Kahaitchana—The Barbyses—The Valley of the Sweet
Waters—Imperial Procession—National Interdict—Picturesque
Scene—The Princess Salihè and her Infant—Forbearance of the
Sultan—The Toxopholites—Imperial Monopoly—Passion of the
Sultan for Archery—Record-Columns—The Odalique’s Grave—The
Lost One—Azmè Sultane—Imperial Courtesy—A Drive through the
Valley.
The loveliest spot in the neighbourhood of Constantinople is undeniably
Kahaitchana; called by the Franks the “Valley of the Sweet Waters,” a
name as appropriate as it is poetical.
The sparkling Barbyses takes its rise amid the rich vegetation of the
valley, and traverses its greensward like a silver thread. As a river it
is inconsiderable, but, being the only stream of any size within many
miles of the capital, it is an object of great enjoyment and admiration.
The valley itself, like that of Rasselas, is shut in on all sides by
tall and arid hills, amid which it nestles so fresh, and green, and
sunny, that you feel at once that it was destined by nature for holyday
uses. Need I say that the Sultan has here both a summer palace and a
kiosk? There exists no pretty spot near Stamboul where he has them not;
but the Palace of Kahaitchana is a favourite retreat, where he generally
retires to escape from the coil and cares of the capital, whenever he
can contrive to wring a day’s leisure from the stern grasp of public
duty. The ride from Pera is delightful: the air of the hills is so
elastic that it seems to instil new life into your pulses; and the
descent into the valley is so picturesque, that, despite your previous
enjoyment, you are anxious to arrive in the lovely spot which lies,
bathed in sunshine, at your feet.
A brighter day never shone from the heavens than that on which I joined
a party who were bound for Kahaitchana. I had been indisposed for
several days, and was too weak to indulge myself with a gallop; and
accordingly, comfortably nestled amid the cushions of my araba, I
suffered the more joyous and healthful of my friends to fly past me, and
leisurely pursued my way to the valley.
As I descended the hill, I saw a procession of carriages issuing from
the palace court, and making their way along the opposite bank of the
stream, which forms the boundary of the Imperial pleasure grounds. A
mounted guard stopped me for an instant at the foot of the height, but
suffered me to pass after the delay of a moment, as he had received no
orders to prevent the entrance of any Frank lady by that road; the
interdict being confined to Greeks, Armenians, and Jewesses. Simply
requesting me, therefore, to stop my carriage, as the Imperial family
passed, he desired my arabajhe to proceed. I obeyed without hesitation;
and, as the river is only a few feet in width, I had an excellent view
of the distinguished party.
An open carriage, drawn by four fine bay horses, each led by a groom,
contained the two younger sons of the Sultan, the palace dwarf, and the
principal negro of the Sultan’s household. The infant prince is a
sweet-looking child, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and appears
healthy enough to be the son of a peasant. Four bullock-carriages
followed, and among their veiled occupants were the Princess Mihirmàh,
her mother, and one of her sisters. Some of the younger ladies were
exceedingly lovely, and wore their yashmacs so transparent, and so
coquettishly arranged, that I could trace their features distinctly.
This is, however, by no means the case generally speaking, as the
inmates of the Imperial Seraglio are more closely covered when in a less
retired spot, than any other of the Turkish women; and I remember on one
occasion to have seen a favourite Odalique of the Sultan, who had a
gauze across her eyes, as well as wearing her yashmac close to their
very lids!
Troops of negroes surrounded the carriages, and the procession was
closed by the Kislar Agha, mounted on a superb Arabian horse, and
accompanied by four attendants on foot.
As soon as the _cortège_ had passed, I pursued my way, and found that my
friends had been compelled to make a circuit, and to enter the valley by
another road, which did not communicate with the palace grounds. Nothing
could be more cheerful or more picturesque than the scene that met my
eye as I descended from the araba. The greensward was covered with merry
groups—Wallachian and Bulgarian musicians were scattered among the
revellers; Bohemian flower girls were vending their pretty nosegays in
every direction, so skilfully arranged that each veiled fair one saw in
an instant whether the tale she wished to tell had been anticipated by
the dark-eyed Flora—mounted patroles appeared and disappeared along the
crests of the hills as they pursued their round of observation—an
Imperial caïque of white and gold was riding upon the ripple near one of
the palace gates—Turkish servants were galloping in all
directions—every avenue of the Imperial residence was doubly
guarded—and all was bustle and excitement.
[Illustration: Miss Pardoe del.
Day & Haghe Lith^{rs}. to the King
PALACE of the “SWEET WATERS”.
_Henry Colburn, 13, G^t. Marlborough S^t. 1837._]
As we were standing in front of the palace, two six-oared caïques drew
up beside the terrace, and shortly afterwards appeared the Princess
Salihè, the wife of Halil Pasha, attended by half a dozen negroes,
and twice as many female slaves, and followed by the head nurse carrying
in her arms the lovely infant, on occasion of whose birth Sultan Mahmoud
displayed such unprecedented generosity.
Heretofore, as it was stated at the time in the public prints, all the
Emperors of Turkey had caused the male children of their own offspring
to be destroyed, and thus provided most efficiently against future
disputes relatively to the succession. The child on whom I now looked
had not only been spared by its Imperial Grandsire, but public
rejoicings had taken place on its birth—cannon had been fired, and
ministers had been admitted to the Presence on audiences of
congratulation. It was a noble boy, laughing and sporting in the arms of
its nurse; and, as the caïques shot away, I busied myself with
endeavouring to picture to my mind’s eye the joy of the fond mother on
learning that her child was to be spared to her. The delight was,
however, fated to be transient, for Mahmoud was ere long released from
his incipient enemy, (if such the little prince were indeed destined one
day to become) without dyeing his own hands in blood. Three days after
our visit to Kahaitchana he expired in convulsions, induced by his
sufferings in teething.
As I understood that His Highness was engaged at archery with some of
his favourite Pashas, I resolved on endeavouring to obtain a sight of
him; and accordingly one or two of our party detached themselves from
the rest, and, making a circuit of the pleasure-grounds, we arrived
opposite the spot where the Toxopholites were “speeding the winged arrow
to the mark.” A heavy cloud that was passing over the valley had already
shed a few of those large drops which fall upon the leaves with the
sound and the weight of hail; and the Sultan was seated beneath a red
umbrella, held over his sacred person by one of the Officers of the
Imperial Household. The favoured Pashas were standing in a line along
the _façade_ of the building; and a number of servants were dispersed
over the lawn, for the purpose of collecting the arrows.
Apropos of umbrellas—Until the present reign, the red umbrella was
sacred to the use of the Sultan; but his present Highness probably
deeming the monopoly a very inconsequent one, graciously removed the
interdict; and I need scarcely add that red umbrellas are now the rage
at Constantinople.
Archery is a passion with Sultan Mahmoud, who is extremely vain of his
prowess; so much so indeed, that a long stretch of hilly country
immediately in the rear of the Military College is dotted over with
marble pillars fancifully carved, and carefully inscribed, erected on
the spots where the arrows shot by himself from a terrace on the crest
of the height are supposed to have fallen—I say supposed, for, as his
foible is no secret, the Imperial pages who are employed to collect the
shafts, and to measure the distances, generally pick up the arrow and
run on twenty or thirty paces further, ere they affect to find it; by
which means the Sultan shoots like the Prince Aimwell in the Fairy Tale;
and the cunning varlets who restore his arrows earn many a _backshish_
or present which more honest men would miss. I remember on one occasion,
when on an exploring expedition, suddenly coming upon so handsome a
marble column, inscribed with letters of gold, and surmounted by an urn,
that I was curious to learn its purport; when, to my surprise, I
discovered that this was a record-pillar of the same description; and as
his Sublime Highness had on this occasion pulled a very long bow indeed,
so he had perpetuated its memory by a handsomer erection than usual.
The archery party at Kahaitchana was amusing enough. First flew the
arrow of the Sultan, and away ran the attendants; then each Pasha shot
in his turn, taking especial care to keep within bounds, and not to
out-Cæsar Cæsar. Some of them looked important, and others horridly
bored: but there was no escape from an amateur who boasts that he has
practised every week for the last forty years.
A little to the left of the spot occupied by the archers is a raised
platform overshadowed by a weeping willow, beneath which rises a
handsome head-stone. It is the grave of an Imperial Odalique, who died
suddenly in the very zenith of her youth, her beauty, and her favour.
She was buried in this lovely spot at the express command of the Sultan,
who was so deeply affected by her loss that for two entire years he
abandoned the valley. The platform is overlooked by the windows of the
Salemliek, and every wind that sighs through the willow branches carries
their voice to the ears of those who occupy its gilded chambers.
Mahmoud, in a fit of poetical despair, is said to have written a
pathetic ballad of which she was the subject. I endeavoured to procure
it, but failed; and, as I was loath that she should remain unsung in
Europe, I even tried my own hand in some wild stanzas, which I wrote
hurriedly as I stood near her grave.
THE LOST ONE.
Spring is come back to us—the laughing Spring!
Sunlight is on the waters—
And many a bright, and many a beaming thing,
O’er this fair scene its gladdening spell will fling,
For the East’s dark-eyed daughters.
But where is She, the loveliest of the throng,
The painter’s model, and the theme of song;
For whom the summer roses joyfully
Gave forth alike the beauty of their bloom,
Their dewy freshness, and their soft perfume:—
The loved of the World’s Monarch—Where is She?
Alas! for her the Spring returns in vain;
Her home is with the sleepers:—
She will not join in the glad song again
With which she once subdued the spirit-pain
Of the earth’s pale-browed weepers.
For her the dance is ended—and for her
The flowers no more will their bright petals stir;
Nor the sad bulbul wake his melody:
The sunshine falls on every hillock’s crest,
The pulse of joy beats high in every breast;
But She, the loved and lost one, where is She?
She lies where lie the last year’s faded flow’rs;
She sleeps where sleep the proudest;
And there are eyes that will weep burning show’rs,
And there are sighs will wear away the hours
When the heart’s grief is loudest.
Yet mourn her not, she had her day of pride,
The East’s dread sovereign chose her for his bride;
The sunlight rested on her favour’d brow:
Like a fair blossom blighted in its bloom,
She filled an early, but a cherished tomb,
And where the mighty linger, rests She now!
Despite the sentiment of the thing, however, the beautiful Odalique has
been long forgotten; and the bevy of beauties who wander near her grave
have no time to sigh over her fate. It was, nevertheless, consolatory to
my romance to remark that the Sultan shot his arrows in another
direction!
On leaving the neighbourhood of the Toxopholites, I returned accompanied
by a Greek lady to the araba, and drove higher up the valley; where we
came in contact with the carriages of Azmè Sultane and her suite. On
seeing us, she stopped, and, after inquiring if I were the Frank lady
whom she had invited to her palace, she courteously and condescendingly
expressed her regret that her indisposition had rendered her unable to
receive me, but desired that I would hold myself engaged to spend
another day in the Seraï ere long. She then, as a mark of especial
favour, sent one of her negroes to the araba, with the infant to whom I
have already made allusion, and whom I discovered to be the namesake of
my lovely acquaintance, Heyminè Hanoum: the child was richly and
fantastically dressed; and, when I had praised its beauty, admired its
costume, and restored it to the attendant, I received a very gracious
salutation from Her Highness, who moved on, followed by her suite.
The Princess, who is the widow of a Pasha, is a noble-looking woman,
with a very aristocratic manner, and strongly resembles her brother. She
has evidently been handsome, but must now be more than sixty years of
age. Her fair favourite, Nazip Hanoum, was seated beside her, but so
closely veiled, that, until she saluted me, I was unable to recognise
her.
As we continued our drive, we passed a hundred groups of which an artist
might have made as many studies. All was enjoyment and hilarity. Caïques
came and went along the bright river; majestic trees stretched their
long branches over the greensward; gay voices were on the wind; the
cloud had passed away; and the sunlight lay bright upon the hill-tops. I
know not a spot on earth where the long, sparkling summer day may be
more deliciously spent than in the lovely Valley of the Sweet Waters.