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 four o’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 through it. 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 a kourous worth of boughatcha. 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 young softas was 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.”