BULGARIA, ROUMELIA, AND INTO TURKEY.
The road leading into Bulgaria from the Zaribrod custom-house is fairly
good for several kilometres, when mountainous and rough ways are
encountered; it is a country of goats and goat-herds. A rain-storm is
hovering threateningly over the mountains immediately ahead, but it does
not reach the vicinity I am traversing: it passes to the southward, and
makes the roads for a number of miles wellnigh impassable. Up in the
mountains I meet more than one " Bulgarian national express " - pony pack-
trains, carrying merchandise to and fro between Sofia and Nisch. Most
of these animals are too heavily laden to think of objecting to the
appearance of anything on the road, but some of the outfits are returning
from Sofia in "ballast" only; and one of these, doubtless overjoyed
beyond measure at their unaccustomed lissomeness, breaks through all
restraint at my approach, and goes stampeding over the rolling hills,
the wild-looking teamsters in full tear after them. Whatever of this
nature happens in this part of the world the people seem to regard with
commendable complacence: instead of wasting time in trying to quarrel
about it, they set about gathering up the scattered train, as though a
stampede were the most natural thing going. Bulgaria - at least by the
route I am crossing it - is a land of mountains and elevated plateaus, and
the inhabitants I should call the "ranchers of the Orient," in their
general appearance and demeanor bearing the same relation to the plodding
corn-hoer and scythe-swinger of the Morava Valley as the Niobrara cow-boy
does to the Nebraska homesteader. On the mountains are encountered herds
of goats in charge of men who reck little for civilization, and the
upland plains are dotted over with herds of ponies that require constant
watching in the interest of scattered fields of grain. For lunch I halt
at an unlikely-looking mehana, near a cluster of mud hovels, which, I
suppose, the Bulgarians consider a village, and am rewarded by the
blackest of black bread, in the composition of which sand plays no
inconsiderable part, and the remnants of a chicken killed and stewed at
some uncertain period of the past. Of all places invented in the world
to disgust a hungry, expectant wayfarer, the Bulgarian mehana is the
most abominable. Black bread and mastic (a composition of gum-mastic and
Boston rum, so I am informed) seem to be about the only things habitually
kept in stock, and everything about the place plainly shows the proprietor
to be ignorant of the crudest notions of cleanliness. A storm is observed
brewing in the mountains I have lately traversed, and, having swallowed
my unpalatable lunch, I hasten to mount, and betake myself off toward
Sofia, distant thirty kilometres. The road is nothing extra, to say the
least, but a howling wind blowing from the region of the gathering storm
propels me rapidly, in spite of undulations, ruts, and undesirable road
qualities generally. The region is an elevated plateau, of which but a
small proportion is cultivated; on more than one of the neighboring peaks
patches of snow are still lingering, and the cool mountain breezes recall
memories of the Laramie Plains. Men and women returning homeward on
horseback from Sofia are frequently encountered. The women are decked
with beads and trinkets and the gewgaws of semi-civilization, as might
be the favorite squaws of Squatting Beaver or Sitting Bull, and furthermore
imitate their copper-colored sisters of the Far West by bestriding their
ponies like men. But in the matter of artistic and profuse decoration
of the person the squaw is far behind the peasant woman of Bulgaria. The
garments of the men are a combination of sheepskin and a thick, coarse,
woollen material, spun by the women, and fashioned after patterns their
forefathers brought with them centuries ago when they first invaded
Europe. The Bulgarian saddle, like everything else here, is a rudely
constructed affair, that answers the double purpose of a pack-saddle or
for riding - a home-made, unwieldy thing, that is a fair pony's load of
itself.
At 4.30 P.M. I wheel into Sofia, the Bulgarian Capital, having covered
one hundred and ten kilometres to-day, in spite of mud, mountains, and
roads that have been none of the best. Here again I have to patronize
the money-changers, for a few Servian francs which I have are not current
in Bulgaria; and the Israelite, who reserved unto himself a profit of
two francs on the pound at Nisch, now seems the spirit of fairness itself
along-side a hook-nosed, wizen-faced relative of his here at Sofia, who
wants two Servian francs in exchange for each Bulgarian coin of the same
intrinsic value; and the best I am able to get by going to several
different money-changers is five francs in exchange for seven; yet the
Servian frontier is but sixty kilometres distant, with stages running
to it daily; and the two coins are identical in intrinsic value. At the
Hotel Concordia, in Sofia, in lieu of plates, the meat is served on
round, flat blocks of wood about the circumference of a saucer - the
"trenchers" of the time of Henry VIII.- and two respectable citizens
seated opposite me are supping off black bread and a sliced cucumber,
both fishing slices of the cucumber out of a wooden bowl with their
fingers.
Life at the Bulgarian Capital evidently bears its legitimate relative
comparison to the life of the country it represents. One of Prince
Alexander's body-guard, pointed out to me in the bazaar, looks quite a
semi-barbarian, arrayed in a highly ornamented national costume, with
immense Oriental pistols in waistband, and gold-braided turban cocked
on one side of his head, and a fierce mustache. The soldiers here, even
the comparatively fortunate ones standing guard at the entrance to the
prince's palace, look as though they haven't had a new uniform for years
and had long since despaired of ever getting one. A war, and an alliance
with some wealthy nation which would rig them out in respectable uniforms,
would probably not be an unwelcome event to many of them. While wandering
about the bazaar, after supper, I observe that the streets, the palace
grounds, and in fact every place that is lit up at all, save the minarets
of the mosque, which are always illumined with vegetable oil, are lighted
with American petroleum, gas and coal being unknown in the Bulgarian
capital. There is an evident want of system in everything these people
do. From my own observations I am inclined to think they pay no heed
whatever to generally accepted divisions of time, but govern their actions
entirely by light and darkness. There is no eight-hour nor ten-hour
system of labor here; and I verily believe the industrial classes work
the whole time, save when they pause to munch black bread, and to take
three or four hours' sleep in the middle of the night; for as I trundle
my way through the streets at five o'clock next morning, the same people
I observed at various occupations in the bazaars are there now, as busily
engaged as though they had been keeping it up all night; as also are
workmen building a house; they were pegging away at nine o'clock yestefday
evening, by the flickering light of small petroleum lamps, and at five
this morning they scarcely look like men who are just commencing for the
day. The Oriental, with his primitive methods and tenacious adherence
to the ways of his forefathers, probably enough, has to work these extra
long hours in order to make any sort of progress. However this may be,
I have throughout the Orient been struck by the industriousness of the
real working classes; but in practicability and inventiveness the Oriental
is sadly deficient. On the way out I pause at the bazaar to drink hot
milk and eat a roll of white bread, the former being quite acceptable,
for the morning is rather raw and chilly; the wind is still blowing a
gale, and a company of cavalry, out for exercise, are incased in their
heavy gray overcoats, as though it were midwinter instead of the twenty-
third of June. Rudely clad peasants are encountered on the road, carrying
large cans of milk into Sofia from neighboring ranches. I stop several
of them with a view of sampling the quality of their milk, but invariably
find it unstrained, and the vessels looking as though they had been
strangers to scalding for some time. Others are carrying gunny-sacks of
smear-kase on their shoulders, the whey from which is not infrequently
streaming down their backs. Cleanliness is no doubt next to godliness;
but the Bulgarians seem to be several degrees removed from either. They
need the civilizing influence of soap quite as much as anything else,
and if the missionaries cannot educate them up to Christianity or
civilization it might not be a bad scheme to try the experiment of
starting a native soap-factory or two in the country.
Savagery lingers in the lap of civilization on the breezy plateaus of
Bulgaria, but salvation is coming this way in the shape of an extension
of the Eoumelian railway from the south, to connect with the Servian
line north of the Balkans. For years the freight department of this
pioneer railway will have to run opposition against ox-teams, and creaking,
groaning wagons; and since railway stockholders and directors are not
usually content with an exclusive diet of black bread, with a wilted
cucumber for a change on Sundays, as is the Bulgarian teamster, and since
locomotives cannot be turned out to graze free of charge on the hill-sides,
the competition will not be so entirely one-sided as might be imagined.
Long trains of these ox-teams are met with this morning hauling freight
and building-lumber from the railway terminus in Eoumelia to Sofia. The
teamsters are wearing large gray coats of thick blanketing, with floods
covering the head, a heavy, convenient garment, that keeps out both rain
and cold while on the road, and at night serves for blanket and mattress;
for then the teamster turns his oxen loose on the adjacent hill-sides
to graze, and, after munching a piece of black bread, he places a small
wicker-work wind-break against the windward side of the wagon, and,
curling himself up in his great-coat, sleeps soundly. Besides the ox-
trains, large, straggling trains of pack-ponies and donkeys occasionally
fill the whole roadway; they are carrying firewood and charcoal from the
mountains, or wine and spirits, in long, slender casks, from Roumelia;
while others are loaded with bales and boxes of miscellaneous merchandise,
out of all proportion to their own size.
The road southward from Sofia is abominable, being originally constructed
of earth and large unbroken bowlders; it has not been repaired for years,
and the pack-trains and ox-wagons forever crawling along have, during
the wet weather of many seasons, tramped the dirt away, and left the
surface a wretched waste of ruts, holes, and thickly protruding stones.
It is the worst piece of road I have encountered in all Europe; and
although it is ridable this morning by a cautious person, one risks and
invites disaster at every turn of the wheel. "Old Boreas" comes howling
from the mountains of the north, and hustles me briskly along over ruts,
holes, and bowlders, however, in a most reckless fashion, furnishing all
the propelling power needful, and leaving me nothing to do but keep a
sharp lookout for breakneck places immediately ahead. In Servia, the
peasants, driving along the road in their wagons, upon observing me
approaching them, being uncertain of the character of my vehicle and the
amount of road-space I require, would ofttimes drive entirely off the
road; and sometimes, when they failed to take this precaution, and their
teams would begin to show signs of restiveness as I drew near, the men
would seem to lose their wits for the moment, and cry out in alarm, as
though some unknown danger were hovering over them. I have seen women
begin to wail quite pitifully, as though they fancied I bestrode an all-
devouring circular saw that was about to whirl into them and rend team,
wagon, and everything asunder. But the Bulgarians don't seem to care
much whether I am going to saw them in twain or not; they are far less
particular about yielding the road, and both men and women seem to be
made of altogether sterner stuff than the Servians and Slavonians. They
seem several degrees less civilized than their neighbors farther north,
judging from tieir general appearance and demeanor. They act peaceably
and are reasonably civil toward me and the bicycle, however, and personallv
I rather enjoy their rough, unpolished manners. Although there is a
certain element of rudeness and boisterousuess about them compared with
anything I have encountered elsewhere in Europe, they seem, on the whole,
a good-natured people. We Westerners seldom hear anything of the Bulgarians
except in war-times and then it is usually in connection with atrocities
that furnish excellent sensational material for the illustrated weeklies;
consequently I rather expected to have a rough time riding through alone.
But, instead of coming out slashed and scarred like a Heidelberg student,
I emerge from their territory with nothing more serious than a good
healthy shaking up from their ill-conditioned roads and howling winds,
and my prejudice against black bread with sand in it partly overcome
from having had to eat it or nothing. Bulgaria is a principality under
the suzerainty of the Sultan, to whom it is supposed to pay a yearly
tribute; but the suzerainty sits lightly upon the people, since they do
pretty much as they please; and they never worry themselves about the
tribute, simply putting it down on the slate whenever it comes due. The
Turks might just as well wipe out the account now as at any time, for
they will eventually have to whistle for the whole indebtedness. A smart
rain-storm drives me into an uninviting mehana near the Roumelian frontier,
for two unhappy hours, at noon - a mehana where the edible accommodations
would wring an "Ugh" from an American Indian - and the sole occupants
are a blear-eyed Bulgarian, in twenty-year-old sheep-skin clothes, whose
appearance plainly indicates an over-fondness for mastic, and an unhappy-
looking black kitten. Fearful lest something, perchance, might occur
to compel me to spend the night here, I don my gossamers as soon as the
rain slacks up a little, and splurge ahead through the mud toward Ichtiman,
which, my map informs me, is just on this side of the Kodja Balkans,
which rise up in dark wooded ridges at no great distance ahead, to the
southward. The mud and rain combine to make things as disagreeable as
possible, but before three o'clock I reach Ichtiman, to find that I am
in the province of Eoumelia, and am again required to produce my passport.
I am now getting well down into territory that quite recently was
completely under the dominion of the "unspeakable Turk " - unspeakable,
by the way, to the writer in more senses than one - and is partly so even
now, but have as yet seen very little of the "mysterious veiled lady."
The Bulgarians are Christian when they are anything, though the great
majority of them are nothing religiously. A comparatively comfortable
mehana is found here at Ichtiman, and the proprietor, being able to talk
German, readily comprehends the meaning of hune-hen fabrica; but I have
to dispense with cherries.
Mud is the principal element of the road leading out of Ichtiman and
over the Kodja Balkans this morning. The curious crowd of Ichtimanites
that follow me through the mud-holes and filth of their native streets,
to see what is going to happen when I get clear of them, are rewarded
but poorly for their trouble; the best I can possibly do being to make
a spasmodic run of a hundred yards through the mud, which I do purely
out of consideration for their inquisitiveness, since it seems rather
disagreeable to disappoint a crowd of villagers who are expectantly
following and watching one's every movement, wondering, in their ignorance,
why you don't ride instead of walk. It is a long, wearisome trundle up
the muddy slopes of the Kodja Balkans, but, after the descent into the
Maritza Valley begins, some little ridable surface is encountered, though
many loose stones are lying about, and pitch-holes innumerable, make
riding somewhat risky, considering that the road frequently leads
immediately alongside precipices. Pack-donkeys are met on these mountain-
roads, sometimes filling the way, and corning doggedly and indifferently
forward, even in places where I have little choice between scrambling
up a rock on one side of the road or jumping down a precipice on the
other. I can generally manage to pass them, however, by placing the
bicycle on one side, and, 'standing guard over it, push them off one by
one as they pass. Some of these Roumelian donkeys are the most diminutive
creatures I ever saw; but they seem capable of toiling up these steep
mountain-roads with enormous loads. I met one this morning carrying
bales of something far bigger than himself, and a big Roumelian, whose
feet actually came in contact with the ground occasionally, perched on
his rump; the man looked quite capable of carrying both the donkey and
his load.
The warm and fertile Maritza Valley is reached soon after noon, and I
am not sorry to find it traversed by a decent macadamized road; though,
while it has been raining quite heavily up among the mountains, this
valley has evidently been favored with a small deluge, and frequent
stretches are covered with deep mud and sand, washed down from the
adjacent hills; in the cultivated areas of the Bulgarian uplands the
grain-fields are yet quite green, but harvesting has already begun in
the warmer Maritza Vale, and gangs of Roumelian peasants are in the
fields, industriously plying reaping-hooks to save their crops of wheat
and rye, which the storm has badly lodged. Ere many miles of this level
valley-road are ridden over, a dozen pointed minarets loom up ahead, and
at four o'clock I dismount at the confines of the well nigh impassable
streets of Tatar Bazardjik, quite a lively little city in the sense that
Oriental cities are lively, which means well-stocked bazaars thronged
with motley crowds. Here I am delayed for some time by a thunder-storm,
and finally wheel away southward in the face of threatening heavens.
Several villages of gypsies are camped on the banks of the Maritza, just
outside the limits of Tatar Bazardjik; a crowd of bronzed, half-naked
youngsters wantonly favor me with a fusillade of stones as I ride past,
and several gaunt, hungry-looking curs follow me for some distance with
much threatening clamor. The dogs in the Orient seem to be pretty much
all of one breed, genuine mongrel, possessing nothing of the spirit and
courage of the animals we are familiar with. Gypsies are more plentiful
south of the Save than even in Austria-Hungary, but since leaving Slavonia
I have never been importuned by them for alms. Travellers from other
countries are seldom met with along the roads here, and I suppose that
the wandering Romanies have long since learned the uselessness of asking
alms of the natives; but, since they religiously abstain from anything
like work, how they manage to live is something of a mystery.
Ere I am five kilometres from Tatar Bazardjik the rain begins to descend,
and there is neither house nor other shelter visible anywhere ahead. The
peasants' villages are all on the river, and the road leads for mile
after mile through fields of wheat and rye. I forge ahead in a drenching
downpour that makes short work of the thin gossamer suit, which on this
occasion barely prevents me getting a wet skin ere I descry a thrice-welcome
mehana ahead and repair thither, prepared to accept, with becoming
thankfulness, whatever accommodation the place affords. It proves many
degrees superior to the average Bulgarian institution of the same name,
the proprietor causing my eyes fairly to bulge out with astonishment by
producing a box of French sardines, and bread several shades lighter
than I had, in view of previous experience expected to find it; and for
a bed provides one of the huge, thick overcoats before spoken of, which,
with the ample hood, envelops the whole figure in a covering that defies
both wet and cold. I am provided with this unsightly but none the less
acceptable garment, and given the happy privilege of occupying the floor
of a small out-building in company with several rough-looking pack-train
teamsters similarly incased; I pass a not altogether comfortless night,
the pattering of rain against the one small window effectually suppressing
such thankless thoughts as have a tendency to come unbidden whenever the
snoring of any of my fellow-lodgers gets aggravatingly harsh. In all
this company I think I am the only person who doesn't snore, and when I
awake from my rather fitful slumbers at four o'clock and find the rain
no longer pattering against the window, I arise, and take up my journey
toward Philippopolis, the city I had intended reaching yesterday. It is
after crossing the Kodja Balkans and descending into the Maritza Valley
that one finds among the people a peculiarity that, until a person becomes
used to it, causes no little mystification and many ludicrous mistakes.
A shake of the head, which with us means a negative answer, means exactly
the reverse with the people of the Maritza Valley; and it puzzled me not
a little more than once yesterday afternoon when inquiring whether I was
on the right road, and when patronizing fruit-stalls in Tatar Bazardjik.
One never feels quite certain about being right when, after inquiring
of a native if this is the correct road to Mustapha Pasha or Philippopolis
he replies with a vigorous shake of the head; and although one soon gets
accustomed to this peculiarity in others, and accepts it as it is intended,
it is not quite so easy to get into the habit yourself. This queer custom
seems to prevail only among the inhabitants of this particular valley,
for after leaving it at Adrianople I see nothing more of it. Another
peculiarity all through Oriental, and indeed through a good part of
Central Europe, is that, instead of the "whoa" which we use to a horse,
the driver hisses like a goose.
Yesterday evening's downpour has little injured the road between the
mehana and Philippopolis, the capital of Eoumelia, and I wheel to the
confines of that city in something over two hours. Philippopolis is most
beautifully situated, being built on and around a cluster of several
rocky hills; a situation which, together with a plenitude of waving
trees, imparts a pleasing and picturesque effect. With a score of tapering
minarets pointing skyward among the green foliage, the scene is thoroughly
Oriental; but, like all Eastern cities, "distance lends enchantment to
the view." All down the Maritza Valley, and in lesser numbers extending
southward and eastward over the undulating plains of Adrianople, are
many prehistoric mounds, some twenty-five or thirty feet high, and of
about the same diameter. Sometimes in groups, and sometimes singly, these
mounds occur so frequently that one can often count a dozen at a time.
In the vicinity of Philippopolis several have been excavated, and human
remains discovered reclining beneath large slabs of coarse pottery set
up like an inverted V, thus: A, evidently intended as a water-shed for
the preservation of the bodies. Another feature of the landscape, and
one that fails not to strike the observant traveller as a melancholy
feature, are the Mohammedan cemeteries. Outside every town and near every
village are broad areas of ground thickly studded with slabs of roughly
hewn rock set up on end; cities of the dead vastly more populous than
the abodes of life adjacent. A person can stand on one of the Philippopolis
heights and behold the hills and vales all around thickly dotted with
these rude reminders of our universal fate. It is but as yesterday since
the Turk occupied these lands, and was in the habit of making it
particularly interesting to any "dog of a Christian" who dared desecrate
one of these Mussulman cemeteries with his unholy presence; but to-day
they are unsurrounded by protecting fence or the moral restrictions of
dominant Mussulmans, and the sheep, cows, and goats of the "infidel
giaour" graze among them; and oh, shade of Mohammed! hogs also scratch
their backs against the tombstones and root around, at their own sweet
will, sometimes unearthing skulls and bones, which it is the Turkish
custom not to bury at any great depth. The great number and extent of
these cemeteries seem to appeal to the unaccustomed observer in eloquent
evidence against a people whose rule find religion have been of the
sword.
While obtaining my breakfast of bread and milk in the Philippopolis
bazaar an Arab ragamuffin rushes in, and, with anxious gesticulations
toward the bicycle, which I have from necessity left outside, and cries
of "Monsieur, monsieur," plainly announces that there is something going
wrong in connection with the machine. Quickly going out I find that,
although I left it standing on the narrow apology for a sidewalk, it is
in imminent danger of coming to grief at the instance of a broadly laden
donkey, which, with his load, veritably takes up the whole narrow street,
including the sidewalks, as he slowly picks his way along through mud-holes
and protruding cobble-stones. And yet Philippopolis has improved wonderfully
since it has nominally changed from a Turkish to a Christian city, I am
told; the Cross having in Philippopolis not only triumphed over the
Crescent, but its influence is rapidly changing the condition and
appearance of the streets. There is no doubt about the improvements, but
they are at present most conspicuous in the suburbs, near the English
consulate. It is threatening rain again as I am picking my way through
the crooked streets of Philippopolis toward the Adrianople road; verily,
I seem these days to be fully occupied in playing hide-and-seek with the
elements; but in Roumelia at this season it is a question of either rain
or insufferable heat, and perhaps, after all, I have reason to be thankful
at having the former to contend with rather than the latter. Two
thunderstorms have to be endured during the forenoon, and for lunch I
reach a mehana where, besides eggs roasted in the embers, and fairly
good bread, I am actually offered a napkin that has been used but a few
times - an evidence of civilization that is quite refreshing. A repetition
of the rain-dodging of the forenoon characterizes the afternoon journey,
and while halting at a small village the inhabitants actually take me
for a mountebank, and among them collect a handful of diminutive copper
coins about the size and thickness of a gold twenty-five-cent piece, and
of which it would take at least twenty to make an American cent, and
offer them to me for a performance. What with shaking my head for "no"
and the villagers naturally mistaking the motion for " yes," according
to their own custom, I have quite an interesting time of it making them
understand that I am not a mountebank travelling from one Roumelian
village to another, living on two cents' worth of black sandy bread per
diem, and giving performances for about three cents a time. For my
halting-place to-night I reach the village of Cauheme, in which I find
a mehana, where, although the accommodations are of the crudest nature,
the proprietor is a kindly disposed and, withal, a thoroughly honest
individual, furnishing me with a reed mat and a pillow, and making things
as comfortable and agreeable as possible. Eating raw cucumbers as we eat
apples or pears appears to be universal in Oriental Europe; frequently,
through Bulgaria and Roumelia, I have noticed people, both old and young,
gnawing away at a cucumber with the greatest relish, eating it rind and
all, without any condiments whatever.
All through Roumelia the gradual decay of the Crescent and the corresponding
elevation of the Cross is everywhere evident; the Christian element is
now predominant, and the Turkish authorities play but an unimportant
part in the government of internal affairs. Naturally enough, it does
not suit the Mussulman to live among people whom his religion and time-
honored custom have taught him to regard as inferiors, the consequence
being that there has of late years been a general folding of tents and
silently stealing away; and to-day it is no very infrequent occurrence
for a whole Mussulman village to pack up, bag and baggage, and move
bodily to Asia Minor, where the Sultan gives them tracts of land for
settlement. Between the Christian and Mussulman populations of these
countries there is naturally a certain amount of the "six of one and
half a dozen of the other " principle, and in certain regions, where the
Mussulmans have dwindled to a small minority, the Christians are ever
prone to bestow upon them the same treatment that the Turks formerly
gave them. There appears to be little conception of what we consider
"good manners" among Oriental villagers, and while I am writing out a
few notes this evening, the people crowding the mehana because of my
strange unaccustomed presence stand around watching every motion of my
pen, jostling carelessly against the bench, and commenting on things
concerning me and the bicycle with a garrulousness that makes it almost
impossible for me to write. The women of these Eoumelian villages bang
their hair, and wear it in two long braids, or plaited into a streaming
white head-dress of some gauzy material, behind; huge silver clasps,
artistically engraved, that are probably heirlooms, fasten a belt around
their waists; and as they walk along barefooted, strings of beads,
bangles, and necklaces of silver coins make an incessant jingling. The
sky clears and the moon shines forth resplendently ere I stretch myself
on my rude couch to-night, and the sun rising bright next morning would
seem to indicate fair weather at last; an indication that proves illusory,
however, before the day is over.
At Khaskhor, some fifteen kilometres from Cauheme, I am able to obtain
my favorite breakfast of bread, milk, and fruit, and while I am in-doors
eating it a stalwart Turk considerately mounts guard over the bicycle,
resolutely keeping the meddlesome crowd at bay until I get through eating.
The roads this morning, though hilly, are fairly smooth, and about eleven
o'clock I reach Hermouli, the last town in Roumelia, where, besides being
required to produce my passport, I am requested by a pompous lieutenant
of gendarmerie to produce my permit for carrying a revolver, the first
time I have been thus molested in Europe. Upon explaining, as best I
can, that I have no such permit, and that for a voyageur permission is
not necessary (something about which I am in no way so certain, however,
as my words would seem to indicate), I am politely disarmed, and conducted
to a guard-room in the police-barracks, and for some twenty minutes am
favored with the exclusive society of a uniformed guard and the unhappy
reflections of a probable heavy fine, if not imprisonment. I am inclined
to think afterward that in arresting and detaining me the officer was
simply showing off his authority a little to his fellow-Hermoulites,
clustered about me and the bicycle, for, at the expiration of half an
hour, my revolver and passport are handed back to me, and without further
inquiries or explanations I am allowed to depart in peace. As though in
wilful aggravation of the case, a village of gypsies have their tents
pitched and their donkeys grazing in the last Mohammedan cemetery I see
ere passing over the Roumelian border into Turkey proper, where, at the
very first village, the general aspect of religious affairs changes, as
though its proximity to the border should render rigid distinctions
desirable. Instead of the crumbling walls and tottering minarets, a group
of closely veiled women are observed praying outside a well-preserved
mosque, and praying sincerely too, since not even my ncver-before-seen
presence and the attention-commanding bicycle are sufficient to win their
attention for a moment from their devotions, albeit those I meet on the
road peer curiously enough from between the folds of their muslin yashmaks.
I am worrying along to-day in the face of a most discouraging head-wind,
and the roads, though mostly ridable, are none of the best. For much of
the way there is a macadamized road that, in the palmy days of the Ottoman
dominion, was doubtless a splendid highway, but now weeds and thistles,
evidences of decaying traffic and of the proximity of the Eoumelian
railway, are growing in the centre, and holes and impassable places make
cycling a necessarily wide-awake performance.
Mustapha Pasha is the first Turkish town of any importance I come to,
and here again my much-required "passaporte" has to be exhibited; but
the police-officers of Mustapha Pasha seem to be exceptionally intelligent
and quite agreeable fellows. My revolver is in plain view, in its
accustomed place; but they pay no sort of attention to it, neither do
they ask me a whole rigmarole of questions about my linguistic
accomplishments, whither I am going, whence I came, etc., but simply
glance at my passport, as though its examination were a matter of small
consequence anyhow, shake hands, and smilingly request me to let them
see me ride. It begins to rain soon after I leave Mustapha Pasha, forcing
me to take refuge in a convenient culvert beneath the road. I have been
under this shelter but a few minutes when I am favored with the company
of three swarthy Turks, who, riding toward Mustapha Pasha on horseback,
have sought the same shelter. These people straightway express their
astonishment at finding rne and the bicycle under the culvert, by first
commenting among themselves; then they turn a battery of Turkish
interrogations upon my devoted head, nearly driving me out of my senses
ere I escape. They are, of course, quite unintelligible to me; for if
one of them asks a question a shrug of the shoulders only causes him to
repeat the same over and over again, each time a little louder and a
little more deliberate. Sometimes they are all three propounding questions
and emphasizing them at the same time, until I begin to think that there
is a plot to talk me to death and confiscate whatever valuables I have
about me. They all three have long knives in their waistbands, and,
instead of pointing out the mechanism of the bicycle to each other with
the finger, like civilized people, they use these long, wicked-looking
knives for the purpose. They maybe a coterie of heavy villains for
anything I know to the contrary, or am able to judge from their general
appearance, and in view of the apparent disadvantage of one against three
in such cramped quarters, I avoid their immediate society as much as
possible by edging off to one end of the culvert. They are probably
honest enough, but as their stock of interrogations seems inexhaustible,
at the end of half an hour I conclude to face the elements and take my
chances of finding some other shelter farther ahead rather than endure
their vociferous onslaughts any longer. They all three come out to see
what is going to happen, and I am not ashamed to admit that I stand
tinkering around the bicycle in the pelting rain longer than is necessary
before mounting, in order to keep them out in it and get them wet through,
if possible, in revenge for having practically ousted me from the culvert,
and since I have a water-proof, and they have nothing of the sort, I
partially succeed in my plans.
The road is the same ancient and neglected macadam, but between Mustapha
Pasha and Adrianople they either make some pretence of keeping it in
repair, or else the traffic is sufficient to keep down the weeds, and I
am able to mount and ride in spite of the downpour. After riding about
two miles I come to another culvert, in which I deem it advisable to
take shelter. Here, also, I find myself honored with company, but this
time it is a lone cow-herder, who is either too dull and stupid to do
anything but stare alternately at me and the bicycle, or else is deaf
and dumb, and my recent experience makes me cautious about tempting him
to use his tongue. I am forced by the rain to remain cramped up in this
last narrow culvert until nearly dark, and then trundle along through
an area of stones and water-holes toward Adrianople, which city lies I
know not how far to the southeast. While trundling along through the
darkness, in the hope of reaching a village or mehana, I observe a rocket
shoot skyward in the distance ahead, and surmise that it indicates the
whereabout of Adrianople; but it is plainly many a weary mile ahead; the
road cannot be ridden by the uncertain light of a cloud-veiled moon, and
I have been forging ahead, over rough ways leading through an undulating
country, and most of the day against a strong head-wind, since early
dawn. By ten o'clock I happily arrive at a section of country that has
not been favored by the afternoon rain, and, no mehana making its
appearance, I conclude to sup off the cold, cheerless memories of the
black bread and half-ripe pears eaten for dinner at a small village, and
crawl beneath some wild prune-bushes for the night.
A few miles wheeling over very fair roads, next morning, brings me into
Adrianople, where, at the Hotel Constantinople, I obtain an excellent
breakfast of roast lamb, this being the only well-cooked piece of meat
I have eaten since leaving Nisch. It has rained every day without
exception since it delayed me over Sunday at Bela Palanka, and this
morning it begins while I am eating breakfast, and continues a drenching
downpour for over an hour. While waiting to see what the weather is
coming to, I wander around the crooked and mystifying streets, watching
the animated scenes about the bazaars, and try my best to pick up some
knowledge of the value of the different coins, for I have had to deal
with a bewildering mixture of late, and once again there is a complete
change. Medjidis, cheriks, piastres, and paras now take the place of
Serb francs, Bulgar francs, and a bewildering list of nickel and copper
pieces, down to one that I should think would scarcely purchase a wooden
toothpick. The first named is a large silver coin worth four and a half
francs; the cherik might be called a quarter dollar; while piastres and
paras are tokens, the former about five cents and the latter requiring
about nine to make one cent. There are no copper coins in Turkey proper,
the smaller coins being what is called "metallic money," a composition
of copper and silver, varying in value from a five-para piece to five
piastres.
The Adrianopolitans, drawn to the hotel by the magnetism of the bicycle,
are bound to see me ride whether or no, and in their quite natural
ignorance of its character, they request me to perform in the small,
roughly-paved court-yard of the hotel, and all sorts of impossible places.
I shake my head in disapproval and explanation of the impracticability
of granting their request, but unfortunately Adrianople is within the
circle where a shake of the head is understood to mean " yes, certainly;"
and the happy crowd range around a ridiculously small space, and smiling
approvingly at what they consider my willingness to oblige, motion for
me to come ahead. An explanation seems really out of the question after
this, and I conclude that the quickest and simplest way of satisfying
everybody is to demonstrate my willingness by mounting and wabbling
along, if only for a few paces, which I accordingly do beneath a hack
shed, at the imminent risk of knocking my brains out against beams and
rafters.
At eleven o'clock I decide to make a start, I and the bicycle being the
focus of attraction for a most undignified mob as I trundle through the
muddy streets toward the suburbs. Arriving at a street where it is
possible to mount and ride for a short distance, I do this in the hope
of satisfying the curiosity of the crowd, and being permitted to leave
the city in comparative peace and privacy; but the hope proves a vain
one, for only the respectable portion of the crowd disperses, leaving
me, solitary and alone, among a howling mob of the rag, tag, and bobtail
of Adrianople, who follow noisily along, vociferously yelling for me to
"bin! bin!" (mount, mount), and "chu! chu!" (ride, ride) along the
really unridable streets. This is the worst crowd I have encountered on
the entire journey across two continents, and, arriving at a street where
the prospect ahead looks comparatively promising, I mount, and wheel
forward with a view of outdistancing them if possible; but a ride of
over a hundred yards without dismounting would be an exceptional performance
in Adrianople after a rain, and I soon find that I have made a mistake
in attempting it, for, as I mount, the mob grows fairly wild and riotous
with excitement, flinging their red fezes at the wheels, rushing up
behind and giving the bicycle smart pushes forward, in their eagerness
to see it go faster, and more than one stone comes bounding along the
street, wantonly flung by some young savage unable to contain himself.
I quickly decide upon allaying the excitement by dismounting, and trundling
until the mobs gets tired of following, whatever the distance. This
movement scarcely meets with the approval of the unruly crowd, however,
and several come forward and exhibit ten-para pieces as an inducement
for me to ride again, while overgrown gamins swarm around me, and,
straddling the middle and index fingers of their right hands over their
left, to illustrate and emphasize their meaning, they clamorously cry,
"bin! bin! chu! chu! monsieur! chu! chu!" as well as much other persuasive
talk, which, if one could understand, would probably be found to mean
in substance, that, although it is the time-honored custom and privilege
of Adrianople mobs to fling stones and similar compliments at such
unbelievers from the outer world as come among them in a conspicuous
manner, they will considerately forego their privileges this time, if I
will only "bin! bin!" and "chu! chu!" The aspect of harmless
mischievousness that would characterize a crowd of Occidental youths on
a similar occasion is entirely wanting here, their faces wearing the
determined expression of people in dead earnest about grasping the only
opportunity of a lifetime. Respectable Turks stand on the sidewalk and
eye the bicycle curiously, but they regard my evident annoyance at being
followed by a mob like this with supreme indifference, as does also a
passing gendarme, whom I halt, and motion my disapproval of the proceedings.
Like the civilians, he pays no sort of attention, but fixes a curious
stare on the bicycle, and asks something, the import of which will to
me forever remain a mystery.
Once well out of the city the road is quite good for several kilometres,
and I am favored with a unanimous outburst of approval from a rough crowd
at a suburban mehana, because of outdistancing a horseman who rides out
from among them to overtake me. At Adrianople my road leaves the Maritza
Valley and leads across the undulating uplands of the Adrianople Plains,
hilly, and for most of the way of inferior surface. Reaching the village
of Hafsa, soon after noon, I am fairly taken possession of by a crowd
of turbaned and fezed Hafsaites and soldiers wearing the coarse blue
uniform of the Turkish regulars, and given not one moment's escape from
"bin! bin!" until I consent to parade my modest capabilities with the
wheel by going back and forth along a ridable section of the main street.
The population is delighted. Solid old Turks pat me on the back approvingly,
and the proprietor of the mehana fairly hauls me and the bicycle into
his establishment. This person is quite befuddled with mastic, which
makes him inclined to be tyrannical and officious; and several times
within the hour, while I wait for the never-failing thunder-shower to
subside, he peremptorily dismisses both civilians and military out of
the mehana yard; but the crowd always filters back again in less than
two minutes. Once, while eating dinner, I look out of the window and
find the bicycle has disappeared. Hurrying out, I meet the boozy proprietor
and another individual making their way with alarming unsteadiness up a
steep stairway, carrying the machine between them to an up-stairs room,
where the people will have no possible chance of seeing it. Two minutes
afterward his same whimsical and capricious disposition impels him to
politely remove the eatables from before me, and with the manners of a
showman, he gently leads me away from the table, and requests me to ride
again for the benefit of the very crowd he had, but two minutes since,
arbitrarily denied the privilege of even looking at the bicycle. Nothing
would be more natural than to refuse to ride under these circumstances;
but the crowd looks so gratified at the proprietor's sudden and unaccountable
change of front, that I deem it advisable, in the interest of being
permitted to finish my meal in peace, to take another short spin; moreover,
it is always best to swallow such little annoyances in good part.
My route to-day is a continuation of the abandoned macadam road, the
weed-covered stones of which I have frequently found acceptable in tiding
me over places where the ordinary dirt road was deep with mud. In spite
of its long-neglected condition, occasional ridable stretches are
encountered, but every bridge and culvert has been destroyed, and an
honest shepherd, not far from Hafsa, who from a neighboring knoll observes
me wheeling down a long declivity toward one of these uncovered waterways,
nearly shouts himself hoarse, and gesticulates most frantically in an
effort to attract my attention to the danger ahead. Soon after this I
am the innocent cause of two small pack-mules, heavily laden with
merchandise, attempting to bolt from their driver, who is walking behind.
One of them actually succeeds in escaping, and, although his pack is too
heavy to admit of running at any speed, he goes awkwardly jogging across
the rolling plains, as though uncertain in his own mind of whether he
is acting sensibly or not; but his companion in pack-slavery is less
fortunate, since he tumbles into a gully, bringing up flat on his broad
and top-heavy pack with his legs frantically pawing the air. Stopping
to assist the driver in getting the collapsed mule on his feet again,
this individual demands damages for the accident; so I judge, at least,
from the frequency of the word "medjedie," as he angrily, yet ruefully,
points to the mud-begrimed pack and unhappy, yet withal laughter-provoking,
attitude of the mule; but I utterly fail to see any reasonable connection
between the uncalled-for scariness of his mules and the contents of my
pocket-book, especially since I was riding along the Sultan's ancient
and deserted macadam, while he and his mules were patronizing a separate
and distinct dirt-road alongside. As he seems far more concerned about
obtaining a money satisfaction from me than the rescue of the mule from
his topsy-turvy position, I feel perfectly justified, after several times
indicating my willingness to assist him, in leaving him and proceeding
on my way.
The Adrianople plains are a dreary expanse of undulating grazing-land,
traversed by small sloughs and their adjacent cultivated areas. Along
this route it is without trees, and the villages one comes to at intervals
of eight or ten miles are shapeless clusters of mud, straw-thatched huts,
out of the midst of which, perchance, rises the tapering minaret of a
small mosque, this minaret being, of course, the first indication of a
village in the distance. Between Adrianople and Eski Baba, the town I
reach for the night, are three villages, in one of which I approach a
Turkish private house for a drink of water, and surprise the women with
faces unveiled. Upon seeing my countenance peering in the doorway they
one and all give utterance to little screams of dismay, and dart like
frightened fawns into an adjoining room. When the men appear, to see
what is up, they show no signs of resentment at my abrupt intrusion, but
one of them follows the women into the room, and loud, angry words seem
to indicate that they are being soundly berated for allowing themselves
to be thus caught. This does not prevent the women from reappearing the
next minute, however, with their faces veiled behind the orthodox yashmak,
and through its one permissible opening satisfying their feminine curiosity
by critically surveying me and my strange vehicle. Four men follow me
on horseback out of this village, presumably to see what use I make of
the machine; at least I cannot otherwise account for the honor of their
unpleasantly close attentions - close, inasmuch as they keep their horses'
noses almost against my back, in spite of sundry subterfuges to shake
them off. When I stop they do likewise, and when I start again they
deliberately follow, altogether too near to be comfortable. They are,
all four, rough-looking peasants, and their object is quite unaccountable,
unless they are doing it for "pure cussedness," or perhaps with some
vague idea of provoking me into doing something that would offer them
the excuse of attacking and robbing me. The road is sufficiently lonely
to invite some such attention. If they are only following me to see what
I do with the bicycle, they return but little enlightened, since they
see nothing but trundling and an occasional scraping off of mud. At the
end of about two miles, whatever their object, they give it up. Several
showers occur during the afternoon, and the distance travelled has been
short and unsatisfactory, when just before dark I arrive at Eski Baba,
where I am agreeably surprised to find a mehana, the proprietor of which
is a reasonably mannered individual. Since getting into Turkey proper,
reasonably mannered people have seemed wonderfully scarce, the majority
seeming to be most boisterous and headstrong. Next to the bicycle the
Turks of these interior villages seem to exercise their minds the most
concerning whether I have a passport; as I enter Eski Baba; a gendarme
standing at the police-barrack gates shouts after me to halt and produce
"passaporte." Exhibiting my passport at almost every village is getting
monotonous, and, as I am going to remain here at least overnight, I
ignore the gendarme's challenge and wheel on to the mehana. Two gendarmes
are soon on the spot, inquiring if I have a "passaporte;" but, upon
learning that I am going no farther to-day, they do not take the trouble
to examine it, the average Turkish official religiously believing in
never doing anything to-day that can be put off till to-morrow.
The natives of a Turkish interior village are not over-intimate with
newspapers, and are in consequence profoundly ignorant, having little
conception of anything, save what they have been familiar with and
surrounded by all their lives, and the appearance of the bicycle is
indeed a strange visitation, something entirely beyond their comprehension.
The mehana is crowded by a wildly gesticulating and loudly commenting
and arguing crowd of Turks and Christians all the evening. Although there
seems to be quite a large proportion of native unbelievers in Eski Baba
there is not a single female visible on the streets this evening; and
from observations next day I judge it to be a conservative Mussulman
village, where the Turkish women, besides keeping themselves veiled with
orthodox strictness, seldom go abroad, and the women who are not Mohammedan,
imbibing something of the retiring spirit of the dominant race, also
keep themselves well in the background. A round score of dogs, great and
small, and in all possible conditions of miserableness, congregate in
the main street of Eski Baba at eventide, waiting with hungry-eyed
expectancy for any morsel of food or offal that may peradventure find
its way within their reach. The Turks, to their credit be it said, never
abuse dogs; but every male "Christian" in Eski Baba seems to consider
himself in duty bound to kick or throw a stone at one, and scarcely a
minute passes during the whole evening without the yelp of some unfortunate
cur. These people seem to enjoy a dog's sufferings; and one soulless
peasant, who in the course of the evening kicks a half-starved cur so
savagely that the poor animal goes into a fit, and, after staggering and
rolling all over the street, falls down as though really dead, is the
hero of admiring comments from the crowd, who watch the creature's
sufferings with delight. Seeing who can get the most telling kicks at
the dogs seems to be the regular evening's pastime among the male
population of Eski Baba unbelievers, and everybody seems interested and
delighted when some unfortunate animal comes in for an unusually severe
visitation. A rush mat on the floor of the stable is my bed to-night,
with a dozen unlikely looking natives, to avoid the close companionship
of whom I take up my position in dangerous proximity to a donkey's hind
legs, and not six feet from where the same animal's progeny is stretched
out with all the abandon of extreme youth. Precious little sleep is
obtained, for fleas innumerable take liberties with my person. A flourishing
colony of swallows inhabiting the roof keeps up an incessant twittering,
and toward daylight two muezzins, one on the minaret of each of the two
mosques near by, begin calling the faithful to prayer, and howling "Allah.
Allah!" with the voices of men bent on conscientiously doing their
duty by making themselves heard by every Mussulman for at least a mile
around, robbing me of even the short hour of repose that usually follows
a sleepless night.
It is raining heavily again on Sunday morning - in fact, the last week has
been about the rainiest that I ever saw outside of England - and considering
the state of the roads south of Eski Baba, the prospects look favorable
for a Sunday's experience in an interior Turkish village. Men are solemnly
squatting around the benches of the mehana, smoking nargilehs and sipping
tiny cups of thick black coffee, and they look on in wonder while I
devour a substantial breakfast; but whether it is the novelty of seeing
a 'cycler feed, or the novelty of seeing anybody eat as I am doing, thus
early in the morning, I am unable to say; for no one else seems to partake
of much solid food until about noontide. All the morning long, people
swarming around are importuning me with, " Bin, bin, bin, monsieur."
The bicycle is locked up in a rear chamber, and thrice I accommodatingly
fetch it out and endeavor to appease their curiosity by riding along a
hundred-yard stretch of smooth road in the rear of the mehana; but their
importunities never for a moment cease. Finally the annoyance becomes
so unbearable that the proprietor takes pity on my harassed head, and,
after talking quite angrily to the crowd, locks me up in the same room
with the bicycle. Iron bars guard the rear windows of the houses at Eski
Baba, and ere I am fairly stretched out on my mat several swarthy faces
appear at the bars, and several voices simultaneously join in the dread
chorus of, " Bin, bin, bin, monsieur! bin, bin." compelling me to close,
in the middle of a hot day-the rain having ceased about ten o'clock-the
one small avenue of ventilation in the stuffy little room. A moment's
privacy is entirely out of the question, for, even with the window closed,
faces are constantly peering in, eager to catch even the smallest glimpse
of either me or the bicycle. Fate is also against me to-day, plainly
enough, for ere I have been imprisoned in the room an hour the door is
unlocked to admit the mulazim (lieutenant of gendarmes), and two of his
subordinates, with long cavalry swords dangling about their legs, after
the manner of the Turkish police.
In addition to puzzling their sluggish brains about my passport, my
strange means of locomotion, and my affairs generally, they have now,
it seems, exercised their minds up to the point that they ought to
interfere in the matter of my revolver. But first of all they want to
see my wonderful performance of riding a thing that cannot stand alone.
After I have favored the gendarmes and the assembled crowd by riding
once again, they return the compliment by tenderly escorting me down to
police headquarters, where, after spending an hour or so in examining
my passport, they place that document and my revolver in their strong
box, and lackadaisically wave me adieu. Upon returning to the mehana, I
find a corpulent pasha and a number of particularly influential Turks
awaiting my reappearance, with the same diabolical object of asking me
to "bin! bin!" Soon afterward come the two Mohammedan priests, with the
same request; and certainly not less than half a dozen times during the
afternoon do I bring out the bicycle and ride, in deference to the
insatiable curiosity of the sure enough "unspeakable" Turk; and every
separate time my audience consists not only of the people personally
making the request, but of the whole gesticulating male population. The
proprietor of the mehana kindly takes upon himself the office of apprising
me when my visitors are people of importance, by going through the
pantomime of swelling his features and form up to a size corresponding
in proportion relative to their importance, the process of inflation in
the case of the pasha being quite a wonderful performance for a man who
is not a professional contortionist.
Once during the afternoon I attempt to write, but I might as well attempt
to fly, for the mehana is crowded with people who plainly have not the
slightest conception of the proprieties. Finally a fez is wantonly flung,
by an extra-enterprising youth, at my ink-bottle, knocking it over, and
but for its being a handy contrivance, out of which the ink will not
spill, it would have made a mess of my notes. Seeing the uselessness of
trying to write, I meander forth, and into the leading mosque, and without
removing my shoes, tread its sacred floor for several minutes, and stand
listening to several devout Mussulmans reciting the Koran aloud, for,
be it known, the great fast of Ramadan has begun, and fasting and prayer
is now the faithful Mussulman's daily lot for thirty days, his religion
forbidding him either eating or drinking from early morn till close -
of day. After looking about the interior, I ascend the steep spiral
stairway up to the minaret balcony whence the muezzin calls the faithful
to prayer five times a day. As I pop my head out through the little
opening leading to the balcony, I am slightly taken aback by finding
that small footway already occupied by the muezzin, and it is a fair
question as to whether the muezzin's astonishment at seeing my white
helmet appear through the opening is greater, or mine at finding him
already in possession. However, I brazen it out by joining him, and he,
like a sensible man, goes about his business just the same as if nobody
were about. The people down in the streets look curiously up and call
one another's attention to the unaccustomed sight of a white-helmeted
'cycler and a muezzin upon the minaret together; but the fact that I am
not interfered with in any way goes far to prove that the Mussulman
fanaticism, that we have all heard and read about so often, has wellnigh
flickered out in European Turkey; moreover, I think the Eski Babans
would allow me to do anything, in order to place me under obligations to
"bin! bin!" whenever they ask me. At nine o'clock I begin to grow a trifle
uneasy about the fate of my passport and revolver, and, proceeding to
the police-barracks, formally demand their return. Nothing has apparently
been done concerning either one or the other since they were taken from
me, for the mulazim, who is lounging on a divan smoking cigarettes,
produces them from the same receptacle he consigned them to this
afternoon, and lays them before him, clearly as mystified and perplexed
as ever about what he ought to do. I explain to him that I wish to depart
in the morning, and gendarmes are despatched to summon several leading
Eski Babans for consultation, in the hope that some of them, or all of them
put together, might perchance arrive at a satisfactory conclusion
concerning me. The great trouble appears to be that, while I got the
passport vised at Sofia and Philippopolis, I overlooked Adrianople, and
the Eski Baba officials, being in the vilayet of the latter city, are
naturally puzzled to account for this omission; and, from what I can
gather of their conversation, some are advocating sending me back to
Adrianople, a suggestion that I straightway announce my disapproval of
by again and again calling their attention to the vise of the Turkish
consul-general in London, and giving them to understand, with much
emphasis, that this vise answers, for every part of Turkey, including
the vilayet of Adrianople. The question then arises as to whether that
has anything to do with my carrying a revolver; to which I candidly reply
that it has not, at the same time pointing out that I have just come
through Servia and Bulgaria (countries in which the Turks consider it
quite necessary to go armed, though in fact there is quite as much, if
not more, necessity for arms in Turkey), and that I have come through
both Mustapha Pasha and Adrianople without being molested on account of
the revolver; all of which only seems to mystify them the more, and make
them more puzzled than ever about what to do. Finally a brilliant idea
occurs to one of them, being nothing less than to shift the weight ot
the dreadful responsibility upon the authoritative shoulders of a visiting
pasha, an important personage who arrived in Eski Baba by carriage about
two hours ago, and whose arrival I remember caused quite a flurry of
excitement among the natives. The pasha is found surrounded by a number
of bearded Turks, seated cross-legged on a carpet in the open air, smoking
nargilehs and cigarettes, and sipping coffee. This pasha is fatter and
more unwieldy, if possible, than the one for whose edification I rode
the bicycle this afternoon; noticing which, all hopes of being created
a pasha upon my arrival at Constantinople naturally vanish, for evidently
one of the chief qualifications for a pashalic is obesity, a distinction
to which continuous 'cycling, in hot weather is hardly conducive. The
pasha seems a good-natured person, after the manner of fat people
generally, and straightway bids me be seated on the carpet, and orders
coffee and cigarettes to be placed at my disposal while he examines my
case. In imitation of those around me I make an effort to sit cross-legged
on the mat; but the position is so uncomfortable that I am quickly
compelled to change it, and I fancy detecting a merry twinkle in the eye
of more than one silent observer at my inability to adapt my posture to
the custom of the country. I scarcely think the pasha knows anything
more about what sort of a looking document an English passport ought to
be, than does the mulazim and the leading citizens of Eski Baba; but he
goes through the farce of critically examining the vise of the Turkish
consul-general in London, while another Turk holds his lighted cigarette
close to it, and blows from it a feeble glimmer of light. Plainly the
pasha cannot make anything more out of it than the others, for many a
Turkish pasha is unable to sign his own name intelligibly, using a seal
instead; but, probably with a view of favorably impressing those around
him, he asks me first if I am an Englishman, and then if I am "a baron,"
doubtless thinking that an English baron is a person occupying a somewhat
similar position in English society to that of a pasha in Turkish: viz.,
a really despotic sway over the people of his district; for, although
there are law and lawyers in Turkey to-day, the pasha, especially in
country districts, is still an all-powerful person, practically doing
as he pleases.
To the first question I return an affirmative answer; the latter I pretend
not to comprehend; but I cannot help smiling at the question and the
manner in which it is put - seeing which the pasha and his friends smile
in response, and look knowingly at each other, as though thinking, " Ah!
he is a baron, but don't intend to let us know it." Whether this self-
arrived decision influences things in my favor I hardly know, but anyhow
he tosses me my passport, and orders the mulazim to return my revolver;
and as I mentally remark the rather jolly expression of the pasha's face,
I am inclined to think that, instead of treating the matter with the
ridiculous importance attached to it by the mulazim and the other people,
he regards the whole affair in the light of a few minutes' acceptable
diversion. The pasha arrived too late this evening at Eski Baba to see
the bicycle: "Will I allow a gendarme to go to the mehana and bring it
for his inspection?" "I will go and fetch it myself," I explain; and in
ten minutes the fat pasha and his friends are examining the perfect
mechanism of an American bicycle by the light of an American kerosene
lamp, which has been provided in the meantime. Some of the on-lookers,
who have seen me ride to-day, suggested to the pasha that I "bin! bin!"
and the pasha smiles approvingly at the suggestion; but by pantomime I
explain to him the impossibility of riding, owing to the nature of the
ground and the darkness, and I am really quite surprised at the readiness
with which he comprehends and accepts the situation. The pasha is very
likely possessed of more intelligence than I have been giving him credit
for; anyhow he has in ten minutes proved himself equal to the situation,
which the mulazim and several prominent Eski Babans have puzzled their
collective brains over for an hour in vain, and, after he has inspected
the bicycle, and resumed his cross-legged position on the carpet, I doff
my helmet to him and those about him, and return to the mehana, well
satisfied with the turn affairs have taken.