Early in the year 1910 the diplomatic circle in Constantinople was thrown, if not into gloom, at least into official mourning. The Grand Duke Nicolaiovich, uncle of Czar Nicholas of Russia, and King Leopold of Belgium, died. At Constantinople, more than at any capital in the world, ceremonies of any kind were exaggerated to make an impression upon the Turkish mind. And so in both these instances elaborate funeral services were held which the diplomatic representatives attended in full uniform, loaded with all decorations. The service for the Grand Duke lasted about two hours, although no one apparently listened to any part but the singing, and there was a general sigh of relief when it was over. The service for the Belgian king was of a similar nature, with the addition of a huge catafalque, surmounted by a crown, erected in the center of the church, which was so cold that most of us kept on our overcoats.
Shortly thereafter I attended a third funeral, this time a Turkish one. Hamdy Bey, director and organizer of the Imperial Museum, had died on February 24, 1910, at about sixty-eight years of age. I had known him for twenty years; he had always been courteous and obliging to American visitors, and had shown many special favors to me, notably in regard to the permit for the Babylonian excavations. The services took place at eleven in the morning in front of the entrance to the Sophia Mosque. The funeral cortège consisted of about a dozen dervishes clad in long black robes with high conical head-coverings made of rough yellowish-gray woolen material, and about three times the height of an ordinary fez. They chanted in plaintive tones, "Allah! Allah! Allah!" Next came the coffin-bearers, six in number. As is the custom among the Mohammedans, the coffin was of plain boards, covered with shawls, over which was draped a black covering with some phrases from the Koran worked into it. On top of the coffin was the red fez or head-covering of the deceased. Behind the coffin walked many of the leading officials of the Government and other prominent people. The entire ministry was present. I joined the procession shortly before reaching the mosque and was asked to walk beside Rifaat Pasha, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. I was the only representative of a foreign power present, and my attendance was warmly appreciated by the Turkish officials and by the relatives of the deceased.
When the procession reached the mosque, the coffin was placed upon the pediment of a Greek column near the entrance, an appropriate place for it to rest, I thought. All the mourners having gathered round, one of the imans or priests standing by the coffin recited a prayer of about six minutes' duration, in the midst of which he put the following questions in Turkish to the bystanders:
"You all knew Hamdy Bey; what kind of a man was he?"
And the audience replied "Eyi," meaning "good."
"If he has done any wrong to you, do you forgive him?"
Their reply in Turkish signified, "We do."
The body was then borne on the shoulders of the carriers to the museum enclosure which was near by, in front of the Chinili Kiosque. Djavid Bey then mounted the marble portico and from there delivered a funeral oration lasting about twelve minutes, in which he referred to the excellent work accomplished by the deceased under the most trying circumstances during the reign of corruption and oppression, and pointed to the buildings surrounding the enclosure as the most fitting and lasting memorial.
A funeral among the Mohammedans is not regarded as a cause for mourning. Death is looked upon as a matter of course. Every respect is shown the memory of the deceased, but there is neither sanctimony nor suppressed sorrow at the funeral service. This is doubtless due to the spirit of fatalism deeply embedded in their religion, and which colors so deeply the life and philosophy of a Mohammedan.