CHAPTER IX.Nalihan—Armenian, Turkish, and Circassian visitors—The state of the roads—Will there be war?—The Imaum—The Servians—A bellicose old farmer—The Armenians friends with the Russians—Sunnites and Shiites—Scenery near Nalihan—Alatai river—A Turkish counterpane—Turkish beds—Osman'sYorgan—Osman's wife—A girl with eyes like a hare, and plump as a turkey—The farmer's nuptial couch—An uncultivated district—An old Khan—A refuge for travellers—An invalid soldier—A Christian would have let me die like a dog—The votaries of Christianity in the East.It was quite dark when we reached Nalihan, a village with about 400 houses, and situated in a corn-growing district. I halted at the house of the Caimacan. He at once invited me to take up my abode there for the night. Presently several visitors appeared—Armenians, Turks, and Circassians—all eager to question the new arrival. I was seated in the place of honour, on a rug near the fire; the Caimacan, who was enveloped in a fur-lined dressing-gown, sat next me. The rest of thecompany took precedence according to the amount of this world's goods which each one possessed—the man who had 100 cows being seated next to the governor, and the humble possessor of a mule or a few sheep squatting humbly by the door.Asiatics are proverbially reticent. My visitors stared at each other, and did not say a word. At last the Caimacan broke the silence. He was wrapped up in a fur dressing-gown, and looked like an animated bundle. He gave a little cough, and then said, "Is there any news? if so tell us something." Now the inhabitants of Asia Minor do not talk about the weather—the state of the roads replaces that topic of conversation so interesting to English people."The roads are very bad," I replied.To this there was no dissent, everybody chorussed the wish for a railway."Do you think that one will ever be made?" inquired the Caimacan."Probably when you have some money in the exchequer.""We are very poor; why does not your nation lend us some gold?""We have already given you more than a hundred millions; with that money you might have made railways in every part of Anatolia.""Will there be war?" asked an Imaum (priest.)"I do not know.""If there is," he added, "I shall go—all the Imaums will go; we will fight by the side of our countrymen. We will kill all the Muscovites.""Has it not occurred to you," I here remarked, "that perhaps they may kill all the Turks?""Impossible! Allah and the Prophet are on our side; they will fight for the faithful.""What do you think yourself?" now inquired the Caimacan; "will Russia beat us?""Certainly—that is, if you have no European allies.""Why so?""Because, if your Government had to put out all its strength to conquer the Servians assisted by only 12,000 Russians, what opposition will it be able to make to an army of 700,000 Muscovites?""May their mothers be defiled!" said an old farmer. "They are always interfering with us. All my sons have gone to the war, and I—well, if the Padishah wants me, I will go too."He was apparently an octogenarian. This announcement on his part was received with great applause by the rest of the company."Why do you not give the Armenians arms, and make them assist?" I inquired."They are friends with the Russians," said the Imaum. "They would turn against us. Have you Armenians in your country?""No.""But you are a Christian, and they are Christians—you must be the same."I now had to explain to the company that there is as much difference between an English Protestant and an Armenian Christian, as between a Sunnite and a Shiite."And do you hate the Armenians as much as the Shiites hate us?""We do not hate anybody. Our religion does not allow us to do so.""You Christians are a strange people," said the priest. Rising, he left the room, followed by the rest of the visitors.The scenery is very lovely in this neighbourhood, and as we ascended an incline which leads in the direction of Angora, I could not help wishing that I had been born a painter, in order to have placed on canvas a picture of the landscape. A succession of hills, each one loftier than its fellow, broke upon us as we climbed the steep. They were of all forms, shades, and colours, ash-grey,blue, vermillion, robed in imperial purple, and dotted with patches of vegetation. Our road wound amidst these chameleon-like heights. Silvery rivulets streamed down the sides of the many coloured hills. A rising sun showered its gleaming rays upon the sparkling cascades. They flashed and reflected the tints and shadows. A gurgling sound of many waters arose from the depths below.We reach the summit of the highest hill. The scene changes. We look down upon a vast plain. It is surrounded on all sides by undulating heights. The white sandy soil of the valley throws still more into relief the many-coloured mountains. Patches of snow deck the more distant peaks. The sun is dispelling the flossy clouds which overhang the loftier crags. The filmy vapour floats away into space; caressing for a few moments the mountains' crests, it is wafted onward, and then disappears from our view.Now we crossed a rapid stream, about thirty yards wide, and known as the Alatai river. A fragile bridge spans the waters. Soon afterwards we put up for the night at a farm-house in the village of Tchairhana. The proprietor, a jolly-looking Turk, received us very hospitably. Later on in the evening he brought me a largeyorgan, orTurkish counterpane, with the remark that possibly the Effendi might feel cold during the night.The Turkish beds are very primitive; no bedstead being used. One or two mattresses are laid on the floor, theyorgantakes the place of sheets or blankets. It consists of a silk quilt, generally lined with linen, and stuffed with feathers. These quilts pass from father to son, and are greatly prized by the Turks. The farmer, to make me appreciate his attention the more highly, remarked that theyorganhad been used by his grandfather, as well as by his father on their wedding-nights, and that he himself had employed it on a similar occasion only a few weeks previously.Osman, now interrupted the speaker with the remark that in his family there was also a wonderfulyorgan—something quite out of the common, it was so beautiful that neither his wife nor himself liked to use it—and that this one was like a furze bush in comparison."So you are married, Osman?" I remarked."Yes; but I have not seen my wife for three years.""Do you love her very much?""She is a good cook. She makes soup whichis more filling than even my brother's here," pointing to Radford."Is she pretty?""Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for her.""Well, what did you give for your present wife?""Ten liras (Turkish pounds), but she did not weigh more than forty okas (about 100 lbs). She was very cheap. However, her eyes are not quite straight, they look in different directions. But that does not signify—she can cook.""Yes," said the farmer, "a good cook, Effendi, that is what I said to myself when I wanted a wife. Looks don't last, but cooking is an art which the Prophet himself did not despise."I had no reason to congratulate myself on being the occupant of the farmer's nuptial couch. It was very old and very beautiful, but it was full of fleas, and they gave me no rest."You ought to burn that quilt," I observed next morning to the farmer; "I have not closed my eyes during the entire night.""What, burn my grandfather's marriageyorgan—myfather'syorgan, and my ownyorgan! Never, Effendi! There are fleas, it is true, but they will die, and the quilt will do for my son and his wife, if ever he has one."The country which we next traversed was entirely uncultivated, although it would have well repaid a farmer. This, however, is the case with millions of acres in Turkey. There are no labourers. The country is depopulated to the last degree, and land which might produce wheat enough for the whole of Great Britain is left fallow.Presently we came to an old Khan. It had been built by a former sultan, as a refuge for travellers during the winter. At this season of the year the ground is sometimes covered with snow for several weeks in succession, and travelling is very dangerous. Two soldiers were the sole tenants of the building. Whilst I was performing my ablutions in the open air, one of them came to me and asked for a little tea. His comrade was ill, and tea he thought would be good for him. I went to look at the invalid. He was lying on a dirty mattress, and was shivering violently. It was clearly a case of fever, so taking some quinine from my medicine-chest, I administered a dose, and directed hiscomrade to procure a clean bed for the sufferer. The sick man was very grateful. Eagerly seizing my hand, he kissed it."What countryman are you?""I am English.""Your religion is not that of Islam?""No.""What are you?""I am a Protestant.""Protestant," repeated the poor fellow, "I shall remember that.""A Christian," he continued, "even if he had the medicine, would have let me die like a dog."It was very clear that the sufferer had not much opinion of the Armenian and Greek Christians. But this was no solitary expressed opinion. Throughout my journey, I found Armenians and Greeks equally despised by the Mohammedans. It is a great pity that the votaries of Christianity in the East should have brought the only pure religion into so great disrepute.
Nalihan—Armenian, Turkish, and Circassian visitors—The state of the roads—Will there be war?—The Imaum—The Servians—A bellicose old farmer—The Armenians friends with the Russians—Sunnites and Shiites—Scenery near Nalihan—Alatai river—A Turkish counterpane—Turkish beds—Osman'sYorgan—Osman's wife—A girl with eyes like a hare, and plump as a turkey—The farmer's nuptial couch—An uncultivated district—An old Khan—A refuge for travellers—An invalid soldier—A Christian would have let me die like a dog—The votaries of Christianity in the East.
It was quite dark when we reached Nalihan, a village with about 400 houses, and situated in a corn-growing district. I halted at the house of the Caimacan. He at once invited me to take up my abode there for the night. Presently several visitors appeared—Armenians, Turks, and Circassians—all eager to question the new arrival. I was seated in the place of honour, on a rug near the fire; the Caimacan, who was enveloped in a fur-lined dressing-gown, sat next me. The rest of thecompany took precedence according to the amount of this world's goods which each one possessed—the man who had 100 cows being seated next to the governor, and the humble possessor of a mule or a few sheep squatting humbly by the door.
Asiatics are proverbially reticent. My visitors stared at each other, and did not say a word. At last the Caimacan broke the silence. He was wrapped up in a fur dressing-gown, and looked like an animated bundle. He gave a little cough, and then said, "Is there any news? if so tell us something." Now the inhabitants of Asia Minor do not talk about the weather—the state of the roads replaces that topic of conversation so interesting to English people.
"The roads are very bad," I replied.
To this there was no dissent, everybody chorussed the wish for a railway.
"Do you think that one will ever be made?" inquired the Caimacan.
"Probably when you have some money in the exchequer."
"We are very poor; why does not your nation lend us some gold?"
"We have already given you more than a hundred millions; with that money you might have made railways in every part of Anatolia."
"Will there be war?" asked an Imaum (priest.)
"I do not know."
"If there is," he added, "I shall go—all the Imaums will go; we will fight by the side of our countrymen. We will kill all the Muscovites."
"Has it not occurred to you," I here remarked, "that perhaps they may kill all the Turks?"
"Impossible! Allah and the Prophet are on our side; they will fight for the faithful."
"What do you think yourself?" now inquired the Caimacan; "will Russia beat us?"
"Certainly—that is, if you have no European allies."
"Why so?"
"Because, if your Government had to put out all its strength to conquer the Servians assisted by only 12,000 Russians, what opposition will it be able to make to an army of 700,000 Muscovites?"
"May their mothers be defiled!" said an old farmer. "They are always interfering with us. All my sons have gone to the war, and I—well, if the Padishah wants me, I will go too."
He was apparently an octogenarian. This announcement on his part was received with great applause by the rest of the company.
"Why do you not give the Armenians arms, and make them assist?" I inquired.
"They are friends with the Russians," said the Imaum. "They would turn against us. Have you Armenians in your country?"
"No."
"But you are a Christian, and they are Christians—you must be the same."
I now had to explain to the company that there is as much difference between an English Protestant and an Armenian Christian, as between a Sunnite and a Shiite.
"And do you hate the Armenians as much as the Shiites hate us?"
"We do not hate anybody. Our religion does not allow us to do so."
"You Christians are a strange people," said the priest. Rising, he left the room, followed by the rest of the visitors.
The scenery is very lovely in this neighbourhood, and as we ascended an incline which leads in the direction of Angora, I could not help wishing that I had been born a painter, in order to have placed on canvas a picture of the landscape. A succession of hills, each one loftier than its fellow, broke upon us as we climbed the steep. They were of all forms, shades, and colours, ash-grey,blue, vermillion, robed in imperial purple, and dotted with patches of vegetation. Our road wound amidst these chameleon-like heights. Silvery rivulets streamed down the sides of the many coloured hills. A rising sun showered its gleaming rays upon the sparkling cascades. They flashed and reflected the tints and shadows. A gurgling sound of many waters arose from the depths below.
We reach the summit of the highest hill. The scene changes. We look down upon a vast plain. It is surrounded on all sides by undulating heights. The white sandy soil of the valley throws still more into relief the many-coloured mountains. Patches of snow deck the more distant peaks. The sun is dispelling the flossy clouds which overhang the loftier crags. The filmy vapour floats away into space; caressing for a few moments the mountains' crests, it is wafted onward, and then disappears from our view.
Now we crossed a rapid stream, about thirty yards wide, and known as the Alatai river. A fragile bridge spans the waters. Soon afterwards we put up for the night at a farm-house in the village of Tchairhana. The proprietor, a jolly-looking Turk, received us very hospitably. Later on in the evening he brought me a largeyorgan, orTurkish counterpane, with the remark that possibly the Effendi might feel cold during the night.
The Turkish beds are very primitive; no bedstead being used. One or two mattresses are laid on the floor, theyorgantakes the place of sheets or blankets. It consists of a silk quilt, generally lined with linen, and stuffed with feathers. These quilts pass from father to son, and are greatly prized by the Turks. The farmer, to make me appreciate his attention the more highly, remarked that theyorganhad been used by his grandfather, as well as by his father on their wedding-nights, and that he himself had employed it on a similar occasion only a few weeks previously.
Osman, now interrupted the speaker with the remark that in his family there was also a wonderfulyorgan—something quite out of the common, it was so beautiful that neither his wife nor himself liked to use it—and that this one was like a furze bush in comparison.
"So you are married, Osman?" I remarked.
"Yes; but I have not seen my wife for three years."
"Do you love her very much?"
"She is a good cook. She makes soup whichis more filling than even my brother's here," pointing to Radford.
"Is she pretty?"
"Effendi, I could not afford to marry a good-looking girl. There was one in our village—such a pretty one, with eyes like a hare and plump as a turkey—but she could not cook, and her father wanted too much for her."
"Well, what did you give for your present wife?"
"Ten liras (Turkish pounds), but she did not weigh more than forty okas (about 100 lbs). She was very cheap. However, her eyes are not quite straight, they look in different directions. But that does not signify—she can cook."
"Yes," said the farmer, "a good cook, Effendi, that is what I said to myself when I wanted a wife. Looks don't last, but cooking is an art which the Prophet himself did not despise."
I had no reason to congratulate myself on being the occupant of the farmer's nuptial couch. It was very old and very beautiful, but it was full of fleas, and they gave me no rest.
"You ought to burn that quilt," I observed next morning to the farmer; "I have not closed my eyes during the entire night."
"What, burn my grandfather's marriageyorgan—myfather'syorgan, and my ownyorgan! Never, Effendi! There are fleas, it is true, but they will die, and the quilt will do for my son and his wife, if ever he has one."
The country which we next traversed was entirely uncultivated, although it would have well repaid a farmer. This, however, is the case with millions of acres in Turkey. There are no labourers. The country is depopulated to the last degree, and land which might produce wheat enough for the whole of Great Britain is left fallow.
Presently we came to an old Khan. It had been built by a former sultan, as a refuge for travellers during the winter. At this season of the year the ground is sometimes covered with snow for several weeks in succession, and travelling is very dangerous. Two soldiers were the sole tenants of the building. Whilst I was performing my ablutions in the open air, one of them came to me and asked for a little tea. His comrade was ill, and tea he thought would be good for him. I went to look at the invalid. He was lying on a dirty mattress, and was shivering violently. It was clearly a case of fever, so taking some quinine from my medicine-chest, I administered a dose, and directed hiscomrade to procure a clean bed for the sufferer. The sick man was very grateful. Eagerly seizing my hand, he kissed it.
"What countryman are you?"
"I am English."
"Your religion is not that of Islam?"
"No."
"What are you?"
"I am a Protestant."
"Protestant," repeated the poor fellow, "I shall remember that."
"A Christian," he continued, "even if he had the medicine, would have let me die like a dog."
It was very clear that the sufferer had not much opinion of the Armenian and Greek Christians. But this was no solitary expressed opinion. Throughout my journey, I found Armenians and Greeks equally despised by the Mohammedans. It is a great pity that the votaries of Christianity in the East should have brought the only pure religion into so great disrepute.