Conrad Ferdinand Meyer - "Das Leiden eines Knaben"

Clovis G. Chappell - "Sermons on Biblical Characters"

Benjamin Disraeli - "The Infernal Marriage"

Charles Raymond Barrett - "Short Story Writing"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

From Pole to Pole

S >> Sven Anders Hedin >> From Pole to Pole




Four centuries and a half have passed since then, and still the Greeks
cherish a blind faith that the day will come when St. Sophia will be
restored to Christian uses, when the wall will open again and the bishop
will walk out with the chalice in his hand. Calm and dignified he will
descend the stairs, cross the church, and mount up to the high altar to
continue the mass from the point where he was interrupted by the Turks.

Let us return to the savage soldiery. All the doors stand open, and the
midday sun shines in through the arched windows. The pillage and tumult
have reached their height when a fiery horse carries a rider up to the
main entrance. He is attended by Mohammedan princes, generals, and
pashas.[1] His name is Mohammed II., the Conqueror, the Sultan of the
Turks. He is young and proud and has a will of iron, but he is solemn
and melancholy. He dismounts and passes on foot over this floor, over
the marble slabs trodden a thousand years ago by the Emperor Justinian.

The first thing he sees is a janissary maliciously aiming his axe at the
marble pavement. The Sultan goes up to him and asks, "Why?" "In the
cause of the faith," answers the soldier. Then the Sultan draws his
sabre, and, cutting the man down, exclaims, "Dogs, have you not loot
enough? The buildings of the city are my property." And, kicking the
dying man aside, he ascends a Christian pulpit, and in a thundering
voice dedicates the Church of the Holy Wisdom to Islam.

Four and a half centuries have passed down the stream of time since the
day when the cross was removed and the crescent raised its horn above
the Church of the Holy Wisdom. The Turks have erected four minarets
round the dome, and every evening from the platforms of these minarets
sounds the voice of the muezzin, summoning the faithful to prayer. He
wears a white turban and a long mantle down to his feet. To all four
quarters of the city the call rings out with long, silvery _a_-sounds
and full, liquid _l_'s: "God is great (four times repeated). I bear
witness that there is no god but God (twice repeated). I bear witness
that Mohammed is the Apostle of God (twice repeated). Come to prayers!
Come to prayers! Come to salvation! Come to salvation! God is great.
There is no god but God."

Now the sun sinks below the horizon, and a cannon shot thunders forth.
We are in the month of fasting, during which the Mohammedans do not eat,
drink, or smoke each day so long as the sun is up. Thus the Prophet
commands in the Koran, their holy book. The firing of the gun proclaims
the end of the fast for to-day, and when the faithful have refreshed
themselves with the smoking rissoles and rice puddings, or fruit,
coffee, and water-pipes which stand ready, they turn their steps to the
old Church of the Divine Wisdom, which still retains its Greek name.
Round the minarets thousands of lamps are lighted, and between the
towers the sacred names hang in flaming lights. Inside the mosque, on
chains fifty feet long, hang chandeliers, full of innumerable oil-lamps
in small round glass bowls, and on extended lines hang other lamps as
close as the beads of a rosary. The floor of the mosque is a sea of
light, but the interior of the dome is hid in gloom. Huge green shields
affixed to the columns bear in golden letters the names of Allah,
Mohammed and the saints, and the characters are thirty feet high.

The faithful have already filled the floor, which is covered with straw
matting. Shoes must be left outside on entering the mosque, and a man
must wash his arms, hands, and face before he goes in. Now the Turks
stand in long rows, white and green turbans and red fezes with black
tassels all mixed together. All turn their faces towards Mecca. All
hands go up together to the height of the face and are stretched out
flat, the thumbs touching the tip of the ear. Then they bend the body
forward, resting their hands on their knees. Next they fall on their
knees and touch the floor with their foreheads. "Prayer is the key to
Paradise," says the Koran, and every section of the prayer requires a
certain posture.

A priest stands in a pulpit and breaks in on the solemn silence with his
clear musical voice. The last word dies away on his lips, but the echo
lingers long in the dome, hovering like a restless spirit among the
statues of the cherubim.

Among us at home there are people who are ashamed of going to church. A
Mohammedan may neglect his religious duties, but he always regards it as
an honour to fulfil them. When we come to Persia or Turkestan we shall
often see a caravan leader leave his camels in the middle of the march,
spread out his prayer-mat on the ground, and recite his prayers. They do
not do it thoughtlessly or slovenly: you might yell in the ear of a
Mohammedan at prayer and he would take no notice.

"There is no god but God!" The words sound like a trumpet-blast, as a
summons over boundless regions of the Old World. From its cradle in
Arabia, Islam has spread over all the west and centre of Asia, over the
southern parts of the continent, over certain regions in south-eastern
Europe, and over half Africa. It is no wonder that Mohammedan
missionaries find it easy to convert the blacks of Africa. Mohammed
promises them Paradise after death, and Paradise is only a continuation
of worldly pleasures--a place where the blessed dwell under palms which
continually bear fruit, where clear springs leap forth, and where flutes
and stringed instruments make music in eternal summer.


THE BAZAARS OF STAMBUL

As a child Fatima Hanum played in one of the narrow streets of Stambul.
When she was old enough, her parents betrothed and married her to Emin
Effendi, the son of an influential pasha. She knew little of him beyond
that he was rich and was considered a good match. His house was situated
in one of the larger streets of Scutari, and consisted of two wings
completely cut off from each other. In the one the husband had his
apartments, in the other lived the women. For Fatima is not alone; her
husband has three other wives, and all four have male and female slaves
who guard them strictly.

Poor Fatima is thus unfortunate from the first. She cannot live happily
with a man whose affection is not hers alone, and it is difficult for
her to live in peace with the three other women who have the same rights
as herself. Her life is empty and wearisome, and her days are passed in
idleness. For hours she stands behind the lattice in the oriel window
which projects over the street and watches the movement going on below.
When she is tired of this she goes in again. Her room is not large. In
the middle splashes a small fountain. Round the walls extend divans. She
sinks moodily on to one of them and calls a female slave, who brings a
small table, more like a stool. Fatima rolls a cigarette, and with
dreamy eyes watches the blue rings as they rise to the ceiling. Again
she calls the slave. A bowl of sweets is brought, she yawns, takes a bit
of sweetmeat, and throws herself on the soft cushions.

Then she drinks a glass of lemonade and crosses the room to a leather
trunk, which she unlocks. In the trunk lie her ornaments: bracelets of
gold, pearl necklaces, earrings of turquoise, and many cloths of
coloured silk. She puts a necklace round her neck, adorns her fingers
with rings, and winds thin silken veils round her head. When she is
ready she goes up to the mirror and admires her own beauty. She is
really handsome. Her skin is white and soft, her eyes are black, her
hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders. She is not pleased with the
colour of her lips. The slave brings out a small pot of porcelain and
with a pencil paints Fatima's lips redder than the coral which the Hindu
dealers sell in the bazaar. Then the eyebrows are not dark enough, so
they are blackened with Indian ink.

When Fatima is tired of examining her own features in the mirror she
puts back her ornaments into the chest and locks it securely. A
staircase leads down from her room to the garden. There she saunters for
a time, enjoying the perfume of roses and jasmine, and stands before the
cage of singing birds to amuse herself with them. One of the other wives
comes down to the harem garden and calls out to her: "You are as ugly as
a monkey, Fatima; you are old and wrinkled and your eyes are red. Not a
man in all Stambul would care to look at you." Fatima answers: "If Emin
Effendi had not been tired of you, old moth-eaten parrot, he would not
have brought me to his harem." And then she hurries up to her room again
to ask the mirror if it is true that her eyes are red.

In order to forget her vexation she decides to go over to the great
bazaar in Stambul. The slave envelops her in a voluminous _kaftan_[2]
in which her white hands with yellow-stained nails disappear among the
folds. She slips into her shoes, which are like slippers with turned-up
points, and puts on the most important garment of all--the veil. Its
upper part covers the head and the forehead down to the eyebrows, while
the lower part hangs down over the chin, mouth, and part of the nose. A
woman does not show her face to any man but her husband. Of late years
many women transgress this rule and let the lower part of the veil fall
so low that most of the face is seen. Fatima, however, does not go with
the new fashion. She shows only her eyes, but her glances are enough to
let the man in the street perceive that she is beautiful. None of them
is so impertinent as to look at her or speak to her. Only Europeans she
meets turn round.

The slave does not go with her. She stops at the quay where the
_caiques_, or long rowing-boats, lie. The boatmen rise and scream
together. Each one extols with words and gestures the excellences of his
boat. She makes her choice, and steps in and sits down on the cushions.
The _caique_ is narrow and sharp as a canoe, painted white, with a gold
border on the gunwale. Two powerful men take their oars, and the
_caique_ darts over the blue waters of the Bosporus. Half-way between
Scutari and Stambul, Fatima looks eagerly down the Sea of Marmora. She
longs for an hour of freedom, and orders the boatmen to change the
direction. The wind is fresh, so they pull in their oars and hoist the
sail, and the boat glides southward at a rapid pace. But Fatima is
capricious, and is soon tired of the Sea of Marmora, and orders the men
to steer to the nearest quay in Stambul. She gives them two silver
coins, which they take without a word of thanks or civility. She hastens
up to the great bazaar and steps from the hot sunlight of the streets
into cool shade and gloom.

For the bazaars are like tunnels. They are streets and lanes covered
with vaults of stone, where daylight penetrates sparingly through the
cupolas in the roof. Here the heat of summer is not felt, and you can
walk dry-shod on stormy and rainy days. You are soon accustomed to the
darkness, but have great difficulty in finding the way unless you have
been born in Stambul and have often passed through this labyrinth. The
passages are quite narrow, but yet wide enough to allow _droshkies_[3]
and carts to pass through.

The bazaar, then, is an underground town in itself, a town of tradesmen
and artisans. On either side of every street is an endless row of small
open shops, the floors of which are raised a little above the level of
the street, and serve also as counters or show stands. The shops are not
mixed up together, but each industry, each class of goods, has its own
street. In the shoemakers' street, for example, shoes of all kinds are
set out, but the most common are slippers of yellow and red leather,
embroidered and stitched with gold, for men, women, and children, for
rich and poor. For a long distance you can see nothing but slippers and
shoes right and left.

You are very glad when the shoe department comes to an end and you come
to a large street where rich shopkeepers sell brocades of silver, gold,
and silk. It is best not to take much money with you to this street, or
you will be tempted to buy everything you see. Here lie mats from
Persia, embroidered silken goods from India, shawls from Kashmir, and
the finest work of southern Asia and northern Africa. Poor Fatima! Her
husband is wealthy enough, but he has no mind to let her scatter his
money about in the great bazaar. With sad looks she gazes at the
turquoises from Nishapur, the rubies from Badakshan, the pearls from the
coast of Bahrein, and the corals from the Indian Ocean.

When she has spent all the silver coins she has with her, she turns to
leave, but it is a long way to the entrances of the bazaar. She passes
through the street of the metalworkers and turns off at the armourers'
lane. There the noise is deafening: sledge hammers and mallets hammer
and beat, for the shops of the bazaar are workshops as well.

Again she turns a corner. Evidently she has lost her way, for she stands
and looks about in all directions. She has now come to a passage where
water-pipes and all articles connected with smoking are sold. Then she
turns in another direction. An odour tells her a long distance off that
she is coming to the street of spice-dealers. She has to ask her way
almost at every step.

Not only in Constantinople but in all parts of the Turkish Empire, and
all over the Mohammedan world, goods are bought and sold in these
half-dark tunnels which are called bazaars. It is the same in the
Mohammedan towns of North Africa, in Arabia, Asia Minor, Persia,
Caucasia, Afghanistan, India, and Turkestan. Wherever minarets rise
above the dwellings of men and the muezzin sings out his everlasting
"There is no god but God," the exchange of wares and coin is carried on
in dark bazaars. The great bazaar in Stambul is one of the richest, but
even where the bazaars are small and insignificant the same order
prevails, the same mode of life. Among Turkish men and women of high
rank stroll poor ragamuffins and dervishes or begging monks. A caravan
of camels moves slowly through the crowd, bringing fresh supplies to the
tradesmen from a steamboat quay or from the railway station. The camels
have scarcely disappeared in the darkness before a train of mules with
heavy bales follows in their track. A loud-voiced man offers for sale
grapes and melons he carries in a basket, while another bears a
water-bottle of leather.

And all the races which swarm here! The great majority are, of course,
Turks, but we also see whole rows of shops where only Persians trade. We
see Hindus from India, Egyptians from Cairo, Arabs from the coasts of
the Red Sea, Circassians and Tatars from the Caucasus and the Crimea,
Sarts from Samarkand and Bokhara, Armenians, Jews, and Greeks, and not
infrequently we meet a negro from Zanzibar or a Chinaman from the
farthest East.

It is a confusion of shopmen and customers, brokers and thieves from all
the East. A noise and bustle, a deafening roar which never ceases all
day long, a hurrying, a striving and eagerness to clear the stock and
gain money. If the prices were fixed, business would soon be done. But
if you have taken a fancy to a Kurdish mat and ask the price, the
tradesman demands a quite absurd sum. You shrug your shoulders and go
your way. He calls out another, lower price. You go on quietly, and the
man comes running after you and has dropped his price to the lowest. In
every shop bargains are made vociferously in the same way. There is a
continual buzz of voices, now and then interrupted by the bells of
caravans.

The illumination is dim. The noonday sun penetrates only through
openings in the vault and forms patches of light. Dust floats about in
the shafts of light, mixed with smoke from water-pipes. The greater the
distance the dimmer this confined air appears. There is also an
indescribable odour. The smell of men and animals, of dusty goods, of
rank tobacco, of rotting refuse, strong spices, fresh, juicy fruit--all
mixed together into a peculiar odour which is characteristic of all
Oriental bazaars.

The bazaar of Stambul contains a great deal besides. On the northern
side is a line of old caravanserais, massive stone buildings of several
storeys, with galleries, passages, and rooms, and with a large open
court in the centre. Here resort the wholesale merchants, and here are
their warehouses and stocks. Lastly, cafes and eating-houses are found
in the tunnelled streets, baths and small oratories, so that a man can
pass his whole day in the bazaar without needing to go home. He can
obtain all he wants in the vicinity of his shop.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Pasha" is an honorary title given to officials of high rank in
Turkey and Egypt, as to governors of provinces, military commanders,
etc.

[2] A garment worn throughout the Levant, consisting of a long gown
fastened by a girdle and having sleeves reaching below the hands.

[3] A "droshky" is a low, four-wheeled, open carriage, plying for hire.
The word is Russian.




II

CONSTANTINOPLE TO TEHERAN (1905)


THE BLACK SEA

Attended by the _cavass_[4] of the Swedish Embassy, old Ali, I drove
down to the quay on a fresh, sunny October morning, loaded all my boxes
on board a _caique_, and was rowed by four men out to the Bosporus
between anchored sailing vessels, steamers, and yachts. On arriving at
the gangway of a large Russian steamer, I waited until all my luggage
was safe on board and then followed it.

The anchor is weighed, the propeller begins to turn, and the vessel
steers a course northwards through the Bosporus. With my field-glasses I
settle down on a bench in the stern and take farewell of the Turkish
capital. How grand, how unforgettable is this scene! The white, graceful
minarets shoot up to heaven from the sea of houses, and the
cypresses--tall, grave, and straight as kings--also seem to point out to
the children of earth the way to Paradise. Everywhere the houses mount
up the hills, ranged like the rows of seats in a theatre. The whole is
like a gigantic circus with an auditorium for more than a million Turks,
and the arena is the blue water of the Bosporus.

The steamer carries us away relentlessly from this charming picture. As
dreams fade away in the night, so the white city is concealed by the
first promontories. Then I change my place and look ahead. Perhaps the
view is even more beautiful in this direction. The sound is like a river
between steep, rocky shores, but in the mouth of every valley, and
wherever the margin of the shore is flat, stand white villas and
mansions, villages, walls and ruins, gardens and groves. The Bosporus is
barely twenty miles long. In some places its breadth is less than a
third of a mile, in others two-thirds. Old plane-trees spread their
crowns over fresh meadows, and laurels, chestnuts, walnuts, and oaks
afford deep shade. White dolphins skim along the water, and a school of
porpoises follows in the wake of the boat, waiting for the refuse from
the cook's galley. They are dark, soft, and smooth, their backs shining
like metal, and they can easily be seen several feet below the surface.
A single flap of the tail fin gives them a tremendous impulse, and they
come up to the surface like arrows discharged by the gods of the sea,
and describe beautiful somersaults among the waves. They could easily
overtake us if they liked, but they content themselves with following
close behind us hour after hour.

To the left we have the European coast, to the right the Asiatic. The
distance is always so small that the Europeans can hear the bark of the
Asiatic dogs. Here is Terapia, with the summer villas of Christians and
the ambassadors' palaces. Turkish coffee-houses are erected on the
shore, and their balconies hang over the water. Farther on there is a
large valley with an ancient plane-tree with seven trunks which are
called "the seven brothers." According to tradition Godfrey de Bouillon
with his crusaders reposed under its shade in the winter of 1096-1097,
when he marched to recover the holy sepulchre and win the sounding title
of "King of Jerusalem."

Now the channel widens out and the coasts of the two continents diverge
from each other. We see the horizon of the Black Sea opening before us,
and the vessel begins to pitch. Lighthouses stand on either side of the
entrance, which is commanded by batteries high above it. We roll out
into the sea, and half an hour later we can hardly see the break in the
coast-line which marks the end of the Bosporus.

We make straight for Sebastopol, near the southernmost point of the
Crimea. This is the station of the Russian Black Sea fleet, but the
Russians have little pride in it, for the Turks control the passage to
the Mediterranean, and without the consent of the other great Powers the
Russian warships cannot pass through. The Black Sea is, of course, open
to the mercantile vessels of all nations.

You know, of course, that Europe has four landlocked seas, the Baltic,
the Mediterranean, the Black and Caspian Seas. The Baltic is enclosed
all round by European coasts; the Black and Caspian Seas belong to both
Europe and Asia; while the Mediterranean lies between the three
continents of the Old World--Europe, Asia, and Africa. Now the Baltic,
Black, and Caspian Seas are of about the same size, each having an area
about three times that of England and Wales. The Baltic is connected
with the Atlantic by several sounds between the Danish islands and
Scania. The Black Sea has only one outlet, the Bosporus. The Caspian Sea
has no outlet at all, and is really a lake.

The Baltic is very shallow, its maximum depth, south-east of the
Landsort lighthouse, being 250 fathoms. Next comes the Caspian Sea with
a depth of 600 fathoms. The singular feature of this, the largest lake
in the world, is that its surface lies 85 feet below that of the Black
Sea. This last is the deepest of the three, for in it a sounding of 1230
fathoms has been taken.

All three seas are salt, the Baltic least and the Caspian most. Four
great rivers enter the Black Sea, the Danube, Dniester, Dnieper, and
Don. It therefore receives large volumes of fresh water. But along the
bottom of the Bosporus an undercurrent of salt water passes into the
Black Sea, which is compensated for by a surface stream of less salt and
therefore lighter water flowing to the Mediterranean.

The Black Sea is not blacker than any other sea, nor is the White Sea
white, the Yellow Sea yellow, or the Red Sea red. And so no faith should
be accorded to the story of a captain in the Mediterranean who wished to
sail to the Red Sea but went to the Black Sea--because he was
colour-blind!

But now we can continue our heaving course, still accompanied by
dolphins and porpoises. We look in at the harbour of Sebastopol, we
anchor in open roadsteads off Caucasian towns, we moor our cables to the
rings on the quay of Batum, and finally drop our anchor for the last
time at a short distance from the coast of Asia Minor.

Proud and bright, with forest-clad heights in the background, Trebizond
bathes in the rays of the midday sun. Small rowing-boats come out from
the land to take passengers and goods to the quay. The Turkish boatmen
scream all together, but no one listens to them. Every one is glad to be
landed safe and sound with his baggage.


TREBIZOND TO TEHERAN

Trebizond was a Greek colony seven hundred years before the birth of
Christ, and from time immemorial Persian trade has made its way to the
Black Sea by the road which still runs through Tabriz to Teheran, a
distance of 800 miles. This traffic is now on the decline, for modern
means of communication have taken the place of the old caravans, and
most of their trade has been diverted to the Suez Canal and the
Caucasian railways. Many large caravans, however, still journey to and
fro along this road, which is so well made that one can drive not only
to Tabriz, but still further to Teheran. It may, indeed, be softened by
autumn rains or frozen hard on the high plateaus of Turkish Armenia, and
the speed is not great when the same horses have to be used for
distances of 160 miles.

It was a lively cavalcade that pounded and rattled over the Turkish and
Persian roads in November, 1905. I was by no means alone. The Governors
of Trebizond and Erzerum were so good as to provide me with an escort of
six armed troopers on sturdy horses. In front rides a Turkish soldier on
a piebald horse, carrying his carbine in a sling over his back, his
sabre and dagger hanging at his side, and wearing a red fez with a white
_pagri_[5] wound round it as a protection from sun and wind. Then I come
in my carriage, drawn by three horses. Old Shakir, the coachman, is
already my friend; it is he who prepares my meals and looks after me
generally. I am well wrapped up in a Caucasian cloak, with a
_bashlik_[6] over my cap, and lean back comfortably and look at the
country as we drive along. Behind the carriage ride two soldiers on
brown horses, engaged in a lively conversation and wondering whether
they will be well tipped. Then come two clumsy carts, on which all my
baggage is firmly secured. They have their own drivers and men, and are
escorted by three troopers.

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