I soon came to the conclusion that with a sovereign of this kind, there was not much good to be done, and without flatly contradicting him, I quietly adhered to my own political views. As I look at things now, it seems quite natural that I excited his displeasure, and that he looked askance at my English predilections. The Sultan expected of me unconditional approval of his political views; he wanted to have in me a friend, absolutely Turkish in my views, as opposed to the Christian world, and willing, like many a prominent man in Europe, to hold up the East as noble, sublime, humane, and just, and to put down the West as reprobate, crude, and rapacious. No, that was expecting a little too much of my Turkish sympathies! I have always been too much imbued with the high advantages of our Western culture, too fully convinced of the beneficial influences of nineteenth-century ideas, to lend myself to sing the unqualified praises of Asia—rotten, despotic, ready to die—and to exalt the Old World over the New! No, neither imperial favour nor any power on earth could have induced me to do this, and when the Sultan realised that, he began to treat me with indifference; he even told me once that he did not like children who could cling to two mothers, and without actually showing me any hostility or dislike, as my international penmanship was not quite a matter of indifference to him, he dismissed me, to all appearance, graciously. He was undeceived, but I remained what I always have been, a friend of Turkey.
How it came about that, in spite of his ill-will, the Sultan for many years after still showed me favour, and even invited me more than once to visit Constantinople, I can only explain by the fact that, although distrusting everybody, even himself, he did not lose sight of the use my pen could be to him. Sultan Abdul Hamid, as I said before, had an indescribable dread of the public opinion of Europe, which he took into account in all his transactions; he always wanted to act the enlightened, liberal, patriotic, order-loving, and conscientious ruler. He always wanted to show off the very thin and light varnish of culture which a very defective education and a flying visit through Europe (1868) had given him. Without knowing French he would often interlard his Turkish conversation with French words and sayings, to impress the ambassadors and other exalted guests, just as in company with Moslem scholars he made a special point of introducing theological and technical terms, without ever rising above the level of a half-cultured Moslem. Thanks to his remarkable memory, he was never at a loss for such terms, but his actual familiarity with either European or Asiatic culture was very slight, since his kind-hearted but far too lenient father had never kept his children to their books. Kemal Effendi, the tutor of the imperial prince, told me in the fifties quite incredible things about the indolence of his imperial pupil. Reshad Effendi, the heir presumptive, had a taste for Persian and Arabic, and had at an early age made some attempts at Persian poetry, but Hamid Effendi, the present Sultan, was not so easily induced to sit on the school bench. Harem intrigues and harem scandal were more to his liking, and if one wanted to know anything about the secrets of individual members of the imperial gynécée, one had but to go to Hamid Effendi for information. It is a great pity that this lively and really talented prince had not received a better education in his youth. Who knows but what he might have made a better sovereign on the throne of the Osmanlis?
My intercourse with this man was to me of exceptional interest, not so much in his capacity of prince, but rather as man and Oriental. When in the evening I was with him alone in the Chalet Kiosk we used to sit still, trying to read each other's thoughts, for the imperial rogue knew his man well enough; and after we had thus contemplated one another for some time, the Sultan would break the silence by some irrelevant remark, or occasionally he would ask me something about my Asiatic or European experiences. As it is not seemly for a Khaliph, i.e., a lawful descendant of Mohammed, to hold intimate conversation with an unbeliever, or, what is worse, to ask his advice, the Sultan used to treat me as an old, experienced, true believer, called me always by my Turkish name, Reshid Effendi, and particularly emphasised the same when at an audience pious or learned Moslems happened to be present. Sultan Abdul Hamid, one of the greatest charmeurs that ever was, knew always in some way or other how to fascinate his guests. He delighted in paying compliments, lighting the cigarette for his guest, with a civility vainly looked for amongst ordinary civilians.
Of course, his one aim and object was to captivate and charm his visitors with this extreme affability. Sometimes also he was quite theatrical in his demeanour; he could feign anger, joy, surprise, everything at his pleasure, and I shall never forget one scene provoked by a somewhat animated discussion of the Egyptian Question. In order to pacify his anger against England, I ventured to remark that after the settling of the Egyptian State debt the yearly tribute would be paid again. The Sultan misunderstood me, and concluding that I was speaking of redemption money, he jumped up from his seat and cried in a very excited voice, "What! do you think I shall give up for a price the land which my forefathers conquered with the sword?" His thin legs shook in his wide trousers, his fez fell back on his neck, his hands trembled, and almost ready to faint he leaned back in his seat. And yet all this excitement was pretence, just as when another time in his zeal to persuade me to enter his service and to remain permanently in Stambul, he grasped both my hands, and with assurances of his unalterable favour, promised me a high position and wealth. What induced the sly, suspicious man to this extraordinary display of tenderness was undoubtedly my practical knowledge of Islamic lands and of Turkey in particular. More than once he said to me, "You know our land and our nation better than we do ourselves." My personal acquaintance with all circles of the Porte of former days was not much to his liking, neither did he like my popularity with the Turkish people, the result of many years of friendly intercourse with them; yet he had to take this into account, and nolens volens must keep on good terms with me. Curiously enough, devoted as he was to his severely despotic principles, this monarch sometimes had fits of singular mildness and gentleness. Once I was sitting with him till far into the night in the great hall of the Chalet Kiosk. It was the height of summer, and in the heat of the conversation his Majesty had become thirsty, and called to the attendant in the ante-room, "Su ghetirin" ("Bring water"). The attendant, who had probably fallen asleep, did not hear. The Sultan called twice, three times, clapped his hands, but all in vain, and when I jumped up and called the man, the Sultan said to him, almost beseechingly, "Three times I have asked for water, and you have not given it me; I am thirsty, very thirsty." With any other Oriental despot the servant would have forfeited his head, but Abdul Hamid's character was the most curious mixture imaginable of good and bad qualities, which he exhibited according to the mood in which he happened to be.
Honestly speaking, these tête-à-têtes with the Sultan were anything but unmixed pleasure. Notwithstanding his pleasing manners and outward amiability, his sinister and scrutinising look had often a very unpleasant effect upon me. One evening, seated as usual alone with the Sultan in the Chit Kiosk, sipping our tea, I fancied my tea was not quite sweet enough, and while talking I stretched out my hand towards the sugar basin, which stood near the Sultan. He gave a sudden start and drew back on the sofa. The movement suggested that he thought I had intended an attack upon his person. Another time, it was after dinner, I was taking coffee in his company. I noticed that in the ardour of his conversation he was suddenly seized with an attack of shortness of breath. He actually gasped for air. The sight of his oppression was painful, and I could not help thinking what would be my fate if in one of these attacks the Sultan were to choke. One may say it is foolish, and call me weak, but any one knowing something of life in an Oriental palace will agree with me that the situation was anything but a joke. Apart from this I got my full share of the moodiness of Oriental despotism; sometimes it was almost too much for my much-tried patience. In spite of politely worded invitations I often had to wait for days before I was received in audience. Four, six, eight days together did I wait in an antechamber, until at last I was told, "His Majesty extremely regrets, on account of pressing business, or on account of sudden indisposition, to have to delay the reception till the next day." The next day came, and again the same story, "the next day." I remember once, during a visit to Constantinople, to have packed and unpacked my effects five times, awaiting permission to return home. Complaints, entreaties, expostulations, all were of no avail, for the Muneddjim Bashi (Court Astrologer) regulates his Majesty's actions, and these ordinances are most strictly adhered to. My intercourse with the Sultan was certainly not perfectly harmonious. I did my utmost to preserve my influence over him, but at last I had to realise that all my trouble was in vain, and that my efforts would never bear any fruit.
And it could not well have been otherwise. His policy was partly of a purely personal nature, as with all Oriental despots; such policy, strictly conservative in tendency, was concerned with the maintenance of an absolutely despotic régime. Partly, also, it was of necessity influenced by the temporary political constellations of the West. The indecision which characterises his least action is a result of the spirit which prevails in the imperial harem, where no one trusts another, where every one slanders his neighbour, and tries to deceive and annihilate him, where everything turns round the sun of imperial favour. Our diplomatists on the Bosphorus have often had to pay dearly for this characteristic of Abdul Hamid. At the time of the negotiations about the Egyptian Question Lord Dufferin once had to wait with his secretary in the Yildiz Palace for the Sultan's decision from ten o'clock in the morning till after midnight. Six times the draft of the treaty was put before him to sign, and each time it was returned in somewhat altered form until the English Ambassador, wearied to death at last, lost his patience, and at two o'clock in the morning returned with his suite to Therapia. Lord Dufferin had already retired to bed, and was fast asleep when he was roused by the arrival of a special messenger from the Sultan to negotiate about another proposal, but the English patience was exhausted and the fate of Egypt sealed. On other occasions there were similar and often more dramatic scenes, and even with simple dinner invitations it has often occurred that the ambassadors in question received a countermand only after they had already started en grande tenue on the way to Yildiz.
As regards the distrust displayed by the ruler of Turkey, worried as he was on all sides, some excuse may be found for him, for true and unselfish friendships are unknown quantities in diplomatic intercourse. But Sultan Abdul Hamid behaved in the same manner towards his Asiatic subjects. He has always been a pessimist of the most pronounced type; he scented danger and treason wherever he went, and everything had to give way before his personal interests. "The future of Turkey and the well-being of the Ottoman nation are always being discussed, but of me and my dynasty nobody speaks," he said to me one day. To all intents and purposes he always behaved as if he were master and owner of all Turkey, and as nothing in the world could make him see differently, I very soon saw the fruitlessness of my endeavours, and in future I acted only the rôle of onlooker and observer.
A sovereign who for well-nigh thirty years has ruled and governed with absolute power, who has succeeded in carrying autocracy and absolutism to their limits, while the greatest as well as the very smallest concerns of the State and of society pass through his hands, such a sovereign runs great danger of becoming conceited and proud, since his servile surroundings continually extol and deify him beyond all measure. Sultan Abdul Hamid imagines it is owing to his statesmanship that Turkey, after the unfortunate campaign of 1877, has not been completely annihilated, and that at present it not only exists, but is sought after by the Powers as their ally. Laughing roguishly, he said with reference to this, "There is no lack of suitors; I am courted by all, but I am still a virgin, and I shall not give my heart and hand to any of them;" but all the while he was in secret alliance with Russia. What Sultan Abdul Hamid is particularly proud of is his relation to the German Emperor, which is, as a matter of fact, his own work, and not at all approved of by the more cautious portion of his people. The confidential tête-à-tête between the Osmanli and the gifted Hohenzollern is unique in its kind and abounds in interesting incidents. The Emperor William II. admires the talent of the ruler in his friend, which in its autocratic bearing he would like to imitate if it were possible; but he is clever enough to discount the reward for this admiration in various concessional privileges, &c. Well-paid appointments for German officers, consignments of arms, concessions for railway lines, manufactures, &c., the German Emperor has obtained playfully, as it were, and he will get more still, for in the Imperial German the Sultan sees his only disinterested, faithful, and mighty protector, and he is firmly convinced that as long as this friendship continues no one will dare to touch him, although Turkey, stante amicitia, lost Crete after the victorious termination of the war with Greece. The patriotic and progressive Turk, however, thinks otherwise. He has not a good word to say for the German Emperor, for he looks upon him as one of those friends who encourage the Padishah in his arrant absolutism, whose visits diminish the treasures of State, and who has checked the national development of free commercial life, taking all for Germany and leaving Turkey nothing but some high-sounding compliments which flatter the Sultan's pride.
And so this political accomplishment of Abdul Hamid is most severely censured in Turkey itself, and the much extolled alliance with Germany may, in the event of a change on the throne, meet with quite unexpected surprises. With me the Sultan never discussed this relationship, only his favourite son, Burhaneddin, told me of his sympathies for the Kaiser, whose language he was learning. No true friend of Turkey, I think, can have much against an alliance with Germany; it would work very well, only Germany should advise the Sultan to introduce certain reforms in his country to raise the spirit of the nation, and instead of this wild absolutist régime, to work at the cultivation of capable officials. I have often told the Sultan so in writing, but lately my memoranda have remained without effect, for we have been deceived in one another. I have come to the conclusion that, with all my science and all my ambition, I can never be of much use to Turkey; and the Sultan has realised that he could not make a willing tool of me, and that therefore I am of no use to him. I must not omit to mention, however, that the greatest obstacle to a mutual understanding between the Sultan and myself lies in the political views we hold as to the most beneficial alliance for Turkey. While the Sultan, by his personal relations with the Emperor William II., thinks to screen himself securely against all possible danger, and as far as appearances go, likes to be exclusively Germanophile, he has not forgotten that the Russian sword of Damocles hangs over his head. He knows but too well that Russia has her thumb on his throat, that Asia Minor from the side of Erzerum is open to the troops of the Czar, that the Russian fleet could sack Constantinople within two or three days, and that this imminent danger, if not entirely warded off, would at any rate be considerably mitigated by submissive humility and feigned friendliness. Hence his peculiar complaisance and amenableness towards the court of St. Petersburg, and his behaviour altogether as if he were a vassal already of the "White Padishah on the Neva." Considering this state of affairs, it is not very astonishing that the rumour spread in Europe of a secret treaty between Turkey and Russia—a treaty according to which the Sultan had engaged himself not to fortify the Bosphorus at the entrance of the Black Sea, and not to erect new fortifications in the north of Asia Minor, and other similar concessions. This treaty is said to bear the date 1893, and when the matter was discussed by the European Press, and I asked for information from the First Secretary of the Sultan, Sureja Pasha, the latter wrote me in a letter dated September 3, 1893, as follows:—
"Very honoured Friend!—His Imperial Majesty, my sublime Master, has always held in high esteem your feelings of friendship in the interests of Turkey, and your attacks on Russia, which has done so much harm to Turkey, have not remained unnoticed. But you know full well that nothing in this world happens without cause, and that the war Russia waged against us was also founded on certain causes. All this belongs to the past. To-day the Sublime Porte is on the best of terms with all the Powers; there is no necessity for any private treaties, and when the newspapers speak of a private treaty between Turkey and Russia, this is nothing more or less than a groundless and idle invention. In case such a treaty had been necessary, Turkey, being in no way restricted in its movements, would have notified and published the facts."