of light that hung like threads of fire from minaret to minaret. The casements quivered beneath the shock of the rattling cannon; and all the sounds which came to us from without spoke of festivity and rejoicing; and, meanwhile, we were a happy party within. Fatma Hanoum smoked her pipe, and overlooked the distribution of the bokshaliks that her daughter was preparing for the morrow—every member of the household, on the occasion of the Baïram, being entitled to a present, more or less valuable according to their deserts, the length and difficulty of their services, or the degree of favour in which they are held.
We, meanwhile, amused ourselves with watching the slaves, who, having left the bath, had seated themselves in groups at the lower end of the apartment, combing, tressing, and banding their dark, glossy hair; the younger ones forming it into one long, thick plait, hanging down the centre of the back, and twisting above it the painted handkerchief, so popular in the harem that it is worn equally by the Sultana and the slave; the others binding their tresses tightly about their heads, and replacing the locks which they hid from view with a profusion of false hair, braided in twenty or thirty little plaits, and reaching round the whole width of the shoulders.
All were busily engaged in preparing for the festival of the morrow, though many of them were aware that they should not leave the harem; it was sufficient that it was a festival, an excitement, a topic of conversation, something, in short, to engross their thoughts; and no belle ever prepared for a birthday with more alacrity than did the females of the harem of Mustafa Effendi, black and white, for the Baïram.
In the course of the evening, the Bayuk Hanoum was summoned to her husband, and then the timid wife of her son joined us at the tandour, and related to us the little history of her life, which, although by no means remarkable in Turkey, is so characteristic, and will, moreover, appear so extraordinary to European readers, that I shall give it, as nearly as my memory will serve me, in her own words.
“I am but nineteen,” she said, “a Circassian by birth, and was brought by my parents to Constantinople, and sold, at the age of nine years, to a friend of Fatma Hanoum’s. I was very happy, for she was kind to me, and I thought to pass my life in her harem; but about a year ago I accompanied her hither on a visit to the wife of Mustafa Effendi, at a moment when her son was beside her. I was one of four; and I do not yet understand why nor how I attracted his attention as I stood beside my companions; but a few days afterwards my mistress called me to her, and asked me if I had remarked the young Ismaël Bey when we had visited his mother. I told her that I had seen him; and she then informed me that the Hanoum desired to purchase me, in obedience to his wish; and demanded of me if I was willing to accede to the arrangement. Of course, I consented, and the Bey, having considered me as agreeable when I had withdrawn my yashmac as he had anticipated, he purchased me for ten thousand piastres, and I became an inmate of the harem of Mustafa Effendi—I am still happy,” she added plaintively, “very happy, for I am sure he loves me; but I nevertheless hope to be more so; for ere long I shall be a mother, and should my child prove to be a boy, from his Odalique I may perhaps become his wife.”
I pitied the poor young creature as I listened to her narrative, through the medium of my companion, who spoke the Turkish language fluently; and I breathed a silent prayer that her visions of happiness might be realized. She was not pretty; but she was so childlike, so graceful, and so gentle, that she inspired an interest which, when I had heard her story, was even painful; nor was the feeling lessened by an introduction to her husband, who, during the evening, sent to desire that all the women, save his mother and wife, should retire, as he intended to visit the harem; doubtlessly as much to satisfy his curiosity, as to exhibit his courtesy, by paying his respects to the European guests of his mother. Sallow and sickly-looking, inanimate, even for a Turk, and apparently bête comme une bûche, he seated himself, and listened to the conversation that was going forward, with one unvaried and inexpressive smile—
Pleased, he knew not why, and cared not wherefore;
dividing his admiration between the Frank ladies, and the brilliancy of a large diamond that he wore on his finger.
How comparative is happiness! I never lay my head upon my pillow, but I am grateful to Providence that I was not born in Turkey; while the fair Osmanlis in their turn pity the Frank women with a depth of sentiment almost ludicrous. They can imagine no slavery comparable with our’s—we take so much trouble to attain such slight ends—we run about from country to country, to see sights which we must regret when we leave them—we are so blent with all the anxieties and cares of our male relations—we expose ourselves to danger, and brave difficulties suited only to men—we have to contend with such trials and temptations, from our constant contact with the opposite sex—in short, they regard us as slaves, buying our comparative liberty at a price so mighty, that they are unable to estimate its extent—and then, the hardship of wearing our faces uncovered, and exposing them to the sun and wind, when we might veil them comfortably with a yashmac! Not a day passes in which they have commerce with a Frank, but they return thanks to Allah that they are not European women!
A modern French traveller, whose amusing work has, in one moderate volume, contrived to treat of about a dozen countries and localities; and to detail, respecting each, such a mass of fallacies as assuredly were never before collected together: informs his readers that the jealousies of the harem are carried to such a pitch as to entail poison, or, at the least, humiliating and severe labour on the victim of the disappointed rival! This assertion, like many others in which he has indulged, would be comic were it not wicked—for the very arrangements of the harem render it impossible: each lady has her private apartment, which, should she desire to remain secluded, no one has the privilege to invade; and, from the moment that she becomes a member of the family, her life, should she so will it, is one of the most monotonous idleness. The very slaves, as I believe I have elsewhere remarked, are so numerous in every handsome establishment, that three-fourths of their time is unemployed; and as, in the less distinguished ranks, no Turk indulges in the expensive luxury of a second wife, there is little opportunity afforded for female tyranny.
The Kiära Bey, or Minister of the Interior, despite his exalted station and his immense wealth, has declined to avail himself of his polygamical privilege; and, although his wife is both plain and elderly, she has such a supreme hold, if not upon his heart, at least upon his actions, that, a short time since, having discovered that her lord had suddenly become more than necessarily attentive to a fair Circassian, her own peculiar favourite, whom she had reared from a child, and whose beauty was of no ordinary character, she very quietly placed her in an araba, sent her to the slave-market, and disposed of her to the highest bidder. The ingratitude of the protégée had loosened her hold on the affections of her patroness; nor did the husband venture to utter a reproach to his outraged helpmate, when he discovered the absence of the too-fascinating Circassian.
Had the unhappy girl been the Odalique of the lord, instead of the slave of the lady, the evil would have been irremediable, however; as in that case, the Bayuk Hanoum would have possessed no power to displace her.
Early in the morning, the stately Fatma Hanoum presented to my companion and myself a bokshalik from the venerable Effendi, which consisted of the material for a dress, neatly folded in a handkerchief of clear muslin, fringed with gold-coloured silk; and, as I made my hasty toilette, in the hope of witnessing the procession of the Baïram, and seeing Mahmoud “the Powerful” in all the splendour of his greatness, I glanced with considerable interest round the apartment in which I had passed the night. In the domed recess, which I soon discovered to be common to every handsome Turkish apartment, stood a French clock, that “discoursed,” if not “eloquent,” at least fairy-like, music—a piece of furniture, by the way, universally popular among the natives of the East, who usually have one or more in every room occupied by the family—two noble porcelain vases—a china plate containing an enamelled snuff-box, and a carved ebony chaplet—and a tray on which were placed cut crystal goblets of water, covered glass bowls filled with delicate conserves, a silver caïque, whose oars were small spoons, and a beautifully worked wicker basket, shaped like a dish, and upheaped with crystallized fruits, sparkling beneath a veil of pale pink gauze, knotted together with bunches of artificial flowers.
Turkish hospitality and prévoyance provide even for the refreshment of a