The Cross above the Crescent. A romance of Constantinople

Front matter

■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ I ■ I ■ ■ ■ I ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■ I ■ ■ THE Cross Above the Crescent. A ROMANCE OF CONSTANTINOPLE. While the great generations depart, And full ages and firmaments roll, Mighty Love is the Lord of the heart, And pure Truth the bright King of the soul. Alger's Poetry of the Orient, BY The Rt. Rev. HORATIO SOUTHGATE, D.D. FORMERLY BISHOP AT CONSTANTINOPLE. PHILADELPHIA J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. LONDON: 16 SOUTHAMPTON STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1878. Copyright, 1877, by J. B. Lippincott & Co. I call this book a Romance. It might, with equal truth, be called a Reality. For, many of its characters are real persons ; the greater part of its events really occurred; the scenes are descriptive of real places; and the whole, so far as it goes, is an accurate and impartial picture of real life in the "New Rome" of the old Emperors. H. S.

Chapter I

Opposite Stamboul, just where the Euxine disgorges itself, by the mouth of the Bosphorus, into the Sea of Marmora, lies the little village of Kadi Keui'.* The site of the ancient Chalcedon, where assembled the Fourth Œcumenic Council of the Church, and where the armies of the First Crusade gathered their forces ere they entered upon their disastrous march through Asia Minor, it had become, at the date of our story, and, as that is not far distant, still is, a degenerate Turkish town, bearing the usual features of silent, lonely streets, of jealous latticed windows, and of brown, wolfish dogs. It had, however, a mixture of the Christian with the Moham medan, as is not unusual in Eastern populations; and to this fact it was indebted for the two invariable signs of Oriental Christianity, a church and a wine-shop; or, rather, to speak by the square, it had two churches, a Greek and an Armenian, and more than two wine-shops ; the drinking of wine being a Christian privilege, which Mohammed denied to his followers.

There might have been but one church, so far as the need of the population required, had not the fathers of the Armenians, fourteen * The vowels and diphthongs in Oriental words as written in this vol ume, are to have the French pronunciation. i* s hundred years ago, seen fit, in the exercise of that wis dom, peculiar to religion, which makes the wit of the individual superior to the utterance of the universal brother hood, to reject the decisions of the great Council convened on the very spot where their descendants now live in schism. The Greek priest who tended his " Orthodox" sheep in this unpropitious atmosphere, was wont to con duct the Western traveller, (who here first touched the soil of Asia, and with the simplicity of the crude notions which reduce the full-grown foreigner, amidst new scenes, to the condition of curious and undistinguishing child hood, eagerly sought, first of all, to view the sacred place where the great Synod had assembled,) to his humble church, a venerable edifice, which had, doubtless, with stood the ravages of centuries, but which one could hardly look upon as the session-room of the Fourth General Council, without a feeling of intense sympathy for the unfortunate Fathers who were condemned to deliberate upon the grand religious issue of the time, within such straitened limits, and in such palpable darkness.

The huge masses of low columns seemed to fill half the little space, and ineffectual day struggled in vain to shed more than a faint glimmer upon its obscurity. But, whatever the modern Chalcedon had lost in internal interest, by the passage of time and the change of masters, the beauty of its situation remained undimmed. It lay on the shore, in a bend, just where the Bosphorus widens into the Propontis. Opposite Constantinople, in full view of its waters, its minarets, the seraglio, which crowns the point of Byzantium, and the Golden Horn, the treasure-house of merchants; protected from the cold winds of the Euxine by the high lands of Scutari on the north ; with the ever placid stream before it, stretching away, as it widens, into a sea interminable to the eye, — Kadi Keui' was, in the stillness of its repose, the very symbol of life in quietness.

Below it, enters the Gulf of Nicomedia, extending some sixty miles eastward, to the city which gave its name, and dotted, at its mouth, with a group of islands, styled the Isles of the Prince. An inlet from the gulf, back of Chalcedon, gives to the land some thing of the character of a promontory; at the point of which, where the gulf enters from the Sea of Marmora, once stood a light-house, for the guidance of the Genoese traders, whose commerce was, at one period, the chief connecting-link between east and west. It had now, in true illustration of Turkish progress, become little better than a hollow heap of stones. The promontory on which Chalcedon lay, was covered with the richest vine yards ; spreading from the village back to the inlet that we have mentioned. Here was a most luxurious scene.

The vineyards, full of the vine of the Tchaoush, the most luscious grape in the world, peculiar to this region, were parted by narrow pathways, bordered by hedges, which concealed the walker from every eye ; and, among them, at intervals, stood the houses of wealthy citizens, who found here their summer retreat. On the quiet little inlet behind, were one or two cafes, overlooking the water, which lay in a repose like that of a lake among hills ; and here might be seen, in the season, the caiques of Turks from the city, drawn up on the sand ; the rowers stretched around under the trees, or amidst the shrubbery, and the masters sitting listlessly in the cafes, looking out upon the waters, and enjoying, to the full, that summum bonum of Turkish happiness, perfect tranquillity. There let us leave them, while we enter the village on the other side of the promontory.

" What is the news from Stamboul?" said Dimitri, our host of the wine-shop where the Greeks most did congregate, to a plain, honest, laboring man, who had done his day's work in the city, and now came to the general resort to hobnob with his co-religionists of the village. The hour was evening ; that sacred hour when the sun has set, and nature seems, like weary man, to rest from the labors of the day. How tranquilly, at that hour, did Kadi Keui lie in the bend of its little bay ; the smooth water before it ; Stamboul, across the stream, sleeping in beautiful repose ; the air unstirred by a single sound more vigorous than the plash of oars from a village boat approaching the long wooden slip which Kadi Keu'i had hospitably sent out, some one hundred feet, to meet and receive all travellers from town.

"There is nothing," said Spiro, in reply to our host. "Our new Padishah* has visited the Arsenal to-day; and there is some talk of a fleet for Egypt ; but nothing certain." "Are the Rayahs\ to be brought into the service?" asked Dimitri. "They say, not," replied Spiro. "The Sultan wishes only sor Greeks, as the Armenians and Jews are no sailors ; and the Greeks (here his voice fell to a low, significant tone) cannot be trusted to fight for Islam." "They are a troublesome set," said Dimitri, whose full, round, rosy face had too much of the jolly influences of the vine in it to make him a good conspirator. " These fellows of ours are always stirring up trouble. Better live in peace under the sway of the Padishah, and make the best of it. They will see evil some day." Spiro made no reply, but turned his face towards the * A title of the Sultan, from the Persian, denoting absolute authority. ■f Subjects of the Sultan, not Mussulmans.

The same word (Rajah) is applied to the non-Mohammedan kings of India. city, which lay in full view before them ; and his eye seemed to rest on a cluster of sour massive and not very graceful minarets, which rose just outside the seraglio wall, and apparently within a stone's throw of the oppo site shore. "You are looking at Santa Sophia," said Dimitri. " I suppose, you would like to say your prayers there again." "A Greek entered it yesterday," returned Spiro, "in the train of the French ambassador, who was conducting some great general through it ; and the Turks beat him out with their slippers. He came nigh being murdered on the spot." "Well, well," said Dimitri, "he ought to have had more sense than to have gone there. There is no use running one's head into danger." There was, certainly, little use in any talk between Spiro and Dimitri on such a subject as this.

Dimitri loved his Church, and was proud of his nationality. What Greek is not ? No one would have bowed more profoundly, or crossed himself more vigorously, before the new pictures in the restored Cathedral of St. Sophia, on the high-day of its revived nuptials with Christianity ; no face would have gleamed with a more radiant joy than his own rubicund visage. But he had no ambition to be a martyr; nor did he like the smell of blood which lurked in the fond dreams of his nation. The Turkish power fall ing ; the Greek Empire rising ; the Cross soaring once more above the Crescent ! he would like to see it, but he would not like to do it. There was too much, in the prospect, of the clash of arms, and deadly strife, and rivers of blood, to suit a nature which was by no means a cowardly one, but which took life as something to be enjoyed, not to be sacrificed. He had no idea of saving A* life by losing it. There was to him no deeper mystery in the Gospel. It was of little use for him to talk with Spiro.

Chapter II

"Have you seen anything of my boy Athanasius?" said a tall man, who, at that moment, entered the cafe. He appeared agitated, yet as one who had his feelings under strong control. " No," replied Dimitri. " I do not reckon Athanasius yet among my customers ; but I shall expect the paras* from him, one of these days. What of Athanasius, Yani?" Yani did not answer for a moment. He seemed lost in thought ; and as his figure stood in the light of the door way, with the background of water and city behind it, the strong relief brought it out so boldly that it is easy to sketch it. He stood erect, his shoulder slightly touching the door-post, and, as he stood, his height could not be less than six feet. His face was thoughtful, almost to sternness; and there was a quick flash about his dark eye which looked like the glimmer of powerful passions pent up within.

He was thin to spareness; straight as an arrow, yet with the least possible tendency to a stoop at the shoulders, which told that he had been accustomed to bear the burdens of life, — as, indeed, he had. There was, in his whole mien, that air of quiet, determined firmness, which bespoke the strong character of a man who had a will of his own. * The smallest denomination of Turkish coin ; value, about a mill. Also, a general name for money. " It is now past sunset," at length he said, in a grave, measured tone. " My boy went out at nine o'clock,* to play in the garden. For some reason he ventured into the street, and has not yet returned." " Is that all?" said Dimitri. "Trust me, he is safe enough, somewhere. He could not wander far in this famous city of ours. But, perhaps, he has gone to the vineyards.

I dare say, he is munching grapes to his heart's content, while his anxious father is looking for him in the last place in the world to find him. Believe me, Yani, he will turn up safe and sound before you go to bed. He is a bright youth, and will not get lost easily." The last words were said in a tone of cordial good nature, which was, really, the basis of the seemingly in souciant character of mine host of the cabaret. He was a careless man ; but he meant nobody harm, and was everybody's friend, as everybody was his. " He was last seen," continued Yani, "in the Turkish quarter, in company with a Turkish woman, but he is not now to be found in any of the streets of the village." "What woman was it?" asked Spiro, who had hitherto listened, in silence, but with marked attention, to the dialogue.

"I don't know," replied Yani. "A neighbor, who knows him well, told me he saw him with her, and she had him by the hand." "I don't like the looks of that," said Spiro. "Athana sius is a fair boy." "And a good one," replied his father. "He is not out at this hour of his own will ; and if he had gone to the vineyards, he knows his way home as well as any of i * us. * Three p.m., Western time. "But the best slip sometimes," said Dimitri; "and boys are boys. I dare say he will turn up safely yet." The speech was made for consolation; but it was uttered in a hesitating, limping manner, as if the speaker was trying to keep up a confidence which was deserting him. Yani heeded it not. " We must find some other person who has seen him," said Spiro. " We must learn who that woman was." At this moment the group from the last boat from town entered the place, and Yani, who felt little disposition to join in the free frolicsomeness of some of the younger members of the party, retired.

He was followed by Spiro, who presently stood at his side, and said, "My friend, do you go home. Your wife and children await you. It is the hour of dinner. Leave this affair to me. You had better not be seen making inquiries. I will con tinue the search, and bring you word an hour or two hence." "Very well," said Yani. "Spiro, you do not know what it is to have a son ; but you know how to be a very good friend." Spiro was a lonely man. His home (if he could be said to have one) was in a distant province ; and he had come to the capital to earn a scanty living by his daily labor. He had no learning. He could not read nor write. But he had a true, honest heart, which would lead him to do his friend a service, without much show, but with great sincerity. His fears were excited for the boy; and his religious feelings were moved to their depths by the thought which had entered his mind.

He strode away at once from Yani's side, and entered the Turkish quarter of the village. Yani pursued his way home. He seemed, as he walked, to stoop more than usual. A new burden had been added to the accumulated cares of his life. He was not the man that he had been an hour ago. Will he ever be the same man again ? The sorrows of time march along the same pathway with ourselves ; but in the reverse direction. They meet us. As soon as they have gone by, they vanish into empty air ; but each, as it passes, lays its load upon us ; then it disappears — its mission and its life ended forever. But the load which it carried has been laid upon our shoulders ; and the life which it bore has entered into our spirit. From a sorrow without, an isolated event moving towards us, it has become, when it touches us, a part of ourselves, transfused into the springs of our being; and we travel on, on, on, toward eternity; and, through eternity, we shall carry a soul which has received a new influence into its nature.

It is not the same soul that it was before the sorrow met it. Yani could not indulge in such reasonings as these. He was not a scholar — he was a plain gardener ; but he had the finest touch of manhood : the dark eye, the jet black hair, the marked, decisive features, the free, firm mien, which told of a mind at rest upon itself, self poised ; and the lustre of his eye, bright, at times almost fierce, yet unflickering and steady, seemed to shoot out from a well of deep, strong passions, held in check by the omnipotent sway of a stern, relentless will. He moved along slowly, thoughtfully. He did not even notice the salutation of a passing friend. His dark face lowered with gloomy, passionate thought. His close pressed lips were the outward symbol of the firm grasp of the master within; and yet, if one had seen him, an hour later, among his children, that flashing eye would have seemed the very soul of tenderness, and gentle, protect ing love.

The house, though full of little people, was that night desolate. Spiro returned, as he promised, but he brought no good news. Indeed, it was too late to gather news in an Oriental village, whose population is generally wrapped in slumber within two hours after sunset. Yani went to his bed with a heavy heart, weighed down by a gloomy anticipation. He knew what to expect; and the fearful presage oppressed his spirit more than if he had heard of the death of his son. Athanasius was the oldest of eight children, and yet his age was only ten. Yani lived in a little cottage, overgrown with vine, close to the border of the sea. His occupation, as we have said, was that of a gardener. He raised vegetables for the city market. The garden, covering something less than an acre, was open to the sea ; but, on the side of the village, was enclosed by a high wall, which ran along the principal street of the Turkish quarter.

The houses on this street, over looking the garden, were the largest in the village, and were occupied chiefly by Turkish effendis from the city, who made their summer residence there. The garden was a picturesque and lovely spot. Secluded by its high wall on one side, and looking freely out on the sea on the other, it had an air of perfect retirement. Here Yani had lived many years. Hither he had brought his wife, who was a Greek girl of Scio, soon after their marriage ; and here all his children, three boys and five girls, had been born. His life had been spent in his humble, useful occupation, and the fruits of his industry had saved him from want, if they had not raised him to affluence. He had little to do with the outside world ; seldom crossed to the city, on which he looked every day; and none of his children had ever, seen Stamboul, except in the distance, across the water.

Their young imaginations had often been excited by the sight of those lofty minarets, those magnificent domes, and those grand houses, rising, as on terraces, above the sea ; and it was among the felicities of the dim and shadowy future that they would one day see the wonders of the great city for themselves. Athanasius, the oldest, was particularly full of this boyish enthusiasm, and he promised himself not only a sight, but a life, in Stamboul. He would be a merchant, and sell goods in its rich bazars, and his brothers and sisters should come to see him. These day dreams were, in part, soon to be realized, but in a manner which he little wot of. In the mean time days, and weeks, and months rolled on, passing peacefully over this happy family, in the garden by the sea-side.

Chapter III

When the morning dawned the search was recom menced. The Greek population of the village was now thoroughly roused. The Turkish quarter lay as in the slumber of death; but every house among the Greeks had heard the story of the disappearance of the child, and every heart was sympathizing in the loss. Yani, who had passed a sleepless night, amidst weeping children, sob bing in their troubled dreams, was early abroad. But no tidings came, and it was evident that the child was no where out of doors. No one doubted that he was in a Turkish house ; but how to find him was a question not so easily solved. Inquiries at doors would gain no in formation, for the child was stolen and secreted ; and search-warrants are unknown where a poor Rayah seeks justice against a Turk. The attempt would bring only abuse, if not something worse.

Had Yani known in what house his child was hidden, he would not have hesitated to demand him at the door, for parental love had banished all fear from his heart. But this was a mystery which he could not unravel. Only one person had seen the boy and woman together, and he knew not who she was. The close veil and the feres ee* hid her from ob servation. Yani did no work that day. His wife toiled on, sadly, amidst her domestic cares, and the children wept and talked, by turns, affrighted and grieved at the loss of their brother, who was the leader in all their sports. Nothing was heard of the boy till about four o'clockf in the morning, when a messenger from the quay came to say, that Athanasius had just entered a boat, accompanied by a Turkish lady and her maidens ; and that the boat was the caique of Selim Effendi, a rich Turk who was spending the summer in the village.

Yani hurried to the shore, and could see the barge, impelled by four powerful rowers, half-way across the stream, directing its course for the city. Pursuit was hopeless. He went to the house, which was one of those overlooking his own garden, and knocked at the door. It was opened from within by a string attached to the latch, and running back to a little apartment at the rear of the house. The voice of a ser vant, in the distance, apparently of a black woman, de manded who was there ; and Yani inquired whether the Effendi was in. "No," was the reply. "He has gone to Stamboul, and all the family." " When will they come back?" * The loose, ungainly cloak worn by Turkish women out of doors. f Ten A.M. " They will not come back. They have gone home to the house in town. ' ' Here was a new arrow, tipped with steel, and touched with poison.

Yani started, involuntarily, as it entered his heart. His boy in Stamboul ! His boy stolen ! His boy — but his soul recoiled from the picture which his imagination next presented. It was hideous as a vision of hell. Jacob would go down into the grave, unto his son, mourning, because an evil beast had rent him in pieces. Yani would gladly have seen Athanasius torn limb from limb before his eyes, rather than contemplate the fate which now awaited him. But he was not the man to sink into despair before any calamity. For one brief minute he stood in the doorway, still as death, waiting till the wave of sudden anguish had rolled over him. Then he slowly closed the door and turned away. He did not go back to his house, though he passed the gate which opened into his garden. " I will not blight my paradise while I can help it," was the thought that crossed his mind.

He went on to the quay. There he met a friend, by whom he sent a message to his family: "He was going to Stamboul; he hoped to be back at night ; but they must not be alarmed if he did not appear till morning." His neglected garden never entered his thought. He found a caique at the quay, with a single rower, who was waiting there for a chance passen ger. The people had gone to town in the great village boats early in the morning. Yani seated himself in the caique without uttering a word. "Well," said the boatman, as he took his seat and threw out his oars, ready sor a start, " where shall we go, this bright morning, my friend?" for, he knew Yani well. " To Stamboul, Yeni fami," replied Yani, naming a landing on the Golden Horn. 2* The boat put off; ran up along the shore to the Maiden's Tower, and there struck into the rapid current of the Bosphorus, which carried it down, as it crossed, until it approached Seraglio Point, where the stream divides.

Taking the inner branch, it glided gently up the harbor, by kieushk* and mosque, and bazar, until it reached the landing at Yeni Jami. Yani deposited the pay on the bottom of the boat where he sat, and stepped ashore. " Yani is in trouble," said the sympathizing boatman, who was a Greek, and had heard the story which all the village knew. "I will tie up here, and follow him; perhaps I can be of service to him;" and Kiriako removed his boat out of the throng at the landing-place, pushed it up on the shore, and was soon on Yani's track. " Let me go with you," he said, as he overtook his friend. "Maybe I can help you, or you may wish to send a message to your family." "Very well," replied Yani, after a moment's pause; "if you will come, come; but you will lose your day's work." "Never fear," said Kiriako.

"I will get a passenger back at sundown, and that will find me bread and olives for wife and children at dinner." They went together up the hill, which led into the heart of the town, and as they walked, Yani, who felt relieved at the presence of a friend in his distress, disclosed to him his plan. It was a very simple one, but it was the only thing to be done. " I am going to the konakf of Selim Effendi. My boy is in his house. I shall demand him at the door." "* Summer-house, pavil on. f Literally, an inn, or guest-house ; used also, of the ample and hos pitable mansions of wealthy Turks. Kiriako, who had not heard till now what had become of the lad, was confounded by the intelligence. "You will never get him, Yani. Do you not know that they never give up a stolen child?" "I can but try," said Yani; and they moved on in silence.

Yani knew the quarter where the rich Turk lived, al though he did not know the house. But that he could learn from a green-grocer in the neighborhood, one of his own nation, to whom he had sometimes sold his vege tables. They quitted, at length, the bazars, and entered the Turkish quarter, not far from the great mosque of Suliman, which crowns the highest hill in Constantinople. The grocer gave them the necessary direction as they passed, and they soon reached the door of Selim Effendi. This wealthy and powerful Turk was one of that favored class of men who live on their rents. It is a numerous class in Stamboul, and represents, in its habits and prejudices, the old Mussulman of the Imperial City more closely than any other. Time and innovation have wrought few changes in it. It looks with disfavor upon the new-fangled system of the Sultan ; hates Franks ; and calls Christians "dogs."

It has no active energy. It presents the Turk in his listlessness and decrepitude ; clings to ancient customs with dogged obstinacy; and is, really, after its fashion, the most religious class in the community. Selim Effendi had never been in public life. It was too much trouble to bear its annoyances. But he was well known to those in authority ; and his wealth and strictness in religion gave him influence, both at the Porte and among the religious orders. He was, in no sense, a bad man, save that he was a bigoted and narrow minded Mohammedan. He said his prayers, according to rule, five times daily ; kept the Fast Ramazan with devout scrupulosity ; killed his sheep at the great Feast Bairam, and performed all the ceremonial ablutions. His harem was worthy of a religious devotee. He had but one wife, though she was childless ; and the beautiful maidens of the harem were not his concubines.

They were the fair attendants of Pembeh Khaneum, whose duty it was to minister to her comfort and pleasure. They could dance ; they could sing ; they could embroider ; and one or two of them could tell a story. But, as to all useful acquirements, they were as ignorant as children : a playful, harmless set of girls ; full of life, and, strange as it may seem, happy and free from care. The harem resounded with their merry laugh, whenever Pembeh Khaneum, (which means, by the way, the Violet Lady ; a pretty nickname, such as Oriental dames of high degree often affect; her real name being Fatma, which corresponded better, in English, with her physical condition, for her proportions were of rather uncomfortable magnitude, and she waddled as she walked — you could see it even under the disguisement of that uncouth overall, the ferejee,) whenever she gave them license, the harem, I say, rung with their peals of unaffected laughter, and shook with their romps and playful tricks.