Chapter XIV: Forbidden Ground--The Holy Tomb

I have been with Fâtima to the Holy Tomb of Eyoub. Ever since I came here I have looked forward to this experience; not so much, let me confess at once, to see the beautiful porcelains which cover its sacred and historic walls as to contradict the regulation which reserves entrance to the Holy Tomb exclusively for “believers.”

This was not my first visit to Eyoub. Five years ago I had the humiliating experience of being refused admission to the tomb because I was wearing a hat; now I am wearing a veil who can tell whether I am Moslem or Christian? Last time I came to Eyoub in a friend’s launch. It had been freshly painted, and was out that day as it were for its maiden trip. We had chosen an afternoon when the sea was calm and the atmosphere clear enough to enjoy the magnificent view one has of the opposite shore, and all the hieroglyphics and brass-work on the launch were dancing in the sunshine like little golden butterflies.

Although we could not visit the mosque that afternoon five years ago, we did not give to the tombs and the curious cemetery the time they deserved. We climbed up the steep and stony path which leads to a “Well of Souls,” where a witch with wonderful powers of divination can not only predict what will happen in the future, but will tell you the valuables stolen during the year and in the water of the well the faces of the thieves can be distinctly seen. But we never found the witch.

And now, since my last visit, Eyoub does not seem in the least bit changed. There is the same merchant who sells you corn with which to feed the pigeons, there are the same devout-looking turban-headed inhabitants, the same thickly veiled women, the same unending streams of beggar children, and I even think I can recognise our boatman of five years ago. He is still a little on my conscience. The launch, I remember, was too big to land at Eyoub, so a caïque was called and we were rowed up to the little landing-place; and I remember so distinctly the boatman was not paid. When we returned, however, he was either praying or had gone home to rest. Calling another man, we engaged him to row us to the launch; he was paid and given the money for his colleague. With Western _naïveté_, I asked whether the first boatman would ever receive his money. “Why, of course,” answered my friend, not in the least understanding my question.

We drove to Eyoub this time. A long, delightful drive it was through the picturesque quarters of Stamboul, which are now becoming so familiar to me and to which I have become so attached. The market-place with its richly coloured fruits; the well-balanced shops of meat, bread, and other wares so charmingly arranged on the mule’s back--I watch them almost as one watches by the death-bed of a loved one. Like death, the passing of the primitive Turk is inevitable; but that does not make his going any the less sad, nor does it prevent one’s mourning....

It was Friday afternoon. The Faithful were at prayer when we arrived. I wanted to see the mosque; but how could I, even as a veiled woman, take my place amongst the women? Much as I admire the wonderful solemnity of the Eastern prayers--much as I, a Christian, would have loved to worship Allah with my Moslem sisters--I was just a little frightened; my action might be mistaken for irreverence.

We went, however, into the gallery reserved for the Sultan, and through the lattice-work windows we had a good view of the mosque below. But the mosque and its historic contents--for it is in this mosque that the Sultan is girt with the sword of Islam--were dwarfed to me in the magnificence of seeing men and women in one mass bending in rhythmic supplication to the God of us all. The women were screened off from the men, but they were “believers,” every one of them, and they worshipped with a reverence I had never yet seen elsewhere.

Of its charity, one branch of our Christian Church prays every Sabbath for Turks and heretics. There are some heretics I know who resent being classed with the Turks. I am proud to be classed with the Turks; but then, I am a heretic who has seen them at prayer....

* * * * *

Eyoub-Ansari-Khalid-ben-Said, to give him his full title, was a favourite standard-bearer of the Prophet, and during the siege of Constantinople he fell. About eight centuries after his death a body was exhumed which was supposed to be his, and was buried by Mahomet the conqueror, who placed it with pomp and ceremony beside the sword of the Prophet. To his tomb come pilgrims who have special favours to ask the saint, and he has accomplished, I am told, some marvellous cures. It was not a little surprising to me that these superstitions had also crept into Islam--yet who would grudge the ignorant the comfort of their beliefs?

* * * * *

Slowly and reverently I followed Fâtima and her friend across the wide courtyard, whose plantain tree stretched like a magnificent green canopy between us and the sky; a flight of white pigeons flew out to greet us. “Only do not speak!” warned Fâtima once again as we crossed another courtyard to the entrance of the Holy Tomb. On arriving at the mausoleum, we took off our shoes and left them on the doorstep. The thought did just flash through my mind that it would be rather uncomfortable should a passer-by take a fancy to my new shoes; but I soon felt ashamed of my Western suspicions--and, after all, I have left my shoes so often outside mosques and never have they been taken....

Fâtima and I have visited many tombs now. They seem, these _turbés_, to reconcile one with the idea of death, although it is only the great of the land whose mortal remains are kept in a mausoleum. In a coffin covered by a shawl and surrounded by candles, with his Koran and other precious souvenirs kept by his side ready for use, the dead man rests--it is as if he were asleep, and the guardian, who with his little _ménage_ of beads and cushions and a Koran, watches and tends and shields him from all harm. These _turbés_ are not altogether what one would expect, however, in democratic Turkey. I should have fancied that the equality preached in life would have been enforced after death, and that the Turks would have buried their dead in much the same way as the Moravians, whose cemetery is the picturesque lesson in Socialism which greets me every morning from my study window in Chelsea. Flat stone slabs level with the earth--hidden at certain seasons of the year by long grass, poppies, and cornflowers--whatever they have been in life, on their long last journey they start in the same vehicle.

The guardians of the tombs were generally men of learning--Hodjas, or at least students, who in the evening of their existence were content to guard the mortal remains of some great man.

There is a sympathetic and interesting old Hodja who guards the tomb of the Sultan Fathij, the Conqueror. His age in Biblical parlance is five score and ten, I am told, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this statement, since I have not seen his birth certificate. He is in perfect possession of all his faculties, walks, however, with difficulty, and he remains all day seated cross-legged on his cushions with his chaplet of amber beads and open Koran before him.

When we had removed our shoes, we sat down beside the old Hodja, and kissing his bony old hand as a sign of respect for his age and his office, Fâtima spoke to him of many things. “Tell him,” I said, “that I am a Giaour.” Fâtima did as I requested. “There are no Giaours in our religion,” replied this kindly old man; “every creature whom God has created is dear to Him and dear to us all.”

“There are no Giaours in our religion.” The answer was so unexpected and so splendid that I have repeated it to many who have attacked in my presence the fanaticism of Islam. Yet, was the old Hodja right after all? Should he not rather have said, “There ought to be no Giaours in our religion”? The Koran says in this respect, “We believe in God and what has been sent down to us through the Holy Prophets--we make no difference between them, and to Him are we resigned.” This being the case, why then must I, a Christian, go to the Holy Tomb disguised as a Mahometan?

The tomb of Eyoub was by no means the most beautiful that I have seen in Turkey, nor the most interesting. One had not time during one’s short stay to examine at leisure the porcelains. But can they be compared in any way, I ask myself, with the exquisite porcelains of the Rustem Pasha mosque, that tiny, almost unknown mosque to which one drives through the most unappetising of the Stamboul streets, and whose beauty so many tourists take for granted, since the mosque is so difficult to find? Two or three walks round the tomb, two or three peeps at the silverwork, two or three glances at the purple silk curtains, and we are out and have put on our shoes again. Yes, indeed, one could see many things more beautiful, but this tomb is beautiful because of the difficulty in seeing it. To run the risk once more of being torn to pieces by an angry mob, as I did in Bosnia! Truly the forbidden fruit is sweet indeed!

We walked slowly up the hills, threading our way amongst the tombs; the wistaria was shrivelling in the brownness of death, but there was a wealth of those bright pink roses which I had searched for in Zeyneb’s garden in order to make the rose jam. The ragged beggar children follow us asking for alms. We pause and look towards the Golden Horn. How magnificent it all looks from here. There the five hills, each crowned by a mosque--Sudludgi, Piri Pasha, Hass-Kerin, Kassim Pasha, and Galata--can be seen as distinct as the five fingers of your hand, and all bathed in those wonderful uncertain and poetical tints which do not belong to our Western world.

One wanders on for a while, and then pauses to drink in just a little more of the beautiful landscape. Neither of us care to speak. We understand each other. A melancholy happiness, a calm, quiet feeling of resignation has taken possession of us, and in this resignation lies the whole enchantment of the East.

* * * * *

Just before we reached our carriage I saw a dear friend with her accustomed unselfishness escorting some English visitors round as much as they, Christians, could see of the holy city of Eyoub. She recognised my voice, and I was introduced as a Turkish lady to my compatriots.

I felt just a little guilty at their delight in meeting a real Turkish woman, but it was too dangerous to undeceive them in those fanatical surroundings. “And how well you speak English, too!” they said. “English was the first language I spoke,” I answered truthfully. I wonder whether Miss A. ever told them who I really was.