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Title: Turkish Memories
Author: Whitman, Sidney
Language: English
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[Illustration: Ghazi Osman Pacha]
TURKISH MEMORIES
by
SIDNEY WHITMAN
Author of
“German Memories” etc.
With Frontispiece
New York: Chas. Scribner’S Sons
London: William Heinemann
MCMXIV
Printed in England
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INSCRIBED
TO THE MEMORY OF
AHMED MIDHAT EFFENDI
LATE VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE
IMPERIAL OTTOMAN BOARD
OF PUBLIC HEALTH IN
CONSTANTINOPLE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
Our aim should be neither to mock, to bewail, nor
to denounce men’s actions, but to understand them.
SPINOZA
THE following pages are the outcome of several prolonged visits to
Constantinople, Macedonia, and Asiatic Turkey, covering a period of
twelve years, from 1896 to 1908. Several of these were made under
exceptional circumstances and embody experiences such as do not often
fall to the lot of a traveller, some of which, I venture to think, are
of lasting public interest.
Anyone who has had personal relations with an autocrat—in this case the
spiritual head of a faith in which in the course of centuries thousands
of millions of human beings have lived and died—ought to have much to
tell worth recounting. There were also the surroundings of the Monarch
to be observed. Many a trait of deep human interest presented itself to
him who was a privileged visitor: for instance, the ups and downs of
fortune as they affected the all-powerful favourite whose good
offices—as in the time of a Madame de Pompadour—powerful Sovereigns did
not think it beneath their dignity to strive and compete for. Such a man
I have seen in disgrace, shunned by those who had hitherto prostrated
themselves before him. Finally, I have met him in the streets of London,
living under an assumed name in fear of assassination.
At one time it has been my lot to sleep on couches covered with the
costliest products of the Turkish loom; at another on the bare floor in
a dirty wayside han (camel shed), with camels and oxen as bedfellows,
typhus and small-pox hovering around us. Hospitality has been extended
to me in the underground mud-hut of the fierce, though hospitable,
Kurdish chieftain, armed to the teeth, and next morning I have beheld
the snow-capped summit of Mount Ararat, peering seventeen thousand feet
high through the clouds. I have seen the streets of Constantinople
bathed in the sunshine of summer, and a few hours later besmeared with
blood. The life of the people has presented itself to me in the workshop
of the artisan, with the boatman on the Bosphorus, with the soldier on
the march, and I have felt at home in such company. To all this may be
added many opportunities of entering into the spirit and thought of a
people usually so exclusive that Europeans may live for years in Turkey
without ever having an opportunity of gaining the confidence of a single
Mohammedan in any walk of life.
Our quick-living age is so full of transient impressions that “to-day”
has become the avowed enemy of “yesterday.” Men who but recently played
a prominent part in the world are forgotten; they are obliged to die in
order to reveal the fact that they were until just now still living. If
the material of my book is partly concerned with the things of
yesterday, the incidents and characters which it displays may at least
claim to illustrate a series of abiding human truths.
If it is only now, after a lapse of years, that I have decided to issue
these fragments of my memories, the delay is due to the fact that as
long as the ex-Sultan was on the throne my personal relations with him
and with those around him formed an obstacle which seemed to check my
pen. My narrative might perhaps have been discounted under the suspicion
that it was influenced by undue partiality or tainted by motives of
self-interest. Now that things have so completely changed there can be
but little danger of such an interpretation of my motives.
In describing certain traits of Turkish character I have intentionally
dwelt by preference on those which are brightest, because prejudice and
detraction have created an impression which calls for a correction of
values. My book, therefore, does not lay claim to judicial impartiality.
My aim has been to show by a recital of actual experiences that the
Mohammedan Turk, whose religion is that of sixty millions of British
subjects, is far better than his repute. I have written in frank
sympathy with his sterling human qualities, and with a keen sense of the
injustice he has long suffered from Christian opinion in Europe.
The Governor of Constantinople one day in 1896 said to me: “England was
for us once a garden full of roses, a subject of pleasant thought,
sight, and memory. Now, alas! a serpent has entered and brought discord
between us.”
* * * * *
In the course of my work a trifling incident led me into a
correspondence with the late Professor Arminius Vambéry, whose letters,
full of insight into Turkish affairs and goodwill towards England, will
be found reprinted in the Appendix. I am also indebted to my friend
Lieutenant-Colonel H. P. Picot, who was H.B.M.’s Military Attaché in
Teheran from 1893–1900, for a short contribution which will likewise be
found in the Appendix, p. 294.
From many mementoes in my possession I have chosen the autographed
portrait of Ghazi Osman Pasha for reproduction as being that of the hero
of a people whose fine qualities no one who is acquainted with them can
fail to admire.
S. W.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PART I
I. INTRODUCTORY 1
II. THE ARMENIAN OUTBREAK IN CONSTANTINOPLE, 10
1896
III. THE GRÆCO-TURKISH WAR, 1897 36
IV. JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: I 57
V. JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: II 82
VI. JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: III 101
VII. JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: IV 118
PART II
VIII. YILDIZ PALACE 137
IX. SULTAN ABDUL HAMID 159
X. A CITY OF DIPLOMATISTS 183
XI. THE LEVANTINE 199
XII. THE TURK AND HIS CREED 210
XIII. TURKISH TRAITS: I 233
XIV. TURKISH TRAITS: II 245
XV. CONCLUSION 261
APPENDIX 283
INDEX 299
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART I
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
Not oft I’ve seen such sight nor heard such song,
As wooed the eye, and thrilled the Bosphorus along.
BYRON, _Childe Harold_, Canto xi.
IN the spring of 1896, at a time when public attention centred on the
Armenian troubles, the Sultan of Turkey sent a confidential emissary to
London for the purpose of sounding the Marquis of Salisbury on the
situation without the knowledge of the Turkish Ambassador. He
endeavoured to obtain an interview with the Prime Minister, but without
success. The Turkish Ambassador was anything but pleased at this Palace
manœuvre, and did his best to prevent his master’s agent being received.
Costaki Pasha, with whom I was on friendly terms, told me that it was
bad enough to be kept waiting for one’s salary, but it was adding insult
to injury to have your position undermined by unauthorized missions.
The Sultan’s emissary informed me during his stay that the Sultan was
most anxious to ascertain Prince Bismarck’s opinion on the Armenian
question, and if possible to learn what the Prince would advise him to
do in reference to the embarrassing situation in Crete, and he begged me
to assist him in this matter.
Shortly afterwards I paid a visit to Prince Bismarck at Friedrichsruh
(June 26, 1896). After referring to the action of the Greek Committees
which were fomenting trouble throughout the Levant, the Prince expressed
his disapproval of the fire-eating Greek Press and the folly of its
European backers, who, as he asserted, were at the bottom of the whole
disturbance. It was on this occasion that the Prince, in answer to a
question, made the since oft-quoted sarcastic remark that “he took less
interest in the island of Crete than in a molehill in his own garden.”
Referring to the Sultan and his troubles, Bismarck put his hands up to
his ears, extending the open palms outwards, so as to imitate the
attitude of a hare and to convey the idea of the Sultan’s timidity in
face of a situation which called for exceptional nerve and strength of
purpose.
On my return to London in the beginning of July, I received a request
from the proprietor of the _New York Herald_ to come to Paris. On my
arrival he asked me whether I would be willing to go to Constantinople
to represent his paper there for a couple of months. Sixteen years
previously I had visited Turkey as a tourist, and I thought I should
like to see the country again. So I accepted the offer on the spot.
We owe to a popular writer the assertion that there is something
fundamentally different in character between the East and the West,
which makes mutual understanding difficult and assimilation impossible.
The English traveller who is inclined to accept this axiom may begin to
detect the Eastern flavour of things as soon as he leaves the frontier
of the German Empire behind him and passes through the Austro-Hungarian
Monarchy on his way to Constantinople. Monarchs and statesmen may come
and go, laws may be promulgated and the ballot-box may be adopted, but
the character of a people is not materially changed even by such
measures as compulsory education and universal military service. The
East has adopted some of the machinery of Western life, but the Eastern
remains an Eastern still. Institutions unsuited to a people’s traditions
and character may only jeopardize its fortunes:
A thousand years scarce serve to form a State,
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when
Can man its shattered splendour renovate,
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and Fate?
_Childe Harold_, Canto xi, stanza lxxxiv.
Should you arrive at Vienna on a Saturday, you will have to wait there
twenty-four hours if you intend to take the Orient Express to
Constantinople, for it leaves Vienna on Sunday evening, and even in that
short time you may feel a subtle change in the atmosphere of life. You
ask a sedate-looking official in the bureau of your hotel up to what
o’clock on Sunday morning the shops in the town remain open, as you want
to purchase a few travelling necessaries. “Till mid-day, sir,” is the
decisive reply. Instinctively warned by past experience, you turn to the
hallporter, who usually embodies the brain power of a Viennese hotel,
and in order to make sure you put the same question to him. “The shops
are not open at all, sir, on Sundays,” is his reply: and so indeed it
turns out to be.
You stroll towards the Leopoldstadt with the intention of taking lunch
at the old “Goldener Lamm,” now called the Hotel National, long renowned
as the hostelry patronized by European crowned heads as far back as the
Vienna Congress in 1815. You grip the brass handle of a glass door on
which the inviting word “Entrée” is affixed in large white enamelled
letters. You tug at it in vain and are ultimately warned off by a man
signalling frantically from the inside that it is not a door at all, but
only the window of an apartment—and that the real entrance to the Hôtel
is a few yards to the left. You now recollect that when you were there
last—some seven years previously—that blessed word “Entrée” was already
there, and that you—and doubtless many others ever since—were warned
off, the proprietor not having deemed it worth while to do away with the
misleading letters.
It is still Sunday, and you wish to post a registered letter. This can
only be done at the Central Post Office during certain hours of the
afternoon. You drive there, holding your letter in readiness, together
with a “krone” to pay the registration fee, and wait your turn
patiently. For without patience, that supposed Christian virtue (which,
by the way, I subsequently acquired myself and discovered to be of
Mohammedan origin), it is of little use starting on a journey to the
East. At last your turn comes and you patiently watch the registering
clerk, after slowly copying the address of your letter into a book,
retire to the back of his capacious office. You notice that he is
engaged in earnest consultation with a colleague. At last, he comes
forward with an air of embarrassment and explains apologetically that he
is in a “difficulty” as to providing the change out of the small coin
you have handed him. Finally, he asks whether you would mind accepting a
postage stamp of the value of ten heller (one penny) in part discharge
of the sum due to you.
All this happens within twenty-four hours! You know now that you are
well on your way to the East, where a minimum value of time and an
element of fiction mixed up with every action or statement of fact
constitute two of the many differences between the easy-going East and
the matter-of-fact West. But there are compensations in the altered
aspect of life, and one is the deep impression which Constantinople
produces on the stranger by its gorgeous variety of colouring, its
movement, and its polyglot chaos.
* * * * *
Constantinople with its five hundred gardens and palaces, its six
hundred and eighty mosques, minarets, and towers rising above the sea in
the form of a huge amphitheatre, offers to the eye a truly fascinating
panorama. Byron extolled its position as incomparable to anything he had
ever seen. That great traveller and student of nature, Alexander von
Humboldt, thought Salzburg, Naples, and Constantinople the three most
beautiful sites in the world. Such is its mysterious charm that “a Sea
of Impressions stirs the soul—as a balmy breeze plays gently upon a
cornfield in bloom. An intoxicating aroma is wafted towards us. All the
wonders of the Eastern World seem to float before our vision—fables and
palaces of the Arabian Nights.”
But if Constantinople must ever possess an attraction for the traveller
by virtue of its unique situation, a deeper interest lies in its
unrivalled historical associations, covering two thousand five hundred
years of the world’s history. From the days of Darius, Alcibiades, and
Justinian—when the corn-laden galleys from the Black Sea glided swiftly
past the shore opposite Seraglio Point—down to the present time,
Constantinople has always been the object of desire of ambitious rulers
of nations.
Seen on a summer morning from a window on the upper floor of the Pera
Palace Hotel, the city presents a dazzling picture of kaleidoscopic
beauty. We are several hundred feet above the level of the sea. It is
early morn, and a thick grey fog conceals the waters of the Golden Horn
as well as the land. Gradually, as if awakening from a dream, the sharp
angles of prominent buildings, the tips of tall minarets, the curved
outlines of stately mosques, emerge through the mist between clusters of
dark cypresses, dotted in stray patches away to the horizon. The rays of
the rising sun strike a few windows here and there. These glisten with a
peculiar iridescence, as if lighted by electricity—peeping through the
impenetrable haze still dimming the ground. Something ghost-like
pervades the scene. Fancy conjures up the vain anger of Polyphemus, the
deriding jeers of Ulysses.
Rooks caw overhead as they circle through the air. Chanticleer crows on
a patch of green meadow-land. Dogs bark with unwonted anger as three
bears, led by their keepers, thread their way through the crowd—well
accustomed to such sights. Resounding above all, the trumpet call from
the Cavalry Barracks vibrates, mingling with the shouts of hawkers in
the street. Fog-horns and the siren’s moan from ships at anchor swell
the chorus, and between whiles the tinkling of bells of passing mules
and horses is distinctly heard. Droves of black sheep, followed by
Thracian shepherds in picturesque garb, and numbers of horses of
Anatolian breed, ridden by barefooted boys, pass by. Amid this
pandemonium, bricklayers are at work on the roof of a seven-storied
building, run up in such primitive fashion that you wonder the whole
structure does not collapse and bury them among its wreckage. Yet
cobblers and tailors are unconcernedly plying their craft in the
basement, completing a picture which, if witnessed on the stage or
described in a story-book, would strike us as a fanciful realization of
a mythical world.
But lo! the sun! Mosques, minarets, and cypresses float out of the grey
mist as it lifts slowly off land and water. Turkish ironclads become
substantial things as they lie at anchor in the Golden Horn alongside
the battered old wooden hulks of Navarino’s bloody memory. At first the
iron prows only are visible, tipped with light. But as the sun grows
more powerful and plays on the water, streaks of silver quiver
serpent-like—a veritable Greek fire—round the hulls, until finally the
ironclads themselves appear majestically before the vision like
antediluvian monsters.
An old disused Turkish cemetery is spread out in front of us with its
mournful grove of cypresses. Not so very long ago the whole space from
the Hôtel down to the water’s edge was one huge graveyard containing the
dead of centuries. Théophile Gautier tells us that the Turk loves to be
near his dead. To-day only a stray gravestone is left here and there to
mark the resting-place of some pious personage hallowed for his faith,
his virtues, and on no account to be desecrated by the removal of his
bones. Farther away is the suburb of Cassim Pasha, on its fringe the
Marine Ministry, and close by, on a hill, the Marine Hospital. Adjoining
this, still farther to the right, is the Ters Hanè, the Turkish
Government dry-dock on the banks of the Golden Horn. And if the eye
takes a wider sweep to the right, the asylum of the poor, Fakir Hanè,
comes into view—a noble structure beautifully situated, handsomely
endowed by Sultan Abdul Hamid, and, with true Turkish charity, devoted
to the poor of all creeds alike. Then there are the Cavalry Barracks,
the Greek High School, the so-called Phanar—another instance of Abdul
Hamid’s munificence. Finally, as we survey the scene from left to right,
the cupolas and minarets of five different mosques, each erected in
honour of some noted Sultan—Bajezid, Suleiman, Schah-Zadè, Mahmud,
Selim—come into the picture and crown the horizon.
This, in faint outline, is the panorama of life and colour which, once
witnessed, is stamped for all time on the memory. Yet the imagination
is, perhaps, even more deeply stirred by the same scene deprived of its
cacophonic noise and its bright colouring in the mysterious stillness of
a summer night.[1] Thousands of twinkling lights tell of the unchecked
life of the city. The starlit heavens speak a language of their own.
They whisper of the transitoriness, the vanity, the futility of what the
human heart clings to, and, as if to emphasize the sadness of it all,
the twang of a harp and a guitar breaks the silence. The dulcet accents
of a woman’s voice—a Mignon of this Eastern land—ring out to their
accompaniment. The musicians are gipsies—that mysterious race of nomads,
wanderers like ourselves towards a distant bourne.
Footnote 1:
On great occasions, such as the Sultan’s birthday, the contrast of day
and night is still further heightened by the illumination of the
warships in the Golden Horn and other craft in the Bosphorus.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER II
THE ARMENIAN OUTBREAK IN CONSTANTINOPLE (August 1896)
There is no sure foundation set in blood;
No certain life achieved by other’s death.
SHAKESPEARE, _King John_
MUCH that I shall have to say in the course of the next few chapters
might be unintelligible, or at least liable to be misunderstood, if I
were not to explain the circumstances under which I went to
Constantinople as Correspondent of the _New York Herald_. My visit was,
as indicated in the previous chapter, in direct connexion with the
so-called “Armenian Atrocities,” and my mission was due to the
shrewdness of one man, a great newspaper proprietor.
For some time past the diplomatic and consular representatives of the
Powers at Constantinople had sent alarming reports to their respective
Governments, and these, passing into the Press, and supplemented by
harrowing accounts from the foreign newspaper correspondents in
Constantinople, had fanned a flame of resentment directed against the
Turks as Mohammedans. This was more particularly the case in England and
the United States of America.[2] The proprietor of the _New York
Herald_, almost alone among newspaper magnates, had the discernment to
perceive that the Armenian question was in the main a political one—in
some respects similar to that of Bulgaria a generation previously—and
that whatever might be the shortcomings of the Turkish Government and
its local Administration, there was little or no reason for assuming
that the disturbances had their source in religious fanaticism directed
against the Christian as such; whilst evidence was accumulating that a
vast Armenian conspiracy, nurtured in Russia and encouraged by the
Nonconformist element in England, obscured the real issue, to which
there were two sides. Mr. Gordon Bennett saw the chance of a
journalistic “score” in giving the Turks an opportunity of making their
own version of things known to the world—a chance which had been denied
to them by the great English newspapers.
Footnote 2:
See English Blue Books for the years 1895–1896.
This was my first experience as a Special Correspondent abroad, and
before starting, Mr. Gordon Bennett had given me his ideas of the duties
of such as follows: “The Special Correspondent of a great newspaper
possesses for the time being something of the influence of an Ambassador
from one nation to another. Now, according to an axiom of Machiavelli,
an Ambassador should endeavour to make himself _persona grata_ with
those to whom he is accredited, if only thereby to gain the best
opportunities for obtaining every possible information and to be able to
report events in a broad impartial spirit. The correspondent should give
his sources wherever possible, and allow the reader to form his own
opinion on the facts submitted. The views of the paper itself should be
found in the editorial columns. The correspondent is to take no side,
and to express no opinions of his own. In many cases it would appear
that the matter sent to the papers by their correspondents in Turkey is
biased against the Turks. This implies an injustice against which even a
criminal on trial is protected.”
Having stated this much, I may add that it would be an error to suppose
that it was expected of me to palliate or gloss over the gravity of any
excesses which might have taken place, for such would only have
frustrated the object in view. As a matter of fact, no foreign
correspondent in Constantinople gave more unvarnished accounts than
those published by the _New York Herald_ of the terrible events which
subsequently took place in the Turkish capital.
One of the salient features of Constantinople is the prevalence of idle
gossip, and I had not been there many days before I became aware that my
presence and its supposed purpose formed a topic of interest to people
whose very existence was unknown to me. One day, entering the Club de
Constantinople, near the Pera Palace Hotel, I was addressed in English
by a fat, sallow-faced, beardless individual, who told me with the
blandest of smiles that he had heard I had come to Constantinople to
“write up the Turks,” and that I was to be paid neither more nor less
than one million francs to do so. He asked me quite ingenuously whether
this was indeed the case.
With such an auspicious opening it could not be a matter for surprise
that before long the _Herald_ correspondent became an object of
curiosity to the large colony of “gobe-mouches” who supplied current
gossip in the guise of personal news to Embassies and newspaper
correspondents.
A conviction had gained ground in diplomatic circles, intensified by the
Press in general, that the Turkish Government was, if not actually
unwilling, at all events unable to prevent the recurrence of massacres.
The agitation on the part of the Armenian Committees in the different
capitals of Europe had been carried on to such purpose that there was
hardly an American or English newspaper which had a good word left to
say of the Turks, let alone of the Turkish Government. A horde of
adventurers of various nationalities, déclassés of every sphere of life,
cashiered officers among the rest, who had left their native country for
its good, were eking out a precarious livelihood by providing newspaper
correspondents, if not also Embassies, with backstair information.
Others were in the pay of the Sultan or his chamberlains, at the same
time acting as spies, watching and reporting the doings of people of
note in the capital in the interests of the Palace.
Thus whenever a stray communication, signed with some pseudonym,
appeared in a newspaper, it was at once assumed that it emanated from a
tainted source. For such was the prejudiced state of Anglo-Saxon feeling
against the Turks at this particular period—much to the delight of
England’s rivals on the spot—that it was quite sufficient to be known as
a philo-Turk to be credited with some kind of rascality.
My letters of introduction opened all doors to me, so that, had there
been any news to get hold of, I was favourably placed to obtain it, more
particularly from official Turkish sources. I was, therefore, much
disappointed at the meagre information procurable, either at the Sublime
Porte or at the Palace itself, since I had openly stated that my one
desire was to be put in a position to get hold of important items of
news, if possible earlier than my competitors, and to give the Turkish
side, or version, of events as they took place. This was the only favour
asked, and I was extremely surprised at the helplessness of the Turks to
avail themselves of a powerful organ of publicity ready to give them
fair play. Instead of meeting me in a sensible spirit, one of the first
things the Turkish authorities did was to confiscate the _New York
Herald_. Mr. Whittaker, the _Times_ correspondent, whom I informed of
what had taken place, said: “They are hopelessly dense. Tell them that
if they want the truth told they must let a correspondent manage things
in his own way.” But this the authorities were either disinclined to do
or incapable of doing all the time I was in Constantinople. Thus almost
every bit of news I obtained came to me independently of Turkish
sources, and was the result of my own individual efforts. Powerlessness
on the part of the official Turks to avail themselves of an influential
journal anxious to show them to the world in their true colours
(surrounded by enemies and slanderers as they were on all sides, in the
face of a serious crisis) was confessed to me one day in pathetic terms
by Mehmet Izzet Bey, one of the Sultan’s translators, in the words: “Mon
cher, nous sommes un peuple taciturne; nous ne savons pas nous
défendre.”
I had been some weeks in Constantinople, and there was no sign of
anything unusual being about to happen; nothing which would have
justified me in continuing to idle away my time in that city. So I wrote
to Mr. Bennett asking him to allow me to return home. But, as it soon
became apparent, this was only the lull before the storm. On the
afternoon of August 26, a Mr. Whittall, an English resident, volunteered
to accompany me on a shopping expedition to the Bazaar in Stamboul. We
took the funicular tunnel railway from Pera down to Galata, but had no
sooner alighted at the latter station than we were witnesses of an
extraordinary scene.
Everybody was in a state of wildest excitement. We were hustled out of
the station, the iron gates of which were immediately shut, turning us,
as it were, into the street, where on all sides the iron shutters of the
shops were being hastily put up with a deafening din. Every door was
closed against us, and we just managed to find shelter on some steps
leading down into a cellar so as to survey the scene. All this happened
with incredible rapidity. Simultaneously, a shrieking and gesticulating
savage crowd, of the type seen unloading ships in the harbour, came
along from the left, surging on towards the Galata Bridge. They were
armed with what, as far as I could make out, were wooden laths, such as
might have been split off from cases, or legs wrenched off tables and
chairs, and were in hot pursuit of a couple of Armenians who, covered
with blood, were running immediately in front of them, evidently flying
for life. They passed so rapidly that it was difficult to distinguish
between the pursued and the pursuers. The rattle of musketry was
incessant; it played an accompaniment to the dramatic scene, and seemed
to be coming from the vicinity of the Ottoman Bank, into which, as we
only heard later in the day, a band of Armenian revolutionists had
forced an entry, overpowered the personnel in charge, barricaded the
doors, and begun throwing bombs and firing revolver shots out of the
windows on to the crowd in the street.
Led by curiosity and the natural desire of a correspondent to see what
was going on, we crept along, skirting the side of the houses in the
direction of the firing, until we reached the corner of a narrow street
leading up to the Ottoman Bank. From here we saw some Turkish soldiers
standing in front of the Bank building and firing in the direction of
the windows, from which came shots in return. Half-way between them and
where we stood we could distinguish a number of dead bodies on the
ground.
On our way up the hill, back to the hotel, we passed several more dead
lying either in the road or in the side streets. Nobody came near them,
as would have been the case in many European countries; no curiosity was
shown: they lay prone as if death had been the result of some sudden
cataclysm, or shock, which had subsided as suddenly as it came.
The pavement as well as the middle of the streets showed big patches of
blood, proving that the massacres, which apparently had started among
the harbour population of Galata and Stamboul, had spread to the heights
of Pera. I took a walk through the Grande Rue de Pera and the adjoining
thoroughfares, in which every shop was closed, but did not meet a soul.
Had it not been for the dogs, which struck me as being unusually
depressed, Constantinople might have been a deserted city, and this
state of things lasted for several days. Such was the tension of nerves
that when I returned to the hotel I found the messenger boy who had
shown me the way to the telegraph office near the British Embassy, and
whom I had subsequently lost sight of, in tears. He had spread the
report that I had been murdered. As a matter of fact no Europeans ran
any appreciable risk of harm during those days, except, perhaps, through
the accident of an Armenian bomb exploding in the street in their
immediate vicinity. At night a table was placed in the hall of the
hotel, on which were placed a number of revolvers, so that each guest
might take one up to his room, and have a weapon with which to defend
himself. But for the dull thud of the bekdji’s (night watch) wooden
staff striking the pavement an uncanny stillness prevailed, as of a dead
city. During that night and the subsequent ones the dead were taken in
carts past our hotel and hastily interred in the Armenian cemetery on
the way to Tschishly.
Early next morning I went out with the correspondent of the _Times_. We
visited the Ottoman Bank, from whence the Armenian conspirators had,
only a few hours before, been taken away. Everything was in the greatest
disorder. Pools of blood on the first floor and in the basement remained
as evidence of what had taken place during the previous twenty-four
hours. We were shown a heap of blood-stained coins. On the second floor
we saw a table still littered with the remnants of the last meal of the
Armenians. The staff of the Bank had escaped through the roof when the
Armenians made their attack.
We thence wended our way to the Galata Bridge, upon which dense crowds
had congregated, the Turkish guard being doubled at the head of the
bridge, the wooden planks of which were dotted with a spray of blood
spots. In the afternoon a friend took me to a house near the Galata
Tower. We climbed up to the roof, from which we obtained a bird’s-eye
view of the harbour, and saw a crowd rushing from all directions towards
the quay—apparently on the alert to renew the outbreak.
I went up to the Palace in the afternoon and found everybody in a state
of great excitement. There could be no doubt of the helplessness of the
authorities in the face of the action of the mob; but great stress was
laid on the provocation given by the Armenian conspirators, which nobody
could have foreseen and which the Armenian Patriarch Osmanian had
publicly repudiated and denounced. The Turkish officials were indignant
that it should be said the movement was inspired by hatred of the
Christians as such, and the Sultan’s second secretary proceeded to draw
up a list for my information of the large number of Armenians who
occupied some of the best paid Ministerial posts and were among the
Sultan’s own staff of Court officials. The list I was assured ran to
about twenty per cent. of the higher employees at Constantinople. The
Keeper of the Sultan’s Civil List—Ohannes Effendi—was an Armenian, as
was also the chief Censor of the Press.
Next morning I went by steamer to Buyukdere to see the Russian
Ambassador, M. de Nelidow, who, through his chief dragoman, M. Maximow,
had negotiated the escape of the Armenian bank-breakers. M. Maximow had
gone up to the Palace, and by his language, the like of which had never
been heard in the decorous precincts, frightened the Palace officials.
There was some talk at the time of the British Fleet being ordered up to
Constantinople, a rumour which I mentioned to the Russian Ambassador. It
did not appear to please him, for he exclaimed rather excitedly: “Oh,
par exemple! Nous ne rendrons jamais la clef de notre maison”—a remark
the significance of which has never been absent from my thoughts from
that day to this in connexion with Turkey and her future.
I then called on Abraham Pasha at his summer residence, also at
Buyukdere. I had made his acquaintance a few weeks previously at the
Sultan’s Palace, and had been his guest at the Cercle d’Orient. A great
landowner and sportsman, as I could see the trophies in the hall of his
palatial konak, he was reputed to be the wealthiest and most influential
Armenian notability in Turkey, and had always been on the very best
terms with Abdul Hamid. He had even had the honour of entertaining his
predecessor, Abdul Aziz, at his country seat. I found him in bed,
guarded by a body of armed retainers, in a state of great trepidation.
“What is this? What is it all coming to? It is really too bad!” he
ejaculated as I was ushered into his bedroom. As a matter of fact
Armenians had been killed at Buyukdere. So great was the terror among
the Armenians of position that one of the wealthiest, the banker
Azarian, to whom I had brought a letter of introduction from the London
house of Rothschild, closed his place of business and fled to the
Prinkipo Islands. It was a novel sensation to see millionaires, thus
exposed to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, being pursued
like rats, and if caught knocked on the head as little better than
vermin.
The most extraordinary feature of this popular rising against the
Armenians, at least from an ethnological point of view, was the
discrimination exercised by the mob in seeking their victims. Thus, to a
stranger, it would be often difficult enough to distinguish between an
Armenian and a Greek, an Italian, or a Jew, at least by the cast of his
features; and among Armenians there are Protestants, Roman Catholics,
and Orthodox Greek Churchmen. Yet those who belonged to the Orthodox
Greek Church, and were thus supposed to be implicated in the
revolutionary propaganda fomented in Russia, were sought out and hounded
to death. Hardly any Roman Catholic Armenians were molested, for they
were reported to have refrained from revolutionary activity. How the
unlettered crowd of Kurds, Lazis, and other Turkish tribes constituting
the lower classes of Galata were able to exercise such discrimination
still remains a mystery to me.
In the midst of the massacres going on in broad daylight a Jewish
money-changer in one of the streets of Galata was assailed by a crowd
and was on the point of being felled to the ground. In his abject terror
the man called out: “For God’s sake, let me go! I am not an Armenian; I
am a Hebrew.” The mob, though in a frenzy of passionate excitement,
desisted for a moment, and the man’s assertion proving to be true, the
crowd released him. The terror-stricken wretch rushed away, leaving the
contents of his stall, a mass of gold and silver coins, strewn on the
pavement. Several Turks forming part of the murderous crowd pursued him,
crying out: “Come back and pick up your money; we don’t want to rob
you.”
It is only fair to state that the German colony stood practically alone
in not succumbing to the prevailing panic. Even on the 26th of August,
when, in the first hours of consternation, public offices of every other
nationality were closed, the German Post Office, which is situated close
to the Ottoman Bank—in the very centre of the disturbance—remained open
and sent off its post-bags as usual. Bearing the German flag aloft, the
officials took the sacks of letters over the Galata Bridge to the
railway station in Stamboul, where the massacres were at their height. I
mention this fact, even after this lapse of time, because the
cool-headedness of the Germans on this occasion was one of the
contributory causes which, from that time onwards, made them rise in the
favour of the Sultan and the officials at the Palace at the expense of
the influence of other nationalities, who, for the time being, had
apparently lost all sense of proportion. This incident derives its
significance not so much from the presence of mind which the Germans
displayed as from the fact that it showed that they alone, among the
foreign element, were conversant with the political nature of this
outbreak, and refused to believe and to be influenced by its supposed
religious origin. The Germans knew that as Christians or foreigners they
had nothing to fear, whereas the agitation carried on in England by
Canon McColl and the Duke of Westminster, backed by sundry fervent
Nonconformists, had had the effect of exhibiting the fanatical Turk as
thirsting for the blood of the Christian. Thus, when the crisis came,
those who had allowed their minds to be dominated by these personages
failed to show that calmness and self-possession which are otherwise
marked characteristics of the English race when suddenly assailed by
peril.
Only a few English families, such as the Whittalls, merchant princes who
have lived in Smyrna and Constantinople for generations, and whose name
is a household word among the Turks, did not lose their heads. They even
exercised their influence to afford shelter to the Armenians whose lives
were in danger.
Through a mere chance, brought about, moreover, by my ignorance of the
conditions of the Press censorship prevailing at the time at
Constantinople, I was enabled to secure a “score” for the _New York
Herald_. For twenty-four hours that paper was the only one in the
outside world which had the news of the Armenian attack on the Ottoman
Bank and the massacres in Constantinople which were its immediate
sequel. This came about as follows: Foreign newspaper correspondents in
Constantinople, aware by experience of the difficulties put in their way
by the censorship when forwarding news unfavourable to the authorities,
were in the habit of sending their contributions by post to
Philippopolis, the Bulgarian frontier town, where each of them kept a
running account at the post office. From thence their communications
were forwarded by telegraph to their destination; a procedure which, for
newspaper purposes, involved a loss of twenty-four hours. This I was
unaware of, and thus ingenuously sent my telegram direct from
Constantinople to Paris, where it arrived the same evening, its contents
appearing in Paris and New York the next morning, before the same item
of news had even reached Philippopolis. It was afterwards stated that
this priority was due to favouritism granted me as correspondent of the
_New York Herald_; but this was not the case. It was simply an oversight
on the part of the Press censor, probably due to the extraordinary
excitement prevailing generally in Constantinople at the time. In proof
of this, I may mention that the telegram I sent off the next day was
stopped; indeed, it did not reach its destination at all, and the one I
sent on the day after arrived in Paris containing the obviously
exaggerated statement that twenty thousand Armenians had been massacred.
Any favouritism I was credited with must in this last case have led to
the publication of a piece of news very damaging to the Turks. Most of
the other assertions made about that time respecting my activity as
representative of the _New York Herald_ had no better foundation in
fact. The story that the Press censor had been discharged for stopping
one of my telegrams was as baseless as the rest. As a matter of fact he
retained his post until his death, and when I was last in
Constantinople, in 1908, his son, also an Armenian, had been appointed
his successor.
One day, immediately following upon the attack on the Ottoman Bank, the
police discovered a large quantity of explosive bombs of different sizes
in the cellar of a house in Pera, which, it was said, had been brought
there with Russian connivance. Now, although the correspondents of the
different European papers were invited to inspect the find, which was
afterwards publicly exhibited at the Arsenal (Tophanè), such was the
general disinclination to admit any fact which could tell in favour of
the great provocation the Turks had received from the Armenian
revolutionists that hardly any publicity was given to this discovery of
bombs.
One morning during the Armenian disturbances a card was brought to me
bearing the name of his Excellency Ahmed Midhat Effendi, Vice-Président
du Bureau Impérial de Santé Publique (Sanitary Administration of the
Ottoman Empire).
A tall, broad-shouldered, black-bearded man, in the prime of life, of
imposing bearing and with flashing dark eyes, wearing the fez and
dressed in the conventional black coat of high Turkish officials, termed
Stambolin, without any decoration, gold braid, or other indication of
his status, was shown in. He told me that he had come on the part of his
Imperial Majesty the Sultan to place himself at my disposal, in case I
should require his services, either to give me introductions, or to
serve me as guide and interpreter, as he possessed a perfect command of
the French language. He said the Sultan had read several of my
communications to the _New York Herald_, and was pleased that there had
come to Constantinople a correspondent who was ready and able to make
allowances for the great provocation the Turkish authorities had
received from the Armenian revolutionaries, and to treat Turkish affairs
from an impartial standpoint.
As this gentleman will be mentioned several times in the course of these
pages—for to my subsequent relations with him I am indebted for much of
my insight into the Turkish character—a few words concerning him may not
be out of place. The story of his early life and of his subsequent
relations with Sultan Abdul Hamid is an interesting one, and calculated
to throw a sympathetic light on the character of the Sovereign. Born of
humble parents in the Island of Rhodes, his father was either a dealer
in cloth, or, like President Andrew Johnson, a tailor; and he himself
was apprenticed to the calling. Being, however, imbued with a taste for
literature, Ahmed Midhat went into journalism and subsequently politics.
Here he came into contact with the Young Turkish Movement of Midhat
Pasha, and became implicated in the movement which led to the
impeachment of that statesman in 1877. One day the Sultan sent for Ahmed
Midhat, as he afterwards told me, and quite charmed him by his gracious
manner, turning him from an opponent to a champion, convinced that his
master’s one aim was the good of his country, so that he finally burst
forth with the declaration that the Sultan could reckon on him as one of
his devoted slaves. “I do not want you as a slave; I ask you to be my
friend,” the Sultan replied, finally captivating the generous-minded,
confiding man. Ahmed Midhat thus became an ardent and sincerely
convinced adherent of the Hamidian régime, and from all accounts he was
one of the few who never turned their influence to unworthy ends. His
position as part proprietor of the _Terdjumani Hakkikat_, a Turkish
newspaper, secured him independence. In his spare time he turned to
literature, and eventually became known and honoured throughout the
Turkish Empire as a regenerator of the Turkish language. He had been to
Paris, where he made the acquaintance of Victor Hugo and other literary
notabilities, and several of his novels—of an almost childlike
simplicity of thought—were translated into French and German. When I
made his acquaintance he was the virtual head of the administration of
public health, and one of the very few Turks who were given a private
seal, which assured that whatever communication he might wish to make to
the Sultan would immediately reach His Majesty. In spite of all these
advantages Midhat was hardly ever to be met at the Palace. His private
life was in harmony with his public conduct. He lived with his family in
his own konak at Beikos, on the Bosphorus, not far from the Black Sea,
under plain but patriarchal conditions, and there I was his guest on
several occasions. He had two wives and sixteen children, six of whom
were Christians he had taken into his family because they were poor and
destitute and had brought up as his own. I asked him how he came to take
such a course, and why he had not preferred to adopt Mohammedans. “They
were my neighbours,” he said. “They were poor and had nobody to look
after them, and I do not believe in proselytism. They are good and
grateful; that is sufficient.”
I paid repeated visits to different Turkish mosques on the Mohammedan
Sunday (our Friday). There had been statements in English newspapers
referring to the Sultan’s unpopularity, and I discussed these with Ahmed
Midhat. He said the suggestion that the Sultan had no following was not
true, but I might easily convince myself, as there was no surer
indication of the people’s feeling on this point than the popular
attendance at the mosques. During the last months of Abdul Aziz’s reign
the mosques had been quite deserted, for the people were disgusted with
a Sultan-fainéant—a drone who only lived for self-indulgence; whereas
the present Sultan was venerated as a Sultan—“travailleur qui
travaillait jour et nuit pour le bonheur de son peuple. In spite of the
disastrous war of 1877, and even of these latest disturbances, the
Sultan was beloved by his people.” In every case I found the mighty Aja
Sophia in Stamboul crowded with worshippers; all classes mixed up
promiscuously, the pasha kneeling next the Hamal, the common soldier
beside the field-officer. An atmosphere of earnest devotional fervour
pervaded the scene. Its sincerity was emphasized by children
unconcernedly playing about the recesses of the building, and sundry old
men—to all appearances beggars or cranks—moving along the aisle in and
out of the kneeling crowd, unmolested. Looking up to the mosaic inlaid
dome of the building, the outline of the figure of Christ was distinctly
visible through the covering of whitewash, paint, or gilt which had in
all probability been laid over it after the taking of Constantinople,
when the Christians made their last stand in this very building.
In order to prove to me how baseless were the fables regarding the
Mohammedan desecration of Christian churches, Ahmed Midhat drove me some
days later to the Kariè mosque, where the fresco figures of the saints
of the Byzantine church, though somewhat dilapidated, were still plainly
recognizable on the walls.
Shortly after the news had spread to Europe of the attack on the Ottoman
Bank and the subsequent massacre of Armenians, a number of artists of
illustrated newspapers arrived in Constantinople, commissioned to supply
the demand for atrocities of the Million-headed Tyrant. Among these was
the late Mr. Melton Prior, the renowned war correspondent. He was a man
of a strenuous and determined temperament, one not accustomed to be the
sport of circumstances, but to rise superior to them. Whether he was
called upon to take part in a forced march or to face a mad Mullah, he
invariably held his own and came off victorious. But in this particular
case, as he confided to me, he was in an awkward predicament. The public
at home had heard of nameless atrocities, and was anxious to receive
pictorial representations of these. The difficulty was how to supply
them with what they wanted, as the dead Armenians had been buried and no
women or children had suffered hurt, and no Armenian church had been
desecrated. As an old admirer of the Turks and as an honest man, he
declined to invent what he had not witnessed. But others were not
equally scrupulous. I subsequently saw an Italian illustrated paper
containing harrowing pictures of women and children being massacred in a
church.
The weeks following the outbreak of the Armenian conspiracy were of a
somewhat trying nature. It was long before things regained their normal
character. The clang of the closing of the iron shutters of the shops
reacted on the nervous system of the inhabitants of Pera for years. Even
after twelve years Turkish soldiers, who were ordered to patrol the
streets of Pera after the massacres, were still to be seen in the Grande
Rue de Pera at night doing the same drudgery.
In the course of my journalistic work I had occasion to visit the
Gumysch Soujou Hospital, situated near the German Embassy. About forty
Turkish soldiers were lying there, wounded by Armenian bombs or revolver
shots during the street fighting. I wrote an article dealing with this
subject and a description of the wounded, which must have been of a
sympathetic character, for it was subsequently translated and reproduced
in the Turkish newspapers. I was told that it had attracted the notice
of the Sultan and that he would like to see me before I left
Constantinople; but weeks passed by and I heard no more of the matter.
It was the second week in October, and I was about to return home.
I was on the point of leaving Constantinople when a messenger from the
Palace brought me word that Izzet Bey, the Sultan’s second secretary,
wanted to see me at once. On arriving at the Palace he came towards me,
smiling, with the words: “Sa Majesté vous offre un dîner and wishes to
see you before you leave Constantinople.” I returned to the hotel in
order to don evening dress for the occasion, and on coming back to the
Palace at about seven o’clock in the evening, I was ushered into a room
in the centre of which stood a table already set for dinner, which was
served and cooked in French style in contradistinction to the usual mode
of the Palace. Wines of various kinds, including champagne, were handed
round, presumably for my sole benefit, since the other guests only drank
water. This gave the entertainment a somewhat incomplete character.
After dinner Izzet Bey took me aside, and again expatiated on the great
services I was supposed to have rendered to his country. “Mon cher, un
milliard ne pourrait pas vous recompenser pour ce que vous avez fait
pour nous,” were his words. I was then, and am still, conscious only of
having acted in a fair and sympathetic spirit where others had
persistently given a one-sided account of events. I replied to that
effect, adding that as correspondent of the _Herald_ I could not think
of accepting any remuneration from anybody. Izzet Bey continued that the
Sultan wanted to know something about my position in life, as he took an
interest in me and would like me to come to Constantinople permanently
and enter his service in a suitable capacity. He then asked me to follow
him, as the Sultan would like to see me at once. It was about nine
o’clock in the evening when we wended our way towards the one-storied
villa-like white stucco structure where the Sultan habitually received
visitors. We passed through a glass door into a spacious hall, in which
stood groups of tall men clad in black frock-coats cut close up to the
neck in Turkish fashion, and wearing fezes. These were apparently the
Sultan’s body-servants. What struck me more particularly was that they
wore no uniform or any insignia of office or distinctive mark, or bore
any arms. Indeed, there was not a single armed or uniformed person
about; a plain civilian attire was evidently _de rigueur_ in the
immediate vicinity of the Sovereign. There was something distinctly
impressive in this simplicity. It suggested a striking contrast to the
glittering pomp and circumstance surrounding some other monarchs. I
still recall the deferential attitude of this little knot of Imperial
servants towards the humble mortal who for the moment was lifted upon a
pinnacle of earthly distinction by the desire of the Padishah to shake
hands with him. My position reminded me of the French Ambassador who
told the Russian Emperor Paul that an important personage in his empire
took a great interest in a certain matter, whereupon the autocrat
interrupted him sharply with the words: “There is nobody of importance
in my empire except the man with whom I am now conversing, and only as
long as I speak to him is he important.”
But an autocrat must not be kept waiting beyond the bare second which
is required to leave one’s goloshes outside the door. This done, we
passed through to the right into a brilliantly illuminated apartment,
the floor of which was covered with a costly Turkish carpet; the chime
of a beautiful grandfather clock heralded our arrival. The Sultan came
towards me as I entered the room, shook hands, and led the way to a
sofa, in front of which stood a small tabouret with coffee-cups and
some cigarettes. Two gilt chairs were placed opposite the sofa,
apparently for the occasion—to which he motioned us—whilst he himself
sat down on the sofa and handed me a cigarette. He faced us resting
both his hands on the hilt of his sword—for he was clad in the uniform
of a Turkish General—with the Star of the Order of Imtiaz in
brilliants suspended from his neck. I noticed then, as on subsequent
occasions, that the Sultan wore a single ring. It was a large emerald.
So much has been written in depreciation of this extraordinary man
that I cannot resist the temptation of reiterating the impression of
kindliness and sincerity which he made on me. In saying this I make
all allowance for our common human weakness in crediting those of
exalted station who are kind to us with every virtue, whilst viewing
askance others who neglect us. But the fact remains that Abdul Hamid,
without any physical advantage to speak of—rather the reverse, for the
features and figure might without much imagination have been supposed
to belong to a Galata money-changer—possessed an exceptional charm of
manner, a simple dignity and grace of bearing, which were calculated
to, and indeed did, gain the sympathies of those who were brought into
contact with him. There was something in his look and in the
even-toned balance of his sympathetic voice when addressing his
secretary which betrayed the habit of command, the exaction of
implicit, even slavish, obedience during a lifetime. It interested me
to note the attitude of extreme deference of those surrounding him.
Thus Izzet Bey only sat on the extreme edge of his chair with his
hands crossed flat on his chest and his head bent low while the Sultan
told him in Turkish what he desired should be communicated to me. The
Sultan wished to thank me for the sympathetic manner in which I had
written on Turkish subjects, and expressed his gratitude that for once
a journalist had come to Constantinople apparently free from those
prejudices against the Turks which were a source of so much trouble
and annoyance to him.
Rightly or wrongly, the Sultan seemed to think that he was under a
personal obligation to me which he did not deem sufficiently liquidated
by the bestowal of decorative distinctions. He suggested that I should
leave the _New York Herald_, come to Constantinople, and enter his
service. He wished me to remain attached to his person in some capacity
or other. I replied that I could not see my way to enter his service, as
it seemed to me that he had already too many people round him who drew
big salaries for doing little or nothing, and that at my time of life I
had no desire to come to Constantinople and live there. I added that
wherever I might happen to be I should always take pleasure in
endeavouring to secure fair play for Turkey and her ruler—a promise I
have since faithfully kept.
“Well then,” rejoined the Sultan, smiling good-humouredly, “if you will
not enter my service, come and see me again as a friend and be my guest
whenever you return to Constantinople; I shall always be glad to see
you.”
Knowing that I was about to leave Constantinople and that I was
personally acquainted with Prince Bismarck, His Majesty asked me to take
a case of china ornaments—a pair of vases and a painted plaque—from the
Imperial porcelain factory as a present from him to the Prince. The
Sultan desired me to assure the Prince of his friendly regard and to
tell him that he hoped he would always exercise his great influence in
favour of Turkey, a country to which Moltke, his illustrious countryman,
had in days gone by rendered valuable service. This commission I
subsequently carried out on my way home through Germany.
When I left the Sultan and walked out into the open air, into the balmy
calm of a starlit autumn evening, not a soul was to be seen. The
splashing of water from a fountain which issued from a wall on the left
was the only break of silence around, except the sound of our feet as
they pressed the loose gravel. Nor did I meet a guard or soldier or any
living soul as I passed the porter’s lodge out of the Palace. As far as
I could tell there would have been nothing to prevent a determined band
of half a dozen armed men from entering the Palace and kidnapping the
Sultan there and then, as others had entered the Ottoman Bank, the
porters of which, in their picturesque Albanian costume, were armed to
the teeth.
I left Constantinople the next day, the 12th of October.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER III
THE OUTBREAK OF THE GRÆCO-TURKISH WAR
Beauteous Greece,
Torn from her joys, in vain with languid arm
Half raised her lusty shield.
DYER
IN the winter of 1896–97 I had been acting as Special Correspondent for
the _New York Herald_ in Vienna, when, towards the end of February,
things began to wear a sinister aspect between Turkey and Greece. Thus I
left for Salonica on March 8, in order to await there the development of
events. On that day Greece finally declined to accede to the demand of
the Great Powers to recall Colonel Vassos from Crete. Thereupon Turkey
began to mobilize her forces, and to push them forward towards the
southern frontier of Thessaly. It was only subsequently, when Greece had
also concentrated nearly all her forces on her northern frontier, and
Greek volunteers, armed by the Ethnike Hetairia,[3] together with Greek
regular troops, repeatedly made incursions into Macedonia, that Turkey
declared war. Even then, however, there were hopes of peace left, for
Turkey was still inclined to listen to the urgent request of the Great
Powers not to assume the offensive.
Footnote 3:
A secret Greek political organization with Pan-Hellenistic aims to the
activity of which the disturbances in Crete and the outbreak of the
Græco-Turkish war were partly due.
At Salonica I had a dull time, living in a state of suspense, with
nothing to do but read the newspapers at the Club on the quay, or gaze
at the snow-capped crest of Mount Olympus across the bay. A few warships
appeared now and then in the offing. The largest ironclad of the Italian
navy, the _Duilio_, anchored in front of the city, and it was a treat to
visit it and to note the spick-and-span efficiency of the ship.
Rumours of the wildest kind from all manner of unreliable sources—mostly
of Greek origin—reached us daily. They tended to show that whatever
might be the forces at the disposal of the Turks, Ananias with his hosts
was on the side of the Greeks. His artillery was firing its missiles,
and these travelled with incredible velocity to the ends of the earth.
We learnt from more reliable sources, however, of raids over the
frontier undertaken by the Greek Ethnike Hetairia, with whom were the
Greek regulars, and who were reported to have committed various acts of
pillage and murder, even in the neighbourhood of Salonica, whose Greek
population made no secret of its sympathies with the Greek cause. It was
not safe to go about after dark, although one felt inclined to risk much
to partake of the decently cooked food and that collective social and
convivial life which the Germans—here, as elsewhere in Turkey—maintained
in the Kegel Club at the Hôtel Colombo.
The Jewish element of Salonica accounts for nearly half the total
population, and affords interest to the student of race and character.
These Hebrews are in strong contrast with their co-religionists
elsewhere, especially in Russia; not only as regards status, but also in
appearance. They are fine, strong, handsome men and women. Jews are met
with in almost every sphere of life—more particularly among the artisans
and the working classes; nearly all the Salonica boatmen are Jews. Some
of the Salonica Jews rise to high positions in different branches of the
Turkish Administration and invariably give satisfaction. They are “très
bien vus par les Turcs,” as a high Turkish official told me; for the
Turks, in spite of their supposed fanaticism, have always treated the
Jews with kindness, and this at a period when Christian Spain burned
them at the stake. I was told that the Jews of Salonica had only
recently celebrated the four-hundredth anniversary of their arrival in
Turkey from Spain, from which country they were banished in 1490. On
this occasion they had sent an address to the Sultan expressing their
grateful attachment to Turkey and her Sovereign. Prayers were offered up
in every synagogue of the Turkish Empire, and £T50,000 was collected for
benevolent purposes under the auspices of a Committee presided over by
the Grand Rabbi.
It was at Salonica that I first came into contact with that survival of
the fierce spirit of proselytism of former ages, the Anglo-Saxon
missionary element. Never do I remember to have met such implacable
hatred for the Mohammedans as that which seemed to animate the wife of
the Anglo-Saxon missionary, bent on converting them, together with the
Jews, to the religion of Love. She set me thinking whether she and her
husband might not have been more profitably engaged in the slums of the
great cities at home than among the industrious and sober population of
Salonica. An honest, hard-working Christian missionary who is
kind-hearted and humane in a Mohammedan sense may still do good work in
that part of the world, let alone in Asiatic Turkey, as I subsequently
convinced myself, particularly in the application of hygiene, since this
and medical science particularly are lamentably backward. But only harm
can come from the spirit of hatred which I now saw manifested for the
first time.
An English working-man of an ill-conditioned type was staying at my
hotel. I used to meet him in the café sipping his tea, with an unsightly
mongrel dog as his companion. He told me he had come from Lancashire,
and was engaged as foreman at some textile works situated on the quay.
He had also been in the United States. I asked him how he liked America.
He flared up and, pointing to his dog, replied: “You see that ere little
_dorg_! Well, I’d rather see ’im dead than in America,” bringing his
clenched fist down on the marble table with savage emphasis. This was
significant, but not the only testimony since vouchsafed to me of the
antagonism between the British trade-union spirit and the conditions of
labour in the United States.
There was an English public-house in Salonica, on the quay, facing the
harbour. It was kept by an English widow, but only opened its shutters
on the rare occasions when the English squadrons put into the bay, when
it did a brisk business.
One continuous stream of Turkish troops from Albania and Asia Minor
passed through Salonica, arriving by sea, and, for the most part,
disembarking in the dead of the night. I was often awakened by the dull,
plaintive chant of these wild children of Asia, or of the untamed sons
of the Albanian hills in their white skull-caps, whose voices mingled
with the sounds of the waves beating against the stone quay, along which
they marched on their way to the railway station.
I had been in Salonica about ten days when I received a telegram from
Mr. Bennett asking me to proceed to the Turkish headquarters at
Elassona, not as War Correspondent, for which vocation at my time of
life I scarcely felt fitted, but to report on the real state of affairs,
concerning which so many rumours were afloat.
I called on the Vali, who gave me the necessary permit and deputed a
Circassian officer named Mehmet to be my escort. I engaged a Roumanian,
one Hermann Chary, who had formerly been in the service of General
Gordon in Egypt, and, I believe, in India as well. He had since drifted
to Salonica, and was commissionaire at the Hôtel Impérial on the quay,
where I was staying. Even now I often call this man to mind when I read
in our newspapers of the extraordinary linguistic accomplishments of
some of our leading statesmen who speak French with a Parisian accent or
are wonderful German “scholars.” Here was a man who spoke some nine or
ten languages fluently, but had to be content to earn five francs a day
as interpreter in a third-rate hotel, and was delighted with the chance
I offered him of better employment. He accompanied me later in the same
capacity on my journey through Armenia.
We left Salonica on March 20—a Saturday—and our departure for Elassona
was marked by the following childlike flourish of trumpets in the
_Journal de Salonique_ (March 22):
“Mr. Sidney Whitman, Correspondent of the _New York Herald_,
left our city last Saturday for Elassona in order to follow the
operations of the troops. The local authorities of Sorovitch
have gracefully placed a military escort at the disposal of the
American journalist, which will accompany him to the frontier.
“Mr. Whitman is one of those rare correspondents of foreign
newspapers who have appreciated without malevolence the attitude
of the Imperial Ottoman Government in the various incidents
which have happened of recent years.
“We may be sure that again to-day he will keep the innumerable
readers of the _New York Herald_ correctly informed as regards
the imposing military forces of Turkey, the admirable discipline
of her troops, their valour, their bravery, and their
irreproachable conduct. The American paper has sent another
correspondent to the Greek Camp, and a third one to
Constantinople. It is always by telegraph that these gentlemen
communicate with their paper. One can thus form an idea of the
enormous expenditure which the _New York Herald_ incurs in order
to justify its reputation as the best and most promptly informed
journal.”
We proceeded by rail to Karaferia, which left us about eighty miles to
Elassona by road, and took the road to Sorovitch, where we spent the
night as guests of a pasha and reached our destination in the evening of
the next day. As we came nearer to Elassona we passed a large number of
troops on the road, for they were all converging towards that point, not
merely from Salonica, but also from the port of Katerina, where 1200
horses and mules were disembarked daily by army contractors. Many of the
men we saw were cavalry, clad in the most fantastic style. Some of them
rode mules, and, in addition to a belt full of cartridges round their
waist and shoulders, carried a pickaxe, a knife, charcoal for lighting a
fire, and a supply of flour, sugar, rice, barley, and beans. Their
foot-covering was the so-called “Tcharik,” consisting of a piece of
untanned leather tied with string to the ankle and leg. The villages we
passed through offered next to no accommodation; swallows built their
nests in the dilapidated tenements. In this truly desolate and wholly
uncultivated country it was difficult to imagine it had ever formed part
of the dominions of Philip and Alexander of Macedonia. But what its
economic possibilities might become under reasonable conditions was
brought home to us when our energetic interpreter provided a large glass
bottle of excellent red wine, holding a full gallon, which, bottle and
all, he had purchased in the village of Kossona for thirteen pence in
English money!
The _Herald_ at that time was regarded by the Turks as one of the few
foreign newspapers ready to give them fair play, and this ensured me a
kindly welcome from everybody—from the generalissimo of the Turkish
forces, Edhem Pasha, down to the humblest subaltern.
Elassona is a town of about four thousand inhabitants, situated on the
banks of the River Xerias, on the western slope of Mount Olympus, and is
supposed to be identical with the Oloosson mentioned by Homer.
Quarters were assigned to me, my interpreter, and the Circassian
officer, Mehmet, in the house of the mayor of the town, which had been
vacated. All the rooms were left empty but for a bare couch or two. Nor
did I see anybody in the house during my stay except now and then a
stray devout Mohammedan kneeling on a carpet in one of the rooms,
solitary and silent, engaged in prayer.
Edhem Pasha, who received me shortly after my arrival, was still in the
prime of life, and looked what he was, a fine representative of the
high-bred Turk. He was simple, courteous, benevolent, and endowed with
that innate dignity which Orientals seem capable of uniting even with
humble station. I must assume that a favourable report had preceded us,
for he welcomed me at our first meeting in his konak, attended by some
officers of his staff, almost as a friend, playing with his “tisbe”
between his fingers while he talked. Throughout my stay of eight days he
continued to show me every kindness in his power. He even consented to
be photographed at my request, with one of his officers on either side
of him. This was the photograph which afterwards made the round of the
illustrated newspapers of the world; for I never met with any other, the
high-class Turk rarely posing before the camera. But with all his
amiability there was a deal of punctilio about the Turkish
Commander-in-Chief. He could be inexorable at times. Later, when war was
declared and a host of correspondents appeared on the scene, some of
these gentlemen arrayed themselves in military uniform. Edhem Pasha
promptly informed them that, although they might possibly be entitled to
wear such costume in their own country, they were only accredited to him
as newspaper correspondents, and as such would not be allowed to appear
in uniform.
Fifty-five thousand Turkish soldiers were said to be quartered in and
around that primitive old town. Not a single woman was to be seen; not a
drop of wine or spirits could be procured for love or money. We were
told that twenty years before, during the Russo-Turkish war, twenty-four
thousand Turkish soldiers died here of typhus and dysentery.
Riding towards the camp, we met soldiers everywhere, some of them
leisurely sitting by the roadside cooking their meals. As we rode past
them an aide-de-camp of the Sultan turned to me and, pointing to the
Albanian Redifs, said: “These fellows know no greater delight than that
of being called upon to fight, and, if needs be, to die for the Sultan.”
One afternoon I rode out, accompanied by Mehmet Tscherkess, a young
Turkish major who had served in the Prussian Guards, and who was,
besides, an aide-de-camp of the Sultan and my interpreter to the Meluna
Pass, which formed the frontier towards Greece at that particular point.
When the war broke out three weeks later some fierce fighting took place
here. A small block-house on a summit marked the Turkish boundary-line,
and a couple of hundred yards away a similar structure denoted the Greek
border, where we could discern a group of Greek soldiers. The Sultan’s
aide-de-camp suggested that I should walk over and have a talk with the
Greeks; which I did, accompanied by my dragoman. We were met half way by
a Greek cavalry officer. He told us that he had been trained at the
French cavalry school of Saumur, and in manner and conversation he
certainly reminded us more of a Frenchman than a Greek. To a casual
remark of mine he replied light-heartedly—even truculently—that war was
inevitable, as also was the defeat of the Turks! Looking down into the
valley, the far-famed vale of Tempè lay before us, through which Pompey
rode a fugitive, flying from the fateful field of Pharsalia. We could
just perceive Larissa in the distance. The little white tents of the
Greek forces lay spread out at our feet and were plainly visible amid a
landscape more advanced in the verdure of spring and bearing far more
signs of cultivation and closer habitation than that we had passed
through in Macedonia. We parted on good terms. I rejoined the Turkish
officers, and rode leisurely back to Elassona.
On leaving Elassona the Turkish Commander-in-Chief had prepared a little
surprise for us. We started on horseback at about five o’clock in the
morning, as it was reckoned that it would take all day to do the forty
miles to Katerina, on the coast. After riding for about an hour, and
turning a sharp angle of the road, we beheld a squadron of Turkish
cavalry drawn up at the salute to bid the representatives of the _New
York Herald_ a parting good-bye. Even to-day I cannot think of this
little incident without the reflection how grateful the Turks were for
the smallest proof of fairness towards them, and how rarely they got it.
We rode on leisurely all day, and so scorching was the sun, although we
were only in March, that when I rose next morning in the little Greek
inn at Katerina I found the skin had peeled off my ears on to the
pillow. From Katerina a Turkish Government torpedo-boat brought us back
to Salonica.
War had not yet broken out, but every indication of its inevitability
was about us. The hotels were crowded with war correspondents, who had
arrived from all parts and were feverishly active, getting ready to
proceed to join the Turkish forces, buying horses, prancing about,
testing their purchases in the street in front of the hotel, engaging
servants, and laying in a stock of provisions. The English public-house
I have mentioned did a brisk trade. Among the necessities of the
situation was that of obtaining permission from the authorities to be
allowed to proceed to Headquarters. Nor was this an easy matter for the
representatives of those papers which for years past had relentlessly
vilified the Hamidian régime.
One day Mr. J. P. Blunt, the British Consul-General at Salonica, a
strong philo-Turk, said to me at the Club: “I want to introduce you to
the correspondent of the _Times_.” “I am sorry,” I replied jokingly,
“but I have made it a rule never to allow myself to be introduced to any
countryman of mine on the Continent.” Experience had taught me, as it
must have taught others, that—speaking of the type of Englishmen one is
likely to come across on the Continent—if they are in what, according to
their lights, is a superior position to your own, they do not desire to
make your acquaintance. If, on the other hand, they want something from
you, or their status is inferior to yours, it is for them to be
introduced to you. Mr. Blunt smiled good-humouredly and added that the
_Times_ correspondent, who had just arrived from London, had heard of my
good relations with the Turkish authorities, and would be very glad if I
could afford him some assistance, as he intended to proceed to Elassona
the very next morning.
This being the case, I declared my readiness to assist him to the best
of my ability. Mr. Blunt thereupon brought Mr. Bigham to my hotel. He
was a son of the present Lord Mersey, and impressed me as possessing an
equipment which would carry him far under modern conditions of getting
on in the world—a view which, I am glad to say, has since been borne
out. He wielded a ready journalistic pen, spoke and read Turkish, drank
tea and mineral waters, and was evidently as hard as nails. He also
wrote a book on his experiences as a war correspondent in the campaign,
and very kindly sent me a copy of it after the war was over. I gave him
a letter of introduction to Edhem Pasha, allowed my Roumanian
interpreter to accompany him, and finally prevailed upon the
Governor-General of Salonica to permit the Circassian officer, Mehmet,
who had been my companion, to serve as his escort on his journey. The
result was that Mr. Bigham arrived at the Turkish Headquarters well in
advance of all the other correspondents at that time in Salonica,
including that redoubtable but genial philo-Turk, the late Sir Ellis
Ashmead-Bartlett.
The Græco-Turkish war afforded what will probably be the last
opportunity, at least in Europe, for a fair heyday outing to those
belonging to what G. B. Shaw might well have described as, next to that
of royalty, “a decaying industry”—the profession of war correspondent.
Among other arrivals at Salonica were several German officers in the
Turkish service, notably the late Grumbkow Pasha, on their way from
Constantinople to the front. They appeared more eager for the fray than
the Turks themselves, like Sir Walter Scott’s
Great Chatham with his sabre drawn
Stood waiting for Sir Richard Strachan;
Sir Richard, longing to be at ’em,
Stood waiting for the Earl of Chatham.
This eagerness for bloodshed on the part of men whose country was at
peace with the Greeks made a disagreeable impression upon my mind. I was
therefore not sorry when a few days later I heard that they had been
summoned back to Constantinople, the Russian Ambassador having protested
against foreigners in the Turkish service being allowed to fight in the
cause of the Infidel against the Orthodox Greek Hellenes.
On April 17—it was a Sunday—war was formally declared, and the Greek
flag was hauled down from the Greek Consulate. The streets were crowded
with people of every creed and nationality as they would be on a
holiday. The day is fixed on my memory by the absence of every vestige
of rowdyism, such as might well have been anticipated from the fact that
Salonica contained a large Greek population who had never made a secret
of their sympathies with their countrymen. I had repeatedly witnessed
the small Greek shopkeepers eagerly scanning the Greek newspapers for
the latest news, and this in the presence of their Turkish customers
without the latter taking the slightest notice. When the flag was taken
down from the Greek Consulate it was as if an immense load of
uncertainty was lifted from the minds of all. Now at least people knew
where they were, and both Greeks and Turks seemed to enjoy the end of
the long period of uncertainty.
I left Salonica for Constantinople on the steamer _Policevera_ on April
19 in the queerest company, for the vessel carried sixteen hundred sheep
and only one passenger—myself. At times my travelling companions tried
to prevent me from getting on deck, for they filled the whole of the
deck and pressed against the cabin door.
In Constantinople there was outwardly little evidence of the country
being at war. The only unusual feature was the crowd of Greeks that
blocked the entry to the French Embassy, which had undertaken their
protection whilst the war lasted. I remained nearly a month in the
Turkish capital, during which not a single instance of offence or
personal violence to the Greek population came to my knowledge, although
the modern Greeks are among the most demonstrative of races, and are not
accustomed to put a curb on their feelings in Turkey.
One evening a dense crowd gathered at the railway station and awaited
for hours the departure of the train which was to take Ghazi Osman Pasha
to the seat of war. His arrival from the Palace, where he was said to be
in close consultation with the Sultan, was expected every minute. At
last the carriage of the national hero of Turkey drew up. There was no
cheering or shouting of any kind such as would have been the case in
some countries—a solemn, almost a mournful silence prevailed. The
waiting-room and all the roads leading to the railway station were
crowded with Turks, but no “Hurrah!” or “Down with the Greeks!” was
heard. Many were engaged in earnest prayer, which they read aloud from
little books. Children were lifted up for the venerable warrior to kiss,
and old white-bearded men shed tears as Osman kissed their children. It
was a touching sight.
One day the Sultan sent me word that he would like me to visit the
hospital for the wounded—it was temporarily fitted up in the grounds of
the Palace. Marshal Shefket Pasha, the commander of Yildiz, together
with two Turkish surgeons, one a pasha, was deputed to accompany me. The
wounded were constantly arriving from the seat of war, and were lodged
in airy ground-floor sheds, and obviously had every care. I could see by
the elaborate surgical appliances and the scrupulous cleanliness
everywhere that the operation-rooms, painted white, excluded every
particle of dust. They were treated according to the latest scientific
principles, and down to the common soldier they had everything that
money and goodwill could provide. There was no complaining: Turkish and
European doctors vied with each other in caring for the wounded. Several
German surgeons had come expressly for the purpose, and had given their
services gratuitously. How highly the Sultan appreciated this
spontaneous action of strangers is, I think, shown by the fact that he
bestowed the Gold Imtiaz Medal, one of the highest Turkish distinctions,
which was only given by the Sultan for special services rendered him
personally, and which many much-decorated pashas did not possess, on
these foreign surgeons.
The Sultan next expressed a wish that I might inspect the “Bazar de
Secours” started by him to raise funds for the invalids and the families
of the victims of the war. It was a large one-storied building which had
been specially erected at his expense a short distance from the Palace,
and which was to be opened in a few days to the public. We are sometimes
able to estimate the taste, and even the very character, of the inmates
of a house by the articles it contains. So also on this occasion the
collection of heterogeneous objects exhibited for sale spoke a language
of its own. To begin with, almost every third article, and these the
most costly, was a gift from the Sultan himself; many others were from
members of his household and the fine old Turkish families generally.
This war, in which the Christian Greek had hounded the public opinion of
Europe against the Mohammedan Turk, deeply stirred the feelings of the
Turkish people; and when the news of repeated victories came to hand,
the Sultan may be said to have stood on the pinnacle of his popularity.
Also, the invitation to contribute to the bazaar met with a ready
response from the Turkish upper classes. The ladies of the harem, the
wife of the Khedive of Egypt, of the Sheikh ul Islam, and of nearly all
the pashas in the capital sent valuable presents. The donations included
beautiful old swords, daggers, and yatagans inlaid with precious stones;
gorgeous silver-gilt saddle harness, horse trappings, gold boxes and
caskets inlaid with precious stones; Gobelins, priceless old
embroideries and shawls, gold-framed looking-glasses, and trinkets came
from the ladies of the harem. Even a copy of the Koran, bound in leather
and ornamented with brilliants, in a gold box inlaid with pearls, was
among the collection of gifts. The Emperor of Austria sent a Louis XV
cabinet. The German Emperor, the Sultan’s friend, sent some samples of
the Berlin china works; but more interesting than these were about a
dozen prints of Professor Knackfuss’s well-known composition, inspired
by His Majesty and with an inscription in his own handwriting: “People
of Europe, protect your holiest possessions.” Each of these costly works
of art bore the autographed Imperial signature R.I., and were to be
offered for sale to the public for the benefit of the wounded. Alas! no
purchasers were tempted; for when I came again to Constantinople I was
told that the Sultan himself had bought and paid a fancy price for the
lot—for the benefit of the wounded.
Poor Abdul Hamid! Here in this bazaar were childlike faith and genuine
human nature to be seen in close propinquity with cheap, hollow
unreality: the latter soon to be exposed to the world in its true
colours.
Among the many notabilities who were brought to Constantinople by the
events of the war was General Nelson Miles, the Commander-in-Chief of
the United States Army, whose acquaintance I had the privilege of
making. I also met Sir Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett, on his return from the
seat of war, flushed with victory; for, as already mentioned, he was an
ardent pro-Turk. He was most indignant at the action of the Ambassadors
of the Great Powers, who, headed by Sir Philip Currie, had made a
protest to the Porte against the “atrocities” alleged to have been
committed by the Turkish soldiery in Thessaly. He related how the
English newspaper correspondents who were with the Turks as well as he
himself felt their sense of fair play outraged by these false charges,
and how they had drawn up a report and sent it by telegram from Thessaly
to the British Ambassador at Constantinople. He gave me a copy, of which
I append a translation; for even at this distance of time—in the winter
of Turkish sorrow and misfortune—it is of interest, as affording strong
testimony in favour of the much maligned Turkish soldier.
To His Excellency, The Ambassador of Great Britain,
Constantinople.
“We are able to give personal testimony to the admirable conduct
of the Ottoman soldier as well as the constant and most
successful efforts of the Turkish officers to prevent pillage
and to protect the Christian inhabitants in every way. The
Greeks, who are returning to their homesteads in very great
numbers, declared themselves very satisfied with their
treatment. The Greek inhabitants of the surrounding villages
have sent deputations to solicit the protection of the Turkish
troops.
“After the departure of the Greek military authorities from
Larissa the Greek Governor liberated the prisoners from the
penitentiary and provided them with rifles. These latter,
together with other lawless elements, did a deal of damage and
pillage at Larissa during the twenty-four hours which elapsed
before the arrival of the Turkish troops. The truth of this
statement is confirmed by the Greek inhabitants, as also by the
Greek priests.
“Only one Greek village, Deliler, has been partially burnt, and
this was due to the obstinate fight last Friday in the place
itself. Several houses have been demolished here and there from
whence shots had been fired on the Turkish soldiery. But the
discipline and conduct of the Turkish Army have been admirable,
and can be most favourably compared with that of the best troops
of the world. All the Europeans with the Army are of this
opinion.
“_Signed by_:
E. Ashmead-Bartlett, M.P.; Clive Bigham, Correspondent of the
_Times_; Geo. R. Montgomery, Correspondent of the _Standard_; W.
Peel, Special Correspondent of the _Daily Telegraph_; H. A.
Gwynne, Special Correspondent of _Reuter_’s Agency; G. W.
Steevens, Correspondent of the _Daily Mail_; Hamilton Weldon,
Special Correspondent of the _Morning Post_.”
Before leaving Constantinople I received an invitation from Sir Philip
and Lady Currie to a garden party in the beautiful grounds of the
British Embassy overlooking the Golden Horn. On such occasions politics
were taboo. Everybody who was anybody was present, and a more charming
host and hostess it would be difficult to imagine than the British
Ambassador and Lady Currie; both since, alas! gone from hence. Among the
guests was an old Englishman, once, as I was told, the gardener of the
British Embassy in Lord Stratford de Redcliffe’s time, and whose son is
now one of the most prosperous English traders of Constantinople.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV
JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY
The Pontic Sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont.
SHAKESPEARE, _Othello_
IN the beginning of September 1897 I was taking a “rest cure” at
Marienbad when I received a telegram from the proprietor of the _New
York Herald_ asking me to join him on his yacht _Namouma_ at Venice. On
my arrival he informed me that he had been to Constantinople and had an
interview with the Sultan. In the course of it he had suggested to His
Majesty that he should send an expedition into Armenia to verify the
facts connected with the disturbances of the last two years, and allow
the _New York Herald_ to be represented on the occasion.
The Sultan was favourably disposed to the idea, and proposed that I
should be the person selected to accompany the expedition. To this Mr.
Bennett had, as he told me, demurred; not that he had any reason to
doubt my reliability, but the fact remained that it was already known in
America that I had had personal relations with the Sultan. This in
itself would make it desirable that somebody else should report on this
particular subject. It was finally agreed with the Sultan that a member
of the New York staff of the paper, the late Dr. George H. Hepworth,
should be the correspondent, the Sultan making his final consent
dependent upon my accompanying the expedition as well.
Mr. Bennett continued that he had long desired to place his readers in a
position to judge things for themselves from information gathered on the
spot, and that this matter was one of exceptional interest to the
American public, owing to the fact that the Sultan had hitherto declined
to allow any newspaper correspondent whatsoever to traverse Armenia, let
alone to offer facilities for so doing.
“You will render the _Herald_ a great service in accompanying the
expedition,” he added, “for unless you go it will not start.”
It is not often that any man has an opportunity of visiting an unknown
country and at one and the same time of obliging an autocratic ruler and
a great newspaper proprietor. I therefore accepted Mr. Bennett’s
suggestion, it being distinctly understood that I was to hold what in
legal language is termed a “watching brief” on behalf of the Turks, and
that I should not be called upon to write at all unless a controversy
arose. In such a case, Mr. Bennett said that Dr. Hepworth and I could
fight it out in the columns of the _Herald_, which would act as
impartial bottle-holder. Fortunately the necessity did not arise to
submit to such an ordeal. The last words Mr. Bennett said to me on
leaving were: “In this matter you can look upon yourself as the Sultan’s
man.” And here I may add that, being firmly convinced injustice had been
done to the Turks, at least as regards the imputing to them of religious
persecution, I willingly undertook the task offered me of seeing “fair
play” given to them.
Some weeks elapsed before Dr. Hepworth came from New York and reached
Paris, from whence we started together for Constantinople. On our way we
broke our journey at Vienna. In travelling on to Belgrade we gave up our
sleeping berths to the King of Servia and his father, ex-King Milan, who
both travelled by our train, the Orient express. On our arrival at the
Servian capital early next morning we witnessed their official reception
at the station by the authorities, who looked very much like a gathering
of peasants at a country fair. King Alexander did not present a
sympathetic appearance; but there was a touch of human nature in the
expression of poor Milan which enlisted our sympathy.
We arrived in Constantinople about the middle of October, and
encountered at the outset the dilatory tactics which marked the
execution of every project emanating directly from his temporizing
Majesty. This seemed to depress Dr. Hepworth very much; but as I had
known cases of Turkish Ambassadors being kept dawdling about
Constantinople for months after they had been appointed to their post,
the delay did not surprise me. When, however, one week succeeded another
without any decisive step being taken, or any date being appointed for
our departure from Constantinople, we were driven to the conclusion that
there must be some special cause for the delay. This proved to be the
case. Information had reached the Sultan that Dr. Hepworth was really an
American clergyman with a strong bias in favour of the missionary
element, that he had contributed articles to the _Herald_ fiercely
condemning the Turkish Government for its treatment of the Armenians,
and that he had written editorial sermons for that paper regularly every
Sunday for many years past. Under these circumstances the Sultan
hesitated to place it within his power to enter Armenia. Such was the
information vouchsafed to me by a secretary of the Sultan, accompanied
by a request that I should come up to the Palace and have an interview
with His Majesty.
Munir Pasha, the Grand Master of Ceremonies, was present as interpreter
on the occasion, and in the course of the audience confirmed what I have
just stated. I could not deny that Dr. Hepworth, though a journalist by
profession, had in early years been a clergyman, and that he still wrote
short sermons in the form of editorials in the Sunday number of the _New
York Herald_. For all this, I assured the Sultan that, though Dr.
Hepworth’s sympathies were undoubtedly with the Armenians, this did not
necessarily imply unfairness of mind; whereas, if the information to be
obtained in Anatolia should turn out to be of a nature to exculpate the
Turkish authorities from complicity in what had taken place, Dr.
Hepworth, as an honest man, would report accordingly. The very fact of
his known sympathy with the Armenians would then double the weight of
his testimony. I succeeded in convincing the Sultan; he even agreed that
our route should take any direction Dr. Hepworth might decide upon.
Nothing was to be hidden or disguised from us, and in case of any
difficulty arising I was always to be at liberty to telegraph directly
to His Majesty without let or hindrance on the part of the officials
accompanying the expedition. The Sultan concluded: “You have already
given me substantial proof of your impartiality. Render me this service,
and I will grant you any favour you like to ask of me.”
To this I impulsively replied, somewhat quixotically as it strikes me
to-day, that he might rely on me doing my best in the interests of truth
and justice without any consideration of reward entering into the matter
on my part. As a matter of fact, I neither solicited nor subsequently
received the slightest remuneration from the Sultan or anybody else for
a task the arduous and perilous nature of which I was far from realizing
at the time, and the outcome of which was a journalistic triumph for the
_New York Herald_.
The impression I gained from this interview was that the Sultan was
sincere in his wish to get to know the true state of affairs. He
believed that the revolutionary activity of the Armenians, connived at
by Russia, had been the primary cause of the massacres in Asia Minor as
in Constantinople, and that the governors of the different provinces had
done their best to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. Abdul
Hamid is not the only autocrat who has found it an impossible task to
get at the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. For it
goes without saying that His Majesty’s estimate of what had taken place
was based on partial and incomplete information. On the other hand, our
journey furnished us with abundant evidence that the Sultan’s views were
not without some justification, and that, as a rule, the governors of
the different provinces we traversed were men of tried capacity and
integrity. Viewed from this distance of time, there can be no doubt that
the policy of the Sultan in excluding foreign journalists from Armenia
was a mistaken one. It resulted in a one-sided version of the events
becoming generally accepted—the lie with twenty-four hours’ start,
according to Napoleon, is immortal—and it gave opportunities for
“writing up” atrocities without any of the extenuating features which
provoked them obtaining publicity.
It is not my purpose to render an exact account of our journey, for such
would fill a volume. This was done at the time by the late Dr.
Hepworth,[4] who did not very long survive the fatigues of the journey,
which at his time of life, he being then over sixty years of age, was a
most arduous undertaking. My aim will be to give some incidents of our
journey, the impressions which have remained in my mind as illustrative
of the aspect of the country we passed through as we saw it, and the
conversations we had with the people we came in contact with.
Footnote 4:
“Through Armenia on Horseback.” By the Rev. George H. Hepworth. London
and New York, 1898.
The ostensible object of the expedition was to report upon the schools
in the different provinces to be traversed, but behind this was
obviously the intention of obtaining information outside the usual
official channels with regard to the disturbances which had taken place
in the year 1895 in that mysterious country which Europeans are in the
habit of calling Armenia, although the number of Armenians distributed
over an area about as large as France and Germany combined, making every
allowance for the unreliability of statistics, can scarcely exceed a
million and a half, whereas in the Russian provinces bordering on
Asiatic Turkey there are probably even more, of whom, however, the world
never hears anything. The route of our journey, as drawn up with the
Sultan’s approval, would take us through Anatolia, Kurdistan,
Mesopotamia, and Syria. We were to proceed by sea to Trebizond, and
starting from thence to reach Erzeroum; from there to push on to Van,
thence to Bitlis, to Diarbekir, and to Biredschik on the Euphrates;
thence to Aintab in Syria, and on to Alexandretta, where we would take
ship back to Constantinople. By this route we would traverse four out of
the five so-called Armenian vilayets;[5] Erzeroum, Van, Bitlis, and
Diarbekir, leaving Mamuret ül Aziz out of our itinerary. This plan was
carried out with the exception that we omitted Van owing to the severity
of the weather and the uncertainty of being able to keep within the
projected time limit. Little did we realize what hardships we were to
experience, although we had been warned at Constantinople that such a
journey—never an easy one, and usually undertaken in the spring, summer,
or autumn—involved very serious risks in the depth of winter, when
snowstorms or floods might possibly keep us for weeks together in remote
places. The chance of being attacked by Kurdish tribes, of catching some
disease owing to the lack of all hygienic conditions in the country, the
primitive nature of the accommodation, sleeping on the bare floor side
by side with camels, buffaloes, oxen, horses, and dogs all in a state
far removed from cleanliness, lastly the unaccustomed food: these were
all matters for consideration.
Footnote 5:
The term vilayet is derived from the Arabic ejalet, and signifies a
governorship—an area—a district such as would be administered by a
pasha; thus a so-called “pasha tik,” or staathoudership. Hence the
term “Vali” stands for the administrator of a vilayet. The vilayet of
Erzeroum, for instance, has an area of nearly 50,000 square
kilometres, with 645,000 inhabitants.
On a black windy November morning we started in the Austrian Lloyd
steamer _Daphne_, and steamed through the Bosphorus, on our way to the
Black Sea, our destination being Trebizond. Our little party was quite
representative in its character. His Excellency Sirry Bey, one of the
secrétaires traducteurs of the Palace, was in charge of the expedition.
Halid Bey, his secretary, a fat, good-natured, harmless young Turk, was
always busy taking notes. Two colonels of cavalry, aides-de-camp of the
Sultan, were attached to the expedition, and six sergeants of cavalry
(Suwarie Tschaoush) formed a military escort in case of unforeseen
contingencies. One of these officers, Colonel Tewfik Bey, was an
easy-going, lymphatic cavalryman, whose big travelling portmanteau was a
horse’s entire load by itself, although all the other members of the
expedition restricted themselves to small hand-bags in consideration of
the difficulties of transport. The other officer, Colonel Rushti Bey,
was the most interesting personality of our party, as a specimen of the
aristocratic, carefully brought up Turk. A young fair-headed, handsome
man, he was indefatigable—the first up and on horseback in the morning
and never seeming to tire. He did not smoke or touch any wine or
spirits. His bearing was chivalrous, and though not given to
expansiveness, he was a man of the kindliest disposition. We had a
Doctor Wallisch, a Hungarian in the Turkish service, on board, who was
on his way to an appointment in Van. Fortunately for the party we
managed to persuade him to accompany us on the whole of our journey. Our
interpreter, Hermann Chary, an excitable little Roumanian Jew, who spoke
eight or ten languages, was the same man I had picked up in Salonica in
the spring of the year.
We encountered very rough weather in the Black Sea, which interfered
with our enjoyment of the fine scenery on the shore of Asia with its
forest-clad hills, some of them already covered with snow. This journey
in the company of staunch Moslems who would spread their little rugs on
the deck at sunrise and sunset, and pray silently with their faces
turned towards Mecca, was a new sensation to Dr. Hepworth and myself. An
awkward incident took place one day during the voyage. The cooking on
board as well as the bill of fare was “Frank” (_i.e._ European), and on
one occasion roast pork formed an item of the menu. So cunningly was it
prepared that none of us was able to detect it except Dr. Hepworth,
whose partiality for pork was so strong that his first request on
entering a restaurant in Paris, Vienna, or Constantinople was for a pork
chop, and when he had made it disappear, for another pork chop. In the
ecstasy of a delighted palate he proclaimed aloud that we were partaking
of his favourite dish, “roast pork”! Never shall I forget the dismay
that spread over the faces of the Turks present when this disclosure was
made. In order to save the situation I tried to make out that Dr.
Hepworth was mistaken, but finally we all lapsed into silence as the
best way out of the difficulty, since the defilement was beyond
question.
The weather continued so rough that we were a long time in doubt whether
we should be able to stop on our way, as nowhere along the coast was
there a sheltered harbour. Only with great difficulty did we disembark
for a few hours at Kerasoun and at Samsoun, the seat of large tobacco
factories. At Samsoun we reviewed the school-children and saw for the
first time a primitive type of plough, and carts with solid wooden
wheels drawn by oxen—varying probably little from those in use in the
time of Abraham.
Trebizond is picturesquely situated on the shore of the Black Sea at the
mouth of the River Moutschka, at the base of a chain of mountains rising
gradually to an altitude of 1600 metres, culminating in the thickly
wooded Kotal Dagh, 3410 metres high. Even here there is no harbour, and
in stress of weather ships have to seek refuge at Platana, two hours and
a half distant by steam. The city forms the starting-point of the
caravans to Persia; but these have now strong competitors in the Russian
railway from Batoum and the caravans from the Persian Gulf. In
consequence of these developments the traffic of the interior is
declining. Yet Trebizond remains, next to Smyrna, the most important
city of Asiatic Turkey, and previous to the Armenian disturbances of the
years 1895–96 contained a population of 35,000 inhabitants. At that
time, however, a large migration to Russia and Constantinople began, and
this was still in progress when we arrived there. More than half of the
population consisted of Moslems, with 8000 Greeks and 6000 Armenians,
the lower classes being the so-called Lazis, an unruly tribe, from whom
the Turks draw their best sailors. Trebizond has an Armenian Archbishop
and twenty Christian churches, as well as an American missionary
station. All the Turkish mosques were once Christian places of worship.
We were sitting in the dining-room of the Hôtel d’Italie looking out
upon the dark waters of the Black Sea rolling menacingly far away to the
horizon, when a dark-bearded, slimly built man with a low forehead and
ferret-like eyes approached us. He was a Russian Armenian, a doctor of
medicine, who had come to Trebizond to set up in practice. He did not
care a fig for politics and was silent. He was absorbed in his own
profession—that of getting on in the world.
Prominent in his quaint costume and mannerism was a young professor of
philology from a university of Northern Europe. He was about twenty-five
years of age and believed he knew everything worth knowing in geography,
philology, and politics. His sympathies were all with the Christian
“brothers.” He had come over from Russia, where, in the pursuit of his
philological calling, he had rummaged over the worm-eaten parchments of
sundry Christian monasteries, and had caught from these the current term
of “brothers”—meaning that the lowliest Christian is a “brother,” and
the Moslem Turk at best an infidel stranger. He laid down the law
without hesitation. “I never condemn a whole people,” he exclaimed; “I
say that the vices of a people are always the fault of an autocratic
Government.” Here was a specimen of the learned European, caught young
in Turkey, returning home with all the kudos which a few months—or even
years—added to a smattering familiarity with Oriental languages, can
confer, to be looked upon by his friends as an authority on the Eastern
question, and possibly, later on, to champion the claims of the
suffering “brothers” in the East in the legislative Chamber of his
native land!
The sun had sunk in the west. It was twilight and we were sitting alone,
when there entered an American missionary. A few preliminaries revealed
the fact that we had to deal with a worthy, excellent man, past middle
age—a teacher of the Gospel whose range of interests did not necessarily
exclude politics.
“Yes, sir, it is a hard, laborious life, but we keep pegging away,” he
said in the course of conversation. “No newspapers, railways, or
telegraphs: no means of communication with one’s friends. It is like
living in another world. And what a cesspool it is—fifty feet deep, and,
do what we may, we can only disinfect the surface. Formerly, when I
first came here, thirty years ago, it was very different. We were
encouraged to work, and enjoyed every liberty; also we largely increased
the number of our flock; but now,” he added despondently, “it is all
reaction.”
“No wonder,” I rejoined, “the past has bred revolution.”
“Yes, I admit there has been a revolutionary movement, but not fostered
by us. We have always inculcated obedience to the authorities.”
“But do I understand you rightly that a well-known revolutionist was one
of your pupils?”
“Yes, and I always refused to believe that he had anything to do with
the revolutionists.”
“Do you refuse to believe so now?”
“No, I am grieved to say.”
“Now tell me,” I continued, “how are things over in Russia—a Christian
country?”
“Far worse than here,” he answered in excited tones. “The Russians are
much more intolerant—much more reactionary than the Turks. Why, if the
Russians ever come here, they will turn us missionaries neck and crop
out of the country.”
Thereupon we parted, and I left the hotel in search of a breath of fresh
air and came upon an Israelite.
“Why, sir,” he began, “those Armenians are an accursed race. To think of
the position which they once held in Turkey, after having managed, in
the course of generations, to get nearly all the wealth of the country
into their hands, and to fill some of the best paid appointments! If
they had ventured to play their revolutionary game in Russia, the
Russians would not have left a man of them alive. I tell you they are
accursed. In our Jewish hooks it is written—written three thousand years
ago—that they shall not prosper, that their seed shall be wasted.”
* * * * *
Among the men who were credited with a large share in the cruel measures
of repression said to have been carried out by different Turkish high
officials against the Armenians, the name of Marshal Chakir Pasha,
Imperial Commissioner for the introduction of reforms in Anatolia, stood
foremost. The story that the Marshal, who was at Erzeroum in the month
of October 1895, at the time of the Armenian rising, had, like a human
bloodhound, stood, watch in hand, when asked for orders, and decided
that the work of knocking the Armenians on the head was to continue for
another hour and a half—some versions say two hours—went almost the
round of the world. It was told to me in Constantinople by a person of
distinction and impartiality, and although this did not amount to proof
positive, I could hardly resist the conviction that there must be
something in the tale, bearing in mind the exceptional source of my
information. I had also heard that more than one of the diplomatic
representatives of the Great Powers at Constantinople, notably Sir
Philip Currie, had repeatedly but vainly urged the Sultan to recall the
Marshal. I was therefore in a somewhat expectant frame of mind when I
learnt that the redoubtable pasha was staying in Trebizond with his
whole staff. Its principal members consisted of Hassib Effendi, formerly
Turkish Consul-General at Tiflis in the Caucasus, and since in like
capacity at Teheran; Danish Bey, formerly First Secretary of the Turkish
Embassy at St. Petersburg; and Demeter Mavrocordato Effendi.
Marshal Chakir Pasha had had a distinguished career. Educated at the
military school of Pancaldi, at Constantinople, he was afterwards
attached to the Turkish état-major. Quitting that post after a time, he
entered the Administrative Department, and became within a short space
of time Governor in succession of Bosnia, Bulgaria, and Bagdad.
Subsequently he rejoined the army, and held a command in Montenegro
during the war, and later on was present at the memorable Shipka Pass
battles. After the Russo-Turkish war Chakir returned to Constantinople,
and was sent as Turkish Ambassador to St. Petersburg, where he remained
for twelve years, and where, so the Russian Consul-General at Erzeroum
assured me, he saw the Marshal, the doyen of the Diplomatic Corps,
leading the polonaise with the Empress Dagmar as a partner.
Since then Chakir Pasha had been civil and military governor of Crete,
and previous to his latest appointment he had been nominated member of
the High Military Commission of Inspection, which sat under the
presidency of the Sultan at the Palace of Yildiz.
I felt somewhat abashed at the thought of asking such a man a series of
questions closely affecting his personal honour. But Chakir himself made
my task easy by his well-bred urbanity. He was a short, stout,
full-bearded, distinguished-looking man of about sixty years of age,
with massive features and bright keen eyes, denoting intelligence and
capacity for hard work. I called on him at his official residence with
Mavrocordato Effendi, and found him in a small, sparsely furnished
apartment, sitting at a plain writing-table, the other members of his
staff being also present and seated round the table.
After coffee and a few preliminary remarks, I told the Marshal frankly
that I had heard the story of the watch, and that I hoped he would
kindly excuse my asking him the true facts of the case. He took my
question in very good part, and said in reply that he was perfectly
cognizant of the tale, but that he had never considered it incumbent
upon himself to take official notice of it—any other notice being, of
course, in his position, out of the question. However, he could assure
me, he added with a smile, that when the story first reached Erzeroum
people who knew the facts of the case smiled at the idea. He could only
advise me not to take his assurance one way or the other, but, as I was
going to Erzeroum, to make my own inquiries.
Encouraged by the Marshal’s manner, I then asked him: “I have been told
that a large amount of the trouble in Kurdistan was owing to the Kurds
having been armed by the Turkish Government, and that it was your
Excellency with whom this measure originated.”
“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “the Kurds have always been more or
less armed, and have often used their arms against the Turkish
Government, as you are doubtless aware. The idea of arming the Kurds in
a homogeneous military fashion, which has led to the formation of the
Hamadiè cavalry regiments (about 40,000 to 50,000 strong), belongs to
Marshal Zeki Pasha, the Commander of Erzingian. The Sultan approved of
the idea, which was intended to furnish a counterpoise to the Russian
Cossack regiments, and asked me to work out the plan, which I did at
Constantinople, in my capacity of member of the military commission at
Yildiz. I even candidly admit that my sympathies are with these
regiments—after all, they are my own countrymen.” The Marshal repeated
this in a quiet tone of almost apologetic modesty, which had something
quaintly touching in its simplicity, and set me thinking how very few
men in a similar high position in other countries would have
condescended to enter thus into details. I could not help feeling drawn
towards the old soldier.
Chakir Pasha was not a man of many words, and several of those present
now joined in the conversation, which became general. Only once did the
Marshal interpose in a quiet but decisive manner. Danish Bey was in the
midst of relating some incident, and suddenly stopped short, for some
reason or other, whereupon the Marshal said: “Continue, tell him
everything—il n’y a rien à cacher.”
As I was personally acquainted with many well-known Turkish officers and
diplomatists, our conversation had plenty of points of mutual interest.
However, in what follows I only give a résumé of what may interest the
outside world. Part of what I have to relate was told in the Marshal’s
presence, he now and then putting in a word or making some verbal
correction, whilst some of the details were given me later in the
evening at the hotel by the members of his staff and by other persons
later at Erzeroum. I give the facts exactly as they were stated to me by
individuals who one and all held responsible positions, and who, in our
personal intercourse, which lasted several days, made the impression
upon me of being honourable, cultivated men of the world. According to
my informants, the original troubles at Trebizond had begun two years
previously as a consequence of members of the Armenian revolutionary
committee firing in broad daylight on Hamid Pasha, the commander of the
garrison, and Bahri Pasha, Governor-General of Van, who happened to be
at Trebizond at the time, and was walking with Razi Khan, the Persian
Consul-General. Both pashas were wounded.
“With regard to the interior, signs of coming trouble were apparent a
long time back. In some districts, where the Kurdish chiefs had been
accustomed for centuries past to do all their business with the Armenian
merchants and bankers in the towns, their mutual relations were of the
most cordial character. The Kurds were even in the habit of staying in
the houses of their Armenian friends when they came to town. Gradually a
change came over the scene. The Kurds met strange faces in the towns,
and the manner of the Armenian merchants visibly changed. Russian
Armenian journalists from Tiflis became regular visitors, and the
assumption is that they influenced the Armenian element in the direction
of discontent and revolt. That they were able to do so is the more
unaccountable as the Armenian language and the Armenian schools have
always been entirely free, and in Turkey the Armenians are exempted from
military service—a most distasteful profession to them—on paying a
nominal sum. Moreover, the Armenians have been able, in the course of
centuries, to gather into their hands the greater part of the wealth of
the country. The Armenian ‘bakal,’ or village grocer, holds a great
number of the Turkish peasantry in the perpetual bondage of usury. In
Russia, on the other hand, the Armenians are rigorously drafted into the
army, and are generally sent to serve their time in districts far away
from their homes, while their schools and their language are interfered
with by a severe censorship.
“When the insurrectionary movement was ripe, the men who appeared on the
scene gave themselves the name of ‘Fedaïs,’ or the ‘Sacrificed for the
country.’ This is the sobriquet which the notorious Armenian
revolutionist, Daniel Tschoueh, applied to himself. Under the pretext of
saving his country he roamed through the vilayet of Sivas, where he
committed acts of brigandage. And yet this very man was so deficient in
physical courage that he died of fear the very day he was brought before
the gendarmerie of Sivas. He was originally employed in the mines of
Kara Hissar Charki, in the district of the vilayet of Sivas. Among other
atrocities which he committed was the murder of the representative of
the Procureur-Général of Kara Hissar Charki, as well as his wife and
children, on the road to Sivas.
“With regard to the reforms which have since been introduced, it is as
well the world should know that the Armenians are only willing to accept
such as conform easiest with their idiosyncrasies. But when it is a
question of their undertaking obligations which involve certain
hardships, such as the post of gendarme, they simply refuse to serve the
Imperial Government. It is extremely difficult to find Armenians to
serve as gendarmes, and this notwithstanding that the Imperial
Government offers them all sorts of inducements. For not only are they
well paid, but they are held to be doing military service in acting as
gendarmes and are thus freed from the tax for exemption from military
service. Instead of serving in the above capacity they prefer posts
which offer chances of making money without hard work. Thus they are
very eager to be appointed adjunct (muavin) to the kaimakan or to other
more or less lucrative official posts.”
Chakir Pasha’s mission had been to travel all through Kurdistan for the
last two years, and the following interesting statements were made
sporadically in the further course of my conversations with his suite:
“One of the most remarkable features of this Armenian rebellion was the
marvellous rapidity with which news spread among Mussulmans and
Armenians alike. Thus, hardly had Sir Philip Currie in the autumn of
1895 telegraphed to Erzeroum to the _locum tenens_ of the British Consul
that the Sultan had accepted the proposals of the Powers than the
gentleman in charge asked for the telegram and interpreted it as
portending Armenian autonomy. A newspaper correspondent telegraphed from
London to Givon Schismanian, the Archbishop of Erzeroum, ‘Victoire
complète’ (Armenian: ‘Mouzaferiat berke mal’), and the news spread to
the farthest limits of Kurdistan. In some places the Kurds decided to
make a clean sweep of the Armenians. Chakir Pasha started immediately
for Khinis, on the road between Erzeroum and Bitlis, and persuaded the
Kurdish beys to remain quiet. Twenty-four hours later it might have been
too late.” In fact, according to statements of Chakir Pasha’s suite,
both here and elsewhere he saved many hundred lives by his prompt
measures.
The Armenians on their side, so I was assured, fêted the correspondent
who had championed their cause in a London newspaper as a national hero,
“Le Sauveur de l’Arménie.” The Armenians of Erzeroum presented him with
a pen set in brilliants; the Armenians of Tiflis gave him whole cases
full of presentation plate. The following was subsequently told me by
one of Chakir Pasha’s staff:
“We were staying at the government house in Van with Chakir Pasha at the
end of September ’96, when we were unexpectedly informed that the
hiding-place of the Armenian insurgents had been discovered. They had
entrenched themselves in the gardens of the Armenian quarter of the
town, and it would have been extremely difficult to get at them without
artillery. Chakir, fearing that the Mussulman population might get
beyond control if fighting was at once commenced, told off a large body
of troops to cut off the Armenian quarter from the other part of the
town. After this was done the Armenian revolutionists were driven out of
the town, losing a number of killed and wounded. In the meantime the
representative of the Armenian Bishop of Van called upon Chakir Pasha
and showed him a telegram which he proposed to send at once to Monsignor
Khrimyan, the Armenian _Catholikos_ of Etchmiadzin (in Russia), in which
he said that, while the Armenians had for six hundred years been
contented under the dominion of the Turks, people from abroad were now
coming to trouble their tranquillity, and he begged Monsignor Khrimyan
to use his influence to prevent such people from coming into the
country, as they could only do the Armenians harm. To this Chakir Pasha
replied that the telegram in itself was excellent, but it ought to have
been sent long ago, and not at the very moment when the insurgents had
been discovered by the authorities; that it was a matter of public
notoriety that these people had been in Van for two months past, and
that the Armenian community had been well aware of the fact, and ought
to have apprised the authorities, so that they might distinguish between
their friends and their enemies.”
Of the members of the suite of Chakir Pasha with whom I had
opportunities of talking the most interesting was Mavrocordato Effendi,
an Orthodox Catholic, and related to the Greek princely family of the
same name. He had previously been Turkish Consul-General at Liverpool
and at Barcelona, Secretary of the Turkish Embassy at Paris, etc., and
was a cultured European. He spoke English almost like an Englishman.
Community of meals for several days following in stormy, depressing
weather brought about mutual confidence and expansion of ideas.
Mavrocordato had not been able to see his young wife and child for
fifteen months, as he had accompanied Chakir Pasha in his mission right
through Anatolia, or Kurdistan—a country many Europeans will persist in
calling “Armenia.” He was a hard-working and zealous Turkish official,
with the breadth of view of a cultured man of the world.
“Yes,” he said in conversation, “the reforms desired by the Powers are
now introduced throughout Asiatic Turkey and in full working order. But
I do not think much of their practical value. Their spirit is already
contained in Turkish law, which is excellently adapted to the needs of
this part of the world. Of course we have had abuses: what country,
particularly what Eastern country, has not? But we are on the road to
improvement. The principal thing we want is a body of honest and capable
administrators and minor functionaries, and on your journey through the
country you will be able to convince yourself that among Turkish
officials in Anatolia the majority, especially among the new
appointments, are good men—a great improvement on the old order of
things.”
“But how about the rumours I hear of appointments depending on the
bribery of officials at the Palace in Constantinople?” I asked.
“Do I look like a man who has bribed his way through Palace officials?”
he replied. “There may be instances of bribery and peculation, but
hardly in connexion with these matters. What Asiatic Turkey is most
pressingly in need of are good roads and railways. At the present moment
the Mussulman population, which is far worse off than the Christian, is
very poor; and the richer the harvest, the poorer they are. For where
there is plenty prices decline, as there are no adequate means of
transport and no markets. But another difficulty which the Government
has to contend with in all its attempts at reform is the conservatism
which seems ingrained in everything and everybody Asiatic. It is this
that the diplomatists of Europe lose sight of when they, Penelope-like,
elaborate one plan of reform after another for the Turkish Empire over a
green baize table in some kiosk on the Bosphorus. A little incident will
illustrate this. The Sultan sends a capable official to some distant
province as kaimakan, or prefect. He has been educated at
Constantinople, at the École Civile. He is scrupulously honest, in touch
with modern ideas, enthusiastically devoted to his work, and anxious to
benefit the people under his care. He endeavours to introduce reforms,
beginning with the improvement of the roads of the town where he
officially resides. He calls upon the inhabitants to contribute towards
this good work. Result: the Mohammedans and the Armenian population join
hands and petition the Government to have the kaimakan removed. He is a
modern man: they prefer the old-fashioned do-nothing type of official.”
Such was the information my companion and I gathered on the eve of our
plunge into the Asiatic domains of the Sultan from some of the men who
had been responsible there for the maintenance of order. The time had
come for departure. We had spent several days at Trebizond inspecting
the bazaar and making some purchases of stores, Dr. Hepworth and myself
ordering each a warm sheepskin fur—such as are worn by the peasants and
camel-drivers—and after having engaged some tumble-down vehicles and
horses, we started on the long journey through the interior of the
country to Erzeroum—a matter of eight to ten days’ travelling. We took
leave of every comfort associated with civilization, such as beds,
washing-basins, even tables and chairs, which we only came upon again at
the end of our journey at Alexandretta.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER V
JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: II
My mother Earth!
And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,
Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.
And thou, the bright eye of the Universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight—thou shin’st not on my heart.
BYRON
ON leaving Trebizond the winding road rises gradually until you reach
the tableland of the Taurus, the so-called Armenian Highlands. We took
one last look at the Black Sea from a height before it was lost to
sight, dark and menacing with its ships lying at anchor.
A feature which struck me with surprise shortly after leaving Trebizond
were the Christian monasteries which we passed at intervals, perched
high up on the ridge of the hills on either side of us. We were told
that they had been tenanted by monks from time immemorial, and that they
still inhabit them. Surely here was ocular demonstration in favour of
Mohammedan tolerance, since, if the much-spoken-of fanaticism of the
Turk had any tangible existence, these monasteries could not possibly
have remained unmolested, undefiled, inhabited right through the many
centuries during which the country has belonged to the Turks.
Another feature of our journey, which, however, only presented itself to
us later on, was equally a matter of surprise to us—imbued as we were
with the notion that peaceable Armenians were in daily fear for their
lives and property right through the country. We frequently met whole
Armenian families, men, women, and children, the women sitting astride
their horses, travelling on the road without weapons of any kind.
It was a novel sensation to arrive in the evening at a miserable shed, a
barn, a stable, mostly without any windows or other ventilation, termed
a “han,” in which oxen, buffaloes, and camels were quartered, and to be
told that we were expected to pass the night there. But such was
destined to be, with few exceptions, our nightly experience for the next
few weeks.
On emerging from our stable one morning, long before sunrise, we could
scarcely see a yard in front of us. We were surrounded by a thick mist.
It rose from an encampment of camels, buffaloes, and horses immediately
facing us. It appeared that they had arrived in the evening after us,
and, finding the “han” occupied by our party, had camped out all night
in the open. The bitter cold had acted in the manner described, causing
clouds of steam to rise from the bodies of the animals.
Our first station of any note was a place called Gumysch Hanè, a name
which denoted that silver mines were or had been worked in the
neighbourhood. Here we changed our carriages for saddle-horses, with
which next morning we crossed the Zigana Pass—6000 feet high and one of
the most perilous sections of our journey now that in the winter, owing
to the snow, the road, at its best little better than a bridle-path, was
narrowed to the breadth of a mere wooden plank, with yawning ravines on
the off-side of us. It was here that we met the most thrilling
experiences of our whole journey—namely, the encountering of caravans of
mules, camels, and droves of sheep proceeding in the opposite direction.
We were told that only a short time previously on this road a number of
camels connected together by ropes had lost their footing and been
precipitated into the abyss below. Here I cannot resist the temptation
of quoting a passage describing Professor Vambéry’s experience over the
same road, as it exactly tallies with my own: “On our way we met a long
line of over-loaded mules descending amidst the wild screams of their
Persian drivers. It is a rare sight to watch them advancing with the
utmost care, without any accident upon the slippery path cut into the
rock, scarcely two spans wide, flanked by the bottomless abyss. And yet
it is a very unusual thing for a mule to be precipitated into the abyss
yawning along the path. If ever it happens it is in winter. The danger
is greatest when two caravans happen to meet face to face. In order to
avoid such an encounter big bells, heard at a great distance, are used
by them, warning the caravans to keep out of each other’s way. The
continuously steep ascent lasted over four hours. There is hardly a
worse road in all Asia, yet this is the only commercial road which
connects Armenia with Persia, nay, Central Asia with the West. During
the summer hundreds of thousands of these animals are traversing this
route, going and coming, loaded with the products of Asia and the
manufactures of Europe.”[6]
Footnote 6:
“Arminius Vambéry: Life and Adventures.” London, 1890: pp. 38–39.
Thus our feeling of relief was great when we had happily crossed the
Zigana Pass without further trouble than the anxious moments involved in
dodging the camels, mules, and sheep we met; their tinkling bells
warning us of their approach, whilst we in our turn warned them with our
own bells hanging at our horses’ necks. There was only one critical
moment, at least for me, when my horse became restive, for it looked as
if intent on negotiating the abyss. I rose in my stirrup, ready to jump
off on the inside, so as to allow of my mount taking the fatal leap
alone.
On the evening of November 21 we arrived at Baiburt, the largest town in
the Armenian Highlands after Erzeroum, from which it is still 105
kilometres away. Baiburt is about 1638 metres above sea-level, and
occupies an important commercial and strategic position. It is situated
on the fringe of the Armenian Highlands and the Pontine mountain range,
and forms a connecting link between the two. Previous to the
Russo-Turkish war of 1877 it possessed 10,000 inhabitants, which have
since diminished to about one-half. It had also been taken by the
Russians under General Paskiewitsch in 1828, and had suffered severely.
An observant German traveller,[7] visiting the place nearly seventy
years ago, before the present German fashion of treating everything
Turkish as _couleur de rose_, described Baiburt as giving one a
foretaste of “those desolate, decayed, half-ruined, and nearly deserted
towns which, from here right throughout the whole of Asiatic Turkey up
to the Persian frontier, form a sequence of progressive misery.” These
words require little variation to describe the appearance of the place
when we came there. For instance, we were assured that there was not a
single qualified doctor in the town. And yet, although a
poverty-stricken place, it was still possible to meet with people
bearing expensive weapons on their person, for, like the nomads of old,
the Asiatic Turk usually carries all his portable property about with
him. At least, so much might be inferred from the fact that I bought a
beautiful damascene dagger with a solid silver sheath and handle from a
servant for six Turkish pounds.
Footnote 7:
Reisen von Moritz Wagner. Leipzig, 1852.
We started early next morning, having exchanged saddle-horses for
sledges, and arrived at sunset at our destination, another wretched
“han” at the foot of the renowned Kop Dagh, which we were to cross in
the morning, the pass being 8000 feet above sea-level. The summit is
variously given as between 10,000 and 11,000 feet above sea-level. Owing
to the danger of being delayed by snow-drifts, relays of workmen were
engaged during the night to clear a path for our sleighs through the
snow. It was arranged that we should start before daybreak, between four
and five in the morning. The journey turned out to be a somewhat
exciting affair. We started by the dim light of lanterns, first crossing
a frozen stream. Our horses, at times up to their bodies in snow, had
the greatest difficulty; at others our sleighs were repeatedly on the
point of turning over and landing us in the unknown. Luckily, we were
not troubled with the boisterous wind we had feared we might encounter
at the summit; and after several hours of laborious ascent we crossed
the pass in all safety, if not in comfort, owing to the bitter cold of
that region. In the course of the day we met a solitary horseman on his
way to the pass. He was a Canadian missionary, with whom we exchanged
greetings.
Travellers unite in describing the scenery in this part of the Armenian
Highlands as of surpassing beauty. In the winter we saw nothing of the
wonderful effects of atmosphere and colour which form such a striking
feature of the country, as the whole landscape up to the horizon was one
mass of snow-covered mountains, somewhat resembling in character and
outline the broad convex cupolas of a Turkish mosque, say the Aja Sophia
of Constantinople.
As the sun breaks in the early morning on the Kop Dagh, a vision
presents itself to the eye as of the bursting forth of the light of
heaven. It reminded me of some of the most ambitious efforts of Gustave
Doré in his illustrations of the Bible.
Look, how the floor of heaven
Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold;
There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st,
But in his motion like an angel sings,
Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims:
Such harmony is in immortal souls;
But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay
Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.
_Merchant of Venice_, v.
Arrived at the summit of the pass, the endless panorama of a
snow-covered, undulating tableland at our feet is as that of a mythical
world, majestic, almost terrible in the total absence of all human
habitations as far as the eye could reach towards the horizon—weird in
its vast expanse, all covered with snow.
We reached Erzeroum in the afternoon of November 24. The grim-looking
old fortress was dimly perceptible from afar through the dry wintry
mist, dominated by a background of hills rising considerably higher than
the plateau upon which it is situated. As we drew near, our cavalcade
careered along _ventre à terre_, the horses of our cavalry escort
foaming and bleeding at the mouth as their riders urged them on at a
furious pace in order to enable us to reach our destination before
dark—the only instance in all our journey when I saw horses at all
hardly used. Here, as later at Bitlis and Diarbekir, our arrival had
been expected: the roofs of the houses were crowded with
inhabitants—women and children among them—eager to obtain a sight of the
remarkable visitors as our cortège drove past and proceeded through the
narrow streets to our quarters at one of the public offices or konaks in
the town. Our camp-beds were promptly fixed up and we could look for a
few days’ rest after the exertions of our journey. Here we found
ourselves in the interior of Asia.
Professor Vambéry, visiting Erzeroum more than fifty years ago, gives a
depressing description of the place. The houses were already built in
Eastern fashion, the walls of stone and mud running irregularly in
zigzag line, with windows looking out in the yard rather than the
street, secret entrances, and other little things characteristic of
Eastern houses.[8] “Evidences of the poverty of the inhabitants of
Erzeroum meet the eye in whatever direction one may look. The dirt, the
squalor, and the underground dwellings are unbearable. The smell of
their food, which they cook by the fire made of a fuel called tezek
(cattle dung), is especially loathsome.” This description tallies with
our own experience. The hardships we had undergone—notably the
unpalatable food spread out before us on the ground—quickened our
longing to arrive at Erzeroum, which, to our imagination, fired by the
contrast we expected it to offer to the places we had passed through,
already presented itself in glowing colours. Dr. Hepworth and I had
ceased to enjoy a meal long before we reached Erzeroum, and had it not
been that M. Maximow, the Russian Consul, generously lent us his
Armenian cook, who accompanied us during the remainder of our journey,
we both might well have succumbed to its hardships.
Footnote 8:
“Life and Adventures of Arminius Vambéry.” London, 1890: p. 41.
Erzeroum is the capital of the vilayet of that name, and is situated on
a plateau thirty-eight kilometres long by twenty-two broad, stretched
out at an altitude of 6000 feet above sea-level. It is dominated by
mountains of even greater altitude, near to which the Kara Sua, or
Western Euphrates, has its source not far from the city. The town is a
very old settlement. The word “Erzeroum” is a corruption of
“Arzen-er-rum,” _i.e._ the town of Arzen of the Romans—in
contradistinction to a neighbouring town of the same name which was a
Syro-Armenian settlement in antiquity. In the beginning of the fifth
century of our era Erzeroum was converted into a fortress by Anatolius,
one of the generals of Theodosius the Younger, in honour of whom it was
christened Theodosiopolis, a name it retained until the middle of the
eleventh century. In more recent times it has been repeatedly occupied
by the Russians, as in 1829 and 1878. To-day Erzeroum has 39,000
inhabitants, half of which are made up of Armenians, Persians, and a few
Greeks. Persia, Russia, England, and the United States are represented
by Consuls. It also contains a missionary station. Erzeroum is
approached by a modern but rudely constructed chaussée.
We had looked forward to visiting the bazaar, in the hope of being able
to get hold of some bargains in rare coins, old Turkish swords or
daggers; but we were doomed to disappointment here, as also later on at
Bitlis and Diarbekir. Whatever may have been the chances of bargains in
times gone by, there was nothing left worth picking up when we were
there. Of greater interest than the bazaar was the street in which the
sword-makers plied their trade beside each other as in their guilds in
the Middle Ages. They worked according to primitive methods, with rude
tools and weighing scales, but apparently under dignified independent
conditions, and seemed to take a pride in their art, which allowed of a
workman putting his best efforts into his work and claiming a price in
accordance therewith. They showed us some beautiful specimens of
damascene blades and gold-inlay work, which induced us to have our names
inscribed in Turkish characters by the same process on the barrels of
our Winchester rifles. But even their trade, we were told, is not what
it used to be. Many of their best workmen (Armenians) had emigrated to
Russia, though some had since returned. Altogether the influence of
Russia loomed large over the place. The driver of our sleigh, an elderly
man, had been a prisoner in Russia. We were told there was a great
scarcity of wood in the district, but though there are plenty of forests
over the borders in Russia, the Russian authorities would not allow the
timber to be exported to Turkey, as they pursued a policy of “drying up”
all Turkish means of communication.
We next passed through a street almost monopolized by black amber
workers. They drew their raw material from Persia, beyond Lake Van, but
here again the workmen told us sadly that they had to procure their
tools from Russia. Altogether, I gained the impression that the “Double
Eagle” would not have much trouble in ousting the “Crescent” from these
parts; though the more intelligent of the community, and, significant to
note, Armenians among them, did not view the prospect with favour. The
maligned Turk, if hopelessly backward from a practical point of view, is
yet in many ways more pliable and conciliatory than the Russian. The
market-place, with its endless array of carts and booths, was largely
peopled by Persians, who do most of the carrying trade, the retailing
business being here, as elsewhere, in the hands of the Armenians. Of
Jews there was hardly any trace. We were told that they could not
compete with the Armenians.
It would be difficult for people living under European conditions to
realize the prestige which our party enjoyed in these distant parts. For
the moment we figured as direct ambassadors from the Sultan and the
public opinion of the outer world, thus eclipsing the status of the
Governor-General himself. And yet in some respects there was a natural
homeliness about our intercourse which is usually foreign to the Western
world. Thus, when we had finished our dinner, at which we were waited
upon by a host of servants—our six cavalry sergeants among others—and
rose from our seats, those who had waited upon us sat down quite
naturally in the places we had just vacated and proceeded to take their
own dinner from the rich supply of viands left on the table as almost a
matter of course. Nor did this unusual familiarity detract in the least
from the extreme deference and goodwill with which we were waited upon
by everybody deputed to our service.
With the object of our journey in view we called successively upon Mr.
Graves, the British Consul; Mohamed Cherif Reouf Pasha, the
Governor-General (Vali); M. Roqueferrier, the French Consul; and M. V.
Maximov, the Russian Consul-General. To each of these gentlemen we put
the question whether he believed in the truth of the tale about Chakir
Pasha and the watch-in-hand episode. M. Roqueferrier ridiculed the
story. “Ce sont des histoires inventées à plaisir,” he said, and added a
few words of high personal appreciation of Chakir Pasha.
The Russian Consul, M. Maximov, said: “It is not my business to deny the
truth of such tales. All I can tell you is, ‘que Chakir Pasha est un
brave homme—un homme de très bon cœur.’ I have known him for years, he
is a friend of mine.” Mr. Graves, the British Consul, said: “I was not
here at the time, nor have I spoken to Chakir Pasha about the matter,
but the Vali assured me that it was not true, and that is quite
sufficient for me, as I should believe implicitly any personal statement
of Reouf Pasha.”
“Do you believe that any massacres would have taken place if no Armenian
revolutionaries had come into the country and incited the Armenian
population to rebellion?” I asked Mr. Graves.
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I do not believe that a single Armenian
would have been killed.”
Mr. Graves is a weighty authority, and if he is in Turkey to-day I feel
sure he will not object to my citing him in this important matter.
Let it suffice, we did not meet a single person in Erzeroum, whatever
his nationality, race, or creed might have been, who attached the
slightest credence to a story which, cunningly invented and circulated
broadcast, not only cruelly slandered a man of integrity, but did a deal
of harm to his country in the public opinion of the world.
The position of Vali or Governor-General of a Turkish province has come
to be associated with an unenviable notoriety in the estimation of a
large section of the European public. Not unnaturally, a great share of
the responsibility for the wild vengeance of the mob rests with those
invested with supreme authority, and where the person wielding this
authority has been unequal to its grave responsibilities rumour has
stepped in and has credited Turkish officials in general with every
imaginable crime.
There are doubtless bad Valis as there are bad men in other stations of
life, and we were on the look-out for one in order to make an example of
him. Alas that I can only give my experience of a good Vali, Mohamed
Cherif Reouf Pasha, Governor-General of the first-class vilayet of
Erzeroum.
When General Grant visited Jerusalem, he found Reouf Pasha in the
position of Governor of that wonderful city. A strong friendship sprang
up between the thin-lipped, taciturn general and the suave, courtly, and
yet most simple-mannered pasha. Their meeting had taken place many years
previously, but Reouf still loved to talk of Grant, whom he recognized
as one of the few truly great men he had come across in his lifetime.
And as for Grant’s opinion of Reouf, I understand from a reliable source
that, before leaving Jerusalem, Grant assured him that if he were again
elected President of the United States, he would ask the Sultan to send
him as Turkish Minister to Washington.
Reouf Pasha belongs to one of the oldest Turkish families. His father,
Osman Pasha, was Governor-General of Bosnia during the last ten years of
his life. Reouf Pasha was educated at home, under the care of special
tutors, and later on his father sent him to Paris to complete his
studies. Among the successive appointments of a long and honourable
career may be mentioned those of kaimakan and moutesarrif in Roumelia,
Bosnia, and Syria, and twelve years’ governorship of Jerusalem—one of
the most difficult posts in the Empire. From thence Reouf Pasha was sent
to Beirut as Governor-General, then in succession to Damascus, Bitlis,
and Kharput, displaying everywhere the qualities of justice and mercy.
His activity was ceaseless, and order followed his advent everywhere. He
was appointed to his present very responsible and onerous position just
one week prior to the breaking out of the Armenian rebellion in October
1895.
In the following words I endeavour to sum up the information I gained
from various sources, notably the Consular representatives in Erzeroum,
concerning Reouf Pasha’s work as Vali of that province.
“Those who have carefully watched the Governor-General in his endeavours
to stay the misfortunes of those black hours, to limit their area and
repair the damage done, cannot resist the impression that no trouble
whatever would have taken place if he had had time to guard against it.
“When Reouf Pasha was appointed to Erzeroum it was already too late. He
did what could be done to stop the impending evil, sending the soldiers
and gendarmes to the most threatened spots, arresting pillaging Kurds
and having them summarily shot, notably those who had come from the
vilayet of Bitlis and had advanced as far as Kighi. Reouf Pasha caused
between eighty and ninety Mohammedan Turks to be shot during those
critical days.
“As soon as the murderous crisis had subsided Reouf Pasha did all in his
power to make amends for the damage done. He caused searching
investigations to be made all over Erzeroum, and wherever stolen
property was found it was restored to its rightful owners. A large
portion of what had been pillaged was taken away from the pillagers and
delivered back. He also organized a public subscription, the amount of
which enabled over four hundred mechanics to resume their occupation.
“Once tranquillity was restored, Reouf Pasha reorganized the gendarmerie
and the police so effectually that whilst they were kept more strictly
in hand than ever before, they were most successful in arresting a
number of Armenian agents-provocateurs and revolutionary emissaries,
such notably as Aram Aramian and Armenak Dermonprejan. In the affair of
Alidjekrek, in 1896, a number of Armenian revolutionists came over the
Russian frontier towards Alaskird. Reouf Pasha, informed in time, sent a
body of gendarmes to meet them, with the result that three were killed
and the remainder took flight back to Russia.
“A number of secret stores of arms in different places—Passen, Sitaouk,
etc.—were discovered by the vigilance of Reouf’s police, and were safely
stowed away. I myself saw some of the muskets seized—they bore a Russian
inscription.
“All these results are most satisfactory, and have been obtained
quietly, without exciting the feelings of the Mohammedan population.
Since Reouf Pasha has been here it can be said that justice is handled
in the most satisfactory manner. Several of the Courts of Justice which
were in need of a broom have been swept, and now work perfectly. A
number of corrupt officials have been made an example of—notably the
former commissary of police. In a word, all classes of the population
unite in recognizing the beneficent activity of the present Vali of
Erzeroum, respecting whose government an English Blue Book contains the
following: ‘The Vilayet of Erzeroum may be given as a model of
administration among the governorships of Asiatic Turkey.’”
The following instance was told me of an Armenian being chosen for
preferment by the Vali. He was the second commissary of police at
Erzeroum, and had proved himself to be so efficient an officer all
through the political troubles that Reouf procured for him the
commandership of the order of Medjediè, and also a brevet rank equal to
that of major in the Army.
Thus far the information given to me, the main correctness of which I
feel I can vouch for.
I was privileged to meet his Excellency on several occasions during our
stay in Erzeroum, and nothing could exceed his unvaried courtesy and
affability. Even more than this, he showed a positive anxiety that I
should accept no statement from him uncorroborated by independent
testimony. Through his kindness every channel of information, whether
Armenian, Greek, Hebrew, or Turk, was unreservedly set at my disposal.
His pet phrase was: “Si c’est la vérité, dites-le!”
In my personal intercourse with Reouf Pasha I was struck by the
extraordinary contrast between his quiet, even gentle manners and the
great energy he was credited with. There was little mutual esteem
between him and Chakir Pasha. To the mind of the mild, gentle-voiced
administrator, the hardy soldier who had been credited with all sorts of
dreadful energy was not energetic enough. The characteristic feature of
Reouf Pasha’s energy seems to have been that it enabled him to
conciliate—to turn an enemy into a friend.
Before leaving Erzeroum, we paid a visit to the Armenian school, which
is organized on the German plan and includes a commercial and classical
curriculum. It had at that time one hundred and thirty-four pupils. It
was a bitterly cold day, the playground had been flooded and was a sheet
of ice, and a number of boys and grown-ups were skating. One of the
masters told me that the whole “American Colony” of Erzeroum came to
skate there. I asked “What Americans?” and discovered that there was
absolutely only one _bonâ-fide_ American in the whole city at that
particular moment, and he was Mr. Leo Bergholz, the American Consul, and
even he was not a Christian, being of the Jewish persuasion; moreover,
he had not yet received his official exequatur. The so-called American
Colony consisted entirely of Armenians who had acquired American
citizenship and flaunted their cheaply gained nationality in the face of
the Turkish authorities.
Later on, at Alexandretta, when our dragoman became ill, an “American”
doctor was called in to attend him, and turned out to be a dark Syrian
Armenian—a thoroughbred Asiatic. These facts in themselves were not
necessarily of a mischievous kind; but nobody who has travelled in those
parts can be ignorant of the capital made by these strange Americans out
of their exotic nationality, and the trouble they occasionally give to
the Turkish authorities by their pretensions, quite independent of the
fact that many of these so-called “Americans” were in touch, as they
doubtless were in full sympathy, with the Armenian revolutionary
movement.
We were heartily glad to leave Erzeroum, for among other inconveniences
we found the air so rarefied that the slightest exertion would increase
the heart’s action and produce a sense of fatigue.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VI
JOURNEY THROUGH ASIATIC TURKEY: III
Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,
It was my hint to speak—such was the process;
And of the cannibals that each other eat,
The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders.
SHAKESPEARE, _Othello_
WE left Erzeroum on the road to Bitlis in sleighs, roughly constructed
from unplaned trunks of trees, which we exchanged for saddle-horses at
the first station we stopped at.
Shortly after leaving Erzeroum all vestige of roads whatsoever vanished
from our ken, and when we came up with a river—for instance, the Tigris,
here called the Murad Su or Black Water—it was always a case of being
obliged to ford across, for whatever bridges we saw were in ruins.
Neither tree, shrub, nor verdure of any kind met the eye—a perfect
wilderness, a country in which, as the Germans say, “the foxes bid
good-night to each other, as there is nothing to be got for any of
them.”
Our Armenian cook Migirditch proved a treasure, more indispensable to
us, as it turned out, than our doctor, whose services, fortunately,
neither Dr. Hepworth nor I culled into requisition during the whole of
our journey. This man would gallop alone ahead and reach our evening’s
destination long before us; for our usual rate of progress could
scarcely have exceeded three to four miles an hour. Thus we had not to
wait when we arrived, but found a well-prepared meal ready for us. How
he managed to find his way when there were no visible roads remains a
mystery to me to this day. Altogether, the efficiency, the general
readiness of this man, the only one of our party who had a notion how to
prepare food in European fashion, furnished an excellent illustration of
the adaptability of the Armenians. It helped to explain and justify
their ambition to rise in the world out of their easy-going
surroundings. Indeed, it is only fair to state that throughout our whole
journey the Armenians were the only section of the population which
seemed to be at all imbued with Carlyle’s gospel of work; which tends to
explain their unpopularity with the Turks on economic grounds.
We were not destined to see much of the fauna of the country, which is
said to consist of panthers, wolves, hyænas, and many species of the
feathered tribe, including buzzard and blackcock. Birds of prey we saw
in plenty, hovering in the air above us, chiefly vultures, the presence
of which was easily to be explained by the occasional carcasses of dead
horses and camels we passed on our way. One day a soldier of our escort
shot an eagle. It was only winged when it fell, and thus maimed, the
soldier brought it into the shed in which we were lying, where it
fluttered about, beating its wings. It was not a pleasant sight to see
the noble bird, the emblem of imperial power, being beaten to death in
our presence.
On our way we had a striking opportunity of witnessing the pride and
attachment the Turks feel towards their family, however humble it may
be. Some days after leaving Erzeroum we noticed an old man in peasant
costume riding along with us over hill and dale through the snow. He
wore pointed slippers and looked like some fierce Saracen chief of old.
When we halted for the night, Sirry Bey asked us if we would come over
into his shed. He wished us to make the acquaintance of his uncle, who
was the old peasant referred to, and who had ridden quite alone from his
homestead, many miles away, to meet our party. It was a touching sight
to see the pride with which Sirry Bey introduced us to his kinsman. He
himself boasted the title of Excellency, and was one of the secretaries
of the Sultan, coming direct from the Palace in Constantinople, with all
the prestige which this fact carries in the eyes of the inhabitants of
the provinces, to whom “Cospoli” (Constantinople) and the Sultan are
only second in importance to Mecca and the Kaaba; and yet he took a back
seat in the presence of the old peasant, his uncle, and thus his senior
in the family. It did one’s heart good to see the pleasure with which he
introduced us to the old man. We were told by our doctor that when Sirry
Bey first met his uncle on the road he embraced him and kissed his hands
in token of deference to his age, and to the higher standing in the
family given him as uncle in comparison with the nephew.
Our journey through Anatolia also brought us an unforgettable instance
of the unselfish fidelity of a Turkish police officer. On starting from
Erzeroum he was deputed by the Vali to look after us day and night, to
devote himself especially to the care of Dr. Hepworth and myself during
our journey from Erzeroum towards Bitlis, as a sacred trust. And
faithfully indeed did he carry out his mission. He never let us out of
his sight: he brought us in the early morning the water heated over the
charcoal fire of the mangal to make our cocoa, helped us on to the
horses’ backs on starting, forded the river in front of us to make sure
we should have a safe crossing, rode by our side until we arrived at our
destination, and often lay down beside us at night. One evening we were
told that he was due to return to Erzeroum next morning. We called him
into the shed in which Dr. Hepworth and myself were to pass the night.
In addition to handing him a letter for Reouf Pasha thanking him for the
excellent service his officer had rendered us, we offered him a little
purse filled with Turkish gold. It was a poignant spectacle to see this
poor fellow, whose miserable pay was probably months in arrear,
positively refuse to accept anything from us but the letter in which we
had borne testimony to his fidelity. There was mental distress in his
manner and in the tone of his voice: he, who had probably never in his
life handled as much gold as that we offered him, pleading that he could
not accept it. “No, no,” he cried out; “you have given me the letter
saying you are satisfied that I have done my duty.” Though Dr. Hepworth
was case-hardened by thirty years of American journalism, I saw tears
glisten in his eyes.
One day a Turkish colonel rode over from Bayazid, the furthest eastern
Turkish frontier station, situated at the foot of the Ala Dagh (10,000
feet high), where he was in command, to bid us welcome to those distant
parts. No small feat of horsemanship was this journey for him—over a
pathless mountain range through the snow, into which his horse sank at
times up to the belly. He was a splendid example of the strong,
pure-bred Turanian Turk, equal to any amount of fatigue and exposure.
For though we were in the midst of winter, and the distance he had come
could have been scarcely less than a two days’ ride on horseback, he
wore no mantle over his uniform, which barely covered his chest from the
piercing blast. He was, besides, what would justly be termed a “jolly
good fellow.” His saddle trappings, pistol holsters, dagger, and belt
were of silver, beautifully inlaid with black and gold—the finest
specimens of so-called Circassian, but in reality Armenian, workmanship
that I had ever seen, even in the bazaar of Constantinople. Responding
to our expressions of admiration, he pressed us to accept the belt and
dagger as souvenirs. This we declined to do, as we did not see how we
could make him any return. But so determined was he in his generous
intentions that he left the articles on my camp-bed, where I found them
in the evening. But even then I felt I could not accept such a princely
gift from a stranger, and next morning, with Sirry Bey’s assistance, I
prevailed upon him to take them back.
It was on this section of our journey that we passed through several
Circassian villages. The Circassians are a most interesting race,
inasmuch as it has hitherto been impossible to discover their
relationship to any other Asiatic race; their origin is also unknown
beyond the fact that they inhabited the shores of the Black Sea and the
Sea of Azov before the Christian era. Their country was ceded to Russia
in 1829 by the Peace of Adrianople, but the repressive measures they
were subjected to in wars in the Caucasus led to 300,000 out of a total
of 400,000 seeking refuge in Turkey, where they have since lived in
separate communities, some of which we passed through. They are reputed
to be physically the finest race of men and women in these parts,
probably in all Asia. From them are drawn many of the stalwart guards to
be seen in the Imperial palaces at Constantinople and St. Petersburg, as
well as some of the finest women in the harems of the Sultan and the
wealthy pashas. The men we saw certainly bore out their reputation for
fine physique. Many of them were well over six feet in height, with
remarkably fine features, well-shaped hands, and the smallest feet I
have ever seen with such stature. They were dressed in the well-known
Circassian costume, with rows of cartridges on either breast and long
daggers peeping out of their girdles. They received us with stately
hospitality, but are in general credited with being crafty and
treacherous.
What with the desolate nature of the country, hardly a soul being met on
the road in a whole day’s journey, and the wretched character of our
nightly accommodation, this section of our journey included our roughest
experiences. The wildness of the conditions was brought home to us in an
unpleasant manner by the fierceness of the huge dogs in the villages.
They had to be kept at bay with drawn swords by our escort.
We were now well into the mountain fastnesses of Kurdistan—a fact
revealed to us by the ever-increasing escort of Kurdish horsemen that
joined our cavalcade: a motley gathering of fierce-looking men armed to
the teeth, dressed in their national costume, the head covered with a
black hood which gave them a peculiarly demoniac appearance. They bade
us a kindly welcome to their villages and underground dwellings.
Before we left Constantinople, my friend Ahmed Midhat Effendi had given
me a letter written in Turkish characters which he said would ensure us
a kindly welcome in every part of the Sultan’s dominions. So indeed it
turned out to be on different occasions, notably one evening when we
halted in a Kurdish village and passed the night in the underground
dwelling of a chieftain. We squatted down on the floor in a circle, when
Colonel Rushti Bey brought out Midhat Effendi’s letter, the careful
calligraphy of which called forth the admiration of those present, and
read its contents out aloud. Therein was set forth how the proprietor of
one of the greatest journals in the world, moved by a noble impulse to
see that justice was done to the Osmanli, had sent “two fearless,
impartial, and, above all, learned men of letters to see things as they
were with their own eyes, and to report thereon to the outer world.” It
was quite an impressive spectacle to see these men of supposed lawless
proclivities listening devoutly to the description of our mission
therein set forth, to champion the truth against the slander of the
“Frank,” ignorant of the justice of the Turkish cause. As each sentence
was read out in a clear, sympathetic voice, the interest of the audience
grew visibly, until at the close, as with one voice, those present
ejaculated in unison, “May Allah bless and protect them!” It was an
impressive scene in its simplicity and evident sincerity.
Early the next morning, when we departed, our hosts declined to take any
payment for their hospitality; on the other hand, they pressed us to
accept presents from them—daggers and belts richly inlaid with silver
and gold ornamentation, even a horse each to Dr. Hepworth and myself.
All these we declined, but I could not refuse the skin of a bear which
the chief himself had killed with his dagger in a regular “hand to paw”
encounter, as we were assured. It served as a rug in my study for years
afterwards. Even when we left, the kindliness of our hosts was not
exhausted, for a number of Kurds accompanied us for a long distance on
horseback—an attention which was extended to us right through that part
of the country wherever we stopped. This escort grew sometimes to such
dimensions that on occasions we were accompanied by several hundred
horsemen, most of whom belonged to the irregular force of cavalry known
by the name of Hamidiè, already referred to. They rode ahead of us,
galloped in circles round us, shouting lustily and firing off their
rifles and otherwise demonstrating the festive frame of mind into which
the visit of the Padishah’s representatives among his unruly vassals had
plunged them. The further we penetrated into the country the more
numerous became the native escort which joined and followed us from
station to station amid lively demonstrations of good feeling.
One morning, on emerging from the underground mud hut in which we had
passed the night as guests of a Kurdish chief, we caught a glimpse of
Mount Ararat, towering 17,000 feet out of the clouds in front of us.
According to our map this marked the most easterly point of our
itinerary, and Mount Ararat can scarcely have been less than forty miles
away from us. Our own elevation must have been about 6000 to 7000 feet
above the level of the sea; this circumstance, together with the
clearness of the atmosphere, enabled us to make out the outline of the
giant mountain quite distinctly a long way down to its base. For, unlike
all the other mountains we saw on our journey, Mount Ararat stands by
itself, rising in the form of a single cone from the plain.
In the further course of our journey, not far from Bitlis we caught a
glimpse of Lake Van to our left. Indeed, we almost skirted its shores,
though it lay beneath us covered with ice and snow. The lake is situated
about 5000 feet above sea-level: thus our own altitude must have been
considerably more.
Bitlis is on the caravan road from Erzeroum to Mosul, about ten miles to
the south-west of Lake Van on about the same level, namely, 5000 feet,
on the banks of the Tigris, with about 39,000 inhabitants. We stayed at
the konak of the Governor in the centre of the town, on an elevation
which was formerly a fortress, at the foot of which the usual Oriental
bazaar stretches through several narrow streets. Bitlis has belonged to
the Turks since 1514, when it was occupied by Sultan Selim I. Here we
were once more in touch with civilization by means of the post office
and a telegraph station, and spent a few days interviewing different
people—an English Vice-Consul, some missionaries and Armenians—and
choosing horses for the continuation of our journey on horseback to
Diarbekir, which took several days and passed without incident.
Diarbekir lies on the Tigris, which is spanned by an old stone bridge,
across which we rode, the river itself being navigable only for rafts.
Situated nearly 2000 feet above sea-level, the ancient fortress of
Diarbekir has an interesting history. At one time a Roman colony, it
became the see of a Christian bishop in A.D. 325. Enlarged by the
Emperor Constantine in the fourth century, it was conquered and
devastated by Timur in 1373 and fell under Turkish sway in the year
1513, when, like Bitlis, it was taken by Sultan Selim I. To-day
Diarbekir is much diminished in size and importance, but still possesses
about 34,000 inhabitants, twenty mosques, an Armenian school, and a
bazaar, in which, however, there was nothing of interest to be seen.
There were only three European residents when we came to Diarbekir: an
old Franciscan monk, a French Vice-Consul, and an English Consul, Mr.
Alexander Waugh, now British Consul in Constantinople. This gentleman
bade us a warm welcome, and his hospitality, notably the meals we
partook of at his house, one of which was our Christmas dinner, formed
the one bright recollection in the dreary record of our stay. The
versions given us by Turks and Armenians of what had occurred in
connexion with the Armenian disturbances differed little from those we
had already heard elsewhere: that the troubles were brought about in the
first instance by revolutionary activity, that the authorities had lost
their heads, and that finally the population had got out of hand and had
joined in an indiscriminate massacre of Armenians, innocent and guilty.
Our further journey from Diarbekir was also devoid of any incident, and
on the evening of December 31 we rode into the picturesque old town of
Biredschik, and were quartered in a fairly comfortable konak.
Biredschik is situated about 600 feet above sea-level, on the left bank
of the Euphrates, which is navigable here for boats of considerable
size. It is surrounded by a fairly preserved wall, protected by a castle
built on rocks. Biredschik is the most renowned of the places, known to
both the Romans and the Seleucides, which were used for crossing the
Euphrates, a purpose for which Biredschik has been much in use down to
the present day. It numbers several thousand Armenians among its
inhabitants. Here we saw the New Year in, and started next morning for
Aintab, crossing the Euphrates, which is here very broad, with our
saddle-horses, in large shallow-bottomed pontoon-boats. The country
offered a marked contrast to that which we had hitherto traversed. For
whereas we had not seen a tree for weeks together, or a road of any kind
for an even longer period, here we suddenly found ourselves among groves
of olive-trees and fig-trees, besides other indications of a Southern
clime—an agreeable change from the treeless wilderness we had passed
through ever since we left Erzeroum.
Not far from Biredschik we rode past Nisib, a village noteworthy through
the battle of that name (June 24, 1839), in which the Turks under Hafis
Pasha were signally defeated by the Egyptians under Ibrahim Pasha. The
renowned Moltke, then a plain Prussian captain, was a looker-on with the
Turks on this occasion, and it is said that they owed their defeat to
having neglected his advice in the disposition of the troops in that
battle.
Our road now took us through a flat country, and our spirits rose under
the improved conditions. At mid-day we used to make a halt, tie up the
horses, light a fire, and take an improvised lunch in the open. One day
we rested beside a stream on the opposite bank of which one of the
soldiers had placed a winebottle as a target. The Sultan had presented
us each with a revolver on starting, and our Turkish escort were firing
away with them at random, without, however, “driving the centre.” Dr.
Hepworth and I stood aside, looking on somewhat amused, which made the
situation rather awkward when Sirry Bey suggested we should join in and
have a shot. This, however, we hesitated to do, for the good reason that
we had previously tested our revolvers on board ship and found that we
could not hit a haystack with them. Finally, Dr. Hepworth also urged me
to try my luck; so, not wishing to appear churlish, I took a haphazard
aim, and, to my intense surprise, down came the bottle. The others were
much impressed, and begged me to repeat the exploit. This, however, I
firmly declined to do, preferring to leave them under the impression of
my dexterity. Few things struck me more forcibly on that journey than
the lack of practice with firearms right through this supposed warlike
population. We never came across a single rifle-range on the whole of
our journey, and on one occasion when we attended an improvised shooting
competition among the Kurds their marksmanship was of a very inferior
order, and the behaviour of the competitors so excited that I gained the
impression they might resent anybody excelling them at their sport.
We had met few horsemen since we left the land of the Kurds; but after
Biredschik they again appeared on the scene. Now, however, they were
Syrians, men in white flowing garments—bournous—resembling the Arab
costumes familiar through Schreyer’s pictures of Algerian life, wielding
spears of twelve to fifteen feet in length. They gave us an equally warm
reception, and, like the Kurds, accompanied us for hours on our way.
The rest of our journey to Aintab was now plane-sailing. The road was
tolerable and the traffic such as gave evidence of some degree of
commercial activity. We counted over 1200 camels laden with merchandise
which we passed in one day.
Aintab is a town of some 20,000 inhabitants, and they are made up of
Greek and Armenian Christians and Kurdish Mohammedans in about equal
numbers. It is the capital of the Syrian vilayet, and is situated on the
River Sadjur, a tributary of the Euphrates. Like Biredschik, Aintab
includes an old mountain fortress, which was already known at the time
of the Crusades—when it was taken by Saladin, and again in the year 1400
by Timur the Tartar. To-day it is the seat of wool and cotton
manufactures, a commercial depot of leather, cloth, honey, and tobacco.
At Aintab we changed our mode of travelling for the last time; for we
disposed of our saddle-horses and proceeded to the coast in the same
type of tumble-down conveyance as that in which we left Trebizond. Dr.
Hepworth was very sorry to part with his sure-footed little grey mount,
which had carried him from Bitlis without a single mishap or stumble.
Altogether our experience of the Anatolian horse was one to be
remembered with gratitude: never seeming to tire, tractable, docile, and
sure-footed as a goat, this breed of horse, which is to be found
throughout the Turkish Empire, is truly a friend of man. It is the only
horse I have ever known which stands at the bidding of its master for
hours together without being tied up. Also, I never once saw a horse
treated unkindly during the whole of our journey.
The monotony of riding day by day on horseback at a snail’s pace for
weeks in silence, from early dawn till sunset, over an endless
succession of undulating roadless hills and vales, with occasional
spells of dreadful jolting in springless carts and carriages, had told
on our spirits. Thus we all had good cause to rejoice over our arrival
at Alexandretta. The sight of the sea once more, as from a high ridge of
hills we first beheld the blue waters of the Mediterranean, after
passing nearly two months in a wild, almost treeless and pathless
country, was a thrilling sensation. Cut off from all the comforts of
civilization, which lifelong usage causes us to take as a matter of
course, their true value came home to us. Dr. Hepworth involuntarily
recalled the famous episode in Xenophon’s “Retreat of the Ten Thousand”
where the Greeks at last greeted the sea—in their case, the Black
Sea—with the cry: “Thalassa! Thalassa!”
Here, for the first time since leaving Trebizond, we beheld an inn. We
were shown into a bedroom and were delighted to see what we had gone
without for so long, and thus learned to appreciate as a luxury—a bed, a
water-jug, a washing-basin, a table, and a chair.
Founded by Alexander the Great, Alexandretta is picturesquely situated,
but otherwise a poor place, bearing all the signs of Oriental neglect;
even the harbour, at which various steamers call, looked deserted and
dilapidated. The town itself is surrounded on the land side by swamps,
to the fever-breeding character of which the many white gravestones in
the large cemetery seemed to offer eloquent testimony, inasmuch as the
place has only about 1500 inhabitants. Thus the European colony gives it
a wide berth, for its members reside ten miles away in the pleasantly
situated town of Beilan. The vegetation, however, is very rich, almost
tropical in character: beautiful palms and giant cactus plants flourish
in abundance.
In summarizing the incidents of our journey, which had now come to an
end, our Hungarian doctor turned to Dr. Hepworth and myself and said:
“_Now_ that we are well out of it I think we can congratulate each other
all round. For I do not mind telling you that there was hardly a day, or
rather a night, on this terrible journey in which we were not exposed to
the risk of catching smallpox or typhus.” At Erzeroum several of us had
been vaccinated, by the advice of the British Consul, though it was only
with the greatest difficulty that lymph above suspicion was procured in
the town.
Another, and by no means a trifling, danger which we luckily escaped was
one which had been foretold us in Constantinople as the most serious
possibility of our journey, namely, snowstorms and heavy rains producing
floods. Had we encountered either of them in an awkward place it might
have delayed us for days, even for weeks, in a country without roads or
bridges. Fortunately, we met with neither the one nor the other. During
the whole eight weeks we were on the road it never rained, and only
snowed now and then for short periods.
Shortly after leaving Erzeroum our leader, Sirry Bey, was taken
seriously ill with an internal inflammation, which only yielded to the
application of ice. On this account we were obliged to remain several
days in a village on the road to Bitlis until he got better. But even
then he had to be borne between two poles fastened to two horses. But
for our Hungarian doctor he would probably have succumbed.
We were obliged to leave our Roumanian interpreter behind us in a
hospital at Alexandretta, as he had contracted erysipelas in a Turkish
bath at Erzeroum. This complaint developed into an infectious disease of
a tuberculous character termed sycosis, which necessitated shaving off
all the hair on his body. Thus afflicted he had accompanied us all the
way, and we often had to put up with his sleeping on the ground close to
us.
After staying a couple of days in Alexandretta and partaking of the
hospitality of the United States Vice-Consul we embarked on board a
steamer bound for Constantinople. During the uneventful voyage we had
ample leisure to review the impressions gained on our expedition, some
of which, though they are not free from sundry repetitions, I have
jotted down in the following chapter.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VII
SUMMARY OF OUR JOURNEY
Truth is established by investigation and delay;
falsehood prospers by precipitancy.
TACITUS
MARK TWAIN in one of his entertaining books tells us that his travelling
party was dirty at Constantinople, dirtier at Damascus, but dirtiest at
Jerusalem.
Our party had already obtained the Jerusalemic stage of uncleanliness,
and consequent ungodliness, a few days after leaving Erzeroum. We passed
through close upon eight hundred miles of country sporadically inhabited
by Armenians, still living, however poorly, in the midst of Circassians,
Kurds, Arabs, Turcomans, and Turks. We saw them “alive” in their
villages. We met them travelling alone along the high road without any
escort or arms, the women now and then riding on horseback astride like
men. We conversed with innumerable Armenians, priests and bishops of
whole districts among the rest, and were assured by them that in such
and such a district no outrages, no violence, no molestation whatsoever,
even though revolutionists were about, had taken place. Lastly, our
Armenian cook rode for hundreds of miles ahead of us quite alone,
unarmed, and never encountered the slightest enmity, even far less than
he might if he alighted as a stranger on horseback among the miners in
some Christian community. And yet these Armenian agitators do not
hesitate to assert that the Moslem Turk is bent on the extermination of
their race. An even more untenable statement is that the Armenians are a
“nation,” and as such are entitled to autonomy. The Armenians are not a
nation, but an Asiatic race among many other races forming remnants of
independent states in olden times. If half, or perhaps three-quarters of
a million of Asiatic Armenians, now sporadically distributed over an
area half the size of Europe, form a _nation_, what are we to say of the
five million Russian Jews cooped up within the pale assigned to them by
the Russian Government? Why does not Europe take up their case? What
answer would Europe get from Holy Russia if she did so? But this does
not exhaust the question. The ethical sentiment of Europe, rightly or
wrongly, but in every case armed with enormous power, steps in and says:
“Even if these facts are admitted, they do not excuse, much less
justify, Turkey in using the means she adopted to crush a rebellion in
our enlightened Christian age.” Here the Armenians undoubtedly have a
very real grievance, which Turkey must see to at once unless her rule is
to pass from her in Asia as well as in Europe. But the task will not be
an easy one. We need only put ourselves in her place in order to realize
its difficulties.
Here is a vast Mohammedan country, the Sovereign of which is
acknowledged by international law to be the Sultan of Turkey. This
country belonged to the Turks even before the discovery of America.
To-day it is honeycombed with Christian, mostly Protestant, missionary
schools, the avowed object of which is to educate a small Christian
minority—be it admitted the most thrifty, shrewd, pushing, and
intriguing of all Eastern races—in the Christian religion and at the
same time in modern European ideas, and to bid them look to the Western
world outside Turkey as their natural protector. This was bound to make
these Asiatics discontented with their Asiatic status. It is denied that
proselytism in any form was attempted or intended. I was informed by an
American missionary at Bitlis, who had lived thirty years in Turkey,
that formerly there was only one small Protestant Armenian sect in the
whole of Armenia, and this was in the little town of Hunuesch, between
Erzeroum and Bitlis. Yet statistics show that the pupils of the 621
Protestant schools distributed throughout Asiatic Turkey in 1896
numbered 27,000. Thus, whether proselytism has been intended or
attempted, or not, it has, _de facto_, taken place on a large scale, for
the existence of 27,000 Protestants, school pupils constantly renewed
with each succeeding generation, out of a total Armenian population of
half to three-quarters of a million (say a million if you will),[9]
represents a preponderant percentage of Protestants among them. These
are not views, but facts, which can be easily verified, and with regard
to which the reader may draw his own conclusions.
Footnote 9:
According to Cuinet, the number of Armenians in the Turkish Empire
some years ago was 1,144,000, of which about two-thirds would fall to
Asiatic Turkey proper; whereas in Russian Transcaucasia there were
said to be nearly 1,000,000 Armenians, and about 100,000 in Persia.
The Armenians are thus scarcely more numerous in Asiatic Turkey than
the Italians and Belgians in France, distributed over a country twice
the size of France.
I met missionaries everywhere in Turkey. I was in their houses as far
west as Macedonia, and as far east as Bitlis, near Lake Van, on the
frontier of Persia. They nearly all evinced a marked anxiety not to be
held responsible, however remotely or indirectly, for the revolutionary
movement in Turkey, which in its turn was the source of the massacres
that took place, and I willingly believe that they never really intended
to provoke disturbance or encourage rebellion against the Turkish
authorities. Still there cannot be any doubt that their teaching—not
their doctrines, perhaps—had the result, probably never intended, and
one it has taken a couple of generations to attain, of fostering the
Armenian revolutionary movement throughout Asiatic Turkey. Everything
had been carefully prepared in Asia and in the Press of Europe and
America before the Armenian outbreak to boom a second Bulgaria. The
project failed because, as compared with the years 1876–77, Liberalism
as an aggressively agitating force happened to be under an eclipse in
Europe in 1895–96. Asiatic Turkey is honeycombed with European and
United States Consuls. These gentlemen occupy a quasi-diplomatic status,
although in some places there are next to no national interests to be
protected.[10] Their dragomans and servants are mostly Armenians. When
these Consuls walk abroad, accompanied by their armed bodyguard, it is
as superior beings, as petty Ambassadors. They are entitled to address
the Turkish Governor-Generals with almost Ambassadorial authority. They
report the outcome of their investigations to their Ambassador at
Constantinople, who thereupon proceeds to examine and cross-examine the
Turkish Government at the Sublime Porte on the basis of the Consul’s
communications. This activity was at work long before the outbreak of
the Armenian massacres, and yet there are still people who are surprised
if the Turks do not seem to love the Christians. Imagine the great towns
in England, or the United States, or France, or Germany favoured by the
presence of Moslem Consuls walking abroad like Ambassadors, with
extra-territorial immunities, present in every law court, and reporting
every petty larceny that takes place to their Ambassador! What would be
the feelings in the above Christian countries towards these Moslem
Consuls?
Footnote 10:
American interests in Anatolia are mainly those of the missionary
establishments, schools, hospitals, workshops, etc.
The English Vice-Consul at Bitlis read us some extracts from his latest
report to Constantinople. They consisted of a number of incidents of
petty wrongs regarding internal administration in Turkey—arbitrary
enforcement of local dues, petty larceny among Turks or what not—matters
mostly reported to him by his Armenian dragoman.
“But are not these purely internal local concerns?” I queried.
“Yes, to be sure,” was the reply.
“Well,” I rejoined, “if you are hereafter appointed to a Consular post
in Russia, and you make similar reports to the British Ambassador at St.
Petersburg, and the Russians find it out, don’t you think you would run
a fair chance of the Russians making your official position rather
uncomfortable for you?”
“I fancy I should,” was his jocular reply.
Incidents such as this show the vexations which the Turks have had to
put up with in their own country at the hands of the Christians. Some
time ago an English Consular official in Persia wrote an article on
Persian administration in an English magazine, with the result that the
Shah of Persia successfully insisted that he should not return to
Teheran.
To these petty vexations must be added the more serious trouble Turkey
has constantly to reckon with in consequence of the peculiar attitude of
the Russian Government in regard to the Armenian revolutionary movement.
We have been witnesses in our time of the vast resources of the Russian
Government when called upon to deal with their own revolutionary
parties. If the Russian Armenians would like to put them to the test
they need only try to force the Russian Government to cease interfering
with their schools, their language, and their creed. They might then
indeed discover for themselves what a Russian millstone is like. But
no!—they submit to Russian tyranny, preferring to organize revolutionary
work at Kars, Tiflis, and Batoum directed against Turkey; and “helpless”
Russian bureaucracy avows its inability to discover, much less to
interfere with such!
The problem to be faced by Turkey is to ensure that security of life and
property in her Asiatic dominions which is a _sine qua non_ with every
Government, be it under the Crescent or the Cross. The Kurds must be
forced to give up their predatory propensities. They still defy the
Valis, and are, I was credibly assured, now and then secretly encouraged
in this by the military commanders, who intrigue against the civil
authorities, and it is difficult for the Government in Constantinople to
ascertain the true facts of the case. Shortly after our journey the
Modiki Kurds slew the kaimakan of Modiki and along with him eight
Turkish officers. They were still unpunished a year afterwards.[11] And
yet if such men cannot be brought to respect the law, and security for
life and property be assured, it will shortly be said of Asiatic Turkey
as it was of ancient Carthage: “Delenda est Carthago.” The Kurd, like
Zola’s hero in “La Débâcle,” must take to the plough and work. It is the
law of the Universe; not even a Khalif can exonerate his subjects from
its inexorable working. Turkey is in need of reforms—nor is she the only
country in need of them. This is admitted on all hands. And among these
none are so vitally necessary as those of an economic nature. It is a
misfortune for Turkey to-day that Mohammed lived practically in a
desert, where trees and roads were few and far between. If this great
reformer had lived, for instance, in Anatolia or Mesopotamia, one of his
earnest injunctions to his followers would doubtless have been that
every one of the Faithful should consider it to be his duty to plant a
tree and assist in making public roads, the latter being the occupation
which Goethe tells us finally brought contentment to the restless soul
of Faust. The Mohammedans, who after twelve hundred years still
religiously obey every injunction of their Prophet, down to the number
of prayers and ablutions to be said and practised per diem, would have
naturally carried out his wishes in this particular. And, if so, Asiatic
Turkey would wear a very different aspect from what it does to-day.
Alas! those who have travelled through Turkey in Asia and witnessed the
absolute lack of roads, bridges, and almost every other civilized
convenience which marks a certain mean level of social organization, can
only come to the conclusion that the Turk is more or less of a nomad: a
nomad horseman, as he was a thousand years ago, leading the life of a
nomad, even though his predatory instincts are now and then dormant,
and, when exercised, are impartially put into practice at the expense of
both the Mohammedan and the Christian.
Footnote 11:
At the moment of preparing these pages for the press, sixteen years
after my journey through Asiatic Turkey, I learn from several
independent sources that although no recrudescence of the massacres
has taken place, the conditions prevailing there to-day are even more
unsatisfactory than of yore. The Imperial authority under the régime
of the Young Turks is at a lower ebb even than in Abdul Hamid’s time.
In addition thereto must be reckoned the dreadful losses in human life
caused by the wars in Tripoli and the Balkans, so that the fields are
now largely tilled by women and old men.
The American mind is said to be able to find the shortest and
straightest road from one given point—logical or material—to another.
The Englishman may possibly come next to the American in this; the
German is slower, but he is infallible in the long run, for he works a
problem out stolidly with the assistance of logarithms and trigonometry.
As you near the East, the capacity for discovering the short, straight,
logical line decreases—the Austro-Hungarian finds it sometimes, the Turk
hardly ever.
This constitutional inability to seize the value of an established fact
or series of facts, and to draw the obvious logical conclusion
therefrom, has all along hampered the Turk in putting his case before
the world, even in instances where seven out of ten points were in his
favour. I have heard an educated Turk cite the case of an Armenian
tailor who had deserted his wife and run away with another woman as a
proof of the iniquity of that interesting race. In his lack of logic the
Turk recalls the Swiss woman who appealed to the court for a divorce
from her husband. On being asked what grounds she could advance in
support, she replied after thinking awhile: “He is not the father of my
last child.”
Individual Americans, Englishmen, Germans—yes, even English
missionaries—will now and then make out a better case for Turkey than
all the Turks put together with whom I conversed during my several
prolonged visits to Turkey.
“Yes, you must remember this question has two sides. There is a deal to
be said for the Turks; the Armenians are not all angels,” an American
missionary said to me in Anatolia. “For, let there be no mistake about
it, it is only the Pharisee who bids us fancy that the priests of Baal
have erected altars exclusively among the Turks.”
I contend that the responsibility for the horrors which took place in
Asia Minor rested in the first instance with the Armenian revolutionists
who instigated them, and not with the Turks, who are an Asiatic people
like the Russians and the Persians, and whose methods of repression are
not very different from theirs. The Armenian revolutionists were
responsible for the suffering of the innocent for the guilty. I have
read their pamphlets, their stirring circulars urging the helpless
Armenian hamal (porter), peasant, and artisan to rise and throw off the
Turkish yoke. These documents were only too often ruthless and
indefensible in their unbridled lawlessness. The Armenian revolutionists
stated that it was impossible to hope for anything but persecution _on
religious grounds_ from the Turk. Now the Armenian language, creed, and
schools are perfectly free in Turkey, whereas they have always been
persistently interfered with in Russia. The Armenians accuse the Turk of
persecuting Christians, whereas the high road from Trebizond to
Erzeroum, as already stated, is dotted with Christian monasteries and
churches unmolested during centuries.
Our steamer stopped at Mersina, Rhodes, and Smyrna on our way, but we
landed only at the last-named place. In strolling through the city, we
took our farewell of Asiatic life with its caravans and its camels—a
long line of which met us in the street. Our arrival at Constantinople
took place after sunset, and in observance of some queer harbour
regulations we were obliged to pass the night on board, being allowed to
disembark only in the morning.
Before leaving for Paris we stayed a few days at Constantinople. The
Sultan sent word asking me to draw up a report of the impressions gained
on our journey. This I did, and expressed myself to the effect that what
had made the deepest impression on us was the lack of roads, bridges,
and trees, and the desolate nature of the whole country, some parts
being little better than a wilderness. There would seem to be a great
field for beneficent work in these lands.
Thereupon the Sultan expressed a wish that Dr. Hepworth and myself
should come up to the Palace and be received by him. After duly
considering the matter, we replied jointly that, as His Majesty had
asked us to render a service to truth and justice by our investigations
in his Asiatic dominions, we thought it best to leave Constantinople
without seeing him; for, if we were received in audience, it would get
known and might be construed into our having only acted as his agents—a
surmise which would certainly discount the value of Dr. Hepworth’s
impartial account of our experiences. The Sultan seemed to recognize the
force of our contention, for he sent us a kindly message embodying his
best wishes for our journey, and expressing the hope that we might some
day come again to Constantinople. In order once for all to dispose of
the idle rumours which were current at the time, I may add that neither
Dr. Hepworth nor myself accepted any memento or present whatsoever from
the Sultan. A decoration which His Majesty subsequently sent to Paris
for Mrs. Hepworth was returned through the proprietor of the _New York
Herald_.
Before leaving I received the following letter from Munir Pasha:
PALAIS IMPÉRIAL DE YILDIZ, CABINET DU GRAND MAÎTRE DES
CÉRÉMONIES.
“CHER MONSIEUR WHITMAN,
“Je vous envoie par le porteur une lettre que j’ai écrite à
l’adresse de Monsieur Gordon Bennett, et qui est relative à
votre récent voyage en Anatolie.
“En vous priant de vouloir bien faire parvenir cette missive à
sa destination, je me plais à vous dire combien je me félicite
des relations personnelles que j’ai eu l’honneur d’avoir avec
vous, et à vous assurer du bon souvenir que je garderai de ces
relations.
“Votre dévoué,
“MUNIR.”
LUNDI, _12 Janvier 1898_.
Most of us can recall the peculiar sensation we experience on returning
into the fresh air from the fetid atmosphere of an ill-ventilated
apartment, the noxious nature of which we had scarcely realized as long
as we remained there. So also the true character of Eastern conditions
only seemed to come home to us after we had left the country. At least,
speaking for my travelling companion and myself, we only seemed to
realize the treeless desolation, the wilderness of roadless Kurdistan,
as we were passing through that beautiful, richly verdured section of
Austria and South Germany traversed by the Orient Express. Then it was
that the contrast enabled us to appreciate as perhaps never before the
benefits of the high state of European land culture. The same feeling
might well suggest itself to the traveller in passing from Dover to
London through Kent, the Garden of England. On arrival in London,
however, other features of Eastern life forced themselves on our memory
and suggested comparisons less flattering to our own social conditions.
Needless to say they were those which account for the strange
fascination the East exercises even upon some of the most cultured
European travellers.
Indeed, it was a strange, for the moment an almost unaccountable, sight
to behold the crowds of people flocking into the City of a morning from
the suburbs. This haste, this eagerness, as if their very life depended
upon catching a train, constantly struck one as unnatural after living
for weeks along the banks of the Tigris and the Euphrates, staying in
villages in which the conditions were so primitive—a contrast almost
beyond comprehension. What could be the driving motive that impelled
these people to this feverish activity, this restlessness? Why, hunger,
to be sure, the grim necessities of the battle of life, a struggle to be
continued without intermission from youth to the grave, and, when done,
leaving little to take note of except, perhaps, that a mutton chop more
or less would be called for at their particular luncheon haunt. And the
background: Tooting Bec, Clapham, and Brixton in the South, Pentonville
and Hackney in the North, and the East End with its miles of slums and
its paupers; or to take those parts more familiar to middle-class life,
Marylebone and Bloomsbury, with their interminable, dull, featureless
roads and terraces, the rows of houses in their dread monotony,
veritable soul-killing mausoleums of the living: what Buskin termed
“streets in hell.” To think of their commonplace residents with their
fads and fancies and their sympathies rigorously narrowed down in
accordance with the tenets of their faith. All are supposed to worship
the selfsame God, and yet they are socially divided, cut off from each
other as nowhere people are in the East. Surely life should have some
wider and nobler scope, aim, and application than the mere gratification
of the appetite to live, were it only to cultivate that restful spirit
without which any earnest self-communion, any deeper philosophy of life
is an impossibility. At least so it seemed to strike one fresh from two
months’ intimate communion with Nature—from conditions varying little, I
should say, since Abraham’s time—a patriarchal state of things which
acknowledges a chief, but gives brotherhood, if not equality, to the
rest of the community. I had seen men in Syrian villages—the mayor, for
instance, a stalwart, full-bearded peasant patriarch of dignified
bearing and benevolent mien, in profile not unlike the stone images of
the Assyrian kings in the British Museum—slowly rolling cigarettes with
refined, beautifully shaped hands. Somehow it was a dignified memory, in
spite of the backwardness of the country, lacking in all our scientific
and sanitary improvements. I had not come across a single man with grimy
hands, and, except in one Armenian village near Bitlis, I had not seen a
woman or child in such rags as I often see in London. Much less had I
heard of cases of starvation, nor was I told of forlorn, painted harlots
or drunken women—surely items worth recording on the credit side against
much that is to be deplored and commiserated with.
Some months after my return to London I received the following letter
from the companion of my Armenian hardships:
NEW YORK,
_April 22, 1898_.
“MY DEAR WHITMAN,
“I was glad to see your familiar handwriting again, and almost
thought I could hear your voice.
“Yes, my dear fellow, those were troublous, but still good,
times; and now that I have largely forgotten the hardships, I
should like to do something of the same kind again. I did get
the letters you sent, and thanked you for sending them. Did my
letter miscarry? I fear so, as you did not acknowledge the
receipt or answer my questions. Did you say your article was in
the April number of _Harper’s_? I have sent for it, and am sure
that I shall have great pleasure in reading it.
“I worked hard at my book[12] while in Paris, then went to
Marseilles, to Nice and Mentone. The book is now nearly
finished. It will cover about three hundred pages, possibly
more, and will be published in September. I shall take pride in
sending you a copy.
“My health is good. I am still a bit nervous, but that is
because I have not yet rested as I ought to have done. The
summer I guess will see me right again. You do not tell me about
yourself. What are you doing? Where have you gone, or do you
expect to go to Berlin[13] as we thought? Moreover, do you
expect to write a book? This is important, for it is sure to be
a good one. You can do it, and you ought to.
“Please give my regards to your good wife, and believe me,
“Always yours,
“GEORGE H. HEPWORTH.”
Footnote 12:
“Through Armenia on Horseback,” by the Rev. George H. Hepworth. New
York and London, 1898.
Footnote 13:
Reference to an offer made me by the proprietor of the _New York
Herald_ to go to Berlin as its permanent correspondent, which I
declined.
Nearly seven years elapsed before circumstances took me back for a short
visit to Constantinople. This time I went no longer as the
representative of a great newspaper, but only as a private individual.
All the greater was the surprise I felt on my arrival to find a warm
welcome from the friends I had previously made there. From the Sultan
and his entourage down to the kafedji, who used to hand me my cup of
coffee in the Palace, and the swarthy arabadji, whose black stallions
took me on my daily round of visits, they all seemed to bear one in
kindly memory in gratitude for what they deemed were services rendered
to their country, and this too, after a lapse of seven long years, in
the Mohammedan East! This has often struck me as extraordinary in an age
in which a lifetime of beneficent work, even when recognized at all, is
forgotten in a week.
In the remaining chapters I have striven to reconstruct under different
headings the impressions and experiences gained during my various visits
to Turkey.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART II
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII
YILDIZ
The Spider hangs the curtain over princely palaces,
The Owl stands sentry on the cupola of Efrasiab.
SAADI, _Gulistan_ (Persian)
Baluk bashdan kokar.
(Turkish Proverb)[14]
Footnote 14:
“The fish begins to rot at the head.”
THE circumstances already related under which I went to Constantinople
made me a frequent visitor at the Imperial Palace of Yildiz. The
so-called Palace (recently dismantled) consisted of an extensive stretch
of park-land surrounded by high walls in which were fair gardens,
woodlands, lakes, interspersed with different buildings of the most
varied types and kinds. There were mansions, country-houses, stables,
stud establishments, military barracks, a theatre—even a zoological
garden and a china factory being thrown into the hotch-potch. Several
thousand people were gathered here, consisting of the members of the
Sultan’s family, their separate establishments and their dependents,
besides a horde of Palace officials of every imaginable type and
denomination.
During thirty years the Sultan of Turkey directed, single-handed, the
destinies of his Empire from this place, paralysing every other
authority, the official channels of Government included; working as hard
as any nigger, yet with chaos in the end.
On a warm summer day there was an element of repose about the
surroundings of the Palace soothing to the jaded nerves of the Western
European, and quite different from what fancy would conjure up in
connexion with the spiritual head of three hundred millions of human
beings. A solitary Albanian soldier stood on guard at the entrance of
the Palace, close to which on either side were unpretentious-looking
porters’ lodges, whose inmates, without any uniform or other distinctive
mark of their responsible position, asked you your business. If your
face was known to them and a small douceur quickened their memory, you
passed through without any further ado. If not, a polite request for
your card and a query as to whom you wished to see might bring the
request to wait whilst inquiry was made. Or it might be that merely
giving the name of some influential official would suffice and you were
allowed to proceed on your way.
On passing the porter’s lodge into the wall-surrounded precincts of
Yildiz and turning to the left, the eye was arrested by a low-lying,
bungalow-like building in which a staff was employed to peruse a
promiscuous mass of European newspapers, and to translate extracts which
were deemed suitable for submission to the Sultan. In the same building
the stock of the various Turkish decorations was kept in a cupboard, to
which, as occasion arose, the officials would come and take out those
that might be wanted for bestowal.
Immediately in front of you was another building of a similar, though
superior, type. Here the ground floor was devoted to the offices of the
Grand Master of Ceremonies; on the first floor was that of the Sultan’s
First Secretary, Tahsim Pasha. You passed on to the right towards a
slight incline, up which many a fat Turk has toiled breathless, and
beheld further to the right a more pretentious and massive structure in
that peculiar bastard Oriental style of French design which apparently
came into fashion in Turkey in Abdul Aziz’s time, and which, on a larger
scale, is represented on the European shores of the Bosphorus by the
palaces of Dolma-Baghtchè and Tcheragan, and on the Asiatic side by
Begler-Bey, the villa farther away, in which once upon a time the
Empress Eugénie had been the Sultan’s guest. In this particular
building, in the Palace at Yildiz, Ghazi Osman Pasha had his office and
several of the Sultan’s chamberlains had their rooms. There also the
sittings of the Supreme Military Commission, over which Osman Pasha
presided, were occasionally held.
Immediately on the left was another white structure, with a richly
ornamented glass door in the centre. This was the Sultan’s own kiosk,
where he was much during the day and where he granted audiences. Rarely
was a soldier, or indeed any other person, to be seen there, for the
military guard-house was hidden from view farther away to the right.
There a solitary soldier stood on guard, and the chances were that a
stray officer would be sitting on a camp-stool close by smoking a
cigarette. But no challenge came as you passed on to enter another
unpretentious two-storied bungalow type of building. A number of dirty
goloshes in the hall denoted that the official residing here must be a
personage who had many callers and was much sought after, and no wonder!
It was the office of the notorious Izzet Pasha, the Sultan’s Second
Secretary, his favourite, and reputed to be the most influential
personage in the Turkish Empire. You walk upstairs and take a seat in
his room, where already a number of persons are awaiting his
arrival—indeed, several rooms are full of callers waiting to see him.
A cat moves along the corridor rubbing its sides against the wall.
Nobody thinks of disturbing it. Izzet Pasha’s little son is playing
about the room. The white buildings of Constantinople are seen in the
distance from the window, indistinct in the mist rising from the blue
waters of the Bosphorus on a sunny morning. A few pigeons coo and play
on the leads immediately under the window. Undisturbed, they too are
apparently safe from intrusion. In the garden immediately in front some
gardeners are peacefully at work. In the room itself a Turk takes a
small rug which had lain rolled up in a corner and places it on the
floor so that at the further end it is supposed to point in the
direction of Mecca. Thereon he murmurs his prayers. Only his lips move,
at times almost convulsively. He kneels down, bends backwards and
forwards, repeatedly bringing his forehead down into contact with the
carpet; he folds his hands on his breast, then rises upright and
stretches them out with palms upward. This continues for fifteen or
twenty minutes, and nobody takes the least notice of him or his
proceedings. Then he picks up the rug, folds it carelessly, throws it
into a corner of the room, and begins talking unconcernedly with those
present. “Il a fait ses prières, il a fait son devoir,” and within five
minutes he is as blithe as the rest of the company.
We are still waiting, for one and all are anxious to have a few words
with the powerful favourite. He is expected, but he has not arrived yet,
and, as far as any distinct obligation to put in an appearance is
concerned, may not appear at all this day or the next. For among the
possibilities of his position is that of having fallen into temporary
disgrace overnight and being ordered like some naughty school-boy to
stay at home and not to quit his konak for days together. Sometimes he
would not leave the Palace at all, but work half through the night, for
which eventuality a bedstead stood in one of the waiting-rooms. On this
particular occasion he has been attending an important meeting of the
Conseil des Ministres—a Cabinet Council, we should say—at the Sublime
Porte in Stamboul. He is already on his way to Yildiz, leaning back in
his closed brougham, for he is not popular, and consequently not anxious
to be recognized. His carriage has thundered across the rickety old
wooden planks of the Galata Bridge, he has driven along the shores of
the Bosphorus, past the arsenal, Tophanè, past the Palace of
Dolma-Baghtchè, and is now driving up the steep hill from Beschiktasch
towards the Palace at a sharp trot. The heavy gilt harness of the two
magnificent black carriage horses gleams in the sun as the white foam
starts from their coat. It is as if instinct had revealed to the very
walls that the great man is coming, for everybody is on the alert; even
the cat in the corridor, still rubbing its sides against the wall, curls
up its tail higher than before in purring glee. I look out of the
window, and am just in time to see Izzet’s slim figure coming through
the narrow passage at the back of the building. He is surrounded by
several secretaries and attendants and followed by a crowd of
suppliants, who are anxious to interview him and put their claims before
him even before he has reached his sanctum. There is a rush to the door,
and half a dozen dark-eyed servants simultaneously offer their services
to divest the great man of his overcoat. He takes his seat at his desk,
upon which lies a heap of letters. They have arrived overnight, most of
them addressed in Turkish characters, but one of stout dimensions has a
boldly printed address in Latin characters to his Excellency
scrupulously enumerating all his titles and dignities. It is from the
Deutsche Bank in Berlin, where he keeps his banking account, and through
which institution he invests his securities—the harvest of the favours
bestowed upon him by his master, the sum of which, according to rumour,
is a private fortune of several millions. He bows distantly to those
present and goes through the stately Turkish salute, termed “temena,” to
each one in turn of the visitors who are seated on the couches or all
round the room, and who return his greeting with the same dignified
motion of hands and head, though with an extra degree of deferential
eagerness. He hands cigarettes round, and even throws some across the
room to one or two of his more familiarly known visitors, and then
proceeds to open the most important of his letters. Coffee is brought
in, smoking is indulged in, and there is a distinct air of relief and
ease among those present; but still not a word is spoken.
A fine, dignified-looking man in the prime of life, wearing the garb of
a Sheikh or a Ulema or Mollah, crosses the room and takes a seat quite
close to Izzet Pasha. He is evidently a personage of importance, for the
two converse a long time in whispers, and whereas the Sultan’s favourite
is most courteous to his interlocutor, the latter maintains a dignified,
almost severe demeanour. As I was told afterwards, he is one of the most
influential of Ulemas in Constantinople, learned in law, and of high
standing as regards personal character. Izzet assured me that this man
was able to trace his descent from Mohammed, if not even back to
Abraham. He enjoys high consideration in the Mohammedan world, beyond
that of any pasha or even the Grand Vizier himself. There is an evident
reflex of his high standing in the deference with which Izzet listens to
what he has to say, and with good reason, for the chances are that he
will remain a great personage in Turkey long after the favourite has
fallen into disgrace or the Sultan himself has passed away. The men of
this type are among the most distinguished visitors at Yildiz—these
Sheikhs, Mollahs, and Ulemas, who, in their white and green turbans and
flowing garments, come occasionally from distant parts of the Turkish
dominions and look in to have a chat with the Sultan’s Second Secretary,
by whom they are treated with greater distinction than any other
visitor. They are in fact the only callers with regard to whom the word
deference can justly be used; for they are almost the only visitors who
do not come to ask for personal favours. They stand for the ideals of
conduct of the Mohammedan world.
As the sunflower turns naturally towards the sun, so also every hope of
worldly advantage, every hope of preferment, turned at that time towards
the Imperial Palace of Yildiz and the august person of the Sultan. Only
those who have had personal experience of the conditions prevailing at
this centre of intrigue can form a conception of what is conveyed in so
simple a statement. The prestige of being in Imperial favour could raise
the humblest to a position of influence over and above the Grand Vizier
himself, not to mention such minor satellites as Ambassadors or
Ministers of State. The Turkish Ambassador on leave might be obliged to
loiter about antechambers for weeks and months together without being
admitted to an audience of the Sultan, whereas the favourite would go in
and out daily, even hourly. Thus “to be received” was the first stage on
the road to fortune; to be granted a favour the second step, the
culmination of which lay in the magic word “Iradè,” meaning the Imperial
decree by which a favour promised and granted, whether a high
appointment or a valuable concession, had become law.
Sheikhs, Ulemas, Mollahs, Softas, even the Muezzin of the Minaret (the
caller to prayer), Armenian Patriarchs, Archbishops, Archimandrites,
Grand Rabbis, Ministers-Plenipotentiary, Turkish Ambassadors awaiting
their final instructions, Pashas, Generals, Admirals, Ministers, were to
be met here doing antechamber service and sitting round the room in
silence for hours, even days together. I have even met here a deputation
of Kurdish chiefs of the Milli tribe, with Ibrahim Pasha, their leader,
a right jovial fellow, and as mild-mannered a man as ever cut a throat,
whose advent at Constantinople with a regiment of Hamidiè cavalry
shortly after the Armenian outbreak caused quite a panic among the
nervous members of the foreign colony in Constantinople.
Traders called for their accounts and sat down sipping coffee with the
rest: imagine the collector of Marshall and Snelgrove or Whiteley
walking into Buckingham Palace and sipping tea with one of the King’s
chamberlains! Officials came begging for their overdue salaries. The
Hebrew Court jeweller from Stamboul was a regular caller. One day he
brought a beautiful coronet of diamonds and pearls which he drew from a
bag, and which Izzet Pasha took in to the Sultan, probably destined as a
gift for one of His Majesty’s many wives. He too, like the rest, I was
told, was unable to do business on a cash basis, the Sultan being in his
debt to the amount of some £T20,000 or £T30,000.
Those who are familiar only with the social effulgence, the mystery
surrounding Turkish diplomatists abroad, from the full-blown Ambassador
accredited to the Great Powers to the Minister-Plenipotentiary and
Envoy-Extraordinary, can scarcely form an idea of the everlasting
delays, tracasseries, humiliations, and heart-burnings which often
preceded their appointment under the Hamidian régime. Sometimes the
suspense dragged on for months, and nearly wore out the heart of the
suitor for the post. Even more aggravating were the circumstances which
followed upon the recall of a diplomatist who might not have satisfied
the Sultan. I knew a Minister-Plenipotentiary and Envoy-Extraordinary of
distinguished family and high intellectual attainments who, after being
summarily recalled from his post, haunted the antechamber of the Sultans
secretaries at the Palace for ten years without obtaining another
appointment in all that period; nearly half a lifetime wasted in
idleness, chewing the bitter cud of hope deferred. No wonder that such a
man became disgusted with Hamidian conditions and longed for the
introduction of European institutions. “How can you hope to carry on a
Government,” he once said to me, “which does not even pretend to furnish
a Budget?” He was one of many who were great admirers of England, and
longed for English influence to regain a foothold in Turkey. The whims
of the autocrat, the intrigues of his surroundings, sounded the funeral
knell of every form of honesty, as they shut the door to every chance of
ability coming to the fore. For all that, such conditions having been
more or less traditional features of Oriental life from Byzantine times
down to the present day, their effects were less disastrous to the Turks
themselves than to some alien elements in the service of the Sultan;
upon these they acted in some cases like fire and sword, extirpating the
last vestige of self-respect.
Solicitants for favours of every kind—place, office, appointment,
contributions in money—used to swarm into the Palace. The applicants
embraced nearly every nationality that was represented at
Constantinople, with the one, and I cannot help saying striking,
exception of Russia. Whatever may be averred in connexion with bribery
and corruption, official or otherwise, in Russia itself, or of the
ruthless policy towards the Ottoman Empire pursued by Russia for
generations past, I can say that during my many visits to Constantinople
I never met a single Russian either at the Palace or elsewhere asking
anything of the Turk, and the Russians are the only nation of which I
can say as much; for even the Americans were not above seeking favours
in the missionary interest. The only Russian I ever knew to call at
Yildiz was the chief dragoman of the Russian Embassy, M. Maximow. It was
during the Armenian trouble, and he came to rage and threaten. “Go in to
your master and tell him to go to ...!” he shouted, to the dismay of the
stately Turks present, whose voices never rose above a whisper in the
hallowed precincts of the Palace.
Those unfamiliar with the Turkish character can scarcely form an idea of
the importance attached by the Turk, and more particularly the
ex-Sultan, to the power of the pen—the eagerness with which the
expression of European public opinion used to be scrutinized by the
authorities in Abdul Hamid’s time under a régime which was popularly
supposed to be carried on in open defiance of the spirit of the age. One
of the means by which those eager to curry favour with the authorities
sought to gain their object used to be to defend the Sultan in the
Press. At times a ray of naive humour would mingle in the game. Thus, on
one occasion, a pasha of my acquaintance had taken up the cudgels and
written a dissertation in defence of the Sultan’s claim to the
Khalifate. He may have thought that he had thereby given proof of his
zeal, and perhaps even expected some recognition in return. What was his
surprise, after receiving a curt summons to appear at the Palace, to be
met in a cool manner by one of the Sultan’s secretaries. The latter took
him aside and, pointing to the sun which shone through the window, said:
“You see the sun? Well, there it is! No argument is necessary to prove
its existence. So it is with the Khalifate of the Sultan. It needs no
demonstration, no defence. His Majesty does not wish you to write about
the Khalifate any more.”
The Sultan’s extreme sensitiveness to European newspaper opinion
afforded a wide scope for intrigue at the Palace, inasmuch as Abdul
Hamid attached exaggerated importance to newspaper articles the relative
value of which he had no means of verifying. This idiosyncrasy was
traded upon by a cohort of adventurers of different nationalities, some
of them of most shady antecedents. They were supplied with funds in
return for their supposed influence with the Press in England, France,
and Germany. Some were paid a fixed salary by the Sultan; others were
fed by occasional doles from his different favourites, acting on the
supposition that they—the favourites in question—would be credited with
the effusions of these minions as proofs of their own zeal in the
interests of his Imperial Majesty. Rarely could Oriental astuteness be
found together with such childlike gullibility as was evident in this
connexion. The representative of a powerful journal would be snubbed,
whilst the correspondent of some obscure sheet would be extravagantly
rewarded for some supposed service rendered to the cause of Islam. It
has been stated that European newspapers were regularly subsidized by
the Palace; but, except in the case of an obscure periodical,
_L’Orient_, which appeared in Paris, and a Vienna compilation of news
items drawn from telegraphic agencies and called the _Courrier de
L’Est_, I never met with any tangible evidence in support of this
assertion.
Another feature of lavish expenditure was connected with the Ramadan
festival. On this occasion every official at the Palace, including all
the pashas in Constantinople, received an extra month’s salary, which
amounted to about one hundred and fifty thousand Turkish pounds. It was
sometimes necessary to borrow this amount from one of the banks or to
withdraw it from the funds of the customs. The more one saw of this
state of things, the easier it was to understand the eternal
impecuniosity at the Palace, and the more one wondered how the Sultan
ever managed to make both ends meet.
Towards mid-day an endless stream of Turkish visitors, fat and lean
intermingled, dressed in the black frock-coat termed stambolin, could be
seen toiling up the hill in the broiling sun to partake of the
hospitality indiscriminately offered to the thousands feasting daily at
the Sultan’s expense.
Some of the parasites of the Palace used to be on the look-out to be
sent by the Sultan “en mission spéciale” on some quixotic errand, at
times of a rather undignified nature. Lavish expenses were allowed in
the shape of a little bag of gold, and if successful there were chances
besides of subsequent preferment. The case of a Field-Marshal who was
sent to Berlin to engage a cook for the Sultan has occupied the Berlin
courts of law since the deposition of Abdul Hamid. I recollect an
engineer of the Hedjas Railway returning from Budapest, whither he had
been sent on a similar errand on behalf of a pasha. The latter
introduced this official to me with the words: “Il est Juif de race,
Allemand par nationalité, et Turc par son emploi.”
An amusing feature of life at the Yildiz Palace was the arrival of a
certain military element on the scene whenever there was a chance of
baksheesh or preferment. The poem in Heine’s “Buch der Lieder” comes to
mind in which he depicts himself as being a god and distributing largess
broadcast, causing champagne to flow in the streets:
The poets to such festive treats
Pour in a happy flutter!
The ensigns and the subalterns
Lick clean both street and gutter.
The ensigns and the subalterns—
Now aren’t these fellows clever?—
Feel sure a miracle like this
Can’t hope to last for ever!
There was something of the comic-opera order, not to say of Christmas
pantomime, in this feature of life at the Palace. The transformation
scene in “Cinderella” is not more kaleidoscopic in its changes. The
obscure little pill-man, once happy at home in his strenuous vocation,
passing his evenings in a beer-house, is suddenly called to
Constantinople and driven about in a carriage and pair, dressed in a
Turkish uniform “made in Germany,” with a jewelled bauble dangling from
his collar. Just as suddenly the carriage and its black horses are gone,
and the worthy doctor has to appeal to the law courts of Berlin for the
salary owing to him by the dethroned Sultan.
Bobadil Pasha, Bombastes, Swashbuckler Pasha, Boule-qui-Roule Pasha (a
French importation who was said to have owed his successful career to
the sirenical attractions of Madame Boule-qui-Roule), Birra (beer) Pasha
from the Fatherland—one and all of them enter upon the scene, play their
little parts, and disappear through the trap-door exactly as in a
pantomime. Alexander of Battenberg, the Prince of Bulgaria, is presented
with an Arab steed by the Sultan, but goes away without it, for Marshal
Bombastes, the Master of the Horse, who was entrusted with the task of
its delivery, had lost or otherwise disposed of it. There were some
truculent personages among these gentry.
Calling one day on Ibrahim Pasha, who had succeeded the late Munir Pasha
as Grand Master of Ceremonies and Introducer of Ambassadors, I saw a
tall, pompous personage in the uniform of a Turkish General engaged in
conversation with his Excellency. To judge by appearances he was a very
Bobadil, a swashbuckler sort of man, one of the grasping, cunning
windbag variety which Abdul Hamid’s promiscuous generosity tempted from
the barrack-room of his native country to a palace on the Bosphorus, to
the dismay and disgust of many a loyal Turkish heart. Six feet of
coloured cloth surmounted by an almost round bullet head, bobbing up and
down mechanically as if set in motion by wires, the features of the man
were commonplace, if not downright plebeian. A hectoring, flamboyant
mien stamped the whole personage, breathing the soldier’s contempt for
the civilian, which is one of the most ominous phenomena of contemporary
Europe. And yet he was by no means one calculated to inspire fear: the
sort of man that an American cowboy would throw out of a bar-room
without taking his pipe out of his mouth.
Vorne mit Trompetenschall
Ritt der General Feldmarschall
Herr Quintilius Varus.[15]
Footnote 15:
“Full in front with trumpet blast
Rode Field-Marshal General
Herr Quintilius Varus.”
(German Student Song)
I took a seat, awaiting my turn to approach his Excellency, and, as is
customary, bowed right and left in doing so. The tall man drew himself
up and seemed to resent the courtesy of a mere civilian. But what
particularly attracted my attention was that he pestered Ibrahim Pasha
with details, given in execrable French, about the ailments of his wife,
whom he had recently conveyed to a European sanatorium. It was a sight
to note the courtly patience with which Ibrahim Pasha listened to the
narrative of Miles Gloriosus, for it is the very worst form of breeding
in the eyes of a Turk to refer to one’s womenkind. This edifying
tête-à-tête went on for some time. At last pomposity was about to take
his leave. I held up a newspaper in front of me so as to spare him the
trouble of making up his mind whether he was to notice me on quitting
the apartment or not. Ibrahim Pasha accompanied his visitor to the door
of the ante-room leading out of the building. It was a most amusing
sight as I peered over the newspaper through the open door. I saw the
two engaged in conversation, the loquacious officer indulging in lively
gesticulations. On Ibrahim Pasha returning to the room I said to him:
“If I might venture to put it to your Excellency, I would be prepared to
wager that the pasha who has just left the room gave way to an impulse
of effeminate curiosity and asked you who I am.”
“Yes, to be sure he did,” Ibrahim Pasha smilingly replied. “But I did
not gratify him. I merely told him that you were an American.” “Well
then,” I rejoined, “if he should ever ask you the same question again,
pray tell him, with my compliments, that my name is perhaps better known
than his own in the country of his birth.”
The sun shines through the window and lights up the faces of the grave,
swarthy-featured Turks. Officers in full dress, decked out in all their
stars and sashes, are pouring into the Palace, for it is Friday. The
Sultan has had a good night. Everything is _couleur de rose_, and the
Palace officials are getting ready for the Selamlik. Izzet Pasha divests
himself of his black frock-coat with the help of a dark manservant, and
dons a gorgeous gold brocaded and wadded uniform covered with Turkish
and German decorations, doubling the size of his little, attenuated
Syrian figure. There was something almost childlike about it all in its
contrast to the grim realities of life. The diplomatic loggia was
filling. Some of the foreign Ambassadors, eager _de faire acte de
présence_, were rarely absent on such occasions and would bring some
officers of their respective nationalities to see the show. These had
generally just arrived at Constantinople, with a keen scent for favours
which would be showered upon them after the ceremony in the shape of
commanderships of the Medjediè or Osmaniè Order, for an inferior class
of which a poor Turkish officer might wait a lifetime in vain.
The great Officers of State, the Grand Master of Artillery, the fat
Minister of War, the Minister of Marine, a little humpback, a notorious
personage, and the rest of the pashas—military and civil—are all
gathered together in the inner courtyard of the Palace in anticipation
of the Sultan starting for the Selamlik ceremony. A military band is
heard in the distance. It is playing the “Hamidiè March,” composed in
honour of His Majesty, a somewhat thin and commonplace production. And
here I may mention a fact which is not generally known, that military
bands as such are quite a modern feature in Europe, and owe their origin
to the Janissaries. “Janitscharenmusik” is still to this day the term
used in Germany for an infernal din of tin kettles, pipes, and brass. To
the Turk, then, is due all the noise which has become such a public
nuisance in our time on the continent of Europe; a heavy responsibility
before the tribunal of decency and decorum!
We crane our necks, looking towards the left, when from the rising
ground we see the military pageant coming along: first of all the
Ortogrul Cavalry, followed by the Sultan’s Albanian Guard, trained to
the mechanical Prussian goose-step, singularly out of character with the
whole bearing and appearance of these untamed sons of the Albanian
hills. Then the Sultan himself appears and drives past in an open
carriage, with Ghazi Osman Pasha, the hero of Plevna, sitting opposite
him.
The Sultan alights, enters the Hamidiè Mosque, and the muezzin from the
top of the adjacent minaret calls the Faithful to prayer. An interval of
about half an hour follows, in which tea and cigarettes are served to
the Sultan’s guests. At last a slight stir is noticeable at the entrance
of the mosque. The Sultan reappears, enters an open victoria, the reins
of which he handles himself, and drives back to the Palace up the hill,
followed by a throng of gaudily attired functionaries—old, white-bearded
men among them—running after the carriage as best they may: a somewhat
undignified sight to a European.
[Illustration: Musical Score]
[Music: Double Eagle March
_pp p p dolcissimo._
_pp_]
The band now strikes up the Austrian “Double-Eagle March.” It is almost
imperative to have heard the famous trio of this most enthralling of
military marches—a languorous, sensual theme—in order to gain an idea of
the effect a military band is capable of producing upon a susceptible
crowd. The popularity of the “Double-Eagle March” throughout
Austria-Hungary and the German Empire has long been general. Composed by
a bandmaster of an Austrian regiment, it has been set to music in close
upon twenty different arrangements. A great deal of what is
incomprehensible to strangers in latter-day Germany may be attributed to
the effect of this popular military march on the public, and, what is
more, on those who are supposed to influence and inspire it. If there is
a march in the whole world which produces intoxication without either
alcohol or hashish, it is this one.
A parallel to the last years of the Second Empire and Jacques
Offenbach’s Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein, General Boum-Boum, and Prince
Paul would suggest itself on the occasions when foreign princes and
princesses with their hungry retinues came to visit the Sultan. The
Prince Imperial would find his counterpart in the Sultan’s poor little
sons, who got on horseback and figured in the pageantry of the Selamlik.
It is a wonder that there were still some quiet nooks in which a
philosophic contemplation of the vanity of things could be indulged.
One day, now long ago, I paid a call on Munir Pasha at his office after
the Selamlik. I have already had occasion to mention this high-bred,
gracious, and kind Turkish gentleman. Not a breath of scandal, slander,
or concession-mongering ever touched this man, whose influential
position during many years might have brought him wealth for the mere
asking.
“How are you to-day, my dear pasha?” I asked, as he came beaming with
kindliness towards me, shaking hands in European fashion, a form of
greeting rarely indulged in by the Turk. “Ah, mon cher!” he replied, as
a hamal (porter) passed in front of the window, carrying a dinner tray
on his head, “you see that poor fellow! How gladly would I exchange with
him, and hand him over all my forty-two Grand Cordons into the bargain,
if he could only give me his lusty health in return.” Munir Pasha was a
martyr to asthma, and before my next visit to Constantinople he had
passed away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX
SULTAN ABDUL HAMID
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones.
SHAKESPEARE, _Julius Cæsar_
SO much has been said and written to the detriment of the ex-Sultan
Abdul Hamid that it would seem to be an almost hopeless task to break a
lance in his favour; and yet to do so, at least with regard to the human
aspect of his character, is nothing more than a bare act of justice.
As he timidly peeps out of the window of his palatial prison at
Begler-Bey, on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, he has now ample
leisure to reflect on the ingratitude of those he loaded with his
favours.
Time hath a wallet at his back
Wherein he puts alms for oblivion,
A great-sized monster of ingratitude.
And if he be familiar with the history of his own time, in bemoaning the
unhappy fate of his country he may well re-echo the bitter words of the
Austrian ex-Emperor Ferdinand, who, living in retirement at Prague when,
in 1866, the victorious Prussians appeared before the city, exclaimed:
“Surely it was scarcely worth while to force me to abdicate in order to
bring things to their present pass!”
Certain figures have come down to us as typical of the extremes of
fortune, and some are identified with Constantinople; of these that of
Belisarius, the victorious general of the Byzantine Emperor Justinian,
lies nearest. After great deeds of war, he is said to have ended his
days in a prison, through the iron bars of which he implored the charity
of passers-by: “Give, oh, give an obolus unto Belisarius, whom virtue
had raised and envy has brought so low.”
The ex-Sultan Abdul Hamid offers the latest instance of a similar change
of fortune, for on his deposition an orgy of vilification was let loose
in the Press of the Old World concerning this unfortunate Sovereign, who
only a short time ago was able to boast the friendship of Emperors. One
of the last to be entertained by him was a daughter of the House of
Habsburg, upon whom, as was customary with him, he poured a rain of
diamonds. To-day all these visitors have departed, and the ex-Khalif of
the Faithful has not a friend left in the world among the crowd of high,
well, and Imperial born to whom, in his prosperity, he played the part
of a generous host, and upon whom he squandered countless millions of
treasure in one form or another, either as presents or in expensive
entertainment. Between them and him constant relays of highly paid
emissaries were flitting on confidential missions along the iron roads
of Eastern Europe, always at his expense. Close upon 4000 parasites were
daily remorselessly draining his financial resources by living on him,
and the more lavishly he dispensed his favours the deeper became the
morass of ingratitude which at last engulfed him. But even this record
does not exhaust the list of his iniquities. He was said to have hoarded
fifty millions, whether in francs or pounds sterling matters little,
which he invested in German banks. And it was these millions which
excited the cupidity of his conquerors, and upon which they were bent on
laying hungry hands.
“The power of kings is based upon the reason and folly of the people,
but more upon their folly. The greatest and most important thing in the
world has human weakness as its basis; and this very basis is admirably
secure; for nothing is more certain than the fact that the people are
weak. That which is founded on reason alone is badly founded, as, for
instance, the recognition of wisdom.”[16]
Footnote 16:
Pascal’s “Pensées.”
This may serve to explain much in connexion with those exotics of our
democratic age—the autocrats, and more particularly the career of the
ex-Sultan Abdul Hamid, though the lesson conveyed is not applicable to
him alone, even among the living. Autocrats can have little or no
conception of real values; whilst their system makes it next to
impossible for them to train those whose abilities and knowledge of
realities might be of use to them.
The career of Abdul Hamid offers too many parallels to that of Napoleon
III not to call for notice, embodying as they well may a useful lesson
to those who care to understand. Abdul Hamid wanted to monopolize power,
and in the end everything slipped from his grasp.
I had not been long in Constantinople when it occurred to me that public
opinion, as in the case of Napoleon III, overrated the Sultan’s ability
and his knowledge of mankind, and underrated his qualities of heart. It
was not so much the disastrous results of his reign to Turkey which
irresistibly forced this conclusion upon me as the poor estimate one
could not help forming of his surroundings and of the exaggerated
importance he attached to things and individuals of questionable value;
notably those complimentary missions and visits the practical results of
which stand revealed to us to-day in all their futility. The Sultan was
imbued with the instincts of a gentleman in his personal dealings, and
these inclined him to accept as sincere assurances of friendship from
those whom he thought in a position to be as good as their word. And yet
I have it on fairly good authority that the only true friend in high
station the Sultan possessed was the Emperor of Russia, who promised him
that he would not undertake anything against Turkey during his reign,
and kept his promise. On one occasion I ventured to point out to Baron
Marschall von Bieberstein that the never-ending visits of foreign
princes and the expense of their extravagant entertainment,[17] whilst
the salaries of the officers in the Army remained unpaid, were
calculated to make the Sultan unpopular with his own people. He replied
that His Majesty could never have enough visits of that kind. The Sultan
clamoured for them, and, as we know, he got an ample supply of what he
clamoured for.
Footnote 17:
The Turkish deputation which the Sultan sent to greet the German
Emperor in 1908, at Corfu, was said at the time, in the German
newspapers, to have cost him, one way or the other, £T35,000.
When Abdul Hamid ascended the throne, the internal situation of Turkey
was so critical that it required a man of great strength of character
not to lose heart. The tragic circumstances connected with the death of
Abdul Aziz had contributed to unhinge the mind of His Majesty’s brother,
his immediate predecessor. The reckless extravagance of Sultan Abdul
Aziz and his Court had left the finances of the Empire in hopeless
embarrassment. The Ottoman Empire was practically bankrupt. Corruption
reigned supreme in every department of the State. The governorships of
the provinces had frequently been sold at enormous prices to men who
were utterly corrupt and unfitted for their positions, and who oppressed
the unfortunate populations under their charge, extorting from them,
often by torture, the profits of their industry. Justice was shamelessly
bought and sold in the courts. There was no uniform system of taxation:
every governor fixed his own tariff and enforced its collection, however
unjust and oppressive it might be.
The responsibility imposed upon a young and inexperienced prince was
heavy indeed; for Abdul Hamid was only thirty-four years of age when he
succeeded to the throne, which was still reeking with the blood of his
predecessor. Disorder reigned in the provinces. Bosnia, Herzegovina,
Servia, Bulgaria, and Montenegro were in open rebellion, and, incited by
Russia, declared war against Turkey. The demands of the States
practically amounted to independence and autonomy. Russia backed up
their demands by moving a corps d’armée to the banks of the Pruth, and
declared war. What followed is part of the history of the nineteenth
century.
It affords strong testimony to the firmness of the Sultan’s character
that he did not despair: far from it. From the very first, Abdul Hamid
boldly grasped the nettle of sovereignty, and for thirty years never
ceased for a day to devote his whole energies to the task of ruling his
country. As a stray indication of such devotion to duty, it may be
mentioned that during all that period he missed only one Friday’s public
visit to the Hamidiè Mosque for the ceremony of the Selamlik, and that
omission was due to illness. Surely this is almost a unique record of
regularity of habit, and one which only a constitution fortified by a
life of constant hard work and studied moderation could have rendered
possible.
To-day it is no empty assertion to say that Abdul Hamid endeavoured to
be the Educator of his people. He had hardly girded on the sword of
Ejoub, the emblem of Turkish sovereignty, when he sent an aide-de-camp
to a German professor living in Constantinople—Dr. Mordtmann—and sought
his assistance to organize the so-called _Mekteb Milkiè_, a school for
training Government Civil officials. He established the Turkish
University at Haidar Pasha, near the English cemetery at Scutari, at an
expense of close upon £1,000,000. The water supply of Constantinople,
the finest in the world, is due to him. Constantinople had abundant
fresh water at a time when Europe had little or no idea of its hygienic
value. Under Sultan Suleyman there were 700 fountains or springs in
Constantinople. Most of these had been allowed to dry up and decay. One
of Abdul Hamid’s first acts was to create a gratuitous supply of fresh
water for the inhabitants of Pera at a cost of £100,000.
In former days, famine and hunger-typhus, which invariably accompanies
it, periodically ravaged Asia Minor. Anatolia now exports wheat worth
two million pounds per annum and is growing cotton, and Angora produces
improved cereals which are used in brewing and are also exported. Turkey
even exports goats’ skins so far as it can do so in face of Russia’s
prohibitive tariff. When Abdul Hamid came to the throne Constantinople
lived on Russian beef; an excellent quality is now raised in Anatolia
which is sent to Constantinople by rail.
It must be borne in mind that these and other achievements were carried
out in the face of constant money difficulties. The Sultan founded
technical schools and hospitals and made roads and railways. But more
remarkable still, from a Turkish point of view, were his manifold
efforts to raise the status of the Turkish woman. He even created a
special decoration for ladies, the Order of the Chefakat. He was a true
Mohammedan in his democratic breadth of sympathies, and there can be no
doubt that in his early days he was honestly intent on the recognition
of individual worth and character.
Where so much power is placed in the hands of one man, it goes without
saying that abject servility has to be reckoned with; nor is this a
feature peculiar to Turkey. That the Sultan often showed respect for
unwelcome though honest opinion is, under the circumstances, a merit
which calls for recognition. That he did so in early years is attested
by some well-authenticated facts. He had hardly come to the throne when
he decided to call a Council of State to judge the conduct of Midhat
Pasha and his associates, who had agitated for the introduction of
European representative institutions into Turkey. The question was
submitted to the Council, which sat at the Imperial Palace, whether the
said persons were guilty of treason or not. All the members but one
brought in a verdict of “Guilty.” The single dissentient vote of “Not
guilty” was given by Emin Bey, a German—a native of Mecklenburg—who had
entered the Turkish service and embraced Islam. His colleagues, in their
dismay, pointed to a curtain in the apartment and endeavoured to convey
to the recalcitrant German that the Sultan was posted behind it and
consequently cognizant of his opposition to the vote of the rest. Emin
Bey, however, remained firm, for he belonged to the old school, and
added that he could not conscientiously decide otherwise. Every member
of the Council received some mark of the Sultan’s favour, but the
highest distinction of all was reserved for Emin Bey.
Either the Sultan must have been endowed with remarkable qualities, or
circumstances must have been exceptionally favourable to him, or both,
to have enabled him to hold on during thirty-two years, in the course of
which the pay of his soldiers was always in arrear and the gang of
favourites at the Palace was constantly plundering him. Whatever may
have been the effects of despotic rule on his character in the course of
years, there can be no doubt that when he came to the throne he was
filled with a high conception of the responsibilities of his position.
It is established beyond question that it was with the greatest
reluctance he consented to his brother being deposed, and then only
after the most reliable medical opinion regarding the latter’s mental
unfitness had been taken. At the beginning he endeavoured to attract
honest advisers to his service.
But whatever may have been his qualifications or shortcomings as a
politician, there can be little doubt that he possessed many unusual
personal attributes, though perhaps of a negative nature. He had the
calmness, the reticence, the self-control of a well-bred man, never
proffering advice and not given to expansiveness, for his nature was
undemonstrative. He showed no vulgarity, no coarseness, no hectoring or
bullying. He had no desire to put himself forward, to be communicative,
his thoughts in the market-place, nor was he carried away by the shouts
of a crowd or intoxicated by its homage. When on a Friday he passed in
front of the cheering troops his features always bore an expression of
calm dignity and benevolence, and a marked capacity for leniency and
forgiveness. His recognition, even to the humblest, for services, many
of a trivial kind, was extreme.
Abdul Hamid’s political ability has been for long an article of faith,
even with those who were prepared to deny him every other quality, and
the results obtained by him during a period of over thirty years in his
dealings with the Great Powers, freely admitting that their final
outcome was a negative one, point undeniably to his having been endowed
with some political gifts. He must have possessed a certain inborn
sagacity, which, however, was not nurtured by a wise bringing up or such
an experience of the world as would have enabled him to gain an insight
into real values, notably in the selection of high-class character. This
handicapped him through life. It showed itself in his misplaced
confidence, as evidenced by the rise of many favourites of doubtful
character from absolute obscurity to power and great wealth, and it does
not tell in favour of the common belief in the Sultan’s perspicacity
that so many of those he distinguished were mediocrities even when they
were not rogues.
Professor Vambéry relates the following incident as an illustration of
the queer type of men that managed to gain the favour of Abdul Hamid:
“Among these obscure worshippers round the Sultan was the famous Lufti
Aga, in his official capacity of Master of the Robes, but in reality the
most intimate confidant of the Sultan, in spite of his Turkish
origin.[18] I had a rather curious adventure with this worthy. One day
whilst walking with the Sultan in the garden I saw this man approaching
His Majesty, and looking closer into his face, I recognized in him the
servant of Mahmud Nedim Pasha, formerly Grand Vizier, distinguished by
his Russian sympathies—hence his nickname, Nedimoff—in whose house in
Bebek I acted formerly as teacher of French to his son-in-law, Rifat
Bey. In accosting the said former servant somewhat boldly I noticed a
perplexity on his face, but still more remarkable was the blushing of
the Sultan, who asked me whether I knew his favourite man before. ‘Of
course,’ said I, ‘Lufti was a servant in the house of Mahmud Nedim
Pasha, and he often cleaned my boots.’ Tableau! The most intimate man of
the Sultan a shoeblack by origin. But this intermezzo did not disconcert
Abdul Hamid, for Lufti went on in his delicate service until the end of
his life. Such is the East, and such are Orientals, however so much
gifted.”
Footnote 18:
This refers to the Sultan’s well-known preference for Albanians,
Circassians, and Arabs. Izzet Pasha was an Arab.
We have only to review the course of affairs since his deposition to be
forced to the conclusion that whatever Abdul Hamid’s mistakes may have
been, he was yet able to postpone the catastrophe which, under any
circumstances, must now be admitted to have been inevitable in the long
run.
To-day there can be no doubt that he was more or less driven into the
arms of Germany by the attitude of England both under Mr. Gladstone and
in a less degree under Lord Salisbury, more particularly during the
period known as that of the Armenian atrocities. But even this should
not have sufficed to endow him with the faith he undoubtedly possessed,
where only the cleverness to take advantage of Germany’s assistance in a
utilitarian spirit would have been justified. This credulity on his part
was all the more remarkable seeing that it was never shared by the more
sterling and astute political and religious elements around him. These
never swerved in their preference for England and the English, even in
the darkest days which followed upon the Armenian massacres in 1895 and
1896. They still held on to the Turkish traditions of the Crimean war of
friendship between Turkey and England. In departing therefrom the Sultan
may be said to have made the exchange familiar to us as children in
Aladdin’s story of bartering old lamps for new. England’s goodwill was
Turkey’s old lamp in spite of every misunderstanding.
In some respects the ex-Sultan shone to advantage as compared with many
rulers of the past and some of the present. Notably was this the case as
regards his sense of gratitude for services rendered and of loyalty to
those who he believed had served him well. My own sporadic relations
with His Majesty have furnished me with evidence that his wish to
benefit others could even outweigh a consideration for his own
interests. For supposing that my position as correspondent of the _New
York Herald_ at Constantinople was really of any value to him, as he
plainly believed to be the case, his proposal to me to leave that paper
and enter his service was obviously contrary to his own interests. The
guiding principle of others in the Sultan’s position would have been to
continue to utilize a man’s services at no cost to themselves and then
to throw him over. How different was Abdul Hamid’s conduct in this as in
so many other cases! The late Mr. Whittaker, for many years
correspondent of the _Times_ at Constantinople, received signal marks of
favour at the Sultan’s hands, in spite of the anti-Turkish attitude of
that paper. He was, I think, acceptable to the Sultan as a man of
culture and a talented musician, and was now and then asked to come up
to the Palace to play the piano. When a rupture finally took place, it
came about through Mr. Whittaker himself, who was exasperated at the
restrictions placed by the Censor upon the _Levant Herald_, of which he
was the proprietor.
Barely has a sovereign distinguished a private individual, without
wealth or rank, and a foreigner into the bargain, with his intimacy to
such a degree as the Sultan did in the case of Professor Arminius
Vambéry, whom he used to address by the familiar, almost endearing, term
of “Baba.” This friendship had its source in his appreciation of the
Professor’s distinction as an Oriental scholar and his well-known
sympathies with Turkey, her people, and her religion. Here, again, the
estrangement was, I believe, due to the Professor himself, who became
dissatisfied with His Majesty’s political tendencies, which he could not
see his way to share or champion.[19]
Footnote 19:
See Appendix, pp. 287–288.
The Sultan possessed a rare delicacy of feeling, which he now and then
showed in small things, doubly remarkable in a man in his exalted
position and, moreover, always overburdened with work. Thus when Sirry
Bey, one of the Sultan’s secretaries, accompanied us as chief of our
expedition through Anatolia, and was taken seriously ill between
Erzeroum and Bitlis, the Sultan was apprised of the fact. He was most
anxious to keep the news away from Sirry Bey’s wife, and made a point of
sending to his konak from time to time with cheering news and a present
of money, for fear the Bey’s salary might not have been paid to his
family in his absence through the ordinary channels. In conferring the
Order of the Chefakat on a lady, he caused the following words to be
inscribed in the brevet: “Sa Majesté Impériale accorde cette décoration
à Madame X pour faire plaisir à son mari.” It seemed to afford him
gratification to give pleasure to others.
Comparatively few people are aware of the refined nature of one so much
maligned; and yet testimony to this effect rests on irrefragable
evidence. I need only mention the Sultan’s intense love of music, his
munificent remuneration of artistes who had been asked to perform at the
Palace, and the deep interest he took in Nature, whether animals, birds,
or flowers. One day the Turkish Ambassador in London asked me to assist
him to procure a book dealing with Australian birds. The Sultan had
heard that such a work existed and would like to have a copy. All this
may well lead us to inquire how such facts are to be reconciled with the
popular conception of his treachery, his blood-guiltiness? The answer is
self-evident.
The Sultan was anxiously bent on keeping in touch with the happenings in
the outside world. Thus, in addition to reading translations of foreign
newspaper articles, he looked through several English illustrated
weeklies regularly, the letterpress of which was translated into Turkish
expressly for him by his secretaries. One of the first questions he
would ask a visitor, after the usual inquiry regarding his welfare,
would be concerning some important current event: what might be the
outcome of the Russo-Japanese war, the Russian revolution (1905–6), etc.
On one occasion he expressed his belief to me that both the Mohammedans
and the Jews would outlast the Christian world.
I have often seen it stated in print that the Sultan wore an habitual
look of melancholy—in other words, that his main characteristics were
sadness and nervousness. Neither my own experience, nor the testimony of
others best in a position to form a reliable opinion, bears this out,
although the tragic circumstances under which, very much against his
will, he came to the throne may well have left their impress on his
mind. The Sultan was of an exceedingly sensitive nature. He was a man in
whom the domestic affections were very strong; thus a blow, such as the
loss of a daughter, might well have had a cruel effect on him, as only
those can understand who have loved and lost children of their own. But
I do not believe that the Sultan’s temperament was one of habitual
melancholy. On the contrary, I know that His Majesty could enjoy a joke
as heartily as ever did Martin Luther; though the nature of some of the
doughty Reformer’s sallies would hardly have suited the refined taste of
the Khalif of the Mohammedans.
The Sultan on one occasion was inquiring of one of his confidants about
a stranger whose personality interested him. His Majesty’s informant
told him that the individual in question was never seen in coffee-houses
or theatres, much less in places of doubtful repute or in suspicious
company; that he was most moderate, even abstemious, in his habits; that
he sat at home working most of his time, and if he went out, it was to
visit a mosque and watch the Faithful at prayer. “Truly a remarkable
man,” broke in the Sultan; “he might almost be an Osmanli” (for among
themselves the Turks never use the word “Turks”). The other, feeling
that he had drawn an impossible picture of perfection, which might
perhaps encounter the Sultan’s incredulity, here rejoined that truth
compelled him to confess to His Majesty that he had seen the stranger
walk up and down in his room during the hot weather with next to no
clothing on—almost naked. This caused the Sultan to burst out laughing.
On such occasions—and they were by no means rare—when the Sultan was in
good spirits, the monarch’s merriment, as if by magic, was reflected in
his surroundings. I have seen all Yildiz in the best of good humour, for
the word had gone round that “Sa Majesté est de fort bonne humeur,” and
the news spread far and wide; it even found expression in the broad grin
of the hamal who carried the fat pasha’s dinner-tray from the Imperial
kitchen on his head.
It would, indeed, be no cause for wonder if the Sultan had been
occasionally in a serious mood. There are other monarchs besides the
Sultan whose humour is not always _couleur de rose_. “Uneasy lies the
head that wears a crown” is not a Mohammedan proverb. But the Sultan’s
strength of purpose, his truly phenomenal powers of work, his abstinence
from every form of nervous stimulant except an occasional cigarette and
a cup of coffee, are irreconcilable with the idea that he could have
been of a morbidly nervous disposition. As to the Sultan’s working
habits, I have known him to be at work at five in the morning and at
that hour keep going a whole staff of secretaries, who had slept
overnight on couches in the rooms in the Palace in which they habitually
worked. Munir Pasha once said to me: “There is one characteristic of His
Majesty which conveys a lesson to us all: it is his extraordinary
self-control—his impressive calm. It is almost sublime—no contrariety,
no trial seems to ruffle his perfect self-possession. It is truly
marvellous.”
Making every allowance for the enthusiasm of a devoted servant and a
prince of courtiers, I am yet inclined to believe, on the strength of
other evidence, as well as from my own personal observation, that Munir
Pasha’s estimate of his master’s nerve was by no means exaggerated.
Certain Ambassadors, who had abundant opportunity of testing the
Sultan’s self-control, might, if they were still among the living and
inclined to make revelations of incidents in which they did not come off
with flying colours, give even better corroborative evidence than I am
able to do.
It has been said that the Sultan was constantly surrounded by a fierce
soldiery armed to the teeth, and that sudden death awaited the hapless
creature who should venture to intrude unbidden within the sacred
precincts of the Imperial Palace. As a matter of fact I doubt whether
there is any other palace into which it would be so easy for a stranger
to penetrate as it was into the Yildiz Kiosk. All sorts and conditions
of men—but no women—used to find their way in and out. As already
mentioned, I have known the Pera shopkeeper of English nationality enter
the Palace and walk unbidden into the sanctum of the Sultan’s
all-powerful secretary, take his seat among the Ambassadors, Pashas, and
Ministers, sip his coffee and smoke his cigarette, and sit there for
hours together as if “to the manner born.” So much for the exclusive
character of the Sultan’s Palace.
I remember more than once being at the Palace rather late in the
evening. Everybody had gone home long since. A few servants, wearing
fezes and dressed in the black stambolin frock-coat, stood silently in
the hall which adjoined the Imperial apartment. Otherwise not a soul,
much less an armed man, was to be seen until you passed the sentry at
the gate of exit. Nor, indeed, was a sound to be heard on the beautiful
moonlight night, except the splashing of the water of the marble
fountain, which issued from one of the side walls of the unpretentious
one-storied wing. The Sultan was within, hard at work with his secretary
in a suite of apartments opposite those of Ghazi Osman. A stranger might
have remained there unmolested, as I did in front of the Sultan’s room,
without a soldier to be seen, or a policeman to call upon him to “move
on.”
It will always remain a strange feature connected with the dethronement
of the Sultan that it came on a sudden, quite unexpected even by those
who ought to have been in a position to form a correct estimate of what
was going on. As a matter of fact the Sultan’s authority was being
undermined some time before the catastrophe really took place. He no
longer ventured as of yore to act in direct opposition to the advice of
his Ministers by granting valuable concessions to his favourites. The
pressure of foreign Ambassadors, notably Baron Marschall von
Bieberstein, also became more embarrassing.
About this time the Turkish Ambassador at Madrid, Izzet Fuad Pasha, a
grandson of the renowned Grand Vizier Fuad, published a book severely
criticizing the conduct of Turkish affairs as embodying so many lost
opportunities. He was recalled to Constantinople, put under surveillance
in the Pera Palace Hotel, and forbidden to leave it even for an airing.
Crowds of spies surrounded the hotel by day and by night. Of even
greater significance were the doings of Fehim Pasha and his arraignment
and disgrace, of which more later. The contradiction between the
Sultan’s supposed diplomatic astuteness and the short-sightedness which
appears to have marked his measures in meeting the forces which were
destined to overthrow him has not yet found an explanation.
The personal appearance of the Sultan has been described by many
writers, for no monarch in the world was seen so regularly in public as
he. Anybody who wished to see him had only to walk up to the Imperial
Palace, the Yildiz Kiosk (“Tent of the Stars”), on a Friday morning, and
he was absolutely certain of seeing His Majesty as he drove in an open
victoria, with Ghazi Osman sitting opposite him, out of the Palace gates
to the Hamidiè Mosque to prayer, and half an hour later, on his way
back, when he himself handled the ribbons. It is quite true that the
road was double-lined with soldiers, but that in no way prevented the
spectator from taking stock at his leisure of the Sultan and all his
courtly surroundings. Then, again, a number of rooms adjoining the
Palace, overlooking the whole pageant of the Selamlik, were placed by
the Sultan at the disposal of foreign visitors and the better classes of
Constantinople every Friday, and it used to be—until the last few years,
as explained elsewhere—the easiest thing in the world for anybody with a
decent coat to his back to obtain a card of admission, and thus, for the
short period of one forenoon, to become _de facto_ a guest of the
Sultan. During the interval, whilst the Sultan was in the Mosque,
excellent tea and sometimes, on exceptional occasions, even sweets and
cigarettes were handed round to the visitors, whilst bags of bonbons
were distributed among the crowd in the road on Mohammed’s birthday; a
list of those present was also regularly handed to the Sultan, who
perused it, and if any name was familiar to him, he would send his
personal greeting to the visitor in question. Thus the privilege of
witnessing the ceremony of the Selamlik from the rooms set apart for the
purpose was one involving the acceptance of His Majesty’s hospitality.
There every Turk appeared dressed in his best, wearing his decorations.
This was not always realized by visitors of the English-speaking world,
some of whom I have seen in flannel shirts, dirty shoes, and
knickerbockers mingling, with complete self-possession, among
diplomatists and others belonging to good society, who were carefully
attired for the occasion.
The favourable impression which the Sultan is universally admitted to
have produced on those who were privileged to come into contact with him
was doubtless due to that charm of manner, that quiet dignity which is
more or less characteristic of all well-bred Turks. But in his case it
was supplemented by a kindly smile and an unusually sympathetic voice,
the tones of which conveyed a pleasant impression even to the stranger
who was unable to understand what His Majesty had said until it had been
translated by the interpreter. The Sultan usually gave audiences on
Friday after the ceremony of the Selamlik, when he wore a Turkish
general’s uniform with the star of the Imtiaz Order in brilliants hung
from his neck. As he sat in front of you, his hands resting on the hilt
of his sword before him, and spoke to Munir Pasha in his quiet,
dignified way, you could not resist the impression of a picturesque
dignity. I have also seen him attired in a black frock-coat, cut in
Turkish fashion, which just hid a white waistcoat with a gold
watch-chain, scarcely differing in appearance from one of his
secretaries or the other officials. The only other jewellery was a plain
gold ring on the little finger of the right hand with a fair-sized cut
ruby, or polished en cabochon. He received his visitors standing. It was
customary to sit in the presence of the Sultan after being requested to
do so; but the native-born Turk sat only on the very edge of the little
gilt chair, and folded his arms across his chest, waiting for the Sultan
to address him, and then muttered in reply, while bending low, and
touching chest, lips, and forehead with the right hand: “Firman
Effendemizen” (“Master, thy word is law”).
Many might find it difficult to account for the personal popularity of
Abdul Hamid in face of the disasters which marked his reign, such as the
Russo-Turkish war and the several Armenian risings. The explanation is
to be found in the fact that Abdul Hamid represented the ideals of a
ruler in the hearts of his people far more than any Sultan since Mahmud
II, who ordered the extermination of the Janissaries. How far he
deserved this attachment can be estimated only by making due allowance
for the retentive memory of the Turks and their traditional attachment
to their race and the tenets of their religion. It is impossible to do
justice to Abdul Hamid without realizing to what a depth Turkey had sunk
under Abdul Aziz. A knowledge of these facts alone enables us to
appreciate the reforms which Abdul Hamid introduced, and for which he
obtained credit from his subjects, but none at all from the outer world.
Even allowing for these things and the influence which they exercised
upon the minds of the Turkish people, it would be difficult to
understand how the Sultan maintained despotic sway for thirty years were
it not for the realization that the Mohammedan has a different outlook
upon the world from that of the other peoples of Europe. Reverence for
the past, fidelity to his faith, deep attachment to the traditions of
race and creed—these unfashionable virtues are instinctive with him.
Abdul Hamid’s strength lay in this, that he represented in his own
person, at least for a time, the ways of thinking of his people: that
his ways were in essence theirs. In this connexion my thoughts ever and
again revert to the scene of the Selamlik, when I saw Ghazi Osman Pasha
sitting opposite the Sultan in his carriage. Nowhere in the Christian
world can I call to mind such an inspiring picture as this of the
white-headed old man being demonstratively honoured in public by his
Sovereign and revered by the people, although his name will always be
identified with one of the greatest catastrophes that ever overtook the
Turkish arms in Europe. And yet in the eyes of his master there was no
disgrace, only honour, for one who typified in himself all the virtues
that belong to Islam. How can one help contrasting the treatment the
Turks and their ruler meted out to their defeated champion with that
which the ever ungrateful house of Habsburg bestowed upon that gallant
soldier Field-Marshal Benedek, the unfortunate Austrian commander at the
battle of Sadowa—all his former services, his splendid record in Italy
in 1848–49, when the Archduke Albrecht presented him with the sword of
his father the Archduke Charles, the victor of Aspern, his prowess in
Hungary, his distinguished conduct at the battle of Solferino in the
Franco-Italian war of 1859, all wiped out of memory, and he himself
disgraced and sent to die of a broken heart in the obscure little town
of Gratz.
Blow, blow, thou Winter wind!
Thou art not so unkind
As man’s ingratitude.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER X
A CITY OF DIPLOMATISTS
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive.
SCOTT
I HAVE already mentioned that the Turk is accustomed to the vagaries of
despots, to the flatteries and servility which they breed. But to be
more exact, it should be stated—indeed, it cannot be too often
repeated—that Constantinople was the hearth of duplicity, of every form
of intrigue, long before the Turks were ever heard of. The Byzantine
historian Procopius of Cæsarea, private secretary to Belisarius, has
left invaluable testimony to the treacherous atmosphere of
Constantinople in the days of the Emperor Justinian and the Empress
Theodora. Other historians have also borne witness that these
characteristics marked the life of the Court of Byzantium down to the
last hour of its existence. With a tradition of over fifteen hundred
years to legitimize the term of “Byzantinism” and all it conveys, it is
scarcely to be wondered at that Constantinople has always proved a
disintegrator of human character, and that only the strongest and the
noblest have ever been able to pass unscathed through this fiery furnace
of deceit, in which, be it said, the Christian element has shown itself
to be a far abler adept than the Mohammedan. Even now, in the twilight
of Turkey’s fortunes, many may still remain of opinion—so often
expressed in the halcyon days of her prosperity—that of all the races
that have ever ruled in Constantinople, the Turkish has been the only
one noted for its honesty. Indeed, it is an incontrovertible historical
fact that the advent of the Turk in Constantinople inaugurated an era of
tolerance, till then unknown in those parts. But however this may be, it
cannot be gainsaid that Constantinople has witnessed more intrigue than
any other capital in the world—Rome excepted—and thus is fitly
considered to be the best training-ground for diplomatists; and many are
the stories concerning them. One day an Ambassador met a carriage,
guarded by a eunuch, containing some ladies of the Sultan’s harem. He
endeavoured to peep in at the window, when he received a blow across the
face from the vigilant eunuch. Great uproar ensued thereupon, and formal
complaint was made to the Sultan on the part of the outraged
diplomatist. He was received in private audience, and Abdul Hamid
listened patiently to the tale of outrage. On its conclusion the Sultan
replied: “My dear X, I have gone carefully into the case, and see
exactly how it stands. You are a gentleman, therefore you could never
have committed such a breach of good manners as that alleged to have
taken place; and consequently no eunuch could possibly have presumed to
strike you. The whole affair must be the product of your fancy; pray let
us dismiss it.”
Another Ambassadorial story tells how an august personage—let us call
him Prince Florizel—sent word to the Sultan, by the Ambassador at
Constantinople of the country to which he belonged, that he intended to
make his Imperial Majesty a present of a horse. Now the Sultan already
possessed a number of horses, and he was somewhat anxious to find out
what sort of animal the Prince had destined for him. If it was to be a
racer, or a so-called “Clydesdale,” the Sultan had no use for it. The
Imperial horse-boxes were built to suit the size of the animals usually
kept there; and in order to find room for a racing thoroughbred or a
Clydesdale mare, the Sultan would have to enlarge the stable or to make
the gift-horse a head shorter in order to find room for it. In this
dilemma he sent a trusted servant privately—that is to say,
unofficially—to the Ambassador in question, with His Majesty’s best
compliments. Would his Excellency be kind enough to say what kind of
horse it was intended to bestow on him, the accommodation of the
Imperial stables being, etc.? Great indignation thereupon on the part of
the Ambassador. “This is not the way to treat me; you are not qualified
to discuss this matter with me. The proper person is the Sultan’s Master
of the Horse. Let His Majesty communicate with me through him, or go to
...” The Sultan’s trusty servant returned to the Imperial Palace and
gave a “truthful” but Orientally diluted version of what had taken
place, omitting the Ambassadorial reference to a certain alternative
invoked. For an Ambassador is usually supposed to be _persona grata_
with the Sovereign to whom he is accredited, and the openly expressed
wish that his Imperial Majesty should accept the alternative of being
damned would hardly have rendered his presence in Constantinople
agreeable to the Sovereign.
The Sultan declined to send his Master of the Horse to the Ambassador,
ignored the whole affair, and took no further notice of the offer. When,
all the same, the gift-horse arrived, it was received in silence and put
in the Imperial stable to get fat and ugly. No acknowledgment of any
kind was vouchsafed, either to the Ambassador or those entrusted with
the delivery of the horse. And I am told that Prince Florizel, down to
the end of his life, when he had become a powerful monarch, esteemed for
his tact and courtesy throughout the world, could never understand how
it was that the Sultan, than whom no man more courteous and more
genuinely appreciative of a kindness existed, should have had nothing to
say in return for this particular mark of attention. According to
Professor Vambéry, the Sultan subsequently took his revenge on the
Ambassador in question by receiving him one bitter winter day in an
apartment without a fire, and his Excellency was laid up with a cold for
a fortnight.
If men gifted with the acute perceptions, the prescience and tact of an
Ambassador have not always been accurate in their judgment of the East,
or happy in their dealings with the Sultan, it will readily be believed
that men of inferior calibre are often singularly at sea in their
opinions and unfortunate in their experiences with the Turk. The keynote
of the Turk’s bearing is a serene dignity; and a lengthened sojourn in
the East has an imperceptible effect on the traveller from the West. The
European gets unconsciously accustomed to expect a certain grace of
bearing in the humblest, and when he meets a distinguished
representative type from his own country—a man who would be the talk of
the capital by reason of his wealth, or some one in high station, a
law-giver, hereditary or otherwise—the traveller is disenchanted, and
says to himself: “Is it possible that this restless, hustling creature
is the type of man we look up to at home?”
There have never been any powerful social elements in Constantinople, as
in other capitals, to compete with diplomacy. A millionaire banker might
be knocked on the head with impunity in the streets of Pera, but the
obscure Vice-Consul of a Great Power is sacrosanct. In every case the
social as well as the intellectual life of Constantinople, such as it
is, is largely made up of and regulated by the staff of the different
Embassies, Legations, and Consulates, of which “his Excellency,” the
full-blown Ambassador, is the supreme embodiment. Behold him as he comes
along in all the pomp and circumstance of his high calling! He steps
ashore from his richly ornamented caique, he, the cynosure of all
beholders, preceded by kavasses, guards, and dragomans dressed in blue,
green, red, or purple tunics and gaiters, richly embroidered with gold
and silver. He is obsequiously followed by his secretarial staff; deeply
impressing the imagination of the crowd as his carriage drives up to the
Sublime Porte or the Imperial Palace. Verily, the Ambassador stands as
the centrepiece of a world of tinsel and make-believe, the pinnacle of
an edifice of decorative glamour; for the reality of power rests with
the Press to-day, and an astute Ambassador builds up his reputation by
carefully nursing the correspondents of influential newspapers, for the
slighted journalist is in a position to give an Ambassador a deal of
trouble.
“To have been an Ambassador at Constantinople,” one of the most
distinguished of them once said to me, “is to have been _somebody_, at
least for once in a lifetime. Compared with an Ambassador here, even an
Imperial Chancellor, who is continually badgered and bullied by Press
and Parliament, is almost a nobody,” he added with a self-satisfied
smile. The diplomatic light who expressed himself thus was also quite
frank in his estimation of the world in which he moved. Potentates he
regarded as merely kings on a chess-board, to be separated from their
protecting pieces, and, if of opposing colour, to be hustled,
circumvented, and checkmated. He declared that he had become satiated
with, and quite indifferent to, decorative distinctions. These had been
showered upon him in such profusion that he now only prized those
studded with brilliants, “avec de grosses pierres,” such as Gortschakoff
asked for from Bismarck.
The facilities for telegraphic and postal communication between the
different Embassies at Constantinople and their Governments at home have
hitherto not been of that perfect kind which reduces an Ambassador in
some other countries to the status of a cipher at the end of a wire.
Therefore, a wider field was open for personal initiative on the part of
an Ambassador there than elsewhere. The complex personality of Abdul
Hamid, round whom everything revolved, also afforded until quite
recently exceptional scope to the abilities of an Ambassador, and lent
great importance to the dragoman service, _i.e._ the man who holds the
responsible post of official interpreter to an Embassy. His rôle
demanded varied linguistic accomplishments, tact, and a liberal course
of diplomatic education. Among the chief dragomans of the Embassies of
the Great Powers were to be found some of the ablest, most astute and
cultivated of men, particularly Levantines of Italian or Greek origin.
The dragomans form so conspicuous a feature of diplomatic life at
Constantinople that the Turks declare the souls of those who have passed
away in the course of time flit on the waters of the Bosphorus in the
bodies of the flocks of birds so often seen skimming the blue waters at
sunset.
Like Bucharest—another preparatory school of budding
Ambassadors—Constantinople has long been a seminary, a high school for
diplomatists of every country. Here it is that uncouth youths, taken raw
from the Foreign Office, their hands everlastingly thrust in their
pockets, a pipe in their mouth, with slouching gait and pitiable
embarrassment, on entering the room of their official superiors come
gradually to discard their angularities and are taught to behave
themselves in accord with cosmopolitan usage. They are put through their
paces, and finally learn to roar in true leonine fashion in the name of
their country.
The gaucheries of the young diplomatists might be a theme for ridicule,
but I refrain. On one important matter, nevertheless, a word may be
said. It would be well if the British Ambassadorial staff were to
abandon that hauteur which some of its members are apt to display
towards those of their countrymen who visit Constantinople charged with
important commercial interests. It is not necessary that a British
Ambassador should imitate the policy of those who use their diplomatic
position to champion the commercial interests of their country at the
expense of higher trusts and higher standards; but it is advisable to
avoid the other extreme of ignoring everything and ostentatiously
snubbing everybody connected with commerce as beneath the dignity of
diplomacy. Yet this has repeatedly been the line of conduct, as it has
been that of inclination. For it was only in 1908 that our Embassy first
took official notice of the British Chamber of Commerce at
Constantinople and sent a representative to attend its sittings, who
probably thought he was demeaning himself in being called upon to do so.
This aloofness towards trade interests and their representatives is all
the more inexplicable as many of these young men come of families which
owe their worldly position to trade, either as bankers, brewers, meat
contractors, or even less reputable connexions. Both the Anglo-Saxon and
the Teuton take on a most necessary coat of social polish in
Constantinople by rubbing against the more subtle and elusive elements
of the Levant, the more graceful-mannered Italian or Spaniard and the
well-bred Turk, from the “Excellency” down to the caikdji (boatman) of
the Bosphorus. “Texas Jack” can go to school here, did go to school, and
so profited by tuition received that on his return home he could not
reconcile himself to the every-day rough-and-tumble uncouthness of
Yankee-land. He had been favourably impressed by the Turks, and they
liked him in return, for there was a touch of genuine unspoilt human
nature about the man. One winter the Sultan sent and begged his
acceptance of a fur coat to keep the cold out. Thereupon a howl went up
in the American Press; accusations of graft, bribery, and corruption—not
in New York, but in Constantinople! Altogether it may be said that the
diplomatists the United States sends to Turkey, even if they may have
been somewhat ignorant of diplomacy as a profession, are invariably men
of sterling worth and value in themselves, not chosen on account of
their family connexions or financial resources. And this is a matter of
importance inasmuch as things are apt to vary according to the character
of the representative of a country. The well-bred gentleman would
naturally inculcate that urbanity of manner and that cultivation of
heart and mind which, far more than any other accomplishments, form the
true charm of the élite of European society. The Ambassador less happily
constituted can hardly fail to leave his mark on his subordinates in a
corresponding degree.
A peculiar type of Ambassador is he who arrives on the scene unduly
advanced in life, “un peu gaga, ramolli,” whose mechanical style of
address and response acts like a yawn on his surroundings. There is
again the Ambassador who has been sent to Constantinople in order to be
got decently out of the way from his own country. He is known to be in
the wake of business, and spites the diplomatic world by giving no
entertainment beyond a cup of tea, thus saving a good proportion of his
salary, but thereby inculcating the habit of economy among a class only
too readily given to spend money. It was said of one such that he “stole
like a raven,” and had become a millionaire since he came to
Constantinople. He managed to keep on excellent terms with the wily
representative of another great country, and more particularly with
certain journalists who might easily have exposed his menées. One of his
exploits was to join the representative of another Power in bullying the
Sultan and ultimately blackmailing the Turks shamefully, who thus had
good reason to hurl their maledictions at his head when he departed.
A pitiable figure of the diplomatic world is the poor Ambassador: one
whose private income is unequal to the calls upon his position and whose
life is besides bankrupt in happiness. He sits alone in glittering
dejection in his beautiful palace, with no money to entertain and no
wife to comfort him and cheer his solitude.
Diplomatic Constantinople is exceptional in that an Ambassador and his
staff live out of social contact with the nation to which they are
accredited, and are thus thrown much more on their own resources—those
of their immediate circle and nationality—than anywhere else in Europe.
The Embassies form a social centre for those who come under their
influence such as is not readily met with elsewhere in European society.
I need only mention, as far as England is concerned, the brilliant names
of the past, the many references to be found in diplomatic memoirs to
such men as Lord Stratford de Redcliffe, Sir Henry Layard, Lord
Dufferin, Sir William White, and last, but not least, the late Sir
Nicholas O’Conor, all of whom exercised a beneficial influence over
those who passed their time of diplomatic apprenticeship under them.
Hence the rôle of an Ambassador at Constantinople—and partly that of an
Ambassadress as well—is of an educational nature. Many a young attaché
has found in the wife of his chief a motherly and sympathetic confidante
whose counsel has kept him out of mischief in this dangerous centre of
temptation. For the family life of the English diplomatic world in
Constantinople has long been an exemplary one: one to look up to.
English diplomacy can boast of having always preserved personal
integrity, an aloofness from every species of sordid and illegitimate
transaction and from all concession-mongering and cadging for favours of
any and every description in the Turkish capital. The English
Ambassadorial staff has left such dealings severely alone, a course of
conduct which has redounded to England’s honour in the past; and as it
has always been highly appreciated by the best class of Turks, even in
the worst days of England’s unpopularity at the Palace, it can scarcely
fail to redound to her permanent advantage in her dealings with Turkey
in the future. For here we have an ideal of conduct worthy of a great
nation.
Turkish diplomatists have always been picturesque figures in European
society even when their salaries were in arrear; but when they return to
Constantinople they are to be pitied. Many of them have been spoiled by
their experience in other lands. A few years in the social whirl of
Paris, Vienna, Berlin, or London does not improve them: the Mohammedans
in particular are apt to acquire undesirable habits and modes of
thought. They become imbued with the worldly cunning, the artificiality
and insincerity of European fashionable life, with the extravagant
homage Europeans pay to social position, so different from the
patriarchal instincts of home, and they are consequently disenchanted
when they return to Constantinople to find that they are nobodies, mere
hangers-on at the Palace, perhaps destined to spend years as suppliants
for work. Without private means, accustomed to spend money like water,
these officials are in a hopeless plight. Society in London and Paris
has deadened every unspoilt interest and ideal. They have become
sceptics and cynics. I met one who was the son of a Minister, said to be
one of the most notorious personages in Turkey. He quoted Renan and La
Rochefoucauld, and would tell you that vanity and egotism are the
driving forces of every human action. Such a man finds his countrymen
stupid, not “up-to-date.” He believes Turkey to be rotten to the core,
and if you tell him that you are a philo-Turk he will take you for a
rogue who is in the pay of the Palace. Has the Sultan “received” you or
not? That is all that interests him about you. And if you ask him what
he does to earn a living, he will be quite surprised. He is military
attaché of the Ottoman Embassy at X. “Yes, but what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I’m on leave.” “Yes, but surely not permanently?” “Well, for a year
or two.”
The lack of a distinctive, dominant national feature which marks
intellectual or social life generally at Constantinople extends to the
cuisine. There are not half a dozen establishments in the whole city in
which the Western European can obtain a meal that in any way satisfies a
discriminating palate. Even at the Club de Constantinople the cooking
has the irritating, kaleidoscopic, nondescript character of its members;
it is of every and of no nationality. It is only at the Cercle d’Orient,
the club of the diplomatic world, and at the Embassies that the cuisine
has that Parisian foundation to which the epicure can look forward with
pleasure. Under such circumstances it is a great treat to be invited by
one of the “gros bonnets” of the diplomatic world whose dinners enjoy a
well-deserved popularity. It was on such an occasion that, carried away
by the excellence of the fare, I ventured to express myself to his
Excellency to the following effect. I had noticed that there was not a
single member of his Ambassadorial staff who had not been decorated by
the Sultan, so I suggested that he might perhaps prevail upon His
Majesty to bestow a decoration upon his cook, whose culinary feats
appeared to me to constitute an appreciable auxiliary force telling in
the scale of his Excellency’s many diplomatic triumphs.
Not overwork, but over-eating, late hours, and no exercise constitute
the real handicap to longevity in the diplomatic world in
Constantinople, for Ambassadorial dinners and dinner-giving go on all
the year round, each Embassy in turn inviting the others: “cutlet
against cutlet.” This means sitting up late. It is almost impossible for
the heads of the different Embassies, who are supposed never to take a
walk abroad except when preceded by dragomans and kavasses, to indulge
in a quiet daily “constitutional” either on foot or on horseback. Such a
mode of living requires a tough constitution, and it is not surprising
to find that an Ambassador at Constantinople rarely attains a great age.
English and Americans who are enamoured of what has come to be
internationally known as “high life,” and whose limited means may not
admit of their rubbing shoulders with the diplomatic world in Paris or
London, cannot do better than take a trip to Constantinople in the
height of the winter season of that gay, pleasure-loving city. Furnished
with a few decent introductions, the chances are that they will see
something of fashionable life without being called upon to make any
“frais de représentation”! There is Oriental lavishness in the mode of
entertainment. Something of Turkish generosity in the way of hospitality
has become engrafted on to the Christian elements, and invitations to
Ambassadorial dinners and balls are not beyond the reach of the
travelling English who at home have never come nearer to the regions of
fashion than South Kensington or Brompton. Should these advantages,
however, be unattainable, a stray guinea or two as a subscription to one
or other of the various charity balls given by different nationalities
in the town will suffice to ensure social contact with the cosmopolitan
financial and diplomatic world. These balls under Ambassadorial
patronage and presidency are unique, the more so since they take place
in the capital of a people which does not dance. Sometimes it is a
fancy-costume ball, at other times one in evening dress, with the
military and naval attachés of the different Powers in full uniform.
Such an entertainment affords a vivid picture of cosmopolitan life, the
atmosphere being that of the Levant and endowed with an articulate
abandon, obsolete under our more sedate social conditions. To see the
guests arrive is a curious sight. A regular pandemonium of shouts,
shrieks, and curses proceeds from the Turkish arabadjis lashing their
restive steeds as the carriages jostle each other in front of the
building. A unique feature of a past age consists of a few old-fashioned
sedan-chairs, from which ladies emerge.
Inside, the building swarms with attachés d’ambassade, representative of
every imaginable nationality. British, French, Spanish, Italian, German,
Russian, Persian, Servian, Roumanian, Bulgarian, Montenegrin, Greek, not
to forget the Levantine ruck of no exact nationality, are gathered
together here, but no Mohammedan Turks. Such a ball is a rare treat for
the dark-eyed Perote débutantes, some of them of mixed Greek blood of
great physical beauty. Looking down from a balcony in stucco Mauresque,
the whole scene present a rare whirl of colour, life, and excitement, a
picture of the vanity and transience of all things: one which recalls
the sad exclamation attributed to Xerxes, in crossing from Asia not far
from this very spot, that in less than a hundred years not a single soul
of all his hosts would be alive.
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CHAPTER XI
THE LEVANTINE
The wish—which ages have not yet subdued
In man—to have no master save his mood.
BYRON
YOU come across a queer medley of races, languages, and nationalities in
the narrow streets of Pera, somewhat trying to the nerves in its
promiscuous incongruity. Almost with a shock you see the name of
Pericles over a grocer’s shop, Demosthenes over that of a tailor or a
barber, and Socrates or Euripides staring you in the face as the name of
a bootmaker. Enter a café or brasserie and you find Germans, Austrians,
French, Greeks, Italians, and Armenians at one and the same table
playing dominoes or tric-trac. One of such a group, to whom I had
mentioned that I should go mad if I lived for long in such kaleidoscopic
surroundings, retorted: “We are accustomed to it here. Indeed, I should
feel depressed unless I could express myself in half a dozen languages
before I went to bed. When I get home to-night, I shall converse in
Hungarian with my father-in-law, in German with my wife, in Greek with
my children, and in English with their governess. And I shall probably
wind up by addressing my servants in Roumanian or Turkish.”
I have known a Levantine civil pasha married to an Austrian lady whose
three-year-old son would prattle in English, German, Greek, and Turkish.
Nor am I quite sure that this list of the prodigy’s accomplishments is
complete. Such polyglot proficiency as is to be met with among the
Levantine element is calculated to impress the monolingual Anglo-Saxon;
but in the long run it is not without its drawbacks. Never was the
saying, “Qui trop embrasse mal étreint,” more applicable than here.
Listening to superficial, aimless small talk, defectively conveyed in
half a dozen different languages, is apt at last to irritate even the
most hardened and indulgent listener. For it goes without saying that
these are spoken indifferently, and when put to paper written
ungrammatically. According to Continental standards of mental culture,
the level of the Levantine is not a high one. The artisan class in this
as in other respects are, I should say, decidedly superior to their
social betters, and lead a healthier life generally. You may meet
individual cases of excellent musicians in Pera society; but the
gramophone, not to say the French horn, and third-rate French music-hall
entertainments more correctly indicate the average taste of the
community. I found it impossible to obtain the songs of Schumann or
Franz, and only a poor selection of the works of other great composers
was to be had in any of the music-shops of Pera. Whatever taste for
belles-lettres may exist partakes of a second-rate French order. The
lack of a definite nationality acts unfavourably in the direction of the
cultivation of intellectual pursuits, with the possible exception of the
Greek colony, which maintains a touch with the literature of ancient
Hellas. This defect also shows itself in the nondescript character of
the cookery at the principal hotels and restaurants, as already stated.
A strange and wondrous world this, and, what is equally remarkable, a
free-and-easy one into the bargain. To all appearances it is Liberty
Hall right round the compass. More particularly does this apply to the
stranger within the gates. And all are strangers here who by their
pseudo-nationality can claim to come under the privileges of the
Capitulations which the Sultans, even in the plenitude of their power,
tolerantly allowed to continue in force. Strangers pay no taxes either
as individuals or as house-owners. It was only quite recently, and with
the greatest difficulty, that the Turkish Government succeeded in making
foreigners pay a small stamp duty for receipts on bills, etc. There is
full liberty to revile the authorities as much as you please, and even
now and then to introduce bombs and explosives with the connivance of a
certain Great Power. No wonder that the late Sultan was driven in
self-defence to keep a huge staff of professional spies in his service.
Nevertheless, there are no police to be seen, and no regulations in
force when to close or when to open your business, whatever its nature.
If you sit in a café or a brasserie, there is really no valid reason why
you should ever get up, unless to go to the hospital, of which there are
any number—to die! No boards are to be seen informing you that you will
be prosecuted in case of trespass, no walls (except those round the
Imperial Palace) to shut out the sight of the beautiful country, which
apparently belongs to all alike. Indeed, there seems no reason why the
mule-driver with his load of bricks should not unload where he stands
and begin to erect a palazzo of his own on the spot, for the land would
appear to belong to anybody, to judge by the absence of enclosures.
There is also liberty to cheat to your heart’s desire and go bankrupt ad
libitum. An English financier who had lived in Constantinople for years
once told me that the one thing he regretted on leaving the city was the
sense of unlimited personal freedom he had enjoyed there.
I used to stroll through narrow streets into which the sun never enters,
though in the summer months it may burn the roofs of the houses. You
hear loud shouting across the road from an obscure beer-house, and fancy
the place is on fire; which would be no joke in such exiguous
surroundings. But it is only a few Germans with beaming faces shouting
“Hoch! Hoch! Hurrah!” unable to restrain their delight over the
excellent beer Herr Kusch provides for his customers and anxious to give
an expression to their unbroken fidelity to the German Emperor. Further
up the street, peering through a small damp window, you can see a
middle-aged man sitting by a lamp writing a letter. He is a grandfather,
but in Constantinople this need not clip the wings of amorous fancy. He
is writing a passionate letter to an English girl. He has only seen her
a couple of times in his life, and will probably never see her again,
for she has gone away to Egypt. But he wants to tell her that she is a
“houri”—the ideal of his dreams. It can only be in Constantinople that
old men indulge in such fancies, and it is wondrous strange how they are
received and reciprocated at times. In a beautifully appointed konak on
the hill there dwells a haughty beauty, one of the loveliest women in
the Empire. She sails into the room and tosses her empty little
thoroughbred head in lofty disdain as she passes her Greek servant. But
he does not lower his gaze. On the contrary, the flash of his dark eyes
betrays that he has no need to do so. There is no impassable gulf here
between high and low born, no helot-bred menial race marked with an
abject inferiority, physical, mental, and moral, by the ruthless
inbreeding of generations. Beneath an outward veneer of self-control
there is a deal of the unbridled, unbroken master man of the Middle Ages
left in this population. The slums of Constantinople have before now
sent forth lovers for queens and wives for emperors. The Greek valet has
the same pride in his veins as the more highly placed, for people in his
humble station of life, men and women alike, still possess that sense of
unsubdued personality the loss of which is one of the dark shadows which
cloud our more “civilized” communities. There may be little education or
character here in the conventional sense, and not overmuch reliability
perhaps in any sense, but there is plenty of unrestrained human nature.
This it is which the high-born lady pines and sighs for, and when she
leaves Constantinople she will take her Greek servant with her, to while
away the time for her and enliven the dreary surroundings of her
aristocratic home, for she has grown to loathe the sight of her
uninteresting money-grabbing husband with his sordid interests.
Each nationality, except such as belong to the artisan class, keeps more
or less to itself in the Turkish capital and has its separate cliques.
The English merchant class long resident in Turkey make an exception in
associating and occasionally intermingling with the better Greek
families. This exclusiveness is partly a result of the insurmountable
barrier of language, so that Europeans may live in Constantinople for
years without coming into contact with a Turk above the status of an
arabadji. My friend Hugo Avellis was an exception to this rule. Few
Europeans had mixed more with other nationalities, more especially with
Turks of every class, in the course of a residence of thirty years in
Constantinople. What he did not know about Constantinople, the habits,
customs, and ways of thinking of its inhabitants, was not worth knowing.
Many are the pleasant hours I used to spend listening to his stories and
gaining information from him on subjects which were far more interesting
to me than the dancing or howling dervishes, the gossip of drawing-rooms
in Pera, or the intrigues of the Palace or the Embassies.
A German by birth, educated at one of the excellent Berlin classic
gymnasia, Avellis, like many of his countrymen, had already become
acclimatized in the land of his adoption. He retained, however, an
inborn instinct for thoroughness in his vocation, and with this a strong
love of literature, mingled with a thoroughly German idealism in its
sanest and best acceptation. German thus by thoroughness and
intellectual interests, he had become almost a Turk in his humane
recognition and love of his fellow-men. “Bravo!” he would impulsively
exclaim on hearing of a generous action.
“If you would judge of the fibre of a man,” says a French aphorist,
“inquire of his dentist.” This dictum applies equally to the doctor or
surgeon; and my friend’s experiences as a member of the Red Cross during
the Russo-Turkish campaign gave him rare opportunities for observing the
Turk there, where he is seen at his best: in his silence, in his
capacity for patient suffering and self-denial. Avellis was present at
the siege of Plevna. He saw the harrowing scenes depicted by the brush
of Vereschagin, and witnessed the surrender of Ghazi Osman to the
Russians. He came to Constantinople after the war, where his business as
maker of surgical instruments, together with the practical experience of
surgery gained in the field hospitals during the war, brought him from
time to time into contact with all classes of the community, from
Imperial Princes and Grand Viziers, the present Sultan included, down to
the humble water-carrier. Even the mysteries of the harem are not quite
hidden from those of his calling. The high-class Turks value a
fellow-man independently of his station in life, and often honour him
with their confidence, though his social status be far beneath their
own. The “medicine man” in particular has often played a great part in
Eastern intrigue. Dr. Mavrogeni, the Sultan’s physician in the
seventies, was not without political influence. He intrigued against the
German Ambassador, Count Hatzfeldt, and fell into disgrace in
consequence.
Avellis spoke Turkish fluently, though unable to read its written
characters. He was a good Latin scholar, and was familiar with both
ancient and modern Greek. With the devotion of a Hellenist he loved to
quote Homer in both versions. He also spoke French, Russian, English,
Roumanian, and Hungarian, his wife being a native of Hungary. With such
opportunities and accomplishments he became a rare judge of the Turk and
a reliable guide to the intricacies of Oriental life. I see him still in
the Passage Oriental, abutting on the Grande Rue de Pera, in his little
shop, over the doorway of which a large signboard announced that he was
“By Special Appointment Purveyor of Surgical Instruments to his Imperial
Majesty the Sultan.”
Quite a queer and characteristic nook of Constantinople is this Passage
Oriental, in which from early morn is heard the cry of the huckster, the
zazavatij, selling vegetables, and, in the autumn, luscious grapes and
oranges; the fishmonger extolling his red mullet, mackerel, turbot, and
swordfish. Opposite Avellis’ shop was a branch of the French post
office, on the top floor of which a French dressmaker plied her trade
and flirted with the Greek tailor and also with the Greek barber, both
of whom had their establishments a few doors off. Nor must I forget the
French book-shop, to which came the Perote lady to buy the latest French
novels on the sly.
I follow Avellis upstairs into his old-fashioned, musty consulting-room,
his sanctum—whither his patients of both sexes (veiled Turkish ladies
with the rest) came to consult “Monsieur le Docteur”—with its mysterious
bottles in which sundry medical viscera were preserved in spirits of
wine, its cases of stuffed birds, and its aquarium. Two photographs of
an Albanian peasant hung on the wall, one showing him deprived of his
upper lip, the other with artificial nose and moustache supplied by
Avellis by order of the Sultan, who subsequently took this man and many
others into his service in the Palace after they had been mutilated by
Christian Montenegrins in the great struggle of 1876.
When driving or walking through the city on a Sunday afternoon with
Avellis, it used to surprise me to see the number of people who returned
his greeting. Among them were some of the highest personages in the
land, and their marked cordiality was in striking contrast to the
treatment usually meted out in Europe to those of an inferior class.
Sauntering along the Grande Rue de Pera with him one Sunday afternoon,
we were passed by a State carriage, drawn by two magnificent black
horses, with that rich gilt harness peculiar to the Imperial family. It
contained the present Sultan of Turkey, at that time, by force of
circumstances, a do-nothing Prince under strict police and Palace spy
surveillance, but by no means an indoor prisoner, as was currently
reported. Avellis knew the Prince well, and gave me an interesting
account of his sadness, his all-absorbing care and anxiety regarding the
future of his country, his kind-hearted benevolence, and his unassuming
simplicity of manner and character. Carried away by his admiration for
the man, Avellis demonstratively took off his hat as the Prince drove
past, who returned the unusual attention with evident satisfaction,
though both actions were almost sure to have been noticed by spies and
reported to the Palace: a proceeding which might well result in Avellis
receiving a broad hint that a “Purveyor of Surgical Instruments to his
Imperial Majesty the Sultan” must be more careful in future in the
choosing of his friends.
It is true that all these people might have been brought into contact
with Avellis through business; but it was not only business. “C’est un
brave homme,” say Turks and Rajahs alike. This in itself is sufficient
to secure for a man the respect and goodwill of his fellow-citizens,
even though he may not have five pounds in the world to call his own.
And here it is only fair to mention that the Christian and Jewish
population in Constantinople join with Mohammedans in paying respect to
personal character. I have seen a crowd of hundreds of people—more than
would be likely with us to be present at the funeral of many a man of
worth and learning—follow one to his last resting-place, although during
his lifetime all that could have been said of him was, “C’est un brave
homme.”
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CHAPTER XII
THE TURK AND HIS CREED
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy country’s,
Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou fall’st....
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr.
SHAKESPEARE, _Henry VIII_
AS I indite these pages, the rule of the Turk seems to be irrevocably
destined to pass from Europe, not in consequence of his religious
fanaticism, even less on account of his supposed cruelty, but owing to a
feature of the Turkish character which is shared by other races whose
instincts are in perpetual conflict with the modern surroundings of
their existence. The North American Indian cannot be converted from
habits engendered in the past. In a lesser degree the same may be said
of the Celt in conflict with the Anglo-Saxon, and the Slav with the
Teuton. In spite of a dominion of centuries in Europe, the Turk is still
in his heart, and even in his habits, an Asiatic, and not only an
Asiatic, but an Asiatic of a peculiar type—a born horseman with little
aptitude for plodding, sedentary occupations, herein displaying marked
divergence from the highly cultivated Chinese and Japanese.
In the most recent development of affairs in the Near East there is
indeed something pathetic in the evident yearning of the Turk to turn
towards his home—Asia. Instinctively his longing is directed towards the
East, the resting-place where he may hope to be unmolested.
Professor Vambéry, writing to me under date November 12, 1912,[20] says:
“The fate of our poor Turkish friends is sealed. They will get rid of
the cumbersome European ballast, and it is to be wished that they should
be able to recuperate in Asia, where they cannot be replaced by any
other Moslem nation. Their collapse in Europe was inevitable, and it is
only the suddenness of the fall which has surprised me.”
Footnote 20:
See Appendix, p. 284.
But even if we accept the view that the Turk is by nature something of a
nomad, and as such has never been much else than a stranger, an Asiatic
in Europe, this should not deter us from recognizing the sterling human
qualities which every unbiased foreigner who has visited the country
must have observed as innate in the Turks as a people, and which mark
the best of all classes.
And yet, with their minds centred on material aims, immersed in the
humdrum conditions of life which this all-absorbing activity indicates,
accustomed to subdue their feelings until many of them have lost the
faculty of expressing, let alone giving way to, strong passion, how
difficult it is for Europeans to form an idea, to realize what
unrestrained human passions are like when they flare up in fierce
hearts, and to make allowance for them. This must be more particularly
the case when they are called into play by those traditional antagonisms
of race to which many of the harrowing tragedies of the East are due;
for other forms of crime, or rather instigations to crime, are probably
fewer among the Turks than among Europeans. I was once a witness to a
desperate encounter between some Montenegrins and Greeks in a German
beer-house in Pera, and the memory of the diabolical fury of the
Montenegrins is still present to my mind, together with the quiet
self-control of the proprietor, an old Prussian soldier of ’66 and of
’70, who at last succeeded in calming the disputants. The passionate
hatreds of the Near East are practically unknown to us.
With due reservation regarding these fierce outbursts, commonly, but in
my humble opinion most unjustly, attributed to religious fanaticism, I
am still of opinion that the Turk is far from being inclined by nature
to cruelty. His kind treatment of animals, of horses and dogs, and of
the birds in the air, which he takes no pleasure in shooting, speaks
volumes for the humane attributes of the Turk, whose deep attachment to
his own family and kindness to dependents nobody who knows the East can
call into question. For instance, English governesses in Turkish
families are treated with such consideration that they endeavour to
avoid meeting their own countrymen and countrywomen, for fear that the
difference in our treatment of dependents should expose them to
humiliation in the eyes of their Turkish masters and mistresses.
As regards the accusation of fanaticism and intolerance so liberally
levelled against the Turk, what are we to say to the incontrovertible
fact that the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem has been under the protection
of Turkish soldiers for centuries, and that no instance has ever been
put on record of sacrilege or desecration at their hands, or could have
been, since the Koran prescribes veneration for Christ and everything
appertaining to our Saviour? How does this fit in by contrast with the
record of rapine and destruction which all through the Reformation
marked the struggles between Roman Catholics and Protestants, not only
on the Continent of Europe, but also in England and Scotland, where, for
instance, the ruins of the Cathedral of St. Andrews bespeak savage
passions which are not extirpated even to-day from the hearts of many
so-called Christians? Is it not a fact that only a few years ago, when
the Eucharistic Congress was being held in London, the British
Government could not see its way to allow the Host to be paraded through
the streets of Westminster, whilst in Constantinople, on the day of
Corpus Christi, the Host is borne through the streets escorted by
Turkish Mohammedan soldiers? The dead of the Orthodox Greek Church are
publicly exposed to view, a proceeding not allowed in Greece. Only a
short time ago the dead body of their Archbishop, attired in his full
robes, seated in his Archiepiscopal chair, was paraded through the
streets and followed by a crowd of Greek prelates, accompanied and
protected by Turkish soldiery. This happened whilst fierce war was
raging between Greek and Turk, without a voice being raised by the Turks
to deprecate a religious ceremony being held in public by enemies of
their faith and country, and belonging to a creed which the Turks are
supposed to loathe and detest.
The very words “The Terrible Turk,” with their grim alliteration, seem
to flow naturally from our tongue, without ever suggesting the thought
that the Turk might be more than justified in applying the epithet to
others. The Anglo-Saxon pesters him with his missionary activity, the
Italian has robbed him of Tripoli, the Greek has annexed Crete and
several islands, the latter-day German intrudes upon him with his noisy
presence and his pestering commercial-traveller instincts, but above all
the terrible Russian silently hovers ready to swoop on his country like
some huge bird of prey.
The European, at least of the English-speaking world, who visits
Constantinople for the first time usually arrives with extraordinary
preconceptions regarding the mysterious ways, the cruelty and fanaticism
of the Turk. If he be one of the open-minded few, a prolonged residence
in Turkey will usually suffice to banish his previous opinions, to
inspire him with sympathy, and to make him marvel how it could have been
possible to harbour such false notions regarding a people and a country
concerning which the average European knows so little. For there can be
no doubt that our early training, the one-sided ideas of our youth due
to clerical teaching from generation to generation, are the main causes
of our conception of the Turks as cruel and depraved. Who of us has not
been shocked as a boy in visiting the Chamber of Horrors at Madame
Tussaud’s and viewing the array of coloured prints depicting the
horrible tortures said to have been inflicted upon dishonest traders in
Turkey?[21] Well might Turkish Ambassadors have protested long ago
against this method of prejudicing the English mind against Turkey, as
Bismarck did in Paris, after the 1870 war, against the public exhibition
of M. Edouard Détaille’s well-known picture, “Nos Vainqueurs,” which was
removed in consequence. But the Turk is accustomed to suffer wrong in
silence, and, as far as I know, has never complained officially.
Footnote 21:
As far as I recollect no explanation is vouchsafed with these drawings
that they refer to the Turkey of the past. Hence the likelihood that
many a cockney visiting Madame Tussauds goes away with the impression
that they treat of Turkish practices of to-day.
The mystery attached to polygamy, our imaginary ideas concerning the
position of Turkish women and the harem, may also have a great deal to
do with our prejudice against the Turks.
We are taught in our youth to look upon the Crusades as expeditions
undertaken to protect the Tomb of Christ from the desecrating hands of
the Infidel. Serious historians are no longer under any delusion as to
the political character of the Crusades. Thus if the Sacred Sepulchre
was ever endangered by the Turks, how came it to pass that it was not
destroyed long before the Christians ever reached Jerusalem? Is it not
an historical fact that Jerusalem was in the possession of the Turks for
centuries before the idea of protecting the Holy Sepulchre ever occurred
to the Popes? If the Crusades were justified as undertaken for the
protection of the Christians against the Turks, how came it to pass that
so few Christians in the East ever joined the Crusades? From what we
know of Christian fanatical intolerance, even down to comparatively
recent periods, is it not rather more than likely, supposing the Holy
Sepulchre had been situated in a Christian country, that its very site
would long ago have been obliterated?
In the course of my various visits to Constantinople I used often to
look up my kind friend Ahmed Midhat Effendi, and our many conversations,
always fraught with instruction for me, embraced every imaginable
subject. They turned especially upon the Mohammedan religion and the
attitude of Christianity towards Islam, not merely in our time, but
throughout past centuries. It needed no great powers of persuasion to
convince me that the European frame of mind towards the Mohammedan world
must needs be the outcome of a one-sided version of events. How could it
be otherwise in view of the inaccessibility of the records of Mohammedan
history? Thus Lessing’s drama of “Nathan the Wise,” and the portrayal of
Sultan Saladin as the ideal type of chivalry and religious tolerance,
struck the Western world at the time as a revelation. To-day no serious
person who has given the slightest attention to the subject can doubt
that, whatever may have been the policy of aggression of the great
Moslem conquerors, the spirit of Islam was one of broad religious
tolerance at a time when such a quality was practically non-existent in
Europe. When Sultan Selim proposed to offer the Christian population of
his dominions the alternative of embracing Islam or expatriation—or, if
you will, extermination—it was the Sheikh ul Islam who appealed to the
precepts of the Koran prescribing the duty of the Sultan to protect and
safeguard his subjects, whatever their faith, which prevented Selim from
carrying out his intention. It was thus owing in a large measure to the
Koran that the Christian population in Asiatic and European Turkey was
protected and enabled to prosper in days when no European public opinion
could have possibly intervened on its behalf. While the Turk was thus
practising religious tolerance Jews were burnt at the stake in Christian
Spain; the most intelligent portion of the inhabitants of France, the
Huguenots, were being persecuted for their faith and driven from their
homes by Louis XIV, and in England the penalty of death awaited the
priest who dared to say Mass.
These are weighty historical facts, without fully and constantly
realizing which it is practically impossible for a Christian born and
bred to be fair to the Mohammedan Turk, and approach the study of his
customs and character in an impartial spirit.
Ahmed Midhat, in drawing my attention to a recent publication concerning
the conduct towards Christians prescribed by the Koran for Mohammedans,
wrote to me some years ago as follows:
“I do not know whether this document will be sufficient to bring home to
you the calumny which the Christian world launches at us, in attributing
to us a hatred for everything that is not Mohammedan, and more
particularly for Christianity and Christians as such. But if you believe
in my honesty, accept my assurance, tendered on my oath as a devout
Mohammedan, on my honour as a gentleman, that such hatred has never
existed among us....
“Quite recently I read Count de Castries’ excellent book on the Islam
faith.[22] De Castries is an old French officer who has lived many years
in the Algerian deserts, and has become almost an Arab himself in
language, habits, and even in religion. I call his book excellent not
merely because it is favourable to us, but because it reveals the
attitude of the Christian world towards Islamism. I recommend you
strongly to read it. But before you do so, I would like to tell you that
we Mohammedans have never produced a single poet or prophet in the East
who has written against Christianity and Christians in the spirit of
those thousand abominations in which the Italian, French, and Spanish
troubadours sang of Islam. You will not find a single line in all our
literature of the kind such as the hundreds cited by De Castries from
Christian writers, and which justly arouse his indignation. I do not
exaggerate, my dear friend, I merely tell you the naked truth. You can
defy the Christian world to cite, not a single Mohammedan writer, but a
single line in the whole of our popular literature which could inspire
hatred of the Christian. Even the wars of the Crusades, which lasted
through centuries, were powerless to change the sentiment of tolerance
towards the Christian world, a sentiment for ever rooted in the spirit
of the Koran—the Word of God revealed by His Hadis (the words of the
Prophet) and by the legislation of His Imams the so-called Cheriat.
Footnote 22:
“L’Islam: Impressions et Études.” Par le Comte Henri de Castries.
Paris: Armand Colin.
“The hatred which the Christian world attributes so gratuitously to us
is only the reflection of its own animosity towards us. The centuries
which have elapsed since the Renaissance have been unable to efface this
hatred from the spirit of Christianity. It is now half a century since
Orientalists of different countries have been doing their best to
eradicate these voluntary errors, and to spread the truth with regard to
Islamism; but they have not been able to change the old Christian
antagonism with regard to us. The last Græco-Turkish war fully
demonstrated this. ‘Cet animal est bien méchant. Quand on l’attaque il
se défend!’ Our legitimate defence against unprovoked aggression was
accounted a crime because the aggressors were Christians and according
to the words of the mediæval troubadours we are the ‘Adorers of Moham.’
“I see that thoughtful minds, such as Father Hyacinthe, Draper, Carlyle,
and others, are supposed to have investigated the tenets of Islamism. Is
it really possible to make serious investigations into what you have
been accustomed to look upon as a ‘multitude of contradictory and
false[23] conceptions—the barbarous ideas of a false Prophet, the
sanguinary aspirations of a barbarian’?
Footnote 23:
That this outburst is not entirely unprovoked or unjustified seems to
be proved by an extract from a public speech of the late Lord
Salisbury, in which he spoke of England’s antagonist in Egypt as
representing “the most hideous side of barbarism which a false
religion can produce”—this religion (the Mohammedan) being that of
sixty millions of British subjects.
“And here I would say: The time for these blackguardisms, the fashion
for these blasphemies, has passed. We live to-day in an age when
everything has to submit to the process of analysis. We no longer rest
satisfied with abstract ideas or despotic dicta. We insist upon the
results of exact observation and study; we ask for concrete, logical
judgment. You must study the Mohammedan faith; you must institute a
fair, well-balanced comparison between our creed and other religions
before you are in a position to judge, much less to condemn. Is such a
comparison feasible? To my mind it is a task of supreme difficulty, and
yet without an attempt in that direction it is impossible to be fair and
unbiased towards the Mohammedan world.”
An accusation against Islam which Midhat resented more than any other
was its supposed antagonism to letters and learning, an accusation
which, by the way, is sufficiently refuted by the history of the Moors
in Spain. In this connexion Midhat used to cite the following words of
the Koran: “Advance with your lances in order to make room for your
pens”—the term for “lance” and “pen” being identical in Arabic. The
Koran thus intended to convey the idea that warlike advance was only to
make way for opportunities of culture and enlightenment.
Talking one day to Midhat on these and kindred matters, I said:
“Midhat, they tell me at a certain Embassy that you are a fanatical old
Turk who hates the stranger within the gates; though, to be frank with
you, if I were a Turk, I too should hate them with a vengeance, after
all the uncharitable things they say about Turkey.”
“And I tell you,” replied Midhat, “that you have only to read up the
unbiased records of our history to learn that tolerance is the very
basis of our conduct. Does not the word of Mohammed tell us: ‘Whosoever
does wrong unto a Christian or a Jew shall find me as his accuser on the
Day of Judgment’? Do not the Jews and the Mohammedans keep the same
fasts and almost the same festivals? The principal difference I detect
between them and us is that the Jews do not believe in Christ or
Mohammed; whereas the Mohammedans believe in Moses, Christ, and the
Prophets.
“The history of the Crusades (which has long since been, so to speak, a
monopoly of the Christian world) is the greatest source of injustice to
the Saracens. To-day it is acknowledged by those experts who have
investigated this vast subject that the Christians domiciled in the East
rarely made common cause with the Crusaders, and that those who did so
were not molested by the Saracens after the withdrawal of the former.
When the Crusaders of the Third Crusade got as far as Constantinople
they found that the Byzantine Emperor and his Christian subjects were in
close alliance with the Saracens. History relates that instead of
directing their efforts against the Saracens, the Crusaders on more than
one occasion fell out among themselves and robbed the Greeks. In fact,
wherever the Crusaders went they brought rapine and seduction with them.
Neither do we ever hear how it came to pass that the Christians in Asia
never joined the Crusaders against the Saracens or assisted them in any
way. Thus we are bound to assume that as far as their religion is
concerned the Christian population was, at least at that time, not
molested by the Mohammedans.
“I tell you that a Christian place of worship has never been desecrated
by a Turk, except, as at the taking of Constantinople, during the heat
of battle. And for this very simple reason: that the Koran expressly
lays down that a Christian church is sacred as an edifice devoted to
God, and must be respected as such. You yourself have had ample
opportunity of seeing that this injunction has been strictly carried out
in the past by the untouched condition of the many Christian monasteries
on the road between Trebizond and Erzeroum. You can see it even in
Constantinople to-day, where many mosques which were formerly Greek
churches still show the images of Christian saints on the walls restored
to-day, as they were over 500 years ago, notably in the Kaarie
Mosque.[24] The fresco images of the saints of the Byzantine Church look
down from the walls upon the Mohammedan worshippers.
Footnote 24:
Midhat Effendi himself took me over this particular mosque during one
of my visits to Constantinople.
“As a matter of fact, it is wonderful to me how little differentiates
the Moslem faith from the tenets of Christianity. It is true we do not
accept the Trinity, but neither was it accepted as a dogma by the
Evangelists; indeed, it is never once mentioned in the Old or New
Testament. Also, at the Council of Nicæa (A.D. 325) only two hundred
priests, backed by Constantine the Great, accepted this doctrine, but
two thousand two hundred priests refused to subscribe to it.
“We Mohammedans accept Jesus as the Son of God. We also believe in the
Holy Virgin. Indeed, in more than one respect the Mohammedans deviate
little in their faith from the old Arian Christians of the period of
Nestorius, Patriarch of Constantinople in the year 400 A.D. It is only
within living memory that in self-defence Mohammedans have entered into
a polemical contest with the Christian world. Even the notorious Lebanon
troubles had little or nothing to do with religion and intolerance as
such. They were almost entirely political in origin and character.”
In a conversation which I had in November 1904 with Ahmed Midhat, he
gave me the following explanation with regard to the creed of Islam:
“Je crois à un seul Dieu et ses anges et ses livres sacrés et ses
Prophètes, et que le Bonheur et le Malheur viennent de lui. Jésus est
parmi eux et qu’au dernier jour il sera là comme intercède auprès de
Dieu. Nous ne demandons rien de Mahomet. Nous ne nous prosternons pas
devant lui; il n’est pas notre idole. Il a besoin de nous. Nous prions
Dieu pour son salut dans l’autre monde. Il est notre précepteur, notre
Socrate. Pour devenir Mussulman il y a deux phrases qu’il faut citer et
croire:
“(1) La ilahe illa Allah: Il n’y a Dieu que Dieu—Allah. Il n’est digne
d’être adoré que Dieu.
“(2) Mohammadune ressoul Allah: Mahomet est son prophète.”
* * * * *
Thus far Ahmed Midhat, who at least was[25] sincere, living as he
preached, according to the laws of Mohammed. He was one of the living
forces of the Islamic world, whose name was known and honoured
throughout Asiatic Turkey, as I had opportunity to convince myself in
the fastnesses of Kurdistan, and have already related.
Footnote 25:
Since this was first drafted I have been obliged to alter it into the
past tense. For a letter I recently addressed to my friend comes back
to me through the British Post Office at Constantinople, with the word
“deceased” stamped upon it. When and how Ahmed Midhat passed away I
know not; but were he alive I feel sure that the misfortunes of his
beloved country would soon have broken his big but childlike heart.
Fortunately, the Christian world is not quite so blind to the human side
of Mohammedanism as Midhat imagined. The late Sir Richard Burton—than
whom no European possessed a keener insight into Oriental life—was once
asked by a friend what creed he professed. He made the following reply:
“I profess no creed; but if you ask me what I am, I would say more
nearly Mohammedan than anything else. There is something sterling in
that religion. The Mohammedans do what they profess, which is more than
most Christians do.” I for one believe that it is this sincerity which
is the source of Turkish courage and Turkish dignity in misfortune.
Not only difference of religion, but the Oriental form of government
explains the antagonistic attitude of the Western world towards Turkey
and her Sovereign. As Khalif of Islam, the Sultan, according to Ahmed
Midhat, comes in for the ill-will harboured unconsciously for centuries
towards Islam by the Christian world. As an autocrat he also incurs the
jealous displeasure of a rival Power—not the King of England nor the
President of the United States, but the real governing despots of
England and America—the easily excited passions of the masses; far more
powerful, more prejudiced and intolerant than any ruling Sovereign in
our time. This is indirectly proved by the fact that hatred of the Turk
has manifested itself most passionately in those countries in which
public opinion, with all its ignorance of other lands, ministered to by
a sensational Press, is most powerful. Neither Scandinavia, Germany,
Italy, nor France shares this bias to the same degree; and yet who would
assert that they are not intelligent, educated communities imbued with
high standards of conduct? For many years past these passions have been
fed by those who have had an interest in fanning them into open flame.
According to Napoleon I, a lie needs but twenty-four hours’ start in
order to become immortal. What are the chances of dispassionate truth
when the start is one not of hours, but of generations?
The Turk may continue to deny officially this or that; but who reads
with an open mind what he has to say for himself? Only those who have
seen with their own eyes—such men as Burton, Gordon, Hobart, and the
late Admiral Commerell—have been fair-minded towards the Turk. The
wealthiest men throughout the Turkish Empire are Greeks and Armenians;
and yet we are asked to believe that these Christians, who probably own
three-fourths of the real estate in the Turkish Empire, are sufferers
under a grasping despotism!
On one occasion I was conversing with the chairman of the Ottoman Bank,
Sir Edgar Vincent, who has since resigned and returned to England. He
was tired of Constantinople. An Englishman of social tastes, he lacked
congenial intercourse in Turkey. But one thing he told me he felt he
should miss terribly in returning to Europe—the extraordinary freedom in
Turkey! And as if by the irony of fate, it is this very liberty, this
tolerance in Turkey which has powerfully contributed to the downfall of
the Turk in Europe. For it is from Robert College, the Christian
educational institution on the Bosphorus, which owes its very existence
to the tolerance and benevolent munificence of successive Sultans that a
number of Christian subjects of Turkey have gone forth into journalism
and persistently blackened the character of the Turks and their ruler.
The following testimony to the spirit of Turkish tolerance was handed to
me the last time I was at Constantinople by a distinguished
fellow-countryman. I transcribe it here as it seems but natural that
evidence from such a source should carry more weight than that of even
the most unsophisticated Mohammedan:
“All religions are tolerated by the law of Turkey, and those who profess
them are granted the fullest liberty to practise them. The only
conditions exacted by the State are that each religious body must be
duly authorized and that a responsible chief must be appointed, with
whom the Government can treat in case of need.
“These spiritual heads enjoy several very remarkable privileges. They
are ex-officio members of the Councils of the Provinces and Communes in
which they live, and are thus enabled to protect the interests and
rights, spiritual and temporal, of the members of the communion.
“The internal administration of all matters spiritual and temporal
connected with their respective communities is entrusted by the Turkish
law to the jurisdiction of the Patriarch, Grand Rabbi, Vekel, or Sheikh,
as the case may be. They are also members of the Grand Council of the
nation sitting at Constantinople, which regulates and prescribes the
rights of the various communities.
“The communities recognized by the State, and which enjoy the privileges
I have named as well as perfect liberty, are the following:
“1. Orthodox Turks, Orthodox Bulgarians, Armenians, Syrians, Jacobites,
Copts, and Chaldean Nestorians.
“2. Rites in communion with Rome, viz. Latin Catholics, Uniate
Armenians, Uniate or Melchite Greeks, Uniate Chaldeans, Uniate Syrians,
Uniate Copts, Uniate Bulgarians and Maronites.
“3. Protestants of every description—Anglicans, Presbyterians, English
and American Methodists, Baptists, etc.
“4. Four different types of Jews, five of Metoualis, and six of Druses.
“The Moslem finds it most difficult to understand and distinguish the
difference between the to him amazing variety of sects all professing
the Christian faith; this is one of the causes of the sterility of
Christian missions in the East. The Turk lumps them together as
_giaours_ and regards them all with contemptuous indifference,
wondering, indeed, why they did not remain in their own countries to
convert each other, or at least to arrive at a common agreement as to
what is the Christian faith before thrusting their antagonistic creeds
upon the contented Moslem. Nevertheless, he is very tolerant of what he
considers their eccentricities, and provides a guard at the Holy
Sepulchre at Eastertide to prevent the Greek and Latin Christians from
massacring one another for the love of God.
“In travelling through Palestine they are as free as in any of our
Indian provinces. The laws may not be perfect—very few are—but they are
found adequate in most cases to protect life and property. It is true
that they were not always so. About a hundred years ago, and, indeed,
until the middle of the nineteenth century, there was as little liberty
in Turkey for the Christians as there is at the present day in Russia
except for the Orthodox Greeks. But all that has long been changed in
the Ottoman Empire. Seventy years ago Sultan Mahmoud thus publicly
expressed himself:
“‘I desire that in future a Moslem shall only be distinguished as such
at his mosque, the Christian at his church, and the Jew at his
synagogue.’
“In these words he manifested his intention to regenerate the Empire by
the complete emancipation and assimilation of the races under his rule;
he announced the inauguration of a new era of reform. But it was his son
and successor, Abdul Medjid, who actually introduced the new system, the
‘Tanzimat,’ by the proclamation of the ‘Hatti-Sherif of Gulhanè’ on
November 9, 1839. This was followed by the establishment of the Criminal
Code in 1840 and the Commercial Code in 1850. Both of these were chiefly
based upon the Code Napoléon and have worked well. But the most
important enactment of all was the publication of the firman of 1854
which guaranteed the perfect equality of Christians and Moslems before
the law. These were the first-fruits of the Sultan’s efforts to carry
into effect the reforms promised by the Hatti-Sherif of Gulhanè. The
next stage of the Tanzimat was reached after the Crimean war by the
Hatti-Humayoun of 1856, which extended the reforms to the civil and
military administrations, etc.” Thus far the authority I have quoted.
When we bear in mind the conservative nature of Orientals generally and
their hatred of any departure from their national practices and
traditions, it is truly wonderful that the changes brought about in the
internal constitution of the Empire by these decrees have not resulted
in a violent upheaval of the Moslem population. It is a remarkable proof
of the respect and veneration in which the Sultan is held by his
subjects that they should have submitted so peacefully to such a
startling revolution in their national life.
It is most unlikely that any other nation would endure for a moment the
encroachment on its status, the abuse of its hospitality, which the
Turks have long submitted to at the hands of different European nations.
No other nation would, in the long run, allow foreign newspaper
correspondents to perpetrate the misrepresentations which have been
indulged in for years past at Constantinople, unless, as in England, it
felt it could afford to ignore calumny. One thing, however, is certain,
that neither in France, Germany, Austria, nor Russia would the
persistent campaign of misrepresentation which was carried on for years
by foreigners enjoying the hospitality of the Turks, paying no taxes and
in some cases making their fortunes in Turkey, be tolerated. All the
above-mentioned countries can furnish cases in which foreign newspaper
men have been summarily ordered to leave the country within a few hours
for comparatively trivial offences. In the United States foreign
journalists of such a type would probably find more serious consequences
await them than mere banishment. No less noteworthy are the disgraceful
facts connected with the promiscuous naturalization of Turkish subjects.
Thus when I was in Constantinople in 1897, it was openly stated that the
Greek Envoy, Prince Mavrocordato, in order to reward a man who carried
his gun for him during a shooting expedition, made him a present of a
Greek naturalization paper. The latter thus became a Greek subject, and
as such entitled to all the immunities which foreigners have been
entitled to under the well-known Capitulations, thanks to the easy-going
tolerance of the Turks. The Armenians, being the most cunning of the
Christian subjects of the Sultan, are the most successful in
perpetrating these naturalization frauds, now and then with the
connivance of foreign Powers.
In the course of my many visits to Constantinople I have repeatedly been
made acquainted with instances of questionable newspaper correspondents
who came up to the Palace with the scarcely veiled intimation that it
was to be a case of pay or slander. During the Armenian disturbances in
1896 a French female journalist went up to the Palace and openly
declared that she intended to be paid or to write up “atrocities.”
Such are a few of the influences which have been at work to cause
trouble in the Turkish Empire, and such the basis upon which is founded
the most hypocritical agitation known the world over, that of the
Russians in favour of their Christian “brethren” in Turkey. Who that has
visited Russia as well as Turkey, and has a spark of fairness left in
his composition, would not cry out in indignation at the hypocrisy of
it?
No wonder Turks are loth to become reconciled to a state of things which
none but this ever-patient race would have put up with so long, and have
turned for sympathy to others who, whatever their selfish motives, have
been less tainted with these intrigues against the laws of hospitality
and common decency.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIII
TURKISH TRAITS
A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest
Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.
SHAKESPEARE
THERE would seem to be two distinct strains of character influencing
principle and conduct in the Turks. The one is that of the Turanian, the
conquering Asiatic as typified, even before the Christian era, in a
Mithridates, and subsequently in Attila, Tamerlane, Timur, Ghingiz Khan.
The other is that of the Arab, whose code of life is contained in the
teaching of Islam, with its gospel of placability and charity. Sultan
Selim I represented the one in causing 40,000 Schiites to be
exterminated. It is related that when he proposed to convert by force or
exterminate the Christian population of his dominions, he was opposed,
as already mentioned, by the Arab element in the person of the Sheikh ul
Islam, who exhorted him to remember that Mohammed inculcated the duty of
protecting, not harming, the Christians. These antagonistic currents
were blended most harmoniously in the person of the renowned Saladin of
Crusading fame. Down to the present day the Turks have instinctively
recognized this duality and accepted it in the person of the Sultan,
whilst they themselves have adhered to the teaching of Mohammed and by
it regulated their own conduct. This explains why the Turkish people
view the irresponsible acts, the extravagances, and the severities of
their rulers so leniently as rightly appertaining to their exalted
position; whereas the Turk himself is remarkably free from such
tendencies. It explains their appreciation of the hard-working,
industrious qualities of their Sultan as these were typified in Abdul
Hamid, and their contempt for a lazy Sovereign like Abdul Aziz, though
they themselves as a people rather incline to the indolence of a
tranquil and contemplative life. Only when roused beyond endurance,
excited and perplexed, is the Turk galvanized into quick action and apt
to be resentful and cruel. Great crises find him placid and calm. The
vast mass of the Mohammedan people is deeply imbued with its own code of
ethics, and carries it into practice with a single-minded sincerity to
which it would be difficult to find a parallel. From this point of view
the Turk may be considered not so much “worldly” as “other-worldly.”
A deal of the mental acumen which with us is directed towards business
and the accumulation of wealth is devoted in the case of the Turks to
other and higher objects. While wealth and worldly position are our
aims, and failure to achieve either spells life bankruptcy, the Turk
appreciates conduct and good deeds as expounded in the Koran above
everything else. According to Guglielmo Ferrero, “the Moslem can never
pardon the unlimited materialism of Europeans.” Right conduct in all the
situations of life is impressed upon him by the law of Mohammed, and in
this respect the Moslem is more removed from European thought than in
any other, inasmuch as there is a harmony between his precepts and his
practice. He sees the stranger bowing down to rank and worldly position,
whereas with him class distinctions are scarcely more than official. In
Turkey, outside a comparatively few wealthy families—many of which are
Phanariote Greek Christians who have supplied high official servants for
generations to the Turkish State, and hold themselves somewhat aloof
from the Mohammedans—there is little superiority of caste or the
arrogance of class consciousness. The current standards are, in
conformity with the teaching of the Koran and the New Testament,
humanely democratic. Ahmed Midhat was at one time talked of as a
possible Grand Vizier, for the Sultan was convinced of his integrity as
well as of his ability. The fact that his father was a seller of cloth,
or that he himself began life as an apprentice, was so far from
constituting any disadvantage that neither he nor his friends would have
been able to understand the idea of his humble parentage being in any
way derogatory. All the less so since he was a man of magnificent
presence, one of the comparatively few in Constantinople who by their
appearance recalled the Sultans of the zenith of Ottoman power, who were
fathers at sixteen and still added to their family at the age of
seventy. So little does obscurity of birth constitute a stigma that a
Turk, after having once been a servant who took charge of the goloshes
of visitors left outside on entering a Turkish private house, became a
pasha and was given the name of Papoudji (or slipper) Pasha; this
cognomen was accepted by him and his friends rather as a compliment than
otherwise. A Turk would be despised who was ashamed of, or endeavoured
to hide, his humble antecedents, or denied his poor relations. He has no
understanding of those who, having got on in the world, neglect or cut
themselves adrift from their connexions because these have become
irksome and they are ashamed of them. When a man rises to high position
in Turkey he remembers only too readily those who belong to him, and now
and then gets himself into trouble by helping his poor relations or
those who have been friends of his obscure youth; and this often without
any other motive than the satisfaction to be derived from a kind action.
For in Turkey high position is supposed to be a reward for zeal in
service, for conduct, and is freely open to all classes. That it is
often bestowed upon the unworthy is only to say that judgment and
selection are fallible in Turkey as elsewhere; but there can be no doubt
that service rendered is in the first instance the test.
It is only among the Turks who have mixed with Europeans, particularly
in diplomacy, that you find that hauteur, that “class-selfish
arrogance,” and that degree of cynicism which have been acquired in
social intercourse in the capitals of Europe. From the ranks of these
Europeanized Turks sprang the artificial element who upset the ancient
régime, with small prospect, as we now see, of putting anything better
in its place.
But if obscurity of origin does not constitute a bar to advancement it
would be a mistake to suppose that the Turks attach no weight to an
illustrious ancestry. Izzet Pasha introduced me, as already mentioned,
to a Ulema at the Palace who, he assured me, could trace his descent not
only from Mohammed, but back to Abraham. Their conception of an
aristocracy is one of descent from men renowned for their virtues.
So great is the value which the Turks attach to conduct that, even in
their favourite authors, they do not rest satisfied with precept or with
doctrine, but look, besides, for conduct. Thus those of philosophic bent
are not attracted by Voltaire or even by Schopenhauer. They are
influenced by such thinkers as Büchner, Justus Möser, Spinoza, and
Herbert Spencer, who lived as they taught. Conduct is verily the
keystone of Mohammedan ethics, for while the Sultan is accepted as the
direct representative of Mohammed in the eye of the Faithful, the Sheikh
ul Islam, although in a sense himself a nominee of the Sultan, possesses
final authority as interpreter of the word of the Prophet. He is
invested with far more real authority than that possessed by any priest
in the world with the single exception of the Pope of Rome. The Sheikh
ul Islam may be said to be the spiritual watchman set by Mohammed to
control the conduct of his worldly successors. The most ominous feature,
as I was repeatedly assured in connexion with the later years and tragic
end of Sultan Abdul Aziz, was that he had incurred the censure of the
Sheikh ul Islam and through this had lost caste with the Sheikhs,
Mollahs, and Ulemas, and lastly had aroused the hostility of the Softas.
They accused him of neglecting his duties and leading a life of
idleness. Months before his dethronement the mosques of Constantinople
were deserted even on days of high festival.
Whatever some Turks may think of the form of government under which they
live, and more particularly of the centralization of power in the hands
of a Sultan, their appreciation of Abdul Hamid as a man could be gauged
by anybody who had the opportunity of mixing freely with them. Most
illuminating were casual comments, inasmuch as they often reflected the
ideals of the people. The Turk never talks for the sake of talking, and
scorns the rhetorical tricks of the actor. He is a sincere and a
dignified man. You never heard the Sultan extolled as a great sportsman
or a war lord, rarely as a statesman, although Abdul Hamid enjoyed a
high and probably an exaggerated reputation in this respect. But you
would often hear him praised as being good and kind. “Sa Majesté est si
bon; il est un vrai gentilhomme,” and above all, “C’est un Sultan
travailleur,” “Il travaille jour et nuit pour le bonheur de son peuple,
ses sujets,” were expressions I often heard in private conversation.
If a visitor felt that he had been slighted where he deemed he was
entitled to some attention on the part of the Sultan, the Turks would
apologize for their ruler and tell the stranger that he must not be
harsh in his judgment, as His Majesty was busy day and night working for
the good of his vast dominions. More than this, the Sultan was not above
apologizing himself to quite minor folks if they had done him good
service and he fancied that he had failed in attention towards them.
“Tell Mr. X I have been so busy with one thing and another that I have
not been able to see him and thank him as he deserves for the services
he has rendered our country.” This was by no means an unusual message
for a stranger to receive from the Sultan. Indeed, it is a question
whether the Sultan did not owe his popularity rather to his being a true
representative of some of the most marked Turkish traits of character,
such as a sense of gratitude, generosity, simple distinction, and
hospitality, than to his political abilities as a ruler.
It has been asserted that the sentiment of democratic brotherhood and
disregard for the privileges of birth and caste are responsible for the
downfall of the Turkish régime. I am inclined to think that it has been
largely the human attributes indicated above which enabled an
anachronistic system of uncontrolled autocracy to live so long.
Nobody knew the Turkish character more thoroughly than my good friend
Avellis. Never have I met a more enthusiastic champion of their virtues
or a more earnest apologist for their defects.
“Believe me,” Avellis would say, “if you find a Turk is dishonest, you
may be sure that he belongs to the gang of pashas at the Palace, or that
he has imbibed roguery from contact with Levantine Christians or
Europeans. A long residence in European capitals deprives him of his
most sterling and attractive characteristics. It robs him of his faith
and his unspoilt patriarchal virtues, with their intensely human
attributes. When he loses his faith he acquires in its place the
sceptical cynicism which distinguishes the upper classes in every
European capital.” Avellis believed that European society had a debasing
influence on the Turk, just as the European on coming to Constantinople,
unless of an exceptionally fine type, becomes vitiated by associating
with the Levantine. “There is no finer man on earth than the
uncontaminated Turk. I have often signed contracts with Turks without
understanding their contents (for I read their writing with
difficulty),” continued Avellis, “and I would not hesitate to do so
again. I know them to be incapable of falsehood or deception, unless
debased by intercourse with Europeans. The unspoilt Turk is incapable of
dishonesty. No one practises the virtues of humanity, the tenets of
faith and charity to such a degree as he. Be a Turk ever so poor, no
beggar will appeal to his hospitality in vain. Let us suppose it is the
end of the Ramadan Fast. He is just sitting down to his first frugal
meal after the prescribed fast, and one still poorer than he enters and
solicits a morsel of food. As often as not he will exclaim: ‘Boujourun
Effendem,’ meaning ‘Welcome, sir, help yourself.’ If there is not enough
for two he may even invite the stranger to partake of what he himself
was about to eat, too proud to let his guest think that he had not
already satisfied his own hunger.
“You must know the best type of Turk intimately to realize the extent of
his generosity, of his sense of gratitude, the delight he takes in
giving pleasure to others—that true test of love of our fellow-men. Then
note his freedom from envy, the petty jealousies, trickeries, and
arrogance which are such unlovable traits of my own countrymen, the
Germans, whose overbearing demeanour of late years has become more and
more objectionable in Turkey.
“Think of the patience and forbearance of the Turks in tolerating abuses
of the liberty granted to aliens. No Government in any other country of
the world would put up with the like of it. The Greeks are the most
unabashed offenders. They parade their dead through the streets of
Constantinople with the face of the corpse exposed, a morbid exhibition
which is not allowed in Greece. Look at the disgraceful orgies of
disorder among the Greek colony of Constantinople on the celebration of
the Orthodox Greek Easter Day, with men discharging firearms
promiscuously in the street from Saturday evening till Monday morning.
Every year a number of people are wounded, if not killed, by accidents
on these occasions.”[26]
Footnote 26:
During my last visit to Constantinople—it was at Easter-time—I was
invited to the house of a Levantine pasha, but the dinner had to be
put off because his Greek cook had injured his hand by firing off a
rusty old pistol in celebration of Easter Day.
During my various visits to Turkey I have had ample opportunities of
hearing the opinions held by those who have mixed with the best Turks
with respect to them. No testimony is more valuable than that of
cultured Englishmen who have lived long in the East, more particularly
such as have been engaged in a large way in commerce, or held positions
in the Turkish naval and military service. In this connexion I may
mention the well-known English family of merchant princes of which at
that time the late Sir William Whittall was the head. The very name of
Whittall has long been a passport throughout Asiatic Turkey,
guaranteeing safe conduct in remote regions where scarcely a European is
seen for years and years together. Such Englishmen are thorough-going
admirers of the Turkish character and are distinct from those who have
done so much by journalistic work to estrange England from Turkey, and
Turkey from England.
Many are the stories told of the simple-minded attachment of the Turks
to their employers, their superiors, even though these be Christians,
and thus presumably with little affinity with them. Prince Alexander of
Battenberg could not speak too highly of the fidelity of the Mohammedan
element among his Bulgarian subjects: their orderliness, their freedom
from crime, their childlike loyalty to him. After an important debate in
the Sobranje—the Bulgarian Parliament—the Mohammedan members would call
upon him privately at the Palace of an evening and seek instructions
from him how he wished them to vote.
My old friend, Admiral Sir Henry Woods Pasha, who has been more than
thirty years in the Turkish service, could never tell me enough of the
devotion of the Turkish sailors under his command. Count Szechenyi
Pasha, the Hungarian nobleman who for many years was at the head of the
Constantinople Fire Brigade, which he originally organized, after having
learned the business as an apprentice under the late Captain Shaw in
London, is another of those who hold a high opinion of the fidelity and
devotion of the Turks. Such evidence from men in whom the gentleman was
innate before they had been lifted into rank and position by the Sultan
is most valuable. They were inspired with gratitude towards their
benefactor and declined to turn against him in the hour of his
difficulties. One who had been approached with this object in view
during the Armenian crisis indignantly replied: “No, I cannot, I will
not bite the hand that has fed me.” Alas, that there were too few of
this stamp among the men Abdul Hamid distinguished by his favour.
There is probably no city, Moscow not excepted, in which so many fires
take place as in Constantinople. The flimsy woodwork of the houses in
the Turkish quarters, which the heat of a Constantinople sun turns in
course of time to tinder, partly accounts for it. Nor must the
temptation to arson among the Greeks and Armenian trading element be
lost sight of. Most of the insurance is done in English offices, for the
English insurance offices have hitherto been those which have met claims
most handsomely and with fewest awkward questions. I have repeatedly
watched the firemen as, with bare legs and chests, they rushed
breathless in a body in the wake of the fire-engine across the Galata
Bridge to some fire in the Stamboul quarter. One could not help being
impressed by their evident whole-hearted enthusiasm, though they got
little pay and no reward, and it was easy to understand how in times
gone by a rush of half-naked Turkish warriors, sword in hand, has proved
well-nigh irresistible against clumsily moving knights in armour and
awkward pikemen. This might even explain victorious inroads up to the
very walls of Vienna. The development of modern firearms and tactics,
for which the Turk by his temperament is ill-fitted, seems to account
for the modern defeats of the Turks far more than any racial decline.
Where the virtues of courage, sincerity, piety, and self-sacrifice have
admittedly remained unchanged, it would be absurd to talk of
degeneration. What can be admitted is that the character of this fine
race may be no longer fitted to cope successfully with the intricate
demands of a modern, highly systematized civilization.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XIV
TURKISH TRAITS: II
Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart,
Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood,
When man’s worst sin is, he does too much good.
SHAKESPEARE, _Timon of Athens_
THE conditions of life under an autocracy naturally tend towards a sense
of loyalty degenerating into adulation and servility on the part of
public servants, as well as towards greed and corruption on the part of
those whose high position places endless opportunities for dishonesty
within their reach.
To estimate the character of the Turk, therefore, by the corruption at
the Palace would not be fair to him. As well might we ourselves be
judged by the wiles of the company promoter or the outside broker in the
City of London. For despotism, however well intentioned, offers a
similar field of operations for the dishonest; only the thousands who
are annually robbed and ruined in the City of London, and the doings of
the vultures who rob them, are not nearly so much in the public eye as
the rogueries of the influential parasites in Turkey.
Strange it is that side by side with despotic authority and its
narrowing effect on the development of character there should still
exist an extraordinary appreciation of personal worth, intellectual and
moral. You will never hear a Turk refer to a man as being rich, or as
being “worth so much.” All the time I spent among them I never once knew
a Turk single out such qualifications as worthy of remark. A man’s value
lies in his character. Thus he is “instruit, fidèle, un homme qui a
rendu de grands services et en rendra encore.” Neghib Bey, a dark-eyed
Syrian, exclaims: “Speak not to me of politicians, nor of men of wealth.
I am ready to make use of them, but they do not otherwise attract me.
Rather let me meet those of high thought, of talent, of genius, men with
ideals. To obtain such as friends and to resemble them would be my
ambition.”
The greatest stress is laid upon the fidelity of those who have shown
themselves to be true. When a deserving person received a reward a
common remark would be: “Yes, he has received a favour of His Majesty,
but he well deserves it.” Instead of being envious when he sees a friend
distinguished above him, the Turk rejoices in the exaltation of that
friend. It has come under my notice more than once that when somebody
received a distinction from the Sultan his friends were pleased, and
said even exultingly to him: “You will obtain yet higher recognition,
because you deserve it (parce que vous l’avez mérité).” It is ever a
recurring reference to what you have done and for which you should be
richly rewarded.
Great is the gratitude of the Turk for sympathy shown to him.
Partisanship he does not look for. The most that he hopes for is freedom
from prejudice and fairness towards his race and his religion. Should
the stranger go so far as to betray a partiality for his country, a
liking free from the suspicion of its being quickened by an expectation
of baksheesh, his satisfaction is as genuine as it is spontaneous. A
Frenchman is astonished if the stranger does not admire everything
French; the Englishman is apt to be disdainful if the foreigner does not
immediately admit the superiority of everything English. The Turk is
more modest and self-restrained, and he is thankful if his feelings are
not hurt by the “Frank.”
His appreciation is apt to show itself in the smallest matters. One day,
as I was about to go to the bazaar to buy a present, Ahmed Midhat
offered to let one of his uniformed officials accompany me. This, said
he, would ensure my being treated fairly by the Mohammedan traders. On
going round that part of the bazaar known as “Bezestan,” mostly tenanted
by Mohammedans, I stopped before a stall belonging to a magnificent type
of Turk. He might have been an Assyrian king as far as appearance and
dignity of manner went. He sat, with legs crossed, perched up on high,
immediately behind his show-case of curios—old watches and silver and
gold bric-à-brac of all sorts. I pointed to a riding whip made of
rhinoceros horn, mounted in gold, and asked the price. The answer my
companion got was, “Tell your friend that it is the work of the Frank”
(European workmanship), implying thereby inferiority in quality. He had
been informed by the official accompanying me that, as I was a friend of
the Osmanli, he was to treat me as one of themselves. Thus he did not
want me to purchase an inferior article, even though he would have made
a profit by selling it to me.
The Turk holds in grateful memory the names of those foreigners who have
rendered Turkey unselfish service, even though it be generations ago. Of
Englishmen, Hobart Pasha is still remembered; of Germans, Moltke. More
remarkable still, a Vienna doctor, Professor Riedler, who organized the
School of Medicine at Constantinople as far back as the reign of Sultan
Mahmoud, more than eighty years ago, is to this day held in honour by
the Turks, and this in an age of kaleidoscopic changes and short
memories!
The genuine spirit of hospitality of the Turks, the noble traditions of
which have come down to us through the Arabs, together with their
chivalry, has long been recognized, in spite of the fanaticism of
Christian detractors. The lavish hospitality to be found in Spain is
perhaps traceable to a common Arabian origin; for it is significantly
absent as a distinctive trait among all the other branches of the
so-called Latin races. Its most remarkable feature is the custom, when a
visitor expresses admiration for an object belonging to his host, of
immediately offering it to him. This still obtains in Spain, and is to
be met with, as I have myself experienced, in distant Kurdistan.
But it is not among those who have gold and silver to dispose of that
Turkish hospitality or other Turkish qualities can be tested. What
really constitutes the most interesting feature of Turkish character is
that these virtues are to be seen practised among the humblest classes.
Thus, whereas Emerson’s renowned treatise on “English Traits” deals
almost exclusively with types of character observed among the well-born,
no study of Turkish character could be complete, or, in fact, of any
value, which did not deal with the characteristics which are to be found
throughout the broad strata of the Mussulman population. Writers of
Emerson’s spirit deal with the apex of a pyramid; he who deals with the
Turks must treat of its broad base—the great mass of the Turkish
population, which alone adequately reflects the many excellent qualities
of the Mohammedan world.
There is ample evidence that the Turks in their prime, notably when they
became the conquerors of Constantinople and overthrew the corrupt
Byzantine Empire, felt contempt for the Christians they came across.
Thus, when the arrival of the Ambassador of the Holy Roman Empire was
signalled at the Sublime Porte, the answer came, “Let the _giaour_ be
admitted”; and when, after his audience, the illustrious person was
dismissed by the Grand Vizier, it might even happen that he would be
pelted with eggs by the crowd. But there was more of good-natured
contempt than of animosity in this treatment. Of intolerance to the
Christian faith there was none at this period. Not only the Christian
but the Jewish population lived free and unmolested in Constantinople.
The tolerance which the Jews have always enjoyed in Turkey is well
known. At the time when they were being burnt at the stake in the public
square in the town of Valladolid in Spain, Jewish overseers were deputed
by the Jewish community in Constantinople to sit in the public
bakehouses and see that the bread which was baked for Jewish consumption
was prepared according to Jewish rites. Individual Jews were even
permitted by the authorities to exercise a kind of police supervision
over the Turks themselves at a time when their co-religionists were
being exterminated like vermin in some Christian countries. Under Sultan
Suleyman, one of the most influential of Turkish Ministers of Foreign
Affairs was a Christian, Ludovico Gritti, a son of Andrea Gritti, the
Doge of Venice. Sultan Suleyman even went so far as to have his portrait
painted by a Christian, Melchior Lorenz, an inhabitant of Flensburg. One
of the men most honoured by Sultan Mohammed Fatè, the conqueror of
Constantinople, was again a Christian, an Italian of the name of Gentil
Gellini, who was treated by the Turkish monarch with the greatest
distinction. When subsequently war broke out between Venice and Turkey,
the Sultan commissioned Gellini to take back to Venice the body of
Enrico Dandolo, a former Doge, the first conqueror of Constantinople,
during the Fourth Crusade, whose sarcophagus was found in the Church of
Saint Sophia. Even the outbreak of war and all the supposed fanaticism
of the Turks did not prevent a Turkish Sultan from pursuing a course of
conduct which, even after five centuries, would be looked upon as an
exceptionally chivalrous action among Christians.
When I was in Salonica there was no virulent Turkish Press to hound on
the Turks against the Greeks, although a large proportion of the
inhabitants in Salonica, albeit Turkish subjects, were Greeks in open
sympathy with the Greek cause, even joining Greek committees, an act of
high treason—in every country but Turkey. Nor did the Greeks take any
trouble to hide this feeling, poring over the Greek newspapers in public
as they arrived day by day. Yet no signs of popular resentment were
visible during my stay on the part either of the populace or of the
soldiery. The same passive toleration was to be observed in
Constantinople, where the narrow streets leading to the French Consulate
in Pera were crowded with Greeks seeking to obtain the protection of the
French Embassy. They were not molested in any way. This might, perhaps,
seem to be a matter of course, if we were not reminded of what happened
to the Germans in Paris at the outbreak of the war in 1870.
How little is known of the record of the Turks in offering shelter to
the oppressed of other races! Who was it that sheltered the Hungarian
revolutionists who, when captured, were hanged or imprisoned? Is it not
an historical fact established beyond question that a Sultan of Turkey
risked war with Austria and Russia combined rather than break the sacred
laws of hospitality of Mohammed, and surrender the Hungarian leaders
Kossuth, Görgey, and many others? How do these facts, I ask, tally with
the slander heaped upon the Turkish people and their rulers?
In no country in Europe are there so many foreigners, both as regards
nationality and religion, as in Turkey, and nowhere else would aliens
have a chance of such careers as some of them have made there. And yet I
never came across any signs of Turkish jealousy. I have heard Turks
speak with the highest respect of individual foreigners whom the Sultan
had loaded with favours, but who at least had shown gratitude and
attachment to the interests of their adopted country. We have only to
think of the Dutch crew of adventurers who came over with William III
from Holland to find an analogy, and compare the sentiments of the
English towards them with those of the Turks towards foreigners in high
place and pay in Turkey to illustrate even more closely the generosity
of the Turks, and how far they can go in their tolerance of an alien
element. Such favouring of the foreigner, even if it could exist in
other countries, would inevitably evoke intense jealousy and intrigue on
the part of the natives.
Speaking of a foreign pasha noted for his bumptious arrogance, and
referring to some of his countrymen, a high-placed Turk said to me: “Que
voulez-vous, mon cher? On les tolère.” But whatever the Turks may feel,
they have never shown it by malevolence towards foreigners who were in
the employ of their Government.
Many Turkish Ambassadors abroad have at different times been Christians.
The Turkish Ambassador in Berlin some years ago was a Greek, who, mainly
through his position as Ambassador, was enabled to make a rich marriage.
Far from feeling any gratitude to the Turkish Government for his career,
he left his private fortune to some Greek institution at Athens,
although at that particular moment Greece was meditating war against
Turkey.
We have had of late years only too many instances of Christian ministers
lending themselves to denunciation and depreciation of the Moslem. I
have gleaned from the lips of missionaries, and their wives more rabid
than themselves, both in Macedonia and in Asia, how ignorant prejudice
can blind the understanding. A pathetic instance of this, verging on
imbecility, is to be found in a book written by an Englishwoman which
circulates in the Tauchnitz Collection of British authors, entitled
“Diary of an Idle Woman in Constantinople.”[27] In relating that she had
seen a eunuch at the Selamlik with the Sultan’s ladies, she exclaims:
“He was a fat giant, a wretch.” Why a poor devil who has been deprived
of manhood should be a “wretch” the ingenuous authoress does not
explain. Yet, so far as my experience goes, a good deal of what has been
written in disparagement of the Turks has no better logical foundation
than this exclamation. For all that, there can be no doubt that this
eunuch abomination is a feature of Turkish life which has always created
a strong prejudice in the Christian world against the Mohammedans. Hence
it is not without interest to emphasize once for all that this unnatural
institution is not of Mohammedan origin at all, but, as well as every
other kind of human mutilation, is strictly forbidden by the Koran.
Eunuchs were a common feature in antiquity, and in spite of the efforts
of both Constantine the Great and the Emperor Justinian to do away with
them they were quite common among the “good” Christians of the Byzantine
Empire. Even at the present day the eunuchs in Constantinople—who, by
the way, are only to be found in the household of the Sultan and of a
few wealthy pashas—are supplied from the Christian monasteries of the
East, notably those of Abyssinia.
Footnote 27:
Vol. 2921, p. 320.
Is it to be wondered at that people nurtured on misleading data can
scarcely be brought to believe that there is less crime in Turkey than
in almost any other country; that the punishment for crime is far more
lenient than in most countries; that the deposed Sultan was never known
to sign a death-warrant; and that the Mohammedan Turks, as distinct from
the Christian inhabitants of the Levant, are so kind to animals of every
variety, beast or bird, that a Society for the Protection of Animals,
however vigilant, would find its occupation gone in Turkey?
The Turk’s kindness to the dogs of the capital, since exterminated, is
well known, as is also his kind treatment of horses. The beneficent
results of this can be witnessed by the visitor to Constantinople when
he sees saddled horses standing, free and unfettered, for hours by the
kerbstone waiting to be hired, as docile as dogs, without anybody
looking after or controlling them.
One of the favourite sports of the Christian Levantine population in
Turkey is to shoot all kinds of singing birds, which are served up in
restaurants in the Turkish national dish, pilaf. Any day in the autumn
one can see crowds of doughty Christian Nimrods, armed with guns, going
out in quest of the lark and the throstle, but never a Mohammedan Turk.
This sight is a disgusting one to all lovers of nature, and when I was
last in Constantinople the wife of the German Ambassador availed herself
of the opportunity of an audience with the Sultan to intercede for the
little songsters, asking His Majesty to issue an Iradè that they should
not be exterminated.
If procrastination and dilatory methods of business are sometimes
calculated to bring a highly strung European or American to despair in
Turkey, patience and forbearance and long-suffering, on the other hand,
rise with the Turks to the dignity of virtues. Rarely are these virtues
more striking than in connexion with the calumny to which the Turk is
continually subjected. Mehmet Izzet said to me, in the midst of a storm
of invective let loose by the English Press upon the Turks: “Mon cher,
nous sommes un peuple taciturne, nous ne pouvons pas nous défendre.”
One day I was present at the Palace when an elderly man was engaged in
earnest conversation with Izzet Pasha, the Second Secretary of the
Sultan, supposed to be the most influential, as well as the most
unscrupulous, man in Turkey. As the conversation was in Turkish I could
not follow it, but the tone of supplication of the visitor was so marked
that it made me think it must be a question of imploring mercy for some
serious delinquency. So I ventured to say: “My dear Pasha, I hope you
will be merciful to that poor fellow.” “Mon cher,” he replied, “the fact
of the matter is that he is Governor of Jerusalem, and he wants me to
get him a better appointment. We are old school-fellows, and I would
like to oblige him, but it is quite beyond my power to do so in this
instance.”
Ample contact with the Turks in all manner of positions in life has
convinced me that many of the wicked stories circulated about them have
no better foundation in fact than the supposition involved in the above
incident, of which I was an eye-witness.
* * * * *
Those who are acquainted with the character of Turkish women cannot
speak too highly of their kindness of heart and their devotion to their
children. During the Armenian massacres there were many instances of
Armenians who sought refuge in the harem, and were saved by the
interposition of Turkish women. This is all the more noteworthy since in
other countries, notably those of Latin race, in times of great
political excitement the women—as was the case with the Paris Commune in
1871—are often far more ferocious than the men. But here, among the
Mohammedan women, mercy was to be met with—
No ceremony that to great ones ’longs,
Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword,
The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,
Become them with one-half so good a grace
As mercy does.[28]
Footnote 28:
Shakespeare: “Measure for Measure,” II. 2.
The stranger, whatever his opportunities, only comes into contact with
one-half of the Mohammedan population; the other is barred from his
observation, from his very sight. In the course of all my visits to
Turkey I never had an opportunity of approaching a Turkish woman within
speaking distance. Even when I visited Ahmed Midhat, at his patriarchal
residence at Beikos on the Bosphorus, in spite of our intimacy I saw no
woman, though it was a large family gathering.
Avellis was my principal source of information regarding Turkish women,
as he now and again was admitted to the harem in connexion with his
calling. He often spoke to me of the distinction and the kindliness of
the Turkish lady. But their graceful bearing was easily observable as
they alighted from their carriages to shop in the Grande Rue de Pera.
Their costumes—the quality of the rich silks of dark hues of blue or
purple—were all noticeable, and indicative of good taste. Never have I
seen a gaudily attired Turkish lady.
Only once was I privileged to obtain an idea of the impulsive kindness
of their hearts. It was one afternoon at Scutari, when I went with
Avellis and two ladies to visit the English cemetery. A closed carriage
passed us, which, to judge by the richly gilt harness and the striking
uniform of the menservants, evidently belonged to some high-placed Turk.
Not until the third time it passed us did it attract our attention, when
our two ladies had separated from us and had gone a little ahead. Then
we saw all on a sudden two veiled faces lean out of the carriage and
kiss their hands to the beautiful English-woman with auburn hair and
angel face. Never am I likely to forget this incident, since she who was
thus distinguished by high-bred Turkish ladies was the mother of my
children.
A feeling of clannish affection for their family is said to be
especially strong among Turkish women. It shows itself in their lasting
attachment to their family long after they have left their homes and
been separated from their kith and kin. For many of the women of the
Imperial harem and of those of the great dignitaries of State come from
the interior of Asia Minor, and are of lowly origin. Yet they keep up a
regular communication with their relations in distant parts of the
Empire, and are often the means of bringing these relations to
Constantinople, where they are now and then given good appointments.
Hassan Bey, the Circassian who assassinated Hussein Avni Pasha, the
Minister of War, in open Council (June 15, 1876), was a brother of the
favourite mistress of Sultan Abdul Aziz, whose death he wanted to
avenge.
A certain primitive simplicity in the Mohammedan character—not the least
of its attractions—is pointedly illustrated by the following incidents
drawn from Mohammed’s life, for which, as for so much else in these
pages, I am indebted to my deceased friend Ahmed Midhat.
In his early days Mohammed belonged to a humble sphere of life. At the
age of twenty-four he married the widow of a rich merchant in whose
employ he had been in a subordinate capacity. He remained devotedly
attached to her, although she was sixteen years his senior. Only after
her death did he marry again; but his thoughts would still revert to the
one he had lost and to whom he owed his rise in the world. This excited
the jealousy of his second wife, with whom otherwise he lived most
happily. One day she pressed him to assure her that she was as dear to
him as his first wife had been. “I love you dearly,” Mohammed replied,
“but do not ask me to say that I love you as much as Chadidja, for she
was the first human being to believe in me.” It was only after his first
wife’s death that Mohammed, at the age of forty, really came forward and
proclaimed himself a leader of men with a divine mission.
It is related of Mohammed that when he felt his end approaching he
summoned his followers around him, and, being still possessed of
sufficient strength to address them, told them that he knew his days
were numbered, and he wished to ask whether there was anyone present who
could say that he had done him a wrong; if so, he was ready to crave his
forgiveness. They replied with one voice that Mohammed had been their
friend and benefactor and that he had wronged no man. Then someone got
up and said he had a claim against him. On a certain occasion he had
been present when a beggar had solicited alms of Mohammed, who,
apparently having no money with him, had borrowed a drachma of the
speaker to give to the beggar. This drachma Mohammed had omitted to
return to him. Such, we are told, was the slight record of wrong and
indebtedness of the founder of a religion which hundreds, aye thousands,
of millions of human beings have professed in life and have adhered to
until their last breath.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XV
CONCLUSION
Truths can never be confirmed enough,
Though doubts did ever sleep.
SHAKESPEARE
ENGLISHMEN who are old enough to remember the Crimean war might well rub
their eyes on coming to Constantinople to-day, where the stranger, after
being shown the public fountain in Stamboul dedicated by the German
Emperor to the Sultan, is taken over the water to Scutari, where, in the
most picturesque cemetery in the world, England’s dead warriors sleep
under the cool shade of the cypress-tree. Gone are the days when
Englishmen and Turks fought as Allies, when the Sultan Abdul Medjid
visited the British Embassy as the guest of his trusted friend, Lord
Stratford de Redcliffe, when English capitalists supported Turkey’s
credit, and English merchant princes first introduced railways into
Turkey and dominated the sea-borne commerce as well as the passenger
traffic of the Levant. In those times the Englishman embodied in the
eyes of the Mohammedan Turk all that was estimable and reliable among
the “Franks.”
Since those comparatively recent days many changes have been wrought.
Foreign bankers, powerful international syndicates have encroached upon
English financial influence, and nearly all the Turkish railways and
most of the shipping have gone into other than English hands. The finest
passenger steamers that come to Constantinople are German, Austrian,
Italian, and Russian. The dead alone sleep on as before, under the shady
groves of Scutari.
Whatever may be the causes which have brought about these changes, it is
permissible for an Englishman to deplore them, not only on economic
grounds, but also as a matter of sentiment and of sympathy with the
Turks, who have been the greatest losers thereby.
Alas that the supreme ordainment of things in the life of nations, even
of whole races and creeds, takes small account of the ups and downs, the
sufferings of whole generations of human beings, whatever be their
virtues. The Albigenses represented a far higher level of culture,
conduct, and principle than those who took up arms against them and
brought about their extermination. So also with regard to the Turks in
our day, their good qualities are not those which are imperative in
order to enable a community to hold its own in times of strenuous
commercialism and of unscrupulous political rivalry and intrigue.
For many years the traveller entering Turkish territory at the railway
station of Mustapha Pasha saw the Custom House officers in ragged
uniforms, on the look-out for baksheesh, since their small salary, if
ever paid, was certainly in arrear. How could he come to any other
conclusion than that conditions prevailed here which are no longer
tolerable in Europe? For even in Asiatic Russia, with all its
backwardness, they do not exist. This impression of the anachronism of a
Turkey in Europe is likely to be applied to Asia as well by those who
have traversed that part of the world, unless some drastic
administrative and financial reforms are put into force at once.
Calling one day in the summer of 1896 at the British Embassy, at
Therapia, the late Sir Michael Herbert, who was in charge during Sir
Philip Currie’s absence, told me that about a hundred years ago the
Ambassador of the French Republic at Constantinople, in writing home to
his Government, wound up his letter by declaring that the prospects of
Turkey looked so desperate that he would not be surprised if the Turkish
Empire had ceased to exist before the arrival of his letter.
During a visit I paid to Constantinople in January 1907 something
occurred which impressed me forcibly with the conviction that the
Hamidian régime, the desire of one man, however well-intentioned and
industrious, to do single-handed all the directing work of an empire,
was doomed to failure; and this in spite of the many evidences I had
had, both in Europe and in Asia, of the personal popularity of the
Sultan. It was the talk of Pera that the Chief of the Secret Police,
Fehim Pasha, had been guilty of some extraordinary pranks; among them
the instigation of sham conspiracies which he pretended to nip in the
bud in order to give proof of his devotion to the Sultan. All attempts
to draw the Sultan’s attention to this man’s misdeeds had apparently
failed, owing, it was said, to His Majesty’s indulgence towards one who
was the son of his own foster-brother. Emboldened by success, Fehim
Pasha had extended his sphere of black-mailing operations to members of
the European colony, while several murders were put to his account as
having been their instigator. Still he managed to elude the arm of
justice. At last he took upon himself to lay an embargo on a ship,
either belonging to a German or in the cargo of which some German firm
was interested. Here, however, he came into conflict with the German
Ambassador, the late Baron Marschall von Bieberstein, who promptly took
the part of his countrymen, saw that the embargo on the ship in question
was removed, and, distrustful of the dilatoriness of the officials at
the Sublime Porte, lodged a strongly worded complaint direct at the
Palace. This ultimately resulted in Fehim Pasha being banished to Asia
Minor, where he was subsequently assassinated by a mob in the street.
This tragic development, however, only took place after I had left
Constantinople.
The German Ambassador, who was always very friendly and frank with me,
one day discussed the situation created by Fehim Pasha’s delinquencies.
He convinced me that the man was a scoundrel, and that he himself had
done no more than what he was perfectly entitled to do in endeavouring
to bring one to book who was neither more nor less than a criminal
miscreant, fully deserving to be given over to the public hangman.
I happened to call at the Palace next day, and went up as usual into the
private room of Izzet Pasha, where, quite unexpectedly, I met my old
friend Ahmed Midhat Effendi. It was one of the very few times I had ever
known him to pay a visit to the Palace. Fehim Pasha’s crimes and the
energetic measures of the German Ambassador formed the subject of
conversation in the room. Izzet Pasha warmly expressed his indignation
at an Ambassador presuming to interfere in what he considered to be a
purely internal incident. “Qu’est ce qu’il s’imagine, ce Monsieur de
Marschall?” Knowing what I did of the affair on such good authority, I
was taken by surprise, the more so as Ahmed Midhat Effendi joined in
upholding the innocence of the incriminated pasha. I could scarcely
credit the culpable ignorance thus revealed to me by those to whom it
should have been a first care not to lead their master astray on an
issue of such vital importance. I said it was hopeless for the
well-wishers of Turkey to attempt to say a good word for their
Government as long as such things were possible; that the German
Ambassador had had the training of a State Prosecutor, and certainly was
not one to be misled by unreliable evidence, or to be moved from his
point once he had decided upon it; and that English newspapers, which
were not usually over-favourably disposed to German interests, had
strongly supported the Ambassador in this particular matter. But it was
all to no purpose. I failed to shake their belief in Fehim Pasha’s
innocence. They even asserted that he was quite a good fellow. The most
they would admit was that he had been somewhat hasty and headstrong
owing to his youth, “un peu étourdi.” It is only fair to state, however,
that those present did not show any ill-feeling at my being so
plain-spoken; but this was only in accordance with what I have so often
experienced in the Turkish character. Still I left the Palace with a
pessimistic feeling.
Sirry Bey, who had been the chief of our expedition in Armenia, called
on me at the Pera Palace Hotel one evening and said: “I come to you on
behalf of His Majesty. He feels his dignity trespassed upon by the
interference of the German Ambassador in this Fehim Pasha business,
which he holds to be one of an internal nature not concerning a foreign
Ambassador, and he would like to see you.” I mentioned to Sirry Bey what
I had heard from the Ambassador, and told him that it seemed to me to be
a black business, and he would do well to convey this opinion to the
Sultan. In due course I received a message to come up to the Palace
immediately as the Sultan wanted to see me.
On my arrival I was taken in to His Majesty, and he at once began to
discuss the Fehim Pasha incident, and to complain of the conduct of the
German Ambassador. As the editor of the _Daily Mail_ had asked me to
send him a report in case I should have an opportunity of interviewing
the Sultan, I asked His Majesty whether he would wish me to give his
version of the affair to that paper, at the same time repeating to him
what I had heard about Fehim Pasha’s delinquencies. Whether the Sultan
attached any importance to what I told the interpreter I am unable to
say, but in reference to my suggestion he held up his hands in a
deprecatory manner, and uttered the words, “Yok! yok!” (“No! no!”) twice
in succession.
“It is nothing more than my plain duty to see justice done,” the Sultan
said to me. And as if it were monstrous that a doubt could exist with
regard to so self-evident a truism, he added: “Even if it were one of my
own sons, I would see justice done.”
Of course, I respected his wishes, and did not refer at all to the
German Ambassador in my interview with His Majesty, a report of which
appeared in the _Daily Mail_ of March 8, 1907. There would also have
been no point in my doing so, as I was convinced of the hopelessness of
the Sultan’s case, whatever might have been the uncompromising attitude
the German Ambassador had taken up. Since such outrages were possible
under the very eyes of the diplomatic representatives of the Great
Powers in the capital in broad day, was it not within the range of
probability that many crimes which had been imputed to the Sultan had
indeed been committed, though without his knowledge? I left
Constantinople with the conviction that nothing, not even the support of
the German Empire, could long sustain a régime in which such things were
allowed to happen.
The rivalry of the different European nationalities forms too important
a feature in the eyes of the foreign visitor, at least those of a
political turn, not to call for comment. Nowhere are Goethe’s
words—written nearly a hundred years ago—more applicable than to this
subject:
Und wer franzet oder brittet,
Italienert oder teutschet
Einer will nur wie der Andere
Was die Eigenliebe heischet.
_West-Oestlicher Divan_
The idea conveyed is that whether a man speaks in the name of France,
Britain, Italy, or Germany, the burden of his contention is invariably
self-interest, self-love.
The question of German influence in Turkey has become such a prominent
feature in the public eye that it seems to warrant more than a passing
reference from one who has had many opportunities of following its
development. Our attention has been drawn so much of late to this
influence that we are apt to lose sight of what is likely to be a more
lasting, as it is certainly a more valuable, feature, namely, its effect
as a practical civilizing force. Indeed, this advent of the German, and
with him of the Belgian, the Swiss, the Italian, and the Hungarian, as
financial and industrial pioneers, as erectors of railways, schools,
hospitals, and other useful institutions, may be said to mark a new
beneficial era in the East. Nor should it be forgotten that the Germans
and their partners have now and then shown a commendable spirit in
inviting the co-operation of others whom they to some extent have
superseded. For although the Anatolian Railway is essentially a German
undertaking, M. Huguenin, a French Swiss, has been elected its chairman.
The Mersina-Adana Railway, originally an English enterprise, has also
been taken over by the Germans, but they have re-elected the former
chairman, an Englishman, resident in Constantinople, to preside over the
board of directors. Nor need there be any reason why, under normal
conditions, a similar friendly co-operation should not exist in all
directions, not merely in commercial and financial matters, but also in
the domain of politics. It is therefore to be regretted that the
flamboyant circumstances under which the Sultan’s Iradè for the
concession of the Bagdad Railway was obtained, and suddenly communicated
to the world by the usual telegram, were calculated to arouse an
uneasiness in the public mind which a less sensational departure would
have avoided. The onerous financial guarantees imposed upon the Turkish
Government by the German concessionnaires have not tended to increase
the popularity of the German element among thoughtful Turks or the broad
strata of the Turkish people who are called upon to make sacrifices for
an undertaking the political and economic importance of which they have
not the knowledge to appreciate. To such as these the German
concessionnaire appears somewhat in the light of the usurer, who is now
in addition credited with political aims which Germany long persistently
repudiated. But however this may be, there can be little doubt that she
has lost rather than gained in her hold on the sympathies of the Turks,
since, in addition to the scalpel of the surgeon, the text-book of the
schoolmaster, and the staff of Mercury, she has added the sword of the
soldier and the Field-Marshal’s baton to the emblems of her activities
in the Ottoman Empire, and increased the jealousy of the other Great
Powers. Promises of political support to Turkey were undoubtedly given.
The Sultan was encouraged to favour the reactionary military element in
making appointments. Soldiers were asked for as Ambassadors in
preference to diplomatists of Phanariote families, although the latter
had supplied for generations past the most able Turkish diplomatists. By
Imperial desire a Mohammedan Turkish cavalry officer, Tewfik Pasha, a
charming companion, but one completely ignorant of politics, was
appointed Turkish Ambassador in Berlin, and remained there until the
Turkish revolution in 1908. It is not for non-Germans to decide whether
it was to the advantage of the more solid German interests in Turkey and
of Turkey herself that the Sultan’s favourites were loaded with Prussian
decorations. The last Grand Vizier of Abdul Hamid, Ferid Pasha, an
Albanian, only a few days before his dismissal received the Grand Cross
of the Black Eagle, a distinction supposed to be on a level with our
Order of the Garter. There are things a Government can do which would be
reprehensible if done by a private individual, but there are also things
which are permissible to an individual but which a Government cannot do
without imperilling those unweighable assets the correct estimation and
cherishing of which was one of Bismarck’s strongest points. He would
never have stooped to such little manœuvres; neither have the English
nor the Russians nor even the French condescended to curry favour with
the Turks by such questionable means.
For years past the German official world has made a business of
flattering the Turks, instead of warning them and, as true friends,
insisting on the execution of the reforms upon which the public opinion
of Europe insisted. This has been more particularly the case since the
Græco-Turkish war of 1897, which was the moment when Germany might have
been able to at least postpone the evil day of reckoning which has come
in our time on the blood-stained fields of Thrace and Macedonia.
Turkey’s German friends, with all the privileged insight they were
allowed into her affairs, appear to have been blind to the black
political outlook of the Turkish Empire which politically gifted
Italians such as Mazzini and Crispi foresaw and confidently foretold
half a century ago. Germany’s policy in Turkey encouraged the Turks to
procrastinate and assume a truculent attitude. Hence the collapse of
Turkey has been a moral blow to military Germany which might have been
avoided, and which no sophistry can hide.
The Turkish officers who have served in the German army may have become
imbued with the militant atmosphere of the officers’ mess of the Potsdam
Guards; but this does not mean that they have assimilated the better
qualities of the German army. And even if they had, they could not
possibly hope to engraft these upon the Mohammedan Turk, who is in every
way their antithesis. The Turks are very different from the imitative,
assimilative Japanese, with whom German military instructors are said to
have been so successful. Thus, contrary to current surmise, I venture to
hold the heretical opinion that the expectations founded in some
quarters on a successful Germanization of the Turkish army are doomed to
disappointment. The best type of English or French officers would be
more likely to suit as instructors of the Asiatic Turks, as they have
both proved their capacity in this respect in their dealings with
Asiatics in the past. But an even more pressing question may possibly
present itself, namely, the growing political aspirations of Germany in
Turkey, which her policy since Bismarck’s retirement, hand in hand with
the optimistic publications of many German military writers, has done so
much to encourage. These elements also find a support to-day in the
headstrong aggressiveness of the Turkish officers above referred to.
According to a recent interview with the King of Roumania, that
far-sighted monarch characterized them as the one danger still
threatening peace in the East.
The English, whatever their mistakes may have been, have played a more
dignified and, as I venture to believe, a more far-sighted part—one
which thoughtful Turks now recognize was well meant to Turkey.
The general policy of England is graphically laid down in the following
letter which the late British Ambassador at Constantinople, Sir Nicholas
O’Conor, favoured me with a few months before his death:
“I have no hesitation in saying that I think the strong point in our
English policy is the fact that we have invariably based our
representations to the Ottoman Government on the undoubted interests of
both the Christian and Moslem subjects of the Sultan; that we have
upheld justice to all the people; and that we have fought for an honest
administration and political freedom, without compromising either the
interest of the State or its Sovereign.
“We have kept aloof from the many selfish and ruinous commercial
concessions which have been so disastrous in their consequences, and we
have abstained from any demands which were not in the interests of
Turkey as well as of England. We alone have built, organized, and
developed a railway without a penny guarantee from the Turkish
Government, and by capable and honest administration we have made it a
commercial success. I refer, of course, to the Smyrna-Aidin Railway.
“This attitude on our part has been appreciated by Turkey and more
especially by the Moslems.
“The several demands which England has put forward as conditions to her
consent to the 3 per cent. increased Customs duty are as much in the
interests of Turkish as of foreign trade, and our resolute insistence on
these points has been an object-lesson all round.
“We have impressed upon Turkey the advantages of developing her enormous
internal resources, and we have succeeded in obtaining such alterations
of the old Mining Law as will now permit British as well as foreign
capital to be embarked in Turkey without more risks than usually attend
such enterprises.”
My own experience fully corroborates the above statement of the British
Ambassador that the Mohammedans have indeed appreciated the rectitude of
English policy and its freedom from all shady transactions. Also as
regards the best class of Englishmen (for these alone come into
consideration)—once they have rid themselves of their prejudices—their
self-restraint, reserve, and, above all, their reliability and fair
dealing in personal intercourse generally cause them to be trusted, if
not liked, by the Mohammedan, who instinctively distrusts effusiveness,
voluble protestations, and more particularly the obtrusiveness
associated with the pushing commis-voyageur. This explains why many
Turks, even in the hour of their humiliation, prefer the English to
others in spite of many advantages they may have reaped from the latter.
That Germany may retain and even increase the commercial hold which she
has already gained in Turkey seems more than likely unless others are
prepared to compete successfully with her in financial enterprise and
industrial efficiency. Her geographical position places her in easy
connexion with the Turkish Empire for commercial purposes not only
through Roumania and the Black Sea but also by the Danube and by rail
through Servia and Bulgaria. All this is decidedly in her favour. But
whether in the long run she will be able to use these assets to gain a
permanent political ascendancy extending over Asia Minor, as openly
advocated by the pan-German party, may well be open to question. Certain
idiosyncrasies of the German character erect between the races a barrier
which does not exist when the Turk comes into contact with the English,
the Italians, the French, and the Greeks. Apart from all this the
geographical position of Germany seems to set fixed limits to her
political ambitions. For if there is a country the situation of which
might well entitle her to look forward to political possibilities in
Turkey, it is surely Austria-Hungary, whose frontiers for centuries past
along the Danube have been co-terminating with those of Turkey. The
character of the Austro-Hungarians also shows many points of affinity
with that of the Turks. The German language is another stumbling-block
in the way of extending German ideas beyond certain limits,[29] and it
encounters a powerful competitor in the French language. French has been
recognized in Turkey as the foremost tongue of the “Franks” for nearly
three hundred years. There are close upon six hundred schools in Turkey
in which French forms part of the regular curriculum. French is spoken
more or less by nearly every Turkish official above a certain rank;
German by scarcely any. This difficulty of the German language competing
with the French has already been felt by the German authorities engaged
in the working of the Anatolian Railway. It will also be found a
hindrance in case serious efforts should be made to start German
colonies along the track of the railway, a plan few people who have
visited these regions think likely to succeed, at least yet awhile,
although many Germans will recall the strange story of the Saxon colony
in Transylvania, and fondly imagine that this unique phenomenon is
likely to repeat itself in Asia Minor. Germany’s geographical position,
which is in her favour where commercial facilities are concerned, is
decidedly against her once political influences come to the fore.
Several instances in point have arisen of late years in which she has
been unable to convert her Turkish sympathies into effective action in
favour of Turkey against the opposition of Russia, France, and England.
This was notably the case in the naval demonstration against Turkish
rule in Crete in 1898 and also in a lesser degree in the Græco-Turkish
war of 1897, when, Russia objecting to the German military instructors
taking part in that campaign, Turkey was prevailed upon to recall those
who had already started for the front. An even more recent case in which
Germany failed to support Turkish interests successfully arose in
connexion with English action on the Egyptian frontier, and this is
still in public memory. But by far the most potent cause which is likely
to prevent German political influence getting beyond certain
well-defined limits in Turkey is to be found in the ever-watchful
jealousy of Russia—Turkey’s most relentless and stealthy foe.
Footnote 29:
During our two months’ journey through Armenia in 1897–98 Dr. Hepworth
and myself did not come across a single German, nor even one person
who spoke German, though in common fairness it must be admitted we did
not touch the Anatolian Railway tract, which is, of course, largely a
German enterprise. French, English, Italian, and Greek were the
European languages spoken.
Neither England, France, nor Russia, as great Mohammedan Powers, can be
expected in the long run to view the “conversion” of German influence
into the assumption of the part of Protector of Islam with complacency,
much less with favour. The fact that the action of these Powers is
apparently a passive one for the present would not justify us in
assuming that it will permanently remain so.
The real disposer of Turkey—the vulture hovering overhead, ready to
swoop down upon her, though restrained for a time by the kindly feelings
of the present Emperor Nicholas[30]—is, and always was, Russia: Russia,
which has steadily and relentlessly aimed at the destruction of the
Mohammedan empire of the Ottomans.
Footnote 30:
I have it on good authority that the present Tsar solemnly promised
Sultan Abdul Hamid that he would not undertake anything against Turkey
in his lifetime. This personal promise has been nullified now that the
Sultan has been dethroned.
From the moment England and Russia arrived at an understanding the
fate of Turkey in Europe was in jeopardy, and any ambitions which
Germany had in Turkey were doomed to sterility. Even to-day their
hopelessness is not realized, for the Germans still enjoy the fruits
of past prestige, and the Russians, who are not petty where great
issues are at stake, have quietly looked on at Hedjas and Bagdad
Railway concession-mongering. It will only be when Germany makes any
serious attempt to galvanize Asiatic Turkey into life that the
Russians will and can cry “Halt!”
Friedrich Bodenstedt—and few better judges of Eastern life could be
quoted—writing fifty years ago, has the following: “The Caucasus is the
basis of future world-hegemony. Which does not mean that it will come
about in a day, nor vanish overnight, but gradually and inevitably,
without the befooled nations, proudly conscious of their superior
education, having a suspicion of the danger which threatens them. The
submission of Shamyl in the east and the exodus of the Circassians in
the west of the Caucasus are events of which the Press took hardly any
notice at the time, but which future generations will consider to be
among the most important happenings of the century.”[31]
Footnote 31:
“Tausend und ein Tag im Orient.” Berlin, 1865.
A glance at the map of the Turkish Empire and its frontier separating
the territories of the Northern Colossus should be sufficient to bring
home to the most casual student the full significance of this passage,
and to illuminate M. Nelidow’s remark to me in 1896, “We shall never
allow others to handle the key of our house,” meaning the Bosphorus. But
nobody could well traverse Anatolia and witness its desolate condition,
without roads or bridges—more backward than Siberia or Manchuria—without
realizing that the danger of absorption by Russia is like the sword of
Damocles, a menace ever present. As a matter of fact, Russia occupied
Erzeroum temporarily in 1878, and only the pressure of England at the
Congress of Berlin induced her to withdraw. As long as England was at
variance with Russia the danger was kept in suspense, but now that they
are united in an entente it would be foolhardiness for any other Power
to imagine that it could intervene and prevent by force of arms any
consummation which these two had agreed upon. Should such an entente
lead to a dividing up of Asiatic Turkey into different spheres of
influence among the Great Powers, there would in all probability be a
European war, as foreshadowed by Professor Vambéry,[32] which ultimately
would be only too likely to result in the incorporation of the greater
part of Turkey in Asia in the Russian Empire, since Russia never will,
and in view of her geographical position never can, allow Germany to be
the permanently dominating influence on the Bosphorus.
Footnote 32:
See Appendix, p. 291.
In the course of my first visit to Prince Bismarck in April 1891, the
topic of Russia’s intentions with regard to Constantinople was
discussed. To my surprise, the Prince stated that he did not believe
Russia intended to take Constantinople. Russia might even undertake to
guarantee the Sultan in the possession of his palaces, his harem, and
his wives on condition that no other strong Power should be dominant on
the Bosphorus. I ventured to ask the Prince whether he did not think
such a development might be inimical to British interests. Bismarck
replied: “Not necessarily so.”[33]
Footnote 33:
I was on the point of publishing this conversation at the time, but
wrote first to Bismarck to ask his permission, to which he replied
asking me to refrain from publication.
Leaving these far-flung possibilities out of consideration, it is worth
while pondering what beneficial part England can play in the East. Many
liberal-minded Englishmen have advocated that Germany and England should
join hands with other nations and endeavour to work peacefully together,
in order to enable Turkey to introduce reforms, exploit her unlimited
resources, and thus place herself in a strong independent position in
Asia; the only hope left to her.
The British Government might be careful not to send minor officials to
Turkey imbued with dislike for the Turk. Such men play into the hands of
our rivals by drawing up reports marked by ill-feeling towards the
Turks, by corresponding with English newspapers in the same vein, and
thereby they indirectly hamper English chances in the competition for
commercial advantages. When these practices have ceased, then the
goodwill of the Turk will come as a matter of course, and will readily
take the practical shape of giving English capital an equal chance in
competing for the many valuable opportunities for developing trade still
to be had in Turkey; for it may come as news to many Englishmen that,
next to Holland and Switzerland, Turkey has the lowest tariff of any
country in Europe, and approaches nearest to the English ideal of Free
Trade. The splendid work already done by England in Egypt, particularly
in the matter of irrigation, affords ample guarantee that honest
co-operation between England and Germany, as advocated by
Lieutenant-Colonel H. P. Picot (see Appendix, p. 294), might not only
result in an addition to, but in a multiplication of, forces working for
the benefit of Turkey and for the advantage of the world at large.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
APPENDIX
------------------------------------------------------------------------
APPENDIX
IN the autumn of 1912 a paragraph appeared in a London evening paper
announcing that a street in Plumstead had been named after Professor
Arminius Vambéry, the eminent Hungarian scholar, who, as is well known,
was a personal friend of Queen Victoria and Edward VII, and I sent it to
him. This little incident led to a correspondence between us, of which
the following letters of the Professor, written in English, are a
portion. After his death I sent copies to his son, Dr. Rustem
Vambéry—who, like his father before him, is now a Professor at the
University of Budapest—and received by return the authorization to
publish them, which is embodied in the first letter of the series. In
view of the eminence of Professor Vambéry as an authority on Eastern
affairs, I gladly avail myself of his kind permission to do so.
BUDAPEST, _October 11, 1913_.
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—I thank you most heartily for the delicacy of
feeling which prompted you to give me the opportunity of
revising my father’s letters to you, which you are quite at
liberty to publish.
I have read them carefully through, and see no reason to alter
or omit anything. You know how proud my father was of his status
as an independent man, who could freely express his views
without let or hindrance. Why should I not continue to act for
him in this spirit now that he has passed away?
It might perhaps interest you to know that your work on
Austria[34] was the last book he read in his life. The afternoon
before his death he asked me to read a few pages aloud, for his
sufferings (oppression of the heart) were alleviated by the
distraction.
He was a great admirer of your writings, a feeling which has
been fully inherited by
Yours most sincerely,
DR. R. VAMBÉRY
(Professor of Criminal Law at the University of Budapest).
Footnote 34:
“The Realm of the Habsburgs,” by Sidney Whitman. Wm. Heinemann,
London, 1892.
I
BUDAPEST UNIVERSITY, _November 12, 1912_.
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—It was very kind of you to remember the old
Dervish and to take interest in the honour bestowed upon him by
your magnanimous countrymen.[35] Any services I may have
rendered to England are insignificant; but I am proud of having
been able to champion England’s interests, for, in spite of all
shortcomings, you are still the greatest nation in the world.
The fate of our poor Turkish friends is sealed. They will get
rid of the cumbersome European ballast, and it is to be wished
that they should be able to recuperate in Asia, where they
cannot be replaced by any other Moslem nation. Their collapse in
Europe was inevitable, and it is only the suddenness of the fall
which has surprised me.
My son is much pleased by your kindly remembrance of the slight
attention he was able to pay to you. He only acted as in duty
bound towards a foreigner and an Englishman.[36]
Yours very truly,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 35:
Reference to the naming of a street in Plumstead already mentioned
above.
Footnote 36:
Reference to my stay in Budapest in the summer of 1897, during which I
made the acquaintance of Professor Vambéry’s son.
II
_December 14, 1912._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—Allow me to express to you the great pleasure
I felt in reading your article published in the _Pall Mall
Gazette_ under the title “Some German Military Writers.”[37] It
is certainly highly gratifying that you, sir, whom I know as the
most able writer on German affairs in England, should have come
forward to give a good lesson to these overbearing gentlemen. It
is in any case a most important _signum temporis_, and it must
diminish the idolization of brutal force, of sad mediæval
traditions. The eminent soldier who wrote the book “Unser Volk
in Waffen” (General von der Goltz) is often quoted by Germans
when comparisons are drawn between England and Germany’s
Imperial power, and deductions are drawn therefrom of Britain’s
near downfall. Well, let us hope that they are grossly mistaken,
just as they were mistaken in predicting a sure victory for the
poor Turks, of whom a great German once stated, in the presence
of Sultan Abdul Hamid, that “_one Turkish soldier was worth
three Prussians_.” The German military instructor may have
succeeded in turning the goodly Turk into a Prussian, minus the
Pickelhaube, but Lule-Burgas has proved a most cruel
disenchantment to the glorifiers of General Bernhardi’s
theories.
In so far I agree with your views. But there is one point with
regard to which the English must take particular care, and this
is not to fall into the mistake of disregarding the necessity
arising from the general situation of European armaments.
Formerly the English were quite right to pity the man on the
Continent forcibly made a soldier; to-day, however, you must
consider the Latin saying, _Ulula cum lupis_, and you are
compelled to take note of your next-door neighbours. You must
approve Lord Roberts’s efforts regarding compulsory military
service. If Lord Haldane finds it possible to admire all sorts
of German theories and institutions, why does he make an
exception with regard to universal military service, which is a
genuine German invention?
Yours very truly,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 37:
In the issue of December 4, 1912.
III
BUDAPEST UNIVERSITY, _December 30, 1912_.
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—I have read your ably written chapter on
Sultan Abdul Hamid with much interest, and I may tell you that I
can neither add to nor take away anything from its contents. Of
course there is a good deal I could say about the man whose
favourite I was supposed to be during more than ten years, but
it is impossible to lift the veil more than I did in the two
essays I published in the June and July numbers of 1909 of the
_Nineteenth Century and After_, in which you can find more than
one episode worth reproduction.
Abdul Hamid was decidedly an extraordinary man. Want of able and
trustworthy Ministers caused his downfall; but it is generally
admitted that if he had remained on the throne the present
catastrophe would not have taken place. As I hear from
Constantinople, he has got much chance to return to power. The
bulk of the nation is siding with him. The Young Turks confess
themselves the mistake they made (_vide_ a paper by Husein
Djahid, the editor of the _Tanin_, in the January (1913) number
of the _Deutsche Revue_). The adherents of the old school were
always in the Opposition, but the blow was too heavy a one, and
I very much doubt whether he, or anybody else, will be able to
heal the wounds.
Be so kind as to let me have a copy of the book you will
publish, as I am much interested in the late Sultan. Properly
speaking, I was not his favourite, for he wanted to use my pen
in the interest of Russia, whereas I endeavoured to turn him
into British waters, in which I should have probably succeeded
if your politicians and your public opinion had not been under
the sway of false humanitarian views, and if your nation had not
lost the persistency of bygone ages.
In a personal meeting with you I could furnish you with more
than one detail. With best greetings from my son,
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
IV
_January 1, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—My letter of yesterday will answer most of
your questions, and I only write to tell you that your friendly
feelings towards Sultan Abdul Hamid ought not to blind you to
the real character of this unfortunate prince. He was decidedly
highly gifted, though this was less apparent towards the end of
his reign. He suffered from the defects of Eastern princes and
of Orientals in general. His intentions may have been honest,
but the means he applied were decidedly perverse and he never
listened to advice, nor did he believe in anybody.
At all events I look forward to the issue of your book with
interest.
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
V
_January 6, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—I had great pleasure in perusing the copy I
duly received of your chapter on Sultan Abdul Hamid. Your able
pen has lent colour to his career, even though you could not of
course deal fully with his real doings.
If I have not always done full justice to this extraordinary
man, I may plead some excuse. For more than twelve years I
worked hard, I even risked my life, to lead him into the harbour
of political security by which the present catastrophe could
have been avoided, without, I regret to say, being able to
achieve any result.
His entourage made him over-cautious and distrustful, and I am
sure he will be haunted by remorse when he remembers our long
evening conversations in the Yildiz Kiosk or Chalet Kiosk. He is
not the only culprit: your statesmen, too, have made great
mistakes.
I trust your poetical pen will be fully appreciated by the
reading public, for, as I have told you already, Abdul Hamid has
still a fair chance of coming back to the throne. But I do not
envy him on that account. It would only turn out to be a
midsummer night’s dream.
In reciprocating your good wishes for the New Year,
I beg to remain, yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
P.S.—Pray give my compliments to M. Chedo Mijatovich.[38] I am
very glad that _Bog dal srecu yunacku_[39] to his countrymen.
Footnote 38:
The distinguished Servian historian and diplomatist, formerly Minister
of Finance in Servia and Servian Minister in London, where he has
since taken up his residence.
Footnote 39:
“God has given the good luck of heroes.”
VI
_February 11, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—I delayed answering your last letter as I was
awaiting the arrival of the book you promised to send me. Now
that your most interesting and fascinatingly written study on
Germany[40] has arrived I hasten to express to you my best
thanks for the pleasure I have derived from your book, as well
as for your kind reference to my Essays on Sultan Abdul
Hamid.[41]
In writing about leading contemporaries we are apt to get into a
predicament, evidently not unfamiliar to you, which causes us a
great deal of trouble. Those who know cannot write and those who
write most do not know. At all events the personality of Abdul
Hamid is a landmark in the history of the Osmanides which will
be often spoken of.
The Persian poet whom I quote at the end of my article on Abdul
Hamid is Saadi, and the quotation is derived from the
“Gulistan.”
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 40:
“German Memories.” Wm. Heinemann.
Footnote 41:
_Nineteenth Century and After_, June and July 1909.
VII
_February 14, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—Don’t take it as a compliment, for it is a
fact that during the three days that I was reading, with slight
intervals of leisure, your “Deutsche Erinnerungen”[42] all my
studies had to take an involuntary pause. Such an extraordinary
influence has your masterly pen wrought upon me. I dare say no
German would be able to write such a book upon England, although
the subject would be most interesting from a national and
ethical point of view, considering the liberal views
predominating in England and the great achievements of your
nation all over the world. I am glad to see that the unjustified
enmity between your country and Germany is gradually subsiding.
Both nations are supplementary the one to the other, and their
mutual friendship furthers the common interests of humanity.
When will your “Turkish Memories” appear? I am anxious to read
them.
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 42:
German version of my “German Memories”. Deutsche Verlagsanstalt,
Stuttgart.
VIII
_February 20, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—It will give me much pleasure to go through
any chapter of your “Turkish Memories” you may choose to send
me. Of course one cannot apply a too severe criticism to a
writer on Western affairs who is dealing with Eastern topics
unless he is under the sway of preconceived notions like Pierre
Loti, who, like Lamartine, dips his pen in Castalian fountains.
And, besides, Abdul Hamid was to me the most incomprehensible
Oriental character I have met in all my long and variegated
Eastern career, and I could not vouch for the correctness of my
judgment of him. There is one danger, however, you must take
care not to fall into, _i.e._ unconditional Turcophilism. I mean
to say you must avoid all sentiment in dealing with politics.
Statesmen may have ignored the horrible effects of Turkish
misrule and the ruin of the finest portion of Asia, but we
writers, at any rate, are bound to speak the truth.
I am no admirer of Sir Edward Grey’s policy in the Near East,
and still less in Central Asia, but I cannot refrain from
calling the German policy haughty and overbearing. Her _Drang
nach dem Osten_[43] is silly and childish and must provoke a
most bloody contest all over the world. If Germany imitates
Austrian methods she will be overtaken by a similar fate, for it
is no secret that the sentence, _finis Austriæ_, is looming in
the distance.
What I pity is my poor country, whose future is not very bright.
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 43:
A current German phrase meaning “The trend towards the East.”
IX
_February 21, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—I have gone through your manuscript with great
pleasure, and all I can say is that indulgence, nobility of
mind, gratitude, and gentlemanly feeling form the ruling
features of the paper, whereas the manifold harm resulting from
the personal idiosyncrasies of the Sultan is only occasionally
touched upon.
From your point of view, and judging as a foreigner, you were
quite right to use subdued colours, but having acted as a
political writer who endeavoured and intended to turn the Sultan
on the right way, I am sorry to say I could not follow your
example. Nor could any modern Turk who had witnessed the
ever-increasing calamity of his country do so. At all events
your book will call forth much comment and varied criticism.
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
X
_April 28, 1913._
DEAR MR. WHITMAN,—In reading your well-conceived and
well-written book on the “Realm of the Habsburgs” I could not
refrain from feeling regret at not having been blessed by nature
with that rare gift of literary skill and eminence which
distinguishes your pen. Having seen and experienced so much in
many countries and in many nations, where I passed as a native,
what attractive and truthful pictures could I not have furnished
of my variegated experiences, and how considerably I could have
facilitated the intercourse between man and man! Well, _non
omnes omnia_—and writers like yourself, in whose works I
delight, do sometimes darken the distant horizon of my past.
Your book, like the last one I read, is a masterpiece, in spite
of the disadvantages resulting from the changes caused by the
quick pace of our times, when so many features must obviously
alter. It reminds me of an Oriental remark about a decayed
beauty: “The mosque has fallen into ruins, but the altar where
people worshipped still stands upright.” With some slight
alterations your book could be advantageously republished. I am
exceedingly sorry to be so far from dear old England, for, owing
to this distance, many interesting items culled from my daily
Turkish, Persian, and Tartar reading are lost to the public.
Germany is not the place for practical Eastern topics: a long
essay written on the slippers of Goethe is more appreciated
there than a detailed description of recent political events in
Turkey, Persia, etc. I was certainly not wrong in saying one day
to a great German: “Hätte Deutschland weniger Orientalisten aber
mehr Orientkenner gehabt, so brauchten sie heute Englands
Stellung in Asien nicht mit neidischen Augen zu betrachten.”[44]
You are much younger than I am. Perhaps chance will favour me in
seeing you one day in this part of the world.
Yours sincerely,
A. VAMBÉRY.
Footnote 44:
“If Germany had possessed fewer Orientalists and a greater number of
true judges of the East, she need not have regarded England’s position
in Asia with envious eyes to-day.”
I feel I cannot more fitly conclude my “Turkish Memories” than by citing
the letter of Lieutenant-Colonel H. P. Picot, already referred to in the
Preface:
“On reading the letter written to you on February 14, 1913, by
Professor Vambéry, I was greatly interested to find him saying:
‘I am glad to see that the unjustified enmity between your
country and Germany is gradually subsiding. Both nations are
supplementary the one to the other, and their mutual friendship
furthers the common interests of humanity.’
“The Professor, I see, agrees with you that ‘the real crux of
Turkey’s political problems is, and always was, Russia’; and,
further, that ‘the geographical position of Germany seems to set
fixed limits to her ambitions.’ It was the realization of these
factors by Turkish statesmen that gave Germany her opportunity
during the later years of Abdul Hamid’s Sultanate. The welcome
extended to the German Emperor by the Sultan at the time of his
visit to Constantinople and the Holy Land was a direct
invitation to Germany to interest herself in the development of
the Asiatic provinces of Turkey, and thereby to build up a
barrier against Russia in Armenia and Mesopotamia. The Sultan
saw clearly that if German capital could be employed on a large
scale in the development of railways between the capital and
Bagdad, and in opening up the Mesopotamian delta by means of
irrigation, etc., his country might obtain that political
support which had become practically essential for the
preservation of the integrity of his Asiatic dominions.
“The same view was doubtless held by Sir William White, H.B.M.’s
Ambassador at Constantinople, who, years ago, was of opinion
that, in the interests both of Great Britain and of Turkey, it
would be well if Germany were encouraged to extend her influence
at Constantinople and in the Balkans.
“Abdul Hamid naturally hoped for the political support of
Germany in the Balkans as well as in his Asiatic possessions,
though he must have been aware of the difficult position
Germany, as a Christian Power, would find herself in should the
Balkan States make an effort on a sufficiently wide scale to
extend their frontiers at Turkey’s expense. In such a case,
however, he had little or nothing to expect from Great Britain,
and even less from Russia. Thus, Germany was a last hope; and
though, as events have shown, her support was of little avail
when the psychological moment arrived for the long-expected
Balkan war, the Sultan’s political sagacity has yet to be proved
at fault in so far as Asia Minor is concerned. Germany now
possesses great interests in Anatolia and Mesopotamia, and if
Turkey is ever to build up her Asiatic Empire and regain her
position as a Moslem Power, it will only be done with the
assistance and co-operation of Germany and Great Britain. It
does not follow that because Germany failed Turkey in Europe,
she will do so in Asia. The problem is a different one in that
quarter, where it has lost its peculiarly European character. It
may well be within the power, as it certainly is in the
interest, of Great Britain and Germany to safeguard Turkey’s
sovereign rights in her purely Asiatic possessions. Russia is
the enemy at the gate.
“It is of happy augury that the bitterness of feeling that has
separated Great Britain and Germany is now fast giving way to a
better understanding, and it would be well that Turkish
statesmen should realize early in the day that the future of
their country depends on welding together, as far as it lies in
their power to do so, the economic and political interests of
these two countries in Asia. For Russia is already moving in the
direction of Mesopotamia and Armenia: her occupation of Persian
Azerbaijan, where she has concentrated 17,000 troops, is meant
to serve her designs upon Mesopotamia, as the first étape of her
advance towards the Persian Gulf.
“Russia has not yet forgotten the lessons of the Russo-Japanese
war. If she scents obstacles ahead, she will hesitate to advance
too rapidly on the path of adventure. But hesitation is not
synonymous with withdrawal. Russia is still true to
Gortschakoff’s famous phrase, ‘La Russie ne boude pas, elle se
recueille.’ Turkey would be in less danger from her if she could
enlist the sympathies and engage the material interests of Great
Britain and Germany upon her side, as Abdul Hamid evidently
considered that they might be enlisted in regard to his Asiatic
dominions.
“As already stated in your own words, ‘the geographical position
of Germany seems to set fixed limits to her ambitions’; and
since Great Britain has no territorial ambitions in Asiatic
Turkey—as it is recognized at last, even in Turkey—there is
everything to be gained by their loyal and whole-hearted
co-operation. But only on such lines.
(Signed) “H. P. PICOT.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INDEX
Abdul Aziz, 20, 27, 163, 181, 234, 238, 258
Abdul Hamid, and the Marquis of Salisbury, 1;
works of, 8, 51–54,164–166;
and the Armenians, 20, 57;
and the Germans, 22, 270;
and Ahmed Midhat Effendi, 25, 26;
popularity, 27–28, 180–182, 238–239, 243;
and Dr. Hepworth, 60–61, 128–129;
and Mr. Whitman, 30–35, 51, 61, 170;
and the Press, 148–149;
deposition, 150, 177–178;
ceremony of the Selamlik, 154–158, 178–182;
account of, 159–182;
promise of Nicholas of Russia to, 162, 277 _and note_;
personality, 166–167, 234, 237–238, 254–255;
and Mr. Whittaker, 171;
and Professor Vambéry, 171–172;
audiences, 179–180;
stories of his diplomacy,184;
spies of, 201;
and the Fehim Pasha incident, 264, 266–267, 270;
mentioned in Professor Vambéry’s letters, 285, 286–287, 288–292;
William II and, 294–295
Abdul Medjid, 261;
reforms of, 229–230
Abraham Pasha, 19–20
Abyssinia, Christian monasteries of, 254
Adrianople, peace of, 1829, 106
Ahmed Midhat, account of, 25–28, 235–236;
letter in Turkish to Mr. Whitman, 107–108;
conversations with, 216–224, 225, 247, 257, 265;
stories of Mohammed’s life told by, 258–260
Aintab in Syria, 63, 112, 114
Aja Sophia of Constantinople, 28, 87
Ala Dagh, the, 105
Alaskird, 97
Albanian Redifs, the, 45, 155
Albanians in Salonica, 40
Albigenses, the, 262
Albrecht, Archduke, 182
Alexander of Battenberg, Prince, and the Mohammedan element, 242
Alexander of Servia, 59
Alexandretta, 63, 81, 115–117
Alidjekrek affair of 1896, 97
Ambassadors in Constantinople, position of, 186–169;
types, 189–193;
social life, 193–194;
Turkish, 194–195
American element in Erzeroum, 99–100;
interest in Anatolia, 121 _and note_
Anatolia, the mission to, 60;
reforms, 63, 70, 76, 79–81, 278;
prosperity, 165;
German interests, 295
Anatolian Railway, the, 268, 275 _and note_
Anatolius, General, 90
Anglicans, 228
Angora, prosperity of, 165
Arab types in Turkey, 233, 248
Aram Aramian, arrest, 97
Ararat, Mount, 109
Arians, the, 223
Armenak Dermonprejan, arrest, 97
Armenia, military service in, 75–76;
people of, 118–119, 120 _and note_
“Armenian Atrocities,” rising of 1895–6, 70–79, 170;
the outbreak in Constantinople, 10–35
Armenian Cemetery, Constantinople, 18
Armenian Committees, 13, 74, 127
Armenian schools, 63, 66, 75, 99, 127
Armenians in Turkey, 228, 231
Arms from Russia seized, 97
Arsenal (Tophanè), Constantinople, discovery of bombs, 24
Arson in Constantinople, 243–244
Ashmead-Bartlett, Sir Ellis, 48, 53–55
Aspern, 182
Asquith, Mr., and the Eucharistic procession in London, 213
Austria-Hungary, Turkish policy of, 275
Austrian Double Eagle March, the, 156–157
Avellis, Hugo, in Constantinople, 204–248;
knowledge of Turkish character, 239–240;
stories of Turkish women, 257–258
Azarian, Armenian banker, 20
Azerbaijan, 296
Bagdad Railway, 269, 277
Bahri Pasha, Governor-General of Van, fired on, 74
Baiburt, 85–86
Bajezid, Sultan, mosque of, 8
Balkan War, 295
Balls in Constantinople, 197–198
Baptists, 228
Batoum, 67
Bayazid, 105
Bazar de Secours, 52–53
Bebek, 169
Begler-Bey, Palace of, 139, 159
Beikos, 27, 257
Beilan, 116
Belgrade, 59
Belisarius, 183;
sayings of, _quoted_, 160
Benedek, Field-Marshal, 182
Bennett, Mr. Gordon, 10–11, 15, 40, 57–59, 129
Bergholz, Mr. Leo, American Consul at Erzeroum, 99
Berlin, Congress of, 278
Bernhardi, General, 286
Beschiktasch, 142
Bieberstein, Baron Marschall von, 162;
and Abdul Hamid, 177;
and the Fehim Pasha incident, 264–247
Bigham, Clive, 48, 55
Birds, shooting of, 254–245
Biredschik, 63, 111–112
Bismarck, Prince, opinion on the Cretan situation, 1–2;
the Sultan’s message to, 34–35;
and Gortschakoff, 188;
and Détaille’s picture, 215;
diplomacy, 270–271, 272;
on the position in the East, 279
Bitlis, 63, 77, 88, 91, 96, 120, 132;
the road to, 101–110;
report of the English Vice-Consul, 122–123
Black Sea, 65, 82
Blunt, Mr. J. P., 47–48
Bodenstedt, Friedrich, _quoted_, 277–278
Bombs, discovery in Constantinople, 24
Bosphorus, the, 92, 141, 278
Bournous, the, 113
Bribery, charges of, 80
Bucharest, diplomacy in, 189
Büchner, 237
Budapest, 285 (_note_)
Budapest University, 283
Bulgarians, Uniate, 228
Burton, Sir Richard, knowledge of the East, 224–225, 226
Buyukdere, massacre of Armenians at, 19–20
Byron, Lord, on Constantinople, _quoted_, 5
“Byzantinism,” 183
Capitulations, the, 201, 231
Caravans, starting point for, 67;
on the Zigana Pass, 84–85
Carlyle and Islamism, 219–220
Cassim Pasha, suburb of, 8
Castries, Count de, “L’Islam,” 218
Catholics, Latin, 228
Censorship of the Press in Constantinople, evading the, 23–24, 171
Cercle d’Orient, Constantinople, 19, 195
Chadidja, 259
Chakir Pasha, Marshal, story of the watch, 70–6, 93–94;
accounts of the Armenian rising, 77–79;
and Reouf Pasha, 98
Chaldeans, Uniate, 228
Chalet Kiosk, 288
Charles, Archduke, 182
Chary, Hermann, Roumanian interpreter, 40–41, 48, 65, 117
Chefakat, Order of the, 165, 172
Christian Churches in Turkey, 28, 222–223
Christianity in Turkey, 119–123, 216–223, 226–230
Circassians, characteristics of the, 106–107;
exodus of, 278
Club de Constantinople, 195
Colombo, Hôtel, Salonica, 37
Commerce, British Chamber of, at Constantinople, 190
Commercial code of 1850, 229
Commerell, Admiral, 226
Constantine the Great, 223, 254
Constantinople, impressions, 5–9;
cavalry barracks, 7, 8;
Fakir Hanè, 8;
Greek High School, 8;
Marine Hospital, 8;
Marine Ministry, 8;
Ters Hanè, 8;
gossip in, 12–13;
British Embassy, 17, 55–56;
German Post Office, 21–22;
Arsenal, 24;
Aja Sophia, 28, 87;
Gumysch Soujou Hospital, 30;
outbreak of the war, 50–51;
a return to, 127–128;
water
supply of, 165;
diplomacy in, 186–195;
cuisine of, 195–196;
“high life” in, 196–198;
the Passage Oriental, 206–207;
Europeans in, 214–215, 240;
fall of, 222;
fire brigade of, 243–244;
Bazaar, 247
Constantinople, Club de, 12, 195
Copts, 228
Corpus Christi, Feast of, in Constantinople, 213
Corruption and bribery in Turkey, 163–164
“Cospoli,” provincial name for Constantinople, 103
Costaki Pasha, 1
_Courrier de L’Est_, 149
Crete, Bismarck’s interest in the island, 1–2;
the naval demonstration 1898, 276
Crimean War, 170, 230, 261
Criminal code of 1840, 229
Crispi, 271
Crusades, nature of the, 215–216, 219, 221–222
Cuinet _cited_, 120 (_note_)
Currie, Lady, 55–56
Currie, Sir Philip, 263;
the protest to the Porte, 54–56;
urges recall of Chakir Pasha, 71;
telegram to Erzeroum, autumn 1895, 77
Dagmar, Empress, 71
_Daily Mail_ and the Fehim Pasha incident, 266–267
Damascene swords, 91
Damascus, 118
Dandolo, Enrico, 250
Danish Bey, 71
_Daphne_, Austrian-Lloyd steamer, 64
Dead, Turkish reverence for the, 8
Deliler, village of, 55
Demeter Mavrocordato Effendi, 71, 72
Détaille, M. Edouard, “Nos Vainqueurs,” 215
Deutsche Bank, Berlin, 142
_Deutsche Revue_, 287
Diarbekir, 63, 88, 91;
history, 110–111
“Diary of an Idle Woman in Constantinople,” 253
Djahid, Husein, paper by, 287
Dogs of Constantinople, 17, 254
Dolma-Baghtchè, palace of, 139, 141
Doré, Gustave, illustrations of the Bible, 88
Dragoman Service, the, 189
Draper, and Islamism, 219–220
Druses, 228
Dufferin, Lord, 193
_Duilio_, the Italian ship, 37
Edhem Pasha, generalissimo of the Turkish forces, 43–44, 46, 48
Edward VII, 283
Egypt, irrigation, 280
Egyptians at Nisib, 112
Elassona, Turkish headquarters at, 40–48
Emerson, “English Traits,” 249
Emin Bey, story of, 166–167
England, Turkish policy, 22, 170, 272–274, 278–279
English governesses in Constantinople, 213
English settlement in Salonica, 39–40
Englishman, Turkish estimation of the, 261–262
Erzeroum, vilayet, 63 _and note_;
Armenian rising, October 1895, 70–76;
the journey to, 81;
reception at, 88–90;
history of the town, 90;
Russian influence, 91–92;
the American element in, 99–100;
Russian occupation 1878, 278
Erzingian, 73
Etchmiadzin (Russia), 78
Ethnike Hetairia, the, 36 _and note_, 37
Eucharistic Congress in London, 213
Eugénie, Empress, 139
Eunuchs, 253–254
Euphrates, crossing the, 112
Europeans in Constantinople, 214–215, 240
Famine, 165
Fauna between Erzeroum and Bitlis, 102–103
“Fedaïs,” the, 75–76
Fehim Pasha, Chief of Secret Police, 177–178;
scandal of, 263–267
Ferdinand, Austrian ex-Emperor, sayings of, 159–160
Ferid Pasha, 270
Ferrero, Guglielmo, sayings of, _quoted_, 234–235
Fire brigade in Constantinople, 243–244
Franco-German War 1870, 251
Franco-Italian War 1859, 182
Franz-Josef, present to the Bazar de Secours, 53
French Embassy in Constantinople, 50, 251
French language in Turkey, 275–276
Friedrichsruh, 2
Fuad, Grand Vizier, 177
Galata Bridge, the, 15–18, 21–22, 141, 244
Gautier, Théophile, on the Turk, 8
Gellini, Gentil, 250
“German Memories,” Prof. Vambéry’s remarks on, 289, 290
Germany and England, 293, 294
Germany and Turkey—Behaviour of Germans during the massacre, 21–22;
German officers in Turkey, 48–49, 271–272, 285;
German surgeons for the wounded, 51–52;
Turkish policy of Germany, 169–170, 279, 290, 291, 293, 294;
German influence in Turkey, 202, 214, 241, 264, 267–272, 274–277,
279, 295–296;
German language in Turkey, 275–276
Ghazi Osman Pasha, 50–51, 155, 205;
his office at Yildiz, 139, 177–178, 181
_Giaours_, 228, 249
Gladstone, the Rt. Hon. W. E., policy of, 169–170
Goethe _quoted_, 125, 268
Golden Horn, 6, 7, 8, 9 (_note_), 55
“Goldener Lamm,” Vienna, 4
Goltz, General von der, 285
Gordon, General, 40, 226
Görgey, 251
Gortschakoff, 188, 296
Græco-Turkish War, 35–56, 219, 271, 276
Grant, General, and Reouf Pasha, 94–95
Gratz, 182
Graves, Mr., British Consul at Erzeroum, opinion of, _quoted_, 93–94
Greece, incursions into Macedonia, 36;
religious intolerance in, 213–214;
Turks in, 251
Greek Committees, 2
Greek Orthodox Church, 20–21, 213–214
Greek Press, Bismarck and the, 2
Greeks in Constantinople, behaviour, 50–51;
characteristics, 212;
burial customs, 213–214, 241;
Uniate, 228
Grey, Sir Edward, Eastern policy of, 291
Gritti, Andrea, 250
Gritti, Ludovico, 250
Grumbkow Pasha, 48
Gumysch Hanè, 83–8
Gumysch Soujou Hospital, Constantinople, 30
Gwynne, H. A., 55
Hafis Pasha, 112
Haidar Pasha, university at, 162
Haldane, Lord, 286
Halid Bey, 64
Hamid Pasha, 74
Hamidiè cavalry regiments, 73, 109, 145–155
Hamidiè Mosque, 156, 164, 178–179
“Hans,” 83, 86
Harem, the, 215, 256–257
_Harper’s Magazine_, 132
Hassan Bey, 258
Hassib Effendi, 71
Hatti-Humayoun of 1856, 230
Hatti-Sherif of Gulhanè, 229–230
Hatzfeldt, Count, 206
Hedjas Railway, 150, 277
Heine, “Buch der Lieder,” _quoted_, 151
Hepworth, Dr. George H., the expedition into Armenia, 58 _et seq._;
“Through Armenia on Horseback,” 62;
the journey to Erzeroum, 81, 89–90;
the road to Bitlis, 101–102, 104, 105, 108;
incidents of the journey, 113, 114, 115, 116;
and Abdul Hamid, 128–129;
letters to Mr. Whitman, 132–133
Hepworth, Mrs., 129
Herbert, Sir Michael, 263
Hobart Pasha, 226, 248
Holy Sepulchre, Turkish protection, 213, 215–216, 228
Horse, the Anatolian, 114–115
Hospital for the wounded at Yildiz, 51–52
Hugo, Victor, 26
Huguenin, M., 268–269
Huguenots, the, 217
Humboldt, Alexander von, observations of, on Constantinople, 5–6
Hungarian revolutionists, sheltered by the Sultan, 251
Hunger-typhus, 165
Hunuesch, 120
Hussein Avni Pasha, 258
Hyacinthe, Father, and Islamism, 219–220
Ibrahim Pasha, 112, 145, 152–154
Impérial, Hôtel, Salonica, 40
Imtiaz medal, the, 33, 51–52, 179
“Iradè,” the term, 144–145
Izzet Fuad Pasha, Turkish ambassador at Madrid, 177
Izzet Pasha, and Mr. Whitman, 30–35, 237;
apartments at Yildiz, 140–145, 265;
work of, 154;
Arab origin 169 (_note_)
Jacobites, 228
Janissaries, the, 155, 180
Japan, German officers in, 272
Jerusalem, 94–95, 118, 213, 216, 256
Jews in Turkey, 21, 38–39, 92, 217, 221, 228, 249–250
Johnson, President Andrew, 26
_Journal de Salonique_, extract from, 41–42
Justinian, Emperor, 183, 254
Kaarie, or Kariè, Mosque, 28, 222–223
Kara Hissar Charki, mines of, 76
Kara Sua, source, 90
Karaferia, 42
Katerina, 42, 46
Kegel Club, Salonica, 37
Kerasoun, 66
Khalifate, the, claim of the Sultan, 148
Khinis, 77
Khrimyan, Monsignor, 78
Kighi, 96
Knackfuss, Professor, 53
Kop Dagh Pass, 86–88
Koran, precepts of the, 213, 217–223, 234–235, 254
Kossona, village of, 43
Kossuth, 251
Kotal Dagh, the, 66–67
Kurdistan, 63, 79;
relations with Armenians, 74–75;
rising of the autumn 1895, 77;
mountain fastnesses of, 107;
characteristics, 129–130
Kurds, arming of the, 73;
Reouf Pasha and, 96–97;
kindliness of, 107–109;
marksmanship, 113;
predatory propensities, 124;
deputation to the Sultan, 145
Lamartine, 291
Larissa, 45, 55
Layard, Sir Henry, 193
Lazis, the, of Trebizond, 67
Lebanon, 223
Lessing, “Nathan the Wise,” 216–217
_Levant Herald_, and the censorship, 171
Levantine, the, 199–209
London, contrasts with the East, 130–132
Lorenz, Melchoir, 250
Loti, Pierre, 291
Louis XIV, 217
Lufti Aga, story of, 168–169
Lule-Burgas, 285
Macedonia, missionaries of, 121
Mahmoud, Sultan, 229–230, 248
Mahmud Nedim Pasha, 169
Mamuret ül Aziz, 63
Marienbad, 57
Maronites, 228
Mavrocordato Effendi, 79–80
Mavrocordato, Prince, 231
Mavrogeni, Dr., 206
Maximow, M., dragoman, 19
Maximow M., Consul-General, 90, 93, 147
Mazzini, 271
McColl, Canon, 22
Mecca, 65, 140–141
Medjediè, order of, 98, 154
Mehmet, Circassian officer, 40, 43, 48
Mehmet Izzet Bey, saying of, _quoted_, 15, 255–256
Mehmet Tscherkess, 45
_Mekteb Milkiè_, 164
Meluna Pass, the, 45
Mersey, Lord, 48
Mersina, 127
Mersina-Adana Railway, 269
Mesopotamia, 63, 295, 296
Methodists, 228
Metoualis, 228
Midhat Pasha, 26, 166
Migirditch, Armenian cook, 101–102
Mijatovich, M. Chedo, 289
Milan, ex-king, 59
Miles, Gen. Nelson, 53
Mining law, alterations, 273
Missionaries in Turkey, 38, 39, 120–121
Modiki, Kurds of, 124
Mohamed Cherif Reouf Pasha, 93–98, 104
Mohammed, life of, stories of, 125, 258–260
Mohammed V, 208
Mohammed Faté, Sultan, 250
Mohammedanism and Christianity, 82–83, 216–223, 228–230
Mollahs, 143–145
Moltke, Count von, and Turkey, 35, 112, 248
Monasteries, Christian, 82–83, 127, 222, 254
Montenegrins, struggle of 1876, 207;
characteristics, 212
Montgomery, George R., 55
Mordtmann, Dr., 164–165
Moscow, fires of, 243
Möser, Justus, 237
Mosques, 222–223
Mosul, 110
Moutschka, River, 66
Muezzin, the, 145
Munir Pasha, Grand Master of Ceremonies, 60, 152, 180;
letter to Mr. Whitman, 129;
personality, 157–158;
estimate of his master, 175–176
Murad Su, 101
Mustapha Pasha, railway station at, 262
_Namouma_, yacht, 57
Naples, 5
Napoleon, Code of, 229
Napoleon, saying of, 62, 226
Napoleon III, Abdul Hamid compared with, 161–162
National, Hôtel, Vienna, 4
Naturalization of Turkish subjects, 231
Neghib Bey, saying of, 246
Nelidow, M. de, 19, 278
Nestorians, Chaldean, 228
Nestorius, 223
_New York Herald_, the, 2, 10–11, 14, 23–25, 31, 34, 36, 41, 42, 43,
46, 57, 58, 60, 61, 129, 133 (_note_), 170
Nicæa, Council of, 223
Nicholas, Emperor, promise to Abdul Hamid, 162, 277 _and note_
_Nineteenth Century and After_, 286, 289 (_note_ 4)
Nisib, village of, 112
O’Conor, Sir Nicholas, 193;
letter of, _quoted_, 272–273
Offenbach, Jacques, 157
Ohannes Effendi, 19
Olympus, Mount, 37, 43
_Orient (L’)_, 149
Ortogrul cavalry, 155
Osman Pasha, 95, 139
Osmanian, 18–19
Osmaniè order, 154
Ottoman Bank, the attack on the, 16–18, 23–24
Palestine, law in, 229
_Pall Mall Gazette_, 285
Pancaldi, 71
Paris Commune 1871, 256
Pascal, “Les Pensées” _quoted_, 161
Paskiewitsch, General, 86
Passage Oriental, Constantinople, 206–207
Passen, 97
Paul, Emperor, 32
Peel, W., 55
Pera, 15, 199, 200;
the outbreak at, 17;
discovery of bombs, 25;
after the massacre, 29–30;
water supply, 165;
Grande Rue de Pera, 206–208, 257;
population of, 212;
the French Embassy, 251
Pera Palace Hotel, 6, 12, 177, 266
Phanariotes, 235, 270
Pharsalia, 45
Philippopolis, 23–24
Picot, Lieut.-Colonel H. P., 280;
letter to Mr. Whitman, 294–297
“Pilaf,” 255
Platana, 67
Plevna, siege of, 205
Plumstead, naming of a street in, 283–284 and _note_
Police, Turkish, 201–202
_Policevera_, steamer, 50
Polygamy, 215
Pontine range, the, 85
Potsdam Guards, the, 271
Powers, the, proposals of 1895, 77;
the Capitulations, 201, 231
Presbyterians, 228
Press, the, in Turkey, 148–149, 160, 188, 230–232, 251;
evading the censorship, 23–24, 171
Prinkipo Islands, 20
Prior, Mr. Melton, 29
Procopius of Cæsarea, 183
Protestants in Turkey, 120–121, 228
Pruth, the, 164
Ramadan Festival, 149–150
Razi Khan, 74
“Realm of the Habsburgs,” by Mr. Sidney Whitman, 284, 292
Red Cross, the, 205
Redcliffe, Lord Stratford de, 56, 193, 261
Reformation, the English, 213
Religious toleration in Turkey, 216–222, 227–228;
firman of 1854, 229–230
Revolvers at the Pera Palace Hotel, 17
Rhodes, Island of, 25, 127
Riedler, Professor, 248
Rifat Bey, 169
Roads, Persian, 80–81, 85, 101, 125, 128
Robert College on the Bosphorus, 226–227
Roberts, Lord, 286
Roman Catholic Armenians, 21
Rome, rites in communion with, 228
Roqueferrier, M., 93
Rothschild, London house of, 20
Roumania, King of, 272
Ruskin, saying of, _quoted_, 131
Rushti Bey, Colonel, 65, 107
Russia—Turkish policy of, 19, 127, 147, 232, 276–279, 296–297;
revolutionary propaganda fomented by, 20–21, 24, 61, 75–76, 123;
protest against German officers in Turkey, 49;
influence in Erzeroum, 90–92, 97;
the Czar’s promise to Abdul Hamid, 162, 277 _and note_;
trade with Turkey, 165;
religious toleration in, 229
Russian Cossack regiments, 73
Russo-Japanese War, 296
Russo-Turkish War, 44, 85–86, 164
Saadi, poet, 290
Sadjur, River, 114
Sadowa, battle of, 182
Saint Andrews, Cathedral of, 213
Saint Sophia, Church of, 250
Saladin, 114, 216–217, 233
Salisbury, Marquis of, 1, 170, 220 (_note_)
Salonica, Greek population, 37, 49–50;
Jewish element, 38–39;
English element, 39–40;
outbreak of the war, 49;
Turks in, 251
Salzburg, 5
Samsoun, 66
Saumur, 45
Schah-Zadè, Sultan, 8
Schiites, 233
Schismanian, Givon, 77
Schools, Armenian, 63, 66, 75, 99, 127;
Turkish, 164–165, 275
Schopenhauer, 237
Schreyer, 114
Scott, Sir Walter, _quoted_, 49
Scutari, 257;
the English cemetery, 165, 201–202
Sedan-chairs, 197
Selamlik, ceremony of the, 154–158, 164, 178–181, 253
Selim, Sultan, 8, 110, 111, 217, 233
Shamyl, submission of, 278
Shaw, Captain, 243
Shaw, G. B., 48
Shefket Pasha, Marshal, 51
Sheikh-ul-Islam, 52, 217, 233, 237–238
Sheikhs, 143–145
Shipka Pass, 71
Silver mines, 83–84
Sirry Bey, 64, 103–106, 113, 117, 172, 266–267
Sitaouk, 97
Sivas, 76
Smyrna, 22, 127
Smyrna-Aidin Railway, 273
Sobranje, the, Mohammedan members, 242
Softas, 145
Solferino, 182
Sorovitch, 41, 42
Spain—Religious intolerance in, 38, 217, 250;
the Moors in, 220–221;
generosity of the people, 248
Special Correspondent, Mr. Gordon Bennett’s ideas of his duties, 11–12
Spencer, Herbert, 237
Spinoza, 237
“Stambolin,” 25, 150, 176
Stamboul, the outbreak in, 15–17, 22;
the Aja Sophia, 28, 87;
the Sublime Porte, 141;
fires in, 244;
the public fountain, 261
Steevens, G. W., 55
Sublime Porte, the, 14, 141
Suleyman, Sultan, 8, 165, 250
Sultan, the, and the Khalifate, 225
Sunday, the Mohammedan, 27
Suwarie Tschaoush, 64
Sycosis, 117
Syrian horsemen, 113
Syrians, Uniate, 228
Szechenyi Pasha, Count, 243
Tahsim Pasha, 139
_Tanin_, the, 287
Tanzimat, the, 229–230
Tariff, Turkish, 280
Tauchnitz Collection of British Authors, 253
Taurus, the, 82–85, 88
“Tcharik,” 42
Tcheragan, Palace of, 139
“Temena,” ceremony of, 142–143
Tempè, vale of, 45
_Terdjumani Hakkikat_, the, 26
Tewfik Bey, Colonel, 64–65
Tewfik Pasha, 270
Theodora, Empress, 183
Theodosiopolis, 90
Theodosius the Younger, 90
Therapia, 263
Thessaly, alleged Turkish atrocities, 54–55
Tiflis, Armenians of, 78
Tigris, the, 101, 110
_Times_, the, correspondents in Turkey, 14, 18, 47–48, 171
Timur the Tartar, 114
Tophanè, Constantinople, 141
Transylvania, Saxon colony, 276
Trebizond, 63, 64, 81;
description, 66–70;
the troubles at, 74–76;
Christian monasteries of, 82–83, 222
Tripoli, 214
Tschishly, 18
Tschoueh, Daniel, 76
Turanian type in Turkey, 233
Turk, the, traits, 210–260;
love of family, 103–104;
fidelity, 104–105;
generosity and courtesy, 105–106, 240–242;
respect for personal character, 206, 208–209, 246;
absence of class distinctions, 235–237;
gratitude, 246–248;
hospitality, 248–249;
love of animals, 254
Turkey—War on Greece, 36;
religious tolerance in, 184, 212, 216–222, 227–230, 249–250;
shelter given to Hungarian revolutionaries, 251;
foreigners in, 252–253;
German officers in Turkish army, 271–272
Turks, Orthodox, 228
Tussaud’s, Madame, 215 _and note_
Twain, Mark, 118
Ulemas, 143, 144, 145
United States, the Press in, 231
University at Haidar Pasha, 165
“Vali,” the term, 63 (_note_)
Valis, unpopularity of, 124
Valladolid, 250
Vambéry, Dr. Rustem, letter to Mr. Whitman, 283–284
Vambéry, Professor Arminius, experiences, 84;
life and adventures, _quoted_, 89;
stories of Abdul Hamid, 168–169, 171–172, 186;
letters to Mr. Whitman, 211, 289–293;
on the European situation, 279;
a London street named after, 283, 284
Van, 63, 64, 65, 74, 78, 79;
the rising in, 78–79
Van, Lake of, 72, 109–110
Vassos, Colonel, recall from Crete, 36
Venice, 57
Vereschagin, 205
Victoria, Queen, 283
Vienna, impressions, 3–5, 59;
Central Post Office, 4, 5;
Leopoldstadt, 4
Vienna Congress 1815, 4
“Vilayet,” the term, 63 (_note_)
Vincent, Sir Edgar, in Constantinople, 226
Voltaire, 237
Wagner, Reisen von Moritz, _quoted_, 86
Wallisch, Dr., 65
Waugh, Mr. Alexander, English Consul, 111
Weldon, Mr. Hamilton, 55
Westminster, Duke of, attitude towards Armenian atrocities, 22
White, Sir William, 193, 295
Whitman, Mrs., and the Turkish ladies, 258
Whittaker, Mr., 14, 171
Whittall, 15–16, 22–23, 242
William II and Abdul Hamid, 53, 162 (_note_), 261, 294–295
William III of England, 252
Woman, the Turkish, status, 165–166, 215, 256–258
Woods, Admiral Sir Henry, Pasha, 242–243
Xerias, River, 43
Yildiz, the Palace at, 14, 18, 19, 31–35, 51–52, 72–73, 128–129,
137–158, 176–177
Young Turk movement, 26, 124 (_note_), 287
Zeki Pasha, Marshal, 73
Zigana Pass, 84–85
Zola, _La Débâcle_, 124
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Transcriber’s note:
○ Index entries showing abbreviated page ranges were written out in
full. For example: “294–5” was changed to “294–295.”
○ The index entry for “Plumstead, naming of a street in” pointed to
page 282, but there is no page 282. It has been corrected to page
283.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Turkish Memories" ***
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