back; and, far from sharing in the astonishment of those who almost deem it a miracle that the whole nation has not been swept away, I rather marvel at the state of moral and political thraldom in which they exist. The tolerated citizens of an Empire whose interests, both civil and religious, differ so widely from their own, the Fanariote Greeks nourish in their heart’s core a hatred of their masters as intense as it is enduring, and serve them rather from fear than zeal.
Every Greek is an intuitive diplomatist; nature has endowed him with a keen and subtle spirit—a power to see deeply, and to act promptly—and as their motto is palpable to all who have studied their character—tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis—they are any thing but safe counsellors or firm friends. Each is to be had at a price: and, as several of the most talented among them are in the confidence of the leading members of the Turkish government, it were idle to expatiate on the pernicious consequences of their influence. There are so many spies in the camp—so many breaches in the fortress—and, with the helm of affairs, although not actually in their grasp, at least sufficiently within their reach to enable them occasionally to make the vessel of state policy swerve towards the course whither they would fain direct it, they are no contemptible allies to any foreign power that may need their services. The Turk probably possesses the soundest judgment, but the Greek is more subtle and quick-witted, and dazzles even where he may fail to convince.
Under these circumstances, partially trusted by the Turks, and enriched and employed by other nations—gifted with subtlety, energy of character, and that keenness of perception and quickness of intellect for which they are remarkable—the Greeks would be dangerous, if not fatal enemies to their Moslem masters, had they not, like Achilles, one vulnerable point—they are not true, even to each other. Dissimulation is the atmosphere in which they livejealousy is the food on which they prey—and, while they are urging on the chariot of their own fortunes, they are sure to have some luckless rival impaled upon one of the spokes of its uncertain wheel.
Hence, all those overwhelming revolutions which render the tenure of wealth and honours among them almost as precarious as among the Turks themselves. The tolerance of the Sultan’s government has conceded to them a magistracy and an ecclesiastical power as distinct as though they were a free people and the denizens of a free country; and their shrewd and subtle spirits, trammelled without, become tenfold more bitter in their concentrated struggle for supremacy among themselves. Their circle is limited: their hemisphere will afford space for one luminary only; to aggrandize one, another must be sacrificed; and thus it is a perpetual grappling for ascendency; and public probity and private friendship give way before it.
The Greek colony at the Fanar is the focus of intrigue; each is a spy upon his neighbour—here “Greek meets Greek,” and the “tug of war” is deadly. Patriarchs and archbishops are deposed and exiled—magistrates are displaced and banished, as one or the other party obtain power—until the concentration of hatred atrophises every heart, and the smile upon every lip waits but the opportunity to wither into a sneer.
With the double impulsion of honour and power among their own community, and wealth and influence without, it will be readily understood that a people constituted like the Fanariote Greeks pursue their purpose with a tenacity that blinds them to all less absorbing considerations. Each suffices to himself—he is his own world—and he centres all his energies and exertions upon one point. In this fact exists the weakness of the Greeks—they are too egotistical to be dangerous—they indulge individual selfishness when they should exert themselves for the common benefit of the community—the fruit is perished at the core, and it consequently decays upon the surface—and, while they thus make war upon each other, and fling the brand of jealousy upon the hearths of their own race, they require no exterior force to crush them.
The three most conspicuous individuals now left among the Fanariote Greeks are Vogorede, Logotheti, and Angiolopolo, each of whom is more or less in the confidence of the Porte. The war between these talented and ambitious men is literally a war of wits. The craft is with Vogorede, the energy with Logotheti, and the tenacity of purpose with Angiolopolo. The nature of each individual is written on his countenance—that of Vogorede changes like the hue of the camelion; he is a man whose smile is not mirth, nor approbation, nor enjoyment—his brow is narrow and deeply interlined, less by time than by the workings of his spirit; his eye is cold and quick, but it is the quickness which gives no token of intelligence—the restlessness of suspicion.
The personal attributes of Logotheti are of a different character; his glance is searching and fiery, his features mobile and expressive, and his forehead high and strongly marked; and to these no more striking contrast can be afforded than by the truly magnificent head of Angiolopolo. There is not a vestige of passion, not a trace of anxiety, nor care, nor emotion perceptible; his countenance is calm, benevolent, and beautiful: his brow is singularly smooth for his age, and its character of placidity has continued unchanged throughout a long life of political exertion and excitement; while the white beard, which he wears to the utmost length that is now permitted, (Sultan Mahmoud having lately regulated this important point, and having even curtailed the exuberance of that of one of his ministers with his own Imperial hands!) gives him an air of patriarchal dignity in excellent keeping with his strictly Oriental costume.
Having been for twelve years Chargé d’Affaires at Paris during the reign of Napoleon, he has a memory stored with anecdote; and a vivacity of expression, and an accuracy of detail, which make his portraits life-like, and never fail to point the moral of the tale. He discourses fluently in French, and enters into the most trifling subjects with a relish and gaiety quite wonderful when his age (near seventy) and his pursuits are taken into consideration; and you have not been half an hour in his society before you feel the greatest surprise that the maladie de pays should ever have been sufficiently strong to induce him to solicit his recall from a court whose now time-worn recollections yet retain so bright a hold upon his nature. Angiolopolo has neither the appearance nor the bearing of a veteran politician; and, were you ignorant of his history, you would look upon him as one who had fallen into “the sear and yellow leaf,” without one storm to hasten the decay.
After an existence of political toil, Angiolopolo has ostensibly retired into the calm and quiet of domestic life. I speak, therefore, of him rather as he was a few months back than as he now actually is; though the fire which has been long burning requires time ere it can be thoroughly extinguished, and it is only fair to infer that, after so many years of state service, Angiolopolo will carry with him the same tastes and pursuits to the grave.
Prepossessed by his appearance, I accepted with pleasure an invitation to spend the day with his family, and the more particularly as I was anxious to make the acquaintance of all those individuals who had become matter of local interest.
When I entered, he was seated in the Oriental fashion on a corner of the sofa, with a small writing-stand on a low stool beside him, and leaning his arm upon a chest of polished wood containing papers. He received us with much politeness, and presented me to his wife and daughter, who were nestled under the covering of the tandour, on the other side of the apartment, and who welcomed me in the most cordial manner.
For a time, nothing but the veriest commonplace was uttered by any of the party; but some political allusion having been accidentally made, he expressed himself both disappointed and annoyed at the supineness of the British Government, though he admitted that it had caused him no surprize, as it was not the first occasion on which England, after amusing and deluding the Porte with promises of protection and support, had failed to fulfil her pledges in the hour of need. “As individuals,” he added emphatically, “no one can respect the English more than I do, but as a nation every thinking man throughout the Ottoman Empire has lost faith in them—the trust and confidence which the Turks once placed in the political integrity of Great Britain are at an end for ever.”
As he was an invalid, we dined en famille; and I was struck with the extreme attention and deference that he showed towards his wife; all the other Greeks with whom I had become acquainted being the most indifferent, or, as we style it in Europe, the most fashionable of husbands; nor was I less surprised at the apparent zest with which he entered into the inconsequent conversation that ensued, and the playfulness with which he bandied jest for jest, and piled anecdote on anecdote. One incident that he mentioned