YILDIZ
The Spider hangs the curtain over princely palaces,
The Owl stands sentry on the cupola of Efrasiab.
SAADI, _Gulistan_ (Persian)
Baluk bashdan kokar.
(Turkish Proverb)[14]
Footnote 14:
“The fish begins to rot at the head.”
THE circumstances already related under which I went to Constantinople
made me a frequent visitor at the Imperial Palace of Yildiz. The
so-called Palace (recently dismantled) consisted of an extensive stretch
of park-land surrounded by high walls in which were fair gardens,
woodlands, lakes, interspersed with different buildings of the most
varied types and kinds. There were mansions, country-houses, stables,
stud establishments, military barracks, a theatre—even a zoological
garden and a china factory being thrown into the hotch-potch. Several
thousand people were gathered here, consisting of the members of the
Sultan’s family, their separate establishments and their dependents,
besides a horde of Palace officials of every imaginable type and
denomination.
During thirty years the Sultan of Turkey directed, single-handed, the
destinies of his Empire from this place, paralysing every other
authority, the official channels of Government included; working as hard
as any nigger, yet with chaos in the end.
On a warm summer day there was an element of repose about the
surroundings of the Palace soothing to the jaded nerves of the Western
European, and quite different from what fancy would conjure up in
connexion with the spiritual head of three hundred millions of human
beings. A solitary Albanian soldier stood on guard at the entrance of
the Palace, close to which on either side were unpretentious-looking
porters’ lodges, whose inmates, without any uniform or other distinctive
mark of their responsible position, asked you your business. If your
face was known to them and a small douceur quickened their memory, you
passed through without any further ado. If not, a polite request for
your card and a query as to whom you wished to see might bring the
request to wait whilst inquiry was made. Or it might be that merely
giving the name of some influential official would suffice and you were
allowed to proceed on your way.
On passing the porter’s lodge into the wall-surrounded precincts of
Yildiz and turning to the left, the eye was arrested by a low-lying,
bungalow-like building in which a staff was employed to peruse a
promiscuous mass of European newspapers, and to translate extracts which
were deemed suitable for submission to the Sultan. In the same building
the stock of the various Turkish decorations was kept in a cupboard, to
which, as occasion arose, the officials would come and take out those
that might be wanted for bestowal.
Immediately in front of you was another building of a similar, though
superior, type. Here the ground floor was devoted to the offices of the
Grand Master of Ceremonies; on the first floor was that of the Sultan’s
First Secretary, Tahsim Pasha. You passed on to the right towards a
slight incline, up which many a fat Turk has toiled breathless, and
beheld further to the right a more pretentious and massive structure in
that peculiar bastard Oriental style of French design which apparently
came into fashion in Turkey in Abdul Aziz’s time, and which, on a larger
scale, is represented on the European shores of the Bosphorus by the
palaces of Dolma-Baghtchè and Tcheragan, and on the Asiatic side by
Begler-Bey, the villa farther away, in which once upon a time the
Empress Eugénie had been the Sultan’s guest. In this particular
building, in the Palace at Yildiz, Ghazi Osman Pasha had his office and
several of the Sultan’s chamberlains had their rooms. There also the
sittings of the Supreme Military Commission, over which Osman Pasha
presided, were occasionally held.
Immediately on the left was another white structure, with a richly
ornamented glass door in the centre. This was the Sultan’s own kiosk,
where he was much during the day and where he granted audiences. Rarely
was a soldier, or indeed any other person, to be seen there, for the
military guard-house was hidden from view farther away to the right.
There a solitary soldier stood on guard, and the chances were that a
stray officer would be sitting on a camp-stool close by smoking a
cigarette. But no challenge came as you passed on to enter another
unpretentious two-storied bungalow type of building. A number of dirty
goloshes in the hall denoted that the official residing here must be a
personage who had many callers and was much sought after, and no wonder!
It was the office of the notorious Izzet Pasha, the Sultan’s Second
Secretary, his favourite, and reputed to be the most influential
personage in the Turkish Empire. You walk upstairs and take a seat in
his room, where already a number of persons are awaiting his
arrival—indeed, several rooms are full of callers waiting to see him.
A cat moves along the corridor rubbing its sides against the wall.
Nobody thinks of disturbing it. Izzet Pasha’s little son is playing
about the room. The white buildings of Constantinople are seen in the
distance from the window, indistinct in the mist rising from the blue
waters of the Bosphorus on a sunny morning. A few pigeons coo and play
on the leads immediately under the window. Undisturbed, they too are
apparently safe from intrusion. In the garden immediately in front some
gardeners are peacefully at work. In the room itself a Turk takes a
small rug which had lain rolled up in a corner and places it on the
floor so that at the further end it is supposed to point in the
direction of Mecca. Thereon he murmurs his prayers. Only his lips move,
at times almost convulsively. He kneels down, bends backwards and
forwards, repeatedly bringing his forehead down into contact with the
carpet; he folds his hands on his breast, then rises upright and
stretches them out with palms upward. This continues for fifteen or
twenty minutes, and nobody takes the least notice of him or his
proceedings. Then he picks up the rug, folds it carelessly, throws it
into a corner of the room, and begins talking unconcernedly with those
present. “Il a fait ses prières, il a fait son devoir,” and within five
minutes he is as blithe as the rest of the company.
We are still waiting, for one and all are anxious to have a few words
with the powerful favourite. He is expected, but he has not arrived yet,
and, as far as any distinct obligation to put in an appearance is
concerned, may not appear at all this day or the next. For among the
possibilities of his position is that of having fallen into temporary
disgrace overnight and being ordered like some naughty school-boy to
stay at home and not to quit his konak for days together. Sometimes he
would not leave the Palace at all, but work half through the night, for
which eventuality a bedstead stood in one of the waiting-rooms. On this
particular occasion he has been attending an important meeting of the
Conseil des Ministres—a Cabinet Council, we should say—at the Sublime
Porte in Stamboul. He is already on his way to Yildiz, leaning back in
his closed brougham, for he is not popular, and consequently not anxious
to be recognized. His carriage has thundered across the rickety old
wooden planks of the Galata Bridge, he has driven along the shores of
the Bosphorus, past the arsenal, Tophanè, past the Palace of
Dolma-Baghtchè, and is now driving up the steep hill from Beschiktasch
towards the Palace at a sharp trot. The heavy gilt harness of the two
magnificent black carriage horses gleams in the sun as the white foam
starts from their coat. It is as if instinct had revealed to the very
walls that the great man is coming, for everybody is on the alert; even
the cat in the corridor, still rubbing its sides against the wall, curls
up its tail higher than before in purring glee. I look out of the
window, and am just in time to see Izzet’s slim figure coming through
the narrow passage at the back of the building. He is surrounded by
several secretaries and attendants and followed by a crowd of
suppliants, who are anxious to interview him and put their claims before
him even before he has reached his sanctum. There is a rush to the door,
and half a dozen dark-eyed servants simultaneously offer their services
to divest the great man of his overcoat. He takes his seat at his desk,
upon which lies a heap of letters. They have arrived overnight, most of
them addressed in Turkish characters, but one of stout dimensions has a
boldly printed address in Latin characters to his Excellency
scrupulously enumerating all his titles and dignities. It is from the
Deutsche Bank in Berlin, where he keeps his banking account, and through
which institution he invests his securities—the harvest of the favours
bestowed upon him by his master, the sum of which, according to rumour,
is a private fortune of several millions. He bows distantly to those
present and goes through the stately Turkish salute, termed “temena,” to
each one in turn of the visitors who are seated on the couches or all
round the room, and who return his greeting with the same dignified
motion of hands and head, though with an extra degree of deferential
eagerness. He hands cigarettes round, and even throws some across the
room to one or two of his more familiarly known visitors, and then
proceeds to open the most important of his letters. Coffee is brought
in, smoking is indulged in, and there is a distinct air of relief and
ease among those present; but still not a word is spoken.
A fine, dignified-looking man in the prime of life, wearing the garb of
a Sheikh or a Ulema or Mollah, crosses the room and takes a seat quite
close to Izzet Pasha. He is evidently a personage of importance, for the
two converse a long time in whispers, and whereas the Sultan’s favourite
is most courteous to his interlocutor, the latter maintains a dignified,
almost severe demeanour. As I was told afterwards, he is one of the most
influential of Ulemas in Constantinople, learned in law, and of high
standing as regards personal character. Izzet assured me that this man
was able to trace his descent from Mohammed, if not even back to
Abraham. He enjoys high consideration in the Mohammedan world, beyond
that of any pasha or even the Grand Vizier himself. There is an evident
reflex of his high standing in the deference with which Izzet listens to
what he has to say, and with good reason, for the chances are that he
will remain a great personage in Turkey long after the favourite has
fallen into disgrace or the Sultan himself has passed away. The men of
this type are among the most distinguished visitors at Yildiz—these
Sheikhs, Mollahs, and Ulemas, who, in their white and green turbans and
flowing garments, come occasionally from distant parts of the Turkish
dominions and look in to have a chat with the Sultan’s Second Secretary,
by whom they are treated with greater distinction than any other
visitor. They are in fact the only callers with regard to whom the word
deference can justly be used; for they are almost the only visitors who
do not come to ask for personal favours. They stand for the ideals of
conduct of the Mohammedan world.
As the sunflower turns naturally towards the sun, so also every hope of
worldly advantage, every hope of preferment, turned at that time towards
the Imperial Palace of Yildiz and the august person of the Sultan. Only
those who have had personal experience of the conditions prevailing at
this centre of intrigue can form a conception of what is conveyed in so
simple a statement. The prestige of being in Imperial favour could raise
the humblest to a position of influence over and above the Grand Vizier
himself, not to mention such minor satellites as Ambassadors or
Ministers of State. The Turkish Ambassador on leave might be obliged to
loiter about antechambers for weeks and months together without being
admitted to an audience of the Sultan, whereas the favourite would go in
and out daily, even hourly. Thus “to be received” was the first stage on
the road to fortune; to be granted a favour the second step, the
culmination of which lay in the magic word “Iradè,” meaning the Imperial
decree by which a favour promised and granted, whether a high
appointment or a valuable concession, had become law.
Sheikhs, Ulemas, Mollahs, Softas, even the Muezzin of the Minaret (the
caller to prayer), Armenian Patriarchs, Archbishops, Archimandrites,
Grand Rabbis, Ministers-Plenipotentiary, Turkish Ambassadors awaiting
their final instructions, Pashas, Generals, Admirals, Ministers, were to
be met here doing antechamber service and sitting round the room in
silence for hours, even days together. I have even met here a deputation
of Kurdish chiefs of the Milli tribe, with Ibrahim Pasha, their leader,
a right jovial fellow, and as mild-mannered a man as ever cut a throat,
whose advent at Constantinople with a regiment of Hamidiè cavalry
shortly after the Armenian outbreak caused quite a panic among the
nervous members of the foreign colony in Constantinople.
Traders called for their accounts and sat down sipping coffee with the
rest: imagine the collector of Marshall and Snelgrove or Whiteley
walking into Buckingham Palace and sipping tea with one of the King’s
chamberlains! Officials came begging for their overdue salaries. The
Hebrew Court jeweller from Stamboul was a regular caller. One day he
brought a beautiful coronet of diamonds and pearls which he drew from a
bag, and which Izzet Pasha took in to the Sultan, probably destined as a
gift for one of His Majesty’s many wives. He too, like the rest, I was
told, was unable to do business on a cash basis, the Sultan being in his
debt to the amount of some £T20,000 or £T30,000.
Those who are familiar only with the social effulgence, the mystery
surrounding Turkish diplomatists abroad, from the full-blown Ambassador
accredited to the Great Powers to the Minister-Plenipotentiary and
Envoy-Extraordinary, can scarcely form an idea of the everlasting
delays, tracasseries, humiliations, and heart-burnings which often
preceded their appointment under the Hamidian régime. Sometimes the
suspense dragged on for months, and nearly wore out the heart of the
suitor for the post. Even more aggravating were the circumstances which
followed upon the recall of a diplomatist who might not have satisfied
the Sultan. I knew a Minister-Plenipotentiary and Envoy-Extraordinary of
distinguished family and high intellectual attainments who, after being
summarily recalled from his post, haunted the antechamber of the Sultans
secretaries at the Palace for ten years without obtaining another
appointment in all that period; nearly half a lifetime wasted in
idleness, chewing the bitter cud of hope deferred. No wonder that such a
man became disgusted with Hamidian conditions and longed for the
introduction of European institutions. “How can you hope to carry on a
Government,” he once said to me, “which does not even pretend to furnish
a Budget?” He was one of many who were great admirers of England, and
longed for English influence to regain a foothold in Turkey. The whims
of the autocrat, the intrigues of his surroundings, sounded the funeral
knell of every form of honesty, as they shut the door to every chance of
ability coming to the fore. For all that, such conditions having been
more or less traditional features of Oriental life from Byzantine times
down to the present day, their effects were less disastrous to the Turks
themselves than to some alien elements in the service of the Sultan;
upon these they acted in some cases like fire and sword, extirpating the
last vestige of self-respect.
Solicitants for favours of every kind—place, office, appointment,
contributions in money—used to swarm into the Palace. The applicants
embraced nearly every nationality that was represented at
Constantinople, with the one, and I cannot help saying striking,
exception of Russia. Whatever may be averred in connexion with bribery
and corruption, official or otherwise, in Russia itself, or of the
ruthless policy towards the Ottoman Empire pursued by Russia for
generations past, I can say that during my many visits to Constantinople
I never met a single Russian either at the Palace or elsewhere asking
anything of the Turk, and the Russians are the only nation of which I
can say as much; for even the Americans were not above seeking favours
in the missionary interest. The only Russian I ever knew to call at
Yildiz was the chief dragoman of the Russian Embassy, M. Maximow. It was
during the Armenian trouble, and he came to rage and threaten. “Go in to
your master and tell him to go to ...!” he shouted, to the dismay of the
stately Turks present, whose voices never rose above a whisper in the
hallowed precincts of the Palace.
Those unfamiliar with the Turkish character can scarcely form an idea of
the importance attached by the Turk, and more particularly the
ex-Sultan, to the power of the pen—the eagerness with which the
expression of European public opinion used to be scrutinized by the
authorities in Abdul Hamid’s time under a régime which was popularly
supposed to be carried on in open defiance of the spirit of the age. One
of the means by which those eager to curry favour with the authorities
sought to gain their object used to be to defend the Sultan in the
Press. At times a ray of naive humour would mingle in the game. Thus, on
one occasion, a pasha of my acquaintance had taken up the cudgels and
written a dissertation in defence of the Sultan’s claim to the
Khalifate. He may have thought that he had thereby given proof of his
zeal, and perhaps even expected some recognition in return. What was his
surprise, after receiving a curt summons to appear at the Palace, to be
met in a cool manner by one of the Sultan’s secretaries. The latter took
him aside and, pointing to the sun which shone through the window, said:
“You see the sun? Well, there it is! No argument is necessary to prove
its existence. So it is with the Khalifate of the Sultan. It needs no
demonstration, no defence. His Majesty does not wish you to write about
the Khalifate any more.”
The Sultan’s extreme sensitiveness to European newspaper opinion
afforded a wide scope for intrigue at the Palace, inasmuch as Abdul
Hamid attached exaggerated importance to newspaper articles the relative
value of which he had no means of verifying. This idiosyncrasy was
traded upon by a cohort of adventurers of different nationalities, some
of them of most shady antecedents. They were supplied with funds in
return for their supposed influence with the Press in England, France,
and Germany. Some were paid a fixed salary by the Sultan; others were
fed by occasional doles from his different favourites, acting on the
supposition that they—the favourites in question—would be credited with
the effusions of these minions as proofs of their own zeal in the
interests of his Imperial Majesty. Rarely could Oriental astuteness be
found together with such childlike gullibility as was evident in this
connexion. The representative of a powerful journal would be snubbed,
whilst the correspondent of some obscure sheet would be extravagantly
rewarded for some supposed service rendered to the cause of Islam. It
has been stated that European newspapers were regularly subsidized by
the Palace; but, except in the case of an obscure periodical,
_L’Orient_, which appeared in Paris, and a Vienna compilation of news
items drawn from telegraphic agencies and called the _Courrier de
L’Est_, I never met with any tangible evidence in support of this
assertion.
Another feature of lavish expenditure was connected with the Ramadan
festival. On this occasion every official at the Palace, including all
the pashas in Constantinople, received an extra month’s salary, which
amounted to about one hundred and fifty thousand Turkish pounds. It was
sometimes necessary to borrow this amount from one of the banks or to
withdraw it from the funds of the customs. The more one saw of this
state of things, the easier it was to understand the eternal
impecuniosity at the Palace, and the more one wondered how the Sultan
ever managed to make both ends meet.
Towards mid-day an endless stream of Turkish visitors, fat and lean
intermingled, dressed in the black frock-coat termed stambolin, could be
seen toiling up the hill in the broiling sun to partake of the
hospitality indiscriminately offered to the thousands feasting daily at
the Sultan’s expense.
Some of the parasites of the Palace used to be on the look-out to be
sent by the Sultan “en mission spéciale” on some quixotic errand, at
times of a rather undignified nature. Lavish expenses were allowed in
the shape of a little bag of gold, and if successful there were chances
besides of subsequent preferment. The case of a Field-Marshal who was
sent to Berlin to engage a cook for the Sultan has occupied the Berlin
courts of law since the deposition of Abdul Hamid. I recollect an
engineer of the Hedjas Railway returning from Budapest, whither he had
been sent on a similar errand on behalf of a pasha. The latter
introduced this official to me with the words: “Il est Juif de race,
Allemand par nationalité, et Turc par son emploi.”
An amusing feature of life at the Yildiz Palace was the arrival of a
certain military element on the scene whenever there was a chance of
baksheesh or preferment. The poem in Heine’s “Buch der Lieder” comes to
mind in which he depicts himself as being a god and distributing largess
broadcast, causing champagne to flow in the streets:
The poets to such festive treats
Pour in a happy flutter!
The ensigns and the subalterns
Lick clean both street and gutter.
The ensigns and the subalterns—
Now aren’t these fellows clever?—
Feel sure a miracle like this
Can’t hope to last for ever!
There was something of the comic-opera order, not to say of Christmas
pantomime, in this feature of life at the Palace. The transformation
scene in “Cinderella” is not more kaleidoscopic in its changes. The
obscure little pill-man, once happy at home in his strenuous vocation,
passing his evenings in a beer-house, is suddenly called to
Constantinople and driven about in a carriage and pair, dressed in a
Turkish uniform “made in Germany,” with a jewelled bauble dangling from
his collar. Just as suddenly the carriage and its black horses are gone,
and the worthy doctor has to appeal to the law courts of Berlin for the
salary owing to him by the dethroned Sultan.
Bobadil Pasha, Bombastes, Swashbuckler Pasha, Boule-qui-Roule Pasha (a
French importation who was said to have owed his successful career to
the sirenical attractions of Madame Boule-qui-Roule), Birra (beer) Pasha
from the Fatherland—one and all of them enter upon the scene, play their
little parts, and disappear through the trap-door exactly as in a
pantomime. Alexander of Battenberg, the Prince of Bulgaria, is presented
with an Arab steed by the Sultan, but goes away without it, for Marshal
Bombastes, the Master of the Horse, who was entrusted with the task of
its delivery, had lost or otherwise disposed of it. There were some
truculent personages among these gentry.
Calling one day on Ibrahim Pasha, who had succeeded the late Munir Pasha
as Grand Master of Ceremonies and Introducer of Ambassadors, I saw a
tall, pompous personage in the uniform of a Turkish General engaged in
conversation with his Excellency. To judge by appearances he was a very
Bobadil, a swashbuckler sort of man, one of the grasping, cunning
windbag variety which Abdul Hamid’s promiscuous generosity tempted from
the barrack-room of his native country to a palace on the Bosphorus, to
the dismay and disgust of many a loyal Turkish heart. Six feet of
coloured cloth surmounted by an almost round bullet head, bobbing up and
down mechanically as if set in motion by wires, the features of the man
were commonplace, if not downright plebeian. A hectoring, flamboyant
mien stamped the whole personage, breathing the soldier’s contempt for
the civilian, which is one of the most ominous phenomena of contemporary
Europe. And yet he was by no means one calculated to inspire fear: the
sort of man that an American cowboy would throw out of a bar-room
without taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Vorne mit Trompetenschall
Ritt der General Feldmarschall
Herr Quintilius Varus.[15]
Footnote 15:
“Full in front with trumpet blast
Rode Field-Marshal General
Herr Quintilius Varus.”
(German Student Song)
I took a seat, awaiting my turn to approach his Excellency, and, as is
customary, bowed right and left in doing so. The tall man drew himself
up and seemed to resent the courtesy of a mere civilian. But what
particularly attracted my attention was that he pestered Ibrahim Pasha
with details, given in execrable French, about the ailments of his wife,
whom he had recently conveyed to a European sanatorium. It was a sight
to note the courtly patience with which Ibrahim Pasha listened to the
narrative of Miles Gloriosus, for it is the very worst form of breeding
in the eyes of a Turk to refer to one’s womenkind. This edifying
tête-à-tête went on for some time. At last pomposity was about to take
his leave. I held up a newspaper in front of me so as to spare him the
trouble of making up his mind whether he was to notice me on quitting
the apartment or not. Ibrahim Pasha accompanied his visitor to the door
of the ante-room leading out of the building. It was a most amusing
sight as I peered over the newspaper through the open door. I saw the
two engaged in conversation, the loquacious officer indulging in lively
gesticulations. On Ibrahim Pasha returning to the room I said to him:
“If I might venture to put it to your Excellency, I would be prepared to
wager that the pasha who has just left the room gave way to an impulse
of effeminate curiosity and asked you who I am.”
“Yes, to be sure he did,” Ibrahim Pasha smilingly replied. “But I did
not gratify him. I merely told him that you were an American.” “Well
then,” I rejoined, “if he should ever ask you the same question again,
pray tell him, with my compliments, that my name is perhaps better known
than his own in the country of his birth.”
The sun shines through the window and lights up the faces of the grave,
swarthy-featured Turks. Officers in full dress, decked out in all their
stars and sashes, are pouring into the Palace, for it is Friday. The
Sultan has had a good night. Everything is _couleur de rose_, and the
Palace officials are getting ready for the Selamlik. Izzet Pasha divests
himself of his black frock-coat with the help of a dark manservant, and
dons a gorgeous gold brocaded and wadded uniform covered with Turkish
and German decorations, doubling the size of his little, attenuated
Syrian figure. There was something almost childlike about it all in its
contrast to the grim realities of life. The diplomatic loggia was
filling. Some of the foreign Ambassadors, eager _de faire acte de
présence_, were rarely absent on such occasions and would bring some
officers of their respective nationalities to see the show. These had
generally just arrived at Constantinople, with a keen scent for favours
which would be showered upon them after the ceremony in the shape of
commanderships of the Medjediè or Osmaniè Order, for an inferior class
of which a poor Turkish officer might wait a lifetime in vain.
The great Officers of State, the Grand Master of Artillery, the fat
Minister of War, the Minister of Marine, a little humpback, a notorious
personage, and the rest of the pashas—military and civil—are all
gathered together in the inner courtyard of the Palace in anticipation
of the Sultan starting for the Selamlik ceremony. A military band is
heard in the distance. It is playing the “Hamidiè March,” composed in
honour of His Majesty, a somewhat thin and commonplace production. And
here I may mention a fact which is not generally known, that military
bands as such are quite a modern feature in Europe, and owe their origin
to the Janissaries. “Janitscharenmusik” is still to this day the term
used in Germany for an infernal din of tin kettles, pipes, and brass. To
the Turk, then, is due all the noise which has become such a public
nuisance in our time on the continent of Europe; a heavy responsibility
before the tribunal of decency and decorum!
We crane our necks, looking towards the left, when from the rising
ground we see the military pageant coming along: first of all the
Ortogrul Cavalry, followed by the Sultan’s Albanian Guard, trained to
the mechanical Prussian goose-step, singularly out of character with the
whole bearing and appearance of these untamed sons of the Albanian
hills. Then the Sultan himself appears and drives past in an open
carriage, with Ghazi Osman Pasha, the hero of Plevna, sitting opposite
him.
The Sultan alights, enters the Hamidiè Mosque, and the muezzin from the
top of the adjacent minaret calls the Faithful to prayer. An interval of
about half an hour follows, in which tea and cigarettes are served to
the Sultan’s guests. At last a slight stir is noticeable at the entrance
of the mosque. The Sultan reappears, enters an open victoria, the reins
of which he handles himself, and drives back to the Palace up the hill,
followed by a throng of gaudily attired functionaries—old, white-bearded
men among them—running after the carriage as best they may: a somewhat
undignified sight to a European.
[Illustration: Musical Score]
[Music: Double Eagle March
_pp p p dolcissimo._
_pp_]
The band now strikes up the Austrian “Double-Eagle March.” It is almost
imperative to have heard the famous trio of this most enthralling of
military marches—a languorous, sensual theme—in order to gain an idea of
the effect a military band is capable of producing upon a susceptible
crowd. The popularity of the “Double-Eagle March” throughout
Austria-Hungary and the German Empire has long been general. Composed by
a bandmaster of an Austrian regiment, it has been set to music in close
upon twenty different arrangements. A great deal of what is
incomprehensible to strangers in latter-day Germany may be attributed to
the effect of this popular military march on the public, and, what is
more, on those who are supposed to influence and inspire it. If there is
a march in the whole world which produces intoxication without either
alcohol or hashish, it is this one.
A parallel to the last years of the Second Empire and Jacques
Offenbach’s Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein, General Boum-Boum, and Prince
Paul would suggest itself on the occasions when foreign princes and
princesses with their hungry retinues came to visit the Sultan. The
Prince Imperial would find his counterpart in the Sultan’s poor little
sons, who got on horseback and figured in the pageantry of the Selamlik.
It is a wonder that there were still some quiet nooks in which a
philosophic contemplation of the vanity of things could be indulged.
One day, now long ago, I paid a call on Munir Pasha at his office after
the Selamlik. I have already had occasion to mention this high-bred,
gracious, and kind Turkish gentleman. Not a breath of scandal, slander,
or concession-mongering ever touched this man, whose influential
position during many years might have brought him wealth for the mere
asking.
“How are you to-day, my dear pasha?” I asked, as he came beaming with
kindliness towards me, shaking hands in European fashion, a form of
greeting rarely indulged in by the Turk. “Ah, mon cher!” he replied, as
a hamal (porter) passed in front of the window, carrying a dinner tray
on his head, “you see that poor fellow! How gladly would I exchange with
him, and hand him over all my forty-two Grand Cordons into the bargain,
if he could only give me his lusty health in return.” Munir Pasha was a
martyr to asthma, and before my next visit to Constantinople he had
passed away.
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