PART I

I

ACROSS EUROPE

STOCKHOLM TO BERLIN

Our journey begins at Stockholm, the capital of my native country.

Leaving Stockholm by train in the evening, we travel all night in

comfortable sleeping-cars and arrive next morning at the southernmost

point of Sweden, the port of Trelleborg, where the sunlit waves sweep in

from the Baltic Sea.

Here we might expect to have done with railway travelling, and we rather

look for the guard to come and open the carriage doors and ask the

passengers to alight. Surely it is not intended that the train shall go

on right across the sea? Yet that is actually what happens. The same

train and the same carriages, which bore us out of Stockholm yesterday

evening, go calmly across the Baltic Sea, and we need not get out before

we arrive at Berlin. The section of the train which is to go on to

Germany is run by an engine on to a great ferry-boat moored to the quay

by heavy clamps and hooks of iron. The rails on Swedish ground are

closely connected with those on the ferry-boat, and when the carriages

are pushed on board by the engine, they are fastened with chains and

hooks so that they may remain quite steady even if the vessel begins to

roll. As the traveller lies dozing in his compartment, he will certainly

hear whistles and the rattle of iron gear and will notice that the

compartment suddenly becomes quite dark. But only when the monotonous

groaning and the constant vibration of the wheels has given place to a

gentle and silent heaving will he know that he is out on the Baltic Sea.

We are by no means content, however, to lie down and doze. Scarcely

have the carriages been anchored on the ferry-boat before we are on the

upper deck with its fine promenade. The ferry-boat is a handsome vessel,

370 feet long, brand-new and painted white everywhere. It is almost like

a first-class hotel. In the saloon the tables are laid, and Swedish and

German passengers sit in groups at breakfast. There are separate rooms

for coffee and smoking, for reading and writing; and we find a small

bookstall where a boy sells guidebooks, novels, and the Swedish and

German newspapers of the day.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM STOCKHOLM TO BERLIN.]

The ferry-boat is now gliding out of the harbour, and every minute that

passes carries us farther from our native land. Now the whole town of

Trelleborg is displayed before our eyes, its warehouses and new

buildings, its chimneys and the vessels in the harbour. The houses

become smaller, the land narrows down to a strip on the horizon, and at

last there is nothing to be seen but a dark cloud of smoke rising from

the steamers and workshops. We steam along a fairway rich in memories,

and over a sea which has witnessed many wonderful exploits and

marvellous adventures. Among the wreckage and fragments at its bottom

sleep vikings and other heroes who fought for their country; but to-day

peace reigns over the Baltic, and Swedes, Danes, Russians, and Germans

share in the harvest of the sea. Yet still, as of yore, the autumn

storms roll the slate-grey breakers against the shores; and still on

bright summer days the blue waves glisten, silvered by the sun.

Four hours fly past all too quickly, and before we have become

accustomed to the level expanses of the sea a strip of land appears to

starboard. This is Rügen, the largest island of Germany, lifting its

white chalk cliffs steeply from the sea, like surf congealed into stone.

The ferry-boat swings round in a beautiful curve towards the land, and

in the harbour of Sassnitz its rails are fitted in exactly to the

railway track on German soil. We hasten to take our seats in the

carriages, for in a few minutes the German engine comes up and draws the

train on to the land of Rügen.

The monotonous grind of iron on iron begins again, and the coast and the

ferry-boat vanish behind us. Rügen lies as flat as a pancake on the

Baltic Sea, and the train takes us through a landscape which reminds us

of Sweden. Here grow pines and spruces, here peaceful roe-deer jump and

roam about without showing the slightest fear of the noise of the engine

and the drone of the carriages.

Another ferry takes us over the narrow sound which separates Rügen from

the mainland, and we see through the window the towers and spires and

closely-packed houses of Stralsund. Every inch of ground around us has

once been Swedish. In this neighbourhood Gustavus Adolphus landed with

his army, and in Stralsund Charles XII. passed a year of his adventurous

life.

In the twilight the train carries us southwards through Pomerania, and

before we reach Brandenburg the autumn evening has shrouded the North

German lowland in darkness. The country is flat and monotonous; not a

hill, hardly even an insignificant mound, rises above the level expanse.

Yet the land has a peculiar attraction for the stranger from Sweden. He

thinks of the time when Swedish gun-carriages splashed and dashed

through the mud before the winter frost made their progress still more

difficult and noisy. He thinks of heroic deeds and brave men, of early

starts, and horses neighing with impatience at the reveille; of

victories and honourable peaces, and of the captured flags at home.

If he is observant he will find many other remembrances in the North

German low country. Boulders of Swedish granite lie scattered over the

plain. They stand out like milestones and mark the limits of the

extension of the Scandinavian inland ice. During a colder period of the

world's history all northern Europe was covered with a coat of ice, and

this period is called the Ice Age. No one knows why the ice embraced

Scandinavia and the adjacent countries and swept in a broad stream over

the Baltic Sea. And no one knows why the climate afterwards became

warmer and drier, and forced the ice to melt away and gradually to leave

the ground bare. But we know for a fact that the boulders in northern

Germany were carried there on the back of an immense ice stream, for

they are composed of rocks which occur only in Scandinavia. The ice tore

them away from the solid mountains; during its slow movement southwards

it carried them with it, and when it melted the blocks were left on the

spot.

At last points of light begin to flash by like meteors in the night.

They become more and more numerous, and finally come whole rows and

clusters of electric lamps and lighted windows. We are passing through

the suburbs of a huge city, one of the largest in the world and the

third largest in Europe--Berlin.

BERLIN

If we spread out on the table a map of Europe on which all the railways

are indicated by black lines, the map will look like a net with

irregular meshes. At all the knots are towns, large centres of

population which are in constant communication with one another by means

of the railways. If we fix our eyes on North Germany, we see what looks

like an enormous spider's web, and in the middle of it sits a huge

spider. That spider is called Berlin. For as a spider catches its prey

in an ingeniously spun net, so Berlin by its railways draws to itself

life and movement not only from Germany but from all Europe--nay, from

the whole world.

If we could fly some hundreds of miles straight up into the air and had

such sharp eyes that we could perceive all the coasts and boundaries of

Europe, and plainly distinguish the fine lines of the railways, we

should also see small, dark, short forms running backwards and forwards

along them. We should see, as it were, a teeming ant-hill, and after

every ant we should see a small puff of smoke. In Scandinavia and

Russia the bustle would seem less lively, but in the centre of Europe

the ants would scurry about with terrible activity.

Whether it was winter or summer, day or night, the bustle would never

grow less. From our elevated point of view we should see innumerable

trains flying in the night like glow-worms in every direction.

Ceaselessly they rush between cities and states, between the sea-coast

and the inland districts, and to and from the heart of Europe. For

during the last twenty years Berlin has become the heart of Europe.

London is situated on an island, and Paris is too near the margin of the

Continent. But in Berlin several of the greatest railway routes meet,

and whether the traveller goes from Paris to St. Petersburg, from

Stockholm to Rome, or from Hamburg to Vienna, he has always to pass

through Berlin.

In the city which is "the heart of Europe" we must expect to find the

main thoroughfares crowded with foot-passengers of all nationalities,

and vehicles of every conceivable kind--motor cars, electric trams,

horse omnibuses, vans, cabs, carts, and so on. Yet in spite of their

endless streams of traffic, the streets of Berlin are not noisy--not

nearly so noisy as those of Stockholm--for they are paved with asphalt

and wood, and most of the conveyances have rubber tyres on their wheels.

As in other large cities, the streets are relieved of a great deal of

traffic by trains which run right through the town and round its

suburbs, either up in the air on viaducts, or underground in tunnels

lighted by electricity. At the Frederick Street Station of the City

Railway, which lies in the centre of the town, a train arrives or

departs every other minute of the day and of a good part of the night as

well.

Not far off is a square--the "King's Place"--where a monument to

commemorate the victory of the Germans over the French, in 1871, lifts

its spire above the city, with three rows of cannon captured in France

in its recesses. Close at hand, too, are the shady walks in the

"Tiergarten" (Park), where all Berlin is wont to enjoy itself on

Sundays. When we turn eastwards, we have to pass through a great

colonnade, the Brandenburg Gate, with Doric pillars supporting the

four-horsed chariot of the goddess of victory in beaten copper. Here the

German army entered Berlin after the conquest of France and the founding

of the German Empire.

On the farther side of this gate stretches one of the most noted

streets in Europe. For if Berlin is the heart of Germany, so is the

street called "Unter den Linden" (Under the Lime-Trees) the centre and

heart of Berlin. There are, indeed, streets which are longer, for this

extends only two-thirds of a mile, but hardly any which are broader, for

it is 66 yards across. Between its alternate carriage-roads and

foot-walks four double rows of limes and chestnuts introduce a

refreshing breath of open country right into the bosom of the great town

of stone, with its straight streets and heavy, grey square houses. As we

wander along "Unter den Linden" we pass the foreign embassies and the

German government offices, and, farther on, the palace of the old Kaiser

Wilhelm, which is unoccupied and has been left exactly as it was in his

lifetime. He used to stand at a corner window on the ground floor, and

look out at his faithful people.

It is now just noon. Splendid carriages and motor cars sweep past, and

the crush of people on the pavements is great. We hear the inspiriting

music of a military band, and the Imperial Guard marches down the

street, followed by crowds of eager sightseers. Keeping time with the

music we march with them past the great Royal Library to where Frederick

the Great looks down from his tall bronze horse on the children of

to-day. On the one side is the Opera House, on the other is the

University, with its ten thousand students, and farther on the Arsenal,

with its large historical collections of engines of war. We cross over

the "Schlossbrücke" (Palace Bridge), which throws its arch over the

River Spree, and follow the parade into the "Lustgarten" (Pleasure

Garden). The band halts at the foot of the statue of Frederick William

III. and the people crowd round to listen, for now one piece is played

after another. Thus the good citizens of Berlin are entertained daily.

There are several noteworthy buildings round the Lustgarten, among them

many art museums and picture galleries, as well as the Cathedral and the

Royal Palace (Plate I.). It looks very grand, this palace, though it

does not stand, as it should, in the middle of a great open space, but

is hemmed in by the streets around it.

Perhaps it would interest you to hear about a ball at the Imperial Court

of Germany. At the stroke of nine our carriage drives in under the

archway of the Palace. The carpeted staircases are lined by

"Beef-eaters," in old-fashioned uniforms, as motionless as if they were

cast in wax. They do not turn even their eyes as the guests pass, much

less their heads. Now we are up in the state rooms, and move slowly

over the brightly polished floor through a suite of brilliant apartments

glittering with electric light. Pictures of the kings of Prussia stand

out against the gilt leather tapestry. At last we reach the great

throne-room, which takes its name from the black eagles on the ceiling.

[Illustration: PLATE I. BERLIN.

On the right is the Royal Palace, on the left the Cathedral, with the

Lustgarten in front. In the foreground is the River Spree.]

What a varied scene awaits us here! Great ladies in costly dresses

adorned with precious stones of great value, diamonds flashing and

sparkling wherever we look, generals and admirals in full dress, high

officials, ambassadors from foreign lands, including those of China and

Japan. Here comes a great man to whom all bow; it is the Imperial

Chancellor.

Chamberlains now request the guests to range themselves along the walls

of the throne-room. A herald enters and strikes his silver staff against

the floor, calling out aloud "His Majesty the Emperor!" All is silent as

the grave. Followed by the Empress, the princes and princesses, William

II. passes through the room and greets his guests with a manly

handshake. He begins with the ladies and then passes on to the gentlemen

and speaks to every one. The Swedish Minister presents me, and the

Emperor begins immediately to ask about Asia. He speaks of Alexander's

great campaign through the whole of western Asia, and expresses his

astonishment that a man's name can live with undiminished renown through

two thousand years. He points to the eagles on the ceiling, and asks if

I do not see a resemblance to the Chinese dragon. He talks of Tibet and

the Dalai Lama, and of the great stillness in the heart of the desert.

Soon the orchestra strikes up and the guests begin to dance. The only

one who seems unconcerned is the Emperor himself. An expression of deep

seriousness lies like a mask on his powerful face. Is it not enough to

be the Emperor of the German federation, with its four kingdoms,

Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony, and Würtemberg, its six grand duchies, its

many duchies and electorates, its imperial territory, Alsace-Lorraine,

and its three free towns, Hamburg, Lübeck, and Bremen? Does he not rule

over sixty-five million people, over 207 towns of more than 25,000

inhabitants, and seven of more than half a million, namely Berlin,

Hamburg, Munich, Dresden, Leipzig, Breslau, and Cologne? Has he not by

the force of his own will created a fleet so powerful as to arouse

uneasiness in England, the country which has the sole command of the

sea? And is he not the commander-in-chief of an army which, on a war

footing, is as large as the whole population of Scotland? All this

might well make him serious.

BERLIN TO CONSTANTINOPLE

The next stage of our journey is from Berlin to Vienna, the capital of

Austria. The express train carries us rapidly southward through

Brandenburg. To the west we have the Elbe, which flows into the North

Sea at Hamburg; while to the east streams the Oder, which enters the

Baltic Sea at Stettin. But we make closer acquaintance only with the

Elbe, first when we pass Dresden, the capital of Saxony, and again when

we have crossed the Austrian frontier into Bohemia, where in a beautiful

and densely-peopled valley clothed with trees the railway follows the

windings of the stream. When the guard calls out at a large and busy

station "Prague," we are sorry that we have no time to stay a few days

and stroll through the streets and squares of one of the finest and

oldest towns of Europe. The engine's whistle sounds again and the train

carries us swiftly onwards to Vienna, the capital of the Emperor Francis

Joseph, who alone is more remarkable than all the sights of the city.

Vienna is a fine and wealthy city, the fourth in Europe, and, like

Berlin, is full of centres of human civilisation, science and art. Here

are found relics of ancient times beside the grand palaces of the

present day, the "Ring" is one of the finest streets in the world, and

the tower of St. Stephen's Church rises up to the sky above the two

million inhabitants of the town. Vienna to a greater extent than Berlin

is a town of pleasure and merry genial life, a grand old aristocratic

town, a town of theatres, concerts, balls, and cafés. The Danube canal,

with its twelve bridges, passes right through Vienna, and outside the

eastern outskirts the Danube itself, in an artificial bed, rolls its

dark blue waters with a melodious murmur, providing an accompaniment to

the famous Viennese waltzes.

If Vienna is, then, one of the centres of human knowledge and

refinement, and if there are a thousand wonderful things to behold

within its walls, yet it contains nothing more remarkable than the old

Emperor. Not because he is so old, or because he still survives as one

of the last of an almost extinct generation, but because by his august

personality he keeps together an empire composed of many different

countries, races, and religious sects. Fifty millions of people are

ranged under his sceptre. There are Germans in Austria, Chechs in

Bohemia, Magyars in Hungary, Polacks in Galicia, and a crowd of other

peoples; nay, even Mohammedans live under the protection of the Catholic

throne.

His life has abounded in cares and vicissitudes. He has lived through

wars, insurrections, and revolutions, and with skill and tact has held

in check all the contending factions which have striven and are still

striving to rend asunder his empire. It is difficult to imagine the

Austro-Hungarian monarchy without him. With him it perhaps stands or

falls; therefore there is no one in the present day whose life is of

greater importance to humanity. He has been the object of murderous

attempts: his wife was assassinated, his only son perished by a violent

death. He is now eighty-two years old, and he has worn the imperial

crown for sixty-four years. Since 1867 he has been king of Hungary.

During his reign the industry, trade, agriculture, and general

prosperity of his dominions have been enormously developed. And the most

remarkable of all is that he still carries his head high, is smart and

upright, and works as hard as a labourer in the Danube valley.

The fortunes of Austria and Hungary are still more closely united with

and dependent on the great river Danube. Certainly in the north we have

the Elbe and the Dniester, and in the south several small rivers which

enter the Adriatic Sea. But otherwise all the rivers of the monarchy

belong to the Danube, and collect from all directions to the main

stream. The Volga is the largest river of Europe and has its own sea,

the Caspian. The Danube is the next largest and has also its sea, the

Black Sea. Its source is also "black," for it takes its rise in the

mountains of the Black Forest in Baden, and from source to mouth it is

little short of 1800 miles.

The Danube flows through Bavaria, Austria, and Hungary, forms the

boundary between Rumania and Bulgaria, and touches a small corner of

Russian territory. It has sixty great tributaries, of which more than

half are navigable. Step by step the volume of the main stream is

augmented. We can see that for ourselves on our way through Europe. At

Budapest, which is cut in two by the river, and where five handsome

bridges connect the banks, we seem almost to be on a lake. The Elizabeth

Bridge has a span of 950 feet. Farther down, on the frontier of

Wallachia, the river is nearly two-thirds of a mile wide; but here the

current is slow; creeks of stagnant water are formed, and marshes

extend far along the banks. And at the point where the Rumanian railway

crosses the Danube, we find at Chernovodsk a bridge over the river which

is nearly 2-1/2 miles long and is the longest in all the world. Not far

from here the waters of the Danube part into three arms and form a broad

delta at the mouth. There grow dense reeds, twice as high as a man, on

which large herds of buffaloes graze, where wolves still seek their

prey, and where water-fowl breed in millions. If we look carefully at

the map, we shall see that Central Europe is occupied mostly by the

Danube valley, and that this valley, with its extensive lowlands, is

bounded by the best-known mountains of Europe; in the north by the

mountains of South Germany and Bohemia and the Carpathians, in the south

by the Alps and the mountains of the Balkan Peninsula.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING JOURNEY FROM BERLIN TO CONSTANTINOPLE.]

From Budapest the train takes us over the Hungarian plain, a very

singular country, like a trough, for it is surrounded by mountains on

all sides. There is abundance of rain, especially up on the mountain

slopes. The winter is cold and the summer warm, as is always the case in

countries far removed from the sea. Dust and sand storms are common, and

in some parts blown sand collects into dunes. Formerly the Hungarian

lowland was a fertile steppe, where Magyar nomads roamed about on

horseback and tended their cattle and their enormous flocks of sheep.

But now agriculture is extended more and more. Wheat, rye, barley,

maize, rice, potatoes, and wine are produced in such quantities that

they are not only sufficient for the country's needs, but also maintain

a considerable export trade. Round the villages and homesteads grow

oaks, elms, lime-trees, and beeches; poplars and willows are widely

distributed, for their light seeds are carried long distances by the

wind. But in the large steppe districts where marshes are so common the

people have no other fuel but reeds and dried dung.

Cattle-raising has always been an important occupation in Hungary. The

breed of cows, oxen, and buffaloes is continually being improved by

judicious selection, and all kinds of sheep, goats, and pigs are kept in

great numbers, while the rearing of fowls, bee-keeping, the production

of silk from silkworms, and the fishing industry are also highly

developed. To the nomads, who wander from one locality to another with

their herds, horses are necessary, and it is therefore quite natural

that Hungary should be rich in horses--splendid animals of mixed Tatar

and Arabian blood.

This country, where all wealth grows and thrives, and where the land,

well and uniformly watered, contributes in such a high degree to the

well-being of man, is flat and monotonous when viewed from the train. We

see herds with their mounted herdsmen, we see villages, roads and

cottages, but these do not give us any very clear conception of the

country. Therefore it is advisable to spend a few hours in the

agricultural exhibition at Budapest, where we can see the most

attractive models illustrating Hungarian rural life, from pastures and

farmyards to churned butter and manufactured cheeses, from the silk-worm

in the chrysalis to the valuable silken web. We can see the life of

farmers in the country homesteads, in simple reed huts or tents, the

various crops they grow on their fields, the yellow honeycombs taken

from the hives in autumn, tanned leather and the straps, saddles, and

trunks that are made of it. We can see the weapons, implements, and

spoil of the Hungarian hunter and fisherman, and when we come out of the

last room we realise that this country is wisely and affectionately

nursed by its people, and therefore gives profit and prosperity in

exchange.

With unabated speed the train rushes on over the plain, and at length

rattles across a bridge over the Danube into Belgrade, the capital of

Servia. Here we bid good-bye to the Danube and follow the Morava valley

upwards. The Servian villages of low white houses, with pyramidal roofs

of tiles or thatch, are very pretty and picturesquely built; and above

them, green heights, wooded slopes, flocks and herds, and peasants in

bright-coloured motley clothes following the plough. Small murmuring

brooks dance in merry leaps down to the Morava, and the Morava itself

flows to the Danube. We are still in the drainage basin of this river,

and, when we have crossed the whole of Servia, passed over a flat

mountain ridge and left Sofia, the capital of Bulgaria, behind us and

have come to another stream, even this is one of the affluents of the

Danube.

During a large part of our journey we are therefore strongly impressed

by this mighty stream, and perceive that it is a condition of existence

to whole peoples and States. Innumerable boats navigate its

channel--from rowing-boats, ferries, and barges to steamers of heavy

freight. They maintain communication between the series of towns with

walls and houses reflected in the gliding water. Their wharves are

frequently in connection with trains; and many railways have been built

with an eye to the traffic on the Danube. In early times, when the

migrations of people from the east streamed over Europe, the Danube

valley was generally utilized; and still at the present day the river

affords an advantageous channel of communication between the western and

eastern parts of the Continent.

Night jealously conceals from our eyes the kingdom of Bulgaria, as we

travel through its southern part along the river Maritza, which flows

southwards. We do not leave its valley until we are beyond the Turkish

frontier and Adrianople. Here we are in the broadest part of the Balkan

Peninsula; and amidst the regular swaying of the train we lie thinking

of the famous Balkan lands which extend to the south--Albania, with its

warlike people among its mountains and dales; Macedonia, the country of

Alexander the Great; Greece, in ancient times the centre of learning and

art. When day dawns we are in Turkey, and the sun is high when the train

comes to a standstill in Constantinople.

CONSTANTINOPLE

[Illustration: PLATE II. CONSTANTINOPLE.]

From the highest platform of the lofty tower which rises from the square

in the centre of the promontory of Stambul a wonderful view can be

obtained of the city and its surroundings--a singular blending of great

masses of houses and glittering sheets of blue water. Stambul is the

Turkish quarter. It consists of a sea of closely-built wooden houses of

many colours. Out of the confusion rise the graceful spires of minarets

and the round domes of mosques (Plate II.). Just below your feet is the

great bazaar--the merchants' town; and farther off is St. Sophia, the

principal mosque. Like Rome, the city is built on seven hills. In the

valleys between, shady trees and gardens have found a site. Far to the

west are seen the towers on the old wall of Stambul.

[Illustration: PLAN OF CONSTANTINOPLE.]

Before you to the north, on the point of a blunt promontory, stand the

two quarters called Galata and Pera. There Europeans dwell, and there

are found Greeks and Italians, Jews and Armenians, and other men of

races living in the adjacent countries--in the Balkan Peninsula, in Asia

Minor and Caucasia.

Between this blunt peninsula and Stambul an inlet runs north-westwards

deep into the land. Its name is the Golden Horn, and over its water

priceless treasures have from time immemorial been transported in ships.

Turn to the north-east. There you see a sound varying little in breadth.

Its surface is as blue as sapphire, its shores are crowned by a whole

chaplet of villages and white villas among luxuriant groves. This sound

is the Bosporus, and through it is the way to the Black Sea. Due east,

on the other side of the Bosporus, Scutari rises from the shore to the

top of low hills. Scutari is the third of the three main divisions of

Constantinople. You stand in Europe and look over the great city

intersected by broad waterways and almost forget that Scutari is

situated in Asia.

Turn to the south. Before your eyes lies the Sea of Marmora, a curious

sheet of water which is neither a lake nor a sea, neither a bay nor a

sound. It is a link between the Black and Aegean Seas, connected by the

Bosporus with the former, and by the Dardanelles, the Hellespont, with

the latter. The Sea of Marmora is 130 miles long. Seven miles to the

south the Princes' Islands float on the water like airy gardens, and

beyond in the blue distance are seen the mountains of Asia Minor.

You will acknowledge that this view is very wonderful. Your eyes wander

over two continents and two seas. You are in Europe, but on the

threshold of Asia; and when you look down on the Turks swarming below,

and at the graceful white boats darting across the sound, you may almost

fancy that you are in Asia rather than in Europe. You will also notice

that this fairway is an important trade route. Innumerable vessels pass

daily through the Bosporus to the coasts of Bulgaria, Rumania, Russia,

and Asia Minor, and as many out through the Dardanelles to Greece and

the Archipelago and to the coasts of the Mediterranean.

Close beneath you all the colours and outlines are distinct. The water

of the Bosporus is vividly blue, and the villas dazzlingly white. On the

Asiatic side stand woods of dark-green cypresses, and outside the

western wall Turks slumber in the deepest shade; cypresses, indeed, are

the watchmen of the dead. And all round the horizon this charming

landscape passes into fainter and lighter tones, light-blue and grey.

You cannot perceive clearly where the land ends and sea and sky begin.

But here and there the white wings of a sailing vessel flutter or a

slight puff of smoke floats above a steamer.

A continuous murmur reaches your ears. It is not wind, nor the song of

waves. It is the combined voice of nature and human labour. It is like

the buzzing round a beehive. Now and then you distinguish the cry of a

porter, the bell of a tramcar, the whistle of a steamer, or the bark of

a dog. But, as a rule, all melt together into a single sound. It is the

ceaseless noise that always hovers over the chimneys of a great city.

THE CHURCH OF THE DIVINE WISDOM

Let us now go down to the great mosque on the point. On the top of the

principal dome we see a huge gilded crescent. This has glittered up

there for 450 years, but previously the cupola was adorned by the

Christian Cross. How came the change about?

Let us imagine that we are standing outside the church and let the year

be 548 A.D. One of the finest temples of Christendom has just been

completed by the first architect of his time from Asia Minor. The work

has occupied sixteen years, and ten thousand workmen have been

constantly engaged at it. But now it is finished at last, and the Church

of the Divine Wisdom, Hagia Sophia, is to be consecrated to-day.

The great Emperor of the Byzantine realm, Justinian, drives up in a

chariot drawn by four horses. He enters the temple attended by the

Patriarch of Constantinople. The building is as large as a market-place,

and the beautiful dome, round as the vault of heaven, is 180 feet above

the floor. Justinian looks around and is pleased with his work. The

great men of the church and empire, clad in costly robes, salute him. He

examines the variegated marble which covers the walls, he admires the

artistically arranged mosaic on the gold groundwork of the dome, he is

amazed at the hundred columns which support the cupolas and galleries,

some of dark-green marble, others of dark-red porphyry. The Emperor's

wealth is inexhaustible. Has he not presented to the church seven

crosses of gold, each weighing a hundred pounds? Does not the Church of

the Divine Wisdom possess forty thousand chalice veils all embroidered

with pearls and precious stones? Are there not in the sacristy

twenty-four Bibles, which in their gold-studded cases weigh two hundred

pounds each? Are not pictures of the Redeemer, of the Mother of God, of

angels, prophets and evangelists suspended between the twelve columns of

solid silver which are the Holy of Holies in the temple? Are not the

faithful moved to tears at the sight of the crucifix and at the

remembrance that the gilded cross of silver is an exact copy of that

which, more than five hundred years ago, was set up by Roman barbarians

at Jerusalem?

Justinian turns round and examines the panels of the three doors which

are said to have been made of wood from Noah's ark. The doors of the

main entrance are of solid silver, the others are beautifully inlaid

with cedar-wood, ivory, and amber. Above his head silver chandeliers

swing in chains; some of them form together a cross, and are a symbol of

the light of heaven hovering over the darkness of earthly life. The

vault is flooded with light; and in the mosaic he sees the meek saints

kneeling before God in silent supplication. Below the vault he sees the

four cherubims with two pairs of wings. He thinks of the first chapter

of Ezekiel: "And the likeness of the firmament upon the heads of the

living creature was as the colour of the terrible crystal ... and I

heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great waters." He also

calls to mind the book of Exodus, ch. xxxvii.: "Even to the

mercy-seatward were the faces of the cherubims." It was the same here in

his own church.

Inspired by humility before God and pride before his fellowmen, the

Emperor Justinian moves to his prie-dieu. He falls on his knees and

exclaims: "God be praised who has thought me worthy to bring such a work

to completion! I have surpassed thee, O Solomon."

Then the pipes and drums strike up, and the glad songs of the people

echo among the houses, which are decorated by webs of costly brocade

hanging from the windows. The festival is prolonged for fourteen days;

casksful of silver coins are distributed among the multitude, and the

Emperor feasts the whole city.

Then follow new centuries and new generations in the footsteps of the

old. The bones of Christians moulder under the grave mounds, but still

the temple remains as before. There priests and patriarchs and fathers

of the Church assemble to Church Councils, and the great festivals of

the year are celebrated under its vault. Nearly a thousand years of the

stream of time have passed away, and we come to May 29, 1453.

May is a fine month in Constantinople. The summer is in all its glory,

the gardens are gorgeous in their fresh verdure, the clear waters of the

Bosporus glitter like brightly polished metal. But what a day of

humiliation and terror was this day of May, 1453! In the early morning

tidings of misfortune were disseminated among the citizens. The Turkish

Sultan had stormed in through the walls with his innumerable troops.

Beside themselves with fright, men, women, and children fled to St.

Sophia, leaving their homes and goods to be plundered. A hundred

thousand persons rushed in and locked and barred all the church doors

behind them. They trusted that the conqueror would not dare to desecrate

so holy a place. Abashed before the holiness of God, he would bow down

in the dust and leave them in peace. And according to a prophecy the

angel of God would descend from heaven in the hour of need and rescue

the church and the city.

The Christians waited, praying and trembling. Then the wild fanfares of

the Mohammedan trumpets were heard from the nearest hills. Piercing

cries of anguish echoed from the vaulting, mothers pressed their

children to their hearts, husbands and wives embraced each other, galley

slaves with chains still on their wrists tried to hide themselves in the

darkness behind the pillars.

The axes of the Mohammedans ring against the doors. Splinters of costly

wood fly before the blows. Here a gate cracks, there another is broken

in. The janissaries rush in, thirsting for blood. The Prophet has

commanded that his doctrines shall be spread over the earth by fire and

sword. They are only too ready to obey this order. Already steeped in

blood from the combat outside the walls, they continue to gather in the

harvest with dripping scimitars. The defenceless are fastened together

with chains and driven out like cattle.

Then comes the turn of the holy edifice. The mosaics are hacked to

pieces with swords and lances, the costly altar-cloths are taken from

their store-room, the church is plundered of its gold and silver, and

rows of camels and mules are led in on to the temple floor to be laden

with the immense treasures. Full of fanatical religious hatred, swarms

of black-bearded Turks rush up to the figure of the crucified Redeemer.

A Mohammedan presses his janissary's cap over the crown of thorns. The

image is carried with wild shrieks round the church, and presumptuous

voices call out scornfully, "Here you see the God of the Christians."

At the high altar a Greek bishop stood in pontifical robes and read mass

over the Christians in a loud and clear voice. His voice never trembled

for a moment. He wished to give his flock heavenly consolation in

earthly troubles. At last he remained alone. Then he broke off the mass

in the middle of a sentence, took the chalice, and ascended the steps

leading to the upper galleries. The Turks caught sight of him and rushed

after him like hungry hyænas.

He is already up in the gallery. He is surrounded on all sides by

soldiers with drawn swords and lowered spears. Next moment he must fall

dead over the communion chalice. No escape, no rescue is possible.

Before him stands the grey stone wall.

But, lo! a door opens in the wall, and when the bishop has gone in the

wall closes up again. The soldiers stand still in astonishment. Then

they begin to attack the wall with spears and axes. But it is no use.

They renew their efforts, but still in vain.

Four centuries and a half have passed since then, and still the Greeks

cherish a blind faith that the day will come when St. Sophia will be

restored to Christian uses, when the wall will open again and the bishop

will walk out with the chalice in his hand. Calm and dignified he will

descend the stairs, cross the church, and mount up to the high altar to

continue the mass from the point where he was interrupted by the Turks.

Let us return to the savage soldiery. All the doors stand open, and the

midday sun shines in through the arched windows. The pillage and tumult

have reached their height when a fiery horse carries a rider up to the

main entrance. He is attended by Mohammedan princes, generals, and

pashas.[1] His name is Mohammed II., the Conqueror, the Sultan of the

Turks. He is young and proud and has a will of iron, but he is solemn

and melancholy. He dismounts and passes on foot over this floor, over

the marble slabs trodden a thousand years ago by the Emperor Justinian.

The first thing he sees is a janissary maliciously aiming his axe at the

marble pavement. The Sultan goes up to him and asks, "Why?" "In the

cause of the faith," answers the soldier. Then the Sultan draws his

sabre, and, cutting the man down, exclaims, "Dogs, have you not loot

enough? The buildings of the city are my property." And, kicking the

dying man aside, he ascends a Christian pulpit, and in a thundering

voice dedicates the Church of the Holy Wisdom to Islam.

Four and a half centuries have passed down the stream of time since the

day when the cross was removed and the crescent raised its horn above

the Church of the Holy Wisdom. The Turks have erected four minarets

round the dome, and every evening from the platforms of these minarets

sounds the voice of the muezzin, summoning the faithful to prayer. He

wears a white turban and a long mantle down to his feet. To all four

quarters of the city the call rings out with long, silvery _a_-sounds

and full, liquid _l_'s: "God is great (four times repeated). I bear

witness that there is no god but God (twice repeated). I bear witness

that Mohammed is the Apostle of God (twice repeated). Come to prayers!

Come to prayers! Come to salvation! Come to salvation! God is great.

There is no god but God."

Now the sun sinks below the horizon, and a cannon shot thunders forth.

We are in the month of fasting, during which the Mohammedans do not eat,

drink, or smoke each day so long as the sun is up. Thus the Prophet

commands in the Koran, their holy book. The firing of the gun proclaims

the end of the fast for to-day, and when the faithful have refreshed

themselves with the smoking rissoles and rice puddings, or fruit,

coffee, and water-pipes which stand ready, they turn their steps to the

old Church of the Divine Wisdom, which still retains its Greek name.

Round the minarets thousands of lamps are lighted, and between the

towers the sacred names hang in flaming lights. Inside the mosque, on

chains fifty feet long, hang chandeliers, full of innumerable oil-lamps

in small round glass bowls, and on extended lines hang other lamps as

close as the beads of a rosary. The floor of the mosque is a sea of

light, but the interior of the dome is hid in gloom. Huge green shields

affixed to the columns bear in golden letters the names of Allah,

Mohammed and the saints, and the characters are thirty feet high.

The faithful have already filled the floor, which is covered with straw

matting. Shoes must be left outside on entering the mosque, and a man

must wash his arms, hands, and face before he goes in. Now the Turks

stand in long rows, white and green turbans and red fezes with black

tassels all mixed together. All turn their faces towards Mecca. All

hands go up together to the height of the face and are stretched out

flat, the thumbs touching the tip of the ear. Then they bend the body

forward, resting their hands on their knees. Next they fall on their

knees and touch the floor with their foreheads. "Prayer is the key to

Paradise," says the Koran, and every section of the prayer requires a

certain posture.

A priest stands in a pulpit and breaks in on the solemn silence with his

clear musical voice. The last word dies away on his lips, but the echo

lingers long in the dome, hovering like a restless spirit among the

statues of the cherubim.

Among us at home there are people who are ashamed of going to church. A

Mohammedan may neglect his religious duties, but he always regards it as

an honour to fulfil them. When we come to Persia or Turkestan we shall

often see a caravan leader leave his camels in the middle of the march,

spread out his prayer-mat on the ground, and recite his prayers. They do

not do it thoughtlessly or slovenly: you might yell in the ear of a

Mohammedan at prayer and he would take no notice.

"There is no god but God!" The words sound like a trumpet-blast, as a

summons over boundless regions of the Old World. From its cradle in

Arabia, Islam has spread over all the west and centre of Asia, over the

southern parts of the continent, over certain regions in south-eastern

Europe, and over half Africa. It is no wonder that Mohammedan

missionaries find it easy to convert the blacks of Africa. Mohammed

promises them Paradise after death, and Paradise is only a continuation

of worldly pleasures--a place where the blessed dwell under palms which

continually bear fruit, where clear springs leap forth, and where flutes

and stringed instruments make music in eternal summer.

THE BAZAARS OF STAMBUL

As a child Fatima Hanum played in one of the narrow streets of Stambul.

When she was old enough, her parents betrothed and married her to Emin

Effendi, the son of an influential pasha. She knew little of him beyond

that he was rich and was considered a good match. His house was situated

in one of the larger streets of Scutari, and consisted of two wings

completely cut off from each other. In the one the husband had his

apartments, in the other lived the women. For Fatima is not alone; her

husband has three other wives, and all four have male and female slaves

who guard them strictly.

Poor Fatima is thus unfortunate from the first. She cannot live happily

with a man whose affection is not hers alone, and it is difficult for

her to live in peace with the three other women who have the same rights

as herself. Her life is empty and wearisome, and her days are passed in

idleness. For hours she stands behind the lattice in the oriel window

which projects over the street and watches the movement going on below.

When she is tired of this she goes in again. Her room is not large. In

the middle splashes a small fountain. Round the walls extend divans. She

sinks moodily on to one of them and calls a female slave, who brings a

small table, more like a stool. Fatima rolls a cigarette, and with

dreamy eyes watches the blue rings as they rise to the ceiling. Again

she calls the slave. A bowl of sweets is brought, she yawns, takes a bit

of sweetmeat, and throws herself on the soft cushions.

Then she drinks a glass of lemonade and crosses the room to a leather

trunk, which she unlocks. In the trunk lie her ornaments: bracelets of

gold, pearl necklaces, earrings of turquoise, and many cloths of

coloured silk. She puts a necklace round her neck, adorns her fingers

with rings, and winds thin silken veils round her head. When she is

ready she goes up to the mirror and admires her own beauty. She is

really handsome. Her skin is white and soft, her eyes are black, her

hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders. She is not pleased with the

colour of her lips. The slave brings out a small pot of porcelain and

with a pencil paints Fatima's lips redder than the coral which the Hindu

dealers sell in the bazaar. Then the eyebrows are not dark enough, so

they are blackened with Indian ink.

When Fatima is tired of examining her own features in the mirror she

puts back her ornaments into the chest and locks it securely. A

staircase leads down from her room to the garden. There she saunters for

a time, enjoying the perfume of roses and jasmine, and stands before the

cage of singing birds to amuse herself with them. One of the other wives

comes down to the harem garden and calls out to her: "You are as ugly as

a monkey, Fatima; you are old and wrinkled and your eyes are red. Not a

man in all Stambul would care to look at you." Fatima answers: "If Emin

Effendi had not been tired of you, old moth-eaten parrot, he would not

have brought me to his harem." And then she hurries up to her room again

to ask the mirror if it is true that her eyes are red.

In order to forget her vexation she decides to go over to the great

bazaar in Stambul. The slave envelops her in a voluminous _kaftan_[2]

in which her white hands with yellow-stained nails disappear among the

folds. She slips into her shoes, which are like slippers with turned-up

points, and puts on the most important garment of all--the veil. Its

upper part covers the head and the forehead down to the eyebrows, while

the lower part hangs down over the chin, mouth, and part of the nose. A

woman does not show her face to any man but her husband. Of late years

many women transgress this rule and let the lower part of the veil fall

so low that most of the face is seen. Fatima, however, does not go with

the new fashion. She shows only her eyes, but her glances are enough to

let the man in the street perceive that she is beautiful. None of them

is so impertinent as to look at her or speak to her. Only Europeans she

meets turn round.

The slave does not go with her. She stops at the quay where the

_caiques_, or long rowing-boats, lie. The boatmen rise and scream

together. Each one extols with words and gestures the excellences of his

boat. She makes her choice, and steps in and sits down on the cushions.

The _caique_ is narrow and sharp as a canoe, painted white, with a gold

border on the gunwale. Two powerful men take their oars, and the

_caique_ darts over the blue waters of the Bosporus. Half-way between

Scutari and Stambul, Fatima looks eagerly down the Sea of Marmora. She

longs for an hour of freedom, and orders the boatmen to change the

direction. The wind is fresh, so they pull in their oars and hoist the

sail, and the boat glides southward at a rapid pace. But Fatima is

capricious, and is soon tired of the Sea of Marmora, and orders the men

to steer to the nearest quay in Stambul. She gives them two silver

coins, which they take without a word of thanks or civility. She hastens

up to the great bazaar and steps from the hot sunlight of the streets

into cool shade and gloom.

For the bazaars are like tunnels. They are streets and lanes covered

with vaults of stone, where daylight penetrates sparingly through the

cupolas in the roof. Here the heat of summer is not felt, and you can

walk dry-shod on stormy and rainy days. You are soon accustomed to the

darkness, but have great difficulty in finding the way unless you have

been born in Stambul and have often passed through this labyrinth. The

passages are quite narrow, but yet wide enough to allow _droshkies_[3]

and carts to pass through.

The bazaar, then, is an underground town in itself, a town of tradesmen

and artisans. On either side of every street is an endless row of small

open shops, the floors of which are raised a little above the level of

the street, and serve also as counters or show stands. The shops are not

mixed up together, but each industry, each class of goods, has its own

street. In the shoemakers' street, for example, shoes of all kinds are

set out, but the most common are slippers of yellow and red leather,

embroidered and stitched with gold, for men, women, and children, for

rich and poor. For a long distance you can see nothing but slippers and

shoes right and left.

You are very glad when the shoe department comes to an end and you come

to a large street where rich shopkeepers sell brocades of silver, gold,

and silk. It is best not to take much money with you to this street, or

you will be tempted to buy everything you see. Here lie mats from

Persia, embroidered silken goods from India, shawls from Kashmir, and

the finest work of southern Asia and northern Africa. Poor Fatima! Her

husband is wealthy enough, but he has no mind to let her scatter his

money about in the great bazaar. With sad looks she gazes at the

turquoises from Nishapur, the rubies from Badakshan, the pearls from the

coast of Bahrein, and the corals from the Indian Ocean.

When she has spent all the silver coins she has with her, she turns to

leave, but it is a long way to the entrances of the bazaar. She passes

through the street of the metalworkers and turns off at the armourers'

lane. There the noise is deafening: sledge hammers and mallets hammer

and beat, for the shops of the bazaar are workshops as well.

Again she turns a corner. Evidently she has lost her way, for she stands

and looks about in all directions. She has now come to a passage where

water-pipes and all articles connected with smoking are sold. Then she

turns in another direction. An odour tells her a long distance off that

she is coming to the street of spice-dealers. She has to ask her way

almost at every step.

Not only in Constantinople but in all parts of the Turkish Empire, and

all over the Mohammedan world, goods are bought and sold in these

half-dark tunnels which are called bazaars. It is the same in the

Mohammedan towns of North Africa, in Arabia, Asia Minor, Persia,

Caucasia, Afghanistan, India, and Turkestan. Wherever minarets rise

above the dwellings of men and the muezzin sings out his everlasting

"There is no god but God," the exchange of wares and coin is carried on

in dark bazaars. The great bazaar in Stambul is one of the richest, but

even where the bazaars are small and insignificant the same order

prevails, the same mode of life. Among Turkish men and women of high

rank stroll poor ragamuffins and dervishes or begging monks. A caravan

of camels moves slowly through the crowd, bringing fresh supplies to the

tradesmen from a steamboat quay or from the railway station. The camels

have scarcely disappeared in the darkness before a train of mules with

heavy bales follows in their track. A loud-voiced man offers for sale

grapes and melons he carries in a basket, while another bears a

water-bottle of leather.

And all the races which swarm here! The great majority are, of course,

Turks, but we also see whole rows of shops where only Persians trade. We

see Hindus from India, Egyptians from Cairo, Arabs from the coasts of

the Red Sea, Circassians and Tatars from the Caucasus and the Crimea,

Sarts from Samarkand and Bokhara, Armenians, Jews, and Greeks, and not

infrequently we meet a negro from Zanzibar or a Chinaman from the

farthest East.

It is a confusion of shopmen and customers, brokers and thieves from all

the East. A noise and bustle, a deafening roar which never ceases all

day long, a hurrying, a striving and eagerness to clear the stock and

gain money. If the prices were fixed, business would soon be done. But

if you have taken a fancy to a Kurdish mat and ask the price, the

tradesman demands a quite absurd sum. You shrug your shoulders and go

your way. He calls out another, lower price. You go on quietly, and the

man comes running after you and has dropped his price to the lowest. In

every shop bargains are made vociferously in the same way. There is a

continual buzz of voices, now and then interrupted by the bells of

caravans.

The illumination is dim. The noonday sun penetrates only through

openings in the vault and forms patches of light. Dust floats about in

the shafts of light, mixed with smoke from water-pipes. The greater the

distance the dimmer this confined air appears. There is also an

indescribable odour. The smell of men and animals, of dusty goods, of

rank tobacco, of rotting refuse, strong spices, fresh, juicy fruit--all

mixed together into a peculiar odour which is characteristic of all

Oriental bazaars.

The bazaar of Stambul contains a great deal besides. On the northern

side is a line of old caravanserais, massive stone buildings of several

storeys, with galleries, passages, and rooms, and with a large open

court in the centre. Here resort the wholesale merchants, and here are

their warehouses and stocks. Lastly, cafés and eating-houses are found

in the tunnelled streets, baths and small oratories, so that a man can

pass his whole day in the bazaar without needing to go home. He can

obtain all he wants in the vicinity of his shop.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Pasha" is an honorary title given to officials of high rank in

Turkey and Egypt, as to governors of provinces, military commanders,

etc.

[2] A garment worn throughout the Levant, consisting of a long gown

fastened by a girdle and having sleeves reaching below the hands.

[3] A "droshky" is a low, four-wheeled, open carriage, plying for hire.

The word is Russian.

II

CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN (1905)

THE BLACK SEA

Attended by the _cavass_[4] of the Swedish Embassy, old Ali, I drove

down to the quay on a fresh, sunny October morning, loaded all my boxes

on board a _caique_, and was rowed by four men out to the Bosporus

between anchored sailing vessels, steamers, and yachts. On arriving at

the gangway of a large Russian steamer, I waited until all my luggage

was safe on board and then followed it.

The anchor is weighed, the propeller begins to turn, and the vessel

steers a course northwards through the Bosporus. With my field-glasses I

settle down on a bench in the stern and take farewell of the Turkish

capital. How grand, how unforgettable is this scene! The white, graceful

minarets shoot up to heaven from the sea of houses, and the

cypresses--tall, grave, and straight as kings--also seem to point out to

the children of earth the way to Paradise. Everywhere the houses mount

up the hills, ranged like the rows of seats in a theatre. The whole is

like a gigantic circus with an auditorium for more than a million Turks,

and the arena is the blue water of the Bosporus.

The steamer carries us away relentlessly from this charming picture. As

dreams fade away in the night, so the white city is concealed by the

first promontories. Then I change my place and look ahead. Perhaps the

view is even more beautiful in this direction. The sound is like a river

between steep, rocky shores, but in the mouth of every valley, and

wherever the margin of the shore is flat, stand white villas and

mansions, villages, walls and ruins, gardens and groves. The Bosporus is

barely twenty miles long. In some places its breadth is less than a

third of a mile, in others two-thirds. Old plane-trees spread their

crowns over fresh meadows, and laurels, chestnuts, walnuts, and oaks

afford deep shade. White dolphins skim along the water, and a school of

porpoises follows in the wake of the boat, waiting for the refuse from

the cook's galley. They are dark, soft, and smooth, their backs shining

like metal, and they can easily be seen several feet below the surface.

A single flap of the tail fin gives them a tremendous impulse, and they

come up to the surface like arrows discharged by the gods of the sea,

and describe beautiful somersaults among the waves. They could easily

overtake us if they liked, but they content themselves with following

close behind us hour after hour.

To the left we have the European coast, to the right the Asiatic. The

distance is always so small that the Europeans can hear the bark of the

Asiatic dogs. Here is Terapia, with the summer villas of Christians and

the ambassadors' palaces. Turkish coffee-houses are erected on the

shore, and their balconies hang over the water. Farther on there is a

large valley with an ancient plane-tree with seven trunks which are

called "the seven brothers." According to tradition Godfrey de Bouillon

with his crusaders reposed under its shade in the winter of 1096-1097,

when he marched to recover the holy sepulchre and win the sounding title

of "King of Jerusalem."

Now the channel widens out and the coasts of the two continents diverge

from each other. We see the horizon of the Black Sea opening before us,

and the vessel begins to pitch. Lighthouses stand on either side of the

entrance, which is commanded by batteries high above it. We roll out

into the sea, and half an hour later we can hardly see the break in the

coast-line which marks the end of the Bosporus.

We make straight for Sebastopol, near the southernmost point of the

Crimea. This is the station of the Russian Black Sea fleet, but the

Russians have little pride in it, for the Turks control the passage to

the Mediterranean, and without the consent of the other great Powers the

Russian warships cannot pass through. The Black Sea is, of course, open

to the mercantile vessels of all nations.

You know, of course, that Europe has four landlocked seas, the Baltic,

the Mediterranean, the Black and Caspian Seas. The Baltic is enclosed

all round by European coasts; the Black and Caspian Seas belong to both

Europe and Asia; while the Mediterranean lies between the three

continents of the Old World--Europe, Asia, and Africa. Now the Baltic,

Black, and Caspian Seas are of about the same size, each having an area

about three times that of England and Wales. The Baltic is connected

with the Atlantic by several sounds between the Danish islands and

Scania. The Black Sea has only one outlet, the Bosporus. The Caspian Sea

has no outlet at all, and is really a lake.

The Baltic is very shallow, its maximum depth, south-east of the

Landsort lighthouse, being 250 fathoms. Next comes the Caspian Sea with

a depth of 600 fathoms. The singular feature of this, the largest lake

in the world, is that its surface lies 85 feet below that of the Black

Sea. This last is the deepest of the three, for in it a sounding of 1230

fathoms has been taken.

All three seas are salt, the Baltic least and the Caspian most. Four

great rivers enter the Black Sea, the Danube, Dniester, Dnieper, and

Don. It therefore receives large volumes of fresh water. But along the

bottom of the Bosporus an undercurrent of salt water passes into the

Black Sea, which is compensated for by a surface stream of less salt and

therefore lighter water flowing to the Mediterranean.

The Black Sea is not blacker than any other sea, nor is the White Sea

white, the Yellow Sea yellow, or the Red Sea red. And so no faith should

be accorded to the story of a captain in the Mediterranean who wished to

sail to the Red Sea but went to the Black Sea--because he was

colour-blind!

But now we can continue our heaving course, still accompanied by

dolphins and porpoises. We look in at the harbour of Sebastopol, we

anchor in open roadsteads off Caucasian towns, we moor our cables to the

rings on the quay of Batum, and finally drop our anchor for the last

time at a short distance from the coast of Asia Minor.

Proud and bright, with forest-clad heights in the background, Trebizond

bathes in the rays of the midday sun. Small rowing-boats come out from

the land to take passengers and goods to the quay. The Turkish boatmen

scream all together, but no one listens to them. Every one is glad to be

landed safe and sound with his baggage.

TREBIZOND TO TEHERAN

Trebizond was a Greek colony seven hundred years before the birth of

Christ, and from time immemorial Persian trade has made its way to the

Black Sea by the road which still runs through Tabriz to Teheran, a

distance of 800 miles. This traffic is now on the decline, for modern

means of communication have taken the place of the old caravans, and

most of their trade has been diverted to the Suez Canal and the

Caucasian railways. Many large caravans, however, still journey to and

fro along this road, which is so well made that one can drive not only

to Tabriz, but still further to Teheran. It may, indeed, be softened by

autumn rains or frozen hard on the high plateaus of Turkish Armenia, and

the speed is not great when the same horses have to be used for

distances of 160 miles.

It was a lively cavalcade that pounded and rattled over the Turkish and

Persian roads in November, 1905. I was by no means alone. The Governors

of Trebizond and Erzerum were so good as to provide me with an escort of

six armed troopers on sturdy horses. In front rides a Turkish soldier on

a piebald horse, carrying his carbine in a sling over his back, his

sabre and dagger hanging at his side, and wearing a red fez with a white

_pagri_[5] wound round it as a protection from sun and wind. Then I come

in my carriage, drawn by three horses. Old Shakir, the coachman, is

already my friend; it is he who prepares my meals and looks after me

generally. I am well wrapped up in a Caucasian cloak, with a

_bashlik_[6] over my cap, and lean back comfortably and look at the

country as we drive along. Behind the carriage ride two soldiers on

brown horses, engaged in a lively conversation and wondering whether

they will be well tipped. Then come two clumsy carts, on which all my

baggage is firmly secured. They have their own drivers and men, and are

escorted by three troopers.

In this manner I travelled from Trebizond to Teheran. To the ceaseless

rattle of the wheels and the heavy tramp of the horses' hoofs, I plunged

day by day deeper into Asia. Soon the blue expanse of the Black Sea

passed out of sight, as the road with many steep and sudden bends wound

up to the top of a pass. On the other side it descended with as many

windings to the bottom of a valley. And thus we went up and down till we

were up at length on the level Armenian tableland.

[Illustration: MAP SHOWING (_a_) JOURNEY FROM CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN

(pp. 26-33); (_b_) LATTER PART OF JOURNEY TO BAKU (pp. 34-35); AND (_c_)

JOURNEY FROM BAKU ACROSS PERSIA TO BAGHDAD AND BACK TO TEHERAN (pp.

37-45).]

Here there is a complete change. During the first days after leaving the

coast, we had driven through a beautiful and constantly changing

landscape. We had passed through woods of coniferous trees and among

rustling foliage of yellow leaves. Sometimes we had been hundreds of

feet above an abyss, at the foot of which a bluish-green stream foamed

between rounded rocks. Beside the road we had seen rows of villages and

farms, with houses and verandahs of wood, where Turks sat comfortably in

their shops and cafés; and we had met many small caravans of horses,

asses, and oxen carrying hay, fruit, and bricks between the villages. We

always began our day's march in the early morning, for the nights were

mild and the sun had scarcely risen before it felt pleasant.

But up here on the plateau it is different. No firs adorn the mountain

flanks, no foliaged trees throw their shade over the road. No creaking

carts, laden with timber and drawn by buffaloes and oxen, enliven the

way. The villages are scattered, and the houses are low cabins of stone

or sun-dried clay. The Turkish population is blended with Armenians. The

road becomes worse and more neglected as the traffic falls off. The air

is cool, and there are several degrees of frost in the night.

When we have passed Erzerum, where the Christian churches of the

Armenians stand side by side with the mosques of the Turks, we journey,

as it were, on a flat roof sloping down slightly on three sides, each

with a gutter leading into its own water-butt. These water-butts are the

Black Sea, the Caspian Sea, and the Persian Gulf, and they are always

big enough to hold all the water, however hard it may rain on the stony

roof which rises between Caucasia, Asia Minor, and Mesopotamia. The

gutters are, of course, the rivers, the greatest of which is the

Euphrates.

Now the road is very bad. There has been rain in the autumn; and now

that it is freezing, the mud, all cut up by deep wheel-ruts, is as hard

as stone. My vehicle shakes and jolts me hither and thither and up and

down, and when we arrive at the village where we are to pass the night,

I feel bruised all over. Shakir makes tea and boils eggs, and after

supper I roll myself in my cloak and go to sleep.

It is pitch-dark when I am called, and still dark when we make a start

by the light of lanterns. After a little a curious sound is heard across

the plain. The clang becomes louder, coming nearer to us, and tall, dark

ghosts pass by with silent steps. Only bells are heard. The ghosts are

camels coming from Persia with carpets, cotton, and fruit. There are

more than three hundred of them, and it is a long time before the road

is clear again. And all the time there is a ringing as from a chime of

bells.

For many thousands of years the same sound has been heard on the caravan

routes. It is the same with the roar of the waters of the Euphrates and

Tigris. Mighty powers have flourished and passed away on their banks,

whole peoples have died out, of Babylon and Nineveh only ruins are left;

but the waters of the rivers murmur just the same, and the caravan bells

ring now as in the days when Alexander led the Macedonian army over the

Euphrates and Tigris, when the Venetian merchant Marco Polo travelled

620 years ago between Tabriz and Trebizond by the road we are now

driving along, when Timur the Lame defeated the Turks and by this road

carried the Sultan Bayazid in an iron cage to exhibit him like a wild

beast in the towns of Asia.

A white morning cloud seems to be floating over the grey mountains to

the east, but when the sun rises it is seen to be a cone as regular as

the roof of an Armenian church. It is the snow-capped top of Mount

Ararat, where the ark landed when the great flood went down. The summit

is always covered with snow, for the mountain is a thousand feet higher

than Mont Blanc.

Now we are not far from the frontier, where Kurdish brigands render the

country unsafe, but once over the border into Persian territory there is

no danger. We are now in the north-western corner of Persia, in the

province of Azerbeijan, which is populated mainly by Tatars. The capital

of the province is Tabriz, once the chief market for the trade of all

northern Persia with Europe. Here goods were collected from far and

near, packed in mats of bast and bound with ropes so as to form bales,

which were laden on fresh camels and carried in fourteen days to

Trebizond.

Now not more than a fifth part of this trade remains, but still the

caravan life is the same, and as varied as ever. The Tatar leader rides

in front; beside every seventh camel walks a caravan man, who wears a

black lambskin cap, a blue frockcoat, a girdle round the waist, and

pointed shoes. Each is armed with a dagger, for the Tatars are often at

feud with the Turks and Armenians, and the dagger has a groove on each

side of the blade to allow the blood of the victim to run off. Many a

caravan leader has spent the greater part of his life in travelling to

and fro between Tabriz and Trebizond. On every journey he has seen

Ararat to the north of the road, like a perpetually anchored vessel with

its mainsail up; and he knows that the mountain is a gigantic frontier

beacon which marks the spot where Russia, Turkey, and Persia meet.

On December 13 I arrived at Teheran, having driven 800 miles in a month.

India was still 1500 miles off, and the route lies almost entirely

through deserts where only camels can travel. I therefore bought

fourteen fine camels, and took six Persians and a Tatar into my

service.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] A government servant or courier.

[5] A light scarf wound round a hat or helmet in tropical countries,

especially India.

[6] A kind of cloth hood covering the ears.

III

THROUGH THE CAUCASUS, PERSIA, AND MESOPOTAMIA (1885-6)

ST. PETERSBURG TO BAKU

On August 15, 1885, I went by steamer to St. Petersburg. There I entered

a train which ran south-eastwards through Moscow to Rostov, at the mouth

of the Don, and thence on to the Caucasus; and for four days I sat in my

compartment, letting my eyes rove over the immense steppes of Russia.

Hour after hour the train rolled along. A shrill whistle startles the

air when we come to a station, and equally sharply a bell rings once,

twice, and thrice when our line of carriages begins to move on again

over the flat country. In rapid course we fly past innumerable villages,

in which usually a whitewashed church lifts up its tower with a green

bulb-shaped roof. Homesteads and roads, rivers and brooks, fruitful

fields and haystacks, windmills with long revolving arms, carts and

wayfarers, all vanish behind us, and twilight and night four times

envelop huge Russia in darkness.

At last the mountains of the Caucasus appear in front of us, rising up

to the clouds like a light-blue wall. The whole range seems so light and

impalpable that we can scarcely believe that the very next day we shall

be driving up its valleys and over heights which are more than 16,000

feet above the sea-level. The distance is still great, but the white

summit of Mount Kazbek shines out amidst the blue.

At length we arrive at Vladikavkas, the end of the railway,[7] and begin

our journey of 130 miles over the mountains. My travelling companions

hired a carriage, and at every stage we had to change horses. I sat on

the box, and at the turns I had to hold on lest I should be thrown off

down into the abyss at the side of the road.

We constantly meet peasants with asses, or shepherds with flocks of

goats and sheep. Now comes a group of Caucasian horsemen in black

sheepskin coats and armed to the teeth; then the post-cart, packed full

of travellers; then again a load of hay drawn by oxen or grey buffaloes.

The higher we ascend, the grander and wilder the mountains become.

Sometimes the road is blasted out of perpendicular walls of rock, and

heavy masses of mountain hang like a vault above us. At dangerous

slopes, where the road is exposed to avalanches in spring, it runs

through tunnels of masonry. When an avalanche dashes furiously down the

mountain it leaps over these tunnels and continues down on the other

side without doing the road any harm.

We have now reached the highest point of the road, and after a journey

of twenty-eight hours we arrive at Tiflis, the largest town in Caucasia,

and one of the most curious towns I have seen. The houses hang like

clusters of swallows' nests on the slopes on both sides of the Kura

River, and the narrow, dirty streets are crowded with the fifteen

different tribes who dwell in Caucasia.

While the road leading to Tiflis over the mountains is grand, a more

dreary country can hardly be conceived than that crossed by the railway

between Tiflis and Baku: endless steppes and deserts, greyish-yellow and

desolate, with occasionally a caravan of slowly moving camels. A violent

storm arose as we drew near the sea. Dust rose up in clouds and

penetrated through all the chinks of the compartment, the air became

thick, heavy, and suffocating, and outside nothing could be seen but a

universal grey veil of impenetrable mist. But the worst was that the

storm struck the train on the side, and at last the engine was scarcely

able to draw the carriages along. Twice we had to stop, and on an ascent

the train even rolled back a little.

However, in spite of all, we at last reached the shore of the Caspian

Sea, where clear green billows rose as high as a house and thundered on

the strand. At seven o'clock in the evening we were at Baku, and drove

ten miles to Balakhani, where I remained seven months.

I remember that time as if it were yesterday. I struggled hopelessly

with the Russian grammar, but made great progress in Persian, and

learned to talk the Tatar language without the least difficulty.

Meanwhile I indulged in plans for a great journey to Persia. How it was

to be managed I did not know, for my means were not large. But I made up

my mind that through Persia I would travel, even if I went as a hired

servant and drove other people's asses along the roads.

The whole country round Baku is impregnated with petroleum, which

collects in vast quantities in cavities in the earth. To reach the oil a

tower of wood 50 to 65 feet high is erected, and a line with a powerful

borer runs over a block at the top. A steam-engine keeps the line in

constant motion, perpendicularly up and down, and the borer eats deeper

and deeper into the earth. The first section of piping which is forced

down into the bore-hole is about 40 inches in diameter. When this can go

no farther the boring is continued with a smaller borer, and a narrower

tube is thrust down within the first. And so the work is continued until

the petroleum level is reached and the valuable oil can be pumped up.

But it often happens that the oil is forced up through the pipe by the

pressure of gas in the bowels of the earth, and when I was at Balakhani

we often used to go out and look at this singular display. With a

deafening roar, a thick greenish-brown jet shot up out of the ground and

right through the derrick (Plate III.). It was visible from a long

distance, for it might be as much as 200 feet high, and the oil was

collected within dams thrown up around. If there was a strong wind the

jet would be dispersed, and a dark mist would lie like a veil over the

ground to leeward. In Balakhani one can hardly look out of the door

without one's clothes being smeared with oil, and the odour can be

perceived a dozen miles away. Not a blade of grass grows in this

neighbourhood; all that one sees is a forest of derricks. Lines of pipes

convey the oil from the borings to the "Black Town" of Baku, which is

full of oil refineries (over 170 in all) emitting vast volumes of smoke,

black and greasy buildings, and pools of oil refuse. When the crude

natural oil is purified, it is distributed far and wide in special

railway trucks like cisterns, and in special tank steamers, into which

the petroleum is pumped, and which carry nothing else.

In the Baku oil-fields there are now (1910) no fewer than 4094 bores, of

which 2600 are productive. Last year they yielded about eight million

tons of raw petroleum, some of them having sometimes given nearly 300

tons in twenty-four hours by pumping, and 2000 when the oil shot out

of the ground itself. The value on the spot is now about 20 shillings

a ton. The deepest boring is sunk 2800 feet into the earth.

[Illustration: PLATE III. OIL-WELL AT BALAKHANI.

A fountain of oil forced up by natural pressure.]

Late one evening in February, 1886, the dreadful cry of "Fire! Fire!"

was heard outside our house. The very thought of fire is enough to raise

terror and consternation throughout this oil-soaked district. We hurry

out and find the whole neighbourhood illuminated with a weird, whitish

light, as bright as day. The derricks stand out like ghosts against the

light background. We make for the place and feel the heat increasing.

Bright white flames shoot up fantastically into the air, sending off

black clouds of smoke. One derrick is in flames and beside it a pool of

raw petroleum is burning. A Tatar had gone to the derrick with a lantern

to fetch a tool. He lost his lantern, and only just escaped with his

life before the oil-soaked derrick took fire.

It is vain to fight against such a fire. The fire-engine came, and all

the hoses were at work, but what was the use when the jets of water were

turned to steam before they reached the burning surface of the oil pool?

The chief thing is to keep the fire from spreading, and if that is done,

the oil is left to bubble and burn until not a drop is left.

ACROSS PERSIA

It was an adventurous journey that I commenced from Baku on April 6,

1886. I had a travelling companion, a young Tatar, Baki Khanoff, about

£30 in my pocket, two changes of clothes and underclothing, a warm

coat, and a rug--all, except what I wore, packed in a Tatar bag. In a

small leather bag suspended by a strap from the shoulder I kept a

revolver, a sketch-book, a note-book, and two maps of Persia. Baki

Khanoff had a large cloak, a silver-mounted gun, and a dagger. Half the

money we had was sewed up in belts round our waists. The equipment was

therefore small for a journey of 2000 miles, through Persia and back.

For two days and a night we were compelled by a violent storm on the

Caspian Sea to wait on board before the vessel could take us to the

Persian coast. As soon as we landed we were surrounded by Persians, who,

with loud voices and lively gestures, extolled the good qualities of

their horses. After a cursory examination we chose two small, squat

steeds, secured our baggage behind the saddles, mounted, and rode

through dark woods and fragrant olive groves higher and higher towards

the Elburz Mountains.

We passed a night up on the heights in a village called Karzan. When we

set out next day it was snowing fast, and had snowed so thickly all

night that all the country was buried under deep drifts. We muffled

ourselves up as well as we could, mounted our horses, and rode on,

accompanied by their owner.

The snow fell silently in large, whirling flakes. Down in the valley it

melted off our clothes, but higher up on the open, windy heights it

froze to a cake of ice, and before long our clothes on the windward side

were converted into a thick cuirass which prevented every movement. At

last we were practically frozen fast in the saddle. Our hands were

benumbed, the reins fell on the horses' necks, our eyes were sore from

the snowstorm which dashed straight into our faces. I was so stiff that

I lost all feeling in my arms and legs, tumbled off my horse, and went

on foot, but I had to hold on to the animal's tail lest I should lose my

way in the blinding snow.

We could not go on long in this way, for we could not see where we were

going, so we decided to turn in at the first village on the road. Some

squalid huts soon came in sight through the snow. Outside one of them we

tied up our horses, shook off the snow, and entered a dark cabin with an

earthen floor. Here a large fire was lighted, and we sat down beside it

in a close circle with some other travellers who arrived at the same

time. The place had a low roof and was small, damp, and full of vermin,

but at any rate it was pleasant to warm ourselves and dry our clothes.

When Baki Khanoff had made tea, cooked eggs, and brought out bread and

salt, it was almost cosy. The company consisted of four Tatars, two

Persians, and myself, and the seven of us had to share the space for the

night. When the fire died down the close heat was succeeded by a damp

coolness, but at twenty-one years of age one is not particular.

Eventually we reached Teheran, the capital of Persia, safe and sound,

and there I stayed a short time as the guest of a fellow-countryman.

When I continued my journey southwards I had to travel alone, for Baki

Khanoff had caught fever and had to turn back to Baku.

Our journey to Teheran had been very expensive, but my good countryman

replenished my purse, so that I had again about £30 sewed up in my

waistbelt when I started off once more on April 27. The road is divided

by stations where horses are changed and you can pass the night if you

wish. A man accompanies you on every stage, and for a small silver coin

you can buy eggs and bread, a chicken, melons and grapes.

Sometimes the stable-boy who accompanies a traveller takes the best

horse for himself and gives the other to the traveller. This happened to

me on the road between the town of Kashan and the mountain village of

Kuhrud. As soon as I became aware of the trick, I exchanged horses with

my attendant, who dropped behind after some hours' journey, for his

sorry jade could go no farther. For four hours I rode along narrow paths

in complete darkness. I feared that I had gone astray, and, tired and

sleepy, I was on the point of coming to a halt, intending to tie the

horse to a tree and roll myself up in my rug for the night, when I saw a

light gleam through the darkness. "Hurrah! that is the station-house of

Kuhrud." But when I came nearer I perceived that the light came from a

nomad's tent. I rode up and called out to the people. No one answered,

but I could see by the shadows on the cloth that the tent was inhabited.

After shouting again without receiving an answer, I tied up the horse,

lifted up the tent-flap, and asked my way to Kuhrud. "Cannot one sleep

in peace in the middle of the night?" came a voice from inside. "I am a

European and you must show me the way," I returned sharply. Then a man

came out; he was as silent as a dummy, but I understood that I was to

follow him, leading my horse by the rein. He wound about in the dark

among bushes, and when he had led me to a brook a foot deep, skirted on

both sides by thick olive woods, he pointed uphill and vanished in the

darkness without saying a word. I mounted again and let the horse take

care of himself, and two hours later he stopped all right before the

station-house. It was pleasant to have reached my journey's end at last,

for I had been riding for fifteen hours, and the evening meal tasted

better than usual. Then I lay down full length on the floor, with the

saddle for a pillow and the rug over me. I made use of no other bed on

this journey.

A few days more on the great caravan road and we rode into the old

capital of Persia, Ispahan, with its many memorials of departed

greatness, its mosques with tall, graceful minarets, and its bazaars

full of the products of Persian handicrafts and industries--carpets,

silken materials, embroideries, shawls, lacquered work, water-pipes,

porcelain, and bronze vessels representing peacocks and elephants.

Farther south I came to Persepolis, so famous in ancient times, where

the great Persian kings, Xerxes and Darius, had their palaces. The

country round about is now inhabited only by some poor shepherds and

their flocks, but fine remains of the palaces still stand, in spite of

the 2400 years which have passed over them. Not far from Persepolis lies

one of the most noted towns of Persia, Shiraz, abounding in rose gardens

and country-houses, spring water and canals. The town is famous above

all, because here the immortal poets of Persia sang their most beautiful

songs.

When we came near the Persian Gulf the climate became hotter, and one

day the temperature was 102° in the room where I was staying. People

therefore travel in the night. On the last stage the groom, who was an

old man, could not keep up with me, for I rode fast; so I went on all

night alone, keeping my revolver handy in case robbers showed

themselves. I was glad when the sun rose, lighting up the smooth mirror

of the Persian Gulf, and on May 22 I arrived at the town of Bushire, on

its eastern coast.

The Persian Gulf is an inlet of the Indian Ocean, and is enclosed

between Persia and Arabia. The island of Bahrein on the Arabian coast is

well known; it is under British protection, and here in summer and

autumn pearl fishing is carried on, the annual export of these beautiful

precious stones being now about £900,000. As many as a thousand boats,

with crews of thirty thousand men, are engaged in the industry. The

owner of each boat engages a number of divers, who work for him, and he

sells his pearls to the Indian markets. The diver seldom goes down to a

greater depth than seven fathoms, and remains at most fifty seconds

under water. He has wax in his ears, his nose is closed by a clip, and

with a stone at his feet and a rope round his waist he jumps overboard

and disappears into the depths. When he reaches the bottom of the sea he

gathers into a basket tied in front of him as many shells as he can get

hold of, and at a given signal is hauled up by the rope to the surface

again. Then the owner of the boat opens the shells and takes out the

costly pearls, which are of different values, according to their size

and other qualities.

ARABIA

Between the Persian Gulf on the north-east and the Red Sea on the

south-west, the Mediterranean on the north-west and the Indian Ocean on

the south-east, lies the long, bulky peninsula which is called Arabia,

and is as large as a third of Europe. Most of the coast-land is subject

to the Sultan of Turkey, but the people in the interior are practically

independent. They are a wild and warlike pastoral people, called

Beduins. Only certain parts of the country are inhabited, the rest being

occupied by terrible deserts and wastes, where even now no European has

set his foot.

Near the coast of the Red Sea are two Arab towns which are as holy and

full of memories to Mohammedans all over the world as Jerusalem and Rome

to Christians. At Mecca the prophet Mohammed was born in the year

A.D. 570, and at Medina he died and was buried in 632. He was

the founder of the Mohammedan religion, and his doctrine, Islamism,

which he proclaimed to the Arabs, has since spread over so many

countries in the Old World that its adherents now number 217 millions.

To all the followers of Islam a pilgrimage to Mecca is a most desirable

undertaking. Whoever has once been there may die in peace, and in his

lifetime he may attach the honourable title of Hajji to his name. From

distant countries in Africa and from the innermost parts of Asia

innumerable pilgrims flock annually to the holy towns.

Adjoining Arabia on the north-east lies the country called Mesopotamia,

through which flow the rivers Euphrates and Tigris. An English steamer

carried me from Bushire up the turbid waters of the Tigris, and from the

deck I could see copper-brown, half-naked Arabs riding barebacked on

handsome horses. They feed their flocks of sheep on the steppe, holding

long lances in their hands. Sometimes the steamer is invaded by a cloud

of green grasshoppers, and one can only escape them by going into one's

cabin and closing both door and windows. Round the funnel lie heaps of

grasshoppers who have singed themselves or are stupefied by the smoke.

After a voyage of a few days up the river I come to Baghdad, which

retains little of its former magnificence. In the eleventh century

Baghdad was the greatest city of the Mohammedans, and here were

collected the Indian and Arabic tales which are called the _Thousand and

one Nights_. Not far from Baghdad, but on the Euphrates, lay in early

ages the great and brilliant Babylon, which had a hundred gates of

brass. By the waters of Babylon the Jewish captives hung up their harps

on the willows, and of Babylon Jeremiah prophesied: "And Babylon shall

become heaps, a dwelling place for dragons, an astonishment, and an

hissing, without an inhabitant."

BAGHDAD TO TEHERAN

When I reached Baghdad I had only a little over £5 left, all in Persian

silver _kran_, a _kran_ being worth about seven-pence; and I could not

get any more money until I reached Teheran, 600 miles away. I knew that

if I could only get as far as the town of Kermanshah, a distance of 200

miles, I could then take service in a caravan; but it would be

unpleasant to tramp on foot the whole way, and receive no pay other than

a little bread and a few cucumbers and melons.

Just in the nick of time, however, I made the acquaintance of a caravan

owner who was starting immediately for Kermanshah with English

merchandise. The goods were loaded on fifty asses, and were accompanied

by ten Arab traders on horseback. Eight pilgrims and a Chaldean merchant

had joined the party. I, too, might go with them on paying fifty _kran_

for the hire of a mule; food and drink I must provide for myself.

It was a pleasant journey which began at ten o'clock on the evening of

June 6. Two Arabs led me on my mule slowly and solemnly through the

narrow streets of Baghdad in the warm summer night. An oil lamp

flickered dully here and there, but the bazaars were brisk and lively.

Here sat thousands of Arabs, talking, eating, drinking, and smoking. It

was the month of fasting, when nothing is eaten until after sunset.

The two Arabs conducted me into the court of a caravanserai, where the

traders were just making preparations to start. When I heard that they

would not be ready before two o'clock in the morning, I lay down on a

heap of bales and slept like a top.

Two o'clock came much sooner than I wished. An Arab came and shook me,

and, half asleep, I mounted my mule. To the shouts of the drivers, the

tinkle of the small bells, and the ding-dong of the large camel-bells

the long caravan passed out into the darkness. Soon we had the outermost

courts and palm groves of Baghdad behind us, and before us the silent,

sleeping desert.

No one troubled himself about me; I had paid for the mule and might look

after myself. Sometimes I rode in front, sometimes behind, and

occasionally I almost went to sleep in the saddle. The body of a dead

dromedary lay on the road, and a pack of hungry jackals and hyænas were

feasting on the carcase. When we came near them they ran away

noiselessly to the desert, only to return when we were past. Farther on

some fat vultures kept watch round the body of a horse, and raised

themselves on their heavy wings as we approached.

[Illustration: PLATE IV. A PERSIAN CARAVANSERAI.]

After a ride of seven hours we reached a caravanserai, where the Arabs

unloaded their animals and said that we were to stay there all day. It

was as warm as in an oven, and there was nothing to do but lie and doze

on the stone floor.

Next night we rode eight hours to the town of Bakuba, which is

surrounded by a wood of fine date-palms. Here we encamped in the court

of a huge caravanserai (Plate IV.). I was sitting talking to one of my

travelling companions when three Turkish soldiers came and demanded to

see my passport. "I have no passport," I replied. "Well, then, pay us

ten _kran_ apiece, and you shall pass the frontier all the same." "No, I

will not pay you a farthing," was the answer they got. "Take that rug

and the bag instead," they cried, and made for my things. This I could

not stand, and gave the man who seized my bag such a blow on the chest

that he dropped his booty, and the same with the man with the rug. The

scoundrels were making to rush at me together, when two of my Arabs came

up to my assistance. To avoid further unpleasantness I went to the

governor, who for six _kran_ gave me a passport.

I had now become so friendly with the Arabs that I obtained the loan of

a horse instead of a mule. We set out again at nine o'clock, and rode

all night in the most brilliant moonshine. I was so sleepy that

sometimes I dozed in the saddle, and once, when the horse shied at a

skeleton on the road, I was roused up and fell off, while the horse ran

off over the steppe. After much trouble one of the caravan men caught

him again, and I slept no more that night.

As usual we stayed over the day at the next village. I was tired of

travelling in this fashion, moving so slowly and seeing so little of the

country. When, then, an old Arab belonging to the caravan came riding up

from Baghdad on a fine Arab horse, I determined to try to get away from

my party with his assistance. He consented to accompany me if I paid him

twenty-five _kran_ a day. At first we kept near the caravan, but as

soon as the moon had set we increased our pace, and when the sound of

the bells grew faint behind us we trotted off quickly through the night.

We arrived safely at Kermanshah on June 13. After paying the old Arab I

had only sixpence left! I could not engage a room or buy anything to

eat, and the prospect of going begging among Mohammedans was certainly

not attractive. Fortunately I had heard of a rich Arab merchant, Agha

Hassan, who lived in this town, and I directed my steps to his handsome

house. In my dusty riding-boots, and whip in hand, I passed through many

fine rooms until at last I found myself in the presence of Agha Hassan,

who was sitting with his secretary in the midst of books and papers. He

wore a white silk mantle embroidered with gold, a turban on his head and

spectacles on his nose, and looked both friendly and dignified.

"How are you, sir?" he asked. "Very well, thank you," I responded.

"Where have you come from?" "From Baghdad." "And where are you going?"

"To Teheran." "Are you an Englishman?" "No, I am a Swede." "Swede? What

is that?" "Well, I come from a country called Sweden." "Whereabouts does

it lie?" "Far away to the north-west, beyond Russia." "Ah, wait, I know!

You are no doubt from Ironhead's country?" "Yes, I am from the country

of Charles XII." "I am very glad to hear it; I have read of Charles the

Twelfth's remarkable exploits; you must tell me about him. And you must

tell me about Sweden, its king and army, and about your own home,

whether your parents are still living, and if you have any sisters. But

first you must promise to stay as my guest for six months. All that I

have is yours. You have only to command." "Sir, I am very thankful for

your kindness, but I cannot avail myself of your hospitality for more

than three days." "You surely mean three weeks?" "No, you are too good,

but I must go back to Teheran." "That is very tiresome, but, however,

you can think it over."

A servant conducted me to an adjoining building, which was to be mine

during my stay, and where I made myself at home in a large apartment

with Persian rugs and black silk divans. Two secretaries were placed at

my disposal, and servants to carry out my slightest wish. If I desired

to eat, they would bring in a piece of excellent mutton on a spit, a

chicken boiled with rice, sour milk, cheese and bread, apricots, grapes,

and melons, and at the end of the meal coffee and a water-pipe; if I

wished to drink, a sweet liquor of iced date-juice was served; and if I

thought of taking a ride in order to see the town and neighbourhood,

pure-blooded Arab horses stood in the court awaiting me.

Before the house lay a peaceful garden surrounded by a wall, and with

its paths laid with marble slabs. Here lilacs blossomed, and here I

could dream the whole day away amidst the perfume of roses. Gold-fishes

swam in a basin of crystal-clear water, and a tiny jet shot up into the

air glittering like a spider's web in the sunshine. I slept in this

enchanting garden at night, and when I awoke in the morning I could

hardly believe that all was real; it was so like an adventure from the

_Thousand and one Nights_. My rich host and my secretaries did not

suspect that I had only sixpence in my pocket.

When the last day came I could no longer conceal my destitute condition.

"I have something unpleasant to confide to you," I said to one of the

secretaries. "Indeed," he answered, looking very astonished. "Yes, my

money has come to an end. My journey has been longer than I expected,

and now I am quite cleared out." "What does that matter? You can get as

much money as you like from Agha Hassan."

It had struck midnight when I went to take farewell of my kind host. He

worked all night during the fasting month. "I am sorry that you cannot

stay longer," he said. "Yes, I too am sorry that I must leave you, and

that I can never repay your great kindness to me." "You know that the

road through the hills is unsafe owing to robbers and footpads. I have

therefore arranged that you shall accompany the post, which is escorted

by three soldiers."

Having thanked him once more, I took my leave. A secretary handed me a

leather purse full of silver. The post rider and the soldiers were

ready; we mounted, rode slowly through the dark, narrow streets of the

town, at a smart trot when the houses were scattered, and then at full

gallop when the desert stretched around us on all sides. We rode 105

miles in sixteen hours, with three relays of horses and barely an hour's

rest. We stayed a day at Hamadan, and then rode on to the capital, with

nine relays of fresh horses. During the last fifty-five hours I never

went to sleep, but often dozed in the saddle. At length the domes of

Teheran, its poplars and plane-trees, stood out against the morning sky,

and, half-dead with weariness, and ragged and torn, I rode through the

south-western gate of the city.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] At the time of this journey, the railway ended at Vladikavkas. Since

then, however, it has been extended to Baku along the northern side of

the Caucasus and the coast of the Caspian (see map, p. 30).

IV

THE PERSIAN DESERT (1906)

ACROSS THE KEVIR

We must now resume the journey to India. You will remember (see p. 33)

that after arriving at Teheran from Trebizond I made up a caravan

consisting of six Persians, one Tatar, and fourteen camels. On January 1

everything is ready. The camels are all laden; thick rugs cover their

backs to prevent them being rubbed sore by the loads, and the humps

stick up through two round holes in the cloths in order that they may

not be crushed and injured.

The largest camels go first. Each has its head adorned with a red

embroidered headstall, studded with shining plates of metal and red and

yellow pompons, and a plume waves above its forehead. Round the chest is

a row of brass sleigh-bells, and one large bell hangs round the neck.

Two of these bells are like small church bells; they are so big that the

camels would knock their knees against them if they were hung in the

usual way, so they are fastened instead to the outer sides of a couple

of boxes on the top of the loads. The camels are proud of being decked

so finely; they are conscious of their own importance, and stalk with

majestic, measured strides through the southern gate of Teheran.

My riding camel is the largest in the caravan (Plate V.). He has thick

brown wool, unusually long and plentiful on his neck and chest. His

loads form a small platform between the humps and along his flanks, with

a hollow in the middle, where I sit as in an armchair, with a leg on

each side of the front hump. From there I can spy out the land, and with

the help of a compass put down on my map everything I see--hills, sandy

zones, and large ravines. Camels put out the two left legs at the same

time, and then the two right legs. Their gait is therefore rolling, and

the rider sits as in a small boat pitching and tossing in a broken sea.

Some people become sea-sick from sitting all day bobbing between the

humps, but one soon becomes accustomed to the motion. When the animal is

standing up it is, of course, impossible to mount on his back without a

ladder, so he has to lie down to let me get on him. But sometimes it

happens that he is in too great a hurry to rise before I am settled in

my place, and then I am flung back on to my head, for he lifts himself

as quickly as a steel spring, first with the hind legs and then with the

fore. But when I am up I am quite at home. Sometimes, on the march, the

camel turns his long neck and lays his shaggy head on my knee. I pat his

nose and stroke him over the eyes. It is impossible to be other than

good friends with an animal which carries you ten hours a day for

several months. In the morning he comes up to my tent, pushes his nose

under the door-flap, and thrusts his shaggy head into the tent, which is

not large, and is almost filled up when he comes on a visit. After he

has been given a piece of bread he backs out again and goes away to

graze.

[Illustration: PLATE V. THE AUTHOR'S RIDING CAMEL, WITH GULAM HUSSEIN.]

The ring of bells is continually in my ears. The large bells beat in

time with the steps of the camels. Their strides are long and slow, and

a caravan seldom travels more than twenty miles in a day.

Our road runs south-eastwards. We have soon left behind us the districts

at the foot of the Elburz Mountains, where irrigation canals from rivers

are able to produce beautiful gardens and fruitful fields. The farther

we proceed the smaller and more scattered are the villages. Only along

their canals is the soil clothed with verdure, and we have scarcely left

a village before we are out on the greyish-yellow desert, where withered

steppe shrubs stand at wide intervals apart. Less and less frequently do

we meet trains of asses bound for Teheran with great bundles of shrubs

and bushes from the steppe to be used as fuel. The animals are small and

miserable, and are nearly hidden by their loads. Their nostrils are

cruelly pierced, so that they may be made to go quicker and keep up

longer. They look sleepy and dejected, these small, obstinate donkeys

which never move out of the way. Their long ears flap backwards and

forwards, and their under-lips hang down like bags.

At the very last village on the edge of the desert we stay two days to

prepare ourselves for the dangers ahead of us. The headman of the

village owns ten camels, which he will gladly hire us for a few days;

they are to carry trusses of straw and water in leathern bags. Our own

camels are already fully laden, and the hired camels are only to give us

a start. When they turn back we shall have to shift for ourselves.

After we have left this village not a sign of life is visible. Before us

to the south-east small isolated hills stand up like islands in the sea,

and beyond them the horizon of the desert lies as level as that of the

ocean. Through this great sandy waste the caravans travel from oasis to

oasis, but in the north there is a tract, called the Kevir, within which

not the smallest oasis can be found. Not a clump of grass, not even a

blade, is to be seen, for the desert is saturated with salt, and when it

rains in winter the briny clay becomes as slippery as ice. And this is

precisely the place we are making for.

We travelled a whole month before we came to the point where we intended

to make the attempt to cross the Kevir. Hitherto everything had

continued in a steady course, and one day had been like another. It was

winter and we had fully 25 degrees of frost in the night: one day it

snowed so thickly that the foremost camels in the train were seen only

as faint shadows. For several days mist lay so dense over the desert

that we had to trust chiefly to the compass. Sometimes we travelled for

four or five days without finding a drop of water, but we had all we

needed in our leathern bags.

At the edge of the sandy desert, where high dunes are piled up by the

wind, tamarisks and saxauls were often growing. Both are steppe bushes

which grow to a height of several feet; their stems are hard and

provided us with excellent fuel. My servants gathered large faggots, and

the camp fires flamed up brightly and grandly, throwing a yellow light

over the silent waste.

From a village called Jandak I set out with only two men and four

camels, but we had to wait for four days on the edge of the salt desert

because of rain. When rain falls in the Kevir the whole desert soon

becomes a sea of slippery mud, and camels cannot walk without slipping

and falling. Whole caravans have perished in this cruel desert by being

overtaken by rain, and in many other cases the men only have managed to

escape with the loss of their camels and their merchandise. It was

therefore fortunate for us that we were overtaken by rain before we were

out on the slippery clay. We waited till the desert had dried up again,

and then we joined forces with a caravan which came from the south.

It was pitch dark when we began to move. A fire was set going, and the

camels were laden by its light. Then we started, the fire disappeared,

and night and the desert lay before us. Only the ring of bells disturbed

the silence. We could not see where we were going, but had to trust our

riding camels. The Persians marched all the morning and most of the day

without a halt; the strength of both men and camels is strained to the

uttermost in order to get through the desert before the next rain

comes--and it may come at any moment.

After a short rest we hasten northwards again, for there is no question

of halting for the night. The darkness seems interminable, but at length

it begins to grow light again. Still the Persians do not stop, so there

is nothing for me to do but to struggle to keep up with them. "Keep

awake, sir!" shouts Gulam Hussein; "you can sleep when we get to the

other side." Another day passes, and again we rest awhile to give the

camels some straw and to drink a cup of tea ourselves. Scarcely have we

begun to enjoy the rest, however, when the chimes of the bells ring out

again. The caravan is already on the move, so we pack up and follow in

its trail.

The sky seems very unpromising, and is clouded all over. The desert is

as level as a floor; not a mound as high as a kneeling camel. The sun

sinks in the west. Like a red-hot cannon-ball it shines through a rift

between dark clouds, and a shaft of dazzling red rays streams over the

desert, the surface of which shines like a purple sea. To the north the

sky is of a dark violet colour, and against this background the camels

stand out brick-red.

The sun sets, the colours grow pale, and the long shadows which the

camels lately cast far away over the ground fade away. Another night

rises up from the east. It grows darker and darker, the caravan is lost

to view, but the bells ring out with a clear resonance. On we go without

stop or rest. This night is more trying, for we had not a wink of sleep

the night before.

The clouds break in the zenith, and the moon looks down on our progress.

The camels are seen again and shadows fall again over the desert. Here

it is as bare and desolate as on the face of the moon.

At midnight the sky becomes dark once more. The Persians have clambered

up on to their camels, and the swaying motion soon carries them into the

land of dreams. Soon no one is awake but the leader, who guides the

first camel, and myself, who am riding on the last. Suddenly heavy

drops begin to fall, and in a minute the rain pelts down on camels,

loads, and sleepers.

In a second the pace of the caravan is changed. Hear how hurriedly and

anxiously the bells swing and beat! They peal as if to awaken soldiers

and citizens in a burning town. Now the rain patters down on the level

desert and the camels begin to slip. We must hasten if our lives are

dear to us, or the desert will suck us in at the eleventh hour. The men

shout to urge on the camels. Now the bells clang as though to wake up

the dead to judgment.

There goes a camel down in the mire. Poor animals, they are lost on such

ground, for they have not hoofs like horses, but soft callous pads. When

they slip they do so thoroughly and suddenly. All four legs fly up in

one direction, and the heavy body with the loads thumps down in the

other. It is bad enough for the camel, but still worse for his rider. A

moment before he sat so well packed up, longing for the edge of the

desert sea, and now he lies sprawling in the slush.

One after another the camels fall and have to be helped up again. All

this causes delay, and meanwhile the clay is gradually becoming softer.

At every step the camels sink in deeper, the rain still pelts down, and

the bells ring jerkily. If they cease to ring, it will be because the

desert has conquered; at this very moment they stop.

"What is the matter?" I call out.

"We are at the Devil's ditch," answers a voice in the darkness.

The bells ring slowly again as the camels wade one after the other

through a trench full of salt water. I tighten my knees when my turn

comes. I cannot see the water, but I hear it spurting and splashing

round the legs of the camels in front of me. Now my camel slides down a

nasty mud bank. He slithers and wriggles about to keep himself up, and

then he, too, tramps through the water and scrambles up the other side.

"Tamarisks," I hear some one shout. Welcome sound! It means that we are

safe, for nothing grows in the salt desert. When we come to the first

tamarisks we are again on sandy ground. Then all danger is past, and

what does it matter if we are dead tired? Two more hours and we reach a

village. There Gulam Hussein makes ready a chicken and some eggs, and

then I lie down in a hut and sleep as I have never slept before.

[Illustration: PLATE VI. TEBBES.

The tree in the foreground is a huge tamarisk.]

THE OASIS OF TEBBES

Any one who has not travelled himself for weeks together through the

desert can scarcely conceive what it is to come at length to an oasis.

An oasis is to the desert wanderer what a peaceful island with its

sheltered anchorage is to mariners. Oases are like stars in the dark

vault of heaven, like moments of happiness and prosperity in a man's

life. If you had roamed for two months in the wilderness, like myself

and my Persians, you would be able to understand our feelings when we at

last saw the date-palms of Tebbes beckoning to us in the distance (see

map, p. 73).

A lofty minaret rises above the little town, which is surrounded by a

wall (Plate VI.). Within are old buildings, mosques, and a fort with

towers. Outside the town are tilled fields and palm groves.

Spring had come when we pitched our tents on a meadow in the shade of

thick dark-green palms. There was a rustle and pleasant whisper among

the hard fronds when the spring storms swept over the country. We were

tired of the everlasting dull yellow tint of the desert and were

delighted with the fresh verdure. Outside my tent purled a brook of fine

cool water, all the more agreeable after the intense drought of the

desert. A nightingale sang in the crown of the palm above my tent. He

plays an important part in Persian poetry under the name of _bulbul_.

If you were in some mysterious manner transferred to Tebbes, you would

on the very first evening wonder what was the curious serenade which you

heard from the desert. If you sat at the fall of day reading at the door

of your tent, you would look up from your book and listen. You would

have an uneasy feeling and be uncomfortable at being alone in the tent.

But after the same serenade had been repeated every evening as regular

as the sunset, you would become accustomed to it, and at length trouble

yourself no more about it.

It is only the jackals singing their evening song. The word "jackal" is

Persian, and the jackal is allied to the dog, the wolf, and the fox. He

is a beast of prey and seeks his food at night. He is not large, is

yellowish-grey in colour, has pointed ears and small, keen eyes, and

holds his tail erect, not hanging down like the wolf's. Nothing edible

comes amiss to him, but he prefers chickens and grapes to fallen caravan

animals. If he can find nothing else, he steals dates in the palm

gardens, especially when ripe fruits have fallen after heavy storms.

The jackal is, indeed, a shameless, impudent little rascal. One night a

pack of jackals sneaked into our garden and carried off our only cock

under the very noses of the dogs. We were awakened by the noise of a

terrible struggle between the two forces, but the jackals got the better

of it and we heard the despairing cackle of the cock dying away in the

desert.

Heaven knows where the jackals remain as long as the sun is up! In

zoological text-books it is stated that they dwell in holes, but I could

see no holes round Tebbes, and yet jackals come in troops to the oasis

every night. They are as mysterious as the desert; they are found

everywhere and nowhere.

As soon as the sun sinks below the horizon and the darkness spreads its

veil over the silent desert, and the palms doze off, waiting for the

return of the sun, then begins the jackals' serenade. It sounds like a

short, sharp laugh rising and falling, a plaintive whine increasing in

strength and dying away again, answered by another pack in another

direction; a united cry of anguish from children in trouble and calling

for help. They say to one another, "Comrades, we are hungry, let us seek

about for food," and gather together from their unknown lairs. Then they

steal cautiously to the skirts of the oasis, hop over walls and bars and

thieve on forbidden ground.

These insignificant noisy footpads live on the refuse and offal of the

desert from Cape Verde in the uttermost west of the Old World to the

interior of India; but their home is not in the silent desert alone.

When the military bands strike up at the clubs in Simla, you have only

to put your head out of the window to hear the mournful, piteous, and

distressed howl of the jackals.

They are not always to be treated lightly, for in 1882 jackals killed

359 men in Bengal alone. Especially are they a terrible danger when

hydrophobia rages among them, as the experiences of the last Boundary

Commission in Seistan showed. A mad jackal sneaked into the camp one

night and bit a sleeping man in the face. Within six weeks the man was

dead. Others stole into the natives' huts and lay in ambush, waiting for

an opportunity to bite. Perhaps the worst incident occurred on a dark

winter's night, when a north wind was raging and sweeping the dust along

the ground. A mad jackal came into the Englishmen's camp and crept into

a tent where several men were sleeping. Fortunately he only set his

teeth in a felt rug. This wakened the sleepers, however, and they at

once started up and looked for weapons. The camp consisted of three

sections, and more than a hundred tethered camels. In the pitchy

darkness it was impossible to see where the jackal went, but the camels

could be heard shrieking with fear, and thus it was only too clear where

the brute was. When day broke seventy-eight bitten dromedaries were

counted. They were isolated from the others, and killed as soon as they

showed signs of sickness, while the dogs and goats which had been bitten

by the jackal were shot at once.

Twenty years ago I myself had a little adventure with jackals. I was

riding with a couple of servants and some horses to the Caspian shore

from the interior of Persia, and encamped one evening at a village in

the Elburz Mountains. The caravanserai was notorious for its vermin, so

I preferred to make myself comfortable in a garden with fruit trees and

poplars, protected by a wall five feet high and without any gates. We

had to climb over the wall in order to get in. I had a saddle for a

pillow and lay wrapped in a felt rug and a cloak. The remains of my

supper, bread, honey, and apples, stood on my two small leather trunks.

When it grew dark my men went off to the village and I rolled myself up

and went to sleep.

Two hours later I was awakened by a scratching noise at the trunks and

sat up to listen, but could hear nothing but the murmur of a small brook

close at hand. The darkness was intense, only a little starlight passing

faintly through the foliage. So I went to sleep again. A little later I

was roused once more by the same noise, and heard a tearing and tugging

at the straps. Then I jumped up and distinguished half a dozen jackals

disappearing like shadows among the poplars. There was no more sleep for

me that night. It was all I could do to keep the importunate beasts at a

distance. If I kept quiet for a minute they were up again, tearing the

leathern straps, and would not make off until I struck a box with my

riding whip. They soon became accustomed even to this and drew back only

a few steps. Then I remembered the apples, and as soon as the jackals

crept up again, I threw one of them with all my strength into the ruck,

and used them as missiles till the last apple had disappeared into the

darkness. Most of my shots were misses, for I only once heard a howl

from one of the impudent animals.

The night seemed endless, but at length the day dawned between the

poplars, and the jackals jumped quietly over the wall. Then I should

have liked some breakfast, but there was not a bit of the supper left;

the jackals had taken it all. However, I had a sound sleep instead. I

heard afterwards that the jackals in that country are so vicious that

two or three of them will attack a man, so in future I always had my

servants sleeping near me.