IN a recent issue of this magazine I described my visit to Berlin as it is under the Bolsheviks. On the very day following the events there related, I was surprised and delighted to receive a telegram which read “Come on to Constantinople and write us up too.” From the signature I saw that the message was from my old friend, Abdul Aziz the Sultan.
I had visited him—as of course my readers will instantly recollect—during the height of the war, and the circumstances of my departure had been such that I should have scarcely ventured to repeat my visit without this express invitation. But on receipt of it, I set out at once by rail for Constantinople.
I was delighted to find that under the new order of things in going from Berlin to Constantinople it was no longer necessary to travel through the barbarous and brutal populations of Germany, Austria and Hungary. The way now runs, though I believe the actual railroad is the same, through the Thuringian Republic, Czecho-Slovakia and Magyaria. It was a source of deep satisfaction to see the scowling and hostile countenances of Germans, Austrians and Hungarians replaced by the cheerful and honest faces of the Thuringians, the Czecho-Slovaks and the Magyarians. Moreover I was assured on all sides that if these faces are not perfectly satisfactory, they will be altered in any way required.
IT was very pleasant, too, to find myself once again in the fiagstoned halls of the Yildiz Kiosk, the Sultan’s palace. My little friend, Abdul Aziz, rose at once from his cushioned divan under a lemon tree and came shuffling in his big slippers to meet me, a smile of welcome on his face. He seemed, to my surprise, radiant with happiness. The disasters attributed by the Allied press to his unhappy country appeared to sit lightly on the little man.
“How is everything going in Turkey?” I asked as we sat down side by side on the cushions.
“Splendid,” said Abdul. “I suppose you’ve heard
Tv_^. — that we’re bankrupt?”
r\ “Bankrupt!” I ex-
“Yes,” continued the Sultan, rubbing his hands together with positive enjoyment, “we can’t pay a cent: isn’t it great? Have some champagne?”
He clapped his hands together and a turbaned attendant appeared with wine on a tray which he served into long-necked glasses.
“I’d rather have tea,” I said.
“No, no, don’t take tea,” he protested. “We’ve practically cut out afternoon tea here. It’s part of our Turkish thrift movement. We’re taking champagne instead. Tell me, have you a Thrift Movement like that where you come from—Canada, I think it is, isn’t it?”' ’V
“Yes,” I answered, “we have one just like that.” “This war finance is glorious stuff, isn’t it?” continued the Sultan. “How much do you think we owe?” “I haven’t an idea,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” said Abdul.
TTE touched a bell and at the sound of it there came -*■ shuffling into the room my venerable old acquaintance, Toomuch Koffi, the Royal Secretary. But to my surprise he no longer wore his patriarchal beard, his flowing robe and his girdle. He was clean shaven and close cropped and dressed in a short jacket like an American bell boy.
“You remember Toomuch, I think,” said Abdul. “I’ve reconstructed him a little, as you see.”
“The Peace of Allah be upon thine head,” said Toomuch Koffi to the Sultan, commencing a deep salaam; “what wish sits behind thy forehead that thou shouldst ring the bell for this humble creature of clay to come into the sunlight of thy presence? Tell me, Oh Lord, if perchance—”
“Here, here,” interrupted the Sultan impatiently, “cut all that stuff out, please. That ancient courtesy business won’t do, not if this country is to reconstruct itself and come abreast of the great modern democracies. Say to me simply ‘What’s the trouble’?” Toomuch bowed, and Abdul continued. “Look in your tablets and see how much our public debt amounts to in American dollars.”
The Secretary drew forth his tablets, ,and bowed his head a moment in some perplexity over the figures that were scribbled on them. “Multiplication,” I heard him murmur, “is an act of the grace of heaven; let me invoke a blessing orr five, the perfect number, whereby
the Pound Turkish is distributed into the American dollar.”
TTE remained for a few moments with his eyes turned, as if in supplication, towards the vaulted ceiling.
“Have you got it?” asked Abdul.
?‘And what do we owe, adding it all together?”
“Forty billion dollars,” said Toomuch.
“Isn’t that wonderful!” exclaimed Abdul, with delight radiating over his countenance. “Who would have thought that before the war! Forty billion dollars! Aren’t we the financiers? Aren’t we the bulwark of monetary power? Can you touch that in Canada?”
“No,” I said, “we can’t. We don’t owe two billion yet.“
“Oh, never mind, never mind.” said the little man in a consoling tone. “You are only a young country yet. You’ll do better later on. And in any case I am sureyou are just as proud of your one billion as we are of our forty.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “we certainly are.”
“Come, come, that’s something anyway. You’re on
the right track, and you must not be discouraged if you’re not up to the Turkish standard yet. You must remember, as I told you before, that Turkey leads the world in all ideas of government and finance. Take the present situation. Here we are, bankrupt—pass me the champagne, Toomuch, and sit down with us—the very first nation of the lot. It’s a great feather in the cap of our financiers. It gives us a splendid start for the new era of reconstruction that we are beginning on. As you perhaps have hard we are all hugely busy about it. You notice my books and papers, do you not?” the Sultan added very proudly, waving his hand towards a great pile of blue books, pamphlets and documents that were heaped upon the floor beside him.
“Why! I never knew before that you ever read anything!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Never did. But everything’s changed now, isn’t it, Toomuch? I sit and work here for hours every morning. It’s become a delight to me. After all,” said Abdul, lighting a big cigar and sticking up his feet on his pile of papers with an air of the deepest comfort, “what is there like work? So stimulating, so satisfying. I sit here working away, just like this, most of the day. There’s nothing like it.”
“What are you working at?” I asked.
“Reconstruction,” said the little man, puffing a big cloud from his cigar, “reconstruction.”
“What kind of reconstruction?”
<< A LL kinds—financial, industrial, political, social. It’s great stuff. By the way,” he continued with great animation,
“would you like to be my Minister of Labor?
No? Well, I’m sorry. I half hoped you would. We’re having no luck with them.
The last one was thrown into the Bosphorus on Monday. Here’s the report on it—no, that’s the one on the shooting of the Minister of Religion—ah ! here it is—Report on the Drowning of the Minister of Labor. Let me read you a bit of this: I call this one of
the best reports, of its kind, that has come in.”
“No, no,” I said, “don’t bother to read it.
Just tell me who did it and why.”
“Workingmen,” said the Sultan, very cheerfully, “a delegation. They withheld their reasons.”
“So you are having labor troubles here too?” I asked.
“Labor troubles!” exclaimed the little Sultan, rolling up his eyes. “I should say so. The whole of Turkey is bubbling with labor unrest like the rosewater in a narghile. Look at your tablets, Toomuch, and tell me what new strikes there have been this morning.”
The aged Secretary fumbled with his notes and began to murmur—“Truly will I try, with the aid of Allah—”
“Now, now,” said Abdul warningly, “that won’t do. Say simply ‘Sure.’ Now tell me.”
The Secretary looked at a little list and read: “The
strikes of to-day comprise—the wigmakers, the dog fanciers, the conjurers, the snake charmers, and the soothsayers.”
“You hear that,” said Abdul proudly. “That represents some of the most skilled labor in Turkey.”
“I suppose it does,” I said, “but tell me, Abdul— what about the really necessary trades, the coal miners,
the steel workers, the textile operatives, the farmers, and the railway people. Are they working?”
The little Sultan threw himself back on his cushions in a paroxysm of laughter, in which even his ancient Secretary was feign to join.
“My dear sir, my dear sir!” he laughed. “Don’t make me die of laughter. .Working! Those people working! Surely you don’t think we are so behindhand in Turkey as all that! All those workers stopped absolutely months ago. It is doubtful if they’ll ever work again. There’s a strong movement in Turkey to abolish all necessary work altogether.”
“But who then,” I asked, “is working?”
“Look on the tablets, Toomuch, and see.”
The aged Secretary bowed, and turned over the leaves of his “tablets,” which I now perceived, on a closer view, to be merely an American ten cent memorandum book. Then he read:
“The following, oh All Highest, still work—the beggars, the poets, the missionaries, the Salvation Army, and the instructors of the Youths of Light in the American Presbyterian College.”
“But, dear me, Abdul,” I exclaimed, “Surely this situation is desperate? What can your nation subsist on in such a situation?”
“Pooh, pooh,” said the Sultan. “The interest on our debt alone is two billion a year. Everybody in Turkey, great or small, holds bonds to some extent. At the worst they can all live fairly well on the interest. This is finance, is it not, Toomuch Koffi?”
“The very best and latest,” said the aged man with a profound salaam.
“DUT what steps are you taking,” I asked, “to remedy your labor troubles?”
“We are appointing commissions,” said Abdul. “We appoint one for each new labor problem. How many yesterday, Toomuch?”
“Forty-three,” answered the secretary. “That’s below our average, is it not?” said Abdul a little anxiously. “Try to keep it up to fifty if you can. We must not fall behind you in Canada.”
“And these commissions, what do they
“They make Reports,” said Abdul, beginning to yawn as if the continued brain exercise of conversation were fatiguing his intellect, “excellent reports. We have had some that are said to be perfect models of the very best Turkish.”
“And what do they recommend?”
“I don’t know,” said the Sultan. “We don’t read
them for that. We like to read them simply as Turk-
The story you want is part of the Maclean’s Archives. To access it, log in here or sign up for your free 30-day trial.
Experience anything and everything Maclean's has ever published — over 3,500 issues and 150,000 articles, images and advertisements — since 1905. Browse on your own, or explore our curated collections and timely recommendations.WATCH THIS VIDEO for highlights of everything the Maclean's Archives has to offer.