On Sunday, the 2nd of May 1675, after morning prayers and a sermon by the Rev. John Covel, his Excellency set out from Pera with a very great retinue. Besides the Embassy staff and servants, there were all the English merchants of Constantinople and some of Smyrna with their own servants—altogether one hundred and twenty horsemen, fifty-five baggage-wagons, three led horses in rich trappings, a gorgeous coach-and-six with postillions, a coach-and-four for the Chief Dragoman, and a double litter canopied with fine wrought cloth and carried by four mules harnessed together two and two: in that litter, attended by four muleteers and preceded by two link-bearers, Sir John Finch and Sir Thomas Baines lay in state.
It must have been a comely sight to watch these English travellers on that spring day, two hundred and fifty years ago, clatter over the wooden bridges which spanned the streams at the head of the Golden Horn, skirt the walls of Stambul, and enter upon the highway to Adrianople. We will follow their slow progress along that dusty road; for the details of their journey are all on record, and one might do sillier things than that.
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]
In his wildest nightmares Sir John had never seen himself living in a Ghetto. And this was no nightmare, but hard, solid, filthy reality. A spasm of rage came over him—rage at everybody, but more especially at Signor Antonio Perone who had had two months in which to provide for his honourable accommodation. He swore at the miserable Dragoman as perhaps no ambassador had ever sworn before. “He vowed,” says our Treasurer, whose mischievous spirit had been moved to impish glee, “he vowed with the most execrable protestations never to be reconciled to him.” He ordered him off to Constantinople in twenty-four hours, else he would have him drubbed.[85] Apparently Sir John knew not that the magnificent Marquis de Nointel had been treated to precisely the same fragrant surprise;[86] or if he did, the knowledge carried no comfort.
Signor Antonio retired to his private lodging to wait for the ambassadorial wrath to evaporate; and three days later, by the mediation of Mr. Hyet, the oldest English merchant, he received plenary absolution. Meanwhile, after an unforgettable night in that salubrious abode, Sir John had sent his Chief Dragoman, the venerable Signor Giorgio Draperys, to the Grand Vizir to beg for a better residence. With gratifying celerity the Vizir turned a rich Jew out of his home; and the Ambassador, accompanied by his staff and the friend of his bosom, removed thither, still keeping the other house for the servants. Mr. North turned Signor Antonio out of his quarters and made himself comfortable therein. The others shifted as best they could, until little by little every infidel dog found his kennel.
Quickly as these transmigrations were effected, Sir John had had time, in the midst of them, to save the King of England’s honour from some fresh perils that menaced it. There were at Adrianople several foreign diplomats: Count Kindsberg, the German Emperor’s Resident; the Ambassador, as they called him, of the little Republic of Ragusa; and M. de La Croix, second secretary to the Ambassador of France. Contrary to Sir John’s expectations, none of these, save the Ragusan, had sent out to meet him on his approach to the city. So, the instant he set foot to earth, he “searchd’ into the Point Whether the Emperors Resident was wont to send to meet the Ambassadour of France,” and heard that “for certain, yes.” Immediately after, one of the Resident’s gentlemen came to tell Sir John that the Caesarean Excellency desired to wait upon him. Sir John answered that the house he was in “was so infamous” that he could receive no one, but when in a convenient lodging he would invite the Resident, “unlesse He, as I was informd’, had sent to meet the French Ambassadour, which He had not done to me.” Similar overtures from the French diplomat met with a similar rebuff. Count Kindsberg hastened to explain that his Excellency was terribly misinformed: “He never sent to meet the Ambassadour of France in his life, but he had sent to meet me, had not the Gran Signor at the same time sent for Him to Audience; which I knew to be true, and amongst other Reasons this was one that he would have sent out to meet me, because my Lord of Winchelsea did so to Count Lesley”—Walter Leslie, the Scottish Ambassador Extraordinary from the Emperor to Turkey, whose mission had created a great sensation ten years before.[87] Mollified by these explanations, Sir John intimated to the Resident that he “would gladly receive His Favour in another House.” When he moved to that new house, Count Kindsberg came; Sir John returned his call two days after; and their intercourse acquired a distinct flavour of familiarity thenceforward. The Resident turned out to be “a Civill understanding Gentleman. He invites me to Dinner, and I Him, and frequently comes to visitt me.”
Would that all “Publick Ministers” were equally reasonable! “But Monsieur Le Croix (sic) Huffs and gives out that He could not come to see me being once refusd.” He had reported this affront to his master and was waiting for instructions. When these arrived, however, La Croix called to apologise. He was, he said, “tender of His Master’s Honour”—Nointel “had raisd’ Him from nothing, and all he had was owing to Him.” The Frenchman’s words and his tone appealed to Sir John’s magnanimity. With a gracious air and a smiling look, he told the penitent that “He did ill to take exceptions at that at which Ministers of farr greater figure took none, and so Wee friendly parted.”[88]
It was well for Finch that he established good relations with these gentlemen: their society would go a long way towards making his sojourn in that environment bearable. The Greeks have a saying, “Without fair as a doll, within foul as the plague.” To this description Adrianople answered admirably. Despite its Seraglio, its mosques, its baths and bazaars, it was, in our Chaplain’s words, a “very mean and beastly” city, and just now it was crowded to overflowing by all sorts and conditions of strangers drawn to the spot by the lure of profit or pleasure, or by the Grand Signor’s commands. And of all quarters of this dirty and congested city the most dirty and congested was the Jewish quarter where our pilgrims had their habitation: a slum that offended every sense at every hour. At night rest was impossible: a multitude of pests conspired to murder sleep: rats, mice, bugs and fleas indoors; outside, carts rumbling over the rough cobbles, and legions of pariah dogs brawling in the moonlight. During the day, as during the night, “the stink of the Jewes did give us no small purgatory,” wails the Rev. John. Even the sense of novelty could not atone for the sense of discomfort and disgrace.
The only compensation for Sir John was the promptitude with which the Grand Vizir granted him an audience, in little more than a week after his arrival (May 19). This smoothed somewhat the Ambassador’s ruffled feathers and, moreover, induced the consoling belief that his purgatory would, at all events, not last long. Why should it, anyhow? Lord Winchilsea had started for Adrianople on December 5th (1661); by January 13th he had the Capitulations renewed with all the additions obtainable; and by January 23rd he was back at Pera.
The audience, as all men conversant with such matters assured Sir John, was “very courteous and very honorable”—even the most captious eye could detect no “puntiglio” to cavil at.
Like all state apartments in Turkey, the room in which this function took place had for its main feature a Soffah—part of the floor raised a foot or so higher than the rest and furnished with cushions and bolsters. When an ambassador was received with great formality two chairs appeared on this dais: one for him and the other for the Vizir; when the audience was less formal, the Vizir sat cross-legged on his cushions in the corner, and the ambassador had a stool set for him upon the dais—a point worth remembering. It was upon such a stool that Sir John was now placed, while his suite stood close behind him, on the common level of the floor. Round about the room stood many chaoushes and other attendants, motionless and mute. At the end of a quarter of an hour, there was a loud “Whish! whish!”—to impose silence, rather unnecessarily—and the Grand Vizir entered.
He was a man of about forty, of medium height and somewhat inclined to corpulence. He had a small round face thinly fringed by a short black beard, and a smooth erect forehead crowned, as far as his turban permitted to see, by thick, close-cut hair. His complexion was of a dark brown, and as his cheeks were deeply pitted with small-pox the general impression was hardly one of enchanting beauty.[89] Walking with a slight limp and a slight stoop—though young in years, Ahmed Kuprili was already loaded with infirmities—he dropped down upon the cushions and crossed his legs.
The Ambassador’s stool was moved nearer to the Vizir, and, once seated again, his Excellency delivered the royal letter,[90] saying that his Master commanded him to do so and withal to give him a message by word of mouth: namely, to solicit for his Majesty’s subjects trading in the Grand Signor’s territories protection in the enjoyment of all their privileges and immunities, according to the Capitulations, assuring him, on the other part, of his Majesty’s desire, not only to confirm the good relations already existing between the two Courts, but also to improve them. He was told in reply that, as long as his Master observed the laws of friendship with the Grand Signor, the Grand Signor would reciprocate. These mutual civilities were exchanged through the Dragoman of the Porte, Dr. Mavrocordato, who stood at the edge of the Soffah, in stereotyped phrases which had suffered no variation since the foundation of the Ottoman Empire.
At that point, the Ambassador and the Vizir were treated to coffee, sherbet, and perfume; and then Sir John and his gentlemen were clothed with kaftans, or robes of honour—loose garments, shaped like night-gowns and bespangled with large yellow flowers, half-moons, and other decorative devices. The material of which they were made varied according to the rank of the recipient: cloth of gold or silver, or silk with more or less of gold and silver wrought in it. At most audiences such garments were given to the visitors, in return for the many valuable cloaks of cloth, silk, velvet, cloth of gold and silver, which the visitors had to give at all audiences: as the English of the period proverbially said of the Turk: “if he gives you an egg, he will expect at least a pullet for it.”[91]
While refreshments and investments were proceeding, the Ambassador and the Vizir continued their conversation. Sir John dwelt at some length on the steadfast friendship the English nation had shown towards Turkey for nearly a hundred years, laying stress on the fact that during the protracted war for the conquest of Candia, which the Vizir had brought to a happy conclusion, not one Englishman had appeared amongst the numerous Christian volunteers who had assisted the Venetians. Ahmed replied that it was true: he himself was witness to it. Next Finch thanked him for so speedy an audience. Ahmed said it was a time of mirth, great affairs were laid aside for a while, so he had leisure. Finch expressed the wish that it might always be a time of mirth with him, and went on emitting many other compliments, to which he got the briefest of answers—or no answer at all.
Ahmed Kuprili was no great dealer in words. Platitudes, especially when the speaker repeated himself, as Sir John was prone to do, wearied him. But he did not interrupt: he simply did not listen. He sat in the corner of the Soffah, with his hands glued to his knees, and his countenance fixed in a sort of stony composure: hardly did a hair of his beard stir to show that he breathed. He was somewhat short-sighted, which caused him to knit his brows and peer very intently when a stranger entered his presence; but after that one searching look his small eyes, having taken the visitor’s measure, remained resolutely half-closed. Once, and only once, when he said it was a time of mirth, his English guests fancied they saw some shadow of a smile on his lips: so faint that it was hardly perceptible. Thus he sat, dark, remote, silent, and inscrutable, looking at the verbose Frank through half-closed, bored eyes. Such calm, such silence, such hauteur, in any other man, would have been exasperating. As practised by Ahmed Kuprili, they were simply subduing. For even his quietude conveyed somehow a suggestion of latent energy—of strength in reserve. On the present occasion, however, we discern a little relaxation from this glacial grandeur. “He look’t very pleasantly,” says the Rev. John, “and as we were inform’d, with an unusuall sweetnesse; though, at best, I assure you, I thought he had Majesty and State enough in his face all the time.”[92] Sir John describes the Vizir as “in his discourse very free and affable, oftentimes inclining his body towards me, which I am told was not usuall.”[93]
These exceptional tokens of affability emboldened the Ambassador, contrary to the rules and the plain hints given him that this was no time for affairs, to broach the question of Tripoli. As we know, he had already notified to the Vizir the rupture. “Here,” he says, “I renewd’ my complaints desiring him over and above that the Gran Signors owne hand being to that Treaty he would not onely approve of the King my Master’s just vindicating the Right of his Treaty by Arms, but also make his due resentment upon their perfidiousness to his Imperiall Majesty. Answer was made me that he would take nothing ill of the Kings part in that affayr, but that he would seek to remedy what they had offended in, as to their owne score.”[94] Whereupon Ahmed rose to his feet, and with a slight bow to the Ambassador limped out of the room.
The visitors departed carrying away with them a mental picture of an overpowering personality, and sixteen kaftans, which they had the curious taste to appraise. The Ambassador’s was valued at 25 or 30 dollars; those of the Treasurer, Secretary, and Chief Dragoman at about 8 dollars apiece: the Chaplain sold his for 6½ dollars.[95]
All this was most interesting, but it was not business. The interview was an empty formality. Nor could Finch hope for many direct business dealings with the Vizir. It is true that Ahmed Kuprili’s established monopoly of power saved an ambassador a world of trouble. Often the Grand Vizirs were mere ciphers, and the Palace usurped all the functions of the Porte. At such times the Grand Signor’s minions counted for a good deal more than his Ministers. The ambassador, therefore, was obliged to discover those minions and the subterraneous channels which led to them, and, while openly carrying on formal conversations with the Vizir, to conduct real negotiations secretly with the Kislar Aga, or Chief of the Black Eunuchs, and other magnates of the Harem. Again, common Grand Vizirs, even when they had no rival in the Harem, had a master at home. They were generally governed by some old friend, or perhaps a favourite slave, through whose hands the great man’s most momentous affairs passed, and who had such an ascendancy over his mind that he could bring him to accept any proposals he liked. To discover and propitiate this omnipotent adviser was no easy matter. Ahmed had simplified a foreign envoy’s task in this respect also. He never had any favourites, or if he had, he was never governed by them.
But still Turkey was Turkey. The Grand Vizir did not quite correspond to a European Prime Minister. Sir John spoke with awe of “this most great and most important charge; the like to which no age at no time under any Christian prince could ever parallel, either as to grandeur or authority.” In fact, Ahmed, though more accessible than many of his predecessors and successors, being the Grand Signor’s vicar, was only less unapproachable than his master. The way to him lay through his Kehayah, or Steward, and his Rais Effendi, or Chief Secretary. With these officers all preliminary negotiations had to be conducted.
Sir John, already initiated in the rudiments of Turkish procedure, shaped his course accordingly. In consultation with the leading English merchants, he had the new Articles of the Capitulations drawn up, translated into Turkish, and sent by his Dragomans to the Kehayah that he might submit them to the Vizir, after first taking the advice of the Rais Effendi, who had been gained in advance. The Kehayah had received the document very favourably and promised his assistance. That was done as soon as Finch had settled down at Adrianople. Since then nothing more had been heard from the Porte. The Ambassador thought the Pashas should not be allowed to go to sleep. So he despatched his Dragomans, soliciting an answer from those obliging functionaries, but he was put off with the reply that he must wait till the festivities were over.[96]
Alas, poor Ambassador! What maladroit demon had inspired thee to select for business a time of mirth?