This visit to the Jewellers’ Bazaar, where the business is chiefly carried on by Jews, reminds me of one of the most interesting incidents of my stay in Tunis—the visit I paid in the company of Mr. Levy to the Jews’ quarter of the city. It was one Saturday afternoon when Mr. Levy invited me to accompany him on a walk through the wonderful maze of narrow streets in which the Jews live. Saturday had, of course, been selected because it is the day on which the Jews are in the habit of showing themselves most freely, and also the day upon which the women put on their most gorgeous dresses. During the other days of the week the short silk chemise or jacket and cotton tights form the principal articles of their attire. On the Sabbath, however, instead of the cotton tights being worn, their shapely limbs are encased in glittering breeches, richly adorned with gold and silver embroidery; the silk jackets are of the gayest colours, and a quaint conical cap is worn on the back of the head—something after the style of the head-dress of Englishwomen in the days of the Plantagenets. The young men, too, wear on Saturday their newest and smartest burnouses, white, blue, and a pale olive green being their favourite colours. It is easy to conceive that a crowd of men and women thus attired wear a strange appearance in the eyes of the Europeans. Not a black coat or an ordinary bonnet is to be seen in such a crowd, but everywhere the most brilliant hues and the most graceful forms of drapery are mingled in a confused mass, the component parts of which it is almost impossible for the eye to distinguish. It was a wonderful network of narrow streets through which Mr. Levy led me. Few were more than five feet wide, many of them being still narrower; and everywhere the architecture showed that the Jew’s house in Tunis is of necessity his fortress also. Every window was heavily barred, the grating generally being of the curious curved shape which is one of the distinguishing features of street scenery in the Regency. The doors of stout oak were studded with heavy iron bolts, and secured by ponderous locks and bars. As in other parts of Tunis, the streets often run under a kind of tunnel, the houses being built over them for a considerable distance. In these places it was necessary to tread very carefully, for the thoroughfare was wrapped in darkness, and the pavement was always atrociously bad.
On this particular Sabbath all the doors of the houses seemed to be thrown open, and through them one caught glimpses of cool airy courtyards, where the children were playing, and the women in their quaint and—according to European notions—indecent attire, were gossiping together; the men of each particular family being squatted apart, solemnly smoking, or wagging their beards in grave conversation. Hundreds of young men and women—the faces of both sexes being strikingly beautiful—were promenading up and down the narrow winding lanes, but there was no love-making visible, and no intermingling of the sexes such as we are accustomed to in Europe. It is not the fashion here for a pair of lovers, even of the humblest class, to “walk out” together. Yet, even in Tunis, and in this dark and crowded ghetto, love asserts its rights, and women are true to their inborn nature. From a hundred grated windows bright black eyes flashed down upon me as I walked through the gloomy labyrinth of filthy lanes, and many faces dusky of hue yet beautiful of feature were to be seen; and once, as I passed one of the jealously barred windows, I noticed that the lattice was open, and I heard a musical “Bon soir! monsieur!” fall upon my ears like a benediction.
It was under Mr. Levy’s guidance that on one evening during my stay in Tunis I had the pleasure of enjoying an experience that I may well call unique—a real Arabian Night’s Entertainment. I had met at the house of Mr. Reade a Tunisian gentleman of high family and enormous wealth, General Ben Ayad by name. This gentleman is justly regarded as being the finest specimen of the Moorish aristocracy now living in Tunis. Strange to say, he is an English subject by birth; his grandfather having some fifty years ago got himself enrolled as a subject of the King of England in order the better to secure his property from the rapacity of the French, who, even at that time, had begun to cast covetous eyes upon Tunis. The possessor not only of splendid estates in the country, but of many fine palaces in and about Tunis, General Ben Ayad takes pleasure in showing hospitality to all English visitors to the Regency. He made many apologies to me for being unable to offer me any sport, explaining that the disturbed state of the country prevented his visiting his sporting estates. Learning, however, that I had not seen one of the characteristic native dances, he kindly sent me an invitation to an entertainment at his house, which was got up entirely in my honour. Mr. Levy acted as my conductor, and I was accompanied by two of my English friends resident in the Regency. The hour fixed for our arrival was half-past seven in the evening, and shortly before that time we started from the hotel. A walk of twenty minutes through the most wonderful network of narrow lanes with blank, whitewashed walls on either side, here and there diversified by a door opening into a dismal-looking vaulted apartment, or a long, low archway spanning the path, brought us at last to a little courtyard surrounded by buildings apparently of the utmost squalor. All was dark and silent, and not a creature was to be met with. Levy pushed open a door, and cautiously sounding the pavement with his iron-shod staff, led the way up a large staircase with oaken balustrade, marble steps, and tiled walls. Still no one appeared. A solitary oil-lamp cast a flickering light over the staircase, but we seemed to have entered a deserted house.
Suddenly a door was thrown open, and, as if by magic, the scene changed. We saw before us a vast and brilliantly lighted apartment, the extreme length of which could not have been less than sixty feet, nor its breadth less than forty. Brilliantly illuminated both by gas jets and countless candles, its richly tiled walls and gaily painted ceiling fairly glittered with light. It was furnished with huge looking-glasses, set in swinging frames like those used by ladies in their dressing-rooms, and wardrobes and cabinets of large size. The woodwork of all these was of the most brilliant vermilion red, lavishly picked out with gold, and the general effect of this barbaric splendour was so grand that I was filled with surprise as I found myself in this noble hall, and felt fairly dazzled by the magnificence of the scene. Couches and settees in glowing colours, besides many chairs, small tables, &c., were scattered about the floor of the apartment, and on the walls were hung many fine old engravings, including, strange to say, a portrait of the late Pope—a rather curious object to find in the house of a Mahometan. Ben Ayad, his eldest son, and several relatives and domestics, were awaiting us in this apartment, and the tall and stately Arab general gave me the warmest of welcomes. He apologized at the same time for not being able to entertain me properly. His household, it seemed, was still at his country mansion at Sidi bou Said, and in consequence he could only invite me to sup with him en garçon. With this explanation he pointed smilingly to a great round table, on which was laid out a repast that promised well for the satisfaction of our creature comforts. Then he led me into a second drawing-room, an apartment still more beautiful than the first.
This room was forty feet square. On all sides of it were doors and windows with rich hangings; splendid couches and chairs in crimson and gold were placed round it, except on one side, where there was an enormous settee, at least twenty-five feet in length. On marble console tables stood valuable vases of Sèvres, and two beautiful ormolu clocks, the gift of Louis Philippe to Ben Ayad’s grandfather. But the finest feature of this room was the lovely arabesque ceiling—one of the most perfect specimens of Moorish decoration I ever saw. How it would have gladdened the heart of Owen Jones! An enormous crystal chandelier was pendant from this ceiling, but it was not used, the room being lighted by gas and oil lamps. I confess that for a time I was completely bewildered by the sudden change from the squalor and darkness of the streets outside to the brilliant interior in which I now found myself.
After I had talked a little time with Ben Ayed, and had partaken of coffee, served in beautiful silver holders by servants in graceful Arab dress, the musicians and dancers who were to entertain us entered. These were Jews and Jewesses—in their national costume. They squatted down on cushions arranged on the floor, and after being supplied with refreshments presently began to play. Their instruments were a violin, a mandolin, a tambourine, and a tabouka, or native drum, the barrel of which is made of earthenware, and which is struck with the points of the fingers. They played a long, plaintive Arab melody, quaint and even weird, and strikingly unlike anything I have heard before, except in Turkey and from the gipsies in Roumania. This music, which was a sort of prelude to the entertainment, having ceased, we went to dinner. It was a really sumptuous repast, nearly all the dishes, however, being Arab. We began with delicious couscousoo; then came, as a relish, potarga, the dried roe of the red mullet. This delicacy, which is made at Bizerta, bears some resemblance to caviare, though without the oiliness of that article. Olives, radishes, &c., were also eaten with this course. Next another Arab dish was served, which, however, was not quite so palatable—it consisted of hot and rather greasy fritters, enclosing meat and eggs; cold chicken served with a kind of egg paste, very light and dainty; excellent roast mutton; foie gras en aspic, and a most wonderful assortment of pastry and sweets completed this part of the repast. I ought to say that the sweets and pastry were of Arab not Italian cookery, and were most deliciously flavoured with pistachio. Melons, pomegranates, and other exquisite fruits were served after the meal, which was accompanied by capital Bordeaux, very fine Malaga, and excellent champagne, ice being plentifully supplied with the wine. We all drank to each other, to the prosperity of Tunis, &c., and many very polite speeches were made by the host and the rest of us. Returning to the drawing-room at the close of this meal, we listened to a song given by all the musicians and dancers. No words can convey any idea of the peculiar melody, or rather, to my uncultivated ears, want of melody, which characterized this production. It was melancholy in the extreme,—a long wail, accompanied by sudden bursts of discord. It was, however, said to be the favourite love-song of Tunis.
The youngest and best-looking of the dancers having left the room for a few minutes, reappeared in Greek costume. She clapped her hands loudly to keep time to the music and began to dance, the figure bearing some resemblance to the Highland Fling, the motions being grotesque rather than graceful. Sometimes she hopped round the room on one leg, sometimes she jumped like a frog; at times she bounded from the floor, waving gay silken scarfs above her head. Then the peculiar part of the dance began—and here I must stay my pen. Though there was nothing coarse in the performance, the woman herself being decently clad, no one could mistake the indelicacy of the motif. The long dance at an end, coffee, cigars, and liqueurs were served to us by the retinue of servants. Ben Ayad had sent to procure some of the best Arab dancers to add to our amusement; but his retainers had returned unsuccessful. They had procured the women, it appeared; but when it was found that they were to be asked to dance before a Christian, their neighbours rose in a mass, stoned the unfortunate domestics, and rescued the women! It was not until long after midnight that I left the hospitable roof of my Arab friend, five of his servants escorting me through the streets with lanterns and arms to the door of my hotel.
CHAPTER XII.
GOOD-BYE TO GOLETTA.