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CHAPTER 5 – TWO SHIRTS OF FLAME 
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Third the respectful portrait of a local notable who finds it hard to accept that his 
faith in the Sultanate is misplaced while his son is already a Nationalist but hiding it 
from his father
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We spent our last night in Kandra in a small village as the guests of 
Mursel Agha, a notable of the village. He opened his best room for us 
and his two stalwart sons served us. He listened to the revolutionary din 
or to the rumour of war with a strong but gloomy face, offering no 
personal view. With the well poised soul of an Anatolian which did not 
easily fall into an impossible dream he waited cautiously for the situation 
to clear. He had a grey beard, a large turbaned with Abani and a rare 
smile which made a light around him whenever it appeared on his grave 
eyes and quiet lips.
--“The old man is very wise,” I thought, “he sees farther than we do and 
very probably regards us as upstarts.”
His two Anatolian sons were tall, broad, with round faces and lionine 
heads. Instead of loose Anatolian trousers, they wore pantaloons darned 
all over but clean and tidy, their shirts, with the sleeves turned up at the 
elbows were immaculate and their old fezes with no tassels retained a 
military air. They had evidently done their military service in Istanboul. 
When I spoke to the old man about this he smiled and brought out a 
photograph. This was the picture of a gigantic soldier in the uniform of 
the Royal Guards. In the large honest eyes of the beautiful picture I 
recognised one of the sons of the old man. How Istanboul flitted across 
my eyes, with a vision of the Royal Guard, the enormous white Kalpaks, 
red trousers and blue jackets, leather bags at their backs, their steeds 
galloping through the wide royal avenue of Ortakeuy. Mehmet Chavush, 
with his peppery, saucy temper began to explain the revolution, not 
forgetting oratorical effects, especially when he told how the sultan had 
been the traitor of the Nation. I watched the face of the guard. What did 
he think of his master? I saw in his eyes the silent grief of one deceived in 
his most sacred illusions, struck in the most sensitive spot. 
We left them early in the morning and as we proceeded on the road, I 
saw one of the young fellows, shaking his handkerchief at us as a sign to 
stop. We waited and he came near us. He gave us valuable information 
about the mixed village of Circassians through which we had to pass. 
Suspicious characters from Istanboul had recently come there and he 
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Adıvar 1924, 129-130 

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