When I had returned her salutation, and seated myself beside her, I had time to look round upon the arrangement of her apartment. On a cushion near her sofa crouched a frightful female dwarf, old, and wrinkled, and mis-shapen, with a Sycorax expression of face that made me shudder; and immediately beside her sat Devlehäi Hanoum, in a high-backed chair of crimson velvet and gilding, looking like the haughty mother of Vathek with one of her attendant spirits grovelling at her feet. A line of female slaves extended from the sofa to the door, and several others were grouped at the lower end of the saloon, which was most magnificently fitted up.
The never-failing hospitality of the East prompted the first question of the venerable hostess. She inquired if I had been satisfied with my reception; and assured me of the gratification she derived from seeing me in the Palace of her husband: she then thanked me for the careful toilette which I had made to visit her, and in the most courtly manner admired every thing that I wore. The usual extraordinary queries ensued:—Was I married? Had I ever been affianced? Did I intend to marry? Could I embroider? How old was I? Which was the prettiest, Stamboul or London?—and many others of the like kind; but they were all put so good-humouredly, and so perfectly as a matter of course, that it was impossible not to be amused, although I had answered them a dozen times before.
There is a great charm in the graceful naïveté of a well-born Turkish lady. She tells you directly what she thinks of you, without harbouring an idea that even truth may sometimes prove unpalatable. If you do not please her, you are never left in doubt upon the subject; while if, on the contrary, she considers you well-looking or agreeable, she lavishes on you the most endearing epithets, and always terminates her address by imploring you to love her. From the moment that you find yourself beneath her roof, you are as completely unfettered as though you were in your own house. Are you hungry? In five minutes, by merely desiring the first slave with whom you come in contact to bring you food, you may seat yourself at table. Are you weary? Select the sofa you prefer, surround yourself with cushions, and should you wish to remain undisturbed, close the door of the apartment; and when you are refreshed, you will be greeted on your re-appearance with a second smile of welcome. If you are restless, you may wander over the whole house; there is neither indiscretion nor impertinence in so doing. In short, from the first instant of your domestication in a Turkish family, it is your own fault if you are not as much at your ease as your hostess herself.
On quitting the apartment of the Buyuk Hanoum, which was oppressive from its closed windows and the extreme heat of the weather, we strolled all over the Palace, which is very extensive, and splendid in its arrangements. One room only was closed against us. It was that in which the mother of the Pasha’s children had breathed her last; and into which he had desired every article, however trifling, of her personal property, to be removed and locked up, until he causes them to be disposed of by public sale, and the proceeds secured to her sons.
Turning away from this forbidden door, we proceeded to an apartment in which the Sultan passed a night about three years ago, and which has only just been re-opened, at his express desire, for the use of the family. The Imperial bedstead yet remains, but the golden hangings have been removed, and have probably since figured in anterys and salvas on the fair forms of the ladies of the harem. The room is now appropriated to the master of the house; and on a sofa-cushion lay his watch, his hand-mirror, and a small agate box containing opium pills.
Having understood that there was a young Greek girl on the establishment, who had been induced, by the representations of interested and treacherous advisers, to embrace Mohameddanism, I expressed a wish to see her, when she was immediately summoned; but made her appearance with great reluctance, being evidently most heartily ashamed of her apostacy.
She told us that she was very unhappy; for, although she was treated with great kindness, she could not reconcile herself to the sin which she had committed; and that, had she been left to her own free will, she never should have thought of taking such a step. A few weeks only had elapsed since she had become a Turk, but she already felt that, although no taunt was uttered by her companions, they never lost sight of the fact of her being a renegade; and, had she not known the penalty which must be paid, she declared that she should at once have uttered her second recantation.
Well might she pause as she remembered it; for that penalty is death! When once a Christian female has been induced to utter the simple prayer which is the only necessary ceremony—the few brief words which declare that “There is but One God, and Mahomet is the Prophet of God”—she is a Mahomeddan; and, should she afterwards repent her apostacy, and resolve on returning to the bosom of the Christian Church, and her determination become suspected before she has time or opportunity to escape from the power of the Turks, the waters of the Bosphorus terminate at once her project and her life.
Nor is a male renegade placed in a more secure position. The Mahomeddans tolerate no off-falling from their faith. They are bound by their law twice during their lives to invite a Christian to embrace the religion of the Prophet; but they never outrun the spirit of their instructions: they simply suggest the conversion, and use no endeavour to enforce it; while, on the other hand, they permit no apostacy—death is the instant penalty for the bare idea. Few Missionaries, however talented, or however zealous, ever made a Turkish convert—and no renegade Christian, unless by some rare chance he succeeded in escaping at the critical moment ere his resolution became suspected, ever survived the intention.
As the Buyuk Hanoum had been particular in her injunctions that every attention should be paid to me; all the musical clocks and watches throughout the Palace (and they were not few,) were put into requisition, and the orchestra, completed by a very harsh barrel-organ, awoke into discord by the fair hands of Devlehäi Hanoum. This confusion of sweet sounds is one of the highest courtesies which can be exhibited in the Harem: and it was quite laughable to stroll through the long galleries, and to escape from the Sultan’s March on the left hand, to find yourself in the midst of the Barcarole in Massaniello on the right; and, leaving both behind you, to catch a fine cadence of Di Piacer, as you were beginning to imagine that all was over.