Chapter XXIX: The Sultan Abdul Aziz

Whoever comes to Constantinople must behold the face of the Sultan, if he would see the height of all human glory. Other European sovereigns are but men; but he is the incarnation of a spiritual as well as a temporal power. He is not only the ruler of a State, but the head of a religion. What the Pope is to the Roman Catholic Church, the Sultan is to Islamism. He is the Caliph to whom all the followers of the Prophet in Asia and Africa look up with reverence as their heaven-appointed leader. But though so great a being, he does not keep himself invisible, like the Brother of the Sun and Moon in China. Once a week he makes a public appearance. Every Friday, which is the Mohammedan Sabbath, he goes in great state to the mosque, and then whosoever will approach may gaze on the brightness of his face. This is one of the spectacles of Constantinople. It is indeed a brilliant pageant, not to be overlooked by those who would see an exhibition of Oriental pomp and magnificence. Sometimes the Sultan goes to mosque by water, in a splendid barge covered with gold, and as soon as he takes his seat under a canopy, all the ships of war lying in the Bosphorus fire salutes, making the shores ring with their repeated thunders. At other times he goes on horseback, attended by a large cavalcade, as when we saw him last Friday.

We took an open barouche with our dragoman as guide, and drove a little before noon to the neighborhood of the palace, where we found a crowd already assembled in front of the gates, and a brilliant staff of officers in waiting Troops were drawn up on both sides of the street by which the Sultan was to pass. Laborers were busy covering it with sand, that even his horse's feet might not touch the common earth. While awaiting his appearance we drove up and down to observe the crowd. Carriages filled with the beauties of the harems of different pashas were moving slowly along, that they might enjoy the sight, for their secluded life does not extinguish their feminine curiosity. Very pale and languid beauties they were, as one might see through their thin gauze veils, their pallid expressionless faces not relieved by their dull dark eyes. Adjoining the palace of the Sultan is that of his harem, where we observed a great number of eunuchs standing in front, tall, strapping fellows, black as night, (they are generally Nubian slaves brought from the upper Nile,) but very well dressed in European costume, with faultless frock coats, and who evidently felt a pride in their position as attendants on the Imperial household.

While observing these strange figures, the sound of a trumpet and the hurrying of soldiers to their ranks, told that the Sultan was about to move. "Far off his coming shone." Looking back we saw a great stir about the palace gates, out of which issued a large retinue, making a dazzling array, as the sun was reflected from their trappings of gold. And now a ringing cheer from the troops told that their sovereign had appeared. We drew up by the side of the street "to see great Caesar pass." First came a number of high officers of State in brilliant dress, their horses mounted with rich trappings. These passed, and there was an open space, as if no other presence were worthy to precede near at hand the august majesty that was to follow; and on a magnificent white charger appeared THE SULTAN. The drums beat, the bands played, the troops presented arms, and cheers ran along the line. But I hardly noticed this, for my eye was fixed on the central figure, which I confess answered very well to my idea of an Oriental sovereign. It is said that the Sultan never looks so well as on horseback, as his rather heavy person then appears to the best advantage. He wore no insignia of his rank, not even a military cap or a waving plume, but the universal _fez_, with only a star glittering with diamonds on his breast. Slowly he passed, his horse never moving out of a walk, but stepping proudly as if conscious of the dignity of his rider, who held himself erect, as if disdaining the earth on which he rode; not bowing to the right or left, recognizing no one, and betraying no emotion at the sight of the crowd, or the cheers of his soldiers, or the music of the band, but silent, grave and stern, as one who allowed no familiarity, who was accustomed to speak only to be obeyed.

He passed, and dismounting on the marble steps of the mosque, which had been spread with a carpet, ascended by stairs to a private gallery, which was screened from the rest of the building, like a box in a theatre, where he bowed himself and repeated that "God is God, and Mohammed is his prophet," and whatever other form of prayer is provided for royal sinners.

But his devotions were not very long or painful. In half an hour he had confessed his sins, or paid his adoration, and stepped into a carriage drawn by four horses to return. As he drove by he turned towards us, his attention perhaps being attracted by seeing a carriage filled with foreigners, and we had a full view of his face. He looked older than I expected to see him. Though not yet fifty, his beard, which is clipped short, is quite gray. But his face is without expression. It is heavy and dull, not lighted up either by intelligence or benevolence. The carriage rolled into the gates of the palace, and the pageant was ended.

Such was the public appearance of the Sultan. But an actor is often very different behind the scenes. A tragic hero may play the part of Caesar, and stride across the stage as if he were the lord of nations, and drop into nothing when he takes off his royal robes, and speaks in his natural voice. So the Sultan, though he appears well on horseback, and rides royally--though he has the look of majesty and "his bend doth awe the world"--yet when he retires into his palace is found to be only a man, and a very weak man at that. He has not in him a single element of greatness. Though he comes of a royal race, and has in his veins the blood of kings and conquerors, he does not inherit the high qualities of his ancestors. Some of the Sultans have been truly great men, born to be conquerors as much as Alexander or Napoleon. The father of the present Sultan, Mahmoud II., was a man of force and determination, one worthy to be called the Grand Turk, as he showed by the way in which he disposed of the Janissaries. This was a military body that had become all-powerful at Constantinople, being at once the protectors of the Sultan, and his masters--setting him up and putting him down, at their will. Two of his predecessors they had assassinated, and he might have shared the same fate, if he had not anticipated them. But preparing himself secretly, with troops on which he could rely, as soon as he was strong enough he brought the conflict to an issue, and literally _exterminated_, the Janissaries (besieging them in their barracks, and hunting them like dogs in the streets) as Mehemet Ali had massacred the Mamelukes in Egypt. Then the Sultan was free, and had a long and prosperous reign. He ruled with an iron hand, but though despotically, yet on the whole wisely and well. Had he been living now, Turkey would not be in the wretched condition in which she is to-day. What a contrast between this old lion of the desert, and the poor, weak man who now sits in his seat, and who sees the sceptre of empire dropping from his feeble hands!

The Sultan is a man of very small capacity. Though occupying one of the most exalted positions in the world, he has no corresponding greatness of mind, no large ideas of things. He is not capable of forming any wise scheme of public policy, or any plan of government whatever, or of pursuing it with determination. He likes the pomp of royalty (and is very exacting of its etiquette), without having the cares of government. To ride in state, to be surrounded with awe and reverence, suits his royal taste; but to be "bored" with details of administration, to concern himself with the oppressions of this or that pasha in this or that province, is quite beneath his dignity.

The only thing in which he seems to be truly great, is in spending money. For this his capacity is boundless. No child could throw away money in more senseless extravagance. The amount taken for his Civil List--that is, for his personal expenses and for his household--is something enormous. His great father, old Mahmoud II., managed to keep up his royal state on a hundred thousand pounds a year; but it is said that this man cannot be satisfied with less than two millions sterling, which is more than the civil list of any other sovereign in Europe. Indeed nobody knows how much he spends. His Civil List is an unfathomable abyss, into which are thrown untold sums of money.

Then too, like a true Oriental, he has magnificent tastes in the way of architecture, and for years his pet folly has been the building of new palaces along the Bosphorus. Although he had many already, the greater part unoccupied, or used only for occasional royal visits, still if some new position pleased his eye, he immediately ordered a new palace to be built, even at a fabulous cost. Some of these dazzle the traveller who has seen all the royal palaces of Western Europe. To visit them requires a special permission, but we obtained access to one by a liberal use of money, and drove to it immediately after we had seen the Sultan going to mosque. It is called the Cheragan Palace, and stands just above that which the Sultan occupies. It is of very great extent, and built of white stone, and as it faces the Bosphorus, it seems like a fairy vision rising from the sea. The interior is of truly Oriental magnificence. It is in the Moorish style, like the Alhambra. We passed through apartment after apartment, each more splendid than the last. The eye almost wearies with the succession of great halls with columns of richest marble, supporting lofty ceilings which are finished with beautiful arabesques, and an elaborateness of detail unknown in any other kind of architecture. Articles of furniture are wrought of the most precious woods, inlaid with costly stones, or with ivory and pearl. What must have been the cost of such a fairy palace, no one knows--not even the Sultan himself--but it must have been millions upon millions.

Yet this great palace is unoccupied. When it was finished, it is said that the Sultan on entering it, slipped his foot, or took a cold (I have heard both reasons assigned), which so excited his superstitious feeling (he thought it an omen of death) that he would not live in it, and so in a few weeks he returned to the palace which he had occupied before, where he has remained ever since. And so this new and costly palace is empty. Except the attendants who showed us about, we saw not a human being. It was not built because it was needed, but because it gratified an Imperial whim.

Extravagant and foolish as this is, there is no way to prevent such follies when such is the royal pleasure, for the Sultan, like many weak men--feeble in intellect and in character--is yet of violent temper, and cannot brook any opposition to his will. If he wants a new palace, and the Grand Vizier tells him there is no money in the treasury, he flies into a rage and sends him about his business, and calls for another who will find the money.

Yet the vices of the Sultan are not all his own. They are those of his position. What can be expected of a man who has been accustomed from childhood to have his own way in everything; to be surrounded with a state and awe, as if he were a god; and to have every caprice and whim gratified? It is one of the misfortunes of his position that he never hears the truth about anything. Though his credit in Europe is gone; though whole provinces are dying of famine, he is not permitted to know the unwelcome truth. He is surrounded by courtiers and flatterers whose interest it is to deceive him, and who are thus leading him blindly to his ruin.

In his pleasures the Sultan is a man of frivolous tastes, rather than of gross vices. From some vices he is free, and (as I would say every good word in his favor) I gladly record this. He is not a drunkard (as were some of his predecessors, in spite of the Mohammedan law against the use of strong drinks); and, what is yet more remarkable for a Turk, he does not smoke. But if he does not drink, he _eats_ enormously. He is, like Cardinal Wolsey, "a man of unbounded stomach," and all the resources of the Imperial cuisine are put in requisition to satisfy his royal appetite. It is said that when he goes to the opera he is followed by a retinue of servants, bearing a load of dishes, so that if perchance between the acts his sublime Majesty should need to refresh himself, he might be satisfied on the instant.

For any higher pleasures than mere amusements he has no taste. He is not a man of education, as Europeans understand education, and has no fondness for reading. In all the great palace I did not see a single book--and but _one_ picture. [The Mohammedans do not like "images," and so with all their gorgeous decorations, one never sees a picture. This was probably presented to the Sultan from a source which he could not refuse. It was a landscape, which might have been by our countryman, Mr. Church.] But he does not care for these things. He prefers to be amused, and is fond of buffoons and dancing girls, and takes more delight in jugglers and mountebanks than in the society of the most eminent men of science in Europe. A man who has to be treated thus--to be humored and petted, and fed with sweetmeats--is nothing more or less than a big baby--a spoiled child, who has to be amused with playthings. Yet on the whims and caprices of such a creature may depend the fate of an empire which is at this moment in the most critical situation, and which needs the most skilful statesmanship to guide it through its dangers. Is it that God intends to destroy it, that He has suffered such a man to come to the throne for such a time as this?

It is a most instructive comment on the vanity of all earthly things, that this man, so fond of pleasure, and with all the resources of an empire at command, is not happy. The Spanish Minister tells me that he _never saw him smile_. Even in his palace he sits silent and gloomy. Is it that he is brooding over some secret trouble, or feels coming over him the shadow of approaching ruin?

Notwithstanding all his outward state and magnificence, there are things which must make him uneasy; which, like Belshazzar's dream, must trouble him in the midst of his splendor. Though an absolute monarch, he cannot have everything according to his will; he cannot live forever, and what is to come after him? By the Mohammedan law of succession the throne passes not to his son, but to the oldest male member of the royal house--it may be a brother or a nephew. In this case the heir apparent is Murad Effendi, a son of the late Sultan. But Abdul Aziz (unmindful of his dead brother, or of that brother's living son) is very anxious to change the order of succession in favor of his own son (as the viceroy of Egypt has already done,) but he does not quite dare to encounter the hostility of the bigoted Mussulmans. Formerly it was the custom of the Sultan, in coming to the throne, to put out of the way all rivals or possible successors, from collateral branches of the family, by the easy method of assassination. But somehow that practice, like many others of the "good old times," has fallen into disuse, and now he must wait for the slow process of nature. Meanwhile Murad Effendi is kept in the background as much as possible. He did not appear in the procession to the mosque, and is never permitted to show himself in state, while the son of the Sultan, whom he would make his heir, is kept continually before the public. Though he is personally insignificant, both in mind and in body, this poor little manikin is made _the commander-in-chief of the army_, and is always riding about in great state, with mounted officers behind his carriage. All this may make him a prince, but can never make him a MAN.

What is to be the future of the Sultan, who can tell? His empire seems to be trembling on the verge of existence, and it is not likely that he could survive its fall. But if he should live many years he may be compelled to leave Constantinople; to leave all his beautiful palaces on the Bosphorus, and transfer his capital to some city in Asia. Broussa, in Asia Minor, was the former capital of the Ottoman Empire, before the Turks conquered Constantinople, four hundred and twenty years ago, and to that they may return again; or they may go still farther, to the banks of the Tigris, or the shores of the Persian Gulf, and the Sultan may end his days as the Caliph of Bagdad.