The more independent the circumstances of a Turk, and consequently the less use he is called upon to make of his hands, the more constantly are they employed in toying with his chaplet—his fingers are busy with it as he walks along the street—you hear the light click, click, click, of the fast-falling beads, as he is squatted on his sofa—nay, so fond is he of this dull enjoyment, that, only a short period after my arrival at Constantinople, a Firman was issued by the Sultan, forbidding the use of the chaplet in the mosques, the noise of so many collected together, and all at work at the same time, disturbing the Mufti.
It is composed of ninety-nine beads, without including that which connects the ends of the cord. With each of the former, an attribute of God is recited thus; Great—Glorious—Excellent—Omnipotent—&c. &c. The final bead terminates the ejaculatory prayer, and bears the name of the Deity himself.
The chaplet of the Buyuk Hanoum was of fine pearls, beautifully matched, and each the size of a pea, the divisions being formed by emeralds similarly shaped and sized, and the whole string secured by one pear-shaped emerald the size of a hazel-nut.
At the angle of the sofa sat the favourite Odalique of the Pasha, a short, slight, unattractive woman of about thirty years of age; with common, and rather coarse features, but with a shrewd and keen expression that almost made them interesting. Close beside her was seated a third lady, who, although certainly not pretty, was nevertheless tall, graceful, and delicate, with full, fine eyes, and an exquisite complexion; when we entered, she was employed in fondling a sweet little child of between one and two years old. A pile of cushions, carefully and comfortably arranged, were prepared immediately opposite to the seat of the Buyuk Hanoum, for her fair daughter, but the lovely Heyminè had not yet left the bath.
At the invitation of the Buyuk Hanoum, we placed ourselves beside her, and partook of sweetmeats and coffee, amid the polite greetings of the whole party; and the refreshments had scarcely disappeared, when the fair bather entered the apartment.
How shall I describe the beautiful Heyminè Hanoum? How paint the soft, sweet, sleepy loveliness of the Pasha’s daughter? She was just sixteen, at the age when Oriental beauty is at its height, and Oriental gracefulness unsurpassed by any gracefulness on earth. Her slight, willow-like, figure—her dark deep eyes, long and lustrous, with lashes edging like silken fringes their snowy and vein-traced lids—her luxuriant hair, black as the wing of the raven—her white and dazzling teeth—and the sweet but firm expression of her beautifully formed mouth——
I had seen many lovely women in Turkey, but never one so purely, so perfectly lovely, as Heyminè Hanoum; and I am not quite sure that I did not admire her the more for the deep shade of melancholy that cast a sort of twilight over her beauty, and softened, without diminishing, its effect.
She had been born in Albania; it was the land of her love; the Buyuk Hanoum, her mother, was descended from one of the most powerful and princely families of the country; and she had been used to see her looked upon with the reverence due to her birth and rank; she remembered that the Pasha, her father, had dared, in his pride of place, to measure strength with the Sultan, his master, and to defy his power—he had failed, but the haughty effort had been made; and the fair Heyminè looked back with sadness and regret to the days of past splendour and warrior strife amid which she had grown to womanhood. She clung to her mother with the loving gentleness that spoke in her deep eyes: but she worshipped her father, as something more than mortal; and her fair cheek flushed crimson, and her proud lip dilated into smiles, as she spoke of him. And how she had garnered up within her heart those sweet, sad, memories which mock the brightness of the present! How she dwelt upon the country she had loved and lost, and amid whose mountains she had breathed the breath of freedom! I never saw the enthusiasm of the spirit more legibly written upon the brow of any human being than on her’s. It redeemed the apathy of a score of Eastern women!
The Buyuk Hanoum was as far from being reconciled to the change of country and position as her daughter; but her sadness was more subdued by resignation—she had reached the age when reverses are less keenly felt—a calm sorrow sat upon her brow, and breathed in her low, tremulous, tone; but the blood which leaped to the brow of the daughter in warmer gushes as she spoke of the past only curdled more chillingly about the heart of the mother when the same visions arose in vain mockery before her, to remind her of what had once been, and could never be again!
Scodra Pasha had earned for himself a place on the page of history, but he had paid a high and a painful price for the privilege. He had tasted for a brief space the intoxicating draught of power, but the bowl had been dashed from his lips. He had defied the yoke beneath which he had been ultimately bowed, and the iron that has been resisted is ever that which eats deepest into the soul.