CONSTANTINOPLE AND THE TURKS
The Count could claim no country. Both Russia and Bulgaria denied him;
and the man without a passport is contraband in Turkey. My pockets
were full of smaller articles of the forbidden class, and my shirt was
packed like a life-preserver. Austrian military maps and weighty books
on the Balkans, a Colt’s and cartridges, and many rolls of kodak film,
which might be taken for sticks of dynamite--these things puffed up my
person.
The Customs inspectors entered the train at Mustafa Pasha, and,
perceiving my plight, subjected the baggage to a scandalous search.
They turned out every bag, ran their hands into the shoes, undid the
balls of socks, and even lifted the linings of an extra hat; but all
they found was a Bulgarian art journal containing a few pictures. As
I replaced my mauled garments one of these fiends poked his fezzed
head into my compartment again. He handed back the Bulgarian journal,
saying, with approval, ‘Allemand, monsieur.’ The magazine was printed
in German.
Strange things are contraband in Turkey--salt, because there is
monopoly in the land; firearms, though they are sold openly in the
streets; novels such as the ‘Swiss Family Robinson,’ because the
dog is named Turk; dictionaries containing the words ‘elder’ and
‘brother,’ as Abdul Hamid usurped the throne from his elder brother;
and works of chemistry containing the term H_{2}O, which could but mean
Hamid-Second-Zero.
Another baggage inspection takes place at Constantinople, but this is
only for the purpose of extorting backsheesh. I paid a mijidieh to
the chief inspector, claimed to be German, and took my bags through
unopened.
The approach to Constantinople by train is over a long, marshy plain.
Occasional camel caravans lumber along the road beside the tracks,
and cranes, pelicans, and storks rise majestically and sail away as
the train passes. The outskirts of Constantinople are repulsive. The
train passes down a narrow street between rows of miserable dwellings,
many no larger than drapers’ boxes, roofed with flattened petroleum
tins; and at the base of the decaying walls of the city, excavations,
closed with more petroleum tins, form the kennels of indolent gypsies.
The entrance to Constantinople by train is not attractive. To see its
glories one must come up the Bosphorus.
Constantinople is almost an antithesis of Sofia. One is a country
town, small and new; the other is an Imperial city, great and old,
with palaces and paupers, masters and slaves, and squalid barbaric
splendour. It is a world capital, whereto all Christian countries send
their Ministers, to vie with each other for the favours of an Asiatic
monarch who rules by their discord. It is a place where many races
meet and morals fleet. ‘No city in the world, not even Rome, has more
personality.’
With the Golden Horn and the Sweet Waters of Asia at her feet, with
her mighty mosques and towering minarets, marble palaces and treasure
stores, Constantinople would seem a glorious city. But this is not the
impression one obtains.
Within the city, to the unaccustomed eye, the horrible sights eclipse
all others. The place is foul, and suffering, hungry creatures, human
and animal, are pitiable to behold. The streets, except in front of the
palaces and embassies, are seldom cleaned, and if one ventures out of
doors on wet days he must wade through sloughs of filth.
Beggars, purposely maimed, and with ‘incurable diseases, including
laziness,’ beset one on every side; mangy, starving dogs, lying on the
pavements, are so numerous that pedestrians must take the roadway; and
pitiable beasts of burden labour painfully along under fearful burdens.
A Turk, in his way, is most humane towards animals, and it is the Jews
and the Christians who treat them badly. According to Western ideas, it
would be a kindness to put the unhappy dogs of the imperial city out of
existence; but the Turk reasons differently--what Allah has given life
should live at Allah’s will.
[Illustration: DOGS OCCUPY THE PAVEMENT; PEOPLE WALK IN THE STREETS.]
[Illustration: THE TURKISH BARBERSHOP.]
In a street in Constantinople one day, I saw a miserable puppy rolled
over by a carriage. Its hips were crushed, and it seemed to suffer
agony. I went to a drug store near by and fetched some chloroform,
but on attempting to administer it, a powerful _hoja_, who evidently
knew what it was, put his hands on my shoulders and gently thrust me
back. He informed some of the bystanders of my intention, and they
lifted their hands and pointed towards heaven. They recognised me as a
foreigner. Had I been a native non-Moslem they would not have been so
gentle. If a native Christian kills a dog he is sent to prison--unless
he subscribes a sufficient bribe to the court’s revenue.
Very often the Mohamedan’s charity takes the form of a distribution
of food to the dogs, and the narrow streets are sometimes blocked
by an enormous pack catching bits of bread from the hand of some
penance-maker. But the garbage from the houses is the only certain
source of subsistence that the dogs have. They know to a minute the
time of day each family throws out its refuse, and if you pass along
the streets in the early morning you can mark the houses which have not
yet rendered up their daily quota by the canine crew waiting before the
door.
The dogs of Turkey are more like wolves in appearance than domestic
animals, but they are perfectly harmless. They rarely find
sufficient food, and seldom taste meat, which may account for their
gentleness--but their want of proper nourishment has no effect upon
their lungs. Between them and the firemen night is made hideous in
Constantinople. As certain as the setting of the sun one’s slumbers
will be disturbed before the dawn by a most unearthly screeching--even
worse than that of the London firemen--accompanied by the high-pitched
yelps of countless dogs.
The Turkish fire department is a curious institution. Modern machinery
cannot be brought into Turkey except by bribing the Custom-house. As
it profits officers of the Government nothing to bribe themselves, the
municipal fire brigade is still equipped with the primitive hand-pump.
Electricity, like steam, is also barred, and the alarm system is
distinctly original and truly alarming. From the ancient tower of
Galata and from the Seraskier Tower in Stamboul, watchmen keep a
look-out for fires. When one is discovered half a dozen swift runners
grab long, sharp spears, descend several hundred ruined stone steps
through the darkness slowly with the aid of a tallow taper, dart out
into the crowded streets, and scatter in various directions, shouting
at the tops of their voices and stabbing dogs. They make a tour of the
mosques, from the minarets of which the volunteer firemen are called
to duty. Meanwhile guns have begun to boom on the Bosphorus, and in a
short time the streets are swarming with frenzied creatures, dashing
along like maniacs, shrieking hideously, and also prodding dogs out of
their way.
It is not an uncommon sight to see these strange firemen come down the
streets from a five-mile run with nothing on but a pair of pants,
or perhaps a skirted vest--sometimes only a fez; and then you will
see others dressed like soldiers marching in a leisurely and orderly
manner. The energetic individuals are the volunteers; the others are
members of the regular ‘paid’ fire department.
The ambition of every chief of volunteers worthy of the name is to
bring his brigade to the scene of the conflagration first, as the
reward of the first arrivals is the choice of the plunder. Should he
find there is no loot to be had, he searches out the owner and bargains
with him while his band prepares to pump--if a satisfactory price can
be agreed upon. This work must be done hurriedly, of course; not that
there is any danger of the ‘paid’ brigade arriving before the fire is
out, but other volunteers are pouring in; competition grows rifer, and
rows and fights with rival crews more and more furious. Finally, the
‘paid’ department does arrive, and the volunteers are driven from the
ruins like hungry wolves from a carcass. The ‘paid’ firemen will accept
no gratuities; they are soldiers of the Sultan, and have many months’
salary due to them.
Many regiments of the garrison of Constantinople, however, are well
paid, for they constitute a part of that vast organisation maintained
by Abdul Hamid for the express purpose of his own safety. This, indeed,
seems to be the first purpose of the whole Turkish Government--the
safety of the Sultan, for which Mohamedan and Christian of the
Imperial Ottoman Empire suffer alike. The difference in the attitude
of the ‘infidel’ and that of the ‘faithful’ is simply that one resents
the needless hardships inflicted upon him, whereas the other sits and
suffers, resigned to the will of Allah. The word ‘Islam’ means ‘I am
resigned.’ The Sultan is recognised as Mohamed’s vicegerent on earth,
and to his will all faithful followers bow.
The Padisha, however, does not appear to accept the doctrine of
fatalism with the same good grace as do the faithful of his Mohamedan
subjects. Extraordinary precautions are taken for his safety. At a
_Selamlik_, or public visit to a mosque for prayer, which I attended,
Abdul, who professes to the Mohamedan belief that no bullet could
pierce his flesh until the moment prescribed in the Great Book, came
to worship surrounded by a bodyguard so solid that the ball of a
modern rifle could not have reached him through it. His escort arrived
running, massed about his victoria, the hood of which is said to be
of steel. In former years foreign guests, for whom Ambassadors and
Ministers would vouch, were permitted, in a pavilion crowded with
detectives, to see this ceremony. But since the recent explosion of
an infernal machine in the neighbourhood during a _Selamlik_, this
privilege has been abolished. An army corps, gathered from every part
of the variegated empire, surrounded the palace.
[Illustration: CONSTANTINOPLE: MOSQUE OF YÉNI-DJAMI ON THE BOSPHORUS.]
Constantinople is full of stories about precautions within the
walls of Yildiz Kiosk. It is said that the Sultan tests his meals on
his servants before he touches them himself, and, for obvious reasons,
his favourite dish is _œufs à la coque_. A tale from his harem gives
it that, one day when his nerves were unusually unstrung, he drew his
revolver and with his own hand shot a wife who caused his suspicion
by a sudden change of posture. It is told that an American lady who
pointed out to the Sultan a way by which he could be assassinated
received a handsome present, and it is well known that there is an army
of spies employed solely to run down plots against the Sultan’s life.
These unprincipled servants often find conspiracies where they do not
exist, often only in order to display to their master their activity,
and again for the rich rewards such ‘discoveries’ bring.
Once in Paris I met a Greek who had served for two years as a private
secretary at Yildiz. Greeks and other non-Moslems occupy many posts in
the Sultan’s service where cleverness and an understanding of European
character are imperative. This particular Greek incurred the Sultan’s
suspicions, and was clever enough to escape from Constantinople. I was
indeed glad to get the opportunity to talk with a man who had been of
the Sultan’s household, and many of the tales I had heard, which needed
proof, I repeated to him. He said they were mostly true--in principle.
He did not believe that the Sultan had faith in one word of the Koran;
certainly he was no fatalist. The Greek went on to say that while the
Sultan is crazed on the one point of plots against his life, he is
remarkably clever at handling men. He seems to have an uncanny power
over men. When they first meet him they are surprised at his sanity
and his gentility, which is a good beginning; and he gradually weaves
his web of influence about old and tried ambassadors. The only people
who have been thoroughly equal to him are the Russians; they play his
own game. They have played on his weak point and made a treaty with
him--according to this gentleman--guaranteeing his throne to him for
the rest of his life in return for certain privileges which allow them
to take inventory of his estate. ‘Après moi, le déluge!’ But the Sultan
is not quite all of his Government, and for the others the entire
indemnity for the war of 1878, as it is paid in annual instalments, is
set aside--so my informant says--for distribution at Constantinople.
The Palace and the Porte probably receive from Russia retaining fees
larger than their salaries.
I happened to be in Constantinople again at a time when the Russians
were meeting with defeat in Manchuria. The town was much interested
in the contest, and the Turk in the street, who is ignorant, was
rejoicing in his dignified way at the reverses of his country’s enemy.
But suddenly the Russians turned the tables and won several astounding
victories over the Japanese, and the Moslems were unhappy. This is
how it happened. ‘The Palace’ had discovered that the sensibilities
of the Russian representatives in Turkey were being tried severely by
the reports of their defeats in the Far East, and that individual of
marvellous imagination, the Turkish censor, was put to work to lighten
their distress, which he did most generously.
According to the press of Constantinople all is ever serene throughout
the imperial Ottoman dominions, everybody is always lauding the
Padisha and praying for the safety of his good and gracious Majesty.
Persons who are interested in the provinces subscribe to European
papers, and have them brought in by the foreign posts. During my first
stay at Constantinople thousands of troops were being shipped to
Salonica daily, but as this fact would hardly accord with the sublime
declarations of the Ottoman newspaper, they were embarked only after
nightfall, when the inhabitants are mostly behind barred doors.
I presented a letter from the Turkish Commissioner at Sofia to a
certain Turkish Minister, whose name I must not mention, and was
ushered into his presence alone. The letter, I was told, recommended me
highly as ‘a friend of the Turks,’ though I protested my neutrality;
and I understood that I would receive good treatment at the hands of
the officials and get all the news. What I wanted was permission to
cross Macedonia beyond the railway.
‘Why do you desire to make this trip?’ asked the Turk. ‘It is
dangerous, and the accommodations are very poor. If you will remain
here you may come to me daily and I will tell you the truth about
everything that is going on in the country.’
Of course I declined this.
The Turk puffed at his cigarette and sipped his coffee, thinking for a
few minutes; then he turned and regarded me. Until then I had thought I
had an honest face.
‘You can make thousands and thousands of francs out of the Turks,’ said
the Minister.
I pretended not to take him.
‘Thousands and thousands of francs!’ he repeated impressively.
‘And what would I have to do?’ I asked.
‘Write the truth,’ the Turk replied softly.
‘It is not necessary to pay me to do that,’ I responded.
His Excellency said that a telegram would be sent to the Vali of
Salonica instructing him to permit me to go where I would. A _teskeré_
would be issued to me here viséd for Salonica. I thanked the Turk, but
I felt that I should not be allowed to go very far.
During the course of my interview at the Sublime Porte I received a
cup of delightful coffee, but it was the most expensive cup of coffee
I ever drank. I had not provided myself with sufficient small change
for a visit to the Turkish Government building. On my departure after
the interview his attendants were lined up in the corridor like the
servants at a French hotel. I was stripped of my silver and copper, and
when I had given my last _metaleek_[2] I hurried out of the door.
But, unfortunately, I did not take a carriage, and I had hardly got a
hundred yards down the street when a little old Turk, who proved to
be the man who had given me the coffee, touched me on the arm, and
said, ‘Effendi, backsheesh.’ This coffee-man followed me a quarter
of a mile further to the nearest shop, where I changed a lira and
gave him his tip. My dragoman explained that unless I distributed
backsheesh liberally the Minister would never be in to me again, and,
thinking perhaps some day I might have to make another call upon him, I
‘squared’ myself with his doormen.
[Illustration: A HAMMAL AND A LOAD OF PETROLEUM TINS.]
Unfortunately, on each occasion that I have made the journey from
Constantinople to Salonica I have been pressed for time, and could not
await a steamer to take me through the Dardanelles. The train makes the
trip three times a week, leaving Constantinople at night.
About twelve o’clock the first night out a Turkish officer opened
the door of my compartment, which I had had to myself up to this
time, and entered with a beaming smile and a grand salaam. This was
extraordinary; the Turks are generally more dignified or else more
subtle. My travelling companion, I saw by his attire, was a pasha.
There was not the detachment of troops usually arrayed at the station
to do honour to a general about to start on a journey, and three
young officers, very likely his adjutants, who were the only friends
to see him off, seemed unnecessarily depressed. But the general had
mirth enough for the company, and up to the moment the train left he
spun yarns and cracked jokes to the torture of the others, who tried
loyally to affect amusement. When the third bell sounded for the train
to resume its progress the pasha shook hands warmly with his young
friends through the window; they pressed their cheeks to his in Turkish
fashion, then gave him the low Turkish salute due to his rank. The old
man turned to me with a smile, and asked by a sign whether I would have
the window closed. I shrugged my shoulders, meaning ‘suit yourself,’
and asked my companion if he could speak French. ‘Turk,’ he replied,
meaning only Turkish. I cannot describe exactly how we made each other
understand, but before we lay down to sleep I had told him I was an
American correspondent, and had learned that his medals were in token
of distinguished services in the Russo-Turkish war and elsewhere, and
that his destination was Tripoli, which means exile.
When I said, ‘Padisha?’ with a questioning look, he signified by a
benign glance upward and a lift of two fingers to his lips that not a
doubt must be entertained as to the Sultan’s goodness. After a moment
he placed the Sultan in a spot and drew a circle about him. ‘Espion,’
he said, pointing to the circle, and turned up his nose.
In the morning the pasha’s orderly brought him a fresh water-melon,
which he broke in two, giving the larger portion to me. At Dede-Aghatch
he gave me a cordial hand-shake, and directed me to a place for
breakfast; then he stepped into a carriage, which was waiting for him,
to take him to the ship in which he was to set sail to his doom.
In covering this same route a few months later our train passed a
‘special’ stopped on a ‘siding.’ Aboard it was a staff of officers,
their orderlies and servants. Sitting on the bench in the station yard,
complacently sipping coffee, I recognised the Vali of Monastir. He,
too, was now billeted for exile.
Among the many demands of the Russians at the assassination of their
Consul at Monastir was the displacement of this Vali. The Sultan
will comply with any demands the Russians make in earnest, but he
has certain punishments which his subjects seek to win. To be exiled
without the privilege of seeing Constantinople ‘for the last time’ is
disgrace, but to be condemned _via_ an audience with the Sultan spells
‘Thou good and faithful servant,’ and brings a substantial post in
Asia, away from the interference of ‘infidel’ Powers and carrying with
it a lordly pension.