Chapter IV: The Imperial Harem--A Reception by the Sultan

It has been the privilege of many foreigners visiting Constantinople to witness the ceremony of _baise-main_, which takes place at the Dolma Bagtché Palace, but it does not fall to the lot of every woman to see that imposing ceremony from the Imperial harem. This unique and interesting experience I owe to my hostess, Fâtima.

The ceremony of baise-main is too well known for me to describe it here, and those persons who were seated in the gallery reserved for the Corps Diplomatique would no doubt see to better advantage than I the throne-room, the Sultan, and the curious and many-coloured uniforms and costumes of the Ottoman subjects who paid their homage to the Kaliph of Islam. Through the lattice-work windows of the Imperial harem it was difficult to form more than a vague idea of the ceremony, for we were so many women huddled together on the cushions, so many who were trying to see, that after a few moments I gave my seat to another lady in order to wander at leisure through the Imperial harem, where Fâtima tells me I am the first Englishwoman to be admitted as a visitor.

It was the first day of Baïram. We were awakened at dawn by the plaintive cries of the sacrificed sheep. Réchad, the coachman, was chosen as vékil (sacrificer), because he is recognized by the whole household as the most pious of us all, and his forty-five years of service also demand that this privilege should be his. His, too, was the privilege of distributing the meat, the skin, and the horns of the four sheep which this Moslem household offered to the poor, who came in through the open gates like a pack of hungry wolves, and looked, with their poor ravenous eyes, as if they could tear the meat from the hands of the coachman. To me, standing on the balcony, it was like watching a scene from the Old Testament--a scene all out of focus with so many of the attempts at progress which I see around this beautiful and interesting capital.

How strange it seemed also to be dressing for Court at 6.30 in the morning! To be putting on thin silk evening dresses and slippers at that early hour, and driving away in the chilly morning to pay our homage to an Eastern monarch.

Fâtima’s dress was of pink crêpe-de-chine embroidered in dull silver--a Paris creation--the last, however, she will ever have embroidered outside Turkey, for, like so many other ladies here, she has now awakened to the fact that the most costly embroideries of Europe are but poor imitations of the work of her own land. Round her hair she wore a pink and silver scarf, attached to the side by a silver rose, a charming variation of the curious turbans of flowers, feathers, and jewels which are worn by so many of the ladies attending the Ottoman Court. I asked Fâtima if the Court officials gave instructions to the ladies regarding their dress. “Provided their hair be decently covered,” she replied, “etiquette is satisfied,” and the Caliph has the “supreme” privilege of seeing all his subjects unveiled.

Like most of the ladies of the Court, we were attended by a slave, my negress, Miss Chocolate, an interesting personage in her Court attire. For this occasion she was dressed in pale blue satin, with a pale blue turban trimmed with pink roses, her fingers, arms, and neck being covered not only with all the jewellery she possessed, but the jewellery of the other slaves. It was her duty to follow us all the while, and during luncheon she stood inside the door with folded arms, in case her services should be required. It was she who took charge of our little bags, and in one of the “grandmother” pockets of her wide satin skirt were hair pins, safety pins, and handkerchiefs, in case of emergency. To drive to the Court, Miss Chocolate wore a white tulle veil which entirely covered her face, and a vivid blue satin feridji, covered with sequins and big white velvet pansies. How I wish I could have photographed her! Fâtima wore a yashmak, now, alas! only worn by Princesses and ladies attending the Court, for to me it is one of the most becoming of head-dresses, showing the eyes to very great advantage. She wore, also, a peacock-blue satin feridji, a hideous contrast to Miss Chocolate’s electric blue.

The Imperial harem, in spite of certain changes and certain privileges accorded to the Imperial Ottoman Princes and Princesses, still remains the harem in the real sense of the word, the harem about which Western readers expect to hear, the part of the Oriental house exclusively reserved for the use of the women. Across its threshold no man may enter, and even as we drove into the big door, which is inside another wooden door, and which is opened to admit each carriage and shut again immediately, our footman had to descend and wait for us outside the door. The whole Imperial harem is surrounded by a wall so high that no passer-by can possibly see within. The coachman, too, having left us at the entrance door, had to drive out and wait outside the first door.

This is the first time since I have been back again in Turkey that I have felt myself really within a harem. Even when I wear a veil, even when I forget I am not in England and try to push back the fixed lattice windows, even when I take part in these Baïram dinners, where not even the master of the house may be present, I do not realize the atmosphere of the harem. But within the palace, amidst its curious assembly of slaves and eunuchs, and in spite of its wide corridors and immense salons, there is a most uncomfortable feeling of bondage which would turn me into a raving lunatic at the end of a week. It is true, Fâtima explains to me, that all these women are solemnly asked four times at the end of each year whether they would like to marry and leave the harem. I say to myself, then, if they stay it is because they wish to stay, and are therefore happy. Their existence, however, seems a most heartrending waste of human life, and as I sat watching them loitering along the exquisitely carpeted corridors, gossiping, smoking, carrying alternately coffee and water to the guests, I longed to break down for them the lattice-work which always is there between them and the sun, to fling the windows wide open, so that they could breathe in the fresh air, and open the doors so that they, too, might go out. And yet not one of these women seemed in the least to feel her slavery, and, no doubt, they would turn their backs in horror on the ugly, unprotected existence of some of the women of my country.

“But these slaves are perfectly happy,” again and again Fâtima assured me, and, to judge from their smiling faces, I suppose they are. But waste is always sad--waste of youth, waste of beauty, waste of womanhood, especially when women are so sorely needed for the regeneration of this country.

Arrived at the central entrance door of the harem, Fâtima and I were helped out of our carriage by the attendant eunuchs. I was told that eunuchs were now a thing of the past, but certainly that remark could not have been made with reference to the Imperial harem. It is difficult for me, however, to remember that these poor mutilated anachronisms are great personages at the Ottoman Court, who, although they perform the menial service of opening the carriage doors and helping us up the stairs (one on either side and one behind, as though we were old ladies), are yet the masters of the establishment. Fâtima explained to me that they spoke to her with the exaggerated politeness of the Eastern courtier, because of their affection for her father, and all of them came to ask for news of him.

At the first turning of the central staircase we walked into the yashmak room, where a host of female slaves came forward to help us. I felt for a moment as though I had strayed behind the scenes at Drury Lane, so curious they looked, in their brightly coloured figured silks and clashing coloured turbans, but their dyed hair and blackened eyes should be my excuse for the poor compliment I am paying them. Some of the costumes, it is true, were made of those priceless Persian embroideries for which Fâtima and I have searched the market-place, but always the _tout ensemble_ was spoilt by some vividly coloured and clashing turban, a vivid yellow dress with a bright pink head-dress, an electric-blue dress and an exaggeratedly blue turban, which made one’s eyes ache. Behind the footlights, perhaps, such combinations could pass muster, but in the daylight, even in the dim daylight which comes through the latticed windows, they were a motley, uncomfortable spectacle. These dresses, however, defied both time and fashion, and were all cut on the same model; a long dress, with the train caught up to the waist, and a sack jacket.

Once the yashmak and our cloaks were removed the slaves took away the veils to iron them, and other slaves arrived to conduct us upstairs and announce our arrival to the lady Court officials, who wore costumes of different colours according to their rank. There was, first of all, the Hasnadar Ousta, or High Controller of the establishment, in white satin, trimmed with real gold embroidery at the foot of her dress and at the bottom of her coat. Her little white and gold turban suited her perfectly, and her jewels, if not beautiful, at least were original. On her breast was a bouquet of diamond flowers, which stretched almost from shoulder to shoulder. Another diamond ornament stretched across the front of her turban, and in her ears she wore birds the size of butterflies, each holding in its mouth a pearl the size of a cherry. She was an old lady, judging by her wrinkled face and bent back, rather than her golden hair, and after she had walked once or twice round the assembled ladies, kissing some and saluting others, leaning on her stick of office, she hobbled into the presence of one of the Princesses, leaving the real duties of the day to the younger officials.

I would have liked to ask one of the Court officials, had I dared, how our dresses appeared to them. The wife of the War Minister was wearing a dress of cerise _crêpe-de-chine_, so tight that she had to sit down carefully. All the ladies wore silk stockings and high-heeled shoes--most of them might have come straight out of the paper _Chiffons_ which is carefully studied in up-to-date harems to-day. How strange we all must have looked to these uncorseted women, who made no attempt at a fashionable coiffure, who still remained faithful to the “babouches” (heelless slippers) and coloured stockings worked with gold, and whose dresses could have been made into three or four of our present-day creations.

Most of the Court officials wore the Grand Cordon of the Order of the Chefakat, the Order of Mercy given to ladies of high rank and distinguished lady visitors. Fâtima alone amongst the lady visitors wore that order. Every time the Court officials passed, the guests stood, as the Eastern etiquette demands they should in the presence of superiors and aged ladies. This, however, was rather uncomfortable for us, for the Assistant Treasurer had known Fâtima’s family all her life, and frequently came and spoke to us. Seeing us about to rise, with Eastern politeness she ordered us to remain seated, but Eastern politeness also demanded that we should disregard her request and rise to speak to her.

The Assistant Hasnadar was particularly interested in me when, after much beating about the bush, Fâtima at last owned that I had never had a husband. “We are companions in distress,” said the Hasnadar, which in her case was not true, as I have already explained. A husband would be found for her to-morrow if she wished. But the wherefore of my celibacy puzzled her. “It is nothing of which to be ashamed,” I protested. “It is nothing of which to be proud,” she answered, and, like an Eastern woman when unable to reply, I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. The joys of “single blessedness” are not understood in this country, and personally, outside these high Court officials, I have never met an old Turkish spinster.

But supposing any of these women should take advantage of the solemn asking once a year, whether or no they will marry, what becomes of them? We have at present living in our harem a slave who has just left one of the Princess’s palaces. Fâtima has undertaken to keep her here until she and her friends can find a suitable husband for her. She is a contented, beautiful, useless creature, who eats with us when the young Bey is not here, and sings Oriental songs of exquisite pathos, accompanying herself on the oude.[6] And sometimes, when she sings, I ask Fâtima to interpret the words of them. “It is an old, old Turkish love-song,” she said, “a beautiful old song, and I love to hear her sing it.” “And what kind of love-song does a Turkish man sing to his unknown bride?” I asked. “That all the sorrows in the world may be his lot, if only all the joys may be hers.” “And what is the most awful of all the sorrows?” I asked. “Solitude,” answers Fâtima without hesitation.

We were a curious luncheon party that day--the wife of the Sultan’s Master of Ceremonies, several of Fâtima’s friends, and an Egyptian Princess, whose arrival at the Palace in a magnificent steam launch I had seen through the harem lattices. Most of these ladies, who spoke quite fluent French, were too timid to speak to me, a most distressing modesty, especially when it necessitates the constant employment of Fâtima as interpreter. If only they could hear how unmercifully most of us Englishwomen handle foreign languages, whilst they are really excellent linguists (the best in Europe, except, perhaps, the Russians), they surely would take courage.

The meal the Sultan offered us could scarcely be called a luncheon. There were cold meats of various kinds, sweetmeats, creams, and other delicacies, served in Sèvres dishes, but water was the only beverage. And after the meal was over, the slaves came round offering us glasses of water in beautifully cut crystal goblets, with gold lids, and served on little golden dishes. It was extraordinary to me to be bidden to an Emperor’s feast and given only water to drink, and yet here water is so limpid and cold that it is often more acceptable than the best champagne, and often on the steamboat, when we travel, I call the water-seller, who frequently passes in and out of the harem part of the boat in which we travel, and purchase a penny glass of water.

The ceremony of baise-main in the Selamlik was finished about eleven. To the cry of “Oh, Sultan, be humble, and remember God is greater than you,” from the assembled Court, the Sultan retired for a short rest before coming to the harem to receive the ladies of the Court. And, perhaps, he slept longer that day than he intended, for it seemed to us an eternity to wait. Eight hours at a Court, however, would be considered tiring in most countries, but most particularly in a harem where male conversation cannot be procured for untold gold. I begin to miss the society of the opposite sex: it is true we have men, far more men, in our Turkish home than in any other Turkish home I know, but I miss the men at the parties and picnics and meetings. And it does seem rather a waste of time to put on my prettiest gowns and make a particularly handsome coiffure to eat only with women. Zeyneb used to say that “men spoiled the look of our Western functions; that they crawled about our drawing-rooms and ball-rooms like great black-beetles.” Surely she had forgotten the appearance of an Ottoman Court and the awful black-beetles that crawl about there, when she spoke so disparagingly of our Western assemblies.

Fâtima explained to me that the Court of the present Sultan in no way equals the Court of the ex-Sultan in magnificence. The embroidery which the slaves hold in front of the coffee tray whilst coffee is being served was only a plain gold embroidery, whilst in Abdul Hamid’s time the cloth was studded with real stones. The coffee cups, too, and the jam service were only solid gold, whilst in Abdul Hamid’s time jewelled coffee cups were always used. The Court, however, has become more democratic. Princesses walk about amongst the people as they were not allowed to do during the reign of Abdul Hamid, and but for their red enamel necklaces and large diamond orders, exclusively worn by members of the Imperial family, we should have scarcely known we were amongst the members of the Imperial family. The Sultan’s grand-daughter interested me particularly--not so much because of her rank, but because of her appearance. She is a short girl for her age, which, I believe, is about twelve, but her dress was long and wide, her hair dressed in a knot on the top of her head inside a diamond crown, and the front of her small body was covered with diamond orders and a diamond dog-collar encircled her little throat. But most curious of all was the long, thin hand, quite out of proportion to the size of her body, with which she acknowledged our _temenahs_ (Eastern salutations), and on those curious hands she wore gold mittens studded with rubies and diamonds. It looked as though she had utilized a gold purse for that purpose. She had a charming and interesting face, this little Princess, though one of unending sadness. She looked to me not unlike a schoolgirl acting the part of Queen Elizabeth, and a striking contrast to the merry little Princesses of her age in our Western countries.

But what is most delightful to me in Turkish life, in the Court and out of the Court, in fact in every station of life, is the beautiful feeling of democracy. A Princess, while talking to you, will suddenly excuse herself, rise and throw her arms round the neck of her old _nourrice_, who walks about amongst the highest of the Court ladies. The accident of high birth demands specially cultured conversation, kindness, and fine manners towards persons of humbler birth, argues the Turkish woman, and the _snobbery_ which is so frequent in our Western countries has never existed here.

But suddenly one becomes conscious of a certain movement amongst the ladies, who, in spite of the music of the Imperial orchestra playing in the garden of the palace, in spite of the Hasnadar’s merry laugh and her encouraging request to be “patient,” have been growing weary of waiting. The Sultan has arrived! He has taken a particularly long rest this day, changed the uniform in which he received the Ottoman officials for a simple morning coat, and is seated in an armchair in the big salon waiting the arrival of the ladies in the order which the Hasnadar should see fit to introduce them. A procession of four ladies at a time, headed by the Hasnadar, we enter the room where Mehmeth V. is seated. But it is a ceremony so intimate, so unlike the ceremony we had dimly seen a few hours before through the latticed windows, that I cannot bring myself to think this good-natured, unceremonious old gentleman is the Sultan of a great Empire.

To me, we had the appearance of four students going to an examination, and I felt this more when, after kneeling before the Caliph, as etiquette demands, and kissing his hand, we were requested to rise and be introduced. “Your Majesty, our Sultan, Commander of the Faithful,” began the Hasnadar, with bent head, and leaning on her stick of office, “this is the daughter of ---- and the wife of ----” Then the Sovereign Caliph congratulated her on being the daughter of ---- and the wife of ----, said he was delighted to make her acquaintance, and passed on to the next lady, who was introduced in the same manner. When Fâtima’s name was made known to his Majesty, he asked her to be seated, and, again kneeling before the Sultan, she gave him news of her father, and answered the many questions he asked.

This was the first time Fâtima had made the acquaintance of the Sultan. “He was delighted,” he said with Eastern courtesy, and Fâtima rose and asked permission to introduce me herself. I was not introduced as the daughter or wife of a well-known Pasha, but as Fâtima’s “English sister,” who had come to share her existence for a while, and who had now come with her to pay homage to the Sovereign of the country. Many questions the Sultan asked about me, about my country, and all the while he talked I was thinking of the poor captive, Prince Réchad, who for thirty-three years had been imprisoned within those walls, and who now was the Sultan seated before me. He was weary. Early rising, perhaps, suited him as little as it suited me. He frequently pulled himself up, forced his eyes open, said he was delighted to make our acquaintance. Then we rose, and the Hasnadar escorted us from the room, and on the same occasion four more Court ladies were led into the Imperial presence.

It is interesting naturally to meet the ruler of a country, of an empire of such tradition, of a land which will be for so many years to come the subject of the greatest interest, but the meeting of the present Sultan did not stir me as did the meeting of the ex-Sultan Abdul Hamid--Abdul Hamid, who pretended not to know one word of the French language, which he speaks fluently, who always played his part, and took particular care that part should be well played before foreigners. All the nicest-sounding words were chosen from the Turkish language to delight their ears. He humbly requested that the distinguished foreigner for a short while staying within the capital of his “dear” land would make known to him the manner in which the Government could be of service in helping the foreigner on his or her journey. His great, big, brown eagle eyes were wide awake, he _unpacked_ the distinguished visitor, whilst the interpreter translated into the language he knows so well, and this hideous tyrant became a being of fascination. The present Sultan is a “fatalist.” Could he be otherwise with such an agonizing past? He who was obedient to his brother is now obedient to the Constitution; perhaps for Turkey it is better he should be so.

* * * * *

We drove home in silence, Fâtima and I. She had explained so many things to me that day; now she was tired. A long, tiring, but interesting day it was. I was almost sorry it had to end. Miss Chocolate, in her gaudy attire, is sitting in front of us in the carriage, weeping at the honour conferred on her, for she, with all the other slaves, has kissed the ground on which the master’s feet were resting.... Cannon are firing to announce that the time for evening prayer has come; the fat, unexercised horses are ploughing their way up the hill; the shops, which at 4.30 are pulling down their shutters for the night as we drive by, have had a day of rest.... What a wonderful change it is to be a Turkish woman for a while.... Surely Fate was kind to me when she crossed my destiny with that of little Fâtima.

FOOTNOTE:

[6] Oude: Turkish guitar played with a feather.