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Authors: Stefan Zweig
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goods; the women are goods for sale to seraglios, the men and children are bound for the slave market. The unfortunates who took refuge in churches are whipped out again, the old people are killed as useless mouths to feed and unsaleable ballast, the young ones, tied together like cattle, are dragged away, and along with robbery senseless destruction rages. What valuablerelics and works of art the crusaders left, after indulging in what may have been an equally terrible episode of looting, are now wrecked by the victors, torn apart, valuable pictures are destroyed, wonderful statues smashed to pieces, books in which the wisdom of centuries, the immortal wealth of Greek philosophy and poetry were to be preserved for all eternity burnt or carelessly tossed aside. Mankind will never know the whole of the havoc that broke in through the open Kerkoporta in that fateful hour, or how much the intellectual world lost in the looting of Rome, Alexandria and Byzantium.
Only on the afternoon of the great victory, when the slaughtering was over, does Mahomet enter the conquered city. Proud and grave, he rides his magnificent steed past scenes of plundering without averting his gaze. He is true to his word and does not disturb the soldiers who won him this victory as they go about their dreadful business. But his way takes him first not to see what he has won, for that is everything; he rides proudly to the cathedral, the radiant head of Byzantium. For more than fifty days he has looked with longing up from his tents at the shining, unapproachable dome of Hagia Sophia; now, as the victor, he may walk through its bronze doorway. But Mahomet tames his impatience once more: first he wants to thank Allah before dedicating the church to him for all time. Humbly, the Sultan dismounts from his horse and bows his head down to the ground in prayer. Then he takes a handful of earth and scatters it on his head, to remind himself that he, too, is a mortal man who must not think too highly of his triumph. And only now, after showing his humility to God, does the Sultan rise, as the first servant of Allah to enter it,and walk into Justinian’s cathedral, the church of holy wisdom, the church of Hagia Sophia.
Moved and curious, the Sultan looks at the wonderful building, the high, vaulted roof, shimmering with marble and mosaics, the delicate arches that rise from darkness into the light. This most sublime palace of prayer, he feels, belongs not to him but to his God. He immediately sends for an imam, who climbs into the pulpit and from there recites the Mohammedan confession of faith, while the Padishah, his face turned to Mecca, offers the first prayer to Allah, ruler of the worlds, heard in this Christian cathedral. Next day workmen are told to remove all signs of the earlier faith; altars are torn down, whitewash is painted over the mosaics showing sacred scenes, and the tall cross of Hagia Sophia that has spread its arms wide for 1,000 years to embrace all the sorrow in the world falls to the floor with a hollow thud.
The sound as it strikes the stone echoes through the church and far beyond, for the whole of the west shakes as it falls. The terrible news echoes on in Rome, in Genoa, in Venice; like menacing thunder it rolls to France, to Germany; and Europe, shuddering, recognizes that—thanks to its own unfeeling indifference—a fateful, destructive power has broken in through the fatal forgotten gate, the Kerkoporta, a power that will bind and cripple its own strength for centuries. But, in history as in human life, regret can never restore a lost moment, and 1,000 years will not buy back what was lost in a single hour.
THE RESURRECTION OF GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
21 August 1741
O N THE AFTERNOON of 13th April 1737 George Frideric Handel’s manservant was sitting at the ground-floor window of the house in Brook Street, very strangely occupied. He had found, to his annoyance, that his supply of tobacco had run out, and in fact he had only
Only on the afternoon of the great victory, when the slaughtering was over, does Mahomet enter the conquered city. Proud and grave, he rides his magnificent steed past scenes of plundering without averting his gaze. He is true to his word and does not disturb the soldiers who won him this victory as they go about their dreadful business. But his way takes him first not to see what he has won, for that is everything; he rides proudly to the cathedral, the radiant head of Byzantium. For more than fifty days he has looked with longing up from his tents at the shining, unapproachable dome of Hagia Sophia; now, as the victor, he may walk through its bronze doorway. But Mahomet tames his impatience once more: first he wants to thank Allah before dedicating the church to him for all time. Humbly, the Sultan dismounts from his horse and bows his head down to the ground in prayer. Then he takes a handful of earth and scatters it on his head, to remind himself that he, too, is a mortal man who must not think too highly of his triumph. And only now, after showing his humility to God, does the Sultan rise, as the first servant of Allah to enter it,and walk into Justinian’s cathedral, the church of holy wisdom, the church of Hagia Sophia.
Moved and curious, the Sultan looks at the wonderful building, the high, vaulted roof, shimmering with marble and mosaics, the delicate arches that rise from darkness into the light. This most sublime palace of prayer, he feels, belongs not to him but to his God. He immediately sends for an imam, who climbs into the pulpit and from there recites the Mohammedan confession of faith, while the Padishah, his face turned to Mecca, offers the first prayer to Allah, ruler of the worlds, heard in this Christian cathedral. Next day workmen are told to remove all signs of the earlier faith; altars are torn down, whitewash is painted over the mosaics showing sacred scenes, and the tall cross of Hagia Sophia that has spread its arms wide for 1,000 years to embrace all the sorrow in the world falls to the floor with a hollow thud.
The sound as it strikes the stone echoes through the church and far beyond, for the whole of the west shakes as it falls. The terrible news echoes on in Rome, in Genoa, in Venice; like menacing thunder it rolls to France, to Germany; and Europe, shuddering, recognizes that—thanks to its own unfeeling indifference—a fateful, destructive power has broken in through the fatal forgotten gate, the Kerkoporta, a power that will bind and cripple its own strength for centuries. But, in history as in human life, regret can never restore a lost moment, and 1,000 years will not buy back what was lost in a single hour.
THE RESURRECTION OF GEORGE FRIDERIC HANDEL
21 August 1741
O N THE AFTERNOON of 13th April 1737 George Frideric Handel’s manservant was sitting at the ground-floor window of the house in Brook Street, very strangely occupied. He had found, to his annoyance, that his supply of tobacco had run out, and in fact he had only
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