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.
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.
RUE TOURBET EL BEY, TUNIS