From Pole to Pole: A Book for Young People

by Sven Anders Hedin

As a child Fatima Hanum played in one of the narrow streets of Stambul. When she was old enough, her parents betrothed and married her to Emin Effendi, the son of an influential pasha. She knew little of him beyond that he was rich and was considered a good match. His house was situated in one of the larger streets of Scutari, and consisted of two wings completely cut off from each other. In the one the husband had his apartments, in the other lived the women. For Fatima is not alone; her husband has three other wives, and all four have male and female slaves who guard them strictly.

Poor Fatima is thus unfortunate from the first. She cannot live happily with a man whose affection is not hers alone, and it is difficult for her to live in peace with the three other women who have the same rights as herself. Her life is empty and wearisome, and her days are passed in idleness. For hours she stands behind the lattice in the oriel window which projects over the street and watches the movement going on below. When she is tired of this she goes in again. Her room is not large. In the middle splashes a small fountain. Round the walls extend divans. She sinks moodily on to one of them and calls a female slave, who brings a small table, more like a stool. Fatima rolls a cigarette, and with dreamy eyes watches the blue rings as they rise to the ceiling. Again she calls the slave. A bowl of sweets is brought, she yawns, takes a bit of sweetmeat, and throws herself on the soft cushions.

Then she drinks a glass of lemonade and crosses the room to a leather trunk, which she unlocks. In the trunk lie her ornaments: bracelets of gold, pearl necklaces, earrings of turquoise, and many cloths of coloured silk. She puts a necklace round her neck, adorns her fingers with rings, and winds thin silken veils round her head. When she is ready she goes up to the mirror and admires her own beauty. She is really handsome. Her skin is white and soft, her eyes are black, her hair falls in dark waves over her shoulders. She is not pleased with the colour of her lips. The slave brings out a small pot of porcelain and with a pencil paints Fatima's lips redder than the coral which the Hindu dealers sell in the bazaar. Then the eyebrows are not dark enough, so they are blackened with Indian ink.

When Fatima is tired of examining her own features in the mirror she puts back her ornaments into the chest and locks it securely. A staircase leads down from her room to the garden. There she saunters for a time, enjoying the perfume of roses and jasmine, and stands before the cage of singing birds to amuse herself with them. One of the other wives comes down to the harem garden and calls out to her: "You are as ugly as a monkey, Fatima; you are old and wrinkled and your eyes are red. Not a man in all Stambul would care to look at you." Fatima answers: "If Emin Effendi had not been tired of you, old moth-eaten parrot, he would not have brought me to his harem." And then she hurries up to her room again to ask the mirror if it is true that her eyes are red.

In order to forget her vexation she decides to go over to the great bazaar in Stambul. The slave envelops her in a voluminous kaftan[2] in which her white hands with yellow-stained nails disappear among the folds. She slips into her shoes, which are like slippers with turned-up points, and puts on the most important garment of all—the veil. Its upper part covers the head and the forehead down to the eyebrows, while the lower part hangs down over the chin, mouth, and part of the nose. A woman does not show her face to any man but her husband. Of late years many women transgress this rule and let the lower part of the veil fall so low that most of the face is seen. Fatima, however, does not go with the new fashion. She shows only her eyes, but her glances are enough to let the man in the street perceive that she is beautiful. None of them is so impertinent as to look at her or speak to her. Only Europeans she meets turn round.

The slave does not go with her. She stops at the quay where the caiques, or long rowing-boats, lie. The boatmen rise and scream together. Each one extols with words and gestures the excellences of his boat. She makes her choice, and steps in and sits down on the cushions. The caique is narrow and sharp as a canoe, painted white, with a gold border on the gunwale. Two powerful men take their oars, and the caique darts over the blue waters of the Bosporus. Half-way between Scutari and Stambul, Fatima looks eagerly down the Sea of Marmora. She longs for an hour of freedom, and orders the boatmen to change the direction. The wind is fresh, so they pull in their oars and hoist the sail, and the boat glides southward at a rapid pace. But Fatima is capricious, and is soon tired of the Sea of Marmora, and orders the men to steer to the nearest quay in Stambul. She gives them two silver coins, which they take without a word of thanks or civility. She hastens up to the great bazaar and steps from the hot sunlight of the streets into cool shade and gloom.

For the bazaars are like tunnels. They are streets and lanes covered with vaults of stone, where daylight penetrates sparingly through the cupolas in the roof. Here the heat of summer is not felt, and you can walk dry-shod on stormy and rainy days. You are soon accustomed to the darkness, but have great difficulty in finding the way unless you have been born in Stambul and have often passed through this labyrinth. The passages are quite narrow, but yet wide enough to allow droshkies[3] and carts to pass through.

The bazaar, then, is an underground town in itself, a town of tradesmen and artisans. On either side of every street is an endless row of small open shops, the floors of which are raised a little above the level of the street, and serve also as counters or show stands. The shops are not mixed up together, but each industry, each class of goods, has its own street. In the shoemakers' street, for example, shoes of all kinds are set out, but the most common are slippers of yellow and red leather, embroidered and stitched with gold, for men, women, and children, for rich and poor. For a long distance you can see nothing but slippers and shoes right and left.

You are very glad when the shoe department comes to an end and you come to a large street where rich shopkeepers sell brocades of silver, gold, and silk. It is best not to take much money with you to this street, or you will be tempted to buy everything you see. Here lie mats from Persia, embroidered silken goods from India, shawls from Kashmir, and the finest work of southern Asia and northern Africa. Poor Fatima! Her husband is wealthy enough, but he has no mind to let her scatter his money about in the great bazaar. With sad looks she gazes at the turquoises from Nishapur, the rubies from Badakshan, the pearls from the coast of Bahrein, and the corals from the Indian Ocean.

When she has spent all the silver coins she has with her, she turns to leave, but it is a long way to the entrances of the bazaar. She passes through the street of the metalworkers and turns off at the armourers' lane. There the noise is deafening: sledge hammers and mallets hammer and beat, for the shops of the bazaar are workshops as well.