The Passing of the Turkish Empire in Europe. B. Granville Baker
Roumanian mail-steamer “Dacia,” a fast, well-appointed ship, carried me out into the Black Sea on a clear, dark night, her nose pointing towards the Bosphorus. My fellow-passengers by the train conveying me to Constanza had tried to fill me with alarm as to the state of Constantinople, they spoke of rumoured massacres, and advised me to don a fez, alluded with head-shakings to cholera, and generally warned me against my enterprise. Nevertheless, the next morning found me within sight of the entrance to the Bosphorus; a pearly grey morning, and the sun drew a flickering path of light from our port bow, broadening into a scintillating expanse of silver on the horizon. Groups of Turks stood in the bows straining their eyes for a sight of land.
It was an intensely peaceful morning which made it difficult to imagine that behind the blue heights rising out of the water fierce war raged with all its attendant horrors; for there to south-west, beyond the coast fort of Kilia, and some fifty miles beyond it, were the lines of Chatalja, where the Bulgarians were trying to wrest the Empire of the East from the palsied hand of the sons of Othman. The coast of Asia Minor emerges from the pearly sea and marks the entrance to the Turkish Empire from the north. History and legend crowd in upon this narrow waterway, with its little wooden houses by the shore, sombre cypresses guarding them, and the graves upon the slopes, where modern forts and ancient strongholds stand side by side. Here to our left on the Asiatic side lies Anatoli Kavak, the Poplar of Asia, for several poplars stand out above the buildings devoted to the sanitary service of the port. There is a fort at the point trying its best to look modern, and above it, rising to the heights, are the remains of an older civilization, those of the Genoese castle. On the opposite bank is Roumeli Kavak, the Poplar of Europe, also fortified in the divers manners of many ages. Legend and history have been busy in this part of the Bosphorus. This narrow passage was formerly known as the Straits of Hieron, and that name derives from the fact that a temple to the twelve gods stood here. Here Jason offered sacrifices on his return from Colchis. There were also temples to Poseidon and Zeus, Serapis and Cybele, but they have vanished with the gods to whom they were dedicated.
The Heruli took refuge here after an unsuccessful sea fight off Scutari, then known as Chrysopolis, and about the same time the Goths crossed over from Roumeli Kavak into Asia, and ravaged Bithynia up to the walls of Nicodemia, but Odenatus, commanding the military forces of the East, checked their progress and drove them away to Heraklea on the Black Sea. In the middle of the ninth century Russians appeared for the first time, passing down the Bosphorus to the City of Constantine, but attempted no further than Hieron. They came again in the middle of the tenth century under a cloud of sail ten thousand vessels in all, and burned Stenia and Hieron, but Theophanes, the soldier of Emperor Romanus II, met and defeated them at Hieron. In later years the Genoese became powerful and held a strong position at Galata; they took Hieron and Serapeori, and the ruined castle on the heights above Anatoli Kavak stands as a monument to that enterprising republic. Another seafaring republic, Venice, which rivalled Greece on this highway between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, troubled the waters between Anatoli and Roumeli Kavak with frequent naval engagements. Meanwhile the country was supposed to belong to the Empire of the East, and a church was built and dedicated to St. Michael the Archangel, who was considered peculiarly suited to represent and defend Greek interests at Hieron. However, those who had assigned to him this duty neglected their own, and so in time had to make way for the Turk. He in his turn was now threatened from the north, for but fifty miles away the Bulgarians were hammering at the lines of Chatalja.
A little further to the south on the Asiatic side rises the highest point on the banks of the Bosphorus, the Giant’s Mountain. The Turks call it Yousha daghi, the Mountain of Joshua, and no one shares with them the interest in this spot, for here they have thought fit to bury Joshua. His grave is here, so who dare doubt; it stands over five hundred feet above the level, is guarded by true believers, and offers to others an opportunity of becoming immune to “need, sickness, or any other adversity.” All the visitor need do to attain to this happy state is to hang a bit of rag on one of the bushes that grow out of the grave, and rags are plentiful in Turkey. It is also advisable to walk round the grave several times and wish for something you happen to want. The grave is twenty feet long and five feet broad, and carefully enclosed within a framework of stone.
While taking a sketch of this landscape some years ago, I had my first of two experiences as a suspected spy.
In some countries of Europe even the most innocuous traveller is liable to be suspected of espionage as soon as he produces a camera—a bit of paper and a pencil will even suffice to arouse suspicion. Strange to say, it is among the so-called Great Powers that the mania has got the firmest hold of the official world and even of the public.
Of course, the lesser Powers have not quite escaped contagion, and it is from some of these that I have gained my experience as a suspected spy, for, needless to say, such an habitual traveller as I am is not likely to escape from the effects of the prevailing malaise. Fortunately my experiences have been rather amusing than otherwise, and have caused no international crisis, no trembling in the balance of the Peace of Europe, not even a newspaper paragraph.
But think of what might have happened when I took a pencil sketch of the bulwarks of Belgrade! True, those venerable fortifications date from the days of Vauban, and are as much use for defence as are the walls of Semendria, the old Roman castle further down the Danube, and moreover the Danube Powers have long ago agreed not to fortify any place along the river-bank. Yet the fortifications of Belgrade are jealously guarded; but as it was four in the morning when I took my sketch from on board the Danube steamer there was no one about to say me nay, and hence no international complications.
A few days later my peripatetic habits took me to Constantinople, and there one day I seated myself on the banks of the Bosphorus, Asiatic side, and began a sketch of the lovely view before me. There happened to be a more or less modern fort immediately behind me; this, of course, did not concern me. I was deeply engaged in rendering the blue sky reflected in the sea, a stern old Genoese castle in the background, which had served its purpose of defence many centuries ago, when two amiable Turkish artillery officers came down to the beach and sat one on either side of me. They greeted me kindly and inquired whether I could speak German or French. I replied that I could oblige in either, whereupon they conversed with me in both, mixed, and to my mind not a judicious mixture. We talked of many things, when one of them said, “It is forbidden to sketch here!” and the other endorsed the statement. They quite agreed with me, however, that it would be a pity to stop painting now, as I had so nearly finished, and so our conversation went into other channels. There was yet another Turkish officer, who stood some way behind us, shouting in an angry tone and in his own tongue, which, as I understand it not at all, did not trouble me. An occasional pacifying answer from my two neighbours failed of its effect. When I had quite finished my friends helped me to pack up and escorted me past the fort, followed by the sound of the angry voice. My escort explained that the owner of the voice wanted to arrest me and was with difficulty dissuaded; this friendly demonstration moved me to offer hospitality, my escort having casually mentioned that good beer was to be found at a neighbouring café. The escort furtively looked back towards the fort, then sadly shook hands with me and said, “No, he (the angry one, a good Moslem) is looking—come again another day.”
My most recent experience showed me that the mania has spread to Spain, though happily in a mild form. I suffered from it, so I know; and this is what happened.
At the time I was collecting material for a book on Portugal, and to this end the Portuguese Government had kindly given me a free pass over their railway system. This pass, I found, would take me to Badajoz and back, a most excellent reason for visiting the place. The time-table prepared me for a twelve hours’ journey by slow train, but in its being intensely matter-of-fact could not foreshadow the “local colour” which illumined my pilgrimage. The start at 7 p.m. was quite peaceful; I secured a corner seat, and the other corners only were occupied, so we jogged along in no very great discomfort. But only a few stations out of Lisbon the peace was broken. A sound of many voices, high-pitched, grew louder as we drew up at a wayside station, it rolled into our compartment in “dense volume” as the door was flung open, and with it came a shower of parcels of all sizes, impartially distributed among us. The fulcrum of this shower (if a shower runs to one) was a stout lady, impelled through space into our midst by some potent