A Chapter on Caïques—The Sultan’s Barge—Princes and
Pashas—The Pasha’s Wife—The Admiralty Barge—The Fruit
Caïque—The Embassy Barge—The Omnibus Caïque—Turkish
Boatmen—The Caïque of Azmè Bey—Pleasant Memories—The
Chevalier Hassuna de Ghies—Natural Politeness of the
Turks—Turkey and Russia—Sultan Mahmoud—Confusion of
Tongues—Arif Bey—Imperial Present—The Fruit of
Constantinople—The Two Banners—The Harem—Azimè Hanoum.
Should I ever have time, I murmured to myself as we darted down the
Bosphorus in the caïque of Azmè Bey, with whom we were engaged to dine,
and who had obligingly sent his boat and his Dragoman to facilitate our
arrival at Dolma Batchè:—Should I ever have time, I will write a
chapter on caïques.
A more graceful subject could scarcely be selected. From the gilded
barges of the Sultan, to the common passage-boat that plies within the
port, the caïques are all beauty; and, as they fly past you, their long
and lofty prows dipping downward towards the current at every stroke of
the oars, you are involuntarily reminded of some aquatic bird,
moistening the plumage of its glistening breast in the clear ripple.
That bright mass of gilding and glitter which is flying over the water,
shaped like a marine monster, and gleaming in the sunshine, is one of
the Imperial barges. Mahmoud is returning from the mosque. Hark! to the
booming of the loud cannon, which announces his departure from the coast
of Europe, for his delicious summer-palace of Beglierbey; the most
lovely (for that is the correct term)—the most lovely object on the
Bosphorus—rising like the creation of a twilight dream beneath the
shadow of an Asian mountain—a fanciful edifice, looking as though its
model had been cut out of gold paper in an hour of luxurious indolence,
and carried into execution during a fit of elegant caprice.
The long, dark, crescent-shaped caïque immediately in the wake of the
Sultan, with its three gauze-clad rowers, and its flashing ornaments,
carries a Pasha of the Imperial suite. He is hidden beneath the red
umbrella which the attendant, who is squatted upon the raised stern of
the boat, is holding carefully over him.
You may see a third bark, just creeping along under the land; a light,
buoyant, glittering thing, with a crimson drapery fringed with gold
flung over its side, and almost dipping into the water; a negress is
seated behind her mistress, with a collection of yellow slippers strown
about her; and at the bottom of the boat, reclining against a pile of
cushions, and attended by two young slaves, you may distinguish the
closely-veiled Fatma or Leyla, whose dark eyes are seen flashing out
beneath her pure white yashmac, and whose small, fair, delicately
rounded, and gloveless hand draws yet closer together the heavy folds of
her feridjhe as she remarks the approach of another caïque to her own.
She is the wife of some Pasha—the favourite wife, it may be—musing as
she darts along the water, with what new toy her next smile shall be
bought. And now her light boat is lost to view, for it has shot beneath
the arched entrance of the court of yonder stately harem; and you can
only follow the fair Turk in thought to the cool, shady, spacious
saloons of her prison-palace, where the envious yashmac is withdrawn in
deference to the yet more jealous lattice; and where the heavy feridjhe
is flung off to reveal the graceful antery, the gold-embroidered vest,
and the hanging sleeves.
But what is this which is advancing towards us with a heavy plash, and
flinging its long broad shadow far before it? It is the Admiralty Barge,
manned with fourteen rowers, and freighted with His Excellency Achmet
Pasha, bound on some mission to the fleet. The red caps and white
jackets of the crew form a cheerful contrast from the dark mass at the
stern of the barge, where the High Admiral, _pro tempore_, is seated,
surrounded by a group of inferior officers. His chibouk-bearer is
screening him from the sun; while his secretary, with a sheet of paper
resting upon his knee, is writing from the dictation of the Minister.
There is a great deal of business transacted on the Bosphorus; the Turks
never require a table on which to write, and they are consequently but
little inconvenienced by locality, when a necessity exists for profiting
by the passing hour.
And this slowly-moving bark, rather dropping down with the current, than
impelled by the efforts of its two Greek rowers, and which looks so cool
and so pretty with all that pile of green leaves heaped upon its stern,
is one of the fruit caïques for the supply of the houses overhanging the
Bosphorus. The wild shrill cry of the fruiterers announcing the nature
of their merchandize, swells upon the air; and, as you pass close beside
the boat, the wind sporting among the fresh branches that are strewn
over the baskets, blows aside the leaves, and the tempting fruit is
revealed to you in all its cool ripe beauty.
And yonder flies the Union Jack of England! It is the splendid barge of
the British Embassy, which is darting along with its seven rowers: the
Ambassador is engaged with a newspaper: you may know him by his purple
_fèz_, as well as by an aristocracy of bearing and demeanour which
distinguishes him from all the foreign ministers at the Ottoman Court;
and which the Turks both feel and appreciate.
Very different both in form and freight is the dark, slow, people-laden
passage-caïque, just coming round the point, and which is one of several
that ply between Constantinople and Buyukdèrè; and carry passengers the
whole length of the Bosphorus at the moderate charge of thirty paras a
head, a sum scarcely equivalent to twopence English. These Omnibus-boats
have their outside as well as their inside passengers: and the
individuals who sit upon the gunwale, with their legs hanging over the
side, and their feet resting upon the spar which is lashed on to it for
their especial convenience, effect, by the occupation of this amphibious
seat, the saving of ten paras upon a voyage of about four hours.
The Caïquejhes are, generally speaking, a very fine race of men. The
Greeks are esteemed the best boatmen on the Bosphorus: but all the
private caïques travel with a speed that it fatigues the eye to follow.
Some of these men utter a disagreeable grunt as they ply their oars,
which would induce a stranger to imagine that they suffered from the
exertion; but the habit is induced by their having worked too hard in
their youth, and thus injured their lungs; and it is considered so great
an objection to them, that no individual who retains caïquejhes in his
pay will willingly hire a man labouring under this infirmity.
But enough—or I shall be betrayed into really writing the chapter of
which I dreamed in my delicious idleness, as the handsome caïque of the
Bey shot along, while the dragoman named to us the owner of each painted
palace near which we passed. What a confusion of Pashas and Beys—of
Excellencies and Effendis! It was impossible to remember one half of
them; and I have already dwelt so frequently upon the sea-washed palaces
of the Bosphorus, that, instead of repeating an admiration which rather
grew upon me than became weakened by frequent indulgence; an admiration
which it is impossible not to feel, and equally impossible to excite by
mere description; I will e’en run the caïque beside the little pier near
the Imperial residence of Dolma Batchè, and follow the steps of the
dragoman to the hospitable home of his master.
Few things afforded us more gratification, during our residence in the
East, than the manner in which Azmè Bey spoke of, and felt towards,
England. Sincerity is decidedly not a national characteristic of the
Turks; but there are nevertheless many individuals among them who may
fairly lay claim to this great social virtue; and I unhesitatingly rank
Azmè Bey as one of these. His gracious and grateful memories of those
who professed a friendship for him during his European sojourn; his
eagerness to repay by every exertion in his power the attention which is
shewn to him; and his frank, unostentatious politeness, lent a charm to
his manner, and a value to his kindness, which enhanced them tenfold;
and I do not hesitate to affirm, that did all such of his countrymen as
have resided in England, feel and act towards the English as Azmè Bey
has done since his return, the sentiments of the Turkish people would be
greatly changed with regard to them, both individually and as a nation.
We found the Bey at the head of the stairs waiting to receive us; and
the first person whom I remarked in the saloon of the Salemliek was M.
Hassuna de Ghies, whom I had known in London, and with whom I was
delighted to renew my acquaintance. This talented and amiable man is now
the editor of the Constantinopolitan Journal; and his acquirements and
knowledge are justly appreciated by his Imperial master; who, besides
other marks of his favour, has, since his return from Europe, been
pleased, as an especial token of his regard, to change his name, which
he considered to be too difficult of pronunciation, into Hussein Madzhar
Effendi;[4] an alteration by no means calculated to diminish its
difficulty to European lips. He was seated on the divan, smoking his
chibouk, which he relinquished on our entrance; and, ere long, he was
busily engaged in conversing with my father in English; while I was
undergoing the ceremony of presentation to a Greek lady, who, with a
delicacy which did him honour, Azmè Bey had invited, in order to
relieve me from the restraint and _désagrément_ of finding myself the
only female of the party.
I mention the circumstance in order to prove to those who are inclined
to treat the Turks as barbarians, and to speak of them as such, that
there are many among them who may be both wronged and wounded by such an
opinion, and who are capable of convincing them by their actions that it
is unfounded. The Turks require only time, example, and a perfect
confidence in their European allies, to become a polished as well as a
civilized nation; they possess all the elements of civilization, but
they are flung back by events—they are blinded by subtlety—they are
hoodwinked by deception. Were they suffered to act upon their own
untrammelled impressions, they would not long remain even in their
present state of partial inertness: but Turkey is now in the position of
a child, to whom its nurse, in order to cajole it into quiet, presents a
mirror, which, viewed in one direction, widens the object that it
reflects; and it has been taught that this magnified mass represents
its own strength and beauty; and when it has been suffered to sate
itself with the false image that has thus been placed before it, the
glass is reversed by its wily Mentor, and the shrunken, wasted, and
almost shapeless thing that succeeds is made object of wonder and of
pity, as the narrow and despicable policy which would fain persuade the
Turks that they have need of counsel and of help. The more enlightened
among them do not believe this; they are even convinced to the contrary:
but the argument produces its effect upon the mass, and the arm of power
is weakened and paralyzed by the weight of public opinion.
Turkey is like a stately forest-tree which has been cankered at the
core, but which has shot forth young and vigorous branches after it had
been condemned as on the eve of perishing. A weighty pressure has fallen
upon the fresh green shoots; but let it only be removed, and once more
the branches will stretch broadly and boldly forth, and cast their long
shadows far across the earth.
Sultan Mahmoud would fain be the regenerator of his country; but he
cannot resist, single-handed, an enemy more powerful, and, above all,
more subtle than himself. The Turks are bad politicians—they do not
hold the keys of their own citadel; and their game is overlooked on all
sides. Had they sincere assistance, all Europe would soon be convinced
of that to which she now appears blind—the great moral power of the
Turkish people, and the incalculable advantages of their alliance.
I scarcely know how I have suffered myself to be deluded into this
digression; and my only apology for its indulgence is the earnest
interest which I have learnt to feel in the existence of a great and
magnificent Empire, bowed beneath the smiling sophistries of its most
dangerous enemy.
The shady saloon of Azmè Bey, with its many windows, all opening upon a
delicious garden overhung with fruit trees, and forming a leafy screen
amid which we caught here and there a blue bright glimpse of the
Bosphorus, was half filled with guests, to whom we were presented with
the ease and politeness of intuitive good breeding; and in a few minutes
we were all engaged in an animated conversation, or rather set of
conversations. The Greek lady was discussing the merits of the divan, in
Italian, with a gentleman near her; M. de Ghies was still talking
English with my father; and the Bey and myself were busy with Von
Hammer’s work on the East, and communicating our opinions in French: nor
was this all—for a party of the guests were murmuring out their soft,
harmonious Turkish at the other extremity of the apartment; while the
voices of the Arabs in the outer room came to us at intervals, as they
passed and repassed the door of the saloon in which we sat.
The announcement of a new visitor at length summoned the Bey from the
room; and he shortly afterwards returned, and presented to me Arif Bey,
the Paymaster General of the Imperial Forces, who had done me the honour
to desire my acquaintance; and, hearing that I was the guest of his
friend, had taken this opportunity of making it. He was rather a
heavy-looking young man, of about seven-and-twenty; with very small
black eyes, as round and bright as jet beads, an extremely pale
complexion, and who, as he did not speak a word of French, kept the
dragoman in constant, and frequently very unprofitable employment, in
translating nearly every sentence I uttered. He was very carefully
dressed; and, in addition to the gold sword-belt about his waist, he
wore white gloves and a black silk stock; articles of apparel which are
generally dispensed with altogether by the Turks. He had just commenced
studying French, under the auspices of Azmè Bey; and, meanwhile, he
smoked with a perseverance which was perfectly amusing. The Sultan has
lately done him the honour of selecting a wife for him; a boon which he,
of course, received with all becoming gratitude at the Imperial hand;
and he is now building a very handsome residence on the border of the
Bosphorus, near the Palace of Beshiktash.
The dinner was served in the European style, and the table was
remarkably well appointed. French wines were in abundance, and champagne
and Edinburgh ale were not wanting; but the dessert was the charm of the
repast. The fruit of Constantinople has a perfume that I never met with
elsewhere; and, did the natives suffer it to ripen fully, which from
their excessive fondness for it they very rarely do, much of it would
probably be unrivalled for the delicacy of its flavour. Pyramids of this
delicious fruit occupied the angles of the table, the most delicate
pastry was ranged beside it, and the centre was occupied by a
castellated tower, formed of sweetmeats, and surmounted by the British
and Ottoman banners linked together. From this dish alone the Bey
declined to serve his guests, lest he should disturb the union of the
two flags, even symbolically; and many gracious things were said on the
subject both by himself and his friends; nor had he neglected to turn
the Banner of the Crescent towards the head of the table, at which he
had requested me to preside; while the Union Jack of England floated
over his own plate.
When we withdrew from table, I went, accompanied by the Greek lady whom
I have already named, to pay a visit to the harem of the Bey. A door
opened from the hall of the Salemliek into a second, or inner garden, to
which we descended by a flight of steps; and after having traversed a
covered walk, we found ourselves at the entrance of the harem, where a
black slave, with extremely long hair, plaited in numerous braids which
were looped about her shoulders, preceded us to the gallery opening into
the women’s apartments; but, ere we had ascended the whole stair, we
were met by the young wife of the Bey, who, taking my hand with the
sweetest smile in the world, led me forward to her cool, pretty,
English-looking parlour, where I found myself in the midst of chairs,
sofas, and tables; and opposite to one of the loveliest women whom I had
seen in the country.
The Bey followed us in the space of a few moments, and I could not
refrain from expressing to him my admiration of his wife. She scarcely
looked like an oriental woman, for her large black eyes, in lieu of the
sleepy, dreamlike expression so general in the East, were full of
brightness and intelligence; and her dark hair, instead of being
concealed beneath the painted handkerchief, or cut straight across her
forehead, hung in graceful curls about her fair young brow, which was as
pure and smooth as marble.
She was just eighteen, and neither dye nor paint had ever sullied the
purity of her complexion; while the faint tinge of red that relieved the
snowy whiteness of her cheek, looked as though it nestled there almost
unconsciously; and at times, as she conversed, it deepened into a blush
that heightened the effect of her glowing beauty. Her dress, although of
Turkish form, was partly of European arrangement; her purple silk vest
was folded closely about her waist, and met beneath her long and
graceful throat; her figure was beautiful; and the little foot that
peeped out from under the black satin pantaloon, was covered by a
stocking of snowy white. Her antery was of English bombazine, sprinkled
with coloured flowers; she wore no henna on her hands; and when she had
fastened the carnations which I presented to her, among her rich,
dark hair, she was the very creature who would have inspired the gifted
pencil of Pickersgill—so fair, so young, so exquisitely graceful, and
so beautifully oriental.
I learnt without surprise that she belonged to one of the first families
of Constantinople, and that she had received (for a Turkish female) an
excellent education. She looked it all; and the books that were strown
about her apartment, and the little inkstand that stood upon the table
beside the chair on which she sat, appeared by no means displaced, even
although I saw them in a Turkish harem.
The party was shortly augmented by the entrance of the Bey’s mother, who
led by the hand a sweet little girl of ten or eleven years of age, his
daughter by a former marriage, whose mother died previously to his
residence in England; and they were followed by his aunt and his young
sister, a child of about the same age as his own.
I lingered for upwards of two hours in the harem, where coffee was
served by the fair wife of the Bey, with a smiling graciousness that
convinced me of my welcome; and when, on my departure, she accompanied
me to the foot of the stairs, and assured me, according to the oriental
custom, that the house and all that it contained were at my disposal,
she coupled the ceremony with a request that I would come and see her
again; and so earnestly was it expressed, that I did not hesitate to
assure her of the pleasure which I should derive from a repetition of my
visit.
How I longed to take her by the hand, and lead her forth from her pretty
prison, to “witch the world” with her young beauty—but alas! the door
of the Salemliek closed behind me; and as the Bey came forward to
conduct me into the saloon where my father was waiting for me to take
our leave, I lost sight of the fair and graceful Azimè Hanoum.