THE SITE OF CARTHAGE FROM SIDI BOU SAÏD
To see all the ruins at Carthage is no light matter. Distances are so great, and there is such a dearth of conspicuous landmarks to guide the search. The nine miles’ drive from Tunis is mostly considered very monotonous, as the road itself is straight and dull, though the beauty of the mountains and the lake, the flush of scarlet from the flamingoes in its marshy edges, the marvels of the flower-clad meadows, the dark tents of the nomads, and the picturesque workers in the fields, are surely enough to make even a longer distance seem short. The first impression is altogether finer if it is gained by driving through the country to the gay villas of La Marsa, and so up the hill to Sidi Bou Saïd, than by taking the railway and then walking from point to point. The Arab town of Sidi Bou Saïd is so holy a place that no unbelievers were formerly allowed to live there, hardly even to walk its streets, and yet the saint after whom it is called is no other than St. Louis of France, the Crusader who died of pestilence before the walls of Tunis. The Mohammedans, however, believe that he adopted their religion, died and was buried in this village, showing how even his enemies admired his saintliness, and also that the God whom both worshipped was the same God as Mohammed always taught. The small town is piled up on the highest point of the hill in true Oriental fashion, and from the lighthouse on the summit the view is superb, with the Mediterranean almost surrounding the cape. The whole site of the ancient city is visible, from the rocky headlands in front to the distant town of La Goulette on the promontory that separates the open sea from the lake; a wide sweep of plain, the many low hills, the Byrsa marked by the whiteness of the new Cathedral, the whole circle of mountains, the summer villages gleaming at their feet, Tunis, the villas and gardens of La Marsa, the site of Utica, now more desolate than Carthage itself, the beautiful line of cliffs towards Bizerta—all combine to give some idea of the possibilities and beauties of ancient Carthage.
CHAPTER XII
SOUSSE AND EL DJEM
A refreshing uncertainty, almost amounting to a touch of adventure, gives zest to plans for a trip southwards. Beyond the one undisputed fact that the inn at Sousse leaves nothing to be desired, information is vague and scanty.
The journey opens in a fashion that promises much. There are only two trains in the day, and both are inconvenient. One starts too early and the other too late. The railway carriages with their narrow seats and hard cushions proclaim by sheer discomfort the unfrequented route and the dearth of travellers. The windows, that are either wide open or shut, but know no happy mean, guarantee a pleasing alternative of cold or stuffiness, for it soon becomes impossible to hold a heavy frame perpetually at a proper height.
It is delightful to feel that all sorts of possibilities lie hidden in the immediate future, and that the rate of progress already lifts the journey out of the commonplace. It is slow enough to be phenomenal, and gives time not only for observation but for quiet meditation on every detail of the landscape before it disappears.
There is no objection to this for some distance out of Tunis, as the route is pretty. The line skirts the edge of the bay, passing through the gay watering-places full of sunshine and flowers that lie at the foot of Bou Korneïne. During the sunset hour, when the plains are flooded with glory, the train might stop entirely, and welcome. But when the last tint of colour has vanished and no consolation is left, then the long, purposeless halts at wayside stations become exasperating. It does seem wasteful to spend so much time over so short a distance.
When morning comes, this mood flies away at the unexpected sight of a mediæval town on the opposite side of the harbour; for Sousse follows the Tunisian fashion, and the French colony dwells apart. The old town stands on a gentle rise beside the waters of the Mediterranean, a complete survival from the Middle Ages. Not grey and timeworn like our northern strongholds, but radiant in the sunshine, a mass of glittering white, crowned and girdled by gold—towers and bastions and crenellated walls. The reflection of these old-world defences in the calm waters below is almost as brilliant as the reality.
In the evening a change comes over the spirit of the place, the brightness fades away and is succeeded by a gentle melancholy, a slight film, the dimness of age, as if the warriors of bygone times returned at sundown to hover over their old castle, full of unavailing regret that their day is over, and that from the topmost battlements an alien flag now floats.
