LETTER XXXIII.
The Sultan’s Perfumer—Etiquette of Smoking—Temptations for Purchasers—Exquisite Flavour of the Turkish Perfumes—The Slave Market of Constantinople—Slaves from various Countries, Greek, Circassian, Egyptian, Persian—African female Slaves—An Improvisatrice—Exposure for Sale—Circassian Beauties prohibited to Europeans—First sight of one, eating a Pie—Shock to romantic Feelings—Beautiful Arab Girl chained to the Floor—The Silk Merchant—A cheap Purchase.
An Abyssinian slave, with bracelets on his wrists and ankles, a white turban, folded in the most approved fashion around his curly head, and a showy silk sash about his waist, addressed us in broken English as we passed a small shop on the way to the Bozestein. His master was an old acquaintance of my polyglot friend, and, passing in at a side door, we entered a dimly-lighted apartment in the rear, and were received, with a profusion of salaams, by the sultan’s perfumer. For a Turk, Mustapha Effendi was the most voluble gentleman in his discourse that I had yet met in Stamboul. A sparse grey beard just sprinkled a pair of blown-up cheeks, and a collapsed double chin that fell in curtain folds to his bosom, a moustache, of seven or eight hairs on a side, curled demurely about the corners of his mouth, his heavy oily black eyes twinkled in their pursy recesses, with the salacious good humour of a satyr; and, as he coiled his legs under him on the broad ottoman in the corner, his boneless body completely lapped over them, knees and all, and left him, apparently, bolt upright on his trunk, like a man amputated at the hips. A string of beads in one hand, and a splendid narghilé, or rose-water pipe in the other, completed as fine a picture of a mere animal as I remember to have met in my travels.
My learned friend pursued the conversation in Turkish, and in a few minutes, the black entered, with pipes of exquisite amber filled with the mild Persian tobacco. Leaving his slippers at the door, he dropped upon his knee, and placed two small brass dishes in the centre of the room to receive the hot pipe bowls, and, with a showy flourish of his long, naked arm, brought round the rich mouth-pieces to our lips. A spicy atom of some aromatic composition, laid in the centre of the bowl, removed from the smoke all that could offend the most delicate organs, and, as I looked about the perfumer’s retired sanctum, and my eye rested on the small heaps of spice-woods, the gilded pastilles, the curious bottles of attar of roses and jasmine, and thence to the broad soft divans extending quite around the room, piled in the corners with cushions of down, I thought Mustapha, the perfumer, among those who lived by traffic, had the cleanliest and most gentlemanlike vocation.
Observing that I smoked but little, Mustapha gave an order to his familiar, who soon appeared, with two small gilded saucers; one containing a jelly of incomparable delicacy and whiteness, and the other a candied liquid, tinctured with quince and cinnamon. My friend explained to me that I was to eat both, and that Mustapha said, “on his head be the injury it would do me.” There needed little persuasion. The cook to a court of fairies might have mingled sweets less delicately.
For all this courtesy Mustapha finds his offset in the opened hearts of his customers, when the pipes are smoked out, and there is nothing to delay the offer of his costly wares. First calling for a jar of jessamine, than which the sultan himself perfumes his beard with no rarer, he turned it upside down, and, leaning towards me, rubbed the moistened cork over my nascent moustache, and waited with a satisfied certainty for my expression of admiration as it “ascended me into the brain.” There was no denying it was of celestial flavour. He held up his fingers: “One? two? three? ten? How many bottles shall your slave fill for you?” It was a most lucid pantomime. An interpreter would have been superfluous.
The attar of roses stood next on the shelf. It was the best ever sent from Adrianople. Bottle after bottle of different extracts were passed under nasal review; each, one might think, the triumph of the alchemy of flowers, and of each a specimen was laid aside for me in a slender vial, dexterously capped with vellum, and tied with a silken thread by the adroit Abyssinian. I escaped emptying my purse by a single worthless coin, the fee I required for my return boat over the Golden Horn—but I had seen Mustapha the perfumer.
My friend led the way through several intricate windings, and passing through a gateway, we entered a circular area, surrounded with a single building divided into small apartments, faced with open porches. It was the slave-market of Constantinople. My first idea was to look round for Don Juan and Johnson. In their place we found slaves of almost every eastern nation, who looked at us with an “I wish to heaven that somebody would buy us” sort of an expression, but none so handsome as Haidee’s lover. In a low cellar, beneath one of the apartments, lay twenty or thirty white men chained together by the legs, and with scarce the covering required by decency. A small-featured Arab stood at the door, wrapped in a purple-hooded cloak, and Mr. H. addressing him in Arabic, inquired their nations. He was not their master, but the stout fellow in the corner, he said, was a Greek by his regular features, and the boy chained to him was a Circassian by his rosy cheek and curly hair, and the black-lipped villain with the scar over his forehead, was an Egyptian doubtless, and the two that looked like brothers were Georgians or Persians, or perhaps Bulgarians. Poor devils! they lay on the clay floor with a cold easterly wind blowing in upon them, dispirited and chilled, with the prospect of being sold to a taskmaster for their best hope of relief.
A shout of African laughter drew us to the other side of the bazaar. A dozen Nubian damsels, flat-nosed and curly-headed, but as straight and fine-limbed as pieces of black statuary, lay around on a platform in front of their apartment, while one sat upright in the middle, and amused her companions by some narration, accompanied by grimaces irresistibly ludicrous. Each had a somewhat scant blanket, black with dirt, and worn as carelessly as a lady carries her shawl. Their black, polished frames were disposed about, in postures a painter would scarce call ungraceful, and no start or change of attitude when we approached, betrayed the innate coyness of the sex. After watching the improvisatrice awhile, we were about passing on, when a man came out from the inner apartment, and beckoning to one of them to follow him, walked into the middle of the bazaar. She was a tall, arrow-straight lass of about eighteen, with the form of a nymph, and the head of a baboon. He commenced by crying in a voice that must have been educated in the gallery of a minaret, setting forth the qualities of the animal at his back, who was to be sold at public auction forthwith. As he closed his harangue, he slipped his pipe back into his mouth, and lifting the scrimped blanket of the ebon Venus, turned her twice round, and walked to the other side of the bazaar, where his cry and the exposure of the submissive wench were repeated.