CHAPTER XVIII.
Kahaitchana—The Barbyses—The Valley of the Sweet Waters—Imperial Procession—National Interdict—Picturesque Scene—The Princess Salihè and her Infant—Forbearance of the Sultan—The Toxopholites—Imperial Monopoly—Passion of the Sultan for Archery—Record-Columns—The Odalique’s Grave—The Lost One—Azmè Sultane—Imperial Courtesy—A Drive through the Valley.
The loveliest spot in the neighbourhood of Constantinople is undeniably Kahaitchana; called by the Franks the “Valley of the Sweet Waters,” a name as appropriate as it is poetical.
The sparkling Barbyses takes its rise amid the rich vegetation of the valley, and traverses its greensward like a silver thread. As a river it is inconsiderable, but, being the only stream of any size within many miles of the capital, it is an object of great enjoyment and admiration.
The valley itself, like that of Rasselas, is shut in on all sides by tall and arid hills, amid which it nestles so fresh, and green, and sunny, that you feel at once that it was destined by nature for holyday uses. Need I say that the Sultan has here both a summer palace and a kiosk? There exists no pretty spot near Stamboul where he has them not; but the Palace of Kahaitchana is a favourite retreat, where he generally retires to escape from the coil and cares of the capital, whenever he can contrive to wring a day’s leisure from the stern grasp of public duty. The ride from Pera is delightful: the air of the hills is so elastic that it seems to instil new life into your pulses; and the descent into the valley is so picturesque, that, despite your previous enjoyment, you are anxious to arrive in the lovely spot which lies, bathed in sunshine, at your feet.
A brighter day never shone from the heavens than that on which I joined a party who were bound for Kahaitchana. I had been indisposed for several days, and was too weak to indulge myself with a gallop; and accordingly, comfortably nestled amid the cushions of my araba, I suffered the more joyous and healthful of my friends to fly past me, and leisurely pursued my way to the valley.
As I descended the hill, I saw a procession of carriages issuing from the palace court, and making their way along the opposite bank of the stream, which forms the boundary of the Imperial pleasure grounds. A mounted guard stopped me for an instant at the foot of the height, but suffered me to pass after the delay of a moment, as he had received no orders to prevent the entrance of any Frank lady by that road; the interdict being confined to Greeks, Armenians, and Jewesses. Simply requesting me, therefore, to stop my carriage, as the Imperial family passed, he desired my arabajhe to proceed. I obeyed without hesitation; and, as the river is only a few feet in width, I had an excellent view of the distinguished party.
An open carriage, drawn by four fine bay horses, each led by a groom, contained the two younger sons of the Sultan, the palace dwarf, and the principal negro of the Sultan’s household. The infant prince is a sweet-looking child, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and appears healthy enough to be the son of a peasant. Four bullock-carriages followed, and among their veiled occupants were the Princess Mihirmàh, her mother, and one of her sisters. Some of the younger ladies were exceedingly lovely, and wore their yashmacs so transparent, and so coquettishly arranged, that I could trace their features distinctly. This is, however, by no means the case generally speaking, as the inmates of the Imperial Seraglio are more closely covered when in a less retired spot, than any other of the Turkish women; and I remember on one occasion to have seen a favourite Odalique of the Sultan, who had a gauze across her eyes, as well as wearing her yashmac close to their very lids!
Troops of negroes surrounded the carriages, and the procession was closed by the Kislar Agha, mounted on a superb Arabian horse, and accompanied by four attendants on foot.
As soon as the cortège had passed, I pursued my way, and found that my friends had been compelled to make a circuit, and to enter the valley by another road, which did not communicate with the palace grounds. Nothing could be more cheerful or more picturesque than the scene that met my eye as I descended from the araba. The greensward was covered with merry groups—Wallachian and Bulgarian musicians were scattered among the revellers; Bohemian flower girls were vending their pretty nosegays in every direction, so skilfully arranged that each veiled fair one saw in an instant whether the tale she wished to tell had been anticipated by the dark-eyed Flora—mounted patroles appeared and disappeared along the crests of the hills as they pursued their round of observation—an Imperial caïque of white and gold was riding upon the ripple near one of the palace gates—Turkish servants were galloping in all directions—every avenue of the Imperial residence was doubly guarded—and all was bustle and excitement.
| Miss Pardoe del. | Day & Haghe Lith.rs to the King. |
| PALACE of the “SWEET WATERS". | |
| Henry Colburn 13 G.t Marlborough St 1837. | |
As we were standing in front of the palace, two six-oared caïques drew up beside the terrace, and shortly afterwards appeared the Princess Salihè, the wife of Halil Pasha, attended by half a dozen negroes, and twice as many female slaves, and followed by the head nurse carrying in her arms the lovely infant, on occasion of whose birth Sultan Mahmoud displayed such unprecedented generosity.
Heretofore, as it was stated at the time in the public prints, all the Emperors of Turkey had caused the male children of their own offspring to be destroyed, and thus provided most efficiently against future disputes relatively to the succession. The child on whom I now looked had not only been spared by its Imperial Grandsire, but public rejoicings had taken place on its birth—cannon had been fired, and ministers had been admitted to the Presence on audiences of congratulation. It was a noble boy, laughing and sporting in the arms of its nurse; and, as the caïques shot away, I busied myself with endeavouring to picture to my mind’s eye the joy of the fond mother on learning that her child was to be spared to her. The delight was, however, fated to be transient, for Mahmoud was ere long released from his incipient enemy, (if such the little prince were indeed destined one day to become) without dyeing his own hands in blood. Three days after our visit to Kahaitchana he expired in convulsions, induced by his sufferings in teething.
As I understood that His Highness was engaged at archery with some of his favourite Pashas, I resolved on endeavouring to obtain a sight of him; and accordingly one or two of our party detached themselves from the rest, and, making a circuit of the pleasure-grounds, we arrived opposite the spot where the Toxopholites were “speeding the winged arrow to the mark.” A heavy cloud that was passing over the valley had already shed a few of those large drops which fall upon the leaves with the sound and the weight of hail; and the Sultan was seated beneath a red umbrella, held over his sacred person by one of the Officers of the Imperial Household. The favoured Pashas were standing in a line along the façade of the building; and a number of servants were dispersed over the lawn, for the purpose of collecting the arrows.
Apropos of umbrellas—Until the present reign, the red umbrella was sacred to the use of the Sultan; but his present Highness probably deeming the monopoly a very inconsequent one, graciously removed the interdict; and I need scarcely add that red umbrellas are now the rage at Constantinople.
Archery is a passion with Sultan Mahmoud, who is extremely vain of his prowess; so much so indeed, that a long stretch of hilly country immediately in the rear of the Military College is dotted over with marble pillars fancifully carved, and carefully inscribed, erected on the spots where the arrows shot by himself from a terrace on the crest of the height are supposed to have fallen—I say supposed, for, as his foible is no secret, the Imperial pages who are employed to collect the shafts, and to measure the distances, generally pick up the arrow and run on twenty or thirty paces further, ere they affect to find it; by which means the Sultan shoots like the Prince Aimwell in the Fairy Tale; and the cunning varlets who restore his arrows earn many a backshish or present which more honest men would miss. I remember on one occasion, when on an exploring expedition, suddenly coming upon so handsome a marble column, inscribed with letters of gold, and surmounted by an urn, that I was curious to learn its purport; when, to my surprise, I discovered that this was a record-pillar of the same description; and as his Sublime Highness had on this occasion pulled a very long bow indeed, so he had perpetuated its memory by a handsomer erection than usual.
The archery party at Kahaitchana was amusing enough. First flew the arrow of the Sultan, and away ran the attendants; then each Pasha shot in his turn, taking especial care to keep within bounds, and not to out-Cæsar Cæsar. Some of them looked important, and others horridly bored: but there was no escape from an amateur who boasts that he has practised every week for the last forty years.
A little to the left of the spot occupied by the archers is a raised platform overshadowed by a weeping willow, beneath which rises a handsome head-stone. It is the grave of an Imperial Odalique, who died suddenly in the very zenith of her youth, her beauty, and her favour. She was buried in this lovely spot at the express command of the Sultan, who was so deeply affected by her loss that for two entire years he abandoned the valley. The platform is overlooked by the windows of the Salemliek, and every wind that sighs through the willow branches carries their voice to the ears of those who occupy its gilded chambers. Mahmoud, in a fit of poetical despair, is said to have written a pathetic ballad of which she was the subject. I endeavoured to procure it, but failed; and, as I was loath that she should remain unsung in Europe, I even tried my own hand in some wild stanzas, which I wrote hurriedly as I stood near her grave.
THE LOST ONE.
Spring is come back to us—the laughing Spring!
Sunlight is on the waters—
And many a bright, and many a beaming thing,
O’er this fair scene its gladdening spell will fling,
For the East’s dark-eyed daughters.
But where is She, the loveliest of the throng,
The painter’s model, and the theme of song;
For whom the summer roses joyfully
Gave forth alike the beauty of their bloom,
Their dewy freshness, and their soft perfume:—
The loved of the World’s Monarch—Where is She?
Alas! for her the Spring returns in vain;
Her home is with the sleepers:—
She will not join in the glad song again
With which she once subdued the spirit-pain
Of the earth’s pale-browed weepers.
For her the dance is ended—and for her
The flowers no more will their bright petals stir;
Nor the sad bulbul wake his melody:
The sunshine falls on every hillock’s crest,
The pulse of joy beats high in every breast;
But She, the loved and lost one, where is She?
She lies where lie the last year’s faded flow’rs;
She sleeps where sleep the proudest;
And there are eyes that will weep burning show’rs,
And there are sighs will wear away the hours
When the heart’s grief is loudest.
Yet mourn her not, she had her day of pride,
The East’s dread sovereign chose her for his bride;
The sunlight rested on her favour’d brow:
Like a fair blossom blighted in its bloom,
She filled an early, but a cherished tomb,
And where the mighty linger, rests She now!
Despite the sentiment of the thing, however, the beautiful Odalique has been long forgotten; and the bevy of beauties who wander near her grave have no time to sigh over her fate. It was, nevertheless, consolatory to my romance to remark that the Sultan shot his arrows in another direction!
On leaving the neighbourhood of the Toxopholites, I returned accompanied by a Greek lady to the araba, and drove higher up the valley; where we came in contact with the carriages of Azmè Sultane and her suite. On seeing us, she stopped, and, after inquiring if I were the Frank lady whom she had invited to her palace, she courteously and condescendingly expressed her regret that her indisposition had rendered her unable to receive me, but desired that I would hold myself engaged to spend another day in the Seraï ere long. She then, as a mark of especial favour, sent one of her negroes to the araba, with the infant to whom I have already made allusion, and whom I discovered to be the namesake of my lovely acquaintance, Heyminè Hanoum: the child was richly and fantastically dressed; and, when I had praised its beauty, admired its costume, and restored it to the attendant, I received a very gracious salutation from Her Highness, who moved on, followed by her suite.
The Princess, who is the widow of a Pasha, is a noble-looking woman, with a very aristocratic manner, and strongly resembles her brother. She has evidently been handsome, but must now be more than sixty years of age. Her fair favourite, Nazip Hanoum, was seated beside her, but so closely veiled, that, until she saluted me, I was unable to recognise her.
As we continued our drive, we passed a hundred groups of which an artist might have made as many studies. All was enjoyment and hilarity. Caïques came and went along the bright river; majestic trees stretched their long branches over the greensward; gay voices were on the wind; the cloud had passed away; and the sunlight lay bright upon the hill-tops. I know not a spot on earth where the long, sparkling summer day may be more deliciously spent than in the lovely Valley of the Sweet Waters.