Antiquities of Constantinople—Ismäel Effendi—The
Atmeidan—The Obelisk—The Delphic Tripod—The Column of
Constantine—The Tchernberlè Tasch—The Cistern of the Thousand
and One Columns—The Boudroum—The Roman
Dungeons—Yèrè-Batan-Seraï—The Lost Traveller—Extent of the
Cistern—Aqueduct of Justinian—Palace of Constantine—Tomb of
Heraclius—The Seven Towers—An Ambassador in Search of
Truth—Tortures of the Prison—A Legend of the Seven Towers.
The antiquities of Constantinople are few in number; and when the
by-past fortunes of Byzantium are taken into consideration, not
remarkably interesting. I shall consequently say little upon the
subject, and the rather that more competent writers than myself have
already described them; and that these reliques of departed centuries
are not calculated to be treated _a tutto volo di penna_. But, as it is
impossible to pass them over altogether in silence, I shall merely
endeavour to describe their nature and the effect which they produced
upon myself.
Perhaps the most curious remain of by-gone days now existing, and
certainly that which is the least known, is _Yèrè-Batan-Seraï_,
literally the “Swallowed up Palace,” anciently called _Philoxmos_. I
had heard much of this extraordinary old Roman work, but we had
repeatedly failed in our attempts to visit it, from the fact of its
opening into the court of a Turkish house, whose owner was not always
willing to submit to the intrusion of strangers.
We were not, however, fated to leave Constantinople without effecting
our purpose; which we ultimately accomplished through the medium of one
of the Sultan’s Physicians, who provided us with such attendance as
insured our success. Ismäel Effendi, Surgeon-in-chief of the Anatomical
School attached to the Seraï Bournou, volunteered to become our escort,
and we gladly availed ourselves of his kindness. He was a fine,
vivacious, intelligent young man, endowed with an energy and mobility
perfectly Greek, combined with that gentle and quiet courtesy so
essentially Turkish: and we were, furthermore, accompanied by one of his
friends, who spoke the French language with tolerable fluency; and a
soldier of the Palace Guard, to prevent our collision with the
passers-by; a precaution which the rapid and virulent spread of the
Plague had rendered essentially necessary.
We first directed our steps to the Atmeidan, or Place of Horses, the
ancient race-course of the Romans; in which stands a handsome Egyptian
obelisk of red granite, placed there by Theodosius, and resting upon a
pedestal of white marble, whereon are coarsely represented his
victories in very ill-executed _alto relievo_. The obelisk is sixty feet
in height, and elaborately ornamented with hieroglyphics.
Near it are the remains of the Delphic Tripod; the brazen heads of the
serpents are wanting; and it is asserted that one of them was struck off
by Sultan Akhmet at a single blow of his scimitar.
[Illustration: COLUMN OF CONSTANTINE. TRIPOD. EGYPTIAN OBELISK.]
The Turks are extremely jealous of this interesting remain, as they have
a tradition that, when it is either destroyed or displaced,
Constantinople will fall once more into the hands and under the power of
the Christians; and so universal is this superstition, that a pretty
little girl of about eight years of age, who saw us examining it,
approached us, and said earnestly; “You may look, but you cannot buy
this with all your gold, for it is our talisman, and you are Franks and
Infidels.”
About one hundred paces beyond the Tripod, the lofty monument of
Constantine, denuded of the coating of metal by which its coarse masonry
is said to have been once concealed, rears its head ninety feet from the
earth; and appears, from its immense height and small circumference,
superadded to the apparently careless and insecure manner in which the
stones are put together, to stand erect only by a miracle.
But far more curious than either of these is the _Tchernberlè Tasch_, or
Burnt Pillar, situated at a short distance from the Tower of the
Seraskier. It was originally brought by Constantine from the Temple of
Apollo, at Rome, and was placed upon an hexagonal pedestal, within which
were built up several portions of the Holy Cross; whence the small
square in which it stood became a place of prayer. When first
transported to Constantinople, it was surmounted by a statue of the God,
from the chisel of Phidias, of which the head was surrounded by a halo.
But the conqueror appropriated the figure, and caused to be inscribed
beneath it, “The Justice of the Sun to the Illustrious Constantine.”
The destruction of the statue is diversely explained by different
writers. Genaro Esquilichi declares it to have been destroyed by a
thunderbolt; Anna de Comnena asserts that it was overthrown by a strong
southerly wind during the reign of Alexius de Comnena, and that it
killed several persons in its fall; while other authors mention that it
was merely mutilated by the first accident, and utterly ruined by the
second. The pedestal bears an inscription now nearly obliterated, which
may be thus rendered from the original Greek:
“O Christ, Master and Protector of the World,
I dedicate to Thee this City, subject to Thee;
And the Sceptre, and the Empire of Rome.
Guard the City, and protect it from all evil.”
The pillar is ninety feet in height, and the pedestal measures thirty
feet at its base; it has suffered severely from fire as well as from
time, and a strong wire-work has been carefully erected about it to
prevent its falling to pieces, as it is rent and riven in every
direction. It is to be deplored that this interesting relic is built in
on all sides by unsightly houses.
From the _Tchernberlè Tasch_ we proceeded to visit a cistern called by
the Turks _Bin-Vebir-Direg_, or the “Thousand and One,” in allusion to
the number of columns that support it. It is an immense subterranean, of
which the roof is in reality sustained by three hundred and thirty-six
pillars of coarse marble, each formed of two or more blocks.
These pillars are now buried to one-third of their height in the earth,
the water-courses having been turned, and the cistern dried up, for the
purpose of receiving the rubbish which was flung out when the
foundations of St. Sophia were laid. It is now occupied by silk-winders,
and they have become so accustomed to the sight of visiters that they
scarcely suffer you to descend the first flight of steps before they all
quit their wheels, and begin shouting for _backschish_. The channel worn
in the stone by the passage of the water that once flowed into the
cistern is distinguishable on three different sides of the subterranean,
which is lit by narrow grated windows level with the roof; and the
echoes, prolonged and flung back by the vaulted recesses, have a sound
so hollow and supernatural that they appear like the distant mutterings
of fiends.
As we were about to quit _Bin-Vebir-Direg_, one of the silk-spinners
informed us that there was another smaller _Boudroum_, or subterranean
in the neighbourhood, to which he offered to conduct us; honestly
admitting, at the same time, that the atmosphere that we should breathe
there was so unwholesome that few persons ventured to indulge their
curiosity by descending into it. Thither we accordingly went, and the
less reluctantly as we ascertained by the way that this also had been
converted into a spinning establishment, where fifty or sixty persons
were constantly employed.
A short walk over the rubbish of an ancient fire brought us to the
narrow door of this second subterranean. And we had not descended a
dozen steps, ere we were perfectly convinced of the accuracy of the
information given to us by the guide. Each felt as though a wet garment
had suddenly been wound about him; and the appearance of the miserable
beings who were turning the cotton wheels, sufficiently demonstrated the
unhealthiness of the atmosphere; they were all deadly white, and looked
like a society of recuscitated corpses. We had heard a confusion of
voices from the moment that we approached the neighbourhood of
_Bin-Vebir-Direg_, but all was silence within the _Boudroum_ where we
now found ourselves; while the blended curiosity and astonishment with
which every eye was turned upon us, was a convincing proof that the
unfortunates who tenanted it were little used to the sight of strangers.
Immediately that we had descended into the vault, they simultaneously
desired us to keep in continual motion during our stay, alleging that
the exercise consequent on their occupation was their only preservative
against destruction; and confirming the truth of their statement by the
melancholy tale of a man who had come a few weeks previously to visit
one of their company, and who remained quietly smoking upon his mat for
several hours, after which he was seized with lethargy, and died.
As the lower orders of Orientals universally believe every Frank to be,
if not actually a Physician by profession, at least perfectly conversant
with the “healing art,” a group of the pallid wretches by whom we were
surrounded immediately began to apply to my father for advice and
assistance; when the good-natured Ismäel Effendi volunteered to
prescribe for them, and listened with the greatest patience to a list of
ailments, engendered by the fetid atmosphere, and quite beyond the reach
of medicine.
This cistern, although of considerably less extent than
_Bin-Vebir-Direg_, being supported only by one and thirty pillars, is
nevertheless infinitely handsomer, as the columns are at least thrice
the circumference of the “Thousand and One,” and uncovered to their
base; two only are imperfect; and the _coup-dœil_ from mid-way of the
stone stair is most imposing.
On emerging from this dim and vapour-freighted vault, we inquired of the
guide whom we had retained, whether he could direct us to any other
object of interest in that quarter of the city; when, after some
hesitation, allured by the promise held out to him of a liberal
_backschish_, he at length admitted that there was a _Boudroum_ about
half a mile from thence, which was but little known, and into which no
Frank had ever been admitted. Then followed a host of assurances of the
danger that he incurred by pointing it out to us, and of which we
readily understood the motive; and, after receiving a second promise of
reward, he ultimately led the way through one or two narrow streets;
when passing under a large doorway, we found ourselves in a dilapidated
Khan, where a dozen old men were seated on low stools, winding silk.
Here our conductor procured lights, after which he preceded us down a
flight of steps, terminating in a second door, whence a short stair
descended into an extensive vault, supported by eight double arches of
solid masonry, as perfect as though they had only been completed on the
previous day.
Traversing this vault, we entered a second, perfectly dark, of which the
outer wall was strengthened by four large pillars. At the extreme end of
this inner subterranean, we found a flight of ruined stone steps, which
we ascended with some difficulty, and, on arriving at the summit of the
stair, discovered that we were standing in a dilapidated Roman dungeon.
From this point several other cells branched off in different
directions. The entrance of one, which appeared to be a _cachot forcé_,
was so blocked by the masses of stone that had fallen from the roof,
that we were unable to penetrate into it; but on the other side we
passed into a range of dungeons, of which the partition walls, at least
a foot in thickness, had been torn down. The iron rings by which the
prisoners had been chained, still remained, as did also the sleeping
places hollowed in the masonry; but the most curious and frightful
feature of the locality was a water-course, which, passing along the
entire line of cells, emptied itself into a small dungeon, situated
under the arched vault that I have already described, and thus offered a
ready mean of destruction to the oppressor, and a dreadful and hopeless
death to the captive.
I was sincerely glad to leave this gloomy remain of by-past power, and
to breathe once more the pure air of Heaven, on my way to
_Yèrè-Batan-Seraï_, where we arrived after a long and very fatiguing
walk. After a little hesitation, the door of the Turkish house to which
I have elsewhere alluded was opened to us, and, passing through the
great entrance hall, we traversed the courtyard, and descending a steep
slope of slippery earth, found ourselves at the opening of the dim
mysterious Palace of Waters.
The roof of this immense cistern, of which the extent is unknown, is
supported, like that of _Bin-Vebir-Direg_, by marble columns, distant
about ten feet from each other, but each formed from a single block; the
capitals are elaborately wrought, and in one instance the entire pillar
is covered with sculptured ornaments.
At the period of our visit, Constantinople had been long suffering from
drought, and the water in the cistern was consequently much lower than
usual, a circumstance that greatly tended to augment the stateliness of
its effect. There was formerly a boat upon it, but it has been destroyed
in consequence of the numerous accidents to which it gave rise.
The Kiära of the Effendi who owned the house, had accompanied us to the
vault; and he mentioned two adventures connected with it that had taken
place within his own knowledge, and which he related to us as having
both occurred to Englishmen.
The first and the saddest was the tale of a young traveller, who about
six years ago arrived at Constantinople, and in his tour of the capital,
obtained permission to see the _Yèrè Batan Seraï_. The boat was then
upon the water; and, not satisfied with gazing on the wonders of the
place from land, he sprang into the little skiff, and accompanied by the
boatman who was accustomed to row the family in the immediate vicinity
of the opening, he pushed off, after having received a warning not to
be guilty of the imprudence of advancing so far into the interior as to
lose sight of the light of day. This warning he was unhappy enough to
disregard. Those who stood watching his progress remarked that he had
provided himself with a lamp, and they again shouted to him to beware:
but the wretched man was bent upon his purpose; and having, as it is
supposed, induced the boatman, by the promise of a heavy reward, to
comply with his wish, the flame of the lamp became rapidly fainter and
fainter, and at length disappeared altogether from the sight of those
who were left behind; and who remained at their station anxiously
awaiting its return. But they lingered in vain—they had looked their
last upon the unfortunates who had so lately parted from them in the
full rush of life and hope—the boat came no more—and it is presumed
that those within it, having bewildered themselves among the columns,
became unable to retrace their way, and perished miserably by famine.
I should have mentioned that the spot on which we stood was not the
proper entrance to the cistern, of whose existence and situation they
are even now ignorant, but an opening formed by the failure of several
of the pillars, by which accident the roof fell in, and disclosed the
water-vault beneath.
Another similar but less extensive failure of the extraordinary fabric
in a yard near the Sublime Porte betrayed its extent in that direction;
a third took place in the immediate neighbourhood of St. Sophia; and a
fourth within the walls of the Record Office; thus affording an
assurance that the cistern extended for several leagues beneath the
city. Further than this the Constantinopolitan authorities cannot throw
any light on its dimensions; and, as far as I was individually
concerned, I am not quite sure that this fact did not increase the
interest of the locality—the mysterious distance into which man is
forbidden to penetrate—the long lines of columns deepening in tint, and
diminishing in their proportions as they recede—the sober twilight that
softens every object—and the dreamy stillness that lords it over this
singular Water Palace, which the voice of man can awaken for a brief
space into long-drawn and unearthly echoes, that sweep onward into the
darkness, and ere they are quite lost to the ear, appear to shape
themselves into words: all combined to invest the spot with an awful and
thrilling character, which, to an imaginative mind, were assuredly more
than an equivalent for the privilege of determining its limits.
The second local anecdote related to us by the Kiära was that of an
Englishman, who, only a few months previous to our visit, had requested
permission to make use of the little boat that had replaced the one in
which the traveller, to whom I have already alluded, had been lost. Many
objections were started; and the fate of his unfortunate countryman was
insisted upon as the reason of the refusal; but on his repeated promises
of prudence, the old Effendi at length consented to his wish; and having
lighted a couple of torches, and affixed them to the stern of the boat,
the traveller drew out a large quantity of strong twine, which he made
fast to one of the pillars, leaving the ball to unwind itself as he
proceeded.
As no one could be found who was willing to accompany him, he started
alone; and hour after hour went by without sign of his return; until, as
the fourth hour was on the eve of completion, the flame of the torches
lit up the distance, and was reflected back by the gleaming columns. The
wanderer sprang from the boat chilled and exhausted; and, in answer to
the inquiries of those about him, he stated that he had progressed for
two hours in a straight line, but that he had seen nothing more than
what they looked upon themselves—the vaulted roof above his head, the
water beneath his feet, and a wilderness of pillars rising on all sides,
and losing themselves in the darkness.
This second adventure so alarmed the worthy old Osmanli to whom the boat
belonged, that he caused it to be immediately destroyed; and visitors
are now compelled to content themselves with a partial view of
_Yèrè-Batan-Seraï_ from the ruined opening.
Marcian’s Column, called by the Turks _Kestachi_, which is situated in
the garden of a Turkish house near the gate of Adrianople, is a splendid
remain, of which the capital is supported by four magnificent eagles.
The hexagonal pedestal is ornamented with wreaths of oak leaves, and the
height of the shaft is nearly eighty feet.
Of the remains of the Aqueduct of Justinian I have already spoken; and
hundreds of beautiful and graceful columns, and thousands of sculptured
fragments, are to be seen intermingled with the masonry of the city
walls.
The ancient Palace of Constantine, vulgarly named the Palace of
Belisarius, stands in that quarter of the city called Balata, a
corruption of _Balati_, “the gate of the palace.” It is impossible to
visit this curious ruin with any pleasure, as it has been given up to
the needy Jews, who have established within its walls a species of
pauper barrack, redolent of filth. It is of considerable extent, and
principally remarkable for the curious arrangement of its brick-work;
there are, however, the remains of a handsome doorway, and outworks of
great strength.
About ten days before I left the country, some workmen, employed in
digging the foundation of an outbuilding at the Arsenal, brought to
light a handsome sarcophagus of red marble, containing the bodies of
Heraclius, a Greek Emperor, who flourished during the reign of Mahomet,
and his consort. The two figures representing the Imperial pair are
nearly perfect. That of the Emperor holds in one hand a globe, and with
the other grasps a sceptre; while the Empress is represented with her
crown resting upon her open palm. At their feet are the busts of two
worthies, supposed to be portraits of celebrated warriors, but the
inscriptions beneath them are nearly obliterated.
Immediately that the identity of the occupants of this lordly tomb was
ascertained, orders were given that an iron railing, breast-high, should
be erected to protect the relic from injury, the Turks having a
tradition that Heraclius died a Mahomedan. The fact is, however, more
than doubtful; although it is well known that Mahomet sent him an
invitation to abjure Christianity, and to become a True Believer; but,
at the period of this occurrence, Heraclius was bowed by years, and sunk
in sensual enjoyments. Anxious to evade a war with Mahomet, whose
successes were then at their height, he despatched an ambiguous reply to
the message, and died ere he had given the Musselmauns reason to
suspect the real motive of his supineness. Hence the Turks claimed the
sarcophagus of Heraclius as the tomb of a True Believer; and a marble
mausoleum is to be built over it, similar to those which contain the
ashes of the Sultans.
[Illustration: Miss Pardoe del.
Day & Haghe Lith^{rs}. to the King.
THE SEVEN TOWERS.
_Pub^d. by H. Colburn, 13 G^t. Marlborough S^t._]
The Seven Towers—that celebrated prison of which the very name is a
spell of power—are rapidly crumbling to decay, but must continue to be
among the most interesting of the antiquities of Constantinople, as long
as one stone remains upon another.
Although situated in a populous part of the city, this fortress is,
nevertheless, an isolated building; and four of the towers to which it
owes its name are destroyed, but of those that still exist, one contains
the apartments originally appropriated to state prisoners, and is also
the residence of the Military Commandant and the officers of the
garrison. When it ceased to be a state prison for attainted Turks, the
fortress of the Seven Towers was exclusively reserved for the reception
of the Russian Ambassadors, on the occasion of any misunderstanding
between the Ottoman and Muscovite courts; and it is almost a ludicrous
fact that, during the reign of Mustapha III., His Excellency Count
Obrescoff, representative of Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress of all
the Russias, not only suffered an imprisonment of three years in this
fortress, but actually passed several days at the bottom of a dry well,
into which it was the Sublime pleasure of the Sultan to cause him to be
lowered.
If His Highness acted upon the impression that the Muscovite Minister
would succeed during his subterranean sojourn in discovering the moral
deity who is said to be concealed therein, there is every reason, from
existing circumstances, to believe that the experiment was a failure, or
that she declined being withdrawn from her retreat.
Instruments of torture—racks, wheels, and oubliettes—are rife within
this place of gloom and horror. One chasm, upon whose brink you stand,
is called the “Well of Blood,” and is said to have overflowed its margin
with the ensanguined stream which was once warm with life—a small
court, designated the “Place of Heads,” is pointed out as having been
cumbered with the slain, until the revolting pile was of sufficient
height to enable the spectator to look out from its summit upon the
waves of the glittering Propontis; and more than one stone tunnel is
shown, into which the wretched captive was condemned to crawl upon his
hands and knees, and there left to die of famine.
But I shall pass by these tales of terror, to narrate a Legend of the
Seven Towers, less known than the objects which are exhibited to every
visiter, and more calculated to interest the reader.
On the declaration of war with Russia made by the Turks in 1786, Baron
Bulhakoff, the Russian Minister, despite his representation that the
imprisonment of the Muscovite Ambassadors on such occasions had been
abolished by treaty, was, nevertheless, sent to the Seven Towers by
order of Codza Youssouf Pasha, the Grand Vèzir, with the assurance that
treaties were very good things in a time of peace, but mere waste paper
in the event of war. The discomfited Ambassador was, however, treated
with great civility, and was even permitted to select such members of
the Legation as he desired should bear him company during his captivity;
strict orders being given to the Commandant of the castle to accede to
every request of his prisoner which did not tend to compromise his
safety; and upon his complaining of the accommodations of the Tower, he
was moreover permitted to erect a kiosk on the walls of the fortress,
whence he had a magnificent view of the Sea of Marmora and its
glittering islands, and to construct a spacious and handsome apartment
within the Tower itself.
I have already stated that the Commandant was lodged beneath the same
roof as his prisoner; but I have yet to tell that he had an only
daughter, so young, and so lovely, that she might have taken her stand
between the two Houri who wait at the portal of Paradise to beckon the
Faithful across its threshold, without seeming less beautiful than they.
Fifteen springs had with their delicate breathings opened the petals of
the roses since the birth of Rèchèdi[7] Hanoum, and she had far
out-bloomed the brightest blossoms of the fairest of seasons. Her voice,
when it was poured forth in song, came through the lattices of her
casement like the tones of a distant mandolin sweeping over the waters
of the still sea—when you looked upon her, it was as though you looked
upon a rose; and when you listened, you seemed to listen to the
nightingale.
Rèchèdi Hanoum had never yet poured the scented sherbet in the garden of
flowers. Her young heart was as free as the breeze that came to her brow
from the blue bosom of the Propontis; and when she heard that a
Muscovite Giaour was about to become an inmate of the Tower, she only
trembled, for she knew that he was the enemy of her country.
Terror was, however, soon succeeded by curiosity. Only a few weeks after
the compulsatory domestication of the Ambassador at the Seven Towers,
his kiosk was completed; and from her closed casements the young Hanoum
could see all that passed in the vast apartment of the prisoner.
Her first glance at the dreaded Infidel was transient; but soon she took
another, and a longer look; and curiosity was, in its turn, succeeded by
sympathy. The Russian prisoner was the handsomest man on whom her eye
had ever rested, and it was not thus that she had pictured to herself
the dreaded Muscovite. He was unhappy too, for in his solitary moments
he paced the floor with hurried and unequal steps, like one who is
grappling with some painful memory; and at times sat sadly, with his
head pillowed on his hand, and his fingers wreathed amid the wavy hair
which encircled his brow; looking so mournful, and above all so
fascinating, that the fair Rèchèdi at last began to weep as she clung to
her lattice, with her gaze riveted upon him; and to find more happiness
in those tears, than in all the simple pleasures that had hitherto
formed the charm of her existence.
Little did the young Hanoum suspect that she loved the Giaour. She never
dreamt of passion; but, with all the generous anxiety of innocence,
unconscious that a warmer feeling than that of mere pity urged her to
the effort, she began to muse upon the means of diminishing the
irksomeness of a captivity which she was incapable of terminating. The
first, the most natural impulse led her to sweep her hands across the
chords of her Zebec; and as she remarked the start of agreeable surprise
with which the sound was greeted by the courtly prisoner, her young
heart bounded with joy, and the wild song gushed forth in a burst of
sweetness which chained the attention of the captive, and afforded to
the delighted girl the opportunity of a long, long look, that more than
repaid her for her minstrelsy.
During the evening she watched to ascertain whether a repetition of her
song would be expected, and she did not watch in vain; for more than
once the Russian noble leant from his casement, and seemed to listen;
but he came not there alone; one of his companions in captivity was
beside him; and Rèchèdi Hanoum, although she guessed not wherefore, had
suddenly become jealous of her minstrelsy, and would not exhibit it
before a third person.
On the morrow, an equally graceful, and equally successful effort whiled
the prisoner for a time from his sorrows. A cluster of roses, woven
together with a tress of bright dark hair, was flung from the casement
of the young beauty, at a moment when the back of the stranger was
turned towards her. It fell at his feet, and was secured and pressed to
his lips, with a respectful courtesy that quickened the pulses of the
donor; but not a glimpse of the fair girl accompanied the gift; and it
seemed as though the Baron had suspected wherefore, for ere long he was
alone in his apartment; and, when he had dismissed his attendants, he
once more advanced to the window, and glanced anxiously towards the
jealous lattices by which it was overlooked.
There was a slight motion perceptible behind the screen; a white hand
waved a greeting; and the imprisoned noble bent forward to obtain a
nearer view of its fair owner. For a moment Rèchèdi Hanoum stood
motionless, terrified at the excess of her own temerity; but there was a
more powerful feeling at her heart than fear; and in the next, she
forced away her prison-bars for an instant; and, with the telltale hand
pressed upon her bosom, stood revealed to her enraptured neighbour.
From that day the young beauty allowed herself to betray to the captive
her interest in his sorrows; she did more; she admitted that she shared
them; and ere long there was not an hour throughout the day in which the
thoughts of Rèchèdi Hanoum were not dwelling on the handsome prisoner.
Thus were things situated during two long years, when the death of the
reigning Sultan, at the termination of that period, induced the
Ambassadors of England and France to demand from his successor, Selim
III., the liberty of the Russian Minister. The request was refused, for
the war was not yet terminated; and the new Sovereign required no better
pretext for disregarding the representations of the European
Ambassadors, than the continuation of hostilities between the two
countries. But Selim had other and more secret reasons for thus
peremptorily negativing their prayer; and it will be seen in the suite
that they did not arise from personal dislike to the captive Muscovite.
Like Haroun Alraschid of Arabian memory, the new Sultan, during the
first weeks of his reign, amused himself by nocturnal wanderings about
the streets of the city in disguise; attended by the subsequently famous
Hussèin, his first and favourite body-page; and immediately that he had
refused compliance with the demand of the Ambassadors, he resolved on
paying an _incognito_ visit to his prisoner at the Seven Towers. As soon
as twilight had fallen like a mantle over the gilded glories of
Stamboul, he accordingly set forth; and having discovered himself to the
Commandant, and enjoined him to secresy, he entered the anti-chamber of
the Baron, where he found one of his suite, to whom he expressed his
desire to have an interview with the captive Ambassador.
The individual to whom the Sultan had addressed himself recognised him
at once; but, without betraying that he did so, contented himself with
expressing his regret that he was unable to comply with the request of
his visitor, the orders of the Sultan being peremptory, that the Baron
should hold no intercourse with any one beyond the walls of the
fortress.
On receiving this answer, Selim replied gaily that the Sultan need never
be informed of the circumstance; and that, being a near relation of the
Commandant, and having obtained his permission to have a few minutes’
conversation with the prisoner, he trusted that he should not encounter
any obstacle either on the part of the Baron himself, or on that of his
friends.
The Dragoman, with affected reluctance, quitted the room, to ascertain,
as he asserted, the determination of His Excellency, but in reality to
inform him of the Imperial masquerade; and in five minutes more the
disguised Sultan and his favourite were ushered into the apartment of
the Ambassador.
After some inconsequent conversation, Selim inquired how the Baron had
contrived to divert the weary hours of his captivity; and was answered
that he had endeavoured to lighten them by books, and by gazing out upon
the Sea of Marmora from his kiosk. Bulhakoff sighed as he made the
reply, and remembered how much more they had been brightened by the
affection of the fair Rèchèdi Hanoum; and he almost felt as though he
were an ingrate that he did not add her smiles and her solicitude to the
list of his prison-blessings.
“The same volume and the same kiosk cannot please for ever;” said the
Sultan with a smile; “and you would not, doubtlessly, be sorry to
exchange your books against the conversation of your fellow-men; nor
your view of the blue Propontis for one more novel. A prison is but a
prison at the best, even though you may be locked up with all the
courtesy in the world. But your captivity is not likely to endure much
longer. _Shekiur Allah!_—Praise be to God—I am intimately acquainted
with the Sultan’s favourite; and I know that, had not the meddling
ministers of England and France sought to drive the new sovereign into
an act of justice, which he had resolved to perform from inclination,
you would have been, ere this, at liberty. Do not therefore be induced
to lend yourself or your countenance to any intrigue that they may make
to liberate you, and which will only tend to exasperate His Highness;
but wait patiently for another month, and at its expiration you will be
set free, and restored to your country.”
“I trust that you may prove a true prophet—” said the Baron; and his
visitors shortly afterwards departed.
The days wore on; the month was almost at an end, and yet the captive
noble had never ventured to breathe to the fair girl who loved him the
probability of his liberation. He shrank from the task almost with
trembling, for he felt that even to him the parting would be a bitter
one—even to him, although he was about to recover liberty, and country,
and friends. What, then, would it be to her? to “his caged bird,” as he
had often fondly called her—who knew no joy save in his presence—no
liberty save that of loving him! As the twilight fell sadly over the
sea, and the tall trees of the prison-garden grew dark and gloomy in the
sinking light, he remembered how ardently they had both watched for that
still hour, soon to be one of tenfold bitterness to the forsaken Rèchèdi
Hanoum; and there were moments in which he almost wished that she had
never loved him.
But the hour of trial came at last. Selim had redeemed his word, and
Bulhakoff was free. His companions in captivity would fain have quitted
the fortress within the hour; but the liberated prisoner lingered. He
gave no reason for his delay; he offered no explanation of his motives;
he simply announced his resolution not to quit the Tower until the
morrow; and then he shut himself into his chamber, and passed there
several of the most bitter hours of his captivity.
Once more twilight lay long upon the waters—the time of tryst was
come—the last which the beautiful young Hanoum was ever to keep with
her lover. She had long forgotten the possibility of his liberation; and
when she stole from her chamber to the shadow of the tall cypresses that
had so often witnessed their meeting, her heart bounded like her step.
But no fond smile welcomed her coming—no reproach, more dear than
praise, murmured against her tardiness—Bulhakoff was leaning his head
against the tree beside which he stood, and the young beauty had clasped
within her own the chill and listless hand that hung at his side, ere
with a painful start he awakened from his reverie.
The interview was short; but brief as was its duration it had taught the
wretched girl that for her there was no future save one of misery. She
did not weep—her burning eyeballs were too hot for tears. She _could_
not weep, for the drops of anguish would have dimmed the image of him
whom she had loved, and was about to lose. She made no reply to the
withering tidings he had brought, for what had words to do with such a
grief as her’s? She was like one who dreamt a fearful dream; and when
she turned away to regain her chamber, she walked with a firm step, for
her heart was broken; and she had nothing now left to do but to veil
from her lover the extent of her own anguish, lest she should add to the
bitterness of his.
The morrow came. The Baron turned a long, soul-centered look-towards the
lattices of his young love, and quitted her for ever; and, ere many
weeks were spent, the same group of cypresses which had overshadowed the
trysting-place of Rèchèdi Hanoum gloomed above her grave.