The Walls of Constantinople Read online

  And yet Constantinople held the eastern foe at bay. The tradition of Rome’s all-conquering legions lingered yet, and old Byzantium boasted of a standing army, highly trained and disciplined through all these centuries—those stormy times for Europe, when every man’s hand was against his neighbours. Then bands of armed men roamed over Europe, following this leader or the other, each bent only on his own advancement.

  Little by little degeneration set in within and without the walls of Constantinople. One fair province after another was regained by those barbarians from whom they had been conquered, and the mighty Eastern Empire fell to pieces. The spirit of the people was no longer bent on upholding the traditions of the past, or, mayhap, lived too much in those traditions.

  So when the nations had begun to settle, the day of Constantine’s city was over and its task accomplished. The eastern foeman achieved the oft-attempted end, and possessed himself of those ramparts which so long had kept him at bay, and established a new empire in place of the vanished power of Roman tradition. There is yet another aspect to the history of Constantinople. It was here that its second founder embraced Christianity. St. Sophia and St. Irene still stand as monuments to mark that happening, albeit the crescent, not the cross, now glitters from their pinnacles; although portly, bearded Imams now take the place of the long-haired Greek priests, and the high altars have been turned awry, so that the faithful may know that their gaze is fixed direct towards Mecca.

  Here much of St. Chrysostom’s life and energy was spent; here, since the schism with the Church of Rome, has been the Seat of the Patriarch, head and high priest of the Greek Church.

  Rulers, dynasties, even governing races have replaced each other, yet here the Patriarchate still maintains the dignity of the great Church it represents. For the strong man who vanquished this proud city did not seek to turn his new subjects to his faith, but rather gave them full liberty to follow their own. And this has been the policy of his successors; thus it is that a Greek patriarch, Joachim, third of that name, this day watches over the interests of his flock. Adherents to every creed, save that of the Armenians, have enjoyed complete religious freedom, and Jews who were hounded out of Catholic Spain took refuge under the Chalif of Islam.

  The same policy is continued by those clear-headed men who have but recently revived the Empire of the East, and trust in time to give it a government conceived on modern lines. Romance! Are not the pages of history, even the most recent, made glorious by it? So who will deny the attribute of romance to the story of a walled city?

  Think of the enterprise, the ingenuity, the steadfast endeavour that led to the encircling of ever-increasing areas within the embrace of those stout walls; of the life of the people who pressed onward out of paganism to Christianity, from despotism to constitutional government.—Romance!

  In younger days wars were waged because some fair lady had been carried off, some rich jewel stolen, and in order that black insults might be wiped out. We live nowadays beneath a more sombre sky. From isolated incidents our motives have crystallized into definite principles, and it needs the delicate eye of the artist to see any of the old lustre in our honest if humdrum efforts to defend them.

  Constantinople—the name conjures up dreams of Eastern colour, Eastern sights, and Eastern smells: visions of Turks in baggy breeches and jaunty fez; visions of bearded elders in flowing robes and turbans, white, green or multi-coloured according to the wearer’s calling, descent, or personal taste, for only he who is learned in the Koran may wear white. Those who claim descent from the Prophet bind their fez with green, and divers colours are worn more by Ottoman subjects from over the water. Then you dream of stalwart sunburnt Turkish soldiery whose bearing speaks of Koran-bred discipline and stubborn fighting, and a fanaticism which takes the place of imagination. Gorgeous cavasses, frock-coated followers of Islam with unshaven jowls and green umbrellas, smart Bedouins and copper-coloured eunuchs from Abyssinia, immaculately-attired dragomans, veiled ladies, more mysterious even than their Western sisters—in fact, splendour, squalor, light and life, and all as picturesque and romantic as dreams can be. This is the vision, and the reality to whosoever is fortunate enough to see Constantinople is its fulfilment. All but the dragomans, perhaps, for you may pass one by and not know he is that wonderful omniscient being—a dragoman. He will hide his greatness under a straw hat, maybe, he may even affect an air of Western hustle.

  But every other effect makes up for any disappointment one may experience over dragomans. In a golden haze kaleidoscopic changes, every type of face a study, every street corner its own distinctive character, even the spick and span liners that lie along the quays, or have their station in the fairway of the Golden Horn, seem to adopt a catchet other than their register provides for them. Over all, the domes of many mosques with their attendant minarets, from which the call to prayer goes forth, they point the way to the goal of all good Moslems, and few there are who allow this world’s cares to interfere with their devotions. Later in the day these mosques, silhouetted in the gold of a Stamboul sunset along with the other tall columns “qui s’accusent” against the sky, go to form, as Browning (who had never seen them) suggests, a sort of giant scrip of ornamental Turkish handwriting.

  So, having followed this sketch of Constantinople’s history from Byzas to these days, in which an almost bloodless revolution has been accomplished, let us approach the city, and mark the bulwarks that are left, and hear what those massive towers and battlements have to tell us.

  CHAPTER II

  THE APPROACH TO THE CITY BY THE BOSPHORUS

  AUTHOR and Artist have, for the sake of compactness, been rolled into one. This method leaves to both a free hand and ensures absolute unanimity: their harmonious whole now proposes to the reader a personally conducted tour around the walls of Constantinople, within and without, stopping at frequent intervals to allow the Artist to ply his pencil while the Author holds forth to an eager circle of intelligent listeners.

  Constantinople should not be approached by those who hail from the West with any Western hustle—no charging to the agents or the booking-office at the last moment to demand a return ticket by the quickest possible route, to traverse all Europe, passing through many strange and interesting countries with the determined tourist’s reckless haste, to tumble out on to the platform of the German-looking Stamboul railway station, worn out and wretched and wishing to be back at home again. Rather should the traveller wean his mind from many Western notions. Let him disabuse himself of the hackneyed superstition that time is of any moment. In the East it is not. Men have all the time there is, and plenty of that. In this respect it corresponds to the biblical description of Heaven: “There is no time there.” Conscious of their easily won eternity, trains, and more particularly boats, make no attempt to start at the hour mentioned in the schedule, aware that by doing so they would only cause inconvenience to the large majority of their passengers. Any one who has had official relations with the Turk knows that his most frequent exclamation is “Yarsah—yarsah” (“Slowly—slowly”), but to most foreigners the system is, at first, a little disconcerting. Again, the traveller should prepare his mind for what he hopes to see—a walled city,—so should, ere starting, let his mind’s eye travel beyond his garden wall, against which perchance he may safely lean as aid to meditation, to what he has heard of walls, walls that were built by many devoted generations and in return protected their descendants from those hungry powers that seek to destroy whatever prospers.

  And travelling toward his Eastern goal the reader passes through many an ancient city whose walls chronicle the history of its inhabitants. He should take his journey easily, should move eastward with no undue haste. Let him go down the Danube, that mighty river which arises from a small opening in the courtyard of a German castle, flows majestically through the lands of many nations, where before the days of history Saga held her sway and gave birth to the Nibelungs. In its waters many ruined castles are reflected, amongst others Dürnstein, where Blondel’s voice at length brought hope of deliverance to his imprisoned liege, Richard Cœur-de-Lion. He will pass many fair historic cities, Vienna, Budapesth, Belgrade, the White Fortress, and so on through the Iron Gates, whence the great stream swells with increasing volume through the plains of Eastern Europe to throw out many arms to the Black Sea. It is here that Author and Artist await you; for to worthily approach Constantinople you should do so from the north, and by sea. And you are in good company, for by this seaway came the Russians in their several attempts on the Eastern capital. The Turks, too, the present masters of the situation, found this way and followed it to victory. These, too, overcame great difficulties—they sailed in small vessels and were much at the mercy of wind and weather; in fact, the Russians found their plans frustrated by the elements. They met with anything but a pleasant reception, whereas the traveller nowadays steams in great comfort in a racy-looking Roumanian

  Genoese Castle at entrance to Bosphorus from the Black Sea. A narrow entrance this—strongly fortified it was too, in olden times, for on that height to the left stands a frowning ruin, a Genoese Castle.

  Genoese Castle at entrance to Bosphorus from the Black Sea.

  A narrow entrance this—strongly fortified it was too, in olden times, for on that height to the left stands a frowning ruin, a Genoese Castle.

  liner, and is sure of a courteous welcome from his hospitable host, the Turk.

  Along the coast of Bulgaria—that kingdom of strong men under a strong ruler, whose history, with a long and melancholy hiatus, is taken up again, is in the making, and bids fair to rival that of older nations as a record of devotion and steadfastness of purpose. And so to the mouth of the Bosphorus, a narrow entrance through which the strong current of the Black Sea forces its way
to join the warm waters of the Mediterranean.

  The Argonauts found their way through here, braved the crash of the Symplegades, and sailed out into the unknown in search of the golden apples of the Hesperides. Let no man say that these were simply oranges, for these a man may cull in many a Greek garden to-day. No—it was an ideal they sought, and, like true men, they found and followed it.

  A narrow entrance this, and strongly held, as it deserves to be if Nature be man’s handmaid. Strongly fortified it was, too, in olden times, for on that height to the left stands a frowning ruin, a Genoese castle, commanding the entrance for many miles round the open sea and the rolling, wooded heights of Asia inland.

  Intensely interesting are the naval exploits of the city republics of Italy during the Middle Ages. It is not easy to realize the power developed by such towns as Pisa, Genoa, and Venice, and the enormous importance of the part they took in the development of Europe. Other cities are so much overshadowed by Rome, that those who are not historians hear only echoes of their greatness.

  Primarily there seems to be a divergence in the origin of empire between those gained by a northern or southerly race. Latin empires grew out of cities—Rome and Constantinople, and Athens with her Delian Confederacy; the States of Pisa which owned large oversea possessions, Genoa which to a long strip of coast counted Corsica among her spoils, Venice which with varying fortunes controlled Dalmatia and Istria and built the stout fortress of Nauplia commanding the Gulf of Argolis. Whereas England, France, Germany, in fact those empires founded by the men of a Northern race, began, it appears, by the conquest of other people’s cities, and, making themselves masters of a number of such towns, started states of their own, drawing liberal and very elastic boundaries round them which they could enlarge when strong enough by the simple expedient of picking a quarrel with their neighbours. These depended for their defence more on those who lived in fortified seclusion on the marches of their domain than on the town-dwellers.

  The Genoese navy, composed of ships fitted out alike for battle as well as for commerce, was free to look further afield as soon as Pisa, their whilom ally against the Saracens of Africa, Spain and the Mediterranean islands (but a formidable rival at all other times), had been finally crushed at Meloria. Opportunity soon offered, for trouble arose as usual in the Eastern Empire. The Latin dynasty put into power by the crusaders was sinking lower, and a feeling for the restitution of the Greek Empire was growing. Also, the Venetians, new rivals, had assisted the Latins, so there was every reason to interfere. The interference proved successful, Michael Palæologus conceded the suburbs of Pera and Galata to the Genoese. These places were fortified, and served as a base from whence to push Genoese enterprise further into the Black Sea, and in the Crimea a factory was established. From time to time the Genoese turned against the Greeks, no doubt in order that their swords might not rust for want of exercise during the piping times of that peace which in the East was a seldom acquired taste. They stood by the Greeks, however, when trouble came from elsewhere, and to the last upheld their high reputation for bravery and devotion.

  The Genoese tower of Galata still stands overlooking the Golden Horn. A yet more notable monument to those gallant seafarers are the so-called “Capitulations.” The Genoese colony was ruled by a magistrate sent from home, and to this day that right is still granted to the Powers of Europe, and can only be fully appreciated by those familiar with the ordinary standards of Eastern justice.

  On the next height the Giant’s Mountain, also on the left bank, is another monument of yet greater antiquity, though perhaps its historical value is less easily assessed—depending more than ever on personal opinion and a romantic nature completely undisturbed by the galling limitations of probability—the Tomb of Joshua. Its origin is shrouded in mystery, as it well may be considering the countless ages that have passed over it—there are so few records of Joshua’s travels that no doubt that eminent warrior may have gone on leave to travel for the improvement of his mind like his colleagues of the present day without our hearing anything of his experiences in foreign parts. It is equally possible that he may not have returned from furlough—owing to decease. This is purely speculation—very real, however, is the tomb itself. A long, narrow, walled-in space in connection with a small mosque and under the care of the Hodja in charge contains this, his resting-place, enclosed by iron rails and about 24 ft. long by 10. It also serves as fruit garden, or orchard—for several fig-trees grow here, so we see that, unless the legend lies, Joshua must have been a tall strapping fellow and the sons of Anak can have caused him no real surprise or alarm.

  The correct thing to do is to walk round the tomb a great many times (there is a fixed number, but it does not matter much), tie a bit of rag to the railing and express a wish, keeping it strictly to yourself. The next best thing to do is to forget the wish, pay two-pence in baksheesh and ride away to get the most of a glorious view. Artist and Author alike do so.

  And a pleasant thing it is to ride on into Asia Minor on an alert, sure-footed Arab; he need be sure-footed, for at one time your road leads along the very edge of a steep decline, at another over the bed of what is a rushing torrent in the rainy season. Everywhere a changing vista, bold, rolling hills, now covered with short scrub and heather, with black rocks peering through it—now under oak and beech, everywhere the glorious bracing air of the uplands mingled with breezes from the Northern Sea. Here and there you find patches of cultivation, the patient team of oxen drawing the primitive plough, merely an iron-shod staff at an angle to the shaft to which the team is yoked. Near by, a village, small wooden houses sheltered by fig-trees, a little shady café where of an evening the men smoke a solemn hubble-bubble and discuss events in the measured sentences of a conversation which begins about nothing in particular and ends in the same district.

  What changes those fields have known! armies pouring into Asia full of enterprise and the lust of conquest, returning to escort a victorious emperor in triumph through the Golden Gate, or beaten remnants of a host to seek refuge behind the city walls. And a plough of the same construction, drawn by the same faithful servants, stopped its course a while to watch, and then went on its way unchanging.

  But the fairest road is still that glittering waterway with its ever-increasing number of craft, so we pass on to Constantinople. With a fair breeze from the Black Sea dead astern small sailing vessels hurry on towards their goal—the Golden Horn. They are high in the bows, higher still in the poop, with an elegant waist but withal a reasonable breadth of beam, brightly painted too, with cunning devices on the prow and sails that glisten white under the Ottoman ensign; they carry for a flag a crescent argent in a field gules (the Artist insists on heraldic terms, as they are so picturesque). These little ships have been busy collecting many things for the Stamboul market along the Black Sea Coast. Heavy-laden tramps thump onward to Odessa to return with corn or wool. We overhaul a yacht-bowed Russian mail-boat and get a shrill whinny of greeting from the stout little passenger steamers, Tyne-built, that ply between the many landing-stages along the Bosphorus bringing officials, business men and even artists back from the city to those quiet, cosy little bungalows that hide among the trees on either side. White-painted caiques flit across from side to side, one-oared and even two-, some more pretentious ones with more oars still, the boatmen dressed in becoming uniform, veiled ladies in the stern sheets. A hustling steam-pinnace shoots by from one or the other “stationaires,” for every larger Power keeps one here; and there on the right, that row of gleaming palaces by the waterside is Therapia, those palaces the different embassies in their summer quarters. Here homesick travellers of many nations may feast their eyes on the war-flag of their country and get up a thrill, if the scenery should have failed to cause one. It certainly is a pleasant sight to see a sturdy British bluejacket again or his smart colleague of the U.S. Navy in his jaunty white hat. Therapia will tell you that this is the only place to live in during the summer; other places along the road on either hand claim the same advantage, and the claims must be allowed where the choice is so difficult. For there is Candilli, and who that has spent some sunny weeks under the trees of that favoured spot, has dived from the garden wall (displacing volumes of water) into the evening phosphorescence of the Bosphorus, but wishes to return and to repeat the performance? And Arnoutkeni, where, on a hill-top, lives the most hospitable of consuls-general.