beautiful and a credit to her ancient name, let him visit as we did her
modern temples. We had passed the ancient market entrance, the Tower of
the Winds, and other of the old landmarks, when suddenly we turned into
a wonderful boulevard, and drove by or visited, one after another, the
New Academy, the University, the National Library, the Gallery of Fine
Arts, and the National Museum. If Pericles were alive to-day he would
approve of those buildings and add them to his collection.
All the old classic grace and beauty have been preserved in the same
pure-white pentelican marble, of which it is estimated that there is
enough to last any city five thousand years. Corinthian, Ionic, and
Doric columns that might have come from the Acropolis itself--and did,
in design--adorn and support these new edifices as they did the old, and
lend their ineffable glory to the rehabilitation of Greece.
We have learned, by-the-way, to distinguish the kinds of columns. They
were all just Greek to us at first, but we know them now. When we see a
column with acanthus leaves on the capital we know it is Corinthian,
because we remember the story of the girl of Corinth who planted
acanthus on her lover's grave and put a hollow tile around it for
protection. Some of the leaves came up outside of the tile by and by,
and a young architect came along and got his idea for the Corinthian
capital.
We know the Ionic, too, because it looks like its initial--a capital "I"
with a little curly top--and we say "I" is for Ionic; and we can tell
the Doric, because it's the only one that doesn't suggest anything
particular to remember it by. It's worth coming to Greece to learn these
things. We should never have learned them at home--never in the world.
We should not have had any reason for wanting to learn them.
We got tired of the Museum--Laura, age fourteen, and I--we were too
young and frivolous for such things, though they are wonderful enough, I
am sure. But then museums we have always with us, while a day in Athens
is a fleeting thing. We wanted to take one of our private
side-excursions, and we tried to communicate this fact to the Blue
Elephant, who was our driver to-day, as yesterday.
It was no light matter. He nodded and smiled when we indicated that we
wanted to leave the procession and go it on our own hook, but he did not
move. We had already made up our minds that he was subject to fits, or
was just plain crazy, for more than once he had suddenly broke away from
the party and whirled us around side-streets for a dozen blocks or so to
something not down on the programme, rejoining the procession in some
unexpected place.
But whatever may have induced his impulses then, nothing seemed to stir
his ambition for adventure now. I gesticulated and produced money; I
summoned the Diplomat to tackle him in his best Xenophan, but it was no
use. I got the guide at last, and then there was an exciting harangue
that looked as if it might end in blood. I suppose our man thought he
wouldn't get his full pay if he deserted the ship crowd. He must have
been convinced, finally, for he leaped upon the box, and away we went in
a wild race for the shops and by-streets where we had begged the guide
to let us go.
We had explained that we wanted some bags--some little embroidered bags,
such as we had seen earlier in the day when we could not stop. The Blue
Elephant understood now and took us to where there were bags--many bags.
The whole street was lined with bags and other embroideries, and the
Greeks turned out to give us a welcome.
It is said that one Greek is equal to three Turks, and I believe it. The
poorest Greek we saw was too much for two Americans, and we were beset
and besieged and literally borne down and swamped by a rising tide of
bags. We bought at many prices and in many places; we piled the carriage
full and fled away at last when they were going to dump upon us a
collection of costumes and firearms and draperies that would have
required a flat-car.
We were breathing easier when the Blue Elephant pulled us into another
narrow street, and behold! it was another street of bags. Dear me! how
could we explain that we had enough bags and wanted to see other things?
I would almost have given four hundred dollars to have been able to
tell him that I wanted to visit the old Byzantine structure we had
passed that morning--the one with all the little shoemakers
down-stairs--but the thing was impossible. I must buy some more bags,
there was no help for it. So I did buy some more, and I picked out a
place where a man spoke enough English to give the Blue Elephant a fresh
start, which brought us at last to the old Byzantine building and the
little shoemakers.
Then we saw the street of a hundred clanking sounds--anyway we called it
that, for they made all kinds of copper vessels in there--and we got out
and told the Blue Elephant to wait, for the place was very narrow; but
we couldn't lose him, seeing he was always on our heels, ready to whirl
us away somewhere, anywhere, in his crazy, fitty fashion. We had to let
him do it, now, for we had used up all the interpreters we could find;
besides, we didn't care, any more.
Still, when it got to be near luncheon-time we did begin to wonder where
the party had gone. It did not matter greatly, we could lunch anywhere,
but we were curious to know whether we should ever see them or the ship
again, and when we mentioned the matter to the Blue Elephant he merely
grinned and whipped up his horses and capered across another square. But
presently I realized that some sort of procession was passing and that
he had turned into it. Then it was all just like dreams I've had, for it
was our own procession, and we were calmly going along in it, and right
away were being personally conducted through a remarkable church where
the king and queen go, and sit in golden chairs. Alice in Wonderland
could hardly have had a more surprising adventure.
* * * * *
Our party being free after luncheon, Laura and I engaged Lykabettos on
our own account and drove out to the Bay of Salamis, where Xerxes made
his great mistake in the matter of fleets.
Perhaps Lykabettos had taken a fancy to us, for he engaged a carriage
that had been awarded a prize last year in the games, he said, and the
team with it. We believed Lykabettos--anybody would--and anyway it was a
beautiful outfit, and we cantered away over a fine road, past wayside
shrines, past little huts and houses, past a little memorial that marks
the place on a hill where Xerxes placed his silver-footed throne so that
he might sit comfortably and watch the enemy's ships go down. Only, the
programme didn't work out that way, Lykabettos said:
"Zen Xerxes he pretty soon see zat it was not ze Greek ship zat sink,
and he mus' run pretty quick or he will be capture; and hees ship zay
try to escape, and he not take away hees army from zat little island you
see over zere; zay stay zere and are all massacre by ze Greek--by ze men
and ze women, too, who have watch ze battle from here and go over and
kill zem."
The little island Lykabettos pointed out was Psyttalleia, and the flower
of Persia perished there. It was a tiny bit of barren land then, and it
is to-day. The hills around Salamis are barren, too, covered only with a
gray weed like the sage-brush of Nevada, and stunted groves of scrubby
pine and ground cedar--referred to by Lykabettos as "ze forest."
We came to the tiny hamlet on the water's side, a collection of two or
three huts, and Lykabettos engaged a lateen-sailed lugger (I should call
it that, though its name was probably something else), and with a fresh
wind half-ahead we billowed over the blue waters of Salamis, where
twenty-five hundred years ago the Persian ships went down. It was a
cloudy afternoon and there was a stormy feeling in the sky. It seemed
just the time to be there, and there was nothing to dispel the illusion
of imminent battle that was in the air.
I was perfectly sure, and so was Laura, that the Persian fleet was
likely at any moment to round the point and land troops on Pysttalleia;
also that the Greek fleet was hiding somewhere in the Bay of Eleusis,
and that there were going to be very disagreeable happenings there in a
few minutes. There was a hut where we landed on the Island of Salamis
and a girl making lace at the front door. She might have been there
twenty-five hundred years ago, as well as not--perhaps was--and saw the
great victory.
We sailed back then, crossing again the exact spot where the battle
raged, and drove home through the gathering evening, while Lykabettos
recounted in that sad voice of his the history of ancient days. We are
on the ship now, with anchor weighed, looking to the Farther East.
Athens with its temples and its traditions drops below the horizon.
Darkness and silence once more claim the birthplace of gods and heroes
as we slip out of these quiet waters and head for the Aegean Sea.
XVII
INTO THE DARDANELLES
We saw but little of the Isles of Greece. It was night and we were tired
after a hard day; most of us, I think, turned in early. Now and then a
light--a far tiny speck--appeared in one quarter or another--probably a
signal beacon; that was all.
But in the morning--it was soon after breakfast--a gray bank rose up out
of the sea, and the word went round that it was Asia. That was a strange
thing for a boy who had been brought up on the prairies of the Middle
West--to look across the bow and see Asia coming up out of the sea. It
brought back a small, one-room, white district schoolhouse, dropped down
on the bleak, level prairie, and geography-class of three, standing in a
row and singing to the tune of _Old Dan Tucker_ the rhymes of the
continents:
"Asia sixteen millions,
The largest of the five grand divisions."
It was not much of a rhyme, nor much of a tune, but there was a swing in
the way we did it which fixed those facts for life. They came back now,
and I had to get hold of myself a little to realize that this was the
same Asia with all those square miles--the land of the Arabian Nights,
of the apostles and the patriarchs--the wonderful country I had one day
hoped to see. And presently we were off the Plains of Troy, passing near
where the ships of the Greeks lay anchored, all of which seemed very
wonderful, too, I thought. We were in the Dardanelles, then, following
the path of those first Argonauts who set sail with Jason, and of that
later band who set out in the _Quaker City_, forty-two years ago. No
lack of history and tradition and old association here.
But how one's information does go to seed; all of us knew something, but
none of us knew much. Not one of us knew positively whether the
Hellespont was the same as the Dardanelles or as the Bosporus, and when,
with the help of the guide-book, we decided that it was the former, we
fell into other luminous debates as to where Leander swam it when he was
courting Hero and where Xerxes built his bridge. The captain said that
both these things took place at Abydos, which he pointed out to us, and
then we were in trouble right away again as to whether this was the
Abydos of Lord Byron's poem, or merely another town by the same name. At
all events it was not much of a place.
On the whole, the shores of the Dardanelles are mostly barren and
uninteresting, with small towns here and there and fortifications. At
one place some men came out in a boat and went through the formality of
letting us enter the country. It did not seem much of a permission; I
could have given it myself. But I suppose we had to have theirs;
otherwise they might have reached us with some kind of a gun.
We entered the Sea of Marmora, passed a barren island or two; then the
shores fell back beyond the horizon, and most of us put in the rest of
the day pretending to read up on Constantinople. It was dark when we
dropped anchor in the mouth of the Bosporus, and we were at dinner--a
gala dinner, after which we danced. A third of the way around the world
to the westward, in a country called America, a new President would be
inaugurated to-morrow, and in the quiet dusk of our anchorage, with the
scattered lights of Asia blinking across from one side and a shadowy,
mysterious grove and a fairy-lighted city on the other, we celebrated
that great occasion in the West and our arrival at the foremost mart of
the East by dancing before Stamboul.
That should have ended our day, but when we were about to break up, a
boat-load or two of uniformed officials with distinctly Oriental faces
and fezzes came aboard and opened business in the after cabin, going
through our passports. Then for an hour or so there was most
extraordinary medley of confused tongues. We had all our own kinds going
at once and several varieties of Constantinoplese besides. And what an
amazing performance it was, altogether--something not to be equalled
anywhere else on the earth, I imagine, unless in Russia--a sufficient
commentary on the progress and enlightenment of these two laggard
nations.
[Illustration: ONE'S AGE, STATED ON OATH, GOES WITH A PASSPORT]
Curious how some of our ladies hesitate about showing their passports.
One's age, stated on oath, goes with a passport.
XVIII
A CITY OF ILLUSION
I suppose there is no more beautiful city from the outside and no more
disheartening city from the inside than Constantinople. From the outside
it is all fairyland and enchantment; from the inside it is all grime and
wretchedness. Viewed from the entrance of the Bosporus, through the haze
of morning, it is a vision. Viewed from a carriage driven through the
streets it becomes a nightmare. If one only might see it as we did--at
sunrise, with the minarets and domes lifting from the foliage, all aglow
with the magic of morning--and then sail away from that dream spectacle,
his hunger unsatisfied, he would hold at least one supreme illusion in
his heart.
For that is what it is--just an illusion--the most superb fantasy in the
whole world. We left anchorage soon after sunrise and moved over
abreast of Galata a little below the bridge that crosses the Golden Horn
and connects this part of Constantinople with Stamboul. We are lying now
full length against the street, abreast of it, where all day long a
soiled, disordered life goes on. It is a perpetual show, but hardly a
pleasing one. It is besmirched and raucous; it is wretched.
Hawkers, guides, beggars, porters weave in and out and mingle
vociferously. To leave the ship is to be assailed on every side. Across
the street is a row of coffee-houses where unholy music and singing keep
up most of the time. Also, there are dogs, scores of them--a wolfish
breed--and they are seldom silent. This is the reverse of the picture.
As the outside is fairyland, so this is inferno.
We battled our way to our carriages and drove across the bridge to
Stamboul. Perhaps it would be better there. But that was a mistake--it
was worse. We entered some narrow, thronging streets--a sort of general
market, I should say--that fairly reeked with offal. We saw presently
that nearly everybody wore rubbers, or stilted shoes--wooden sandal
things, with two or three inches of heel and sole--and we understood
why; it was to lift them out of the filth. I have had dreams where,
whichever way I turned, lay ordure and corruption, with no way out on
any side. Such dreams were hardly worse than this. A passenger of our
party--a lady--said afterwards:
"When we drove through those streets I felt as if I had died and gone to
hell."
Yet on the whole, I think hell would be cleaner. I am sure it would not
smell so. I have no special preference for brimstone, but I would have
welcomed it as we drove through those Constantinople streets.
I know what they smell like; I can describe it exactly: they smell like
a garbage-can. Not the average garbage-can--fairly fresh and leading the
busy life--but an old, opulent, tired garbage-can--one that has been
filled up and overlooked, in August. Now and then at home a can like
that gets into the garbage-wagon, and when that wagon comes along the
street on a still summer morning it arrests attention. I have seen
strong men turn pale and lovely women totter when that can went by.
It would have no distinction in Constantinople. The whole city is just
one vast garbage-can, and old--so old--why, for a thousand years or more
they have been throwing stuff into the streets for the dogs to eat up,
and the dogs can't eat some things, and so--
Never mind; enough is enough; but if ever I get home, and if ever I want
to recall vividly this vision of the East, I shall close my eyes when
that garbage-wagon drives by, and once more the panaroma--panorama, I
mean--of these thronging streets will unfold; I shall be transported
once more to the heart of this busy city; I shall see again all the
outlandish dress, all the strange faces, all the mosques and minarets,
all the magic of the Orient, and I shall say, "This is it--this is the
spicy East--this is Constantinople--Allah is indeed good!"
It was at the entrance of the mosque of St. Sophia--a filthy entrance
through a sort of an alley--that we heard our first cry of
"Baksheesh!"--a plaintive cry from a pretty, pathetic little girl who
clung to us, and called it over and over like the cry of a soul being
dragged to perdition--"Bak-she-_e-e-sh_! Bak-_sh-e-e-e-sh_!" a
long-drawn-out wail. Not one of us who would not have given her freely
had we not known that to do so would be to touch off the cyclone--the
cloud of vultures hovering on the outskirts. One's heart grows hard in
the East; it has to.
At the door of the mosque there was a group of creatures who put
slippers on us and made a pretence of tying the wretched things. They
didn't do it, of course, and one had to slide and skate and straddle to
keep from losing them--which thing would be a fearful desecration--we
being "Christian dogs." The Apostle in those slippers, skating and
straddling and puffing his way through St. Sophia's was worth coming far
to see.
It is a mighty place, a grand place, but it has been described too often
for me to attempt the details here. It is very, very old, and they have
some candles there ten feet high and ten inches through (they look
exactly like smooth marble columns and make the place very holy), and
there are some good rugs on the floor. Several of our party who are
interested in such things agreed that the rugs are valuable, though they
are laid crooked, as they all point toward Mecca, whereas the mosque,
originally a Christian church, stands with the points of the compass.
It has been built and rebuilt a good many times. The Emperor Justinian
was its last great builder, and he robbed the ruins of Ephesus and
Baalbec of certain precious columns for his purpose. On Christmas Day,
537 A.D., he finished and dedicated his work. Altogether he had spent
five million dollars on the undertaking and had nearly bankrupted the
empire. Nine hundred years later the Turks captured Constantinople, and
Mohammed II., with drawn sword, rode into St. Sophia's and made the
bloody handprint which remains the Moslem ruler's sign-manual to this
day. They showed us the print, but I don't think it is the same one. It
may be, but I don't think so--unless Mohammed was riding a camel.
Some kind of ceremony was in progress when we arrived, but as usual in
such places, we did not mind. We went right in just the same, and our
guides, too, and we talked and pointed and did what we could to break up
the services. Old turbaned sons of the Prophet were kneeling and bowing
and praying here and there, and were a good deal in the way. Sometimes
we fell over them, but we were charitably disposed and did not kick
them--at least, I didn't, and I don't think any of the party did. We
might kick a dog--kick at him, I mean--if we tripped over one, but we do
not kick a Moslem--not a live one. We only take his picture and step on
him and muss him up, and make a few notes and go.
I have been wondering what would happen to a party of tourists--Moslems,
for instance--who broke into an American church during services, with
guides to point and explain, and stared at the people who were saying
their prayers, and talked them over as if they were wax figures. An
American congregation would be annoyed by a mob like that, and would
remove it and put it in the calaboose. But then such things wouldn't
happen in America. We have cowed our foreign visitors. Besides, there is
nothing in an American church that a foreigner would care to see.
We went to other mosques: to Suleiman, to Ahmed, to the "Pigeon" mosque
with its gentle birds that come in clouds to be fed, but there is a good
deal of sameness in these splendid edifices. Not that they are alike,
but they seem alike, with their mellow lights, their alcoves and sacred
sanctuaries; their gigantic wax candles; their little Turkeys--Turkish
boys, I mean--rocking and singing the Koran, learning to be priests. And
everywhere, whether it be prayer-time or not, there were old bearded men
prostrated in worship or bowed in contemplation. Quite frequently we sat
down on these praying men to rest a little, but they were too absorbed
to notice it.
There were no women in the mosques. The men supply the souls and the
religion for the Turkish household. A woman has no use for a soul in
Turkey. She wouldn't know what to do with it, and it would only make her
trouble. She is allowed to pretend she has one, however, and to go to
mosque now and then, just as we allow children to play "store" or
"keeping-house." But it's make believe. She really hasn't any
soul--everybody knows that.
Constantinople is full of landmarks that perpetuate some memory--usually
a bloody one--of the Janizaries. Every little while our guide would say,
"This is where the Janizaries conquered the forces of Abdullah VI."; or
"This is where the Janizaries overthrew and assassinated Mahmoud I."; or
"This is where the Janizaries attacked the forces of His Sacred Majesty
Bismillah II.," and everybody would say, "Oh, yes, of course," and we
would go on.
I said, "Oh yes, of course," with the others, which made it hard, later
on, when I had worked up some curiosity on the subject, to ask who in
the deuce the Janizaries were, anyway, and why they had been allowed to
do all these bloody things unreproved.
By and by we came to a place where the guide said that eight thousand of
them had perished in the flames, and added that fifteen thousand more
had been executed and twenty thousand banished. And we all said, "Oh
yes, of course," again, and this time I meant it, for I thought that was
about what would be likely to happen to persons with Janizary habits.
Then I made a memorandum to look up that tribe when I got back to the
ship.
I have done so, now. The Janizaries were a body of military police,
organized about 1330, originally of young Christians compelled to become
Moslems. They became a powerful and terrible body, by and by, and
conducted matters with a high hand. They were a wild, impetuous horde,
and five hundred years of their history is full of assassinations of
sultans and general ravage and bloodshed. In time they became a great
deal more dangerous to Turkey than her enemies, but it was not until
1826 that a sultan, Mahmoud II., managed to arouse other portions of his
army to that pitch of fanatical zeal which has made Janizaries
exceedingly scarce ever since. I think our guide is a Janizary--he has
the look--but I have decided not to mention the matter.
We skated through mosques and the tombs of sultans and their wives most
of the day, appraising the rugs and shawls and general _bric-a-brac_,
and dropped into a museum--the best one, so far, in my opinion. They
have a sarcophagus of Alexander there--that is, it was made for
Alexander, though it is said he never slept in it, which is too bad, if
true, for it is the most beautiful thing in the world--regarded by
experts as the finest existing specimen of Greek art. We lingered a long
time about that exquisite gem--long for us--and bought photographs of it
when we came away. Then we set out for the Long Street of Smells,
crossed the Galata bridge, and were at the ship--home.