YET after I had come to believe that these conclusions of mine were the right ones—and at the present moment I still believe them to be so—I did not rise, pack my trunk and return to my home. On the contrary, disillusioned though I was, I meant to stay in America. My little self felt pledged to the onward fight, into which evolution has plunged us. My generation belongs to that advance guard which will live to see the fight ended in America, and I must be present, after the great victory is won, to see how we shall face the reconstruction period. This was the reason why, when my mother, about to undergo a serious operation, sent for me to be with her, I bought my return ticket before leaving America, and kept it always with me—ready for use at a moment’s notice.
The love of our native land forms an indelible part of our souls. A mad joy possessed me all the way from New York to Genoa; a delirium from Genoa to the Dardanelles; and from the straits to the harbour I was speechless withemotion. How wonderful my empress city looked, when the mist gradually lifted and disclosed her to my homesick eyes. Up to that moment I had thought never to see her enchanting face again; yet there I was, standing on the promenade deck of a commonplace steamer, while she was giving me—me, her runaway child—all her smiles and all her glory.
We must be very strong, that we do not sometimes die of joy.
When the little tender docked at the quay of Galata, how I should have loved to have escaped the customs bother, the many and one greetings, and the hundred and several more stupid words one has to say on disembarking. Yet having acquired a little wisdom, I was patient with the custom-house men, and polite to the people who had been sent to meet me. Obediently even I entered the carriage which was to take me up, up on the seven hills where we Christians live.
Not till several days afterwards was I free to start on my pilgrimage; and as I walked up and down the main streets, and in and out of the narrow, crooked, dirty lanes, which lead one enticingly onward—often to nowhere—I was aware that my pilgrimage had a double aim. First, I wanted to recognize my old haunts, and second, to find that part of myself which had once lived within those quarters. Alas! if the streets were the same, I was not. Where wasthe girl, full of enthusiasm and dreams, who had trod these same streets? Something within me had changed. Was it my faith in mankind, or my faith in life itself?
As I walked on, unconsciously I was picturing these same streets, clean, full of life and bustle, were Turkey to belong to America. I could see the trolleys they would have here, the terraces they would build there, the magnificent buildings they would erect, and all the civilized things they would bring to my mother country. My eyes, Americanized by the progress of the new world, kept seeing things that ought to be done, and were left undone, for no other reason than that they had been left undone for hundreds of years. The saddest of all sad things is when one begins to see the faults and failings of one’s own beloved, be it a person or a country. I hated myself for finding fault with Turkey because she was clad in a poor, unkempt garb.
Before the Galata Tower, just where the streets form a cross, I turned to the left, and walked to the next street. At its entrance the leader of a band of dogs rose from his slumbers and barked at me angrily. I started, and then stood still. This was a street where once I had lived, and the canine leader barking at me was the same as six years ago, only older, more unkempt, and filthier. It hurt me to have him bark at me. It meant that he did not know me—or did hewith his doggish intuition feel that I was disloyal in my heart to the old régime?
“Why, Giaour!” I cried, “don’t you know me? We used to be friends, you and I.”
He stood rigidly on his old legs, his band alert to follow his lead. These dogs, which were anathema to the stranger, had a double duty to perform in their unhappy city. They were not only scavengers, but the defenders of her defenceless quarters. The stranger only saw their scarred bodies and ugly appearance; but we who were born in Constantinople knew how they formed their bands, and how they protected us. Each quarter had some twenty dogs, and they guarded it both against other dogs, and against strangers. The young ones, as they grew up, had to win their spurs, and their position was determined by their bravery and skill, both in fighting and in commanding. I had seen Giaour win his leadership, a month or so before I left Constantinople. He had been nicknamed Giaour by a Turkishkapoudji, because he had a white cross plainly marked on his face.
To my entreaties he only stood growling. “Come, Giaour,” I begged, “I have changed, I know, but I am still enough myself for you not to bark at me.”
He listened, mistrustfully watching every movement I made, and because of this I perpetrated a shameful deed. I retreated toGalderim Gedjesi, bought a loaf at the baker’s, and with the bribe in my hand returned. The band was now lying down, but Giaour was still standing, his pantallettes shaking in a ruffled and disturbed fashion. In his heart, perhaps, he was not pleased with himself for having barked at me.
I approached him, the bread in my hand. After all, is not Turkey the land of bribes?
“Come, Giaour!” I went and sat down on a door-step. Slowly and with dignity he followed. “Here is some bread from the baker’s for you, and please try to remember me! It is more than I can bear to have you bark at me, Giaour.”
He sniffed at the piece of bread I offered him; then ate it, and then another piece, and another. When he had finished the entire loaf he placed both his paws on my lap and studied my face intently.
“Giaour, you know me now, don’t you?” I begged. “I used to live here six years ago, though it seems like ages.”
From across the way an Englishman came out of a house and approached me, where I sat with Giaour’s paws in my lap. “I beg your pardon,” he said shyly, lifting his hat, “but you are a stranger here, and those fellows are dangerous. Besides they are unhealthy.”
This was the last straw: he took me for a foreigner.
“Thank you,” I replied, “but I am not afraid. The fact is, we are of the same kennel, Giaour and I.”
“Kennel—h’m!”
“Oh, I know Giaour has never seen a kennel, as you understand it in England; but he has a fine doggish soul, just the same.”
“H’m!” the Englishman sniffed again, “perhaps he has,” and lifting his hat, he went away.
It is a curious fact that unless an Englishman in England knows you, he would rather perish than speak to you first; on the Continent he would rather be rude to you than decent; but in Turkey his nature seems to change, and he is really a nice human being. As I watched the man go away I was thinking that if England were governing Turkey how delightful everything would be. Yes, England would be the one nation to succeed with Turkey. America was too bustling, after all, and had too little experience. Germany had too much paternalism and discipline; Austria-Hungary lacked fundamental honesty; while as for Russia—that ought never to be. Russian bureaucracy, grafted on the corrupt Turkish stem would only make matters worse. But England, with her love of order and decency, and with just enough discipline to put matters to rights—how delightful it would be, and how the Turks would enjoy stopping whatever they were doing, at fouro’clock, to have tea! Alas! between Mr Gladstone’s indiscreet utterances, and Sir Elliot’s bad management, England let her hour slip by, and Turkey was deprived of her one chance to be regenerated.
Giaour threw back his head and emitted a howl. It was strident and harsh, the howl of the plains of Asia; for Giaour was of the blood of the once monarchs of the East, though now he was a ragged, diseased dog—scavenger, and soldier of fortune.
Lovingly my hand patted his old head. “Ah, Giaour, my boy, these are hard days for thee and thy race, and even I am recreant in my heart to thee. Forgive me! Perhaps the Powers, in not agreeing among themselves, have reached the only possible agreement at present—the Turk in Constantinople.”
I took his paws and put them down. “Don’t bark at me again, old boy.”
He waved his stump of a tail, just a tiny bit. He had eaten my bread, he had looked into my eyes, yet he was not quite certain of me. Perhaps he, too, had lost faith in life and in mankind.
On leaving Giaour, I plunged into that tangle of streets through which one may deviously find one’s way to Kara-keuy. To a stranger it is a veritable labyrinth; but though I have little sense of locality I could still find my way throughit. It is one of the few thoroughly oriental quarters left on this side of the Galata Bridge.
Arrived at Kara-Keuy I stopped happily, watching the life about me. How delightfully—how terribly—everything was the same. From afar I heard a cry—“Varda!” and then saw the half-clad figure of the runner, who, waving a red flag to right and to left, was warning pedestrians that the street-car was coming. Ah! this was indeed my Constantinople, disdained by progress, forgotten by time. How emblematic was this runner before the street-car. He reminded me of the cynical words of the crafty Russian statesman, Ignatief, who once exclaimed: “They talk of regenerating Turkey—as if that were possible even to the Almighty above.”
My dear, dear Turkey! She may start over again in Asia, but be regenerated in Europe——?
For a little while I walked on, and then entering a small confectioner’s shop, frequented only by Turks, and squatting like them on a low stool, I ordered akourousworth ofboughatcha. I ate it with my fingers, like the others. Near me sat two young students of theology, talking politics. Their tone as much as their words made me see bloodshed. In some ways the Turks are one of the finest races, but they have been losing ground for the last two hundred years and it hurts them, and in their heart they see red. No wonder they make others see it,too. The conversation of the youngsoftaswas full of the sanguine colour. This was shortly after 1897. Turkey had just defeated Greece, and the old feeling of arrogance was uppermost in the breasts of Mahomet’s followers.
“Fork them out! Fork them out, the giaours,” cried the younger of the two. “They are only fit for fodder, those Christian dogs.”
I should have liked to linger over myboughatcha, but the tension of the tone betrayed a heat above the normal. I paid mykourous, and left the shop, praying both to the Christian God and to the Mohammedan one that they might let these misguided children see stretches of peaceful green, instead of always red.
Slowly, slowly, now, I walked to the Galata Bridge, and turned to the right, just behind thekarakolwhich houses the main body of the Galata police. I was on my way to hunt up old Ali Baba, my boatman, him with whom years ago I had shared the raptures of the Byzantine History. My heart was beating fast. Would Turkey play me false this once? Would the one living landmark of my past be chosen as the one to mark a change in that changeless country?
Hastening, I yet found myself lingering in my haste. If his place were to be empty, if he were really gone, having himself been rowed over the river Styx, would it not be better for me not togo there, but always to remember his place filled by his kindly presence?
Though reasoning thus, my feet still took me onward to where he used to be, and there, at his accustomed place, sat Ali Baba, his face looking like a nice red apple, wrinkled by the sun and rain.
I went and stood before him. “Ali Baba!” I said, tears in my voice.
He rose, a trifle less quickly than he used to, and looked at me incredulously.
“Benim kuchouk, hanoum,” he said slowly, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh! it is I!” I cried. “It is I,” and gave him both my hands.
We walked toward the little caïque, where he took some time to unfasten the rope. We did not speak until he had rowed again mid-way, under the bridge.
“Where have you been all these many, many years?” he asked reproachfully.
“I have been to America.” I replied, “the newest and biggest of all countries”—and as of old I was talking, and he was listening; only this time it was not of the past, and of the people, who, having done their work, were dead and forgotten, but of a country of a great present, and a still greater future. And as of old his old face was full of interest and kindness.
Presently he asked, “But my little lady, whathave you done with the roses of your face? You are pale and worn out.”
“One has to work hard in America,” I replied. “It is a country which requires of your best, of your utmost, if you are to succeed.” And again I went on to tell him of the fast trains which go sixty miles an hour, of the elevated trains, flying above the middle of the streets, and of the preparations for the subways, which were to burrow in the depths of the city.
“But why are they working so hard and preparing so much?” he asked, a bit bewildered. “After all they will have to die, and when they are dead they can only have a grave like anybody else.”
I shook my head. “They are making away with the graves, my Ali Baba. They have invented a quicker and more expedient way of getting rid of the body. They place it on a table in a special room, and within two hours all that is left of it is a simple white strip of clean ashes.”
He gasped. “They have done that?” he cried in horror. “They have done that! Allah, can’st thou forgive them?” He leaned towards me, earnestness and entreaty in his kind face. “Don’t go back there, my little one, don’t go back there again. It is an accursed country which steals the peace from the living, their bodies from the dead, and robs a child of herroses. Say that you are not going back, my little one.”
Again I shook my head. “When I left there, my Ali Baba, I bought my return-ticket. I wear it like an amulet around my neck. I am going back as soon as my presence is no longer needed here.”
He let his oars drop. “You are going back?” he asked with awe. “But why?”
I looked at him, and beyond him at old Byzantium—once Greek, now full of minarets and mosques and all they stood for. A red Turkish flag floated idly against the indigo sky.
Why was I going back to that vast new country so diametrically different from his own? Could I explain to him?
No, I could not, any more than I could have explained, years ago, to my little Turkish Kiamelé the meaning of my grand-uncle’s gift on my fifth birthday.
“Why are you going back?” Ali Baba insisted.
No, I could not tell him: he could not understand.
His flag was the Crescent, mine was the Cross.