I repeatedly expressed the desire to be shown the interior of a Mussulman home, jealously kept hidden from the eyes of the curious, in order to see the domestic side of Turkish life. Mme. Lebedeff got the permission for my cousin Zoe and me to visit the harem of one of the Sultan’s aide-de-camps, who, like all the modern Turks belonging to the upper classes, had only one wife. After having crossed the Stamboul Bridge, we took a small steamboat which brought us to Scutari. The master of the harem met us on the quay, and, touching his forehead to us, led us to his home, built round a courtyard. We were shown into a large hall, furnished chiefly with sofas draped in different coloured silks along the walls, with lots of cushions and oriental rugs; cigarettes were lavishly strewn on low tables before them. We were cordially welcomed by the Sultaness of the harem, a pretty plump woman saturated with perfume, her cheeks painted red and white, her lips of an unnatural crimson. She wore a fantastic apple-green dress with a broad silver belt which drew attention to the amplitude of her waist, and a small red velvet cap richly embroidered. Our hostess spoke very good French, and seemed very gay, though in the higher ranks of life harem ladies live a dull existence. It is a curious thing that, though they are never seen in public, they take an engrossing interest in their personal appearance, and dress and jewels absorb most of their time and attention. Rouge and other cosmetics are common in harems, and the examination of garments and ornaments is the first and almost the sole form of entertainment when visiting or receiving female friends. Our hostess was surrounded by pretty slave-girls, Circassians for the most part. We were asked to be seated, and soon an enormous old woman, bursting with fat—our hostess’s mother-in-law—came in. She wore a dress of crying colours, and a bonnet trimmed with crotcheted flowers. This hippopotamus was treated with great deference. At her appearance everybody rose. She was followed by her daughter with her two little girls, in European dress, and her son, a fine boy of twelve, with fair curly hair, a pretty piece of diminutive manhood dressed like a grown-up, in the last Parisian fashion, his tie fastened with a large emerald pin; a very independent-looking little fellow, who was addressed reverentially as “Bey.” Soon after, a slave appeared, a large bundle of keys hanging at her girdle, carrying a large tray covered with a green velvet napkin embroidered in gold, heaped with cakes and preserves flavoured with attar of roses, nauseously sweet, presented with a glass of water to wash them down. A negress followed, handing round coffee, served a la Turca, in tiny little cups like little egg-shells supported in filigree silver, and behind came a mulatto girl holding a silver censer. I felt as if I were at the opera, and the curtain had just gone up on a brilliant act of “Aida.” Presently we were invited into the dining-room, where a dinner of about twelve courses was served, all cooked in olive oil. The dishes were handed to our hostess first, and when she had served herself, the slaves served the guests. We ate our soup with spoons whose bowl was of tortoise-shell, and the handle of ivory tipped with coral. During the repast a band of musician-girls were seated cross-legged on the floor, playing noisily on their weird, strange-looking instruments, and making what they seemed to think was music. One of the slaves began to sing in a falsetto-voice, when suddenly there came a tap at the door and a few words in Turkish, that caused the slave-girls to jump hurriedly to their feet, drawing their veils over their faces. The door was flung open and the master of the house came in, followed by his father-in-law—an ex-Vizier. As a rule no male, except the woman’s husband, father-in-law and brother-in-law, ever pass the threshold of the privacy of a harem. At the end of the dinner a slave-girl poured rose-water over our fingers from a copper jug, wiping them with a napkin of damask, after which our hostess threw on a blue cloak and led us into the garden, laid down in terraces, with lemon and orange trees bending under the weight of their fruit. In a large pond gold fish swam, and close by was a large cage filled with canaries. We sat on a hillock, admiring the beautiful birds’ eye view of Constantinople and the Bosphorus, whilst the “Bey,” the little man-child, picked flowers for Zoe and me. Night was drawing on; it was time to bid farewell to our amiable hosts and return to the hotel.
My curiosity concerning harem life was not entirely satisfied. I wanted to visit a harem containing several wives. The interpreter of our hotel, a Circassian named Michael, who spoke twelve languages, proposed to show us a harem whose Pasha kept a dozen wives. Sergy did not approve of the expedition, but I had my own way and started off with Zoe and her lady-companion in an open carriage. We drove through narrow, winding streets. While we were slowly mounting a steep slope, we saw two women, wrapped in blue veils, descending almost perpendicular flights of street-steps cut in the rock, making signs to our driver to stop. After a hurried colloquy with Michael, who sat on the box, he had the carriage stopped to take them up, and explained to us that these women were going to serve as interpreters for us in the harem, where he could not be admitted. One of them was a Servian and could jabber a little Russian, and her companion spoke English.
We clambered down a steep bank to which a boat was moored to cross over to the other shore, and dismissed our carriage, having decided to return by steamer. We picked our way through a dingy side-street paved with pointed stones, between which weeds grew, and came up to a house of dubious appearance, with narrow iron-barred windows like those of a prison. At the sound of our bell the door was opened by an eunuch, who took us into a large room with an enormous bedstead, hung with green and gold brocade, standing in the middle. An odour of attar of roses filled the apartment. My curiosity was awfully excited; I expected to see beautiful “houris,” but was greatly disappointed. First of all appeared the Pasha’s favourite wife, looking rather pretty, with a flower in her jet-black hair, her fingers stained with henna, and saturated with perfume so strong as to make you sneeze. Behind came the second wife, an insignificant little thing, followed by the third would-be “houri,” a wrinkled old guy. For a quarter-of-an hour we stared speechlessly at each other, then losing patience, I asked our interpreter when the other nine wives would make their appearance, and she replied they were all out walking but would soon be back, but I was sure it was all a fib and that they were nothing but a myth. After a while the wife No. 1 began to talk to our interpreters in a low voice, after which they came up and told us that we had to be presented to the master of the house. Here was something that didn’t enter our programme, but we had to undergo the ordeal which seems to be the custom here. We were taken into a big room and ushered into the presence of the Pasha, a white-bearded patriarch, wearing an enormous white turban, who was sitting on a low divan upon a pile of cushions, with his legs tucked under him. A little nigger boy, one of his numerous offsprings, was playing at his feet with a wooden horse. The Pasha signalled for us to be seated, and fixed Zoe and me with a long stare over his spectacles, seeming to approve of us. He called one of our interpreters and asked if Zoe and I were sisters, and ordered her to tell us that he wanted to keep us both in his harem. Finding the proceeding of too oriental a fashion, we hurried away under the pretext that my husband was waiting for us outside. The old Satyr appeared very much displeased that we slipped out of his grasp, and when taking leave of us he gripped my hand and squeezed my fingers to make me cry out. Who could have thought of that old man being so inflammable! We ran down the stairs and rushed out, happy to have got off so cheaply from this mouse-trap. Being too late for the steamer, we took a ferry-boat. It was nearly night when we were back at the hotel, and marched in to dinner, which was half over.
The day of the “Selamlic,” the birthday of Mahomed, when the Sultan leaves his palace in great pomp and goes to the neighbouring “Hamidieh Mosque” to public prayers, fell that year on a Friday, the Mahomedan Sabbath. Thanks to Mme. Lebedeff, we had the opportunity to see the ceremonial of the “Selamlic,” and the Sultan’s State visit to the mosque. She had got cards of admission for us to the terrace of one of the wings of the palace, where places were reserved for the members of the diplomatic corps with their wives and daughters. Mme. Lebedeff came to fetch Zoe and me in her phaeton, in a grand toilet, with a Turkish Order glittering on her breast, which made her look very pompous and very patronising. Great animation reigned in the town; people crowded in the streets so that our carriage could scarcely move. The windows and house-tops were full of spectators, and the native women seemed to be all out of doors, walking about in groups, wrapped up in long white veils which covered them from head to foot. In a narrow street we had got into the stream of carriages, and nearly ran into a cab. In a moment I was out of the phaeton, just when a platoon of soldiers was advancing on me. Seeing my critical position, a young Turk, who occupied the cab we got into, asked me to get into his carriage, but Mme. Lebedeff drew me back hastily. At length, after many struggles, we arrived at our destination and mounted on the terrace, where Constantinople’s high society had gathered in a brilliant throng around us. On the square under our feet were guards of honour and massed troops: twelve battalions, fifteen squadrons and eight military bands, were ranged. We found ourselves just over the bayonets of a regiment of Tunis Zouaves, very good-looking, dark-skinned men. The Muezzin in the minaret began to call to prayers, and there soon appeared a smart coach containing the recluses of the Sultan’s harem, preceded by the Grand-master of the eunuchs, and two negro and two white footmen. The numerous sons of the Sultan, armed with spears, came behind cantering on magnificent steeds. An infinite number of Pashas, Beys and Effendies brought up the rear, with a great number of German officers, who had come to Constantinople to teach the military art to the Turkish army; and then, to the desperate and wild sounds of the Turkish bands, the Sultan appeared, reclining in a victoria with a coachman in Albanian costume. The Padishah was acclaimed with enthusiasm by the populace, and the troops saluted him putting their hand on the breast and forehead. As soon as the Sultan had entered the Mosque, religious chants were heard. On Friday the service lasts twenty minutes usually, but this time it was prolonged more than an hour through the reading aloud of the Prophet’s biography. The Sultan returned to the palace mounted on a fine long-tailed Arab; the horse’s trappings and saddle were covered with precious stones. The Sultan stood at his window whilst the troops defiled before him. After the review paper-bags full of sweets were distributed to the soldiers. I had, as it appeared, conquered the heart of one of the Zouave soldiers, standing just under me, who stared at me with persistence when his officer was away. I looked down upon him and nodded to him to throw me a bonbon and he replied, by gesture, that he was afraid of his officer, who was now watching our little manœuvre. Just then bonbons and cool drinks were being handed on trays to the guests on the terrace, and this time it was my warrior who asked me to throw him a bonbon. An over ripened lady, meagre as a gutter-cat, who stood by me, understood the signal as being addressed to her, and thrusting a coquettish glance at the Zouave, she threw him a chocolate, which he kicked away contemptuously with his boot. As I couldn’t help smiling, the affronted lady looked daggers at me, but I didn’t mind it a bit and recompensed my bronze-faced admirer by throwing to him a sugar-candy. He stooped down and picked it up, then he raised his hand high, so that I could see that he had the candy in it, and looking up with a smile, he kissed the bonbon and threw it into the pocket of his vest. When the Zouave regiment was leaving the place, and marched away, my soldier took a last look at me and went off, every now and then pausing to look back, and almost broke his neck with efforts to catch a last glimpse of me.
Constantinople did not offer a great deal in the way of distraction; in the evenings, especially, we were at a loss for amusements. We had quite enough of Turkey and took the “Tzar,” a Russian boat bound for Egypt. On our way to the embarkment we entered a Greek church, where a big chandelier bearing the form of a ship, hung from the ceiling, to assure us a safe passage, and get the blessing of St. Nicholas, the patron of the navigators.
Our steamer was a veritable floating hotel, reuniting all the advantages of modern comfort. In the hold were packed 1,800 sheep, a drove of cattle, a large cage full of fowls and three pairs of splendid Russian steppers, who were to be sold at Cairo; each pair of horses cost 4000 roubles (about four hundred pounds.)
In the night we crossed the Marble Sea, and early the next morning we perceived the Dardanelles, and heard the beat of the drum on the opposite shore. Towards evening we entered the Archipelago, strewn with rocky islands, and passed before Lesbos, with shores scorched by the sun, without a tree or a blade of grass.
CHAPTER LV
ATHENS
We waited for daybreak to enter the narrow port of Piræus. The Russian military agent, Baron Traubenberg, came to meet us in a launch belonging to a Russian man-of-war, in which we went over to the landing-stage, and then up to Athens by train. The journey was a short one, we got there in twenty minutes. The country is unattractive, deprived of vegetation and looking fearfully burnt up; the prevalent colour is sandy-yellow.