Chapter V: The English Consulate

Mr. Reade — His appointment as Consul-General — Changed circumstances — The Consul at home — Walls of blue china — The Consul’s duties — An offensive globe-trotter — A drive round the city walls — The Spanish aqueduct — The forts of Tunis — An awkward dilemma — My vivandière in trouble — An English home in Tunis — A sudden alarm.

_Monday, October 17th._—Returning from my walk with Afrigan, I changed my dress and made a formal call upon the Consul-General, Mr. Reade. I have already spoken of the fine building occupied as the English Consulate in the little square of the _Bab el Bahr_. This building was erected in the lifetime of Sir Thomas Reade, the father of the present Consul. Sir Thomas is still remembered in Tunis, where for very many years he was honoured and trusted as the representative of no other Power was. The Bey of his time enjoined upon his successor, when he himself was drawing near to death, that in any difficulty he must follow the advice of the English Consul: “he is an honest man, and England means well by Tunis, and has no secret intrigues to carry on against us.” So when it was made known a couple of years ago or more that the son of Sir Thomas, born during his father’s tenure of office here, and therefore a native of the Regency, had been promoted from the Consulate at Smyrna to the Consul-Generalship here, there was general rejoicing throughout the country, and Mr. Reade was welcomed with enthusiasm by all classes. I well remember how last year in Smyrna I heard on all sides expressions of regret at the loss which the British community there had sustained when Mr. Reade was removed: and I can also remember hearing of his own delight at being sent back to that which is in reality his native land—a country which was then, just two short years ago, one of the most prosperous, peaceful, and well-ordered States in the world. I wondered how I should find Mr. Reade under the changed circumstances in which he is now placed. The easy and pleasant life to which he doubtless looked forward when he came to Tunis is for the present at an end. For the past nine or ten months he has been living in the midst of a whirl of exciting events, and has had to keep a clear head and a steady eye in order to avoid a dangerous collision with one or other of the intriguing factions which have been at work here. Nor is this all that he has had to pass through. I have spoken of the enthusiasm his return to Tunis excited among all classes of the community. On his first arrival he was received by the Bey with the greatest cordiality, and down to the month of May last he was consulted by his Highness upon all matters of importance. Since then all is changed; the French are here in actual possession of Tunis, M. Roustan is supreme at the palace; and Mr. Reade has been compelled to sink to a comparatively subordinate position. One was curious to ascertain how our representative had borne such a reverse of fortune as all this implies.

Passing through a vaulted hall, in which half a dozen cavasses, some of whom were unmistakable Turks of venerable aspect, were lounging, I was ushered up a broad stone staircase to the Consul’s apartment on the first floor. That which struck me most as I walked up this staircase was the exquisite effect produced by the Moorish tiles with which the walls were lined from top to bottom. It was my first experience of a Tunisian house, and it made a deep impression upon me. One felt as though one had entered a house built of porcelain. For cleanliness, coolness, and beauty of appearance there is nothing in the world that will compare with these old Moorish tiles; and I think I know one or two friends of mine of the æsthetic persuasion, who, if they were suddenly to find themselves at the foot of this staircase as I did this afternoon, would almost be inclined to ascend it on their knees, out of reverence for the cunning craftsmen who are responsible for its mural decorations.

Mr. Reade, a middle-aged gentleman of frank and open features and pleasant smile, received me most kindly. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that sense of boredom which must, I am certain, overtake our Consuls and Ambassadors abroad when they are beset by wandering Englishmen in search of enlightenment. Cigarettes were produced, he laid aside his work, and plunged into a lively conversation regarding Tunisian affairs, which afforded me more information on the subject in a quarter of an hour than I had been able to get from all my previous reading-up of newspapers and pamphlets. That he himself felt deeply concerned regarding the events of the past year was evident; but though quite frank in speaking of affairs he was judiciously reticent when he alluded to men; and, strange to say, I actually took part in a conversation on matters in Tunis in which I heard no scandal, none of the gossip which had already begun to be poured into my ears from different quarters.

One would like to paint, for the satisfaction of readers at home, a picture of the position occupied by an English Consul-General in a city like Tunis. It is no sinecure which he holds. Here he is to be found day after day seated in his big chair at his big table, dealing with all manner of documents and applications on a thousand different subjects. In the outer room are the trusted clerks of the Consulate, and beyond that room is a little apartment arranged very much after the fashion of a tiny police-court. In this place an English judge administers justice for the benefit of the thousands of English subjects—chiefly Maltese by birth—who reside here. When I say an English judge, I ought to explain that Mr. Arpa, the gentleman in question, is not an Englishman, but a Maltese. He is, of course, subordinate in rank to Mr. Reade; and it is to the Consul-General, not to the judge, that all matters of importance are referred. Among these at the present moment the most pressing is probably the notorious Enfida case, regarding which the newspapers have been full for months past, and which is said even to have had some share in bringing about the French expedition against Tunis. But apart from this great suit—into the merits of which it would hardly be appropriate to enter here—Mr. Reade has plenty of occupation in connexion with the daily concerns of the Consulate. The shipwreck at Bizerta, of which I heard this morning, is of itself sufficient to supply him with at least a day’s work; for he must take the depositions of the captain and officers, provide for the crew as distressed British subjects, and exercise other functions in connexion with the affair. Then there are endless matters for investigation in connexion with the French occupation of Tunis. A British subject rushes in with some complaint that he has been ill-treated by a French soldier. Perhaps it is a Maltese cart-driver who has entered into a contract with some officer of the Commissariat department that he has found to be unprofitable, and from which he wishes to be released; perhaps it is some poor fellow who has been really hardly treated by the rather arrogant Gauls. In either case Mr. Reade’s intervention is sought for, and will be given.

There is yet another duty which, I am sure, must press hard upon our Consuls in these parts; though, as I have said, Mr. Reade showed no sign of feeling the hardship during his interview with me. That is, the necessity of receiving and entertaining the members of the “globe-trotting tribe,” to which, I am afraid, I myself belong. Nothing can be more exigent, nothing more offensive than the demands which are sometimes made by the globe-trotter in search of information upon an English Consul. Some months ago a gentleman, whose sole excuse was to be found in the fact that he was very young and inexperienced, came to Tunis bent upon sight-seeing. He remained a week or more in the place. On the day of his departure he called upon the Consul-General. Mr. Reade happened to be at luncheon at the moment when he called, and it also happened that he was entertaining guests. He sent a polite message to the Englishman, who had sent up his card, stating these facts, and begging him either to wait a few minutes or to call again. Instead of taking either course, the young prig went off in a mighty dudgeon, and positively lodged a complaint at the Foreign Office concerning the incivility to which he had been subjected! Marvellous indeed are the ways of the travelling Englishman. Even more marvellous, however, is the fact that in spite of experiences of this kind our Consuls manage to keep their temper, and are ready—as the occasion demands—to give a cup of coffee or a good dinner to the wandering fellow-countryman who comes within their ken.

My interview with Mr. Reade was not the last experience of this eventful day. I called upon the gentleman whose acquaintance I had made in the train in the early morning, Mr. P———, and was by him introduced to his friend, Mr. B———, who occupies a prominent place in the very small English community in Tunis. Mr. B——— at once invited me to go for a drive with him outside the city walls, and accordingly we started in an open carriage and pair. Passing through the narrow and crowded streets of the city, we quickly reached one of the gateways, now guarded by French as well as Tunisian troops, and passed out into the open country. Away from the city walls stretches a desolate yellow plain, interspersed with dense hedges of prickly pear. Running across this plain, in a long ghostly line of crumbling arches, may be seen the remains of the famous Spanish aqueduct which once supplied Tunis with water. It is not a work of very ancient date. Probably its age does not exceed three hundred years. Yet more than one visitor to Tunis who has afterwards recorded his impressions of the place in writing, has fallen into the ludicrous error of confounding this work with the Phœnician or Roman aqueduct by which Carthage obtained its water-supply.

In one respect the country round Tunis resembles that round Paris. Almost every height which commands the city is crowned by a fort. On nearly all these forts to-day the French flag was flying above that of the Bey. During the course of the ride we passed close to a large encampment of Bedouins from the interior, who have flocked in multitudes to the capital since the troubles began; and who are here, according to my companion, for no good purpose. Wild, dark-skinned men and women these Bedouins are. The women go unveiled when outside the city walls, and many of them have a savage comeliness of feature that affords a striking contrast to the European standard of good looks. There was no friendliness on their faces as we drove past them this afternoon. Near to their encampment is a picturesque little Arab village standing in a hollow by the wayside. Two days ago a French soldier, tempted by the bright eyes of a Bedouin girl, ventured into this village in pursuit of her. He has never been seen since; and no one doubts that he has paid with his life for his recklessness and folly. Unfortunately, it is not only the reckless or the foolish who are in danger. At any moment an Arab fanatic—and the whole race are seething with fanaticism just now—might take it into his head to secure a short cut to Paradise by means of despatching an infidel, and woe then to the first European whom he might encounter! A quick eye, a steady hand, and a good revolver would alone suffice to save him.

The sun had set, and the southern night had fallen with its usual rapidity before we got back to the town. We had a fright on finding the first gate we reached closed; for a night outside the city walls meant perils which were not lightly to be contemplated. Happily, we found the gate adjoining the kasbah, or citadel, still open, and through it we entered the city in safety. Scarcely had we done so when the heavy gates were closed and locked with a mighty clanging of iron, not to be opened again until after sunrise to-morrow. It gives one a curious sensation, that of being locked in—even though you are locked into a city as big as Tunis. Outside lies the wild, open country, where no man’s life is safe; where bands of Arab marauders are constantly wandering from village to village, robbing, burning, slaying; and where, if any European were to be found after nightfall, his life would not be worth an hour’s purchase. It may be a relief to feel that in closing these gates they have shut out the lawless forces of the desert; but on the other hand there is the uncomfortable feeling of being a prisoner, and of having for one’s fellow-prisoners nearly 100,000 men, each one of whom would esteem it a virtue if he were to kill you, and from whom, under certain circumstances, you need expect no more mercy than from the Bedouins of the parched and yellow plains outside.

Through the dark and winding streets we found our way at last to my hotel, where B——— dined with me, in a room swarming with French officers, who smoked and expectorated and otherwise indulged themselves on all sides of us, whilst we struggled through a distasteful meal. Outside, after dinner, I met with an old friend, and alas! a friend in trouble. This was my fair vivandière of the _Charles Quint_. With tear-stained face and broken voice she explained to me her deplorable situation. Would it be believed that a Frenchman, and a French general to boot, had been so cruel, so utterly wanting in gallantry, as to issue an order that she, a woman of reputation, decorated, celebrated, and devoted to the sacred work of charity, should put off her uniform? And here her self-command failed utterly, and she burst into passionate sobs. “But, madam,” I ventured to urge, “you can nurse just as well in an ordinary dress as in that you are now wearing.” “Oh, no, monsieur, no! Besides, _me_ to put on an ordinary dress! and to put off the uniform which I love—” and here she glanced downwards at that dual garment which the polite American hesitates to mention in the presence of ladies. Tears were in her eyes, sobs in her throat, grief in her heart, and, I regret to say, a strong suspicion of cognac in her breath. A young officer came up to console her, and she turned away in haste from the phlegmatic Englishman. The last that I saw of her was leaning upon the shoulder of her brave fellow-countryman, and plentifully bedewing his blue uniform with her tears, whilst the Arab servants in the hall of the hotel looked on in mute amazement.

I accompanied B——— to his house in the town. It lies in a narrow alley, approached by many windings and turnings from the Grande Rue. To an Englishman it seems astonishing that any decent person could live in this contracted and evil-smelling passage; which in dimensions, cleanliness, and airiness resembles one of those “fever-haunts of Leeds” with which in former years I had a painful familiarity. Things are measured by different standards in the East and the West, however, and this black and ill-paved slum, decidedly worse in outward aspect than any ordinary London alley, is looked upon here as a suitable place of residence for an English gentleman, a barrister, and a man of influence. Once inside the house itself, of course, I found everything as it ought to be. The house is built on the true Moorish pattern; that is to say, it is in the form of a hollow square, the doors and windows of the various rooms on each floor opening upon an interior gallery. This form of building is common to hot countries, and it has the great advantage of warding off the rays of the sun from the various apartments. Indeed, the sun is here regarded as an enemy, and a fatal drawback to any house would be the fact that it had unsheltered outside windows. Tiled floors and walls and wooden ceilings gave a bare and unfinished appearance to my friend’s home; though there were pictures, bric-à-brac, couches, and valuable Kairwan carpets in abundance.

B——— is an enthusiast on all Tunisian affairs, and no man living probably knows more than he does of the disgraceful events which have led up to the occupation of this city. He it was to whom the Bey confided the task of drawing up his protest against the insolent demand of M. Roustan for the signature of the famous or infamous Treaty of May 12th. That protest was telegraphed to all the European powers during the few hours of grace which Roustan allowed to the unfortunate ruler, whilst French troops were being drawn up round the Bardo Palace in order to compel the Bey’s final acquiescence. Needless to say, it was intensely interesting to hear from the lips of one who had been himself an actor in these transactions the narrative of the struggle against the intrigues of France. Graphic portraits were sketched by B——— of M. Roustan and his detestable _entourage_, the most prominent figures in the picture being a certain M. Elias and his wife, a lady whose career might well be made the subject of a (French) romance. The military operations, too, were explained to me by the aid of a map, and I was bidden to wait for the forthcoming march upon Kairwan. As for the actual situation in Tunis itself, B——— took the gloomiest view. The exasperation of the Arabs, he declared, was intense, and “anything might happen” at any moment. An insult offered by a French soldier to an Arab woman would suffice to set the city in flames, and a catastrophe of unexampled magnitude might follow. Indeed, according to my interlocutor, it was only the presence of the French troops in the city which prevented a general massacre of the Europeans; and there was really occasion to apprehend that such a massacre might be attempted by the more fanatical Arabs at any given moment.

This lively picture of the dangers of the situation, painted as it was in that quaint, gloomy, cavernous sitting-room in the strange Moorish house, was rather calculated to try the nerves of a new-comer, and as B——— depicted to me the dangers attending any wandering in even the most frequented parts of Tunis after nightfall, I began most fervently to wish myself safe again in the shelter of my hotel. Even as I was pondering upon the dark and intricate passages which I must traverse on my way to my sleeping-place, a sudden sound startled us both. It was the firing of a rifle in the street below us. We listened, breathless, for a few seconds; and then, hearing nothing further, stepped out upon the quaint curved iron balcony overhanging the doorway. Nothing was to be seen except a group of cloaked Arabs, moving stealthily away in the distance. B——— pressed me to remain at his house for the night, but I thought it better to return to my hotel; and as he sent his servant—a good-looking young Jew in Arab costume—to show me the way, the only difficulty I experienced in passing through the unlit streets was from my constant stumbling over bits of broken ground, or my occasional encounters with the savage dogs, which are only less numerous here than they are in Stamboul.