rays of the setting sun, while one by one lights are turned on in the
windows of surrounding buildings, indicating the homecoming of some
toiler. The crowd in the street is thinning. I reach our house as the
automobiles of the Ministers, who now meet in daily council at the
Sublime Porte, pass through the gates of the Government Palace. They
work late, they are the last ones to leave.
My wife is waiting for me. Unless we have previously arranged to meet
somewhere else, she is always at home to greet me at my return. It is
not proper for ladies to be alone in the streets of Constantinople
after sunset, and we both like to start the evening together. We tell
each other what we have done in the afternoon, we read the evening
papers and then we sit down to dinner. We have our evening meal early:
everybody dines early in Stamboul. When we are alone we have dinner
served in the drawing-room, on an old Italian carved wood table. It is
less formal and cosier. When dinner is finished the servants clear the
table. My wife sits on the couch with her sewing, I sit next to her in
an easy chair. We talk. It is peaceful and quiet. We feel our nerves
gradually relaxing from the strain of the day.
It is now evening. The dusk has fallen over Stamboul. Above, the purple
sky is getting darker and one by one the stars are lighting in the
firmament. Only one of our big windows is opened as it is quite cool
outside. From behind the lattices we see the breeze gently swaying the
branches of the plane trees bordering our street. Through the cleft
of a dark, narrow street which winds its way to the nearby sea we can
see the lights of some ships lying in the harbour. Just opposite us
the rambling building of the Sublime Porte is silent and dark, the
Government Departments are all closed. In the street below only a few
belated passers-by are hurrying home. At a distance the Mosque of
Santa Sophia raises its minarets high against the starlit vault of
Heaven, as in prayer, and the park of the Old Seraglio projects the
black silhouettes of its trees: oaks and cypresses which have witnessed
the splendours of the reign of Soliman the Magnificent. In the branches
of a nearby plane tree a flock of doves flutter and settle for the
coming night.
A calm oriental night is falling over the city. The darkness deepens
and the quiet increases. I look out from the window. In the streets,
a water seller is walking slowly, I can see dimly a graceful brass
vessel swinging from his shoulders. He stops before the house, and
in a plaintive velvety voice chants the merits of his cool water “as
sweet as frozen sherbet”--then goes on his way and disappears in the
blue night. At a distance we hear the watchman coming, knocking his
club on the pavement to mark the hour “toc--toc--toc--toe ...” He is
coming nearer, his beat takes him through our street. Now he stops: the
street is so quiet that we can hear him greeting someone: “Selam' u
aleykum--peace be with you ...” The newcomer tells him something.
Then, in the silence, the man who watches after night over the safety
of all raises his voice in a long-drawn note of warning: “Y'a'a'an gun
vaaar!” He has been notified that there is a fire and he notifies all
of the danger. Most of us live in frame houses here in Stamboul and a
fire is dangerous. Time and again thousands of houses have disappeared
in a single night, thousands of people have remained homeless. If the
fire is near we must all gather our belongings. My wife is anxious. She
comes to the window: let us find out where the fire is, the watchman
will tell us. He is now quite near, he beats his club almost on our
doorstep. “Y'a'a'an gun Vaaar--Mahmoud Pash-ada.” It is not so bad,
Mahmoud Pasha is the name of a quarter, a wholesale business district
where no one lives--so the losers will be the insurance companies who
charge such high premiums that they can afford to lose. It is quite far
from us although from the windows at the back of our house we can see a
red glow behind the mosque of Yeni Djami: it makes its cupola shine and
its minarets throw fantastic shadows over the neighbouring buildings.
But the conflagration is small and the wind is not strong to-night, so
it will be soon under control. Let us return to the sitting-room.
The watchman continues his round. His voice is now dying out in the
distance. Everything is quiet again. The night has fallen. It is the
hour of relaxation. We might receive the visit of some friends. One
can better exchange ideas in the calm of the night, and people in
Stamboul are now too poor to indulge in regular social life but they
love to call on each other in after-dinner impromptu visits. They
leave the more elaborate kind of entertainments to their more wealthy
cousins living on the slopes of the hills above Pera, in Shishli or
Nishantashe. Here we are satisfied with simple, unpretentious visits;
they help pass away the time in a far more interesting and morally
productive manner than the dancing and exchange of platitude usual in
large social gatherings.
Let us light the candles and turn out the electric light. The soft,
golden glow of candles is more restful, and conducive to deeper
thought. It is in harmony with the darkness outside and will attune
us to the relaxation of nature at night. I love semi-darkness. I will
only light the silver candelabra on the table and this funny old
lantern hanging here at the corner. Its silent shadow will talk to us
of the past, when its pale light was used to illumine the steps of
those who ventured in the streets after sunset. Even I can remember
the time when the streets of Stamboul were not lighted. Electricity
is a very recent innovation and in my childhood there were so few and
such feeble oil lamps in the streets that every one who went out at
night was accompanied by a servant who carried a lantern like this,
a folding lantern with a round chiselled silver bottom and a round
chiselled silver top, its sides made of oiled parchment or goatskin
pleated horizontally so that it could fold when not in use. The servant
would walk just a few steps before you, holding the lantern low on
the ground so that its dim light would illumine your steps. It was
an event for me to go out after sunset and the few occasions when I
did have remained engraved in my memory as great adventures, somewhat
terrifying and most exciting. I remember how I used to hang on to the
hand of my mother. I was abashed by the darkness surrounding us, by the
mystery of the night and its solitude. I remember how I would strain my
ears to hear the familiar rustle of my mother's wide silk skirt, how
I would ask her any question that came into my mind just for the sake
of hearing her musical soft voice coming from the darkness above, in
modulated tones, I remember how fascinated I would be by the yellowish
dancing light of the swinging lantern, which would project big shadows
all around us and when one of the street dogs, so common at that time,
would wake up and run away from our path, I would squeeze my mother's
hand and nestle nearer to her so that I could feel her silk dress
against my cheek and now this lantern hangs in our drawing-room, not
any more for a useful purpose in this age of electricity, but as an
artistic ornament, a symbol of the past, a symbol of the darkness of
bygone years. Its yellowish glow illumines the head of my wife who sits
right under it. It surrounds her hair with a halo of ancient light.
The cycle of thoughts continues, running after the cycle of time in a
sequence of flashes followed by long periods of darkness!
We are silent. The street outside must be almost deserted, I can only
hear occasional steps every once in a while. But something now stirs at
our front door. Someone knocks. It might be some friends, it might be
a poor man, a widow or an orphan who comes to ask for some help or for
something to eat. Ours is a Turkish home and no matter who comes the
Turks welcome an opportunity to be hospitable or charitable. No matter
how hard the times, there is always something for the guests.
It must be guests as they are coming up the stairs. The voices stop at
our door. The servant announces our neighbours, Dr. Assim Pasha and his
wife with our mutual friend, Djevad Bey. They are welcome, the night
is still very young and they are all very interesting people. Djevad
is a newspaper man, he might have some interesting news to impart. The
doctor is one of the leading surgeons of the age known not only here
but even in France and Germany where he completed his studies. He is
a scientist and more: he is a thinker, a philosopher, a man who knows
human beings and humanity intimately. His wife is one of the modern
Turkish women who do real things. She speaks English fluently so she
has grown to be a very good friend of my wife despite the difference in
their age. She has a daughter who is now studying surgery in Germany.
They are all quiet, nice people, they exactly fit our mood to-night,
they materialize the deep, calm atmosphere of a Stanlboul night. We
need not turn on the lights.
We sit around, sip our coffee and smoke. Madame Assim Pasha is on the
sofa next to my wife. She tells her of her day. She is always engaged
on some errand of mercy, helping the Turkish refugees. Thousands and
thousands of them, escaped from the horrors of the Greek invasion of
Western Anatolia, are now in Constantinople, homeless, without clothes
and in want. All the foreigners in Constantinople, all the foreign
papers abroad think, talk and assist only Russian, Greeks, Armenians
and others who are now crowding this poor city of Constantinople
which the armistice and the unnatural Treaty of Sèvres have made the
dumping-ground of all those in need, but no one gives a thought to
the Turkish refugees except the Turks. They are horded in Mosques
and in public buildings and great misery prevails among them. They
depend entirely upon the mercy of the Turks of Constantinople who
are themselves too poor to give sufficient help. But we have to do
what we can, we have to share our all with our hungry brothers and
sisters of Western Anatolia who have come to our city after the Greeks,
mandatories of “civilized” Europe, had burned their villages, ransacked
their farms and killed their cattle. The Turks are too proud to beg
for the assistance of foreigners, and we are all Turks. So we must
multiply our efforts, we must do the impossible to feed and clothe
our refugees, to take care of their health and to send their children
to school even if we can count only on our own resources. Let the
Russians, the Armenians and the Greeks cry and wail on the sympathetic
shoulders of the foreigners. We will keep our courage up, and with the
help of God we will see our needy ones through, we will overcome our
present troubles as we have overcome all our past troubles! We do not
ask help from any one, we only ask to be left alone. Why do not the
foreigners take in their own homes their pet children, their crybabies,
and leave us alone to heal our wounds? Are they afraid that the public
opinion in their countries will--through direct contact--realize too
soon the hypocrisy of their pets? Are they afraid that their own people
might be contaminated with the political and moral ailments of these
foreign refugees? and if so why should they let Constantinople and its
people be contaminated by anarchical ideals and immoral principles?
Have they not occupied Constantinople for the purpose of maintaining
law and order? Is Constantinople now more lawful than before? Are
not the foreign refugees responsible for the spread of immorality in
Constantinople? and what will happen to Constantinople if all these
foreigners, imported against their will, remain here and spread
their propaganda of discontent, restlessness and lawlessness? Madame
Assim Pasha talks calmly and in a subdued tone. She does not argue,
she just states facts. Slowly and masterfully she depicts the gloomy
consequences that the thoughtlessness of the Western Powers might bring
to this city of misery. The present is dark enough but the future will
be darker unless the Western Powers find a remedy to it. The shadows in
our room seem to have darkened, we are silent for a few minutes, then
Djevad Bey speaks.
He has been recently to Anatolia and tells us that the situation in
the regions occupied by the foreigners is much worse there than here.
Standing at his full height, his slim athletic figure dimly discernible
in the darkness of the room, he quivers with restrained emotion and
tells us of the sufferings he has seen there. He launches a diatribe
against the foreign press which will never tell of the miseries and
injustice suffered by the Turks, while it will always exaggerate the
miseries and sufferings of all other nations--the foreign press which
will never tell of the qualities and accomplishments of the Turks while
it will show through a magnifying glass the accomplishments of other
nations. Will this double standard ever be changed? Can the truth be
forever distorted? Why this prejudice against the Turks? Will the
Western world ever outgrow it and discard it? Will the World ever
replace its preconceived hatred for some and friendship for others by a
single feeling of compassion for all who suffer, no matter who they may
be, no matter what their race, and by one all-embracing feeling of love
for all--will it ever adopt one single standard of justice for all?
Djevad has once more voiced the inherent complaint of all the Turks
who resent the malign treatment they are subjected to, the campaign
of defamation which they have had to put up with since the last
generation. Under their stoic calmness these questions loom large in
the inner-consciousness of all the Turks and cast a deep shadow of
doubt over their faith. In the peace and quiet of our room we feel
that his questions, if unanswered, will shatter our confidence in the
future, we feel that the world might yet be plunged in a terror still
worse than that of the years of the great war if it destroys the faith
of the Turks and throws them in despair into the arms of their Nihilist
neighbours of the North, at the head of millions of Central Asiatic
tribes, at the head of millions of Muslims now groaning under the heels
of their conquerors: a terror which might be darker than the blackest
periods of the Darkest Ages.
Instinctively we turn for an answer to the Doctor. He has been silent
until now. He sits in a high-backed chair like a throne. The candelabra
on the table illumines his expressive face and throws the outline
of his powerful profile in an enormous shadow on the gray wall. It
almost reaches the ceiling and dominates the darkened room. The doctor
is calm and composed, his sensitive hands rest limply on the arms of
the chair. His eyes which have studied the past, stare dreamily ahead
in an endeavour to visualize the future. They gleam with a spiritual
light which pierces the penumbra surrounding him. He is thinking,
he gazes--unseeing--at a little picture on the wall, a little Dutch
picture on which the artist has, centuries ago, painted the moon rising
from behind dark clouds to illumine with rays of silver a limitless
ocean. He sighs, straightens up, throwing his head slightly back.
Then his colourful, warm voice rises in the silence and the shadows
surrounding us.
A new world is in the making. The old world had been divided by men
into races, religions and creeds. Each race had different standards,
each race was prejudiced against all others. Each religion and creed
had, in the course of time, accomodated itself to the pettiness of
humanity and had lost sight of its essential principles. The divine
light which time and again God had shed in His mercy over humanity
through one or the other of his prophets had been captured by
narrow-minded dogmatists of different races and only an infinitesimal
spark of it had been each time imprisoned in a lantern for egotistical
purposes instead of being used to illumine the outer world. Jews,
Christians and Muslims turned their own lanterns on themselves and
each one crowded around it in an endeavour to see its own particular
light. In the scramble that followed and in the jet black darkness
which surrounded each separate spark, those who struggled forgot what
they had seen in the light. Mercy, compassion and love disappeared from
before their eyes. They all called each other renegades and apostates.
The Christian world, more materialistic than the others, obtained the
upper hand and exerted its supremacy over the globe. But the greediness
of its different nations, their desire for economic possession brought
about the general war. Even in this, however, nations were the
unconscious tools of the Divine Power. One must tear down to build
anew. One must punish to improve. Therefore nations were made to
destroy their own material richnesses. And in the meanwhile, unknown
to them the sparks in their lanterns have come ever and ever nearer to
each other. The day is near when all the lanterns will be united and
will illumine together--as God meant it--the work of reconstruction
undertaken by a new Humanity which has been made to see through
suffering. The pains of the present time are the pains of travail.
Humanity is being reborn. A new age is in the making, a better world
is coming. It may take some time to come, but when it arrives it will
bring justice to all without distinction of class, colour, nationality
or sex. It will usher in real democracy based not on equality, but on
“oneness.” We are passing now through the period of preparation, the
period of travail. It is painful as all travail preceding creation,
but Humanity must hope, no matter how hard the present times are, no
matter how long the hard times last. Nothing can alter its destiny. The
millenium will come when Humanity becomes conscious of God, becomes
one with Him, reflects all His attributes: and Mercy and Love are the
principal attributes of God. With his eyes cast dreamily ahead, lost in
his vision, the great surgeon who fights death every day tells us of
immortality through love.
Our quiet room vibrates with his subdued voice--the voice of those
who have heard and understood the wails of agony. Gradually and with
the conviction acquired by generations of philosophers before him,
the thinker is rebuilding our faith. The faith that no true Muslim
must ever lose. The shadows surrounding us are becoming translucid. We
come to share his vision of a better world: a world based not on the
equality but on the unity of all. We come to share his conviction that
this is the unavoidable period of travail with its unavoidable pains
and sorrows. We must go through it without complaint, without despair,
fully realizing that we must use all obstacles in the path of humanity
as stepping-stones and not as stumbling-blocks and God will keep His
covenant to humanity. We are not fatalists, but we have faith.
Our talk continues, inspiring and elevating. How far we are, here in
Stamboul, from the mundane life of Pera. Yet it is only a narrow strip
of water which divide us: a strip of water called by the ancients
“Golden Horn,” possibly because of their foreknowledge that it would
bring to Stamboul the soothing treasures of faith and belief.
But all things have an end, and it is getting late. We drink another
cup of coffee, we smoke a last cigarette, and true to the Turkish
custom we accompany our departing guests to our front door.
Upstairs in our room we are getting ready for the night. Full of the
elevating talk of the evening, we silently prepare for sleep, the
sleep which will lead our souls to the giddy heights of unconscious
knowledge. Through our window we see the darkness outside. It is night.
Silence reigns over Stamboul. Calm and composed, the eternal Turkish
City slumbers under its dark sky where glow large Eastern stars, while
Levantines and foreigners feverishly revel in unhealthy amusements on
the hills of Pera. Let them do what they want as long as they leave
us free to use the night for its real purpose: meditation, rest and
relaxation!
It is dark outside. There is only one light in the small mosque of the
Sublime Porte: its tapered minaret points to the oriental stars above
which silently sparkle away centuries into eternity. Then the little
door on top of the minaret is pushed open and the muezzin steps out on
the ring-like gallery. It is prayer time. The cloudless sky echoes the
melodious voice of the muezzin. High above the roofs of the slumbering
city he calls the faithful to prayer:
“Allahi Ekber--Allahi Ekber! God is Great--
“There is no God but God ...”
His voice is pure as the purest crystal. He chants the greatness of God
and His Unity. He proclaims in the middle of the night that prayer is
better than sleep and calls the faithful to salvation through prayer.
He gives his message to the four winds, and retires after having again
proclaimed the greatness of God and having claimed for Mahomed only the
station of Prophethood.
One by one, silently, the soldiers on guard at the Sublime Porte and
a few neighbours have gotten up from sleep and made their way to the
mosque. They make their ablution in the little courtyard: one must
be clean to commune with God. They enter the mosque and I can see
them through the open door. In unison and as one man they kneel, they
prostrate themselves in adoration and then they rise and pray: arms
extended, palms upwards--standing like Christ on the Mount of Olives.
Allahi Ekber! God is Great!
The prayer is finished. Perfect quiet again in Stamboul. The faithful
have returned home. You can almost hear the world meditating. The
mystic night unfolds its mysteries to the believers asleep.
Complete silence, calm and relaxation. The Orient is dreaming. At dawn
the muezzin will again call to prayer: “Allahi Ekber.”
IX
A NIGHT IN PERA
Since our arrival in Constantinople we had heard of the night life
in Pera but we had not seen it close to. Although we lived--out of
necessity--in Pera during the first months of our return, we very
seldom went out. In the Summer months and in the Fall we were in the
country and since we had settled in Stamboul we loved too much our
own quiet nights at home to seek anything else. But when my friend,
Carayanni, suggested showing us Pera at night we decided that it was
almost our duty to take advantage of this opportunity of seeing it
with someone who knew the place. Since the armistice Pera is so full
of amusement resorts of all kinds that unless one is guided by an
“habitué” one is apt to get lost in more than one sense of the word.
I think that I have already said that Pera is now inhabited by almost
all the races of Europe with the exception of the Turks. The Turks have
been forced out of this quarter and are certainly not keen to reenter
it under its present conditions. Pera shelters all the foreigners in
Constantinople, from the High Commissioners of the different nations
and their immediate retinues down to the worst kind of adventurers and
of course there are many more adventurers than High Commissioners.
Pera shelters most of the Russian refugees, from poor helpless former
nobles whose plight is a real disgrace to civilization down to the
most resourcefully immoral individuals of both sexes whose behaviour
is a real shame to humanity. In addition Pera shelters all the Greeks
and Armenians of the city and its narrow, crooked streets are the
playground and dwelling-place of a nondescript people which, for lack
of better name, people have agreed to call “Levantines.”