Constantinople, October 31st, 1914.

Here I am, after all! From the large window of my room at the Tokatlian Hotel, the wonderful city, the Bosphorus, and, far away, the woods and the mosques of Scutari, look like a dream-vision in the blue, transparent light which seems to come not from the sky only but from the trees, from the sea, from everywhere.

It is midnight, and everything is perfectly quiet.

If an artist had to choose a landscape which should symbolise the perfect peace of men and things, he would choose the one on which I am now looking. And yet even here there is war!

On my way from Dedeagach to Constantinople I got news of the declaration of war by Turkey. Perhaps if I had tried to cross the Turkish frontier only a few hours later I should not have succeeded; as a matter of fact, to-day I saw any number of foreigners, English, French, Italians, Russians, and Greeks, trying to leave Constantinople by train.

Only very few of them could manage to get away, as Turkey is busy sending troops to the western frontier, and only a few seats are available for ordinary travellers.

The foreigners who could not get away to-day had to content themselves with booking seats for next week, seats which, though they had to be paid for, were not guaranteed.

The Dardanelles are closed, of course, and the only communication with the rest of Europe is this fantastic railway service. French and English people can, in theory, leave the town. Not so Russian people.

A special concentration camp has been arranged in a large old bazaar near the Odoun Kapou, and quite close to the military gaol. There is room for seven thousand prisoners, and I am afraid the young Englishmen and Frenchmen who don't get away pretty soon will have to go and keep company with the Russians.

Of course, the concentration camps are copied from German models. Everything, in fact, in Constantinople is copied from a German model. During the last four or five months Enver Pasha, "the soul of the new Turkey," according to his newspaper—Le Jeune Turc—"le trait d'union entre Allemagne et Turquie," according to the perhaps more correct definition of Le Stamboul—which, by the way, has been suppressed—assisted by a large staff of German officers, has been arranging for the wholesale Germanisation of Turkey.

There is no doubt about the result; it is excellent, at least from the German point of view. It was not a hurried job; since Algeciras Germany has redoubled her military activity in Turkey. This work has gone on steadily for years, while alongside of it Germany has carried out a careful and far-sighted commercial expansion.

To take at the present moment only Constantinople, and to say nothing of the rest of European or Asiatic Turkey, you find the water, the gas and electric light, the railways, the importation of wheat, the motor-'bus services, most of the shipping companies, and the tramcars all belong to German companies or to companies which, if Turkish or French in name, are controlled and financed by Germans.

The German Government has assisted in every possible way in these enterprises; many German firms were taken up by the Turkish War Office during the last few weeks. A typical case was that of a very large German fireworks firm, which was established about three years ago, and never turned out any fireworks to the knowledge of anybody in Constantinople.

Now the large German staff of the firm is producing any amount of ammunition, and if what is said here is true an enormous quantity of nitre and cotton-wool, and also lead and other metals, has been stored in the firm during the last few weeks.

It is absolutely ridiculous to talk about a Russian aggression in the Black Sea, as most of the Turkish papers are doing. Everybody knew here that Turkey meant to go to war.

Such was the view of Germany and of Enver Pasha. Not only was the Turkish Army, under the direction of about 200 German officers, along with Turkish officers trained in Germany, getting ready as fast as possible since the beginning of the war, but two months before the war broke out the Turkish War Office began to get busy, to change generals and substitute for the old decorative officers a more efficient staff, to order new uniforms and boots.

It is difficult to say what were the intentions of Turkey at that moment, but the fact remains that during the past forty years the Turkish Army has never been in better condition and less lacking materials than to-day.

This does not mean that the army is strong or well equipped; far from it, but it is certain that very much has been done lately and a fair amount of money spent.

What were the reasons of all this activity, and where did the money come from? It is easy enough to answer these questions—Germany expected to be at war and wanted Turkey to be ready.

* * *

I have spent my first day in Constantinople in a long walk through the old town. I wanted to see how the declaration of war had affected the population. To tell the truth, it does not seem to have affected the people at all.

The manager of the hotel told me it was better to substitute my western headgear for a fez if I wanted to go into Stamboul or Scutari, and he advised me also to speak German if I had to ask for some directions.

It is the only foreign language which is not likely to wake up the anti-Christian sentiments of the crowd.

Pera, the modern and civilised part of Constantinople, gives the impression of a big spa out of season. The large hotels are mostly closed, the cafÉs, the restaurants, the shops which generally sell only to the tourist had no customers this year and did not open at all.

I noticed that the few shops open had taken away from the windows the little boards announcing that English or Russian is spoken. "On parle franÇais" was still in evidence, but the other languages were apparently extinct. Constantinople at the moment speaks only German.

Protected by my red fez, I crossed the long bridge which leads to Stamboul and found myself in the old city. The crowd seemed to be occupied with anything on earth but the war. There was the usual noise, there were the usual cries, the usual slow-going traffic.

This seemed rather curious to me. Was it possible that nobody could realise what a terrible move the Turkish Government had made the day before? Did they even know that Turkey was at war with Russia and that to-morrow probably all the Allies would be against her?

Only the night before the key to the enigma had been given me by a dragoman who, though in a lower social scale, could nevertheless speak German:—"We did not want this war," he said. "We did not want either the Balkan War or the war against Italy, but, after all, we know perfectly that the more silly things our rulers do, the sooner they will have to go, and the sooner the better.

"We are tired of the so-called Young Turk Government. It is worse than the Government of Abdul Hamid. Things being as they are, we keep quiet and hope it will be over as soon as possible."

"But you would not like to have a Russian Government, for instance?" said I.

"It would not be worse than this one," he answered. "None could be worse. One fine day, when things go badly, Enver Bey and all the Young Turks will clear off with the money they have made at our expense, and leave us to settle the account. They don't care at all for Turkey. They only care for their private ambitions. Most of them are not Turks either, but Greeks or Armenians or Levantines or Jews.

"The Turkish people have realised long ago that Turkey, as a nation, resisted as long as she did because the European nations could not agree on her partition. The only thing to do was to keep quiet and try to avoid any struggle. We should have done that if Abdul Hamid had not been deprived of his power; our new rulers had the dream of making Turkey once more a Great Power. But their efforts had quite an opposite result."

All this may sound rather tragic, but it was spoken as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a modern Turk to regard himself as simply the citizen of a country that was up for sale by auction.

My informant did not even seem to care to know who the buyer might be.

The dragoman represents the most patriotic part of the population of Turkey—the Turks. As for the other elements—Greek, Bulgar, Armenian, Serbian, Wallach, Gipsy, and Jewish, which are in numbers ten times superior to the Turks—they have different aspirations, and naturally look for a change in the direction of their own nationality or, at least, of their own religion.

The only people who have sympathy for Germany seem to be the Jews and Gipsies, the former, who live mostly on the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles, being closely connected with Germany by commercial interests.

It is in this attitude of complete passivity that the population of Constantinople is waiting. The attempt to wake up the Islamic feeling is not likely to have a great influence in European Turkey.

To-day in most places meetings have been arranged, and muezzins have started promising the paradise of Allah, the Houris and all the rest, to those who are ready to die for the Motherland and the true God.

My dragoman told me they did not arouse much enthusiasm amongst the population. I heard a Moslem preacher myself address the Mevlevis, the dancing Dervishes, who were giving an extra performance.

Of course, I could not understand a word of the sermon, but the Mevlevis, if not the public, got much excited, some wounding themselves with swords as they offered their blades to Allah.

The cry of "Damour Kaffir" (dogs of infidels) and a few suspicious glances in my direction persuaded me that it was better to leave the Dervishes alone, and I made my way out of the dense crowd.

In the little square outside, standing on the steps covered with green and blue china tiles of a wonderful old sacred fountain, was a sort of recruiting sergeant with two soldiers acting as helps, one carrying a large book, the Koran, the other the green standard of the Prophet.

Around them half-a-dozen filthy-looking children were standing in astonishment, but there was no sign of a recruit.

To-night, when my indispensable dragoman translated for me a leading article from the Tanin, the Turkish official newspaper which is the mouthpiece of Enver Pasha's pan-Islamic ideals, I was much surprised to hear the following paragraph:—

"The whole of Turkey is ready to take up arms against the infidels. The enthusiasm awakened in Constantinople by the declaration of war against Russia is almost unbelievable. Turkey is ready to take again her place amongst the great European Powers. We are now members of the New Triple Alliance, and with the help of Allah and of our powerful Allies we are certain to get back again all we have lost through the fault of our late Government."

* * *

November 2nd.

I think that what happened this morning is really too extraordinary even for the Turkish Diplomacy, too curious even for one who knows the extremely curious systems of the Turkish Government.

Yesterday all the Constantinople newspapers were talking about the declaration of war against Russia (the Ambassadors of the Entente having to leave very soon) and the resurrection of the Turkish Empire; the muezzins were preaching the war, the recruiting sergeants were trying to get new men; to-day the Tanin, the newspaper of the Turkish Government, says that Turkey is not at war, and that she will only defend herself if the Powers of the Entente move against her. How delightfully Oriental!

Of course, Turkish papers have an excellent habit of never contradicting themselves. What was said yesterday is completely forgotten to-day; not a word about it. So Turkey is not at war.

That is why, perhaps, some signs of war have begun to appear to-day in Constantinople. Turkish logic!

This morning there has been "a sort of a demonstration" in favour of the war. A couple of thousand people with Turkish and German flags, and under the very eyes of the passive police, wrecked two or three Russian shops and also the windows of a French bookseller who dared to exhibit Russian and English books. Afterwards the crowd came down the Avenue des Petits Champs, where the Embassies are, and hissed the Russian and the French.

The beautiful Florentine palace, the residence of the British Ambassador, had a few windows smashed, and two large hotels owned by French societies were also damaged.

This Jingo crowd was mostly composed of people wearing the fez, but of rather Western appearance. Some of them, fair haired, and of true Teutonic bearing, did not leave any doubts about their nationality, some bore the mark of their Jewish descent, some belonged to the international mob of all big seaports. I don't know if amongst the crowd there was a single real Turk.

As I write, in the large square outside the Arsenal, military exercises under the command of Turkish and German officers are going on. The Germans attached to the Turkish army or to the Embassy in Constantinople have organised all the young Germans into a regular troop. Now every one of them is acting as an instructor, and probably before long they will have a uniform and an official status in the Turco-German army.

During the last two weeks trains loaded with arms, ammunition of all kinds, Red Cross requisites, and even guns have been arriving from the north. An enormous quantity of sea mines has been sent down—evident sign that the Germans intend to follow in the Dardanelles the same tactics of naval war they are following in the North Sea.

A large part of the Fleet, I really don't know if I have to call it the Turkish fleet or the Allied fleet, or perhaps the German fleet, has come back into the Bosphorus. The names of the vessels are, of course, quite Turkish. The Goeben was rechristened Sultan Selim; the Breslau got instead the new name of Medilla, which means Mitilen, in Turkish.

The bridge on the Golden Horn is open, and yesterday the Goeben went right across the long bay and dropped anchor outside the Arsenal. Then on the ship began a sort of feverish work. A number of large flat-bottomed boats were sent out from the Arsenal loaded with workmen, who proceeded to do some mysterious repairs on board. It was possible to hear the continuous hammering, but the distance did not allow me to see what kind of work was going on.

Certainly no great damage had been done to the ship because, while the repairs were going on, a large quantity of ammunition and numerous cases which looked as though they contained foodstuffs were lifted on board with the help of two big cranes.

In the afternoon I made the acquaintance of a German officer who had been on board the Goeben during the last three years. He told me that the ship had not suffered any serious damage; something went wrong with the helm, but it would be all right in the evening.

My new friend seemed most proud of the exploits of his ship during the last month, and when I flattered his vanity by telling him that the Goeben and Breslau had been the talk of all Europe for many weeks, he was so pleased that he willingly told me all that had happened on board since the outbreak of war.

"It is a wonderful story," he began. "Two days before the outbreak of hostilities the Goeben was at Fiume loading coal, while the Breslau was in the southern part of the Adriatic Sea.

"We got orders to meet her at a certain spot in the open Mediterranean, and we sailed, leaving ashore a few of our men who had obtained short leave. Even our wireless operator was ill, and had to be left in the hospital at Fiume, but luckily enough we had somebody else on board who understood wireless as well as he did. If not, I don't know how we could have managed it, as when we were in the Ionian Sea the meeting-place with the Breslau was suddenly changed on account of some English ships which were reported leaving Malta that day, and likely to discover our route.

"As the declaration of war was expected at any moment, we were trying to go as far westward as possible in order to be able to do some damage either on the Algerian or Tunisian coast. We got another wireless message, and the order to show ourselves on the African coast, and to retreat as soon as possible to the Dardanelles. If necessary, the Turkish fleet would have protected our retreat into the Straits.

"We went straight to Bona and Philippeville, which were the only places of importance not too far from our position at that moment. You know what a lot of damage we managed to do in a few hours. Of course, the most important thing was not to destroy the towns, but to call the attention of the British and French fleets to that spot so that they would rush down there and leave us free the route to the Dardanelles.

"We left the African coast in the afternoon and made our way eastward as fast as our engines would allow us to go. Twice we saw British ships scouting, but we managed to avoid being seen and coming to an engagement which would have brought all the united fleet against us in a few hours' time. Later on we met two more British ships, which started to chase us.

"We were far superior in speed, and would have left them behind us but for a third ship which appeared on the horizon down south. The only thing for us to do was to rush forward. We had to seek an asylum in the bay of Messina.

"The neutrality of Italy at that moment was not a certainty. Our move would really have helped her to take a decision, and to keep faithful to her allies as well as protect her own real interests. Our Government thought so too, but Italy did not move, so we found ourselves under the necessity of leaving Messina in daytime.

"The British fleet, sure of our capture, was waiting outside the Italian territorial waters. We really did not hope to get out of the Bay without engaging in a battle under very unequal conditions.

"The weather, which had been wonderfully fine for over a month, came to our help. In the afternoon it began to get cloudy, and at ten o'clock it was pitch dark. This was quite an exception in the Straits of Messina at that time of year.

"We can thank that darkness for our escape. With no light on board, we went right across the bay; on both sides we could see the lights of the British warships, and the searchlight often explored the sea at a few metres' distance from us. We were all on deck waiting to be discovered, and to engage in a fight which could not possibly result in our favour.

"At a certain moment a light, probably belonging to a fishing boat, attracted the attention of the British ships, and all the searchlights were concentrated on that spot. This almost certainly saved us. Slowly and silently we passed at a few hundred metres' distance from an Italian warship on sentinel near the Calabrese coast. If she had seen us we should have answered the signals, and that would have attracted the attention of the whole British squadron.

"We thought we were quite out of danger, but when the morning broke we discovered a British ship following us. We increased our speed, but the other ship seemed to be as fast as we were. Then we decided to get rid of her, and while we went on by the side of the Greek coast the Breslau got farther down in the open sea. The British ship stopped undecided; we opened fire on her, and she answered with a lot of shells, none of which reached either of our ships. Always fighting, we made our way forward.

"Near the Greek Island of Cerigo we must have hit the boat with one of our torpedoes, as she seemed to lose speed and then suddenly stop. We lost sight of her, but after a few hours we came in sight of a ship hoisting a French flag. Before she saw us we changed our route and hid ourselves behind one of the Cyclades Islands, in a sort of triangle of sea from which we could see, unseen, in every direction.

"We were very short of ammunition, coal, and everything else owing to the hurried departure from our base, and also to the long ride across the Mediterranean. There were also some urgent repairs to be done on board of our ship. The Breslau was untouched.

"We stayed in our refuge two days, and in the evening of the second day, hearing from some officers who had been sent out scouting with motor-boats that the route was free, we made our way to the Dardanelles. You know the rest of our story."

"And what about the sale of the two ships to Turkey?" I asked candidly.

"The sale was a very simple operation. We got our carpenters on board to paint the new names over the old ones. That was all. The job was not neatly done, that's true, as the old names were in embossed letters, and they always showed through, although they were painted grey!" he said laughingly. "We didn't even trouble to change the name on the lifeboats, etc., as we knew that in a few weeks' time that would not be of any more importance."

"I suppose you have had rather a busy time in Constantinople during the last two months?"

"Terribly busy. We had to train quite a number of Turkish sailors, who were quite all right for an old-fashioned fleet, but did not know what to do on a modern warship. The artillery men were only used to very old materials, and had no idea of our modern guns; anyhow, we have done it, and done it very quickly too. Now they are as good as any sailor in any other navy. The five principal units of our navy in the Bosphorus are now commanded by German officers, and have a mixed crew which is likely to prove very efficient."

"And what about the fight in the Black Sea?"

"About that, dear sir, I cannot say a word. The news for the public was given by the Orient Bureau to the Press and the rest has to be kept secret, at least for the present."

"So you are converted, more or less, into a Turkish officer?"

"Into a Turkish officer? No fear. We have converted the Turkish ships into German ships; that is what we have done. In a few days the world will see that the Turkish fleet would never have been able to perform what we are going to do."

And with a vague gesture full of obscure menace and foretelling wonderful deeds, the hero of the Goeben left me to go back on board.

* * *

I devoted my afternoon to a visit to Aya Sophia, the wonderful church which is still gorgeous and majestic, in spite of the Turkish attempts to disfigure it.

There was a special war-time service going on. One of the large old carpets, which are supposed to have belonged to Mahomet, had been taken down from the wall, on which they generally hang, for display on the floor under the centre of the big dome. At the carpet's corners four imans were praying with fervour, and at their side four censers filled the air with clouds of smoke and strong perfume. On the carpet lay the sword of Mahomet the Conqueror, the Sultan who has dedicated St. Sophia to the Mahomedan cult. He constructed the higher of the temple's minarets.

A thick crowd of kneeling figures covered the whole floor of the large cathedral. The sacred sword is only exhibited on very important occasions. Since the Tripoli war it has never been taken from its jewelled case. The news that this time the famous arm has been exposed will spread all round the Islamic world, and the Germans seem to hope that this sign that the religion of Allah is in danger will wake up all the followers of Mohammed. But the high priests themselves do not seem too sure of the fact. During the last few years the prestige of the Sultan as supreme religious head has been greatly shaken; it is feared that the present attitude of Turkey may lead to a new and stronger schismatic movement. It is almost certain that the day Turkey loses Constantinople, the Mahomedans will cease to consider the Sultan as chief of their religion.

While I was admiring the really imposing scene, made even more fantastic by the flashing lights of hundreds of lamps, which emulated the light of the sun coming in copiously through the windows, wide open, four new imans took charge from the old ones. The sword will be exposed a whole week, and during this time four of the highest cheiks of the temple will be in continuous prayers around it.

While leaving the Temple I crossed the side passage of the Gyneceus. Here is the old door through which the priest who was celebrating the mass when, according to Greek tradition, Mahomet the Conqueror rode on horseback right in the middle of the church in 1454, disappeared with the altar cup and his sacerdotal ornaments. The Turks ran after him to kill him as they had done with thousands of people who had sought asylum in the temple, but the door was immediately closed by a stone wall.

When St. Sophia is given back to the Christian cult, continues the Greek tradition, the priest will reappear and continue the service at the very point at which he was interrupted.

It is one of the finest of popular beliefs, quite worth keeping alive for its own sake.

I wonder if the moment when the Greeks will have to admit that their beautiful tradition is only a legend is not coming sooner than they thought.

* * *

November 3rd.

I have now been two days in Constantinople; I have compared the present condition of the Army, of the Navy, and of the different Services with their condition four years ago, when I came first to the Turkish capital. I have recalled to my mind what I saw at Tripoli, three years ago, when the Turks demonstrated their worth from a military point of view; and, finally, I have taken into consideration the lessons to be learned from their conduct in the Balkan War.

There is only one possible conclusion: there is a big change in everything; there is the evident mark of somebody who pulls the strings, and pulls them with a definite object, and with strong and delicate hands.

That somebody is Enver Pasha.

Till a few weeks ago the question: "Is Enver Pasha really a clever politician and a first-rate military man?" would have had one answer only—"Of course he is; he is the only great man of Turkey; as long as he lives Turkey will have some hope of resurrection."

This man, who has the celebrity and the ambition of a little Napoleon, is, at the bottom, nothing more than a child with a large dose of vanity. He worships publicity, he loves to see his photographs in the big foreign papers, to read the gossip about his private life, in which he used to pose as a blasÉ man of the world, surrounded by a full score of wonderful princesses wanting only to marry him. His vanity went as far as to make him proceed legally against a photographer who dared to publish a picture postcard showing Enver as he really is, short and stoutish.

As for his character, he is neither capable nor determined. He takes up everything with great enthusiasm, but never accomplishes his work. The only deed of his mighty career was the ruin of Abdul Hamid; Europe looked at him as at a novel Brutus, and Enver made at once a world-wide fame and a fairly large fortune.

From his gilded cage, the beautiful Villa Allatini, on the Bosphorus, in which he is kept prisoner, the former Sultan has written repeatedly to the man who has dethroned him and led his country to take the most foolish of steps, asking that neutrality should be observed as long as possible, and saying that only by keeping friends with the great Mediterranean Powers and Russia could the Sick Man of Europe obtain another lease of life.

Enver took no notice of the advice of the old Sovereign, who is certainly one of the most Machiavellian and tactful politicians of modern times. If anything, Enver tried to rush by personal action the Turkish intervention.

Here, in Constantinople, one imagines that he must have the gift of ubiquity. He is everywhere. He traced personally the route of a new railway line, which will connect directly the Arsenal with the main line; he fixed the place where the platforms for the new large guns from Germany were to be erected; he selected the houses which were to serve as temporary barracks, hospitals, and depÔts; he was seen on one day at the two extreme points of the Dardanelles (a record considering the leisurely Turkish communication), arranging for special protective trenches to be constructed in defence of roads and railway lines exposed to the fire of the naval artilleries. And while doing all this material work he had all the diplomatic arrangements completely on his shoulders, and had to carry out, as though not pretending to do so, the orders from Berlin.

A Diplomat who had many years of Turkish experience, having been connected with one of the Embassies in Constantinople for over ten years, tells me that, during the last month, and especially after his marriage with the Sultan's niece, Enver Pasha has affected a sort of private Court, and surrounded himself with truly Imperial luxuries. Audience with him was more difficult than with the Sultan.

"Enver flatters himself to act independently," said my diplomatic friend. "He tries to play the great diplomat and the great captain, but really he is only a toy in the hands of Germany. He has reorganised the army and the navy with German officers, German arms, German money, and he seems to believe that he has been very clever and got very much for nothing. He does not realise that acting as he did has completely ruined his country, whatever the result of the war.

"I believe that Germany's plan is this: She hopes that Turkey, with her fleet reinforced by the two German warships, will obtain an initial success in the Black Sea. In this case she reckons on the Pan-Islamic feelings waking up all over the Mussulman world, which will mean serious trouble for England and France in North Africa, necessitating the withdrawal of a part of their troops from the principal theatre of operations.

"If Turkey does not succeed in her action against Russia, the latter will see her way open to Constantinople, and will probably not be able to resist the temptation of sending down a large part of her troops, and so press with less force on the Austro-German frontier.

"Moreover, Germany hopes that this will break the perfect accord which, up to the present, has lasted between the nations of the Entente. As you see, Turkey in the German plan is reduced to the modest proportion of the victim which will serve her in the matter of settling accounts at the end of the war."

To-day the general service decree issued three days ago takes effect, and the newspapers say that Turkey will be able to raise an army of over two and a half millions. The uniforms of the soldiers are extraordinarily like those of the Germans, the only difference being the substitution of the fez for the cap.

The troops look fit, and have brand-new uniforms and boots; the cavalry, which has been taken over from the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus, possesses exceptionally fine horses.

But the weak spot of such troops lies in the officers; some of them, belonging to Asiatic families, are ignorant and hardly understand the use of modern arms or the systems of modern warfare; others, German-trained, have absorbed a large amount of the grimness of their instructors, and the soldiers have neither sympathy with nor confidence in them. The Turkish soldiers are said to be good fighters, but in all probability their fame still rests on the Crimean campaign. During the Tripoli and Balkan wars they proved to be less than mediocre soldiers.

These soldiers, who are going to fight an unknown enemy for a reason of which they are ignorant, are in Constantinople in great numbers, and every day new contingents arrive from the other side of the Bosphorus. They walk about Stamboul with a sort of surprised look in their black eyes. The officers prefer Pera and Galata, the European parts of Constantinople, and are mostly seen accompanied by Germans.

Pera offers really very little in the way of attractions just now.

All the theatres have been closed by order, probably for the reason that the third-class Italian opera company and the still worse French vaudeville company, have refused to risk the lives of their actors. The only thing to do at night is to go to one of the interminable cafÉ chantant shows. Galata has over fifty such establishments, and often the programme lasts till daybreak.

I entered one of them and for a moment I seemed to have gone suddenly back to Berlin. German officers in uniform, other German people talking loudly in front of huge glasses of beer, and a little orchestra of Tsiganes playing Viennese tunes made my illusion almost complete. The waiters were, of course, German, and the so-called artists, of uncertain nationality, sang only German and Turkish songs.

A gommeuse risked a little Parisian refrain, but her voice was drowned by the public hissing and shouting. The public began to sing patriotic songs, and the girl only won her way back to public grace by dancing a sort of furious cake-walk which seemed to please her audience immensely.

This number was followed by the great attraction of the programme—a "revue," as it was pompously announced on the posters.

The story of the play was highly symbolic; a young lady in feathers and a three-coloured scarf (France) and her protector (Russia) tried to rob a respectable gentleman and his wife (Germany and Austria).

A struggle began, accompanied by lyric, which must have been highly amusing and patriotic, as everybody clapped and laughed, while in the background a Scotsman made a terrible noise, but kept away from the fight.

An Alma, with a fez on her black wig, rose at this moment from a pile of cushions among which she had been lying while indulging in a quiet smoke. At the sight of her Russia dropped to the floor, France did the same, England flew away into the wings, and the three victorious nations danced a sort of jig on a special pot-pourri arranged from the music of the three national anthems.

This most idiotic pantomime was so highly appreciated that it was completely repeated. At the conclusion the girl who played France achieved a great personal success by coming out draped in the German flag—to show that she was only impersonating France for stage necessities, and that she was actually of true German feelings.

The few Turks amongst the audience clapped enthusiastically, and, in contravention of the Koran's laws, drank large glasses of beer, probably in honour of their masters and protectors.

Outside the night was full of stars, and at the eastern side of the quiet Bosphorus a group of luminous spots showed the position of the fleet going back into the Black Sea. One by one the lights disappeared, hidden from sight by the thick woods of Therapia.

* * *

November 5th.

The news that the Sultan is to review a large detachment of troops leaving for the front, on the enormous drilling ground on the hill of Pancaldi, fetches me out of bed very early this morning.

When I reach the grounds a large convoy of troops tells me that the Sultan must be coming. Numerous Zapties (Turkish gendarmes) are pushing the crowd aside on the pavement. Now the Sultan arrives in a closed coach preceded and followed by a number of other Zapties on horseback.

Everybody bows deeply, but the Sultan does not show himself. His carriage drives between the double ranks of troops once only, and then disappears under the large arch of the Artillery Barracks.

The new Sultan is said to detest appearing in public. He has abolished, for this reason, all the traditional ceremonies, all the luxurious habits of the old Court, and lives quietly like a private citizen in the Dolma-Bagtche-Serai. The wonderful palace of Abdul Hamid on the Asiatic side of the Bosphorus is much too imposing for his simple taste. Mohamed the Fifth is neither loved nor hated; the Turkish population simply ignores his existence.

After the departure of the Sultan the troops get on with their drills. There are about 10,000 infantrymen, fifty field guns, and not more than a dozen pieces of Horse Artillery of a fairly old model. The field guns are the famous ones bought from Krupp at the time of the Balkan War, which arrived at Constantinople after the peace was concluded.

At the back of the Artillery Barracks is a large Turkish cemetery in which numerous tents have been erected to shelter the Asiatic troops coming through Constantinople. A large and curious crowd watches the dark-skinned, oily-haired soldiers cooking their own food or making, with a sort of religious concentration, a drop of coffee in a copper saucepan not larger than a small egg.

Here is the German Embassy, where there is a great movement of Turkish and German officers, and where a long line of motor-cars waits outside the door. From the balcony over the main entrance hangs a picture of the Kaiser and a large German flag. To the left side of the Embassy is a powerful wireless station.

This may be considered as the real War Office in Constantinople at the present moment. Near the door, on a large blackboard, is exposed the latest news from the theatres of war.

Stringent police regulations allow nobody to pass near the wireless station.

I am just passing on, when a coach, similar to that one in which the Sultan reviewed his troops, stops in front of the Embassy. A little man in fez and morning coat alights. At the first glance I recognise him as Enver Pasha. This was the only glance of Turkey's great man that I could get during my stay in Constantinople.

I walked down the great road of Pera, generally full of tourists, motor-cars, and carriages, where smart European society in Constantinople meets.

Since last Sunday half of the few shops and hotels which were still open have closed. The war has completely spoiled the most flourishing of Pera's industries.

A large building on the left-hand side, over which the Red Cross flag waves, attracts my attention. It is the German school turned into a hospital, and placed under the direction of Princess Najieh, Enver Pasha's wife. Only a few years ago it would have been impossible to imagine a Turkish woman doing useful work, still less nursing soldiers; but now old Turkey is dying.

The German ladies in Constantinople have organised another large emergency hospital in the Skating Rink a few hundred yards lower down the same street. Over a hundred wounded have already arrived from the Russian frontier, I am told. All the Red Cross materials have been ready here for a long time, and doctors and nurses came from Berlin three or four days before the declaration of war. A curious coincidence that they should know exactly when their services would be required!

Down the great route of Pera, near the Tunnel, the crowd is getting thicker, a crowd, as usual, composed almost exclusively of German or Germanophile elements. Here is the German Club, the famous centre of the Pan-German movement in Constantinople.

I easily mix with some of the impromptu politicians; all the Germans in Constantinople who are too old to bear arms try to do what they can for the Fatherland by carrying out a sort of advertising campaign. They can fight no more, but they can talk.

In a few minutes I learn that the Russians are "no good"; that the British Fleet was "all bluff"; that the French soldiers are "running away like rabbits," and other interesting revelations. But my fat little man, who is, I learn, the manager of the German Bazaar near Andria's Passage, begins really to attract my attention when he describes what will happen on the day of final German victory.

"Austria will probably be added to the German Empire, together with Hungary, Russian Poland, Bosnia and Herzegovina. Each would have the present system of the German confederation, by which every State has a certain autonomy but only one Emperor, one administration, and one army. It will be the largest Empire ever seen since Napoleon, but we are certain, with our organising capabilities, to be able to make it last a long time.

"Take Turkey! She is certainly the most practical nation in Europe; she has seen that it was no use trying to resist us, and she has accepted our quiet superiority. We are the brains, and she is the hands, and you can be certain that it will be all the better for her to have taken this step in time."

"And what will happen afterwards to Constantinople?"

"Oh! we shall always be friends with the Turks. They know our superiority, and they respect us. It is really of no importance for us to have Constantinople as long as we know that Russia will never be able to have it."

While my companion is telling me the modest German aspirations and the future plans for the wholesale Germanisation of the world, we have walked slowly across the Perchembe-Bazaar (Thursday's market). It is market day, but the business is next to nothing. Most of the merchants have not come at all, others are sitting philosophically amongst mountains of carpets, embroideries, and potteries, waiting for the customer who does not come.

The Turkish commerce has such deep roots that it did not stop even three years ago, when the Allied troops were a few miles from the town. Now it is completely paralysed.

Perhaps even the Turks begin to feel that the crisis is, this time, bigger than ever before.

Always chatting, we reach St. Peter's Church, and my attention is attracted by a white marble tablet, on which I read: "AndrÉ ChÉnier naquit dans cette maison le 30 Octobre, 1762." Under it, on the brown painted wall, one of his verses is written with chalk by a hand evidently used to German characters:—

(England, the nation that always sells herself to the best bidder.)

I wonder who is the learned German who knows ChÉnier's work well enough to get out of it just the line which, in his opinion, suits the present situation?

I show the stone tablet to my companion, and he explains, very proud to show me that he knows all about the poet of Charlotte. "Oh, yes, he was a great Frenchman, and, of course, they have had him hanged."

I don't insist on the fact that the poet-encyclopÆdist was not hanged, but beheaded, and he goes on, "France could be really a great nation. She has genius, she has initiative, but she does not know how to organise her moral and material means, so as to get the maximum effort out of them."

I feel that he is going to describe to me what a wonderful nation France would be under a German Government, so I leave him to his dreams of megalomania. Let us hope he will wake up soon!