At Semlin I still was encompassed by the scenes and the sounds of
familiar life; the din of a busy world still vexed and cheered me; the
unveiled faces of women still shone in the light of day. Yet, whenever I
chose to look southward, I saw the Ottoman’s fortress—austere, and darkly
impending high over the vale of the Danube—historic Belgrade. I had
come, as it were, to the end of this wheel-going Europe, and now my eyes
would see the splendour and havoc of the East.
The two frontier towns are less than a cannon-shot distant, and yet their
people hold no communion. The Hungarian on the north, and the Turk and
Servian on the southern side of the Save are as much asunder as though
there were fifty broad provinces that lay in the path between them. Of
the men that bustled around me in the streets of Semlin there was not,
perhaps, one who had ever gone down to look upon the stranger race
dwelling under the walls of that opposite castle. It is the plague, and
the dread of the plague, that divide the one people from the other. All
coming and going stands forbidden by the terrors of the yellow flag. If
you dare to break the laws of the quarantine, you will be tried with
military haste; the court will scream out your sentence to you from a
tribunal some fifty yards off; the priest, instead of gently whispering
to you the sweet hopes of religion, will console you at duelling
distance; and after that you will find yourself carefully shot, and
carelessly buried in the ground of the lazaretto.
When all was in order for our departure we walked down to the precincts
of the quarantine establishment, and here awaited us a “compromised” {1}
officer of the Austrian Government, who lives in a state of perpetual
excommunication. The boats, with their “compromised” rowers, were also
in readiness.
After coming in contact with any creature or thing belonging to the
Ottoman Empire it would be impossible for us to return to the Austrian
territory without undergoing an imprisonment of fourteen days in the
odious lazaretto. We felt, therefore, that before we committed ourselves
it was important to take care that none of the arrangements necessary for
the journey had been forgotten; and in our anxiety to avoid such a
misfortune, we managed the work of departure from Semlin with nearly as
much solemnity as if we had been departing this life. Some obliging
persons, from whom we had received civilities during our short stay in
the place, came down to say their farewell at the river’s side; and now,
as we stood with them at the distance of three or four yards from the
“compromised” officer, they asked if we were perfectly certain that we
had wound up all our affairs in Christendom, and whether we had no
parting requests to make. We repeated the caution to our servants, and
took anxious thought lest by any possibility we might be cut off from
some cherished object of affection:—were they quite sure that nothing had
been forgotten—that there was no fragrant dressing-case with its
gold-compelling letters of credit from which we might be parting for
ever?—No; all our treasures lay safely stowed in the boat, and we were
ready to follow them to the ends of the earth. Now, therefore, we shook
hands with our Semlin friends, who immediately retreated for three or
four paces, so as to leave us in the centre of a space between them and
the “compromised” officer. The latter then advanced, and asking once
more if we had done with the civilised world, held forth his hand. I met
it with mine, and there was an end to Christendom for many a day to come.
We soon neared the southern bank of the river, but no sounds came down
from the blank walls above, and there was no living thing that we could
yet see, except one great hovering bird of the vulture race, flying low,
and intent, and wheeling round and round over the pest-accursed city.
But presently there issued from the postern a group of human
beings—beings with immortal souls, and possibly some reasoning faculties;
but to me the grand point was this, that they had real, substantial, and
incontrovertible turbans. They made for the point towards which we were
steering, and when at last I sprang upon the shore, I heard, and saw
myself now first surrounded by men of Asiatic blood. I have since ridden
through the land of the Osmanlees, from the Servian border to the Golden
Horn—from the Gulf of Satalieh to the tomb of Achilles; but never have I
seen such ultra-Turkish looking fellows as those who received me on the
banks of the Save. They were men in the humblest order of life, having
come to meet our boat in the hope of earning something by carrying our
luggage up to the city; but poor though they were, it was plain that they
were Turks of the proud old school, and had not yet forgotten the fierce,
careless bearing of their once victorious race.
Though the province of Servia generally has obtained a kind of
independence, yet Belgrade, as being a place of strength on the frontier,
is still garrisoned by Turkish troops under the command of a Pasha.
Whether the fellows who now surrounded us were soldiers, or peaceful
inhabitants, I did not understand: they wore the old Turkish costume;
vests and jackets of many and brilliant colours, divided from the loose
petticoat-trousers by heavy volumes of shawl, so thickly folded around
their waists as to give the meagre wearers something of the dignity of
true corpulence. This cincture enclosed a whole bundle of weapons; no
man bore less than one brace of immensely long pistols, and a yataghan
(or cutlass), with a dagger or two of various shapes and sizes; most of
these arms were inlaid with silver, and highly burnished, so that they
contrasted shiningly with the decayed grandeur of the garments to which
they were attached (this carefulness of his arms is a point of honour
with the Osmanlee, who never allows his bright yataghan to suffer from
his own adversity); then the long drooping mustachios, and the ample
folds of the once white turbans, that lowered over the piercing eyes, and
the haggard features of the men, gave them an air of gloomy pride, and
that appearance of trying to be disdainful under difficulties, which I
have since seen so often in those of the Ottoman people who live, and
remember old times; they seemed as if they were thinking that they would
have been more usefully, more honourably, and more piously employed in
cutting our throats than in carrying our portmanteaus. The faithful
Steel (Methley’s Yorkshire servant) stood aghast for a moment at the
sight of his master’s luggage upon the shoulders of these warlike
porters, and when at last we began to move up he could scarcely avoid
turning round to cast one affectionate look towards Christendom, but
quickly again he marched on with steps of a man, not frightened exactly,
but sternly prepared for death, or the Koran, or even for plural wives.
The Moslem quarter of a city is lonely and desolate. You go up and down,
and on over shelving and hillocky paths through the narrow lanes walled
in by blank, windowless dwellings; you come out upon an open space
strewed with the black ruins that some late fire has left; you pass by a
mountain of castaway things, the rubbish of centuries, and on it you see
numbers of big, wolf-like dogs lying torpid under the sun, with limbs
outstretched to the full, as if they were dead; storks, or cranes,
sitting fearless upon the low roofs, look gravely down upon you; the
still air that you breathe is loaded with the scent of citron, and
pomegranate rinds scorched by the sun, or (as you approach the bazaar)
with the dry, dead perfume of strange spices. You long for some signs of
life, and tread the ground more heavily, as though you would wake the
sleepers with the heel of your boot; but the foot falls noiseless upon
the crumbling soil of an Eastern city, and silence follows you still.
Again and again you meet turbans, and faces of men, but they have nothing
for you—no welcome—no wonder—no wrath—no scorn—they look upon you as we
do upon a December’s fall of snow—as a “seasonable,” unaccountable,
uncomfortable work of God, that may have been sent for some good purpose,
to be revealed hereafter.
Some people had come down to meet us with an invitation from the Pasha,
and we wound our way up to the castle. At the gates there were groups of
soldiers, some smoking, and some lying flat like corpses upon the cool
stones. We went through courts, ascended steps, passed along a corridor,
and walked into an airy, whitewashed room, with an European clock at one
end of it, and Moostapha Pasha at the other; the fine, old, bearded
potentate looked very like Jove—like Jove, too, in the midst of his
clouds, for the silvery fumes of the _narghile_ {2} hung lightly circling
round him.
The Pasha received us with the smooth, kind, gentle manner that belongs
to well-bred Osmanlees; then he lightly clapped his hands, and instantly
the sound filled all the lower end of the room with slaves; a syllable
dropped from his lips which bowed all heads, and conjured away the
attendants like ghosts (their coming and their going was thus swift and
quiet, because their feet were bare, and they passed through no door, but
only by the yielding folds of a purder). Soon the coffee-bearers
appeared, every man carrying separately his tiny cup in a small metal
stand; and presently to each of us there came a pipe-bearer, who first
rested the bowl of the _tchibouque_ at a measured distance on the floor,
and then, on this axis, wheeled round the long cheery stick, and
gracefully presented it on half-bended knee; already the well-kindled
fire was glowing secure in the bowl, and so, when I pressed the amber up
to mine, there was no coyness to conquer; the willing fume came up, and
answered my slightest sigh, and followed softly every breath inspired,
till it touched me with some faint sense and understanding of Asiatic
contentment.
Asiatic contentment! Yet scarcely, perhaps, one hour before I had been
wanting my bill, and ringing for waiters, in a shrill and busy hotel.
In the Ottoman dominions there is scarcely any hereditary influence
except that which belongs to the family of the Sultan, and wealth, too,
is a highly volatile blessing, not easily transmitted to the descendant
of the owner. From these causes it results that the people standing in
the place of nobles and gentry are official personages, and though many
(indeed the greater number) of these potentates are humbly born and bred,
you will seldom, I think, find them wanting in that polished smoothness
of manner, and those well-undulating tones which belong to the best
Osmanlees. The truth is, that most of the men in authority have risen
from their humble station by the arts of the courtier, and they preserve
in their high estate those gentle powers of fascination to which they owe
their success. Yet unless you can contrive to learn a little of the
language, you will be rather bored by your visits of ceremony; the
intervention of the interpreter, or dragoman as he is called, is fatal to
the spirit of conversation. I think I should mislead you if I were to
attempt to give the substance of any particular conversation with
Orientals. A traveller may write and say that “the Pasha of So-and-so
was particularly interested in the vast progress which has been made in
the application of steam, and appeared to understand the structure of our
machinery—that he remarked upon the gigantic results of our manufacturing
industry—showed that he possessed considerable knowledge of our Indian
affairs, and of the constitution of the Company, and expressed a lively
admiration of the many sterling qualities for which the people of England
are distinguished.” But the heap of commonplaces thus quietly attributed
to the Pasha will have been founded perhaps on some such talking as
this:—
_Pasha_.—The Englishman is welcome; most blessed among hours is this, the
hour of his coming.
_Dragoman_ (to the traveller).—The Pasha pays you his compliments.
_Traveller_.—Give him my best compliments in return, and say I’m
delighted to have the honour of seeing him.
_Dragoman_ (to the Pasha).—His lordship, this Englishman, Lord of London,
Scorner of Ireland, Suppressor of France, has quitted his governments,
and left his enemies to breathe for a moment, and has crossed the broad
waters in strict disguise, with a small but eternally faithful retinue of
followers, in order that he might look upon the bright countenance of the
Pasha among Pashas—the Pasha of the everlasting Pashalik of
Karagholookoldour.
_Traveller_ (to his dragoman).—What on earth have you been saying about
London? The Pasha will be taking me for a mere cockney. Have not I told
you _always_ to say that I am from a branch of the family of Mudcombe
Park, and that I am to be a magistrate for the county of Bedfordshire,
only I’ve not qualified, and that I should have been a deputy-lieutenant
if it had not been for the extraordinary conduct of Lord Mountpromise,
and that I was a candidate for Goldborough at the last election, and that
I should have won easy if my committee had not been bought. I wish to
Heaven that if you _do_ say anything about me, you’d tell the simple
truth.
_Dragoman_ [is silent].
_Pasha_.—What says the friendly Lord of London? is there aught that I can
grant him within the Pashalik of Karagholookoldour?
_Dragoman_ (growing, sulky and literal).—This friendly Englishman—this
branch of Mudcombe—this head-purveyor of Goldborough—this possible
policeman of Bedfordshire, is recounting his achievements, and the number
of his titles.
_Pasha_.—The end of his honours is more distant than the ends of the
earth, and the catalogue of his glorious deeds is brighter than the
firmament of heaven!
_Dragoman_ (to the traveller).—The Pasha congratulates your Excellency.
_Traveller_.—About Goldborough? The deuce he does!—but I want to get at
his views in relation to the present state of the Ottoman Empire. Tell
him the Houses of Parliament have met, and that there has been a speech
from the throne, pledging England to preserve the integrity of the
Sultan’s dominions.
_Dragoman_ (to the Pasha).—This branch of Mudcombe, this possible
policeman of Bedfordshire, informs your Highness that in England the
talking houses have met, and that the integrity of the Sultan’s dominions
has been assured for ever and ever by a speech from the velvet chair.
_Pasha_.—Wonderful chair! Wonderful houses!—whirr! whirr! all by
wheels!—whiz! whiz! all by steam!—wonderful chair! wonderful houses!
wonderful people!—whirr! whirr! all by wheels!—whiz! whiz! all by steam!
_Traveller_ (to the dragoman).—What does the Pasha mean by that whizzing?
he does not mean to say, does he, that our Government will ever abandon
their pledges to the Sultan?
_Dragoman_.—No, your Excellency; but he says the English talk by wheels,
and by steam.
_Traveller_.—That’s an exaggeration; but say that the English really have
carried machinery to great perfection; tell the Pasha (he’ll be struck
with that) that whenever we have any disturbances to put down, even at
two or three hundred miles from London, we can send troops by the
thousand to the scene of action in a few hours.
_Dragoman_ (recovering his temper and freedom of speech).—His Excellency,
this Lord of Mudcombe, observes to your Highness, that whenever the
Irish, or the French, or the Indians rebel against the English, whole
armies of soldiers, and brigades of artillery, are dropped into a mighty
chasm called Euston Square, and in the biting of a cartridge they arise
up again in Manchester, or Dublin, or Paris, or Delhi, and utterly
exterminate the enemies of England from the face of the earth.
_Pasha_.—I know it—I know all—the particulars have been faithfully
related to me, and my mind comprehends locomotives. The armies of the
English ride upon the vapours of boiling caldrons, and their horses are
flaming coals!—whirr! whirr! all by wheels!—whiz! whiz! all by steam!
_Traveller_ (to his dragoman).—I wish to have the opinion of an
unprejudiced Ottoman gentleman as to the prospects of our English
commerce and manufactures; just ask the Pasha to give me his views on the
subject.
_Pasha_ (after having received the communication of the dragoman).—The
ships of the English swarm like flies; their printed calicoes cover the
whole earth; and by the side of their swords the blades of Damascus are
blades of grass. All India is but an item in the ledger-books of the
merchants, whose lumber-rooms are filled with ancient thrones!—whirr!
whirr! all by wheels!—whiz! whiz! all by steam.
_Dragoman_.—The Pasha compliments the cutlery of England, and also the
East India Company.
_Traveller_.—The Pasha’s right about the cutlery (I tried my scimitar
with the common officers’ swords belonging to our fellows at Malta, and
they cut it like the leaf of a novel). Well (to the dragoman), tell the
Pasha I am exceedingly gratified to find that he entertains such a high
opinion of our manufacturing energy, but I should like him to know,
though, that we have got something in England besides that. These
foreigners are always fancying that we have nothing but ships, and
railways, and East India Companies; do just tell the Pasha that our rural
districts deserve his attention, and that even within the last two
hundred years there has been an evident improvement in the culture of the
turnip, and if he does not take any interest about that, at all events
you can explain that we have our virtues in the country—that we are a
truth-telling people, and, like the Osmanlees, are faithful in the
performance of our promises. Oh! and, by-the-bye, whilst you are about
it, you may as well just say at the end that the British yeoman is still,
thank God! the British yeoman.
_Pasha_ (after hearing the dragoman).—It is true, it is true:—through all
Feringhistan the English are foremost and best; for the Russians are
drilled swine, and the Germans are sleeping babes, and the Italians are
the servants of songs, and the French are the sons of newspapers, and the
Greeks they are weavers of lies, but the English and the Osmanlees are
brothers together in righteousness; for the Osmanlees believe in one only
God, and cleave to the Koran, and destroy idols, so do the English
worship one God, and abominate graven images, and tell the truth, and
believe in a book, and though they drink the juice of the grape, yet to
say that they worship their prophet as God, or to say that they are
eaters of pork, these are lies—lies born of Greeks, and nursed by Jews!
_Dragoman_.—The Pasha compliments the English.
_Traveller_ (rising).—Well, I’ve had enough of this. Tell the Pasha I am
greatly obliged to him for his hospitality, and still more for his
kindness in furnishing me with horses, and say that now I must be off.
_Pasha_ (after hearing the dragoman, and standing up on his divan).
{3}—Proud are the sires, and blessed are the dams of the horses that
shall carry his Excellency to the end of his prosperous journey. May the
saddle beneath him glide down to the gates of the happy city, like a boat
swimming on the third river of Paradise. May he sleep the sleep of a
child, when his friends are around him; and the while that his enemies
are abroad, may his eyes flame red through the darkness—more red than the
eyes of ten tigers! Farewell!
_Dragoman_.—The Pasha wishes your Excellency a pleasant journey.
So ends the visit.