CHAPTER XI.
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.