CHAPTER IX THE SUBLIME THRESHOLD
As soon as the Feasts ended (June 25th) the Ambassador applied for his Audience—“and here,” he says, “I find I was mistaken, that it was not the Feasts that hinderd’ my Audience, but a Pay day to the Souldiery.” The Turks commonly chose that day for the reception of new ambassadors in order to dazzle them with the sight of their strength and wealth. But Sir John, who did not yet know all the ins and outs of Ottoman etiquette, readily believed what he was told—“that the Gran Signor had an Intention to place the highest Respect upon me in giving me audience on the pay day of his Janizarys.”[133]
This honour is promised him at once; but the days pass, and it is still to come. Instead, other things come—things enough to try the temper of a saint. Just then—beginning of July—the Plague breaks out in the overcrowded city of Adrianople; and to the nuisance of interminable festivals now succeed the horrors of interminable funerals. Hundreds die every day. It is impossible to stir out of doors without meeting a corpse. All slaves and poor people, the moment they expire, are wrapped up in some rag, thrust upon the back of a hamal, or porter, and conveyed to their destination like bales of cadaverous goods. What is worse, one knows that there lies as much danger of contagion in touching the clothes of the living as the bodies of the dead. There is no protection against the foul disease except in flight. Even the Turks, who are much less given to panic than the Franks, fly in great numbers from the town into the country. The Grand Signor himself, good Mohammedan though he is, sets the example of lack of faith by retiring to a palace which he has built at Ak-bonar, some ten miles north of Adrianople, leaving the Grand Vizir in the infected city to carry on the business of government as usual. What is left for mere infidels?
They retreat as fast as they can to Karagatch—a Greek village about a mile and a half south-west of Adrianople, on the river Arda. There the Ambassador gets a house for himself, Sir Thomas Baines, and their servants; the Chaplain, through the kind offices of his brother-papas, the village priest, obtains a tiny apartment in a cottage close by; and the others lodge, one here, one there, wherever they can find room—no easy matter in a small village for a company of one hundred and twenty persons. For the Treasurer alone there is no escape from the pestilent city. Business compels him to be always there. “Care was taken,” he says, “to find me constant employment, and for the most part I went at the will and pleasure of his Excellency.” North is a philosopher, and takes health and sickness as he does light and darkness or the vicissitudes of the seasons: as things to which a wise man has to accommodate himself; only taking care, whatever befalls him on this moonstruck planet, not to lose his temper with it. Nevertheless, though prudence holds his tongue, he cannot help some sarcastic reflections on “the Italick caution of the Ambassador and selfishness of the Knight,” who thus shift almost the whole burden on to his shoulders.[134]
Curiously enough, while showing so little regard for the English Treasurer’s safety, Sir John invites the Spanish friars to share his retreat with him—an invitation which is, naturally, accepted with gratitude and alacrity.[135] Let us hope that they repay him by their saintly exhortations and example of patience under affliction: there is call enough for both from that day onward.
As the weeks go by, and the Plague, with the increasing heat, grows fiercer, the Ambassador’s desire to have his Audience and his Capitulations, and to be gone, becomes acuter. His Dragomans are incessantly at work, pressing the Kehayah for dispatch; and, to add weight to their solicitations, Sir John writes to that worthy, desiring to know if there is any hitch in the business, declaring himself ready to argue any point before the Grand Vizir against any one, and asking whether he should make a direct application to the Vizir. The Kehayah answers, with his accustomed suavity, that his Excellency should not fret: all is well. As soon as the Tefterdar, or Lord Treasurer, can get ready the money for the pay of the Janissaries, Sir John will have his heart’s desire. There is nothing to be done but to let things take their course.
At last the Grand Signor decides to return to the Seraglio for the Audience. And, on the 27th of July, an hour before dawn, two chaoushes arrive at Karagatch to fetch his Excellency.
“Is my Lord ready?”
Ready for anything is my Lord—anything that promises deliverance from purgatory. Dressed and wigged and breakfastless, he and his companions follow briskly the thrice-welcome messengers to the head of a wooden bridge on the Arda, and there wait till the rest of the chaoushes who compose the guard of honour make their appearance. Then, crossing the river, our pilgrims mount their horses and set off through the dim twilight. About them the plain lies veiled in pestiferous mists; overhead a few stars still twinkle in the pale sky; the dew sparkles on the bare sandy soil underfoot. In front, with its solemn domes and slender minarets silhouetted against the horizon, looms the city of Adrianople.
They enter, and ride up the crooked, deserted streets, pitch-dark under the overhanging upper storeys of the houses, the noise of the horses’ hoofs on the rough cobbles rousing the inhabitants from their feverish dreams. Sir John’s heart grows almost merry within him at the thought that he is seeing that mournful city of death for the last time.
At about half-past five they alight at the great gate of the Seraglio. Our old friends, the Chaoush-bashi and Capiji-bashi, reinforced by a new one, the Peskeshji-bashi, or Chief Receiver of Gifts, come forth and conduct the visitors across a vast court lined with Janissaries to whose officers the Ambassador bows as he goes on, prompted by the Peskeshji-bashi, who walks before him with a long silver staff in his hand. After traversing this court, they step through a stone porch into the Divan: a small hall—not more than eight or nine yards square—with a bench running round the three sides, covered, as is also the floor, with embroidered silk. This hall serves many purposes: it is here that laws are enacted, lawsuits decided, troops paid, and ambassadors made fit to be introduced to the august presence of the Grand Signor: it has no doors, but stands always open for all the world to enter and seek justice.
The visitors look about them curiously: “The Truth is, Right Honorable, it was a sight worthy of any man’s seeing,” says Sir John, “but I have not here any time to dilate upon it.” Fortunately the Rev. John has and does. On one side of the bench sits a Secretary of State designated Nishanji-bashi, whose function it is to affix the Sultan’s cipher (toughra) to Imperial decrees. On another sits the Grand Vizir, with the two Cadileskers, or Supreme Judges of Europe and Asia. On the third side sits the Tefterdar. Over the Vizir’s head protrudes something that every one present thinks of all the time, though no one dares for a single moment gaze at—a bow-window screened with gilded lattice-work, through which, it is understood, the Grand Signor watches the proceedings unseen.
Having made his obeisance to the Vizir and the rest, the Ambassador is given a velvet stool to sit on, and, after “a little discourse,” is conducted to the bench on the Vizir’s right-hand side and placed beneath the Nishanji-bashi, “which, as I am told, was a Respect.” Next to him stands Dr. Mavrocordato, the Dragoman of the Porte, and his own two chief Dragomans. The other members of the suite take their appointed places at the farther end of the room: they may turn sideways to look out into the court, but when one or two of them, in so doing, venture to turn their backs to the Vizir, they are sharply reprimanded.
Several hundred small leather bags, each containing coin to the value of 500 dollars, are brought in and piled in heaps of ten upon the floor. The Tefterdar presents his accounts to the Vizir. He, after kissing them, sends them to the Grand Signor by the Peskeshji-bashi, and by him they are presently returned to the Vizir, who receives them with another kiss. Thereupon the bags are taken out to the porch; the companies of the Janissaries are called by the Peskeshji-bashi, one after another, and each company comes running up to receive its quota. When they are all paid off, their officers step into the Divan and, kneeling down before the Vizir, lift the corner of his cloak to their foreheads and lips; then, retiring three or four paces backwards and sideways, go out again; Ahmed Kuprili all the time sitting as one who does not know what is going on.
This solemn tomfoolery over, there follows another performance more cheering for the wearied and hungry Englishmen. Ewers and basins are brought in, and when the Vizir, Tefterdar, Nishanji-bashi, and the Ambassador have washed their hands, three little round tables are planted respectively in front of the three grandees and covered with leather mats. Upon these tables are laid flat loaves of bread like pancakes, coarse wooden spoons, some saucers of capers, olives, parsley, and pickled samphire, a little salt-cellar and a little pepper-box. The Ambassador sits at the Vizir’s table, having beside him only his chief Dragoman, who “rendred us mutuall Intelligible to each other.” He sits on a velvet stool, facing his host, who is seated on the bench. Three similar stools are set at the Nishanji-bashi’s table for our Treasurer, the oldest merchant, Mr. Hyet, and Dr. Pickering of Smyrna. Three more stools at the Tefterdar’s table are occupied by the Ambassador’s Secretary, the Cancellier, and the Chaplain. All these are “most Civilly and Courteously entertaind’.” The rest of the suite dine in the porch outside, some with the Rais Effendi, some with the Chaoush-bashi, and are none too gently treated by the Turkish attendants, who shove them with their elbows and address to them rude words. The two Cadileskers dine by themselves—too strict observers of the Law to eat with infidels.
Thanks to our parson’s loquacious quill, supplemented with a few touches from the Ambassador’s pen, we are able to raise the ghost of that repast of long ago from the limbo of dead dinners. It is a banquet in the very best Turkish style. There are roast chickens and roast pigeons piled one upon another; kebobs, or bits of mutton, both roast and boiled, skewered in alternate layers; gourds stuffed with minced meat, and soups of several sorts, and puff pastry pies, both plain and stuffed, and pillaf, and dates, and pine kernels, and very, very many other things, sweet or savoury, solid or sloppy—anything from fifty to a hundred courses—served up in dishes of a glazed metal (martaban) much heavier and costlier than china, and whipped away with disconcerting swiftness, to be scrambled for by the Janissaries in the courtyard. The soups are eaten with the wooden spoons; for the meats the banqueters have to use the implements provided by Nature. At each table the host begins by pinching the flesh with his finger and thumb and inviting the guests to fall to; which they do, nipping and tearing lustily with hands and teeth. About half-way through this “horse-feast,” as the Rev. John calls it, the Ambassador asks for something to drink, and is given—a cup of water. As he takes it, he catches the Grand Vizir’s eye fixed upon his Dragoman with a quizzical smile, “knowing very well that I usd’ to drink very Excellent Wines, for He Himselfe had tasted of it.” But, at the other tables, the diners have excellent lemon sherbet to wash down the viands with; the host at each table beginning with a hearty draught and then passing the cup round. The Rev. John deeply regrets that after this one round he sees that blessed cup no more.
Turkish banquets, as a rule, were funereal affairs. But this one was enlivened by some “very free and merry discourse” between the Ambassador and the Vizir, the latter “often laughing out right, though the Gran Signor stood in the window all the while to look on us.”[136] It was over much sooner than the hungry Englishmen would have liked or than might have been expected from the number of courses; but the waiters at each table kept such good time that all ended, as they had begun, together: even in their dinners the Turks forgot not their discipline.
After the necessary ablutions, the guests are led by the Dragoman Mavrocordato out into the porch, where they sit on a long bench and are vested with kaftans. In this masquerade they wait for half an hour, till the Vizir and the other Ministers come forth on their way to the Grand Signor’s Audience Chamber. Shortly afterwards the Ambassador is summoned to proceed in the same direction, and he does so, followed by his presents and accompanied by all his gentlemen; but only six are allowed to enter—the two Dragomans, the Treasurer, the oldest merchant, the Cancellier, and the Secretary, who carries the royal letter on his head. The Rev. John is bitterly disappointed. Both the Ambassador and the Knight had solemnly promised him before they set out from Constantinople and all along that he should infallibly be one of the persons admitted to the presence—and he has been left out. ’Tis no use for the Rev. John to assure us that he does not mind a bit, because, forsooth, he has already seen the Grand Signor again and again—that it is only the furniture of the room he wishes to see. He does mind, very, very much. But he consoles himself with the reflection that he has not missed much that was worth having.
The proceedings appear to have been marked by rather more than the ceremonial violence customary on such occasions: so much so that those who took part in them could afterwards give only the vaguest and most confused account of what had happened: it looked as if the Avji wished to pay the giaours back for bringing him into the plague-stricken city.
At the entrance they were each seized by two capijis, one holding them under one arm, the other under the other, and were dragged in. As soon as ever they crossed the Sublime Threshold, their conductors, laying their hands on their necks, forced them to bow down till their foreheads touched the floor: once-twice-thrice; and immediately afterwards all, except the Ambassador, his Secretary, and Chief Dragoman, were hustled out again in such a manner that the Treasurer who came out first swore that he saw practically nothing—only in a general sort of way he had an impression of a very large, dimly lighted room with in it something that looked like a thing they call the Grand Signor. The poor Cancellier, being a little man, was crushed quite down at the door, and the oldest merchant nearly tumbled over him as he lay sprawling over the Sublime Threshold: so they saw even less than the Treasurer.
The Ambassador stayed in about four minutes altogether: the Chaplain timed him by his pulse—a method of measuring time which the Rev. John had often practised at sea by a half-minute glass. All his Excellency could tell of the interview was this: the Grand Signor sat upon a sort of four-post bed covered with a crimson counterpane embroidered with pearls, and had by him “a Rich Cabinett or Standish, sett all over with larg Diamonds to a great Value.” The front of his cloak from the neck down was also set with large diamonds and pearls. He wore on his head a small plain turban with a little feather fastened to it by a jewelled brooch, and upon his face a most severe, terrible, stately scowl.
After the three compulsory prostrations, Sir John’s Dragoman was ordered to read his Excellency’s address—just twelve and a half lines given to him beforehand in Italian: “wherein was all His Majesty’s titles that I could thinke of, and the word Padesha in, where there was occasion to putt it, at which my Druggerman being a little startled when I gave Him the Paper the day before I went in, I bad Him fear nothing for I was to be by Him.”[137] But in spite of the brevity of the speech, in spite of his rehearsal of it, in spite of the Ambassador’s protecting vicinity, poor old Signor Giorgio, what with the violent exercise he had just undergone, what with the Grand Signor’s scowl, was so flurried that he very nearly lost the thread. That done, the Secretary handed the King’s Letter to the Dragoman, who passed it on to the Vizir, who laid it on the bolster at the Grand Signor’s right hand, who cast a kind of scornful eye towards it and said—nothing. Whereas, the Rev. John well remembered, he had spoken to Finch’s predecessor Harvey a great deal. Clearly, the Avji was sulking. The Vizir spoke instead, saying, “All right,” and, without more ado, Ambassador, Secretary, and Dragoman were dragged out again.[138]
Pitiful to see the representative of a great Christian Power crawling to the Ottoman throne in such a manner—and glad to arrive there at all. The more we gaze on the picture, the more pitiful it seems: that free men should from interest adopt an attitude to which slaves are compelled by fear! That is the permanent fact we discover in this passing show; and it is inevitable that we should discover it. As long as our policy has an essentially illiberal aim—be it dollars, be it domination—so long will our posture be servile: to reach what lies low, you must stoop. Such is the tragic moral of the picture; yet there are many touches of comedy in it, too. A picture well worth looking at, in more ways than one.
