The Baïram festivities have ended sorrowfully for us. This house, which
a few days ago echoed with mirth and laughter, is now silent--as silent
as a grave. The whole Konak is as if it were covered with a pall of
ice; the happy faces of the slaves have now an expression of woe; the
long stream of ladies who came to visit us at Baïram have returned to
mingle their sorrows with ours--the beloved master of this house is
dead. He was spending the winter in Cyprus; his Baïram telegram said
he was in perfect health: but even before the news reached us he was
sleeping beside his father in the little cemetery by the sea, buried
within twenty-four hours of his death, as is the custom here; and the
grand old man of Turkey was laid to rest like the most humble of the
Sultan’s subjects.
We Westerners, with our curious ideas of Eastern life, cannot imagine
the picturesque, simple, and natural attitude the Turks have towards
death. None of the hideous wailing, the rending of garments, sackcloth
and ashes (supposed to be part of the Eastern mourning); none of our
Western terrifying preparation for the long last journey; no mourning,
no flowers, no funeral cards; it is as if the dear one had gone on a
journey to a foreign land, and his family and friends pray for him as
if he were still alive. A Turkish burial, however, is impressive in its
simplicity. A plain wooden coffin, covered with a Persian shawl, and
a fez at its head, is carried on the shoulders of the relatives and
friends.
When the dead man’s eyes are closed the Hodja is called, and he reads
for the comfort of the bereaved ones some verses of the Koran. Then he
pauses, and solemnly asks those persons present whether they consider
their relative an upright, honourable man--a curious custom, this seems
to me; it is almost as if the Hodja were preparing for the dead man a
passport for the next world. (I write these words with all reverence.)
It is not always, however, that the assembled mourners answer the
Hodja’s question in the affirmative. If their conscience tells them to
speak the truth they do so, and the Hodja answers simply, “Then forgive
your brother his sins, as Allah will forgive you,” and the assembled
mourners pass on to the grave.
To me it has seemed a little strange to see the sons of wealthy
Pashas buried as only the poor in our country would be buried. When I
questioned a friend about this she answered, “The money you people in
the West spend on funeral pomp we give to the poor assembled round the
grave, and according to the deceased’s years and fortune. Supposing a
rich man of 83 is buried, eighty-three sovereigns would be distributed
amongst the poor; when a man of 83 and of moderate means, eighty-three
francs, or even eighty-three pence, as the case may be. The poor are
never forgotten in this country; they come to the marriage feast, they
come to the Baïram festivities, every day they come to this house and
are fed, and even during death they are not neglected.”
We, the women of the house, do not follow the coffin to the grave.
Twice since my short stay here the Angel of Death has visited this
house. The Pasha’s grandson left us first of all, and now the Pasha
himself is “not here,” which is my Turkish friend’s expression to avoid
pronouncing the word “death.”
For days now, streams of visitors have come to show their sympathy.
The door leading to the _selamlik_ has been left open for all the men
friends who will to enter, and the door leading to the _haremlik_ has
been left open for any women who care to enter. But what a curious
assembly of visitors! What a lesson in “equality”! Some of the callers
were the wives of Ministers of State, some were the wives and daughters
of generals, admirals, and the most honoured of Turkey’s great men,
some were almost beggars, but they were all together in the same room.
Death, the great leveller, had brought them together to mourn the loss
of a personal friend, and we of the household were grateful for the
sympathy of them all.
According to their custom, the ladies made their _temenahs_ (Eastern
salutations) to the hostess, which she acknowledged, rising, however,
to kiss the hand of the old ladies, some of whom came from long
distances to take part in the mourning. They came in bright colours
many of these callers, which seemed strange to me, accustomed from my
birth to the habit of outward mourning.
When the visitors have taken their seats, they make their _temenahs_ to
all the assembled guests, and the guests acknowledge their salutations;
it is a picturesque manner of saying “How do you do?” When first I
arrived here I frequently forgot to acknowledge the _temenahs_ of the
guests. A veil, after all, does not make a Turkish woman. My thoughts
at the time were far away, but the look of surprise at my lack of
breeding called me to order, and I pay particular attention now to what
are elementary points in good education.
Whilst sipping my coffee, as very few of the ladies speak, or, if
they speak, they do so in a whisper, I carefully study the assembled
guests. The wife of ---- Pasha is wearing a bright blue satin dress
and _tcharchaff_ (Turkish cape and veil), high-heeled shoes, and
open-worked silk stockings; a scarf of ermine is round her neck. At her
feet, sitting cross-legged on the floor, is an ex-slave dealer, a woman
in a tattered red _tcharchaff_. She has left her shoes outside. Near
her are a bath attendant and a poor woman, who usually sits nursing her
miserable offspring not far from our gate; they sit silently weeping,
these women, for the benefactor who is no more, and without uttering
one word they rise, politely bow to the assembled guests, put on their
shoes, and disappear through the open door of the harem.
Every time coffee is served--and coffee is offered to every visitor--I
take a cup; it gives me a better chance of studying the curious scene
in which I am playing a part, and the more I look, the more beautiful
it seems to me, and it makes me almost sad to think I cannot meet this
spirit of democracy in any other land. But the most beautiful part
of it all is the absolute “naturalness” of the situation. The rich
woman has not the patronizing attitude of the Western woman towards
her humbler sisters, the poor woman has not the cringing gratitude
of the West for favours received; each knows her part--the woman
whose birth and education entitle her to a chair and the woman whose
education teaches her, her place is on the floor, and who, even though
the high-born woman invites her to sit on a chair, refuses. Each is
fulfilling her destiny--each is content with her lot.
I do not swear by everything Turkish, much as I love the Turks. They
have their faults; which nation has not its faults? but, as a woman
who has led the life of a Turkish woman, surely I am privileged to
point out to the reader the most beautiful features of this life as I
see them. We have been unjust to Turkey; we have for so long confounded
the Turkish subjects with the cruel despots of the Hamidian régime; we
have for so long now condemned wholesale everything Turkish, and the
novel-writers of the day describe a Turkey which certainly does not
exist to-day.
I have so often explained the meaning of the word harem; the papers
have repeated my explanation; but I still receive letters asking the
most primitive questions I would be ashamed to repeat to my friends.
They who know our history and literature as few in England know it, how
would they feel were they to have an idea of what Europe thought of
them? How is it possible for a British official, after long residence
here, to ask whether we eat with our fingers? How could a man of any
intelligence suppose that my host, who has eaten at the Kaiser’s table,
could come back to his own country and eat with his fingers? One feels
inclined to treat the question with the contempt one feels for the
questioner, but silence is consent, and one of the reasons why the
modern Turk is so misjudged to-day is because he has treated these
calumnies with silent contempt.
To the British official I answer, then, we eat with Sheffield knives
and forks, we eat off British plates, we sit on British chairs, we have
a British table, British linen, and a British sideboard, and in every
corner of this house is some token of the very great love the late
Pasha had for my country.
And the word harem! When will Europe understand the meaning of that
unfortunate word? An Arabic word, meaning “sacred” or “forbidden,” it
is used to describe those rooms in a Turkish house exclusively reserved
for the women. Imagine for a moment a konak (Turkish palace, a large
Turkish country house), situated on a hill, and with a magnificent
view over the Sea of Marmora and its picturesque islands. The wooden
gates are always open, the beggars enter at leisure and loiter in the
carriage-drive, and walk along the garden paths, and sit under the
trees and eat the fruit, so that unless you notice you have entered
a gate you would imagine yourself still on the road. To the ordinary
tourist this garden would seem a mass of ruins, a waste heap, a place
most shamefully neglected. But the connoisseur knows at once the
priceless treasures it contains, relics of Byzantine fountains, crypts,
cornerstones, for which Western museums would give a fortune.
There are two entrances to this Turkish house. One leads into the
selamlik, and the door leading into the harem is at the side. In the
selamlik, or men’s quarters, there are reception-rooms, a dining-room,
and bed-rooms for the unmarried male relations living here. A door in
the selamlik leads into a big salon, and a door also from the harem
leads into this same big salon. It is here that European guests are
received, having entered by the door of the selamlik, and this is all
they see of a Turkish house; it is here they must find all the material
for their romances of Turkish life. Occasionally through the open door
they catch a glimpse of some of the ladies of the house who pass by the
door, and who strictly keep their hair veiled. They see, perhaps, the
slaves in their picturesque costumes, and immediately the thought of
“polygamy” enters their mind; all these ladies must be the wives of the
Pasha.
Polygamy does not exist, nowadays, in Turkey, or at least it is
very exceptional. Even many members of the Imperial family content
themselves with one wife. The reason for this is only too obvious.
“When four wives meant to their possessor four tillers of the land,”
said a witty Pasha, the other day, “there was some sense in polygamy,
but not when they buy their dresses at Paquin’s.” Setting aside,
however, the economic question, where is the woman to be found who
would tolerate a rival in her own home, and supposing she did, what
kind of a life would the poor master lead?
A story is told of a pious Moslem who was always the first in the
mosque. “How is it you are so early?” one day his friend asked him;
“however early I come, you are always here.” “I have two wives,”
answered the pious man; “I get away as soon as I possibly can.”
The Turkish woman is proud, and insists that her dignity be respected,
and, personally, I know few who would put up with the “polygamy”
which women of the Latin races are obliged to accept. When a Turkish
woman marries, her husband is obliged according to his means to make
a settlement; this sum becomes hers should she find it necessary to
divorce him. So when a wife has cause for complaint she claims her
dowry and personal effects, and returns to her family or nearest
relative, and both husband and wife are free to marry again.
Marriages can be made and unmade here with a rapidity that would
astonish even our Transatlantic cousins. Reform of the marriage and
divorce laws is urgently needed, and yet when you come to look at
the question carefully, regrettable as this easy divorce is, it is
astonishing how few men take advantage of their privilege. In a country
where public opinion considers a man’s private life belongs exclusively
to him, where men and women take their pleasures apart, where men
are so frequently obliged to seek the society of European women, and
divorce is as easy as saying “Good morning,” it seems incredible to
me that the Turkish households run along so smoothly. Perhaps it is
that the Turkish wife, feeling her insecure position, takes particular
care to please her lord and master; perhaps it is that the Turk is, as
a rule, a good husband and father; perhaps it is that he sees in his
wife a charm the European does not possess. At any rate, to a foreigner
these laws appear as though they were made to lead men into temptation.
Many people have stayed to lunch this week, none of them, of course,
invited. Always our table is laid for twelve persons, although
sometimes we are only three to lunch. Those who call in the morning
stay to lunch as a matter of course; the hostess would feel herself
slighted were they to go away without sharing her meal. She it is
who is under obligations to her guests for honouring her with their
presence.
The two principal meals here, lunch and dinner, are unending, and
generally extend to twelve or fifteen courses, quite ten of those
courses being vegetables cooked in oil or cooked with the meat, and,
the goodness of the meat having given itself to the vegetables, it is
not served at table, but is given to the beggars or the endless army
of cats which inhabits the basement of a Turkish house. These cats,
fortunately, understand their place is downstairs unless they are
invited upstairs. Stamboul will soon be as overcrowded with cats, as
Pera was with dogs. “Why do you not drown some of them?” I asked a
member of this household. “It would be a sin according to the Koran,”
said he; “we only kill animals to eat them.”
Turkish cooking, delicious though it be, is not the diet for most of
the ladies here, and certainly not for me. Cheese _bereks_, of pastry,
so thin that they fall in bits before you can get them into your mouth.
_Kadaïf_, biscuits soaked in treacle and covered with sugared cream,
the breast of chicken ground into a powder and served with cream and
chocolate--I feel I need four hours’ hard riding to digest properly the
dishes the hospitable Turks set before us, and I have scarcely walked
five hundred yards in six weeks.
This lack of physical exercise and air is to me one of the most
unfortunate features of Turkish life. It is true the windows are open,
but the sun shining through the lattice windows does not have a chance
of playing its proper part; it can neither warm the house nor kill
the microbes. This would not matter so much if the ladies spent more
time out of doors, or if, when they are out of doors, they kept their
veils up. There is absolutely no reason now why they should not; the
police have strict orders from the “feminist” Military Governor of
Constantinople to interfere in no way with the ladies, and any man
daring to insult a woman is punished with exile.
But the slavery of ages cannot be cast aside in a few months, and the
ladies continue to wear their thick black canvas veils over their
faces. Through this veil the beautiful coloured landscape becomes
a black-and-white sketch. On hot days it is unbearable; one has a
tendency to squint because of looking through the holes in order to
see, and it makes one’s eyes ache if one suddenly throws it back and
comes into the full glare of the sunshine. And yet the Turkish woman
still wears her veil down. “You see,” said Djémal Bey (the Military
Governor of Constantinople), “they will not take advantage of the
liberty I try to give them.”
And now the men, not the women, curious as it may seem to Western
minds, have awakened to the fact that this lack of physical exercise is
beginning to show most distressing results in the poor anæmic children
born of these mothers who take no exercise. Nowadays, when thinking men
no longer accept the decrees of the Church as the supreme verdict, but
begin to judge for themselves, progress is possible.
Formerly, when the weaklings died off, the faithful bowed their
heads in resignation: Kismet, “it is written,” said they. Now the
indefatigable Minister of the Interior, Talaat Bey, who has ordered
fifty schools to be opened during the next year, is importing into the
country teachers of Swedish drill. I took part the other day in the
first lesson given to the girls. How interesting it was to see their
wide-awake, wondering eyes, their look of disgust when the teacher
appeared in knickerbockers and unveiled in the presence of the male
inspector--they who, though only ten to twelve, had their hair closely
veiled. And the mothers who came upon the scene, and with tears in
their eyes begged that they might have their children back, for they
could not understand what these Western women were doing with them.
How strange and curious it all is, this awakening of a people after
centuries of sleep!
In this work of regeneration, again, we have not given the Turks either
the praise or justice they deserve. It is when one is behind the
scenes, and sees the difficulties the Turks have to contend with that
one can appreciate their efforts. It is true they have made mistakes;
youth and inexperience always make mistakes--that is the natural order
of things. It would certainly have been better for Turkey to have made
more mistakes and had the advantage of the lesson those mistakes bring
than to have relied on Europe for assistance. The duty of Europe should
have been to help the Turks to help themselves, instead of which all
along the line they have stepped in and taken the bread from their
mouths.
Here are these Turks struggling against the tyranny of a religion
which is not the religion of Mahomet; they are striving for a more
intelligent interpretation of the Koran, especially on the subject of
women and the veil. The all-powerful Sheik-ul-Islam, whose followers
are principally amongst the turban-headed men in Asia Minor interferes
with progress, as the Church always does when Church and State are
combined. When Djemil Pasha, the Prefect of Constantinople, opened a
beautiful park in Stamboul, and gave men and women permission to walk
in that park at the same time, the Sheik-ul-Islam issued a decree
forbidding the women to walk in this park the same day as the men.
Then Talaat Bey, with a boldness yet unknown in Islam, issued a decree
ignoring the Sheik-ul-Islam, and gave women and men permission to walk
in the park on the same days.
All these reforms are going on in what Europe considers an
almost bankrupt State. Education, new roads, industries, a new
navy--everything is needed; but Turkey will pull herself together if
only she has confidence in herself.