Four hours through clouds of dust brought our wayfarers, hot and hungry, to their first konak or stage: Kuchuk Chekmejé—a township “about the bignesse of Newmarket,” half Turkish, half Greek, near the Sea of Marmara. There they halted for the night. His Excellency with his suite was lodged in a Moslem hostel—one of those pious foundations which, by their statutes, were obliged to afford travellers shelter and some food. As to bed, they had to bring their own. The Ambassador and the Knight, after supping on rice boiled with onions, fish, and bread, had their travelling beds set up indoors and slept in stuffy state. The Chaplain and two or three other humble mortals, as the night was very warm, slept on carpets in the cloisters that ran round a fair-sized quadrangle with a fountain murmuring in the middle—not unlike, thought the Rev. John, a Cambridge College court. The Treasurer—there had been little or no sleep for him that night; for here he was surprised with a “jolly fever” (his own phrase), got by over-harassing himself about the expedition. For this reason next morning, when the journey was resumed, the coach-and-six fell to his share. The Ambassador and the Knight continued their progress as before, leaning back in their canopied litter, so that, though all the rest might sweat and swear at the sun, the dust, and the flies, they were cool and collected, free to doze or to survey the scenery at their ease.
The country traversed was, to speak in the language of that time, “perfect champion ground”—a lovely plain, here swelling to low mastoid hills, there sinking into green valleys. But though the land appeared naturally fertile, our wayfarers were struck by its desolation. About the towns and villages they saw good husbandry; but elsewhere they saw nothing to remind them of man and his works. For many miles the Rev. John could discover neither cornfield nor vineyard, neither flock of sheep nor herd of cattle: only a fair wilderness—an ideal place for beasts to lie down in. It was easy to understand the Imperial Hunter’s attachment to this plain.
On our pilgrims crept and on, at the rate of three miles an hour and an average of six hours a day, every evening halting at some township or village—Buyuk Chekmejé, Selivria, Chorlu, Karistran, Lule-Burgas, Eski-Baba, Hafsa—and always sending ahead to each stage a caterer with two chaoushes to procure them board and lodging by force: “else the people would in most places not afford us anything.” Small wonder. The Grand Signor’s subjects had long since learned to shun travellers of quality as they shunned other robbers. For such a traveller’s progress bore a strong resemblance to a hostile invasion: his Janissaries raided the villages, slaughtering all the sheep and fowls they could lay hands on, with absolute impartiality and, of course, with absolute impunity. When provincial governors travelled to or from their Pashaliks, it was even worse. The Pasha drained the very vitals of the country he passed through, sparing neither Turk, nor Christian, nor Jew; and (in Turkey humour was seldom far from horror), after cramming himself and his numerous retinue, he levied upon his hosts what was called “teeth money” (dishe parassi)—a tax for the use of his teeth, worn in the process of devouring their substance.[83] The peasants had recourse to all sorts of prophylactics dictated by the instinct of self-preservation. Among other things, they made their doors just big enough for a man to creep in at, so that distinguished travellers might, at least, not be able to use their houses as stables.
So the English Ambassador journeyed on, extorting the necessary provisions from the Greeks, for his myrmidons knew better than to touch Turks on behalf of a Giaour. All this was in strict accord with the custom of the country. And so was this: wherever his Excellency took up his lodging, as soon as it began to grow dark the link-bearers would come and plant their beacons before his door and intone a sonorous prayer for the Grand Signor, the Ambassador and all his company, naming every one: the Treasurer, Secretary, Chaplain, Dragomans, and the rest, even as was done to the Grand Vizir and all other grandees on their journeys.
For eight days the long train of horses and carriages and baggage-wagons straggles across the Thracian plain in mediaeval caravan style: of all styles of travel the most delightful as an experience, the most refreshing as a memory.
At the last konak, Sir John sends for Signor Antonio Perone, to make sure, before it is too late, that the arrangements for his reception are correct; and “taking an account,” he finds, to his immense satisfaction, that the Dragoman has not only kept a vigilant eye on “the King’s Honour,” but has “exceeded any example.” And so he moves forward, another day’s march, five and a half hours, say seventeen miles, to the consummation of his journey. He moves, rehearsing in his mind the ceremonial theatricalities that lie ahead; and by and by, as a sort of curtain-raiser, we have the first of them. When within six miles of his destination, our Ambassador is met by a party of Frenchmen and Dutchmen—residents of Pera who were then at Adrianople sight-seeing; mere private, unofficial folk, yet well-meaning, and they help to swell our train. We move on, and presently, in the early afternoon, the sight we long for bursts into view: stately cupolas, slim white minarets, brown tile-roofs amidst green leaves—a dream of urban beauty completely realised.
About two miles from this magic city, at a spot where a fine kiosk, or summer-house, stood beside a sparkling fountain, a dozen grooms are waiting, with a dozen of the Grand Signor’s horses—“all admirable good ones, and set out as rich as possible”: bridles, saddles, stirrups, and buttock-cloths aglow with gold and silver; the animal destined for the Ambassador himself glittering, in addition, with precious stones and pearls “most gloriously.” My Lord, quitting his litter, mounts this steed, the staff follow suit, and the cavalcade moves on. They have not gone far before they are met by a guard of honour of sixty chaoushes under the command of the Chaoush-bashi, who acts as Master of the Ceremonies, and the Capiji-bashi, or Marshal of the Court. The two parties exchange the usual compliments, then the guard of honour faces about, and the procession enters the city.
It was a triumphal entry, attended with an éclat that left nothing to be desired. The chaoushes, in their tall white turbans of ceremony, marched first, two abreast. After them rode the Chaoush-bashi and Capiji-bashi in their gala uniforms: long sleeveless cloaks of cloth of gold lined with rich furs. His Excellency followed, with the French and Dutch holiday-makers before him; then came the Englishmen, with their servants behind them; then the link-bearers with Sir Thomas Baines; then the coach-and-six; then the Chief Dragoman’s coach-and-four; the baggage-wagons bringing up the rear. Janissaries flanked the narrow streets through which the procession threaded its way. Everything was marked by a splendour that did the Chaplain’s ritualistic heart good, and wrung even from our cynical Treasurer a grudging admission that the Merchants had full value for their money. As to the Ambassador, no sordid thought of cost, we may be certain, sullied his soul, as he rode in, high-headed, high-hearted, proud of his trappings, horses, chaoushes, and what not, feeling that he was received with all the honour and glory due to his character. In this fashion our visitors reached the house allotted his Excellency—and there, by one of those strokes of grim humour in which (as has been said) the Turkish genius delighted, the whole scene underwent a sudden transformation.
“The house,” says the Rev. John, astonished into a fit of most unclerical eloquence, “was the damn’dest, confounded place that ever mortall man was put into: it was a Jewes house, not half big enough to hold half my Lord’s family—a mere nest of fleas and cimici [bugs] and rats and mice, and stench, surrounded with whole kennells of nasty, beastly Jewes.”[84]