At the present time workmen are busy rebuilding the walls of the cella—a work which seems a sad waste of time and energy. The existing masonry, of a later date than the rest of the temple, possibly Byzantine, is of a style much used in North Africa, consisting of courses of stone laid horizontally, with upright bars of stone at intervals of about four feet, the square interstices filled with odds and ends of stone, like “the long and short bond” found in Roman and Saxon work in Britain. Bruce thought this “one of the most beautiful ruins of a temple in white marble in the world.” Playfair considers it as built of nothing less than Lumachella Antica, one of the lost Numidian marbles, now worth its weight in gold.
The theatre is also a gem, and though there is now no performance, it is still a joy to sit in the deep, cool shade on the almost perfect marble seats, and look across the stage and the broken columns to the sunny landscape beyond. It is finer in every way than the theatre at Timgad, and almost as large as the well-known theatre of Taormina.
At the entrance to the olive groves stands a triumphal arch of the decadent period, called Bab el Roumi, or Gate of the Christian. There are also the remains of the temple of Saturn, baths, an aqueduct, seven cisterns like those at Carthage, a circus, a fortress, monuments, and many other ruins too numerous to mention. Last, and perhaps most important of all, because it dates from the Phœnician times, is the great Mausoleum, wrecked by the Arabs employed by Sir Thomas Reade to remove the celebrated bilingual stone now in the British Museum.
Though the men and boys spent the day in a circle round us to watch and to criticise, thoroughly absorbed in the sketch, yet they had charming manners, dignified and smiling faces, and not even the smallest boy dared to be troublesome—a great contrast to many in Algeria, who have picked up the bad ways of the modern town-urchins. The same may be said of Teboursouk.
At Medjez el Bab another display of fine courtesy was found in a most unlikely quarter. The hotel was said to be quite impossibly dirty, so we were advised to dine and wait for the late train to Tunis at a cabaret near the station. The place was a shanty, full of men drinking and smoking, colons and railway employés. Every one took our appearance as a matter of course, bowed politely, and did their utmost to make us feel at home, the smokers retiring outside. Dinner was served for us at a table apart, quite nicely laid and cooked. There was good soup, chicken, wine and dessert, all for a ridiculously small sum. After dinner some of the men wished to talk, asked many questions about home and foreign affairs, and discussed the latest news of the war in the East. The wistful little woman who did the cooking could hardly make enough of us, and when the train arrived at last, no one would say good-bye, but only “Come again.”
CHAPTER IX
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.