In this irresolute and unhappy frame of mind, Daville was conscious of his burning cheeks and his clammy armpits, which were full of sweat in spite of the cold. He hated D’Avenat’s persistent whispering, which struck him as boorish and revolting. It was an intimation, it seemed to him, of the kind of life a Westerner might expect if he moved to the Orient and hitched his destiny to it permanently.
Throughout this time, from behind their window grilles, invisible women spat down on the horses and the riders. Once more the Consul halted for a second; one more he went on, yielding to D’Avenat’s urgings and carried along by the stolid progress of his escorts. Soon they left the residential quarter behind them and gained the market street, with its single-storied shops, where Turkish storekeepers and their customers sat on little wooden platforms, smoking and bargaining. It was like passing from an overheated room into a cold one. All of a sudden there were no more blazing looks, no gestures indicating how the throats of unbelievers are slashed, no more sputtering by superstitious womenfolk. Instead, on both sides of the street, there were blank inscrutable faces. Daville saw them dimly, as if through a veil that shivered in front of his eyes. Not one of them paused in his work or stopped smoking or lifted his eyes and deigned to acknowledge with a glance the uncommon sight of a solemn procession. Here and there a shopkeeper did turn his head, as if looking for merchandise on the shelves. Only Orientals knew how to hate and feel contempt so intensely, and to show it in this way.
D’Avenat had fallen silent and backed away as required by protocol, but Daville found this incredible mute contempt of the bazaar just as hard to take, just as insufferable as the loud-voiced hatred and abuse of a little while before. At last they veered to the right and saw the high, long walls and the white building of the Vizier’s Residency, a large well-proportioned dwelling with a row of glazed windows. He felt a little easier.
The agonizing journey that now lay behind him would long remain etched in Daville’s memory; like an unhappy but portentous dream, it would never be entirely erased. In years to come he was to retrace his steps along the same road a hundred times, in similar circumstances; for as often as he would have an audience with the Vizier—and they would be frequent, especially in times of unrest—he would have to ride through the same residential quarter and the same market street. He would sit upright and rigid on his horse, looking neither to the left nor to the right, neither too high nor between the horse’s ears, appearing neither distracted nor worried, neither smiling nor dour, but quietly and soberly alert, displaying the kind of studied air with which generals in their portraits contemplate a battle in the distance, gazing at a point somewhere between the road and the horizon where promised and well-timed reinforcements are supposed to appear. For a long time yet Turkish children would spit at his horse’s legs, in frantic but childish imitation of spell-casting, which they had learned from their elders. Moslem shopkeepers would turn their backs to him, pretending to look for something on the shelves.
Only a rare Jew here and there would greet him, coming face to face with him unexpectedly, unable to dodge him. Time and again he was to ride by like this, outwardly calm and dignified but inwardly trembling at the hate and the studied indifference closing in on him from all sides, shuddering at the thought of some sudden, unexpected incident, loathing his work and his present life, yet trying to hide by a convulsive effort both the alarm and the revulsion he felt.
And even much later, when in the course of many years and changes the populace had finally accepted the presence of foreigners, and when Daville had met a number of people and got to know them much better, this first ceremonial procession would linger in his consciousness like a black and burning line which continues to hurt and is only gradually salved and healed by oblivion.
With a hollow clatter, the procession crossed a wooden bridge and came up to a large gate. All at once, with a loud scraping of locks and a bustle of attendants, both wings swung wide open.
Jean Daville was about to enter the stage on which, for nearly eight years, he would play the varied scenes of a singularly exacting and thankless role.
Time and again he would stand before this yawning, disproportionately wide gate; and always, at the moment when it gaped open, it would seem to him like the hideous mouth of a jinnee, spewing and belching the smell of everything that lived, grew, steamed, was used up or ailing in the huge Residency. He knew that the town and the district, which had to feed the Vizier and his staff, daily stocked the Residency with almost a ton of assorted provisions and that all of it was distributed, stolen, or consumed. He knew that besides the Vizier and his close family there were eleven other dignitaries, thirty-two guards, and as many, and maybe more, parasites, hangers-on, Christian day workers, and petty clerks; over and above that, an indeterminate number of horses, cattle, dogs, cats, birds, and monkeys. The air was heavy with the stomach-turning reek of rancid butter and tallow, which overpowered those who were not inured to it. After every audience this sickly sweet odor would haunt the Consul for the rest of the day and the very thought of it produced in him a feeling of nausea. He had the impression that the entire Residency was permeated with the smell, as a church with incense, and that it clung not only to people and to their clothes but also to the walls and all other inanimate objects.
Now as the unfamiliar gate swung open to receive him for the first time, the Mameluke column detached itself and dismounted, while Daville rode into the courtyard with his own escort. This first, outer courtyard was narrow and shadowy, closed over by the upper story of the house from one end to the other; but beyond was a regular open courtyard, with a water well, with grass, and flowerbeds along the walls. At the far end, a tall and impenetrable fence shut off the Vizier’s private garden.
Still shaken by his experiences during his passage through the town, Daville was now startled by the polite fuss and ceremonious attention extended to him by the entire population of courtiers and officials of the Residency. They all milled and scurried around him with an avid, overwhelming concern that was unknown in the ceremonials of the West.
The first to greet the Consul was the Vizier’s Secretary; the Vizier’s Deputy, Suleiman Pasha Skoplyak, was not in Travnik. Behind him came the Keeper of Arms, the Quartermaster, the Treasurer, the Protocol Officer, and behind them shoved and elbowed a whole crowd of people of unknown and indeterminate rank and occupation. Some murmured a few indistinct words of welcome, bowing their heads, others spread their arms ceremoniously, and the whole throng moved toward the great hall where the divan—or reception—was to be held. Through it all, the towering and swarthy D’Avenat made his way deftly and with practiced indifference, loftily brushing aside those who stood in the way, and issuing orders and instructions rather more loudly and conspicuously than the occasion warranted. Inwardly confused but calm and self-possessed on the outside, Daville couldn’t help seeing himself as one of those saints in the Catholic holy pictures, borne to the heavens by a swarm of angels; the throng simply carried him up the few broad steps that led from the courtyard to the divan.
The divan was a dim but spacious hall on the ground level. There were a few rugs scattered on the floor; all around were couches draped with cherry-red cloth. In an alcove by the window were cushions for the Vizier and his guest. The walls contained a single picture, the imperial coat of arms: the Sultan’s initials in gold letters on a green parchment. Underneath, a sword, two pistols, and a scarlet mantle of honor, gifts from Sultan Selim III to his favorite, Husref Mehmed Pasha.
Above this hall, on the upper story, there was another like it, much brighter though more sparsely furnished, in which the Vizier held his divan during the summer months. Two entire walls of this great room were taken up with windows, one half of which overlooked the garden and the other the river Lashva and the bazaar beyond the bridge. These were the “panels of glass” about which songs were sung and tales told, the likes of which were not to be found in all Bosnia; it was from Austria that Mehmed Pasha had imported them a
t his own expense, hiring a famous master glazier, a German, to cut and install them. Seated on his cushion a guest could look out through the windows and see the open veranda where under the eaves a nest of swallows perched high on a juniper beam, and he could listen to their twitter and watch the shy mother swallow dart in and out amid the trembling stalks of straw.
Sitting beside these windows was always delightful. It was bright there and full of flowers and greenery, and one sat in a soft breeze, lapped by the purling sound of water and chirruping birds, and there was always peace enough to rest in and quiet for reflection or talk. Many a hard and thorny decision was reached or sanctioned there; but all problems, when discussed in this place, seemed somehow easier, clearer, and more human than in the reception hall on the ground floor.
These two rooms of the Residency were the only ones Daville would ever get to know during his stay in Travnik, and they would be the scene of his trials and satisfactions, failures and successes. Here, in the years to come, he would learn to understand not only the Turks and their peculiar strengths and terrible weaknesses, but also himself, his own capacity and limitations, and mankind in general, and the world and human relationships within it.
This first audience, as was customary in the winter, was held in the divan on the ground floor. Judging by the stale and moldy air, the hall had been opened and heated for the first time that winter, especially for the occasion.
As soon as the Consul crossed the threshold, a door opened on the opposite side of the hall and the Vizier appeared in a colorful gala robe, accompanied by courtiers who walked with their heads slightly bowed and arms humbly folded on their chests.
This was the great ceremonial audience which Daville had sought and negotiated for three days through D’Avenat, and which he hoped would lend special color and spice to his initial report to the Minister. The Turks had suggested that the Vizier await the Consul reclining on his couch, as he did all his other visitors, but the Consul demanded that he greet him standing on his feet. The Consul had invoked the might of France and the battle glory of his sovereign, the Turks their ancient traditions and the greatness of their Empire. At length it was agreed that both the Vizier and the Consul should make their entrance at the same moment and meet in the center of the hall, whence the Vizier would lead the Frenchman to the platform by the window where two identical cushions would be set, on which they would lower themselves at the same instant.
This was in fact what happened. The Vizier, who had a limp in his right foot for which the people had nicknamed him the Lame Pasha, walked up briskly and energetically, as lame people often do, and cordially invited the Consul to be seated.
Between them, but a step lower, squatted the interpreter D’Avenat. He sat doubled up, with hands folded in his lap and his eyes downcast, as if anxious to make himself smaller and less conspicuous than he was, obtruding with his presence and his breath only as much as was necessary to enable these two dignitaries to communicate their thoughts and declarations to each other. The rest of the throng melted away quietly. There remained only servants, standing at a respectful distance, awaiting their master’s bidding. During the whole conversation, which took up more than an hour’s time, everything that ceremonial hospitality required was passed discreetly from one shadowy boy to another and offered to the Vizier and his guest.
First, lighted chibouks were brought in, then coffee, then sherbet. Then one of the boys, approaching on his knees, held out a shallow bowl of strong aromatic essence and passed it under the Vizier’s beard and around the Consul’s mustache, as if censing them. Then again more coffee and fresh pipes. All of it was served while they were talking, with the utmost efficiency, inconspicuously, swiftly, and yet with a practiced sense of timing.
For an Oriental, the Vizier was unusually lively, cordial, and outspoken. Daville had already been told about these traits of the Vizier and although he knew they were not to be taken at face value, he still found the man’s cordiality and friendliness most agreeable, especially after the humiliating experience in the bazaar. The throbbing of blood in his head subsided. The Vizier’s talk, the aroma of coffee, and the smell of pipes were pleasant and soothing, even if they could not altogether erase the earlier sickening impressions. The Vizier tactfully alluded to the backwardness of the land and to the coarse and boorish manners of the people. It was a difficult country and the natives were a problem. What could one expect of women and children, creatures on whom God had not lavished much reason, in a country where even the men were irresponsible louts? Nothing these people did or said could have any significance or importance or any effect on the affairs of serious and enlightened persons. The dog barks but the caravan moves on, said the Vizier in conclusion; for he had obviously been informed of everything that had happened during the Consul’s ride through the city and was now trying to minimize and smooth over the incident. Then, without further ado, he passed from these unpleasant trivia to a fresh subject, the signal greatness of Napoleon’s victories and the enormous importance of close and realistic collaboration between the two empires, the Ottoman and the French.
These words, spoken quietly and sincerely, were like a balm to Daville, intended as they were to be an indirect apology for the insults of a little while before; in his own eyes, at any rate, they lessened the humiliation he had endured. Feeling reassured and better disposed, he now gave the Vizier more of his attention and remembered all that D’Avenat had told him about the man.
Husref Mehmed Pasha, nicknamed “the Lame,” was a Georgian. Brought to Istanbul as a slave in his youth, he had entered the service of the great Kutchuk Hussein Pasha. There he was noticed by Selim III, even before the latter ascended the throne. Brave, shrewd, bright, eloquent, genuinely devoted to his superiors, this Georgian became, at the age of thirty-one, Vizier of Egypt. His tenure was cut short, however, as the great Mameluke rebellion drove him out of the country; even so, he was not disgraced altogether. After a short stay at Salonica he was appointed Vizier of Bosnia. As punishment this was comparatively mild, and he made it appear lighter still by keeping up a shrewd pretense before the world that he did not regard it as a punishment at all. He brought with him from Egypt a detachment of thirty loyal Mamelukes whom he liked to exercise on the drilling field of Travnik. Well fed and lavishly uniformed, the Mamelukes attracted general curiosity and served to bolster his prestige with the people. The Bosnian Moslems eyed them with hatred but also with fear and secret admiration.
Even more than the Mamelukes, the people admired the Vizier’s stud, which far surpassed any other yet seen in Bosnia for both the number and quality of its horses.
The Vizier was young and looked still younger than his years. Of less than medium build, he somehow managed, with his whole bearing, and particularly with his habit of smiling, to give an impression of being an inch or two taller than he was. Although he limped with his right foot, the skillful cut of his clothes and his crisp, energetic movements somehow disguised this defect. Whenever obliged to stand on his feet, he invariably struck a pose that concealed his disability; and when he was obliged to move, he did so swiftly, nimbly, and in short spurts. This gave him a characteristic air of freshness and youth. He had none of that monolithic Ottoman dignity of which Daville had read and heard so much. The color and style of his clothes were simple, though it was evident that they were chosen with the utmost care. There are people who can impart a special glitter and elegance to their dress and adornment by the mere act of wearing it. His face was unusually ruddy, like a seafaring man’s, with a short dark beard and slanted black, shiny eyes; it was an open and smiling face. He seemed to be one of those men who hide their true mood in a steady smile and their thoughts, or lack of them, in animated talk. In everything he touched upon he seemed to imply a greater knowledge of the subject than the words themselves might have indicated. His every cordiality, attention, and kindness appeared to be only a preamble, a first installment of what one might still expect of him. Regardless of how much one might hav
e been briefed and forewarned, it was impossible to escape the impression that here was an honorable and sensible man who would not only promise but also carry out a good deed, where and whenever he could; at the same time no person, however astute, could really judge or discern the subtle limits of those promises or the actual scope of the good deed.
The Vizier and the Consul turned to those subjects for which each knew the other had a secret weakness, or which happened to be a favorite topic. The Vizier kept referring to the exceptional personality of Napoleon and to his victories, while the Consul, who had learned from D’Avenat about the Vizier’s love of the sea and seafaring, spoke of matters connected with navigation and naval warfare. The Vizier did, in fact, have a passionate love of the sea and of a sailor’s life. Besides his secret shame over his failure in Egypt, he suffered most of all from the fact that he had been torn away from the sea and imprisoned in these cold, wild mountain regions. Deep down inside him the Vizier still nurtured the hope that one day he might succeed his great chief Kutchuk Hussein Pasha and, as Chief Lord of the Admiralty, pursue his plans and designs for the revival of the Turkish battle fleet.
After an hour and a half of conversation the Consul and the Vizier parted as old acquaintances, each believing that much might be achieved with the help of the other, each pleased with the other and with himself.
The Consul’s leave-taking occasioned an even greater bustle and hubbub than before. Fur cloaks of really considerable value were brought out; sable for the Consul, coats of fox fur and cloth for his retinue. Someone voiced a prayer and invoked blessings on the imperial guest, and the others chorused after him. The high-ranking courtiers led Daville back to the mounting block in the middle of the inner courtyard; they all walked with open arms, as if bearing him along. Daville mounted his horse. The Vizier’s sable cloak was slung over his greatcoat. Outside the Mamelukes were waiting, mounted and ready. The procession turned back the way it had come.