crowded with phantom shapes. Entering the courtyard of a Mussulman
private house, and descending by the light of a torch to the very
lowest of a flight of damp, mouldy stairs, I found myself beneath
the vaulted roof of the Yeri Betan Serai, the great cistern basilica
of Constantine, whose confines, according to vulgar belief in
Constantinople, are unknown; the greenish waters lose themselves in the
distance beneath the black roof, lit up here and there by a vivid ray
of light, which seems only to increase the horror of the surrounding
darkness. The crimson flame from our torch throws a lurid glare over
the arches nearest to us, falls in slanting rays upon the dripping
walls, and brings into view dim, confused tiers of columns intercepting
the perspective in all directions like the tree-trunks of some vast
submerged forest. The imagination, drawn on in spite of itself by a
sort of horrible fascination, penetrates those sepulchral galleries,
hovers above the face of those gloomy waters, and finally loses itself
amid the intricate windings of those endless columns. Meanwhile the
dragoman is murmuring in one’s ear blood-curdling tales of adventurous
persons who have embarked upon those waters and started off with the
intention of exploring their farthermost limits, only to return, long
hours afterward, with blanched faces and hair on end, while behind
them could be heard boisterous shouts of mocking laughter and piercing
shrieks, which echoed and re-echoed beneath the vaulted roof; and
others, again, who never returned at all, having met their end--who
knows how?--driven insane, perhaps, by terror, or possibly starved
to death, or drawn by mysterious currents to some unknown abyss far
away from Stambul, God only can tell where. Issuing once more into the
broad, sunny light of the At-Meidan square, all these gloomy fancies
at once take flight, and a few minutes later we again descend, and find
ourselves surrounded by the two hundred pillars of the dry cistern of
Binbûr, where a hundred Greek silk-spinners are singing a martial song
as they work in the pale, unearthly light broken by interlacing lines
of arches, while from overhead comes the dull, confused rumble of a
passing caravan. Then fresh air and sunlight again, followed by another
plunge into semi-obscurity, more rows of columns and vaulted roofs, and
the stillness of the tomb broken by far-away voices; and so on until
evening--altogether a mysterious, unearthly sort of pilgrimage, which
left a haunting mental impression for long after of a vast subterranean
sea which, having already engulfed the Greek empire, was destined one
day to draw gay, thoughtless, unheeding Stambul into its shadowy depths
as well.
[Illustration: Ancient fountain at Scutari.]
These depressing fancies, however, were entirely dispelled by the
gay image of Skutari. Whenever we went there, embarking upon one of
the crowded little steamers for the purpose, my friend and I used
invariably to get into a discussion as to which ranked first in
point of beauty--Skutari or the two banks of the Golden Horn. Yunk
preferred the former, but I held out for Stambul. Nevertheless, Skutari
captivated me by its sudden, unexpected changes of aspect: it seems to
mock all those who approach it by water. From the Sea of Marmora
it is only a big village scattered over a hillside; from the Golden
Horn you realize that it is a town; but when the steamboat, after
rounding the most advanced point on the Asiatic shore, proceeds in a
straight line toward the harbor, the little town spreads out in the
most astounding fashion; other hills, quite covered with buildings,
come into sight, rising one behind the other; the valleys are filled
with houses; villas crown the heights; the outskirts stretch away
along the shore as far as the eye can reach; and you find that you
are approaching a great city, which in the course of a few minutes
has come into view from some obscure hiding-place, much as though a
huge curtain had been rolled back, and you gaze stupidly at it, half
expecting to see it disappear at any moment with the same suddenness
with which it came. Landing by means of a wooden gang-plank, and amid
the shouts and vociferations of boatmen, dragomen, and others with
horses to hire, we mount the principal street, which winds up the
hillside among yellow and red houses decked with vines and creepers,
and between garden-walls, over which a mass of verdure trails and
clambers: overhead tall trellisworks and lofty plane trees cast their
shade, the latter so large as to sometimes nearly close the street. As
we go on we pass Turkish cafés, before which lounges the usual crowd
of Asiatic idlers, smoking, stretched out at full length, their gaze
fixed on no one knows what. Then we meet a herd of goats; heavy country
carts jolt slowly by, drawn by oxen with wreaths of flowers on their
heads; peasants, some in fez and others in turban, pass us on the road;
Mussulman funeral processions, and groups of _hanums_, spending the
summer in their country-houses, carrying great bunches of flowers or
sprays of blossoms in their hands. We seem to be in another Stambul,
less mysterious, but gayer and more cheerful than she of the Seven
Hills. This one is more like a great city of villas into which the
country is making inroads on every side. The little back streets lined
with stables rise and descend again over hill and valley, swallowed up
at last by the green of park and garden. On the heights the profound
peace of the country still reigns, but lower down there is all the stir
and activity of a seaport town. From the huge barracks which rise here
and there comes a confused sound of bugle-calls, snatches of songs, and
the beating of drums, while clouds of birds fly about and settle in the
quiet lanes and byways.
Following in the wake of a funeral procession, we finally leave the
town, and, entering the famous cemetery, are soon lost in that vast
forest of mighty cypress trees which extends in one direction toward
the Sea of Marmora and in the other toward the Golden Horn, covering
a large area of undulating ground. On all sides there is nothing but
group on group, row on row, of glimmering white tombstones outlined
against the turf and gay colors of the wild flowers, and an intricate
network of footpaths winding in and out among the trunks of the trees,
crowded so closely together as barely to allow any view of the horizon
stretching away in a long shimmering line. We wander aimlessly among
the little painted and gilded columns, some erect, others toppling over
or fallen flat, and between railings of family sepulchres, mausoleums
of dead pashas, rude tombstones of the poor. Here and there lie bunches
of faded flowers, and sometimes, where the earth has been disturbed,
the light falls upon a half-buried skull; on and on, no sound save the
cooing of doves concealed overhead amid the branches of the cypress
trees; and the farther we go the more does the forest seem to expand,
the tombstones multiply, the paths increase in number, the shining
strips of the horizon recede into the distance, and the reign of death
keeps pace with us step by step, until at length, just as we begin to
despair of ever finding our way out, we issue quite unexpectedly upon
the wide avenue leading to the vast open plain of Haidar Pasha, where
the Mussulman troops once assembled preparatory to setting out for
the Asiatic wars. The view from thence, embracing the Sea of Marmora,
Stambul, the mouth of the Golden Horn, Galata, and Pera, all veiled
beneath the light morning mist and tinted with the colors of paradise,
is so exquisitely lovely that we catch our breath with something of the
same incredulous wonder with which we first beheld those shores.
CHERAGAN PALACE.
Another morning we found ourselves seated in a tram-car between two
colossal black eunuchs charged by one of Abdul Aziz’s aides-de-camp
with the duty of escorting us over the imperial palace of Cheragan,
situated on the Bosphorus just below Beshiktash. I recall distinctly
the mingled feeling of curiosity and repulsion with which I looked out
of the corner of my eye at the eunuch beside me, towering above me by
nearly a head, and with one mighty hand resting open upon his knee.
Every time I turned I could catch the faint perfume of essence of
bergamot with which his sleek, correct court costume was scented. When
the car stopped I put my hand in my pocket to draw out my purse, but
the enormous hand of the eunuch closed upon my own like a steel vise,
and his great eyes met mine with a warning look, as who should say,
“Christian, refrain from offering me such an insult, or I will break
every bone in your body.”
Alighting before a small door covered with arabesques, we entered a
long corridor, where we were presently met by a party of servants in
livery, who conducted us up a wide stairway leading to the royal
apartments. Here, at all events, there was no need to recall historical
associations in order to obtain a vivid and life-like impression.
The air was still warm with the breath of the court. The wide divans
covered with satin and velvet which extended along the walls were the
very same upon which but a few weeks before the Sultan’s odalisques
had reclined: a vague suggestion of warm, sensuous life still floated
in the air. We walked through a long succession of gorgeous rooms,
some decorated after the European fashion, others after the Moorish,
all rich and beautiful, but possessing a sort of stately simplicity
which awed us, making us talk in subdued tones, while all the time the
eunuchs, muttering a string of unintelligible remarks and explanations,
pointed out now a certain corner, now a doorway, with the wary gestures
of those who reveal something secret and mysterious. Silken hangings,
many-hued carpets, mosaic tables--rich oil paintings hung where the
light could fall upon them--graceful archways of the doors, divided
in the middle by little Arabian pillars, lofty candelabra--resembling
crystal trees--which tinkled musically as we shook them in
passing,--all these things followed so close upon one another that
they became a confused medley almost as soon as seen, our minds being
more intent upon visions of possible flying odalisques taken by
surprise. The only thing of which I retained any distinct impression
was the Sultan’s bath-room, of white marble and carved to represent
stalactites, hanging flowers, lace, and delicate fretwork, all so
airy and light that one feared to touch it with so much as the point
of a finger for fear of its breaking. The arrangement of the rooms
reminded me a little of the Alhambra. We passed through them hurriedly,
noiselessly over the thick carpets, almost furtively. From time to time
a eunuch would pull a cord, a green curtain would roll up, and through
a wide window would be seen the Bosphorus, Asia, hundreds of vessels,
floods of light; then it would all disappear, and we would be left
dazed and blinded as though a lamp had been flashed in our eyes. From
one window we caught sight of a little garden the high blank walls of
which, as bare and forbidding-looking as those of a convent, suggested
at once all sorts of fancies about beautiful women deprived of love and
liberty, and then it was suddenly shut out of view by the dropping of
the curtain. The rooms seemed unending, and at the sight of each new
doorway we would quicken our steps, hoping this time to enter before we
were expected; but all in vain: not so much as the flutter of a garment
rewarded our efforts; every odalisque had vanished, and a profound and
death-like stillness hung over the entire building. That rustling sound
which made us turn and glance back so quickly was but the noise of
the heavy brocade curtain as it fell back in place, while the silvery
tinkle of the crystal candelabras mocked us by its resemblance to
the light laughter of some hidden fair one.
[Illustration: Cemetery of Eyûb and View of the Golden Horn.]
And so at last we became utterly wearied out by this never-ending
progress through the silent palace and amid that lifeless
magnificence--tired of seeing the black faces of the eunuchs, the
watchful, sedate crowd of servants, and our own incongruous Bohemian
countenances reflected in the huge mirrors which lined the walls; and,
reaching the last door almost on a run, we breathed a sigh of heartfelt
satisfaction at finding ourselves once more in the open air surrounded
by the miserable dwellings and ragged, clamorous population of the
Topkhâneh quarter.
EYÛB.
And can I ever forget the necropolis of Eyûb? We went there one evening
at sunset, and I always think of it just as it looked at that time,
lit up by the last gleams of daylight. A small käik landed us at the
farther end of the Golden Horn, and we climbed up to the “consecrated
ground” of the Osmans by a steep, narrow path lined with sepulchres.
At that hour the stone-cutters who work at the tombstones during the
day, making the vast cemetery resound beneath the sharp blows of
their hammers, had dispersed to their homes, and the whole place was
completely deserted. We moved forward circumspectly, peering cautiously
around to see if we could detect the menacing form of imâm or dervish,
as the profane curiosity of a _giaour_ is less tolerated there than
in almost any other sacred spot; but, seeing neither turban nor stiff
hat, we finally reached the mysterious Eyûb mosque, whose shining
domes and airy minarets we had so often beheld from the hilltops of
the opposite shore, as well as from every little bay and inlet in the
Golden Horn. In the court, shaded by a mighty plane tree, stands the
kiosk-shaped mausoleum of the famous standard-bearer of the Prophet,
Abu Eyûb, perpetually lit up by a circle of lamps. He lost his life
when the Arabs first besieged Byzantium, and his place of sepulture
having been discovered eight centuries later by Muhammad the Conqueror,
he consecrated this mosque to his memory; and it is there that each
successive sultan presents himself on his accession to be girded
with the sword of Osman. It is considered the most sacred mosque in
Constantinople, just as the cemetery which surrounds it is more highly
revered than any other. In the shade of the great trees which surround
the mosque stand türbehs of sultanas, viziers, and distinguished
officials of the court, encircled by flowers, gorgeous with marbles
and gilt arabesques, and covered with pompous inscriptions. On one
side is the small mortuary temple of the muftis, surmounted by an
octagonal dome, beneath which repose the bodies of great ecclesiastics
in enormous catafalques ornamented with huge muslin turbans. It is a
city of tombs, white, shaded, whose sedate beauty combines a religious
melancholy with a breath of worldliness, like a very aristocratic
neighborhood whose well-bred quiet proceeds from pride. The paths run
between white walls and graceful railings, over which vines trail and
clamber from the little gardens surrounding the graves; acacia trees
stretch forth their branches to meet and mingle overhead with those
of oak and myrtle, and through the gilded latticework of the arched
windows of the türbehs may be seen, in the dim, soft light within,
marble mausoleums tinged with green from the reflections of the trees.
In no other place in Stambul is seen to such advantage the Mussulman
art of rendering the idea of death agreeable and robbing it of all its
terrors. It is at once a necropolis, a royal dwelling-place, a garden,
a pantheon, full of gentle melancholy and charm, and simultaneously
with the prayer which rises to your lips there comes a smile. On all
sides extends the cemetery, shaded by the hundred-year-old cypresses,
crossed by winding paths, white with innumerable tombstones, which seem
to be hurrying down the hillside to dip themselves in the sparkling
water or pressing forward curiously to the pathways to watch the
passage of phantom shapes. And from any number of secluded little
nooks, through the spreading branches of the trees, confused glimpses
are caught--far off to the right--of Stambul, looking like a succession
of blue towns detached from one another; and below--the Golden Horn,
reflecting the last rays of the sun, while opposite lie Sudlujè, Kaliji
Oghlu, Piri Pasha, Haskeni; and beyond--the large district of Kassim
and the vague profile of Galata, fading away in the wonderful blending
of soft, tremulous tints which hardly seem as though they belonged to
this world.
THE JANISSARY MUSEUM.
All these impressions have been temporarily effaced, and I find
myself marching through a long suite of bare rooms between two rows
of immovable, staring figures, which are like those of so many
corpses fastened upright against the walls. I never remember to have
experienced so decided a feeling of shrinking anywhere else, unless it
was in the last room of Mme. Tussaud’s exhibition in London, where,
in the somewhat subdued light, you are confronted with the life-like
presentments of all of England’s most notorious criminals. This,
however, is like a museum of spectres, or rather like an open sepulchre
in which you behold the mummified forms of all the most famous
personages of that magnificent, savage, ferocious Turkey which no
longer exists, save in the memory of a few old men or the imaginative
brain of some poet. There are a hundred large wooden figures colored
like life and clad in various styles of ancient costume, standing
erect in stiff, haughty attitudes, with heads thrown back and blank
staring eyes, and hands resting upon their sword-hilts, as though only
awaiting the word to draw and begin shedding human blood, just as in
the good old times. First, there is the household of the Pâdishah--the
chief eunuch and grand vizier, the muftis, chamberlains, and head
officials--wearing turbans upon their heads of every color, pyramidal,
round, square, huge, exaggerated; long caftans of every conceivable
hue, made out of brocade and covered with embroidery; tunics of
white or crimson silk, bound about the waist with Cashmere scarfs;
gold-embroidered waistcoats, the breasts all glittering with gold and
silver medals; and magnificent armor--two long, spectral files, at once
fantastic and gorgeous, from which a pretty fair idea may be obtained
of the character of the ancient Ottoman court with its savage pomp and
haughty pride. Next come the pages bearing the Pâdishah’s furs, his
turbans, stool, and sword; then the guards of the gardens and gates,
the Sultan’s guard, and the white and black eunuchs, with faces like
Magi or idols, glittering, plumed, their heads covered with Persian
fur, or wearing metal helmets or purple caps, or odd-looking turbans
shaped like crescents, cones, and reversed pyramids: they are armed
with steel clubs, murderous-looking daggers, and whips, like a band of
cut-throats and assassins. One regards you with a look of suspicious
contempt; another grinds his teeth; another gazes straight ahead of
him, with eyes grown callous from the sight of blood; while a fourth
wears upon his lips a smile that is truly devilish. After these follows
the corps of the Janissaries, accompanied by its patron saint, Emin
Baba, an emaciated individual clad in a white tunic, and officers of
every grade, each personating some office connected with the kitchen:
all the ranks of the soldiers are represented, wearing the various
uniforms and emblems of that insolent corps which finally met its end
under the grape-shot of Mahmûd. The childishness, at once grotesque and
puerile, of these costumes, combined with the ferocious memories they
evoke, produces the impression of a savage Carnival. No artist, however
unbridled his imagination might be, could ever succeed in portraying
such a mad confusion of royal costumes, ecclesiastical vestments, and
garments suitable for brigands and buffoons. The “water-carriers,” the
“soup-makers,” the “chief cooks,” the “head of the scullions,” soldiers
to whom were assigned all sorts of special duties, succeed one another
in long lines, with brushes and ladles fastened to their turbans, bells
hung from their tunics, carrying leather bottles and the famous kettles
which sounded the signal for revolt, clad in large fur caps and long
cloaks falling from neck to heels like magicians’ mantles, with their
wide belts made of round disks of engraved metal, their huge sabres,
their fishy eyes, their enormous chests, and faces set in every
variety of derision, menace, and insult. Last of all come the Seraglio
mutes, silken noose in hand, and the dwarfs and buffoons, with cunning,
spiteful faces, and mock crowns on their heads.
[Illustration: Türbeh of the Mosque Shabzadeh.]
The great glass cases in which all these worthies are enclosed lend
something of the look of an anatomical museum to the place, and
increase their likeness to mummified human beings, so that from time
to time you are conscious of a disagreeable creeping sensation down
your backbone, or feel as though you might just have passed through a
room of the Old Seraglio in the presence of the entire court whom some
threatening outburst from the Pâdishah has frozen stiff with terror.
When you at last come out upon the square of the At-Meidan, and your
eye falls upon pashas clad all in sombre black, and nizams modestly
attired in the uniform of zouaves, oh how gentle, amiable, almost
timid, does the Turk of our day and generation appear!
[Illustration: Tombs of Sultan Mahmûd II and of his Son, Abdul Aziz.]
An irresistible attraction calls me back once more among the tombs:
this time it is those numberless imperial türbehs scattered throughout
the Turkish city, those charming examples of the Mussulman’s art and
philosophy, which occupy so conspicuous a place in our recollections
of the East. By means of a firman we gained admission, first of all,
to the türbeh of Mahmûd the Reformer, which stands in a garden full
of roses and jasmine not far from the At-Meidan. It is a beautiful
circular building of white marble, whose leaden dome is supported upon
Ionic pilasters:[K] there are seven windows, furnished with gilded
gratings, some of which overlook one of the principal streets of
Stambul. Inside, the walls are ornamented with bas-reliefs and covered
with silken and brocade hangings. In the centre stands the tomb,
covered with costly Persian shawls, and lying on it is the imperial
fez, emblem of reform, with its plume and diamond aigrette, and within
the enclosure, which is surrounded by a graceful railing inlaid with
mother-of-pearl, are placed four massive silver candlesticks. The tombs
of seven sultans stand along the walls; costly rugs and carpets of
many hues cover the pavement; and here and there rare MSS. copies of
the Koran with gold lettering lie upon rich reading-desks. A silver
case contains a curiosity connected with Mahmûd’s youth, which he
directed should be placed on his tomb at his death. It consists of a
long strip of muslin covered with minute Arabian characters, extracts
from the Koran, which with infinite patience the Sultan traced when he
was confined as a prisoner in the Old Seraglio before his accession.
From the interior of the türbeh glimpses are caught through the window
gratings of branches of trees without, the scent of roses pours in, and
the little building is filled with light and the stir and movement of
the city, as though it were an open gallery. Women and children
pause as they go by to look through the windows and murmur a prayer.
There is something primitive and very sweet about it all that touches
the heart, as though, not the skeleton, but the soul of the dead
sultan lay within those walls, listening to his people who greet him
in passing; in dying he has merely exchanged his kiosk in the Seraglio
for this one, which is no less cheerful than the other; he is still
in the sunlight, in the noise and bustle of Stambul; still among his
children--nearer to them, indeed, than before; just on the edge of
life and in sight of all; still exhibiting before their eyes his plume
glittering as it was ever wont to do when he appeared before them,
glowing with life and magnificence, on his way to the mosque to pray
for the prosperity of the empire. And it is the same with all the other
türbehs--that of Ahmed, of Bayezid (whose head rests upon a brick made
of the dust collected from his clothing and slippers), of Suleiman,
of Mustafa, and Selim III., of Abdul-Hamid, and of Roxalana: they are
small temples whose pillars are of white marble and porphyry, and which
glitter with amber and mother-of-pearl. Some of them have openings
in the roof through which the rain falls upon the flowers and turf
which surround the tombs, all hung with lace and velvet; ostrich eggs
and gilded lamps hang from the roofs, lighting up the tombs of the
various princes which encircle the paternal sarcophagus, and on them
are exposed the handkerchiefs which were used to strangle infants
and little children, possibly with a view to impressing upon the
minds of the faithful, together with a natural sense of pity for the
victims, the fatal necessity for such crimes. I well remember how I,
myself, by force of constantly picturing such deaths as these, began
at last to be conscious of a certain acquiescence, in my own mind,
with the iniquitous reasons of state which sanctioned them--how by
dint of seeing ever before me in mosques and fountains and türbehs,
and under every conceivable form, the glorification and worship of one
man, of one absolute and supreme power, something within me too began
to yield itself up to that power; and how, at last, after wandering
very frequently in the shaded cemeteries and fixing my attention for
long periods on tombs and sepulchres, I came to regard death in a new
and much more tranquil light, to experience a certain indifference
toward life, and to drift half unconsciously into a state of sluggish
philosophy and vague indifference, in which the highest good seemed to
consist in dreaming away one’s life, allowing what is written to be
accomplished without let or hindrance. And thus it came about that I
found myself, quite unexpectedly, seized with a feeling of weariness
and aversion when, in the midst of these peaceful reveries, something
would recall to my mind our toiling cities, our dark churches, and
walled and dreary cemeteries.
[K] The pilasters are Corinthian.--TRANS.
THE DERVISHES.
I am reminded, too, of the dervishes when I recall those last days.