Chapter V: Part 5

At last, through this repulsive maze of vice, we arrive at the Russian restaurant where we are to meet Carayanni. Pera is now full of Russian restaurants, where a money-spending international crowd revels in so-called Bohemian life. Why not? The walls are artistically painted and the furniture queer looking enough. Of course, like most amateur Bohemians, the only thing which this international crowd has adopted from the Quartier Latin of Paris is free love. Anyhow, with the punctuality of a perfect host, Carayanni is waiting for us. Well groomed and prosperous-looking in his dapper London-made clothes, he is trying his best to look and act like an Englishman. His polite nonchalance and his general appearance are so perfect that, despite his dark complexion, it is hard for me to realize that this is the same man who, before I left Constantinople about ten years ago, was making only a very modest living in gambling and card games in which he always was an expert. He has changed his business, however, during the war and is now one of the most successful food speculators in town.

Carayanni has a special table prepared right near the center of the room and on our way to the table he stops to greet the waitresses and to gracefully kiss their hands. Most of these girls are supposed to belong to the Russian nobility, so in Pera it has become the custom to kiss the hand that feeds you. We take our seats and glance about the room. As a whole the place is almost respectable. The crowd is the usual mixture seen now at night in Pera: mostly olive-skinned, thick-lipped, dissipated Armenians and Greeks who can afford high-priced restaurants, thanks to their unscrupulous war and post-war profiteering; many foreigners who can the better afford to spend in view of the low rate of exchange of the Turkish money; a few Americans who love to indulge in foreign countries in pleasures forbidden to them in their own either by puritanic traditions or by the eighteenth amendment. The food is excellent; we have a taste of “vodka,” the Russian drink, while at other tables imported and local wines of rare vintage are consumed copiously. The professional entertainment provided consists of an excellent gypsy orchestra, the best I have heard anywhere, a few singers who sing some weird Russian songs and an interpretative dancer who interprets better than she dances. In between the professional numbers those who desire to dance can do so in the middle of the room which remains cleared for the purpose. After all, it is the same kind of cabaret restaurant that one finds in London, Paris or New York, except that its performers are Russian, its waitresses are supposed to be princesses and its crowd is a little more “Bohemian.”

Of course Carayanni finds it too slow and as we are finishing dinner he suggests that we go to a show. At one theater the Greeks are giving a performance for the benefit of their refugees and at another the Turks are giving a performance for the benefit of their refugees and as our party to-night is both Turkish and Greek we must not hurt the feelings of each other by going to either of these shows. Carayanni suggests adjourning to a certain “club” which is the rage of the moment and where plays and actors are so--“unreserved,” that the public is required to wear masks. Naturally I object to this suggestion: my wife and I are, so to speak, provincials from Stamboul and our blushes would glow even through our masks. My wife is so shocked that Carayanni is sorry to have ever suggested it and he proposes hastily to go to see Scheherazade which is played by some of the former actors of the imperial ballet corps of Petrograd. We all decide in favour of this and we adjourn to the theater.

The play has already started. Here again there are only a very few Turks in the audience and their presence seems to me as incongruous as mine must seem to them. It is queer to see the place crowded with foreigners when but a few years ago the crowds in theaters were almost exclusively Turkish. I remember that one of the last times I came to this very theater it was to assist at a gala performance given by the Municipality of Constantinople in honour of the Young Turkish leaders who had just then so successfully accomplished their democratic revolution. The place was then covered with Turkish flags and humming with Turkish enthusiasm. To-day it is almost entirely Russian. Really, the dream of Peter the Great of making a Russian city of Constantinople has partly come true, but it has turned into a nightmare. I whisper this to my wife and, unknown to Carayanni, we both express the wish that any one who might nourish the ambition of taking Constantinople away from the Turks might share a plight similar to that of the Russians. It is not generous, I admit it, but if we were not Turks and formed the same wish for the enemies of our country, people would call us patriots.

The performance is pretty good but it drags on. Scheherazade is a spectacular play and neither the theater nor its staging are adapted to such plays. The actors might have been in the Imperial Ballet of Petrograd but they certainly were not principals. So we decide to leave before the performance is over. This time Carayanni insists that we go to a regular café chantant. He will take us to the best one; it is an open-air affair but the weather is really not so cool to-night as to make it disagreeable. We have to take a carriage as it is at some distance, on the hills of Shishli.

This café chantant is in a garden. In the center, where orchestra seats should be, are small tables, with chairs in semi-circle facing the stage. It is a regular theater stage and on both sides of the garden, boxes have been built. It is crowded. Every one seems to be intoxicated and the weird music of a regular jazz band composed of genuine American negroes fires the blood of the rollicking crowd to demonstrations unknown even to the Bowery in its most flourishing days before the Volstead Act. Much bejewelled and rouged “noble” waitresses sit, drink and smoke at the tables of their own clients. The proprietor of the place, an American coloured man who was established in Russia before the Bolshevik revolution and who--it seems--protected and helped most efficiently some British and American officers and relief workers at the time of the Revolution, is watching the crowd in a rather aloof manner. Frankly he seems to me more human than his clients; at least he is sober and acts with consideration and politeness, which is not the case with most of the people who are here. Not one real Turk is in sight. Many foreigners, but mostly Greeks, Armenians and Levantines--with dissipated puffed-up faces, greedy of pleasure and materialism. We have a liqueur. The show is a vaudeville which is not very interesting. Every minute that passes makes the crowd more and more demonstrative. Carayanni is enjoying it immensely, but I realize that our presence puts a damper on his good time and although he defends himself in the most exquisite manner when I tease him about it and accuse him of being evidently an “habitué” of the place, the glances that he exchanges surreptitiously with one of the waitresses--a real Russian beauty with pale skin, fire-red lips and languid black eyes--confirm my suspicions. My wife does not enjoy herself, and she is tired: our life in Stamboul has evidently made her lose her taste for late hours. Besides she has never seen this kind of night life anywhere and the atmosphere is getting decidedly too tense for us. A “parti carrée” enters a box--and immediately pulls the curtain, thus cutting itself entirely from the view of the public. My wife looks at me in surprise. We really must go.

It is too early for Carayanni, the night has just started for him and for the other regular Perotes. So we insist that he should not spoil his evening and we apologise for our departure. He is heartbroken to see us go but asks permission to remain, protesting that he has some very important business matters to talk over with a friend of his whom he has just seen in the crowd. We understand perfectly well and take our leave.

We step out of the gay garden. At the curb a long line of automobiles is waiting. We take one as it will get us home quicker than a carriage. Besides, the streets of Pera, and especially of Galata, are not very safe at this late hour, and the quicker one rushes through them the better.

Pera is tossing in her sleep, nervous and restless. A few night-owls of both sexes who evidently have not yet been able to find a branch to their liking are still wandering on the sidewalks. The porches and doorways of nearly every house are crowded with groups of children and refugees, half-naked, sleeping cuddled up together to keep warm. In restaurants and amusement places the merry-makers are continuing their revels.

Galata again, her narrow streets still lit up and still resounding with sinister noises. Now the bridge, almost deserted, and then at last Stamboul, our Stamboul, the beautiful Turkish city, sleeping in the night the sleep of the just; poor Stamboul, ruined by fires and by wars, sad in her misery, but decent and noble; a dethroned queen dreaming of her past splendour and trusting in her future.

X

CONSTANTINOPLE, 1922

The night life in Pera sketched in the past chapter constitutes, naturally, only one aspect of the present-day so-called social life of Constantinople. In full justice to the inhabitants of the city I must say that it is only the “Perotes,” that is, only those who inhabit Pera--be they foreigners, Greeks, Armenians or Levantines--who find pleasure in this kind of distraction. The people of Stamboul lead the quiet life which I have already described and in between these two extremes there are, of course, quite a large number of foreigners, of Turks and of non-Turks who do not participate in this kind of life but who nevertheless seek distraction in the society of each other in a more rational and decent way than the Perotes--if not quite as sedate as their friends of Stamboul.

Pera is the theatrical and the red light district of the city. Stamboul is the residential district of the more conservative Turks, that is to say, the Turks who are modern enough to set aside all the antiquated customs of their ancestors who--by preventing their women from participating in the every-day life, had handicapped the social progress of the race--but who are not and do not care to be modern to the point of adopting indiscriminately all the social customs, good and bad, of the Occident. Fortunately for Turkey, the Turks who belong to this group constitute the greatest majority. They are serious-minded people, progressive without exaggeration, desirous of adapting to their own temperament and customs only those foreign customs which are desirable. They do not seek to imitate blindly western nations. They do not care to be over-westernized. These Turks realize that with all its superiority over the Oriental structure, the social structure of the West is far from being perfect, and they do not propose to introduce and adopt customs which either might be incompatible with their temperaments and traditions or which have been and are strongly criticized by well-thinking people even in western countries.

Besides Pera and Stamboul, the two opposite poles, there is another district of the city where certain foreigners live and some native non-Turks, and quite a few Turks who do not mind over-westernization. This district comprises the quarters of Taxim and Shishli and a certain portion of Nishantashe. It is situated on the hills north of Pera and is considered by some to be the modern residential section of the city. For those who really love Turkey and the Turks or even for those who are only interested in the Orient it has, however, not much charm or attraction. Modern apartment houses and new residences built in concrete or in stone, but which have no distinctive character, adorn its wide avenues and its smaller streets. The architecture here has no individuality whatsoever, judging by the external appearances of the buildings and by the aspect of the avenues and streets, with electric street cars running, with automobiles and modern garages one might be in any city of Europe. All speak of modernism and those who inhabit it worship anything that has the stamp of western civilization. However, if one desires to lead any kind of social life comparable to that of western countries one has to come to this district and one has to identify oneself with the social clique which dwells in it.

So, as my wife and I are both human, as we are still young and desire once in a while some kind of mundane distraction, we have had to frequent--if not extensively at least moderately--this section of Constantinople. One glimpse of a night in Pera had been sufficient to make us realize the necessity of finding other playgrounds. We had to break, once in a while, from the quiet, peaceful and elevating life of Stamboul if it were only to make us appreciate more our normal home life.

Shortly after we had settled in our house a cousin of mine who lives in Shishli gave an afternoon tea to introduce us to his set. He is a prominent business man of Constantinople, and both his own position as well as the prominence of his family have placed him and his charming wife among the leaders of the Turkish social set of Shishli. They have an attractive house on one of the principle avenues and entertain frequently. His wife, like all the Turkish ladies of her set, has a weekly “at home,” On these days one is sure to find a large crowd of callers in her salons. She is a perfectly charming woman, very young and beautiful. Her beauty is typically Turkish, tall and slender although not emaciated, languid black eyes with long eyelashes. She dresses exquisitely as she buys most of her frocks in Paris where she goes periodically to renew her wardrobe. At the time they gave the afternoon tea in our honour they had just refurnished their house with furniture purchased on their last trip to Italy and France. It was the first tea of the season and my cousin and his wife told us that all their friends were very anxious to meet us. As theirs is a dancing set the news that a Turk, freshly landed from America with his American wife, would be present at the tea had created quite a sensation; they were all keen to see the latest steps danced in the States. The dancing reputation of the Americans is worldwide and the fact that my wife was an American had stirred the interest of my cousins' friends. As for me, they imagined that any one who had lived in America for such a long time must of necessity be a good dancer. Only a very few of the members of this set were known to me, and that very superficially, as I had met them as small children when I had previously been in Constantinople. Now most of them were married and had children of their own. So when we arrived at my cousin's house we had to be introduced to every one. My cousin, Salih Zia Bey, and his wife, Madame Zia Bey, did the honours in that most exquisite modern Turkish fashion which, despite all its westernization, has still kept something of the ceremony characteristic of the old Turkey.

We were ushered in by a tiny Javanese maid. The drawing-room was crowded. Both my wife and myself felt the strain of being the guests of honour. We were somewhat conscious that we had to live up to the expectation of our new friends and try not to disappoint them too much with our terpsichorean abilities. Madame Zia Bey received us at the tea-table, which was really a sort of large buffet piled with delicious pastries, cakes, sandwiches and biscuits of all kinds. Tea, coffee or a delicious punch were served according to the taste of the guests. It was as elaborate as the cold supper buffets one sees in America at large dances.

Madame Zia Bey, her sister-in-law and two other young ladies who were helping the hostess to serve, were the only ones who did not have the “charshaf”--all the other ladies wore this most becoming headgear which is made of the same material as the dress and fits tightly around the head, while its two flowing ends, which enclose the shoulders when the ladies are in the street, hang loosely behind them when they are in the house. Over the head a flimsy veil--generally some precious lace--is thrown backwards at a rakish angle and frames the face, which remains entirely uncovered, in a softening cloud. After serving us with some tea and cakes, Madame Zia Bey passed us on to her husband who, one by one as the occasion arose, introduced us to the guests. Later the introductions were finished by Madame Zia Bey who joined us after she had served all her guests at the tea-table.

We were glad to see a few of our friends from Prinkipo and the Bosphorus but the majority of the guests were, of course, new to us. There were two young men, two brothers, who were introduced to us as the two “tango champions” of the set. I must say that they are very nice young boys and, despite the fact that they dance most exquisitely, they are not at all the type of dancing men one meets elsewhere. Their sister was also there, with her fiancé. I wished that some of my American friends who absolutely refused to believe that the custom of arranging marriages between girls and boys who had not previously met was a thing of the past in Turkey could have seen this couple. Mademoiselle Rashid Bey and her fiancé had known each other for some time and their marriage was the result of a genuine romance in which no outsider had interfered.

There were only two or three foreigners among the guests, and the most prominent of them was the Japanese Ambassador, who is quite popular in the social circles of Constantinople. The Italian military attaché was also present as well as a French officer. A Greek lady whose husband is one of the very few prominent Greeks who have remained openly faithful to the cause of Turkey was also there. Needless to say that she and her husband are very much liked by the Turks who recognize their real friends and show them true gratitude under all circumstances. The rest of the crowd was exclusively Turkish, all most attractive and genuinely refined people who had kept, despite their extreme westernization, the good manners and the good breeding characteristic of their race.

When everybody had duly partaken of the delicacies and refreshments offered at the tea-table, we adjourned--with the slight touch of ceremony prevailing in all Turkish gatherings--to two spacious drawing-rooms on the same floor. And, as we expected, the informal dancing started to the sound of a gramaphone of the latest model imported from America. It was a surprise for us to see how extremely up to date everybody was. Charming Turkish girls were dancing the newest steps as expertly as débutantes of New York, London and Paris--with a little more decorum, perhaps, and certainly with less “abandon,” but that did not in any way hurt the effect. Quite on the contrary it gave to modern dances a degree of respectability which is not always found in the West.

One other difference that we found was that the tango still reigned supreme here. It was played at least seven or eight times during the evening. But after seeing the excellence with which everybody danced it my wife and I were quite reluctant to give a demonstration of our own limited abilities. We had to immolate ourselves, however, and although we did our best to come up to expectation, I am not quite certain that we entirely succeeded. Of course I had to explain that I should not be personally taken as an exponent of the American art as I was not and never had been an expert in dancing. My wife saved the day for America by tangoing with the real experts as perfectly as only an American girl can.

This tea-party at my cousin's was our first experience of Turkish social life. It was to be followed by many others during the winter. As I have said before, all Turkish ladies belonging to this set have a day at home every week and if one cares to go out extensively one has somewhere to go practically every day. While we did not indulge in daily social activities this gave us the opportunity to go out every once in a while--about once or twice a week--which afforded us a pleasant change from our more serious and much quieter life of Stamboul, without obliging us to seek distraction by frequenting even at long intervals the unhealthy amusement places of Pera.

Thus the Turks have found a way to amuse themselves among their own people exclusively and while, of course, some foreigners are asked to the parties of these small Turkish sets it is only a very few of them--carefully selected--who are privileged to frequent Turkish society. I am ready to admit, however, that to my mind the selection of these foreigners should be done even more carefully as I share entirely the views of my aunt, explained in one of my former chapters, that the foreigners who are at present in Constantinople are not as a whole very trustworthy and that it is very difficult to distinguish among them those who can be, without any objection, taken within our homes. All the more because the Turks are racially extremely hospitable and they are therefore apt to show too much confidence and to become too intimate with those they take in their midst. Many other races, many other civilizations have gone down just because of their pure and unsuspecting hospitality toward foreigners. The Turks cannot be blamed for their present attitude. In fact, if they are at all to blame it is that some of them are even too careless in their extreme desire to become entirely westernized and despite the fact that I consider myself extremely liberal in my ideas I entirely endorse the Turkish National Assembly of Angora for remonstrating periodically with the Turkish inhabitants of Constantinople for mixing too freely with foreigners and for adopting too indiscriminately their customs. Right in the middle of the 1921-1922 season the Turkish papers published broadcast such a remonstrance of the National Assembly and although many of the ill-disposed foreign newspapers took advantage of this to harp on the xenophoby of the Turks ruling in Anatolia, it really was for the purpose--very justifiable and commendable--of reminding the people of Constantinople that they should respect and honour any and all of their national traditions which did not hinder the continued advance of the nation toward progress and real civilization. A reminder of this is an absolute necessity and has to be uttered periodically, as the people of Constantinople live at present right in the midst of every kind of imported vices and immoralities and the first duty of a nation for the protection of its vitality and its vigor is to see that the virtue of its people is not contaminated.

Naturally, in view of their environment, the Turks of Constantinople are in danger. The greatest majority of them have so far escaped contamination by segregating themselves in Stamboul and in Nishantashe but there are some who need to be called to attention once in a while as the temptations in their path are too great. In justice to them I am bound to say, however, that judging by what I have seen they keep their morals and virtues unimpaired despite their gay and sometimes rather “advanced” appearances. But still the danger is there and a periodical warning is a very good measure.

Most of the Turkish social activities and entertainments are held in the evenings, that is, from tea-time to about dinner-time. The Turks, even those who live in Shishli, have neither the means nor the heart to entertain elaborately, and big dinners or official receptions or dances are much too elaborate affairs for them to undertake. So they are satisfied with tea-parties with dancing--tango-teas they are called--such as the one given by my cousin. The evening entertaining is done exclusively by the foreign diplomatic missions and by some prominent foreign business men. I am, of course, talking exclusively of social entertainments which are refined enough for the Turks to participate in. The other evening entertainments offered by the professionals of Pera or by the doubtful social set of Perotes--Greeks, Armenians and Levantines--are not taken into consideration.

The foreign diplomatic missions give once in a while special receptions for the Turks to which are also invited the officials, the representatives and the nationals of the countries which are, if not at peace at least not at open war against the Turks. For instance, at any of the receptions where Turks were invited Greek officials and Greek nationals would shine by their absence and, according to the wind which blows over Turco-British relations, British officials were absent or present if the latest declaration at the House of Commons was to the effect of reinforcing the English support to Greece or else had taken the colour of a revival of the traditional British friendship towards Turkey and the Muslim world. The shifts in international policy make the official social life in Constantinople a very delicate matter indeed, and the host or hostess who plans to give a large reception and is obliged to make the necessary preparations considerably beforehand has unquestionably a very hard task, as no one can foresee, a few days in advance, what the prevailing international policy will be on the day the reception is given. The only reception that I know of which was given with a total disregard of international relations and at which all officials and prominent citizens of all nations were invited was the reception given at the Persian Embassy in honour of the Crown Prince of Persia and despite all, it was the most successful reception of the season in Constantinople.

The Crown Prince was on his way to France and was to stay only a few days in Constantinople so that the Ambassador could not possibly give several receptions to which he could have separately asked the different warring nations. To ask only some at the single large reception he was obliged to give would have alienated the friendship of all those who had not been invited. So the Persian representative bravely decided to ask everybody without distinction of nationality and without regard to the political situation, and let events take their course.

Naturally, events were powerfully helped by the “savoir faire” and the courtesy of the Persian representative and of his wife who were so charming and hospitable to all their guests that every one enjoyed the reception most thoroughly. Of course we were all anticipating with much curiosity the experience and were anxious to see how it would turn out. The Persian Embassy is in Stamboul, only a few doors from our home, and the fact that the wife of the representative was an American and that we knew them both in America had established most cordial friendly relations between them and ourselves. So we were delighted to comply with the request of Her Excellency the Khanoum, who asked us to come early so as to be present when her first guests arrived; and soon after dinner my wife and I made our way to the Embassy.

The Persian mission is located in a big building which had been repainted for the occasion. It is in the center of a large garden and has a gorgeous view of the Bosphorus from over the Sublime Porte. Over the big entrance gate of the garden it has the Persian emblem, a lion and a rising sun. The garden had been decorated for the occasion with flags of all nations and multi-coloured lanterns, while on a mast in the center floated majestically a huge Persian standard. Concealed among the trees a Turkish Naval Band, graciously loaned by the Navy Department, was playing different pieces of music. Attendants in Persian uniforms with small black kolpaks received, on the marble steps of the Embassy, the arriving guests. We were among the first to come and it gave us an opportunity of admiring the rich antique Persian carpets with which the enormous entrance hall had been decorated. The whole place was covered with shimmering hangings, carpets and rugs and with plants and rare flowers. At the top of the stairs stood the Khan and the Khanoum with the entire staff of the Embassy, all in uniform and decorations. The Khanoum wore her beautifully embroidered Persian court gown and her diamond decorations and greeted us with the ineffable charm which has won for her the hearts of all who have met her in three continents. She took my wife by the hand and brought us into one of the principal salons from where we could have a view of the gardens. She informed us that the Crown Prince was resting in his private apartment on the floor above, awaiting the arrival of the principal guests to hold his court. As the guests were now arriving the Khanoum returned to the head of the stairs to greet them.

From where we were we could also see the central hall where a special dais had been built to serve as a throne for the Crown Prince. The guests were placed in the different drawing-rooms, according to their individual social or official position, the most important ones waiting in the first drawing-room and the others in the drawing-rooms behind. Soon the Naval Band outside was playing the different national anthems of the different diplomatic representatives as they were coming in. One of the first to arrive was the British High Commissioner and his wife who took their place right at the door of the drawing-room where we were waiting. After a few minutes and as the band was starting the Turkish National Anthem, which indicated that the personal representative of the Sultan and of the Crown Prince of Turkey had arrived, the Persian Crown Prince came in and took his place under the dais with his brother and the Khanoum on his right and the Khan and the Turkish Grand Master of Ceremonies on his left. Every one stood at attention. The Crown Prince is a young man, dark and good looking with a small, closely clipped black mustache. He looked slim and tall in his tight-fitting long black court dress, and appeared that evening somewhat tired and nervous, which after all was quite natural considering that he had just arrived from a very long and tedious trip across the Persian deserts, Bolshevik Caucasia, and the Black Sea As soon as he had taken his place the Turkish Mission was ushered in and I am frank to admit that I was proud of the appearance of our representatives. The Sultan was represented by his Minister of Foreign Affairs, General Izzet Pasha, an imposing man of about fifty, with gray mustaches, his fez slightly tilted on one side giving a martial expression to his distinguished and refined face. The Turkish Crown Prince was represented by his son, Prince Omer Farouk Effendi, an athletic young man in the uniform of a cavalry lieutenant, tall and well built, blond hair and blue eyes. They were both surrounded with young officers who clicked their heels martially when they were being introduced to the Persian Crown Prince. After the Turkish Mission the foreign missions were introduced one by one according to the seniority of their respective heads and when the British Mission had closed the official train--the British High Commissioner being the most recent foreign appointee in Constantinople--the turn came for the other guests. Because of our privileged position in the first drawing-room our turn came immediately after the official missions and when we made our reverence to the Crown Prince he cordially shook us by the hand and addressed us in a few kind words in French. We then passed into the big ballroom where all the guests had gathered, and the painful ordeal of all official receptions, where you have to greet with stereotyped words the different people you know, began. But it did not last long at this reception, as there was informal dancing and as soon as the music started the ice was broken and the usual relaxation set in. We danced a little and we watched the crowd which was the most interesting agglomeration of official people one could see anywhere. Even the Greek Mission was present, but its members had the good taste to disappear soon after the dancing had started. Prominent diplomats of all nations and dashing officers in resplendent uniforms were talking and joking with each other as if the war had never taken place, or if peace had really been established. But the most stunning figure of all and the one which attracted the most attention, was unquestionably that of a young Arab prince, cousin of Emir Feigal, King of Mesopotamia, and direct descendant of the Prophet Mahomed. The prince, or more correctly the “shereef,” as his real title is, was clad in a flowing robe of silk and had the Arab headgear, a white silk cover tightly bound on the head by a band of gold threads and loosely floating on the shoulders. We were talking with some American friends, a dear old lady of the Middle West and her husband who is a teacher at the American Robert College, when the Shereef recognized me and came to speak to us. Naturally, I introduced him to my wife and our friends, and as he spoke English most fluently, as he looked most romantic in his robe, and his blond beard gave a Christ-like expression to his aristocratic features, our friends were visibly very much impressed by him. When he left us the lady of the Middle West, all a-flutter, asked me who he was--and could not conceal her terrible disappointment when I informed her he was a “Shereef”! The dear old lady confused the title with the functions of a sheriff charged with the keeping of the peace in English-speaking countries, and her disappointment as well as the ignorance of her husband, who did not correct her, amused us so that we did not explain, and to this day I imagine that they both are firmly convinced that sheriffs in Turkey wear too gorgeous and too impracticable uniforms.

Towards midnight the doors of the dining-room were opened and every one went down stairs to have cold supper. The crowd was such that despite the rather chilly weather of the season many wandered in the gardens. It is here that I was for the first time introduced to His Highness Izzet Pasha, Minister of Foreign Affairs, who was later to show me many marks of friendship. He of course knew my father and my family and immediately put my wife and myself at our ease by stating that he wanted to be considered by us as an “Oncle.” This is a mark of extreme courtesy in Turkey and we were, and have been ever since, duly grateful to Izzet Pasha for this and for his subsequent real friendship. Be it said in parentheses that Izzet Pasha is one of the ablest statesmen of Europe, broadminded, most progressive and democratic.

As the crowd was thinning we had an opportunity to talk some more to the Persian representative and to the Khanoum who were justly delighted with the remarkable success of their reception. They had dared to bring together all the representatives of different nations at war and of nations who had not yet concluded peace and they had been most successful in their endeavour. This was especially remarkable as it took place right in Constantinople which is and has been for many years the center of international intrigues, political rivalries and petty jealousies. We could congratulate them therefore most truthfully. They took us back into a small sitting-room on the first floor where we had a few minutes private audience with the Crown Prince who courteously expressed the hope that we had enjoyed the reception. Upon learning that my wife was American he stated his admiration for the United States which he hopes to be able to visit some time. It surely would be a very good thing for the world if through visits of this kind the western world was placed in a position to know and appreciate the Orient. The American idea of an Oriental potentate would surely be greatly revised if Oriental princes such as the Persian Crown Prince and the Turkish Imperial Princes came to America and entered into personal touch with the people.

Of course the Oriental feminine element was entirely absent from the reception at the Persian Embassy, the Persians being in this respect much stricter than the Turks, their women do not go out in society and as Persian ladies were not to be present, Turkish ladies also remained away. But this is not the case at the receptions given by the other Embassies, especially the American Embassy.

The United States High Commissioner and his wife give every season a series of entertainments to which they ask in turn the different nations represented in Constantinople. This solves very diplomatically the always ticklish problem of bringing inadvertently together representatives of nations who are not on good terms. The receptions given at the American Embassy are always most enjoyable and I can say without exaggeration that among all the foreign representatives it is the American High Commissioner and his wife who are the most liked--and liked indiscriminately by all--in Constantinople. Whenever they give an entertainment to which the Turkish society is invited the drawing-rooms of the Embassy are filled to full capacity as all the Turks who are asked want to show their appreciation by coming to the party. The company is always the most representative gathering that one can see in Constantinople. At one of the “thé dansants” they gave recently there were, besides all the Turkish Government officials, not less than four Imperial Princes and three Princesses. It surely is a sign of the times and proof of the emancipation of Turkish women to see at a large reception a Turkish Princess, a niece or cousin of the reigning Calif, freely talking to strangers.

It is always at the American Embassy that one sees the largest collection of Turkish ladies. Americans are very much liked by the Turks and many of the younger Turkish generation have been educated at Robert College or at the Constantinople College, the two American educational institutions of Constantinople where young men and young women are educated according to an American program. It was at one of the teas given at the American Embassy that we met one of the principals of Robert College, and he and his wife having asked us to tea the following week and having promised to take us through the college we were delighted to accept their invitation.

XI

ROBERT COLLEGE

Robert College is situated at the most picturesque spot on the Bosphorus. It dominates the narrowest part of the waterway and its many buildings are on a hill, above the very place which was selected by the Turks nearly six centuries ago as the strategic spot to build their first fort for the conquest of Constantinople. The ruins of the old fort are still there.

Although the electric cars run from the city almost to the very door of the college, we took an automobile, both because we wanted to time our arrival and because we did not desire to climb through the park of the College up the hill where its principal buildings are. We left Stamboul with some American friends who had also been asked and, at times skirting the quays, at times taking the road behind the old palaces, we followed the winding contour of the Bosphorus. All the villages here constitute the real suburbs of Constantinople and follow each other almost uninterruptedly nearly to the shores of the Black Sea. One of the first things that attracted our attention soon after we had left the city proper were the buildings of the American Naval Base where are kept all the stores for the United States warships. The principal nations keep such stores at present in Constantinople, the harbour being used as a base for their warships engaged in the international control of the straits. America maintains only a few small craft in the Near East; therefore, its naval base is much smaller than those of the other nations but it is nevertheless quite an extensive organization where are stored canned products of all kind, fresh food, as well as deck and engine-room supplies. A few squares from the American Naval Base is the Imperial Palace of Dolma Baghtshe, the official residence of the Sultan.

It is an elaborate and large palace in stone and marble, within a beautiful garden surrounded with high walls and wrought-iron gates. I remember having entered it during the reign of the late Sultan. I was struck by the enormous size of its halls and rooms, by the luxury of its priceless carpets, rugs and hangings, and by its gallery of pictures which includes the most important collection of paintings of the famous Russian artist, Aivazowsky. It had been collected by Sultan Abdul Aziz and is now greedily coveted by many European museums, who will, however, have to be satisfied just to covet it as Turkey does not sell its national art possessions. Passing before the Imperial Palace I could not help comparing mentally its present appearance to the way it looked when I had previously visited it. At that time the place was full of life, the large gates were wide opened, and the gardens were crowded with military aides and chamberlains busily going and coming. Now the gates were closed, a lonely Turkish sentry was pacing up and down, guarding the empty palace, and through the wrought-iron bars I could get only glimpses of its forsaken gardens. My American friends asked me why the palace was now so tightly closed and easily understood the reason when I called their attention to the fact that most of the largest foreign warships had to be anchored in the Bosphorus right in front of the Palace as the inner harbour of Constantinople is too congested with trade to make it practical for battleships to stay there. No wonder, therefore, that the Sultan prefers to live temporarily in the summer palace of Yildiz Kiosk which is located outside the city, on a hill far away from the sight of foreign warships whose propinquity would be too vivid a reminder to the sovereign of the plight of his nation.

A little further on we passed before the gates of another old palace which has now been converted into an orphan asylum, where hundreds of Turkish war orphans are being cared for by the Committee of Turkish Ladies for the Relief of Orphans. Poor little boys, ranging from six to fourteen years and uniformly dressed in khaki tunics and long trousers, were pitifully standing and watching the passers-by. They did not even seem to have any desire to pass their few minutes of recreation in playing and running in the gardens, as all other children of their age do in all other countries. Truly Sherman was right in his definition of war, and he would have even forged a stronger word if he had seen the consequences of war in Turkey!

Finally we arrived at Bebek, with its pretty little public garden, its tiny harbour where small yachts and skiffs are peacefully lying covered with tarpaulin for their winter sleep. From here to the lower gate of Robert College is only a very short distance and within a few minutes our car swung through the gate and up the road winding its way to the top of the hill. The climb is pretty steep and I pity the day pupils who have to negotiate it every morning on foot. Of course the teachers claim that this is good exercise for the boys. There is a building at the foot of the hill, right near the entrance gate, which was originally meant as an abode for some of the teachers and principals of the college. It has perfectly splendid accommodations, but few of the teachers live here as they naturally prefer to live on top of the hill. Our hosts had their domicile in the hospital building which is right below the large terrace at the very summit. So before we reached this terrace our car swerved around and stopped at the door of the hospital.

We were directed to an apartment on the ground floor where our hosts received us and, after the usual greetings, served us tea and some delicious American homemade cakes. All the furniture in this apartment--as throughout the whole college--is imported from America, even to the window frames. Provided one does not look out of the windows one could easily believe oneself to be in an American home of the standardized “bourgeois” type. Everything, even to the mahogany-finished mantelpiece and the book-cases to match, speaks of America, the middle class America cut out of immovable patterns. The furniture itself is also American and reminds you of pictures you see in the anniversary sales periodically advertised in newspapers. The eternal rocking-chair is, of course there, and on the center-table the latest _Ladies' Home Companion_ rests peacefully side by side with the latest _Saturday Evening Post_. Truly this is a little corner of America, possibly not a corner of the progressive America which leads the world in things artistic, intellectual, scientific and political--possibly not a corner of the good old consistent America, puritan in her tastes, but which has for generations given to the great Western Republic millions and millions of hard-working farmers, traders and navigators, Empire builders--but a corner of the average America which abides faithfully to standardized taste.

The general conversation started naturally by talking about America, the land of the free, and how everyone wished to be there; how much comfort one had in America and how little of it one had in Europe, especially in Constantinople; how the American colony in Constantinople had increased since the war, and what a blessing it was to have now so many Americans whom one could visit and whom one could talk to; how the American colony was sufficient to itself and how one could pleasantly and interestingly pass away the time by seeing only people of one's own kind with whom one could speak without the necessity of employing an interpreter or without being obliged to watch oneself continuously so as not to make a break. Of course this question of language is a serious consideration to the Americans; as most of them speak only English they have comparatively few people they can talk to in foreign countries. Our host, however, remarked that through the good work done by Robert College and the Constantinople College for Girls, who were both striving to spread education and the light of truth, the number of English-speaking “natives” had greatly increased. Our hostess pointed out how bright the young “native” children were and how easily they picked up language, education and religion. They suggested showing us through the college grounds and buildings and so we all got up.

Our tour started by stepping out of the French windows into the little terrace, where an old fashioned New England flower garden had been transplanted on these distant shores. The hedges were not high enough to completely mask the gorgeous Oriental view. Seeing we were so much interested in the panorama, our hosts suggested our going on the roof of the Hospital Building where we could see it without any obstruction. As we passed through the drawing-room our hostess pointed out to us the genuine Turkish and Persian carpets she had been lucky enough to purchase through the uncle of one of the pupils who had a shop in the Bazaar. She considered them as a real bargain and she proudly told us the price she had paid. Of course we did not say anything, but my conscience was only set at rest after I found, through skilful investigation, that the pupil whose uncle had a shop in the Bazaar was an Armenian “and one of the cleverest little fellows we have.” Our hostess showed us also, hidden in a corner near the door and patiently awaiting the eventual return of its owners to America where it could be shown to friends from Michigan or Wisconsin as exhibit A of a quaint collection of Turkish antiques, a brass brazero, another bargain purchased from the Armenian uncle of the clever little pupil. It seemed that this man through his good services to our hosts had been recommended by them to many of their friends and had furnished to several of them similar bargains. No wonder that the family of the little boy prodigy could afford to send him to Robert College.

We climbed the stairs of the building and stopped on our way in the hospital room, a perfectly equipped place with all the comforts devised by modern science and kept immaculately clean and as we climbed one more flight we reached the door of the roof, a spacious flat place with an indented parapet built according to the best principles of American neo-mediaeval suburban architecture. Here we had the view, and words fail me to depict its gorgeousness. Imagine if you can a limitless horizon extending far into the transparent azure of a limpid Eastern sky, deep into the snow-covered mountains of Anatolia, which are, however, so far away that they almost seem at this distance to be below your level. All around in the country are little bouquets of trees which, with each slender minaret, represent the location of a small village. Nearer, but still on the Asiatic shores, are the green hills of the Bosphorus with their summer residences and their uninterrupted line of homes by the water, while below are the green hills of the European shore. With the blue water in between and the blue sky overhead, the picture is unforgettable. We admired it in silence while our hosts told us of their little country house in America, near a little pond whose waters are as blue as the waters of the Bosphorus.

We descend from the terrace and we are taken to the principal buildings of the college through its splendid grounds. The park is beautiful and well kept and is crowned with an enormous terrace, facing East, from where we have another view totally different but fully as gorgeous as the one we had from the Hospital Building. That is the beauty of the Bosphorus: its aspect changes from any spot that you stand on, its every hill, its every house, its every nook and every corner has a different outlook, each one more beautiful than the other. It completely does away with the monotony that any panorama, no matter how beautiful, generally has.

Right behind the terrace are the playgrounds of the college, large lawns with special accommodations for all kinds of games: football, tennis, croquet, and of course basket-ball and baseball. Around these grounds and facing the Bosphorus in a semi-circle are the principal buildings of the College where the class-rooms, the dormitories, the dining-rooms, laboratories, gymnasiums, etc. are located. We go through some of them. They are all spacious, well-ventilated and bright rooms, and each is equipped according to the latest dictates of hygiene and science. It really is perfect in every detail and no modern college in the United States can muster any better accommodation

Our host is justly proud when we compliment him on the College. As they are taking us back to our motor he walks with me and expresses his personal disappointment in not having a larger number of Turkish pupils.