And now, before embarking upon that Austrian boat which is getting up steam in the Golden Horn opposite Galata, preparatory to sailing for the Black Sea, it remains for me to set forth, modestly as becomes a simple traveller, certain general observations bearing upon the question, “What did you think of the Turks?”—observations altogether spontaneous in themselves, and wholly uninfluenced by current events, resting, in short, entirely upon my personal recollections of those days. At that question, “What did you think of the Turks?” the first thing that comes into my mind is the impression made upon me from the moment I set foot in Constantinople to the last day of my stay there by the outward appearance of the male population of Stambul. Setting aside all merely physical differences, this impression is something altogether unlike that produced upon one by the men of any other city of Europe: it is as though they were all—I am at a loss how to express my meaning more clearly—thinking of precisely the same thing. Now, this idea might occur to a Southerner as he observed superficially and for the first time the inhabitants of a city of Northern Europe, but that is not the same thing at all. With them it is the seriousness and preoccupation of a busy people who are thinking of actual things, while the Turks all seem to be considering something intangible and remote: they have the air of philosophers possessed by a fixed idea, or of somnambulists unconscious of their whereabouts, gazing ahead of them with far-seeing eyes, as though accustomed to contemplate distant horizons, while in the expression of the eyes and lines of the mouth there is that look of vague melancholy noticeable in people who live shut up in themselves. In all there is the same gravity, the same composed manner, the same reserve of language, look, and gesture. They seem all to be gentlemen educated after one pattern, from the pasha to the shopkeeper, and animated in common by a certain well-bred dignity, which, wore it not for the differences in dress, would lead one to suppose that Stambul had no plebeians. The expression is almost universally cold, revealing nothing of the soul and mind within, it being exceedingly rare to come across one of those open countenances so common among us which reflect, like mirrors, the passionate or loving or spiteful nature below, and lend themselves to a quick and accurate reading of the man. Among the Turks, on the contrary, every face is an enigma; their look interrogates, but never responds, and their mouths betray nothing of the impulses of the heart within. It is impossible to convey any idea of the depressing effect made upon a stranger by these expressionless faces, this coldness, this statuesque uniformity of attitude and bearing, and the steady, passionless gaze which seems to see nothing. Sometimes you are seized with an insane desire to shout aloud in the middle of the crowd: “Rouse yourselves just once—wake up, speak out, tell what you are thinking of, what you are, what you see, staring ahead of you, with those great glass eyes!” At first it seems all so unnatural that you cannot realize that it is a normal condition, and fancy that this manner must have been assumed by common consent, or else result from some moral malady by which all the Mussulmans are temporarily afflicted. There is a variation, though, and a remarkable one, in the general uniformity, which strikes you at once: the original physical traits of the Turkish race—a race both handsome and robust—are now preserved only by that portion of the population which, either from necessity or religious enthusiasm, follows the same simple and austere manner of life as their forefathers did. Their characteristics are—a spare, vigorous build, well-formed head, bright eyes, aquiline nose, prominent jawbone, and general air of activity and strength. The Turk of the upper classes, on the contrary, where vice has long prevailed and the mixing of alien blood is much more common, has usually a fat, overgrown body, small head, low forehead, dull eyes, and drooping lips. A correspondingly great, or even greater, moral divergence exists between the true, pure Turk of a former generation and that colorless nondescript being calling himself “a reformed Turk.” Hence, any one who may desire to study the characteristics of what may, in general terms, be called the Turkish people, is confronted by a serious difficulty at the outset, since with that half of it which has preserved intact the national traits there is either no way of mixing or no medium of communication, while the other half, while they offer every facility for intercourse and observation, do not faithfully represent either the national character or aims. Neither corruption nor the modern coloring of European civilization, however, has yet deprived the upper-class Turk of that indefinable air, at once severe and melancholy, which is seen in the lower classes as well, and which, not considered individually, but in the general mass of the people, produces an undeniably favorable impression. In fact, judging only from appearances, one would be inclined to pronounce the Turkish population the most civilized and well-behaved of any city in Europe. Even in the most deserted quarters of Stambul a stranger never is in danger of being insulted: he may frequent the mosques, even during the hours of prayer, with much greater certainty of meeting with respectful treatment than if he were a Turk visiting one of our churches; one never encounters a look that is, not insolent,—but so much as disagreeably curious; in the crowded streets it is rare to hear a laugh, and very rare to see a street-row in which blows are given and received; there are no bold glances from women at doors or windows or in the shops, no open indecency. The market-place is but little less dignified than the mosque, and everywhere the utmost restraint is put upon both language and gesture—no singing, no loud laughter, no vulgar scuffling, no importunate rabble blocking up the way; clean faces, hands, and feet; rarely is any one to be seen ragged, still more rarely dirty; there is no brawling, and a universal and reciprocal respect exists between all classes of society.

But all this is merely what appears upon the surface; the dry rot is covered up; the separation of the sexes prevents the corruption from being apparent. Sloth wears the mask of leisure, dignity is a cloak for pride. That well-bred composure which seems to indicate a thoughtful nature hides in reality a mortal intellectual inertia; what appears to be sombre moderation in their manner of life is nothing in the world but an utter absence of any life at all. The character and philosophy, the entire life, of this people may be understood by a particular condition of the body and spirit called kief, which represents their ideal of supreme happiness. This is it, after partaking sparingly of food, drinking a glass of water from the fountain, and saying some prayers, to establish yourself, with the body thus satisfied and the conscience at ease, in some spot from whence a wide stretch of the horizon may be seen, and there, beneath the shade of a tree, to remain, following the movements of the pigeons in the opposite cemetery, the distant ships, the insects close at hand, the clouds in the sky, and the smoke from your narghileh, reflecting the while vaguely on God and death, on the vanity of earthly things, and the sweetness of the eternal repose and the other life. That is kief; in other words, to be an idle spectator in the world’s great theatre is the Turk’s most lofty aspiration toward which he is impelled by the originally pastoral temperament of his race, at once slow and contemplative, his religion, which ties men’s hands in committing all to God, and his traditions as a soldier of Islamism for whom there exists no other really great or necessary sphere of action but that of the battlefield, upon which he must gain the mastery for his own faith; that done, every duty has been performed. His point of view is that of the fatalist: man is merely an instrument in the hands of Providence, and it is quite useless for him to attempt to alter the course of events as it has been prescribed in heaven; this world is but a caravansary, through which man has been created by God to pass, praying and admiring His works: leave all to God; let what is dying, die, what is passing away, pass; why should we trouble ourselves to restore or preserve? The supreme desire of the Turk is for peace, and he protects himself with the utmost care from all that threatens the calm monotony of his existence; consequently, no thirst for knowledge disturbs him, no passion for gain, no vague, unsatisfied longings either of love or ambition. The utter absence of those innumerable intellectual and physical tastes, in order to satisfy which we are willing to labor so incessantly, prevents him from being able to so much as understand why we do it, and he sees in it only an indication of a morbid aberration of mind. The final aim of all endeavor being, in his judgment, the attainment of that peace which he enjoys without being at any trouble to obtain, it seems to him self-evident that his course is the most sensible. The most stupendous intellectual and physical achievements of the other European nations seem to him nothing more than the results of a puerile restlessness, since they fail to gain for them an increased possession of his ideal of happiness. Never working himself, he has no sense of the value of time, and so neither desires nor appreciates all those fruits of human ingenuity which tend to quicken and facilitate the progress of the human race: he is quite capable of questioning the benefits to be derived from a railroad unless it could transport you to a place where you would be happier than you were before. This fatalistic belief, which leads him to condemn as useless any taking of thought for the future, is the cause of his utter disregard of everything apart from the certain and immediate advantage it may bring him. Thus a European who looks ahead and plans and schemes, and lays the foundations of enterprises whose completion he cannot hope to see, exhausting his powers and sacrificing his ease for a distant and uncertain end, he regards in the light of a visionary. We seem to him to be a frivolous people, despicable, presumptuous, degenerate, whose only boast lies in a sort of science of those earthly things which he scorns just as far as he is able to without allowing them to get the better of him. And how he despises us! For my own part, I am convinced that this is the ruling sentiment with which we inspire those real Turks who still constitute the large majority of the nation: one may deny or pretend not to believe this, but any one who has lived among them more or less cannot fail to be conscious of it. This feeling of disdain comes from various causes: first of all—and this, from their standpoint, is a most significant circumstance—they have maintained their supremacy over a large tract of Europe, whose population is of a different faith from their own, for more than four centuries, notwithstanding their comparatively small numbers and in the teeth of all that has happened and is still happening. To a small number of Turks this is merely to be attributed to the rival jealousies and discords of the great European powers, but the rest of the nation see in it only additional proof of their own superiority and our degradation. Indeed, it has never entered the mind of a Turk of the lower orders that Islam Europe ever could or would submit to the affront of Christian conquest from the Dardanelles to the Danube. To the boasts of our civilization they oppose the fact of their dominion. Naturally haughty, their pride fed and strengthened by the habit of ruling, accustomed to being assured in the name of God that they belong to a race of conquerors, born to fight, but not to work, and wont to subsist off the labors of the vanquished, they cannot so much as take in the idea that the people subdued by their arms could ever lay claim to the right of civil equality with themselves. Possessed as they are by a blind faith in the visible overrulings of Providence, their conquest of Europe was but a fulfilment of the will of God, and it is God who invested them, as a mark of His power, with this earthly sovereignty. The fact of His continuing to maintain them in it in the face of so many hostile forces is an incontestable proof of their divine right and of the truth of their religion. Against this line of argument the claims of civilization for human rights and equality are urged in vain. For them civilization means nothing but a hostile force which is trying to disarm them without coming to an open fight: little by little, and stealthily, it would lower them in the estimation of their own subjects and steal away their ascendency. So, in addition to despising it as a vain thing, they fear it as an enemy, and, unable to oppose it by force, they offer the resistance of their own invincible inertia. To be transformed, civilized, is to put themselves on an equality with the people they have conquered, to endeavor to emulate them in intellectual achievements, study, work, acquire a new superiority, win again, this time with the mind, the victory already gained by their swords. To such an enterprise as this is opposed, apart from their natural interests as rulers, their religious contempt for unbelievers, their military pride, their indolence, which is second nature, and the character of their intellect, entirely wanting as it is in the creative faculty and dulled and blunted by the continued iteration of those same few ideas which form the entire intellectual patrimony of their nation. Moreover, those among themselves who have adopted what they are pleased to call European civilization, and represent the state to which they believe Europe would like to see all the sons of Osman brought,—those of their brethren who wear long coats and gloves and chatter French and neglect the mosque, hardly set such an example as might reasonably be expected to convert the others. In what way has the so-called civilization affected them? On this point at least there is little difference of opinion: the new Turk is not worth as much as the old; he has adopted our dress, our conveniences, our vices, and our vanity, but thus far neither our beliefs nor our ideas, and has succeeded, moreover, in the course of this partial transformation, in losing whatever good points he may once have possessed in the depths of his genuine Ottoman nature. Thus far, the only fruits of civilization evident to the conservative Turk is a more widely diffused peste dicasterica, an innumerable host of idle, inefficient, discreditable, rapacious officials, wearing the mask of Europeans and despising all the ancient traditions of the nation, and a sort of jeunesse dorÉe, corrupt and shameless, who give promise of being many degrees worse than their fathers were. To live and dress as they do is, in the opinion of the real Turk, to be civilized, and as a matter of fact he calls it doing or thinking or living, as the case may be, like the Frank whenever it is a question of anything which not only the conscience of a strict Mohammedan would condemn, but that of any decent man of whatever religion. And so the “uncivilized,” instead of looking upon these others as enlightened Mussulmans who have gained certain advantages in advance of their fellow-countrymen, regard them as degenerate beings, led astray, hardly less than apostates, traitors to the nation; and they fear and resist everything like change with all the force they possess, if for no other reason than because it proceeds from that quarter where its fatal results are daily before their eyes. Every European innovation means to them simply a fresh attempt upon their national life and interests. The government is revolutionary, the people conservative; the seed of the new ideas falls upon a dry, compact soil, which refuses to yield up the necessary moisture for its nutriment; he who rules the nation’s affairs draws and manipulates the hilt, but the blade merely spins around in the haft. That is why all those efforts at reform which have been started during the past fifty years have never penetrated farther than the national skin; if in some instances names have been changed, the things have remained the same. What little has been accomplished has been by force, and at its door the people lay the increasing audacity of the unbelievers, the corruption which is eating away the heart of the empire, and all the national misfortunes. Why, they ask, should we change our institutions, since they are the same with which we have prevailed against and overcome our enemies for centuries? Why adopt those of the people who were unable to withstand the power of our sword? The organism, life, and traditions of the Turkish people are like those of a victorious army encamped upon European soil, enjoying the idleness and privileges, wielding the authority, and exhibiting the pride of conquerors, and, like all armies, they prefer that iron discipline which accords the pre-eminence to them over the vanquished, to a milder rule which would restrict their arbitrary rights. Now, the idea that this state of things, which has existed unchanged for centuries, can be altered in the course of a few years is simply an idle dream. The light vanguard of the “civilized” may march ahead as rapidly as they choose, but the body of the army, laden still with the ponderous armor of mediÆval times, either remains stationary or else follows at a great distance and with hardly perceptible steps.

Blind despotism, the corps of the Janissaries, the Seraglio adorned with human heads, a firm belief in the invincibility of the Osman dynasty, the rayÂh regarded as an unclean being, the French ambassadors dressed and fed at the confines of the throne-room to symbolize the miserable poverty of the unbeliever in the eyes of the supreme lord,—all of these, it must be remembered, are but things of yesterday, and, as a matter of fact, I suppose there is not much divergence of opinion on this head, even between Europeans and the Turks themselves: that about which there is the greatest disagreement, and consequently great difficulty for a stranger who wishes to arrive at a correct judgement, is the estimation in which the private and personal characteristics of the individual Turk is held. If you question a rayÂh, you hear only the complaints of the oppressed against the oppressor, while from the free European colonists, who have no cause either to dislike or fear the Ottomans, but, on the contrary, every reason for congratulating themselves on the existing condition of things, you get nothing, as a rule, but opinions which are possibly sincere, but certainly are excessively favorable. The majority of these last agree in pronouncing the Turk to be frank, loyal, honest, and sincerely religious; but in crediting him with this sentiment of religion, it must always be borne in mind that the faith which he upholds so loyally does not interfere with any one of his tastes or interests; in fact, it caters to his sensual nature, justifies his indolence, upholds his rule: he clings to it tenaciously because his national life is in its dogmas and upon belief in it depends his fate. With regard to his probity, many individual cases are brought forward of the same kind as hundreds of others which might be cited with equal force about the most corrupt peoples of Europe; and it must be remembered in this connection that the Turk in his dealings with Christians often assumes a sort of ostentatious honesty, acting, out of sheer pride, in a manner which he would never dream of doing if he were influenced by his conscience alone; he simply cannot bear to appear of small account in the eyes of those whom he considers his inferiors both in race and in moral worth. Hence his attitude as a ruler gives birth to certain characteristics, praiseworthy enough in the abstract, such as frankness, pride, and dignity, but which he would certainly never have developed had he been subjected to the same conditions as the people under his sway. At the same time, though, he undoubtedly possesses some admirable qualities, such, for instance, as liberality in the giving of alms, which, even though it does encourage sloth and thus add to the general wretchedness, constitutes almost the sole alleviation for the innumerable miseries of his ill-ordered society; and he has other traits indicative of a kindly spirit, such as his undying gratitude for the smallest act of kindness, his reverence for the dead, his cordial hospitality, and his gentleness toward animals; then his attitude in regard to the equality of all classes of society is admirable, and there is no denying that there is a sort of severe moderation in his character, which crops out in innumerable proverbs full of wisdom and sagacity; a certain patriarchal simplicity, a dreamy love of solitude, and a vague melancholy which tend to rid the soul of vulgarity and vice. All these qualities float, as it were, on the surface as long as the tranquillity of his ordinary life remains undisturbed, but below them sleep his violent Asiatic nature, his fanaticism, his warlike ardor, and barbarous ferocity, ready to blaze forth and transform him into another being. Thus the saying that the Turk is the most amiable of men except when he cuts off people’s heads is really quite correct. The Tartar, chained and sleeping, is in him still, and his natural vigor too, rather preserved than otherwise by the slothful ease of his habit of life, which only makes demands upon it at some great crisis. He has preserved his physical courage intact, not having loosened its springs by the cultivation of the intellect, which raises the value of human life and makes men less willing to throw it away, as it offers them more to live for. In him the sentiment both of religion and warfare finds a field unspoiled by doubts or the spirit of rebellion or clashing beliefs; it is a soil which can be instantly set fire to—a man cut out of a single block, who needs but a touch to unsheathe his sword and strike out in all directions, while upon its blade is inscribed the name of but one God and one sovereign. Social life has worked but very little change in him from the ancient inhabitant of the steppe and hut: in the city he still leads, in spirit, much the same sort of life as he formerly led among his tribe—surrounded, that is, by people, but alone with his thoughts. And there is really no social life among the Turks. The existence of the two sexes suggests the idea of two rivers which run parallel to one another, their waters never mingling except here and there in some subterranean passage-way. The men meet together, but there is no actual intimacy between them; they approach, but obtain no hold on one another, each one preferring what a great poet has called the vegetazione sorda delle idee to the expansion of himself. Our conversations, rapid, varied, playful, instructive, or humorous, our demand for the interchange of ideas, for human intercourse, for the spur to our intellects and warmth for our hearts which are obtained by association with others, are hardly known among them. Their discourse is all of earthly things, comprehending only the material necessities of life; love is excluded from it, literature is the privilege of the few, science is a myth, politics but little more than a question of names, and business occupies but a very small place in the lives of most of them. The nature of their intellect prohibits discussions upon abstract topics, as they can only grasp clearly the idea of such things as they are able to see and touch, their language itself giving proof of this in its inability to express an abstraction. When such a necessity arises the learned Turk has recourse to the Arabic or Persian or some European language. They see, moreover, no necessity for making any mental effort in order to understand what lies outside their own immediate sphere: the Persian is inquiring, the Arabian curious. As for the Turk, he experiences only the most supreme indifference toward all he does not know, and, as he has no ideas to interchange, he naturally does not care for the society of Europeans, disliking their interminable and subtle discussions, and, still more, themselves. There cannot, in the nature of things, be anything like confidence between them, since the Turk resolutely keeps back all that part of himself which relates to his household, his pleasures, his closest ties, and, what is still more important, the real nature of his feeling for the other, which is nothing less than an invincible distrust. He tolerates the Armenian, despises the Jew, hates the Greek, distrusts the Frank. Generally speaking, he puts up with them all in much the same spirit that a big animal will allow a swarm of flies to alight on his back, contenting himself with giving an occasional sweep with his tail when they begin to sting; he lets them interfere and change his surroundings as much as they want to; knows how to value those Europeans who can be of use to him; accepts such innovations in material things as can offer some palpable advantage; listens without a tremor of the eyelid to all the lectures on civilization which are read to him; alters laws, customs, and ceremonials, learns by heart and repeats fluently the sayings of our philosophers; allows himself to be travestied, caricatured, burlesqued; but at bottom he remains immutably, hopelessly the same.

And yet reason refuses to believe that the slow onward march of civilization will not eventually succeed in implanting a spark of new life in this gigantic Asiatic soldier who lies sprawling fast asleep across two continents, only arousing to brandish the sword. But when we consider the efforts which have been made as compared with the results obtained up to the present time, that day appears to be so very distant, especially in view of the needs and the impatience of the Christian population of the East, that it seems vain to hope that the question which is occupying the mind of all Europe can have for its solution the progressive and orderly civilization of the Turkish people. Such, at all events, is the conclusion arrived at by me in the course of my brief sojourn in Constantinople. What other solution is there? Ah, gentlemen, that is a question which you must really excuse me if I decline to answer. Were I to do so, it would seem as though I were giving advice to Europe, an idea which shocks my modesty. And, moreover, as I have already mentioned, there is a certain Austrian boat getting up steam down there in the Golden Horn off Galata, which is ready to start for the Black Sea, and the reader knows very well what that boat is going to pass through.