indeed, notwithstanding the jealousy of the effendis and vigilance of
the eunuchs; notwithstanding the hundred blows of the whip with which
the Koran threatens to punish the guilty one; notwithstanding the
fact of the Turkish husbands being all banded together in a sort of
society for mutual protection, and that an entirely opposite state of
things from that existing in other countries obtains there, everything
seeming to conspire tacitly to ensure conjugal felicity. It may almost
be affirmed that the “veiled” of Constantinople commit no fewer
indiscretions than their unveiled sisters of most Christian cities.
Were this not the case, why should the word _Kerata_--which, translated
into mythological nomenclature, would read Menelaos--be heard so
frequently upon the lips of Kara-Gyuz? But you say, How is it possible?
Well, in any number of ways: first, it must be remembered that women
are no longer flung into the Bosphorus, either in bags or out of them,
and that the bastinado on the soles of the feet, fasting, hair-cloth,
enforced silence, and so on are punishments which have become merely
idle threats in the mouth of some brutal _Kerata_. The jealous husband
still does all in his power to protect his rights, but when he fails
he no longer indulges in the violent scenes or summary administrations
of justice of former times, it being now much more difficult to keep
the knowledge of these little domestic tragedies within the walls
of one’s own house. Moreover, a dread of being laughed at is one of
the influences which have crept in along with other European ideas.
The Turk’s jealousy, too, is a cold, apathetic, corporeal affair,
proceeding more from self-esteem than from love for another, and,
although bitter and suspicious, and even vindictive, it is not, in
the nature of things, to be compared for vigilance and watchfulness
with that which springs from a real and passionate devotion. And,
then, who is going to undertake to watch a wife living apart from her
husband--that is, in a separate establishment, where the husband does
not even go every day? Who is going to follow her every time she goes
out through all those intricate windings and twistings of the Galata
and Pera streets and lanes and retired parts of Stambul? What is there
to prevent any handsome young aide-de-camp of the Sultan from doing
what, as a matter of fact, I did see one of them do one day--gallop
his horse close by a carriage just at the corner of a street when the
eunuch riding ahead had his back turned and the carriage concealed
the one behind, and throw a note in the window? And then the evenings
during Ramazan when the women can stay out till midnight, and the
obliging _Cocone_--she in especial who lives on the border between a
Mussulman and a Christian community--is far too hospitable to refuse
admittance to a Christian gentleman just because a Mussulman lady
happens to be calling on her at the moment. There are, however, no more
of those thrilling and horrible incidents which once were so common.
Great ladies now-a-days do not emulate the example set by a sultana
of the last century, who, when she repented of her kindness toward
a youth who had brought the stuffs purchased in the morning to the
Seraglio, had him quietly dropped into the Bosphorus. Now everything
is as prosaic as possible, and the places of rendezvous are usually
those out-of-the-way shops which deal in a little of everything. It
is useless to ask why the Turkish authorities do not suppress this
license, when one has only to read the regulations issued to the police
in regard to the preservation of good behavior during the period of
some popular festivity, to see that they make every effort in their
power to do so. Most of these regulations bear upon the conduct of
women, many of them being addressed directly to them in the shape of
admonitions and threats. For example, a woman is forbidden to go to the
rear of a shop; she must stay where she can be seen from the street.
She is forbidden to make use of the tramways for mere amusement;
that is, she must get out at the end of the route, and cannot return
immediately by the same line. She is forbidden to make signs to the
people who pass her, to stop here, to go there, to linger longer than a
certain specified time in a given place; and so on. Any one can easily
imagine for himself to what extent such regulations as these can be
enforced. And then there is that blessed veil: originally introduced
in the interests of the men, it is now used as a means of outwitting
them by the women, who first wear a transparent one in order to start a
flirtation, and then a thick one in order to carry it on. It is said
to be the cause of all manner of curious situations--favored lovers
who are still ignorant of their lady-loves’ identity; women who hide
themselves under others’ names in order to carry out some scheme of
revenge; practical jokes, unexpected encounters, and scrapes which give
rise to any amount of gossip and idle talk.
The place to hear all these things is the bath-house: here every
rumor and fresh bit of scandal is discussed and commented upon and
remodelled ready to be served up afresh. The bath is, in fact, the
great rendezvous of the Turkish women, taking, to some extent, the
place of the theatre in their lives: they go there in couples or
parties, accompanied by their slaves carrying rugs and cushions, toilet
articles, sweetmeats, and sometimes even their luncheon when they
propose remaining the entire day. As many as two hundred women are
sometimes assembled in those dimly-lighted rooms lined with marbles and
musical with running fountains. The picture made by these nymph-like
forms flitting about in the airiest of costumes is, according to those
European ladies who have seen it, enough to paralyze the fingers of an
artist. There are _hanums_ whose dazzling skin contrasts strikingly
with that of their ebony-colored slaves; handsome matronly figures,
which fulfil an old-fashioned Turk’s ideal of feminine loveliness;
slim young wives with their short hair turned up, looking like little
girls; Circassians whose tresses fall like a golden shower below their
knees; Turkish women with jet-black hair divided into a hundred or more
locks hanging over the breast and shoulders, while others have theirs
arranged in any quantity of wavy little tufts, like an enormous wig.
One wears an amulet around her neck, another a bit of garlic bound to
her head to avert the evil eye; there are savages with tattooed arms,
and little ladies of fashion whose tender skin betrays the stays and
shoes of modern civilization; while the shoulders of more than one poor
slave bear witness to the existence of a eunuch’s whip. Everywhere
groups are to be seen in an endless variety of graceful abandonment.
Some lie stretched out full length upon rugs smoking, others are having
their hair combed out by slaves; some are embroidering, some singing,
laughing, chasing one another and throwing water about like children;
shrill screams come from the shower-baths; here a party of friends are
seated in a circle having a little feast together; towels fly through
the air, pitched from one group to another. The less covering they have
on their bodies, the more they seem to reveal the childishness of their
natures. They are very fond of comparing their good points, measuring
their feet, weighing their comparative attractions. One observes,
candidly, “I am beautiful;” another, “I am passable.” A third wishes
she had not such and such a defect, while a fourth says to her friend,
“Why, do you know, you are prettier than I?” or one is heard saying to
another reproachfully, “Just see how terribly fat Madame Ferideh has
gotten; and you telling her to eat rice-balls, when you know she ought
to live on dried crabs!” When an amiable _cocona_ is present they all
crowd around and ply her with questions: “Is it true that you go to
balls with your neck bare down to here? What does your effendi think of
it? And what do the other men say? How do they hold you when you dance?
This way? Really and truly? Well, I will believe such things when I see
them!”
Not only at the bath, but everywhere else and on all possible
occasions, they try their best to meet and talk with Europeans, being
especially delighted if they can manage to receive one in their own
homes. On such occasions a number of friends are asked to meet her,
all the women of the establishment are marshalled in force, and a
small feast is prepared at which the guest is crammed with fruit and
sweetmeats, and seldom allowed to depart without receiving a present of
some sort. Of course it is not a mere wish to be hospitable that moves
the _hanum_ to take this trouble, but curiosity; and so, just so soon
as she feels sufficiently at ease with her new friend, she begins to
ask questions, inquiring into every minutest detail of European life,
examining her costume piece by piece, from the bonnet to the shoes,
and will not rest satisfied until, having persuaded the foreigner
to accompany her to the bath, she can see for herself how those
extraordinary women are made who study all sorts of things, paint,
write for publication, work in public offices, ride on horseback, and
climb to the tops of lofty mountains. Since the “reform” movement set
in, making this sort of intercourse possible, the Turkish women have
abandoned some of the more extraordinary ideas they once entertained
regarding their European sisters, which made them look upon them with
dislike and contempt, and mistrust even their education and breeding,
which, moreover, they were quite unable to appreciate. Now it is
quite different. They realize their own ignorance, and are ashamed
of it, and, very much afraid of seeming childish or ill-mannered,
they are consequently far more reserved than formerly, and it is hard
to get them to talk in the same frank, ingenuous way they once did:
every year they imitate the West more and more in their dress and
customs, studying European languages--not from any especial thirst
for knowledge, but so as to be more like other people, and to enable
them to converse with Christians or introduce French words into
their conversation; even those who do not speak French pretend that
they understand it at least, and they all love dearly to be called
“Madame,” sometimes frequenting certain Frankish shops for no other
purpose; and Pera, the all-powerful, attracts them as the candle
does the moth; their footsteps, their imaginations, and their money,
all are irresistibly drawn in that direction, to say nothing of the
field it affords for their little shortcomings. Their eager desire
to make friends among European women is perfectly natural: they are
to them like revelations of another world. They are never weary of
hearing descriptions of some grand theatrical performance or ball or
state reception--of the doings of women of the world, the brilliant
society, adventures during Carnival time, long journeys, and all the
other strange features of that wonderful Western life; and these
glowing scenes take complete possession of the poor little brains,
sick to death of the dull monotony of the harem and gloomy shadow of
the garden-walls. Just as Europeans dream of the mystery and dreamy
tranquillity of the Orient, they sigh enviously for the varied and
feverish life of the West, and would willingly exchange all the
splendors of the Bosphorus for a gloomy quarter of Paris. It is really,
though, not so much the excitement and variety of society that they
want: the feature which they care most about and long for most ardently
is the domestic life, the little world of the European house, the
circle of devoted friends, the family board surrounded with sons and
daughters, the happy, honored old age, that equal sharing of sorrow and
joy, the confidences, mutual respect, and sacred memories which can
make the union of two lives a beautiful and enviable thing even where
there is not passionate love--that sanctuary called “home” to which
the heart turns even after a life of wandering and sin, a safe place
of refuge even amid the storms and passions of youth, the thought of
which comforts and sustains one in times of suffering and misery with a
promise of peace in the years to come, like the glory of a clear sunset
seen from some dark valley.
But all those who really take to heart the unfortunate lot of woman in
Turkey can find comfort in one undeniable fact--the daily increasing
disfavor with which polygamy is regarded there. The Turks themselves
have always considered it rather in the light of a permitted abuse than
man’s natural right. Mohammed says: “He who marries but one wife does
well,” although he himself married several; and, as a matter of fact,
all those Turks who wish to be looked up to as models in the community
do have but one; those with more, while they are not blamed exactly,
are certainly not commended. Comparatively few Turks openly advocate
polygamy, and fewer still approve of it in their own consciences,
being, for the most part, fully alive to its injustice and the
unfortunate consequences resulting therefrom. There is a party strongly
opposed to its practice at all, while the higher officials of state,
officers of the army, magistrates, and religious dignitaries--all
those, in short, whose social position requires them to adopt a
certain respectability and dignity in their mode of life--have but
one wife; and this being of necessity the case among the poor and
persons of moderate means as well, four-fifths of the entire Mussulman
population of Constantinople are no longer polygamists. This, it is
true, is largely due to the craze for European manners and customs,
while many of them have _odalisques_ in addition to the one wife; but
the European mania itself is the result of a growing, if confused,
idea that some change in the social conditions of Mussulman society is
imperatively demanded, while the custom of having odalisques, already
openly denounced as a vice, is sure to disappear with the suppression
of slavery--an abuse still tolerated--and become merged into that form
of corruption common to all European countries. Will a still greater
corruption be the result? Let others be the judges; but here are the
facts. To transform Turkish into European society the position of
woman must be established; that can only be done through the death of
polygamy, and polygamy is dying. Possibly were the Sultan to issue a
decree suppressing it outright to-morrow, not one dissentient voice
would be raised. The edifice has crumbled to pieces, and nothing now
remains to be done but to cart away the débris. Already the light of a
new day is tingeing the balconies of the harems with rose color. Take
heart, beautiful _hanums_! Soon the doors of the selamlik will swing
open; the bars will fall from the windows, the _ferajeh_ be relegated
to the museum of the Great Bazâr, and the word “eunuch” mean no more
than a dark memory of your youth. Then the whole world will be free to
admire your charms of mind and person. When the “pearls of the Orient”
are spoken of in Europe, the words will refer to the charming Mussulman
women, beautiful, refined, and witty, not to those useless stones which
adorn your foreheads amid the cold, wearisome splendors of the harem.
Be of good cheer. Surely your sun is rising at last. For my own part,
as I tell my incredulous friends, old as I am, I have not abandoned the
hope of one day giving my arm to the wife of a pasha passing through
Turin and repeating a few pages of _I Promessi Sposi_ to her as we walk
together on the banks of the Po.
YANGHEN VAHR.
I was amusing myself with such fancies as these one morning at about
five o’clock as I lay half asleep in bed at the Hôtel de Byzance. In a
sort of dreamy vision I saw the hill of Superga in the distance, and
began to explain to my travelling _hanum_ that “that arm of the Lake
of Como which extends southward between two continuous chains--” Just
here there rose up before me the form of my friend Yunk, candle in
hand, clad all in glistening white. “What on earth,” said he, “can be
going on?” I listened, and, sure enough, there was a confused murmur of
voices from the street, hurrying footsteps on the stair, the subdued
roar and tumult of mid-day. Running to the window, I peered out, and
saw crowds of people all hurrying in the direction of the Golden Horn.
I then repaired to the hall, where I succeeded in laying hands on a
Greek waiter just as he was shooting by me three steps at a time. “What
is it?” I said; “what has happened?” Shaking me off, he merely cried,
“Yanghen Vahr! Heavens! did you not hear them calling?” And then, as he
disappeared, he shouted, “Look at the top of the Galata Tower!” We ran
back to the window, and, craning our necks toward Galata, saw the upper
part of the great tower illuminated by a brilliant red light, while a
dense black cloud, issuing from some neighboring houses amid a vortex
of flames and sparks, spread itself rapidly across the starlit sky.
Instantly our thoughts flew to those terrible Constantinople fires of
which we had heard so much, especially that fearful one of four years
before, and for a moment we were filled with alarm and dismay, but only
for a moment--I confess it with shame--for, following immediately upon
that first natural impulse, came the selfish eager curiosity of the
painter and writer, and a smile--yes, actually that is the disgraceful
truth, a smile--broke over our faces which might have served as a model
for one of Doré’s demons of the infernal regions. Had any one opened
our breasts at that moment, they would have been found to contain
nothing but an inkstand and a pallet.
We flung on our clothes and ran down the Grande Rue de Pera as fast
as our legs could carry us, but, happily, our curiosity was not to be
gratified on this occasion. By the time we reached the Galata Tower
the fire had been pretty nearly extinguished; only two small houses
were actually burned; the people were dispersing and the streets were
flooded with water from the pumps, and cluttered up with furniture
and bedding; men and women, shivering with fright and cold, were
going about in their night-clothes, talking and lamenting in a dozen
different languages, nothing being distinguishable through the noise
and confusion but that shrill note of terror and excitement which marks
the near escape from some great danger. Finding that we were too late
to see anything, we walked off toward the bridge to console ourselves
for our unrighteous disappointment by watching the sun rise, and before
long we were rewarded by a sight which went far beyond any fire.
The sky was just beginning to grow light beyond the Asiatic hills;
Stambul, momentarily disturbed by the report of fire, had sunk back
into the solemn stillness of night, and banks and bridges were alike
deserted. The entire Golden Horn seemed buried in slumber beneath a
covering of light fog. Not a boat moved, not a bird fluttered, not a
tree rustled, not a breath of wind could be heard. That huge city,
blue, hazy, silent, veiled, seemed to be an atmospheric effect--a
sudden cry, a burst of sunlight,--and it would tremble and vanish.
Never had it appeared so aërial, so mysterious, so entirely to
correspond to the magic city of the Eastern fairy-tale which the
traveller comes upon unexpectedly, and on entering finds every one
turned to stone, just as they were in the midst of their gay, busy
lives when the spell of a wicked genie fell upon them. As we leaned
over the bridge, gazing on the scene before us, the fire completely
forgotten, we heard all at once, from across the water, a faint,
uncertain noise as of persons calling aloud for help; then, as it drew
nearer, shrill cries of “Allah! Allah! Allah!” echoing throughout
the great empty space around us, and in a moment we beheld a noisy,
evil-looking throng pouring toward us across the bridge.
“_Tulumbadgi_” (firemen), cried one of the bridge-guards, and we drew
to one side and watched them as they rushed by, a horde of swarthy,
half-naked savages with bare heads and hairy chests, streaming with
perspiration, young and old, big and little, with faces of thieves
and cutthroats, four of them bearing a small pump, that looked like a
child’s bier, on their shoulders, while the rest were armed with long
hooked poles, coils of rope, axes, and picks. On they rushed, uttering
hoarse cries, panting for breath, with eyes dilated, streaming hair,
grim, determined, their rags fluttering in the wind and poisoning the
sweet morning air with the close, malodorous smell of wild beasts.
Sweeping across the bridge, they finally disappeared in the Rue de
Galata, whence fainter and fainter came the cry “Allah! Allah!” till at
length profound silence reigned once more.
It is impossible to convey the impression made upon my mind by this
unexpected and tumultuous irruption in the midst of the solemn,
impressive calm of the sleeping city. In an instant’s luminous flash I
saw distinctly portrayed before me scenes of barbarian invasions, of
pillage, murder, and rape, which until then I had never been able to
picture to my mind as actual events, and I asked myself if that could
be the city that I was familiar with--if this really were the same
bridge across which European ambassadors, ladies dressed in Parisian
costumes, and venders of French newspapers were wont to cross by day. A
moment later and the silence of the Golden Horn was once more broken by
the same far-away cry, and another fierce, unruly, panting mob rushed
by like a whirlwind, accompanied by the same tumult of hoarse shouts
and sinister laughter, again followed by the mournful prolonged cry of
“Allah! Allah!” which, dying out, left us once more silent and alone.
Not long after another mob, with all the now familiar accompaniments,
poured by, and still another, then two more, and finally the madman
of Pera, stark naked and half dead with cold, rending the air with
his piercing shrieks, and followed, as usual, by a crowd of Turkish
ragamuffins. They, like the firemen, were swallowed up in the dark
openings of the streets on the Frankish shore, and again profound
silence fell upon the mighty city, now gilded by the first rays of
morning.
Before long the sun rose, and simultaneously with it the muezzins
appeared upon the various minarets; then the käiks started into life,
the harbor awoke; people began to cross the bridge, and soon we could
hear on all sides the dull roar of the city’s daily life as we slowly
retraced our steps toward Pera. But so deep was the impression made
upon us by that sight--the sleeping city, the whitening heavens, the
savage hordes--that to this day we never meet without recalling it,
and always with the selfsame thrill, half of wonder, half of fear, as
though we had seen in a vision the Stambul of other days or dreamed it
while under the mystic influence of _hascisc_.
And so I missed seeing a fire in Constantinople, but if I did not
actually see the one that destroyed Pera in 1870, I have heard it
described so often by eye-witnesses, and have collected such full and
accurate details, that I may be said to have seen it with the eyes of
my mind, and, it may be, can give as correct an account of what took
place as though I had really been present in the flesh.
[Illustration: Turkish Firemen.]