It has been the privilege of many foreigners visiting Constantinople
to witness the ceremony of _baise-main_, which takes place at the
Dolma Bagtché Palace, but it does not fall to the lot of every woman
to see that imposing ceremony from the Imperial harem. This unique and
interesting experience I owe to my hostess, Fâtima.
The ceremony of baise-main is too well known for me to describe it
here, and those persons who were seated in the gallery reserved for the
Corps Diplomatique would no doubt see to better advantage than I the
throne-room, the Sultan, and the curious and many-coloured uniforms and
costumes of the Ottoman subjects who paid their homage to the Kaliph
of Islam. Through the lattice-work windows of the Imperial harem it
was difficult to form more than a vague idea of the ceremony, for we
were so many women huddled together on the cushions, so many who were
trying to see, that after a few moments I gave my seat to another lady
in order to wander at leisure through the Imperial harem, where Fâtima
tells me I am the first Englishwoman to be admitted as a visitor.
It was the first day of Baïram. We were awakened at dawn by the
plaintive cries of the sacrificed sheep. Réchad, the coachman, was
chosen as vékil (sacrificer), because he is recognized by the whole
household as the most pious of us all, and his forty-five years of
service also demand that this privilege should be his. His, too, was
the privilege of distributing the meat, the skin, and the horns of the
four sheep which this Moslem household offered to the poor, who came in
through the open gates like a pack of hungry wolves, and looked, with
their poor ravenous eyes, as if they could tear the meat from the hands
of the coachman. To me, standing on the balcony, it was like watching
a scene from the Old Testament--a scene all out of focus with so many
of the attempts at progress which I see around this beautiful and
interesting capital.
How strange it seemed also to be dressing for Court at 6.30 in the
morning! To be putting on thin silk evening dresses and slippers at
that early hour, and driving away in the chilly morning to pay our
homage to an Eastern monarch.
[Illustration: AN ENGLISHWOMAN WEARING A YASHMAK]
Fâtima’s dress was of pink crêpe-de-chine embroidered in dull silver--a
Paris creation--the last, however, she will ever have embroidered
outside Turkey, for, like so many other ladies here, she has now
awakened to the fact that the most costly embroideries of Europe are
but poor imitations of the work of her own land. Round her hair she
wore a pink and silver scarf, attached to the side by a silver rose,
a charming variation of the curious turbans of flowers, feathers, and
jewels which are worn by so many of the ladies attending the Ottoman
Court. I asked Fâtima if the Court officials gave instructions to
the ladies regarding their dress. “Provided their hair be decently
covered,” she replied, “etiquette is satisfied,” and the Caliph has the
“supreme” privilege of seeing all his subjects unveiled.
Like most of the ladies of the Court, we were attended by a slave,
my negress, Miss Chocolate, an interesting personage in her Court
attire. For this occasion she was dressed in pale blue satin, with a
pale blue turban trimmed with pink roses, her fingers, arms, and neck
being covered not only with all the jewellery she possessed, but the
jewellery of the other slaves. It was her duty to follow us all the
while, and during luncheon she stood inside the door with folded arms,
in case her services should be required. It was she who took charge
of our little bags, and in one of the “grandmother” pockets of her
wide satin skirt were hair pins, safety pins, and handkerchiefs, in
case of emergency. To drive to the Court, Miss Chocolate wore a white
tulle veil which entirely covered her face, and a vivid blue satin
feridji, covered with sequins and big white velvet pansies. How I wish
I could have photographed her! Fâtima wore a yashmak, now, alas! only
worn by Princesses and ladies attending the Court, for to me it is one
of the most becoming of head-dresses, showing the eyes to very great
advantage. She wore, also, a peacock-blue satin feridji, a hideous
contrast to Miss Chocolate’s electric blue.
The Imperial harem, in spite of certain changes and certain privileges
accorded to the Imperial Ottoman Princes and Princesses, still remains
the harem in the real sense of the word, the harem about which Western
readers expect to hear, the part of the Oriental house exclusively
reserved for the use of the women. Across its threshold no man may
enter, and even as we drove into the big door, which is inside another
wooden door, and which is opened to admit each carriage and shut again
immediately, our footman had to descend and wait for us outside the
door. The whole Imperial harem is surrounded by a wall so high that no
passer-by can possibly see within. The coachman, too, having left us at
the entrance door, had to drive out and wait outside the first door.
This is the first time since I have been back again in Turkey that
I have felt myself really within a harem. Even when I wear a veil,
even when I forget I am not in England and try to push back the fixed
lattice windows, even when I take part in these Baïram dinners, where
not even the master of the house may be present, I do not realize the
atmosphere of the harem. But within the palace, amidst its curious
assembly of slaves and eunuchs, and in spite of its wide corridors
and immense salons, there is a most uncomfortable feeling of bondage
which would turn me into a raving lunatic at the end of a week. It is
true, Fâtima explains to me, that all these women are solemnly asked
four times at the end of each year whether they would like to marry
and leave the harem. I say to myself, then, if they stay it is because
they wish to stay, and are therefore happy. Their existence, however,
seems a most heartrending waste of human life, and as I sat watching
them loitering along the exquisitely carpeted corridors, gossiping,
smoking, carrying alternately coffee and water to the guests, I longed
to break down for them the lattice-work which always is there between
them and the sun, to fling the windows wide open, so that they could
breathe in the fresh air, and open the doors so that they, too, might
go out. And yet not one of these women seemed in the least to feel her
slavery, and, no doubt, they would turn their backs in horror on the
ugly, unprotected existence of some of the women of my country.
“But these slaves are perfectly happy,” again and again Fâtima
assured me, and, to judge from their smiling faces, I suppose they
are. But waste is always sad--waste of youth, waste of beauty, waste
of womanhood, especially when women are so sorely needed for the
regeneration of this country.
Arrived at the central entrance door of the harem, Fâtima and I were
helped out of our carriage by the attendant eunuchs. I was told that
eunuchs were now a thing of the past, but certainly that remark
could not have been made with reference to the Imperial harem. It
is difficult for me, however, to remember that these poor mutilated
anachronisms are great personages at the Ottoman Court, who, although
they perform the menial service of opening the carriage doors and
helping us up the stairs (one on either side and one behind, as though
we were old ladies), are yet the masters of the establishment. Fâtima
explained to me that they spoke to her with the exaggerated politeness
of the Eastern courtier, because of their affection for her father, and
all of them came to ask for news of him.
At the first turning of the central staircase we walked into the
yashmak room, where a host of female slaves came forward to help us. I
felt for a moment as though I had strayed behind the scenes at Drury
Lane, so curious they looked, in their brightly coloured figured silks
and clashing coloured turbans, but their dyed hair and blackened eyes
should be my excuse for the poor compliment I am paying them. Some
of the costumes, it is true, were made of those priceless Persian
embroideries for which Fâtima and I have searched the market-place,
but always the _tout ensemble_ was spoilt by some vividly coloured and
clashing turban, a vivid yellow dress with a bright pink head-dress,
an electric-blue dress and an exaggeratedly blue turban, which made
one’s eyes ache. Behind the footlights, perhaps, such combinations
could pass muster, but in the daylight, even in the dim daylight which
comes through the latticed windows, they were a motley, uncomfortable
spectacle. These dresses, however, defied both time and fashion, and
were all cut on the same model; a long dress, with the train caught up
to the waist, and a sack jacket.
Once the yashmak and our cloaks were removed the slaves took away the
veils to iron them, and other slaves arrived to conduct us upstairs and
announce our arrival to the lady Court officials, who wore costumes of
different colours according to their rank. There was, first of all,
the Hasnadar Ousta, or High Controller of the establishment, in white
satin, trimmed with real gold embroidery at the foot of her dress and
at the bottom of her coat. Her little white and gold turban suited her
perfectly, and her jewels, if not beautiful, at least were original.
On her breast was a bouquet of diamond flowers, which stretched almost
from shoulder to shoulder. Another diamond ornament stretched across
the front of her turban, and in her ears she wore birds the size of
butterflies, each holding in its mouth a pearl the size of a cherry.
She was an old lady, judging by her wrinkled face and bent back,
rather than her golden hair, and after she had walked once or twice
round the assembled ladies, kissing some and saluting others, leaning
on her stick of office, she hobbled into the presence of one of the
Princesses, leaving the real duties of the day to the younger officials.
I would have liked to ask one of the Court officials, had I dared,
how our dresses appeared to them. The wife of the War Minister was
wearing a dress of cerise _crêpe-de-chine_, so tight that she had to
sit down carefully. All the ladies wore silk stockings and high-heeled
shoes--most of them might have come straight out of the paper
_Chiffons_ which is carefully studied in up-to-date harems to-day. How
strange we all must have looked to these uncorseted women, who made
no attempt at a fashionable coiffure, who still remained faithful to
the “babouches” (heelless slippers) and coloured stockings worked with
gold, and whose dresses could have been made into three or four of our
present-day creations.
Most of the Court officials wore the Grand Cordon of the Order of
the Chefakat, the Order of Mercy given to ladies of high rank and
distinguished lady visitors. Fâtima alone amongst the lady visitors
wore that order. Every time the Court officials passed, the guests
stood, as the Eastern etiquette demands they should in the presence
of superiors and aged ladies. This, however, was rather uncomfortable
for us, for the Assistant Treasurer had known Fâtima’s family all her
life, and frequently came and spoke to us. Seeing us about to rise,
with Eastern politeness she ordered us to remain seated, but Eastern
politeness also demanded that we should disregard her request and rise
to speak to her.
The Assistant Hasnadar was particularly interested in me when, after
much beating about the bush, Fâtima at last owned that I had never had
a husband. “We are companions in distress,” said the Hasnadar, which in
her case was not true, as I have already explained. A husband would be
found for her to-morrow if she wished. But the wherefore of my celibacy
puzzled her. “It is nothing of which to be ashamed,” I protested. “It
is nothing of which to be proud,” she answered, and, like an Eastern
woman when unable to reply, I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. The
joys of “single blessedness” are not understood in this country, and
personally, outside these high Court officials, I have never met an old
Turkish spinster.
But supposing any of these women should take advantage of the solemn
asking once a year, whether or no they will marry, what becomes of
them? We have at present living in our harem a slave who has just left
one of the Princess’s palaces. Fâtima has undertaken to keep her here
until she and her friends can find a suitable husband for her. She is
a contented, beautiful, useless creature, who eats with us when the
young Bey is not here, and sings Oriental songs of exquisite pathos,
accompanying herself on the oude.[6] And sometimes, when she sings, I
ask Fâtima to interpret the words of them. “It is an old, old Turkish
love-song,” she said, “a beautiful old song, and I love to hear her
sing it.” “And what kind of love-song does a Turkish man sing to his
unknown bride?” I asked. “That all the sorrows in the world may be
his lot, if only all the joys may be hers.” “And what is the most
awful of all the sorrows?” I asked. “Solitude,” answers Fâtima without
hesitation.
We were a curious luncheon party that day--the wife of the Sultan’s
Master of Ceremonies, several of Fâtima’s friends, and an Egyptian
Princess, whose arrival at the Palace in a magnificent steam launch I
had seen through the harem lattices. Most of these ladies, who spoke
quite fluent French, were too timid to speak to me, a most distressing
modesty, especially when it necessitates the constant employment
of Fâtima as interpreter. If only they could hear how unmercifully
most of us Englishwomen handle foreign languages, whilst they are
really excellent linguists (the best in Europe, except, perhaps, the
Russians), they surely would take courage.
The meal the Sultan offered us could scarcely be called a luncheon.
There were cold meats of various kinds, sweetmeats, creams, and other
delicacies, served in Sèvres dishes, but water was the only beverage.
And after the meal was over, the slaves came round offering us glasses
of water in beautifully cut crystal goblets, with gold lids, and served
on little golden dishes. It was extraordinary to me to be bidden to
an Emperor’s feast and given only water to drink, and yet here water
is so limpid and cold that it is often more acceptable than the best
champagne, and often on the steamboat, when we travel, I call the
water-seller, who frequently passes in and out of the harem part of the
boat in which we travel, and purchase a penny glass of water.
The ceremony of baise-main in the Selamlik was finished about eleven.
To the cry of “Oh, Sultan, be humble, and remember God is greater than
you,” from the assembled Court, the Sultan retired for a short rest
before coming to the harem to receive the ladies of the Court. And,
perhaps, he slept longer that day than he intended, for it seemed to
us an eternity to wait. Eight hours at a Court, however, would be
considered tiring in most countries, but most particularly in a harem
where male conversation cannot be procured for untold gold. I begin
to miss the society of the opposite sex: it is true we have men, far
more men, in our Turkish home than in any other Turkish home I know,
but I miss the men at the parties and picnics and meetings. And it
does seem rather a waste of time to put on my prettiest gowns and
make a particularly handsome coiffure to eat only with women. Zeyneb
used to say that “men spoiled the look of our Western functions;
that they crawled about our drawing-rooms and ball-rooms like great
black-beetles.” Surely she had forgotten the appearance of an Ottoman
Court and the awful black-beetles that crawl about there, when she
spoke so disparagingly of our Western assemblies.
Fâtima explained to me that the Court of the present Sultan in no way
equals the Court of the ex-Sultan in magnificence. The embroidery
which the slaves hold in front of the coffee tray whilst coffee is
being served was only a plain gold embroidery, whilst in Abdul Hamid’s
time the cloth was studded with real stones. The coffee cups, too, and
the jam service were only solid gold, whilst in Abdul Hamid’s time
jewelled coffee cups were always used. The Court, however, has become
more democratic. Princesses walk about amongst the people as they were
not allowed to do during the reign of Abdul Hamid, and but for their
red enamel necklaces and large diamond orders, exclusively worn by
members of the Imperial family, we should have scarcely known we were
amongst the members of the Imperial family. The Sultan’s grand-daughter
interested me particularly--not so much because of her rank, but
because of her appearance. She is a short girl for her age, which, I
believe, is about twelve, but her dress was long and wide, her hair
dressed in a knot on the top of her head inside a diamond crown, and
the front of her small body was covered with diamond orders and a
diamond dog-collar encircled her little throat. But most curious of all
was the long, thin hand, quite out of proportion to the size of her
body, with which she acknowledged our _temenahs_ (Eastern salutations),
and on those curious hands she wore gold mittens studded with rubies
and diamonds. It looked as though she had utilized a gold purse for
that purpose. She had a charming and interesting face, this little
Princess, though one of unending sadness. She looked to me not unlike a
schoolgirl acting the part of Queen Elizabeth, and a striking contrast
to the merry little Princesses of her age in our Western countries.
But what is most delightful to me in Turkish life, in the Court and
out of the Court, in fact in every station of life, is the beautiful
feeling of democracy. A Princess, while talking to you, will suddenly
excuse herself, rise and throw her arms round the neck of her old
_nourrice_, who walks about amongst the highest of the Court ladies.
The accident of high birth demands specially cultured conversation,
kindness, and fine manners towards persons of humbler birth, argues the
Turkish woman, and the _snobbery_ which is so frequent in our Western
countries has never existed here.
But suddenly one becomes conscious of a certain movement amongst the
ladies, who, in spite of the music of the Imperial orchestra playing
in the garden of the palace, in spite of the Hasnadar’s merry laugh
and her encouraging request to be “patient,” have been growing weary
of waiting. The Sultan has arrived! He has taken a particularly long
rest this day, changed the uniform in which he received the Ottoman
officials for a simple morning coat, and is seated in an armchair in
the big salon waiting the arrival of the ladies in the order which the
Hasnadar should see fit to introduce them. A procession of four ladies
at a time, headed by the Hasnadar, we enter the room where Mehmeth V.
is seated. But it is a ceremony so intimate, so unlike the ceremony we
had dimly seen a few hours before through the latticed windows, that
I cannot bring myself to think this good-natured, unceremonious old
gentleman is the Sultan of a great Empire.
To me, we had the appearance of four students going to an examination,
and I felt this more when, after kneeling before the Caliph, as
etiquette demands, and kissing his hand, we were requested to rise and
be introduced. “Your Majesty, our Sultan, Commander of the Faithful,”
began the Hasnadar, with bent head, and leaning on her stick of office,
“this is the daughter of ---- and the wife of ----” Then the Sovereign
Caliph congratulated her on being the daughter of ---- and the wife of
----, said he was delighted to make her acquaintance, and passed on to
the next lady, who was introduced in the same manner. When Fâtima’s
name was made known to his Majesty, he asked her to be seated, and,
again kneeling before the Sultan, she gave him news of her father, and
answered the many questions he asked.
This was the first time Fâtima had made the acquaintance of the Sultan.
“He was delighted,” he said with Eastern courtesy, and Fâtima rose
and asked permission to introduce me herself. I was not introduced as
the daughter or wife of a well-known Pasha, but as Fâtima’s “English
sister,” who had come to share her existence for a while, and who had
now come with her to pay homage to the Sovereign of the country. Many
questions the Sultan asked about me, about my country, and all the
while he talked I was thinking of the poor captive, Prince Réchad, who
for thirty-three years had been imprisoned within those walls, and
who now was the Sultan seated before me. He was weary. Early rising,
perhaps, suited him as little as it suited me. He frequently pulled
himself up, forced his eyes open, said he was delighted to make our
acquaintance. Then we rose, and the Hasnadar escorted us from the room,
and on the same occasion four more Court ladies were led into the
Imperial presence.
It is interesting naturally to meet the ruler of a country, of an
empire of such tradition, of a land which will be for so many years
to come the subject of the greatest interest, but the meeting of the
present Sultan did not stir me as did the meeting of the ex-Sultan
Abdul Hamid--Abdul Hamid, who pretended not to know one word of
the French language, which he speaks fluently, who always played
his part, and took particular care that part should be well played
before foreigners. All the nicest-sounding words were chosen from the
Turkish language to delight their ears. He humbly requested that the
distinguished foreigner for a short while staying within the capital
of his “dear” land would make known to him the manner in which the
Government could be of service in helping the foreigner on his or
her journey. His great, big, brown eagle eyes were wide awake, he
_unpacked_ the distinguished visitor, whilst the interpreter translated
into the language he knows so well, and this hideous tyrant became a
being of fascination. The present Sultan is a “fatalist.” Could he
be otherwise with such an agonizing past? He who was obedient to his
brother is now obedient to the Constitution; perhaps for Turkey it is
better he should be so.
* * * * *
We drove home in silence, Fâtima and I. She had explained so many
things to me that day; now she was tired. A long, tiring, but
interesting day it was. I was almost sorry it had to end. Miss
Chocolate, in her gaudy attire, is sitting in front of us in the
carriage, weeping at the honour conferred on her, for she, with all the
other slaves, has kissed the ground on which the master’s feet were
resting.... Cannon are firing to announce that the time for evening
prayer has come; the fat, unexercised horses are ploughing their way up
the hill; the shops, which at 4.30 are pulling down their shutters for
the night as we drive by, have had a day of rest.... What a wonderful
change it is to be a Turkish woman for a while.... Surely Fate was kind
to me when she crossed my destiny with that of little Fâtima.
FOOTNOTE:
[6] Oude: Turkish guitar played with a feather.