Constantinople, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

The first building you see on entering is the throne-room, which is open to visitors. It is a small square edifice, surrounded by a beautiful marble portico, entered through a richly ornamented doorway flanked by two charming fountains. The roof is covered with gold arabesques, and the walls are lined with slabs of marble and faïence set in a symmetrical design: in the centre is a marble fountain, and it is lighted by means of lofty windows of stained glass. At the farther end stands the throne, fashioned like a great bedstead, covered by a canopy edged with pearls and supported on four slender columns of gilded copper, ornamented with arabesques and precious stones, and surmounted by four golden balls and crescents, from which horses’ tails—the emblem of the military power of the pâdishahs—are suspended.

Here the supreme lord held his solemn receptions of state in the presence of the assembled court, and here at the feet of the newly-installed Sultan were thrown the bodies of his brothers and nephews murdered to secure his reign from plots and conspiracies. My first thought on entering that room was of the nineteen unfortunate brethren of Muhammad III. The sound of the guns which announced their father’s death to Europe and Asia was heard in their prisons as well, where it meant the death-knell of them all, and soon after the Seraglio mutes threw them in one ghastly heap at the foot of the throne: young and old, it made no difference—some babies whose golden heads rested upon the sturdy chests of grown men, while even grizzled locks flowed over the pavement beneath the feet of boys of ten or twelve, rough prison caftans and muslin swaddling-bands all alike enwrapping stiffened limbs and staring faces. What rivers of blood have been reflected in those polished marbles and beautiful porcelains in this spot where the savage fury of Selim II., of Murad IV., of Ahmed I., and of Ibrahim burst all bounds, and they stood exulting witnesses of their victims’ agonies! Here viziers have been beaten down and trodden under foot by the sciaùs, their brains dashed out beneath the marble fountain, and governors conducted all the way from Syria or Egypt, tied to an agha’s saddle, to have their heads struck off at last; any one whose conscience accused him did well to turn on this threshold and bid an everlasting farewell to the blue sky and beautiful hills of Asia, while he who came forth alive greeted the sunshine with the feelings of a man who had just escaped death.

The throne pavilion is not the only building to which the public is now admitted. On coming out from thence we pass through a number of flower-gardens and courtyards surrounded by small buildings and Moorish archways supported upon slender marble columns. Here stood the college where the imperial pages received such instruction as should fit them for the highest offices of the state and court, and their princely residences and recreation halls; troops of servants waited upon them, and their masters were selected from among the most gifted and learned men of the empire. In the centre stood the library, consisting of a row of graceful Saracenesque kiosks with open peristyles; one of these is still standing, and is chiefly noticeable for its great bronze door ornamented with reliefs in jasper and lapis lazuli and covered with marvellous arabesques of foliage, stars, and figures of every conceivable device, so intricate and so delicately executed as to hardly seem like the work of mortal hands. Not far from the library stands the treasury, glistening with tiles, once the repository of fabulous riches, consisting for the most part of weapons seized by, or presented to, victorious sultans, and preserved by them as curiosities; but Muhammad II., who prided himself upon his skilful penmanship, left his inkstand studded with diamonds to the collection. The greater part of these treasures have now passed, converted into gold coins, into the coffers of the public treasury, but in the great days of the empire this pavilion contained a glittering array of Damascus cimeters whose hilts were solid masses of pearls and precious stones; huge pistols, their handles studded with as many as two hundred diamonds; daggers, a single one of which was worth a year’s tribute from an Asiatic province; massive silver and steel clubs, whose hand-pieces were of solid crystal, all chased and gilded; and among them the jewelled aigrettes of the Murads and Muhammads, the agate goblets in which once sparkled the wines of Hungary at imperial banquets, cups hollowed out of a single turquoise which once graced the tables of shahs of Persia, necklaces of Caramanian diamonds the size of walnuts, pearl-studded belts, saddles overlaid with gold, rugs glittering with gems; so that the whole building seemed to be on fire and one’s sight and reason alike became dazed. A little farther on, in the middle of a lonely garden, is the famous “cage” in which, from the fourth Muhammad’s[I] time on, those of the imperial princes whose liberty seemed to offer a menace to the peace of the throne were kept in confinement, until, on the death of the reigning monarch, the shouts and acclamations of the Janissaries should call one of them to succeed him, or the appearance of the executioner warn them to prepare for death. It is built in the form of a small temple, with massive walls unbroken by windows, and lighted from above. Against the single door, made of iron, a heavy stone was always rolled. Here Abdul-Aziz passed the few days which elapsed between his downfall and death. Here the Caligula of Ottoman history, Ibrahim, met his horrible and wretched end, and his image is the first which rises to confront the visitor as he pauses at the entrance to that necropolis of the living. The military aghas, having torn him from the throne, dragged him hither like any common criminal, and imprisoned him with two of his favorite odalisques. After the first wild paroxysms of despair he grew resigned. “This doom,” said he, “was written upon my forehead; it is the will of God.” Of all his great empire and that vast harem, the scene for so many years of such acts of mad folly, nothing remained to him but a prison-cell, two slaves, and the Koran. Believing his life, at all events, to be safe, his mind was at rest, and he even cherished a hope that his boon-companions of the barracks and taverns of Stambul might bring about a popular reaction in his favor. But, unfortunately, if he had forgotten that admonition in the Koran, “When there are two khalifs, kill one of them,” the muftis, their memories jogged by the aghas and viziers, had not. And so it came to pass that he sat one day upon a mat in a corner of his prison reading aloud from the Koran to the two slaves who stood erect before him, their arms crossed upon their breasts; he wore a black caftan fastened about the waist with a tattered scarf, and upon his head a red woollen cap, while a ray of pale light falling from above upon his face showed it to be wasted and waxen, but composed. Suddenly there was a dull, hollow noise without, and, leaping to his feet as the door opened, he confronted a sinister group upon the threshold whose significance he understood at once. Raising his eyes to a small grated balcony extending out from the wall near the roof, he could distinguish the impassive faces of a group of muftis, aghas, and viziers upon which his doom was plainly written. Beside himself with terror, he poured out a torrent of prayers and supplications: “Mercy! mercy for the Pâdishah! spare my life! If there be any among you who have eaten my bread, save me now in God’s name! You, Mufti Abdul-rahim, be careful of what you are about to do; you will see very soon that people are not all blind and stupid. I will tell you now that Insuf-pasha advised me to have you executed for a traitor, and I refused, and now you want to kill me! Read the Koran, as I am doing; read the word of God, and see how ingratitude and injustice are condemned! Let me live, Abdul-rahim! Life! life!”

[I] It was during the reign of Muhammad III., 1595–1603, that the custom of confining the imperial princes in the kafess, or cage, was first introduced.—Trans.

The trembling executioner raised his eyes inquiringly toward the gallery; but a hard, dry voice was heard issuing from among those calm faces as unmoved and devoid of all expression as so many statues. “Kara-ali,” it said, “perform your duty.” The executioner at once attempted to seize Ibrahim by the shoulders, but he, uttering a loud shriek, flung himself into a corner behind the two slaves. Kara-ali, assisted by the sciaùs, however, threw the women aside, and again laid hold of the Pâdishah. There was an outburst of curses and maledictions, the sound of a heavy body being thrown violently to the ground, a piercing cry which ended in a dull rattle, and then profound silence. A bit of silken cord had launched the eighteenth sultan of the house of Osman into eternity.

Other buildings, in addition to the ones already described and those of the harem, were scattered here and there throughout the woods and gardens; as, for instance, the baths of Selim II., comprising thirty-two vast apartments, a mass of marbles, gilding, and painting, and every variety of kiosk, round and octagonal, surmounted by domes and fantastic roofs, and enclosing rooms lined with mother-of-pearl and decorated with Arabian inscriptions. In every window hung a parrot’s or nightingale’s cage, and the light streamed through stained-glass panes in floods of blue or rose color. In some of these kiosks the pâdishahs were wont to have the Thousand-and-One Nights read aloud to them by old dervishes; in others the little princes would receive their first lessons in reading with appropriate solemnities. There were little kiosks designed for meditation, and others for nocturnal meetings; nests and graceful little prison-houses erected and destroyed in obedience to some passing fancy, and commanding the most exquisite views of Skutari empurpled by the setting sun, or the Olympus bathed in silver by the rays of the moon, while the soft winds from the Bosphorus, heavy with perfume, made the golden crescents tremble and sway from the summit of each slender pinnacle.

At last we come to where, in the most retired part of the harem, stands the Temple of Relics, or apartment of the robes of state. It was built in imitation of the Golden Room of the Byzantine emperors, and closed with a door of silver. Here were preserved the mantle of the Prophet, solemnly exhibited once a year in the presence of the entire court, his staff, the bow enclosed in a silver case, the relics of the Kaaba, and that awful and highly venerated standard of the Holy War enveloped in no less than forty silken wrappings, upon which should any infidel be daring enough to fix his eyes, he would be struck with instant blindness as from a stroke of lightning. All the most sacred possessions of the race, the most precious belongings of the royal house, the most valuable treasures of the empire, were preserved in that retired spot, that little veiled shrine toward which every portion of the huge metropolis seemed to converge, as a vast multitude turns to prostrate itself in adoration before some common centre.

In one corner of the third enclosure, that one where the shade of the trees was thickest, the murmur of the fountains most musical, the twittering of the birds loudest, rose the harem, like a little separate district of the imperial city, composed of a great number of small white buildings surmounted by leaden domes, shaded by orange trees and umbrella pines, and divided from one another by little walled gardens overrun with ivy and eglantine and interspersed with footpaths covered with tiny shells laid out in mosaic patterns, which wound out of sight among roses, ebony, and myrtle trees. Everything was on a small scale, enclosed, divided up, and subdivided, the balconies roofed, windows grated, loggias hidden behind rose-colored hangings, the windows of stained glass, doors barred, and streets open at one end only. Over all there brooded a soft twilight, the freshness of the forest, and a dreamy sense of mystery and calm. Here lived and loved, suffered and obeyed, all that great female family of the Seraglio, constantly changing and being reinforced. It was like some large conventual establishment whose religion consisted in pleasure, and whose god was the Sultan. Here were the imperial apartments; here dwelt the kadyns, those four members of the imperial harem who had a recognized position and rank, each one with her own kiosk, her little court, her state officials, her barges hung with satin, her gilded coach, her eunuchs and slaves, and her slipper-money, which consisted of the entire revenue of a province. Here too dwelt the validéh sultan with her innumerable court of ustàs, divided into companies of twenty, each one charged with a special duty, and all the female relatives of the Sultan, aunts, sisters, daughters, nieces, who, with the royal princes, formed a court within the court. Then there were the gheduelùs, the twelve most beautiful of whom, having each her special title and duty, were selected for personal attendance upon the Sultan; and the shaghirds, or novices, undergoing the necessary course of instruction in order to fit them for the vacant posts among the ustàs; and a swarm of slaves gathered from all lands, of every shade of complexion and type of beauty; carefully selected from among thousands of others, who filled the hive-like compartments of that huge gynæceum with a rush and stir of eager, radiant youth, a hot breath of Asiatic and African voluptuousness, which, mounting to the head of the god of the temple, expended itself in his fierce passions throughout the entire empire.

A Turkish Woman.