Even in such a scene as this, notwithstanding the opportunities afforded by the crowd and confusion, it is extremely rare to find Turkish men and women making eyes at one another or exchanging so much as a smile or glance of intelligence. Gallantry, coram populo, does not exist there as it is seen in our countries; there are none of those melancholy sentinels who march up and down beneath the loved one’s windows, or those devoted followers who will walk for three hours behind the beloved object. Their love-making is carried on entirely within doors. If by chance you should happen to come upon a young Turk in the act of gazing up at a grated window behind which may be detected the flash of an eye or a white hand, you may take it for almost certain that they are a pair of fiancés. To engaged couples alone are meetings and rendezvous permitted and all the other childish accompaniments of authorized courtship, such as conversing together at a distance by means of a flower or ribbon or by the color of the dress or scarf. In this art the Turkish women are very proficient. There are a thousand small objects, such as flowers, fruits, grass, feathers, stones, to each one of which some especial meaning is attached, an epithet or verb, or even a whole sentence, so that an entire letter may be expressed in a single bunch of flowers, and any number of things be said with a little box or purse full of odds and ends apparently collected by merest chance; and, as the signification of the various objects is usually expressed in verse, every lover is in a position to compose an amorous couplet, or even a polymetrical poem, in five minutes. A few cloves, a scrap of paper, a slice of pear, a bit of soap, a match, an end of gold thread, a grain of cinnamon and one of pepper, signify, “I have long loved you. I pant, languish, die with love for you. Give me a little hope; do not repulse me. Answer me with a word.” And not only love-affairs, but thousands of other matters, can be expressed with equal facility—reproof, counsel, warning, news. Young girls just beginning to be conscious that they have hearts find endless occupation and amusement in committing all this symbolic language to memory, and in composing long letters addressed to imaginary sultans of twenty. Then there is the language of signs or gestures, some of which are extremely graceful, such, for example, as that of the man who, wishing to imply that he has been wounded by the force of his love, stabs himself in the heart with an invisible dagger, to which the woman responds by letting her arms fall at her sides in such a way that the ferajeh opens a little in front, which means, “I open my arms to you.” No European, however, has probably ever witnessed the actual interchange of these signs, which have now almost passed into traditions, and are only to be learned, moreover, from some ingenuous hanum who has confided them to a Christian friend. Were you to interrogate a Turk in regard to them, you would cover him with confusion.
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We learn through the same channels what the dress of the Turkish women is in the seclusion of the harem—the details of that charming costume, at once rich and fantastic, which every one has some idea of, and which lends to every woman who wears it the dignity of a princess and freedom and grace of a child. We will never see it unless the fashion should be adopted in our own country, for even should the ferajeh be some day discarded, every Turkish woman will by that time be found dressed like a European underneath. What anguish for the artists, and what a pity for all concerned! Just fancy a Turkish beauty, “slender as a cypress,” with the coloring “of all the blended tints of a rose’s petals,” wearing a little red-velvet or silver-brocade cap slightly on one side, her black hair falling down over the shoulders, clad in a garment of white-silk damask embroidered in gold, with wide, open sleeves, and a long skirt parted in front so as to show the full trousers of rose-colored silk falling in close folds over little feet encased in tiny pointed slippers turned up in Chinese fashion; a sash of green satin around the waist, and diamonds flashing from neck and arms and hair, the tassel of the cap, slippers, girdle, forehead, so that she glitters from head to foot like the Madonna in a Spanish cathedral as she lies extended on a wide divan in an attitude of childish grace, surrounded by a circle of pretty Circassian, Arabian, or Persian slaves, enveloped like statues of antiquity in long, sweeping garments; or imagine a bride, “white as the summit of Olympus,” arrayed in sky-blue satin with a large gold-embroidered veil falling over her entire person, seated upon a pearl-embroidered ottoman; or picture to yourself the adored favorite in the most retired apartment of the harem, wearing the jacket and trousers which set off to the utmost advantage the exquisite contours of her person, making her look like a graceful, well-formed boy. Then you can realize what those beasts of “reforming” Turks, with their bald heads and black coats, have to answer for. These house-costumes, however, vary with the changing fashions. The Turkish women, having nothing else in the world to occupy them, devote a large part of their time to trying to devise some new style of dress: they cover themselves with finery and trinkets, stick feathers and ribbons in their hair, tie scarfs around their heads and fur around their necks and arms, borrowing something from all the different styles of Oriental costume; they combine the fashions of Europe and the East, wear wigs, dye their hair black, red, yellow, indulge every sort of fancy, and vie with one another every whit as much as the leaders of fashion in other lands. If at one of the gatherings at the Sweet Waters a fairy should suddenly wave her wand and all the ferajehs fall off, no doubt we would find some of the ladies attired like Asiatic queens, others like French Christians or in full ball-costume or in the gala dress of tradespeople, riding habits, Greek costumes, gypsy dresses, or like vivandières—just as great a variety, in short, as may be seen among the men on the bridge of the Validêh Sultan.
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The apartments occupied by beautiful and wealthy Mohammedan ladies correspond, to a certain extent, with their fanciful and captivating style of dress. The rooms reserved for the women are usually well situated, commanding charming views of sea or country or else overlooking a wide expanse of the city. Beneath the windows are gardens enclosed between high walls covered with ivy and jasmine, overlooked by terraces; over the street extend small rooms built out from the walls and enclosed with glass, like the miradores of Spanish houses. The interiors are simply enchanting. Almost all the rooms are small, the floors covered with Chinese matting and rugs; screens painted with flowers and fruits stand about; a wide divan runs all around the wall, and in the centre of the room a fountain plays; vases of flowers stand in the windows, and over all falls that soft, subdued light so characteristic of the Oriental house, like the dim light of the forest or—what shall I say?—the cloister or some sacred spot, so that one is inclined to walk on tiptoe and speak in whispers, saying nothing but what is humble and tender, talking only of God and love. This soft, mysterious light, the perfumes wafted in from the gardens, the murmur of the fountains, the figures of the slaves flitting back and forth like phantoms, the stillness which broods over everything, the distant blue of the Asiatic mountains seen between the bars of the windows with their leafy screen of honeysuckle, awaken in the breast of a European, who finds herself for the first time within those mysterious walls, an inexpressible sensation of languor and of melancholy.
The decoration of most of these harems is simple in the extreme, almost severe, but there are those which are very magnificent, having walls hung with satin and gold damask, screens of cedar-wood, gilded gratings, and costly furniture, from whose character it is easy enough to judge what sort of life is led by the inmates. You find only arm-chairs, big and little ottomans, rugs, stools, low seats, cushions of every possible size and shape, and mattresses covered with shawls and brocades; everything is soft, yielding, inviting, saying in a thousand different ways, “Rest, take your ease: love, sleep, dream.” Here and there are hand-mirrors and large fans of ostrich feathers; chased chibuks hang on the walls and bird-cages in the windows; braziers for burning perfumes stand in the middle of the rooms, and musical boxes, bric-à-brac, and ornaments in every direction; sufficiently indicating the tastes of an idle and weary woman. Nor does this luxury exist only on the surface: in some establishments all the table service is of gold—of solid gold the vessels for perfumed water, of gold the fringe of the satin napkins—while brilliants and precious stones glitter from the various utensils, the coffee-cups, goblets, pipes, table-linen, and fans. In others—and these by far the greater number of houses, it must be understood—little if any change has been made from the ancient order of things in the tent or hut of the Tartar, whose entire outfit could be packed upon the back of a single mule, and everything stood in perpetual readiness for a fresh migration across Asia. These houses are distinctively Mohammedan and severe in character, where, when the hour of departure sounds, nothing is heard but the resigned voice of the master pronouncing the word “Olsun!” (So be it).
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The Turkish dwelling, as every one knows, is divided into two parts, the harem and the selamlik. The selamlik is the part reserved for the man. Here he works, eats, sees his friends, takes his siesta, and sometimes sleeps at night. The wife never enters it, but, just as the man rules in the selamlik, so does she govern in the harem. She orders and arranges everything just as she chooses, and does whatever she wants to, except that of course she cannot receive male visitors. If she does not feel like seeing her husband, she can even refuse to do that, sending a polite message requesting him to return at some other time. Although the selamlik is, as a rule, only separated from the harem by one small door and a narrow corridor, they are, in reality, like two distinct houses, far away from one another. The male friends of the effendi who come to see him, and the ladies who call upon the hanum, neither encounter nor hear each other, and frequently are mutually unknown. In the same way, the two establishments are supplied with different servants and very commonly separate kitchens. Husband and wife seek their amusements in their own way, spending their time and their money without reference to each other, and rarely even dine together, having almost nothing in common. It is very unusual for the man to enter the harem in the character of husband or companion or as the guide and educator of his children; his visits are those of the lover: on crossing that threshold, he puts away all his cares and worries, giving himself up entirely to the soft distractions of the moment: his object is to be amused and diverted, and it would never occur to him to look there for the light and guidance of a mind more clear and serene than his own, or for even a sympathetic interest in his affairs; and, indeed, the women of Turkey would be found to be but poorly adapted to satisfy such demands were they made. The husband, moreover, is at no pains to surround himself with that halo of wisdom or strength or intelligence which might be calculated to increase his importance in his wife’s eyes. What would be the use? He is already the god of the temple, claiming worship and adoration as a right. There is no need for him to make himself more attractive. The honor which, of his bounty, he pays his wife in going to see her at all itself calls for a sentiment of gratitude sufficiently like love to satisfy him. The word “woman” has for him absolutely no association with the mind or with any of his outside interests and occupations. She belongs exclusively to his private life, and on this account he dislikes to so much as hear the word pronounced in public. If he has to announce the birth of a daughter, he will say, “‘A veiled one’ or ‘a hidden one’ or ‘a little stranger’ has been born to me.” And so it is that any real intimacy between husband and wife is out of the question: all those depths and secret recesses of the soul which can only be discovered by the light of entire mutual confidence must, from the nature of things, remain for ever hidden; their intercourse lacks the necessary quality of an assured footing. The wife, never knowing at what hour she may receive a visit from her husband, is constantly decked out in expectation of that event: intent upon outdoing a rival or preserving a pre-eminence which is continually threatened, she is always something of a courtier, doing violence to her own feelings in order that everything may look smiling and cheerful for her lord, and often enough, when her heart is heavy within her, assuming the gay and laughing mien of a happy, contented woman in order to prevent his growing weary of and neglecting her. And so it happens that the Turk never really knows woman as a wife, just as he has never known her as a mother, sister, or friend, and never will as a daughter, while she, finding that her nobler qualities are neither used nor prized, allows them to become blunted and warped, valuing only those for which she is sought, and often resolutely checking the natural and finer dictates of her own heart in order to find, if not happiness, at least peace, in the apathy of a purely animal existence. She has, it is true, the comfort of her children, and very often her husband sends for them to pet and caress them in her presence; but whatever satisfaction this might have given her is marred by the knowledge that within the hour he may well have done the same to the children of another wife, and an hour later be embracing those of a third, and—who knows?—within a year of still a fourth. Lover-like devotion, parental affection, friendship, confidence, all, are divided and subdivided, each portion having its own hours, regulations, and boundaries. Hence his visit is cold and formal, while through and beneath it all there is a bitter humiliation, a deadly insult, in the love of a husband who pays a eunuch to mount guard over his wife. He says to her, in substance, “I love you, ‘my joy,’ ‘glory,’ ‘pearl of my house,’ but I am quite sure that you cannot be trusted.”
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The conditions of married life, however, vary very greatly according to the worldly possessions of the husband, even apart from the fact that a man who can only support one woman can, of course, have but one wife. The rich man lives apart from his wife in body as well as in spirit; he is able to afford a separate suite of apartments or even a house for her, and does so in order that he may carry on his occupations and receive his friends and acquaintances without running any risk of the ladies of his household being seen or interfered with. The Turk of moderate means is forced, from motives of economy, to live on terms of much greater familiarity with his wife, and, dwelling under the same roof, sees her much more frequently. The poor Turk is obliged to occupy the smallest possible space, and so eats, sleeps, and passes all his leisure time in the company of his wife and children. Wealth divides, while poverty unites. The life led in the houses of the poor differs very little whether the inmates be Turks or Christians. The woman who cannot keep a slave does the work herself, and labor increases her dignity and authority. Not infrequently she may even be found routing her lazy husband out of the neighboring café or tavern and driving him home with blows from her slipper. Here, at least, husband and wife are on an equality: they spend their evenings together, seated side by side in the doorway of their house, and in the more retired suburbs even go together, sometimes, to make the family purchases. Not infrequently you may see in an out-of-the-way cemetery a father and mother, with their children gathered around them, seated near the grave of some relative, eating their luncheon, just like a laboring family in any other part of the world; and from the mere fact that it is uncommon, one finds himself strangely moved by this simple scene. You realize, as you watch them, how natural, how essential, and eternally and universally fitting is that junction of soul and body; that in that group, so complete in itself, there is no room for any one else; that a single additional note and the harmony would be spoiled or destroyed outright; that, talk and argue as you may, the fact remains that the first condition, the elementary force, the cornerstone of an orderly and well-balanced society, is there before you; that every and any other combination of affections and interests violates a natural law; that this is a family, the other a herd; that this, and this only, corresponds to a home, the other to a wolf’s den.