Field-Marshal von der Goltz is at Baghdad. He is one of the oldest German generals with one of the youngest German staffs. At Constantinople they say that the old man is merely a figure head, but he is extremely popular with the young men about him.
At Konia, for reasons that I cannot explain, I thought it advisable to run no further risk, and so I returned to Constantinople. It was very fortunate for me that I did so, otherwise I might have missed the Banquet at Nish, and I should not have earned the name of “The Man who Dined With the Kaiser.”
CHAPTER VII
CONSTANTINOPLE FROM WITHIN
A City of Maimed and Wounded—I See the Sultan—Enver’s Popularity—Talaat Bey the Real Administrator—Gallipoli Day—Constantinople “Mafficks”—The Return of the Ten Thousand—How the Goeben and Breslau Escaped—Their Fateful Arrival at Constantinople—German Privileges—Mendacities of the Turkish Press—The Egyptian Situation—A German Camel Corps—The Turks a Formidable Factor.
To me Constantinople seemed to be a city of maimed and wounded. One morning I strolled out of my hotel, intending to take a carriage to Stamboul, one of those strange vehicles drawn by two lean but vigorous horses that still remain on the streets for hire. From twenty-five to thirty carriages passed me as I stood vainly endeavouring to persuade one of the drivers to pull up. They took not the slightest notice of my gesticulations, but continued precipitately on their way. I was curious to know the reason for this, and on my return to the hotel I inquired of the porter. He informed me that the carriages were going to the Bosphorus to take up the wounded arriving from different battlefields. “After what you have told me,” I remarked, “I shall be afraid of using a carriage in Constantinople.” But shaking his head, the porter replied dispassionately, “Do not be afraid. By order of the Germans, every one of these carriages must be disinfected after use.” “The East is the East and the West is the West,” I meditated as I passed into the hotel. It would be interesting to have the frank opinion of the highly-placed Turk upon the “thoroughness” of their German allies.
I very soon discovered that every big building in the city had been turned into a hospital, one of the biggest being the Lyceum. All the beautiful houses belonging to the wealthy English and French residents, which overlook the Bosphorus, have been commandeered for the Red Crescent, the occupants being obliged under Turkish war regulations to live in hotels.
The Sultan is a mere figure-head, as is well known. One Friday I saw him walking from his palace to a mosque a little distance away—he has given up taking the longer journey to the Aya Sofia for fear of assassination—and his fat, heavy appearance suggested to me that the Turks knew their business when they removed all power from his hands. In the old days a Sultan could not make his appearance in the streets without its being the occasion for a great demonstration. That was yesterday; now popular enthusiasm was for Enver Pasha when he accompanied the Commander of the Faithful. The potentate himself might be persuaded that the acclamations were for his holy person, but everyone else knew better. I was told that the Sultan leaves everything to Talaat Bey and to Enver Pasha. To me the Sultan looked like an unidealised copy of one of Rembrandt’s Rabbis.