Constantinople, v. 2 (of 2)

by Edmondo De Amicis

Eyûb.

And can I ever forget the necropolis of Eyûb? We went there one evening at sunset, and I always think of it just as it looked at that time, lit up by the last gleams of daylight. A small käik landed us at the farther end of the Golden Horn, and we climbed up to the “consecrated ground” of the Osmans by a steep, narrow path lined with sepulchres. At that hour the stone-cutters who work at the tombstones during the day, making the vast cemetery resound beneath the sharp blows of their hammers, had dispersed to their homes, and the whole place was completely deserted. We moved forward circumspectly, peering cautiously around to see if we could detect the menacing form of imâm or dervish, as the profane curiosity of a giaour is less tolerated there than in almost any other sacred spot; but, seeing neither turban nor stiff hat, we finally reached the mysterious Eyûb mosque, whose shining domes and airy minarets we had so often beheld from the hilltops of the opposite shore, as well as from every little bay and inlet in the Golden Horn. In the court, shaded by a mighty plane tree, stands the kiosk-shaped mausoleum of the famous standard-bearer of the Prophet, Abu Eyûb, perpetually lit up by a circle of lamps. He lost his life when the Arabs first besieged Byzantium, and his place of sepulture having been discovered eight centuries later by Muhammad the Conqueror, he consecrated this mosque to his memory; and it is there that each successive sultan presents himself on his accession to be girded with the sword of Osman. It is considered the most sacred mosque in Constantinople, just as the cemetery which surrounds it is more highly revered than any other. In the shade of the great trees which surround the mosque stand türbehs of sultanas, viziers, and distinguished officials of the court, encircled by flowers, gorgeous with marbles and gilt arabesques, and covered with pompous inscriptions. On one side is the small mortuary temple of the muftis, surmounted by an octagonal dome, beneath which repose the bodies of great ecclesiastics in enormous catafalques ornamented with huge muslin turbans. It is a city of tombs, white, shaded, whose sedate beauty combines a religious melancholy with a breath of worldliness, like a very aristocratic neighborhood whose well-bred quiet proceeds from pride. The paths run between white walls and graceful railings, over which vines trail and clamber from the little gardens surrounding the graves; acacia trees stretch forth their branches to meet and mingle overhead with those of oak and myrtle, and through the gilded latticework of the arched windows of the türbehs may be seen, in the dim, soft light within, marble mausoleums tinged with green from the reflections of the trees. In no other place in Stambul is seen to such advantage the Mussulman art of rendering the idea of death agreeable and robbing it of all its terrors. It is at once a necropolis, a royal dwelling-place, a garden, a pantheon, full of gentle melancholy and charm, and simultaneously with the prayer which rises to your lips there comes a smile. On all sides extends the cemetery, shaded by the hundred-year-old cypresses, crossed by winding paths, white with innumerable tombstones, which seem to be hurrying down the hillside to dip themselves in the sparkling water or pressing forward curiously to the pathways to watch the passage of phantom shapes. And from any number of secluded little nooks, through the spreading branches of the trees, confused glimpses are caught—far off to the right—of Stambul, looking like a succession of blue towns detached from one another; and below—the Golden Horn, reflecting the last rays of the sun, while opposite lie Sudlujè, Kaliji Oghlu, Piri Pasha, Haskeni; and beyond—the large district of Kassim and the vague profile of Galata, fading away in the wonderful blending of soft, tremulous tints which hardly seem as though they belonged to this world.

The Janissary Museum.

All these impressions have been temporarily effaced, and I find myself marching through a long suite of bare rooms between two rows of immovable, staring figures, which are like those of so many corpses fastened upright against the walls. I never remember to have experienced so decided a feeling of shrinking anywhere else, unless it was in the last room of Mme. Tussaud’s exhibition in London, where, in the somewhat subdued light, you are confronted with the life-like presentments of all of England’s most notorious criminals. This, however, is like a museum of spectres, or rather like an open sepulchre in which you behold the mummified forms of all the most famous personages of that magnificent, savage, ferocious Turkey which no longer exists, save in the memory of a few old men or the imaginative brain of some poet. There are a hundred large wooden figures colored like life and clad in various styles of ancient costume, standing erect in stiff, haughty attitudes, with heads thrown back and blank staring eyes, and hands resting upon their sword-hilts, as though only awaiting the word to draw and begin shedding human blood, just as in the good old times. First, there is the household of the Pâdishah—the chief eunuch and grand vizier, the muftis, chamberlains, and head officials—wearing turbans upon their heads of every color, pyramidal, round, square, huge, exaggerated; long caftans of every conceivable hue, made out of brocade and covered with embroidery; tunics of white or crimson silk, bound about the waist with Cashmere scarfs; gold-embroidered waistcoats, the breasts all glittering with gold and silver medals; and magnificent armor—two long, spectral files, at once fantastic and gorgeous, from which a pretty fair idea may be obtained of the character of the ancient Ottoman court with its savage pomp and haughty pride. Next come the pages bearing the Pâdishah’s furs, his turbans, stool, and sword; then the guards of the gardens and gates, the Sultan’s guard, and the white and black eunuchs, with faces like Magi or idols, glittering, plumed, their heads covered with Persian fur, or wearing metal helmets or purple caps, or odd-looking turbans shaped like crescents, cones, and reversed pyramids: they are armed with steel clubs, murderous-looking daggers, and whips, like a band of cut-throats and assassins. One regards you with a look of suspicious contempt; another grinds his teeth; another gazes straight ahead of him, with eyes grown callous from the sight of blood; while a fourth wears upon his lips a smile that is truly devilish. After these follows the corps of the Janissaries, accompanied by its patron saint, Emin Baba, an emaciated individual clad in a white tunic, and officers of every grade, each personating some office connected with the kitchen: all the ranks of the soldiers are represented, wearing the various uniforms and emblems of that insolent corps which finally met its end under the grape-shot of Mahmûd. The childishness, at once grotesque and puerile, of these costumes, combined with the ferocious memories they evoke, produces the impression of a savage Carnival. No artist, however unbridled his imagination might be, could ever succeed in portraying such a mad confusion of royal costumes, ecclesiastical vestments, and garments suitable for brigands and buffoons. The “water-carriers,” the “soup-makers,” the “chief cooks,” the “head of the scullions,” soldiers to whom were assigned all sorts of special duties, succeed one another in long lines, with brushes and ladles fastened to their turbans, bells hung from their tunics, carrying leather bottles and the famous kettles which sounded the signal for revolt, clad in large fur caps and long cloaks falling from neck to heels like magicians’ mantles, with their wide belts made of round disks of engraved metal, their huge sabres, their fishy eyes, their enormous chests, and faces set in every variety of derision, menace, and insult. Last of all come the Seraglio mutes, silken noose in hand, and the dwarfs and buffoons, with cunning, spiteful faces, and mock crowns on their heads.

Türbeh of the Mosque Shabzadeh.

The great glass cases in which all these worthies are enclosed lend something of the look of an anatomical museum to the place, and increase their likeness to mummified human beings, so that from time to time you are conscious of a disagreeable creeping sensation down your backbone, or feel as though you might just have passed through a room of the Old Seraglio in the presence of the entire court whom some threatening outburst from the Pâdishah has frozen stiff with terror. When you at last come out upon the square of the At-Meidan, and your eye falls upon pashas clad all in sombre black, and nizams modestly attired in the uniform of zouaves, oh how gentle, amiable, almost timid, does the Turk of our day and generation appear!

Tombs of Sultan Mahmûd II and of his Son, Abdul Aziz.

An irresistible attraction calls me back once more among the tombs: this time it is those numberless imperial türbehs scattered throughout the Turkish city, those charming examples of the Mussulman’s art and philosophy, which occupy so conspicuous a place in our recollections of the East. By means of a firman we gained admission, first of all, to the türbeh of Mahmûd the Reformer, which stands in a garden full of roses and jasmine not far from the At-Meidan. It is a beautiful circular building of white marble, whose leaden dome is supported upon Ionic pilasters:[K] there are seven windows, furnished with gilded gratings, some of which overlook one of the principal streets of Stambul. Inside, the walls are ornamented with bas-reliefs and covered with silken and brocade hangings. In the centre stands the tomb, covered with costly Persian shawls, and lying on it is the imperial fez, emblem of reform, with its plume and diamond aigrette, and within the enclosure, which is surrounded by a graceful railing inlaid with mother-of-pearl, are placed four massive silver candlesticks. The tombs of seven sultans stand along the walls; costly rugs and carpets of many hues cover the pavement; and here and there rare MSS. copies of the Koran with gold lettering lie upon rich reading-desks. A silver case contains a curiosity connected with Mahmûd’s youth, which he directed should be placed on his tomb at his death. It consists of a long strip of muslin covered with minute Arabian characters, extracts from the Koran, which with infinite patience the Sultan traced when he was confined as a prisoner in the Old Seraglio before his accession. From the interior of the türbeh glimpses are caught through the window gratings of branches of trees without, the scent of roses pours in, and the little building is filled with light and the stir and movement of the city, as though it were an open gallery. Women and children pause as they go by to look through the windows and murmur a prayer. There is something primitive and very sweet about it all that touches the heart, as though, not the skeleton, but the soul of the dead sultan lay within those walls, listening to his people who greet him in passing; in dying he has merely exchanged his kiosk in the Seraglio for this one, which is no less cheerful than the other; he is still in the sunlight, in the noise and bustle of Stambul; still among his children—nearer to them, indeed, than before; just on the edge of life and in sight of all; still exhibiting before their eyes his plume glittering as it was ever wont to do when he appeared before them, glowing with life and magnificence, on his way to the mosque to pray for the prosperity of the empire. And it is the same with all the other türbehs—that of Ahmed, of Bayezid (whose head rests upon a brick made of the dust collected from his clothing and slippers), of Suleiman, of Mustafa, and Selim III., of Abdul-Hamid, and of Roxalana: they are small temples whose pillars are of white marble and porphyry, and which glitter with amber and mother-of-pearl. Some of them have openings in the roof through which the rain falls upon the flowers and turf which surround the tombs, all hung with lace and velvet; ostrich eggs and gilded lamps hang from the roofs, lighting up the tombs of the various princes which encircle the paternal sarcophagus, and on them are exposed the handkerchiefs which were used to strangle infants and little children, possibly with a view to impressing upon the minds of the faithful, together with a natural sense of pity for the victims, the fatal necessity for such crimes. I well remember how I, myself, by force of constantly picturing such deaths as these, began at last to be conscious of a certain acquiescence, in my own mind, with the iniquitous reasons of state which sanctioned them—how by dint of seeing ever before me in mosques and fountains and türbehs, and under every conceivable form, the glorification and worship of one man, of one absolute and supreme power, something within me too began to yield itself up to that power; and how, at last, after wandering very frequently in the shaded cemeteries and fixing my attention for long periods on tombs and sepulchres, I came to regard death in a new and much more tranquil light, to experience a certain indifference toward life, and to drift half unconsciously into a state of sluggish philosophy and vague indifference, in which the highest good seemed to consist in dreaming away one’s life, allowing what is written to be accomplished without let or hindrance. And thus it came about that I found myself, quite unexpectedly, seized with a feeling of weariness and aversion when, in the midst of these peaceful reveries, something would recall to my mind our toiling cities, our dark churches, and walled and dreary cemeteries.