If places could speak, they would describe people far better than people
can describe places. No two men agree together in giving an account of a
country, of natural scenery, or of a city; and though we may read the
most accurate descriptions of a place, and vividly picture to ourselves
what we have never seen, yet, when we are at last upon the spot, we
realize that we have known nothing about it, and we loudly blame the
author, whose word-painting is so palpably false. People will always
think of places as being full of poetry if they are in love, as being
beautiful if they are well, hideous if they are ill, wearisome if they
are bored, and gay if they are making money.
Constantinople and the Bosphorus are no exceptions to this general rule.
People who live there are sometimes well and sometimes ill, sometimes
rich and sometimes poor, sometimes in love with themselves and sometimes
in love with each other. A grave Persian carpet merchant sits smoking on
the quay of Buyukdere. He sees them all go by, from the gay French
secretary of embassy, puffing at a cigarette as he hurries from one
visit to the next, to the neat and military German diplomat, landing
from his steam launch on his return from the palace; from the
devil-may-care English youth in white flannel to the graceful Turkish
adjutant on his beautiful Arab horse; from the dark-eyed Armenian lady,
walking slowly by the water's edge, to the terrifically arrayed little
Greek dandy, with a spotted waistcoat and a thunder-and-lightning tie.
He sees them all: the Levantine with the weak and cunning face, the
swarthy Kurdish porter, the gorgeously arrayed Dalmatian embassy
servant, the huge, fair Turkish waterman in his spotless white dress,
and the countless veiled Turkish women from the small harems of the
little town, shuffling along in silence, or squatted peacefully upon a
jutting point of the pier, veiled in _yashmaks_, the more transparent as
they have the more beauty to show or the less ugliness to conceal. The
carpet merchant sees them all, and sits like Patience upon a monumental
heap of stuffs, waiting for customers and smoking his water-pipe. His
eyes are greedy and his fingers are long, but the peace of a superior
mendacity is on his brow, and in his heart the lawful price of goods is
multiplied exceedingly.
By the side of the quay, separated from the quiet water by the broad
white road, stand the villas, the embassies, the houses, large and
small, a varying front, following the curve of the Bosphorus for half a
mile between the Turkish towns of Buyukdere and Mesar Burnu. Behind the
villas rise the gardens, terraces upon terraces of roses, laurels,
lemons, Japanese medlars, and trees and shrubs of all sorts, with a
stone pine or a cypress here and there, dark green against the faint
blue sky. Beyond the breadth of smooth sapphire water, scarcely rippling
under the gentle northerly breeze, the long hills of the Asian mainland
stretch to the left as far as the mouth of the Black Sea, and to the
right until the quick bend of the narrow channel hides Asia from view
behind the low promontories of the European shore. Now and then a big
ferry-boat puffs into sight, churning the tranquil waters into foam with
her huge paddles; a dozen sailing craft are in view, from Lord
Mavourneen's smart yawl to the outlandishly rigged Turkish schooner, her
masts raking forward like the antlers of a stag at bay, and spreading a
motley collection of lateen-sails, stay-sails, square top-sails, and
vast spinnakers rigged out with booms and sprits, which it would puzzle
a northern sailor to name. Far to the right, towards Therapia, glimmer
the brilliant uniforms and the long bright oars of an ambassador's
twelve-oared caique, returning from an official visit at the palace; and
near the shore are loitering half a dozen _barcas_,--commodious
row-boats, with awnings and cushioned seats,--on the lookout for a fare.
It is the month of June, and the afternoon air is warm and hazy upon the
land, though a gentle northerly breeze is on the water, just enough to
fill the sails of Lord Mavourneen's little yacht, so that by making many
short tacks he may beat up to the mouth of the Black Sea before sunset.
But his excellency the British ambassador is in no hurry; he would go on
tacking in his little yawl to all eternity of nautical time, with vast
satisfaction, rather than be bored and worried and harrowed by the
predestinating servants of Allah, at the palace of his majesty the
commander of the faithful. Even Fate, the universal Kismet,
procrastinates in Turkey, and Lord Mavourneen's special mission is to
out-procrastinate the procrastinator. For the present the little yawl is
an important factor in his operations, and as he stands in his rough
blue clothes, looking up through his single eyeglass at the bellying
canvas, a gentle smile upon his strongly marked face betrays
considerable satisfaction. Lord Mavourneen is a very successful man, and
his smile and his yacht have been elements of no small importance in his
success. They characterize him historically, like the tear which always
trembles under the left eyelid of Prince Bismarck, like the gray
overcoat of Bonaparte, the black tights and gloomy looks of Hamlet the
Dane, or Richelieu's kitten. Lord Mavourneen is a man of action, but he
can wait. When he came to Constantinople the Turks thought they could
keep him waiting, but they have discovered that they are more generally
kept waiting themselves, while his excellency is up the Bosphorus,
beating about in his little yawl near the mouth of the Black Sea. His
actions are thought worthy of high praise, but on some occasions his
inaction borders upon the sublime. Of the men who moved along the
Buyukdere quay, many paused and glanced out over the water at the
white-sailed yawl, with the single streamer flying from the mast-head;
and some smiled as they recognized the ambassadorial yacht, and some
looked grave.
The sun sank lower towards the point where he disappears from the sight
of the inhabitants of Buyukdere; for he is not seen to set from this
part of the upper Bosphorus. He sinks early behind the wooded hills
above Therapia, and when he is hidden the evening freshness begins, and
the crowd upon the quay swells to a multitude, as the people from the
embassies and villas sally forth to mount their horses or to get into
their caiques.
Two young men came out of the white gates of the Russian embassy, and,
crossing the road, stood upon the edge of the stone pier. They were
brothers, but the resemblance was slight between them. The one looked
like an Englishman, tall, fair, and rather angular, with hard blue eyes,
an aquiline nose, a heavy yellow mustache concealing his mouth, and a
ruddy complexion. He was extremely well dressed, and, though one might
detect some awkwardness in his movements, his manner had that composure
which comes from a great knowledge of the world, and from a natural
self-possession and independence of character.
His brother, though older by a year, might have passed for being several
years younger. He was in reality two and thirty years of age, but his
clear complexion was that of a boy, his dark brown hair curled closely
on his head, and his soft brown eyes had a young and trustful look in
them, which contrasted strangely with his brother's hard and dominating
expression. He was shorter, too, and more slender, but also more
graceful; his hands and feet were small and well shaped. Nevertheless,
his manner was at least as self-possessed as that of his tall brother,
and there was something in his look which suggested the dashing,
reckless spirit sometimes found in delicately constituted men.
Alexander Patoff was a soldier, and had obtained leave to visit his
younger brother Paul in Constantinople, where the latter held the
position of second secretary in the Russian embassy. At first sight one
would have said that Paul should have been the cavalry officer, and
Alexander the diplomatist: but fate had ordered it otherwise, for the
elder son had inherited the bulk of his father's fortune, and was,
consequently, able to bear the expenses of a career in a guard regiment;
while Paul, the younger, just managed to live comfortably the life of a
fashionable diplomacy, by dint of economy and an intelligent use of his
small income.
They were Russians, but their mother was an Englishwoman. Their father
had married a Miss Anne Dabstreak, with whom he had fallen in love when
in London, shortly before the Crimean War. She was a beautiful woman,
and had a moderate portion. Old Patoff's fortune, however, was
sufficient, and they had lived happily for ten years, when he had died
very suddenly, leaving a comfortable provision for his wife, and the
chief part of his possessions to Alexander Paolovitch Patoff, his eldest
boy. Paul, he thought, showed even as a child the character necessary to
fight his own way; and as he had since advanced regularly in the
diplomacy, it seemed probable that he would fulfill his father's
predictions, and die an embassador.
At the time when this story opens Madame Patoff was traveling in
Switzerland for her health. She was not strong, and dared not undertake
a journey to Constantinople at present. On the other hand, the climate
of northern Russia suited her even less well in summer than in winter,
and, to her great regret, her son Alexander, whom she loved better than
Paul, as he was also more like herself, had persisted in spending his
leave in a visit to his brother.
Madame Patoff had been surprised at Alexander's determination. Her sons
were not congenial to each other. They had been brought up differently
to different careers, which might partially account for the lack of
sympathy between them, but in reality the evil had a deeper root. Madame
Patoff had either never realized that Alexander had been the favored
son, and that Paul had suffered acutely from the preference shown to his
elder brother, or she had loved the latter too passionately to care to
hide her preference. Alexander had been a beautiful child, full of
grace, and gifted with that charm which in young children is not easily
resisted. Paul was ugly in his boyhood, cold and reserved, rarely
showing sympathy, and too proud to ask for what was not given him
freely. Alexander was quick-witted, talented, and showy, if I may use so
barbarous a word. Paul was slow at first, ungainly as a young foal,
strong without grace, shy of attempting anything new to him, and not
liking to be noticed. Both father and mother, as the boys grew up, loved
the older lad, and spoiled him, while the younger was kept forever at
his books, was treated coldly, and got little praise for the performance
of his tasks. Had Paul possessed less real energy of character, he must
have hated his brother; as it was, he silently disliked him, but
inwardly resolved to outshine him in everything, laboring to that end
from his boyhood, and especially after his father's death, with a dogged
determination which promised success. The result was that, although Paul
never outgrew a certain ungainliness of appearance, due to his large and
bony frame, he nevertheless acquired a perfection of manner, an ease and
confidence in conversation, which, in the end, might well impress people
who knew him more favorably than the bearing of Alexander, whose soft
voice and graceful attitudes began to savor of affectation when he had
attained to mature manhood. As they stood together on the quay at
Buyukdere, one could guess that, in the course of years, Alexander would
be an irritable, peevish old dandy, while Paul would turn out a stern,
successful old man.
They stood looking at the water, watching the caiques shoot out from
the shore upon the bosom of the broad stream.
"Have you made up your mind?" asked Paul, without looking at his
brother.
"Oh, yes. I do not care where we go. I suppose it is worth seeing?"
"Well worth seeing. You have never seen anything like it."
"Is it as fine as Easter Eve in Moscow?" asked Alexander, incredulously.
"It is different," said Paul. "It corresponds to our Easter Eve in some
ways. All through the Ramazan they fast all day--never smoke, nor drink
a glass of water, and of course they eat nothing--until sunset, when the
gun is fired. During the last week there are services in Santa Sophia
every night, and that is what is most remarkable. They go on until the
news comes that the new moon has been seen."
"That does not sound very interesting," remarked Alexander, languidly,
lighting a cigarette with a bit of yellow fuse that dangled from his
heavy Moscow case.
"It is interesting, nevertheless, and you must see it. You cannot be
here at this time and not see what is most worth seeing."
"Is there nothing else this evening?" asked Alexander.
"No. We have to respect the prejudices of the country a little. After
all, we really have a holiday during this month. Nothing can be done.
The people at the palace do not get up until one o'clock or later, so as
to make the time while they fast seem shorter."
"Very sensible of them. I wonder why they get up at all, until their
ridiculous gun fires, and they can smoke."
"Whether you like it or not, you must go to Santa Sophia to-night, and
see the service," said Paul, firmly. "You need not stay long, unless you
like."
"If you take me there, I will stay rather than have the trouble of
coming away," answered the other. "Bah!" he exclaimed suddenly, "there
is that caique again!"
Paul followed the direction of his brother's glance, and saw a graceful
caique pulling slowly upstream towards them. Four sturdy Turks in
snow-white cotton tugged at the long oars, and in the deep body of the
boat, upon low cushions, sat two ladies, side by side. Behind them, upon
the stern, was perched a hideous and beardless African, gorgeously
arrayed in a dark tunic heavily laced with gold, a richly chased and
adorned scimiter at his side, and a red fez jauntily set on one side of
his misshapen head. But Alexander's attention was arrested by the
ladies, or rather by one of them, as the caique passed within oar's
length of the quay.
"She must be hideous," said Paul, contemptuously. "I never saw such a
yashmak. It is as thick as a towel. You cannot see her face at all."
"Look at her hand," said Alexander. "I tell you she is not hideous."
The figures of the two ladies were completely hidden in the wide black
silk garments they wore, the eternal ferigee which makes all women
alike. Upon their heads they wore caps, such as in the jargon of fashion
are called toques, and their faces were enveloped in yashmaks, white
veils which cross the forehead above the eyes and are brought back just
below them, so as to cover the rest of the face. But there was this
difference; that whereas the veil worn by one of the ladies was of the
thinnest gauze, showing every feature of her dark, coarse face through
its transparent texture, the veil of the other was perfectly opaque, and
disguised her like a mask. Paul Patoff justly remarked that this was
very unusual. He had observed the same peculiarity at least twenty
times; for in the course of three weeks, since Alexander arrived, the
brothers had seen this same lady almost every day, till they had grown
to expect her, and had exhausted all speculation in regard to her
personality. Paul maintained that she was ugly, because she would not
show her face. Alexander swore that she was beautiful, because her hand
was young and white and shapely, and because, as he said, her attitude
was graceful and her head moved well when she turned it. Concerning her
hand, at least, there was no doubt, for as the delicate fingers stole
out from the black folds of the ferigee their whiteness shone by
contrast upon the dark silk; there was something youthful and nervous
and sensitive in their shape and movement which fascinated the young
Russian, and made him mad with curiosity to see the face of the veiled
woman to whom they belonged. She turned her head a little, as the caique
passed, and her dark eyes met his with an expression which seemed one of
intelligence; but unfortunately all black eyes look very much alike when
they are just visible between the upper and the lower folds of a thick
yashmak, and Alexander uttered an exclamation of discontent.
Thereupon the hideous negro at the stern, who had noticed the stare of
the two Russians, shook his light stick at Alexander, and hissed out
something that sounded very like "Kiope 'oul kiopek,"--dog and son of a
dog; the oarsmen grinned and pulled harder than ever, and the caique
shot past the pier. Paul shrugged his shoulders contemptuously, but did
not translate the Turkish ejaculation to his brother. A boatman stood
lounging near them, leaning on a stone post, and following the
retreating caique with his eyes.
"Ask that fellow who she is," said Alexander.
"He does not know," answered Paul. "Those fellows never know anything."
"Ask him," insisted his brother. "I am sure he knows." Paul was willing
to be obliging, and went up to the man.
"Do you know who that Khanum is?" he asked, in Turkish.
"Bilmem,--I don't know," replied the man, without moving a muscle of his
face.
"Do you know who her father is?"
"Allah bilir,--God knows. Probably Abraham, who is the father of all the
faithful." Paul laughed.
"I told you he knew nothing about her," he said, turning to his brother.
"It did you no harm to ask," answered Alexander testily. "Let us take a
caique and follow her."
"You may, if you please," said Paul. "I have no intention of getting
myself into trouble."
"Nonsense! Why should we get into trouble? We have as good a right to
row on the Bosphorus as they have."
"We have no right to go near them. It is contrary to the customs of the
country."
"I do not care for custom," retorted Alexander.
"If you walked down the Boulevard des Italiens in Paris on Easter Day
and kissed every woman you met, merely saying, 'The Lord is risen,' by
way of excuse, as we do in Russia, you would discover that customs are
not the same everywhere."
"You are as slow as an ox-cart, Paul," said Alexander.
"The simile is graceful. Thank you. As I say, you may do anything you
please, as you are a stranger here. But if you do anything flagrantly
contrary to the manners of the country, you will not find my chief
disposed to help you out of trouble. We are disliked enough
already,--hated expresses it better. Come along. Take a turn upon the
quay before dinner, and then we will go to Stamboul and see the
ceremony."
"I hate the quay," replied Alexander, who was now in a very bad humor.
"Then we will go the other way. We can walk through Mesar Burnu and get
to the Valley of Roses."
"That sounds better."
So the two turned northwards, and followed the quay upstream till they
came to the wooden steamboat landing, and then, turning to the left,
they entered the small Turkish village of Mesar Burnu. While they walked
upon the road Alexander could still follow the caique, now far ahead,
shooting along through the smooth water, and he slackened his pace more
slowly when it was out of sight. The dirty little bazaar of the village
did not interest him, and he was not inclined to talk as he picked his
way over the muddy stones, chewing his discontent and regretting the
varnish of his neat boots. Presently they emerged from the crowd of
vegetable venders, fishmongers, and sweetmeat sellers into a broad green
lane between two grave-yards, where the huge silent trees grew up
straight and sad from the sea of white tombstones which stood at every
angle, some already fallen, some looking as though they must fall at
once, some still erect, according to the length of time which had
elapsed since they were set up. For in Turkey the headstones of graves
are narrow at the base and broaden like leaves towards the top, and they
are not set deep in the ground; so that they are top-heavy, and with the
sinking of the soil they invariably fall to one side or the other.
Paul turned again, where four roads meet at a drinking fountain, and the
two brothers entered the narrow Valley of Roses. The roses are not,
indeed, so numerous as one might expect, but the path is beautiful,
green and quiet, and below it the tinkle of a little stream is heard,
flowing down from the spring where the lane ends. There they sat down
beneath a giant tree on a beaten terrace, where a Kaffegee has his
little shop. The water pours from the spring in the hillside into a
great basin bordered with green, the air is cool, and there is a
delicious sense of rest after leaving the noise and dust of the quay.
Both men smoked and drank their coffee in silence. Paul could not help
wishing that his brother would take a little more interest in Turkey and
a little less in the lady of the thick yashmak; and especially he wished
that Alexander might finish his visit without getting into trouble. He
had successfully controlled him during three weeks, and in another
fortnight he must return to Russia. Paul confessed to himself that his
brother's visit was not an unmitigated blessing, and found it hard to
explain the object of it. Indeed, it was so simple that his diplomatic
mind did not find it out; for Alexander had merely said to himself that
he had never seen Constantinople, and that, as his brother was there, in
the embassy, he could see it under favorable circumstances, at a very
moderate cost. He was impetuous, spoiled by too much flattery, and
incapable of imagining that Paul could consider his visit in any light
but that of a compliment. Accordingly he had come, and had enjoyed
himself very much.
"Let us dine here," he said suddenly, as he finished his coffee.
"There is nothing to eat," answered Paul. "Coffee, cold water, and a few
cakes. That is all, and that would hardly satisfy you."
"What a nuisance!" exclaimed the elder brother. "What a barbarous
country this is! Nothing to eat but coffee, cold water, and cakes!"
"It is rather hard on the Turks to abuse them for not keeping
restaurants in their woods," remarked Paul.
"I detest the Turks. I shall never forget the discomfort I had to put up
with in the war. They might have learned something from us then; but
they never learn anything. Come along. Let us go and dine in your
rooms."
"It is impossible to be more discontented than you are," said Paul,
rather bitterly. "It is utterly impossible to please you,--and yet you
have most things which are necessary to happiness."
"I suppose you mean the money?" sneered his brother. But Paul kept his
temper.
"I mean everything," he answered. "You have money, youth, good looks,
and social success; and yet you can hardly see anything without abusing
it."
"You forget that I do not know the name of the lady in the yashmak,"
objected Alexander.
Paul shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing. Both men rose, and began
to go down the green lane, returning towards Mesar Burnu. By this time
the sun had sunk low behind the western hills, and the cool of the
evening had descended on the woods and the Valley of Roses. The green
grass and the thick growth of shrubs took a darker color, and the first
dampness of the dew was in the air. The two walked briskly down the
path. Suddenly a turn in the narrow way brought them face to face with a
party of three persons, strolling slowly towards them.
"Luck!" ejaculated Alexander. "Here they are again!"
He was right. There was no mistaking the lady with the thick,
impenetrable veil, nor her companion, whose heavy dark face was
distinctly visible through the thin Indian gauze. Behind them walked the
hideous negro, swinging his light cane jauntily, but beginning to cast
angry glances at the two Russians, whom he had already recognized. The
way was very narrow, and the ladies saw that retreat was impossible.
Paul bit his lip, fearing some foolish rashness on the part of his
brother. As they all met, the ladies drew close to the hedge on one side
of the path, their black attendant standing before them, as though to
prevent the Giaours from even brushing against the wide silken ferigees
of his charges. Paul pushed his brother in front of him, hoping that
Alexander would have the sense to pass quietly by; but he trembled for
the result.
Alexander moved slowly forward, turning his head as he passed, and
looking long into the black eyes of the veiled lady.
"Pek guezel,--very pretty indeed," he said aloud, using the only words of
Turkish he had learned in three weeks. But they were enough; the effect
was instantaneous. Without a word and without hesitation, the tall negro
struck a violent blow at Alexander with the light bamboo he carried.
Paul, who was immediately behind his brother, saw the action and caught
the man's hand in the air, but the end of the flexible cane flew down
and knocked Alexander's hat from his head.
"Run!" cried Paul excitedly, as the negro struggled in his grip.
The two Turkish ladies laughed aloud. They were used to such adventures,
but the spectacle of the negro beating a Frank gentleman was novel and
refreshing. Alexander picked up his hat, but showed no disposition to
move. The African struggled vainly in Paul's powerful arms.
"Go, I say!" cried the latter authoritatively. "There will be trouble if
any one comes."
But Alexander had received a blow, and his blood was up. Moreover, he
was a Russian, and utterly regardless of consequences,--or perhaps he
only wanted to annoy his brother by a show of violence.
"I think I will shoot him," he said, quietly producing a small revolver
from his pocket.
At the sight of the weapon, the two ladies, who, on seeing the fight
prolonged, had retired a few paces up the path, began to scream loudly
for help. The negro, who was proof against blows and would not have
shown much fear at the sight of a knife, fell on his knees, crying aloud
for mercy. Thereupon Paul released him and bid him go.
"For God's sake, Alexander, do not make a fool of yourself!" he said
coldly, walking up to his brother. But he turned once more to the black
attendant, and added quietly in Turkish, "You had better go. We both
have pistols."
The negro did not wait, but sprang back and flew towards the two ladies,
speaking excitedly, and imploring them to make haste. The two brothers
made their way quickly down the path, Paul pushing Alexander before him.
"You have done it now. You will have to leave Constantinople to-morrow,"
he said, sternly. "You cannot play these tricks here."
"Bah!" returned Alexander, "it is of no consequence. They do not know
who we are."
"They have not seen us coming out of our embassy half a dozen times
without knowing where to look for us. There will be a complaint made
within two hours, and there will be trouble. The law protects them.
These fellows are authorized to strike anybody who speaks to the women
they have in charge, or who even goes too near them. Be quick! We must
get back to the quay before there is any alarm raised."
Alexander knew that his brother Paul was no coward, and, being
thoroughly convinced of the danger, he quickened his walk. In twenty
minutes they reached Mesar Burnu, and in five minutes more they were
within the gates of the embassy. The huge Cossack who stood by the
entrance saluted them gravely, and Paul drew a long breath of relief as
he entered the pretty pavilion in the garden in which he had his
quarters. Alexander threw himself upon a low divan, and laughed with
true Russian indifference. Paul pretended not to notice him, but
silently took up the local French paper, which came every evening, and
began to read.
"You are excellent company, upon my word!" exclaimed Alexander,
irritated at his brother's coldness. Paul laid down the paper, and
stared at him with his hard blue eyes.
"Alexander, you are a fool," he said coolly.
"Look here," said the other, suddenly losing his temper, and rising to
his feet, "I will not submit to this sort of language."
"Then do not expose yourself to it. Are you aware that you do me very
serious injury by your escapades?"
"Escapades indeed!" cried Alexander indignantly. "As if there were any
harm in telling a woman she is pretty!"
"You will probably have occasion to hear what the chief thinks of it
before long," retorted his brother. "There will be a complaint. It will
get to the palace, and the result will be that I shall be sent to
another post, with a black mark in the service. Do you call that a joke?
It is very well for you, a rich officer in the guards, taking a turn in
the East by way of recreation. You will go back to Petersburg and tell
the story and enjoy the laugh. I may be sent to China or Japan for three
or four years, in consequence."
"Bah!" ejaculated the soldier, sitting down on the divan. "I do not
believe it. You are an old woman. You are always afraid of injuring your
career."
"If it is to be injured at all, I prefer that it should be by my own
fault."
"What do you want me to do?" asked Alexander, rising once more. "I think
I will go back to the Valley of Roses, and see if I cannot find her
again." Suiting the action to the word, he moved towards the door. All
the willfulness of the angry Slav shone in his dark eyes, and he was
really capable of fulfilling his threat.
"If you try it," said Paul, touching an electric bell behind his chair,
"I will have you arrested. We are in Russia inside these gates, and
there are a couple of Cossacks outside. I am quite willing to assume the
responsibility."
Paul was certainly justified in taking active measures to coerce his
headstrong brother. The spoilt child of a brilliant society was not
accustomed to being thwarted in his caprices, and beneath his delicate
pale skin the angry blood boiled up to his face. He strode towards his
brother as though he would have struck him, but something in Paul's eyes
checked the intention. He held his heavy silver cigarette case in his
hand; turning on his heel with an oath, he dashed it angrily across the
room. It struck a small mirror that stood upon a table in the corner,
and broke it into shivers with a loud crash. At that moment the door
opened, and Paul's servant appeared in answer to the bell.
"A glass of water," said Paul calmly. The man glanced at Alexander's
angry face and at the broken looking-glass, and then retired.
"What do you mean by calling in your accursed servants when I am
angry?" cried the soldier. "You shall pay for this, Paul,--you shall pay
for it!" His soft voice rose to loud and harsh tones, as he impatiently
paced the room. "You shall pay for it!" he almost yelled, and then stood
still, suddenly, while Paul rose from his chair. The door was opened
again, but instead of the servant with the glass of water a tall and
military figure stood in the entrance. It was the ambassador himself. He
looked sternly from one brother to the other.
"Gentlemen," he said, "what is this quarrel? Lieutenant Patoff, I must
beg you to remember that you are my guest as well as your brother's, and
that the windows are open. Even the soldiers at the gates can hear your
cries. Be good enough either to cease quarreling, or to retire to some
place where you cannot be heard."
Without waiting for an answer, the old diplomat faced about and walked
away.
"That is the beginning," said Paul, in a low voice. "You see what you
are doing? You are ruining me,--and for what? Not even because you have
a caprice for a woman, but merely because I have warned you not to make
trouble."
Paul crossed the room and picked up the fallen cigarette case. Then he
handed it to his brother, with a conciliatory look.
"There,--smoke a cigarette and be quiet, like a good fellow," he said.
The servant entered with the glass of water, and put it down upon the
table. Glancing at the fragments of the mirror upon the floor, he looked
inquiringly at his master. Paul made a gesture signifying that he might
leave the room. The presence of the servant did not tend to pacify
Alexander, whose face was still flushed with anger, as he roughly took
the silver case and turned away with a furious glance. The servant had
noticed, in the course of three weeks, that the brothers were not
congenial to each other, but this was the first time he had witnessed a
violent quarrel between them. When he was gone Alexander turned again
and confronted Paul.
"You are insufferable," he said, in low tones.
"It is easy for you to escape my company," returned the other. "The
Varna boat leaves here to-morrow afternoon at three."
"Set your mind at rest," said Alexander, regaining some control of his
temper at the prospect of immediate departure. "I will leave to-morrow."
He went towards the door.
"Dinner is at seven," said Paul quietly. But his brother left the room
without noticing the remark, and, retiring to his room, he revenged
himself by writing a long letter to his mother, in which he explained at
length the violence and, as he described it, the "impossibility" of his
brother's character. He had all the pettiness of a bad child; he knew
that he was his mother's favorite, and he naturally went to her for
sympathy when he was angry with his brother, as he had done from his
infancy. Having so far vented his wrath, he closed his letter without
re-reading it, and delivered it to be posted before the clock struck
seven.
He found Paul waiting for him in the sitting-room, and was received by
him as though nothing had happened. Paul was indeed neither so forgiving
nor so long-suffering as he appeared. He cordially disliked his brother,
and was annoyed at his presence and outraged at his rashness. He felt
bitterly enough that Alexander had quartered himself in the little
pavilion for nearly a month without an invitation, and that, even
financially, the visit caused him inconvenience; but he felt still more
the danger to himself which lay in Alexander's folly, and he was not far
wrong when he said that the ambassador's rebuke was the beginning of
trouble. Accustomed to rely upon himself and his own wise conduct in the
pursuance of his career, he resented the injury done him by such
incidents as had taken place that afternoon. On the other hand, since
Alexander had expressed his determination to leave Buyukdere the next
day, he was determined that on his side the parting should be amicable.
He could control his mood so far as to be civil during dinner, and to
converse upon general topics. Alexander sat down to table in silence.
His face was pale again, and his eyes had regained that simple, trustful
look which was so much at variance with his character, and which, in the
opinion of his admirers, constituted one of his chief attractions. It is
unfortunate that, in general, the expression of the eyes should have
less importance than that of the other features, for it always seems
that by the eyes we should judge most justly. As a matter of fact, I
think that the passions leave no trace in them, although they express
the emotions of the moment clearly enough. The dark pupils may flash
with anger, contract with determination, expand with love or fear; but
so soon as the mind ceases to be under the momentary influence of any of
these, the pupil returns to its normal state, the iris takes its natural
color, and the eye, if seen through a hole in a screen, expresses
nothing. If we were in the habit of studying men's mouths rather than
their eyes, we should less often be deceived in the estimates we form of
their character. Alexander Patoff's eyes were like a child's when he was
peaceably inclined, like a wild-cat's when he was angry; but his
nervous, scornful lips were concealed by the carefully trained dark
brown mustache, and with them lay hidden the secret of his
ill-controlled, ill-balanced nature.
When dinner was finished, the servant announced that the steam launch
was at the pier, and that the embassy _kavass_ was waiting outside to
conduct them to Santa Sophia. Alexander, who wanted diversion of some
kind during the evening, said he would go, and the two brothers left the
pavilion together.
The kavass is a very important functionary in Constantinople, and,
though his office is lucrative, it is no sinecure. In former times the
appearance of Franks in the streets of Constantinople was very likely to
cause disturbance. Those were the great days of Turkey, when the Osmanli
was master of the East, and regarded himself as the master of the world.
A Frank--that is to say, a person from the west of Europe--was scarcely
safe out of Pera without an escort; and even at the present day most
people are advised not to venture into Stamboul without the attendance
of a native, unless willing to wear a fez instead of a hat. It became
necessary to furnish the embassies with some outward and visible means
of protection, and the kavass was accordingly instituted. This man, who
was formerly always a Janizary, is at present a veteran soldier, and
therefore a Mussulman; for Christians rarely enter the army in
Constantinople, being permitted to buy themselves off. He is usually a
man remarkable for his trustworthy character, of fine presence, and
generally courageous. He wears a magnificent Turkish military dress,
very richly adorned with gold embroidery, girt with a splendid sash, in
which are thrust enough weapons to fill an armory,--knives, dirks,
pistols, and daggers,--while a huge scimiter hangs from his sword-belt.
When he is on active service, you will detect somewhere among his
trappings the brown leather case of a serviceable army revolver. The
reason of this outfit is a very simple one. The kavass is answerable
with his head for those he protects,--neither more nor less. Whenever
the ambassador or the minister goes to the palace, or to Stamboul, or on
any expedition whatsoever, the kavass follows him, frequently acting as
interpreter, and certainly never failing to impose respect upon the
populace. Moreover, when he is not needed by the head of the mission in
person, he is ready to accompany any member of the household when
necessary. A lady may cross Stamboul in safety with no other attendant,
for he is answerable for her with his life. Whether or not, in existing
circumstances, he would be put to death, in case his charge were killed
by a mob, is not easy to say; it is at least highly probable that he
would be executed within twenty-four hours.
It chanced, on the evening chosen by Paul and Alexander for their visit
to Santa Sophia, that no other members of the embassy accompanied them.
Some had seen the ceremony before, some intended to go the next day, and
some were too lazy to go at all. They followed the kavass in silence
across the road, and went on board the beautiful steam launch which lay
alongside the quay. The night was exceedingly dark, for as the
appearance of the new moon terminates the month Ramazan, and as the
ceremonies take place only during the last week of the month, there can,
of course, be no moonlight. But a dark night is darker on the black
waters of the Bosphorus than anywhere else in the world; and the
darkness is not relieved by the illumination of the shores. On the
contrary, the countless twinkling points seem to make the shadow in
midstream deeper, and accidents are not unfrequent. In some places the
current is very rapid, and it is no easy matter to steer a steam launch
skillfully through it, without running over some belated fisherman or
some shadowy caique, slowly making way against the stream in the dark.
The two brothers sat in the deep cane easy-chairs on the small raised
deck at the stern, the weather being too warm to admit of remaining in
the cushioned cabin. The sailors cast off the moorings, and the strong
little screw began to beat the water. In two minutes the launch was far
out in the darkness. The kavass gave the order to the man at the wheel,
an experienced old pilot:--
"To the Vinegar Sellers' Landing."
The engine was put at full speed, and the launch rushed down stream
towards Constantinople. Paul and Alexander looked at the retreating
shore and at the lights of the embassy, fast growing dim in the
distance. Paul wished himself alone in his quiet pavilion, with a
cigarette and one of Gogol's novels. His brother, who was ashamed of
his violent temper and disgusted with his brother's coldness, wished
that he might never come back. Indeed, he was inclined to say so, and to
spend the night at a hotel in Pera; but he was ashamed of that too, now
that his anger had subsided, and he made up his mind to be morally
uncomfortable for at least twenty-four hours. For it is the nature of
violent people to be ashamed of themselves, and then to work themselves
into new fits of anger in order to escape their shame, a process which
may be exactly compared to the drunkard's glass of brandy in the
morning, and which generally leads to very much the same result.
But Paul said nothing, and so long as he was silent it was impossible to
quarrel with him. Alexander, therefore, stretched out his legs and
puffed at his cigarette, wondering whether he should ever see the lady
in the yashmak again, trying to imagine what her face could be like, but
never doubting that she was beautiful. He had been in love with many
faces. It was the first time he had ever fallen in love with a veil. The
sweet air of the Bosphorus blew in his face, the distant lights twinkled
and flashed past as the steam launch ran swiftly on, and Alexander dozed
in his chair, dreaming that the scented breeze had blown aside the folds
of the yashmak, and that he was gazing on the most beautiful face in the
world. That is one of the characteristics of the true Russian. The Slav
is easily roused to frenzied excitement, and he as easily falls back to
an indolent and luxurious repose. There is something poetic in his
temperament, but the extremes are too violent for all poetry. To be
easily sad and easily gay may belong to the temper of the poet, but to
be bloodthirsty and luxurious by turns savors of the barbarian.
Alexander was aroused by the lights of Stamboul and by the noise of the
large ferry-boats just making up to the wooden piers of Galata bridge,
or rushing away into the darkness amidst tremendous splashing of
paddles and blowing of steam whistles. A few minutes later the launch
ran alongside of the Vinegar Sellers' Landing on the Stamboul shore, and
the kavass came aft to inform the brothers that the carriage was waiting
by the water-stairs.