Paul Patoff | Page 4

dark-eyed Armenian lady,
walking slowly by the water's edge, to the terrifically arrayed little

Greek dandy, with a spotted waistcoat and a thunder-and-lightning tie.
He sees them all: the Levantine with the weak and cunning face, the
swarthy Kurdish porter, the gorgeously arrayed Dalmatian embassy
servant, the huge, fair Turkish waterman in his spotless white dress,
and the countless veiled Turkish women from the small harems of the
little town, shuffling along in silence, or squatted peacefully upon a
jutting point of the pier, veiled in yashmaks, the more transparent as
they have the more beauty to show or the less ugliness to conceal. The
carpet merchant sees them all, and sits like Patience upon a
monumental heap of stuffs, waiting for customers and smoking his
water-pipe. His eyes are greedy and his fingers are long, but the peace
of a superior mendacity is on his brow, and in his heart the lawful price
of goods is multiplied exceedingly.
By the side of the quay, separated from the quiet water by the broad
white road, stand the villas, the embassies, the houses, large and small,
a varying front, following the curve of the Bosphorus for half a mile
between the Turkish towns of Buyukdere and Mesar Burnu. Behind the
villas rise the gardens, terraces upon terraces of roses, laurels, lemons,
Japanese medlars, and trees and shrubs of all sorts, with a stone pine or
a cypress here and there, dark green against the faint blue sky. Beyond
the breadth of smooth sapphire water, scarcely rippling under the gentle
northerly breeze, the long hills of the Asian mainland stretch to the left
as far as the mouth of the Black Sea, and to the right until the quick
bend of the narrow channel hides Asia from view behind the low
promontories of the European shore. Now and then a big ferry-boat
puffs into sight, churning the tranquil waters into foam with her huge
paddles; a dozen sailing craft are in view, from Lord Mavourneen's
smart yawl to the outlandishly rigged Turkish schooner, her masts
raking forward like the antlers of a stag at bay, and spreading a motley
collection of lateen-sails, stay-sails, square top-sails, and vast
spinnakers rigged out with booms and sprits, which it would puzzle a
northern sailor to name. Far to the right, towards Therapia, glimmer the
brilliant uniforms and the long bright oars of an ambassador's
twelve-oared caïque, returning from an official visit at the palace; and
near the shore are loitering half a dozen barcas,--commodious
row-boats, with awnings and cushioned seats,--on the lookout for a

fare.
It is the month of June, and the afternoon air is warm and hazy upon the
land, though a gentle northerly breeze is on the water, just enough to
fill the sails of Lord Mavourneen's little yacht, so that by making many
short tacks he may beat up to the mouth of the Black Sea before sunset.
But his excellency the British ambassador is in no hurry; he would go
on tacking in his little yawl to all eternity of nautical time, with vast
satisfaction, rather than be bored and worried and harrowed by the
predestinating servants of Allah, at the palace of his majesty the
commander of the faithful. Even Fate, the universal Kismet,
procrastinates in Turkey, and Lord Mavourneen's special mission is to
out-procrastinate the procrastinator. For the present the little yawl is an
important factor in his operations, and as he stands in his rough blue
clothes, looking up through his single eyeglass at the bellying canvas, a
gentle smile upon his strongly marked face betrays considerable
satisfaction. Lord Mavourneen is a very successful man, and his smile
and his yacht have been elements of no small importance in his success.
They characterize him historically, like the tear which always trembles
under the left eyelid of Prince Bismarck, like the gray overcoat of
Bonaparte, the black tights and gloomy looks of Hamlet the Dane, or
Richelieu's kitten. Lord Mavourneen is a man of action, but he can wait.
When he came to Constantinople the Turks thought they could keep
him waiting, but they have discovered that they are more generally kept
waiting themselves, while his excellency is up the Bosphorus, beating
about in his little yawl near the mouth of the Black Sea. His actions are
thought worthy of high praise, but on some occasions his inaction
borders upon the sublime. Of the men who moved along the Buyukdere
quay, many paused and glanced out over the water at the white-sailed
yawl, with the single streamer flying from the mast-head; and some
smiled as they recognized the ambassadorial yacht, and some looked
grave.
The sun sank lower towards the point where he disappears from the
sight of the inhabitants of Buyukdere; for he is not seen to set from