Friday, October 28th.—We received this morning the news of the entry of the French into the sacred city of Kairwan. Mr. Levy was the first to bring the intelligence, which was speedily confirmed. Nothing, however, was known of it among the inhabitants of Tunis, so that the excitement which may be expected to arise when it becomes known that “the Sacred City” is in the hands of the infidel has not yet been shown. I accompanied B——— this afternoon on one of the most interesting expeditions to be made at present outside the walls of Tunis—that to the Bardo Palace. The Bardo is the St. James’s of Tunis—the official palace, that is to say, where in ordinary times the work of the Government is carried on; where the Bey administers justice in the primitive fashion still adhered to in this quarter of the world, where he holds his audiences, &c. Near to it is his private palace, where he actually lives when at “the Bardo.” As for the Bardo itself, it is a walled town rather than a single building or group of buildings. In front is a wide, open space, in the middle of which a fountain is playing; whilst a row of rusty cannon, placed along the line of a dry ditch, are the ostensible defence of the palace. Driving along the road to the Bardo, which lies between two and three miles from Tunis, we encountered many trains of laden camels, and scores of Arabs cantering along on their mules. There were French patrols too passing up and down the road; for this is the route to Manouba, where the principal French camp and military hospital are situated. Passing through the exterior gateway of the palace—after having shown the pass kindly obtained for me by Mr. Reade—I found myself in a street in which there were coffee shops, shops for the sale of domestic utensils, and even a post-office. All the walls were whitewashed somewhat after the fashion used in English barracks, but everywhere signs of decay and neglect were visible, even the Bey’s flag which fluttered over the principal gateway showing an ugly rent.
After passing through two courtyards, in one of which was a fountain with fine marble columns, we alighted at the foot of the great staircase, which is guarded by lions in marble. At the top of the staircase is a large open verandah, with splendid pillars of marble or porphyry, brought from Carthage; and it was curious to observe on one of these the emblematic serpent, which carried one’s mind back to the days of the Phœnicians. From this verandah entrance is obtained to the central court of the Bardo and to the throne-room, where every Saturday during the winter the Bey is in the habit, of hearing the complaints of his subjects and administering justice in the quaint patriarchal fashion of the East. From the door of this throne-room, every evening from time immemorial it has been customary to proclaim the titles of the Sultan in recognition of his suzerainty as Caliph. Even now, when the French occupy Tunis, and the last shred of Ottoman authority has disappeared, this custom is kept up; and this afternoon, before leaving the palace, I was fortunate enough to witness the quaint and striking ceremony. Before doing so, however, I inspected the palace itself.
The first room to which I was admitted was a small but gorgeously decorated private reception-room. Gold was used lavishly in the adornment of the ceilings and walls; on the floor was stretched a handsome but somewhat faded Axminster carpet, the gift of the Queen of England, and the chairs were all in scarlet and gold. This apartment may be called the business-room of the Bey, that in which he sees his Ministers, the Consuls, and others who have official work to transact with him. Adjoining it was a very pleasant chamber, with a glass window running the whole length of the room, and affording a fine view of the Manouba road, on which the French patrols could be seen passing. On the walls some quaint portraits of the former Sultans of Turkey were hung. Passing up a very ordinary staircase, I was admitted to the great room of the palace, which in size is a really magnificent apartment, in this respect rivalling that ball-room in the palace at Amsterdam which I saw a few weeks ago, and which was described to me as the finest room in Europe. The furniture of this great room is very tawdry, and in spite of its size and the canopied throne which stands at one end, it has a mean and squalid appearance. There are hundreds of fine chandeliers holding dirty wax candles at every angle save the right one. The walls are adorned by life-size portraits of many of the sovereigns of Europe, presented to the Bey. The Queen of England is merely represented by a small engraving, and the Bey is said to be very indignant at her Majesty’s having omitted to send him her portrait in oil. The finest thing in the room is a wonderful piece of Gobelins tapestry—a portrait of Louis Philippe. This is really remarkable for colour, fineness of outline, and general effect. At a short distance it is impossible to distinguish it from an oil painting.
My visit to the palace, where dirt reigned supreme, and signs of decay and neglect were everywhere to be met with, would have been most disappointing if I had not been privileged to see the ceremony of proclaiming the Sultan’s titles of which I have spoken. This was a most curious and interesting performance. A melancholy-looking man in tattered garments, beating a large drum, like himself considerably the worse for wear, crossed the courtyard, and, climbing the lion staircase, took up his position in front of the door of the throne-room. He was followed by a second performer on a kind of flute, from which he drew forth weird and ear-piercing strains. The door was thrown open, and two old heralds in scarlet and gold took their places on either side of it. Then, when the musical performance, which had lasted some considerable time, had ceased, one of the heralds, a venerable Turk, proclaimed in Turkish—and apparently by a series of dismal howls which reverberated through the corridors and courtyards of the palace—the titles and glories of the Sultan. It was a curious and memorable incident for one to witness in the middle of that crumbling building, outside of which the French troops were passing, all unconscious of what was happening within. Does M. Gambetta know, I wonder, that this formal declaration of the Caliph’s suzerainty is still kept up at the Bardo in spite of the treaties and despatches of the ingenuous M. Saint-Hilare?
[Since I wrote the foregoing account of Taib Bey, he has undergone a very remarkable change of circumstances. In January last Taib’s palace was suddenly surrounded by Tunisian cavalry, and the unfortunate Prince, dragged from his bed, was made captive and carried off to the Bardo, where they have a very easy way of getting rid of criminals or of those who happen to be obnoxious to the authorities. In the meantime Taib’s son, or more probably his son-in-law, who acted as master of his household, is reported to have escaped and taken refuge in the country house of Mr. Reade. These events will show my readers how different life in Tunis is from life in Europe. The beautiful villa at the Marsa, where I spent a delightful day last October, is now the sanctuary in which a hunted man has found a refuge under the shelter of the English flag; whilst Taib Bey’s palace stands desolate, and its owner is the occupant of a prison. The real reason for Taib’s arrest is that he refused to give a bribe of large amount which was demanded by a friend of M. Roustan, and that he offered to produce documents proving the criminality of Roustan and his connexion with a notorious adventuress. For these reasons he has now been made prisoner at the instigation of M. Roustan, and is in great danger of losing his life. That he has intrigued against his brother is perfectly true; but it is equally certain that his brother has not himself been willing to order his arrest. The information I have received on high authority from Tunis, since the arrest took place, is to the effect that the Bey was most unwilling to take any proceedings, and that it was M. Roustan who forced this particular measure upon him.]
CHAPTER IX.
ON THE ROAD TO KAIRWAN.
The story of a failure — Friendly warnings — Uxorious Afrigan — A change of diet — I start for Susa — An African thunderstorm — Susa — Troublous times — A busy scene — A miniature railway — The English Vice-Consul — Preparations for camping-out — A new servant — Disappointed — A “Parisian Hotel” in the Gulf of Hammamet — A risky expedition — A faithful follower.
Susa, Tuesday, November 1st.—The story of a failure is not the most pleasant reading in the world; and alas! the history of my attempt to get to Kairwan is the history of a failure. I found myself within less than forty miles of the famous Sacred City, “the Mecca of the West,”—I was nearly there; and I was beaten back by the force of circumstances over which I had no control. Still the account of my journey towards Kairwan is one which contains sufficient elements of interest to be worth repeating here. For some days I had been hanging on at Tunis, waiting for the moment when news should come that the French had reached Kairwan. Until they had done so, it would, of course, have been sheer madness to attempt a journey to the place. On Friday, October 28th, however, the news that the French columns had reached Kairwan and that the tricolour had been hoisted on the tower of the great Mosque reached Tunis, and I immediately prepared to start. It was amusing to listen to the dismal prophecies uttered on all sides regarding the certain fate of those who ventured to tread in the footsteps of the French army. My friend Mohamed in the bazaar shook his head dolefully when he heard I was going, and declared that even he would not be safe in Kairwan. The fanatics of that holy city were so intensely excited against all who had bowed the knee to the infidel, that they were prepared to fall upon any of the Arabs of Tunis, and to slay them for having permitted their venerable city, “the Burnous of the Prophet,” to be defiled by a foreign occupation.