“I do not care for custom,” retorted Alexander.
“If you walked down the Boulevard des Italiens in Paris on Easter Day and kissed every woman you met, merely saying, ‘The Lord is risen,’ by way of excuse, as we do in Russia, you would discover that customs are not the same everywhere.”
“You are as slow as an ox-cart, Paul,” said Alexander.
“The simile is graceful. Thank you. As I say, you may do anything you please, as you are a stranger here. But if you do anything flagrantly contrary to the manners of the country, you will not find my chief disposed to help you out of trouble. We are disliked enough already, — hated expresses it better. Come along. Take a turn upon the quay before dinner, and then we will go to Stamboul and see the ceremony.”
“I hate the quay,” replied Alexander, who was now in a very bad humor.
“Then we will go the other way. We can walk through Mesar Burnu and get to the Valley of Roses.”
“That sounds better.”
So the two turned northwards, and followed the quay upstream till they came to the wooden steamboat landing, and then, turning to the left, they entered the small Turkish village of Mesar Burnu. While they walked upon the road Alexander could still follow the caïque, now far ahead, shooting along through the smooth water, and he slackened his pace more slowly when it was out of sight. The dirty little bazaar of the village did not interest him, and he was not inclined to talk as he picked his way over the muddy stones, chewing his discontent and regretting the varnish of his neat boots. Presently they emerged from the crowd of vegetable venders, fishmongers, and sweetmeat sellers into a broad green lane between two grave-yards, where the huge silent trees grew up straight and sad from the sea of white tombstones which stood at every angle, some already fallen, some looking as though they must fall at once, some still erect, according to the length of time which had elapsed since they were set up. For in Turkey the headstones of graves are narrow at the base and broaden like leaves towards the top, and they are not set deep in the ground; so that they are top-heavy, and with the sinking of the soil they invariably fall to one side or the other.
Paul turned again, where four roads meet at a drinking fountain, and the two brothers entered the narrow Valley of Roses. The roses are not, indeed, so numerous as one might expect, but the path is beautiful, green and quiet, and below it the tinkle of a little stream is heard, flowing down from the spring where the lane ends. There they sat down beneath a giant tree on a beaten terrace, where a Kaffegee has his little shop. The water pours from the spring in the hillside into a great basin bordered with green, the air is cool, and there is a delicious sense of rest after leaving the noise and dust of the quay. Both men smoked and drank their coffee in silence. Paul could not help wishing that his brother would take a little more interest in Turkey and a little less in the lady of the thick yashmak; and especially he wished that Alexander might finish his visit without getting into trouble. He had successfully controlled him during three weeks, and in another fortnight he must return to Russia. Paul confessed to himself that his brother’s visit was not an unmitigated blessing, and found it hard to explain the object of it. Indeed, it was so simple that his diplomatic mind did not find it out; for Alexander had merely said to himself that he had never seen Constantinople, and that, as his brother was there, in the embassy, he could see it under favorable circumstances, at a very moderate cost. He was impetuous, spoiled by too much flattery, and incapable of imagining that Paul could consider his visit in any light but that of a compliment. Accordingly he had come, and had enjoyed himself very much.
“Let us dine here,” he said suddenly, as he finished his coffee.
“There is nothing to eat,” answered Paul. “Coffee, cold water, and a few cakes. That is all, and that would hardly satisfy you.”
“What a nuisance!” exclaimed the elder brother. “What a barbarous country this is! Nothing to eat but coffee, cold water, and cakes!”
“It is rather hard on the Turks to abuse them for not keeping restaurants in their woods,” remarked Paul.
“I detest the Turks. I shall never forget the discomfort I had to put up with in the war. They might have learned something from us then; but they never learn anything. Come along. Let us go and dine in your rooms.”
“It is impossible to be more discontented than you are,” said Paul, rather bitterly. “It is utterly impossible to please you, — and yet you have most things which are necessary to happiness.”
“I suppose you mean the money?” sneered his brother. But Paul kept his temper.
“I mean everything,” he answered. “You have money, youth, good looks, and social success; and yet you can hardly see anything without abusing it.”
“You forget that I do not know the name of the lady in the yashmak,” objected Alexander.
Paul shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing. Both men rose, and began to go down the green lane, returning towards Mesar Burnu. By this time the sun had sunk low behind the western hills, and the cool of the evening had descended on the woods and the Valley of Roses. The green grass and the thick growth of shrubs took a darker color, and the first dampness of the dew was in the air. The two walked briskly down the path. Suddenly a turn in the narrow way brought them face to face with a party of three persons, strolling slowly towards them.
“Luck!” ejaculated Alexander. “Here they are again!”
He was right. There was no mistaking the lady with the thick, impenetrable veil, nor her companion, whose heavy dark face was distinctly visible through the thin Indian gauze. Behind them walked the hideous negro, swinging his light cane jauntily, but beginning to cast angry glances at the two Russians, whom he had already recognized. The way was very narrow, and the ladies saw that retreat was impossible. Paul bit his lip, fearing some foolish rashness on the part of his brother. As they all met, the ladies drew close to the hedge on one side of the path, their black attendant standing before them, as though to prevent the Giaours from even brushing against the wide silken ferigees of his charges. Paul pushed his brother in front of him, hoping that Alexander would have the sense to pass quietly by; but he trembled for the result.
Alexander moved slowly forward, turning his head as he passed, and looking long into the black eyes of the veiled lady.
“Pek güzel, — very pretty indeed,” he said aloud, using the only words of Turkish he had learned in three weeks. But they were enough; the effect was instantaneous. Without a word and without hesitation, the tall negro struck a violent blow at Alexander with the light bamboo he carried. Paul, who was immediately behind his brother, saw the action and caught the man’s hand in the air, but the end of the flexible cane flew down and knocked Alexander’s hat from his head.
“Run!” cried Paul excitedly, as the negro struggled in his grip.
The two Turkish ladies laughed aloud. They were used to such adventures, but the spectacle of the negro beating a Frank gentleman was novel and refreshing. Alexander picked up his hat, but showed no disposition to move. The African struggled vainly in Paul’s powerful arms.
“Go, I say!” cried the latter authoritatively. “There will be trouble if any one comes.”
But Alexander had received a blow, and his blood was up. Moreover, he was a Russian, and utterly regardless of consequences, — or perhaps he only wanted to annoy his brother by a show of violence.
“I think I will shoot him,” he said, quietly producing a small revolver from his pocket.
At the sight of the weapon, the two ladies, who, on seeing the fight prolonged, had retired a few paces up the path, began to scream loudly for help. The negro, who was proof against blows and would not have shown much fear at the sight of a knife, fell on his knees, crying aloud for mercy. Thereupon Paul released him and bid him go.
“For God’s sake, Alexander, do not make a fool of yourself!” he said coldly, walking up to his brother. But he turned once more to the black attendant, and added quietly in Turkish, “You had better go. We both hav
e pistols.”
The negro did not wait, but sprang back and flew towards the two ladies, speaking excitedly, and imploring them to make haste. The two brothers made their way quickly down the path, Paul pushing Alexander before him.
“You have done it now. You will have to leave Constantinople to-morrow,” he said, sternly. “You cannot play these tricks here.”
“Bah!” returned Alexander, “it is of no consequence. They do not know who we are.”
“They have not seen us coming out of our embassy half a dozen times without knowing where to look for us. There will be a complaint made within two hours, and there will be trouble. The law protects them. These fellows are authorized to strike anybody who speaks to the women they have in charge, or who even goes too near them. Be quick! We must get back to the quay before there is any alarm raised.”
Alexander knew that his brother Paul was no coward, and, being thoroughly convinced of the danger, he quickened his walk. In twenty minutes they reached Mesar Burnu, and in five minutes more they were within the gates of the embassy. The huge Cossack who stood by the entrance saluted them gravely, and Paul drew a long breath of relief as he entered the pretty pavilion in the garden in which he had his quarters. Alexander threw himself upon a low divan, and laughed with true Russian indifference. Paul pretended not to notice him, but silently took up the local French paper, which came every evening, and began to read.
“You are excellent company, upon my word!” exclaimed Alexander, irritated at his brother’s coldness. Paul laid down the paper, and stared at him with his hard blue eyes.
“Alexander, you are a fool,” he said coolly.
“Look here,” said the other, suddenly losing his temper, and rising to his feet, “I will not submit to this sort of language.”
“Then do not expose yourself to it. Are you aware that you do me very serious injury by your escapades?”
“Escapades indeed!” cried Alexander indignantly. “As if there were any harm in telling a woman she is pretty!”
“You will probably have occasion to hear what the chief thinks of it before long,” retorted his brother. “There will be a complaint. It will get to the palace, and the result will be that I shall be sent to another post, with a black mark in the service. Do you call that a joke? It is very well for you, a rich officer in the guards, taking a turn in the East by way of recreation. You will go back to Petersburg and tell the story and enjoy the laugh. I may be sent to China or Japan for three or four years, in consequence.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the soldier, sitting down on the divan. “I do not believe it. You are an old woman. You are always afraid of injuring your career.”
“If it is to be injured at all, I prefer that it should be by my own fault.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Alexander, rising once more. “I think I will go back to the Valley of Roses, and see if I cannot find her again.” Suiting the action to the word, he moved towards the door. All the willfulness of the angry Slav shone in his dark eyes, and he was really capable of fulfilling his threat.
“If you try it,” said Paul, touching an electric bell behind his chair, “I will have you arrested. We are in Russia inside these gates, and there are a couple of Cossacks outside. I am quite willing to assume the responsibility.”
Paul was certainly justified in taking active measures to coerce his headstrong brother. The spoilt child of a brilliant society was not accustomed to being thwarted in his caprices, and beneath his delicate pale skin the angry blood boiled up to his face. He strode towards his brother as though he would have struck him, but something in Paul’s eyes checked the intention. He held his heavy silver cigarette case in his hand; turning on his heel with an oath, he dashed it angrily across the room. It struck a small mirror that stood upon a table in the corner, and broke it into shivers with a loud crash. At that moment the door opened, and Paul’s servant appeared in answer to the bell.
“A glass of water,” said Paul calmly. The man glanced at Alexander’s angry face and at the broken looking-glass, and then retired.
“What do you mean by calling in your accursed servants when I am angry?” cried the soldier. “You shall pay for this, Paul, — you shall pay for it!” His soft voice rose to loud and harsh tones, as he impatiently paced the room. “You shall pay for it!” he almost yelled, and then stood still, suddenly, while Paul rose from his chair. The door was opened again, but instead of the servant with the glass of water a tall and military figure stood in the entrance. It was the ambassador himself. He looked sternly from one brother to the other.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “what is this quarrel? Lieutenant Patoff, I must beg you to remember that you are my guest as well as your brother’s, and that the windows are open. Even the soldiers at the gates can hear your cries. Be good enough either to cease quarreling, or to retire to some place where you cannot be heard.”
Without waiting for an answer, the old diplomat faced about and walked away.
“That is the beginning,” said Paul, in a low voice. “You see what you are doing? You are ruining me, — and for what? Not even because you have a caprice for a woman, but merely because I have warned you not to make trouble.”
Paul crossed the room and picked up the fallen cigarette case. Then he handed it to his brother, with a conciliatory look.
“There, — smoke a cigarette and be quiet, like a good fellow,” he said.
The servant entered with the glass of water, and put it down upon the table. Glancing at the fragments of the mirror upon the floor, he looked inquiringly at his master. Paul made a gesture signifying that he might leave the room. The presence of the servant did not tend to pacify Alexander, whose face was still flushed with anger, as he roughly took the silver case and turned away with a furious glance. The servant had noticed, in the course of three weeks, that the brothers were not congenial to each other, but this was the first time he had witnessed a violent quarrel between them. When he was gone Alexander turned again and confronted Paul.
“You are insufferable,” he said, in low tones.
“It is easy for you to escape my company,” returned the other. “The Varna boat leaves here to-morrow afternoon at three.”
“Set your mind at rest,” said Alexander, regaining some control of his temper at the prospect of immediate departure. “I will leave to-morrow.”
He went towards the door.
“Dinner is at seven,” said Paul quietly. But his brother left the room without noticing the remark, and, retiring to his room, he revenged himself by writing a long letter to his mother, in which he explained at length the violence and, as he described it, the “impossibility” of his brother’s character. He had all the pettiness of a bad child; he knew that he was his mother’s favorite, and he naturally went to her for sympathy when he was angry with his brother, as he had done from his infancy. Having so far vented his wrath, he closed his letter without re-reading it, and delivered it to be posted before the clock struck seven.
He found Paul waiting for him in the sitting-room, and was received by him as though nothing had happened. Paul was indeed neither so forgiving nor so long-suffering as he appeared. He cordially disliked his brother, and was annoyed at his presence and outraged at his rashness. He felt bitterly enough that Alexander had quartered himself in the little pavilion for nearly a month without an invitation, and that, even financially, the visit caused him inconvenience; but he felt still more the danger to himself which lay in Alexander’s folly, and he was not far wrong when he said that the ambassador’s rebuke was the beginning of trouble. Accustomed to rely upon himself and his own wise conduct in the pursuance of his career, he resented the injury done him by such incidents as had taken place that afternoon. On the other hand, since Alexander had expressed his determination to leave Buyukdere the next day, he was determined that on his side the parting should be amicable. He could control his mood so far as to be civil during dinner, and to converse upon general topics. Alexander sat down to table
in silence. His face was pale again, and his eyes had regained that simple, trustful look which was so much at variance with his character, and which, in the opinion of his admirers, constituted one of his chief attractions. It is unfortunate that, in general, the expression of the eyes should have less importance than that of the other features, for it always seems that by the eyes we should judge most justly. As a matter of fact, I think that the passions leave no trace in them, although they express the emotions of the moment clearly enough. The dark pupils may flash with anger, contract with determination, expand with love or fear; but so soon as the mind ceases to be under the momentary influence of any of these, the pupil returns to its normal state, the iris takes its natural color, and the eye, if seen through a hole in a screen, expresses nothing. If we were in the habit of studying men’s mouths rather than their eyes, we should less often be deceived in the estimates we form of their character. Alexander Patoff’s eyes were like a child’s when he was peaceably inclined, like a wild-cat’s when he was angry; but his nervous, scornful lips were concealed by the carefully trained dark brown mustache, and with them lay hidden the secret of his ill-controlled, ill-balanced nature.
When dinner was finished, the servant announced that the steam launch was at the pier, and that the embassy kaváss was waiting outside to conduct them to Santa Sophia. Alexander, who wanted diversion of some kind during the evening, said he would go, and the two brothers left the pavilion together.
The kaváss is a very important functionary in Constantinople, and, though his office is lucrative, it is no sinecure. In former times the appearance of Franks in the streets of Constantinople was very likely to cause disturbance. Those were the great days of Turkey, when the Osmanli was master of the East, and regarded himself as the master of the world. A Frank — that is to say, a person from the west of Europe — was scarcely safe out of Pera without an escort; and even at the present day most people are advised not to venture into Stamboul without the attendance of a native, unless willing to wear a fez instead of a hat. It became necessary to furnish the embassies with some outward and visible means of protection, and the kaváss was accordingly instituted. This man, who was formerly always a Janizary, is at present a veteran soldier, and therefore a Mussulman; for Christians rarely enter the army in Constantinople, being permitted to buy themselves off. He is usually a man remarkable for his trustworthy character, of fine presence, and generally courageous. He wears a magnificent Turkish military dress, very richly adorned with gold embroidery, girt with a splendid sash, in which are thrust enough weapons to fill an armory, — knives, dirks, pistols, and daggers, — while a huge scimiter hangs from his sword-belt. When he is on active service, you will detect somewhere among his trappings the brown leather case of a serviceable army revolver. The reason of this outfit is a very simple one. The kaváss is answerable with his head for those he protects, — neither more nor less. Whenever the ambassador or the minister goes to the palace, or to Stamboul, or on any expedition whatsoever, the kaváss follows him, frequently acting as interpreter, and certainly never failing to impose respect upon the populace. Moreover, when he is not needed by the head of the mission in person, he is ready to accompany any member of the household when necessary. A lady may cross Stamboul in safety with no other attendant, for he is answerable for her with his life. Whether or not, in existing circumstances, he would be put to death, in case his charge were killed by a mob, is not easy to say; it is at least highly probable that he would be executed within twenty-four hours.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 255