CHAPTER X
A CITY OF DIPLOMATISTS
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive.
Scott
I have already mentioned that the Turk is accustomed to the vagaries of despots, to the flatteries and servility which they breed. But to be more exact, it should be stated—indeed, it cannot be too often repeated—that Constantinople was the hearth of duplicity, of every form of intrigue, long before the Turks were ever heard of. The Byzantine historian Procopius of Cæsarea, private secretary to Belisarius, has left invaluable testimony to the treacherous atmosphere of Constantinople in the days of the Emperor Justinian and the Empress Theodora. Other historians have also borne witness that these characteristics marked the life of the Court of Byzantium down to the last hour of its existence. With a tradition of over fifteen hundred years to legitimize the term of “Byzantinism” and all it conveys, it is scarcely to be wondered at that Constantinople has always proved a disintegrator of human character, and that only the strongest and the noblest have ever been able to pass unscathed through this fiery furnace of deceit, in which, be it said, the Christian element has shown itself to be a far abler adept than the Mohammedan. Even now, in the twilight of Turkey’s fortunes, many may still remain of opinion—so often expressed in the halcyon days of her prosperity—that of all the races that have ever ruled in Constantinople, the Turkish has been the only one noted for its honesty. Indeed, it is an incontrovertible historical fact that the advent of the Turk in Constantinople inaugurated an era of tolerance, till then unknown in those parts. But however this may be, it cannot be gainsaid that Constantinople has witnessed more intrigue than any other capital in the world—Rome excepted—and thus is fitly considered to be the best training-ground for diplomatists; and many are the stories concerning them. One day an Ambassador met a carriage, guarded by a eunuch, containing some ladies of the Sultan’s harem. He endeavoured to peep in at the window, when he received a blow across the face from the vigilant eunuch. Great uproar ensued thereupon, and formal complaint was made to the Sultan on the part of the outraged diplomatist. He was received in private audience, and Abdul Hamid listened patiently to the tale of outrage. On its conclusion the Sultan replied: “My dear X, I have gone carefully into the case, and see exactly how it stands. You are a gentleman, therefore you could never have committed such a breach of good manners as that alleged to have taken place; and consequently no eunuch could possibly have presumed to strike you. The whole affair must be the product of your fancy; pray let us dismiss it.”
Another Ambassadorial story tells how an august personage—let us call him Prince Florizel—sent word to the Sultan, by the Ambassador at Constantinople of the country to which he belonged, that he intended to make his Imperial Majesty a present of a horse. Now the Sultan already possessed a number of horses, and he was somewhat anxious to find out what sort of animal the Prince had destined for him. If it was to be a racer, or a so-called “Clydesdale,” the Sultan had no use for it. The Imperial horse-boxes were built to suit the size of the animals usually kept there; and in order to find room for a racing thoroughbred or a Clydesdale mare, the Sultan would have to enlarge the stable or to make the gift-horse a head shorter in order to find room for it. In this dilemma he sent a trusted servant privately—that is to say, unofficially—to the Ambassador in question, with His Majesty’s best compliments. Would his Excellency be kind enough to say what kind of horse it was intended to bestow on him, the accommodation of the Imperial stables being, etc.? Great indignation thereupon on the part of the Ambassador. “This is not the way to treat me; you are not qualified to discuss this matter with me. The proper person is the Sultan’s Master of the Horse. Let His Majesty communicate with me through him, or go to ...” The Sultan’s trusty servant returned to the Imperial Palace and gave a “truthful” but Orientally diluted version of what had taken place, omitting the Ambassadorial reference to a certain alternative invoked. For an Ambassador is usually supposed to be persona grata with the Sovereign to whom he is accredited, and the openly expressed wish that his Imperial Majesty should accept the alternative of being damned would hardly have rendered his presence in Constantinople agreeable to the Sovereign.
The Sultan declined to send his Master of the Horse to the Ambassador, ignored the whole affair, and took no further notice of the offer. When, all the same, the gift-horse arrived, it was received in silence and put in the Imperial stable to get fat and ugly. No acknowledgment of any kind was vouchsafed, either to the Ambassador or those entrusted with the delivery of the horse. And I am told that Prince Florizel, down to the end of his life, when he had become a powerful monarch, esteemed for his tact and courtesy throughout the world, could never understand how it was that the Sultan, than whom no man more courteous and more genuinely appreciative of a kindness existed, should have had nothing to say in return for this particular mark of attention. According to Professor Vambéry, the Sultan subsequently took his revenge on the Ambassador in question by receiving him one bitter winter day in an apartment without a fire, and his Excellency was laid up with a cold for a fortnight.
If men gifted with the acute perceptions, the prescience and tact of an Ambassador have not always been accurate in their judgment of the East, or happy in their dealings with the Sultan, it will readily be believed that men of inferior calibre are often singularly at sea in their opinions and unfortunate in their experiences with the Turk. The keynote of the Turk’s bearing is a serene dignity; and a lengthened sojourn in the East has an imperceptible effect on the traveller from the West. The European gets unconsciously accustomed to expect a certain grace of bearing in the humblest, and when he meets a distinguished representative type from his own country—a man who would be the talk of the capital by reason of his wealth, or some one in high station, a law-giver, hereditary or otherwise—the traveller is disenchanted, and says to himself: “Is it possible that this restless, hustling creature is the type of man we look up to at home?”
There have never been any powerful social elements in Constantinople, as in other capitals, to compete with diplomacy. A millionaire banker might be knocked on the head with impunity in the streets of Pera, but the obscure Vice-Consul of a Great Power is sacrosanct. In every case the social as well as the intellectual life of Constantinople, such as it is, is largely made up of and regulated by the staff of the different Embassies, Legations, and Consulates, of which “his Excellency,” the full-blown Ambassador, is the supreme embodiment. Behold him as he comes along in all the pomp and circumstance of his high calling! He steps ashore from his richly ornamented caique, he, the cynosure of all beholders, preceded by kavasses, guards, and dragomans dressed in blue, green, red, or purple tunics and gaiters, richly embroidered with gold and silver. He is obsequiously followed by his secretarial staff; deeply impressing the imagination of the crowd as his carriage drives up to the Sublime Porte or the Imperial Palace. Verily, the Ambassador stands as the centrepiece of a world of tinsel and make-believe, the pinnacle of an edifice of decorative glamour; for the reality of power rests with the Press to-day, and an astute Ambassador builds up his reputation by carefully nursing the correspondents of influential newspapers, for the slighted journalist is in a position to give an Ambassador a deal of trouble.