SULTAN ABDUL HAMID
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
SHAKESPEARE, _Julius Cæsar_
SO much has been said and written to the detriment of the ex-Sultan
Abdul Hamid that it would seem to be an almost hopeless task to break a
lance in his favour; and yet to do so, at least with regard to the human
aspect of his character, is nothing more than a bare act of justice.
As he timidly peeps out of the window of his palatial prison at
Begler-Bey, on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, he has now ample
leisure to reflect on the ingratitude of those he loaded with his
favours.
Time hath a wallet at his back
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitude.
And if he be familiar with the history of his own time, in bemoaning the
unhappy fate of his country he may well re-echo the bitter words of the
Austrian ex-Emperor Ferdinand, who, living in retirement at Prague when,
in 1866, the victorious Prussians appeared before the city, exclaimed:
“Surely it was scarcely worth while to force me to abdicate in order to
bring things to their present pass!”
Certain figures have come down to us as typical of the extremes of
fortune, and some are identified with Constantinople; of these that of
Belisarius, the victorious general of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian,
lies nearest. After great deeds of war, he is said to have ended his
days in a prison, through the iron bars of which he implored the charity
of passers-by: “Give, oh, give an obolus unto Belisarius, whom virtue
had raised and envy has brought so low.”
The ex-Sultan Abdul Hamid offers the latest instance of a similar change
of fortune, for on his deposition an orgy of vilification was let loose
in the Press of the Old World concerning this unfortunate Sovereign, who
only a short time ago was able to boast the friendship of Emperors. One
of the last to be entertained by him was a daughter of the House of
Habsburg, upon whom, as was customary with him, he poured a rain of
diamonds. To-day all these visitors have departed, and the ex-Khalif of
the Faithful has not a friend left in the world among the crowd of high,
well, and Imperial born to whom, in his prosperity, he played the part
of a generous host, and upon whom he squandered countless millions of
treasure in one form or another, either as presents or in expensive
entertainment. Between them and him constant relays of highly paid
emissaries were flitting on confidential missions along the iron roads
of Eastern Europe, always at his expense. Close upon 4000 parasites were
daily remorselessly draining his financial resources by living on him,
and the more lavishly he dispensed his favours the deeper became the
morass of ingratitude which at last engulfed him. But even this record
does not exhaust the list of his iniquities. He was said to have hoarded
fifty millions, whether in francs or pounds sterling matters little,
which he invested in German banks. And it was these millions which
excited the cupidity of his conquerors, and upon which they were bent on
laying hungry hands.
“The power of kings is based upon the reason and folly of the people,
but more upon their folly. The greatest and most important thing in the
world has human weakness as its basis; and this very basis is admirably
secure; for nothing is more certain than the fact that the people are
weak. That which is founded on reason alone is badly founded, as, for
instance, the recognition of wisdom.”[16]
Footnote 16:
Pascal’s “Pensées.”
This may serve to explain much in connexion with those exotics of our
democratic age—the autocrats, and more particularly the career of the
ex-Sultan Abdul Hamid, though the lesson conveyed is not applicable to
him alone, even among the living. Autocrats can have little or no
conception of real values; whilst their system makes it next to
impossible for them to train those whose abilities and knowledge of
realities might be of use to them.
The career of Abdul Hamid offers too many parallels to that of Napoleon
III not to call for notice, embodying as they well may a useful lesson
to those who care to understand. Abdul Hamid wanted to monopolize power,
and in the end everything slipped from his grasp.
I had not been long in Constantinople when it occurred to me that public
opinion, as in the case of Napoleon III, overrated the Sultan’s ability
and his knowledge of mankind, and underrated his qualities of heart. It
was not so much the disastrous results of his reign to Turkey which
irresistibly forced this conclusion upon me as the poor estimate one
could not help forming of his surroundings and of the exaggerated
importance he attached to things and individuals of questionable value;
notably those complimentary missions and visits the practical results of
which stand revealed to us to-day in all their futility. The Sultan was
imbued with the instincts of a gentleman in his personal dealings, and
these inclined him to accept as sincere assurances of friendship from
those whom he thought in a position to be as good as their word. And yet
I have it on fairly good authority that the only true friend in high
station the Sultan possessed was the Emperor of Russia, who promised him
that he would not undertake anything against Turkey during his reign,
and kept his promise. On one occasion I ventured to point out to Baron
Marschall von Bieberstein that the never-ending visits of foreign
princes and the expense of their extravagant entertainment,[17] whilst
the salaries of the officers in the Army remained unpaid, were
calculated to make the Sultan unpopular with his own people. He replied
that His Majesty could never have enough visits of that kind. The Sultan
clamoured for them, and, as we know, he got an ample supply of what he
clamoured for.
Footnote 17:
The Turkish deputation which the Sultan sent to greet the German
Emperor in 1908, at Corfu, was said at the time, in the German
newspapers, to have cost him, one way or the other, £T35,000.
When Abdul Hamid ascended the throne, the internal situation of Turkey
was so critical that it required a man of great strength of character
not to lose heart. The tragic circumstances connected with the death of
Abdul Aziz had contributed to unhinge the mind of His Majesty’s brother,
his immediate predecessor. The reckless extravagance of Sultan Abdul
Aziz and his Court had left the finances of the Empire in hopeless
embarrassment. The Ottoman Empire was practically bankrupt. Corruption
reigned supreme in every department of the State. The governorships of
the provinces had frequently been sold at enormous prices to men who
were utterly corrupt and unfitted for their positions, and who oppressed
the unfortunate populations under their charge, extorting from them,
often by torture, the profits of their industry. Justice was shamelessly
bought and sold in the courts. There was no uniform system of taxation:
every governor fixed his own tariff and enforced its collection, however
unjust and oppressive it might be.
The responsibility imposed upon a young and inexperienced prince was
heavy indeed; for Abdul Hamid was only thirty-four years of age when he
succeeded to the throne, which was still reeking with the blood of his
predecessor. Disorder reigned in the provinces. Bosnia, Herzegovina,
Servia, Bulgaria, and Montenegro were in open rebellion, and, incited by
Russia, declared war against Turkey. The demands of the States
practically amounted to independence and autonomy. Russia backed up
their demands by moving a corps d’armée to the banks of the Pruth, and
declared war. What followed is part of the history of the nineteenth
century.
It affords strong testimony to the firmness of the Sultan’s character
that he did not despair: far from it. From the very first, Abdul Hamid
boldly grasped the nettle of sovereignty, and for thirty years never
ceased for a day to devote his whole energies to the task of ruling his
country. As a stray indication of such devotion to duty, it may be
mentioned that during all that period he missed only one Friday’s public
visit to the Hamidiè Mosque for the ceremony of the Selamlik, and that
omission was due to illness. Surely this is almost a unique record of
regularity of habit, and one which only a constitution fortified by a
life of constant hard work and studied moderation could have rendered
possible.
To-day it is no empty assertion to say that Abdul Hamid endeavoured to
be the Educator of his people. He had hardly girded on the sword of
Ejoub, the emblem of Turkish sovereignty, when he sent an aide-de-camp
to a German professor living in Constantinople—Dr. Mordtmann—and sought
his assistance to organize the so-called _Mekteb Milkiè_, a school for
training Government Civil officials. He established the Turkish
University at Haidar Pasha, near the English cemetery at Scutari, at an
expense of close upon £1,000,000. The water supply of Constantinople,
the finest in the world, is due to him. Constantinople had abundant
fresh water at a time when Europe had little or no idea of its hygienic
value. Under Sultan Suleyman there were 700 fountains or springs in
Constantinople. Most of these had been allowed to dry up and decay. One
of Abdul Hamid’s first acts was to create a gratuitous supply of fresh
water for the inhabitants of Pera at a cost of £100,000.
In former days, famine and hunger-typhus, which invariably accompanies
it, periodically ravaged Asia Minor. Anatolia now exports wheat worth
two million pounds per annum and is growing cotton, and Angora produces
improved cereals which are used in brewing and are also exported. Turkey
even exports goats’ skins so far as it can do so in face of Russia’s
prohibitive tariff. When Abdul Hamid came to the throne Constantinople
lived on Russian beef; an excellent quality is now raised in Anatolia
which is sent to Constantinople by rail.
It must be borne in mind that these and other achievements were carried
out in the face of constant money difficulties. The Sultan founded
technical schools and hospitals and made roads and railways. But more
remarkable still, from a Turkish point of view, were his manifold
efforts to raise the status of the Turkish woman. He even created a
special decoration for ladies, the Order of the Chefakat. He was a true
Mohammedan in his democratic breadth of sympathies, and there can be no
doubt that in his early days he was honestly intent on the recognition
of individual worth and character.
Where so much power is placed in the hands of one man, it goes without
saying that abject servility has to be reckoned with; nor is this a
feature peculiar to Turkey. That the Sultan often showed respect for
unwelcome though honest opinion is, under the circumstances, a merit
which calls for recognition. That he did so in early years is attested
by some well-authenticated facts. He had hardly come to the throne when
he decided to call a Council of State to judge the conduct of Midhat
Pasha and his associates, who had agitated for the introduction of
European representative institutions into Turkey. The question was
submitted to the Council, which sat at the Imperial Palace, whether the
said persons were guilty of treason or not. All the members but one
brought in a verdict of “Guilty.” The single dissentient vote of “Not
guilty” was given by Emin Bey, a German—a native of Mecklenburg—who had
entered the Turkish service and embraced Islam. His colleagues, in their
dismay, pointed to a curtain in the apartment and endeavoured to convey
to the recalcitrant German that the Sultan was posted behind it and
consequently cognizant of his opposition to the vote of the rest. Emin
Bey, however, remained firm, for he belonged to the old school, and
added that he could not conscientiously decide otherwise. Every member
of the Council received some mark of the Sultan’s favour, but the
highest distinction of all was reserved for Emin Bey.
Either the Sultan must have been endowed with remarkable qualities, or
circumstances must have been exceptionally favourable to him, or both,
to have enabled him to hold on during thirty-two years, in the course of
which the pay of his soldiers was always in arrear and the gang of
favourites at the Palace was constantly plundering him. Whatever may
have been the effects of despotic rule on his character in the course of
years, there can be no doubt that when he came to the throne he was
filled with a high conception of the responsibilities of his position.
It is established beyond question that it was with the greatest
reluctance he consented to his brother being deposed, and then only
after the most reliable medical opinion regarding the latter’s mental
unfitness had been taken. At the beginning he endeavoured to attract
honest advisers to his service.
But whatever may have been his qualifications or shortcomings as a
politician, there can be little doubt that he possessed many unusual
personal attributes, though perhaps of a negative nature. He had the
calmness, the reticence, the self-control of a well-bred man, never
proffering advice and not given to expansiveness, for his nature was
undemonstrative. He showed no vulgarity, no coarseness, no hectoring or
bullying. He had no desire to put himself forward, to be communicative,
his thoughts in the market-place, nor was he carried away by the shouts
of a crowd or intoxicated by its homage. When on a Friday he passed in
front of the cheering troops his features always bore an expression of
calm dignity and benevolence, and a marked capacity for leniency and
forgiveness. His recognition, even to the humblest, for services, many
of a trivial kind, was extreme.
Abdul Hamid’s political ability has been for long an article of faith,
even with those who were prepared to deny him every other quality, and
the results obtained by him during a period of over thirty years in his
dealings with the Great Powers, freely admitting that their final
outcome was a negative one, point undeniably to his having been endowed
with some political gifts. He must have possessed a certain inborn
sagacity, which, however, was not nurtured by a wise bringing up or such
an experience of the world as would have enabled him to gain an insight
into real values, notably in the selection of high-class character. This
handicapped him through life. It showed itself in his misplaced
confidence, as evidenced by the rise of many favourites of doubtful
character from absolute obscurity to power and great wealth, and it does
not tell in favour of the common belief in the Sultan’s perspicacity
that so many of those he distinguished were mediocrities even when they
were not rogues.
Professor Vambéry relates the following incident as an illustration of
the queer type of men that managed to gain the favour of Abdul Hamid:
“Among these obscure worshippers round the Sultan was the famous Lufti
Aga, in his official capacity of Master of the Robes, but in reality the
most intimate confidant of the Sultan, in spite of his Turkish
origin.[18] I had a rather curious adventure with this worthy. One day
whilst walking with the Sultan in the garden I saw this man approaching
His Majesty, and looking closer into his face, I recognized in him the
servant of Mahmud Nedim Pasha, formerly Grand Vizier, distinguished by
his Russian sympathies—hence his nickname, Nedimoff—in whose house in
Bebek I acted formerly as teacher of French to his son-in-law, Rifat
Bey. In accosting the said former servant somewhat boldly I noticed a
perplexity on his face, but still more remarkable was the blushing of
the Sultan, who asked me whether I knew his favourite man before. ‘Of
course,’ said I, ‘Lufti was a servant in the house of Mahmud Nedim
Pasha, and he often cleaned my boots.’ Tableau! The most intimate man of
the Sultan a shoeblack by origin. But this intermezzo did not disconcert
Abdul Hamid, for Lufti went on in his delicate service until the end of
his life. Such is the East, and such are Orientals, however so much
gifted.”
Footnote 18:
This refers to the Sultan’s well-known preference for Albanians,
Circassians, and Arabs. Izzet Pasha was an Arab.
We have only to review the course of affairs since his deposition to be
forced to the conclusion that whatever Abdul Hamid’s mistakes may have
been, he was yet able to postpone the catastrophe which, under any
circumstances, must now be admitted to have been inevitable in the long
run.
To-day there can be no doubt that he was more or less driven into the
arms of Germany by the attitude of England both under Mr. Gladstone and
in a less degree under Lord Salisbury, more particularly during the
period known as that of the Armenian atrocities. But even this should
not have sufficed to endow him with the faith he undoubtedly possessed,
where only the cleverness to take advantage of Germany’s assistance in a
utilitarian spirit would have been justified. This credulity on his part
was all the more remarkable seeing that it was never shared by the more
sterling and astute political and religious elements around him. These
never swerved in their preference for England and the English, even in
the darkest days which followed upon the Armenian massacres in 1895 and
1896. They still held on to the Turkish traditions of the Crimean war of
friendship between Turkey and England. In departing therefrom the Sultan
may be said to have made the exchange familiar to us as children in
Aladdin’s story of bartering old lamps for new. England’s goodwill was
Turkey’s old lamp in spite of every misunderstanding.
In some respects the ex-Sultan shone to advantage as compared with many
rulers of the past and some of the present. Notably was this the case as
regards his sense of gratitude for services rendered and of loyalty to
those who he believed had served him well. My own sporadic relations
with His Majesty have furnished me with evidence that his wish to
benefit others could even outweigh a consideration for his own
interests. For supposing that my position as correspondent of the _New
York Herald_ at Constantinople was really of any value to him, as he
plainly believed to be the case, his proposal to me to leave that paper
and enter his service was obviously contrary to his own interests. The
guiding principle of others in the Sultan’s position would have been to
continue to utilize a man’s services at no cost to themselves and then
to throw him over. How different was Abdul Hamid’s conduct in this as in
so many other cases! The late Mr. Whittaker, for many years
correspondent of the _Times_ at Constantinople, received signal marks of
favour at the Sultan’s hands, in spite of the anti-Turkish attitude of
that paper. He was, I think, acceptable to the Sultan as a man of
culture and a talented musician, and was now and then asked to come up
to the Palace to play the piano. When a rupture finally took place, it
came about through Mr. Whittaker himself, who was exasperated at the
restrictions placed by the Censor upon the _Levant Herald_, of which he
was the proprietor.
Barely has a sovereign distinguished a private individual, without
wealth or rank, and a foreigner into the bargain, with his intimacy to
such a degree as the Sultan did in the case of Professor Arminius
Vambéry, whom he used to address by the familiar, almost endearing, term
of “Baba.” This friendship had its source in his appreciation of the
Professor’s distinction as an Oriental scholar and his well-known
sympathies with Turkey, her people, and her religion. Here, again, the
estrangement was, I believe, due to the Professor himself, who became
dissatisfied with His Majesty’s political tendencies, which he could not
see his way to share or champion.[19]
Footnote 19:
See Appendix, pp. 287–288.
The Sultan possessed a rare delicacy of feeling, which he now and then
showed in small things, doubly remarkable in a man in his exalted
position and, moreover, always overburdened with work. Thus when Sirry
Bey, one of the Sultan’s secretaries, accompanied us as chief of our
expedition through Anatolia, and was taken seriously ill between
Erzeroum and Bitlis, the Sultan was apprised of the fact. He was most
anxious to keep the news away from Sirry Bey’s wife, and made a point of
sending to his konak from time to time with cheering news and a present
of money, for fear the Bey’s salary might not have been paid to his
family in his absence through the ordinary channels. In conferring the
Order of the Chefakat on a lady, he caused the following words to be
inscribed in the brevet: “Sa Majesté Impériale accorde cette décoration
à Madame X pour faire plaisir à son mari.” It seemed to afford him
gratification to give pleasure to others.
Comparatively few people are aware of the refined nature of one so much
maligned; and yet testimony to this effect rests on irrefragable
evidence. I need only mention the Sultan’s intense love of music, his
munificent remuneration of artistes who had been asked to perform at the
Palace, and the deep interest he took in Nature, whether animals, birds,
or flowers. One day the Turkish Ambassador in London asked me to assist
him to procure a book dealing with Australian birds. The Sultan had
heard that such a work existed and would like to have a copy. All this
may well lead us to inquire how such facts are to be reconciled with the
popular conception of his treachery, his blood-guiltiness? The answer is
self-evident.
The Sultan was anxiously bent on keeping in touch with the happenings in
the outside world. Thus, in addition to reading translations of foreign
newspaper articles, he looked through several English illustrated
weeklies regularly, the letterpress of which was translated into Turkish
expressly for him by his secretaries. One of the first questions he
would ask a visitor, after the usual inquiry regarding his welfare,
would be concerning some important current event: what might be the
outcome of the Russo-Japanese war, the Russian revolution (1905–6), etc.
On one occasion he expressed his belief to me that both the Mohammedans
and the Jews would outlast the Christian world.
I have often seen it stated in print that the Sultan wore an habitual
look of melancholy—in other words, that his main characteristics were
sadness and nervousness. Neither my own experience, nor the testimony of
others best in a position to form a reliable opinion, bears this out,
although the tragic circumstances under which, very much against his
will, he came to the throne may well have left their impress on his
mind. The Sultan was of an exceedingly sensitive nature. He was a man in
whom the domestic affections were very strong; thus a blow, such as the
loss of a daughter, might well have had a cruel effect on him, as only
those can understand who have loved and lost children of their own. But
I do not believe that the Sultan’s temperament was one of habitual
melancholy. On the contrary, I know that His Majesty could enjoy a joke
as heartily as ever did Martin Luther; though the nature of some of the
doughty Reformer’s sallies would hardly have suited the refined taste of
the Khalif of the Mohammedans.
The Sultan on one occasion was inquiring of one of his confidants about
a stranger whose personality interested him. His Majesty’s informant
told him that the individual in question was never seen in coffee-houses
or theatres, much less in places of doubtful repute or in suspicious
company; that he was most moderate, even abstemious, in his habits; that
he sat at home working most of his time, and if he went out, it was to
visit a mosque and watch the Faithful at prayer. “Truly a remarkable
man,” broke in the Sultan; “he might almost be an Osmanli” (for among
themselves the Turks never use the word “Turks”). The other, feeling
that he had drawn an impossible picture of perfection, which might
perhaps encounter the Sultan’s incredulity, here rejoined that truth
compelled him to confess to His Majesty that he had seen the stranger
walk up and down in his room during the hot weather with next to no
clothing on—almost naked. This caused the Sultan to burst out laughing.
On such occasions—and they were by no means rare—when the Sultan was in
good spirits, the monarch’s merriment, as if by magic, was reflected in
his surroundings. I have seen all Yildiz in the best of good humour, for
the word had gone round that “Sa Majesté est de fort bonne humeur,” and
the news spread far and wide; it even found expression in the broad grin
of the hamal who carried the fat pasha’s dinner-tray from the Imperial
kitchen on his head.
It would, indeed, be no cause for wonder if the Sultan had been
occasionally in a serious mood. There are other monarchs besides the
Sultan whose humour is not always _couleur de rose_. “Uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown” is not a Mohammedan proverb. But the Sultan’s
strength of purpose, his truly phenomenal powers of work, his abstinence
from every form of nervous stimulant except an occasional cigarette and
a cup of coffee, are irreconcilable with the idea that he could have
been of a morbidly nervous disposition. As to the Sultan’s working
habits, I have known him to be at work at five in the morning and at
that hour keep going a whole staff of secretaries, who had slept
overnight on couches in the rooms in the Palace in which they habitually
worked. Munir Pasha once said to me: “There is one characteristic of His
Majesty which conveys a lesson to us all: it is his extraordinary
self-control—his impressive calm. It is almost sublime—no contrariety,
no trial seems to ruffle his perfect self-possession. It is truly
marvellous.”
Making every allowance for the enthusiasm of a devoted servant and a
prince of courtiers, I am yet inclined to believe, on the strength of
other evidence, as well as from my own personal observation, that Munir
Pasha’s estimate of his master’s nerve was by no means exaggerated.
Certain Ambassadors, who had abundant opportunity of testing the
Sultan’s self-control, might, if they were still among the living and
inclined to make revelations of incidents in which they did not come off
with flying colours, give even better corroborative evidence than I am
able to do.
It has been said that the Sultan was constantly surrounded by a fierce
soldiery armed to the teeth, and that sudden death awaited the hapless
creature who should venture to intrude unbidden within the sacred
precincts of the Imperial Palace. As a matter of fact I doubt whether
there is any other palace into which it would be so easy for a stranger
to penetrate as it was into the Yildiz Kiosk. All sorts and conditions
of men—but no women—used to find their way in and out. As already
mentioned, I have known the Pera shopkeeper of English nationality enter
the Palace and walk unbidden into the sanctum of the Sultan’s
all-powerful secretary, take his seat among the Ambassadors, Pashas, and
Ministers, sip his coffee and smoke his cigarette, and sit there for
hours together as if “to the manner born.” So much for the exclusive
character of the Sultan’s Palace.
I remember more than once being at the Palace rather late in the
evening. Everybody had gone home long since. A few servants, wearing
fezes and dressed in the black stambolin frock-coat, stood silently in
the hall which adjoined the Imperial apartment. Otherwise not a soul,
much less an armed man, was to be seen until you passed the sentry at
the gate of exit. Nor, indeed, was a sound to be heard on the beautiful
moonlight night, except the splashing of the water of the marble
fountain, which issued from one of the side walls of the unpretentious
one-storied wing. The Sultan was within, hard at work with his secretary
in a suite of apartments opposite those of Ghazi Osman. A stranger might
have remained there unmolested, as I did in front of the Sultan’s room,
without a soldier to be seen, or a policeman to call upon him to “move
on.”
It will always remain a strange feature connected with the dethronement
of the Sultan that it came on a sudden, quite unexpected even by those
who ought to have been in a position to form a correct estimate of what
was going on. As a matter of fact the Sultan’s authority was being
undermined some time before the catastrophe really took place. He no
longer ventured as of yore to act in direct opposition to the advice of
his Ministers by granting valuable concessions to his favourites. The
pressure of foreign Ambassadors, notably Baron Marschall von
Bieberstein, also became more embarrassing.
About this time the Turkish Ambassador at Madrid, Izzet Fuad Pasha, a
grandson of the renowned Grand Vizier Fuad, published a book severely
criticizing the conduct of Turkish affairs as embodying so many lost
opportunities. He was recalled to Constantinople, put under surveillance
in the Pera Palace Hotel, and forbidden to leave it even for an airing.
Crowds of spies surrounded the hotel by day and by night. Of even
greater significance were the doings of Fehim Pasha and his arraignment
and disgrace, of which more later. The contradiction between the
Sultan’s supposed diplomatic astuteness and the short-sightedness which
appears to have marked his measures in meeting the forces which were
destined to overthrow him has not yet found an explanation.
The personal appearance of the Sultan has been described by many
writers, for no monarch in the world was seen so regularly in public as
he. Anybody who wished to see him had only to walk up to the Imperial
Palace, the Yildiz Kiosk (“Tent of the Stars”), on a Friday morning, and
he was absolutely certain of seeing His Majesty as he drove in an open
victoria, with Ghazi Osman sitting opposite him, out of the Palace gates
to the Hamidiè Mosque to prayer, and half an hour later, on his way
back, when he himself handled the ribbons. It is quite true that the
road was double-lined with soldiers, but that in no way prevented the
spectator from taking stock at his leisure of the Sultan and all his
courtly surroundings. Then, again, a number of rooms adjoining the
Palace, overlooking the whole pageant of the Selamlik, were placed by
the Sultan at the disposal of foreign visitors and the better classes of
Constantinople every Friday, and it used to be—until the last few years,
as explained elsewhere—the easiest thing in the world for anybody with a
decent coat to his back to obtain a card of admission, and thus, for the
short period of one forenoon, to become _de facto_ a guest of the
Sultan. During the interval, whilst the Sultan was in the Mosque,
excellent tea and sometimes, on exceptional occasions, even sweets and
cigarettes were handed round to the visitors, whilst bags of bonbons
were distributed among the crowd in the road on Mohammed’s birthday; a
list of those present was also regularly handed to the Sultan, who
perused it, and if any name was familiar to him, he would send his
personal greeting to the visitor in question. Thus the privilege of
witnessing the ceremony of the Selamlik from the rooms set apart for the
purpose was one involving the acceptance of His Majesty’s hospitality.
There every Turk appeared dressed in his best, wearing his decorations.
This was not always realized by visitors of the English-speaking world,
some of whom I have seen in flannel shirts, dirty shoes, and
knickerbockers mingling, with complete self-possession, among
diplomatists and others belonging to good society, who were carefully
attired for the occasion.
The favourable impression which the Sultan is universally admitted to
have produced on those who were privileged to come into contact with him
was doubtless due to that charm of manner, that quiet dignity which is
more or less characteristic of all well-bred Turks. But in his case it
was supplemented by a kindly smile and an unusually sympathetic voice,
the tones of which conveyed a pleasant impression even to the stranger
who was unable to understand what His Majesty had said until it had been
translated by the interpreter. The Sultan usually gave audiences on
Friday after the ceremony of the Selamlik, when he wore a Turkish
general’s uniform with the star of the Imtiaz Order in brilliants hung
from his neck. As he sat in front of you, his hands resting on the hilt
of his sword before him, and spoke to Munir Pasha in his quiet,
dignified way, you could not resist the impression of a picturesque
dignity. I have also seen him attired in a black frock-coat, cut in
Turkish fashion, which just hid a white waistcoat with a gold
watch-chain, scarcely differing in appearance from one of his
secretaries or the other officials. The only other jewellery was a plain
gold ring on the little finger of the right hand with a fair-sized cut
ruby, or polished en cabochon. He received his visitors standing. It was
customary to sit in the presence of the Sultan after being requested to
do so; but the native-born Turk sat only on the very edge of the little
gilt chair, and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the Sultan
to address him, and then muttered in reply, while bending low, and
touching chest, lips, and forehead with the right hand: “Firman
Effendemizen” (“Master, thy word is law”).
Many might find it difficult to account for the personal popularity of
Abdul Hamid in face of the disasters which marked his reign, such as the
Russo-Turkish war and the several Armenian risings. The explanation is
to be found in the fact that Abdul Hamid represented the ideals of a
ruler in the hearts of his people far more than any Sultan since Mahmud
II, who ordered the extermination of the Janissaries. How far he
deserved this attachment can be estimated only by making due allowance
for the retentive memory of the Turks and their traditional attachment
to their race and the tenets of their religion. It is impossible to do
justice to Abdul Hamid without realizing to what a depth Turkey had sunk
under Abdul Aziz. A knowledge of these facts alone enables us to
appreciate the reforms which Abdul Hamid introduced, and for which he
obtained credit from his subjects, but none at all from the outer world.
Even allowing for these things and the influence which they exercised
upon the minds of the Turkish people, it would be difficult to
understand how the Sultan maintained despotic sway for thirty years were
it not for the realization that the Mohammedan has a different outlook
upon the world from that of the other peoples of Europe. Reverence for
the past, fidelity to his faith, deep attachment to the traditions of
race and creed—these unfashionable virtues are instinctive with him.
Abdul Hamid’s strength lay in this, that he represented in his own
person, at least for a time, the ways of thinking of his people: that
his ways were in essence theirs. In this connexion my thoughts ever and
again revert to the scene of the Selamlik, when I saw Ghazi Osman Pasha
sitting opposite the Sultan in his carriage. Nowhere in the Christian
world can I call to mind such an inspiring picture as this of the
white-headed old man being demonstratively honoured in public by his
Sovereign and revered by the people, although his name will always be
identified with one of the greatest catastrophes that ever overtook the
Turkish arms in Europe. And yet in the eyes of his master there was no
disgrace, only honour, for one who typified in himself all the virtues
that belong to Islam. How can one help contrasting the treatment the
Turks and their ruler meted out to their defeated champion with that
which the ever ungrateful house of Habsburg bestowed upon that gallant
soldier Field-Marshal Benedek, the unfortunate Austrian commander at the
battle of Sadowa—all his former services, his splendid record in Italy
in 1848–49, when the Archduke Albrecht presented him with the sword of
his father the Archduke Charles, the victor of Aspern, his prowess in
Hungary, his distinguished conduct at the battle of Solferino in the
Franco-Italian war of 1859, all wiped out of memory, and he himself
disgraced and sent to die of a broken heart in the obscure little town
of Gratz.
Blow, blow, thou Winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude.
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