* * * * *
So then there are faithless wives among the Turks as well? There are, indeed, notwithstanding the jealousy of the effendis and vigilance of the eunuchs; notwithstanding the hundred blows of the whip with which the Koran threatens to punish the guilty one; notwithstanding the fact of the Turkish husbands being all banded together in a sort of society for mutual protection, and that an entirely opposite state of things from that existing in other countries obtains there, everything seeming to conspire tacitly to ensure conjugal felicity. It may almost be affirmed that the “veiled” of Constantinople commit no fewer indiscretions than their unveiled sisters of most Christian cities. Were this not the case, why should the word Kerata—which, translated into mythological nomenclature, would read Menelaos—be heard so frequently upon the lips of Kara-Gyuz? But you say, How is it possible? Well, in any number of ways: first, it must be remembered that women are no longer flung into the Bosphorus, either in bags or out of them, and that the bastinado on the soles of the feet, fasting, hair-cloth, enforced silence, and so on are punishments which have become merely idle threats in the mouth of some brutal Kerata. The jealous husband still does all in his power to protect his rights, but when he fails he no longer indulges in the violent scenes or summary administrations of justice of former times, it being now much more difficult to keep the knowledge of these little domestic tragedies within the walls of one’s own house. Moreover, a dread of being laughed at is one of the influences which have crept in along with other European ideas. The Turk’s jealousy, too, is a cold, apathetic, corporeal affair, proceeding more from self-esteem than from love for another, and, although bitter and suspicious, and even vindictive, it is not, in the nature of things, to be compared for vigilance and watchfulness with that which springs from a real and passionate devotion. And, then, who is going to undertake to watch a wife living apart from her husband—that is, in a separate establishment, where the husband does not even go every day? Who is going to follow her every time she goes out through all those intricate windings and twistings of the Galata and Pera streets and lanes and retired parts of Stambul? What is there to prevent any handsome young aide-de-camp of the Sultan from doing what, as a matter of fact, I did see one of them do one day—gallop his horse close by a carriage just at the corner of a street when the eunuch riding ahead had his back turned and the carriage concealed the one behind, and throw a note in the window? And then the evenings during Ramazan when the women can stay out till midnight, and the obliging Cocone—she in especial who lives on the border between a Mussulman and a Christian community—is far too hospitable to refuse admittance to a Christian gentleman just because a Mussulman lady happens to be calling on her at the moment. There are, however, no more of those thrilling and horrible incidents which once were so common. Great ladies now-a-days do not emulate the example set by a sultana of the last century, who, when she repented of her kindness toward a youth who had brought the stuffs purchased in the morning to the Seraglio, had him quietly dropped into the Bosphorus. Now everything is as prosaic as possible, and the places of rendezvous are usually those out-of-the-way shops which deal in a little of everything. It is useless to ask why the Turkish authorities do not suppress this license, when one has only to read the regulations issued to the police in regard to the preservation of good behavior during the period of some popular festivity, to see that they make every effort in their power to do so. Most of these regulations bear upon the conduct of women, many of them being addressed directly to them in the shape of admonitions and threats. For example, a woman is forbidden to go to the rear of a shop; she must stay where she can be seen from the street. She is forbidden to make use of the tramways for mere amusement; that is, she must get out at the end of the route, and cannot return immediately by the same line. She is forbidden to make signs to the people who pass her, to stop here, to go there, to linger longer than a certain specified time in a given place; and so on. Any one can easily imagine for himself to what extent such regulations as these can be enforced. And then there is that blessed veil: originally introduced in the interests of the men, it is now used as a means of outwitting them by the women, who first wear a transparent one in order to start a flirtation, and then a thick one in order to carry it on. It is said to be the cause of all manner of curious situations—favored lovers who are still ignorant of their lady-loves’ identity; women who hide themselves under others’ names in order to carry out some scheme of revenge; practical jokes, unexpected encounters, and scrapes which give rise to any amount of gossip and idle talk.
The place to hear all these things is the bath-house: here every rumor and fresh bit of scandal is discussed and commented upon and remodelled ready to be served up afresh. The bath is, in fact, the great rendezvous of the Turkish women, taking, to some extent, the place of the theatre in their lives: they go there in couples or parties, accompanied by their slaves carrying rugs and cushions, toilet articles, sweetmeats, and sometimes even their luncheon when they propose remaining the entire day. As many as two hundred women are sometimes assembled in those dimly-lighted rooms lined with marbles and musical with running fountains. The picture made by these nymph-like forms flitting about in the airiest of costumes is, according to those European ladies who have seen it, enough to paralyze the fingers of an artist. There are hanums whose dazzling skin contrasts strikingly with that of their ebony-colored slaves; handsome matronly figures, which fulfil an old-fashioned Turk’s ideal of feminine loveliness; slim young wives with their short hair turned up, looking like little girls; Circassians whose tresses fall like a golden shower below their knees; Turkish women with jet-black hair divided into a hundred or more locks hanging over the breast and shoulders, while others have theirs arranged in any quantity of wavy little tufts, like an enormous wig. One wears an amulet around her neck, another a bit of garlic bound to her head to avert the evil eye; there are savages with tattooed arms, and little ladies of fashion whose tender skin betrays the stays and shoes of modern civilization; while the shoulders of more than one poor slave bear witness to the existence of a eunuch’s whip. Everywhere groups are to be seen in an endless variety of graceful abandonment. Some lie stretched out full length upon rugs smoking, others are having their hair combed out by slaves; some are embroidering, some singing, laughing, chasing one another and throwing water about like children; shrill screams come from the shower-baths; here a party of friends are seated in a circle having a little feast together; towels fly through the air, pitched from one group to another. The less covering they have on their bodies, the more they seem to reveal the childishness of their natures. They are very fond of comparing their good points, measuring their feet, weighing their comparative attractions. One observes, candidly, “I am beautiful;” another, “I am passable.” A third wishes she had not such and such a defect, while a fourth says to her friend, “Why, do you know, you are prettier than I?” or one is heard saying to another reproachfully, “Just see how terribly fat Madame Ferideh has gotten; and you telling her to eat rice-balls, when you know she ought to live on dried crabs!” When an amiable cocona is present they all crowd around and ply her with questions: “Is it true that you go to balls with your neck bare down to here? What does your effendi think of it? And what do the other men say? How do they hold you when you dance? This way? Really and truly? Well, I will believe such things when I see them!”
Not only at the bath, but everywhere else and on all possible occasions, they try their best to meet and talk with Europeans, being especially delighted if they can manage to receive one in their own homes. On such occasions a number of friends are asked to meet her, all the women of the establishment are marshalled in force, and a small feast is prepared at which the guest is crammed with fruit and sweetmeats, and seldom allowed to depart without receiving a present of some sort. Of course it is not a mere wish to be hospitable that moves the hanum to take this trouble, but curiosity; and so, just so soon as she feels sufficiently at ease with her new friend, she begins to ask questions, inquiring into every minutest detail of European life, examining her costume piece by piece, from the bonnet to the shoes, and will not rest satisfied until, having persuaded the foreigner to accompany her to the bath, she can see for herself how those extraordinary women are made who study all sorts of things, paint, write for publication, work in public offices, ride on horseback, and climb to the tops of lofty mountains. Since the “reform” movement set in, making this sort of intercourse possible, the Turkish women have abandoned some of the more extraordinary ideas they once entertained regarding their European sisters, which made them look upon them with dislike and contempt, and mistrust even their education and breeding, which, moreover, they were quite unable to appreciate. Now it is quite different. They realize their own ignorance, and are ashamed of it, and, very much afraid of seeming childish or ill-mannered, they are consequently far more reserved than formerly, and it is hard to get them to talk in the same frank, ingenuous way they once did: every year they imitate the West more and more in their dress and customs, studying European languages—not from any especial thirst for knowledge, but so as to be more like other people, and to enable them to converse with Christians or introduce French words into their conversation; even those who do not speak French pretend that they understand it at least, and they all love dearly to be called “Madame,” sometimes frequenting certain Frankish shops for no other purpose; and Pera, the all-powerful, attracts them as the candle does the moth; their footsteps, their imaginations, and their money, all are irresistibly drawn in that direction, to say nothing of the field it affords for their little shortcomings. Their eager desire to make friends among European women is perfectly natural: they are to them like revelations of another world. They are never weary of hearing descriptions of some grand theatrical performance or ball or state reception—of the doings of women of the world, the brilliant society, adventures during Carnival time, long journeys, and all the other strange features of that wonderful Western life; and these glowing scenes take complete possession of the poor little brains, sick to death of the dull monotony of the harem and gloomy shadow of the garden-walls. Just as Europeans dream of the mystery and dreamy tranquillity of the Orient, they sigh enviously for the varied and feverish life of the West, and would willingly exchange all the splendors of the Bosphorus for a gloomy quarter of Paris. It is really, though, not so much the excitement and variety of society that they want: the feature which they care most about and long for most ardently is the domestic life, the little world of the European house, the circle of devoted friends, the family board surrounded with sons and daughters, the happy, honored old age, that equal sharing of sorrow and joy, the confidences, mutual respect, and sacred memories which can make the union of two lives a beautiful and enviable thing even where there is not passionate love—that sanctuary called “home” to which the heart turns even after a life of wandering and sin, a safe place of refuge even amid the storms and passions of youth, the thought of which comforts and sustains one in times of suffering and misery with a promise of peace in the years to come, like the glory of a clear sunset seen from some dark valley.
But all those who really take to heart the unfortunate lot of woman in Turkey can find comfort in one undeniable fact—the daily increasing disfavor with which polygamy is regarded there. The Turks themselves have always considered it rather in the light of a permitted abuse than man’s natural right. Mohammed says: “He who marries but one wife does well,” although he himself married several; and, as a matter of fact, all those Turks who wish to be looked up to as models in the community do have but one; those with more, while they are not blamed exactly, are certainly not commended. Comparatively few Turks openly advocate polygamy, and fewer still approve of it in their own consciences, being, for the most part, fully alive to its injustice and the unfortunate consequences resulting therefrom. There is a party strongly opposed to its practice at all, while the higher officials of state, officers of the army, magistrates, and religious dignitaries—all those, in short, whose social position requires them to adopt a certain respectability and dignity in their mode of life—have but one wife; and this being of necessity the case among the poor and persons of moderate means as well, four-fifths of the entire Mussulman population of Constantinople are no longer polygamists. This, it is true, is largely due to the craze for European manners and customs, while many of them have odalisques in addition to the one wife; but the European mania itself is the result of a growing, if confused, idea that some change in the social conditions of Mussulman society is imperatively demanded, while the custom of having odalisques, already openly denounced as a vice, is sure to disappear with the suppression of slavery—an abuse still tolerated—and become merged into that form of corruption common to all European countries. Will a still greater corruption be the result? Let others be the judges; but here are the facts. To transform Turkish into European society the position of woman must be established; that can only be done through the death of polygamy, and polygamy is dying. Possibly were the Sultan to issue a decree suppressing it outright to-morrow, not one dissentient voice would be raised. The edifice has crumbled to pieces, and nothing now remains to be done but to cart away the débris. Already the light of a new day is tingeing the balconies of the harems with rose color. Take heart, beautiful hanums! Soon the doors of the selamlik will swing open; the bars will fall from the windows, the ferajeh be relegated to the museum of the Great Bazâr, and the word “eunuch” mean no more than a dark memory of your youth. Then the whole world will be free to admire your charms of mind and person. When the “pearls of the Orient” are spoken of in Europe, the words will refer to the charming Mussulman women, beautiful, refined, and witty, not to those useless stones which adorn your foreheads amid the cold, wearisome splendors of the harem. Be of good cheer. Surely your sun is rising at last. For my own part, as I tell my incredulous friends, old as I am, I have not abandoned the hope of one day giving my arm to the wife of a pasha passing through Turin and repeating a few pages of I Promessi Sposi to her as we walk together on the banks of the Po.
YANGHEN VAHR.
I was amusing myself with such fancies as these one morning at about five o’clock as I lay half asleep in bed at the Hôtel de Byzance. In a sort of dreamy vision I saw the hill of Superga in the distance, and began to explain to my travelling hanum that “that arm of the Lake of Como which extends southward between two continuous chains—” Just here there rose up before me the form of my friend Yunk, candle in hand, clad all in glistening white. “What on earth,” said he, “can be going on?” I listened, and, sure enough, there was a confused murmur of voices from the street, hurrying footsteps on the stair, the subdued roar and tumult of mid-day. Running to the window, I peered out, and saw crowds of people all hurrying in the direction of the Golden Horn. I then repaired to the hall, where I succeeded in laying hands on a Greek waiter just as he was shooting by me three steps at a time. “What is it?” I said; “what has happened?” Shaking me off, he merely cried, “Yanghen Vahr! Heavens! did you not hear them calling?” And then, as he disappeared, he shouted, “Look at the top of the Galata Tower!” We ran back to the window, and, craning our necks toward Galata, saw the upper part of the great tower illuminated by a brilliant red light, while a dense black cloud, issuing from some neighboring houses amid a vortex of flames and sparks, spread itself rapidly across the starlit sky. Instantly our thoughts flew to those terrible Constantinople fires of which we had heard so much, especially that fearful one of four years before, and for a moment we were filled with alarm and dismay, but only for a moment—I confess it with shame—for, following immediately upon that first natural impulse, came the selfish eager curiosity of the painter and writer, and a smile—yes, actually that is the disgraceful truth, a smile—broke over our faces which might have served as a model for one of Doré’s demons of the infernal regions. Had any one opened our breasts at that moment, they would have been found to contain nothing but an inkstand and a pallet.
We flung on our clothes and ran down the Grande Rue de Pera as fast as our legs could carry us, but, happily, our curiosity was not to be gratified on this occasion. By the time we reached the Galata Tower the fire had been pretty nearly extinguished; only two small houses were actually burned; the people were dispersing and the streets were flooded with water from the pumps, and cluttered up with furniture and bedding; men and women, shivering with fright and cold, were going about in their night-clothes, talking and lamenting in a dozen different languages, nothing being distinguishable through the noise and confusion but that shrill note of terror and excitement which marks the near escape from some great danger. Finding that we were too late to see anything, we walked off toward the bridge to console ourselves for our unrighteous disappointment by watching the sun rise, and before long we were rewarded by a sight which went far beyond any fire.