TYPICAL TURKS

DWIGHT, Henry O.
The Galaxy / Volume 24, Issue 2
August 1877

THE OLD TURK

To the bench upon which you are sitting, on the Scutari steamer, comes a Turk of the old school. He is dressed in black broadcloth of the shiniest. His vest is cut high in the neck, disclosing about three inches of unstarched shirt and a paper collar tied with a red ribbon. His face is absolutely covered with deep pits which the small-pox has left upon him. A closely-cut beard of jet black adorns his countenance, following every curve of cheek and chin. His eye is hard and unflinching. If you are a mild man you will quail before it; if you are an obstinate man you will wish to kick the owner of that eye every time you encounter its gaze. The old Turk is not old in years. This specimen is not more than thirty-five.

The bench on which you sit is already overcrowded, but that does not make the slightest difference to this Turk. “I can stand it if you can,” is his motto. Therefore as he approaches he roars as if commanding a battalion, “Toplanin”—gather yourselves together. His voice is so harsh and rasping in its tones that every one turns to look. The Turk, however, takes no notice of this tribute to his commanding qualities. In fact, he never looks to see whether his order is obeyed, but calmly backs into the seat, sure that he will not be the principal sufferer.

As he sits down his eyes are fixed on the distant horizon, and in a grieved tone he says, “Oh, Lord! Thou knowest!” You have never heard a Turk say such a thing before, and from that moment your attention is rivetted upon him. The suggestion of these words is that the man is pious. You could have much more readily accepted the suggestion of cannibalism on his part.

Albeit your gaze is now ready to become admiration on slight pretexts, the Turk does not observe it. In fact, he has not looked at his neighbors from the moment that he made up his mind to sit down on the whole company. A look might be construed into apology. Nevertheless you are confirmed in your interest in the man. Every five minutes a heavy sigh comes from cavernous depths in his chest. With the sigh is always exhaled in touching resignation some aspiration, some ejaculatory prayer. Now it is simply “Allah! Allah!” again it is “Ya Moubarek ya!”— oh, Holy one! —or “Ya Rabbi”—oh, Lord! His face is not winning, but his devotional ejaculations, made with an oppressive seriousness and solemnity, prove him to be a truly religious Moslem. You soon discover a large black rosary in his hand, the beads of which he tells over with his fingers, while his lips move in cadence with the motion. You can sometimes detect the words he whispers, “the Merciful,” “the Glorious,” “the Holy,” and so on. You begin to feel that this man lives for Allah alone, and is oblivious to all mundane things. The mysticism of the Orient evidently rules his soul. An example of the order of humanity to which he belongs has never before crossed your path.

Just at this moment an event occurs which was perhaps expected by the Turk when he chose his seat. The smallest man on the bench, squeezed beyond endurance, suddenly gets up and flees to the bow of the steamer. Before any one has time to expand, the Turk appropriates the whole of the vacant space by getting both of his feet upon the bench. His left foot he doubles under him, and he raises his right knee to form a rest for his arm. Again he sighs, but this time there is a more contented tone in his voice as he says, “Ya Hakk!”—oh, God of Truth!—as if in praise for the amelioration of his condition. Your admiration for his piety receives a check. The Turk’s foot is pressing the side of your neighbor, a meek Armenian. The Armenian looks at the Turk, then at the foot, then once more he looks at the Turk, who meets his gaze with a perfectly unembarrassed stare, unconscious of a cause for the interest of the Armenian.

At last the mild man ventures to suggest that if the Turk would put his foot down from the bench it would be an advantage all around. This impertinence is too much for the Turk, who glares fiercely as he roars, “Zorun ne?”—what’s the matter with you?— “If you don’t like your seat you had better get another. Allah! Allah!”

This manner of viewing the case is sure to result, sooner or later, in the sudden withdrawal of the Armenian. The Turk is thus left free to settle back in comfort and to exchange salutations with the green-turbaned Dervish opposite.

“How are you?”

“Glory be to God! How is your excellency?”

“Praise be to Him!”

Here the Turk notices that the Dervish has made a cigarette, for which he has no light. He wishes to show courtesy to his friend, without prejudice to his own store of matches. So he looks about him. In the seat behind him is a Frenchman who smokes as he reads a newspaper. The Turk is a man of action. Without a word he reaches over and takes the amber cigarette holder from the Frenchman’s hand and passes it over to the Dervish with the air of a man who is conferring great gifts. The owner of the cigarette is astonished, but says nothing. When the Dervish has lighted his cigarette, he hands that of the Frenchman over, that it may be returned to its owner. The Turk has, however, concluded to smoke himself, and rolls a cigarette and lights it from the captive “light” before he will allow the Frenchman to recover his own. And when he does return the other cigarette he does not turn his head to look at its owner. He simply calls out “Al” (take). As he thus passes the cigarette over his shoulder he unwittingly brings its lighted end in contact with the ear of another man, very naturally eliciting by this means an expletive from the ear’s owner. The Turk, however, waves the matter out of existence, saying to him of the injured ear, “No matter. It is of no consequence,” and there the matter rests.

The right hand neighbor of the Turk is reading a newspaper. The Turk becomes interested in one of its paragraphs over the shoulder of the owner, and holds the edge of the leaf until he shall have finished spelling out the whole of it. If the owner of the paper tries to turn the leaf in spite of him, or thinks to take the paper away, he may succeed, but he will tear the sheet in doing so, and will receive a sounding lecture on politeness from the Turk. Another homily on politeness follows the dispenser of tickets, who on his rounds persisted in waiting on all the passengers in turn, thereby obliging our devotional Turkish friend to hold his money in his hand for full ten minutes before his turn came.

If you inquire who is this man of religious words and secular deeds, your friend will tell you that he is the celebrated Haji Izzet Bey. He was formerly a servant to Assi Pasha, and was appointed by that dignitary Mudir of the village of Kara Sou, on the borders of Koordistan. He remained in this place for some time, getting rich without a salary, until the affair of the Armenian priest’s daughter. His carrying her off for his harem was the cause of his removal, for if he had not got the girl that night the Captain of the garrison at the fort in the Pass would have had her. The Captain had his plans laid for having the girl stolen by the Koords the very next night, and their failure made the Captain the enemy of the Mudir. Haji Izzet Bey was removed and ordered to Erzroom for trial. He spent a round sum of money, however, on an Arab mare which some Koords had for sale, and presented her to the Governor of Erzroom. This saved him. He was very shortly promoted, and the investment paid. He was appointed to be Caimakam of the town of Batakjilar in the district of Smyrna. The week after his arrival he took three troopers, and rode down and captured four brigands after a six hours’ chase. This was a warning to the brigands of the district that he was not a man to be trifled with. The four men all escaped a few nights afterward, and no brigand was ever disturbed by Haji Izzet Bey again. Six months afterward the Cadi or judge of the district quarrelled with him as to the division of the friendly contribution paid by the robber chief Lefter toward their support. The Cadi wanted half, the Caimakam would not given him but a quarter. The Cadi was on friendly terms with the Grand Vezir’s Imam, and as a result of complaint to that functionary, Haji Izzet Bey was dismissed the service within three weeks after the first unpleasantness.

He then went to Constantinople, made a present of a jewelled pipestem to the Grand Vezir’s man of affairs, and thus ascertained what would be most acceptable to the great man who had the power in his hands. “With this knowledge Haji Izzet Bey looked around among the houses in the Sultan Mahomet quarter of Constantinople until he found a Circassian girl who was pretty enough. She was a tall, fairfaced girl, with gray eyes and a vast flood of brown hair which came below her waist in masses. She could neither read nor write, but then she was not bought to be a clerk. Haji Izzet Bey bargained for her, and after two days’ negotiation agreed to pay one hundred and fifty-five pounds for her, with her clothes thrown in. Then he got Dr. Black to go to see her, and it is from him that I received the description of the girl. After Black was ushered into the presence of his patient and found what was required of him, he positively refused to proceed with the case. The Bey stormed, and swore, and begged, and offered Dr. Black twenty-five pounds, but Dr. Black turned his back on him and went off, and so the Bey had to get a Greek doctor to come and examine the girl’s lungs and her teeth, and certify, in fact, that her physical condition was such as would become one destined to the harem of a great Pasha. Then Haji Izzet paid the price to the brother of the girl (who was selling her), and presented her to the Pasha. Haji Izzet Bey soon received his appointment to the great Constantinople custom house as chief appraiser. He still holds this position. His salary is two hundred dollars a month in copper, although he is only just learning to write now, in the fourth year of his office. He is, however, getting quite rich. He owns a nice house in Scutari, paid for out of his savings. Moreover, he keeps a horse and has a servant waiting for him on the ferry wharf every night. He has also three wives, the first of whom was given to him from Assi Pasha’s harem at the beginning of his official career, and two added since. The daughter of the Armenian priest has, however, disappeared, and they tell an ugly story about her having run away and never being seen again after her recapture.

Haji Izzet Bey is likely to be long retained in his present position. He has end eared himself to the merchants of the city, who will use strong influences in his favor if any one ever talks of removing him. It was he who once allowed Gulmez Oghlon to take thirty cases of woollen goods from their lighters without paying a cent of duty. It is said that he made twenty pounds by the transaction.

Every day at the prayer hour Haji Izzet Bey retires to an elevated place, in full view of every one, and performs his devotions with unction. Such times of spiritual refreshing are begrudged the poor man by the custom house brokers. They hound his steps, and impatiently watch his genuflections afar off. As soon as he is through they struggle with one another to buttonhole him, for it is observed that immediately after a period of prayer Haji Izzet Bey is open to propositions in a peculiar degree. At such times, however, you cannot get him to touch filthy lucre. He becomes nervous if he sees you fingering your purse, and makes haste to point with his thumb over his shoulder to his clerk as one open to such blandishments. He also makes haste, however, to consult the clerk as to the amount paid, and is not above urging you to go another fifty cents, because the boy has a large family to support.

During the late troubles in Bulgaria Haji Izzet Bey wanted to go as Bashi Bazouk chieftain to Batak, but as the spring trade was keeping the custom house occupied with rich cargoes, he sent a substitute at his own expense.

When the new constitution was talked about, Haji Izzet Bey bought a double-barrelled shot-gun and two long bowie knives, and declared that the Christians were getting so ridiculously bold in their demands that there was but one way out of the difficulty. This remark was accompanied with a vicious curl of the lip and a motion of the open hand edgeways downward, as if he were slashing cornstalks. When his friends of the Ulema were arrested and banished for resisting reforms, Haji Izzet Bey suddenly ceased talking, but if you have his confidence he will tell you that he does so under protest. For him the old ways are good enough. The new fashions have almost ruined the country already, and it may yet be the duty of every patriot to rise and strike a blow to restore the ancient laws of two hundred years ago.

THE YOUNG TURK

The young Turk is a slim, well-dressed gentleman, with carefully waxed moustache, with immaculate shirt front, and with cuffs of mighty width and depth. He wears his fez cap rather far back on his head, so that the tassel may fly about jauntily as he moves briskly up the street. His hands are gloved, and twirl a cane effectively. His face is beaming in its sprightliness, although it is only cleanshaven once a week.

On Fridays it is that he appears, clean-shaven and polished, at one of the places of resort—the Sweet Waters of Asia, for instance. There he establishes himself near the road when the long string of carriages is passing, to smoke and drink coffee while he ogles the veiled beauties who gaze upon him in frank admiration as they pass. After sitting for three or four hours, he will put on his coat and vest—he has been sitting in his shirt sleeves all this time because of the heat —and will walk with two or three companions among the thronging beauties on the turf. With a glance at one, a sign to another, a sigh in the hearing of a third, and a whispered “You are a piece of my heart” to a fourth, he keeps well in hand a multitude of flirtations, which are all the more exciting because he has no idea who the ladies are whom he is addressing.

The young Turk is a clerk at the Porte. He goes languidly to his post between eleven and twelve o’clock each day, and, like Charles Lamb, makes up for the late hours in arriving in the morning by early hours in departing in the afternoon. At his post he seems to have plenty of leisure for jokes with his fellow clerks, or for joyful greetings of the ambassadorial dragomans who are sure to haunt the Porte daily, either to extract a coveted order from some one of the ministers or to chase the order, when obtained, through the various departments and stages of engrossal, lest it stay by the way before receiving the mystic sign for execution. The young Turk, Akif Bey, is fond of these dragomans because they speak to him in French and flatter him, during a brief five minutes, into the belief that he is very like a foreigner and very unlike a Turk. It is only with them that he can talk sympathetically of the latest actress at the Concordia or the last cantatrice of the Cafe Flamm.

Akif Bey was one of the thirty young men sent by Sultan Abdul Aziz to Paris ten years ago to learn—everything. He was not directed to follow any particular study. The Turkish mind had not stooped to grasp the idea of specialties in study. Besides, was not the pressing need of the empire education? Time could not be spared for young men to follow out any one branch in all its intricacies. Consequently Akif Bey was furnished with a quarterly allowance, and ordered to place himself in frequent communication with the Ottoman embassy, but to devote his time to a general acquirement of all the sciences of Europe. It was intended that he might be able to take the professorship of physiology or mathematics in the University of Constantinople, and be able also to instruct in navigation or mineralogy, anatomy or mining engineering, as he might be assigned to one or the other of the government schools upon his return from France. In fact, he was given carte blanche, guided only by the general principle of the necessity of becoming acquainted in a very short time with European civilization and with European learning. For five years Akif Bey revelled in delights. At first he inquired for the book which he should buy in order to learn physiology, and mathematics, and mineralogy, and navigation, and mining engineering, and anatomy. Failing to find such a book, he decided to learn very largely by absorption, and to let text-books alone. At the end of five years he was ordered back to Constantinople. There he found that the Grand Yezir who sent him to France was dead, and that the new Grand Vezir had not the remotest purpose of endowing the University of Constantinople. Hence he was spared the necessity of declining the Presidency of that institution on the ground that his specialty was not science. In fact, he felt that he would much prefer to teach French literature.

Akif Bey is now one of the most pleasant of friends. He will come to your house and insist on calling you his brother, he so much loves Europe and European manners. He makes no bones about denouncing the oppressions and villanies of his government and its officials—but then he has never been in the interior of the country, and has of course had no experience as Governor of a country district. He evidently feels sure of sympathy from you when he explains that he goes to the mosque only because people are so strict in their notions, and that he secretly curses the whole system and drinks wine with relish. He has a great deal to say about his admiration for “honor” as shown forth by Europeans. Questioning him, you find he refers to the duelling system. He speaks of his liking for the freedom of the European social life. Here two questions bring out the fact that the whole extent of his experience has been one soriee dansante at the Turkish embassy, where he played the wall-flower, and unlimited Jardin Mabille and Varietes Theatre.

His love for French literature has interested you, and some day he takes you to his house and shows you his library. It consists of Alexandre Dumas’s “Three Miisqueteers,” a dozen of the lowest of French novels, and two odd volumes of the “Cyclopedie des Arts et Metiers.” He. really supposes that he has the choicest of European literature in his possession, just as he thinks that the best of European society in Constantinople frequent the Cafe Flamm in Pera, or the Theatre Française, and just as he believes that wine drinking, the wearing of clean shirts, and disbelief in God are fundamental elements of the noble civilization of Europe. Akif Bey is of course i utterly incapable of the savageries of which Haji Izzet Bey has been guilty. He is also incapable of anything else which requires firmness of character.

Perchance he may get into the army some day. That will do much toward making a man of him, since the one department of the Turkish government which is organized somewhat as it should be is the war department ; and the one science which has been acquired by the Turks, from Europe, is the science of war. If the army does not get Akif Bey, or if some stern old Turk of a father or uncle does not take him in hand and roughly shake his European fancies out of him, the chances are that his French “education” will lead to his early death from dissipation. If you happen to be of a benevolent turn of mind, and will take the trouble to introduce Akif Bey to really good literature, you will find in him an astonished and interested listener. He will almost shed tears as you prove to him that the things he prizes are not esteemed as of ordinary good repute among respectable Europeans. With only a slight start in the right direction, you will find Akif Bey developing into a real student of French and English literature. Ultimately he will become a sort of recluse, with a large library. His fellow-countrymen will begin to respect him, and to hang upon his lips. By the time silver threads appear in his hair, he will be much sought after for official station. But as often as he is dragged into public life, his radical notions concerning the administration of justice, and the expenditure of funds for public improvements, bring speedy disgrace upon his head, with a new disappearance from public life until some other Grand Yezir ventures to try him again, in spite of his affinities with the young Turkey party.

But there is no hope that Akif Bey will enter this path without benevolent intervention in his behalf. He is too weak and too superficial for any good to come out of him as he is now.

THE GOOD TURK

He is not a paradox. He is a plain, simple-minded old man, with a good, generous heart, and a face that would pass him for a minister anywhere, if he was not dressed in bag trousers. Last year, when Bulgarians were being shot down by the hundred, the Turks of this type saved many poor, frightened wretches, and kept them in their houses until danger was passed. In fact, there is almost always a Turk of this class who puts in an appearance when a row is in progress, and saves the victim from death, or worse. Such men saved the English consul at Salonica, when the French and German consuls were killed. Such men save Yorgi or Yanni in interior towns, when Moslem rowdies are just beating the last spark of life out of them. They save the wretches, not from love to them, but from pity.

Abderrahman Effendi is one of these good Turks. He has a little store in Yeni Jami courtyard. His shop is six feet long and three feet wide, and is all counter and shelves. Abderrahman Effendi sits on the counter, like a tailor, all day, and sells woollen socks, knit by hand, “’pon honor.” If you go to his shop to buy, he will ask you what he intends to take for his goods. He will not haggle and bargain with you. You may induce him to abate a piastre or two, in Oriental style, but he will be pretty short with you if you mistake him for a Jew and offer him half of his asking price. When you go away, if you happen to leave your purse lying on his counter, Abderrahman Effendi will be in torture. He will inquire all along the street to know the road taken by the “Frank” with a blue paper parcel under his arm; by the time you get halfway across the Galata bridge, there will be a panting boy at your heels— shouting, “Signor! Signor!”—who will finally overtake you, stuff your purse into your hand, with the single word “Na!” (there) and will instant ly turn his back on you and stalk back toward Yeni Jami.

Abderrahman Effendi has a great love for children. As you go by his shop with your two little girls, he will call out to you, “Are they yours?”

“Yes.”

“ God spare them to you!”

And then he will very likely produce an apple or an orange from behind the goods on some shelf, and hand it to one of the little girls, patting their cheeks, and evidently winning the hearts of them both. He, however, is almost sure to somewhat dampen your pleasant feelings toward him on the occasion, by asking, “Are they boys?” However, his last word is “Mashallah!” and you walk on with that ringing in your ears.

In Ramazan, when all men fast from sunrise to sunset, Abderrahman Eifendi comes three hours later to his shop in the morning, and is with difficulty able to speak peaceably to you during the succeeding hours of hunger and thirst, and of weary deprivation as to tobacco. If you are smoking in his vicinity, he will endure the tantalizing spectacle for a time, but at last will burst out with: “Janum, if you will smoke when we cannot, at least don’t blow the smoke this way!” He differs from many of his fellow Moslems in a certain tolerance of differences in religious belief. During Ramazan, however, he comes near to calling you and all other Christians “Giaours,” alongside of the fetish-worshippers of Africa.

He is very particular in fasting, and also in fulfilling every other requirement of his religion. By his shop-front is a broken flower-pot, sunk in the earth, which he keeps full of fresh water, that the street dogs may drink. “When he eats his lunch he always breaks up a one-penny loaf for the dogs at the same time. You can recognize his house the moment you get into the street, by the number of puppies which surround its door. For Abderrahman Effendi watches over every litter of pups which the street produces. Just so soon as he hears the new-born wail, he hastens to arise from his couch, and to hunt up some piece of carpet or matting, and a board or two, wherewith he goes out into the night to establish a shelter for the tribe. He does these things because his religion teaches him that men should try humbly to imitate God in beneficence. Abderrahman Effendi does not keep muttering religious formulas, like Haji Izzet Bey, but his words are always seasoned with pious sayings, with a ring to them as of true metal. When the soldiers go by on their way to the wars, he says, with unction—and it sounds like a bishop’s benediction— “God keep you. God make every one of you to seem a thousand.” And when you have been talking with the old gentleman for five minutes, on the street, and he turns to leave you with, “I commit you to God,” you cannot help feeling impressed by his earnestness. An hour later, as you pass the mosque nearest Abderrahman Effendi’s house, you cannot but hear the sound of many voices coming through the great arched window. You pause and look in. There is the Effendi standing in front of the great assemblage, acting for the absent Imam. His voice rises alone in prayer: “The Lord grant protection to our lord Sultan Abd ul Hamid.”

And the response of the great crowd comes up:

“Amin!”

“The Lord make his arm strong in battle.”

“Amin!”

“The Lord give valor to our soldiers!”

“Amin!”

“The Lord give keen edge to their swords!”

“Amin!”

“The Lord confound our enemy in Russia!”

“Amin!”

“The Lord destroy his army! “

“Amin!”

As you go on your way, the steady beat of the rhythm of those prayers follows you, the earnest, pleading voice of Abderrahman Effendi, and the full, sonorous chorus of the congregational response. You cannot help but feel that, to that man, and to the congregation he leads, there is far more than a form in their evening prayer.

Abderrahman Effendi used to live in the heart of Asia Minor. No traveller ever failed of admittance to his house. When Colonel Manning went there he stayed over Sunday, with his five men and their horses. They ordered without stint whatever they wanted, and as Abderrahman Effendi waited upon them in person, he had to move with unaccustomed briskness in order to supply their demands. On Monday morning Colonel Manning took out his purse to pay for the accommodation, but the Effendi would not take a cent. “You have been my guests,” he said. “I do not take pay from guests.”

Pressed to take pay, he turned almost savagely upon the Colonel, and said, “I have as much money as you have any day. I don’t want any of yours—so there!” And there was no way out of it. Colonel Manning had to go on his journey in the most uncomfortable frame of mind he remembered to have ever experienced.

Not that Abderrahman Effendi is free-handed with his money. He is a close economist. He will religiously read a newspaper through from beginning to end, every word, to the signature of the last advertisement, in order to get his money’s worth. And when he buys a glass of water on the street for half a cent, if the seller has no half-cent to give him in change he will drink down a second glass of water with infinite trouble, rather than not get the full value of his cent.

This trait probably arises from his sense of equity, which is very strong in his rough way. When alt Turks were inclined to say that Shevket Pasha should not be punished for his share in the Bulgarian massacres, Abderrahman Effendi said, “It’s only if he is innocent that he shall not be punished; if he is guilty he should be hung.” And it was by his influence that the fiery old Turkish party of his quarter were held in check, so that the government dared to order the trial of Shevket. But when the court-martial acquitted the flint-hearted Pasha, Abderrahman Effendi headed the old Turkish deputation when they went to kiss his robe as he returned by railway from Adrianople.

Abderrahman Effendi is a Turkish patriot, every inch of him. His whole soul glows with enthusiasm at the talk of resisting the will of Europe. But when his neighbors begin to advocate cutting the throats of the Christians as a first measure of defence, the Effendi shames them out of proposing such things in his presence. I know that Abderrahman Effendi’s house would be to my family a secure haven of refuge if Moslem fanaticism should burst out in wrath against the Christians.

This old gentleman hates with a mighty hatred the lacquer of French civilization which the average Turkish politician affects. He savagely rebukes the talk of the young sprigs who frequent Pera theatres, telling them to leave the follies of “giaours” to the giaours, and not to fancy that it is drinking wine and theatre-going which give the Europeans their strength. His private theory is that the powers of Europeans are due to a special inspiration from the devil. But he excepts the English from the operations of this rule, as he can appreciate sturdy honesty as much as any one. Moreover, he has in a box at his house a silver medal, which bears the head of Queen Victoria, and is a token of his faithful service in the Turkish contingent of the English army during the Crimean war. This is a relic of an experience which leaves an indelible respect and affection for the “Ingleez” in Abderrahman Effendi’s heart. His one regret is that the English are not Moslems, as it is his one marvel that they can be so good without a knowledge of the glorious precepts of the Koran.

Such is Abderrahman Effendi, kindly, honest, bigoted, and yet liberal, ignorant, and yet so shrewd that he is liable to few of the consequences of his ignorance. And if, after you have won his confidence, you ask him what he makes his great object in life, the old gentleman will reply, “You know we Moslems think differently from you Christians. You may think it strange that we believe such things; but our prophet has taught us that a man can wisely give his life in this world to the study of God’s character. You may think it a useless attempt, but I am a Moslem, and have many ideas which are strange to you. I try to make it my object in life to live near to God, so as to learn more of Him.”