much as he does in making a noise. It is most curious to find a whole
people without nerves, who cannot talk without shouting, and who cannot
shout without giving you the idea that they are in great pain, and that
unless relief comes promptly they will die, and that it will be your
fault. Those of them who sell bread or fruits or fish or beads, or
whatever it may be, in the streets, bellow rather than shout, or cry in
sharp, agonizing shrieks, high and nasal and fierce. They apparently
never "move on." They always meet under your window or at the corners of
a street, and there all shout at once, and no one pays the least
attention to them. They might be lamp-posts or minarets, for all the
notice they receive. I can imagine no fate or torture so awful as to be
ill in Constantinople and to have to lie helpless and listen to the
street cries, to the tin horns of the men who run ahead of the
streetcars--which incidentally gives you an idea of the speed of these
cars--and to the snarling and barking of the thousands of street dogs.
[Illustration: A FIRE COMPANY OF CONSTANTINOPLE]
There are three or four intensely interesting ceremonies and many
show-places in Constantinople which are unlike anything of the same sort
in any other city. Apart from these and the bazars, which are very
wonderful, there is nothing in the city itself which makes even the
Oriental seek it in preference to his own mountains or plains or native
village. Constantinople, so far as its population is to be considered,
is standing still. It impresses you as stagnant before your statistical
friend or the oldest member of the diplomatic corps or the oldest
inhabitant tells you that it is so. You can very well imagine the
Frank's finding a long residence in Cairo possible, or in pretty little
Athens, where the boulevards and the classics are so strangely jumbled,
but one cannot understand a man's settling down in Constantinople. Where
there are no women there can be no court, and the few rich Greek
residents and still fewer of the pashas and the diplomats make the
society of the city. Even these last find it far from gay, for it so
happens that the ambassadors are all either bachelors, widowers, or the
husbands of invalid wives, and the result is a society which depends
largely on a very smart club for its amusement. In the wintertime, when
the snow and rain sweep over the three hills, and the solitary street of
Galata is a foot deep in slush and mud, and the china stoves radiate a
candle-like heat in a room built to let in all the air possible, I can
imagine few less desirable places than the capital of the Ottoman
Empire. This is in the winter only; as I have said, it is a fair-weather
city, and I did not see it at its best.
There are three things to which one is taken in Constantinople--the
mosque of St. Sophia, the treasures of the Sultan, and the Sultan going
to pray in his own private mosque. The Sultan's own mosque is situated
conveniently near his palace, not more than a few hundred feet distant.
Once every Friday he rides this distance, and once a year journeys as
far as the mosque of St. Sophia. With these outings he is content, and
on no other occasions does he show himself to his people or leave his
palace. This is what it is to be a sovereign of many countries in
Europe, Asia, and Africa, the head of the Mussulman religion; and the
ruler of nations and lands conquered by your ancestors, of which you see
less than a donkey-boy in Cairo or the owner of a caique on the
Bosporus. We used to sing in college,
"The Sultan better pleases me;
His life is full of jollity."
The jollity of a life which the possessor believes to be threatened by
assassination in every form and at any moment is of a somewhat ghastly
nature.
You obtain tickets for the Selamlik, as the ceremony of the Sultan's
visit to his mosque is called, and you are requested, as you are
supposed to be the guest of the Sultan on these occasions, not to bring
opera-glasses. But it is nevertheless strongly suggestive of a
theatrical performance. The mosque is on one side of a wide street; the
houses in which the spectators sit, like the audience in a grand-stand,
are on the other. One end of the street is blocked by a great square,
and the other by the gateway of the palace from which the Sultan comes.
The street is not more than a hundred yards in length. A band of music
enters this square first and plays the overture to the ceremony. The
musicians are mounted on horseback and followed by a double line of
cavalrymen on white horses, and each carrying a lance at rest with a
red pennant. There are thousands of these; they stretch out like
telegraph poles on the prairie to an interminable length, their scarlet
pennants flapping and rustling in the sharp east wind like a forest of
autumn leaves. You begin to suspect that they are going around the
square and returning again many times, as the supers do in "Ours." Then
the horses turn black and the overcoats of the men change from gray to
blue, and more scarlet pennants stretch like an arch of bunting along
the street leading to the palace, until they have all filed into the
open square and halt there stirrup to stirrup, a moving mass of four
thousand restless horses and four thousand scarlet flags. And then more
bands and drums and bugle-calls come from every point of the city, and
regiment after regiment swarms up the hill on which the palace rests,
the tune of one band of music breaking in on the tune of the next, as do
those of the political processions at home, until every approach to the
gate of the palace is blocked from curb to curb with armed men, and you
look out and down upon the points of five thousand bayonets crushed into
a space not one-fifth as large as Madison Square. There is no populace
to see this spectacle, only those of the faithful who stop on their way
to Mecca to catch this glimpse of the head of their religion, and a few
women who have brought petitions to present to him and who are allowed
within the lines of soldiers.
[Illustration: STREET DOGS OF CONSTANTINOPLE]
But pashas and beys and other high dignitaries are arriving every moment
in full regalia, for this is like a drawing-room at Buckingham Palace,
or a levee at St. James's, and every one must leave all other matters to
attend it. Twenty men with twenty carts rush out suddenly from the
curtain of Zouaves and sailors, and scatter soft gravel on the fifty
yards of roadway over which the Sultan intends to drive. They remind you
of the men in the circus who spread sawdust over the ring after the
horses' hoofs have torn it. And then, high above the heads of the nine
thousand soldiers and the few thousand more dignitaries, diplomats, and
spectators, a priest in a green turban calls aloud from the top of the
minaret. It is a very beautiful cry or call, in a strong, sweet tenor
voice, inexpressibly weird and sad and impressive. It is answered by a
bugle call given slowly and clearly like a man speaking, and at a
certain note the entire nine thousand soldiers salute. It is done with a
precision and shock so admirable that you would think, except for the
volume of the noise, that but one man had moved his piece. The voice of
the priest rises again, and is answered by triumphant strains of brass,
and the gates of the palace open, and a glittering procession of
officers and princes and pashas moves down the broad street, encircling
a carriage drawn by two horses and driven by servants in gold. At the
sight of this the soldiers cry "Long live the Sultan" three times. It is
like the roar of a salute of cannon, and has all the feeling of a cheer.
The Sultan sits in the back of the open carriage, a slight,
tired-looking man, with a pale face and black beard. He is dressed in a
fur overcoat and fez. As he passes, the men of his army--and they _are_
men--salute him, and the veiled women stand on tiptoe behind them and
stretch out their petitions, and the pashas and chamberlains and cabinet
officers bend their bodies and touch the hand to the heart, lip, and
forehead, and drop it again to the knee. The pilgrims to Mecca fall
prostrate on their faces, and the Sultan bows his head and touches his
hand to his fez. Opposite him sits Osman Pasha, the hero of the last
war, and one of the greatest generals of the world, his shoulders
squared, his heart covered with stars, and his keen, observant eyes
wandering from the pale face of his sovereign to the browned,
hardy-looking countenances of his men.
The Sultan remains a half-hour in the mosque, and on his return drives
himself back to the palace in an open landau. This was the first time I
had seen the Turkish soldier in bulk, and he impressed me more than did
any other soldier I had seen along the shores of the Mediterranean. I
had seen the British troops repulse an imaginary attack upon the rock of
Gibraltar, and half of the Army of Occupation in Egypt dislodge an
imaginary enemy from the sand hills around Cairo, and I had seen French
and Italian and Greek soldiers in lesser proportion and in lesser
activity. But to me none of these had the build or the bearing or the
ready if rough look of these Turks. The French Zouaves of Algiers came
next to them to my mind, and it may be that the similarity of the
uniform would explain that; but as I heard the Sultan's troops that
morning marching up the hills to their outlandish music, and looked into
eyes that had never been shaded from the sun, and at the spring and
swing of legs that had never worn civilized trousers, I recalled several
notable battles of past history, and the more recent lines of Mr.
Rudyard Kipling where he pays his compliments to the Russian on the
frontier:
"I'm sorry for Mr. Bluebeard,
I'd be sorry to cause him pain;
But a hell of a spree
There is sure to be
When he comes back again."
[Illustration: GUARD OF CAVALRY PRECEDING THE SULTAN TO THE MOSQUE]
The Oriental is one of those people who do things by halves. He has a
fine army, but the bulk of his navy has not left the Golden Horn for
many years, and it is doubtful if it could leave it; his palace walls
are of mosaic and wonderfully painted tiles, and the roofs of rusty tin;
his sons are given the questionable but expensive education of Paris,
and his daughters are not allowed to walk abroad unless guarded by
servants, and with the knowledge that every policeman spies upon them,
knowing that, could he detect them in an indiscretion, he would be
rewarded and gain promotion. Consequently it does not surprise you
when you find the Sultan's treasures heaped together under dirty glass
cases, and treated with the indifference a child pays to its last year's
toys.
The crown-jewels and regalia kept at the Tower, itself under iron bars
and guarded by Beefeaters, are not half as impressive as are the jewels
of the Sultan, which lie covered with dust under a glass show-case, and
guarded by a few gloomy-looking effendis in frock-coats. All the
presents from other monarchs and all the gifts of lesser notables who
have sought some Sultan's favor, all the arms and trophies of
generations of wars, are piled together in this treasury with less care
than one would give to a rack of pipes. It is a very remarkable
exhibition, and it is magnificent in its Oriental disregard for wealth
through long association with it. Bronze busts of emperors, jewelled
swords, imperial orders, music-boxes, gun-cases, weapons of gold instead
of steel, precious stones, and silver dressing-cases are all heaped
together on dusty shelves, without order and classification and without
care. You can see here handfuls of uncut precious stones on china
plates, or dozens of gold and silver pistols thrown in a corner like
kindling-wood. And the most remarkable exhibition of all is the
magnificent robes of those Sultans who are dead, with the jewels and
jewelled swords and belts and insignia worn by them, placed on dummies
in a glass case, as though they were a row of stuffed birds or specimens
of rock. In the turbans of one of these figures there are pearls as
large as a woman's thumb, and emeralds and rubies as large as eggs, and
ropes of diamonds. This sounds like a story from the _Arabian Nights_;
but then these are the heroes of the _Arabian Nights_--the Sultans who
owned the whole northern coast of Africa and Asia, and who spent on
display and ornament what we put into education and railroads.
The present Sultan, Abd-ul-Hammed II., so far differs from those who
have preceded him that he as well as ourselves spends money on education
and railroads and all that they imply. As the head of a religion and of
an empire he may not cheapen himself by being seen too often by his
people, but his interests spread beyond even the great extent of his own
boundaries, and his money is given to sufferers as far apart in all but
misfortune as the Johnstown refugees and the victims of the earthquakes
of Zante and Corfu. And his protection is extended to the American
missionaries who enter his country to preach a religion to which he is
opposed. While I was in Constantinople he showed the variety of his
interests in the outside world by making two presents. To the Czar of
Russia he gave a book of photographs of the vessels in his navy, and in
contrast to this grimly humorous recognition of Russia's ambitions he
presented to our government an emblem in gold and diamonds,
commemorating in its design and inscription the discovering of this
country, worth, intrinsically, many thousands of dollars. He was, I
believe, the only sovereign who showed a personal interest in our
national celebration, and his gift was properly one of the government's
most conspicuous exhibits at the Columbian Fair.
The Mosque of St. Sophia is one of the first things you are taken to see
in Constantinople. It is to the Mussulman what St. Peter's is to the
good Catholic, although Justinian built it, and the cross still shows in
many parts of the great building. Three times during the year this
mosque is illuminated within and without, and every good Mussulman
attends there to worship.
There is something very fine about the religion of Mohammed--you do not
have to know much about it to appreciate the faith of its followers,
whether you know what it is they believe or not. In their outward
observance, at least, of the rules laid down for them in the Koran, they
show a sincerity which teaches a great lesson. You can see them at any
hour of the day or in any place going through their devotions. A soldier
will kneel down in a band stand, where a moment before he has been
playing for the regiment, and say his prayers before two thousand
spectators; and I have had some difficulty in getting my trunks on the
Orient Express, because the porters were at another end of a crowded,
noisy platform bowing towards the East. Once a year they fast for a
month, the season of Ramazan, and as I was in Eastern countries during
that month I know that they fast rigidly. Ramazan begins in Egypt when
the new moon appears in a certain well near Cairo. Two men watch this
well, and when they see the reflection of the new moon on its surface
they run into Cairo with the news, and Ramazan begins. There is nothing
which so well illustrates the unchangeableness of the East and its
customs as the sight of these men running through the streets of Cairo,
with its dog-carts and electric lights, its calendars and almanacs, to
tell that the moon has again reached that point that it had reached for
many hundreds of years before, when all the faithful must fast and pray.
[Illustration: EXTERIOR OF THE MOSQUE OF ST. SOPHIA]
On one of the last days of Ramazan I went to the door of St. Sophia, and
was led up a winding staircase in one of its minarets--a minaret-tower
so broad and high that the staircase within it has no steps, but is
paved smoothly like a street. It seemed as though we had been climbing
nearly ten minutes before we stepped out into a great gallery, and
looked down upon thousands of turbaned figures bowing and kneeling and
rising again in long rows like infantry in close order. Between these
worshippers and ourselves were fifty circles of floating tapers swinging
from chains, and hanging like a smoky curtain of fire between us and the
figures below. The voice of the priest rose in a high, uncanny cry, and
the sound of the thousands of men falling forward on their faces and
arms was like the rumble of the waves breaking on the shore. Outside,
the tops of minarets were circled with lights and lamps strung on long
ropes, with the ends flying free, and swinging to and fro in the night
wind like necklaces of stars. This was the most beautiful of all the
sights of Constantinople; and as a matter of opinion, and not of fact, I
think the best part of Constantinople is that part of it that is in the
air.
* * * * *
Before ending this last chapter, I should like to make two suggestions
to the reader who has not yet visited the Mediterranean and who thinks
of doing so. Let him not be deterred, in the first place, by any idea of
the difficulties of the journey, for he can go from Gibraltar along the
entire northern coast of Africa and into Greece and Italy with as little
trouble and with as much comfort as it is possible for him to make the
journey from New York to Chicago. And in the second place, should he go
in the winter or spring, let him not be misled by "Italian skies," or
"the blue Mediterranean," or "the dancing waters of the Bosporus," into
imagining that he is going to be any warmer on the northern coast of
Africa than he is in New York. I wore exactly the same clothes in Italy
that I wore the day I left the North River blocked with ice, and I
watched a snow-storm falling on "the dancing waters of the Bosporus".
There are some warm days, of course, but it is well to follow that good
old-fashioned rule in any part of the world, that it is cold in winter
and warm in summer, and people who spend their lives in trying to dodge
this fact might as well try running away from death and the postal
system. To any one who has but a little time and a little money to
spend on a holiday, I would suggest going to Gibraltar, and from there
to Spain and Morocco. This is the only place, perhaps, in the world
where three so widely different people and three such picturesque people
as the Moor, the British soldier, and the Spaniard can be found within
two hours of one another.
Morocco, from political causes, is less civilized than any other part of
the northern part of Africa; and it can be seen, and with it the
southern cities of Spain and the Rock of Gibraltar, in five or six
weeks, and at a cost of a very few hundred dollars. This was to me the
most interesting part of the Mediterranean, chiefly, of course--for it
possesses few of the beauties or monuments or historical values of the
other shores of that sea--because it was unknown to tourists and
guide-books. A visit to the rest of the Mediterranean is merely
verifying for yourself what you have already learned from others.
THE END
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation remains as in the original.
Spelling has been made consistent throughout where the author's
preference could be ascertained.
Punctuation has been normalized.
Page 203: "It all that pertains to the Sultan"
"It all" has been changed to "In all".