CHAPTER XI

GERMANY COMPELS TURKEY TO ENTER THE WAR

At this meeting Talaat frankly told me that Turkey had decided to side with the Germans and to sink or swim with them. He went again over the familiar grounds, and added that if Germany won—and Talaat said that he was convinced that Germany would win—the Kaiser would get his revenge on Turkey if Turkey had not helped him to obtain this victory. Talaat frankly admitted that fear—the motive which, as I have said, is the one that chiefly inspires Turkish acts—was driving Turkey into a German alliance. He analysed the whole situation most dispassionately; he said that nations could not afford such emotions as gratitude, or hate, or affection; the only guide to action should be cold-blooded policy.

“At this moment,” said Talaat, “it is for our interest to side with Germany; if, a month from now, it is our interest to embrace France and England, we shall do that just as readily.”

“Russia is our greatest enemy,” he continued, “and we are afraid of her. If now, while Germany is attacking Russia, we can give her a good strong kick, and so make her powerless to injure us for some time, it is Turkey’s duty to administer that kick”!

And then turning to me with a half-melancholy, half-defiant smile, he summed up the whole situation.

“Ich mit die Deutschen,” he said in his broken German.

Because the Cabinet was so divided, however, the Germans themselves had to push Turkey over the precipice. The evening following my talk with Talaat, most fateful news came from Russia. Three Turkish torpedo boats had entered the harbour of Odessa, had sunk the Russian gunboat Donetz, killing a part of the crew, and had damaged two Russian dreadnoughts. They also sank the French ship Portugal, killing two of the crew and wounding two others. They then turned their shells on the town and destroyed a sugar factory, with some loss of life. German officers commanded these Turkish vessels; there were very few Turks on board, as the Turkish crew had been given a holiday for the Turkish religious festival of Bairam. The act was simply a wanton and unprovoked one; the Germans raided the town deliberately, simply to make war inevitable. The German officers on the General, as my friend had told me, were constantly threatening to commit some such act if Turkey did not do so; well, now they had done it. When this news reached Constantinople, Djemal was playing cards at the Cercle d’Orient. As Djemal was Minister of Marine, this attack, had it been an official act of Turkey, could have been made only on his orders. When someone called him from the card-table to tell him the news Djemal was much excited. “I know nothing about it,” he replied. “It has not been done by my orders.” On the evening of the 29th I had another talk with Talaat. He told me that he had known nothing of this attack beforehand, and that the whole responsibility rested with the German, Admiral Souchon.

Whether Djemal and Talaat were telling the truth in thus pleading ignorance I do not know; my opinion is that they were expecting some such outrage as this. But there is no question that the Grand Vizier, Saïd Halim, was genuinely grieved. When M. Bompard and Sir Louis Mallet called on him and demanded their passports he burst into tears. He begged them to delay; he was sure that the matter could be adjusted. The Grand Vizier was the only member of the Cabinet whom Enver and Talaat particularly wished to placate. As a prince of the royal house of Egypt, and as an extremely rich nobleman, his presence in the Cabinet, as I have already said, gave it a certain standing. This probably explains the message which I now received. Talaat asked me to call upon the Russian Ambassador and ask what amends Turkey could make that would satisfy the Czar. There is little likelihood that Talaat sincerely wished me to patch up the difficulties; his purpose was merely to show the Grand Vizier that he was attempting to meet his wishes and, in this way, to keep him in the Cabinet. I saw M. Giers, but found him in no submissive mood. He said that Turkey could make amends only by dismissing all the German officers in the Turkish Army and Navy; he had his instructions to leave at once and he should do so. However, he would wait long enough in Bulgaria to receive their reply, and, if they accepted his terms, he would come back.

“Russia, herself, will guarantee that the Turkish fleet does not again come into the Black Sea,” said M. Giers grimly. Talaat called on me in the afternoon, saying that he had just had lunch with Wangenheim. The Cabinet had the Russian reply under consideration, he said. The Grand Vizier wished to have M. Giers’s terms put in writing; would I attempt to get it? By this time Garroni, the Italian Ambassador, had taken charge of Russian affairs, and I told Talaat that such negotiations were out of my hands, and that any further negotiations must be conducted through him.

“Why don’t you drop your mask as messenger-boy of the Grand Vizier and talk to me as Talaat?” I asked.

He laughed and said: “Well, Wangenheim, Enver, and I prefer that the war shall come now.”

Bustány, Oskan, Mahmoud, and Djavid at once carried out their threats and resigned from the Cabinet, thus leaving the Government in the hands of Moslem Turks. The Grand Vizier, although he had threatened to resign, did not do so. He was exceedingly pompous and vain, and enjoyed the dignities of his office so much that, when it came to the final decision, he could not surrender them. Thus the net result of Turkey’s entrance into the war, so far as internal politics was concerned, was to put the nation entirely in the hands of the Committee of Union and Progress, which now controlled the Government in practically all its departments. Thus the idealistic organisation which had come into existence to give Turkey the blessings of democracy had ended by becoming a tool of Prussian autocracy.

One final picture I have of these exciting days. On the evening of the 30th I called at the British Embassy. British residents were already streaming in large numbers to my office for protection, and fears of ill-treatment, even the massacre of foreigners, filled everybody’s mind. Amid all this tension I found one imperturbable figure. Sir Louis was sitting in the chancery, before a huge fireplace, with large piles of documents heaped about him in a semi-circle. Secretaries and clerks were constantly entering, their arms full of papers, which they added to the accumulations already surrounding the Ambassador. Sir Louis would take up document after document, glance through it, and almost invariably drop it into the fire. These papers contained the Embassy records for probably a hundred years. In them were written the great achievements of a long line of distinguished Ambassadors. There appeared the story of all the diplomatic triumphs in Turkey of Stratford de Redcliffe, the “Great Elchi,” as the Turks called him, who, for the greater part of almost fifty years, from 1810 to 1858, practically ruled the Turkish Empire in the interest of England. The records of other great British Ambassadors at the Sublime Porte now went, one by one, into Sir Louis Mallet’s fire. The long story of British ascendancy in Turkey had reached its close. The twenty years’ campaign of the Kaiser to destroy England’s influence and to become England’s successor had finally triumphed, and the blaze in Sir Louis’s chancery was really the funeral pyre of England’s vanished power in Turkey. As I looked upon this dignified and yet somewhat pensive diplomat, sitting there amid all the splendours of the British Embassy, I naturally thought of how once the Sultans had bowed with fear and awe before the majesty of England, in the days when Prussia and Germany were little more than names. Yet the British Ambassador, as is usually the case with British diplomatic and military figures, was quiet and self-possessed. We sat there before his fire and discussed the details of his departure. He gave me a list of the English residents who were to leave and those who were to stay, and I made final arrangements with Sir Louis for taking over British interests. Distressing in many ways as was this collapse of British influence in Turkey, the honour of Great Britain and that of her Ambassador was still secure. Sir Louis had not purchased Turkish officials with money, as had Wangenheim; he had not corrupted the Turkish Press, trampled on every remaining vestige of international law, fraternised with a gang of political desperadoes, and conducted a ceaseless campaign of misrepresentations and lies against his enemy. The diplomatic game that had ended in England’s defeat was one which English statesmen were not qualified to play. It called for talents such as only a Wangenheim possessed—it needed that German statecraft which, in accordance with Bismarck’s maxim, was ready to sacrifice for the Fatherland “not only life but honour.”

CHAPTER XII

THE TURKS ATTEMPT TO TREAT ALIEN ENEMIES DECENTLY, BUT THE GERMANS INSIST ON PERSECUTING THEM

“You hope to be reinstated as a world power,” I said. “You must remember that the civilised world will carefully watch you; your future status will depend on how you conduct yourself in war.” The more educated Turks, including Enver, realised that the outside world regarded them as a people who had no respect for the sacredness of human life or the finer emotions, and they keenly resented this attitude. I now reminded Enver that Turkey had a splendid opportunity to disprove all these criticisms. “The world may say you are barbarians,” I argued; “show by the way you treat these alien enemies that you are not. Only in this way can you be freed permanently from the ignominy of the capitulations. Prove that you are worthy of being emancipated from foreign tutelage. Be civilised—be modern!”

In view of what was happening in Belgium and Northern France at that moment, my use of the word “modern” was a little unfortunate. Enver quickly saw the point. Up to this time he had maintained his usual attitude of erect and dignified composure, and his face, as always, had been attentive, imperturbable, almost expressionless. Now in a flash his whole bearing changed. His countenance broke into a cynical smile; he leaned over, brought his fist down on the table, and said:

“Modern! No, however Turkey shall wage war, at least we shall not be ‘modern.’ That is the most barbaric system of all. We shall simply try to be decent!”

Naturally I construed this as a promise. I understood the changeableness of the Turkish character well enough, however, to know that more than a promise was necessary. The Germans were constantly prodding the Turkish officials, persuading them to adopt the favourite plan of operations against enemy aliens. Germany had revived many of the principles of ancient and medieval warfare, one of her most barbaric resurrections from the past being this practice of keeping certain representatives of the population, preferably people of distinction and influence, as hostages for the “good behaviour” of others. At this moment the German military staff was urging the Turks to keep foreign residents for this purpose. Just as the Germans held non-combatants in Belgium as security for the “friendliness” of the Belgians, and placed Belgian women and children at the head of their advancing armies, so the Germans in Turkey were now planning to use French and British residents as part of their protective system against the Allied fleet. That this sinister influence was constantly at work I well knew; it was, therefore, necessary that I should meet it immediately, and, if possible, gain the upper hand at the very start. I decided that the departure of the Entente diplomats and residents from Constantinople would really put to the test my ability to protect the foreign residents. If all the French and English who really wished to leave could safely get out of Turkey I believed that this demonstration would have a restraining influence, not only upon the Germans, but upon the underlings of the Turkish official world.

As soon as I arrived at the railroad station, the day following the break, I saw that my task was not to be a simple one. I had arranged with the Turkish authorities for two trains: one for the English and French residents, which was to leave at seven o’clock, and one for the diplomats and their staff, which was to go at nine. But the arrangement was not working according to schedule. The station was a surging mass of excited and frightened people; the police were there in full force, pushing the crowds back; the scene was an indescribable mixture of soldiers, gendarmes, diplomats, baggage, and Turkish functionaries.

One of the most conspicuous figures was Bedri Bey, Prefect of Police, a lawyer-politician, who had recently been elevated to this position, and who keenly realised the importance of his new office. Bedri was an intimate friend and political subordinate of Talaat and one of his most valuable tools. He ranked high in the Committee of Union and Progress, and aspired ultimately to obtain a Cabinet position. Perhaps his most impelling motive was his hatred of foreigners and foreign influence. In his eyes Turkey was the land exclusively of the Turks; he hated all the other elements in its population, and he particularly resented the control which the foreign Embassies had for years exerted in the domestic concerns of his country. Indeed, there were few men in Turkey with whom the permanent abolition of the capitulations was such a heartfelt issue. Naturally, in the next few months I saw much of Bedri; he was constantly crossing my path, taking an almost malicious pleasure in interfering with every move which I made in the interest of the foreigners. His attitude was half-provoking, half-jocular; we were always trying to outwit each other—I attempting to protect the French and British, Bedri always turning up as an obstacle to my efforts. The fight for the foreigners, indeed, almost degenerated into a personal duel between the Prefect of Police and the American Embassy. Bedri was capable, well-educated, very agile, and not particularly ill-natured, but he loved to toy with a helpless foreigner. Naturally he found his occupation this evening a congenial one.

“What’s all the trouble about?” I asked Bedri. “We have changed our minds,” he said, and his manner showed that the change had not been displeasing to him. “We shall let the train go that is to take the Ambassadors and their staffs, but we have decided not to let the unofficial classes leave—the train that was to take them will not go.”

My staff and myself had worked hard to get this free passage for the enemy nationals. Now apparently some influence had negatived our efforts. This sudden change in plans was producing the utmost confusion and consternation. At the station there were two groups of passengers, one of which could go and the other of which could not. The British and French Ambassadors did not wish to leave their nationals behind, and the latter refused to believe that their train, which the Turkish officials had definitely promised, would not start some time that evening. I immediately called up Enver, who substantiated Bedri’s statement. Turkey had many subjects in Egypt, he said, whose situation was causing great anxiety. Before the French and English residents could leave Turkey assurances must be given that the rights of Turkish subjects in these countries would be protected. I had no difficulty in arranging this detail, for Sir Louis Mallet immediately gave the necessary assurances. However, this did not settle the matter; indeed, it had been little more than a pretext. Bedri still refused to let the train start. The order holding it up, he said, could not be rescinded, for that would now disarrange the general schedule and might cause accidents. I recognised all this as mere Turkish evasion, and I knew that the order had come from a higher source than Bedri. Still, nothing could be done at that moment. Moreover, Bedri would let no one get on the diplomatic train until I had personally identified him. So I had to stand at a little gate and pass upon each applicant. Everyone, whether he belonged to the diplomatic corps or not, attempted to force himself through this narrow passage-way, and we had an old-fashioned Brooklyn Bridge crush on a small scale. People were running in all directions, checking baggage, purchasing tickets, arguing with officials, consoling distracted women and frightened children, while Bedri, calm and collected, watched the whole pandemonium with an unsympathetic smile. Hats were knocked off, clothing was torn, and, to add to the confusion, Mallet, the British Ambassador, became involved in a set-to with an officious Turk—the Englishman winning first honours easily; and I caught a glimpse of Bompard, the French Ambassador, vigorously shaking a Turkish policeman. One lady dropped her baby in my arms, later another handed me a small boy, and still later, when I was standing at the gate identifying Turkey’s departing guests, one of the British secretaries made me the custodian of his dog. Meanwhile, Sir Louis Mallet became obstreperous and refused to leave.

“I shall stay here,” he said, “until the last British subject leaves Turkey.”

But I told him that he was no longer the protector of the British; that I, as American Ambassador, had assumed this responsibility; and that I could hardly assert myself in this capacity if he remained in Constantinople.

“Certainly,” I said, “the Turks would not recognise me as in charge of British interests if you remain here.”

Moreover, I suggested that he remain at Dedeagatch for a few days, and await the arrival of his fellow British. If I did not succeed in getting them out of the country, then he could return. Sir Louis reluctantly accepted my point of view and boarded the train. As the train left the station I caught my final glimpse of the British Ambassador, sitting in his private car, almost buried in a mass of trunks, satchels, boxes, and diplomatic pouches, surrounded by his Embassy staff, and sympathetically watched by his first secretary’s dog.

The unofficial foreigners remained in the station several hours, hoping that, at the last moment, they would be permitted to go. Bedri, however, was inexorable. Their position was almost desperate. They had given up their quarters in Constantinople, and now found themselves practically stranded. Some were taken in by friends for the night, others found accommodation in hotels, but their situation caused the utmost anxiety. Evidently, despite all official promises, Turkey was determined to keep these foreign residents as hostages. On the one hand were Enver and Talaat, telling me that they intended to conduct their war in a humane manner, and, on the other, were their underlings, such as Bedri, behaving in a fashion that negatived all these civilised pretensions. The fact was that the officials were quarrelling among themselves about the treatment of foreigners, and the German General Staff was telling the Cabinet that they were making a great mistake in showing any leniency to their enemy aliens. Finally I succeeded in making arrangements for them to leave the following day. Bedri, in more complaisant mood, spent that afternoon at the Embassy, viséing passports. We both went to the station in the evening and started the train safely to Dedeagatch. I gave a box of candy—“Turkish Delights”—to each one of the fifty women and children on the train; it altogether was a happy party, and they made no attempt to hide their relief at leaving Turkey. At Dedeagatch they met the diplomatic corps, and the reunion that took place, I afterward learned, was extremely touching. I was made happy by receiving many testimonials of their gratitude, in particular a letter, signed by more than a hundred, expressing their thanks to Mrs. Morgenthau, the Embassy Staff, and myself.

There were still several who wished to go, and next day I called on Talaat in their behalf. I found him in one of his most gracious moods. The Cabinet, he said, had carefully considered the whole matter of English and French residents in Turkey, and my arguments, he added, had greatly influenced them. They had reached the formal decision that enemy aliens could leave or remain, as they preferred. There would be no concentration camps, civilians could pursue their usual business in peace, and, so long as they behaved themselves, they would not be molested.

“We proposed to show,” said Talaat, “by our treatment of aliens, that we are not a race of barbarians.”

In return for this promise he asked a favour of me: would I not see that Turkey was praised in the American and European Press for this decision?

After returning to the Embassy I immediately sent for Mr. Theron Damon, correspondent of the Associated Press, Doctor Lederer, correspondent of the Berliner Tageblatt, and Doctor Sandler, who represented the Paris Herald, and gave them interviews, praising the attitude of Turkey toward the foreign residents. I also cabled the news to Washington, London, and Paris, and to all our consuls.

Hardly had I finished with the correspondents when I again received alarming news. I had arranged for another train that evening, and I now heard that the Turks were refusing to visé the passports of those whose departure I had provided for. This news, coming right after Talaat’s explicit promise, was naturally disturbing. I immediately started for the railroad station, and the sight which I saw there increased my anger at the Minister of the Interior. A mass of distracted people filled the enclosure; the women were weeping and the children were screaming, while a platoon of Turkish soldiers, commanded by an undersized popinjay of a major, was driving everybody out of the station with the flat sides of their guns. Bedri, as usual, was there, and, as usual, he was clearly enjoying the confusion. Certain of the passengers, he told me, had not paid their income tax, and, for this reason, they would not be permitted to leave. I announced that I would be personally responsible for this payment.

“I can’t get ahead of you, Mr. Ambassador, can I?” said Bedri, with a laugh. From this we all thought that my offer had settled the matter and that the train would leave as per schedule. But then suddenly came another order holding it up again.

Since I had just had my promise with Talaat, I decided to find that functionary and learn what all this meant. I jumped into my automobile and went to the Sublime Porte, where he usually had his headquarters. Finding no one there, I told the chauffeur to drive directly to Talaat’s house. Some time before I had visited Enver in his domestic surroundings, and this occasion now gave me the opportunity to compare his manner of life with that of his more powerful associate. The contrast was a startling one. I had found Enver living in luxury in one of the most aristocratic parts of the town, while now I was driving to one of the poorer sections. We came to a narrow street, bordered by little rough, unpainted wooden houses; only one thing distinguished this thoroughfare from all others in Constantinople and suggested that it was the abiding-place of the most powerful man in the Turkish Empire. At either end stood a policeman letting no one enter who could not give a satisfactory reason for doing so. Our auto, like all others, was stopped, but we were promptly permitted to pass when we explained who we were. As contrasted with Enver’s palace, with its innumerable rooms and gorgeous furniture, Talaat’s house was an old rickety, wooden, three-storey building. All this, I afterwards learned, was part of the setting which Talaat had staged for his career. Like many an American politician, he had found his position as a man of “the people” a valuable political asset, and he knew that a sudden display of prosperity and ostentation would weaken his influence with the Union and Progress Committee, most of whose members, like himself, had risen from the lower walks of life. The contents of the house were quite in keeping with the exterior. There were no suggestions of Oriental magnificence. The furniture was cheap; a few coarse prints hung on the walls, and one or two well-worn rugs were scattered on the floor. On one side stood a wooden table, and on this rested a telegraph instrument—once Talaat’s means of earning a living, and now the means by which he communicated with his associates. In the present troubled conditions in Turkey Talaat preferred to do his own telegraphing.

Amid these surroundings I waited for a few minutes the entrance of the Big Boss of Turkey. In due time a door opened at the other end of the room, and a huge, lumbering, gaily-decorated figure entered. I was startled by the contrast which this Talaat presented to the one who had become such a familiar figure to me at the Sublime Porte. It was no longer the Talaat of the European clothes and the thin veneer of European manners; the man whom I now saw looked like a real Bulgarian gypsy. Talaat wore the usual red Turkish fez; the rest of his bulky form was clothed in thick grey pyjamas, and from this combination protruded a rotund, smiling face. His mood was half-genial, half-deprecating. Talaat well understood what pressing business had led me to invade his domestic privacy, and his behaviour now resembled that of the unrepentant bad boy in school. He came and sat down with a good-natured grin, and began to make excuses. Quietly the door opened again, and a hesitating little girl was pushed into the room, bringing a tray of cigarettes and coffee. Presently I saw that a young woman, apparently about twenty-five years old, was standing back of the child, urging her to enter. Here, then, were Talaat’s wife and adopted daughter. I had already discovered that, while Turkish women never enter society or act as hostesses, they are extremely inquisitive about their husbands’ guests, and like to get surreptitious glimpses of them. Evidently Madame Talaat, on this occasion, was not satisfied with her preliminary view, for a few minutes afterward she appeared at a window directly opposite me, but entirely unseen by her husband, who was facing in the other direction, and there she remained very quiet and very observant for several minutes. As she was in the house, she was unveiled; her face was handsome and intelligent, and it was quite apparent that she enjoyed this close-range view of an American Ambassador.

“Well, Talaat,” I said, realising that the time had come for plain speaking, “don’t you know how foolishly you are acting? You told me a few hours ago that you had decided to treat the French and English decently, and you asked me to publish this news in the American and foreign Press. I at once called in the newspaper men and told them how splendidly you were behaving. And this at your own request! The whole world will be reading about it to-morrow. Now you are doing your best to counteract all my efforts in your behalf; here you have repudiated your first promise to be decent. Are you going to keep the promises you made me? Will you stick to them, or do you intend to keep changing your mind all the time? Now let’s have a real understanding. The thing we Americans particularly pride ourselves on is keeping our word. We do it as individuals and as a nation. We refuse to deal with people as equals who do not do this. You might as well understand now that we can do no business with each other unless I can depend on your promises.”

“Now, this isn’t my fault,” Talaat answered. “The Germans are to blame for stopping that train. The German Chief of Staff has just returned and is making a big fuss, saying that we are too easy with the French and English and that we must not let them go away. He says that we must keep them for hostages. It was his interference that did this.”

That was precisely what I had suspected. Talaat had given me his promise, then Bronssart, head of the German Staff, had practically countermanded his orders. Talaat’s admission gave me the opening which I had wished for. By this time my relations with Talaat had become so friendly that I could talk to him almost as I could talk to my own son.

“Now, Talaat,” I said, “you have got to have someone to advise you in your relations with foreigners. You must make up your mind whether you want me or the German Staff. Don’t you think you will make a mistake if you place yourself entirely in the hands of the Germans? The time may come when you will need me against the Germans.”

“What do you mean by that?” he asked, watching for my answer with intense curiosity.

“The Germans are sure to ask you to do many things you don’t want to do. If you can tell them that the American Ambassador objects, my support may prove useful to you. Besides, you know we all expect peace in a few months. You know that the Germans really care nothing for Turkey, and certainly you have no claims on the Allies for assistance. There is only one nation in the world that you can look to as a disinterested friend, and that is the United States.”

This fact was so apparent that I hardly needed to argue it in any great detail. However, I had another argument that struck still nearer home. Already the struggle between the war department and the civil powers had started. I knew that Talaat, although he was Minister of the Interior and a civilian, was determined not to sacrifice a little of his authority to Enver, the Germans, and the representatives of the military.

“If you let the Germans win this point to-day,” I said, “you are practically in their power. You are now the head of affairs, but you are still a civilian. Are you going to let the military, represented by Enver and the German Staff, over-rule your orders? Apparently that is what has happened to-day. If you submit to it, you will find that they will be running things from now on. The Germans will put this country under martial law; then where will you civilians be?”

I could see that this argument was having its effect on Talaat. He remained quiet for a few moments, evidently pondering my remarks. Then he said, with the utmost deliberation:

“I am going to help you.”

He turned around to his table and began working his telegraph instrument. I shall never forget the picture; this huge Turk, sitting there in his grey pyjamas and his red fez, working industriously his own telegraph key, his young wife gazing at him through a little window, and the late afternoon sun streaming into the room. Evidently the ruler of Turkey was having his troubles, and, as the argument went on over the telegraph, Talaat would bang his key with increasing irritation. He told me that the pompous major at the station insisted on having Enver’s written orders, since orders over the wire might easily be counterfeited. It took Talaat some time to locate Enver, and then the dispute apparently started all over again. A piece of news which Talaat received at that moment over the wire almost ruined my case. After a prolonged thumping of his instrument, in the course of which Talaat’s face lost its geniality and became almost savage, he turned to me and said:

“The English bombarded the Dardanelles this morning and killed two Turks!”

And then he added:

“We intend to kill three Christians for every Moslem killed!”

For a moment I thought that everything was lost. Talaat’s face reflected only one emotion—hatred of the English. Afterward, when reading the Cromer report on the Dardanelles, I found that the British Committee stigmatised this early attack a mistake, as it gave the Turks an early warning of their plans. I can testify that it was a mistake for another reason, for I now found that these few stray shots almost destroyed my plans to get the foreign residents out of Turkey. Talaat was enraged, and I had to go over much of the ground again, but finally I succeeded in pacifying him once more. I saw that he was vacillating between his desire to punish the English and his desire to assert his own authority over that of Enver and the Germans. Fortunately the latter motive gained the ascendancy. At all hazard, he was determined to show that he was boss.

We remained there more than two hours, my involuntary host pausing now and then in his telegraphing to entertain me with the latest political gossip. Djavid, the Minister of Finance, he said, had resigned, but had promised to work for them at home. The Grand Vizier, despite his threats, had been persuaded to retain his office. Foreigners in the interior would not be molested unless Beirut, Alexandretta, or some unfortified port were bombarded, but, if such attacks were made, they would exact reprisals of the French and English. Talaat’s conversation showed that he had no particular liking for the Germans. They were overbearing and insolent, he said, constantly interfering in military matters, and treating the Turks with disdain.

Finally the train was arranged. Talaat had shown several moods in this interview; he had been by turns sulky, good-natured, savage, and complaisant. There is one phase of the Turkish character which Westerners do not comprehend, and that is its keen sense of humour. Talaat himself greatly loved a joke and a funny story. Now that he had re-established friendly relations and redeemed his promise, Talaat became jocular once more.

“Your people can go now,” he said with a laugh. “It’s time to buy your candies, Mr. Ambassador!”

This latter, of course, was a reference to the little gifts which I had made to the women and children the night before. We immediately returned to the station, where we found the disconsolate passengers sitting around waiting for a favourable word. When I told them that the train would leave that evening, their thanks and gratitude were overwhelming.

CHAPTER XIII

THE INVASION OF THE ZION SISTERS’ SCHOOL

Despite Wangenheim’s promise, I had practically no support from the German Embassy in my attempt to protect the foreign residents from Turkish ill-treatment. I realised that, owing to my religion, there might be a feeling in certain quarters that I was not exerting all my energies in behalf of these Christian peoples and religious organisations—hospitals, schools, monasteries, and convents—and I naturally thought that it would strengthen my influence with the Turks if I could have the support of my most powerful Christian colleagues. I had a long discussion on this matter with Pallavicini, himself a Catholic and the representative of the greatest Catholic Power. Pallavicini frankly told me that Wangenheim would do nothing that would annoy the Turks. There was then a constant fear that the English and French fleets would force the Dardanelles, capture Constantinople, and hand it over to Russia, and only the Turkish forces, said Pallavicini, could prevent such a calamity. The Germans therefore believed that they were dependent on the good graces of the Turkish Government, and would do nothing to antagonise them. Evidently Pallavicini wished me to believe that Wangenheim and he really desired to help. Yet this plea was hardly disingenuous, for I knew all the time that Turkey, if the Germans had not constantly interfered, would have behaved decently. I found that the evil spirit was not the Turkish Government, but von Bronsart, the German Chief of Staff. The fact that certain members of the Turkish Cabinet who represented European and Christian culture—men like Bustány and Oskan—had resigned as a protest against Turkey’s action in entering the war, made the situation of foreigners even more dangerous. There was also much conflict of authority; a policy decided on one day would be reversed the next, the result being that we never knew where we stood. The mere fact that the Government promised me that foreigners would not be maltreated by no means settled the matter, for some underling, like Bedri Bey, could frequently find an excuse for disregarding instructions. The situation, therefore, was one that called for constant vigilance; I had not only to get pledges from men like Talaat and Enver, but I had personally to see that these pledges were carried into action.

I awoke one November morning at four o’clock; I had been dreaming, or I had had a “presentiment,” that all was not going well with the Sion Sœurs, a French sisterhood which had for many years conducted a school for girls in Constantinople. Madame Bompard, the wife of the French Ambassador, and several ladies of the French colony, had particularly requested me to keep a watchful eye on this institution. It was a splendidly-conducted school; the daughters of many of the best families of all nationalities attended it, and when these girls were assembled, the Christians wearing silver crosses and the non-Christians silver stars, the sight was particularly beautiful and impressive. Naturally the thought of the brutal Turks breaking into such a community was enough to arouse the wrath of any properly constituted man. Though we had nothing more definite than an uneasy feeling that something might be wrong, Mrs. Morgenthau and I decided to go up immediately after breakfast. As we approached the building we noted nothing particularly suspicious; the place was quiet and the whole atmosphere was one of peace and sanctity. Just as we ascended the steps, however, five Turkish policemen followed on our heels. They crowded after us into the vestibule, much to the consternation of a few of the Sisters, who happened to be in the waiting-room. The mere fact that the American Ambassador came with the police in itself increased their alarm, though our arrival together was purely coincidental.

“What do you want?” I asked, turning to the men. As they spoke only Turkish, naturally they did not understand me, and they started to push me aside. My own knowledge of Turkish was extremely limited, but I knew that the word “Elchi” meant “Ambassador.” So, pointing to myself, I said “Elchi Americaner.”

This scrap of Turkish worked like magic. In Turkey an Ambassador is a much revered object, and these policemen immediately respected my authority. Meanwhile the Sisters had sent for their Superior, Mère Elvira. This lady was one of the most distinguished and influential personages in Constantinople. That morning, as she came in quietly and faced these Turkish policemen, showing not a sign of fear, and completely overawing them by the splendour and dignity of her bearing, she represented to my eyes almost a supernatural being. Mère Elvira was a daughter of one of the most aristocratic families of France; she was a woman of perhaps forty years of age, with black hair and shining black eyes, all accentuated by a pale face that radiated culture, character, and intelligence. I could not help thinking, as I looked at her that morning, that there was not a diplomatic circle in the world to which she would not have added grace and dignity. In a few seconds Mère Elvira had this present distracting situation completely under control. She sent for a Sister who spoke Turkish, and queried the policemen. They said that they were acting under Bedri’s orders. All the foreign schools were to be closed that morning, the Government intending to seize all their buildings. There were about seventy-two teachers and Sisters in this convent; the police had orders to shut all these into two rooms, where they were to be held practically as prisoners. There were about two hundred girls; these were to be turned out into the streets, and left to shift for themselves. The fact that it was raining in torrents, and that the weather was extremely cold, accentuated the barbarity of this proceeding. Yet every enemy school and religious institution in Constantinople was undergoing a similar experience at this time. Clearly this was a situation which I could not handle alone, and I at once telephoned my Turkish-speaking legal adviser. Herein is another incident which may have an interest for those who believe in providential intervention. When I arrived in Constantinople telephones had been unknown, but, in the last few months, an English company had been introducing a system. The night before my experience with the Sion Sœurs, my legal adviser had called me up and proudly told me that his telephone had just been installed. I jotted down his number, and this memorandum I now found in my pocket. Without my interpreter I should have been hard pressed, and without this telephone I could not have immediately brought him to the spot.

While waiting for his arrival I delayed the operations of the policemen, and my wife, who fortunately speaks French, was obtaining all the details from the Sisters. Mrs. Morgenthau understood the Turks well enough to know that they had other plans than the mere expulsion of the Sisters and their charges. The Turks regard these institutions as repositories of treasure; the valuables which they contain are greatly exaggerated in the popular mind, and it was a safe assumption that, among other things, this expulsion was an industrious raiding expedition for tangible evidences of wealth.

“Have you any money and other valuables here?” Mrs. Morgenthau asked one of the Sisters.

Yes, they had in fact quite a little; it was kept in a safe upstairs. My wife told me to keep the policemen busy and then she and one of the Sisters quietly disappeared from the scene. Upstairs the Sister disclosed about a hundred square pieces of white flannel into each one of which had been sewed twenty gold coins. In all, the Sion Sœurs had in this liquid form about fifty thousand francs. They had been fearing expulsion for some time, and had been getting together their money in this form, so that they could carry it away with them when forced to leave Turkey. Besides this, the Sisters had several bundles of securities and many valuable papers, such as the charter of their school. Certainly here was something that would appeal to Turkish cupidity. Mrs. Morgenthau knew that if the police once obtained control of the building there would be little likelihood that the Sion Sisters would ever see their money again. With the aid of the Sisters, my wife promptly concealed as much as she could on her person, descended the stairs, and marched through a line of gendarmes out into the rain. Mrs. Morgenthau told me afterward that her blood almost ran cold with fright as she passed by these guardians of the law; from all external signs, however, she was absolutely calm and collected. She stepped into the waiting auto, was driven to the American Embassy, placed the money in our vault, and promptly returned to the school. Again Mrs. Morgenthau solemnly ascended the stairs with the Sisters. This time they took her to the gallery of the Cathedral, which stood behind the convent, but could be entered through it. One of the Sisters lifted up a tile from a particular spot in the floor, and again disclosed a heap of gold coins. This was secreted in Mrs. Morgenthau’s clothes, and once more she filed past the gendarmes, out into the rain, and was driven rapidly to the Embassy. In these two trips my wife succeeded in getting the money of the Sisters to a place where it would be safe from the Turks.

Between Mrs. Morgenthau’s trips Bedri had arrived. He told me that Talaat had himself given the order for closing all the institutions, and that they had intended to have the entire job finished before nine o’clock. I have already said that the Turks have a sense of humour, but to this statement I should add that it sometimes manifests itself in a perverted form. Bedri now seemed to think that locking more than seventy Catholic Sisters in two rooms and turning two hundred young and carefully-nurtured girls into the streets of Constantinople was a great joke.

“We were going at it early in the morning, to have it all over before you heard anything about it,” he said, with a laugh. “But you seem never to be asleep.”

“You are very foolish to try to play such tricks on us,” I said. “Don’t you know that I am going to write a book? If you go on behaving in this way, I shall put you in as the villain.”

This remark was an inspiration of the moment; it was then that it first occurred to me that these experiences might prove sufficiently interesting for publication. Bedri took the statement seriously, and it seemed to have a sobering effect.

“Do you really intend to write a book?” he asked, almost anxiously.

“Why not?” I rejoined. “General Lew Wallace was minister here—didn’t he write a book? ‘Sunset’ Cox was also minister here—didn’t he write one? Why shouldn’t I? And you are such an important character that I shall have to give you a part. Why do you go on acting in a way that will make me describe you as a very bad man? These Sisters here have always been your friends. They have never done you anything but good; they have educated many of your daughters; why do you treat them in this shameful fashion?”

This plea produced an effect; Bedri consented to postpone execution of the order until we could get Talaat on the wire. In a few minutes I heard Talaat laughing over the telephone.

“I tried to escape you,” he said, “but you have caught me again. Why make such a row about this matter? Didn’t the French themselves expel all their nuns and monks? Why shouldn’t we do it?”

After I had remonstrated over this indecent haste, Talaat told Bedri to suspend the order until we had had a chance to talk the matter over. Naturally this greatly relieved Mère Elvira and the Sisters. Just as we were about to leave, Bedri suddenly had a new idea. There was one detail which he had apparently forgotten.

“We’ll leave the Sion Sisters alone for the present,” he said, “but we must get their money.”

Reluctantly I acquiesced in his suggestion—knowing that all the valuables were safely reposing in the American Embassy. So I had the pleasure of standing by and watching Bedri and his associates search the whole establishment. All they turned up was a small tin box containing a few copper coins, a prize which was so trifling that the Turks disdained to take it. They were much puzzled and disappointed, and from that day to this they have never known what became of the money. If my Turkish friends do me the honour of reading these pages they will find that I have explained here for the first time one of the many mysteries of those exciting days.

As some of the windows of the convent opened on the court of the Cathedral, which was Vatican property, we contended that the Turkish Government could not seize it. Such of the Sisters as were neutrals were allowed to remain in possession of the part that faced the Vatican land, while the rest of the building was turned into an engineers’ school. We arranged that the French nuns should have ten days to leave for their own country; they all reached their destination safely, and most are at present engaged in charities and war-work in France.

My jocular statement that I intended to write a book deeply impressed Bedri, and in the next few weeks he repeatedly referred to it. I kept banteringly telling him that, unless his behaviour improved, I should be forced to picture him as the villain. One day he asked me, in all seriousness, whether he could not do something that would justify me in portraying him in a more favourable light. This attitude gave me an opportunity I had been seeking for some time. Constantinople had for many years been a centre for the white slave trade, and a particularly vicious gang was then operating under cover of a fake synagogue. An international committee, organised to fight this crew, had made me chairman. I told Bedri that he now had the chance to secure a reputation. Because of the war, his powers as Prefect of Police had been greatly increased, and a little vigorous action on his part would permanently rid the city of this disgrace. The enthusiasm with which Bedri adopted my suggestion and the thoroughness and ability with which he did the work entitle him to the gratitude of all decent people. In a few days every white slave trader in Constantinople was scurrying for safety. Most were arrested, a few made their escape; such as were foreigners, after serving terms in gaol, were expelled from the country. Bedri furnished me with photographs of all the culprits, and they are now on file in our State Department. I was not writing a book at that time, but I felt obliged to secure some public recognition for Bedri’s work. I therefore sent his photograph, with a few words about his achievement, to the New York Times, which published it in a Sunday edition. That a great American newspaper had recognised him in this way delighted Bedri beyond words. For months he carried in his pocket the page of the Times containing his picture, showing it to all his friends. This event ended my troubles with the Prefect of Police; for the rest of my stay we had very few serious clashes.

CHAPTER XIV

WANGENHEIM AND THE BETHLEHEM STEEL COMPANY—A HOLY WAR THAT WAS MADE IN GERMANY

I made the usual defence, and called Wangenheim’s attention to the fact that Germany had sold munitions to Spain in the Spanish War; but all this was to no purpose. All that Wangenheim saw was that American supplies formed an asset to his enemy; the legalities of the situation did not interest him. Of course, I refused point-blank to write to the President about the matter.

A few days afterward an article appeared in the Ikdam discussing Turkish and American relations. This contribution, for the greater part, was extremely complimentary to America; its real purpose, however, was to contrast the present with the past, and to point out that our action in furnishing ammunition to Turkey’s enemies was hardly in accordance with the historic friendship between the two countries. The whole thing was evidently written merely to get before the Turkish people a statement almost parenthetically included in the final paragraph: “According to the report of correspondents at the Dardanelles, it appears that most of the shells fired by the British and French during the last bombardment were made in America.” At this time the German Embassy controlled the Ikdam, and was conducting it entirely in the interest of German propaganda. A statement of this sort, instilled into the minds of impressionable and fanatical Turks, might have the most deplorable consequences. I therefore took the matter up immediately with the man whom I regarded as chiefly responsible for the attack—the German Ambassador.

At first Wangenheim asserted his innocence; he was as bland as a child in protesting his ignorance of the whole affair. I called his attention to the fact that the statements in the Ikdam were almost identically the same as those which he had made to me a few days before; that the language in certain spots, indeed, was almost a repetition of his own conversation.

“Either you wrote that article yourself,” I said, “or you called in the reporter and gave him the leading ideas.”

Wangenheim saw that there was no use in further denying the authorship.

“Well,” he said, throwing back his head, “what are you going to do about it?”

This Tweed-like attitude rather nettled me, and I resented it on the spot.

“I’ll tell you what I am going to do about it,” I replied, “and you know that I will be able to carry out my threats. Either you stop stirring up anti-American feeling in Turkey or I shall start a campaign of anti-German sentiment here.

“You know, Baron,” I added, “that you Germans are skating on very thin ice in this country. You know that the Turks don’t love you any too well. In fact, you know that Americans are more popular here than you are. Supposing that I go out, tell the Turks how you are simply using them for your own benefit—that you do not really regard them as your allies, but merely as pawns in the game which you are playing. Now, in stirring up anti-American feeling here you are touching my softest spot. You are exposing our educational and religious institutions to the attacks of the Turks. No one knows what they may do if they are persuaded that their relatives are being shot down by American bullets. You stop this at once, or in three weeks I will fill the whole of Turkey with animosity toward the Germans. It will be a battle between us, and I am ready for it.”

Wangenheim’s attitude changed at once. He turned round, put his arm on my shoulder, and assumed his most conciliatory, almost affectionate, manner.

“Come, let us be friends,” he said. “I see that you are right about this. I see that such attacks might injure your friends the missionaries. I promise you that they will be stopped.”

From that day the Turkish Press never made the slightest unfriendly allusion to the United States. The abruptness with which the attacks stopped showed me that the Germans had evidently extended to Turkey one of the most cherished expedients of the Fatherland—absolute Government control of the Press. But when I think of the infamous plots which Wangenheim was instigating at that moment, his objection to the use of a few American shells by English battleships—if English battleships used any such shells, which I seriously doubt—seems almost grotesque. In the early days Wangenheim had explained to me one of Germany’s main purposes in forcing Turkey into the conflict. He made this explanation quietly and nonchalantly, as though it had been quite the most ordinary matter in the world. Sitting in his office, puffing away at his big black German cigar, he unfolded Germany’s scheme to arouse the whole fanatical Moslem world against the Christians. Germany had planned a real “holy war” as one means of destroying English and French influence in the world. “Turkey herself is not the really important matter,” said Wangenheim. “Her army is a small one, and we do not expect it to do very much. For the most part it will act on the defensive. But the big thing is the Moslem world. If we can stir the Mohammedans up against the English and Russians we can force them to make peace.”

What Wangenheim evidently meant by the “big thing” became apparent on November 13th, when the Sultan issued his declaration war. This declaration was really an appeal for a Jihad, or a “Holy War” against the infidel. Soon afterward the Sheik-ul-Islam published his proclamation, summoning the whole Moslem world to arise and massacre their Christian oppressors. “O Moslems!” concluded this document, “Ye who are smitten with happiness and are on the verge of sacrificing your life and your goods for the cause of right, and of braving perils, gather now around the Imperial throne, obey the commands of the Almighty, who, in the Koran, promises us bliss in this and in the next world; embrace ye the foot of the Caliph’s throne, and know ye that the State is at war with Russia, England, France, and their allies, and that these are the enemies of Islam. The Chief of the believers, the Caliph, invites you all as Moslems to join in the Holy War!”

The religious leaders read this proclamation to their assembled congregations in the mosques; all the newspapers printed it conspicuously; it was spread broadcast in all the countries which had large Mohammedan populations—India, China, Persia, Egypt, Algeria, Tripoli, Morocco, and the like. In all these places it was read to the assembled multitudes and the populace was exhorted to obey the mandate. The Ikdam, the Turkish newspaper which had passed into German ownership, was constantly inciting the masses. “The deeds of our enemies,” wrote this Turco-German editor, “have brought down the wrath of God. A gleam of hope has appeared. All Mohammedans, young and old, men, women, and children, must fulfil their duty so that the gleam may not fade away, but give light to us forever. How many great things can be accomplished by the arms of vigorous men, by the aid of others, of women and children!... The time for action has come. We shall all have to fight with all our strength, with all our soul, with teeth and nails, with all the sinews of our bodies and of our spirits. If we do it, the deliverance of the subjected Mohammedan kingdoms is assured. Then, if God so wills, we shall march unashamed by the side of our friends who send their greetings to the Crescent. Allah is our aid and the Prophet is our support.”

The Sultan’s proclamation was an official public document, and dealt with the proposed Holy War only in a general way, but about this same time a secret pamphlet appeared which gave instructions to the faithful in more specific terms. This paper was not read in the mosques; it was distributed stealthily in all Mohammedan countries—India, Egypt, Morocco, Syria, and many others—and it was significantly printed in Arabic, the language of the Koran. It was a lengthy document—the English translation contains 10,000 words—full of quotations from the Koran, and its style was frenzied in its appeal to racial and religious hatred. It described a detailed plan of operations for the assassination and extermination of all Christians—except those of German nationality. A few extracts will fairly portray its spirit: “Oh! people of the faith and Oh! beloved Moslems, consider, even though but for a brief moment, the present condition of the Islamic world. For if you consider this but for a little you will weep long. You will behold a bewildering state of affairs which will cause the tear to fall and the fire of grief to blaze. You see the great country of India, which contains hundreds of millions of Moslems, fallen, because of religious divisions and weaknesses, into the grasp of the enemies of God, the infidel English. You see forty millions of Moslems in Java shackled by the chains of captivity and of affliction under the rule of the Dutch, although these infidels are much fewer in number than the faithful and do not enjoy a much higher civilisation. You see Egypt, Morocco, Tunis, Algeria, and the Sudan suffering the extremes of pain and groaning in the grasp of the enemies of God and His apostle. You see the vast country of Siberia and Turkestan, and Khiva and Bokhara, and the Caucasus and the Crimea, and Kazan and Ezferhan and Kosahastan, whose Moslem peoples believe in the unity of God, ground under the feet of their oppressors, who are the enemies already of our religion. You behold Persia being prepared for partition, and you see the city of the Caliphate, which for ages has unceasingly fought breast to breast with the enemies of our religion, now become the target for oppression and violence. Thus, wherever you look, you see that the enemies of the true religion, particularly the English, the Russian, and the French, have oppressed Islam and invaded its rights in every possible way. We cannot enumerate the insults we have received at the hands of these nations who desire totally to destroy Islam and drive all Mohammedans off the face of the earth. This tyranny has passed all endurable limits; the cup of our oppression is full to overflowing.... In brief, the Moslems work and the infidels eat, the Moslems are hungry and suffer and the infidels gorge themselves and live in luxury. The world of Islam sinks down and goes backward, and the Christian world goes forward and is more and more exalted. The Moslems are enslaved and the infidels are the great rulers. This is all because the Moslems have abandoned the plan set forth in the Koran and ignored the Holy War which it commands.... But the time has now come for the Holy War, and by this the land of Islam shall be forever freed from the power of the infidels who oppress it. This Holy War has now become a sacred duty. Know ye that the blood of infidels in the Islamic lands may be shed with impunity—except those to whom the Moslem power has promised security and who are allied with it. [Herein we find that Germans and Austrians are excepted from massacre.] The killing of infidels who rule over Islam has become a sacred duty, whether you do it secretly or openly. As the Koran has decreed: ‘Take them and kill them whenever you find them. Behold we have delivered them unto your hands and given you supreme power over them.’ He who kills even one unbeliever of those who rule over us, whether he does it secretly or openly, shall be rewarded by God. And let every Moslem, in whatever part of the world he may be, swear a solemn oath to kill at least three or four of the infidels who rule over him, for they are the enemies of God and of the faith. Let every Moslem know that his reward for doing so shall be doubled by the God who created heaven and earth. A Moslem who does this shall be saved from the terrors of the Day of Judgment, of the resurrection of the dead. Who is the man who can refuse such a recompense for such a small deed?... Yet the time has come that we should rise up as the rising of one man; in one hand a sword, in the other a gun, in his pocket balls of fire and death-dealing missiles, and in his heart the light of the faith, and that we should lift up our voices, saying—India for the Indian Moslems, Java for the Javanese Moslems, Algeria for the Algerian Moslems, Morocco for the Moroccan Moslems, Tunis for the Tunisan Moslems, Egypt for the Egyptian Moslems, Iran for the Iranian Moslems, Turan for the Turanian Moslems, Bokhara for the Bokharan Moslems, Caucasus for the Caucasian Moslems, and the Ottoman Empire for the Ottoman Turks and Arabs.”

Specific instructions for carrying out this holy purpose follow. There shall be a “heart war”—every follower of the Prophet, that is, shall constantly nourish in his spirit a hatred of the infidel; a “speech war”—with tongue and pen every Moslem shall spread this same hatred wherever Mohammedans live; and a war of deed—fighting and killing the infidel wherever he shows his head. This latter conflict, says the pamphlet, is the “true war.” There is to be a “little holy war” and a “great holy war”; the first describes the battle which every Mohammedan is to wage in his community against his Christian neighbours, and the second is the great world-struggle which united Islam, in India, Arabia, Turkey, Africa, and other countries, is to wage against the infidel oppressors. “The Holy War,” says the pamphlet, “will be of three forms. First the individual war, which consists of the individual personal deed. This may be carried on with cutting, killing instruments, like the Holy War which one of the faithful made against Peter Galy, the infidel English governor, like the slaying of the English chief of police in India, and like the killing of one of the officials arriving in Mecca by Abi Busir (may God be pleased with him).” The document gives several other instances of assassination which the faithful are enjoined to imitate. The believers are told to organise “bands,” and to go forth and slay Christians. The most useful are those organised and operating in secret. “It is hoped that the Islamic world of to-day will profit very greatly from such secret bands.” The third method is by “organised campaigns,” that is, by trained armies.

In all parts of this incentive to murder and assassination there are indications that a German hand has exercised an editorial supervision. Only those infidels are to be slain “who rule over us”—that is, those who have Mohammedan subjects. As Germany has no such subjects this saving clause was expected to protect Germans from assault. The Germans, with their usual interest in their own well-being and their usual disregard of their ally, evidently overlooked the fact that Austria had many Mohammedan subjects in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Moslems are instructed that they should form armies, “even though it may be necessary to introduce some foreign elements”—that is, bring in German instructors and German officers. “You must remember”—this is evidently intended as a blanket protection to Germans everywhere—“that it is absolutely unlawful to oppose any of the peoples of other religions between whom and the Moslems there is a covenant, or those who have not manifested hostility to the seat of the Caliphate, or those who have entered under the protection of the Moslems.”

Even though I had not had Wangenheim’s personal statement that the Germans intended to arouse the Mohammedans everywhere against England, France, and Russia, these interpolations would clearly enough have indicated the real inspiration of this amazing document. At the time Wangenheim discussed the matter with me his chief idea seemed to be that a “Holy War” of this sort would be the quickest means of forcing England to make peace. According to this point of view, it was really a great peace offensive. At that time Wangenheim reflected the conviction, which was prevalent in all official circles, that Germany had made a mistake in bringing England into the conflict, and it was evidently his idea now that if back-fires could be started against England in India, Egypt, the Sudan, and other places, the British Empire would withdraw. Even if British Mohammedans refused to rise, Wangenheim believed that the mere threat of such an uprising would induce England to abandon Belgium and France to their fate. The danger of spreading such incendiary literature among a wildly fanatical people is apparent. I was not the only neutral diplomat who feared the most serious consequences. M. Tocheff, the Bulgarian Minister, one of the ablest members of the diplomatic corps, was much disturbed. At that time Bulgaria was neutral, and M. Tocheff used to tell me that his country hoped to maintain this neutrality. Each side, he said, expected that Bulgaria would become its ally, and it was Bulgaria’s policy to keep each side in this expectant frame of mind. Should Germany succeed in starting a “Holy War,” and should massacres result, Bulgaria, added M. Tocheff, would certainly join forces with the Entente.

We arranged that he should call upon Wangenheim and repeat this statement, and that I should bring similar pressure to bear upon Enver. From the first, however, the “Holy War” proved a failure. The Mohammedans of such countries as India, Egypt, Algeria, and Morocco knew that they were getting far better treatment than they could obtain under any other conceivable conditions. Moreover, the simple-minded Mohammedans could not understand why they should prosecute a holy war against Christians and at the same time have Christian nations, such as Germany and Austria, as their partners. This association made the whole proposition ridiculous. The Koran, it is true, commands the slaughter of Christians, but that sacred volume makes no exception in favour of the Germans, and, in the mind of the fanatical Mohammedan, a German rayah is as much Christian dirt as an Englishman or a Frenchman, and his massacre is just as meritorious an act. The fine distinctions necessitated by European diplomacy he understands about as completely as he understands the law of gravitation or the nebular hypothesis. The German failure to take this into account is only another evidence of the fundamental German clumsiness and real ignorance of the world situation. The only tangible fact that stands out clearly is the Kaiser’s desire to let loose 300,000,000 Mohammedans in a gigantic St. Bartholomew massacre of Christians.