PRINKIPO reminds me of Bar Harbor. It is the largest of a group of four islands. It is covered with pine trees and has large and small country estates and villas scattered all over its balmy hills. It has several hotels and two beautiful clubs and many prominent Turkish families have their summer residences there. In the old days it was the Turkish resort “par excellence” as opposed to Therapia on the Bosphorus where all the embassies and foreign missions have their summer headquarters. But now the Turkish families who can still afford to live there lead a retired life, depressed as they are by the general political situation of the country and by their own much depleted finances. Therefore the Levantines, the Armenians, and especially the Greeks have invaded Prinkipo and try to crowd out the Turks from this island as they have crowded them out from Pera. They are in a better material and moral situation than the Turks for indulging in amusements and they have made of Prinkipo—which used to be in the old days a refined and distinguished resort, like Bar Harbor—a common playground for holiday makers.

Casinos, gambling houses and even less reputable institutions have lately flourished on the balmy shores of the island. On Saturdays and Sundays a noisy crowd invades the place, while on every pay-day it becomes the picnic ground of intoxicated soldiers belonging to the international navies guarding Constantinople! The day we arrived a few intoxicated British sailors were making themselves generally conspicuous and disagreeable right on the landing pier, in front of the casinos. They rushed the Italian officer commanding the police of the island, who had tried to make them behave in a manner more in harmony with their supposed mission of maintaining order and peace in a foreign country. Finally the Italian officer had to draw his revolver and fire a shot in the air. This happened in broad daylight, in a place crowded by the mixed Levantine elements now making up the showy summer colony of Prinkipo. Composure and calm are not one of the qualities of such crowds. A panic started, the Levantines running in every direction and the general stampede was only quieted when Turkish policemen were called to the assistance of the Italian carabinieri. The Turkish police knows how to handle a Levantine crowd better than the foreign police, but now it can only interfere if it is especially asked to do so by the foreign police.

With such conditions prevailing, aggravated by their own financial difficulties, it is not surprising that the Turkish elements have neither the heart nor the desire to assume again their position as leaders of the summer colony in Prinkipo. They prefer to keep quietly to themselves and they make it a point to avoid as much as possible any contact with foreigners or with the mixed crowd of Levantines. The beautiful Yacht Club, which was formerly an essentially Turkish institution really devoted to yachting, is now more of a gambling den than a club and only a few unprincipled Levantinized Turks still frequent it. We passed before it on our way home, and father said smilingly that it was now “taboo” for us. I can well imagine how he felt. He had been one of the founders of the club.

My father and my uncle lived together in a big white villa midway on the hill. The house had been originally built by my father as a small cottage during the first years of his marriage and when my uncle was away on one of his diplomatic missions. Then gradually as the family increased and as my uncle came back, additions had been made to the cottage. It stood now, a large twenty-five room house in the midst of pine trees, with shaded verandas running around each floor, commanding a gorgeous view over the three neighbouring islands, on the one hand, and the smiling shores of Anatolia on the other. The background to this panorama is furnished by the city of Constantinople, dimly discernable at a distance, refleeting at night its millions of blinking lights in the blue waters of the Marmora. We settled into one of the wings of the house originally built for my elder brother when he married. He was now away with his family.

To celebrate our arrival my father took us at the first opportunity to the Prinkipo Club of which he was still president. This club has remained more exclusive than the Yacht Club and has therefore a larger and better Turkish attendance. It occupies the beautiful estate which was the American summer Embassy at the time of Mr. Leishman. Weekly concerts are given in its gardens every Friday night—the Turkish Sunday. My father took us to one of these concerts to make our “debut” into the Turkish society of Prinkipo. Groups of Turkish families were wandering together in the gardens or sitting at tables, enjoying the beautiful starry night and listening to the music. The ladies were attired in summer garments—beautiful Oriental capes of embroidered white silk, draping their Parisian gowns in flowing loose folds—their hair covered by a net or veil, but their faces uncovered. The men wore tuxedos or business suits and could be distinguished from the foreigners only by their red fezes, a most unbecoming and unpractical headgear which is, alas! obligatory for all Turkish men in Constantinople.

This public association of Turkish ladies and men was an innovation to me. It had gradually come to pass during my ten years absence. Before my departure Turkish ladies could only be seen by friends of the family, and then exclusively in the strict privacy of their homes. They went out by themselves. They never mingled with men in public places. They did not even talk to them if they met casually on the streets. They would only bow slightly or make a discrete “temenah”—the graceful Turkish salutation which consists in lifting the hand towards the lips and to the forehead. Now, ten years later, Turkish men and women were talking and sitting together in public places and in clubs, freely associating with each other. This was surely a concrete sign of, at least, social progress.

I renewed many old friendships that night at the club, and my wife began there many acquaintances which developed later most cordially. My wife was surprised to meet many foreign girls who had, like herself, married Turks.

When we announced our engagement several of her friends in America had endeavoured to dissuade her from marrying a Turk. Surely a Turk could not make a good husband, East and West could never mix and anyhow why should she be the first foreigner to marry a Turk? She had of course set aside all these arguments and had believed me when I told her that many Turks had married foreigners and lived happily ever after. I don't think, however, that she ever conceived that foreign marriages had been so usual. That evening at the club and during our subsequent stay in Constantinople, she found herself in a most international milieu, although associating exclusively with Turkish families. She met in Prinkipo a charming Austrian girl, who had married an admiral of the Turkish navy. The mother of one of my childhood friends is a Russian lady, while the wife of another is a most attractive Bavarian girl. Many are the Turks who studied in France and married French girls. But the first prize for international marriages goes unquestionably to the family of Reshid Pasha where four out of seven members married foreign girls? Italian, English and American. So, after all, my wife found out that not only she was not the first foreign girl, but she was not even the first American girl who had married a Turk and she hastened to write it to her friends in America and to tell them that from what she could see and by her own experience East and West could and did mix. The Moslem religion and the Turkish customs allow complete latitude as far as marrying foreign girls is concerned and leave them of course absolutely free to practise their own religion. As for the Turks making good husbands, I believe of course that this is entirely dependent on the individual and not on the race. There are good and bad husbands among the Turks, just as there are good and bad husbands among other nations.

Our stay in Prinkipo turned out to be one of the most pleasant summer vacations I ever had. I would go to town to attend business regularly, but would take long week-ends off; that is, I would do as most business men do in summer and would stay home Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. We would then go bathing in the mornings, and play tennis or go out sailing in the afternoons. The Sea of Marmora is ideal for yachting, and numerous are the sailing yachts which use Prinkipo as their port. Of course the fact that we usually used Turkish yachts would somewhat hamper our movements, as boats flying the Turkish flags were not allowed to go anywhere near the Anatolian shores, the Inter-Allied authorities enforcing at that time a strict blockade of the Nationalists.

Often there would be tea-parties or informal after-dinner gatherings in the Turkish homes. And while these were small, unpretentious affairs—the Turks cannot afford to entertain elaborately on account of their precarious means—they were a most pleasant manner of passing away the time. There was always someone interesting at these gatherings. A man or a woman of prominence who would give to us a new point of view or some insight into the general situation. Once an Egyptian princess told us of the difference in the progress accomplished by the Turks and by their cousins of Egypt in the last years. How, despite the fact that the Turks had been hampered by political circumstances while the Egyptians had had the supposed benefit of British help, Turkish women now enjoyed a much larger political and social freedom than Egyptian women, and public education had spread more generally in Turkey than in Egypt. Another time the director of the Turkish Naval Academy in Halki told us how he had taken advantage of the temporarily complete independence of Turkey during the war to make of his school one of the most progressive and up-to-date naval academies in the world—how since the armistice he was meeting seemingly insurmountable difficulties in protecting his school from the process of disintegration systematically applied by the Allies to everything Turkish in Constantinople. Another time Zia Pasha, former Turkish Ambassador in Washington, told us how for years Sultan Abdul Hamid succeeded in keeping his Empire intact by playing the greedy ambitions of one western nation against that of the other. Once again Reshid Pasha, the Turkish diplomat who negotiated all the peace treaties made by Turkey in recent years—up to but excluding the Treaty of SÈvres—told us of his experiences at the London Peace Conference following the Balkan War. His position was most delicate as he was representing a nation which had been defeated on the battlefield and had to contend also with the inherent enmity that the ever-grasping imperialistic western powers have always felt in regard to Turkey. His was a pitched diplomatic battle against the Greek Venizelos. Reshid Pasha was too modest to add what everybody knows: that he came out the victor, having turned the tables on Venizelos to such a degree that the Greek statesman came away from London with his reputation as a diplomat greatly imperilled.

Unfortunately, subsequent events had put back Venizelos to the fore, and after numerous shifts of policy the Greeks had succeeded before our arrival in having the great powers present to Turkey the terms of the Treaty of SÈvres. Naturally, past, present and future politics were the subject of all conversations. Feeling was running high in Turkish circles. Every one was incensed both against the Allied powers and against the Turkish Government of the moment. The Grand Vezir, or Prime Minister, was being severely criticised and accused of trampling on the dignity of the nation by accepting the Treaty of SÈvres. The Nationalist movement had already started and while the Turks remained stoically calm in Constantinople for fear of reprisals by the Inter-Allied fleets upon the innocent population of the city, the tide of despair was rising in Anatolia. The Nationalist movement was as yet not thoroughly organized. But the set purpose of preventing the application of the terms of the treaty was already noticeable in the activities of the Turkish Nationalist bands who had sworn to die rather than to lose their independence. They have, since then, stuck most efficiently to their patriotic aim.

During those critical days following the publication of the terms of the Treaty of SÈvres, and during the first weeks of the conception of the Turkish Nationalist movement, many a time have we watched from Prinkipo the smoke of firearms indicating encounters between Turkish Nationalist bands and British Colonial troops, on the hills dominating the nearby shores of Anatolia. Once we witnessed a big forest fire engineered for the purpose of destroying the hiding-places where the Nationalist volunteers would take refuge after their successful raids against the armies of occupation. These Anatolian hills lie to this day, their once smilingly green slopes bare—a silent example of the work of destruction undertaken in the name of civilization by the western powers who champion the rights of certain small nations by destroying the properties of others. These Anatolian hills are at this day, desolate and sad—but a proud monument commemorating the unsuccessful attempt of the so-called civilized governments to pass a death sentence upon a small nation whose will to live independently could not be conquered either by fire or by blood. The prologue of the greatest crime perpetrated in history since the partition of Poland was thus gradually unfolding itself almost under our very eyes, while the Turkish circles of Prinkipo and Constantinople—prisoners in their own capital—had to watch, aloof. It was an edifying show of real Oriental restraint to see all these people stand stoically and without a murmur so that their brethren in Anatolia might have time to organize. In the face of the worst adversities and while their hearts were bleeding, they furnished to Anatolia the breathing-spell it required. To the cry of “chase the Turk out of Europe” shouted in their very face, the Turks of Constantinople were opposing a passive and dignified resistance. A friend of mine summarized one day most clearly the motive underlying their passive resistance. We were on the Prinkipo boat going to Constantinople—the boat which in the old days was full of Turkish dignitaries going to their offices. Now only a few Turkish business men were distinguishable in the crowd. A few foreign officers were lounging comfortably on benches “reserved for Inter-Allied officers”—large enough to accommodate twenty people—while crowds of men and women were standing all around for lack of place to sit. The boat was filled with noisy Levantines, Armenians and Greeks, eating dates and pistachio nuts, throwing the seeds and the shells on the deck, making of the floor a place not fit for animals, and rendering themselves generally obnoxious. My friend pointed to them and said: “These are the people who want to take Constantinople away from us in the name of civilization! But we have to overlook their impudence, we have to close our eyes on their misbehaviour, we have to stand and bear it all. What else can we do? If we weaken and join “en masse” the Nationalists in Anatolia, we would leave in Constantinople a majority of these people and the Western Powers would take advantage of this majority to detach the city completely from the rest of Turkey. If we can't control our patience, and rise against the foreigners and the usurpers in our own city, the Western Powers will interfere and their battleships will destroy our homes. But if we stand pat and ignore them they can not do us any harm. Our duty is to preserve our city for Turkey and we can only do it by remaining here and by opposing to those who plot against us a passive and silent resistance.”

In this atmosphere of suspense the last days of our stay in Prinkipo drew near. Our house in Stamboul would be ready now in about a month. I had promised my wife to take her to Erenkeuy and to the Bosphorus. My father wanted us to discharge our obligations towards the rest of the family and besides he was soon going back to town himself. The season of Prinkipo was at its end. Constantinople and its surrounding are at their best in the early fall, but Prinkipo gets too cold. The bathing season was finished, the yachting season was at its end. The hotels were closing. One by one the villas were shutting their hospitable doors. The summer colony was disbanding. Prinkipo was preparing for its annual winter sleep.

We packed our bags and went to visit my aunts.