I have been with Fâtima to the Holy Tomb of Eyoub. Ever since I came
here I have looked forward to this experience; not so much, let me
confess at once, to see the beautiful porcelains which cover its sacred
and historic walls as to contradict the regulation which reserves
entrance to the Holy Tomb exclusively for “believers.”
This was not my first visit to Eyoub. Five years ago I had the
humiliating experience of being refused admission to the tomb because
I was wearing a hat; now I am wearing a veil who can tell whether I am
Moslem or Christian? Last time I came to Eyoub in a friend’s launch.
It had been freshly painted, and was out that day as it were for its
maiden trip. We had chosen an afternoon when the sea was calm and the
atmosphere clear enough to enjoy the magnificent view one has of the
opposite shore, and all the hieroglyphics and brass-work on the launch
were dancing in the sunshine like little golden butterflies.
Although we could not visit the mosque that afternoon five years ago,
we did not give to the tombs and the curious cemetery the time they
deserved. We climbed up the steep and stony path which leads to a “Well
of Souls,” where a witch with wonderful powers of divination can not
only predict what will happen in the future, but will tell you the
valuables stolen during the year and in the water of the well the faces
of the thieves can be distinctly seen. But we never found the witch.
And now, since my last visit, Eyoub does not seem in the least bit
changed. There is the same merchant who sells you corn with which to
feed the pigeons, there are the same devout-looking turban-headed
inhabitants, the same thickly veiled women, the same unending streams
of beggar children, and I even think I can recognise our boatman of
five years ago. He is still a little on my conscience. The launch, I
remember, was too big to land at Eyoub, so a caïque was called and we
were rowed up to the little landing-place; and I remember so distinctly
the boatman was not paid. When we returned, however, he was either
praying or had gone home to rest. Calling another man, we engaged
him to row us to the launch; he was paid and given the money for his
colleague. With Western _naïveté_, I asked whether the first boatman
would ever receive his money. “Why, of course,” answered my friend, not
in the least understanding my question.
We drove to Eyoub this time. A long, delightful drive it was through
the picturesque quarters of Stamboul, which are now becoming so
familiar to me and to which I have become so attached. The market-place
with its richly coloured fruits; the well-balanced shops of meat,
bread, and other wares so charmingly arranged on the mule’s back--I
watch them almost as one watches by the death-bed of a loved one.
Like death, the passing of the primitive Turk is inevitable; but that
does not make his going any the less sad, nor does it prevent one’s
mourning....
It was Friday afternoon. The Faithful were at prayer when we arrived. I
wanted to see the mosque; but how could I, even as a veiled woman, take
my place amongst the women? Much as I admire the wonderful solemnity
of the Eastern prayers--much as I, a Christian, would have loved to
worship Allah with my Moslem sisters--I was just a little frightened;
my action might be mistaken for irreverence.
We went, however, into the gallery reserved for the Sultan, and through
the lattice-work windows we had a good view of the mosque below. But
the mosque and its historic contents--for it is in this mosque that
the Sultan is girt with the sword of Islam--were dwarfed to me in the
magnificence of seeing men and women in one mass bending in rhythmic
supplication to the God of us all. The women were screened off from the
men, but they were “believers,” every one of them, and they worshipped
with a reverence I had never yet seen elsewhere.
Of its charity, one branch of our Christian Church prays every Sabbath
for Turks and heretics. There are some heretics I know who resent being
classed with the Turks. I am proud to be classed with the Turks; but
then, I am a heretic who has seen them at prayer....
* * * * *
Eyoub-Ansari-Khalid-ben-Said, to give him his full title, was a
favourite standard-bearer of the Prophet, and during the siege of
Constantinople he fell. About eight centuries after his death a body
was exhumed which was supposed to be his, and was buried by Mahomet the
conqueror, who placed it with pomp and ceremony beside the sword of
the Prophet. To his tomb come pilgrims who have special favours to ask
the saint, and he has accomplished, I am told, some marvellous cures.
It was not a little surprising to me that these superstitions had also
crept into Islam--yet who would grudge the ignorant the comfort of
their beliefs?
* * * * *
Slowly and reverently I followed Fâtima and her friend across the wide
courtyard, whose plantain tree stretched like a magnificent green
canopy between us and the sky; a flight of white pigeons flew out to
greet us. “Only do not speak!” warned Fâtima once again as we crossed
another courtyard to the entrance of the Holy Tomb. On arriving at
the mausoleum, we took off our shoes and left them on the doorstep.
The thought did just flash through my mind that it would be rather
uncomfortable should a passer-by take a fancy to my new shoes; but I
soon felt ashamed of my Western suspicions--and, after all, I have left
my shoes so often outside mosques and never have they been taken....
[Illustration: TURKISH LADIES IN THE COUNTRY WITH THEIR EUROPEAN
GOVERNESSES]
Fâtima and I have visited many tombs now. They seem, these _turbés_,
to reconcile one with the idea of death, although it is only the
great of the land whose mortal remains are kept in a mausoleum. In a
coffin covered by a shawl and surrounded by candles, with his Koran
and other precious souvenirs kept by his side ready for use, the dead
man rests--it is as if he were asleep, and the guardian, who with his
little _ménage_ of beads and cushions and a Koran, watches and tends
and shields him from all harm. These _turbés_ are not altogether what
one would expect, however, in democratic Turkey. I should have fancied
that the equality preached in life would have been enforced after
death, and that the Turks would have buried their dead in much the
same way as the Moravians, whose cemetery is the picturesque lesson
in Socialism which greets me every morning from my study window in
Chelsea. Flat stone slabs level with the earth--hidden at certain
seasons of the year by long grass, poppies, and cornflowers--whatever
they have been in life, on their long last journey they start in the
same vehicle.
The guardians of the tombs were generally men of learning--Hodjas, or
at least students, who in the evening of their existence were content
to guard the mortal remains of some great man.
There is a sympathetic and interesting old Hodja who guards the tomb
of the Sultan Fathij, the Conqueror. His age in Biblical parlance
is five score and ten, I am told, but I cannot vouch for the truth
of this statement, since I have not seen his birth certificate. He
is in perfect possession of all his faculties, walks, however, with
difficulty, and he remains all day seated cross-legged on his cushions
with his chaplet of amber beads and open Koran before him.
When we had removed our shoes, we sat down beside the old Hodja, and
kissing his bony old hand as a sign of respect for his age and his
office, Fâtima spoke to him of many things. “Tell him,” I said, “that I
am a Giaour.” Fâtima did as I requested. “There are no Giaours in our
religion,” replied this kindly old man; “every creature whom God has
created is dear to Him and dear to us all.”
“There are no Giaours in our religion.” The answer was so unexpected
and so splendid that I have repeated it to many who have attacked in my
presence the fanaticism of Islam. Yet, was the old Hodja right after
all? Should he not rather have said, “There ought to be no Giaours in
our religion”? The Koran says in this respect, “We believe in God and
what has been sent down to us through the Holy Prophets--we make no
difference between them, and to Him are we resigned.” This being the
case, why then must I, a Christian, go to the Holy Tomb disguised as a
Mahometan?
The tomb of Eyoub was by no means the most beautiful that I have seen
in Turkey, nor the most interesting. One had not time during one’s
short stay to examine at leisure the porcelains. But can they be
compared in any way, I ask myself, with the exquisite porcelains of
the Rustem Pasha mosque, that tiny, almost unknown mosque to which
one drives through the most unappetising of the Stamboul streets,
and whose beauty so many tourists take for granted, since the mosque
is so difficult to find? Two or three walks round the tomb, two or
three peeps at the silverwork, two or three glances at the purple silk
curtains, and we are out and have put on our shoes again. Yes, indeed,
one could see many things more beautiful, but this tomb is beautiful
because of the difficulty in seeing it. To run the risk once more of
being torn to pieces by an angry mob, as I did in Bosnia! Truly the
forbidden fruit is sweet indeed!
We walked slowly up the hills, threading our way amongst the tombs; the
wistaria was shrivelling in the brownness of death, but there was a
wealth of those bright pink roses which I had searched for in Zeyneb’s
garden in order to make the rose jam. The ragged beggar children
follow us asking for alms. We pause and look towards the Golden Horn.
How magnificent it all looks from here. There the five hills, each
crowned by a mosque--Sudludgi, Piri Pasha, Hass-Kerin, Kassim Pasha,
and Galata--can be seen as distinct as the five fingers of your hand,
and all bathed in those wonderful uncertain and poetical tints which do
not belong to our Western world.
One wanders on for a while, and then pauses to drink in just a little
more of the beautiful landscape. Neither of us care to speak. We
understand each other. A melancholy happiness, a calm, quiet feeling of
resignation has taken possession of us, and in this resignation lies
the whole enchantment of the East.
* * * * *
Just before we reached our carriage I saw a dear friend with her
accustomed unselfishness escorting some English visitors round as
much as they, Christians, could see of the holy city of Eyoub. She
recognised my voice, and I was introduced as a Turkish lady to my
compatriots.
I felt just a little guilty at their delight in meeting a real Turkish
woman, but it was too dangerous to undeceive them in those fanatical
surroundings. “And how well you speak English, too!” they said.
“English was the first language I spoke,” I answered truthfully. I
wonder whether Miss A. ever told them who I really was.