BACK TO TURKEY
Yet after I had come to believe that these conclusions of mine were the
right ones--and at the present moment I still believe them to be so--I
did not rise, pack my trunk and return to my home. On the contrary,
disillusioned though I was, I meant to stay in America. My little self
felt pledged to the onward fight, into which evolution has plunged us.
My generation belongs to that advance guard which will live to see the
fight ended in America, and I must be present, after the great victory
is won, to see how we shall face the reconstruction period. This was
the reason why, when my mother, about to undergo a serious operation,
sent for me to be with her, I bought my return ticket before leaving
America, and kept it always with me--ready for use at a moment’s notice.
The love of our native land forms an indelible part of our souls. A mad
joy possessed me all the way from New York to Genoa; a delirium from
Genoa to the Dardanelles; and from the straits to the harbour I was
speechless with emotion. How wonderful my empress city looked, when
the mist gradually lifted and disclosed her to my homesick eyes. Up to
that moment I had thought never to see her enchanting face again; yet
there I was, standing on the promenade deck of a commonplace steamer,
while she was giving me--me, her runaway child--all her smiles and all
her glory.
We must be very strong, that we do not sometimes die of joy.
When the little tender docked at the quay of Galata, how I should have
loved to have escaped the customs bother, the many and one greetings,
and the hundred and several more stupid words one has to say on
disembarking. Yet having acquired a little wisdom, I was patient with
the custom-house men, and polite to the people who had been sent to
meet me. Obediently even I entered the carriage which was to take me
up, up on the seven hills where we Christians live.
Not till several days afterwards was I free to start on my pilgrimage;
and as I walked up and down the main streets, and in and out of the
narrow, crooked, dirty lanes, which lead one enticingly onward--often
to nowhere--I was aware that my pilgrimage had a double aim. First, I
wanted to recognize my old haunts, and second, to find that part of
myself which had once lived within those quarters. Alas! if the streets
were the same, I was not. Where was the girl, full of enthusiasm
and dreams, who had trod these same streets? Something within me had
changed. Was it my faith in mankind, or my faith in life itself?
As I walked on, unconsciously I was picturing these same streets,
clean, full of life and bustle, were Turkey to belong to America. I
could see the trolleys they would have here, the terraces they would
build there, the magnificent buildings they would erect, and all the
civilized things they would bring to my mother country. My eyes,
Americanized by the progress of the new world, kept seeing things that
ought to be done, and were left undone, for no other reason than that
they had been left undone for hundreds of years. The saddest of all sad
things is when one begins to see the faults and failings of one’s own
beloved, be it a person or a country. I hated myself for finding fault
with Turkey because she was clad in a poor, unkempt garb.
Before the Galata Tower, just where the streets form a cross, I turned
to the left, and walked to the next street. At its entrance the leader
of a band of dogs rose from his slumbers and barked at me angrily.
I started, and then stood still. This was a street where once I had
lived, and the canine leader barking at me was the same as six years
ago, only older, more unkempt, and filthier. It hurt me to have him
bark at me. It meant that he did not know me--or did he with his
doggish intuition feel that I was disloyal in my heart to the old
régime?
“Why, Giaour!” I cried, “don’t you know me? We used to be friends, you
and I.”
He stood rigidly on his old legs, his band alert to follow his lead.
These dogs, which were anathema to the stranger, had a double duty
to perform in their unhappy city. They were not only scavengers, but
the defenders of her defenceless quarters. The stranger only saw
their scarred bodies and ugly appearance; but we who were born in
Constantinople knew how they formed their bands, and how they protected
us. Each quarter had some twenty dogs, and they guarded it both against
other dogs, and against strangers. The young ones, as they grew up, had
to win their spurs, and their position was determined by their bravery
and skill, both in fighting and in commanding. I had seen Giaour win
his leadership, a month or so before I left Constantinople. He had been
nicknamed Giaour by a Turkish _kapoudji_, because he had a white
cross plainly marked on his face.
To my entreaties he only stood growling. “Come, Giaour,” I begged, “I
have changed, I know, but I am still enough myself for you not to bark
at me.”
He listened, mistrustfully watching every movement I made, and because
of this I perpetrated a shameful deed. I retreated to Galderim
Gedjesi, bought a loaf at the baker’s, and with the bribe in my hand
returned. The band was now lying down, but Giaour was still standing,
his pantallettes shaking in a ruffled and disturbed fashion. In his
heart, perhaps, he was not pleased with himself for having barked at me.
I approached him, the bread in my hand. After all, is not Turkey the
land of bribes?
“Come, Giaour!” I went and sat down on a door-step. Slowly and with
dignity he followed. “Here is some bread from the baker’s for you, and
please try to remember me! It is more than I can bear to have you bark
at me, Giaour.”
He sniffed at the piece of bread I offered him; then ate it, and then
another piece, and another. When he had finished the entire loaf he
placed both his paws on my lap and studied my face intently.
“Giaour, you know me now, don’t you?” I begged. “I used to live here
six years ago, though it seems like ages.”
From across the way an Englishman came out of a house and approached
me, where I sat with Giaour’s paws in my lap. “I beg your pardon,” he
said shyly, lifting his hat, “but you are a stranger here, and those
fellows are dangerous. Besides they are unhealthy.”
This was the last straw: he took me for a foreigner.
“Thank you,” I replied, “but I am not afraid. The fact is, we are of
the same kennel, Giaour and I.”
“Kennel--h’m!”
“Oh, I know Giaour has never seen a kennel, as you understand it in
England; but he has a fine doggish soul, just the same.”
“H’m!” the Englishman sniffed again, “perhaps he has,” and lifting his
hat, he went away.
It is a curious fact that unless an Englishman in England knows you,
he would rather perish than speak to you first; on the Continent he
would rather be rude to you than decent; but in Turkey his nature
seems to change, and he is really a nice human being. As I watched the
man go away I was thinking that if England were governing Turkey how
delightful everything would be. Yes, England would be the one nation
to succeed with Turkey. America was too bustling, after all, and had
too little experience. Germany had too much paternalism and discipline;
Austria-Hungary lacked fundamental honesty; while as for Russia--that
ought never to be. Russian bureaucracy, grafted on the corrupt Turkish
stem would only make matters worse. But England, with her love of
order and decency, and with just enough discipline to put matters to
rights--how delightful it would be, and how the Turks would enjoy
stopping whatever they were doing, at four o’clock, to have tea! Alas!
between Mr Gladstone’s indiscreet utterances, and Sir Elliot’s bad
management, England let her hour slip by, and Turkey was deprived of
her one chance to be regenerated.
Giaour threw back his head and emitted a howl. It was strident and
harsh, the howl of the plains of Asia; for Giaour was of the blood of
the once monarchs of the East, though now he was a ragged, diseased
dog--scavenger, and soldier of fortune.
Lovingly my hand patted his old head. “Ah, Giaour, my boy, these are
hard days for thee and thy race, and even I am recreant in my heart to
thee. Forgive me! Perhaps the Powers, in not agreeing among themselves,
have reached the only possible agreement at present--the Turk in
Constantinople.”
I took his paws and put them down. “Don’t bark at me again, old boy.”
He waved his stump of a tail, just a tiny bit. He had eaten my bread,
he had looked into my eyes, yet he was not quite certain of me. Perhaps
he, too, had lost faith in life and in mankind.
On leaving Giaour, I plunged into that tangle of streets through which
one may deviously find one’s way to Kara-keuy. To a stranger it is a
veritable labyrinth; but though I have little sense of locality I could
still find my way through it. It is one of the few thoroughly oriental
quarters left on this side of the Galata Bridge.
Arrived at Kara-Keuy I stopped happily, watching the life about me. How
delightfully--how terribly--everything was the same. From afar I heard
a cry--“_Varda!_” and then saw the half-clad figure of the runner,
who, waving a red flag to right and to left, was warning pedestrians
that the street-car was coming. Ah! this was indeed my Constantinople,
disdained by progress, forgotten by time. How emblematic was this
runner before the street-car. He reminded me of the cynical words of
the crafty Russian statesman, Ignatief, who once exclaimed: “They talk
of regenerating Turkey--as if that were possible even to the Almighty
above.”
My dear, dear Turkey! She may start over again in Asia, but be
regenerated in Europe----?
For a little while I walked on, and then entering a small
confectioner’s shop, frequented only by Turks, and squatting like them
on a low stool, I ordered a _kourous_ worth of _boughatcha_.
I ate it with my fingers, like the others. Near me sat two young
students of theology, talking politics. Their tone as much as their
words made me see bloodshed. In some ways the Turks are one of the
finest races, but they have been losing ground for the last two
hundred years and it hurts them, and in their heart they see red. No
wonder they make others see it, too. The conversation of the young
_softas_ was full of the sanguine colour. This was shortly after
1897. Turkey had just defeated Greece, and the old feeling of arrogance
was uppermost in the breasts of Mahomet’s followers.
“Fork them out! Fork them out, the giaours,” cried the younger of the
two. “They are only fit for fodder, those Christian dogs.”
I should have liked to linger over my _boughatcha_, but the
tension of the tone betrayed a heat above the normal. I paid my
_kourous_, and left the shop, praying both to the Christian God
and to the Mohammedan one that they might let these misguided children
see stretches of peaceful green, instead of always red.
Slowly, slowly, now, I walked to the Galata Bridge, and turned to the
right, just behind the _karakol_ which houses the main body of the
Galata police. I was on my way to hunt up old Ali Baba, my boatman, him
with whom years ago I had shared the raptures of the Byzantine History.
My heart was beating fast. Would Turkey play me false this once? Would
the one living landmark of my past be chosen as the one to mark a
change in that changeless country?
Hastening, I yet found myself lingering in my haste. If his place were
to be empty, if he were really gone, having himself been rowed over the
river Styx, would it not be better for me not to go there, but always
to remember his place filled by his kindly presence?
Though reasoning thus, my feet still took me onward to where he used to
be, and there, at his accustomed place, sat Ali Baba, his face looking
like a nice red apple, wrinkled by the sun and rain.
I went and stood before him. “Ali Baba!” I said, tears in my voice.
He rose, a trifle less quickly than he used to, and looked at me
incredulously.
“_Benim kuchouk, hanoum_,” he said slowly, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh! it is I!” I cried. “It is I,” and gave him both my hands.
We walked toward the little caïque, where he took some time to unfasten
the rope. We did not speak until he had rowed again mid-way, under the
bridge.
“Where have you been all these many, many years?” he asked
reproachfully.
“I have been to America.” I replied, “the newest and biggest of all
countries”--and as of old I was talking, and he was listening; only
this time it was not of the past, and of the people, who, having done
their work, were dead and forgotten, but of a country of a great
present, and a still greater future. And as of old his old face was
full of interest and kindness.
Presently he asked, “But my little lady, what have you done with the
roses of your face? You are pale and worn out.”
“One has to work hard in America,” I replied. “It is a country which
requires of your best, of your utmost, if you are to succeed.” And
again I went on to tell him of the fast trains which go sixty miles an
hour, of the elevated trains, flying above the middle of the streets,
and of the preparations for the subways, which were to burrow in the
depths of the city.
“But why are they working so hard and preparing so much?” he asked, a
bit bewildered. “After all they will have to die, and when they are
dead they can only have a grave like anybody else.”
I shook my head. “They are making away with the graves, my Ali Baba.
They have invented a quicker and more expedient way of getting rid of
the body. They place it on a table in a special room, and within two
hours all that is left of it is a simple white strip of clean ashes.”
He gasped. “They have done that?” he cried in horror. “They have
done that! Allah, can’st thou forgive them?” He leaned towards me,
earnestness and entreaty in his kind face. “Don’t go back there, my
little one, don’t go back there again. It is an accursed country which
steals the peace from the living, their bodies from the dead, and robs
a child of her roses. Say that you are not going back, my little one.”
Again I shook my head. “When I left there, my Ali Baba, I bought my
return-ticket. I wear it like an amulet around my neck. I am going back
as soon as my presence is no longer needed here.”
He let his oars drop. “You are going back?” he asked with awe. “But
why?”
I looked at him, and beyond him at old Byzantium--once Greek, now full
of minarets and mosques and all they stood for. A red Turkish flag
floated idly against the indigo sky.
Why was I going back to that vast new country so diametrically
different from his own? Could I explain to him?
No, I could not, any more than I could have explained, years ago, to my
little Turkish Kiamelé the meaning of my grand-uncle’s gift on my fifth
birthday.
“Why are you going back?” Ali Baba insisted.
No, I could not tell him: he could not understand.
His flag was the Crescent, mine was the Cross.
THE SOUL OF A TURK
BY
VICTORIA DE BUNSEN
_With 8 Illustrations_
_Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d. net_
_Morning Post._--“The most delightful books are those which either
depict the characters of men and women, or those which reveal the
personality of the writer. Mrs De Bunsen’s account of her travels in
the Near East combines both these charms.”
_Westminster Gazette._--“‘The Soul of a Turk’ is an interesting,
well-written book.”
_Evening Standard._--“Mrs De Bunsen’s volume must have a niche all
to itself in the great library built up by travellers in Turkey. It
does actually fulfil the promise of its title.”
_Daily Telegraph._--“It is an admirable and suggestive piece of
portraiture.”
_Spectator._--“For insight and sympathy with the Oriental mind,
we have not read anything better than these pages for a long time. We
thoroughly commend this book to every one who enjoys following the
travels of a plucky, entertaining, and exceptionally intelligent woman.”
_Athenæum._--“This delightful book is no mere collection of
‘ritual acts.’ It is full of shrewd observations on the people.”
_Observer._--“Mrs De Bunsen’s book is no ordinary book of travel,
but really a very suggestive and thoughtful treatise on the faiths and
customs of the Eastern Turks, illuminated with a woman’s sympathy.”
_BOOKS BY STEPHEN GRAHAM_
CHANGING RUSSIA
A TRAMP ALONG THE BLACK SEA SHORE AND IN THE URALS
_With 15 Illustrations and a Map. Demy 8vo, 7s. 6d. net_
_Pall Mall Gazette._--“A beautifully written book which reveals
the Russian people with a sympathy and a delicacy of perception that
are unsurpassed probably even in the work of the most gifted Russian
writers of to-day.”
UNDISCOVERED RUSSIA
_With 16 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, 12s. 6d. net_
_The Spectator._--“Mr Graham writes so well that the aspects of
his subject tend to transfigure themselves under the spell of a style
whose delicate phrasing and soft melancholy often remind one of Loti’s
subtle-hued visions of men and things seen from beneath the half-closed
eyelids of artist and dreamer. Certainly there is in Mr Graham’s mood
and expression some elusively un-English element that makes his work
read at times like perfectly translated French. Still, his sadness
has its source, not in the passive weariness of Loti, surfeited with
civilisation and experience, but in the mysticism of a born wanderer.”
A VAGABOND IN THE CAUCASUS
WITH SOME NOTES OF HIS EXPERIENCES AMONG THE RUSSIANS
_With 16 Illustrations. Demy 8vo, 12s. 6d. net_
_Country Life._--“With a waterproof sleeping-sack across his
shoulders, and a strong infusion of Carlyle, Swinburne, and Nietzsche
in his head, the author of this wholly delightful book set out to
wander in the Caucasus. It was the spirit of Lavengro, however, that
supplied the real driving power, for in his veins, clearly, the sweet
passion of earth runs side by side with a strong savour of humanity.
Youth, spontaneity, and enthusiasm colour these striking Caucasian
pictures, for the vagabond was also a poet. You follow his adventures
with the same interest you follow an engrossing novel, because you see
the man and feel something of his passion.”
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
Transcriber’s Note:
Punctuation has been standardised.
Spelling and variations have been intentionally retained as published
except as follows:
Page 10
hands of the vile Turkisk soldiery _changed to_
hands of the vile Turkish soldiery
Page 36
mere rumour and heresay _changed to_
mere rumour and hearsay
Page 70
can’t be, bcause you _changed to_
can’t be, because you
Page 73
rythmically lapping the shore _changed to_
rhythmically lapping the shore
Page 74
tied pieces of garlick _changed to_
tied pieces of garlic
Page 146
thy felt a really patriotic pride _changed to_
they felt a really patriotic pride
Page 203
this did not effect me at the time _changed to_
this did not affect me at the time
Page 257
flat near Riverside Driver _changed to_
flat near Riverside Drive
Page 262
to sooth the over-wrought nerves _changed to_
to soothe the over-wrought nerves