THE Senate confirmed my appointment as Ambassador to Turkey on September 4, 1913. Soon afterward I went to Washington to familiarize myself with the duties of my office and to receive my instructions. A new Ambassador is allowed thirty days for this purpose. Usually, he spends them in the State Department, taking a sort of course of intensive training. I did not take the full month allowed me. The Chief of the Division of Near Eastern Affairs took me in hand, and in a series of conversations outlined to me, first, the duties, prerogatives, and privileges of an Ambassador; and, second, a general survey of existing relations between Turkey and the United States. Then several hours were occupied in studying the methods of keeping the accounts of the Embassy, and of handling its funds.

I found this period of preparation intensely interesting. It was to be crowned in October, upon a second visit to Washington, by an official call on the Secretary of State. I looked forward to this visit with great expectations. Alas for the illusions which a day can wreck! William Jennings Bryan was the Secretary of State. He knew no more about our relations with Turkey than I did. The long-looked-for instructions were an anti-climax. They were, in full, as follows:

“Ambassador,” he said, “when I made my trip through the Holy Land, I had great difficulty in finding Mount Beatitude. I wish you would try to persuade the Turkish Government to grant a concession to some Americans to build a macadam road up to it, so that other pilgrims may not suffer the inconvenience which I did in attempting to find it.”

Thus fortified by the Secretary’s complete programme for my Ambassadorial task, I set forward to the White House for a farewell call upon President Wilson. He bade me a hearty God-speed, and in parting gave me an injunction which enabled me to save many lives in the next three years. “Remember,” he said, “that anything you can do to improve the lot of your co-religionists is an act that will reflect credit upon America, and you may count on the full power of the Administration to back you up.”

Fortunately for the success of my mission, I had a most enlightening conference in New York before I left. At the suggestion of Mr. Alfred E. Marling, who was one of the trustees of the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions, I had an interview at that great centre of missionary activity, 156 Fifth Avenue, with a large group of earnest and able men, who could speak with authority on the problems I should confront in the East. I learned that five of these men were to cross the Atlantic at the same time I should be crossing. These were Doctors Arthur Judson Brown, James L. Barton, Charles Roger Watson, Dr. Mackaye, and Bishop Arthur Selden Lloyd. These men were the leaders of the Foreign Mission Boards of the Presbyterian, Congregational, United Presbyterian, Methodist, and Protestant Episcopal Churches. One of them, Doctor Barton, had himself been a missionary in Turkey, and had also acted as President of the Protestant College at Harpoot. Another, Doctor Watson, had been a missionary in the Turkish Protectorate of Egypt, and his parents had been missionaries for half a century at Cairo.

I had engaged passage for Europe on the Imperator, but when I learned that these five men were sailing at nearly the same time on the George Washington (later to become famous as President Wilson’s “peace ship”) to attend a world missionary conference at The Hague, I asked them to change their reservations and go with me. They were limited in their expense accounts and could not change, so, emulating Mohammed, I “went to the mountain” and changed to their ship. The voyage gave me an opportunity to gain from them a fuller picture of the work of the mission boards, which was very helpful to me in my new task.

The conversations I had with these men on shipboard were a revelation to me. I had hitherto had a hazy notion that missionaries were sort of over-zealous advance agents of sectarian religion, and that their principal activity was the proselyting of believers in other faiths. To my surprise and gratification, these men gave me a very different picture. In the first place, their cordial coÖperation with one another was evidence of the disappearance of the old sectarian zeal. They were, to be sure, profoundly concerned in converting as many people as they could to what they sincerely believed to be the true faith. But I found that, along with this ambition, Christian missionaries in Turkey were carrying forward a magnificent work of social service, education, philanthropy, sanitation, medical healing, and moral uplift. They were, I discovered, in reality advance agents of civilization. As representatives of the denominations which supported them, they were maintaining several hundred American schools in the Levant, and several full-fledged colleges, of which three, at least, deserve to rank with the best of the smaller institutions of higher learning in the United States. They maintained, also, several important hospitals. And, as a part of their purely religious function, they were bringing a higher conception of Christianity to the millions of submerged Christians in the Turkish Empire, who, but for them, would have been left to practise their religion without the inspiration of the modern thought of the West, which has so vastly widened its spiritual significance.

As my wife and youngest daughter, Ruth, could not accompany me, I took with me my daughter Helen, her husband, Mr. Mortimer J. Fox, and their two sons Henry and Mortimer. We Visited London, Paris, and Vienna on our way to Constantinople, and at each of these capitals I paid my respects not only to the American Ambassador, but to the resident Turkish plenipotentiary as well. In doing this I had in mind two things: first, to accustom myself to the looks of an embassy from within, as I had to that date never been in an embassy building in any country; and second, to secure some hints upon the character of the government to which I was accredited, in advance of my first formal contact with it. At last, on November 27, 1913, we rolled into the railroad station at Constantinople.

My first impression of the famous old capital of Asia-in-Europe was of a moving sea of silk hats. The station platform seemed populated entirely with frock-coated gentlemen buried under these chimney-like black headpieces. After some confusion, human personalities began to emerge from under them, and to individualize themselves as real people with proper names, and a rational relationship to myself as another human being. The first to greet me was Mr. Hoffman Phillip, who as Conseiller and First Secretary of the Embassy had acted as chargÉ d’affaires during Mr. Rockhill’s visit to the United States.

He introduced me to the others, and after a somewhat bewildering round of handshakings, Phillip, the Foxes, and I stepped into a carriage and were driven to the Pera Palace Hotel, where Phillip gave us a Thanksgiving dinner.

The Embassy at Constantinople is a handsome, marble, three-story structure, set in a garden surrounded by a high wall, and overlooking the Golden Horn. Often during my first days there I would find myself humming the old refrain, “I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls.” There were, to be sure, no “vassals and serfs by my side”; but I had more useful assistants in my official staff. Besides Mr. Phillip, there were second and third secretaries, and A. K. Schmavonian, the Turkish legal adviser of the Embassy. He was the permanent attachÉ—the interpreter—and was, besides, the custodian of the Embassy’s traditions. He knew every American interest in Turkey, had carried on for years the correspondence with the consuls and the missionaries, and hence was an invaluable storehouse of information. He knew, also, all the Turkish officials; the ramifications of the Turkish governmental departments; the names and characteristics of the leaders of the recent revolution; and, of course, he was versed in the niceties of diplomatic custom.

Soon after my arrival I observed a curious phenomenon concerning the position of an ambassador. The instinctive ambition of the attachÉs led them to try to keep the Ambassador from taking an active hand in the work of the Chancery. It was explained to me with great solemnity, that the business office of the Embassy was not like other business offices; that its operations were so involved in delicacies of diplomatic usage that none but old hands, trained in all their niceties, were competent to handle the transaction of its intricate affairs. All details, I was informed, should be left to those accustomed to handling them. I made short work of this mysterious nonsense. Business is business, and details are the substance of larger concerns. Therefore, I promptly acquainted myself with the records of the Embassy for several years preceding, and took absolute charge of its functions, as I was in duty bound to do. The mysteries faded instantly. Common sense, judgment, and energy are the desiderata of all business relationships, and I found no barrier in these affairs, because of their so-called diplomatic nature.

Other American ambassadors have complained to me that their subordinates usurped their functions in this fashion; and I know of some who have occupied the most exalted posts in Europe and never penetrated the mysteries of their Chanceries, and, consequently, never really functioned as ambassadors at all.

As my wife and Ruth had not accompanied me, their absence relieved me, for the moment, of social duties, and gave me time for a considered survey of the society in which I would soon be projected as an active member. I realized that much depended upon the first associations I should make in that society, and I needed just such an opportunity to learn by indirection the composition of it, the factions into which it was divided, and the cross currents of personality and interest that disturbed it.

The “diplomatic set” at Constantinople was a little world apart. At most, its members numbered a scant hundred. It comprised the Grand Vizier, the Premier and his Cabinet, and the ambassadors and ministers of other governments, with their principal attachÉs. Occasionally, there were added to this intimate circle a few leading international bankers and merchants and distinguished tourists. But chiefly we consorted with ourselves. Our intercourse was a continuous succession of luncheons, teas, dinners, and formal state functions. In such a constricted society, thrown into such intense communication, the personal equation was naturally of paramount importance. Ere long, I had occasion to use every resource, from social gifts to business experience, to maintain myself in this society of shrewd and cultivated men, all of whom had the advantage of a life-long training in diplomacy and in the intricacies of European statecraft.

My first concern, therefore, was to appraise their personalities. I recalled a piece of wise advice from James Stillman the elder, who was one of the cleverest American financiers. He told me that when a man confronted a new situation, and was not yet sure of his ground, his safest course was to impress his adversaries by mystifying them. I adapted this advice to the present occasion. I realized that the diplomatic corps at Constantinople knew much more about me than I knew about any of them, because I was the one stranger to them, and they were many and all strange to me. I resolved to do, as nearly as I could, directly the opposite of what they expected of me. For one thing, they had fallen into the European habit of imagining that all successful Americans are men of fabulous wealth, and they credited certain absurd stories about my supposed intention to conduct the Embassy on a scale of lavish expenditure, designed to make a great social impression. Accordingly, I went to the other extreme and managed the Embassy very modestly. For some weeks after my arrival I did not even use an automobile, contenting myself with a carriage and a pair of Arabian ponies.

Further to play the rÔle of mystifier, I obeyed only the letter of the custom which prescribes that a new Ambassador shall call upon the other ambassadors after he has been presented to the Sovereign. They are supposed to return this call, and thereafter the newcomer is expected to make the advances to his elders toward a more intimate and workable acquaintance. Instead, I remained at the Embassy and devoted myself to the business of the Chancery and did some watchful waiting.

These tactics were rewarded by an opportunity to enter the society of the diplomatic corps under circumstances that gave me the advantage. One day the local correspondent of the FrankfÜrter Zeitung called upon me at the Embassy. This was Dr. Paul Weitz, who had been a resident of Turkey for more than twenty-five years, knew all the officials, spoke the language, and understood the subtleties of Turkish psychology. He was, in reality, an unofficial attachÉ of the Embassy and a secret agent of the German Government. Dr. Weitz opened the conversation.

“Mr. Ambassador,” he said, “I have gotten the impression that you are a man of direct methods. For this reason I, too, shall use the direct method. Frankly, I have come as the emissary of the German Ambassador and the Austrian Ambassador, with whom I had luncheon this very day. You were the principal topic of conversation. These gentlemen are puzzled by your attitude and they are curious to learn your true character. They have commissioned me to find out these things for them, and I have preferred to come and ask you bluntly rather than to follow my usual method of finding out by indirection. What is your real attitude? Are you by preference a recluse, or are you playing a game?”

“I am glad,” I replied, “that you have come to me personally with these questions, especially because it gives me the opportunity to send a direct message to your principals. Please be good enough to tell them for me that I have made it a life-long practice never to make the first advances. I have always waited for the advances to come from the other side. Therefore, you may tell “Their Excellencies” that it is for them to decide whether they wish their relationship with me to continue to be one of formal diplomatic exchanges, or a frank, man-to-man friendship. If they prefer the latter, I shall be delighted to meet them halfway, but they must cover the first half.”

Dr. Weitz readily agreed to carry this message, and he was so pleased with the frankness of my conversation that he made no concealment of his own position. He went on to tell me that he was a confidential adviser to the German ambassadors, and frequently was commissioned to carry on unofficial negotiations in which, for reasons of delicacy or of policy, it was not advisable either that the Ambassador should appear in person, or that he should make use of one of his official family. He explained to me that the reason he was used in this capacity was his intimate acquaintance with Turkish life and officials, and he offered to undertake similar commissions for me at any time I might care to make use of him. For obvious reasons, I never availed myself of the offer.

Dr. Weitz faithfully repeated my message to the German and Austrian ambassadors who afterward told me that they were greatly delighted with it. The very next afternoon, Baron Wangenheim paid me a call; and the following morning, his Austrian colleague, Marquis Pallavicini, arrived to improve my acquaintance. They both greeted me in the spirit of my message, and we entered at once upon an acquaintanceship which removed the formality of an official relation. Both of them were very useful to me during my first weeks in Constantinople. The Marquis was the doyen of the diplomatic corps. He was a nobleman of ancient family, had grown old in the diplomatic service, and was an authority on every point of diplomatic usage, from the most subtle phrasing of a threat of war to the refinements of precedence in placing guests at table at a diplomatic dinner. In this latter direction, indeed, he was invaluable to me in teaching me the relative rank of the bewildering array of officers and title holders among my visitors.

Baron Wangenheim I have described at great length in my earlier volume, “Ambassador Morgenthau’s Story.” Unlike Pallavicini, who was quiet, formal, conventional, and a typical diplomat of the old school, Wangenheim was a perfect representative of Prussia. He was not a native of Prussia—but his bearing was that of an excitable Hindenburg. He was a man of great stature, in the prime of life, overflowing with physical vitality, energetic in person, opinionated and positive in manner, voluble and aggressive in conversation, somewhat flirtatious, proud, overbearing—he was Prussia and modern Germany embodied.

After Pallavicini and Wangenheim had broken the ice, I speedily made the acquaintance of the other members of the diplomatic corps, and their characters emerged in my mind in sharp definition. Sir Louis Mallet, the British Ambassador, was a fine type of English gentleman. He exhibited the quiet force and cultivation which one naturally expects from a member of the English upper classes. Though a bachelor, his establishment was one of the most magnificent in Constantinople. Turkey has always been a vital point in British policy, and the British Government has spared no pains to make its public appearance there correspond with the splendour and importance of the British Empire.

The French Ambassador was M. Bompard, the Russian was Michel de Giers. These men also adequately embodied their respective countries, the one in its ideals of polished politeness and clear intellectual grasp, the other in its ideals of imperial pride and the sense of power.

Meeting these men at luncheon; dining with them and their ladies at gorgeous evening functions, where the splendour of the men’s uniforms, the brightness of the women’s costumes, and the gayety of the young couples made a lively scene of light-hearted inconsequentiality; it was hard to realize that they were, in truth, acting the part of expectant legatees of a friendless dying man—sitting at tea in his parlour, and waiting for his last gasp as a signal for a scramble to divide his property among themselves. They frankly told me (though of course not in these words) that this was their position. In their eyes the Sick Man of Europe, so long the diseased invalid among the nations, was now really dying. They had no hesitation in discussing their ambitions regarding his property. Giers comported himself already as if Russia had actually attained her age-old vision of capturing Constantinople—as if he were the Governor of Russia’s new capital city. Sir Louis Mallet did not conceal the interest which his government had in everything that tended to insure the safety of the Suez Canal. Bompard was deeply concerned to secure more concessions for French capital in Turkey. Even the Greek Minister talked with confidence of an approaching Hellenic confederation which should embrace Smyrna and part of the Asian hinterland.

There was, indeed, considerable reason for their hopes. The revolutionary party in Turkey, under the name of the Union and Progress Party, had overthrown the Government and had taken possession of the country in the name of the people. Abdul Hamid, whom Gladstone, for his atrocious crimes, had dubbed “Abdul the Damned,” was now shorn of his power, and was a prisoner in a palace, almost within sight of the American Embassy. His throne was now occupied by a nominal successor, his brother, Mohammed V. This good-humoured weakling, however, enjoyed only the shadow of power and none of its substance. His brother, fearful of a plot to overthrow him, had caused his successor to be reared in a manner that totally unfitted him for the exercise of authority. He had kept him secluded from society, had not permitted him to learn even the rudiments of history and statecraft, and had enfeebled his intellect and character by constantly exposing him to the temptations of self-indulgence. He had placed before the Heir Apparent all the pleasures of life; had supplied him with countless wives, luxurious food, rich wines, and all the other ministers of sensual enjoyment. Reared in such atmosphere, he had grown up and passed the prime of life, ignorant of Government affairs and without any chance to develop his character. Socially, of course, he was a charming gentleman, but as a ruler, he was hopelessly incompetent.

He was, indeed, merely the figurehead of a government whose substantial ministers were the aggressive, self-made leaders of the Committee of Union and Progress. These were men of native shrewdness, character, and courage. Their political leader was Talaat Bey, a great hulk of a man, who had begun life in the humble capacity of porter in a village railroad station, and who had advanced to the limits of his social prospects when he had achieved the dignity of a telegraph operator in the same station. By sheer force of natural genius, however, he had become a political power, and after the revolutionists had sprung their coup d’État, he soon rose to be their leader. With their success, he had leaped immediately to the dazzling eminence of a Cabinet position, and was then the chief of the Cabal that was the real ruler of the Empire.

The military head of the Young Turks was Enver Bey, a handsome and dashing young officer, who had studied his profession and cultivated the social graces as military attachÉ of the Turkish Embassy at Berlin. He was now minister of War and in control of the Turkish Army—a necessary weapon in the hands of Talaat to maintain the Young Turk party in power. Some of my foreign colleagues of the diplomatic corps assured me that these two men were the real power in Turkey. They had seven associates, all men of great influence, and all members of the Committee of Union and Progress.

The personalities of these men, and the drama of their conflicting ambitions and intrigues, gradually unfolded themselves before my eyes. It was like sitting at the performance of a fascinating play, only this was more interesting because it was the reality of life. The actors were the representatives of great nations, and upon the issue of this dramatic situation rested the fate of millions of people.

The experiences of my first few weeks at Constantinople and the intensely interesting sensations they aroused in me can best be conveyed to my readers by reproducing a few of the letters which I wrote home to America in the excitement of these moments. The first I shall quote was dated December 23, 1913, and was addressed to my wife and youngest daughter:

I have been so very busy that I have not written for a few days—so I will tell you briefly what has happened since. On December 20th we had our reception, of which I enclose you an account—it was really splendid—no one can describe the sensations and thrills. I had to be told and made to feel that I was the head and responsible man for the property of those great institutions, managed by such soulful, disinterested, and altruistic people—it makes our small efforts in New York appear insignificant. Think of a small determined “band” of Americans revolutionizing with educational means the Balkan States—the drops of water they kept a-going for forty or more years had the result of wearing away the indifference of the Bulgar and roused him. Everybody who is well-informed admits that Robert College deserves the credit for the education that has spread there.

At 9:30 Mort and I went to the Scorpion (the gunboat detailed to guard the Embassy) and had a royal reception and inspected the boat. On Sunday I then went alone to the college—but I feel as though I wrote you all this so I’ll skip it—if I didn’t write it, I’ll tell you about it when you are here. We had intended to go on the Scorpion, but instead we drove to the Seven Towers of Jedi Kulet, and walked on top of the ramparts and then for one hour along the old wall—it was a bewitching sight—the sun was shining brightly, the Marmora made up the background, and the twenty or thirty towers along the wall in various stages of decay, with the moat alongside, made a never-to-be-forgotten impression on us all. As usual, Mortie took a number of pictures and Abdullah guarded us most carefully. It takes this kind of absorption of the history of a country to teach one what these people really are. This city is unquestionably the most favoured by nature of any I have ever seen. It excels New York and San Francisco.

On our way home, we stopped to inspect the Kahri Jeh Janisi Mosque—the oldest in C.—it was formerly a Greek Church and the paintings of Christ, Saint Mark, the old Bible heroes, and angels, etc., are still here in mosaic—much finer than in the San Marco in Venice. We were shown through by an old Turk who could give half-intelligent descriptions of the mosaics, etc., in English and German. We wended through many narrow little streets, inhabited largely by Greeks, and it was a most interesting sight. It was nearly two when we sat down to dinner and none of us complained.

On Monday I had a great day. In the morning, representatives of the Austrian Kultur Gemeinde called to invite me to attend their synagogue and visit their school; they instruct about 300 children. I agreed to do so. I took my first meal away from the house at Tokatlian’s—the best restaurant here—had Schmavonian with me. At two, we were at the Finance Office for an interview with Talaat Bey—who is acting Secretary of Finance as well as Secretary of the Interior, and the strongest and most powerful man in Turkey at present. I am already on good terms with the men in power. We had coffee and cigarettes four times that P.M. We next called on General Izzett—he wore a shabby uniform, spoke German, and was really disconsolate—they are very frank people if they talk at all—he made some very confidential communications to me. The rumour or hope has gotten around that I may prove their Moses who will lead them out of their difficulties. Let us hope so; I’ll try anyhow. Next we called on Colonel Djemal, the newly appointed Minister of Public Works. I tried to dodge the coffee—but he said a call in Turkey without coffee is no call. He was of a hopeful temper and rather dapper. Then we called on Osman Mardighian, the Postmaster General. He speaks good English and is very able—devotes his time to administrative works. When I got to the office, I had to dictate a few despatches and say good-bye to Mr. Phillip, who is going on a four weeks’ leave of absence. At 5 o’clock, the Grand Rabbi and his Secretary came—he is a very intelligent, nice, youngish man of forty or so—he thinks he has the Red ticket settled, but has not and I shall have to help in disposing of it. While he was upstairs, Helen discussed the White Slave traffic—babies in the Hospitals, etc., etc. She really does well at the tea table. It is a picture to see one of those tea scenes. Helen, Chief Rabbi (addressed as His Eminence, as he ranks with the Church dignitaries of the rank of Cardinal), Sir Edwin Pears, Sir Henry Woods Pasha, Rev. Mr. Frew, the Rabbi’s Secretary, Schmavonian, Mort, and I; and I have to listen to French and fortunately am beginning to understand it. They left at 7—I worked at those telegrams until 7:30—then went to bed for a nap and over-slept, not wakening until 8:25, so that we reached the British Embassy at 8:40, the last of the guests! You can’t imagine my feelings as I was ushered into that room in which were thirty other guests including the Grand Vizier, Talaat Bey and three other Cabinet Ministers, the Wangenheims, D’Ankerswaerd and other Sirs and Ladies, and had them all look me over—when

“The American Ambassador”

was announced. I felt, “is it I or not?” Then, “Mr. and Mrs. Fox” were announced. And then, “Diner est servi.” I took in Madame D’Ankerswaerd. Escorted her to her seat and then went to the other side of the table where I was seated next to Baroness Wangenheim, a fine, good looking, typically aristocratic German—a charming conversationalist. She is W.’s second wife—he divorced his first. W. is a great personal friend of the Emperor. Sir Louis Mallet, the English Ambassador, sat on the other side of Baroness W. After dinner we smoked and drank coffee and talked to others than our table companions, while fifty or sixty others gathered for a dance. Such a sight! And to think that we are part of it—Young Princes, Barons, Sirs, and Americans from the Embassies, etc., and lots of Turks and Egyptians, etc. I shall never forget it. Helen sat right opposite me—between Baron Wangenheim, all be-decorated, and Colonel Djemal (Turk) in full uniform. I talked with Baroness Moncheur—we have struck up a nice friendship—with Marquis Pallavicini—Talaat Bey, and Miss Wangenheim, etc., etc., until about 12, when Wangenheim asked me to play bridge with him, a Turk, and a Greek banker—which I did until 1:30, when the dancing was over and they all went in for supper, etc. (I went home) and then they danced again until 2:30 or so. I thoroughly enjoyed it, I am not overstating when I repeat what I said in a previous letter—I am very glad I came.

To-day—at 11—a call from the Bulgarian Minister. In the afternoon I finished my official calls on the Cabinet Ministers—called on Mahmoud Pasha of the Marine, Ibrahim Bey—Secretary of Justice, the Dutch Minister, and Mrs. McCauley (the wife of the commander of the Scorpion).

Mesdames Pallavicini, Bompard, Moncheur, Wangenheim, and Willebois are the popular and fine women here, and they are out of the ordinary—you will like all of them and they will like you. Pierre Loti is wrong, so far as this winter is concerned—we have had no cold weather. Yesterday and to-day were delightful—the thermometer has not been below 45°.