The room in which I soon found myself installed at the hotel was big and airy, with tiled floor and walls of hard white cement. The light was carefully excluded by means of heavy wooden shutters. I ventured to brave the terrors of the sun, in order that I might see rather more of my apartment than it was possible to do whilst these shutters were closed. Perhaps I should have done better if I had remained in ignorance of the things which were revealed to me in the glare of the sunshine. Alas! my big, airy room was loaded with filth. The red tiles of the floor were thickly coated with the white dust of the broad road outside; whilst each particular corner had its cobwebs, and its own especial rubbish heap of more or less abominable dirt. However, a little of Mark Tapley’s philosophy never comes amiss under circumstances like the present. Having come to Tunis, it would be absurd to grumble because my bedroom is not altogether to my liking. One must rather remember that this Grand Hotel is looked upon by the natives as a marvellous and bewildering exemplification of the European’s love of luxury. I breakfasted poorly, the chief portion of my meal being apparently a piece of goat’s flesh, the flavour of which was decidedly “high;” and then I went out with Afrigan for a walk through the bazaars.
The walk was a comparatively short one, but it sufficed to open my eyes to the reality about Tunis, and dispelled any sense of disappointment I had experienced on my first entrance into the city. Leaving the Marina, I passed under a fine Moorish archway of the familiar horse-shoe pattern, into a little square beyond. This gateway, known as the Bab el Bahr, is of great antiquity, and on either side of it are sculptured stones bearing long inscriptions in Arabic; Afrigan, unfortunately, though he speaks Arabic “like a native,” could not decipher these inscriptions. The miniature square beyond it is the central point of the old European quarter. On one side is the fine, massive building, with its immense enclosed balcony, occupied by the English Consul-General, Mr. Reade. It was a pleasant sight to see the English flag waving above so many strange and curious objects. A smaller house, separated from the English Consulate by a narrow street, is the residence of the German Consul, and I believe the Austrian Consul also has his dwelling in the square. A couple of cafés, chiefly frequented by fez-wearing Jews and Maltese; a station-house for the police, whence every two hours issue, in Indian file, as melancholy a string of soldiers as Falstaff himself ever beheld; and one or two shops for the sale of groceries, &c., over one of which I saw the words “English stores,” complete the square. But the houses are nothing compared to the people who swarm in this little open space. What costumes, what complexions, what figures, what faces! No kaleidoscope ever yet presented such a variety of forms and colours as you may see here, whilst you sit under the shade of an awning in front of one of the two miserable cafés. How I longed for the pencil of an artist this morning, for it is only by the graphic method that one can convey even the faintest idea of the composition of the ever-dissolving groups that all day long fill this little place of meeting. Very few women are to be met with in the crowd, and of these not one in twenty is in European costume, although, as I have said, this is the centre of the European quarter. But the dresses of the men are sufficiently picturesque to make up for the lack of female costumes. The Italians and Maltese, who constitute the greater part of the European element, wear the fez; but by far the largest number of the people here are clad in the full Arab costume, consisting of yellow slippers, a pair of baggy white trousers reaching to the knees, a gay silk sash, a white shirt, a jebba or burnous of coloured silk or wool, and a magnificent turban. I can’t say that all the colours of the rainbow are represented in these dresses; but at least we have blue and green and red and yellow in profusion. Then the complexions! Here is a handsome fellow who might pass for a somewhat swarthy Frenchman, and next to him is a negro from the Soudan, with the jet black skin and the characteristic features of his race. Between these extremes one gets every intervening shade. Fine-looking men most of these Arabs are; though here and there one meets with some beggar, scarred and mutilated, hideous to behold, the mere sight of whose ghastly features sends a thrill of horror to one’s very heart.
I could have spent hours in the little square, but Afrigan urged me forward, and I went up the narrow winding way leading to the bazaars. This, as my companion informed me, was the “Grande Rue de Tunis.” I thought last year, when I walked up the Grande Rue of Pera, that I could never again expect to see so wretched a main street in a capital. But the thoroughfare through which I passed to-day is even more narrow, crooked, and wretched than the famous street of Constantinople. It led me, however, very quickly into the heart of the Arab quarter. At intervals the street was arched over, the houses being built right across it, so that one had, as it were, to pass through a succession of tunnels. At the top of the long thoroughfare was a small open space, at one side of which was the entrance to the chief mosque of Tunis. The door was jealously closed. It had been shut since the entry of the French into the city. No Christian or Jewish footstep has ever defiled even the outer court of any mosque in Tunis; and to-day I have been warned that it is not safe even to pause near one of the mosques in the present excited temper of the people. So I merely ventured upon a passing glance at the flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance, upon which half a dozen sullen Arabs, clad each in a thick white burnous, were lounging in the sun.
It was delightful presently to plunge into the dim, cool arcades of the bazaar. I entered by the bazaar of the perfumers, and on both sides of me from the little open shops, similar in style to those of Stamboul, though still smaller in size, there issued scents more pungent than agreeable. The henna leaf, by means of which the Arabs dye their finger and toenails a deep red, seems to be one of the most important articles in this bazaar. It bears a strong resemblance to the green tea leaf. Next to the perfumers came the workers in leather, hundreds of them squatting in their dark little caverns, busily working at the yellow leather slippers universally worn, or smoking a tranquil cigarette, or reading some quaint Arabic MS., probably an invoice or a letter of advice from the interior. None of them tried to attract my attention; no one sought to secure my custom. They looked up at the unwonted sight of my European dress for a single moment, and then generally turned away with something like contempt depicted upon their swarthy faces.
I must say that it takes the conceit out of an Englishman to find himself alone in the midst of such a place as this. He has a “creepy,” uncomfortable feeling concerning the necessity of his being upon his best behaviour if he is to succeed in passing unchallenged. Once somebody gently touched my arm. I looked round. A hideous hag, with face only half hidden by her black yashmak, implored my charity. I gave her a caroub, and did what I could to conceal the shudder of disgust occasioned by her appearance. Presently we came to a little open space, with arched roof and heavy pillars, in the very middle of the bazaar. This was formerly the slave-market. The slave-market of Tunis! It was here, then, that “the grateful Turk” of “Sandford and Merton” discovered his early benefactor languishing in chains and misery. Thousands upon thousands of miserable Christians, captured by Turkish and Moorish pirates, have been exposed here for sale, chained to these pillars in this dismal vaulted square. Men now living in Tunis can remember the time when slaves were sold here; it was, indeed, the father, and the predecessor of the present English Consul, the late Sir Thomas Reade, who succeeded in putting an end to the abominable traffic. I was glad to turn away from the bazaar, and to take a walk with Afrigan through those higher and more aristocratic parts of Tunis which are reserved for the native population, and in which no Christian or European is allowed to dwell.
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.