But, alas! on the 1st day of January, Pera, Galata, and their environs, were one huge snowball. As it was Friday, the Turkish Sabbath, and, moreover, a Friday of the Ramazan, every shop was shut; and the few foot passengers who passed us by hurried on as though impatient of exposure to so inclement an atmosphere. As most of the streets are impassable for carriages, and as the sedan-chairs which supply, however imperfectly, the place of these convenient (and almost, as I had hitherto considered, indispensable) articles, are all private property, we were e’en obliged to “thread our weary way” as patiently as we could—now buried up to our knees in snow, and anon immersed above our ancles in water, when we chanced to plunge into one of those huge holes which give so interesting an inequality to the surface of Turkish paving.
Nevertheless, despite the difficulties that obstructed our progress, I could not avoid remarking the little straw huts built at intervals along the streets, for the accommodation and comfort of the otherwise homeless dogs that throng every avenue of the town. There they lay, crouched down snugly, too much chilled to welcome us with the chorus of barking that they usually bestow on travellers: a species of loud and inconvenient greeting with which we were by no means sorry to dispense. In addition to this shelter, food is every day dispensed by the inhabitants to the vagrant animals who, having no specific owners, are, to use the approved phraseology of genteel alms-asking, “wholly dependent on the charitable for support.” And it is a singular fact that these self-constituted scavengers exercise a kind of internal economy which almost appears to exceed the boundaries of mere instinct; they have their defined “walks,” or haunts, and woe betide the strange cur who intrudes on the privileges of his neighbours; he is hunted, upbraided with growls and barks, beset on all sides, even bitten in cases of obstinate contumacy, and universally obliged to retreat within his own limits. Their numbers have, as I was informed, greatly decreased of late years, but they are still very considerable.
As we passed along, a door opened, and forth stepped the most magnificent-looking individual whom I ever saw: he had a costly cachemire twined about his waist, his flowing robes were richly furred, and he turned the key in the lock with an air of such blended anxiety and dignity, that I involuntarily thought of the Jew of Shakspeare; and I expected at the moment to hear him exclaim, “Shut the door, Jessica, shut the door, I say!” But, alas! he moved away, and no sweet Jessica flung back the casement to reply.
Difficulty of Ingress to Turkish Houses—Steep Streets—The Harem—The Tandour—The Mangal—The Family—Female Costume—Luxurious Habits—The Ramazan—The Dining-room—The Widow—The Dinner—The Turks not Gastronomers—Oriental Hospitality—Ceremony of Ablution—The Massaldjhe—Alarm in the Harem—The Prayer—Evening Offering—Puerile Questions—Opium—Primitive Painting—Splendid Beds—Avocations of a Turkish Lady—Oriental Coquetry—Shopping—Commercial Flirtations—The Sultana Heybétoullah—A Turkish Carriage—The Charshees—Armenian Merchants—Greek Speculators—Perfumes and Embroidery.
I have already mentioned that we arrived at Constantinople during the Ramazan or Lent; and my first anxiety was to pass a day of Fast in the interior of a Turkish family.
This difficult, and in most cases impossible, achievement for an European was rendered easy to me by the fact that, shortly after our landing, I procured an introduction to a respectable Turkish merchant; and I had no sooner written to propose a visit to his harem than I received the most frank and cordial assurances of welcome.
A Greek lady of my acquaintance having offered to accompany me, and to act as my interpreter, we crossed over to Stamboul, and, after threading several steep and narrow streets, perfectly impassable for carriages, entered the spacious court of the house at which we were expected, and ascended a wide flight of stairs leading to the harem, or women’s apartments. The stairs terminated in a large landing-place, of about thirty feet square, into which several rooms opened on each side, screened with curtains of dark cloth embroidered with coloured worsted. An immense mirror filled up a space between two of the doors, and a long passage led from this point to the principal apartment of the harem, to which we were conducted by a black slave.
When I say “we,” I of course allude to Mrs. ---- and myself, as no men, save those of the family and the physician, are ever admitted within the walls of a Turkish harem.
The apartment into which we were ushered was large and warm, richly carpeted, and surrounded on three sides by a sofa, raised about a foot from the ground, and covered with crimson shag; while the cushions, that rested against the wall or were scattered at intervals along the couch, were gaily embroidered with gold thread and coloured silks. In one angle of the sofa stood the tandour: a piece of furniture so unlike any thing in Europe, that I cannot forbear giving a description of it.
The tandour is a wooden frame, covered with a couple of wadded coverlets, for such they literally are, that are in their turn overlaid by a third and considerably smaller one of rich silk: within the frame, which is of the height and dimensions of a moderately sized breakfast table, stands a copper vessel, filled with the embers of charcoal; and, on the two sides that do not touch against the sofa, piles of cushions are heaped upon the floor to nearly the same height, for the convenience of those whose rank in the family does not authorize them to take places on the couch.
The double windows, which were all at the upper end of the apartment, were closely latticed; and, at the lower extremity of the room, in an arched recess, stood a classically-shaped clay jar full of water, and a covered goblet in a glass saucer. Along a silken cord, on either side of this niche, were hung a number of napkins, richly worked and fringed with gold; and a large copy of the Koran was deposited beneath a handkerchief of gold gauze, on a carved rosewood bracket.
In the middle of the floor was placed the mangal, a large copper vessel of about a foot in height, resting upon a stand of the same material raised on castors, and filled, like that within the tandour, with charcoal.
The family consisted of the father and mother, the son and the son’s wife, the daughter and her husband, and a younger and adopted son. The ladies were lying upon cushions, buried up to their necks under the coverings of the tandour; and, as they flung them off to receive us, I was struck with the beauty of the daughter, whose deep blue eyes, and hair of a golden brown, were totally different from what I had expected to find in a Turkish harem. Two glances sufficed to satisfy me that the mother was a shrew, and I had no reason subsequently to revoke my judgment. The son’s wife had fine, large, brilliant, black eyes, but her other features were by no means pleasing, although she possessed, in common with all her countrywomen, that soft, white, velvety skin, for which they are indebted to the constant use of the bath. To this luxury, in which many of them daily indulge, must be, however, attributed the fact that their hair, in becoming bright and glossy, loses its strength, and compels them to the adoption of artificial tresses; and these they wear in profusion, wound amid the folds of the embroidered handkerchiefs that they twine about their heads in a most unbecoming manner, and secure by bodkins of diamonds or emeralds, of which ornaments they are inordinately fond.
They all wore chemisettes or under garments of silk gauze, trimmed with fringes of narrow ribbon, and wide trowsers of printed cotton falling to the ancle: their feet were bare, save that occasionally they thrust them into little yellow slippers, that scarcely covered their toes, and in which they moved over the floor with the greatest ease, dragging after them their anterys, or sweeping robes; but more frequently they dispensed with even these, and walked barefoot about the harem. Their upper dresses were of printed cotton of the brightest colours—that of the daughter had a blue ground, with a yellow pattern, and was trimmed with a fringe of pink and green. These robes, which are made in one piece, are divided at the hip on either side to their extreme length, and are girt about the waist with a cachemire shawl. The costume is completed in winter by a tight vest lined with fur, which is generally of light green or pink.
Their habits are, generally speaking, most luxurious and indolent, if I except their custom of early rising, which, did they occupy themselves in any useful manner, would be undoubtedly very commendable; but, as they only add, by these means, two or three hours of ennui to each day, I am at a loss how to classify it. Their time is spent in dressing themselves, and varying the position of their ornaments—in the bath—and in sleep, which they appear to have as entirely at their back as a draught of water; in winter, they have but to nestle under the coverings of the tandour, or in summer to bury themselves among their cushions, and in five minutes they are in the land of dreams. Indeed, so extraordinarily are they gifted in this respect, that they not unfrequently engage their guests to take a nap, with the same sang-froid with which a European lady would invite her friends to take a walk. Habits of industry have, however, made their way, in many instances, even into the harem; the changes without have influenced the pursuits and feelings of the women; and utter idleness has already ceased to be a necessary attribute to the high-bred Turkish female.
As it was the time of the Ramazan, neither coffee nor sweetmeats were handed to us, though the offer of refreshments was made, which we, however, declined, being resolved to keep Lent with them according to their own fashion. We fasted, therefore, until about half past six o’clock, when the cry of the muezzin from the minarets proclaimed that one of the outwatchers, of whom many are employed for the purpose, had caught a glimpse of the moon. Instantly all were in motion; their preliminary arrangements had been so zealously and carefully made that not another second was lost; and, as a slave announced dinner, we all followed her to a smaller apartment, where the table, if such I may call it, was already laid.
The room was a perfect square, totally unfurnished, save that in the centre of the floor was spread a carpet, on which stood a wooden frame, about two feet in height, supporting an immense round plated tray, with the edge slightly raised. In the centre of the tray was placed a capacious white basin, filled with a kind of cold bread soup; and around it were ranged a circle of small porcelain saucers, filled with sliced cheese, anchovies, caviare, and sweetmeats of every description: among these were scattered spoons of box-wood, and goblets of pink and white sherbet, whose rose-scented contents perfumed the apartment. The outer range of the tray was covered with fragments of unleavened bread, torn asunder; and portions of the Ramazan cake, a dry, close, sickly kind of paste, glazed with the whites of eggs, and strewed over with aniseeds.
Our party was a numerous one—the aged nurse, who had reared the children of the family—the orphan boy of a dead son, who, with his wife, had perished by plague during the previous twelve months—several neighbours who had chosen the hour of dinner to make their visits—a very pretty friend from Scutari—and a very plain acquaintance from the house of death—the widow of a day—whose husband had expired the previous morning, been buried the same evening, and, as it appeared, forgotten on the morrow; for the “disconsolate widow” had come forth in a pink vest, and sky blue trowsers, with rings on her fingers, and jewels in her turban, to seek the advice and assistance of the master of the house, in securing some valuable shawls, and sundry diamonds and baubles which she had possessed before her marriage, from the grasp of the deceased’s relatives.
As soon as the serious business of the repast really commenced, that is, when we had each possessed ourselves of a cushion, and squatted down with our feet under us round the dinner tray, having on our laps linen napkins of about two yards in length richly fringed; the room was literally filled with slaves, “black, white, and gray,” from nine years old to fifty.
Fish, embedded in rice, followed the side or rather circle saucers that I have already described; and of most of which I sparingly partook, as the only answer that I was capable of giving to the unceasing “Eat, eat, you are welcome,” of the lady of the house. With the fish, the spoons came into play, and all were immersed in the same dish; but I must not omit to add that this custom is rendered less revolting than it would otherwise be, by the fact that each individual is careful, should the plat be partaken of a second time, (a rare occurrence, however, from the rapidity with which they are changed), always to confine herself to one spot. The meat and poultry were eaten with the fingers; each individual fishing up, or breaking away, what pleased her eye; and several of them tearing a portion asunder, and handing one of the pieces to me as a courtesy, with which, be it remarked, par parenthèse, I should joyfully have dispensed. Nineteen dishes, of fish, flesh, fowl, pastry, and creams, succeeding each other in the most heterogeneous manner—the salt following the sweet, and the stew preceding the custard—were terminated by a pyramid of pillauf. I had the perseverance to sit out this elaborate culinary exhibition; an exertion which is, however, by no means required of any one, by the observance of Turkish courtesy.
Gastronomy is no science in the East, and gourmands are unknown; the Osmanlis only eat to live, they do not live to eat; and the variety of their dishes originates in a tacit care to provide against individual disgusts, while the extreme rapidity with which they are changed sufficiently demonstrates their want of inclination to indulge individual excess. The women drink only coffee, sherbet, or water; but some few among the men are adopting the vices of civilized nations, and becoming addicted to beverages of a more potent description. No person is expected to remain an instant longer at a Turkish table than suffices him to make his meal; the instant that an individual has satisfied his appetite, he rises without comment or apology, washes his hands, and resumes his pipe or his occupation. Nor must I pass over without comment the simple and beautiful hospitality of the Turks, who welcome to their board, be he rich or poor, every countryman who thinks proper to take a seat at it; the emphatic “You are welcome,” is never coldly nor grudgingly uttered; and the Mussulmauns extend this unostentatious greeting to each new comer, without reservation or limit, upon the same principle that they never permit them to find fault with any article of food which may be served up. They consider themselves only as the stewards of GOD, and consequently use the goods of life as a loan rather than a possession; while they consider themselves bound to give from their superfluity to those who have been less favoured.
As we rose from table, a slave presented herself, holding a basin and strainer of wrought metal, while a second poured tepid water over our hands, from an elegantly-formed vase of the same materials; and a third handed to us embroidered napkins of great beauty, of which I really availed myself with reluctance.
Having performed this agreeable ceremony, we returned to the principal apartment, where our party received an addition in the person of a very pretty old massaljhe, or tale-teller, who had been invited to relieve the tedium of the evening with some of her narrations. This custom is very general during the Ramazan, and is a great resource to the Turkish ladies, who can thus recline in luxurious inaction, and have their minds amused without any personal exertion. Coffee was prepared at the mangal, and handed round: after which the elder lady seated herself on a pile of cushions placed upon the floor, and smoked a couple of pipes in perfect silence, and with extreme gusto, flinging out volumes of smoke, that created a thick mist in the apartment.
I had just begun to indulge in a violent fit of coughing, induced by the density of this artificial atmosphere, when in walked a slave to announce the intended presence of the gentlemen of the family, and in an instant the whole scene was changed. The two Turkish ladies whom I have already mentioned as being on a visit in the house rushed from the room barefooted, in as little time as it would have required for me to disengage myself from the tandour; the less agile massaljhe covered her face with a thick veil, and concealed herself behind the door—the Juno-like daughter (one of the most majestic women I ever remember to have seen, although very far from one of the tallest) flung a handkerchief over her head, and fastened it beneath her chin: while the son’s wife caught up a feridjhe, or cloak, and withdrew, muffled amid its folds, to her own apartment. The elder lady was the only one of the party undisturbed by the intelligence: she never raised her eyes from the carpet, but continued inhaling the aroma of the “scented weed,” gravely grasping her long pipe, her lips pressed against its amber mouthpiece, and her brilliant rings and diamond-studded bracelet flashing in the light.
In a few minutes, the aged father of the family was squatted down immediately opposite to my seat, smothered in furs, and crowned with the most stately looking turban I had yet seen: on one side of him stood a slave with his chibouk, which his wife had just filled and lighted, and on the other his elder son, holding the little brass dish in which the pipe-bowl is deposited to protect the carpet. Near him, on another cushion, lay the tobacco-bag of gold-embroidered cachemire, from which the said son was about to regale himself, after having supplied the wants of his father: and a few paces nearer to the door reclined the handsome Soliman Effendi, the adopted son to whom I have already alluded.
While the party were refreshing themselves with coffee, which was shortly afterwards served to them, a cry from the minarets of a neighbouring mosque announced the hour of prayer; when the old man gravely laid aside his pipe, and, spreading a crimson rug above the carpet near the spot where he had been sitting, turned his face to the East, and began his devotions by stroking down his beard and falling upon his knees, or rather squatting himself in a doubled-up position which it were impossible to describe. For a while his lips moved rapidly, though not a sound escaped them, and then suddenly he prostrated himself three times, and pressed his forehead to the carpet, rose, and folding his arms upon his breast, continued his prayer—resumed after a brief space his original position, rocking his body slowly to and fro—again bent down—and, repeated the whole of these ceremonies three times, concluding his orison by extending his open palms towards Heaven; after which, he once more slowly and reverentially passed his hand down his beard, and, without uttering a syllable, returned to his seat and his pipe, while a slave folded the rug and laid it aside. I remarked that at intervals, during the prayer, he threw out a long respiration, as though he had been collecting his breath for several seconds ere he suffered it to escape, but throughout the whole time not a single word was audible. The rest of the party continued to laugh, chat, and smoke quite unconcernedly, however, during the devotions of the master of the house, who appeared so thoroughly absorbed as to be utterly unconscious of all that was going on around him.
I ought not to have omitted to mention that, on entering the harem, each of the gentlemen of the family had deposited on a table at the extremity of the apartment his evening offering; for no Turk, however high his rank, returns home for the night, when the avocations of the day are over, empty-handed: it signifies not how trifling may be the value of his burthen—a cluster of grapes—a paper of sweetmeats—or, among the lower orders, a few small fish, or a head of salad—every individual is bound to make an offering to the Dei Penates; and to fail in this duty is to imply that he is about to repudiate his wife.
The father of the eldest son, Usuf Effendi, had brought home Ramazan cakes, but Soliman Effendi deposited on the tandour a boksha, or handkerchief of clear muslin wrought with gold threads, and containing sweetmeats; among them were a quantity of Barcelona nuts, which, in Turkey, are shelled, slightly dried in the oven, and eaten with raisins, as almonds are in Europe. In the course of the evening, the elder lady resumed her place at the tandour; and, in the intervals of the conversation, she amused herself by burning one of the nuts at a candle, and, having reduced it to a black and oily substance with great care and patience, she took up a small round hand-mirror, set into a frame-work of purple velvet, embroidered in silver that was buried among her cushions, and began to stain her eyebrows, making them meet over the nose, and shaping them with an art which nothing but long practice could have enabled her to acquire.
Their questions were of the most puerile description—my age—why I did not marry—whether I liked Constantinople—if I could read and write, &c., &c.; but no impertinent comment on fashions and habits so different from their own escaped them: on the contrary, they were continually remarking how much I must find every thing in Turkey inferior to what I had been accustomed to in Europe: and they lost themselves in wonder at the resolution that had decided me to visit a part of the world where I must suffer so many privations. Of course, I replied as politely as I could to these complimentary comments; and my companion and myself being much fatigued with the exertions that we had made during the day, we determined to retire to our apartment, without waiting to partake of the second repast, which is served up between two and three o’clock in the morning.
From this period the Turks remain smoking, and sipping their coffee, detailing news, and telling stories, an amusement to which they are extremely partial, until there is sufficient light to enable them to distinguish between a black thread and a white one, when the fast is scrupulously resumed. But it may be curious to remark, that, as not even a draught of water can be taken until the evening meal, and, (still greater privation to the Osmanli,) not a pipe can be smoked, they have adopted a singular expedient for appeasing the cravings of re-awakening appetite. They cause opium pills to be prepared, enveloped in one, two, and three coatings of gold leaf; and these they swallow at the last moment when food is permitted to be taken; under the impression that each will produce its intended effect at a given time, which is determined by the number of envelopes that have to disengage themselves from the drug before it can act.
The apartment wherein we passed the night was spacious and lofty; and the ceiling was lined with canvass, on which a large tree in full leaf was painted in oils; and, as this was the great ornament of the room, and, moreover, considered as a model of ingenious invention, one of the slaves did not fail to point out to us that the canvass, instead of being tightly stretched, was mounted loosely on a slight frame, which, when the air entered from the open windows, permitted an undulation intended to give to the tree the effect of reality. I do not think that I was ever more amused—for the branches resembled huge boa constrictors much more than any thing connected with the vegetable kingdom: and every leaf was as large and as black as the crown of a man’s hat.
Our beds were composed of mattresses laid one above the other upon the floor, and these were of the most costly description; mine being yellow satin brocaded with gold, and that of my companion violet-coloured velvet, richly fringed. A Turkish bed is arranged in an instant—the mattresses are covered with a sheet of silk gauze, or striped muslin, (my own on this occasion was of the former material)—half a dozen pillows of various forms and sizes are heaped up at the head, all in richly embroidered muslin cases, through which the satin containing the down is distinctly seen—and a couple of wadded coverlets are laid at the feet, carefully folded: no second sheet is considered necessary, as the coverlets are lined with fine white linen. Those which were provided for us were of pale blue silk, worked with rose-coloured flowers.
At the lower end of every Turkish room are large closets for the reception of the bedding; and the slaves no sooner ascertain that you have risen, than half a dozen of them enter the apartment, and in five minutes every vestige of your couch has disappeared—you hurry from the bed to the bath, whence you cannot possibly escape in less than two hours—and the business of the day is then generally terminated for a Turkish lady. All that remains to be done is to sit under the covering of the tandour, passing the beads of a perfumed chaplet rapidly through the fingers fingers—arranging and re-arranging the head-dress and ornaments—or to put on the yashmac and feridjhe, and sally forth, accompanied by two or three slaves, to pay visits to favourite friends; either on foot, in yellow boots reaching up to the swell of the leg, over which a slipper of the same colour is worn; or in an araba, or carriage of the country, all paint, gilding, and crimson cloth, nestled among cushions, and making more use of her eyes than any being on earth save a Turkish woman would, with the best inclination in the world, be able to accomplish; such finished coquetry I never before witnessed as that of the Turkish ladies in the street. As the araba moves slowly along, the feridjhe is flung back to display its white silk lining and bullion tassels; and, should a group of handsome men be clustered on the pathway, that instant is accidentally chosen for arranging the yashmac. The dark-eyed dames of Spain, accomplished as they are in the art, never made more use of the graceful veil than do the orientals of the jealous yashmac.
The taste for “shopping”—what an excellent essay might the “piquante and spirituelle” Lady Morgan write on this universal feminine mania!—is as great among the eastern ladies as with their fair European sisters; but it is indulged in a totally different manner. Constantinople boasts no commercial palace like those of Howell and James, or Storr and Mortimer; and still less a Maradan Carson: no carriage draws up at the door of an Ebers or a Sams for “the last new novel;” nor does a well-warmed and well-floored bazar tempt the satin-slippered dame to wander among avenues of glittering gewgaws and elaborated trifles: the carriage of the veiled Osmanli stops at the door of some merchant who has a handsome shopman; and the name of the latter, having been previously ascertained, Sadak or Mustapha, as the case may be, is ordered by the arabajhe, or coachman, to exhibit to his mistress some article of merchandize, which he brings accordingly, and, while the lady affects to examine its quality and to decide on its value, she enters into conversation with the youth, playing upon him meanwhile the whole artillery of her fine eyes. The questioning generally runs nearly thus:—“What is your name?”—“How old are you?”—“Are you married?”—“Were you ever in love?”—and similar misplaced and childish questions. Should the replies of the interrogated person amuse her, and his beauty appear as great on a nearer view as when seen from a distance, the merchandize is objected to, and the visit repeated frequently, ere the fastidious taste of the purchaser can be satisfied.
Nor are women of high rank exempt from this indelicate fancy, which can only be accounted for by the belief that, like caged birds occasionally set free, they do not know how to use their liberty: the Sultana Haybétoullah, sister to his Sublime Highness, the Light of the Ottoman Empire, is particularly attached to this extraordinary passe-temps.
The following morning we started on an exploring expedition, accompanied by the closely-veiled and heavily-draped “Juno,” and attended by her nurse and child, and her quaintly-habited footman; and, as the carriage could not approach the house by a considerable distance, owing to the narrowness and steepness of the streets in that quarter of the city, (which, built upon the crest and down the slope of one of the “seven hills,” overlooks the glittering and craft-clustered port), we were obliged to walk to it through the frozen snow, upon the same principle that, as the mountain would not go to Mahomet, Mahomet was compelled to go to the mountain.
Directly I cast my eyes on the carriage, I had an excellent idea of that which the fairy godmother of Cinderella created for her favourite out of a pumpkin. Its form was that of a small covered waggon; its exterior was all crimson cloth, blue silk fringe, and tassels; and its inside precisely resembled a cake of gilt gingerbread. Four round looking-glasses, just sufficiently large to reflect the features, were impannelled on either side of the doors; and in the place of windows we had gilt lattices, so closely made that our position was the very reverse of cheerful; and, as I found it, moreover, quite impossible to breathe freely, these lattices were flung back despite the cold, and this arrangement being made, I established myself very comfortably on the satin cushions, with my feet doubled under me à la Turque, amid the piled-up luxuries of duvet and embroidery.
Our first visit was to the charshees, or, as Europeans for some inexplicable reason have the habit of calling them, the “bazars”—the word bazar literally signifying market—and, as the carriage rattled under the heavy portal, my first feeling was that of extreme disappointment. The great attraction of these establishments is undeniably their vast extent, for in tenue and richness they are as inferior to our own miniature bazars in London as possible. Rudely paved—disagreeably dirty—plentifully furnished with égouts, of which both the sight and the scent are unpleasing—badly lighted—clumsily built—and so constructed as to afford no idea of the space they cover, until you have wandered through the whole of their mazes, your involuntary impression is one of wonder at the hyperboles which have been lavished on them by travellers, and the uncalled-for extacies of tour-writers.
The charshees are like a little commercial town, roofed in; each street being appropriated to one particular trade or calling; and presenting relative degrees of attraction and luxury, from the diamond-merchant’s counter to the cushions of the shawl and fur-menders.
The Beizensteen is wonderfully rich in jewels, but in order to witness the display of these you must be, or be likely to become, a purchaser, as only a few, and those of comparatively small value, are exposed in the glass cases which ornament the counters. Nearly the whole of the jewellers are Armenians; as well as the money-changers, who transact business in their immediate vicinity. Indeed, all the steady commerce on a great scale in the capital may be said to be, with very slight exceptions, in the hands of the Armenians, who have the true, patient, plodding, calculating spirit of trade; while the wilder speculations of hazardous and ambitious enterprise are grasped with avidity by the more daring and adventurous Greeks; and hence arises the fact, for which it is at first sight difficult to account, that the most wealthy and the most needy of the merchants of Stamboul are alike of that nation: while you rarely see an Armenian either limited in his means, or obtrusive in his style.
In the street of the embroiderers, whose stalls make a very gay appearance, being hung all over with tobacco-bags, purses, and coiffures, wrought in gold and silver, we purchased a couple of richly-worked handkerchiefs, used by the ladies of the country for binding up the hair after the bath, and which are embroidered with a taste and skill truly admirable.
Thence we drove to the shoe bazar, where slippers worked with seed-pearls, and silver and gold thread, upon velvets of every shade and colour, make a very handsome and tempting appearance; and among these are ranged circular looking-glasses, of which the frames, backs, and handles are similarly ornamented. The scent-dealers next claimed our attention, and their quarter is indeed a miniature embodiment of “Araby the Blest,” for the atmosphere is one cloud of perfume. Here we were fully enabled to understand l’embarras des richesses, for all the sweets of the East and West tempted us at once, from the long and slender flacon of Eau de Cologne, to the small, gilded, closely-enveloped bottle of attar-gul. Nor less luxurious was the atmosphere of the spice bazar, with its pyramids of cloves, its piles of cinnamon, and its bags of mace—and, while the porcelain dealers allured us into their neighbourhood by a dazzling display, comprising every variety of ancient and modern china; silks, velvets, Broussa satins, and gold gauze in their turn invited us in another direction—and, in short, I left the charshees with aching eyes, and a very confused impression of this great mart of luxury and expence.
It was a most fatiguing day; and I was scarcely sorry when, having bade farewell to the hospitable family, who had so kindly and courteously received us as guests, we hastened to embark on board our caïque, and in ten minutes found ourselves at Topphannè, whence we slowly mounted the steep ascent which terminates in the high-street of Pera, within a hundred yards of our temporary residence.
Turning Dervishes—Appearance of the Tekiè—The Mausoleum—Duties of the Dervishes—Chapel of the Convent—The Chief Priest—Dress of the Brotherhood—Melancholy Music—Solemnity of the Service—Mistakes of a Modern Traveller—Explanation of the Ceremony—The Prayer—The Kiss of Peace—Appearance of the Chapel—Religious Tolerance of the Turks—The French Renegade—Sketch of Halet Effendi, the Founder of the Tekiè.
I paid two visits to the convent (if such, indeed, it may be termed) of Turning, or, as they are commonly called in Europe, Dancing Dervishes, which is situated opposite the Petit Champs des Morts, descending towards Galata. The court of the Tekiè is entered by a handsomely ornamented gate, and, having passed it, you have the cemetery of the brethren on your left hand, and the gable of the main building on your right. As you arrive in front of the convent, the court widens, and in the midst stands a magnificent plane tree of great antiquity, carefully railed in; while you have on one side the elegant mausoleum in which repose the superiors of the order; and on the other the fountain of white marble, roofed in like an oratory, and enclosed on all its six sides from the weather, where the Dervishes perform their ablutions ere they enter the chapel. The mausoleum is of the octagon form, the floor being raised two steps in the centre, leaving a space all round, just sufficiently wide for one person to pass along. The sarcophagi are covered with plain clay-coloured cloth, and at the head of each tomb is placed the geulaf, or Dervishes’ hat, encircled by a clear muslin handkerchief, embroidered with tinted silks and gold thread. A large gilt frame, enclosing the representation of a hat wrought in needlework, and standing on a slab, on which is inscribed a sentence from the Koran, rests against one of the sarcophagi, and huge wax-candles in plain clay-coloured candlesticks are scattered among the tombs.
The Tekiè is a handsome building with projecting wings, in which the community live very comfortably with their wives and children; and whence, having performed their religious duties, they sally forth to their several avocations in the city, and mingle with their fellow-men upon equal terms. Unlike the monks of the church of Rome, the Dervishes are forbidden to accumulate wealth in order to enrich either themselves or their convent. The most simple fare, the least costly garments, serve alike for their own use, and for that of their families: industry, temperance, and devotion are their duties; and, as they are at liberty to secede from their self-imposed obligations whenever they see fit to do so, there is no lukewarmness among the community, who find time throughout the whole year to devote many hours to God, even of their most busy days; and, unlike their fellow-citizens, the other Mussulmauns, they throw open the doors of their chapel to strangers, only stipulating that gentlemen shall put off their shoes ere they enter.
This chapel, which has been erroneously designated a “mosque,” is an octagon building of moderate size, neatly painted in fresco. The centre of the floor is railed off, and the enclosure is sacred to the brotherhood; while the outer circle, covered with Indian matting, is appropriated to visiters. A deep gallery runs round six sides of the building, and beneath it, on your left hand as you enter, you remark the lattices through which the Turkish women witness the service. A narrow mat surrounds the circle within the railing, and upon this the brethren kneel during the prayers; while the centre of the floor is so highly polished by the perpetual friction that it resembles a mirror, and the boards are united by nails with heads as large as a shilling, to prevent accidents to the feet of the Dervishes during their evolutions. A bar of iron descends octagonally from the centre of the domed roof, to which transverse bars are attached, bearing a vast number of glass lamps of different colours and sizes; and, against many of the pillars, of which I counted four-and-twenty, supporting the dome, are hung frames, within which are inscribed passages from the Prophets.
Above the seat of the superior, the name of the founder of the Tekiè is written in gold on a black ground, in immense characters. This seat consists of a small carpet, above which is spread a crimson rug, and on this the worthy principal was squatted when we entered, in an ample cloak of Spanish brown, with large hanging sleeves, and his geulaf, or high hat of grey felt, encircled with a green shawl. I pitied him that his back was turned towards the glorious Bosphorus, that was distinctly seen through the four large windows at the extremity of the chapel, flashing in the light, with the slender minarets and lordly mosques of Stamboul gleaming out in the distance.
One by one, the Dervishes entered the chapel, bowing profoundly at the little gate of the enclosure, took their places on the mat, and, bending down, reverently kissed the ground; and then, folding their arms meekly on their breasts, remained buried in prayer, with their eyes closed, and their bodies swinging slowly to and fro. They were all enveloped in wide cloaks of dark coloured cloth with pendent sleeves; and wore their geulafs, which they retained during the whole of the service.
I confess that the impression produced on my mind by the idea of Dancing Dervishes was the very reverse of solemn; and I was, in consequence, quite unprepared for the effect that the exhibition of their religious rites cannot fail to exert on all those who are not predetermined to find food for mirth in every sectarian peculiarity. The deep stillness, broken only by the breath of prayer, or the melancholy wailing of the muffled instruments, which seemed to send forth their voice of sadness from behind a cloud in subdued sorrowing, like the melodious plaint of angels over fallen mortality—the concentrated and pious self-forgetfulness of the community, who never once cast their eyes over the crowds that thronged their chapel—the deep, rich chant of the choral brethren—even the very contrast afforded by the light and fairy-like temple in which they thus meekly ministered to their Maker, with their own calm and inspired appearance, heightened the effect of the scene; and tacitly rebuked the presumption and worldliness of spirit that would have sought a jest in the very sanctuary of religion.
The service commenced with an extemporaneous prayer from the chief priest, to which the attendant Dervishes listened with arms folded upon their breasts, and their eyes fixed on the ground. At its conclusion, all bowed their foreheads to the earth; and the orchestra struck into one of those peculiarly wild and melancholy Turkish airs which are unlike any other music that I ever heard. Instantly, the full voices of the brethren joined in chorus, and the effect was thrilling: now the sounds died away like the exhausted breath of a departing spirit, and suddenly they swelled once more into a deep and powerful diapason that seemed scarce earthly. A second stillness of about a minute succeeded, when the low, solemn music was resumed, and the Dervishes, slowly rising from the earth, followed their superior three times round the enclosure; bowing down twice under the shadow of the name of their Founder, suspended above the seat of the high priest. This reverence was performed without removing their folded arms from their breasts—the first time on the side by which they approached, and afterwards on that opposite, which they gained by slowly revolving on the right foot, in such a manner as to prevent their turning their backs towards the inscription. The procession was closed by a second prostration, after which, each Dervish having gained his place, cast off his cloak, and such as had walked in woollen slippers withdrew them, and, passing solemnly before the Chief Priest, they commenced their evolutions.
I am by no means prepared, nor even inclined, to attempt a Quixotic defence of the very extraordinary and bizarre ceremonial to which I was next a witness; but I cannot, nevertheless, agree with a modern traveller in describing it as “an absurdity.” That it does not accord with our European ideas of consistent and worthy worship is not only possible, but certain; yet I should imagine that no one could feel other than respect for men of irreproachable character, serving God according to their means of judgment.
The extraordinary ceremony which gives its name to the Dancing, or, as they are really and much more appropriately called, the Turning Dervishes—for nothing can be more utterly unlike dancing than their evolutions—is not without its meaning. The community first pray for pardon of their past sins, and the amendment of their future lives; and then, after a silent supplication for strength to work out the change, they figure, by their peculiar and fatiguing movements, their anxiety to “shake the dust from their feet,” and to cast from them all worldly ties.
As I could not reconcile myself to believe that the custom could have grown out of mere whim, I took some pains to ascertain its meaning, as well as visiting the chapel a second time during its observance, in order to ascertain whether the ceremonies differed on different days, but I remarked no change.
Immediately after passing with a solemn reverence, twice performed, the place of the High Priest, who remained standing, the Dervishes spread their arms, and commenced their revolving motion; the palm of the right hand being held upwards, and that of the left turned down. Their under-dresses (for, as I before remarked, they had laid aside their cloaks) consisted of a jacket and petticoat of dark coloured cloth, that descended to their feet; the higher order of brethren being clad in green, and the others in brown, or a sort of yellowish gray; about their waists they wore wide girdles, edged with red, to which the right side of the jacket was closely fastened, while the left hung loose: their petticoats were of immense width, and laid in large plaits beneath the girdle, and, as the wearers swung round, formed a bell-like appearance; these latter garments, however, are only worn during the ceremony, and are exchanged in summer for white ones of lighter material.
The number of those who were “on duty,” for I know not how else to express it, was nine; seven of them being men, and the remaining two, mere boys, the youngest certainly not more than ten years of age. Nine, eleven, and thirteen are the mystic numbers, which, however great the strength of community, are never exceeded; and the remaining members of the brotherhood, during the evolutions of their companions, continue engaged in prayer within the enclosure. These on this occasion amounted to about a score, and remained each leaning against a pillar: while the beat of the drum in the gallery marked the time to which the revolving Dervishes moved, and the effect was singular to a degree that baffles description. So true and unerring were their motions, that, although the space which they occupied was somewhat circumscribed, they never once gained upon each other: and for five minutes they continued twirling round and round, as though impelled by machinery, their pale, passionless countenances perfectly immobile, their heads slightly declined towards the right shoulder, and their inflated garments creating a cold, sharp air in the chapel, from the rapidity of their action. At the termination of that period, the name of the Prophet occurred in the chant, which had been unintermitted in the gallery; and, as they simultaneously paused, and, folding their hands upon their breasts, bent down in reverence at the sound, their ample garments wound about them at the sudden check, and gave them, for a moment, the appearance of mummies.
An interval of prayer followed; and the same ceremony was performed three times; at the termination of which they all fell prostrate on the earth, when those who had hitherto remained spectators flung their cloaks over them, and the one who knelt on the left of the Chief Priest rose, and delivered a long prayer divided into sections, with a rapid and solemn voice, prolonging the last word of each sentence by the utterance of “ha—ha—ha”—with a rich depth of octave that would not have disgraced Phillips.
This prayer was for “the great ones of the earth”—the magnates of the land—all who were “in authority over them;” and at each proud name they bowed their heads upon their breasts, until that of the Sultan was mentioned, when they once more fell flat upon the ground, to the sound of the most awful howl I ever heard.
This outburst from the gallery terminated the labours of the orchestra; and the superior, rising to his knees while the others continued prostrate, in his turn prayed for a few instants; and then, taking his stand upon the crimson rug, they approached him one by one, and, clasping his hand, pressed it to their lips and forehead. When the first had passed, he stationed himself on the right of the superior, and awaited the arrival of the second, who, on reaching him, bestowed on him also the kiss of peace, which he had just proffered to the Chief Priest; and each in succession performed the same ceremony to all those who had preceded him, which was acknowledged by gently stroking down the beard.
This was the final act of the exhibition; and, the superior having slowly and silently traversed the enclosure, in five seconds the chapel was empty, and the congregation busied at the portal in reclaiming their boots, shoes, and slippers.
I had never hitherto seen such picturesque groups as those which thronged the Dervishes’ chapel on my second visit; nor did I ever witness more perfect order in any public assembly. A deep stillness reigned throughout the whole ceremony, only broken by the sobs of a middle-aged Turk who stood near me, and who was so much overcome by the saddening wail of the orchestra that he could not restrain his tears; a circumstance by no means uncommon in this country, where all ranks are peculiarly susceptible to the influence of music.
The interior of the edifice was a perfect picture, of which the soberly-clad Dervishes occupied the centre; while the exterior circle was peopled with groups of soldiers in their coarse wrapping coats and red caps—venerable Turks in claret-coloured pelisses, richly furred—descendants of Mahomet, with their green turbans and portly beards—and peasants in their rude suits of dusky brown; all equally intent, and all equally orderly.
The Turks are extremely tolerant with regard to religious opinions; their creed being split into as many sects as that of the Church of England; and each individual being left equally free to follow, as he sees fit, the dictates of his conscience. The Dervishes are of several different orders. The Mivlavies are materialists in their faith; the Zerrins worship the Virgin Mary; and the Bektachis believe in the Saviour and the twelve apostles; every order has its peculiar constitution, differing from the dogmas of simple Islamism; but they are universally venerated by Musselmauns, despite their sectarian prejudices. They are generally versed in astrology and music; exorcise sufferers from witchcraft and the evil eye; and are always of quiet and submissive manners, never mingling either in the intrigues of the court, or the cabals of the Ulémas.
It is not surprising that the Turks should venerate their own Dervishes, when they not only tolerate but even respect the Christian monks, and regard their monasteries as holy places, bearing the names of saints, and inhabited by men wholly devoted to God. To such a height, indeed, do they carry this reverence, that they permit the communities of several convents built on the charming little group of islands, called “Princes’ Islands,” situated in the Propontis, not more than two leagues from Constantinople, to be summoned to their chapel to prayer by the ringing of bells; a privilege which is not accorded to any Christian church devoted to a general congregation; but perhaps the greatest proof that can be adduced of their veneration for religious societies exists in the fact that in the mausoleum of the principal Tekiè at Iconium lies one of the most celebrated of Musselmaun saints, Mollah Hunkiar, and beside him a Christian monk, to whom he had been so tenderly attached during his life, that he desired in his will that they should not be separated after death. The two tombs still exist, and what renders the anecdote still more worthy of record, is the circumstance that it is the Chèïk or Abbot of this very monastery, who has the privilege of girding on the sword of the Sultan in the Mosque of Eyoub, on his accession to the Ottoman throne.
The Turks do not consider their women worthy to become Dervishes, but they, nevertheless, respect the Christian nuns; and a somewhat curious proof of this fact was given in 1818, on the receipt by the Sultan and his favourite minister, Halet Effendi, of two petitions drawn up by a sisterhood at Genoa, in which were set forth the injuries done to their convent by the French Republicans, terminating with a prayer to “his very pious Highness,” to send to them, as a present, three Turkey carpets to cover the floor of their chapel, one of which was to be crimson, a second purple, and the third green; and in return they promised to pray for the health, prosperity, and glory of the august head of the Ottoman Empire. The Sultan gallantly acceded to their request, and the compatriotes of Roxalana received with the least possible delay the magnificent donation by which a Musselmaun Emperor contributed to the adornment of a temple dedicated to Christian worship.
In the cemetery of the Tekiè at Pera lies the body of the Marquis de Bonneval, a French renegade who died a pasha; and the stone slab yet remains there that once covered the head of Halet Effendi, the founder of the convent, which, I have omitted to mention, is built entirely of marble. The head of the Effendi has, however, been removed to a less sacred place of burial, and has found a traitor’s grave.
Halet Effendi, once the favourite of the Sultan, was the cause of the Greek insurrection, which he brought about to conceal his own disloyal views. Having, by his intrigues, caused the appointment of Michel Suzzo to the principality of Moldavia, and having been reproached with the disaffection of Suzzo towards his Imperial master, the minister, who was responsible for the conduct and loyalty of his Greek protégé, boldly replied that the disaffection towards the Sultan was not that of Suzzo individually, but of his whole nation; an assertion which he immediately proceeded to bear out by exciting the Greeks covertly to rebellion; and he was so well seconded by his creature that, when Ypsalanti reared his standard in the provinces, Suzzo joined his banner, and the insurrection in the Morea, and the revolt of the Greeks in Constantinople, with the murder of the Patriarch, were the fearful consequences of the rebellious coalition; a treason which Mahmoud visited on his favourite with a sentence of exile to Iconia, giving him, at the same time, an autograph letter, in which he pledged himself to respect both his life and property; but, after the lapse of a few years, repenting an act of clemency so misplaced, the Sultan dispatched a Capedjee-basha, furnished with a Firman of recall, to his banished courtier, who found Halet Effendi at Iconia, and presented his credentials. The exile, overjoyed at so sudden and unlooked-for a change in his fortunes, lost no time in preparing for his return to Constantinople; but he had not long confided himself to the keeping of the Capedjee-basha when the bowstring terminated his existence, and the executioner hastened back to Stamboul, carrying along with him the head of his victim.
This ghastly memorial of their benefactor was consigned, at their urgent request, to the Dervishes of Pera, who buried it in their grave-yard, beneath the small slab of stone, which, in a Turkish cemetery, indicates to the initiated that the deceased above whom it is placed has perished by violence; but it had not lain there more than a few days, when the Sultan chanced to inquire how it had been disposed of; and, hearing that it had received burial at this Tekiè, of whose order, entitled Mevlavies, he is himself a member, (and whose chapel in which he formerly performed his evolutions he still frequents, although in private, occupying, on his visits, one of the latticed closets,) he ordered that it should be immediately disinterred and carried to Balata, where the common sewers of the city empty themselves into the Bosphorus. This was accordingly done; and the turban-crested pillar that surmounts the slab now only serves to indicate the spot where rested for a few brief days the dishonoured head of Halet Effendi.
Merchants of Galata—Palaces of Pera—Picturesque style of Building—The Perotes—Social Subjects—Greeks, European and Schismatic—Ambassadorial Residences—Entrée of the Embassies—The Carnival—Soirées Dansantes—The Austrian Minister—Madame la Baronne—The Russian Minister—Madame de Boutenieff—The Masked Ball—Russian Supremacy—The Prussian Plenipotentiary—The Sardinian Chargé d’Affaires—Diplomacy Unhoused—Society of Pera.
Neither Frank nor Christian is allowed to inhabit the “City of the Faithful;” and the faubourg of Pera, situated on the opposite side of the port, is consequently the head-quarters of the élite of European society. Galata, which skirts the shore of the Bosphorus at the base of the hill on which Pera is built, numbers among its inhabitants many very respectable merchants, whose avocations demand their continual presence; but Pera is the dwelling-place of the beau-monde—the seat of fashion—the St. James’s of the capital. Here every thing social is en magnifique: the residences attached to the different Legations glory in the imposing designations of “palaces”—the gloomy magazins of the Parisian modistes are as dear and as dirty as can be desired—all the employés of diplomacy throng the narrow, steep, and ill-paved streets, while the fair Greeks look down upon them from their bay-windows, projecting far beyond the façade of the building; and the bright-eyed Armenians peer from their lattices “all-seeing, but unseen.” The quaintly-coloured houses, looking like tenements of painted pasteboard, appear as though a touch would make them meet, and are picturesque beyond description, as they advance and recede, setting all external order, regularity, and proportion, at defiance.
In my rapid definition of European society, I must not omit to mention that the Perotes, or natives of Pera, consider themselves as much Franks as though they had been born and nurtured on the banks of the Thames or the Seine; and your expression of amusement at this very original notion would inevitably give great offence. Conceding this point, therefore, as one which will not admit of argument, I shall simply divide society into two parts—the diplomatic and the scandalous—premising, however, that it requires a delicate touch to separate them, they are so intimately interwoven. Those who have the entrée of the several embassies criticise each other; while those who have not, exercise a still more powerful prerogative; and certain it is that, between the two, the population of Pera is a great circulating medium which would render an official “hue and cry” a work of supererogation. “Not a feather falls to the ground,” but in half an hour every individual in the place knows by whom it was plucked, and the tale is told with a raciness and a zest that would make the fortune of a Sunday paper.
A nice distinction exists among the Greeks, on which they vehemently insist; the Greek Catholics consider themselves as Europeans, while the schismatic Greeks do not assume this privilege, of which the former are extremely jealous.
After the residence of a few weeks, you can readily determine the origin of every female whom you encounter in the streets of Pera. The fair Perotes, indeed, wear the bonnet, the cloak, and the shawl, which form the walking garb of the genuine European gentlewoman; but, nevertheless, it is impossible not to distinguish them at a glance; an insurmountable taste for bright colours, an indescribable peculiarity in the adjustment of their toilette, at once mark the Perote; while the dark-eyed Greek is known by her wide-spreading turban of gauze or velvet, over which is flung a lace veil, which, falling low upon the back and shoulders, leaves the face almost entirely uncovered.
Since the great fire of Pera, the Ambassadors of England and France have resided at Therapia, a pretty village on the banks of the Bosphorus, near the mouth of the Black Sea; but the Internuncio of Russia, the Ministers of Austria and Prussia, and the Chargés d’Affaires of Sardinia and Holland, still inhabit the town daring the winter months. The Austrian palace, however, is the only one that now remains, the other diplomatic establishments being compressed into dwelling-houses; thus the Russian minister inhabits a mansion in the High Street, and the Dutch Chargé d’Affaires resides next door to us.
The entrée of the embassies is peculiarly easy to the resident Europeans, as their number is so limited that les grands convenances are almost necessarily laid aside, and their Excellencies super-eminently tolerant with regard to the rank of their guests. Thus it is somewhat startling to a traveller, accustomed to the exclusive circles of Paris and London, to find, not only merchants and their wives at the diplomatic soirées, but even the head clerks and their fair partners. It is true that the mode of reception has gradations of graciousness,