  Through darkness broken by hardly a gleam of light, and silence stirred by no sound but the throbbing of an overworked engine, in much weariness and at night, Tunis is reached at last with a suddenness which almost startles the traveller. The hours that passed so quickly in the morning, grow in length with the day, and after sundown every minute counts, and the hours in the dimly lighted carriages seem interminable; for travel in this part of North Africa is tedious and uncomfortable to a degree only known in Spain and perhaps sometimes in Italy. Consequently the first impression of Tunis as one enters it by train is neither artistic nor Oriental, but rather a mingling of bustle and glare with much noise, followed by a rattling drive over paved streets, and the comforting assurance of rest. The arrival by sea has much the same disadvantages, for the steamer has a way of getting in after nightfall, so that the new-comer drives from the quay, along brightly lighted streets, side by side with an electric tram. This may Tunis is still the “white city”—still also, in more senses than one, the “odoriferous bride” of the Arab writers. The other name of El Hadhera, the green, hardly seems so suitable from this point, for at an early hour the whiteness is more noticeable. The sunlight falls on the houses at an angle that suggests pre-arrangement, a scheme without a shadow. This gives a look of unreality, a curious lack of substance. If the actual lines were finer the effect would be that of a fairy city built of pure light, but as it is now, a later moment is more beautiful, when the shadows creep across the white walls and give value to the graceful forms of the minarets. All this pearly whiteness is full of colour, though in the ordinary sense of the word there is little or none. What there is, however, is green, as becomes a Moslem stronghold. Far below, as it seems looking down from the roof, lies a garden full of orange trees and one feathery palm. This hardly comes into the picture, but a few other trees do, and one or two lonely palms, and the colour of the foliage is repeated in the wondrous green of some of the domes. The minarets and two or three of the mosques have pointed roofs of green tiles, and green also predominates in the tiles used for decoration; so that even in the heart of the city there is more than a mere suggestion of green. TUNIS The walls and roofs rise terrace-like one above the other to the Casbah, which, as usual, is built on the highest point—blank walls mostly, with few windows (often mere holes), though occasionally a balcony with a tiled roof, shading a carved window-frame inlaid with bright tiles, gives a hint of taste or wealth. All these straight lines and plain surfaces are redeemed from monotony by the curves of domes and the height and variety of form shown in the minarets. The small fluted domes of the great mosque are dazzlingly white; the minaret is square, with delicate Moorish tracery in a yellowish stone; the upper story of marble is set with coloured tiles, and with an open gallery of horseshoe arches. The minarets of Sidi Ben Ziad and Sidi Ben Arous are slender, octagonal towers of the same warm-hued stone, surmounted by turrets with jutting balconies quaintly roofed with green tiles, from which the muezzin sings the call to prayer. Much older, but not so imposing, is the square minaret of the mosque of the Casbah, said to date from A.D. 1232. Such is Tunis, a compact mass of white buildings, with no open spaces and no streets visible. So old, and yet with such a continuous history, that although founded before either Utica or Carthage, it is still known by its original name. This name of Tunis is in Punic characters TanaÏs, and is identical with the name of the Persian Venus. Probably the city was The city shared in the prosperity and also the evil days of Carthage and Utica, and, as a Roman province, endured all the changes in the life of Rome down to the fall of the Empire in Rome and Constantinople. When the Vandals were cast out of Europe in A.D. 430, they devastated the north coast of Africa till they in their turn were driven by the Greeks beyond the mountains of the Atlas. Next, the Arab invaders swept over the land like a torrent, and in A.D. 644-648 took possession of Tunisia, which was thenceforward governed by Emirs appointed by the Khalifs. The later history of Tunis, like that of Algiers, tells of a period of calm and culture, followed, after the expulsion of the Moors from Spain under the Christian kings, by a long chronicle of fighting and piracy; for thus these fugitive Moors vented their rage and avenged their wrongs on all seafaring people, merely because they were Christians. Slavery was carried on to the same terrible extent, for in 1535 no fewer than 20,000 Christian slaves escaped from the Casbah to open the city gates to Charles V. Amongst other noted captives St. Vincent de Paul spent two years here in slavery, and in consequence devoted his after life to helping prisoners and galley slaves. An old house still exists with a fine courtyard, called even now the house of the Christian, which is said to have been built by a slave, who was killed by his owner as soon as the work was complete. The mosque of Sidi Mahrez, with its many domes, is supposed to have been the design of a French architect captured by the Corsairs. A great part of the old walls and many of the gates still remain, and though modern buildings are closing round and gradually replacing the Moorish dwellings in the outlying quarters of Bab Djazira and Bab Souika, yet, within the magic circle, Oriental style, manners, and customs hold their own. This is one of the many ways in which the French have gained experience in Algeria and profited by it in Tunisia. The old cities are left intact, instead of being destroyed to make way for new boulevards, and the French quarter, its public buildings, theatre, shops and restaurants, grow up outside the walls. The two races dwell apart, but both flourish together. Street names, lighting, and cleaning have been introduced, and the old town itself is incredibly clean for an Eastern city—cleaner by far than many cities of France and Italy. Though trams encircle the city and run through the suburbs, all proposals to disfigure the central quarter, the Medina, have met with a stern refusal. To walk through its gates is to step into another world—a The old water-gate, the Porte de France, a simple horse-shoe arch, opens into a great hive. There, in a little open space, a swarming crowd, busy and noisy as bees, pushes towards the narrow streets which mount to the bazaars. At first East and West mingle. Then, step by step, the half-French, half-Levantine element gives place to the real East. “Bara Balek” (“Take care”) is the continual cry; and one must be watchful, or pay the penalty. It is true that wheeled traffic almost ceases, for the few carts generally only succeed in blocking the way, and must take hours to reach their destination. But strings of tiny donkeys, hardly larger than dogs, do all the work, helped occasionally by camels, which shove through the throng regardless of consequences. Then there are the porters. At first it is startling to see wardrobes, beds, or huge cases walking apparently on their own feet; but after a time the oddest loads are taken as a matter of course, a part of the universal strangeness of things. Yet it is wonderful to see these men in their characteristic dress, with bare arms and legs, and scarlet kerchief by way of turban, coolly walk off with a heavy weight that would take two men to lift at home. If it is so easy to bear a burden on the back by means of a rope passed round the forehead, why has not this simple method been adopted in the West? Thus, slowly, and in stately fashion, with all due regard for each other’s dignity, the crowd presses onwards to the heart of the city, the great Souks. SOUK DES ÉTOFFES, TUNIS There are no such Souks in all the near East. In Constantinople the men have discarded their turbans and flowing robes, and the vaulted halls though fine in form are cold and poor in colour. The bazaars of Cairo are quaintly informal, but lack architectural style, though the people are picturesque enough. In Damascus the buildings are modern, and look outside like railway stations with arched roofs, though within is seen the true and perfect life of the East, so unspoiled that the passing stranger feels his European clothes a positive eyesore, and knows that it is barely possible that the picture will be marred for him by any other intruder. Here the long vaulted halls, lighted only by rays of sunshine falling through square holes in the roof, are as fine as in Constantinople, and, in addition, are full of life and colour. The crowd is even more picturesque than in Damascus,—though here, alas! it is twice as difficult to dodge European figures,—whilst Cairo itself cannot show more quaint corners. Each of the trades has its own Souk, and each Souk its peculiar character. Some only contain goods for sale, but most of them are workshops as well—a far more interesting arrangement. Bewildering, yet enchanting—a pageant of pure colour, where dusky twilight holds its restful sway, harmonising the tints, veiling the forms, filling the dark recesses with mystery. Hour after hour, day after day, may be spent threading the mazes, watching and trying to decipher the open book that seems so full of ideas, some half-remembered, others wholly new, but all subtle and elusive, so different The first day it seems impossible to think of finding one’s way alone through this intricate network, but gradually the main lines become clear, and then it is easy enough to wander in and out at will, with the certainty that confusion, or even total loss of bearings, means nothing worse than another turn or two, and then the sight of some well-known landmark. Such a landmark is the Souk des Etoffes, very formal, absolutely straight, but decidedly the most distinguished of all. A low archway of horse-shoe form opens into a hall with three aisles, of which the centre forms the actual street, and the two others the side walks. Short and sturdy pillars, roughly but effectively painted in pure scarlet and green, support the arched roof. Rows of square cells on either side, dark yet glowing with colour, are packed with piles of silk and embroideries of every tone and texture, overflowing the narrow space within. They are hung on the walls and from the pillars in well-arranged disorder. Persian and Kairouan carpets deck the walls with rich, soft hues, old brass lamps from the mosques, of fine damascene work, stand side by side with inlaid furniture, odd-shaped mother-of-pearl caskets, weapons, and other treasures, all placed by a master hand so as to tempt customers to the utmost. In each tiny shop the owner sits dreaming over a cigarette, or entertains a friend or possible purchaser with coffee. In one corner, bright Watchful touts with keen eyes lie in wait for the unwary, whom they inveigle into the shops, whilst in a high-handed fashion they order about the real owner, who meekly obeys their orders. They pretend to bargain, but really raise the prices, which are preposterous even for the East, and of course pocket a large percentage themselves. However, they are very quick, and never forget a face, so that it is only the casual visitor who suffers. After a day or two one is free of the bazaar, and begins to have many kindly acquaintances. Bargaining is the game of the place, and a most amusing game it is to play. It demands infinite patience, much diplomacy, some instinct for fun, and, above all, either a real or a well-feigned indifference. The shopkeeper, impassive and smiling, has no hesitation in announcing that he will be ruined and his throat cut if he sells at such low prices. He is sure that anyone so exceedingly tall must be also extremely rich, or he tells you that your face speaks of riches. This was said to a very thin woman. But if the would-be customer answers in the same strain, the prices will descend by leaps and bounds, and on the conclusion of the bargain the ruined man implores his victims to come again to-morrow: “For, see, I have given it to The Arabs declare that under the old rÉgime business in the Souks was better regulated, and every trade had its own Sheikh, who ruled it with a rod of iron. He fixed the prices, and woe to the man who charged less or more, for when convicted the rod descended, and he was beaten then and there. The value of fruit, meat, and vegetables, etc., was announced by a crier at night, and next day each shop was bound to obey the order. This sounds somewhat tyrannical, but they liked it. SOUK EL ATTARIN, TUNIS The Souk el Attarin, or scent bazaar, is the aristocratic quarter, and the owners of these square cupboards, with huge painted shutters, are, it is said, nobles, the descendants of the Corsair chiefs, and often very rich; but, as good Moslems, they do not care to meet in each other’s houses, for that would upset their harems. Clubs do not exist, but in the bazaars all the news is to be heard and social life is to be found. So they spend their days sitting calm and imperturbable each in his niche, to which they mount with the assistance of a cord suspended from the ceiling. Enormous candles, gilded and fantastically coloured, hang like a curtain round them. In the mysterious recesses are jars and bottles, containing the priceless attar of roses, essence of jasmine, geranium, or amber, and countless other sweet scents. The whole bazaar is full of perfume, making it a pleasant place to tarry in. On the ground are baskets and sacks filled with dried leaves, or piled with green powder, both preparations of henna. Outside each shop stands a chair or two, on which grave elders rest and talk. Younger men stroll about, true types of Moors, their handsome, smooth faces equally calm. They are great dandies, and wear robes of soft cloth and silk of most delicate tints. On festivals they place a flower coquettishly between their turbans and their ears, which gives a curious touch of the feminine to their appearance. Some also carry a rose or carnation in their hands “to live up to” in true Æsthetic style. No one bothers about business: they are too dignified for that. Only once did anyone ask us to buy, and when we said “another day,” we were adopted as friends, to be greeted placidly and talked to occasionally, and we found ourselves remembered and on the same footing another year. The Souk el Blagdia, or the shoe bazaar, is quite different. The street is narrow, there are no gay pillars, the roof is of wood, the shops are a trifle larger, and hold one or two men who are ceaselessly at work. They make the soft yellow and red slippers which the Arabs wear, and keep on so easily, though The Souk des Femmes, like many others, is a white tunnel lined with shops. It is very crowded in the early morning, and is almost the only place where many women are seen together. Some sit on the ground and sell their own handiwork, others are busy bargaining for veils and embroideries. All are of the poorer class and heavily veiled, if two strips of black crÉpon covering the face like a mould, with half an inch gap between them for the eyes, can be called a veil. It is quite hideous, and, as the rest of the dress is white, makes them look like negresses. SOUK EL TROUK, TUNIS One bazaar is full of terrible compounds of dates and figs, dried fruit and grain. Another small street is given up to the sieve-makers, who weave their webs at looms which look like strange musical instruments. In many places baskets and mats are made. Silk weaving and the making of belts and scarves are other flourishing industries, and to stand and watch the long, slim fingers moving quickly at the old-world looms is a sight that one never tires of watching. Hands and feet come into play together at the turners and the cabinet-makers in a long street of many arches. Deft fingers and delicate handling are seen also at the copper-workers. In fact, at every turn there is something strange or beautiful, and at the least entirely different to anything we do, or see at home. The harness-makers rival the tailors in the brilliance of their goods. Gorgeous saddles there are, with red and gold and silver decorations, marvellous saddle-bags also, gay with stripes and tassels. They sell huge hats, at least a yard in diameter, with narrow crowns a foot high, ornamented with quaintly-cut leather and bright balls of wool. They make cushions and odd-shaped pouches and money-bags, and leather amulets to carry the charms without which no one can live, and round mirrors for the women. Their bazaar is also noted for the tomb of a Marabout, a gaudily painted sarcophagus which almost blocks up the narrow gangway. After this the Souk where the lawyers sit waiting for business, and now and then writing a few letters which earnest men dictate to them, seems tame, and the libraries are quiet too; but another turn lands you amongst truly magnificent boxes painted and inlaid. So the show goes on, at once grave and gay, from year’s end to year’s end, always the same, as it has always been, and so may it long continue. All the more important Souks have thick roofs, and consequently keep cool in the hottest weather, so that even when the thermometer stands at 100° in the shade, the bazaars seem quite fresh, almost chilly at first, as one steps into the dark out of the sunshine. Some of the small bazaars, however, in the poorer quarters are only protected by shutters, blinds, awnings, rags, or anything that will keep the sun away. How strange this sounds to us! Such a street is the Souk el Belat, a name which is said to mean “a paved street”—hardly a distinctive title in a town where all the streets are paved. The shops are queer little places, some full of strange, unknown commodities, and others full of food of various sorts, which the owners have to protect by flicking it with fans or whisks, as the flies are so troublesome. The beauty of this street lies in its windows, which are screened with ornamental wrought ironwork. SOUK EL BELAT, TUNIS Another constant amusement is to watch the informal sales by auction. Men walk up and down laden with various goods and chattels, embroideries, or lengths of silk, shouting a price as they move along. The bystanders occasionally make a bid, or nod, and in time a bargain is made. Furniture and carpets are sold in an open space at the end of the Souk of the tailors, just under the windows of the Bey’s Palace. The auctioneer usually sits on the object, if it is big enough, and the bidding goes on in leisurely fashion, but with a deafening noise, for hours together. It is a grand place for seeing life, for crowds always collect, especially on the days when the Bey comes to Tunis, and they stand and watch him as he sits in a gilt chair near a window, resting after his morning’s work. He has a decided advantage over his subjects, as they cannot see him properly, whereas he has a series of peeping-holes in all his principal rooms, and can see and hear all that goes on in the Souk, without any one guessing at his presence. A gem of a mosque, that of Sidi Ben Ziad, stands in this street, catching the sunlight on the characteristic black and white marble faÇade, on the splendid green tiles of the roof, and on the most beautiful minaret in Tunis. When the call to prayer is heard at mid-day echoing from the gallery, the listening crowd of Arabs set their watches and disappear, some to prayers, others to dinner, and the noise and bustle is succeeded by the silent emptiness of a buried city. In all Tunisia, except at Kairouan, it is a forbidden pleasure to visit the interior of the mosques. Even furtive peeps are guarded against, by large green screens in all the open doorways. This is especially disappointing at the great feasts, though the scene in the bazaars ought to be compensation enough. On the 26th of May, the birthday of the Prophet, the Bey goes in state to the great Mosque, a pilgrimage that he only makes twice in the year. It is situated in the heart of the Souks: doors open into the court from every side—one with a flight of steps, a terrace and colonnade; another, in the Rue des Libraires, with a beautiful porch and green-tiled roof; the rest with no architectural interest. It is called Djama el Zitouna, the Mosque of the Olives, and many of its pillars are spoils from Carthage. In honour of the occasion, or of the Bey, the Souks are decked with carpets and wonderful embroideries; every space on the walls is covered till the whole is aglow with colour. The way to the mosque is packed with the Faithful in gala dress—men and boys alike in exquisite tints; for the Tunisians have an innate sense of colour, and blend and combine hues that would be unthinkable elsewhere, although the result in their hands is charming. The Arabs say that it is the sunshine that makes the harmony, and that that is the reason why imitations of Moorish decoration look so garish under our cold grey skies. On such a day the flowers behind the ear add a touch of perfection to the radiance on every face. Each shop in the street of the tailors looks like a collector’s cabinet of idols, for the master sits cross-legged in the centre, motionless as an image of Buddha, with his men round him. When the Bey has passed, the shops are closed and the festivities commence. As night falls the illuminations begin. All the minarets are outlined in light, and the square in front of the The details are extraordinary, a true picture of the East, where horrors in the shape of European novelties are set side by side with treasures of Oriental art. Here no sort of contrivance for giving light has been despised. Queer old lanterns and sconces alternate with common lamps, flambeaux, old lustres, and glittering glass chandeliers. It is all incongruous—absolutely wrong from a properly artistic point of view, but that does not matter in the least. Light and an air of festivity are what is wanted, and, let purists say what they will, the effect, though amusing, is as delightful as it is unusual, making the colour of the gay crowd if possible more entrancing than in the morning. From the dignified shelter of one of the biggest shops we sit and watch the moving throng, and prepare to receive the Bey. Presently the procession appears, and adds a last touch of incongruity by its want of order. Soldiers and guards in a travesty of European uniforms lead the way. Some look like old watchmen, as they stoop and carry lanterns dating from the days of Dogberry. The Bey is also in uniform, with stars and orders, and jewels in his fez, and is followed by his chief officers. Even for this occasion they abjure native dress, and so the very least of all his subjects appears with more dignity TUNIS FROM THE BELVEDERE |
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