Читать книгу The Story Teller of the Desert—"Backsheesh!" or, Life and Adventures in the Orient - Thomas Wallace Knox - Страница 92

Table of Contents

A Visit to a Russian Police Office—Smith, and what he did—A bad lot of passports—A race after a Governor in a Drosky—More Backsheesh—Delicate administration of a bribe—An obliging subordinate—Attempt at a swindle—Scraping an acquaintance—High life on the Black Sea—Muscovite ladies—Sunrise on the Euxine—Worshipping the Sun—Stamboul—Passing Quarantine—On the Bosphorus—A magnificent spectacle—The Castle of Europe—Palaces and Villas—Domes and Minarets—The Golden Horn—In front of Constantinople—Rapacity of Boatmen—Turkish Thieves—Streets of the City.

THERE is nothing very interesting about Odessa, for the reason that it is a place of no antiquity.

At the end of the last century it was a Tartar village bearing the name of Hadji Bey, and containing a dozen houses and a small fortress of Turkish construction. Now it is a grand city with one-hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, and having an extensive commerce. Ships of all nations lie at its wharves, and you see English, French, American, and nearly all other foreign names among the merchants established there. Its greatest export-commerce is in wheat, which goes from Odessa to all parts of the Mediterranean and also to England.

The Black Sea wheat formerly found a market in America, but we have changed all that with our immense grain production in the West and California.

It was no small matter to get out of Russia. I sent the passports of our party to the police-bureau on Thursday—two days before the time set for our departure—and was told that they were en règle for the journey to Constantinople. Saturday morning I paid a visit of politeness to the American consul, Mr. Smith, and just as I was leaving him he asked if he could be of any service.

“Thank you,” I replied, “I know of nothing you can do for me except to follow me with your good wishes. I don’t want to borrow any money nor obtain an introduction to any official.”

“Have you arranged your passports?”

“O, yes,” I answered with a confident smile. “I have travelled too much to neglect any of the formalities. The clerk of the hotel sent our passports to the police and had the proper visas attached.”

As I spoke I took my passport from my pocket, and handed it over with an air of triumph. He unfolded the document and examined it. His turn was to smile now, and he “smole.”

“All wrong, my dear sir,” he said, “there is no visa for departure; nothing but the visa pour entrer and the visa de séjour.”

Here was a pretty caldron of piscatorial products. It was one o’clock, and the steamer was to sail at four; it was Saturday afternoon, and the police-bureau closed at twelve o’clock on the last day of the week.

“I will endeavor to get you out of your trouble,” said the kind hearted Smith—I wish all Smiths were like him and the world would then be much better off than it is—“we will jump into a drosky and do some fast driving; and as I know the Governor and the Police-Master I think the matter can be fixed.”

We hired a drosky and told the driver to put in his best licks and he might expect something to get drunk on. This appeal to the noble sentiments of an isvoshchik’s heart roused his ambition and he put in the “licks” aforesaid, with a whip weighing about three pounds in the handle and two in the lash.