CONSTANTINOPLE.[F]
[F] It is with great diffidence that I print this chapter, as I
am conscious that so short a stay in a place so strange, and
to strangers, in part so little accessible as
Constantinople, could not enable me to form any competent
judgment of the people that inhabit it. I intended,
therefore, to confine myself merely to a description of
their outward appearance and manners without drawing any
conclusions or forming any judgment. I find, however, that I
have not been able to keep my good intention. May the reader
take these remarks for what they are worth, and pardon the
errors into which I have surely fallen.
“Along with the barbarous Turk
Where woman has never a soul to save.”
THOMAS HOOD.
Goethe says in his journey to Italy: “Thus it was written on my leaf in
the Book of Fate, that on the twenty-eighth of September, 1786, towards
five o’clock in the evening, I should see Venice for the first time.” So
important and momentous--so much like an event--appeared also to me my
entry into Constantinople on the twenty-first of April, 1865.
It was about seven o’clock in the morning when we saw the seven towers
that mark the beginning of the town. I had been already some time on
deck, pacing it with a feeling akin to the emotion with which I used to
sit when a child in some theatre, before the rising of the curtain,
expecting to see a Christmas Pantomime. And, as in that happy age, the
red and blue fire, and the lovely fairies in pink tarlatan with silver
gauze wings, far surpass our greatest expectations, so, although I had
formed no mean idea of what I was going to see, did the sight of
Constantinople far surpass all I had ever imagined. After we had passed
the Seraglio Point and neared the harbour, the city appeared to encircle
the sea and close around us. It was not so much the beauty, as the
grandeur that surprised me. Genoa “la superba” and even glorious Naples
appear but small in comparison to the wide extended sea and the
mountains that tower above them; but Constantinople appears great in
proportion to the surrounding scenery--a gigantic town. Immediately
after we had passed the “Seven Towers” the mist that had till then
obscured the horizon disappeared, and now the grand picture lay before
us in a clear transparent light. It was a most exciting, happy moment.
Round our boat crowds of porpoises were gambolling in the water in the
“maddest, merriest” manner; over our head we saw innumerable flights of
birds of passage coming from the south, and bringing the spring to
Constantinople. At the very moment our boat entered the harbour all the
Turkish men-of-war lying there, having all their flags hoisted, began to
fire a splendid cannonade. The people around me said they were firing
because it was Friday, which is the Turkish Sunday, and the Sultan was
just going to the Mosque. That may have been the case; but at that
moment I felt as elated as any Sultan can feel, and it seemed to me
those guns were firing only to express the joy and wonder of my heart at
what is certainly one of the most wonderful sights in the world. I shall
not attempt to describe it; that has been done by far abler pens than
mine, and even they have failed in conveying to their readers any
adequate idea of it. In fact, I believe it is a hopeless undertaking. As
no description can give to an Esquimaux an idea of the warmth and
brightness of the sun when its rays make the waves of the Bosphorus and
the Gulf of Naples appear a sea of gold; or a South American, who had
heard nothing but the shriek of parrots and cockatoos, could never
imagine what the song of the nightingale or lark is like; so one must
have seen Constantinople and Scutari, the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus
to know what they are like, as they resemble nothing else on earth.
Everybody knows that Constantinople seen from the sea, is the grandest
and most beautiful town in the world; it is also a well known fact that
as soon as one puts one’s foot on shore, the picture changes entirely.
But I must confess that after Smyrna, and the towns of Crete, I did not
find it so wretchedly mean and dirty as I had expected, although the
houses of Pera (the European quarter) are insignificant, and the wooden
palaces of Stamboul not at all imposing. I never had much time to look
at them, for the people that move through the streets, and that seem a
series of strange, interesting, and beautiful pictures attracted all my
attention. I advise all painters who are at a loss for subjects to go to
Constantinople; one stroll along the great street of Pera, or through
the bazaars of Stamboul, will supply him with subjects for years, so
picturesque and beautiful is the life that moves around him. The first
figure you see is the Kaïktchi or boatman, who in his kaik, the most
elegantly shaped, and most neatly ornamental boat in the world, takes
you ashore. With his bronzed face, his athletic chest and shoulders, in
his thin silk shirt, that leaves his muscular arms and chest uncovered,
his whole dress consisting besides this shirt of a red fez, and a pair
of white pantaloons, he presents a most striking appearance; but you
have hardly time to look at this new and interesting figure, when
another one attracts your attention, it is the Hammal, or porter of
Constantinople, who carries your luggage, which consists perhaps of two
large trunks, a hat box, a dressing bag, wrappers, umbrellas, etc., all
at once on his back. This human beast of burden is dressed in a light
brown flannel suit, trimmed with black braid. He is often an elderly
man, with a mild venerable face, and bent almost double under the weight
on his back, looks the personification of the words “In the sweat of thy
brow thou shalt eat thy bread.” But there are gayer pictures in the
streets of Pera. You step aside to let a carriage pass, that is all gilt
and glass, and that comes rattling up the streets. A child would mistake
the coachman for a prince, so splendid does he look in his gold
embroidered coat. The pavement, even in Pera, is not good enough to
allow a carriage to drive quickly, so you have full leisure to look at
its inmates. The crimson curtains are half let down, and through them a
magic light falls on the picture within. Generally the carriage is
occupied by three or four Turkish ladies. They are always young, and all
look beautiful; old ladies it seems have no carriages to ride in. The
mothers of Beys and Pashas stop at home, dressed in old calico gowns
which they exchange for some rich attire on extraordinary occasions
only. These young Turkish beauties wear gossamer veils so thin and
transparent, as to hide no beauty of form or colour, while they just
soften any little defect of either. Under this thin veil, face and neck
show off to great advantage, and the jewellery they wear, and the gay
colours of their satin cloaks, seen in the soft crimson light of the
carriage, produce a very charming effect, unsurpassed even by our
beauties, when they drive crowned with flowers, to the Princess of
Wales’ Drawing-room. I think it is in these carriages that Turkish
ladies look best, even better than in the Harem, where however, when
they are well dressed, gracefully reclining on the divan, they often
look very beautiful. Only those who are above the middle size, and they
are few, look well standing. None walk gracefully, not even those that
have exchanged the sock and clumsy slippers, usually worn, for French
chaussure. This however is considered no fault in a Turkish lady, who
would be almost ashamed to walk well, as it would prove that she had
often used such vulgar exertion. Having a whole host of female slaves at
her command, a Turkish lady moves about but little when in the Harem,
which she never leaves except in a carriage. The women of the middle and
lower classes however walk as badly as the ladies, which appears to be
occasioned in a great measure by their mode of sitting. They shuffle
along with their toes turned in, wearing large yellow boots, over which
they often have slippers of the same colour. You seldom see a really
pretty face among them. I believe beauty has a market value in
Constantinople, and the women know that very well, and wont marry a poor
man if their face can buy them a rich one. We must however not judge
them too harshly on that account. Marriage from love is out of the
question in a country where it would be scandal for a man to say that a
lady is beautiful. He must never have seen her face, nor have exchanged
a word with her before she is his wife. He values nothing but beauty in
his wife, she looks for a rich Harem, jewels, carriages, and a handsome
compensation in case he sends her away. The women of the middle classes,
who have of course no carriages, ride sometimes on horseback. They sit
like men, and are accompanied by some black or white man servant, who
runs behind the horse, and carries his mistress’s slippers and parasol.
These Amazons do not look particularly pretty or graceful, but the men
on horseback are splendid. A Bey or Pasha, on a fine Arab horse,
especially if he is an old man, and still wears the national dress, is a
sight worth seeing. Horse and rider look as if moulded in one form, so
firm and gracefully sits the rider in his saddle. Many of the horses are
splendid, and seem gentle as well as lively, but now and then I saw a
vicious one among the horses of the cavalry, that kicked with both front
and hind legs, and frightened me in the narrow crowded streets of
Stamboul. Yet I never saw any accident in consequence. The Turkish
soldiers have a bold martial look, but in their dress they want entirely
the neatness which European discipline requires of the soldier. The body
guard of the Sultan looks magnificent. They are perhaps not such fine
men as our horse-guards, but their dress is far more picturesque and
imposing. But I forget that I intended to take you up the great street
of Pera, to our hotel. Well, all I have hitherto described you may have
seen before you have taken many steps in that crowded thoroughfare. Who
is the next person that passes you? A Circassian with his high fur cap,
and his row of cartridges across his chest, leading a pretty child of
ten or eleven years, with soft brown melancholy eyes. He is taking her
to the slave dealer, unless he attract in the street the attention of
some rich Turk, or Turkish lady, who will perhaps there and then buy the
child and take her away.
The little Turkish children appeared to me anything but what are
vulgarly called “little Turks.” There are numbers of them in the
streets, on the steamboats, and in the Harems, but I seldom saw a child
in a real fit of naughtiness or passion. In their miniature dressing
gowns of cotton, wool or silk, as the case may be, but always of most
gorgeous colours and pattern, they looked funny little objects. The
little girls in the Harems were sometimes pretty.
But what are those strange, wild figures, surrounded by a crowd of
people coming slowly up the street? They are leading bears along to some
more retired spot than the high street of Pera, where the bears and
their masters dance together; a strange performance which the men
accompany with a monotonous kind of song and beating of a tambourine.
They look as uncouth and wild as the shaggy animals they lead along, but
not more so than the shepherds you meet a little further on walking
before their flocks of sheep and lambs. These wear a waistcoat and
trowsers of undressed sheepskin, and a sheepskin hangs down their back
as a cloak. Their long black hair falls over their shoulders and partly
hides their faces. They carry long sticks in their hands, that look
almost like the stems of young trees, and are of all the strange and
wild figures you see perhaps the strangest and wildest.
What a contrast they form to the handsome Greek lady that now passes
you. She is dressed in the latest Paris fashion, which is however
modified just a little in accordance with the irresistible liking of all
inhabitants of the South for gayer colours. Goethe observed this love
for bright colours in Italy, and with his usual intelligence seems to
have discovered at once a reason for it. What he wrote from Naples, on
the 29th of May 1787, he might have written from Constantinople in 1865.
He says: “The many coloured, variegated flowers and fruits, with which
nature adorns itself here, seem to invite man to adorn himself and all
that belongs to him with the brightest colours. Whoever can afford it
decorates his hat with ribbons or flowers. Chairs and drawers in the
poorest houses are painted with flowers, the carriages are scarlet with
gilded ornaments, &c. We consider generally the love of gay colours
vulgar and barbarous, and such it may become in certain conditions; but
beneath a very clear blue sky there really exists no very bright colour,
because nothing can vie with the splendour of the sun and its reflexion
on the sea. The brightest colour is softened by the powerful light, and
because all colours, such as the green of the trees and plants, and the
yellow, brown and red of the ground, act with full power upon the eye,
the flowers and dresses harmonize with it. Everything seems desirous to
become somewhat visible under the splendour of sky and sea.”
If the Greek lady be the gayest figure in the crowd, the Arab woman is
the most dreary and dismal. She is so entirely enveloped and thickly
veiled, that but to look at her gives one a feeling of suffocation. The
Turkish veil at Constantinople is a pretence, the Arab veil a reality.
How the women can breathe or see through it is a wonder to me.
These are but a few of the strange and picturesque figures one meets on
a walk through a street of Pera or Stamboul; there are many others,
priests in a variety of dresses, Persians, Chaldeans, Jews, and some so
strange and new, that like the flowers of Crete, I do not know their
names, nor where they come from, nor what they mean. There are of course
also some very disgusting sights; the dirty beggar that importunes you,
the wretched lunatic with his shorn head uncovered, who touches your
arm, the deaf and dumb boy that begs with hideous noises, the nasty dogs
that in a torpid kind of dose lie about in the streets, and worst of all
the cripples, that expose their deformed limbs in order to excite your
pity. But as I always turned away from these wretched sights, I will not
remember them here.
If this long description of a walk through Pera should seem tiring it is
no wonder, for it is a long steep hill that leads from the Custom House
where you land to the Hotel in Pera. Apropos of the Custom House, I must
relate a little incident that happened to us when we arrived at
Constantinople, and which well characterises Turkish Custom House
administration. When the officer had minutely examined all our trunks,
dressing-bags, etc., and had looked with great suspicion at my
pincushion, the use of which he could not understand, and tried to open
it in order to see if it contained any contraband, he discovered in a
small basket half a dozen oranges, which kind Sig. A-- of Canea had
insisted upon my taking with me. These were seized, and the Turk asked
us to pay five piastres (10_d._) duty, when, to our utter astonishment,
the dragoman of our hotel gave him one piastre (2_d._), which he took
and was thankful.
To walk up to the hotel in Pera is, as I said before, very tiring, for
the hill is steep, the pavement bad, and there are no footpaths; still
it is vastly preferable to driving. Those gaily-painted, gilded
carriages have very bad springs, and on the pavement of Constantinople
and across the wooden bridges they shake one to such a degree, that I
felt if the human body was not grown together mine would surely have
fallen to pieces. Men are much better off in that respect, they can hire
a nice little horse, which may be found everywhere, and at a moderate
price, while even a short drive always costs from fifty to seventy
piastres (10_s._ or 12_s._) There is one other kind of conveyance for
women, that is the sedan-chair; it is not a cheap mode of transit, as
you can go no distance under 6_s._ or 8_s._; but the men carry you along
quite as quickly as the carriages, and the movement is not unpleasant.
These sedan-chairs are much used by the stout Greek and Armenian
matrons. I did not notice that Turkish women used them, they seem to be
of a sociable character, and like to go out in sets of three or four,
and therefore ride in carriages.
A few days after our arrival we went the usual round of sight-seeing, in
company with several other persons staying at the hotel, who all
profited by the special permission which must be obtained before one can
visit some of the places of interest in Constantinople. Our companions
were all English; and I am sorry to say there were several of them with
us who made themselves conspicuously ridiculous. One promising youth,
measuring in his slippers at least five feet ten inches, wore a
knickabocker suit like my little boy of seven, who has lately rebelled
against this dress as too childish, declaring his determination to wear
trousers; and, although it was as cold as on a March day with an
easterly wind, and no more sun than shines on a bright November day in
London, he had, in order to protect himself against the sunstroke, a
large white handkerchief twisted round his wide-awake, which looked like
a turban out-of-fashion. For turbans are quite out of fashion in
Constantinople, where the red fez has been almost exclusively adopted
as a head-covering. Another of the young men of our party had a pair of
very small slippers which, when entering a mosque, he used to put over
his large boots, of course with the heels down. They covered only half
of his boots, which offended one of the Turkish priests, who told him
through the dragoman to take his dusty boots off, but the proud young
Briton refused to do so, and very nearly brought us all into trouble.
The sights of Constantinople are so far interesting as they are
different from those of all other European capitals. Their novelty was
the chief attraction they had for me. We saw them all in one day, which
proves that there are not many.
We first visited the garden of the old Seraglio, whose situation on a
gentle hill, sloping down to the Sea of Marmora, is one of the most
beautiful in the world. There are large numbers of fine cypresses and
plane-trees growing in masses there, almost like a forest, which gives
an air of perfect solitude and retirement to the garden, although it is
surrounded on two sides by one of the largest and busiest towns in the
world. The beautiful old Seraglio that formerly adorned this splendid
site was burned down a few years ago. It was then the residence of what
are called the “Imperial widows” of the late Sultan. These unhappy
creatures are never allowed to leave the precincts of the palace that
has been assigned to them as a residence, but must mourn, in perfect
retirement, the loss of their late lord till death ends their existence.
There is a rumour that one of these Serailee Hanum (that is the title by
which they are distinguished), in order to get a chance of escape from
her prison, set it on fire; but this is, of course, a conjecture only.
The Dowager Sultanas inhabit now another large palace situated in the
same garden, and I looked at its latticed windows, when it was pointed
out to me, with a feeling of unspeakable pity.
There are in the same delightful locality some pretty Kiosks of the
Sultan. One is called the Library, which did however not contain more
books than a well stocked schoolroom in an English country house. We
visited three mosques: the beautiful one of Sultan Sulimani, Sultan
Achmet’s, which has six minarets, and Aja Sophia, the grand old church,
the very carpets of which look venerable.
The look-down from the high gallery into the nave, which was well filled
with worshippers, was most interesting. The wretched little glass lamps,
with which the Turks light up their mosques, are excessively ugly and
out of keeping.
The Hippodrome now no more resembles a Roman Circus than Trafalgar
Square does. Every trace of the ancient structure has disappeared, and
the square is surrounded by Turkish mosques and houses. The large
obelisk, that stands in the middle, shows however that this was the site
of the splendid Hippodrome which was adorned by an infinite number of
the finest Greek statues in marble and bronze. The famous horses of
Lysippus, which once stood here, I remembered to have seen over the
portals of St. Mark in Venice.
The least beautiful, but not the least interesting sight, is the gallery
where the costumes of the Janizaries are exhibited. Most persons will
remember that this Turkish soldiery, the formidable opponents of all
progress and civilization in the Turkish Empire, the terror of the
Sultans and the tyrants of the people, were burnt and massacred by
thousands in the year 1826, by order of Sultan Mahmud II., who probably,
in doing so, conferred an inestimable benefit upon the nation. A large
number of lay figures, representing the principal functionaries of the
household of the Sultan, the officers of the Janizaries, and the
Janizaries themselves, who were not obliged to wear a uniform, stand
there in the very dresses these people used to wear, and which are the
strangest costumes the barbarous taste of a wild and haughty people
could invent. They look a ghastly host now. I don’t know that I ever
felt more uncomfortable than during the time I found myself in their
company. I would not stop a night alone in those galleries, not for all
the treasures those terrible looking men possessed when alive.
I gladly turn my thoughts from this “dread abode” to the more cheerful
life of the Bazaars of Stamboul, where you can buy sparkling diamonds
and golden slippers, and all the “perfumes of Arabia.” There is little
besides the unavoidable atta of roses and embroidered slippers to tempt
a not over acquisitive disposition. Ladies that are fond of diamonds can
get them cheaper there than in London or Paris. But then one does not go
to the Bazaars only for the purpose of purchasing at the stalls, every
one of them is a new and striking picture. The principal figure in it is
now an old grey-bearded Turk, who still wears his national dress,
sitting on his carpet or reclining on his cushion, smoking his
chibouque. He hardly changes his comfortable position, when your
dragoman asks him for some article you want, and only rises if he cannot
reach it while reclining. Or it is a lively black-eyed young Greek, who
spreads out before you as you pass his stall, a gold embroidered
table-cover, or holds up some bright glittering beads, in order to
excite your desire to purchase; or it is a long bearded Jew, in his
oriental dress, that begins to talk to you in English, French and
German, all at once, and offers to sell you every thing you can possibly
want at the lowest possible price. What different figures are these from
the London shopmen in their eternal black coats and white cravats, and
the young shopwomen, their companions, in their everlasting black alpaca
dresses, always standing behind the counter, even if there is nobody to
serve.
The workshops, which like the stalls of the Bazaars are quite open
towards the street, are also interesting to look at. You see the tailor
cutting out his work, the cooper making barrels, the turner at his work,
the coppersmith, the baker, the pastry-cook, &c. &c. Whenever the work
allows it the workmen sit, and they do not look as if they laboured very
hard.
As I wished much to visit some Harems in Constantinople, and see a
little more of the Turkish women, my husband, in order to gratify my
wish, procured for us introductions to some people of note, and took me
to the Pashas and smoked chiboques with them, although I know he would
have much preferred to take a kaik, and go to Bujuk Dere, or the sweet
waters of Europe with me; for a row on the Bosphorus, or the Golden
Horn, was what he most enjoyed at Constantinople. Before we visited the
Pashas in Stamboul, I paid however my promised visit to Mme. Conemenos,
the Greek lady, whose acquaintance I had made on the steamboat from
Corfu to Sira. She was staying with her parents in Yeni Keui on the
Bosphorus, where M. d’Aristarchi, her father, has a beautiful palace, a
present of the late Sultan’s, under whose reign M. d’Aristarchi, who is
brother of the Prince of Samos, filled high offices of state. I remember
my visit to this amiable family with great pleasure, for in going to
Yeni Keui, which is one of the prettiest villages on the Bosphorus, I
saw the beauty of that unrivalled spot for the first time. I spent a
whole day there, and never was tired of looking on the beautiful scenery
around, sitting near the window of some cool airy room of the palace, or
walking through the shady and flowery garden that rises in terraces high
above the blue waters of the Bosphorus.
The very next day we paid a visit to Omer Pasha, and were of course
interested to see this great soldier of the Turkish Empire. He spoke
with my husband about the Turkish army, agriculture, and horse breeding;
to me about his two little children, a little girl of fifteen months,
and a baby boy, who was then a few weeks old. These are his only
children, besides a married daughter. He spoke with apparent regret that
these children should have been given to him so late in life, and said
that he could not hope to see them grow up, but as in spite of his
advanced years, and a slight indisposition of which he complained, he
still looked a fine man, I told him to trust in Providence, which might
spare him still for many years. We parted after a visit of two hours,
mutually well pleased I think, and with a promise to renew our
acquaintance in London, which he intended visiting in the course of the
summer. I did not enter his Harem, as his wife had been so lately
confined, and could not receive visitors.
As Omer Pasha is a German by birth, and Ishmael Pasha is of Greek
extraction, it was only when I visited Sami Pasha, that I knew I was
with a real Mussulman, and I think it was partly for that reason that
the visit to his house in Stamboul interested me more than the others I
had paid. Sami Pasha, ex-Minister of Public Instruction, and member of
the Privy Council, lives in a fine old mansion in Stamboul, which is
separated from the bustle and noise of the city, by large court yards
and gardens which surround the house on all sides. The house itself is
one of the oldest and finest in Constantinople; the halls, and rooms,
and staircases, are to an English eye very spacious, and the reception
room, which is entirely of finely carved and richly gilded oak, and
commands a splendid view of Stamboul, is very beautiful.
Sami Pasha is quite an old man, with a very intelligent look, and the
manners of a courtier. He has been Governor of many provinces, and
seemed pleased to hear that he was still remembered at Crete, where he
was Governor at the time the turbulent Greeks threatened a new
insurrection, which his moderation and firmness had prevented from
breaking out. He had years ago visited England and France, and was
interested in all that concerned those countries. He had known many of
our statesmen personally, as Sir Robert Peel and Lord Aberdeen; he
inquired after Lord Palmerston, and seemed pleased that his Lordship, of
whom he appeared to be a contemporary, was, like himself, still in the
enjoyment of health and vigour. Although a member of the Privy Council,
he holds no longer any special office, preferring quiet and retirement.
He told me that his time was now entirely devoted to study and
reflection, and that he was just then writing a treatise on morals. I
had expressed a wish to see the “ladies of the house.” I could not in
this case ask to see his wife, as I knew he had two legitimate ones; it
is not often the case that Turks have more than one wife, partly I
believe because it entails a large expenditure, each lady having
entirely separate households, with their large suites of apartments, and
numerous male and female slaves and attendants. After I had been
announced to the ladies, a son of Sami Pasha, a young man of about
seventeen years of age, with pleasant, courteous manners, led me into
the Harem. All the doors that lead into it had been unlocked, perhaps in
order not to shock my western prejudices, so that we walked freely into
the ante-chamber of the Harem, where I met the first Hanum, who, looking
rather embarrassed but not unkind, conducted me to another room. She was
a stout lady of about thirty-five years of age, the mother of the young
man that served us as interpreter. She was dressed in green silk, now
the fashionable colour among the Turkish ladies, and had a many-coloured
handkerchief, in a not unbecoming manner, wound round her head. I had
just time to answer the questions these ladies generally ask, viz., how
many children I had, their sex, ages, etc., when another lady entered
through the open door, who seemed to be very nearly of the same age as
the first, and who was dressed in exactly the same way, as sisters often
are in England. She sat down on a divan opposite us, and I had to answer
very nearly the same questions, when Sami Pasha joined us, and
introduced his children to me. Both ladies have many children, among
those of the younger there was a very pretty little girl of about three
years of age, who, with her blue eyes and fair silken hair, might have
been taken for an English child.
The Harem of Sami Pasha is very splendid, as becomes his rank and
station. The windows, all overlooking the inner garden, are unlatticed,
which was pleasant to me. The little stands which hold the Turkish
coffee-cups were set with diamonds. All the slaves, and there seemed to
be a very large number, were well dressed, some in silk, others in
muslin, and they wore much jewellery. Most of them were Circassians,
and, although no such great beauties as they are reported to be, were
good-looking, comely young women.
The ladies received me with great courtesy, offering me as a sign of
good will, first sweets and coffee, then lemonade, then coffee again.
The younger of the wives, who seemed pleased at my taking particular
notice of her little girl, asked me to let her know that I had returned
safely to England, and had found my children well. Of course I have
complied with so kind a request, accompanying my letter with the
photographs of my children. Sami Pasha had said before we left, “you
must go and see my son’s collection of antiquities;” and as we had
already heard from others that it was the finest collection of the kind
in Turkey, which, however, need not say much, we profited by Sami
Pasha’s offer, to announce our visit to his son, and went to see him the
next day. Suphy Bey received his education at the Court of Mehemet Ali,
the great Viceroy of Egypt, and is now a Privy Councillor like his
father, and a man of great influence at the Sublime Porte, but he has
never left the sacred ground of Islam, and is a thorough Mussulman. He
speaks but very little French, and the first thing he offered me was a
pipe, when I declined it, he asked if I preferred a cigarette, but even
that I was obliged to refuse.
His collection of antiquities, is no doubt very splendid; but old
Turkish coins have very little interest for me, as I understand nothing
about them, but at the Greek antiquities I looked with pleasure.
I know that his Harem is one of the largest in Constantinople, but I was
sorry afterwards that I had asked Suphy Bey to introduce me into it. His
Harem is a palace, entirely separated from the house of the Bey, and in
order to reach it he led me through two gardens, and the black slave who
keeps the keys of the Harem had to unlock several strong doors before we
could enter. We waited some time, and the Bey had, it appeared to me,
dispatched several slaves before his first Hanum appeared to receive me.
She did it with a face of chilling coldness; and, sitting down at the
farther end of the room, addressed no other word to me than a polite
inquiry after my health. The Bey smoked a chiboque, which a little girl,
his daughter, had brought him; and there reigned an awful silence. At
last the Bey rose and left the room; he returned after a few minutes,
which had seemed to me terribly long, leading by her hand a lovely girl
of about sixteen years of age, whom he introduced as the daughter of the
proud lady opposite me, and who looked as if she entered the room
“sorely against her will.” She was by far the most beautiful woman I had
seen in the different Harems, but she had the same expression of cool
disdain in her face, that was so repulsive in the mother.
The father led her to a piano that was in the saloon, and she began to
play. But the instrument was woefully out of tune, and never had the
Turkish music sounded more discordant and barbarous, so that I could not
express any approbation, and merely thanked her, when she had finished.
Soon after I had been served with coffee, which was as bitter as
wormwood, I rose, saying to the Bey that I did not wish to trouble the
ladies any longer, being in fact anxious to bring this very
unsatisfactory visit to a speedy end.
When I was again alone with my husband, I asked myself if I had any
right to feel angry, or even annoyed at the cool reception these ladies
gave me; placing myself in their position, I thought that I had reason
to be surprised rather that they had abstained from absolute rudeness
towards me, and had preserved at least the forms of politeness.
Should we like our husbands to receive ladies in their own apartments,
and when it pleases them, only to bring those visitors for a quarter of
an hour to see us, talking with them all the time in a language of which
we do not understand a word, and then leaving us again alone, locked
up, a prey to jealousy and envy? Really one need not be a Turk, under
such circumstances to feel tortured by those ugly passions. Ah, I can
forgive almost anything to the Turks: I will not condemn them for having
erased the sign of the cross from the portals of Santa Sophia, for
having made a powder magazine of the Parthenon, or for having
slaughtered the Christians; but one thing I cannot forgive that they
consign their own women to a life of idleness, ignorance, and
immorality, and to a premature death. For Turkish women, who were
healthy, strong girls at twelve years of age when they still enjoyed
some liberty, die by hundreds of rapid consumption between the age of
eighteen and thirty, in consequence of this unnatural, unhealthy mode of
life. I advise all ladies that go to Constantinople, especially if they
are under thirty years, (which however was not the case with me), and
good looking, (and what woman under thirty does not think herself so),
if they wish to visit a Harem, to do so in company of a lady who can
speak Turkish, and thus serve as an interpreter. They will be more
likely to be received kindly by the Turkish women, who will enter more
freely into conversation with them if the husband be not the
interpreter.
So poor in attractions for us was Constantinople in spite of the
prodigious riches with which nature has endowed it, that we thought a
fortnight too much to spend there. One fine morning therefore, we took
the steamboat for Brussa, to which place we had a pressing invitation
from an amiable and hospitable German family, residing there.
Our boat, which had left Constantinople at eight o’clock, arrived at
Modagna towards two in the afternoon, and we found a carriage waiting
for us, which after shaking us about like refractory cream that is to be
turned into butter, set us down with a headache and backache at Brussa.
But the next morning these ills had passed, and then I enjoyed my stay
there so much, that I count the few days at Brussa among the pleasantest
of my journey.
Brussa, the ancient capital of Turkey, lies in a fertile plain at the
foot of Mount Olympus, which rises stately and imposing out of the
plain. The town is of a thorough Turkish character. The houses are all
of wood, the streets narrow, but they are cleaner than those of any
other Turkish town I saw; and there are fine Mosques with elegant
minarets. The Mosque of Sultan Mahomet, standing on a hill, especially
pleased me, on account of its lovely situation. The little outer court
with its fountain, which for the purpose of ablution, is found before
every Mosque, shaded by noble old trees, is one of the most lovely spots
I saw. It is cool, shady and quiet in the extreme. In Brussa the Turks
still wear the real ancient costume; the large turban, the long dolman,
trimmed with fur, the wide Mameluke pantaloons, the broad scarf, and
rich arms.
Our ascent of the first plateau of Mount Olympus was splendid, at least
so I thought, when I was safely down again. Till then, I confess, I did
not find it quite so pleasant. Although I had become somewhat accustomed
to bad roads on our excursions in Crete, I still thought those of Mount
Olympus very terrible. They are narrow paths, fearfully steep, rocky and
stony, leading often along precipices, or through thick woods, where the
branches grow so low, that you are obliged to bring your head to a level
with your horse’s to keep it on your shoulders. When I had gone up a
little way, I did not wonder that our kind host and hostess, M. and Mme.
S--, had not accompanied us; very few people would care to go up twice.
Although the view is splendid, it is obtained at a great sacrifice, and
can be enjoyed almost as well from a lower point, which can be easily
climbed on foot. Mlle. Lina the daughter, and M. Charles S--, the
brother of our host, had however joined us, and here I found how true
is Schiller’s word; “Den schreckt der Berg nicht, der darauf geboren,”
for both seemed to mind the roads very little. Mlle. Lina, every now and
then, would draw my attention to some particularly beautiful view, which
to look at from the giddy height we rode along, made my head turn. I
could do nothing but look at the road and my husband; trembling lest
horse and rider should go down some terrible precipice, for the roads
were sometimes such, that I thought a false step of the horse would be
immediate destruction of horse and rider. Our guide was a terrible Turk,
looking as stern and calm as fate, in which he, like all Turks, had no
doubt a blind faith. He took no more notice of us than if we had been in
London or anywhere, except behind him. I am persuaded if one or two of
us had fallen, and broken our necks, he would have taken no more notice,
than he did of the stones that the feet of our horses now and then sent
rolling down the precipice. He rode a wretched little horse, which
besides himself, carried our shawls and provisions, but he looked
perfectly at his ease. I suppose if he had broken his own neck, he would
have met the unalterable decree of fate with the same stern, calm look.
But if I have not forgotten the bad roads, I remember also with
pleasure, the pleasant hours we spent on the plateau, from which rises
the snow-covered summit of the mountain. On the plateau the snow lay in
the shade of the trees, while the loveliest Alpine flowers grew in the
sunshine; white and purple primroses, of a large size, pleased me
especially. After we had rested, we wandered about, and except for the
snow and the Alpine vegetation, we might have forgotten that we were on
a high mountain, as there was no view of the world below. Shortly before
one reaches the plateau, the view is splendid, extending over the
mountains, the Lakes of Apollonia, and Nicæa, the Gulph of Gimlek, the
town of Brussa, and the beautiful plain surrounding it. We saw, while we
were on the plateau, a large vulture, and in descending, an eagle rose
slowly and majestically out of a deep ravine. High up it soared, my eye
followed it as long as it was visible, and I wished for “the wings of an
eagle.” We saw another interesting sight. We passed through a burnt
forest. All the large trunks stood erect, but the bark had peeled off,
and they looked very sad in their nakedness.
But what I remember with the greatest pleasure in thinking of Brussa, is
the amiable family which received us so kindly. Mme. S--, is one of the
most charming and amiable women I ever had the good fortune to become
acquainted with. Although highly intellectual and accomplished, she
lives contentedly in what I should call banishment, entirely devoted to
the superintendence of her household, and the education of her
daughters, who seem worthy of such a mother. Lina, the eldest, is in her
simplicity and modesty so fascinating, that my husband, who is not in
the habit of speaking in a poetical style, did so in speaking of her,
and called her “a violet,” while I thought her younger sister Annichen,
very much resembled the bright wild roses that grow like her, round the
foot of Mount Olympus.
I remember also with pleasure, the family of Mr. S--, the English Consul
at Brussa, in whose house we dined, in company with his daughter and
son-in-law, the Consul of Bucharest. That evening, while we talked in
the drawing-room of Turner and Landseer, Ruskin and Tennyson, I would
almost think myself in a London drawing-room. But at that moment I
turned round to the open window, and saw the stars shining with Eastern
splendour, and then I remembered where I was.
I was quite sad when I took leave of M. and Mme. S-- and their
daughters; but sorrows and joys pass quickly on a journey. When I had
mounted Mme. S--’s charming little horse she kindly lent me, and was
cantering along on our way to Gimlek, where we were to find a boat to
take us back to Constantinople, I felt all my spirits return. We
accomplished that journey, which usually takes six hours, in four,
although we rested twice, at a little kind of caravansery, and had
coffee.
Soon after our return from Brussa we left Constantinople, and, if that
only is well which ends well, Constantinople was not well, for going on
board the French steamer, which was to take us to Messina, was even less
agreeable than our embarkation at Rettimo had been. I wished to make a
few trifling purchases on my way down to the embarcadair, and my husband
therefore proposed to take our luggage to the custom-house, and see it
safely on board, while I should join him under the escort of the
dragoman. When I got into the boat I much regretted having quitted my
husband, for the day being windy and squally, I found the sea very
rough. The steamboat was far out, and the waves so high, that the spray
quite wetted me, and I had not the warm hand of my husband, but only the
cold wet board of the boat to cling to. I was frightened. Still this was
nothing to the terror I felt, when at last safely on board the vessel I
found that the luggage had arrived, but not my husband.
When he saw that the sea was rough, and knowing that I am of a timid
disposition, he had sent on the luggage, thinking he would try to find
me and take me on board himself. When I heard this I was nearly in
despair, however ridiculous this may seem now. There was I in the
steamboat, and my husband still on shore. With the strong current and
sea, the boat took much longer time than usual. Might the steamboat not
take me to Messina and leave him behind? Would he not, when he found I
was gone, take one of those nutshells of a Kaik instead of another boat,
and be drowned? for the Kaiks are very dangerous in rough weather. He
soon arrived, however, safely in a boat, and I, immensely relieved, but
cold and wet and shivering, went down into my cabin to change my wet
things. While there I felt the machine begin to work and the boat slowly
moving. I hastened on deck. We were just turning round the Seraglio
Point, and even under the cold threatening sky that hung over the town,
it was a glorious sight. But I turned away from it without regret. It
had interested, but not attracted me. I did not wish for a palace on
the Bosphorus, as I had wished for a castle on the Rhine, or a villa on
the Bay of Naples. Indeed, I think I would rather live in a little
cottage in an English village, than inhabit one of the dreary palaces of
Stamboul.