Monday, 11 August 1913

Morning stop at Canakkale in the middle of the Dardanelles.

At midnight, moored at the entrance to the Bosphorus, near Leander's Tower. Grand Stamboul is silent, close by, its minarets lit with Ramadan fire-crowns. From here, nothing has changed on the surface, despite the terrible dramas in which Turkey almost foundered and despite the two or three hundred thousand dead lain low by Christian bullets on the battlefields of Macedonia and Thrace.

Tuesday, 12 August 1913

Five o’clock in the morning. With a rose-pink colour, the rising sun lights up the palaces and the barred harems of the European side, which are still in silent slumber and which always seem to conceal all the old mystery of their oriental past. But the smoke and the modern hustle and bustle will soon start up towards Galata where we arrive.

At six o’clock, the steamship makes fast at its berth. On the quayside, I see banners, crowds, tubs of green plants and carpets all well-ordered to honour some grand personage; and all the police are armed. For whom is this display?

‘But I think it's for you, commander,’ Osman tells me, my faithful servant accompanying me to Turkey for the fifth time.

Delegations come on board, generals, sent by the Sultan and the princes, representatives of all the public bodies, imams, dervishes and priests from Arabia. It is indeed me they are singling out to welcome.

Court carriages are there waiting for me. I certainly had not expected such a welcome. As soon as I put foot on land, the crowd applauds and the banners are waved. As far as the Tophane quay where one of the Sultan's barges is waiting, the soldiers line my way, presenting arms and the crowd is still applauding. There is even a group of hamals, the worthy porters of Constantinople, who have come, carrying their huge green striped banners with white inscriptions, and they applaud me thunderously with their rough hands.