The Passing of the Turkish Empire in Europe. B. Granville Baker
Turks; finally Bulgaria, that strong, ambitious nation, holds Adrianople in a grip of steel, has hurled its young strength against the stubborn Turkish defences, and is now on guard at the lines of Chatalja, demanding admission by the voice of death-dealing ordnance.
During the Turkish Feast of Pentecost the enemy was at the gates, and the fate of Constantinople, the fate of the Turkish Empire in Europe, trembled in the balance.
It is rather a leap from the days of Mohammed the Conqueror to an evening at the Club de Pera, but Constantinople is a city of strong contrasts. The streets leading from the water-side to the club showed no signs of unusual military activity, there was no appearance of excitement or despondency in the bearing of the inhabitants, and the club, but for a larger gathering of members and the sight of a White Crescent armlet, was much as I am accustomed to find it. Indeed, men came to me, as the latest arrival, for news from the front and the outside world, for they have to wait for the papers from home, generally four or five days old. It seems strange, but is none the less true, that we here on the spot heard hardly anything of events that are disquieting the rest of Europe; we heard but distantly of Servia’s stubbornness in face of Austria’s insistence concerning the Adriatic littoral, we caught but a fleeting rumour of Russia’s supposed designs and Roumania’s possible peril. All we knew was that brave men were dying by thousands out by the lines of Chatalja, some fifty miles distant; the booming of guns carried by the sobbing wind from out of the west brought us tidings of warlike happenings.
CHAPTER III
The everyday aspect of Constantinople—Refugees in the streets—Sick and wounded soldiers in the streets—The Red Crescent over the Museum in the Seraglio—More about Byzas—Theodosius II and Constantius the præfect—The geological situation of Constantinople—The treasures of the Museum and the School of Art—The Prince’s Islands—Irene, Empress of the East, and Charlemagne—The Atrium of Justinian—About Amurath I and the Christian Princess—Mohammed the Conqueror and the Greek Patriarch—Some tales of the Seraglio, of Bajazet and Zizimes, of Selim I, of Suleiman the Great and Roxalana—The Seraglio as hospital.
THE sun was shining brightly as on the morning after my arrival I made my way down from Pera through Galata, towards Stamboul. Everything appeared much as usual; the bridge of Galata was as crowded as ever with all sorts and conditions of men—hamals carrying huge loads, soldiers, kavasses, dervishes, water-carriers, and vendors of cake and other less useful articles. Horses seemed as plentiful as ever, driven by loud-voiced coachmen, drawing obese, elderly Turks. The fish-market was as busy as ever, and the open space behind the Mosque of Valideh showed its customary groups of men of leisure.
It was on the way to the station, in the narrow streets of that neighbourhood, that I saw sights unusual to the City. Nearly all these narrow streets were blocked by rows of waggons, drawn by oxen, conveying fugitives from Thrace and Macedonia, chiefly the former province. Men, but few young ones amongst them, women and children, swarmed about these carts, which contained all their portable property. From the dark recesses of these carts, covered either with striped carpet or tilt of basket-work, you might see a solemn-faced baby, brown of visage, black-eyed, crawling over the indescribable medley of sacks and bags stuffed with the family properties, while familiar utensils, strangely out of place, were disposed about the outside supports of the roof. Groups of children played about in the appalling filth of the narrow streets and seemed quite happy and contented. Women unveiled, and young girls went about performing household duties, and the men for the most part sat on their haunches against the wall, wrapt in contemplation.
On the whole there seemed little misery among these particular people, who had left their homes, fleeing before a victorious enemy. They waited patiently, some of them for days, to be transported across to Asia Minor, where, on the “native heath” of their race, they propose to start life afresh. Being Turks, they are no doubt used to Turkish rule, and prefer it to any other.
Sadder scenes I saw when walking up from the station past the lower gate of the Sublime Porte, towards the old Seraglio. Here were hundreds of soldiers, some sick, some slightly wounded, making their way to the hospitals established in the buildings of the Seraglio enclosure. Most of these men looked only weary, others thoroughly unconcerned, but on some faces I noted traces of such despair as I have seldom seen before. Weary and footsore, they trod the uneven pavement up to the gate of the Seraglio, only to be turned back and ordered elsewhere. These men were only the slightly wounded, in fact, no others, it appears, have come into the town. Where are those who were dangerously wounded? It is said that they are rotting, uncared-for, on the plains of Macedonia, on the hill-sides and plains of Thrace.
The Red Crescent now flies over the Museum, Armoury, and other buildings within the Seraglio enclosure, where so much of Constantinople’s stirring history took place. A wall with many square towers shuts off the Seraglio from the rest of Stamboul, and here, within this limited space, was laid the seed of Byzantine greatness. Formerly, stout walls enclosed this point to seaward as well as landward, and Bondelmontius, who travelled here, counted 188 strong towers. There are yet a few traces left of those stout walls, their foundations in the Sea of Marmora or the waters of the Golden Horn. No doubt Byzas built a wall, as becomes the founder of a city, but it was so long ago, and so many great men have built here since, that any expectations of finding traces of the original walls are hardly reasonable. They say that some huge blocks of stone date from the days of Pausanias, but even later work is old compared to most similar historical remains found in Western Europe. Theodosius II and his præfect Constantius have left records of their activity here, and that was in the beginning of the fifth century; then Emperor Theophilus repaired them in the ninth century.
Constantinople, like several other great cities, stands upon seven hills; this is the fashion among really great cities, and the first of these hills is that on which stand the Seraglio buildings. A broad road leads up to these buildings, which contain many interesting things. There is the Museum, containing many treasures, among them two of wondrous beauty—two sarcophagi—one of which claims to have held the remains of Alexander the Great, the other is said to have been the last resting-place of one of Alexander’s generals, and is known as “Les Pleureuses,” from the beautifully sculptured female figures in mourning draperies which adorn it. One set of buildings is devoted to modern art, a school for that purpose having been founded here, under the auspices of Humdi Bey, who is responsible for much of artistic effort and archæological research which characterized the Young Turk ambition to compete with the West in Western graces and accomplishments. I visited the School of Art two years ago, in order to see how far those ambitions were likely to be realized, especially in painting, my own particular pursuit. There were numbers of sketches and studies of undoubted accuracy, evidence of appreciation and of careful observation, but to me these works appeared no more than transcriptions of Nature; the Divine Fire which creates was not. This leads me regretfully to suppose that the Turk is not likely to progress along the line of creative art, albeit their High Priest, the Sheikh-ul-Islam, has decreed that there is no infringement of the laws of the Prophet in the endeavour of his followers to express higher thoughts by means artistic.
It has been my good fortune to visit many of our earth’s most beautiful places; Imperial Rome has cast its spell upon me, Naples I saw and happily did not die of joy at seeing it, I have entered Bombay Harbour when the sun was rising behind the Poona Ghats, and have seen the Shwe Dagon at Rangoon, gleaming over its dark green bowers by the rays of the setting sun. Then, again, I have looked over the broad expanse of the Tagus at Lisbon, when a fierce storm from the vast Atlantic flayed the troubled waters, and vivid lightnings showed distant Palmella against an angry sky; I have walked in the groves by the banks of