seems to be one of the most important articles in this bazaar. It bears a strong resemblance to the green tea leaf. Next to the perfumers came the workers in leather, hundreds of them squatting in their dark little caverns, busily working at the yellow leather slippers universally worn, or smoking a tranquil cigarette, or reading some quaint Arabic MS., probably an invoice or a letter of advice from the interior. None of them tried to attract my attention; no one sought to secure my custom. They looked up at the unwonted sight of my European dress for a single moment, and then generally turned away with something like contempt depicted upon their swarthy faces.

I must say that it takes the conceit out of an Englishman to find himself alone in the midst of such a place as this. He has a “creepy,” uncomfortable feeling concerning the necessity of his being upon his best behaviour if he is to succeed in passing unchallenged. Once somebody gently touched my arm. I looked round. A hideous hag, with face only half hidden by her black yashmak, implored my charity. I gave her a _caroub_, and did what I could to conceal the shudder of disgust occasioned by her appearance. Presently we came to a little open space, with arched roof and heavy pillars, in the very middle of the bazaar. This was formerly the slave-market. The slave-market of Tunis! It was here, then, that “the grateful Turk” of “Sandford and Merton” discovered his early benefactor languishing in chains and misery. Thousands upon thousands of miserable Christians, captured by Turkish and Moorish pirates, have been exposed here for sale, chained to these pillars in this dismal vaulted square. Men now living in Tunis can remember the time when slaves were sold here; it was, indeed, the father, and the predecessor of the present English Consul, the late Sir Thomas Reade, who succeeded in putting an end to the abominable traffic. I was glad to turn away from the bazaar, and to take a walk with Afrigan through those higher and more aristocratic parts of Tunis which are reserved for the native population, and in which no Christian or European is allowed to dwell.