Читать книгу The City of the Sultan - Miss Pardoe - Страница 11

Table of Contents

Difficulty of Obtaining an Insight into Turkish Character—Inconvenience of Interpreters—Errors of Travellers—Ignorance of Resident Europeans—Fables and Fable-mongers—Turkey, Local and Moral—Absence of Capital Crime—Police of Constantinople—Quiet Streets—Sedate Mirth—Practical Philosophy of the Turks—National Emulation—Impossibility of Revolution—Mahmoud and his People—Unpopularity of the Sultan—Russian Interference—Vanity of the Turks—Russian Gold—Tenderness of the Turks to Animals—Penalty for Destroying a Dog—The English Sportsman—Fondness of the Turks for Children—Anecdote of the Reiss Effendi—Adopted Children—Love of the Musselmauns for their Mothers—Turkish Indifference to Death—Their Burial-places—Fasts—The Turks in the Mosque—Contempt of the Natives for Europeans—Freedom of the Turkish Women—Inviolability of the Harem—Domestic Economy of the Harem—Turkish Slaves—Anecdote of a Slave of Achmet Pasha—Cleanliness of Turkish Houses—The Real Romance of the East.

There is, perhaps, no country under heaven where it is more difficult for an European to obtain a full and perfect insight into the national character, than in Turkey. The extreme application, and the length of time necessary to the acquirement of the two leading languages, which bear scarcely any affinity to those of Europe, render the task one of utter hopelessness to the traveller, who consequently labours under the disadvantage of explaining his impressions, and seeking for information through the medium of a third person, inferentially, and it may almost be said totally, uninterested in both. The most simple question may be put in a manner calculated to influence the reply; as the rivulet takes the tinge of the soil over which it passes—a misplaced emphasis may change the nature of an assertion; and no one requires to be reminded of the difficulty, if not impossibility, of meeting with an individual so straightforward and matter-of-fact as to translate as though he were perpetually in foro conscientiæ. Thus the means of communication between the native and the stranger have an additional and almost insurmountable impediment in this respect, superadded to the natural and palpable obstacles presented by opposing and diffluent prejudices, customs, and opinions.

Flung back, consequently, upon his own resources; soured, perhaps somewhat, by the consciousness that he is so, and judging according to his own impressions, the traveller hazards undigested and erroneous judgments on the most important facts—traces effects to wrong causes—and, deciding by personal feeling, condemns much that, did he perfectly and thoroughly comprehend its nature and tendency, he would probably applaud. Hence arise most of those errors relative to the feelings and affairs of the East, that have so long misled the public mind in Europe; and, woman as I am, I cannot but deplore a fact which I may be deficient in the power to remedy. The repercussion of public opinion must be wrought by a skilful and a powerful hand, They are no lady-fingers which can grasp a pen potent enough to overthrow the impressions and prejudices that have covered reams of paper, and spread scores of misconceptions. But, nevertheless, like the mouse in the fable, I may myself succeed in breaking away a few of the meshes that imprison the lion; and, as I was peculiarly situated during my residence in the East, and enjoyed advantages and opportunities denied to the generality of travellers, who, as far as the natives are concerned, pass their time in Turkey “unknowing and unknown,” I trust that my attempt to refute the errors of some of my predecessors, and to advance opinions, as well as to adduce facts, according to my own experience, may not entail on me the imputation of presumption. I know not whether it may have been from want of inclination, but it is certain that Europeans are at this moment resident in Turkey, as ignorant of all that relates to her political economy, her system of government, and her moral ethics, as though they had never left their own country: and who have, nevertheless, been resident there for fifteen or twenty years. If you succeed in prevailing on them to speak on the subject, they never progress beyond exanimate and crude details of mere external effects. They have not exerted themselves to look deeper; and it may be supererogatory to add, that at the Embassies the great question of Oriental policy is never discussed, save en petit comité. It is also a well-attested fact that the entrée of native houses, and intimacy with native families, are not only extremely difficult, but in most cases impossible to Europeans; and hence the cause of the tissue of fables which, like those of Scheherazade, have created genii and enchanters ab ovo usque ad mala, in every account of the East. The European mind has become so imbued with ideas of Oriental mysteriousness, mysticism, and magnificence, and it has been so long accustomed to pillow its faith on the marvels and metaphors of tourists, that it is to be doubted whether it will willingly cast off its old associations, and suffer itself to be undeceived.

To the eye, Turkey is, indeed, all that has been described, gorgeous, glowing, and magnificent; the very position of its capital seems to claim for it the proud title of the “Queen of Cities.” Throned on its seven hills, mirrored in the blue beauty of the Bosphorus—that glorious strait which links the land-locked harbour of Stamboul to the mouth of the Euxine—uniting two divisions of the earth in its golden grasp—lording it over the classic and dusky mountains of Asia, and the laughing shores of Europe—the imagination cannot picture a site or scene of more perfect beauty. But the morale of the Turkish empire is less perfect than its terrestrial position; it possesses the best conducted people with the worst conducted government—ministers accessible to bribes—public functionaries practised in chicane—a court without consistency, and a population without energy.

All these things are, however, on the surface, and cannot, consequently, escape the notice of any observant traveller. It is the reverse of the picture that has been so frequently overlooked and neglected. And yet who that regards, with unprejudiced eyes, the moral state of Turkey, can fail to be struck by the absence of capital crime, the contented and even proud feelings of the lower ranks, and the absence of all assumption and haughtiness among the higher?

Constantinople, with a population of six hundred thousand souls, has a police of one hundred and fifty men. No street-riots rouse the quiet citizens from their evening cogitations—no gaming-house vomits forth its throng of despairing or of exulting votaries—no murders frighten slumber from the pillows of the timid, “making night hideous”—no ruined speculator terminates his losses and his life at the same instant, and thus bequeathes a double misery to his survivors—no inebriated mechanic reels homeward to wreak his drunken temper on his trembling wife—the Kavashlir, or police of the capital, are rather for show than use.

From dusk the streets are silent, save when their echoes are awakened by the footfalls of some individual who passes, accompanied by his servant bearing a lantern, on an errand of business or pleasure. Without these lanterns, no person can stir, as the streets of the city are not lighted, and so ill-paved that it would be not only difficult, but almost dangerous, to traverse them in the dark. If occasionally some loud voice of dispute, or some ringing peal of laughter, should scare the silence of night, it is sure to be the voice or the laughter of an European, for the Turk is never loud, even in his mirth; a quiet, internal chuckle, rather seen upon the lips than sensible to the ear, is his greatest demonstration of enjoyment; and while the excitable Greek occasionally almost shrieks out his hilarity, the Musselmaun will look on quietly, with the smile about his mouth, and the sparkle in his eye, which are the only tokens of his anticipation in the jest.

The Turks are the most practical philosophers on earth; they are always contented with the present, and yet ever looking upon it as a mere fleeting good, to which it were as idle to attach any overweening value, as it would be to mourn it when it escapes them. Honours and wealth are such precarious possessions in the East, that men cannot afford to waste existence in weak repinings at their loss; nor are they inclined to do so, when they remember that the next mutation of the Imperial will may reinstate them, unquestioned and untrammelled, in their original position.

It is true that the sharpest sting of worldly misfortune is spared to the Turk, by the perfect similarity of habit and feeling between the rich and the poor; and he also suffers less morally than the European, from the fact that there exists no aristocracy in the country, either of birth or wealth, to ride rough-shod over their less fortunate fellow-men. The boatman on the Bosphorus, and the porter in the streets—the slave in the Salemliek, and the groom in the stables, are alike eligible to fill the rank of Pasha—there is no exclusive clique or caste to absorb “the loaves and fishes” of office in Turkey—the butcher of to-day may be the Generalissimo of to-morrow; and the barber who takes an Effendi by the nose on Monday may, on Tuesday, be equally authorized to take him by the hand.

To this circumstance must be attributed, in a great degree, the impossibility of a revolution in Turkey; but another may also be adduced of at least equal weight. In Europe, the subversion of order is the work of a party who have everything to gain, and who, from possessing no individual interest in the country, have consequently nothing to lose. To persons of this class, every social change offers at least the prospect of advantage; but, throughout the Ottoman empire, nearly every man is the owner of a plot of land, and is enabled to trim his own vine, and to sit under the shadow of his own fig-tree—he has an interest in the soil—and thus, although popular commotions are of frequent occurrence, they merely agitate, without exasperating the feelings of the people.

The Osmanli is, moreover, mentally, as well as physically, indolent—he is an enemy to all unnecessary exertion; and the subjects of Sultan Mahmoud have never threatened him with rebellion because he refused to grant any change in their existing privileges and customs, but, on the contrary, because he sought to introduce innovations for which they had never asked, and for which they had no desire. “Why,” they exclaim in their philosophy, “why seek to alter what is well? If we are content, what more can we desire?” And, acting upon this principle, they resist every attempt at change, as they would a design against their individual liberty.

This feeling has induced the great unpopularity of the Sultan; who, in his zeal to civilize the Empire, has necessarily shocked many privileges and overturned many theories. That he is unpopular, unfortunately admits of no doubt, even in the minds of those most attached to his interests—the very presence of Russian arms within his Imperial territory sufficiently attest the fact: and it is to be feared that he will discover, when too late, that these apparent means of safety were the actual engines of his destruction. Be this as it may, it is certain that the Russian alliance has given great and rational umbrage to the bulk of his people; and, combined with his own mania for improvement and innovation, has caused a want of affection for his person, and a want of deference for his opinions, which operate most disadvantageously for his interests.

That the Russian influence has negatived the good effects of many of his endeavours is palpable, and forces itself daily on the notice of those who look closely and carefully on the existing state of things at Constantinople. It is the policy of Russia to check every advance towards enlightenment among a people whom she has already trammelled, and whom she would fain subjugate. The Turk is vain and self-centered, and consequently most susceptible to flattery. Tell him that he is “wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,” and his own self-appreciation leads him immediately to put firm faith in the sincerity of your assertion; the effect of this blind trust is evident at once—it paralyzes all desire of further improvement: he holds it as supererogatory to “gild refined gold, and paint the lily,” and he thus stops short at the threshold, when he should press forward to the arena.

These sober statements are sad innovators on our European ideas of Eastern magnificence, but they are, nevertheless, too characteristic to be passed over in silence.

To all the brute creation the Turks are not only merciful but ministering friends; and to so great an extent do they carry this tenderness towards the inferior animals, that they will not kill an unweaned lamb, in order to spare unnecessary suffering to the mother; and an English sportsman, who had been unsuccessful in the chase, having, on one occasion, in firing off his piece previously to disembarking from his caïque, brought down a gull that was sailing above his head, was reproached by his rowers with as much horror and emphasis as though he had been guilty of homicide.

I have elsewhere remarked on the singular impunity enjoyed by the aquatic birds which throng the harbour of Constantinople, and sport among the shipping; on the divers, that may be knocked down by the oar of every passing caïque, so fearless are they of human vicinity; and the gulls, which cluster like pigeons on the roofs of the houses—on the porpoises that crowd the port, and the dogs that haunt the streets. It may not be unamusing to state the forfeit inflicted on an individual for destroying one of these animals, as it is both curious and characteristic. The dead dog is hung up by the tail in such a manner as to suffer his nose to touch the ground; and his murderer is compelled to cover him entirely with corn or millet seed, which is secured by the proper authorities, and distributed to the poor. This ceremony generally costs the delinquent about a thousand piastres.

Another distinguishing trait in the Turkish character is their strong parental affection; indeed I may say love of children generally. Nothing can be more beautiful than the tenderness of a Turkish father; he hails every demonstration of dawning intellect, every proof of infant affection, with a delight that must be witnessed to be thoroughly understood; he anticipates every want, he gratifies every wish, he sacrifices his own personal comfort to ensure that of his child; and I cannot better illustrate this fact than by mentioning a circumstance which fell under my own observation.

The Reiss Effendi, or Minister for Foreign Affairs, had a grandchild whose indisposition caused him the most lively uneasiness; it was in vain that his English physician assured him of the total absence of danger; his every thought, his every anxiety, were with this darling boy; in the midst of the most pressing public business, he would start up and hasten to the chamber of the little patient, to assure himself that everything was going on favourably; he would leave his friends, in an hour of relaxation, to sit beside the sick bed of the child; and at length, when a strict and rigid system of diet was prescribed, which was to be of a fortnight’s duration, he actually submitted himself, and compelled all his establishment to submit, to the same monotonous and scanty fare, lest the boy should accidentally see, or otherwise become conscious of the presence of, any more enticing food, for which he might pine, and thus increase his malady.

It may be thought that I have cited an extreme instance, but such is, in reality, far from being the case; indeed, to such a pitch do the Osmanlis carry their love for children, that they are constantly adopting those of others, whom they emphatically denominate “children of the soul.” They generally take them into their families when mere infants; they rear them with the most extreme care and tenderness: and finally portion them on their marriage, as though the claim were a natural, rather than a gratuitous, one. The adopted child of Turkey is not like the protégé of Europe, the plaything of a season, and ultimately too often the victim of a whim: the act of adoption is with the Turks a solemn obligation; and poverty and privation would alike fail to weary them of well-doing where their affections as well as their word were pledged.

An equally beautiful feature in the character of the Turks is their reverence and respect for the author of their being. Their wives advise and reprimand unheeded—their words are bosh—nothing—but the mother is an oracle; she is consulted, confided in, listened to with respect and deference, honoured to her latest hour, and remembered with affection and regret beyond the grave. “My wives die, and I can replace them,” says the Osmanli; “my children perish, and others may be born to me; but who shall restore to me the mother who has passed away, and who is seen no more?”

These are strong traits, beautiful developments, of human nature; and, if such be indeed the social attributes of “barbarism,” then may civilized Europe, amid her pride of science and her superiority of knowledge, confess that herein at least she is mated by the less highly-gifted Musselmauns.

The philosophy and kindly feeling of the Turk is carried even beyond the grave. He looks upon death calmly and without repugnance; he does not connect it with ideas of gloom and horror, as we are too prone to do in Europe—he spreads his burial places in the sunniest spots—on the crests of the laughing hills, where they are bathed in the light of the blue sky; beside the crowded thoroughfares of the city, where the dead are, as it were, once more mingled with the living—in the green nooks that stretch down to the Bosphorus, wherein more selfish spirits would have erected a villa, or have planted a vineyard. He identifies himself with the generation which has passed away—he is ready to yield his place to that which is to succeed his own.

Nor must I omit to remark on the devout and unaffected religious feeling that exists in Turkey, not only among the Musselmauns, who, however imperative may be their avocations, never neglect to pray five times during the day; but equally among the Greeks and Armenians, whose fasts are so severe that those of the Roman Catholics are comparatively feasts. If you meet a Turk and inquire after his health, he replies—“Shukiur Allah!—Praise be to God, I am well.” Every thing is referred to the Great First Cause. There is none of that haughty self-dependence, that overweening morgue, so strongly marked in Europeans. Among men, the Osmanli considers himself the first, but only among men; when he puts off his slippers at the door of the mosque, he carries no pomp with him into the presence of his God. The luxurious inhabitant of the East, who, in his own salemliek is wont to recline on cushions, and to be served by officious slaves, does not pass into the house of God to tenant a crimson-lined and well-wadded pew, and to listen to the words of inspiration beside a comfortable stove, in dreamy indifference: he takes his place among the crowd—the Effendi stands beside the water-carrier—the Bey near the charcoal-vender—he is but one item among many—he arrogates to himself no honour in the temple where all men are as one common family; and he insults not the Divine Majesty by a bended knee and a stubborn brow.

That the generality of the Turks hold every Frank in supreme contempt, admits of no doubt; and could they, to use their own phrase, “make our fathers and mothers eat dirt,” I am afraid that our respectable ancestors would never again enjoy a comfortable meal; but this feeling on their part is rather amusing than offensive, and only enhances the merit of their politeness when they show courtesy to the stranger and the Giaour.

If, as we are all prone to believe, freedom be happiness, then are the Turkish women the happiest, for they are certainly the freest individuals in the Empire. It is the fashion in Europe to pity the women of the East; but it is ignorance of their real position alone which can engender so misplaced an exhibition of sentiment. I have already stated that they are permitted to expostulate, to urge, even to insist on any point wherein they may feel an interest; nor does an Osmanli husband ever resent the expressions of his wife; it is, on the contrary, part and parcel of his philosophy to bear the storm of words unmoved; and the most emphatic and passionate oration of the inmates of his harem seldom produces more than the trite “Bakalum—we shall see.”

It is also a fact that though a Turk has an undoubted right to enter the apartments of his wives at all hours, it is a privilege of which he very rarely, I may almost say, never avails himself. One room in the harem is appropriated to the master of the house, and therein he awaits the appearance of the individual with whom he wishes to converse, and who is summoned to his presence by a slave. Should he, on passing to his apartment, see slippers at the foot of the stairs, he cannot, under any pretence, intrude himself in the harem: it is a liberty that every woman in the Empire would resent. When guests are on a visit of some days, he sends a slave forward to announce his approach, and thus gives them time and opportunity to withdraw.

A Turkish woman consults no pleasure save her own when she wishes to walk or drive, or even to pass a short time with a friend: she adjusts her yashmac and feridjhe, summons her slave, who prepares her boksha, or bundle, neatly arranged in a muslin handkerchief; and, on the entrance of the husband, his inquiries are answered by the intelligence that the Hanoum2 Effendi is gone to spend a week at the harem of so and so. Should he be suspicious of the fact, he takes steps to ascertain that she is really there; but the idea of controlling her in the fancy, or of making it subject of reproach on her return, is perfectly out of the question.

The instances are rare in which a Turk, save among the higher ranks, becomes the husband of two wives. He usually marries a woman of his own rank; after which, should he, either from whim, or for family reasons, resolve on increasing his establishment, he purchases slaves from Circassia and Georgia, who are termed Odaliques; and who, however they may succeed in superseding the Buyuk Hanoum, or head of the harem, in his affections, are, nevertheless, subordinate persons in the household; bound to obey her bidding, to pay her the greatest respect, and to look up to her as a superior. Thus a Turkish lady constantly prefers the introduction of half a dozen Odaliques into her harem to that of a second wife; as it precludes the possibility of any inconvenient assumption of power on the part of her companions, who must, under all circumstances, continue subservient to her authority.

The almost total absence of education among Turkish women, and the consequently limited range of their ideas, is another cause of that quiet, careless, indolent happiness that they enjoy; their sensibilities have never been awakened, and their feelings and habits are comparatively unexacting: they have no factitious wants, growing out of excessive mental refinement; and they do not, therefore, torment themselves with the myriad anxieties, and doubts, and chimeras, which would darken and depress the spirit of more highly-gifted females. Give her shawls, and diamonds, a spacious mansion in Stamboul, and a sunny palace on the Bosphorus, and a Turkish wife is the very type of happiness; amused with trifles, careless of all save the passing hour; a woman in person, but a child at heart.

Were I a man, and condemned to an existence of servitude, I would unhesitatingly chuse that of slavery in a Turkish family: for if ever the “bitter draught” can indeed be rendered palatable, it is there. The slave of the Osmanli is the child of his adoption; he purchases with his gold a being to cherish, to protect, and to support; and in almost every case he secures to himself what all his gold could not command—a devoted and loving heart, ready to sacrifice its every hope and impulse in his service. Once forget that the smiling menial who hands you your coffee, or pours the rose-water on your hands from an urn of silver, has been purchased at a price, and you must look with admiration on the relative positions of the servant and his lord—the one so eager and so earnest in his services—the other so gentle and so unexacting in his commands.

No assertion of mine can, however, so satisfactorily prove the fact which I have here advanced, as the circumstance that almost all the youth of both sexes in Circassia insist upon being conveyed by their parents to Constantinople, where the road to honour and advancement is open to every one. The slaves receive no wages; the price of their services has already been paid to their relatives; but twice in the year, at stated periods, the master and mistress of the family, and, indeed, every one of their superiors under the same roof, are bound to make them a present, termed the Backshish, the value of which varies according to the will of the donor; and they are as well fed, and nearly as well clothed, as their owners.

As they stand in the apartment with their hands folded upon their breasts, they occasionally mix in the conversation unrebuked; while, from their number, (every individual maintaining as many as his income will admit), they are never subjected to hard labour; indeed, I have been sometimes tempted to think that all the work of a Turkish house must be done by the fairies; for, although I have been the inmate of several harems at all hours, I never saw a symptom of any thing like domestic toil.

There is a remarkable feature in the position of the Turkish slaves that I must not omit to mention. Should it occur that one of them, from whatever cause it may arise, feels himself uncomfortable in the house of his owner, the dissatisfied party requests his master to dispose of him; and, having repeated this appeal three several times, the law enforces compliance with its spirit; nor is this all—the slave can not only insist on changing owners, but even on selecting his purchaser, although he may by such means entail considerable loss on his master. But, as asseveration is not proof, I will adduce an example.

The wife of Achmet Pasha had a female slave, who, being partial to a young man of the neighbourhood, was desirous to become his property. Such being the case, she informed her mistress that she wished to be taken to the market and disposed of, which was accordingly carried into effect; but, as she was young and pretty, and her lover in confined circumstances, he was soon outbidden by a wealthier man; and, on her return to the harem of Achmet Pasha, her mistress told her that an Asiatic merchant had offered twenty thousand piastres for her, and that she would be removed to his house in a few days. “I will not belong to him,” was the reply; “there was a young man in the market who bid twelve thousand for me, and I have decided to follow him. My price to you was but ten thousand piastres, and thus you will gain two thousand by selling me to him.” Her declaration was decisive: she became the property of her lover, and her resolution cost her mistress eighty pounds sterling.

The most perfect cleanliness is the leading characteristic of Eastern houses—not a grain of dust, not a foot-mark, defaces the surface of the Indian matting that covers the large halls, whence the several apartments branch off in every direction; the glass from which you drink is carefully guarded to avoid the possibility of contamination; and, the instant that you have eaten, a slave stands before you with water and a napkin to cleanse your hands. To the constant use of the bath I have already alluded; and no soil is ever seen on the dress of a Turkish gentlewoman.

I am quite conscious that more than one lady-reader will lay down my volume without regret, when she discovers how matter-of-fact are many of its contents. The very term “Oriental” implies to European ears the concentration of romance; and I was long in the East ere I could divest myself of the same feeling. It would have been easy for me to have continued the illusion, for Oriental habits lend themselves greatly to the deceit, when the looker-on is satisfied with glancing over the surface of things; but with a conscientious chronicler this does not suffice; and, consequently, I rather sought to be instructed than to be amused, and preferred the veracious to the entertaining.

This bowing down of the imagination before the reason is, however, the less either a merit on the one hand, or a sacrifice on the other, that enough of the wild and the wonderful, as well as of the bright and the beautiful, still remains, to make the East a scene of enchantment. A sky, whose blue brilliancy floods with light alike the shores of Asia and of Europe—whose sunshine falls warm and golden on domes, and minarets, and palaces—a sea, whose waves glitter in silver, forming the bright bond by which two quarters of the world are linked together—an Empire, peopled by the gathering of many nations—the stately Turk—the serious Armenian—the wily Jew—the keen-eyed Greek—the graceful Circassian—the desert-loving Tartar—the roving Arab—the mountain-born son of Caucasus—the voluptuous Persian—the Indian Dervish, and the thoughtful Frank—each clad in the garb, and speaking the language of his people; suffice to weave a web of tints too various and too brilliant to be wrought into the dull and commonplace pattern of every-day existence.

I would not remove one fold of the graceful drapery which veils the time-hallowed statue of Eastern power and beauty; but I cannot refrain from plucking away the trash and tinsel that ignorance and bad taste have hung about it; and which belong as little to the masterpiece they desecrate, as the votive offerings of bigotry and superstition form a part of one of Raphaël’s divine Madonnas, because they are appended to her shrine.