Читать книгу The City of the Sultan - Miss Pardoe - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Merchants of Galata—Palaces of Pera—Picturesque style of Building—The Perotes—Social Subjects—Greeks, European and Schismatic—Ambassadorial Residences—Entrée of the Embassies—The Carnival—Soirées Dansantes—The Austrian Minister—Madame la Baronne—The Russian Minister—Madame de Boutenieff—The Masked Ball—Russian Supremacy—The Prussian Plenipotentiary—The Sardinian Chargé d’Affaires—Diplomacy Unhoused—Society of Pera.

Neither Frank nor Christian is allowed to inhabit the “City of the Faithful;” and the faubourg of Pera, situated on the opposite side of the port, is consequently the head-quarters of the élite of European society. Galata, which skirts the shore of the Bosphorus at the base of the hill on which Pera is built, numbers among its inhabitants many very respectable merchants, whose avocations demand their continual presence; but Pera is the dwelling-place of the beau-monde—the seat of fashion—the St. James’s of the capital. Here every thing social is en magnifique: the residences attached to the different Legations glory in the imposing designations of “palaces”—the gloomy magazins of the Parisian modistes are as dear and as dirty as can be desired—all the employés of diplomacy throng the narrow, steep, and ill-paved streets, while the fair Greeks look down upon them from their bay-windows, projecting far beyond the façade of the building; and the bright-eyed Armenians peer from their lattices “all-seeing, but unseen.” The quaintly-coloured houses, looking like tenements of painted pasteboard, appear as though a touch would make them meet, and are picturesque beyond description, as they advance and recede, setting all external order, regularity, and proportion, at defiance.

In my rapid definition of European society, I must not omit to mention that the Perotes, or natives of Pera, consider themselves as much Franks as though they had been born and nurtured on the banks of the Thames or the Seine; and your expression of amusement at this very original notion would inevitably give great offence. Conceding this point, therefore, as one which will not admit of argument, I shall simply divide society into two parts—the diplomatic and the scandalous—premising, however, that it requires a delicate touch to separate them, they are so intimately interwoven. Those who have the entrée of the several embassies criticise each other; while those who have not, exercise a still more powerful prerogative; and certain it is that, between the two, the population of Pera is a great circulating medium which would render an official “hue and cry” a work of supererogation. “Not a feather falls to the ground,” but in half an hour every individual in the place knows by whom it was plucked, and the tale is told with a raciness and a zest that would make the fortune of a Sunday paper.

A nice distinction exists among the Greeks, on which they vehemently insist; the Greek Catholics consider themselves as Europeans, while the schismatic Greeks do not assume this privilege, of which the former are extremely jealous.

After the residence of a few weeks, you can readily determine the origin of every female whom you encounter in the streets of Pera. The fair Perotes, indeed, wear the bonnet, the cloak, and the shawl, which form the walking garb of the genuine European gentlewoman; but, nevertheless, it is impossible not to distinguish them at a glance; an insurmountable taste for bright colours, an indescribable peculiarity in the adjustment of their toilette, at once mark the Perote; while the dark-eyed Greek is known by her wide-spreading turban of gauze or velvet, over which is flung a lace veil, which, falling low upon the back and shoulders, leaves the face almost entirely uncovered.

Since the great fire of Pera, the Ambassadors of England and France have resided at Therapia, a pretty village on the banks of the Bosphorus, near the mouth of the Black Sea; but the Internuncio of Russia, the Ministers of Austria and Prussia, and the Chargés d’Affaires of Sardinia and Holland, still inhabit the town daring the winter months. The Austrian palace, however, is the only one that now remains, the other diplomatic establishments being compressed into dwelling-houses; thus the Russian minister inhabits a mansion in the High Street, and the Dutch Chargé d’Affaires resides next door to us.

The entrée of the embassies is peculiarly easy to the resident Europeans, as their number is so limited that les grands convenances are almost necessarily laid aside, and their Excellencies super-eminently tolerant with regard to the rank of their guests. Thus it is somewhat startling to a traveller, accustomed to the exclusive circles of Paris and London, to find, not only merchants and their wives at the diplomatic soirées, but even the head clerks and their fair partners. It is true that the mode of reception has gradations of graciousness,

“Small by degrees, and beautifully less;”

but this is mere matter of individual feeling and power of endurance—the fact remains unaltered.

The Carnival had this year resumed its gaiety; men’s minds had begun to cast off the panic occasioned by the terrific conflagration which almost made the town a waste, and nearly ruined many of the inhabitants whose property consisted chiefly in houses.

At the Austrian palace there were balls every Sunday throughout the Carnival, where mustachioes and diplomatic buttons were rife. The never-ending cotillon, the rapid mazurka, the quadrille, and waltz, were equally popular; and I have danced the first with a Greek, the second with a Russian, the third with a Frenchman, and the fourth with a German, during the course of the evening.

The Baron de Stürmer, the Austrian minister, is about fifty years of age, partially bald, and remarkably grave-looking when not excited; but his address is peculiarly agreeable, and his smile like lightning.

Madame la Baronne is a good specimen of the present school of Parisian breeding—her pride is blent with playfulness, and her courtesy is as gracious as it is graceful. Although tant soit peu precieuse—she is perfectly free from pedantry, and is a delightful conversationist. She has memories of Napoleon at St. Helena, where she resided for several years; anecdotes, piquantes and political—those well-worded and softly-articulated compliments which seat you upon velvet; and, above all, that air of genuine laissez aller insouciance which no woman save a Parisian ever thoroughly acquires. I am indebted to the elegant hospitality of this lady for many of the most pleasant hours that I spent in the Frank circle at Pera.

M. de Boutenieff, the Russian minister, has a face which, for the first five minutes, baffles you by its contradictory expression—there is a character of benevolence and gentleness about the forehead and eyes that attracts, while the subtle curve of the lip repulses by its cast of craft and caution—his conversation is easy, courtly, and pleasing; and his unremitted good humour and affability render him universally popular in society. Madame de Boutenieff, who is his second wife, is young, graceful, and lively—an indefatigable dancer, and a fascinating hostess; and, moreover, the niece of Nesselrode.

The soirées dansantes at the Russian palace terminated with a masked ball, which worthily wound up the Carnival, and was sustained with great spirit. The fair hostess herself, with two ladies attached to the legation, and the wife of the French chancellor, personated angels, who were led into the ball-room by a parti carré of devils, embodied by four of the Russian secretaries. Some of our politicians will assuredly smile at the conceit, nor can I forebear to admit the propriety of the fancy; for truly, when I consider the number of attachés to the Russian Legation, as compared with that of the other powers at this court, I am inclined to allow that “their name is legion.”

Even in a ball-room the Russian supremacy is palpably evident—their number, their political power, their never-ceasing efforts at popularity—cannot be forgotten for a moment. There is diplomacy in every action—in every look—in every tone—and withal a self-gratulatory, quiet species of at-home-ness every where and with everybody, which shews you at once that they are quite at ease, at least, for the present.

Exquisite, in the most wide acceptation of the term, in their costume—affectedly refined and aristocratic in their manners—acharnés pour la danse—“passant la moitié de leur temps à rien faire, et l’autre moitié à faire des riens,” the attachés of M. de Boutenieff, upwards of thirty in number, are as busily employed in turning heads and winning hearts, as though the great stake which they came here to play were but the secondary object of their mission.

Count Königsmark, the Prussian minister, is a high-bred and accomplished gentleman: distinguished by that calm and graceful tenue that sits so well on men of rank, and which is the most becoming attribute alike of mental and of social aristocracy.

The Sardinian Chargé d’Affaires, General Montiglio, is of very retiring habits, and mixes little in general society; but he is a person of considerable acquirements, and an indefatigable sportsman. His domestic history is a little romance, and may serve to account in a great measure for his love of retirement, and the hermit-like seclusion of his wife. Having made a mariage d’inclination which was considered by the Sardinian court to be incompatible with his rank and position in society, he was sent into honourable exile to Smyrna, as Chargé d’Affaires, whence he was a short time since removed to Constantinople; where, as I before remarked, he is rarely met with amid the Perote crowd that fills the ambassadorial ball-rooms.

The other foreign ministers play a comparatively insignificant rôle in society; as, since the destruction of the several diplomatic residences in the great fire, they have been compelled to inhabit houses which are not calculated for reception; and it would appear as though they are likely to be long situated thus: the only palace in process of restoration being that of Russia. Here again is asserted the autocracy of the North—the English palace is in ruins, and parasites are wreathing, like emerald-coloured snakes, about its tottering walls—Holland, France, all save Austria, are

“Driven from their parch’d and blacken’d halls.”

The evil is general—but the remedy has been applied, as yet, only in one instance.

Close the doors of the diplomatic residences, and little more can be said for the European society of Pera; it is about on a par with that of a third-rate provincial town in England. Ennui succeeds to curiosity, and indifference to ennui; and you gladly step into your caïque, or your araba; or, better still, spring into your saddle, to recreate yourself among scenes of beauty and magnificence, and to escape from “the everlasting larum” of “rounded sentences which tend to nothing.”