The keeper of the coffee-house came and stared at me.  Two new customers came up, and I was pointed out as an Englishman.  They talked about me in Turkish; other Turks came, they talked about England’s role in the war, they scolded, gesticulated, poured forth endlessly, forgot me.  Once more, though in a crowd, I was alone.

At this time a great diversion was caused.  A blind musician came in.  At midnight one would have thought no new development in the life of the cafe was likely to take place, but the musician brought into the room such a crush of people that on all sides I felt packed and crammed.  A tall, gaunt man, hatless, shaggy-headed, his black locks falling over a strange yellow brow; eyes that saw not, looking through deep purple spectacles; and in his arms, like a baby, a long Armenian guitar—­the musician was somewhat to wonder at.  Hemmed in by the crowd, he yet found a little space in the body of the coffee-house, and danced to and fro with his songs like some strange being in a frenzy.  He played with fire on his guitar, every minute breaking from his sparkling, thrilling accompaniment into a wild human chant, his face the while triumphant and passionate, but blind with such utter blindness that he seemed like the symbol of Man’s life rather than a man; a great song of heart-yearning sung to the stars and to the Infinite rather than the singer of that song.

His fingers flowed over the long guitar; the wild words broke out; he flung himself in little zigzag steps to right, to left; the wild chant stopped; once more spoke only the strings.  I looked at him and listened, and could not give myself enough to him.

At nearly two he made a collection and received many piastres and copecks, and the crowd who had listened to him began to disperse.  At three o’clock the host signified that he wished to close the shop.  To all the remaining customers Turkish delight was served out as a sort of parting gift.  A dozen Turks, those who had homes, slunk away; the remainder, those who had no homes of their own, stayed to sleep.

The host now came to me and we did some business.  I wanted to change some Turkish silver, as I was short of Russian money.  As no bank would take this small coin I was obliged to try the coffee-house.  Accordingly, I had asked my coffee-house keeper to buy a hundred or so piastres.  After half an hour’s haggling we struck a very bad bargain.  I find the Turk more of a sharp than the Jew.

The long day was over.  The shutters were pulled along in front of the shop and padlocked.  A form was accorded me on which to sleep.  Another form was drawn out into the middle of the room and placed at a certain angle, pointing to the East, I suppose.  Then during half an hour the Turks ascended this form in turn, stood, bowed, knelt, prostrated themselves in silent prayer, reiteratedly.  They prayed very differently from Russian peasants.  Their movements were abrupt and mechanical, like steps in a military drill.  They were nearer to spiritual death and praying-boxes than any I had ever watched pray before.  I felt myself in the presence of a new form of piety.  I had crossed the great broad line that separates Europe from Asia, and come to a place where Europe is not understood and therefore hated.