A Journey to Crete, Costantinople, Naples and Florence: Three Months Abroad

A few days after our arrival we went the usual round of sight-seeing, in company with several other persons staying at the hotel, who all profited by the special permission which must be obtained before one can visit some of the places of interest in Constantinople. Our companions were all English; and I am sorry to say there were several of them with us who made themselves conspicuously ridiculous. One promising youth, measuring in his slippers at least five feet ten inches, wore a knickabocker suit like my little boy of seven, who has lately rebelled against this dress as too childish, declaring his determination to wear trousers; and, although it was as cold as on a March day with an easterly wind, and no more sun than shines on a bright November day in London, he had, in order to protect himself against the sunstroke, a large white handkerchief twisted round his wide-awake, which looked like a turban out-of-fashion. For turbans are quite out of fashion in Constantinople, where the red fez has been almost exclusively adopted as a head-covering. Another of the young men of our party had a pair of very small slippers which, when entering a mosque, he used to put over his large boots, of course with the heels down. They covered only half of his boots, which offended one of the Turkish priests, who told him through the dragoman to take his dusty boots off, but the proud young Briton refused to do so, and very nearly brought us all into trouble.

The sights of Constantinople are so far interesting as they are different from those of all other European capitals. Their novelty was the chief attraction they had for me. We saw them all in one day, which proves that there are not many.

We first visited the garden of the old Seraglio, whose situation on a gentle hill, sloping down to the Sea of Marmora, is one of the most beautiful in the world. There are large numbers of fine cypresses and plane-trees growing in masses there, almost like a forest, which gives an air of perfect solitude and retirement to the garden, although it is surrounded on two sides by one of the largest and busiest towns in the world. The beautiful old Seraglio that formerly adorned this splendid site was burned down a few years ago. It was then the residence of what are called the “Imperial widows” of the late Sultan. These unhappy creatures are never allowed to leave the precincts of the palace that has been assigned to them as a residence, but must mourn, in perfect retirement, the loss of their late lord till death ends their existence. There is a rumour that one of these Serailee Hanum (that is the title by which they are distinguished), in order to get a chance of escape from her prison, set it on fire; but this is, of course, a conjecture only. The Dowager Sultanas inhabit now another large palace situated in the same garden, and I looked at its latticed windows, when it was pointed out to me, with a feeling of unspeakable pity.

There are in the same delightful locality some pretty Kiosks of the Sultan. One is called the Library, which did however not contain more books than a well stocked schoolroom in an English country house. We visited three mosques: the beautiful one of Sultan Sulimani, Sultan Achmet’s, which has six minarets, and Aja Sophia, the grand old church, the very carpets of which look venerable.

The look-down from the high gallery into the nave, which was well filled with worshippers, was most interesting. The wretched little glass lamps, with which the Turks light up their mosques, are excessively ugly and out of keeping.

The Hippodrome now no more resembles a Roman Circus than Trafalgar Square does. Every trace of the ancient structure has disappeared, and the square is surrounded by Turkish mosques and houses. The large obelisk, that stands in the middle, shows however that this was the site of the splendid Hippodrome which was adorned by an infinite number of the finest Greek statues in marble and bronze. The famous horses of Lysippus, which once stood here, I remembered to have seen over the portals of St. Mark in Venice.

The least beautiful, but not the least interesting sight, is the gallery where the costumes of the Janizaries are exhibited. Most persons will remember that this Turkish soldiery, the formidable opponents of all progress and civilization in the Turkish Empire, the terror of the Sultans and the tyrants of the people, were burnt and massacred by thousands in the year 1826, by order of Sultan Mahmud II., who probably, in doing so, conferred an inestimable benefit upon the nation. A large number of lay figures, representing the principal functionaries of the household of the Sultan, the officers of the Janizaries, and the Janizaries themselves, who were not obliged to wear a uniform, stand there in the very dresses these people used to wear, and which are the strangest costumes the barbarous taste of a wild and haughty people could invent. They look a ghastly host now. I don’t know that I ever felt more uncomfortable than during the time I found myself in their company. I would not stop a night alone in those galleries, not for all the treasures those terrible looking men possessed when alive.

I gladly turn my thoughts from this “dread abode” to the more cheerful life of the Bazaars of Stamboul, where you can buy sparkling diamonds and golden slippers, and all the “perfumes of Arabia.” There is little besides the unavoidable atta of roses and embroidered slippers to tempt a not over acquisitive disposition. Ladies that are fond of diamonds can get them cheaper there than in London or Paris. But then one does not go to the Bazaars only for the purpose of purchasing at the stalls, every one of them is a new and striking picture. The principal figure in it is now an old grey-bearded Turk, who still wears his national dress, sitting on his carpet or reclining on his cushion, smoking his chibouque. He hardly changes his comfortable position, when your dragoman asks him for some article you want, and only rises if he cannot reach it while reclining. Or it is a lively black-eyed young Greek, who spreads out before you as you pass his stall, a gold embroidered table-cover, or holds up some bright glittering beads, in order to excite your desire to purchase; or it is a long bearded Jew, in his oriental dress, that begins to talk to you in English, French and German, all at once, and offers to sell you every thing you can possibly want at the lowest possible price. What different figures are these from the London shopmen in their eternal black coats and white cravats, and the young shopwomen, their companions, in their everlasting black alpaca dresses, always standing behind the counter, even if there is nobody to serve.

The workshops, which like the stalls of the Bazaars are quite open towards the street, are also interesting to look at. You see the tailor cutting out his work, the cooper making barrels, the turner at his work, the coppersmith, the baker, the pastry-cook, &c. &c. Whenever the work allows it the workmen sit, and they do not look as if they laboured very hard.

As I wished much to visit some Harems in Constantinople, and see a little more of the Turkish women, my husband, in order to gratify my wish, procured for us introductions to some people of note, and took me to the Pashas and smoked chiboques with them, although I know he would have much preferred to take a kaik, and go to Bujuk Dere, or the sweet waters of Europe with me; for a row on the Bosphorus, or the Golden Horn, was what he most enjoyed at Constantinople. Before we visited the Pashas in Stamboul, I paid however my promised visit to Mme. Conemenos, the Greek lady, whose acquaintance I had made on the steamboat from Corfu to Sira. She was staying with her parents in Yeni Keui on the Bosphorus, where M. d’Aristarchi, her father, has a beautiful palace, a present of the late Sultan’s, under whose reign M. d’Aristarchi, who is brother of the Prince of Samos, filled high offices of state. I remember my visit to this amiable family with great pleasure, for in going to Yeni Keui, which is one of the prettiest villages on the Bosphorus, I saw the beauty of that unrivalled spot for the first time. I spent a whole day there, and never was tired of looking on the beautiful scenery around, sitting near the window of some cool airy room of the palace, or walking through the shady and flowery garden that rises in terraces high above the blue waters of the Bosphorus.

The very next day we paid a visit to Omer Pasha, and were of course interested to see this great soldier of the Turkish Empire. He spoke with my husband about the Turkish army, agriculture, and horse breeding; to me about his two little children, a little girl of fifteen months, and a baby boy, who was then a few weeks old. These are his only children, besides a married daughter. He spoke with apparent regret that these children should have been given to him so late in life, and said that he could not hope to see them grow up, but as in spite of his advanced years, and a slight indisposition of which he complained, he still looked a fine man, I told him to trust in Providence, which might spare him still for many years. We parted after a visit of two hours, mutually well pleased I think, and with a promise to renew our acquaintance in London, which he intended visiting in the course of the summer. I did not enter his Harem, as his wife had been so lately confined, and could not receive visitors.

As Omer Pasha is a German by birth, and Ishmael Pasha is of Greek extraction, it was only when I visited Sami Pasha, that I knew I was with a real Mussulman, and I think it was partly for that reason that the visit to his house in Stamboul interested me more than the others I had paid. Sami Pasha, ex-Minister of Public Instruction, and member of the Privy Council, lives in a fine old mansion in Stamboul, which is separated from the bustle and noise of the city, by large court yards and gardens which surround the house on all sides. The house itself is one of the oldest and finest in Constantinople; the halls, and rooms, and staircases, are to an English eye very spacious, and the reception room, which is entirely of finely carved and richly gilded oak, and commands a splendid view of Stamboul, is very beautiful.

Sami Pasha is quite an old man, with a very intelligent look, and the manners of a courtier. He has been Governor of many provinces, and seemed pleased to hear that he was still remembered at Crete, where he was Governor at the time the turbulent Greeks threatened a new insurrection, which his moderation and firmness had prevented from breaking out. He had years ago visited England and France, and was interested in all that concerned those countries. He had known many of our statesmen personally, as Sir Robert Peel and Lord Aberdeen; he inquired after Lord Palmerston, and seemed pleased that his Lordship, of whom he appeared to be a contemporary, was, like himself, still in the enjoyment of health and vigour. Although a member of the Privy Council, he holds no longer any special office, preferring quiet and retirement. He told me that his time was now entirely devoted to study and reflection, and that he was just then writing a treatise on morals. I had expressed a wish to see the “ladies of the house.” I could not in this case ask to see his wife, as I knew he had two legitimate ones; it is not often the case that Turks have more than one wife, partly I believe because it entails a large expenditure, each lady having entirely separate households, with their large suites of apartments, and numerous male and female slaves and attendants. After I had been announced to the ladies, a son of Sami Pasha, a young man of about seventeen years of age, with pleasant, courteous manners, led me into the Harem. All the doors that lead into it had been unlocked, perhaps in order not to shock my western prejudices, so that we walked freely into the ante-chamber of the Harem, where I met the first Hanum, who, looking rather embarrassed but not unkind, conducted me to another room. She was a stout lady of about thirty-five years of age, the mother of the young man that served us as interpreter. She was dressed in green silk, now the fashionable colour among the Turkish ladies, and had a many-coloured handkerchief, in a not unbecoming manner, wound round her head. I had just time to answer the questions these ladies generally ask, viz., how many children I had, their sex, ages, etc., when another lady entered through the open door, who seemed to be very nearly of the same age as the first, and who was dressed in exactly the same way, as sisters often are in England. She sat down on a divan opposite us, and I had to answer very nearly the same questions, when Sami Pasha joined us, and introduced his children to me. Both ladies have many children, among those of the younger there was a very pretty little girl of about three years of age, who, with her blue eyes and fair silken hair, might have been taken for an English child.

The Harem of Sami Pasha is very splendid, as becomes his rank and station. The windows, all overlooking the inner garden, are unlatticed, which was pleasant to me. The little stands which hold the Turkish coffee-cups were set with diamonds. All the slaves, and there seemed to be a very large number, were well dressed, some in silk, others in muslin, and they wore much jewellery. Most of them were Circassians, and, although no such great beauties as they are reported to be, were good-looking, comely young women.

The ladies received me with great courtesy, offering me as a sign of good will, first sweets and coffee, then lemonade, then coffee again. The younger of the wives, who seemed pleased at my taking particular notice of her little girl, asked me to let her know that I had returned safely to England, and had found my children well. Of course I have complied with so kind a request, accompanying my letter with the photographs of my children. Sami Pasha had said before we left, “you must go and see my son’s collection of antiquities;” and as we had already heard from others that it was the finest collection of the kind in Turkey, which, however, need not say much, we profited by Sami Pasha’s offer, to announce our visit to his son, and went to see him the next day. Suphy Bey received his education at the Court of Mehemet Ali, the great Viceroy of Egypt, and is now a Privy Councillor like his father, and a man of great influence at the Sublime Porte, but he has never left the sacred ground of Islam, and is a thorough Mussulman. He speaks but very little French, and the first thing he offered me was a pipe, when I declined it, he asked if I preferred a cigarette, but even that I was obliged to refuse.

His collection of antiquities, is no doubt very splendid; but old Turkish coins have very little interest for me, as I understand nothing about them, but at the Greek antiquities I looked with pleasure.

I know that his Harem is one of the largest in Constantinople, but I was sorry afterwards that I had asked Suphy Bey to introduce me into it. His Harem is a palace, entirely separated from the house of the Bey, and in order to reach it he led me through two gardens, and the black slave who keeps the keys of the Harem had to unlock several strong doors before we could enter. We waited some time, and the Bey had, it appeared to me, dispatched several slaves before his first Hanum appeared to receive me. She did it with a face of chilling coldness; and, sitting down at the farther end of the room, addressed no other word to me than a polite inquiry after my health. The Bey smoked a chiboque, which a little girl, his daughter, had brought him; and there reigned an awful silence. At last the Bey rose and left the room; he returned after a few minutes, which had seemed to me terribly long, leading by her hand a lovely girl of about sixteen years of age, whom he introduced as the daughter of the proud lady opposite me, and who looked as if she entered the room “sorely against her will.” She was by far the most beautiful woman I had seen in the different Harems, but she had the same expression of cool disdain in her face, that was so repulsive in the mother.

The father led her to a piano that was in the saloon, and she began to play. But the instrument was woefully out of tune, and never had the Turkish music sounded more discordant and barbarous, so that I could not express any approbation, and merely thanked her, when she had finished. Soon after I had been served with coffee, which was as bitter as wormwood, I rose, saying to the Bey that I did not wish to trouble the ladies any longer, being in fact anxious to bring this very unsatisfactory visit to a speedy end.

When I was again alone with my husband, I asked myself if I had any right to feel angry, or even annoyed at the cool reception these ladies gave me; placing myself in their position, I thought that I had reason to be surprised rather that they had abstained from absolute rudeness towards me, and had preserved at least the forms of politeness.

Should we like our husbands to receive ladies in their own apartments, and when it pleases them, only to bring those visitors for a quarter of an hour to see us, talking with them all the time in a language of which we do not understand a word, and then leaving us again alone, locked up, a prey to jealousy and envy? Really one need not be a Turk, under such circumstances to feel tortured by those ugly passions. Ah, I can forgive almost anything to the Turks: I will not condemn them for having erased the sign of the cross from the portals of Santa Sophia, for having made a powder magazine of the Parthenon, or for having slaughtered the Christians; but one thing I cannot forgive that they consign their own women to a life of idleness, ignorance, and immorality, and to a premature death. For Turkish women, who were healthy, strong girls at twelve years of age when they still enjoyed some liberty, die by hundreds of rapid consumption between the age of eighteen and thirty, in consequence of this unnatural, unhealthy mode of life. I advise all ladies that go to Constantinople, especially if they are under thirty years, (which however was not the case with me), and good looking, (and what woman under thirty does not think herself so), if they wish to visit a Harem, to do so in company of a lady who can speak Turkish, and thus serve as an interpreter. They will be more likely to be received kindly by the Turkish women, who will enter more freely into conversation with them if the husband be not the interpreter.

So poor in attractions for us was Constantinople in spite of the prodigious riches with which nature has endowed it, that we thought a fortnight too much to spend there. One fine morning therefore, we took the steamboat for Brussa, to which place we had a pressing invitation from an amiable and hospitable German family, residing there.

Our boat, which had left Constantinople at eight o’clock, arrived at Modagna towards two in the afternoon, and we found a carriage waiting for us, which after shaking us about like refractory cream that is to be turned into butter, set us down with a headache and backache at Brussa. But the next morning these ills had passed, and then I enjoyed my stay there so much, that I count the few days at Brussa among the pleasantest of my journey.

Brussa, the ancient capital of Turkey, lies in a fertile plain at the foot of Mount Olympus, which rises stately and imposing out of the plain. The town is of a thorough Turkish character. The houses are all of wood, the streets narrow, but they are cleaner than those of any other Turkish town I saw; and there are fine Mosques with elegant minarets. The Mosque of Sultan Mahomet, standing on a hill, especially pleased me, on account of its lovely situation. The little outer court with its fountain, which for the purpose of ablution, is found before every Mosque, shaded by noble old trees, is one of the most lovely spots I saw. It is cool, shady and quiet in the extreme. In Brussa the Turks still wear the real ancient costume; the large turban, the long dolman, trimmed with fur, the wide Mameluke pantaloons, the broad scarf, and rich arms.

Our ascent of the first plateau of Mount Olympus was splendid, at least so I thought, when I was safely down again. Till then, I confess, I did not find it quite so pleasant. Although I had become somewhat accustomed to bad roads on our excursions in Crete, I still thought those of Mount Olympus very terrible. They are narrow paths, fearfully steep, rocky and stony, leading often along precipices, or through thick woods, where the branches grow so low, that you are obliged to bring your head to a level with your horse’s to keep it on your shoulders. When I had gone up a little way, I did not wonder that our kind host and hostess, M. and Mme. S—, had not accompanied us; very few people would care to go up twice. Although the view is splendid, it is obtained at a great sacrifice, and can be enjoyed almost as well from a lower point, which can be easily climbed on foot. Mlle. Lina the daughter, and M. Charles S—, the brother of our host, had however joined us, and here I found how true is Schiller’s word; “Den schreckt der Berg nicht, der darauf geboren,” for both seemed to mind the roads very little. Mlle. Lina, every now and then, would draw my attention to some particularly beautiful view, which to look at from the giddy height we rode along, made my head turn. I could do nothing but look at the road and my husband; trembling lest horse and rider should go down some terrible precipice, for the roads were sometimes such, that I thought a false step of the horse would be immediate destruction of horse and rider. Our guide was a terrible Turk, looking as stern and calm as fate, in which he, like all Turks, had no doubt a blind faith. He took no more notice of us than if we had been in London or anywhere, except behind him. I am persuaded if one or two of us had fallen, and broken our necks, he would have taken no more notice, than he did of the stones that the feet of our horses now and then sent rolling down the precipice. He rode a wretched little horse, which besides himself, carried our shawls and provisions, but he looked perfectly at his ease. I suppose if he had broken his own neck, he would have met the unalterable decree of fate with the same stern, calm look.

But if I have not forgotten the bad roads, I remember also with pleasure, the pleasant hours we spent on the plateau, from which rises the snow-covered summit of the mountain. On the plateau the snow lay in the shade of the trees, while the loveliest Alpine flowers grew in the sunshine; white and purple primroses, of a large size, pleased me especially. After we had rested, we wandered about, and except for the snow and the Alpine vegetation, we might have forgotten that we were on a high mountain, as there was no view of the world below. Shortly before one reaches the plateau, the view is splendid, extending over the mountains, the Lakes of Apollonia, and Nicæa, the Gulph of Gimlek, the town of Brussa, and the beautiful plain surrounding it. We saw, while we were on the plateau, a large vulture, and in descending, an eagle rose slowly and majestically out of a deep ravine. High up it soared, my eye followed it as long as it was visible, and I wished for “the wings of an eagle.” We saw another interesting sight. We passed through a burnt forest. All the large trunks stood erect, but the bark had peeled off, and they looked very sad in their nakedness.

But what I remember with the greatest pleasure in thinking of Brussa, is the amiable family which received us so kindly. Mme. S—, is one of the most charming and amiable women I ever had the good fortune to become acquainted with. Although highly intellectual and accomplished, she lives contentedly in what I should call banishment, entirely devoted to the superintendence of her household, and the education of her daughters, who seem worthy of such a mother. Lina, the eldest, is in her simplicity and modesty so fascinating, that my husband, who is not in the habit of speaking in a poetical style, did so in speaking of her, and called her “a violet,” while I thought her younger sister Annichen, very much resembled the bright wild roses that grow like her, round the foot of Mount Olympus.

I remember also with pleasure, the family of Mr. S—, the English Consul at Brussa, in whose house we dined, in company with his daughter and son-in-law, the Consul of Bucharest. That evening, while we talked in the drawing-room of Turner and Landseer, Ruskin and Tennyson, I would almost think myself in a London drawing-room. But at that moment I turned round to the open window, and saw the stars shining with Eastern splendour, and then I remembered where I was.