CONSTANTINOPLE:
During the early hours of yesterday morning we reached Smyrna, one of
the seven cities spoken of in the Book of Revelation, and we spent the
day in its odd, underground bazaars. Wildness, madness and fiendishness
have lost their terrors for me since landing at Smyrna.
[Illustration: LANDING AT SMYRNA
BY SPECIAL PERMISSION COPYRIGHT BY DR. J. L. LEEPER]
Imagine all the wild animals of the zoo put together in one cage and all
roaring at the same time and you will have some idea of the sound that
greeted my ears as our ship dropped anchor. Then look over the rail and,
as far as the eye can see, picture rowboats by the hundreds, so thickly
crammed together that scarcely a bit of the water can be seen. Watch the
oarsman pushing another boat or beating his brother boatman over the
head with his oar, each of them yelling at the top of his voice, and
you will have a dim outline of what really happened. All had the same
object in view—that of getting as many passengers as they could carry,
and as soon as possible.
Our dragoman turned us over to a Turkish guide who proved to be a
scholar and a Christian.
The bazaars are filthy, but the filth simply serves to make prominent
by contrast the beautiful embroideries and laces displayed there. If
one dares to give more than a passing glance at any of these, the old
Turks will follow trying to force a purchase.
To think that Homer should have chosen Smyrna for his birthplace!
Yet it was and still is the most important city of Asia Minor, and is
picturesquely situated on the Ægean Sea.
When we finally reached the ship, after the oarsmen's battles _en
route_ during which I had sat still with my eyes closed thinking
hard, our Christian Turk came up to me, and, to my surprise and delight,
whispered: "We know why we are safe, do we not?"
I wonder if he understood that the tears in my eyes were not from fear?
The same scene of the boatman was enacted at the Dardanelles. Later,
however, all the harsh things were forgotten, as over a foreground of
blue sea the dim outline of a city was seen through the mist of the
morning.
No one can call Constantinople beautiful, but all must admit that
it is the most interesting city in Europe. Unique in being situated
in both Europe and Asia, the city is divided, like Gaul, into three
parts—Stamboul and Galata-Pera, separated from each other by the Golden
Horn, in Europe, and Skutari across the Bosporus, in Asia.
Galata is the modern business section containing the banks, steamship
offices, commission houses and the like, while Pera is on the heights
above it with the hotels, the embassies and the homes of the foreigners.
Stamboul, or Constantinople proper, is situated on seven hills, on one
of which stood the ancient city of Byzantium. Here are the old seraglio
and Santa Sophia,—Santa Sophia, with its altars of gold, mosaics of
precious stones, pillars of rare marble, its wonderful history and its
antiquity.
[Illustration: CONSTANTINOPLE]
Between the mountain and the sea, in Skutari, nestles the cluster
of buildings occupied by the American College for girls, the only
college for women in the western Levant. When you learn through what
vicissitudes I achieved my _entrée_ to this cosmopolitan _école_,
you will wonder that I write of it with any degree of composure, or that
I am here to write of it at all.
Everything seemed so perfectly planned for a comfortable and safe little
journey from the hotel in Pera to Skutari, that I followed the attendant
without question. He placed me in a caique (ki-eek) putting me in charge
of the caiquejee (ki-eek-gee), saying that in a few moments this man
would land me at the place where my American friend was in waiting on
the other side.
A caique is a long narrow skiff with cushions in the bottom upon which
one must sit quietly else the boat will tip. My caiquejee and his
assistant seemed very mild sort of Turks, for they would nod and smile
when I waved my hand at something odd or interesting.
I was not versed then in the etiquette of the caiquejee, nor yet in the
mysteries of their thousand and one superstitions, but I found, to my
sorrow, that to touch even the hem of another caiquejee's oar was the
signal for ordering guns or any other explosive at hand, including vocal
fireworks.
It was bright and sunny when I left the hotel, but a storm cloud soon
appeared and it grew darker and darker. In their haste to reach the
other shore, my caiquejee happened to run into another caique, which
in any other place on earth would have been overlooked with a bow of
excuse.
Not so on the Bosporus! My mild-mannered Turks and the three in the
other caique were at battle in a second. Had I been able to speak
their language, and offer them money, they could not have heard me, so
horrible were their cries. There was nothing to do but to sit still and
pray and try to balance the shell-like caique.
Suddenly my caiquejee raised his heavy oar to fling it at the other,
lost his balance, and we were all dashed into the cold water of the
Bosporus.
Instantly the clatter ceased. Some one held me up in the water, and
guided the upturned boat toward my hands. After the longest moments of
my life, the other heavier caique was caught and balanced while I was
dragged into it. It was then I noticed there were but four of us where
there had been six.
I did not cry _then_, but tried to know I was being cared for. I
afterwards learned that it was my silence that saved me. Had I cried or
screamed they would have thrown me overboard again and gone away without
me, for there is a superstition about tears in a storm, and where a
woman is concerned all signs are of an adverse nature.
Suddenly one of the Turks gave a blood-curdling yell to attract the
attention of the pilot on the little steamer that plies between Skutari
and the Galata Bridge.
I was helped on board and cared for. No woman could have been more kind,
more respectful, or more solicitous for my comfort than were these young
Turks. They formed a ring around me sheltering me from the gaze of the
rougher, older ones. They put their capes about me while they dried my
coat, hat and shoes, and shielded my face as I stood by the engine door
to dry my skirt.
The young Turk who had held me up in the water could speak a little
French, and made me understand that I was perfectly safe and that he
would see me to my carriage. He told me that he was a passenger in the
caique which collided with the one I was in, and that a caiquejee from
each boat went down in the battle.
When you read some dramatic account of the varied fancies that are
supposed to pass through the thoughts of one who is drowning, take
it _cum grano salis_. Believe me, the one and only thought that takes
possession of a poor mortal at such a time is to grasp something with
his hands, and if this is accomplished, his next desire is to feel
something solid beneath his feet. His past is nothing, his future less.
The present is all there is of human existence. Oh, how well I know this
to be true!
I tried to show my gallant Turk the gratitude I felt for his efforts
in my behalf. He informed me that I could repay him by speaking a word
for his countrymen, if the occasion arose. I can see his dark face now
light up with pleasure at my promise as he touched his forehead with
his hand, for he had lost his _fez_ in the waters.
[Illustration: THE GALATA BRIDGE, CONSTANTINOPLE
BY PERMISSION OF DR. LEEPER COPYRIGHT BY DR. LEEPER]
We parted neither of us knowing the other's name, but no word against
the rising generation of Turks can ever be said in my presence since
that night.
I did not rest long undisturbed among the cushions of the carriage he
found for me, for my driver who had gone on at a good speed suddenly
stopped in the steepest, darkest part of the almost perpendicular
incline that leads up to Pera from Galata, and, turning, showed me a
coin, demanding something at the same time. I divined that he was asking
if I would pay him that much, and I, with my cheeriest smile, nodded.
But as he turned to gather up the reins again, I caught sight of his
face and only the presence of my guardian angel, who had held my hand
all that awful day, kept me from shrieking or from fainting.
Finally we turned into the lighted street in which was my hotel, and
I was out of the victoria, through the door and into the lift before
the carriage had stopped. I called to the clerk to pay the tariff from
the Galata Bridge and to give the driver his _backsheesh_. Their angry
voices ascended with the elevator.
When I reached my room and had turned the key in the lock, I sobbed out
all my pent-up emotion and thankfulness.
Will you credit it when I tell you that I started again? This time,
however, I went on the steamboat accompanied by one of the American
teachers from the college.
* * * * *
In spite of the night spent on—and in—the black waters of the Bosporus,
when I think of Constantinople, it is not of this—not of its filthy
streets nor its thousands of pariah dogs, not of their howls nor the
well nigh unbearable din of bells and yells—but of my first view of
a phantom-like city, seated on seven hills, the sides covered with
many-colored roofs which slope down to a long white kiosk, of minarets,
of mosques with slender spires, and of one tall sentinel cypress tree
in the foreground, all seen through the haze of dawn over Marmora's blue
waters.
HUNGARY
The world's best garden.
SHAKSPERE,
_Henry V._, Epilogue.
BUDAPEST:
The Oriental Express was thundering around the Balkan Mountains in
Bulgaria on its long run between Constantinople and Budapest, when
suddenly, with a succession of sharp jerks, the train came to a stop.
Before we could reach the windows, above the babel was heard: "An
avalanche! An avalanche! The torrent's burst!" And with the throng of
people at the foot of the mountain, it was enough to strike terror to
the stoutest heart.
Immediately came a guard to explain that the long tunnel had caved
in and that it would be necessary for us to walk across the mountain
through which the tunnel was cut that we might take the train on the
other side. The people from that train had walked over the pass to take
our places, and the peasants who had carried their luggage were waiting
to take ours back.
One of the mountaineers acting as guide led the way up the narrow trail
and down to the waiting train on the other side—perhaps two miles.
Instead of a cross, fussy crowd of tired travelers grumbling at the
climb, the guide found us a happy lot of overgrown children, stopping
to listen to the wonderful singing of the birds or to pluck the wild
flowers, whom he had often to remind with his shrill "_Avance!_" that
time was passing.
Among the first to descend, I looked back up the trail and wondered if
the old mountain would ever again witness such a picture. Travelers from
every nation, with their different costumes, mingling with the gaily
attired peasants, who carried on their heads the much-labeled luggage,
all laughing, shouting or singing, made a happy medley both of color
and of sound.
* * * * *
Budapest is the most beautiful city of the world, except, perhaps,
Barcelona. You need not look in your "Noted Places" book to verify
this statement, for you will not find it there. _Au contraire_, this
opinion is my own.
Go to Budapest, select a room with windows giving on the Danube, and
see if you do not agree with me. Throw the guide-books aside and wander
down the superb Franz Joseph Quai. Note the battlements, the colossal
statues of bronze, the Moorish architecture united with that of the
Romanesque. You will not find all the sumptuousness of Budapest on this
street, however, for it is scattered everywhere.
The beauty of the architecture can be seen by daylight, but the glory
of Budapest can only be felt as you sail away,
"Some night in June,
Upon the Danube River."
AUSTRIA
All places that the eye of heaven visits
Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.
SHAKSPERE, _Richard II._,