The land of the Bey

by T. Wemyss Reid

An Arab holiday — A state reception — A last look at the Bab el Bahr — The heir apparent — An English sailor’s courage — Italian greed — The Sicilia — Sea-sick Arabs.

Thursday, November 3rd.—This last morning of my stay in Tunis broke in cloudless splendour. The weather, which has been so unsettled for some days, seems suddenly to have improved, and we appear to be entering upon another summer. The heat is intense; and as I laboured in the courtyard of the hotel at the troublesome task of marking the various boxes containing my purchases, the perspiration literally streamed off my face, and again and again I had to sit down exhausted. At half-past nine I sent off Afrigan to Goletta with the whole of my impedimenta, which he is to see safely on board the Sicilia, the Rubattino boat in which I go to Malta. Then I went out for a last walk in Tunis. To-day is one of the great festivals of the Arabs—the Feast of the Bairam. Hitherto the eve of the feast has always been marked by a fair held on a vacant space of ground within the walls, close to the Kasbah. I went up to this place yesterday evening in order to see this festivity, but found to my regret that the fair is not being held this year—another token of the way in which the natives regard the French occupation and the “protection” of M. Roustan. This morning, however, there were evident signs that the day was a holiday. All the Arabs were dressed in their smartest attire, and those of them who possess the Order of the Bey wore it proudly. Bands of music, the strains they poured forth being of the most unmelodious character, were passing through the streets, and a score of fine carriages dashed past the hotel on the way to the Bardo, where the Bey to-day holds a state reception.

I have, by the way, lost a chance of making the acquaintance of this high and mighty potentate. Mr. Reade kindly asked me to accompany him to the Palace, in order that he might present me to his Highness. But I subsequently learned that a dress coat was de rigueur on such occasions: and alas! when I packed my portmanteaus before leaving home I tossed out of them the dress suit which they originally contained, not thinking that I should require it during my stay in Africa. The Consul-General thought that the Bey might stretch a point in my favour, in consideration of my being merely a passing tourist. But his Highness is at this moment in sore trouble and humiliation, and it would have been improper under the circumstances to present oneself in a manner which might be construed into a want of respect for the fallen potentate. So I lost the opportunity of making the acquaintance of the ruler of this curious land. If I could not see the Bey this morning, however, there was nothing to prevent my seeing his people. This Feast of the Bairam is the nearest approach to our English Christmas which the Arabs know. It is a festival of friendship and goodwill. Accordingly, every Arab who meets an acquaintance in the streets this morning stops and gives him a kiss of brotherly love. It was curious indeed to see these solemn, bearded old gentlemen engaged in this operation. Not a word was spoken either by the kisser or the kissed: but hands were touched, and the lips of the one pressed to the cheek of the other. I noticed, however, that where there was a great social distance between the two, as in the case of my friend General Ben Ayad and one of the ordinary Moors of the town, it was only the rich man’s hand, and not his cheek, that was kissed. These good Tunisians are not the only people in the world, however, who keep up forms and ceremonies long after the life has gone out of them.

For the last time I took my stand on the steps of the Grand Hotel, and surveyed that wonderful panorama which is for ever being displayed in the Marina. Over the way was the coffee-house of the colonnade where, under the shade of the arches, I have drunk so many glasses of lemonade and vermouth. It was crowded to-day with the usual throng of French officers—all of them wearing full uniform in honour of the Bairam—and special correspondents for the Paris Press, each fingering the red rosette in his button-hole with that air of intense satisfaction which only a decorated Frenchman can assume. To my right, beyond the palm-trees in the little garden, rose the fine Moorish gateway which gives admission to the square of the Consulate. To-day, as on all days, it appeared the centre of the life of Tunis. A hundred vendors of cakes, sweetmeats, fruits, matches, trinkets, were pushing hither and thither, waving their feather brushes to drive away the clouds of flies, and filling the air with a clamour which reminded one of Whitechapel on a Saturday evening. The drivers of mules and camels were raising hoarse cries of warning as the animals in their charge unceremoniously pushed their way through the throng: squatting at the feet of the pillars of the gateway were hideous figures veiled in black yashmaks. They might be the fairest of virgins, or the ugliest and vilest of crones; it was all one to the spectator who saw them, sitting in patience, beside the loaves of bread which it is their business to sell. Half-a-dozen of the city guards passed under the gate in Indian file, their rusty muskets carried at all possible angles; their bared feet and ragged raiment proving to what straits the national exchequer has been reduced. Then a couple of French gens-d’armes emerged from the throng, neat, clean and well dressed, with their hands on the butts of their revolvers. The smiling ruddy face of my friend B———, who seems tall of stature even in this land peopled by the sons of Anak, showed itself above the white and blue turbans, as he strode towards me, waving aloft the latest message from Kairwan, and followed by a knot of children, Jews and Arabs, all alike bent upon extracting a caroub from his pocket. Turning from this scene of bustle and excitement, I saw the broad street immediately in front of the hotel filled by troops of Moors of the better class, patrolling up and down in their brilliant robes, deeply engaged in conversation with each other; and presently an open landau dashed past, and I recognized the somewhat insignificant features and figure of M. Roustan, the Mephistopheles of Tunis, who was returning from his formal visit to the Bardo. And over all this brilliant varied scene there was the intensely blue and cloudless sky of Africa. It was hard to tear oneself away from the spot. As I said at the outset of my narrative, the eye at least may always enjoy a perpetual feast in Tunis. My ideas of the picturesque were not small before I came here; and I had seen something of the East and of Eastern life before ever I set foot on African soil. But what I have seen in Tunis has given me altogether new ideas of the really picturesque. How I have longed for the faculty of the artist, so that I might convey some faint idea to those at a distance of the glories and wonders of this place—the glories and wonders of the sky, of the vegetation, of the hills, of the cities, of the people. Poor indeed are words, even at the best, to convey any real idea of natural scenery or of unfamiliar forms; and I believe that even the author of the “Princess of Thule” would find himself baffled in the attempt to bring home to readers in England that infinite variety of colour and shape, that endless succession of picturesque groups and still more picturesque interiors by which the eye is greeted on every side in Tunis. If I could but bring before the mind’s eye of my reader, I will not say the view from the Grand Hotel of which I have been speaking, but a correct and vivid idea of the inside of a single Arab coffee-shop, I should feel that I had not written altogether in vain.

But the moment of departure had arrived, and B——— reminded me that even in Africa trains started with tolerable punctuality. So I said good-bye to the waiters of the Grand Hotel, and presently found myself in the train bound for Goletta. There was in the train with me the eldest nephew of the Bey, and the heir-expectant to his throne. As he stood on the little gangway outside the carriage in the Tunis station, most of the Arabs as they passed him stopped to kiss his hand or the skirt of his frock-coat. He is a rather good-looking young man, with a face not quite so sensual as those of most of the Moors of the upper classes are. There was, however, no sign of strength of will or vigour in his countenance, nor anything to make one hope that under his sway Tunis would be happier than it has been under the rule of his uncle. In a third-class carriage adjoining that in which the young Prince rode, I recognized the business man of the unlucky Taib Bey. When he saw me he came out upon the gangway, and as the train was whirled onwards towards Goletta he shouted to me in French an energetic appeal on behalf of his master, “An honest man, monsieur! an intelligent man! The only man who can save Tunis! Tell the English all that, I beg of you.” If all Taib’s servants are as faithful and zealous as this Arab is, he is not after all so unlucky as he might seem to be.

There was yet another acquaintance of mine in the train. This was once more the Captain of the Aristides. He had a wonderful tale to tell of the pluck of the third mate of that unfortunate vessel. This man, whose name, I am sorry to say, I cannot give, was sent by sea to Bizerta last week in order to look after the wreck. Having fulfilled his duty there, he was anxious to return to Goletta as quickly as possible, but found that no steamer would call off the port for several days. Thereupon, with the foolhardy valour of an English tar, he set off by land! Seeing that the whole country in that direction is swarming with insurgent Arabs, and that hitherto they have murdered without remorse every single Christian who has fallen into their hands, the risks of such a journey can be well understood. Nevertheless the man, who was accompanied by a native guide, got through in safety. Perhaps this was due in part to the fact that the poor fellow had no money in his possession, as, like the rest of the crew of the Aristides, he is living at present on the somewhat meagre allowance provided for “distressed British seamen” by the Vice-Consul. It appears that he was stopped six times between Bizerta and Tunis by parties of armed Arabs. On each occasion the first order given to him was to turn out his pockets. It may be imagined how much the pockets contained after the last of these operations! Then when the robbers had satisfied themselves that there was nothing to be got from their victim, they invariably put one question to his guide—“Is he a Frenchman?” The answer was, of course, in the negative. What the poor creature’s fate would have been if it had been otherwise, could be plainly guessed by himself, as the Arabs drew their long broad-bladed swords each time that they made this inquiry, and were evidently prepared to cut him into pieces without delay if he proved to be a fellow-countryman of M. Roustan. Even as it was, and when it had been made known that he was an Englishman, there were long consultations and sometimes warm disputes before he was allowed to pass. Not many men living have enjoyed (!) such a journey as that was; but the hero of the adventure looked perfectly unconcerned when I saw him at Goletta, and was evidently quite unconscious of the fact that he had performed an extraordinary feat. His chief subject of conversation was, “the greediness of them ’ere h’Arabs, sir. Why bless you, they didn’t leave me as much as a piece of baccy after they’d turned me over the first time.”

It was after reaching Goletta that I discovered that there is even greater greed than that of the Arabs. I had taken my passage to Malta by the Rubattino boat Sicilia on the previous day, and for the short trip of twenty-one hours had paid the respectable sum of forty-five francs. I now learned to my disgust that even this exorbitant fare does not include food, which must be paid for extra! With not a little regret I stepped off the shore at Goletta, and found myself once more on board one of the broad-beamed port boats. We were a motley company. Steamers were also starting at the same time as the Sicilia for Bone and Marseilles, and for Susa and Tripoli. So we had on board with us an unkempt and not particularly clean Frenchwoman, who was somewhat disconsolately making her way back to her native land, not having found Tunis, so far as she herself was concerned, quite the field of promise that she had been led to believe it was; a smart-looking commercial traveller bound for Marseilles; half a dozen Arabs going down the Gulf of Hammamet laden with merchandise wrapped in filthy carpets; a couple of Maltese bound for their island home, and carrying with them some huge cages filled with canaries; a very venerable-looking Jew, who was creeping back to Sfax to see what was left of his property after the sack of the place by the French; and one or two others. Afrigan seemed to know everybody in the boat, and kept up a lively conversation with all of them, whilst he maintained at the same time a running description of the various personages on board for my benefit.

We first went to the steamer for Susa, and here fully half an hour was spent in a terrific contest between the boatmen on the one hand and the Arabs and Jews on the other as to the amount to be paid for the passage from the shore. Such shrieking, such gestures, such bursts of guttural passion, were surely never heard or seen before outside of Bedlam! The boatmen had followed the defaulting passengers on deck, and were pursuing them all over the steamer, making the air ring with their curses and lamentations. After half an hour of this performance I became impatient, and having won over the two Maltese to my side, I cast loose the rope by which we were fastened to the ladder of the steamer, and proposed that we should row ourselves to the Sicilia. Then indeed there was an exhibition on board the Susa boat! When the ruffianly boatmen, who had treated all our expostulations with contempt, saw that we had mutinied and were going off without them, they were for a moment silent with horror: only for a moment, however; for no sooner had they realized the situation than they raised a yell which would have done credit to the lungs of a band of Indians on the war-path. Running like cats along the deck of the steamer, they climbed into the chains at the bow, and swung themselves dexterously into the boat as it passed. There were six of them, and they were all big fellows, so I thought it prudent not to apply my stick to their shoulders; and satisfied with having compelled them to resume their journey, I willingly gave up my oar to the ringleader, a coal-black negro from the Soudan.

The Sicilia is a wretched little boat of some five or six hundred tons, and my first glance at it showed me how greatly inferior it was to the noble French steamers, in which I had hitherto been sailing. Nobody on board spoke a word of either French or English; and from the captain downwards the officers seemed a slovenly and not over clean set of fellows. They had, however, that English look about them which often distinguishes Italian sailors; and if in their want of politeness they furnished a great contrast to the officers of the Ville de Naples and Charles Quint, they were, at least so far as appearances went, bluff, good-natured men. I said good-bye to Afrigan—a final good-bye this time—with a somewhat heavy heart; for I have travelled far enough in the journey of life to have learned the value of honesty, faithfulness, kindliness, and personal devotion—and all these qualities I had found in this worthy fellow. “Won’t you come as far as Malta with me, Afrigan, just for a change?” The tears had been standing in his eyes for some minutes. He had not been saying much about our separation, but he had been deeply engaged in enlightening the officers of the Sicilia as to the importance of the passenger whom they were now privileged to carry, and had given me a personal character so flattering that I was thankful that none of my friends at home could hear it. It was his last and most anxious wish that I should be comfortable and well cared for, even after his own connexion with me had ceased. Now, however, when I uttered these words, a rueful smile broke over his face. “Dear sir,” he said, “you see, I have a wife, and she—” “Yes, yes, Afrigan; I’ve heard that before. Well, good-bye, and God bless you!” “Good-bye, sir; and if ever you come to Tunis again you will find me waiting for you. There is no gentleman I would serve sooner than yourself.” And then he ran down the ladder, and waving his hand, and shouting his last words of farewell and thanks, he presently faded away into the glowing distance on the sunlit waters.

The afternoon was lovely, and my last look at Tunis and the beautiful gulf was delightful. There were the white houses of Goletta, with the Bey’s curious water-palace, built on piles, standing out boldly from the others. It is here that for years he has led his somewhat lonely life, in the company of his prime favourite Mustapha, the barber’s boy, who by stages of truly Oriental advancement rose, before he was thirty years of age, to the chief position in the Regency. It is here also that he has been living, sad and sick and solitary, since the claws of the French eagle were plunged into the heart of Tunis, and his beloved Mustapha was torn from him and sent into exile. One cannot but feel sorry for this fallen ruler. Great faults, grave vices, he undoubtedly has; but he has always meant well by his country, and has done his best for her, according to his lights. He has been kindly in his judgments, administering justice so far as he could with honesty and straightforwardness, and shrinking from the resort to the death-penalty as much as the Emperor of Germany himself does. Above all, he has been blameless in his conduct towards the French, and yet it is the French by whom he has now been attacked and ruined. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I looked on that plain white building, flooded with the afternoon sunshine, against which the golden waves of the gulf were now gently lapping. It is not always easy to realize the personal tragedies which are involved in the great political movements of the world—the private woes which must ever accompany the development of a State policy. But nobody can have been in Tunis during the last three months without being able to realize all this.