THE week following our visit to the Darul-Elhan and the concert which was given there, I had an opportunity to arrange a meeting for our American friends with the leader of one of our Muslim sects, Hassan Effendi, who had been described to me as one of the most advanced and broadminded theologians of Islam. A friend of mine who was a follower of Hassan Effendi was to take us to his house and we were to go there from our own home in Stamboul, as that was the most convenient place where we could all meet.
On the appointed day and about an hour before the time fixed for our audience with Hassan Effendi our American friends arrived. My wife was delighted to see the genuine interest they were taking in the Turks and in the Muslim religion and encouraged them in asking questions. She believes, and I think rightly, that the more intimately the Turks are known, the less credence foreigners can attach to all the malicious accounts which are being circulated by interested propagandists. She believes that the best way to find out if the Turks are really terrible is to take the trouble to know them, the best way to prove that they are not “unspeakable” is to speak about them.
Our friends were especially at a loss to explain why, as long as there was such an active revival of art in Turkey, so few foreigners knew about it, even among those who are in Constantinople. My wife explained this:
“The trouble is,” she said, “that most foreigners who live in Constantinople band together and will not mix with the people of the country. They do not take the trouble to learn the language, they do not bother to make friends with the people. They live in small, self-sufficient groups. I am sure that if they only knew how much they miss by doing this, they would revise their mode of living, and they would find out that instead of its being a trouble or a bother to learn Turkish and to make friends with the Turks it is, on the contrary, a real pleasure. Of course the Turks are also somewhat to blame as they—at least those who are not over-westernized, and they are the best—do not make an effort to mix with foreigners or to Turkicize the foreign elements who are established in their country. But after all I understand their point of view as I know how we feel in America about the foreigners who come to the States and do not assimilate and as for “Turkicizing” even the foreign elements who are established here, we must not forget that in all matters the world has two standards, one for the western nations and the other for Turkey. When we, in the States, endeavour to Americanize foreigners who have come to live with us, the world admires us and calls America “the melting-pot”—but if the Turks ever dare to try to apply the principles of equality of all Ottoman citizens without distinction of race or creed, the whole world jumps on them and claims that they are endeavouring to destroy the rights of minorities. Anyhow, the reason why the revival of art in Turkey is not much known by foreigners is because they have not, so far, investigated with open heart and open mind the intellectual activities now under way in Turkey. As soon as foreigners will give up their self-sufficiency, as soon as they will mingle with the people and will be willing to consider themselves as guests in the country, they will be received with open arms in Turkish communities and then probably someone will “discover” Turkish art and it will become fashionable throughout the West, just as some years ago Russian art was discovered and became fashionable in Europe and in America.”
Our friends wanted also to know how it was that, although Turkish culture did after all antedate modern European culture, as it was the continuation of the Arabic civilization of the middle ages, art—with the exception of applied art—was only of a recent origin in Turkey. I was glad to answer to this question, as it took us into the subject which we wanted to investigate to-day, that of religion.
“Nearly seven hundred years before Protestant leaders forbade the use of pictures and sculptures in their Church, the Prophet Mohamed had similarly prohibited the reproduction of any human or animal form within the walls of mosques. Ignorant people praying before the image of a saint or of a prophet are liable to adore the material picture or sculpture rather than the spirit it represents. I believe that idolatry is a direct outcome of this human tendency. The worship of idols in antiquity and of images in certain ignorant modern communities is a deterioration of originally spiritual teachings. Therefore, to prevent the repetition of a similar deterioration by his followers Mohamed ruled that they should banish all images from places where they prayed. But this restriction was originally placed on the use and not on the production of images: silver money coined at the time of Mohamed bears the effigy of the prophet. However, in the course of time his successors went so far beyond his teachings and his example that they altogether forbade even the creation of images. Thus the coins of all Muslim rulers were made to bear their names instead of their likeness, and for centuries Muslim artists, including the Turks, devoted their genius to creating exclusively decorative art representing writings, arabesque designs, or flowers. It was, therefore, only as education spread among the people of all classes, it was only after even the masses began to understand the true purpose of the restriction placed on the use of reproductions of living beings, it was only about ten or fifteen years ago that Turkish artists branched out into these heretofore forbidden fields of art. Thus the delay in the development of art in Turkey is due to religious reasons. But even at that I consider it salutory; after all it is much better to have in its infancy that branch of art which reproduces living beings than to have religion stained by idolatry—especially as the other branches of art were permitted to follow their natural development. No one can say that the Muslims, the Orientals, have not a keen appreciation of colour and design, no one can say that the restriction placed on art has atrophied their sense of beauty." As I was finishing these remarks, my friend Emin Bey, who was to take us to Hassan Effendi, arrived and we started on our way. Emin Bey speaks perfect French. He is one of the high employees of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, but he does not know English and told us that neither Hassan Effendi nor probably any one that we might meet at his house would speak English. So we decided that I should be the translator and I told our American friends to ask without reticence any question they might wish.
Hassan Effendi lives in Stamboul not far from the Mosque of Sultan Soliman, but on a side street. So when we reached the square—in the center of which has been built in recent years a monument to two “aces” of the Turkish Aerial Fleet who died on the battlefield—we turned to the right and entered a narrow street. We passed under the arches of the old Roman Aqueduct, at the foot of which were built little wooden shacks covered with tin plates which had been in other days Standard Oil cans. These shacks are the temporary abode of many Turkish refugees in Constantinople, people who have been left homeless either by the war or by the numerous fires which have devastated the city in recent years. Soon we reached the barren sides of a hill covered with ruins, the very center of one of these fires. On the top of the hill and a little to the left was a small group of houses clustering about each other, a little mosque and a very old mausoleum. Here also was the house of Hassan Effendi, on what used to be the corner of a street, a tiny house with whitewashed bricks, an arched porch and a covered gallery which gave on a miniature garden. Through the columns of this gallery one could see two old trees—a fig tree and a cypress—two giants which, with the climbing vines on the old walls, gave to the whole place the aspect of the inner yard of a mediaeval cloister.
The inside of the house was meticulously clean. All the walls are whitewashed and the floors are covered with white straw matting, with no rugs or carpets, except in the corner of the central hall, where was a folded prayer rug. Probably the master prays here when he does not go to the mosque. On the windows are little curtains of white muslin, hanging loose and straight. On the walls only a few framed writings beautifully decorated. I translated them for the benefit of our friends; one says: “Only God is eternal, all else is temporary"; the other asked for Divine guidance, a third proclaimed the Oneness of God. All around and against the walls are low divans, with pillows, covered with silks of soft hues. This is the only furniture, the only luxury, the only touch of colour in the room.
We were announced and immediately ushered into Hassan Effendi's room, a room similar to the one we left. He advanced to greet us at the door. He is an old man, a patriarch with a white beard and blue eyes which have contemplated the infinite. He wore a white turban and a long flowing robe of black silk. He shook hands with all of us and as I tried to kiss his hand in sign of respect, he withdrew it hastily and placed it on his breast, a token of gratitude. He asked us to sit down and took himself a place in a corner, near the window from where he could see the endless sky, the hills of Stamboul with all their mosques and a strip of blue water, the Golden Horn. Under his windows are the ruins of man-made buildings, ephemeral homes which were destroyed in one night of terror, leaving their inhabitants without any earthly possessions—their whole having been devoured by the flames. After every one was seated the master saluted us with his hand, each one separately: “Selamu' Aleykum—Peace be with you"!
Coffee was served and to make us feel at home Hassan Effendi asked us to smoke. He does not smoke himself. He asked how our American friends liked the Orient and what had interested them in Turkey. Upon my telling him, at their request, that they were mostly interested in education, especially religious education, and that they wanted to know something about our religion, he turned to me and said: