Nalihan—Armenian, Turkish, and Circassian visitors—The state
of the roads—Will there be war?—The Imaum—The Servians—A
bellicose old farmer—The Armenians friends with the
Russians—Sunnites and Shiites—Scenery near Nalihan—Alatai
river—A Turkish counterpane—Turkish beds—Osman's
_Yorgan_—Osman's wife—A girl with eyes like a hare, and
plump as a turkey—The farmer's nuptial couch—An uncultivated
district—An old Khan—A refuge for travellers—An invalid
soldier—A Christian would have let me die like a dog—The
votaries of Christianity in the East.
It was quite dark when we reached Nalihan, a village with about 400
houses, and situated in a corn-growing district. I halted at the house
of the Caimacan. He at once invited me to take up my abode there for
the night. Presently several visitors appeared—Armenians, Turks, and
Circassians—all eager to question the new arrival. I was seated in
the place of honour, on a rug near the fire; the Caimacan, who was
enveloped in a fur-lined dressing-gown, sat next me. The rest of the
company took precedence according to the amount of this world's goods
which each one possessed—the man who had 100 cows being seated next
to the governor, and the humble possessor of a mule or a few sheep
squatting humbly by the door.
Asiatics are proverbially reticent. My visitors stared at each other,
and did not say a word. At last the Caimacan broke the silence. He was
wrapped up in a fur dressing-gown, and looked like an animated bundle.
He gave a little cough, and then said, "Is there any news? if so tell
us something." Now the inhabitants of Asia Minor do not talk about the
weather—the state of the roads replaces that topic of conversation so
interesting to English people.
"The roads are very bad," I replied.
To this there was no dissent, everybody chorussed the wish for a
railway.
"Do you think that one will ever be made?" inquired the Caimacan.
"Probably when you have some money in the exchequer."
"We are very poor; why does not your nation lend us some gold?"
"We have already given you more than a hundred millions; with that
money you might have made railways in every part of Anatolia."
"Will there be war?" asked an Imaum (priest.)
"I do not know."
"If there is," he added, "I shall go—all the Imaums will go; we will
fight by the side of our countrymen. We will kill all the Muscovites."
"Has it not occurred to you," I here remarked, "that perhaps they may
kill all the Turks?"
"Impossible! Allah and the Prophet are on our side; they will fight for
the faithful."
"What do you think yourself?" now inquired the Caimacan; "will Russia
beat us?"
"Certainly—that is, if you have no European allies."
"Why so?"
"Because, if your Government had to put out all its strength to conquer
the Servians assisted by only 12,000 Russians, what opposition will it
be able to make to an army of 700,000 Muscovites?"
"May their mothers be defiled!" said an old farmer. "They are always
interfering with us. All my sons have gone to the war, and I—well, if
the Padishah wants me, I will go too."
He was apparently an octogenarian. This announcement on his part was
received with great applause by the rest of the company.
"Why do you not give the Armenians arms, and make them assist?" I
inquired.
"They are friends with the Russians," said the Imaum. "They would turn
against us. Have you Armenians in your country?"
"No."
"But you are a Christian, and they are Christians—you must be the same."
I now had to explain to the company that there is as much difference
between an English Protestant and an Armenian Christian, as between a
Sunnite and a Shiite.
"And do you hate the Armenians as much as the Shiites hate us?"
"We do not hate anybody. Our religion does not allow us to do so."
"You Christians are a strange people," said the priest. Rising, he left
the room, followed by the rest of the visitors.
The scenery is very lovely in this neighbourhood, and as we ascended
an incline which leads in the direction of Angora, I could not help
wishing that I had been born a painter, in order to have placed on
canvas a picture of the landscape. A succession of hills, each one
loftier than its fellow, broke upon us as we climbed the steep. They
were of all forms, shades, and colours, ash-grey, blue, vermillion,
robed in imperial purple, and dotted with patches of vegetation. Our
road wound amidst these chameleon-like heights. Silvery rivulets
streamed down the sides of the many coloured hills. A rising sun
showered its gleaming rays upon the sparkling cascades. They flashed
and reflected the tints and shadows. A gurgling sound of many waters
arose from the depths below.
We reach the summit of the highest hill. The scene changes. We look
down upon a vast plain. It is surrounded on all sides by undulating
heights. The white sandy soil of the valley throws still more into
relief the many-coloured mountains. Patches of snow deck the more
distant peaks. The sun is dispelling the flossy clouds which overhang
the loftier crags. The filmy vapour floats away into space; caressing
for a few moments the mountains' crests, it is wafted onward, and then
disappears from our view.
Now we crossed a rapid stream, about thirty yards wide, and known as
the Alatai river. A fragile bridge spans the waters. Soon afterwards we
put up for the night at a farm-house in the village of Tchairhana. The
proprietor, a jolly-looking Turk, received us very hospitably. Later on
in the evening he brought me a large _yorgan_, or Turkish counterpane,
with the remark that possibly the Effendi might feel cold during the
night.
The Turkish beds are very primitive; no bedstead being used. One or
two mattresses are laid on the floor, the _yorgan_ takes the place of
sheets or blankets. It consists of a silk quilt, generally lined with
linen, and stuffed with feathers. These quilts pass from father to son,
and are greatly prized by the Turks. The farmer, to make me appreciate
his attention the more highly, remarked that the _yorgan_ had been used
by his grandfather, as well as by his father on their wedding-nights,
and that he himself had employed it on a similar occasion only a few
weeks previously.
Osman, now interrupted the speaker with the remark that in his family
there was also a wonderful _yorgan_—something quite out of the common,
it was so beautiful that neither his wife nor himself liked to use
it—and that this one was like a furze bush in comparison.
"So you are married, Osman?" I remarked.
"Yes; but I have not seen my wife for three years."
"Do you love her very much?"
"She is a good cook. She makes soup which is more filling than even my
brother's here," pointing to Radford.
"Is she pretty?"
"Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was
one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump
as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for
her."
"Well, what did you give for your present wife?"
"Ten liras (Turkish pounds), but she did not weigh more than forty
okas (about 100 lbs). She was very cheap. However, her eyes are not
quite straight, they look in different directions. But that does not
signify—she can cook."
"Yes," said the farmer, "a good cook, Effendi, that is what I said to
myself when I wanted a wife. Looks don't last, but cooking is an art
which the Prophet himself did not despise."
I had no reason to congratulate myself on being the occupant of the
farmer's nuptial couch. It was very old and very beautiful, but it was
full of fleas, and they gave me no rest.
"You ought to burn that quilt," I observed next morning to the farmer;
"I have not closed my eyes during the entire night."
"What, burn my grandfather's marriage _yorgan_—my father's _yorgan_,
and my own _yorgan_! Never, Effendi! There are fleas, it is true, but
they will die, and the quilt will do for my son and his wife, if ever
he has one."
The country which we next traversed was entirely uncultivated, although
it would have well repaid a farmer. This, however, is the case with
millions of acres in Turkey. There are no labourers. The country is
depopulated to the last degree, and land which might produce wheat
enough for the whole of Great Britain is left fallow.
Presently we came to an old Khan. It had been built by a former sultan,
as a refuge for travellers during the winter. At this season of the
year the ground is sometimes covered with snow for several weeks in
succession, and travelling is very dangerous. Two soldiers were the
sole tenants of the building. Whilst I was performing my ablutions
in the open air, one of them came to me and asked for a little tea.
His comrade was ill, and tea he thought would be good for him. I went
to look at the invalid. He was lying on a dirty mattress, and was
shivering violently. It was clearly a case of fever, so taking some
quinine from my medicine-chest, I administered a dose, and directed his
comrade to procure a clean bed for the sufferer. The sick man was very
grateful. Eagerly seizing my hand, he kissed it.
"What countryman are you?"
"I am English."
"Your religion is not that of Islam?"
"No."
"What are you?"
"I am a Protestant."
"Protestant," repeated the poor fellow, "I shall remember that."
"A Christian," he continued, "even if he had the medicine, would have
let me die like a dog."
It was very clear that the sufferer had not much opinion of the
Armenian and Greek Christians. But this was no solitary expressed
opinion. Throughout my journey, I found Armenians and Greeks equally
despised by the Mohammedans. It is a great pity that the votaries of
Christianity in the East should have brought the only pure religion
into so great disrepute.