CONSTANTINOPLE
Towards midday, when we entered the “Golden Horn,” we were plentifully
rewarded for our bad passage by the enchanting view of the bay, the
harbour of Constantinople being one of the most beautiful in the world.
We passed the Citadel and the “Dolman-Baghtcha Palace,” where Mourad, the
deposed Sultan, is kept prisoner; all around the castle stood sentinels.
We glided now along the verdant shores of “Boyouk-Dere,” the summer
residence of the Ambassadors, and dropped anchor at Constantinople.
The town scrambles up and spreads itself over three sharp-sided hills. It
is divided into three quarters: Scutari, on the Asiatic shore, inhabited
mostly by Mahometans; Stamboul; and Pera-Galata, on the European side of
the “Golden Horn,” joined by a long bridge to the Asiatic shore, where
all the Embassies, banks and hotels are concentrated.
As soon as we were moored to the shore, a fleet of caïques surrounded
us, and a crowd of sallow-faced guides invaded the deck, offering their
services. We stepped into a canoe which took us to the Custom-House.
After having got our baggage speedily chalked, we called a carriage and
drove to the Hôtel de Londres, by narrow and badly paved streets, where
appalling beggars and cripples of every description exposed to the eye
their sores and insisted upon thrusting their distorted limbs into our
faces. It was sickening to look at them!
The streets in Constantinople are awfully dirty, all the refuse is
carried out and spilt into the middle of them, and the homeless dogs,
who serve here as sweeps, lick them up greedily. Each street has its own
band of dogs, who bark and howl throughout the whole night. The carriages
and horsemen don’t abstain running over them, and the greater part of
these poor mongrels are lacking, here a paw, and there a tail. We saw fat
Greeks chatting in groups, coffee drinking and smoking before their open
shops. The Imams, in white turbans and flowing robes, sat dreaming on the
threshold of their dwellings. They are also free to engage in trade, and
it is not uncommon to discover that an Imam owns a melon-shop, or proves
to be a milkman. Long white veils conceal the form of the Turkish women
from head to foot, whenever she leaves her house. I remarked that the
old women, to whom age and ugliness permitted their faces to be revealed
without offending the Mussulman’s ideas of propriety, were particularly
well wrapped in their _chadras_, leaving only their eyes exposed, but the
young and good-looking ones are not averse to show a little more.
The Hôtel de Londres being quite full, we were led into a large saloon,
which was hastily converted into a bedroom. It was all windows on
one side, and seemed horribly uncomfortable. Looking about me with
dissatisfied eyes, my face began to lengthen. I suppose it was very
silly, but I felt so tired and out of sorts that I could have cried.
On the day following our arrival we explored the outskirts of
Constantinople. The Sultan had the amiability to send his aide-de-camp to
go about with us to all the places of interest we should like to visit,
and put at our disposal, as often as we pleased to use it, one of his
row-boats with ten men. This Turkish officer, a very stylish young man,
was the son of Jakir Pacha, ex-Ambassador of Turkey at St. Petersburg,
where he has been educated in the Corps-des-Pages. He speaks Russian
and French to perfection. He told me that he had a tedious time at
Constantinople and was pining for St. Petersburg. In the first place he
took us to Dolma-Bachtche Palace, and the Museum of Eski-Sarai, where we
saw a throne inlaid with precious stones, dating from the 16th century.
We went afterwards to the Cathedral of St. Sofia, transformed now into a
Mosque. All the Christian paintings on the walls are scraped out, except
a big image of Christ, which the Mussulmans could not manage to rub off.
Then we were rowed over to Scutari, on the opposite shore, in a rich
yawl with scarlet velvet cushions belonging to the Sultan. Its crew, ten
bronzed-skinned men of athletic build, showing bare, muscular brown hands
and legs, rowed vigorously bending to the oars. We moored before Belerbey
Palace, and entered an immense hall with a marble floor, mirrored walls,
and a fountain in the middle, looking out upon the Bosphorus. Before
leaving the palace, we visited the sumptuous apartments of the chief of
the eunuchs.
The next day we went for a sail in a steam-launch belonging to the
Russian Embassy, the swiftest vessel on the Bosphorus. After having
moored at Boyouk-Dere we took a long walk in the gardens of the Russian
and French Embassies; the dead autumn leaves covered the paths with
a yellow carpet, and were crushed under our feet. On our way back to
Constantinople the moon showed above the hills, lighting the Bosphorus.
I repeatedly expressed the desire to be shown the interior of a Mussulman
home, jealously kept hidden from the eyes of the curious, in order to
see the domestic side of Turkish life. Mme. Lebedeff got the permission
for my cousin Zoe and me to visit the harem of one of the Sultan’s
aide-de-camps, who, like all the modern Turks belonging to the upper
classes, had only one wife. After having crossed the Stamboul Bridge,
we took a small steamboat which brought us to Scutari. The master of
the harem met us on the quay, and, touching his forehead to us, led us
to his home, built round a courtyard. We were shown into a large hall,
furnished chiefly with sofas draped in different coloured silks along
the walls, with lots of cushions and oriental rugs; cigarettes were
lavishly strewn on low tables before them. We were cordially welcomed by
the Sultaness of the harem, a pretty plump woman saturated with perfume,
her cheeks painted red and white, her lips of an unnatural crimson.
She wore a fantastic apple-green dress with a broad silver belt which
drew attention to the amplitude of her waist, and a small red velvet
cap richly embroidered. Our hostess spoke very good French, and seemed
very gay, though in the higher ranks of life harem ladies live a dull
existence. It is a curious thing that, though they are never seen in
public, they take an engrossing interest in their personal appearance,
and dress and jewels absorb most of their time and attention. Rouge and
other cosmetics are common in harems, and the examination of garments
and ornaments is the first and almost the sole form of entertainment
when visiting or receiving female friends. Our hostess was surrounded by
pretty slave-girls, Circassians for the most part. We were asked to be
seated, and soon an enormous old woman, bursting with fat—our hostess’s
mother-in-law—came in. She wore a dress of crying colours, and a bonnet
trimmed with crotcheted flowers. This hippopotamus was treated with great
deference. At her appearance everybody rose. She was followed by her
daughter with her two little girls, in European dress, and her son, a
fine boy of twelve, with fair curly hair, a pretty piece of diminutive
manhood dressed like a grown-up, in the last Parisian fashion, his tie
fastened with a large emerald pin; a very independent-looking little
fellow, who was addressed reverentially as “Bey.” Soon after, a slave
appeared, a large bundle of keys hanging at her girdle, carrying a large
tray covered with a green velvet napkin embroidered in gold, heaped with
cakes and preserves flavoured with attar of roses, nauseously sweet,
presented with a glass of water to wash them down. A negress followed,
handing round coffee, served a la Turca, in tiny little cups like little
egg-shells supported in filigree silver, and behind came a mulatto
girl holding a silver censer. I felt as if I were at the opera, and
the curtain had just gone up on a brilliant act of “Aida.” Presently
we were invited into the dining-room, where a dinner of about twelve
courses was served, all cooked in olive oil. The dishes were handed to
our hostess first, and when she had served herself, the slaves served the
guests. We ate our soup with spoons whose bowl was of tortoise-shell,
and the handle of ivory tipped with coral. During the repast a band of
musician-girls were seated cross-legged on the floor, playing noisily on
their weird, strange-looking instruments, and making what they seemed to
think was music. One of the slaves began to sing in a falsetto-voice,
when suddenly there came a tap at the door and a few words in Turkish,
that caused the slave-girls to jump hurriedly to their feet, drawing
their veils over their faces. The door was flung open and the master of
the house came in, followed by his father-in-law—an ex-Vizier. As a rule
no male, except the woman’s husband, father-in-law and brother-in-law,
ever pass the threshold of the privacy of a harem. At the end of the
dinner a slave-girl poured rose-water over our fingers from a copper
jug, wiping them with a napkin of damask, after which our hostess threw
on a blue cloak and led us into the garden, laid down in terraces, with
lemon and orange trees bending under the weight of their fruit. In a
large pond gold fish swam, and close by was a large cage filled with
canaries. We sat on a hillock, admiring the beautiful birds’ eye view of
Constantinople and the Bosphorus, whilst the “Bey,” the little man-child,
picked flowers for Zoe and me. Night was drawing on; it was time to bid
farewell to our amiable hosts and return to the hotel.
My curiosity concerning harem life was not entirely satisfied. I wanted
to visit a harem containing several wives. The interpreter of our hotel,
a Circassian named Michael, who spoke twelve languages, proposed to show
us a harem whose Pasha kept a dozen wives. Sergy did not approve of
the expedition, but I had my own way and started off with Zoe and her
lady-companion in an open carriage. We drove through narrow, winding
streets. While we were slowly mounting a steep slope, we saw two women,
wrapped in blue veils, descending almost perpendicular flights of
street-steps cut in the rock, making signs to our driver to stop. After
a hurried colloquy with Michael, who sat on the box, he had the carriage
stopped to take them up, and explained to us that these women were going
to serve as interpreters for us in the harem, where he could not be
admitted. One of them was a Servian and could jabber a little Russian,
and her companion spoke English.
We clambered down a steep bank to which a boat was moored to cross
over to the other shore, and dismissed our carriage, having decided to
return by steamer. We picked our way through a dingy side-street paved
with pointed stones, between which weeds grew, and came up to a house
of dubious appearance, with narrow iron-barred windows like those of a
prison. At the sound of our bell the door was opened by an eunuch, who
took us into a large room with an enormous bedstead, hung with green
and gold brocade, standing in the middle. An odour of attar of roses
filled the apartment. My curiosity was awfully excited; I expected to see
beautiful “houris,” but was greatly disappointed. First of all appeared
the Pasha’s favourite wife, looking rather pretty, with a flower in
her jet-black hair, her fingers stained with henna, and saturated with
perfume so strong as to make you sneeze. Behind came the second wife,
an insignificant little thing, followed by the third would-be “houri,”
a wrinkled old guy. For a quarter-of-an hour we stared speechlessly at
each other, then losing patience, I asked our interpreter when the other
nine wives would make their appearance, and she replied they were all
out walking but would soon be back, but I was sure it was all a fib and
that they were nothing but a myth. After a while the wife No. 1 began to
talk to our interpreters in a low voice, after which they came up and
told us that we had to be presented to the master of the house. Here was
something that didn’t enter our programme, but we had to undergo the
ordeal which seems to be the custom here. We were taken into a big room
and ushered into the presence of the Pasha, a white-bearded patriarch,
wearing an enormous white turban, who was sitting on a low divan upon a
pile of cushions, with his legs tucked under him. A little nigger boy,
one of his numerous offsprings, was playing at his feet with a wooden
horse. The Pasha signalled for us to be seated, and fixed Zoe and me with
a long stare over his spectacles, seeming to approve of us. He called
one of our interpreters and asked if Zoe and I were sisters, and ordered
her to tell us that he wanted to keep us both in his harem. Finding the
proceeding of too oriental a fashion, we hurried away under the pretext
that my husband was waiting for us outside. The old Satyr appeared very
much displeased that we slipped out of his grasp, and when taking leave
of us he gripped my hand and squeezed my fingers to make me cry out. Who
could have thought of that old man being so inflammable! We ran down
the stairs and rushed out, happy to have got off so cheaply from this
mouse-trap. Being too late for the steamer, we took a ferry-boat. It was
nearly night when we were back at the hotel, and marched in to dinner,
which was half over.
The day of the “Selamlic,” the birthday of Mahomed, when the Sultan
leaves his palace in great pomp and goes to the neighbouring “Hamidieh
Mosque” to public prayers, fell that year on a Friday, the Mahomedan
Sabbath. Thanks to Mme. Lebedeff, we had the opportunity to see the
ceremonial of the “Selamlic,” and the Sultan’s State visit to the
mosque. She had got cards of admission for us to the terrace of one of
the wings of the palace, where places were reserved for the members of
the diplomatic corps with their wives and daughters. Mme. Lebedeff came
to fetch Zoe and me in her phaeton, in a grand toilet, with a Turkish
Order glittering on her breast, which made her look very pompous and
very patronising. Great animation reigned in the town; people crowded in
the streets so that our carriage could scarcely move. The windows and
house-tops were full of spectators, and the native women seemed to be all
out of doors, walking about in groups, wrapped up in long white veils
which covered them from head to foot. In a narrow street we had got into
the stream of carriages, and nearly ran into a cab. In a moment I was
out of the phaeton, just when a platoon of soldiers was advancing on me.
Seeing my critical position, a young Turk, who occupied the cab we got
into, asked me to get into his carriage, but Mme. Lebedeff drew me back
hastily. At length, after many struggles, we arrived at our destination
and mounted on the terrace, where Constantinople’s high society had
gathered in a brilliant throng around us. On the square under our feet
were guards of honour and massed troops: twelve battalions, fifteen
squadrons and eight military bands, were ranged. We found ourselves just
over the bayonets of a regiment of Tunis Zouaves, very good-looking,
dark-skinned men. The Muezzin in the minaret began to call to prayers,
and there soon appeared a smart coach containing the recluses of the
Sultan’s harem, preceded by the Grand-master of the eunuchs, and two
negro and two white footmen. The numerous sons of the Sultan, armed with
spears, came behind cantering on magnificent steeds. An infinite number
of Pashas, Beys and Effendies brought up the rear, with a great number
of German officers, who had come to Constantinople to teach the military
art to the Turkish army; and then, to the desperate and wild sounds of
the Turkish bands, the Sultan appeared, reclining in a victoria with a
coachman in Albanian costume. The Padishah was acclaimed with enthusiasm
by the populace, and the troops saluted him putting their hand on the
breast and forehead. As soon as the Sultan had entered the Mosque,
religious chants were heard. On Friday the service lasts twenty minutes
usually, but this time it was prolonged more than an hour through the
reading aloud of the Prophet’s biography. The Sultan returned to the
palace mounted on a fine long-tailed Arab; the horse’s trappings and
saddle were covered with precious stones. The Sultan stood at his window
whilst the troops defiled before him. After the review paper-bags full
of sweets were distributed to the soldiers. I had, as it appeared,
conquered the heart of one of the Zouave soldiers, standing just under
me, who stared at me with persistence when his officer was away. I looked
down upon him and nodded to him to throw me a bonbon and he replied, by
gesture, that he was afraid of his officer, who was now watching our
little manœuvre. Just then bonbons and cool drinks were being handed
on trays to the guests on the terrace, and this time it was my warrior
who asked me to throw him a bonbon. An over ripened lady, meagre as a
gutter-cat, who stood by me, understood the signal as being addressed
to her, and thrusting a coquettish glance at the Zouave, she threw him
a chocolate, which he kicked away contemptuously with his boot. As I
couldn’t help smiling, the affronted lady looked daggers at me, but I
didn’t mind it a bit and recompensed my bronze-faced admirer by throwing
to him a sugar-candy. He stooped down and picked it up, then he raised
his hand high, so that I could see that he had the candy in it, and
looking up with a smile, he kissed the bonbon and threw it into the
pocket of his vest. When the Zouave regiment was leaving the place, and
marched away, my soldier took a last look at me and went off, every now
and then pausing to look back, and almost broke his neck with efforts to
catch a last glimpse of me.
Constantinople did not offer a great deal in the way of distraction; in
the evenings, especially, we were at a loss for amusements. We had quite
enough of Turkey and took the “Tzar,” a Russian boat bound for Egypt.
On our way to the embarkment we entered a Greek church, where a big
chandelier bearing the form of a ship, hung from the ceiling, to assure
us a safe passage, and get the blessing of St. Nicholas, the patron of
the navigators.
Our steamer was a veritable floating hotel, reuniting all the advantages
of modern comfort. In the hold were packed 1,800 sheep, a drove of
cattle, a large cage full of fowls and three pairs of splendid Russian
steppers, who were to be sold at Cairo; each pair of horses cost 4000
roubles (about four hundred pounds.)
In the night we crossed the Marble Sea, and early the next morning we
perceived the Dardanelles, and heard the beat of the drum on the opposite
shore. Towards evening we entered the Archipelago, strewn with rocky
islands, and passed before Lesbos, with shores scorched by the sun,
without a tree or a blade of grass.