In modern times the great breach made in one of the sieges has been enlarged by the Arabs, who used it as a quarry, and built their large village beneath its shelter entirely out of the spoils. Now this quarrying has been stopped by law, happily in time, and the breach, overgrown as it is with moss and plants, only serves to make the ruin more beautiful as it lies among the prickly pears and olives. On the side nearest the village, however, it is in such good preservation, and the four galleries are so perfect, that with the regularity comes a certain loss of picturesqueness. The village is quite unusual: the stolen stone has been used as if it were mud, the houses are built like huts with large walled courts, and big doors, which are defended by barking dogs.
The men are indifferent to strangers, but the children, pretty as they are, become a positive torment. They have learnt the value of a petit sou, and keep up a never-ending litany in the vain hope of obtaining one. This comes of the bad habit of throwing coins from the automobile for the pleasure of seeing a scramble.
In the evening some sort of a fête was on hand, absolutely different to any we had seen. Bowers had been built, flags and greenery were festooned across the street, and in one large booth, covered with green, a crowd was gathered to watch a performance of howling dervishes, probably Aïssaouas. A long row of men and boys with streaming hair were working themselves into a state of frenzy, with violent rhythmic movements of their heads, as they threw them backwards and forwards, and panted like steam-engines. There were also groups of masqueraders with unearthly masks, pretending to be animals and going on all fours, and a mock bridal party with a soldier arrayed as the bride, his feet and gaiters alone betraying him.
There is no inn of any sort, so travellers stay at the school, which is also the post-office. The French schoolmaster, his wife, and a little girl, are the only Europeans in the place, though it contains one Jew and one Maltese—so Oriental as not to count.
The school is an old building, once the house of a Bey; it was then a big open cloister. Now walls, doors, windows, and partitions have been added to form large double cells, vaulted as in a monastery, but with horse-shoe arches. These cells are scantily furnished, so that they look both bare and spacious. Once they were used for storing gunpowder, which has left the walls sadly discoloured. In fact, the appearance of the house was well in keeping with predictions which we had received about roughing it; but we found that instead of starving, the meals were quite elegant, consisting of many courses, and including such luxuries as chicken, lamb, and quails. The bread was very dry, and there was no butter; but much experience had foreseen that difficulty, and jam, biscuits, and tea travelled with us. The schoolmaster was silent, but contented. His wife, however, suffered much from the loneliness; for the small doings of the household, teaching a native servant and superintending the cooking, could not fill her life. She was pining for friends and sympathy, and her nearest neighbours, a detachment of soldiers, lived fourteen or fifteen miles away. The diligence and the motor cars alone brought variety, and they passed quickly with some pleasant bustle, and then silence came once more. The school itself is a success: the boys seem to learn well, and are eager to air their French and pick up new ideas.
At night, even when the little garrison has been raised to five, there is a strange eerie feeling of loneliness, which camping somehow does not give. The great doors are bolted and barred, the watch-dog is on duty in the court, which the moonlight makes almost as light as day, brightening the treasured but miserable garden with its tender touch. All is made perfectly safe. Yet the thought recurs insistently, what could one man do, should anything rouse the hundreds of half-wild Arabs in the village out of their ordinary quiet hatred? A life of this sort is only possible where the fascination of the East is strongly felt; but for a poor woman like this, out of sympathy with the country, its people and their ways, it is little short of martyrdom.
Quiet is not a feature of the nights at El Djem. Every house in the village owns several dogs, and the only dog that does not seem to bark all night is the dog at the school. As for the cocks, they begin to crow at bed-time and keep it up till morning. Jackals and an occasional hyena swell the chorus. Then in the small hours the diligence arrives, with rattle and rumble along the road and a thunderous knocking at the great door, till the whole household is awake to give it welcome.
The motor appears at the respectable hour of nine in the morning, and manages with infinite cleverness to catch the mid-day train to Kairouan, although it should have started before the time at which the motor arrives. There is so much leisure and so little punctuality that, with friendly assistance, seats are taken, luggage registered, and lunch purchased before the train finally starts.
EVENING, KAIROUAN