1839
Scarcely had I landed from the Creole when I received the distressing
news of the death of my sister Marie, Duchess of Wurtemberg. It was the
first mourning in our family, the first break in that numerous circle
of tenderly attached brothers and sisters. I adored my sister, who was
a most remarkable woman, witty, as passionate in her antipathies as in
her affections, an artist to the very tips of her fingers. Her death
was a deep sorrow to me, and it saddened my short stay among my own
people. A short stay it was indeed, for I only came ashore in March,
and June found me at the entrance of the Dardanelles, attached to the
staff of Admiral Lalande, commanding our squadron in the Levant.
I had rather a funny little adventure on my way to take up my duty. I
had asked the then Minister of the Interior, M. Duchatel, to give
orders that there should be no official reception when I passed through
Toulon--no firing of guns, nor authorities waiting at the city gates,
nor troops drawn up, all that wearisome and commonplace ceremonial
which I had been through I know not how many times already. The
minister had given his promise, and, strong in his assurance, I was
just getting there quietly in my travelling-carriage, when the sight of
a mounted gendarme, who galloped off the moment he caught sight of us
just after we got through the pass of Ollioules, made me suspect some
treachery or other. Without a second's hesitation I jumped out of the
carriage, the moment the gendarme was out of sight, and desiring my
valet to go on with it, struck across the fields on foot to the
harbour. I had not been mistaken, for soon I heard twenty-one guns
greeting the entrance of my empty vehicle into Toulon, doubtless amid
what the stereotyped official phrase would call, and with good reason
this time, a scene of indescribable enthusiasm.
Important events were occurring in the east in rapid succession at the
time I joined Lalande's squadron. The recommencement of the struggle
between ancient Turkey and that youthful Egypt which the genius of
Mehemet Ali had created, had just ended in the final defeat of the
Turks in the battle of Nezib--a defeat which was closely followed by
the death of Sultan Mahmoud, the last of the determined autocrats of
the race of Othman. Action on the part of the European fleet might
arise at any moment, owing to these complications and the rivalries
thereby excited between England and Russia--great Eastern powers both
of them. Our sole preoccupation therefore during our cruise in the
Dardanelles was to get our ships into such condition that they might
make a good show in the event of anything of the kind occurring. I have
related elsewhere how we succeeded, under the powerful will of Admiral
Lalande, in reconstituting such a fighting fleet as we had never
possessed since the Revolution swept away at one fell swoop the whole
of the navy of Louis XVI., with its body of first-class officers, and
all that collection of traditions both as to discipline and knowledge
which it had gradually acquired.
The admiral's great merit lay in reconstituting these traditions, which
have taken deep root and are carefully treasured still. And the curious
thing, the peculiar trait, about him was that, though he desired
certain results, he would have nothing to do with the means to
attaining them. This state of warlike efficiency was not obtained
without trouble. Constantly under sail, and overtaxed with rough and
unaccustomed forms of drill as the crews were, demoralized too by
accidents--men killed or arms and legs broken--the result insisted on
by the chief in command was only reached by treating them with extreme
severity. On board the Jena, the flagship, corporal
punishment--nowadays found useless, and therefore very properly
abolished--was of daily occurrence. But the admiral ignored it, never
would have it even mentioned to him. He left all that to his flag
captain, my friend Bruat, a most energetic officer. I never heard one
word of reprimand from Admiral Lalande's lips, and once I saw him get
into a fury with one of his captains, who had appealed to his
disciplinary authority. The scene is worth describing.
This worthy captain (his name was Danican) commanded the ship Jupiter,
on which I had taken passage from Toulon to join the squadron, and one
of my earliest duties was to present the new comer, with his staff, to
the admiral. These gentlemen stood in a circle in the great cabin round
Captain Danican, armed to the teeth, cocked hat in hand, and his
sword-belt buckled high up round his little body. There they waited.
"Pere Danican,' as he was familiarly called, a veteran sailor, whose
name is borne by one of the streets in St. Malo, had the most splendid
service record, with this item in particular, that he had been reported
as killed in a fight with the English. He had been struck in the belly
by grape-shot, lost consciousness, and laid out with the rest of the
dead, of whom a list was being made before throwing them overboard one
after the other, when the battle was over They were actually swinging
him backwards and forwards to heave him over the side, when one of his
comrades called out, "Hold on. Let Danican alone. We'll give him a
funeral"--to which ceremony the old Breton owed his life, though it did
not soften the by no means placid character of the strict old
disciplinarian.
And accordingly, something in his eye, when the admiral came skipping
in smilingly, with a commonplace "Good-day, Danican" "Good-day
gentlemen," warned me we were going to have a scene. "Admiral," he
shouted in a voice of thunder, "I have the honour to present the staff
of the ship Jupiter to you--and I take this opportunity, Admiral, of
telling you that it would be impossible to be more dissatisfied with
these gentlemen than I am!" This tirade concluded by a violent wave of
his cocked hat, while the officers stood motionless and stared at the
deck. A thunderbolt falling out of heaven would not have startled the
admiral more than this speech. I never saw any man so put out of
countenance. He shuffled his feet, gave a forced laugh, and not finding
anything to say, stammered some disconnected words, "I trust . . . my
dear. . . Danican .... a regard for duty . . . these gentlemen ....!"
We put a stop to the distressing scene by low bows of dismissal, and
everybody went off in a rage--the officers with their captain, the
captain with the admiral for not supporting discipline, and the admiral
with everybody, including, it may be, his own self.
Nobody was satisfied, which is indeed the invariable consequence of
weakness, for the love of vulgar popularity was the weakness of our
eminent chief, so deeply respected on other accounts. This same
weakness caused him to end his days as a Deputy of the most colourless
opinions.
I cruised for six months outside the Dardanelles, first with the Iena
and afterwards with the Belle-Poule, which had joined the squadron and
of which I had been given command--six months which offered nothing in
the way of wild gaiety, beyond the routine of my duty. True, we saw the
sun rise over Mount Ida every morning, but we never saw the shadow of a
goddess. The utmost we did in the short breathing spaces between our
drills and cruises between Cape Baba and the Isles of Tenedos, Lemnos
and Imbro, was to land at the slaughter-house of the contractor to the
squadron, irreverently styled Charognopolis, for an excursion to the
ruins of Troy, to shoot snipe in the marshes of Simois, or get a hare
on the tomb of Patroclus.
This monotony was broken, however, by the appearance of the Turkish
fleet, which we saw issuing, forty strong, from the Dardanelles,
sailing along in confusion, driving before a strong breeze--altogether
a most stately sight.
We took station abreast of the squadron, saluting the Capitan Pasha,
who on his side ordered his fleet to heave to--a manoeuvre which was
performed amid a fine confusion. A steam launch at once came towards
us. It bore the second in command of the fleet, Osman Pasha, sent by
the Capitan Pasha to request an interview with Admiral Lalande. He
consented and boarded the Turkish ship, taking me with him.
During our passage to the Capitan Pasha's flag-ship, Osman Pasha led us
below, closed all the cabin doors with an air of mystery, and with the
help of a young Armenian dragoman he told us a long story, which I will
sum up in a few words. Constantinople, so he said, was being laid waste
by fire and sword. On the death of Sultan Mahmoud, Kosrew Pasha, who
was no better than a Russian agent, had seized the reins of power. He
stuck at nothing, so long as he kept them. The real Turks, the faithful
Mussulmans, were losing their heads by the hundred; the head of the
faith himself, the Sheik el Islam, had not been spared. He refused to
consecrate the new Sultan until he wore the venerated turban of Othman
upon his head instead of the revolutionary fez, and for this he was
strangled at midnight, with great pomp it is true, and amid the salvos
of artillery due to his exalted rank (a poor consolation, I thought to
myself!). The lives of Osman Pasha himself and of his chief, the
Capitan Pasha, hung by a thread. Wherefore they had both resolved,
instead of fighting against Mehemet Ali, as everybody believed they
would, to make common cause with him, so as to unite all the Mussulman
strength in one single alliance, and make one of those concentrated
efforts which have been the dream of every period and every country
which has been torn by revolution. In plain English, the two chiefs in
command were carrying the unconscious fleet into an act of defection
which was intended to save their own heads. They wanted the admiral's
approbation, which he refused. Then they asked for a French warship to
go with them as a sort of lifeboat, which he promised them, and above
all, they begged that no word, glance, or gesture of ours, during the
visit we were about to pay, might betray the secret confided to us. We
then boarded the Capitan Pasha's flagship, where we had a reception
that was truly oriental in its mingled pomp and duplicity--we alone,
amidst the crowd of courtiers, officers, and foreign representatives
surrounding this commander-in-chief, about to turn traitor, being
possessed of his secret. Not to mention that as we went along the gun
decks, we saw the Turkish gunners smoking their pipes beside the heaps
of cartridges piled between the guns. A highly oriental sight also, and
far from tranquillizing!
By evening the Turkish fleet had disappeared over the horizon, and the
only other recollection my memory holds of this period is that of a
reconnaissance along the northern coast of the Dardanelles, and the
peninsula between Gallipoli and the Gulf of Saron, which reconnaissance
I made with several other officers, under colour of a sporting
expedition in a Turkish boat called a sakoleve and with a view to an
ultimate military occupation of the peninsula. Mayhap the notes made
during this expedition were of use when Gallipoli was occupied in 1854,
at the beginning of the Crimean War.
In the course of the autumn, I beheld Constantinople, that most
wonderful of landscapes, for the first time in my life. And to begin
with, the thing which struck me most were the sunsets over the huge
city. Nothing can give any idea of how magnificent they are, with the
towers and thousand mosques of Stamboul standing out like a mysterious
vision in the misty golden haze, an enchanted city of aerial palaces
hanging in mid-air. In those days the soft evening mists I speak of
were ideal in their transparence, which no smoke ever dimmed, for the
factories and steamboats which now hang their black plumes over
Constantinople were then unknown. Instead of steamers, there were only
those delightful caiques, laden with brightly-dressed passengers,
gliding silently along in their thousands, and leaving as it were
tracks of glistening spangles in their wake. Nothing can ever efface
that sight from my recollection.
Among the caiques, which are quite peculiar to the Bosphorus, was one I
met many a time, and which was indeed well known to everybody. It
belonged to a sister of the late Sultan Mahmoud, celebrated in
Constantinople for her love affairs--a sort of Marguerite de Bourbon,
for whose fleeting favours several people had paid with their heads.
Three oarsmen, splendid white-skinned fellows with long fair
moustaches, and athletic frames scarcely concealed beneath their white
drawers and striped silk gauze shirts, sent their mistress's caique
flying through the water. She was a tall woman, with piercing eyes and
an aristocratic air--always seated between two lovely maids of honour.
I say lovely, for the Turkish woman, when she is unobserved, when she
knows her own beauty and meets eyes whose admiration she desires to
rouse, always finds means of permitting her veil the most delightful if
indiscreet revelations. Consequently I was always on the look-out to
try and get a sight of the Sultana's caique. It must be remembered I
was just off a cruise after long months spent in warlike solitude on
board ship. So, though St. Sophia, with its size and its legend, had
struck me as being the most profoundly devotional edifice I had ever
seen--an impression which the sight of St. Peter's at Rome and of the
Cathedral of Seville has never removed--my attention and curiosity were
much more drawn to the earthly representatives of the houris promised
to the faithful, than to the monuments of the Faith.
The curiosity I speak of led me on a certain Friday to the Sweet Waters
of Asia. I found the loveliest of scenes lying before my eyes that
delicious afternoon towards the end of August. Imagine an immense
meadow, broken up by clumps of trees, sloping down to the swift blue
waters of the Bosphorus, on the other side of which ran wooded hills
dotted with mosques and minarets and gaily painted country houses.
Close to the edge of the water stands a kiosk, and an elegantly-carved
marble fountain. And around the kiosk is a sort of promenade shaded by
huge plane-trees. Under these plane-trees a hundred, or thereabouts,
gaily adorned and plumed arabas, now standing unharnessed in the
meadow, had deposited an army of the smartest Turkish ladies. Some of
them sat beside the water, others round the fountain, others again
followed little pashas mounted on ponies led by eunuchs. What with the
richness of the landscape, the truly oriental light, and the variety
and splendour of the dresses, the whole sight was really fairy-like. We
were very desirous of studying it in detail, and at close quarters. A
line of soldiers cut off the portion of the grove of plane-trees
reserved to women only. But our ambassadress and her daughters, who had
come at the same time as ourselves, had a right to enter it, and we
hurried after them. At first the officer commanding the guard tried to
stop us. However, after a colloquy with the dragoman of our Embassy, he
contented himself with begging us to go through quickly. The ladies of
the Embassy having seated themselves among the Turkish ladies, we did
likewise, and, in spite of the angry glances of the eunuchs, by dint of
mutual curiosity and a little flirtation we spent several hours quite
delightfully. Lots of pretty women, and forbidden fruit into the
bargain. No more veils, no more feredjes. We could scrutinize the
exquisite costumes at our leisure.
When I say "No more veils" I ought rather to say nothing but an excuse
for a veil--a gauze chin covering leaving nose and eyes and eyebrows
bare, and so transparent across the mouth, that where that mouth was a
pretty one, to cover it at all was but an extra piece of coquetry.
All these women were chatting, eating, amusing themselves, some
sitting, some lying down, going and coming, hanging about near the
ladies of the Embassy, to examine the details of their dresses too. If
instantaneous photography had existed in those days, what an infinity
of charming and picturesque groups might have been snatched. I did
venture to make one or two rapid sketches on the sly; but there were
too many eyes upon me, and besides it was an abuse of the toleration
which was being shown us. I could not tear myself away from this most
exceptional sight, which will never be seen again, now the Turkish
ladies have adopted European fashions--boots and petticoats, and stays,
deceiving stays!
But every good thing comes to an end, and besides, as the day wore on,
a great cloud of smoke rose over Constantinople, and steadily increased
in volume. It was evidently a fire. In that country, where all the
buildings except the mosques and a house here and there are wooden--a
fire is a terribly serious thing. Was it Stamboul, or was it Pera, and
with Pera our hotel, that was blazing? Carried along by the sinewy
strokes of our caiqchis, and aided by the current, we went swiftly down
the Bosphorus, landed at Dolma-Batche, and rapidly climbed the Cemetery
Hill. Thence I saw a striking sight. The whole quarter below, called
Kassim Pasha, lying between Pera and Galata, was in flames. Over three
hundred houses were sparks, already burnt out. The wooden houses,
kindled by falling crackled like faggots, and we could see the
conflagration spreading like a spot of oil. Fifty houses away from
those actually on fire, people were turning out, throwing doors and
windows and furniture into the streets, without warning of any kind.
Drawing nearer the scene of the fire, we came upon a troop of
vile-looking fellows, the rioters of our country, grafted onto the
Mussulman fanatic--kavasses were raining blows with their sticks on
this crowd of volunteers (or thieves); firemen, bare-armed and
turbanless, hurried along, with their fire pumps on their shoulders,
shouting shrilly and knocking over people as they went; troops kept
coming up from all quarters, horsemen trotted up at full speed, and
packs of terrified dogs tore wildly through the streets, howling with
pain. It was a singular sight indeed.
Seeing the flames kept gaining ground, and were already licking the
first houses in the European quarter in Pera, I sent orders for the
crews of two of our ships, anchored at Tophana, to land, slipped on my
uniform, and put myself at their head, resolved to try and save the
Frank town. Luckily it was calm, or the attempt would have been quite
hopeless. But the sun had set red, and that presaged wind. There was no
time to be lost. I hurried up with a hundred and fifty sailors. The
first houses on each side of the street of Pera were in flames, but a
spot was pointed out to me, twelve or fifteen houses off, where, the
street narrowing between a stone mosque and some gardens, one might
hope to clear a space to stop the fire, by pulling down the five or six
intervening houses. I had no hesitation in giving the order for this,
my men set eagerly to work, and all the active portion of the Frank
population of Pera were seconding our efforts, when one of the generals
of the garrison, Selim Pasha, came up with his men, and fell into a
fury at the sight of what we were doing. I forthwith seized him by the
hand and dragged him, the dragoman of the Embassy, M. Lauxerrois,
following us, to the top of the minaret of the mosque. Here I said to
the dragoman, "Do show this fool of a pasha that the clearing we are
making is our only chance of saving Pera;" and as M. Lauxerrois began
to translate this into Turkish, "Don't trouble," said Selim Pasha, in
very good French, "I understand." I begged his pardon for the epithet,
but he had passed suddenly already from rage to enthusiasm. He tore
down stairs four steps at a time, and I shortly saw him without his
coat, in trousers and list braces, helping us to pull down the houses,
and setting an example of the utmost activity to his own men.
Down came the houses, one after the other. Our sailors behaved
splendidly. They climbed up on to the roofs and fastened ropes, to
which we harnessed the whole of the population, while the frameworks
were being sawn through below till the whole thing came down with a
crash. Indeed I saw one house come down with five or six sailors
perched on its roof. I rushed forward in horror, thinking they must all
be maimed or killed. Not a bit of it! Only a few hands and feet torn by
nails! Truly God watches over the brave! The fall of one Turkish house
caused a pretty scene! The proprietor was determined to prevent it. He
struck and swore at us,--pulling out his beard. The anticipation of the
destruction of his property drove him wild. Finding nobody paid any
attention to him, he called his women folk to his assistance. They
hastened up like furies, at first. Then, changing their tactics, they
cast themselves on my officers, clasping them in their arms, covering
them with kisses and caresses, and trying "the power of their charms on
them in every imaginable way. It was a curious sight truly to watch by
the light of the flames, and amidst such a cacophony of races, a
handful of sailors stopping the passers-by, Turks as well as the rest,
setting them to work, snatching the fire-pumps from the firemen,
carrying soldiers and generals too along with them, and in fact ruling
the roast in the very middle of Constantinople.
At last, thanks to the fire-pump and thanks to our own selves, the fire
stopped just where we had fought it. I went off then towards the
cemetery, where it was still burning, and where the sight was most
singular. An immense crowd of people, the whole population of the
burnt-out quarters of the town, in every imaginable costume, and silent
like true fatalists, herded on the hill and the plateau, together with
whatever had been saved out of the disaster. Under the red light of the
conflagration, the flames of which shot up in great jets into the
skies, the huge bivouac made a splendid picture, reminding one of the
works of the English painter Martyn, the Last Judgment, Belshezzar's
Feast, and so forth. Stamboul, with her forest of minarets and her
thousands of lights, stood out on the horizon against a lovely starry
sky, and in the foreground the Seraskier sat in a big armchair,
surrounded by an immense staff, seeming very philosophically resigned
to the catastrophe over which he appeared to be presiding. In one hand
he held his pipe, and in the other a slice of melon. We were already
well acquainted, and when he saw me coming up, all blackened with smoke
and ashes, he roared with laughter. But he gave me a slice of his
melon, and very grateful it was to my parched throat.
The fire was under control--that is to say, there was only one block of
houses left burning, and this had no communication with either Galata
or Pera. But the disaster was a great one. Over fifteen hundred houses
had been burnt. The exact number was never known. First because nobody
counted them--that would have been quite contrary to oriental
indifference and fatalism--and then because it would have been
excessively difficult to make them out, in the confused ash heap which
had taken their place. The number of families reduced to destitution
must have been very considerable, but individual charity is very
liberal amongst the Mussulmans, as indeed amongst all people possessed
of religious faith. I got home, at one o'clock in the morning, worn
out. Shortly afterwards the wind rose. If it had begun to blow a little
earlier, nothing would have remained of Pera, of the Frankish town, nor
of the Embassies.
A very few days had gone by when I was bidden to quite a different sort
of entertainment. After the disease of adopting the Gentile's trousers
and frock-coat, yet another disease seized upon Turkey--that of having
a constitution in imitation of the constitutions in vogue amongst the
Giaours, and the Sultan had the kindness to ask me to see one
proclaimed. Concerning the constitution itself, which bore the
altogether Turkish name of "Hatti Schereef de Gulhane," I will say
nothing. First of all because I never read it, and secondly because I
have been told it was "liberal," that is to say, fitted, like M.
Prudhomme's sword, to organize government, and if necessary to destroy
it, this last more frequently--and that is quite enough for me. But the
proclamation ceremony was likely to be curious. So on the appointed day
I started forth in full uniform, to be present at it. It was to take
place within the Seraglio. The first incident in the day was that my
boat met the Russian Minister's caique at the landing-stage, and as
neither of our coxswains would yield to the other there was an awful
bump, which damaged the dignity of our attitudes by knocking us down
like card houses. Then we had to ride rather frisky horses in Turkish
saddles, and this, what with our cocked hats, dangling swords, and
unstrapped trousers, was yet another trial to the dignity of some of my
sailor comrades. Nevertheless, we got without hindrance to a kiosk, the
upper story of which was to be occupied by the Sultan and his harem,
and the lower by the diplomatic corps. A special window had been
reserved for me. Bands began to play, loud shouts were heard. The
Sultan was coming, on horseback, preceded by a crowd of officers and
pashas, in full dress. Between him and them, dressed in a sort of blue
blouse with epaulettes, hobbled a little lame man with a big red head,
a white beard, and a spiteful-looking face. It was Kosrew Pasha, the
Grand Vizier, he who had caused so many heads to fall, the strangler of
the Sheik el Islam. He bowed low several times as he passed me. After
him came the Sultan's pages, handsome young fellows, carrying halberts
and wearing gilt shakos with immense plumes of peacocks' feathers,
aigrettes, or birds of Paradise. In the centre of them was the Sultan
himself, almost hidden by their plumes. He kept his head thrown back
and wore a black cloak trimmed with diamonds and a fez with an aigrette
adorned with the same stones. He dismounted. The Grand Vizier and the
new Sheik el Islam held up the corners of his cloak, while a hideous
negro, with hanging lips and haunches like a woman, covered with
embroideries, advanced to receive him. This was Kislar Aga, chief
eunuch and governor of the harem.
And now everybody has come, "Let the sport begin." From my window I
look out on a broad space, surrounded by beautiful umbrella pines and
sloping gently down to the sea. Beyond is the Asiatic shore of the
Bosphorus and the pretty village of Kadi-Keni. This space is full of
troops, twelve splendid battalions of the Imperial Guard, Lancers and
Artillery. These form a circle, in the centre of which rises a pulpit
covered with some yellow stuff, and around it the pashas and the whole
body of Ulemas and Mollahs, wearing the ancient costume--coloured
kaftans, and big white or green turbans crossed with broad gold
bands--shortly collect. The chief dervishes and the heads of all the
religious sects are there also. All this clergy stands there
motionless, impassive, with lowered eyes, not over pleased, I fancy, at
bottom. Then the crowd makes a rush, which infuriates the Grand Vizier.
He makes towards it, lifting his little leg very high and waving his
handkerchief. At the very sight of him everybody flees, and retires
humbly within bounds. Then the manuscript of the Hatti-Schereef is
brought to him. He carries it respectfully to his lips and forehead,
and hands it over to Reschid Pasha, who ascends the pulpit and reads it
out. That over and finished midst the deepest silence, an Imaum takes
Reschid Pasha's place in the pulpit. He stretches out his arms. All
present do the same, the soldiers stretching out but one on account of
their weapons, and he intones the prayer for the Sultan, which every
one repeats in chorus. After which every man passes his hand across his
eyes and beard and the troops shout "Allah" three times, with
unequalled fervour and passion. Hundreds of cannon are fired in all
directions, and the beautiful sight, lighted up by the most brilliant
of sunshine, has come to an end. The Sultan has departed. The Sultana
Valide sends me a posse of officials, bearing cakes and sweetmeats. I
take leave of Kosrew Pasha and depart also, thinking sadly that if this
Turkish people, so brave on the field of battle and apparently still so
devoted to its sovereign, and so firm in its religious faith, is truly,
in spite of all, a rapidly decaying nation, the miserable rag of paper
read out this day will certainly not save it.
The Sultan gave me an uninteresting audience in the pretty Top-Kapou
Palace--now burnt down, I believe--which stood on the extreme end of
the Seraglio point. I had visited the palace, which was then
unoccupied, with a very witty Pasha who spoke French admirably
well--and whom I had known in Paris--Namick Pasha, commander of the
Imperial Guard. We had gone over all the rooms in the harem, and this
visit, with the explanations and commentaries given me by such a guide,
had been most interesting. One room was a perfect gem, and I cannot
resist the pleasure of describing it. It was very large, circular, the
floor covered with very fine matting. All round it was a little raised
platform, covered with divans. The walls were entirely formed of great
mirrors, in splendid rococo frames of carved wood, gilt. It was
evidently the room in which the harem festivals were held. Between the
mirrors were eight little doors, every one leading to a small apartment
for one woman, fitted with mirrors and divans and each hung with a
different stuff. To complete the whole thing, there was a passage
leading to a bath-house, consisting of several very pretty marble
bath-rooms. The master of all this must have had a good time! All sorts
of details were given me while I was there. The Sultan had no
legitimate wives except those who bear children--so the competition may
be imagined. Mahmoud had had thirty-five children, but only five were
left, two sons and three daughters. The rest had died in infancy. The
actual Sultan, Abdul-Medjid, who was very young at the time of my
visit, had only one wife with child, but his mother, the Sultana
Valide, had just presented him with six young ladies, said to be
charming, as an encouragement. Besides this, every year, at the Feast
of Bairam, the Sheik el Islam gives the Sultan a beautiful slave to
whom he is compelled by the Law and the Prophet to give proofs of his
affection, that very day, on pain of incurring the wrath of Allah. Only
nobody knows whether Allah, up in his celestial home, has reason to be
pleased or not.
Having still a few spare days before I rejoined the squadron, I took
advantage of an Austrian steamer to cross the Black Sea as far as
Trebizond, whence I gazed admiringly on the splendid chain of the snowy
Caucasian peaks. I should much have liked to get as far as Erzeroum, in
the heart of Asia Minor. But as time failed me I contented myself with
travelling at full speed for one day, along the road leading thither,
with the Tartar or postman who carried the mails, so as to obtain some
idea of the country. When I say road I speak figuratively. It was not
even a path. It was a mere track across the woods and rocks and ravines
of that mountainous region, but along that track the Tartar galloped
imperturbably, never stopping however terrible the ground might be.
When the post-carrying experience was over, my comrades and I were more
done up than we had ever been in our lives. The least weary of the
party was the son of our consul at Trebizond, Maxime Outrey, a charming
lad, brought up and dressed a l'orientale, whom we had taken with us as
our dragoman, and who vied with the Tartar in speed and boldness the
whole day long like one possessed. On the way back from Trebizond our
steamer was crammed with passengers coming from every corner of Asia,
the strangest medley of Circassians, Persians, and cat merchants, and
one pasha. I bought a splendid Angora during the passage, and the pasha
bought himself a wife. The whole of the negotiations for the latter
acquisition, the discussions, the examination and verification of the
merchandize, took place in our cabin, and very amusing it was. The
young lady belonged to a Tcherkess family which had eluded the Russian
cruisers, and come alongside of us at Trebizond in big boats with
triangular sails, spotted like a tiger's hide. The head of the family,
a tall old man, was going to Mecca, to seek a cure there for the
horrible agony caused by a Russian bullet which was still in his head.
His sons, handsome fellows in splendid costumes, with fine features and
shoulders broad out of all proportion to waists that were like girls',
were going with him. There were a dozen women besides, and do you know,
my reader, what that pack of women was? Letters of credit, bank notes,
by means of which the old man with his wound expected to pay the
expenses of his journey! Having no cash, he had brought the twelve
best-looking girls in his family with him. He had just disposed of one
on board, and he reckoned on doing the same with the rest all along the
road. We soon made the acquaintance of the party. The girls were
huddled together on deck in a sort of cage or trelliswork, where they
remained, drenched by the sea, four days and three nights, without
their chatter and their outbursts of merriment ever ceasing for a
single instant. They all dreamt of becoming the wives of sultans or
pashas and of living in palaces. As the old man fed them with nothing
but millet, to fatten them, we used to bring them our dessert after
each meal, and so we were soon good friends. Thanks to some trifling
service I rendered the old man, he consented to bringing the prettiest
girl into my cabin, and allowing her to unveil, so that I might do her
picture. I thought the model and her costume both equally lovely, but
the sitting was a very short one. Whether it was shyness or
sea-sickness I know not. But she complained of the heat, began to cry,
and I had to send her away.
I merely passed through Constantinople on my way back. It was the
middle of Ramadan, all the mosques lighted up at night, and the women
promenading in the square of the Seraskier in the daytime--a regular
persil. I went there one day with Paul Daru, Lavalette and Cyrus
Gerard, all members of the embassy M. de Sercey was taking to Persia.
They came from Paris and told me the news from there. In my turn I told
them all about the battle of Nezib, a very interesting description of
which I had had the good luck to hear from two young Prussian officers,
eye-witnesses of it, one of whom became the celebrated Marshal von
Moltke; and also all I learnt about the Eastern question on my visits
to the Embassies, to Therapia and Buyukdere. There I had met all the
chief members of the diplomatic corps, which consisted during my stay
of two French ambassadors, succeeding each other, both of them
instability personified--one was Admiral Roussin, a distinguished
sailor, the other M. de Pontois, a professional diplomat--both of them
very kind, but neither, as a result of their instability, having any
real influence. Beside them two men of tenacity and steadfastness
admirably personified two great powers. Lord Ponsonby, a tall, blunt,
haughty, unsociable old man, represented British perseverance and Lord
Palmerston's prejudices, while M. de Boutenieff, a charming, kindly,
and witty man, liked by everybody and making game somewhat of all,
stood for the great destinies of the Russian people, and the mighty
will of the Emperor Nicholas. An armed Russian intervention in the
Bosphorus was no longer in question, but it was unforeseen as yet that
Russia and England would agree to ruin the work of Mehemet Ali, the
last strength in reality of the Mussulman world, and that the whole of
Europe would join these two powers in their willing alliance for the
isolation and humiliation of France, revolutionary France! No more
allies for us, since we have gone into that mill! We sacrificed 200,000
men in the Crimea. What did we get by it? The garter for Napoleon III.
One word or deed of sympathy for all our reverses? Not the shadow of
one! Revolutionary France has been asked for help. But none has ever
been given her. Would it be rendered her now? God grant it!